#queue make me glow

[echobsilly]

stand in

[the-bi-space-ace]

I’ll never understand people who think Echo is ugly. I mean look at him.

This shot of him will always be iconic to me. He’s always been beautiful, will always be beautiful. I’ll never understand why anyone would think he’s ugly or had a ‘glow-down’.

Echo is a wonderful, handsome, lovely man who has been through a lot and still has a kind heart. I will always love him.

Someone (unknown to me) on the internet had the audacity to include Echo on a list of "Star Wars character glow-downs" and I'm just like YOU TAKE THAT BACK RIGHT NOW!

I mean, come on, just look at our lovely man!!

Echo's gorgeous and I love him ❤️❤️❤️

[vesselreborn]

I'm currently thinking on what Miyako would look like when she's fused with Datatsushi long enough. Of course, I have to use an insect and a fish. For the insect, I was thinking moth? Which one, im not too sure. For fish, maybe a type of angler fish? I'm leaning towards jellyfish more, but that might be hard to mix together. Either way, Imma have fun coming up with a design for her!

[mythvoiced]

" I just need someone to hold me " - hermes

@astremourante | ✧˚ · . so much (for) stardust - fall out boy

---

Amelia is so incredibly strong, isn't she.

She sure likes to make a point of making sure everyone assumes that.

Being a God doesn't inherently imply omnipotence. It's one of the many things that sets the Greek apart from the Roman Catholic one: a lack of all-encompassing... well, everything. The Roman Catholic God is an all-encompassing one: sees everything, knows everything, is everything.

The Greek are differently organized: Hermes runs fast and jingles coins, steals and protects travellers.

Maybe that's one of the reasons Amelia is so dear to him: what better way to qualify as traveller than being constantly on the run from something? From herself, from whoever she was, whoever she might be, whatever she might want, whatever she might need.

It certainly is one of the reasons why he's not... omnipotent.

No amount of slowing down his neck-breaking traffic when he catches sight of her out of the corner of his eye could teach him all he needs to know to prepare him for when the shield comes down.

Wouldn't it be smarter to keep her guard up around him?

What as he established himself as, after all?

Insatiable, maybe, but what if half of the desire is borne out of her vehemence to make it difficult for him. All that nonsense of men needing the hunt, might just apply to beings as vile and self-centred as the gods, right?

Isn't Hermes that kind of being?

A coin dances between his fingers. When in Rome, do like the Romans, right? Hermes likes to toy with the idea, avoid Mercury with ease and grins and collect a few notes here and there too, a few Roman messages from Roman beings, and have an Aureus dance in his bag for once.

Because it's fun.

Because that is who Hermes is.

Because Amelia has always made sure to paint herself as someone similar to him: full of whims and godly rage.

She looks smaller than usual, like this. What height she never could match in lieu of her physical set-up had been neglected out of the scene by her defiance. Now, though?

Now he...

Hermes opens his arms.

Now he wants to hold her.

"I'll hold you, then," he offers, with the smile of someone who doesn't typically think all he's just thought. "For a small fee, of course, but we'll worry about the details later."

She doesn't need to know he'd only ask her to not ask anyone else to hold her like this.

[saatorus]

cyberboy come home to me!

art credits: @musapylsa

synopsis — you just really love shy, nerdy, awkward armin arlert. not to mention how much you adore his tongue piercing.

wc — 5.4k

warnings — oral (f receiving), brief m receiving oral, unprotected sex, dom! kinda reader? armin is a loser virgin, tongue piercing fixation, mentions of drinking and getting high.

“Ah… I’m not sure if we should be— mmph!”

Armin downright whimpers when you silence his protest with a soft giggle and press your lips to his again, cupping his cheek like you’re trying to ease him into it. He kisses back, but it’s clumsy—his lips too hesitant, his breath shaky. The way his slightly clammy hands tremble as they slide awkwardly onto your waist gives him away completely. His fingers twitch like he’s unsure if he’s even allowed to touch you, like he’s expecting to be jolted awake from some perverse fever dream at any second.

You smile into it. He tastes a little like fruit punch and nerves.

How’d he even end up like this?

Honestly? He’s not entirely sure himself.

All he knows is that about an hour ago, he’d been forcibly dragged out of his safe, sacred little sanctuary—his room—by none other than Eren Jaeger, who’d called him a “shut-in loser” with all the affection of a lifelong best friend trying to get his social recluse ass to touch grass for once. “Just come out for one night,” Eren had said. “You never hang out anymore. You just rot in front of that stupid computer!”

That “stupid computer,” by the way, is the love of Armin’s life. A lovingly hand-built, high-performance rig that he’d spent months putting together with trembling excitement and a YouTube tab permanently open. The tower is pure art—transparent case with perfectly routed cable management, cool-toned RGB fans that change hues with each temperature spike, and a custom water-cooling loop that keeps everything running quieter than a whisper. The inside glows in a soft gradient from blue to violet, illuminating every pristine component like a spaceship console. His mechanical keyboard clicks satisfyingly under his fingers, each custom PBT keycap matte and worn in just enough. The desk is outfitted with dual curved monitors, a steelseries headset perched on a 3D-printed stand, and a carefully arranged line of anime figurines—each one dusted weekly.

He lives there. He thrives there. Not out here.

So when he’d first stepped foot into the frat house—blinking under dim purple lights, instantly accosted by the stench of sweat, alcohol, Axe body spray, and weed—he’d wanted to turn and run. Connie had looped an arm around his neck before he could so much as take a step back, dragging him further inside like a lamb to slaughter.

He would’ve given anything to be home. Back at his setup. Back where he could peacefully queue up for League of Legends or post a hot take on a message board about dungeon tier lists. His teammates were probably on Discord right now, wondering why his little green light hadn’t turned on tonight.

That was then.

Somehow– Somehow, in the haze of being drunk or high out of their minds— Eren was out of it, Connie was asleep on Sasha’s lap, whose head was on a knocked out Jean’s shoulder. Mikasa, for how composed she usually was, was slumped next to Eren, his hand wrapped around hers— you had managed to finally snag the shy boy to yourself.

You’d only recently started hanging out with the gang, weaving your way into their circle with a kind of natural confidence Armin found both mesmerizing and terrifying. You’re funny. Loud in a charming way. You speak your mind, talk to Eren and Mikasa like you’ve known them for years, and make sly little jokes that leave Connie wheezing. Even Sasha likes you—and she doesn’t like anyone new.

But around you, Armin turns into scrambled code. He avoids eye contact. Stumbles over his words. Does that thing where he pushes up his glasses like a reflex even when they’re already in place.

And it wasn’t hard to realize that Armin liked you.

He wasn’t subtle—not in the way he’d glance up from his phone screen when you laughed a little too loudly, or the way his ears would burn pink every time you plopped down next to him during hangouts, hips brushing, thighs touching just barely. He'd sit there stiffly, eyes wide behind his glasses, thumbs still tapping away at whatever gacha game or tactics RPG he was grinding, pretending not to notice how your perfume clung to the air between you like static.

You’d catch him staring sometimes—well, more than sometimes. Once when you bent over to grab a charger, and again when you wore that cropped shirt with the worn-out neckline, his gaze getting stuck right where your collarbone dipped into something just a bit more scandalous. But he’d always look away just in time, pretending to clean his glasses or scroll deeper into Reddit threads.

The boy was practically a walking Tumblr post from 2013. Always in those oversized hoodies with the sleeves too long, fingers tucked halfway into the cuffs, his laptop stickers flaking off from years of aggressive clicking. His room, as you’d come to discover later, was nothing short of a digital command center. Dual monitors—one vertical, one horizontal—cast a cold RGB glow over his unmade bed and tangle of charging cables. His mechanical keyboard clicked loud enough to echo through the dorm floor, each keystroke deliberate. Rows of Funko Pops lined the top of his bookshelf, mostly anime characters and one out-of-place Miku figurine he shyly claimed was "cute."

And that chair—God, that chair. It was one of those ridiculous ergonomic gaming thrones with a headrest, a lumbar support pillow, and armrests that he always adjusted like he was gearing up for war. You could tell it was his pride and joy, considering how he refused to let anyone else sit in it. Except, of course, for that one time you snuck in during a group hangout and plopped down in it just to see how far he’d go before breaking—he just stood there, mouth open, shifting awkwardly until he gave up and sat on the floor beside you. Pathetic. Adorable.

So yeah, it wasn’t hard to realize Armin liked you. He was just painfully obvious about it in a way that made you all the more obsessed.

Especially after that day Eren—loud-mouthed, smug Eren—dropped the most shocking bit of information mid-conversation over nachos and beer.

“Guess who finally let me bully him into getting a tongue piercing?”

Your head had snapped around so fast it almost gave you whiplash. "You're kidding."

Eren had just grinned like the devil himself. “Nope. Took him to the place on 8th. Cried like a bitch but hey, he’s got it now.”

You’d turned to look at Armin, who was red as a tomato, sipping his Sprite like he wished he could disappear behind the carbonation. He didn’t even deny it.

You haven't been able to stop thinking about it since.

Which brings you to now.

So when all of a sudden, you're sitting next to him on the too-small couch, murmuring something about there being something wrong with your phone, and desperately needing someone to fix it for you, and no, the dim lighting of the living room simply isn’t enough to inspect it properly—you somehow manage to drag him upstairs to one of the empty rooms, thigh pressed a little too close to his as you explain how glitchy your phone is, how you're so sure it must be some kind of weird virus, and wow, isn't that so crazy?

But cut the bullshit. Even Armin knew you were lying.

Phone glitching? Yeah, right. He’d seen your screen time stats by accident once—your camera roll was 95% front-facing selfies, memes, and blurry videos from nights out. He wasn’t stupid. But he was clueless—at least about your intentions.

You’d had a thing for him since day one, not that he knew, obviously. The first time Eren had pulled you into the fold, dragging you into their little friend group like some shiny new accessory, Armin had looked at you like you’d be gone by next week. He wasn’t good with new people—too shy, too stiff, too used to lurking in the background with his legs folded crisscross on the floor and his thumbs tapping away at his phone while everyone else drank and talked over each other.

Even now, when everyone hung out, Armin would be half-present—physically there, tucked into the corner of the room with his hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands, but mentally god knows where. Probably grinding a mobile RPG or replying to a fan theory thread. He liked games where he could build things, micromanage every stat. His phone battery was always draining because he never stopped playing. Long, elegant fingers constantly moving, tapping, swiping. Even when you sat next to him, he couldn’t seem to stop. You once made a joke about how he probably tapped faster during battles than he would during sex.

You remember the way he’d choked on his Redbull.

But now—now he’s stuck. Sitting next to you in a quiet upstairs room, your perfume in his lungs, your thigh pressed right up against his, and your phone held limply between you both like some half-hearted prop.

He keeps glancing at you, lips parted like he wants to say something—anything—but nothing comes out.

“You gonna fix it or just keep staring at my lockscreen?” you tease, your voice low, syrupy sweet.

He blinks, startled, fumbling to grab the phone from your hands with a stuttered apology. “S-Sorry, I—um—yeah, let me just… check the settings, I guess.”

His hands shake slightly as he scrolls, and you bite your lip watching him. The way his jaw tenses, his brows furrow in concentration—it’s endearing. You wonder if he knows how flushed his ears are. You wonder if he knows how loud his breathing is.

You lean in just slightly, enough that your breath brushes the shell of his ear.

“You know,” you murmur, “I still haven’t seen that piercing.”

His entire body jolts. His fingers fumble the phone, almost dropping it in his lap. “W-What?”

You smile innocently, like you don’t already know exactly what you’re doing. “Your tongue. Eren told me. Kinda wanna see it for myself.”

Armin swallows hard, eyes wide as he looks at you like you just asked him to strip naked. “I-I mean, it’s not—It’s nothing, really. I-it’s just… uh…”

“C’mon,” you coax, fingers brushing the side of his knee. “I’m curious.”

He hesitates. Then, shakily, he sticks his tongue out just a little—just enough for the cool glint of metal to catch the light. Your stomach flips.

God, you didn’t expect that to be so hot. On him, of all people.

“You’re full of surprises, Armin Arlert,” you whisper, eyes meeting his.

And you swear to god, if you didn’t know better, you’d say the look in his eyes shifts. Just a little. Like something in him snaps or gives in. Like he’s done pretending he doesn’t know what’s going on.

“…Is your phone actually broken?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper.

You grin. “Not even a little.”

And for once—for once—Armin smirks.

It's crooked. Barely there. But it's smug in the quietest, most devastating way, because he knows now. You're not here because of some bullshit glitch or broken screen. You're here for him.

The second you lean in, brushing a strand of his blond hair out of his face, he freezes—like a deer caught in headlights. His breath hitches, lips parting just slightly, and his fingers tense where they’re still holding your phone like it’s a lifeline.

“You’ve never kissed anyone before,” you say softly, not a question. Just an observation.

His cheeks flush bright red. He doesn’t answer.

You cock your head, smiling. “That’s okay. I’ll teach you.”

His breath catches again, sharp and audible this time, and he shifts a little like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands—does he drop your phone? Hold it? Hold you?

You take the decision away for him, gently slipping it from his fingers and setting it down on the nightstand. Then, without breaking eye contact, you slowly slide onto his lap, one knee at a time, until you’re straddling his narrow hips, hands settling on his shoulders.

His whole body goes stiff. “Ah… I’m not sure if we should be— mmph!”

You kiss his lips again, silencing him effectively.

“Armin,” you say as you pull back, voice low and amused. “Relax.”

He doesn’t. Not entirely. But his hands hover awkwardly near your waist now, like he’s trying to be respectful, like he’s afraid if he touches you wrong, the moment will combust.

You lean forward, just enough that your noses nearly brush.

“Close your eyes,” you whisper. “Don’t think. Just feel.”

He obeys, lashes fluttering shut. You let your lips graze his, soft and tentative, barely a kiss at all—just enough for him to taste your breath, to feel the warmth of you against his mouth.

He shivers.

You pull back slightly, your voice like silk against his ear. “See? That wasn’t so bad.”

He exhales shakily. “It’s… it’s good. You’re… good.”

You smile. “You haven’t even gotten the full lesson yet.”

And then you kiss him.

Really kiss him.

You press your mouth against his fully this time, slow and confident, your lips moving gently over his like you’ve got all the time in the world. He kisses back clumsily at first, a little too much pressure, a little off with the rhythm, but it’s adorable, and you can feel the way his whole body trembles under you.

You guide him with quiet murmurs between kisses. “Slower… softer, yeah… there. Just like that.”

His hands finally land on your waist, unsure at first, then a little firmer when you deepen the kiss, your fingers threading into the hair at the nape of his neck. You part your lips slowly, and when he instinctively mimics you—nervous, but curious—you feel it.

The smooth, cool ball of metal.

You pause just barely, lips still brushing his, a grin curling at the corners of your mouth. “There it is.”

“Huh?” he whispers, dazed.

“That piercing,” you murmur, voice thick with heat. “Feels so fucking good.”

You kiss him again, and this time your tongue finds his. The sensation of the cold stud sliding against yours sends a sharp little jolt straight through your spine. It’s addictive. You roll your hips slightly against his, and he gasps into your mouth, fingers tightening on your waist like he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to pull you closer or push you away.

He tastes like mint and nervous energy, and the little helpless noises he lets out when you suck on his bottom lip are enough to make your thighs clench around his lap.

You pull back for a second, just to look at him. His lips are flushed, slightly swollen, eyes glazed with something between awe and pure panic.

“You okay?” you whisper, thumb brushing across his cheek.

He nods, almost too fast. “Y-Yeah. I just—I didn’t know it could feel like that.”

You lean in again, lips ghosting over his jaw. “That’s just the beginning.”

He groans—actually groans—and it’s the hottest fucking sound you’ve ever heard from him. You swear you feel him twitch beneath you. His hips shift slightly, involuntarily, and the friction makes both of you gasp.

You grab a fistful of his hoodie, tugging him back into another kiss, messier this time. Less structured. All tongue and heat and shallow breaths. That piercing catches on your lip as you suck on his tongue, and you moan softly against his mouth.

He's kissing you like he wants to prove something now. Still hesitant, still learning, but eager. Hungry. His hands slide up under your shirt, still shy but bolder than before, fingertips ghosting over the bare skin of your waist.

You roll your hips against him again, deliberately this time, and the noise he makes—somewhere between a whimper and a curse—goes straight to your core.

You smile into the kiss, breathless. “You’re such a quick learner.”

He swallows thickly. “I—I wanna keep learning.”

“Yeah?” You rock against him again, and his eyes flutter shut. “You will.”

You dip your head to press a kiss to his neck, right below his jaw. He gasps, tilting his head back like it’s instinct, and you suck a slow, wet mark into the pale skin, making him jolt beneath you.

“You’re so sensitive,” you whisper. “Bet I could make you fall apart with just my mouth.”

He whimpers.

And fuck, that sound does something to you.

You're grinding against him now, fully, the heat between your legs pressing right against the growing bulge in his pants. The way his hips buck up helplessly, like he can’t stop himself, is intoxicating.

You mouth at his jaw, then his ear, letting your breath tickle the shell of it.

“Armin,” you purr, “do you want me to show you more?”

He looks up at you like he’s ready to beg.

“Yes,” he breathes. “Please. Show me everything.”

You don’t make him ask twice.

You kiss him again, deep and slow, feeling the way he melts into it now. No hesitation—just heat, want, and the softest desperation in how his mouth opens for you like he’s starving. You taste that metal ball again, glide your tongue along it, and the sound he makes—fuck, you’re obsessed.

Your hips move instinctively, grinding down on his lap, and you can feel him. Hard. Pressed right up against your core through his worn out jeans and your shorts. The friction draws a moan from your throat that has his eyes fluttering open, pupils blown wide.

“Fuck,” you whisper, forehead pressed to his. “You’re so hard already.”

He nods, frantic, breath stuttering. “I—yeah, I can’t—I didn’t mean to—”

“Shh.” You cup his jaw, tilt his face up. “Don’t be embarrassed. You think I didn’t want that?”

You shift just a little, rolling your hips down with purpose, dragging your clothed pussy against his cock. He chokes on a gasp, his fingers digging into your waist like he’s trying to stop himself from bucking up into you again. You grab his hand, beckoning him to slip his fingers under your shorts, under the waistband of your panties.

“Feel how wet I am for you?” you murmur, lips brushing his ear.

He nods again, helpless. “Yeah—yeah, I feel it—fuck—”

You smile wickedly and grab the hem of your shirt, pulling it over your head in one motion. His mouth drops open.

He stares.

Hard.

Like he’s short-circuiting. Like he’s never seen anyone naked before and can’t figure out where to look. His hands twitch like he wants to touch you but doesn’t know if he’s allowed.

You guide them to your tits.

“Touch me, baby,” you say softly. “It’s okay. You can.”

He swallows hard and palms your breasts gently, reverently, like he’s afraid to squeeze too hard. His thumbs ghost over your nipples and you sigh, arching your back into his touch, giving him a show.

“God, you’re perfect,” he breathes.

“You’re cute,” you reply, pushing your hips down again. “And obedient.”

He whimpers at that.

You roll your hips slow and steady, grinding on him until you feel his thighs start to tremble beneath you.

Then you lean down, lips brushing his. “I want you to eat me out.”

His eyes widen. “I—what? I’ve never—”

“I’ll guide you. Just do what I say.”

You’re already sliding off his lap, standing between his legs and shimmying your shorts and underwear down in one motion. His breath stutters when he sees you like that, bare and dripping, your thighs glistening in the low light.

You make a move to lie back on the bed, but he stops you, pink in the face.

“S–Sorry, I– ah– Can you ride my face? Please?”

He looks like he wants to wipe his existence off the planet because why’d he say that in such a high pitched tone, why’d he stutter like that, why’d his voice crack when he said please, why'd he—

But you just giggle amusedly, pushing him back onto the bed, straddling his face.

His whole body tenses like he’s trying not to combust. “Are you sure you’re okay with thi—?”

You don’t answer. Just lower your hips slowly until you’re hovering just above his mouth.

“Open up.”

He does, and when your pussy presses against his lips, you sigh like it’s relief. He’s clumsy at first—licking too shallow, too soft—but you guide him. “Use your tongue. Flatten it—yeah, just like that. A little harder. Good. Fuck, Armin.”

The moment his tongue finds your clit, you moan, your hips jolting forward. And the pressure of that cold little ball dragging against your most sensitive spot?

It’s over.

You’re grinding on his face now, fingers buried in his soft blond hair, riding him through sloppy, wet licks and messy kisses that leave your thighs shaking. He moans beneath you, hands gripping your hips like he’s into it, like the taste of you is something he wants to memorize. His piercing continuously flicks against your clit, making you whine and shudder, thighs clamping around his head. And soon enough, you’re coming all over his tongue, his name leaving your mouth prettily.

He’s hard again—probably never stopped being hard—and when you finally can’t take it anymore, you slide down his body and palm him through his jeans.

“Fuck,” you breathe, eyes wide as you feel the outline of him. “You’ve been hiding this from me?”

He covers his face with one arm, flushed and overwhelmed. “I didn’t know I’d get like that so fast.”

“You’re adorable.” You lean down and press a kiss just above his waistband. “Let me take care of you.”

He whimpers again.

And when you tug his jeans down, his cock bounces free—hard, flushed, leaking at the tip. You stroke him once, slow and firm, and his whole body jolts.

“Oh my god,” he chokes, hands fisting the sheets. “I—I don’t think I can—”

“You can.” You kiss the head of his cock, swirl your tongue around it just once, and watch him squirm.

Then you straddle him again.

“Wait—” he gasps. “Are you—are we really—”

You line him up with your entrance, slow and steady, and you moan when the tip slips in.

“Fuck yes, baby,” you whisper, eyes fluttering shut as you sink down inch by inch. “You’re inside me.”

He’s panting, chest rising and falling like he’s about to pass out. “You feel… holy shit…”

“Tight?” you tease, grinding down once you’re seated fully.

He nods, eyes wide, mouth open. “I’m not gonna last—”

“You’ll learn,” you murmur, starting to move. “I’m gonna teach you everything.”

And as you ride him—slow, deliberate, dragging every sweet sound out of him—you know for a fact that this won’t be the last lesson. You bounce up and down on him, watching with a gaze full of lust and amusement as he croons your name, head thrown back, drool escaping the side of his lip, thick glasses askew.

He looks like he’s unraveling. Like his brain stopped functioning five minutes ago. Like all he can focus on is the way your cunt squeezes him every time you drop down.

“F-Fuck, you feel so good,” he whimpers, voice cracking with raw need. “I c-can’t… I’m not gonna last…”

You lean forward, letting your chest brush against his, your lips brushing his mouth as you whisper, “That’s okay. Just give it to me.”

His hands are shaking where they grip your hips, but he tries to match your rhythm anyway, pulling you down harder every time your ass slaps against his thighs. He’s trying so hard to keep it together for you—sweet, trembling thing, so eager to please despite how close he is.

“I–I’m gonna– I’m gonna– I don’t have a condom on, I—”

“Don’t worry,” you murmur, kissing the edge of his jaw, tongue flicking over his pulse point. “Just pull out, baby. I’ve got you.”

And it’s like your voice alone is enough to break him.

His grip tightens—frantic, bruising—and you barely have time to lift off before he comes, gasping your name like a prayer. Thick ropes spill over his stomach, twitching cock pulsing as he groans and writhes beneath you, flushed and utterly wrecked. His glasses have slid halfway down his nose, and he’s too dazed to fix them.

You exhale through a low laugh, trailing your fingers through his release before bringing them to your mouth and sucking them clean, just to tease him. His breath stutters at the sight, and his eyes roll slightly as he pants beneath you.

You collapse next to him, both of you catching your breath in the quiet, sticky air. The room smells like sweat and sex and faint body spray, and outside the door you can still hear the low thrum of party music, muffled now like the two of you are in a different world entirely.

He’s quiet. Still. Hands awkwardly covering himself, glasses pushed to the side. You catch the way his lashes flutter, how red his cheeks are, how he refuses to meet your eyes.

You turn on your side, resting your head on one hand. “What’s wrong?”

He swallows hard. “That was my first time,” he says softly. “Like… all of it. Kissing, sex, everything.”

You pause, the weight of his admission settling into the space between you. He glances up at you finally, face filled with anxiety.

“I… I hope I didn’t disappoint you.”

Your heart aches a little.

You reach out and gently remove his glasses, setting them on the nightstand, then cradle his face in your hand.

“Armin,” you say, voice low and sincere, “that was the hottest thing I’ve ever experienced. You have no idea.”

He blinks, surprised.

“You were perfect,” you say, leaning in to press a soft kiss to his forehead. “And I like that it was me. I like being the first.”

His face turns even redder, if that’s possible. “I–I didn’t even know what I was doing.”

“That’s the fun part.” You smile, brushing a strand of his hair off his forehead. “Means I get to teach you everything.”

He hides his face against your shoulder, groaning. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You laugh softly, wrapping your arm around his waist. “You’re such a cutie.”

You lay there together in the silence for a while, his head nestled against your chest, his arms tentatively curling around you like he’s not sure he’s allowed to hold you yet. You run your fingers through his hair, gently tugging here and there, and you feel him relax more and more under your touch.

“You still nervous?” you murmur after a while.

“A little,” he admits, voice muffled. “I just… I’ve never done this. Any of it. I don’t want to mess things up with you.”

You kiss the top of his head. “You’re not. I like you.”

He lifts his head to look at you, shy but hopeful. “Really?”

“Mhm.” You brush your lips against his again. “I’ve liked you since I saw you trailing behind Eren with your stupid oversized hoodie and your Switch in your hands like you were allergic to human interaction.”

He laughs, sheepish. “I kind of am.”

You grin. “And I kind of love that.”

He watches you for a moment, eyes soft and a little awestruck. Then he leans forward, kisses you with all the gentleness and hesitance of someone who’s just now realizing he might be falling for someone, and you smile into it, warm and full and smug.

Because you know you’ve got him.

—

It’s official now. You’re Armin’s girlfriend.

It had happened somewhere between all the blushing kisses and stolen glances and slow, breathy I like you’s whispered in the privacy of his bedroom. There was no dramatic confession, no rose petals or fireworks. Just him looking at you one afternoon with that overwhelmed, adoring gaze, thumb brushing over your knuckles while he mumbled, “Do you, um… want to be mine? Like… officially?”

And you’d kissed him stupid in response.

So now, two weeks later, you’re at his place again, perched sideways on his lap in his gaming chair, legs draped over one armrest while his are stretched beneath the desk, twitching slightly every time something exciting happens on screen.

You’re wearing one of his hoodies—big, soft, and smelling like fabric softener and his shampoo—and nothing else underneath. Which he hasn’t noticed. Yet.

His focus is laser-sharp, blue eyes narrowed behind his glasses, tongue pressed to the corner of his mouth like he’s fighting for his life on whatever boss battle he’s got going. You shift a little, trying to get comfortable in his lap, but he doesn’t even flinch—just grunts something about “just give me a second, babe, I’m in the middle of something.”

And yeah, it’s a little infuriating. But also?

Ridiculously hot.

Like, his headset is way too big on him. He keeps muttering things under his breath about cooldowns and mechanics and DPS output. His fingers are flying across the keys, long and elegant and twitchy, like they were built to type essays at the speed of sound or code random passion projects no one ever asked for.

At one point, he actually shushes you. A little breathy “waitwaitwait– babe, hold on, this guy’s cheesing—oh my god I swear to god if this fucking healer dies I’m gonna—”

You blink. Then snort.

“You’re so nerdy,” you murmur, voice laced with amusement, “I can’t believe this is my boyfriend.”

He doesn’t look up. “You knew what I was when you signed up.”

“Oh, I did.” You lean in, dragging your fingers up the nape of his neck, just under the headset. “And I like it.”

He shudders a little. “You’re distracting me.”

“I know.”

Still, he plays. Fidgety, intense, mouthing instructions to himself like some kind of adorable, socially anxious commander. You watch the screen for a bit, half-understanding what’s happening—some massive raid, particles flying everywhere, his team yelling in the Discord chat you can hear leaking through his headphones. Armin doesn’t talk much, but when he does, it’s surprisingly confident. Precise.

“No, back left! You kite, I’ll stun—good—shit, I got hit, that’s fine, I’ve got mana—”

You shift again. This time a little more deliberately.

His hands pause on the keyboard. “...Are you doing that on purpose?”

You blink at him innocently. “Doing what?”

“You’re… squirming.”

You tilt your head, smiling. “I’m just trying to sit comfortably, Armin. Your thighs are kinda bony.”

“I—what? I—”

He falters. And you know he’s starting to get flustered. Because his hand slips on his mouse, and he curses softly under his breath as his character takes a hit onscreen.

“Can’t believe I’m being insulted and sabotaged right now,” he mumbles.

“I’m your girlfriend,” you remind him, turning so you’re fully straddling him now, knees on either side of his hips, “it’s in the job description.”

He swallows thickly. You can feel him beneath you now—half-hard already, tension building the longer you stay in his lap.

“Please let me finish this fight,” he whispers, jaw tight.

You kiss the edge of it.

“Okay.”

So you wait. Sort of.

You shift again. Start pressing little kisses to his throat. Let your fingers toy with the edge of his shirt, lifting it just slightly. Not enough to distract him fully. Just enough to make him sweat.

By the time he finally mutters a breathless, “Got him, holy shit,” and slumps back in the chair, he’s panting and flushed—and not just from the game.

You lean in, both hands planted on his chest now, smiling sweetly.

“All done?”

He nods.

“Good.” And then you roll your hips once against his, slow and deliberate.

He makes a soft, broken sound in his throat. “Y-You’re evil.”

“Mmhm,” you hum, dipping down to kiss him again, this time deeper, tongue teasing the edge of that stupid metal piercing he still refuses to tell you the story behind.

It’s so easy to ruin him.

His hands flutter uselessly for a second before they land on your hips, gripping like he’s still not sure he’s allowed to touch you. You grind down harder, and he whines into your mouth, glasses fogging up, hips twitching like he’s not in control of his own body anymore.

“Fuck,” he breathes, voice high and shaking. “I’m—I was just trying to game.”

“You’ll live,” you whisper, licking into his mouth again. “Besides… I like seeing you like this. So desperate for me.”

He groans.

And you know right then, without a doubt, this little nerd is already obsessed with you. Completely and utterly whipped.

author's note: HELL YEAH I LOVE NERDIFYING ANIME MEN!!!! fantastic give me 14 more of them bzzzzz

seriously when i saw this fanart the first thing i did was open up google docs and get my ass to WORK i feel like by now its really obvious i have a thing for nerds :3

hope u guys #enjoyed i have a really bad tongue piercing fixation, not sure if it was obvious... (˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ )

[enwoso]

victory tastes like… | alessia russo (18+)

honestly got a bit carried away icl.. but this is an 18+, contains top!alessia, bottom!reader, swearing, oral (r receiving) fingering (r receiving) thigh riding (a receiving), dirty talking, a lot of build up, teasing, nipple play? i think, and more. buckle up its a long one:)

masterlist

alessia strides through the afterparty like she owns the night — and maybe she in a way does. a victorious beauty, radiant in the low light, her hair twisted into a messy bun that somehow makes her look even more effortless. her toned legs, on full display in a pair of barely-there denim shorts, catch more than a few eyes. but hers? they were locked on you.

you see her way before she reaches you, that smug, post-win glow clinging to her like perfume. she's flushed from champagne and the high of victory, lips already curled into that cocky grin that never fails to make your knees a little wobbly.

alessia doesn't hesitate, slipping through the crowd of her teammates and family members who are all dancing and singing proudly.

alessia with a predator's grace found you, a colourful cocktail in your hand as you lingered closer to the back of the group as alessia is pulling you into her.

her arm wind tightly around your waist, her body warm against yours, and her champagne flute clinks softly as it brushes your side.

"missed you," she murmurs, it slightly raspy from the amount of singing she'd done throughout the night. her lips skimming your ear, her voice a sultry purr.

you hum a soft laugh, trailing your fingers over the waistband of her shorts, slowly, deliberately your touch featherlight. teasing.

"missed me?" you echo, voice laced with mischief. "you've had your hands all over me all night, less. thought you might've gotten bored by now."

alessia pulls back just enough to give you a look — playful, dangerous. "don't tempt me," she murmurs, eyes dipping to your lips, then lower. "you're the one wearing my shirt, my name on your back, baby. what did you think would happen?"

you tug at the collar of it, smug. "i thought you might behave... at least until we get to the third round of sweet caroline."

alessia laughs, a soft, disbelieving sound, before her fingers slip under the hem, brushing the skin at your hip, nipping slightly. "keep running your mouth, pretty girl," she warns, her tone lazy, almost amused. "see where it gets you."

but you don't take that as a sign to stop if anything it makes you want to continue your teasing all the more. press her buttons more.

you shift closer, pressing yourself into her just a little too innocently, your voice honeyed as you whisper, "you gonna kiss me again, or just keep talking about it?"

her jaw clenches, her grip on your waist tightening. her eyes burn.

"you're such a brat at times," she mutters, but it's affectionate laced with tension. "are you gonna carry on messing about... or are you gonna let me take you upstairs and ruin that little attitude of yours?"

the world spins a little at her words, heat blooming low in your stomach, but you can't help the wicked grin that curves on your lips. "you always talk this big," you say, leaning in until your noses brush, "but yet i'm still here fully dressed..."

that seemed to do it.

alessia exhaled sharply, grabbing your hand in hers, and placed her champagne flute down without looking where it's ended. then she's dragging you out of the function room, ignoring the chorus of laughter and karaoke behind you coming from her teammates.

you keep teasing her, brushing your fingers along the back of her neck in the queue for the lift, leaning in just enough to let your breath tickle her skin. "bet you'd let me make a mess of you right here, wouldn't you?"

you say it soft like it nothing, just to see the flicker, the way her nostrils flare that little bit, the sharp inhale and the way her jaw clicks.

alessia doesn't respond, she knows what your doing and soon enough she knows she going to be able to have her way with you. 

and then — the lift doors open.

alessia doesn't even wait for them to close before she's pressing you into the wall, the hand railing close and sharp on your back as one hand braced beside your head, the other tracing slow, promising lines along your waist.

"you've had your fun," she whispers darkly. "now it's my turn."

the lift hums softly, the world shrinking down to just the two of you, breath mingling in the tight space. alessia's lips brush against your jaw, sending a shiver straight down your spine.

alessia steps back just enough to grab your hand, fingers curling possessively around yours as she pulls you through the hallway of the fancy hotel the team was staying in. the noise around you fades, the moment narrowing to the pulse between your bodies.

the door to the room clicks shut behind you, the soft thud sealing off the outside world. alessia's bright blue eyes, darken, fierce and tender all at once as they drink you in—especially the football jersey you're wearing, a match worn one she'd given you from a few games ago. it being a little oversized on you, sleeves loose on your shoulders, the fabric heavy with her scent and the memory of the pitch.

your girlfriend's fingers trace your collarbone as she pushed you against the wall. her hands slipping beneath the edge of the jersey, warm and sure. the contrast of her touch against the rough cotton sends sparks skittering across your skin.

her hand cups the back of your neck, drawing you in until her breath brushes your lips—a low, slow promise that pulls you under.

when alessia's mouth finally meets yours, it's deliberate and searing, every inch of the kiss claiming you. her hand slides from your waist, fingertips ghosting upward, tracing the ribs beneath your shirt, lighting a fire to every nerve.

you press closer, the cool draft from the cracked window mixing with the heat of her body, until the world shrinks to the taut tension between you.

alessia pulls back just enough, breath warm against your mouth. her fingers all over you as they slip lower, tracing slow, tantalising lines along your hip bone, nails grazing just enough to make your nerves hum.

"your so pretty, my love." alessia whispers as her lips follow the path her hands set—along your jaw, the sensitive hollow beneath it. a faint, teasing lick, and you can't stop the sharp inhale that escapes from your lips.

alessia catches it with a low, wicked smile, the heat in her eyes growing. her hands settle firmly on your back, pressing herself impossibly closer.

her breath fluttering across your ear, teeth grazing your lobe, the sensation electric and consuming. slow, teasing kisses trail down your neck, each one a promise, a quiet command. every touch building the tension tighter, winding you both up like a coil ready to snap.

your hands finding her waist, pulling her closer, craving the taut strength beneath her clothes. her eyes lock onto yours, dark and fierce, sliding beneath your shirt once again, her fingers electric as they explore with a hunger that's patient and sure.

her whisper is a thread pulling you deeper: "tell me what you want baby."

you try for something cheeky, a small grin curling your lips, “you, a-always you.” you whine but before you can speak more, alessia silences you—pressing her body harder against yours, her voice low and unyielding.

"soon, baby. i promise but tonight i’m in control."

and in that moment, you head fuzzy from the amount of alcohol consumed and with the way she looked, spoke, moved you. with her hands and lips commanding every inch of you, you knew you wouldn't want it any other way.

the jersey shifts beneath alessia's touch as her hands slide higher, palms warm and steady against your stomach, until the fabric bunches at your ribs. she doesn't rush—there's no need. you're already pliant beneath her, breath coming shallow as the tension winds tighter.

alessia watches your face as she lifts the shirt, slow and deliberate, exposing inch by inch of your skin to the cool hotel air and her burning gaze. when she finally pulls it over your head and tosses it somewhere on the floor, her eyes linger—appreciating, claiming, the corners of her mouth curling like she already knows what you'll be reduced to.

her hands come back to your waist, fingers tracing the waistband of your bottoms, not dipping beneath, not yet—just the steady pressure of promise.

alessia presses forward again, hips against yours, mouth finding the slope of your neck again. each kiss lands heavier now, deeper, wetter, laced with heat and hunger.

you are trembling under her, head tipping back against the wall, exposing your throat, your chest rising and falling faster with every touch.

“le-less please, i-i need you.” you whine as her fingers trail up your side, feather-light over your ribs, then cup your chest through the thin fabric of your bra.

a sharp gasp slips from you before you can catch it—your hips twitching forward instinctively, seeking friction that she refuses to give.

you feel her smirk against your neck. "already falling apart," she murmurs. "i haven't even really touched you yet, my girl."

you let out a soft, helpless sound, somewhere between a whimper and a plea, but it only spurs her on. alessia unhooks your bra with maddening ease, too much ease, dragging the straps down your arms and casting it aside. it landing somewhere.

the air feeling sharp against your skin, your nipples already tight from want and the way her gaze roves over you—hungry, focused, reverent.

alessia kisses her way down, tongue flicking briefly over your skin, teeth grazing just enough to make you jerk beneath her hands.

but when her mouth finally closes around your nipple, you arch, a strangled sound leaving your lips as your fingers twist into her blonde hair, desperate for something to anchor you.

“a-lessi—ah—please…”

but she doesn't let you take control. one of her hands clamps over your wrist, pinning it to your side as she works you over. slow, wet licks, lazy drags of her tongue daunting you almost, sucking just enough to make you tremble.

you knees go weak, and she chuckles darkly, guiding you back toward the white linen sheets of the hotel bed with calm authority, until the backs of your thighs hit the edge and you sit without thinking. you're a mess—breathing hard, skin flushed, nerves raw.

the blonde kneels between your legs, hands running slowly up your thighs. her nails scrape lightly through the fabric still clinging to your hips, and you're sure if she asked you for anything in that moment, you'd give it without hesitation.

but she doesn't ask.

alessia watches your face as she peels the rest of your clothes off—deliberate and unhurried, like she’s unwrapping something precious, something she’s earned. her eyes never leave yours, and the heat in them makes your skin flush under the low light.

you lift your hips when she tells you to, the quiet, “up for me, baby,” sending a fresh wave of want rolling through your belly. her knuckles graze teasingly between your legs as she pulls your underwear down, and a high, desperate sound slips from your throat before you can stop it.

“fuck—less…”

she smirks softly. you’re already trembling, thighs twitching under her hands as she kneels between your legs.

she doesn’t touch you where you need it. not yet.

instead, alessia’s palms settle on your inner thighs, spreading you open with gentle pressure. the pads of her thumbs rub slow, possessive circles into your skin, warm and steady, grounding you even as you start to unravel.

you're soaked. you know it. she knows it.

you can’t help it—you whimper, a breathy, broken noise that betrays how close you already are to begging.

“less… please—” your voice cracks, soft and shaking. “d-don’t tease me…”

alessia doesn’t answer—not with words anyway. her breath ghosts over your aching core, warm and maddeningly close, making your hips jerk instinctively toward her.

you let out a strangled moan, high and needy. “god—please, i can’t take it.”

alessia hums, low and deep in her throat, eyes fixed on the slick between your legs like she’s watching something sacred. “you’re dripping,” alessia murmurs, voice rough. “so wet for me, my pretty, girl.”

your head tips back, eyes fluttering shut as you let out a soft, desperate whine. “please—less, i need your mouth, i need—”

her thumbs press in slightly, keeping your thighs open, and she leans in just close enough to brush her nose against your clit without fully touching it.

you gasp, your whole body jerking.

“say it,” alessia says, calm and low. “tell me exactly what you want.”

you’re panting now, thighs shaking under her hands. “i want your mouth—i want your tongue—please, please just—fuck—less, do something—”

alessia finally lets her lips ghost over you, the barest brush of heat and wetness that makes you cry out, sharp and helpless.

“ah—oh my god—yes—yes—”

but she doesn’t stay there. alessia lifts her head again, licking her lips slowly, eyes burning as she watches the way you squirm beneath her.

“not yet,” alessia whispers, voice like velvet and smoke. “i want you to hear you beg a little more.”

she doesn't give you what you so desperately want. not yet. instead she hovers, breath warm against the aching heat between your legs, so close you can feel the way her exhale makes you twitch, your hips lifting involuntarily toward her mouth.

your writhing beneath her, every nerve lit up, skin hypersensitive from how close she’s hovering but refusing to touch you properly. your hands reach for her, one slipping into her hair, the other gripping the sheets hard enough to hurt.

“please…” your voice is barely a whisper, raw with need. “less—fuck—please, i’m going insane…”

alessia doesn’t move. your thighs twitch in her hold, and you lift your hips again, instinctive, desperate. “i need your mouth. i need you, please, i’ll do anything.”

still nothing—just her breath against you, warm and maddening.

you whimper again, louder this time. “i’m so wet for you, it hurts. i can’t take it—i need you, alessia, please touch me.”

you hear your own voice breaking, high and wrecked, and still she just watches you, so calm, so in control. it only makes it worse.

“please,” you beg again, shakier now. “i’ll be a good girl —just please, please, don’t make me wait anymore—”

another quiet, desperate whimper escapes you before you can stop it. alessia's eyes flick up, and her mouth curls into a slow, dangerous smile. "that's better," she murmurs.

then finally, her mouth meets you where you need her most.

the first lick is slow—broad, deliberate. alessia moans low against you, the sound reverberating deep in her throat like she’s finally getting a taste of something she’s been craving for far too long. her mouth is hot, her tongue languid and sure as it slides through you, and you shudder violently, legs falling open wider without resistance.

“fuck,” you whisper, already breathless.

alessia’s hands slide beneath your thighs and hook around, dragging you closer to the edge of the bed, locking you in place. her grip is firm—commanding. there is no escape, not that you want one. alessia groans again, rough and needy, the vibrations shooting straight through your core.

“your mine,” alessia murmurs, voice low and wrecked as she glances up at you. “so fuckin’ pretty like this.”

alessia dips back down, and then she’s everywhere—tongue pressing in slow, languid strokes, tracing every slick inch of you with devastating control. she savors it, each movement precise, almost reverent, like she’s tasting your pleasure more than her own. your hips stutter, but alessia just tightens her grip, nails biting into your skin as she holds you still.

“stay there, baby,” she says, breath warm and ragged against you. “let me take my time.”

your fingers tangle in the sheets, desperate to anchor yourself. then her tongue flicks—quick, teasing, then swirling around your clit with a rhythm that’s maddening in its precision. you choke on a moan, head tossing back, thighs twitching against her shoulders.

“a-alessia—ah—fuck,” you gasp, voice cracking as your fingers leave the sheets and sink into her hair, gripping tight.

alessia groans again, louder this time, the sound guttural and needy. her mouth seals around you, sucking slow and deep, and you swear you can feel her smiling against your skin when you cry out.

“you love this, don’t you?” alessia breathes against your clit. “love being ruined on my tongue.”

you try to answer, to speak, but your body betrays you—all you can manage is a breathless whimper, hips jerking despite yourself. her tongue presses harder, faster, dragging a helpless moan from your lips, your thighs clamping reflexively around her.

alessia doesn’t relent. she keeps going, relentless, confident, mouth working you like she already knows every way to make you fall apart. the wet sounds between your thighs grow louder, matched only by the breathy little gasps and moans slipping freely from both of you. every sound she makes is a praise—raw, wanting, as though alessia’s addicted to the way you taste, the way you move, the way you sound.

“f-fuck—less…” you manage, voice all torn-up desire.

her grip on your thighs tightens again. “i said stay still,” she growls, low and possessive, licking a firm, deliberate stripe that makes your back arch off the mattress. “be a good girl for me.”

then her lips wrap around your clit and she sucks—hard and perfect—and your whole world snaps. your hands fly to her shoulders, grabbing at anything you can, fingers digging in as the tension coils impossibly tight.

“less—oh god, m’ close, i—fuck!”

alessia hums against you, tongue moving faster now, working you through the build with ruthless expertise. she feels it in your trembling thighs, the way your body rocks helplessly into her mouth, chasing every flick and suck like you’re starving for it.

your moans come out broken now—gasping, pleading, babbling messes of her name and barely-formed curses.

alessia’s hands grip harder, anchoring you as your back bows and your whole body strains toward release. you feel the burn rising, unbearable, unbearable—until it’s not.

“let go, baby,” alessia breathes, voice shaking from effort and lust. “let me hear you.”

and when it hits, it’s not soft—it’s a full-body surrender. your mouth drops open in a silent cry, your hips jerk wildly, and your whole body convulses as the orgasm tears through you like a wave. it’s hot, overwhelming, and all-consuming—her name falling from your lips like prayer.

but alessia doesn’t stop.

she licks you through it, slow and thorough, tongue dragging through your wetness like she’s cleaning you up, worshipping every shudder, every twitch. it’s too much. too intense. you whimper, breath hitching as your body trembles uncontrollably.

“mhm s-still sensitive,” you manage to gasp, twitching beneath her.

alessia finally pulls back, mouth slick, eyes dark and glittering with satisfaction. she looks at you like she’s never seen anything more beautiful than the way you’re sprawled on the bed—boneless, ruined, glowing.

“good girl,” she murmurs. “tasted even better than i imagined.”

alessia, licking her lips as she crawls up your body, slow and predatory, and presses her mouth to yours. you can taste yourself on her lips, on her tongue, and it makes your stomach twist with something deeper than lust—something sharp and consuming.

"think you've still got cheek left in you?" alessia murmurs, voice rough with want, hips already settling between your legs again.

you try to answer. but all that comes out is a whimper. and alessia grins. "didn't think so."

but alessia doesn't give you much time to catch your breath.

she stays right there, pressed against you, her thigh sliding between yours, the warmth of her body anchoring you as her mouth finds your throat again—biting gently now, claiming, leaving faint marks she knows you'll feel later.

her hands roaming without hesitation, familiar now in the way they map your body, coaxing little reactions with minimal effort.

your skin is oversensitive, every nerve exposed and raw, but it doesn't matter. you crave more. need more. wanted more. you feel insatiable under her—lit up and stretched thin and so completely hers.

and alessia knows it.

"you're, we’re not done," alessia breathes against your ear, hand sliding between your legs again. "not even close."

your thighs twitch in protest, but your body betrays you—already wet, already eager, already opening up for her again.

alessia kisses the corner of your mouth as her fingers slip through your slick heat, drawing a broken gasp from your lips. you try to lift your hips, but her other hand lands firm on your stomach, pinning you down.

"no," alessia murmurs. "you don't get to chase it. you take what I give you."

the command coils through you like lightning, and you whimper—eyes fluttering shut, breath catching as her fingers circle your clit in slow, maddening patterns. no pressure, not yet. just enough to make your whole body ache with the wanting, once again.

"a-alessia, please-"

alessia watches you unravel beneath her. every twist of your hips, every shaky breath, every bitten-off moan—she drinks it in like fuel.

"you look so gorgeous like this," alessia says, voice rough with arousal. "messy. needy. my name half-stuck in your throat."

you nod, useless, undone.

alessia pushes two fingers into you in one smooth, deliberate motion, and you cry out—hips bucking before her hand on your stomach pushes you back down again.

her rhythm is unrelenting—firm and deep, the heel of her palm brushing your clit with every stroke until you're practically writhing.

your fingers scrabble for something—her arm, the sheets, yourself. you can't hold anything steady. every muscle feels like it's trembling on the edge.

alessia leans in, her voice in your ear, low and deadly calm. "you're gonna cum again for me, my girl. just like this. don't hold it. let go."

you can't answer, not with proper words. just whimpers of her name. all you can do is feel—her fingers curling just right, the tight drag inside you, the steady grind of her hand, the fire building with every second until you're nothing but heat and helpless moans.

"a-ah, oh, less"

it crashes over you like a wave—harder than before. your whole body arches, eyes squeezing shut, mouth open in a desperate cry as the orgasm rips through you, sharp and all-consuming.

alessia doesn't stop right away. she works you through it, again, until your thighs shake and you're gasping and whimpering, begging with no words, just broken sounds and twitching limbs.

finally, finally, alessia slows.

her fingers slipping out of you, wet and shining, and she brings them to her mouth, sucking them clean with a quiet, satisfied hum.

before she crawls up beside you, her body warm against yours, and kisses you deep and slow—like she's sealing something between your ribs.

your legs are still trembling. your breath's ragged. your body feels like it's glowing from the inside out.

alessia smiles against your lips, fingers brushing the sweaty hair from your forehead.

"still think you could handle wearing my jersey again?" alessia murmurs. you manage the softest laugh, eyes half-lidded, voice nothing more than a wrecked whisper.

"only if i survive the night."

alessia doesn't let you drift far. she gives you a moment—just long enough to feel the tremble still working through your thighs, your chest rising and falling in uneven gasps.

but her hand never fully leaves your skin. it stays there, splayed possessively across your waist, thumb stroking the curve of your hip in lazy, dangerous circles.

you're pliant beneath her, loose and wrecked, and she loves seeing you like this - maybe more than she would ever admit to anyone.

"look at you," alessia murmurs, her voice thick and low as she presses a kiss to your cheek, then your jaw, then down the column of your throat again. "completely fucked out—and i’m not even close to done with you."

the words ignite something in your gut, deep and molten. you shift slightly against her, instinctively seeking friction, heat, more—and alessia laughs, a dark, amused sound that vibrates against your skin.

"oh, you want it now?" alessia teases, hand sliding down to squeeze your thigh, her fingers dragging inward, brushing the oversensitive slick between your legs. "suddenly so greedy."

you try to answer, but the sound that leaves you is more whine than word, like it has been since she's been on top of you. your hand curls into her bicep, nails dragging faint crescents into her skin, but she's not giving you any control, not tonight.

alessia shifts, rising above you—knees straddling your thigh, her own body finally pressing close, and that's when you feel it: how wet she is. even through her shorts, the heat is unmistakable, pressed against your skin like a promise you've been aching for all night.

you glance down, dizzy with want, and catch the sharp smirk on her lips as she leans down, her mouth brushing your ear.

"you feel that?" alessia whispers. "that's what you do to me."

and then she grabs your wrist and drags your hand down between her legs, pushing your fingers hard against the soaked fabric.

"take them off me," alessia growls, voice rough with need.

your fingers shake as you obey, tugging the waistband down her thighs, breath catching when you see how wet she is—slick and flushed and so ready for you.

but before you can touch her, alessia grabs your wrists and pins them to the mattress again, her hips grinding down against your thigh, drawing a low groan from her throat.

"don't get ahead of yourself baby," alessia warns, dragging her wet heat across your skin, letting you feel how much she needs it—how close she is to unraveling, too. "this is still my game. my reward.”

and then she starts to move.

the friction is obscene—her body grinding against your leg in slow, deliberate rolls, the slick slide of her clit against your skin making your whole body tighten all over again. her breath hitches, her fingers tightening around your wrists, and you can feel how close she is to losing it.

but alessia doesn't. not yet.

alessia leans down, mouth finding yours, her kiss hungry now—open and hot and messy, tongue pressing in like she's trying to taste every sound you've made tonight. when she breaks it, her forehead rests against yours, breath mingling, both of you caught in the rhythm of her hips.

you're squirming under her, desperate for her to let you touch, to take, to give her back even a fraction of the pleasure she's given you. but she doesn't loosen her grip. alessia just keeps using you—riding your thigh like it's hers, like you are.

and fuck, you are.

your head rolls back, eyes fluttering shut, mouth falling open in a low moan as her pace quickens, her breaths growing shallower.

you can hear the slick drag of her against your skin, feel every tremble as her thighs tighten around yours. "lessi-" you gasp, voice thin and breaking.

"say it again," alessia demands, voice wrecked.

"le-lessi, please”

alessia's right there. you can feel it in the way her rhythm falters, the tremble in her arms, the desperate bite of her teeth into your shoulder as her orgasm rips through her, sudden and intense.

she moans your name like it's the only thing tethering her to the world, her whole body going rigid above you, grinding hard through the aftershocks until she finally collapses against your chest—breathing hard, skin slick, still twitching with the last waves of pleasure.

you were both shaking.

“fuck..that was,, was amazing.”

you lie there in the aftermath, her weight warm and grounding on top of you, your fingers finally freed to tangle in her blonde hair, stroking her back as you come down together.

but even as her breathing evens out, you feel her smile against your skin.

"you're not going anywhere," alessia whispers, already kissing around your skin again. "i'm going to ruin you by morning."

you lie there beneath her, limbs tangled, breath catching in quiet fits as alessia's weight settles over you—warm and solid, grounding.

her skin is damp, her thigh still pressed between yours, but now her hands have softened, brushing slowly up and down your ribs in a soothing rhythm, as if trying to memorise you all over again.

"i love you and, i’m so proud of you, always.” you whisper against her head. but alessia doesn't speak at first. just kisses the hollow of your throat, then your shoulder, then the soft space just above your heart, each one slower than the last. like gratitude. like worship.

"i love you too, my girl. so much.”

and you can't help the way your fingers continue to thread into her hair, gently pulling her closer, keeping her right there.

after a long moment, alessia lifts her head, eyes meeting yours—dark, shining, a little wild still, but soft around the edges now.

"if this is what victory tastes like..." alessia murmurs, voice rough but low, "then i want to win every award possible."

you can feel the smile tug at your lips before you can stop it, the sound that escapes you somewhere between a breathless laugh and a groan.

"that your post-match speech?"

alessia grins, dipping down to press her lips just below your ear. "no, not even close."

and then her mouth is on yours again—slower this time, but no less demanding. her kiss steals your breath, like she's tasting the high of what she just did to you—and already thinking about doing it again.

her hand slides back between your thighs, teasing, coaxing your legs apart like it's second nature. you gasp into alessia's mouth, your whole body still trembling, still so tender and open—but she knows exactly how to touch you now. how to pull you right under again.

you whimper as she slips lower, heat pooling fast in your belly once more.

"i told you," alessia murmurs, voice all gravel and promise as she disappears between you thighs. "we aren't done."

and this time, when alessia's mouth finds you again, you know two things, one that your exactly where you want to be and two that you know exactly how long this night is going to be.

[diaryofavillainwhore]

— Stream Me Scream You 🎮

He told them it was just a regular stream.

“Solo queue, nothing special,” he muttered into the mic, camera angled low, just his upper body. Just enough to hide you. On your knees, between his thighs, under the desk. Like a hundred times before.

You were already gagging on him, mascara smudged, hands gripping his thighs while he held the controller steady like it was the only thing anchoring him to earth.

His voice didn’t waver. “Yeah, I’m up for ranked—hold on, lag spike.”

There was no lag. Just the back of your throat clenching around his cock. And when you moaned—wet, ruined, desperate—he didn’t mute.

He tilted his head, smirked at chat and said, “Don’t worry. That’s just my little toy.”

In return you slapped his thigh and he let out a raw chuckle. Unsatisfied you grazed your teeth along his sensitive teeth before you took him so deep you were gagging.

“Yo what was that sound??”

“Bro… BRO…”

“Is someone under the desk rn???”

“Tomura. Tomura what the fuck.”

You tried to pull off, but he grabbed the back of your head, shoved you down until your nose hit skin.

“Stay,” he growled into the mic. “You’re gonna make me lose rank if you don’t finish what you started.”

Your hands clawed at his thighs, tears in your eyes, throat full of him. And the guy you call your boyfriend? He kept playing. Kept winning.

“Tomura.” You whined louder than wanted. Lips plush, and wet with spit and precum. You felt a bit bratty.

“SHE SAID HIS NAME. I HEARD IT.”

“BRO HE’S GETTING SUCKED ON STREAM—”

“NO FUCKING WAY.”

He finally let go when he came, hips jerking, cock twitching down your throat. The grin on his face turned sick. Proud. Territorial.

“She’s got the best mouth,” he said casually, tucking himself away. “But I’m not done showing off.”

The camera cut to black. He grabbed you. Then came back on. You were sprawled across his lap now, legs spread wide, flushed and panting. The large wet spot in your panties glowed under the LEDs.

His hand slid into your underwear. “Say hi to the viewers, sweetheart.”

“Tomura—fuck—don’t—”

“Too late.”

He rubbed your clit in tight, furious circles, watching your face crumble while you writhed in his lap.

“Think they should hear how wet you are? Think they deserve it?”

You shook your head, but he didn’t care. Two fingers slid in deep and slow, your moan punching the mic like a slap.

“I’m gonna fuckin die.”

“HER MOANS???”

“SHIGARAKI YOU FUCKING MENACE”

“I HATE U I HATE U I HATE U”

He dragged you to the edge, holding you there. He was a goddamn tease. Tapping your clit until your thighs shook and you were gasping his name over and over again.

“Tomura, please—Tomura, I need it—fuck—!”

He pushed in three fingers and snapped his hips once, dry humping you. You gasped, whined and everything in between, came and nearly collapsed.

“That’s my girl,” he whispered, kissing your shoulder. “Every fucking sound? That’s mine.”

And then he mercilessly muted the mic. So all they got was the sight of your soft stomach, your parted thighs and when he pushed your panties aside, enough so he could slide in. He fucked you through the comedown, mouthing “mine” against your throat while you shattered in his arms.

[kabr0ztrousers]

If you are comfortable with it, can you do chubby fem reader x orc step dad x orc dbf? Step dad's been trying to set her up with his friend but she is not interested. One day they both corner her. Step dad is mainly holding her against him while his friend is burying his face and cock in her pussy. The step dad doesn't penetrate her but gropes and says some really gross things. Heavy breeding kink on this one.

Sounds hot! And it'll be nice to get back to some high fantasy!

Kabr0z Writes episode 42: Orc Daddy

Find the rest of the Kabr0z Writes anthology here!

CWs: Dubcon going to enthusiastic consent; size difference; age difference; father-daughter; arranged marriage; breeding; deep penetration; groping; extreme cum;

A/N: Wow, episode 42 already. I definitely should've written a special one for today in advance to mark this particular milestone, but oh well.

There's 10 stories in the queue at time of publication, so if you send a request and don't see it for a few days please have faith, it's coming.

On the subject of requests, please do keep them coming! I have a couple of anons claiming emojis, so if you want one then you might want to grab it early!

Any idea, kink, scenario, whatever, drop me an anon or a DM and I'll make it happen!

#####################################

The village was never quiet. Orcs all have a competitive streak, the young ones always brawling, racing, drinking, trying to outdo one another. To say nothing of the constant sounds of work being done, labourers chopping wood in the forest, mining ore out of the mountain, singing bawdy songs waiting for the charcoal to bake, and your step-father smithing the tools that made it all happen.

You'd been adopted into the village almost 15 years ago as a child after bandits attacked your family in the mountains. Only you got away and were found by a hunting party days later, half starved and freezing. They brought you back to the village, unsure about what to do with you. An extra mouth was a burden, and a human no less. You were lucky the village blacksmith, a hulking, bearded orc named Mazorn.

Of course, you're in your early 20s now. The young orcs in the village were all interested in you and while you'd had the odd roll in the hay, Mazorn wasn't keen on any of them getting too close to you. He kept on going on about one of his friends from another village nearby, a grizzled warrior called Oreg. You weren't particularly interested in the idea of an arranged marriage to begin with, let alone with some old friend of your father's.

It was raining hard when the caravan arrived. Furs and trade goods from the city, along with a huge figure clad in platemail. The whole village came out to see, the suit glowed with enchantment, emblazoned with shining gilt fittings and a rich red cloak, a matching shield on his back and a longsword on his hip. A bit much for a caravan guard. Your father stepped out towards him, and they grabbed one another in a hug, Mazorn's huge hand clapping on the shield, the knight's clanking on the orc's back. They laughed heartily before Mazorn brought him over to you

"This is the daughter I've told you about!" Mazorn gestured to you as the other man lifted his helmet.

Underneath was a scarred orc, tusks filed short and short-stubbled. "I see you raised her well, old friend!" Oreg clapped Mazorn, looking at you "Certainly haven't been under-feeding her"

You blushed, conscious of his eyes on you. You weren't sure if it was the armour, but it was kind of turning you on. Oreg and Mazorn walked back to the smithy, you in tow as they reminisced about their glory days. You hadn't taken your old dad for a warrior, but apparently they used to be shield brothers in some war or other. The ale was flowing freely between them, perhaps too freely as you noticed Oreg taking longer and longer glances at you. The armoured orc was gradually taking pieces off, bracers, greaves, miscellaneous plates protecting his joints and flanks.

You could smell him as the armour came off, strong and musky. It wasn't unpleasant per se, you'd spent your life around orcs, but it was noticeable. Oreg motioned to you to help him with some of the harder to reach buckles and straps "I'd normally have a squire around to help with this, but he's helping the caravaneers. You should know your way around all this anyway, your father made most of it"

The last plate to come off was his cuirass, once he stripped the chain surcoat and the gambesson underneath, Oreg was sat half naked and glistening with a thin layer of fresh sweat. His shoulders were broad, his back criss-crossed with scars. Only a loincloth covered his manhood. Muscles rippled under his skin as he stretched and shook himself, cushioned by the layer of fat ubiquitous among the strongest orcs in your village.

You caught yourself staring, swallowing the mouthful of drool you'd produced looking at him.

Your father looked at Oreg "Thirty gold pieces"

Oreg laughed, "Done! She's worth at least fifty"

Were they talking about you?

Mazorn lifted you, as though you weighed nothing. He held you under a shoulder and gripped your thick thighs, forcing them apart and presenting you to the other orc. You blushed, underwear wasn't a part of your wardrobe, so your unprotected pussy was completely bare to Oreg "She's useful about the house, but she's a been a bit of a whore in her time, already laid with half the lads her age. Want to get shut of her before she gets herself knocked up"

Oreg touched your pussy, opening it up with his calloused fingers "Hmm, certainly not a virgin, but clean and well cared for... Thirty is fair."

You heard a coinpurse hit the table. You'd been sold, like a prize hog at market. Or a breeding sow.

Mazorn shifted you in his grip, holding you upright by the tits, his huge hands groping you as Oreg pulled his loincloth aside

"I'd better see to her properly now she's mine" His hands were rough and strong, but his nails well manicured and clean. He tore off your skirt and got down on one knee in front of you, eyes level with your already moist pussy as you struggled against your adoptive father's grip.

Oreg held one leg up as he filled you with a thick finger, the rough skin making you shudder in anticipation as it gently worked its way inside. Another finger joined it, you whined as they stretched you, but Oreg was careful not to hurt you as he slowly twisted them inside you, going this way and that, paying attention to where made your breathing catch, your pulse quicken, your toes curl.

You'd stopped struggling now, holding your legs open for the big orc to finger you, Mazorn's voice came from beside your head "See? I told you she's a slut, already she's giving herself over to you! And after all her complaining about wanting to pick her own mate!"

You couldn't disagree. You'd fancied Oreg since you'd set eyes on him, you were probably going to try and get this orc 20 years your senior to finger you tonight anyway. You bit your lip, the sensations getting to you. Mazorn started groping at you faster, your whines cued Oreg to let go of your leg, using that hand to rub your clit.

You came with a wail, your cunt eagerly accepting the fingers rolling around in it, your hips thrusting, trying in vain to fuck him back. Oreg stood up, holding his erect member in one hand, he could probably fit two of those hands next to each other on his cock and still have length to spare.

Two of his hands, or one of you.

He lined up his cock with your pussy, looking down into your begging eyes as he rubbed it against your clit and your hole. It was almost comically thick, the head pressing against the cit and the opening at the same time.

You nodded at him, putting your hands on his waist as he gently rubbed himself into you.

"Take it, take your new husband" Mazorn growled into your ear. You knew he'd fantasized about doing this himself so many times, muttering your name as he wanked himself to sleep when he thought you were asleep. You could feel his cock getting rock-hard behind you, pressing against you through the fabric of his trousers. But you were Oreg's now, and there was nothing he could do about it as you rubbed your ass against him. The bastard had sold you, the least you could do was give him some seller's remorse.

Oreg pushed himself in. It didn't hurt, the stretching from his fingers and the liberal amount of your juices on his cockhead meant he slid in without pain. It still made your eyes water, tears building as your mouth lolled open and you groaned from the immense pressure inside you. You moved your hips against him, wrapping your legs around his trunk, but you could no more hurry him that you could pull up an old oak. Slowly, carefully, he pushed into you. You felt his tip kiss your cervix and moaned again, open mouthed and animalistic.

He stayed still for a moment, resisting the pulling of your legs, the urging in your eyes. "Please" you breathed, barely a whisper "please, more"

Mazorn laughed "See? The slut wants it all! She's well broken in, brother, you can have fun"

Oreg looked into your eyes, waiting for your nod.

You gave it.

He pushed.

You felt the cock slip by your cervix, pushing deeper into you as be bottomed out in you. Your eyes defocused as you wordlessly begged him. Your hips moved on their own, without rhythm, running on sheer desperation for his cock.

He started to fuck you properly now. Starting slowly, thrusting in and out in long motions, slathering himself in your juices and getting your fuckhole relaxed as he built up speed. You felt like you were melting into him. Your legs started to slip a little as he fucked you senseless. His hand came up to your face, the two fingers that had been inside you thrust into your mouth. You sucked on them, tasting your wetness. You felt your cunt drooling out even more as he invaded your mouth

"You like your face being fucked too?" Oreg grinned "Your father's a fine smith, but no salesman"

His fingers fucked your face harder as he pounded into your cunt. You felt your body start to twitch and tense. Your head was spinning. Your legs clenched around him. You moaned again and again, the noises merging into a wail of release as your cunt tightened and relief filled your body. You could feel the waves of warmth and pleasure making your pussy pulse around Oreg's cock.

He groaned in time with you. He thrust himself in, his balls pressed against your asshole as they pulsed and tightened into him. Surge after surge of hot liquid pumped up into you. You could feel the pressure of it squirting it into every corner of your cunt, flooding your womb and leaking out around his cock, and it kept coming.

You could hear Mazorn grunting as well as the bulge of his cock started to twitch, a damp patch spreading on your back as you leaked the younger orc's cum onto your stepfather's clothes.

Oreg wrapped his arms around you, and Mazorn released you into his embrace. The knight carried you, still buried in your cunt, and sat down.

The way he looked at you, with such tenderness, you wouldn't believe his cock was buried over a foot deep in you if you couldn't feel it in your guts. You kissed his chest and rested your head, letting the blissed-out feeling take you as you both dozed in each other's arms.

You left with him in the morning.

It was over a month until the caravan got back to Oreg's home, every night punctuated with another round of intense, yet strangely gentle, lovemaking. Your monthlies hadn't came, you reckoned that a gallon of orc cum every night had seen to that. It turned out Mazorn had rather undersold Oreg to you. He wasn't some foreign warlord, he was a duke under the Imperial crown. Apparently the old war they were drinking to was a crusade against a lich king, and for his valiance he was granted a noble title. He'd spent the last twenty years as a paladin of Pelor and had only recently received permission to take a wife and continue his lineage.

You still weren't happy about being sold, but figured you could live with it, Mazorn always was looking out for you, in his way

###############################

This is another one I really enjoyed writing! A little exposition, Oreg's actually based off a D&D character I played in my first proper campaign in that system, though his monstrous manhood never came up then. Just goes to show inspiration can strike from anywhere.

Hopefully you all enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it, and again if you have any ideas, scenarios, kinks, fanmail, hatemail, whatever, drop me a DM or an ask and I'll probably wind up writing it!

Again, there's 10 in the queue right now, but it will almost certainly get written 😁

Post-post script: I still haven't figured out how to reference the posterior fornix without feeling like I'm giving a biology lecture

[wibben]

Pillow Talk

Choso discovers new sensations when thoughts of you turn innocent moments into something much more… hands-on.

↳ pairing: friend! choso kamo x afab! reader

↳ warnings: 18+, nsfw, smut, virgin! choso, m masturbation, pillow fucking, overstimulation, fantasizing, pillow fucking, (not sure who the artist is, if you do please let me know so I can credit!)

↳ wc: 3,485

↳ notes: another cross-post from my ao3 while I try to make tumblr my main writing hub! I hope you enjoy! <3

“Goodnight.”

Choso’s voice is soft, barely louder than the creak of the bathroom door as he eases it shut behind him. Yuji is already asleep, he assumes—he doesn’t expect a response, but routine compels him to speak into that dark hallway void anyway. He waits, listening—a response does come in the form of a loud snore down the hall. 

Choso smiles fondly as he silently pads back to his own room, taking that as his queue that he is well and truly done with the day.

The cool, lingering dampness from washing his face clings to his skin, tiny droplets of water catching the faint flicker of silver from breeze-blown curtains as they trace thin rivers down his cheeks and neck. His hair, still slightly damp around his face, sticks to his forehead in dark, unruly strands. He doesn't care to tame it, nor does he bother to brush away the residual drips of water. They cool his skin wherever they touch, and he’s grateful for that because he feels oddly warm.

Warm enough that his t-shirt lies discarded on the bathroom floor, haphazardly kicked towards the laundry to be dealt with later.

He toes open the door of his room and nudges it shut behind him with his heel, listening for the soft cli-click of the knob. The room is dim, illuminated only by the soft glow of the moon filtering through the window, flickering through sheer curtains that really serve no purpose other than to look cute. That’s what you said, at least. Home decor…he doesn’t get it, but you seemed pleased with the addition so he was too. 

Choso shuffles with mechanical routine as he approaches his bed, his body craving the comfort of his soft mattress, to nest into the carved divet in the foam created by and molded to his body.

With the unceremonious flop of a marionette with cut strings, Choso allows himself to fall onto the bed, the springs squeaking their protest and his sheets rustling under his weight. He lays there face down, eyes closed, and simply lets himself sink.

In the quiet dark of night and behind closed eyelids, he wonders if this is what boats feel like.

He’s never been on one, but he’s seen plenty—in movies mainly, like the one you watched together earlier that evening. With senses deprived, his body rocks with the gentlest sense of vertigo, up and down, forward and back, soothing. He feels heavy, liquid and relaxed, and yet… not quite right. There’s a restlessness beneath his skin, an undercurrent to his gentle tide he can’t quite shake. He keeps his face buried in his pillow, wrapping an arm around it and holding it tight, as if the soft fabric could anchor him.

…He doesn’t know how long he’s like this but fuck he can’t sleep.

He turns his head from his pillow, eyes cracked open in the dark, lower lip pouted and dragging against the fabric; he wears a petulant expression with nobody around to see it, nobody to explain away his uneasiness. He’s tired he knows he is, and yet he feels like a taut bowstring, ready to snap at a moment's notice.

Choso rolls onto his back instead, running a hand through his damp hair and pushing it back from his forehead as he stares up at the ceiling. The room is silent save for the occasional creak of the house settling, and the faint, distant sounds of the city outside. A dog, a car, the smash of a bottle on a curb, the flap of his curtain, the grinding of his teeth—he categorizes each sound methodically, filing them away neatly and willing the tedium to bore him to sleep like it always does. Always did. But not tonight.

He closes his eyes, trying to force tranquility and exhaustion upon himself, but his mind refuses to settle. He thinks of boats and the ocean, he thinks about when you came over and knocked on the door, he thinks of the movie he watched with you and Yuji on the couch, he thinks of cooking dinner with you in the kitchen—he thinks of you, you, and you again. The tension in his bones stirs more insistently with each and every thought, each train tracking straight back into your station.

But that’s okay. Choso likes you, likes thinking about you, and thoughts of you have lulled him to sleep before with a sort of embracing comfort he can’t even begin to name. He smiles to himself in the dark—the same brand of smile only you seem to inspire in him. He just needs to think of you more and then surely—

He remembers your smile when he opened the door, the way it lit up your entire face, the wrinkle in the bridge of your nose as it screwed up and made him smile in return. Your laughter, too, was infectious. It always is, and he caught that particular sickness with remarkable consistency every time you tittered or giggled—a laugh reciprocated in his own throat as quick as a lit match, earning more than a few wide-eyed, slack-jawed looks of disbelief from his brother.

And then there was the spaghetti. 

It’s a simple meal and he eats it far too often—but it’s good, and easy to make for three. And you, ever eager to help, had insisted on joining him in the kitchen while Yuji picked out a movie. He didn’t mind though; your presence was nice, even if it meant treacherously navigating around you as you both shuffled around the small space with enthusiastic clumsiness. You bopped cabinets and the fridge closed with your hip, which he too fell victim to more than once, finding himself nudged into the counter by a stray hip-check. Despite the occasional collision, your proximity was a comfort, a warm, lively presence in the otherwise mundane routine.

Choso couldn’t help but chuckle as you fumbled with pots and pans, finding your determination to be helpful endlessly endearing, even with something so simple as flitting about the kitchen. He directed you to the cabinet where a jar of tomato sauce was stored with a quiet look of anticipation—innocently underhanded is the request. You wouldn’t be able to reach, he was sure. You wouldn’t be able to reach, and you would ask him for help, and he would be able to help—

He remembers the way you stood on your tiptoes, reaching for the jar with your free hand splayed against the counter. As you stretched, he watched as if in slow motion, fabric unfolding like the draw of a curtain away from a theater stage. Your shirt rode up, exposing just an inch of the skin above your waistband.

The sight was brief, but it held a searing magnetism that held Choso hopelessly hostage. It sapped his mouth of moisture, glued his eyelids open, and his hand gave a peculiar twitch with the sudden urge to touch you. He watched your skin shift as you reached higher and higher, the gentle curve of your waist, the way your skin looked so soft and inviting and smooth as satin and he so badly wanted to see if this usually hidden expanse was as soft as it looked, and Choso doesn’t want for much but god did he want—

And he completely forgot to offer you a hand, his mind swept blank with ringing tinnitus in his ears when you laughed and settled back onto the balls of your feet, whirling around and flourishing the jar with a triumphant smile. Your eyes sparkled with satisfaction, and there was a slight flush on your cheeks from the effort. Choso had smiled back then, feeling a warmth in his chest that surely had everything to do with the heat of the kitchen.

Choso suddenly flinches in surprise, abruptly torn from the pleasant memory as he absentmindedly rolls his wrist over his erection. He must have been doing this for some time now, judging by how the waist of his sweatpants has already rolled down his hip bones, freeing the red and needy head of his cock to the cool air and smearing a shiny trail over his arm. He stares down at the unmistakable bulge snaking up towards his navel silently perplexed, his shaft straining against the loose fabric where it’s still confined.

He’s fully hard. He hadn’t even realized it happened, hadn’t recognized the feeling building inside him until it manifested so obviously. Arousal snuck up on him, licking up his spine with hungry fangs while he was lost in the memory of you.

Familiar heat pools low in his abdomen, a dull hook that drags beneath his skin. His cock twitches with every beat of his heart, a heavy, insistent pulse that’s impossible to ignore. And he has tried to ignore it before. It keeps him from peace, from sleep— god he just wants to sleep.

It’s a mix of aching need and slick, simmering napalm that spreads through his veins and ignites kindling he hadn’t even known was there. He knows this feeling well, even if it has no name; the way his cock grows heavier and jumps against his stomach, the way his breathing grows rough and deep—all sensations he’s experienced before, though they never fail to leave him flustered and bewildered…and annoyed, above all else.

The intensity of the need always catches Choso off guard, consuming his thoughts and clouding his mind until he could find some way to deal with it. It frustrates him how this desire would strike at the most inconvenient times—when he’s trying to sleep, or worse, the times when he’s with you —an all too frequent occurrence, he thinks, and he wonders if you’ve done something to him. He’s been a decent friend to you, so it’s with a feeling of tormented betrayal that he simply cannot understand why you would afflict him with this so cruelly and so often.

Choso lets out a shaky breath, his hips shifting restlessly against his sheets. He hesitates, a moment of self-consciousness flickering through him and burning his face with a secret blush that blooms on his face first then leaks to his throat. He shifts upright, yanking his pillow from beneath his head, the familiar texture of the fabric cool against his skin, and positions it between his legs. He shoves his pants down, bunching them around his knees—good enough.

He tilts his thigh outward and lifts his hips up, giving an almost tentative grind into the pillow, as if unsure he’s doing it right. The friction is familiar, almost comforting in its predictability. Choso’s nostrils flare with a heavy sigh, his head falling back to the mattress as he stares heatedly at the ceiling, his eyes narrowed to slits. Slowly, he starts to fuck his pillow, the movements deliberate and mechanical, driven by the single-minded need to rid himself of the troublesome arousal gnawing at him.

His cock throbs with each slow thrust, the pressure of the pillow against him both soothing and maddening. The heat in his abdomen builds, coiling tighter with every grind. Pre-cum slicks the fabric, smearing in thin, dark stripes with each drag of his length against it. The pleasure is there, tingling all the way down to his toes, but it doesn’t crest, doesn’t even come close, leaving him teetering on the most frustrating of knife edges.

He grinds harder, hips moving more forcefully now, desperation seeping into every motion. The familiar rhythm that usually brings him relief is failing him, the need growing more intense with each passing second. His mind is a haze of lust and longing, the image of you blending with the sensation of his cock twitching against the pillow, creating a heady tonic that seeps deeply into his brain, sinking hooks that he doesn’t know yet he will never be able to remove. He bites down on his lip, a low, frustrated groan escaping his throat as he thrusts harder, faster, violently clawing for the release he so desperately and suddenly needs.

But it's not enough. His body is slick with sweat, muscles tensing and trembling with the effort. The pillow, once a source of solace, now feels infuriatingly inadequate. It only works him up higher, hotter, veins in his forearms standing out as he whines in frustration.

The pillow crumbles beneath Choso’s hands, the downy feathers within compressing and shifting into a useless lump under the abuse of his pelvis. Each pounding drag against the pillow drives him further from his peak, his own aggressive hopelessness raking him over hot coals as the very thing he uses to relieve himself falls apart in his hands.

His breaths are harsh, ragged, his heart pounding in his chest as he fights against the insistent ache that won’t go away. His goal remains just out of reach, a teasing promise that leaves him gasping and grinding against the pillow with mounting desperation. He wants to scream—it isn’t working, it isn’t working, why isn’t it working?

With a final, helpless thrust and bitter groan, he collapses onto the bed, panting and trembling with unspent desire. The need is still there, throbbing and insistent, leaving him feeling more restless than before. He whips the pillow aside to thump somewhere on the floor, damp and crumpled.

Choso lies there, staring up at the ceiling, his body aching with unresolved tension. The memory of you lingers in his mind, water and oil with the frustration of his failed attempt at relief. He feels helpless, yearning in the dark for something. Sleep, peace, release from his torment, you.

You.

It’s a new thought, one he’s never entertained before, but now it feels so undeniably right. He doesn’t question where the idea comes from; it’s an instinct, an impulse he can’t quite name but can’t ignore. Driven by this sudden urge, he trails his hand down the firm ridges of his abdomen, wrapping his fingers around his throbbing cock. The sensation is electric, sending a shiver up his spine as he tentatively strokes himself.

The sensation is immediate and overwhelming. It's like a jolt of lightning, a direct line of pleasure from his cock to his brain. His eyes flutter shut, a soft gasp escaping his lips as his fingers slide along his length, the friction so much more intense than the pillow. It's hotter, slicker, and he can feel every ridge and vein beneath his touch. His hips lift off the bed, rutting roughly into his palm with a choked whimper.

He strokes himself again, more confidently this time and slowly at first, exploring the unfamiliar territory with hesitant drags of his hand. He grips himself tighter, his thumb brushing over the sensitive head, and a strangled moan breaks free of his flushed and sweaty throat. It’s sharper, more focused, and it’s like nothing he’s ever felt before.

Thoughts of you flood his mind, but they're different now, colored with a perverse longing that makes his heart race and his cock throb in his hand. He remembers your kind smile, but now it feels like an invitation, a secret shared just between the two of you. Your laughter echoes in his ears, sweet and melodic, but it twists into something more intimate and utterly salacious.

His strokes quicken, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He thinks of you reaching for the jar of tomato sauce, the way your shirt had ridden up, exposing a strip of skin that glowed in the kitchen light. That innocent moment which only planted seeds of interest is now blooming with raw, aching desire. He imagines touching you—it would’ve been so easy to reach out and skim your flesh with his fingertips, to wrap his hand around the soft curve of your waist as he stood behind you, pin his hand over yours on the counter—

His fingers move faster, slick with pre-cum, each stroke sending pops of color to the edges of his vision. He thinks of the way you held the popcorn bowl between your thighs, the meat of your legs squishing around the ceramic and the genuine affection in your eyes when you offered it to him. But now, he imagines those eyes darkened with lust, looking at him with the same desire that grips him now. He pictures you close, your body pressed against his, your breath hot against his neck as you whisper his name.

Your voice would never sound as saccharine as it would as his name forms on your lips, your voice sweet as spun sugar as you coax him toward oblivion with a hand much gentler than his own.

The friction is maddening, his grip tight and unrelenting. Each pump of his hand draws him closer to the edge, his pleasure building in a way that’s almost unbearable. He imagines your fingers tangling in his hair, your lips ghosting over his skin, sending shivers down his spine. His hips thrust into his harried palm, chasing a climax that’s so deliriously close as his room is filled with the wet little sucks of pre-cum leaking between the creases of his fingers.

He imagines those same fingers in his hair drifting down his body, splayed over his abs, leaving red lines in their wake. The thought of your touch surprises him, but it feels so vivid, so intoxicating. He pictures your hands moving lower, tracing the dark hair that trails down his abdomen, teasing and scratching lightly. He imagines your hand… fuck, he imagines your hand.

Choso’s body tenses, his breath hitching as the pleasure peaks. His mind is filled with you—your smile, your laughter, your touch—how can he so vividly feel a touch he’s never known? How can he crave it so feverishly? By god does he crave it. 

With a gasp he suddenly turns his face into the crook of his arm, teeth pressing forcefully into the cords of muscle as he cums, muffling the guttural moan and reducing it to desperate whimpers instead. 

Cum spills over his fingers, hot and sticky ropes spurting onto his chest, his stomach, his spine arching under the almost blinding force of it and he only remembers to breathe when the lack of oxygen makes him dizzy.

His breath comes in ragged, uneven gasps as he lies there, stunned as certainly as if he’d taken a blow to the temple. Using his hand made all the difference, and picturing you rather than the detached clinicality he always approached this with changed everything. For the first time ever, the act of masturbation didn't feel like a necessary chore, it was a joy. His cum glistens on his skin, thick and milky, smeared across his abs and chest and sheets, a living, dripping, testament to that change of heart.

Choso’s hand remains wrapped around his cock, now softening in his grip, but he can’t bring himself to let go—an irrational concern that he might never feel something so exquisite again if he were to release himself. His cum dribbles over his fingers, pooling in the creases of his palm, and still he cannot let go.

He milks his cock slowly, drawing out every last drop with each firm squeeze around the head. The sensation is almost painful, the overstimulation sending sharp sparks of pleasure and discomfort through him, but he can’t stop. Each squeeze brings another bead of cum to the surface, dribbling down over his knuckles, mixing with the sweat and ejaculate that already slicks his skin and connects his hand to his belly with pale ropes.

His mind is a whirl of conflicting emotions. Embarrassment floods his thoughts, a blush creeping up his neck and settling in his cheeks with that awful clarity that always crashes his consciousness after. 

He wonders if he shouldn’t be thinking of you this way. He’s never thought of anyone else like this before, and the intensity of it all leaves him feeling exposed and vulnerable. But then, a small voice in the back of his mind reassures him. You’re friends, after all. This helped him, and you always love to help.

He’s struck with an odd desire—not the desire that landed him here, spent and weak and flushed in his bed with his palm wrapped around his soft and gooey cock, but a different kind. Gratitude. He’s grateful to you for afflicting him with this and unknowingly aiding him through it. Should he thank you? Choso thinks he should thank you. 

But for now, he lets himself drift in the hazy aftermath, your image the last thing on his mind as he begins to succumb to sleep, the feeling of your imagined touch still warm against his skin. Yes, he thinks as his brain all but weeps in joy as the curtain closes on wakefulness, he would have to thank you.

[kaiyunsim]

dangerous —

pairing : neighbor!taesan x gn!reader

genre : fluff

summary : what do you do when you get a text from your neighbor in the middle of the night asking to head outside? answer it. who knows what’s to come? no one. but one thing is for sure. it’s not going to be a normal night

a/n : this is the last one guys !! hope u enjoyed 19.99 :)) very fun to write and lots of love to everyone reading <3

queueing : dangerous - boynextdoor, say - keshi, flamin hot lemon - jaehyun, rendez-vouz - baekhyun

[19.99 masterlist]

— wc : 3.8k — not proof read —

you’re brushing your teeth when the first pebble hits the window.

at first, you think it’s nothing. probably just the wind or a tree branch or a cat being annoying again. but then it happens again. a sharper sound this time. too precise. and you freeze with your toothbrush halfway to the sink.

you shuffle to your window and peer out into the dark.

han taesan is standing in your yard.

no. more accurately, han taesan is standing just outside your yard, leaning casually against the fence like he owns the street, like he didn’t just pelt your window with two small rocks. his hoodie is up, shadowing his face, but the flashlight in his hand flicks on and off twice. deliberate. like a signal.

you blink. and then blink again.

because han taesan is the neighbor you’ve always kept a healthy distance from. he’s the reason the neighborhood group chat has three different emergency threads. he’s the kid who climbed onto the school's four-story roof last year just because someone dared him. he’s always getting written up. always being talked about. always loud, always laughing.

but tonight, he’s quiet. tonight, he’s looking directly at you.

you don’t move. he shifts slightly, then pulls something out from behind his back.

a sign. well, it's a napkin, but it works as a sign. he holds it up, and in bold, messy marker it reads:

come with me. just for a bit.

your heart skips.

you’re not the type to sneak out. not the type to say yes to things like this. you’re the “text me when you get there” kind. the “curfew means curfew” kind. your phone is already in your hand, screen glowing with the drafted text you were going to send to your mom about finishing homework and heading to bed early.

you look back out the window. taesan grins and pulls out another napkin where he starts scribbling onto it once again.

you’ll regret it if you don’t.

the grin gets to you more than it should. it’s not cocky. it’s a little hopeful. a little excited. like he’s waiting to share something no one else gets to see. like he picked you.

you sigh. your thumb hovers over the text message. you think about deleting it. you think about shutting the window. you think about how weird tomorrow might feel if you go. and like a ghost possesed you to be different tonight, you delete the draft and throw on a hoodie.

you leave the light on to make it look like you’re still in your room. your heart is pounding in your throat. this is ridiculous. this is so dumb. you’re halfway down the stairs before you even realize you're moving.

you make sure to take out the batteries from the door alarm and open it but the front door creaks. you wince. freeze.

nothing.

you slip outside and shut it again, as slowly and silently as possible. the porch light is off. the night is cold and still and too quiet. every crunch of gravel beneath your sneakers feels like a siren.

taesan is already walking backward, waving you toward the end of the street.

you jog to catch up.

“you actually came,” he says, eyebrows raised.

“you threw rocks at my window,” you whisper back, still out of breath.

“and you came,” he says, like that’s proof of something. “i’m impressed.”

you roll your eyes. “what is this, exactly?”

taesan shrugs, flashing the flashlight briefly at your feet. “just something i want to show you. it’ll be worth it.”

“is this the part where you reveal you’ve been hiding a stolen motorcycle in your garage?”

he grins wider. “nah. that’s next week.”

you laugh before you mean to, and he catches it. his gaze lingers on you for half a second longer than it should. you pretend not to notice.

the neighborhood looks different at night. each house is a sleeping giant. windows glowing softly. no cars. no noise. just the two of you, cutting across sidewalks and hopping fences like fugitives.

“we’re gonna get arrested,” you mutter.

“technically,” he says, “we’re just walking.”

you glance over at him. “most people walk on the sidewalk.”

“most people are boring.”

you duck as a red dot from a camera catches your gaze. taesan hisses a laugh and grabs your wrist, yanking you behind the nearest hedge.

you land too close together, knees bumping, breath tangled.

you don’t say anything. neither does he.

the light eventually shuts off.

“okay,” you whisper, barely audible. “maybe this is kinda fun.”

“told you,” he says. “but it gets better.”

“what is this place, taesan?”

he looks at you, serious for a moment. “it’s where i go when the rest of this place feels too small.”

you stare at him.

he scratches the back of his neck, suddenly sheepish. “that sounded cooler in my head.”

you nod slowly. “nah. it was kind of cool.”

he perks up again. “yeah?”

“don’t push it.”

you keep walking, this time side by side.

the thrill is still there, tingling just beneath your skin, but there’s something warmer now too. a weird quiet comfort in the way your steps sync. in the way taesan hums softly when there’s no conversation. in the way he sometimes looks at you like he can’t believe you’re still here.

“so,” you say after a while, “do you do this often?”

“sneak out? yeah.”

“no, convince innocent bystanders to join your criminal antics?”

“not really,” he says. “you’re kind of a first.”

you glance at him.

he doesn’t look back.

instead, he points ahead to a chain-link fence.

“almost there,” he says.

you don’t know where there is yet, but you know one thing for sure: you’re not turning back.

not yet.

you’re halfway across a playground you didn’t know still existed when taesan suddenly veers left, hopping a low fence like it’s muscle memory.

you follow, breathing harder now, adrenaline buzzing under your skin in a way that makes you feel alive and reckless and a little bit stupid.

“we’re really far from my house,” you say.

“you mean our house,” he corrects, turning around with a crooked grin. “we’re neighbors, remember?”

“yeah,” you mutter. “this feels like the kind of bonding experience that ends with a demon being summoned.”

he laughs, loud and bright in the empty dark. it echoes between the old school buildings as you both duck into a narrow path between chain-link fences.

“you always this dramatic?” he asks.

“you always this mysterious?” you shoot back.

he considers this. “i try not to be. people make assumptions when you stop explaining yourself.”

“so you just stopped explaining?”

“i got tired,” he says, voice quieter now. “and my friends moved away. it’s easier not to miss them if i don’t talk about them.”

you glance at him. there’s something different in the way he walks now. slower. not just because the path narrows, but because he’s remembering.

“this the part where you tell me about your tragic backstory?” you ask, teasing, but softer.

he snorts. “nah. just… there used to be five of us. every friday night. we’d sneak out, go exploring, steal snacks from the convenience store if we were brave enough. we called it ‘operation getaway.’”

you raise a brow. “wow. that’s so dramatic.”

he nudges you with his shoulder. “shut up.”

“i’m just saying,” you grin, “sounds kind of adorable. were you, like, the fearless leader?”

“duh,” he says, then adds quickly, “i mean—no. maybe. i don’t know.”

“taesan,” you drawl. “are you sentimental?”

he stumbles over a crack in the pavement.

“what? no,” he says too fast. “no way.”

“you totally are.”

“i’m not.”

“this is your secret memory lane. you’re taking me to your old hangout spot. you’re sharing stories about your childhood gang—”

“okay shut up, you’re ruining the moment.”

you’re laughing when he shoves you lightly, and he’s laughing too, except it sounds more like relief. like he’s glad you didn’t run at the first sign of something real.

you climb up a slanted dumpster and hop down the other side, landing next to him in a hidden alley you didn’t even know existed. it smells like asphalt and wild mint.

“how do you know all these weird paths?” you ask, brushing your hands on your hoodie.

“been running through them since i was twelve,” he says, glancing around. “they don’t teach this stuff in school.”

you pause, realizing you’ve been walking for a while now, and not once have you felt lost.

“now, where are we going?” you ask.

he smiles. “you’ll see.”

you roll your eyes. “vague. mysterious. definitely suspicious.”

“all the best things are,” he says.

you keep walking, but something changes.

at first it’s small, a flicker in your peripheral vision. a low hum. the kind of noise you don’t notice until it’s been going on for too long.

you glance behind you.

a car. old. paint chipped. headlights off. moving way too slow for a place with no stop signs.

you squint. taesan hasn’t noticed yet. he’s ahead of you, already halfway through a shortcut behind someone’s backyard. but when the car creeps past again, this time from the other side of the block, you speak up.

“hey… that car’s weird.”

he stops mid-step. turns. his eyes scan the street, sharp now, calculating.

“which one?”

you point. it’s gone again.

his jaw tightens. not dramatically. just enough that you notice.

“it’s probably nothing,” he says, voice level. “somebody getting lost.”

but he’s looking around more now. less joking. more alert.

you don’t ask questions. not yet. you just fall in step beside him again, a little closer this time. and when you reach a side street with no streetlights, he reaches out and takes your hand.

just like that.

no big deal.

except your fingers are burning where they touch.

“shortcut,” he says, tugging you into the dark between two buildings. “we’ll cut through here.”

you don’t argue.

your shoes scuff against broken pavement, and his flashlight flicks on, just long enough to catch your footing. it smells like rain and something else, dust maybe. you can hear your own heartbeat louder than your steps.

“you okay?” he asks quietly, still holding your hand.

you nod, even though he’s not looking.

“yeah.”

you’re more than okay. you’re terrified, and excited, and fully aware that you’re wandering through alleys with a boy you barely know but somehow trust anyway.

and then, as you turn the corner, he stops. you almost run into him. he’s staring up at a narrow fire escape tucked between two brick walls.

“this is it,” he says.

you follow his gaze. “what is?”

he grins. “our rooftop,” he says. “c’mon. don’t wimp out on me now.”

you eye the ladder. it looks… less than safe.

“you first,” you mutter.

he’s already climbing.

you wait until he’s halfway up before starting after him, hands trembling with cold and adrenaline.

when you reach the top, breathless and heart pounding, he’s standing there—arms spread like he’s welcoming you into a secret universe.

and what you see takes your breath away.

city lights stretch in every direction. soft, glowing. like someone shook glitter over the world and let it settle in the cracks. the wind brushes your face. it’s quiet up here. peaceful. far away from everything.

“taesan…” you say, voice small.

he glances over. “told you it’d be worth it.”

you don’t realize how hard you’re breathing until your back hits the cool rooftop, and the stars spin a little above your head.

“oh my god,” you gasp, laughing between breaths. “we almost died on that ladder.”

taesan collapses next to you with a dramatic sigh. “worth it.”

you turn your head. he’s grinning again, eyes squinting up at the sky, hoodie bunched at his elbows. you’re close enough that your arms touch, and the heat from his skin is louder than the wind.

“so,” you say after a beat, “this is your big secret spot.”

he hums. “yep.”

“it’s actually kind of... amazing.”

“you sound surprised.”

“well,” you grin, “i was expecting like, a junkyard. or maybe a haunted gas station.”

“jeez, you just hate me i guess,” he deadpans.

you nudge his shoulder. he doesn’t nudge back.

instead, he says, quieter now, “i thought you weren’t gonna come.”

you glance at him.

his eyes are still on the sky, but his voice dips, softer around the edges. “i had the sign ready and everything. would’ve felt dumb just standing down there.”

your chest squeezes. “so you planned that?” you ask, raising a brow.

he side-eyes you. “no.”

“taesan.”

“okay maybe.”

you laugh, and he smiles like he can’t help it. there’s something different about this version of him. less troublemaker, more boy with too much heart and nowhere to put it.

you sit up, the city stretching behind him like a dream, and for a second, just a second, you wonder what would happen if you leaned in.

he’s looking at you.

you’re looking back.

his hand brushes yours, light as static.

you close your eyes, move closer

and then—

“oh hell no.”

you both jolt upright.

from the opposite side of the rooftop, two shadows emerge, both climbing over the edge like it’s their usual entrance.

taesan groans. “you’ve got to be kidding me.”

“bro,” the short one says, stepping into the light, “you knew we were coming tonight.”

“i forgot!”

the second boy, a much taller, with round cheeks and wide eyes, waves cheerfully, like he hasn’t just interrupted the moment of the century.

“hi!” he says brightly, to you. “you’re not part of the usual rooftop squad.”

“not yet,” you mumble.

“don’t be nice,” taesan grumbles, standing. “you just ruined the vibe.”

“you ruined the vibe by being early,” the short one fires back. “we had a whole timing plan!”

taesan sighs like this is a very old argument.

“y/n,” he gestures between them, “this is riwoo, angry, dramatic, and woonhak, baby of the group.”

woonhak beams and does a little wave again.

you can’t help it, you whisper to taesan, “he is the cutest.”

taesan just groans louder. “don’t encourage him.”

woonhak plops down like this is his house and you’re the guest. “you guys bring snacks?”

“do i look unprepared?” taesan mutters, already pulling a bag of chips, two rice cakes, and a bottle of melon soda from his backpack like some kind of urban picnic magician.

riwoo raises his eyebrows. “you brought donuts? for them?”

“shut up,” taesan says, tossing the pack across the rooftop. “you can have half.”

“i want a rice cake,” woonhak chirps.

“you’re lucky you’re cute,” taesan says, handing it over.

you watch all this unfold. three boys on a rooftop at midnight, bickering over snacks and spots on the concrete, and suddenly, the night feels warmer. this is the side of taesan no one gets to see. the one who keeps old traditions alive. the one who remembers to bring enough snacks for everyone. the one who laughs like he means it.

you end up sitting between woonhak and riwoo, passing the soda back and forth as stories start to spill out. ones about rooftops and ruined bikes and the time taesan broke a pipe trying to slide down it like in a movie.

“he landed in someone’s pool,” riwoo says, deadpan.

“i was aiming for it!” taesan insists.

“you broke your arm.”

“yeah, after the pool part. technically still a win.”

you’re laughing too hard to respond. your face hurts from smiling.

taesan glances at you, eyes crinkled. there’s something in his gaze you can’t place, soft and searching, like he’s trying to memorize the sound of your laugh.

you look away, heart thudding louder than before.

somewhere in the distance, a dog barks. a train hums. the city never really sleeps. but for once, it feels like the world’s paused just for you.

you tilt your head back. above, stars scatter across the sky like glitter spilled on black velvet. below, you can see the town, tiny houses, sleepy streets, the faint glow of your porch light still on.

you think about curfews. about rules. about how this night wasn’t supposed to happen. and then you think about how glad you are that it did.

the sky is turning that pale, impossible blue, like someone pressed pause on the night right before it gave up.

you walk slower now, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands, the rooftops and alleyways behind you, your house still just out of sight.

it’s not the kind of slow that comes from being tired. it’s the kind of slow that says please don’t end yet.

taesan’s quiet too. not in a bad way. just thoughtful. he kicks a pebble down the sidewalk, his hand close to yours but not quite touching. you want to say something. you don’t know what.

instead, he says, “you ever stay out this late before?”

you shake your head. “never.”

he looks over. “so… i was your first time?”

you scoff, elbowing him. “don’t make it weird.”

he laughs, but it’s soft. tired. fond.

you turn onto your street and the quiet shifts. not peaceful anymore. heavier. because from here, you can see it.

your porch light is on.

and the light inside the living room, off when you left, is now glowing faintly behind the curtains.

your heart drops to your knees.

“shit,” you whisper.

taesan stops next to you. he sees it too.

you both just stand there for a second, frozen like deer in someone else’s headlights.

“okay,” he says finally, breath visible in the morning chill. “don’t freak out. could just be uhh—like, someone got up to pee. lights got left on.”

“yeah,” you say. “totally. because my family just loves wasting electricity.”

you take another step. then another. your yard is a war zone of betrayal. every twig looks louder. every shadow feels like an accusation.

taesan nudges your fingers with his. not quite a hold. just a reminder he’s there.

“don’t worry,” he says, too gently. “if you get caught… i’ll take the blame.”

you blink at him.

“taesan.”

“i mean it.”

“that’s the dumbest thing i’ve ever heard,” you whisper, but you’re smiling. kind of. it’s tight. terrified.

you reach the edge of your driveway and crouch instinctively. like you’re in a spy movie. or about to commit a very boring felony.

taesan follows your lead, ducking behind your mom’s flowerbed.

“okay,” you mutter. “plan?”

“i distract. you sneak in. climb up that janky trellis like you’re in mission impossible. easy.”

“you do realize i’ll owe you for life if this works.”

he shrugs. “worth it.”

you glance toward the house.

the window to your room is slightly cracked open, just like you left it when the nights got too warm. but that means you didn’t close it. which means someone might’ve noticed. might’ve gone to check.

your throat is dry.

“i’ll go first,” you whisper. “if it looks bad… run.”

he frowns.

“i’m serious,” you add. “don’t make this worse than it is. just—run.”

he hesitates. but nods.

you creep across the yard. one foot. then the other. the grass is damp. your hoodie feels too loud. everything is glass and you’re walking with a hammer. you reach the side of the house. make it to the window. fingers wrap around the wood. you glance back—

taesan’s crouched low, watching you. he gives a tiny thumbs-up.

you roll your eyes and start to climb. it’s harder than it looks. the wood creaks. your foot slips once. but you make it, window ledge, fingertips, finally swinging one leg over—

and then it happens.

the creak.

that one stupid floorboard by your desk. you always forget. it always betrays you.

your heart stops.

you freeze, mid-step. barely breathing.

down the hallway, something moves.

a shadow.

a person.

you hiss—“go!”—at the window, barely loud enough, but taesan hears.

he’s already moving. but he doesn’t run. he hesitates. stares up at you one last time. something flickers in his eyes. regret, apology, maybe just goodbye. and then he bolts.

vanishes behind the neighbor’s hedges like he was never there. you’re alone now. and the shadow’s getting closer.

—

the house is too quiet after the storm.

you’re still standing in the hallway when the words settle in the air like dust:

“you’re grounded for a month.”

you don’t argue. you just nod. what would you even say?

the silence that follows is somehow worse. the kind where you can feel someone’s disappointment before they even say it. like static in your bones.

you mumble something like “okay,” something like “goodnight,” and shut your door behind you.

your room is dark except for the bluish light bleeding through the window. you can’t bring yourself to turn on the lamp. the adrenaline’s gone now, but your heart is still racing like it doesn’t know the night’s over.

you’re not even sure what you’re feeling.

regret?

not exactly.

fear?

kind of.

mostly it’s just… him.

taesan.

his hand brushing yours. his laugh on the rooftop. the way he ran when you told him to, but didn’t want to.

you sit on the edge of your bed and realize your fingers are clenched around something.

it’s a note, on another one of those stupid napkins. you forgot he gave it to you, folded into your palm like a secret before you climbed the trellis.

it’s crumpled now, smudged from your grip, but you unfold it anyway.

his handwriting is messy. like him.

“if we get caught, blame me. but if it’s fun, you have to admit i was right.”

you close your eyes. you don’t even hear your phone buzz until the second time. you dive for it.

taesan: did you make it?

you bite your lip. thumbs hover over the screen.

you: define “make it.”

you wait. your heart is loud again.

taesan: define “regret.”

you almost laugh. almost cry. your fingers tremble as you type, curling under the covers like the walls can’t hear you.

you: i don’t.

a pause. then the three dots again.

taesan: knew it.

you roll onto your back and stare at the ceiling. your cheeks hurt from how hard you’re trying not to smile. you don’t know what this is. you just know it matters.

—

it’s past midnight when you hear it.

click.

soft. quiet. outside your window. you pause your music and sit up. it’s nothing. probably. a squirrel. the wind. you peek through the blinds anyway. and there he is.

taesan.

hoodie up. hair messy. standing at the edge of your yard like a dare you forgot to take. he sees you and holds something up.

a napkin.

scribbled in sharpie, crooked but clear:

“worth it?”

you stare at him, press your forehead against the cold glass, and nod.

taesan’s grin splits across his face. cocky. blinding. he doesn’t stay.

just throws you a wink and disappears again. back into the dark, like a secret the night let slip for just a second.

you crawl back into bed and keep the napkin. fold it. press it into your notebook. write the date in the corner.

because later, when you’re older and the world feels a little less magic, you’ll want to remember this:

the rooftop.

the laughter.

the near-kiss.

the sprint through shadows.

the moment your heart cracked open at the worst possible time.

you got caught. but you also chose it. and that kind of feeling?

that’s worth everything.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

tysm for reading :>

series taglist : @somber-reads @saritahwang

bnd taglist : @bxnedo

perm taglist : @s0shroe @minoouz @the0p @mon2sunjinsuver @solkver @lov3lyaaru @tanghuyuj

[uhhhj13iguess]

my hero

peter parker x gn! reader

summary: pt 2 to large cheese pizza, please. peter has you stay with him after rescuing you from your abusive (ex)boyfriend, and years of mixed feelings flood you both.

wc: ~2k

cw: talks about dv, not much detail. talks about bruising/injury from dv. hurt/comfort but mainly just the comfort portion. might pt 3 this with a love confession, idk!! loving this tho

masterlist and taglist!

though both of your feet had landed firmly on his bedroom floor, neither of you let go of the other, your hands still wrapped around peter's neck tightly as he held your waist with just as much intensity.

neither of you spoke, peter knowing it wasn't yet the time to ask you about it. you needed to decompress first, and he understood that. he was just happy to see you safe.

relectantly, peter pulled away from you to meet your gaze, a frown setting on his lips as he saw your black eye again, the split in your bottom lip still bleeding ever so lightly. with extreme caution, he raised his hand to your jaw, watching for any sign of discomfort or flinching. you didn't, though, immediately melting into his touch and eyelashes wet again.

"thank you, peter." you whispered, eyes fluttering closed as you took a full breath for the first time in hours.

his shoulders relaxed. "i will always protect you. thank you for calling me, i... I'm sorry i didn't get there b-before... he..."

his fingers grazed over your battered lip, his other hand lifting to your swollen eye, tracing the outer edges of the bruise. he let out a shaky breath, his own eyes growing watery. "i'm so sorry, (y/n)."

you held his wrists in your trembling palms, bringing them down so you could have his full attention. "you saved me, peter. if you hadn't shown up when you did, i... i don't know, i mean..."

"hey," peter grabbed your shoulders, forcing your wandering, anxious eyes back on him. "none of that."

you took a deep breath, trying to ground yourself again. "m'sorry."

"come on," he slid your bag off his shoulders and handed it to you slowly. "go take a shower and get changed, bug. i think that'll help you calm down right now. i grabbed what i could, but take anything of mine that you need. i mean it, stay with me."

the way he said it made your heart flutter. it wasn't a question. he wasn't asking if you wanted to, if you'd feel safer doing so. it was a statement — protective in nature. you nodded shyly, turning towards the door. you stopped in its frame, looking back towards the tall brunette.

"thank you. really," you paused to clear your throat, voice still shaking with adrenaline and mixed feelings. "my hero."

it was meant as a joke, but the sincerity in your tone was genuine. peter felt like he could pass out. "always."

that evening, he made dinner for the two of you, queueing up all your favorite movies and loading the couch with every pillow and blanket he could possibly find. it was getting late, and though you still hadn't talked about it, you felt safe and calm, and that was all peter could ask for.

the heavy fog of sleep slowly but surely crept over the room, you and peter exchanging occasional yawns as moonlight flooded in through the windows. you turned to him next to you and bumped his elbow, pulling his attention from the screen. his curly hair was messy, glasses hanging loosely from his face as the glow of the tv made him look impossibly heavenly. you hope the otherwise dark room hid the flush of your cheeks.

"you can take as much of this back to your room as you want. thank you again for letting me crash on your couch, pete. you didn't have to do that, i could've gone back home tonight." your voice was soft against the background noise of the movie.

peter shifted towards you, eyebrows knit together as a question formed on his lips he didn't quite know how to ask. "(y/n), you don't, you don't have to sleep on the couch."

you laughed at him like he was insane. "and make you sleep on the couch in your own apartment? you're crazy, parker."

he let out a frustrated sigh, sitting a little taller. "no, i just mean, if... if you don't want to be alone, y'know. you're welcome to... to sleep in my room, if, if you want." the last few words were brought to a whisper.

now you desperately hoped the darkness covered your blush.

peter stood quickly, anxiety taking over his actions. "if you want! you know, if you want. just, putting the invitation out there. i'll be, uh, in my room, if you want. or not! that's just, where i'll be."

he let out a nervous laugh, bounding down his hallway as he left you on the couch, wide-eyed and frozen still. after taking a few minutes to compose yourself from his offer, you crept after him, reaching his door with hesitation.

you wanted nothing more for peter to have meant it that way, like something more, though you knew he didn't. you'd cuddled plenty of times before, as so many best friends did. especially when one of them was hurting. that's what that was. a pity invitation.

you took a deep breath, contemplating whether or not you wanted to bother him more than you already had today. with a pained sigh and unrequited feelings creeping on your chest, you turned on your heels, heavy stomps signaling your retreat back to the couch.

peter had watched the shadow of your feet under the door the entire time, heart panging in embarrassment as he watched you backtrack.

fuck.

the next morning, peter woke up to the sound of his shower running, signaling your rousal too. he groggily trotted down the hallway into the living room, taking in the folded blankets stacked on the couch and last night's festivities cleaned up and lined on the coffee table. he smiled at your hospitality, his heart warm as he made his way to the kitchen to start on breakfast.

not long before he was done with his famous pancakes, he heard your pattering footsteps enter the room, the smell of his body wash on you overwhelming his senses. he turned to see you, clean skin glowing and hair damp from the shower.

"morning, pete. makin' breakfast?" you motioned to the stove.

he nodded back, eyes wide as he noticed you wearing one of his shirts and a pair of your shorts. you followed his gaze down to your torso with flushed cheeks.

"oh, yeah. i didn't sleep well and in my haze just kinda grabbed what i saw, sorry. did you want to wear it? i can change?" peter shook his head quickly, a soft "no" falling from his lips faster than he meant.

"no! i mean, no, that's fine. really, take anything you need," he handed you a stack of pancakes, fresh fruit piled high next to it. his brows furrowed and his lips hung with a frown. "i mean it, i want to take care of you. i'm sorry you didn't sleep well."

you felt a pang of guilt in your stomach, remembering recent events. "s'okay."

you took the plate, not meeting his eyes as you turned to head into the living room. tension filled the air as you came to terms with the fact you couldn't escape this conversation much longer.

peter took a seat next to you on the couch, concern lacing his features as he studied you. he spoke cautiously, "do you want to talk about it?"

you felt heavy.

"i can't put that on you." you let out quietly, not meeting his gaze still.

he took yours hands in his as you began to fidget, nerves taking a physical hold on you. "hey. you aren't putting anything on me, okay? please, tell me what's been going on."

so you did. you sat and told peter about brad and his drunk rampages, how he'd get aggressive and physical, but never leave marks in places people could see. so you kept it to yourself. you felt stupid enough for ending up in each situation, each fight. you couldn't put that on someone else. peter listened in enraged horror as you told him of all the times he'd put his hands on you, each time he'd hurt you with his words and actions. he watched as tears formed in your eyes, voice growing strained as you willed it not to shake. he couldn't take it.

"oh (y/n)," he lunged towards you, wrapping you up in his arms as tight as he could, running his hands through your hair as you sobbed into his chest. he cooed at you, whispering to you how you were safe, how sorry he was. how he'd never let anyone hurt you ever again. he held you for what felt like a lifetime before you pulled back, wiping the final tears from your cheeks.

"i'm sorry i didn't tell you sooner. i'm sorry i had to tell you at all, this is all my fault." you let out with a pained laugh. peter didn't reciprocate.

"(y/n), don't you dare say that. this is not your fault," his words echoed through the quiet apartment, lifting a heavy ache from your chest. you nodded slowly, leaning your head back on his shoulder. he rubbed your back loosely, his chin resting atop your hair.

"i'm never going to let anyone hurt you again." he repeated. you believed him.

over the course of the day, you each worked lazily on your schoolwork, bumming around peter's apartment and enjoying the peace between the two of you. you both lay on his bed, laptops open and textbooks scattered about. you let out a soft yawn, earning the attention of peter.

he looked up from his notebook to glance at your over his shoulder, watching as your eyes grew heavy and your shoulders slumped. a smirk played on his lips. "baby, you tired?"

you felt yourself go red at the pet name again, shifting to sit up to distract from your glowing face. "yeah, jus' didn't sleep much."

peter frowned. "i'm sorry. i really would've let you take the bed, i didn't mean to..." he let out a nervous chuckle, "to make it weird."

you glanced up at him, taking in his demeanor. he was nervous, remembering his offer to share his bed and getting bashful. you gave him a remorseful smile, sensing his embarrassment.

"you didn't, pete. really," you shuffled closer to him, leaning down to look at his pretty face. your heart fluttered when his beautiful brown eyes met yours. "i meant to come in. i wanted to. i just... felt guilty, i guess. to intrude on your space even more."

you let out another yawn and peter smiled at you, moving to sit up and gather your collective schoolwork. "baby, you could never bug me. promise,"

he smirked, definitely aware of the pet name's effect on you. he scooted towards his headboard, moving under his covers and lying on his back. "come'ere, bug."

you blushed as he held his arms open, offering for you to snuggle into him. it wasn't like you haven't cuddled peter before. after years of friendship and countless movie nights, it wasn't foreign for one of you to fall asleep on the other. but this time felt more weighted.

you climbed up towards him, making your way under the blanket as you clung to his side. he immediately wrapped you up, nearly pulling your body on top of him. you rested your head on his chest, praying he couldn't hear just how fast your heart was racing.

he could.

"this okay, baby?" he slurred, sleep already rasping his voice.

you nodded against him, wrapping your arms up around his neck. "more than."

[midnight-shadow-cafe]

Sleep, Love. Disney’s Not Going Anywhere

Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x Reader

Warnings: None, just sweet fluff and cozy cuddles

Author's Note: Hope you enjoy! Felt like Simon needed a bit of chaos.

Summary: You’re hours away from a dream trip to Disney World, but your excitement won’t let you sleep. Simon helps calm you down in the sweetest way.

Masterlist

MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+

The bedroom was quiet—except for you.

Outside the windows, the streetlights cast a soft amber glow across the curtains, the city asleep under a blanket of midnight calm. Inside, though, the air was alive with anticipation.

The bed creaked gently beneath your restless movements as you flopped onto your back for what felt like the fiftieth time. Simon’s old shirt—worn thin with age and smelling faintly of laundry detergent and his cologne—was bunched around your thighs, tangled in the sheets. You pushed the blankets off, then pulled them back up again. Hot. Cold. Hot again.

Your eyes flicked to the glowing red digits on the alarm clock: 1:39 a.m.

You groaned.

This was ridiculous.

You had been looking forward to this trip for months. And now that it was finally here—just a day and a half away—your brain had decided it was the perfect time to turn into a firework factory. You couldn’t stop picturing it all: the rides, the characters, the castle, the photos, Simon trying to pretend he wasn’t having a good time.

Another flip onto your stomach. You let out a quiet huff.

Behind you, there was a low grunt. Then the familiar shift of weight, the bed dipping.

Simon.

“Love?” His voice was gravelly, still heavy with sleep, barely more than a murmur in the dark. “You alright?”

You froze for a beat, feeling a twinge of guilt. “…Sorry. Did I wake you?”

He made a sleepy noise in his throat and rolled over to face you, his arm reaching out, warm fingers brushing over your back. “Hard not to notice when you’re tossin’ like you’re doin’ laps.”

You turned onto your side to look at him, barely able to make out his face in the dim light. His hair was tousled, some of it falling across his forehead, and the lines softened from the way sleep always quieted his features. Even with the shadows cloaking him, he looked… safe. Familiar. Yours.

“I can’t sleep,” you whispered.

Simon’s thumb traced a lazy arc along your hipbone. “No kidding.”

“I’m just… I’m excited.”

He hummed. “For what?”

You blinked. “…Are you serious?”

A chuckle rumbled through his chest, low and dry. “Yes, love. Remind me what’s got you bouncing like a bloody rubber ball at 2 in the morning.”

You pushed his shoulder lightly. “Disney, Simon. We’re going to Disney World in like—thirty-six hours!”

“Uh-huh.” He dragged you closer, tucking you against him. “And if you don’t get some sleep, you’re going to pass out before we even get to the queue for Space Mountain.”

You sighed, letting yourself sink into his embrace. He was warm. Solid. He smelled like home—faint hints of soap, skin, and the detergent you always bought even though he insisted it didn’t matter.

“I just… I keep thinking about everything. I’ve got our matching shirts packed. I made our reservation for the castle breakfast. I printed the itinerary and laminated it—”

“You laminated it?”

“Yes! I didn’t want it to get crumpled. And—”

Simon groaned, long and exaggerated. “You’re adorable. And completely mental.”

You poked his chest. “Don’t pretend you’re not excited.”

He didn’t answer right away, just pressed a kiss to your forehead and let out a breath that could’ve been a chuckle.

“‘Course I am. But I need you to sleep, so I’m not carrying your unconscious body through Magic Kingdom like a corpse in mouse ears.”

You snorted, burying your face into his chest. “Wouldn’t be the worst way to go.”

“Bloody dramatic.”

There was a beat of silence, then his hand started moving again—broad palm gliding up and down your spine in slow, soothing strokes.

“Want me to help you relax?” he asked softly, voice just a notch above a whisper.

You nodded into his shirt.

He shifted onto his back, guiding you to rest half on top of him, your cheek pressed over his heartbeat. His other hand came up, fingertips drawing faint, rhythmic circles into your arm.

“Alright,” he murmured. “Close your eyes. Picture it.”

You did.

“The sun’s just coming up over the park. It’s quiet, barely anyone there. We’ve got coffee—mine’s black, yours is whatever ridiculous sugar monstrosity you like.”

“Rude.”

“True,” he said with a smirk you could hear. “You’ve got your mouse ears on. I’ve got… what is it, a Goofy hat?”

“The long one, with the ears.”

“Of course. You look like a kid in a candy shop. You’re dragging me toward the rides. I’m pretending to be miserable.”

“You’ll love it.”

“Mm.” He kissed your temple. “Maybe. Then we meet your alien friend. What’s his name again?”

“Stitch, Simon. He’s not just an alien, he’s an experiment gone rogue with a heart of gold.”

Simon snorted. “Right. Him. You take a photo with him. I look grumpy. You look like it’s the best day of your life.”

You smiled, eyes still closed, your breathing finally starting to even out.

“You buy too many souvenirs,” he continued, “and I pretend to be annoyed, but I still carry the bags. You lean on me during the fireworks, and I forget I ever hated places with crowds.”

Your body relaxed against him fully now, limbs heavy and warm, mind slowing from its jittery rhythm.

“I love you, Simon,” you mumbled, half-asleep.

His hand stilled just for a moment, before resuming its gentle path.

“I know,” he whispered, voice thick with fondness. “Love you too, sweetheart.”

The clock ticked quietly in the corner.

Outside, the city slept on.

Inside, Simon held you close—your restless excitement tucked beneath his calm like a secret you shared between heartbeats—and finally, finally, you drifted off to sleep.

Hope you enjoyed! Please consider liking and reposting! -Midnight💜

[starsinthesky5]

What are some cute lowkey little things Joe does for her to show his love?

a/n: and here is more of joe burrow being the biggest simp on the planet

───────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆───────

taillight “i love you”

every single time he leaves and she’s watching from the window, he brakes three times at the end of the driveway. it’s become their thing—three soft flashes of the brake lights: i love you

even if he’s in a rush. even if they had a silly disagreement that morning. even if it’s pouring rain or freezing cold. he never forgets

sometimes she doesn’t even tell him she’s watching—but he does it anyway. just in case

sticky note surprises

he leaves them everywhere. on her laptop, bathroom mirror, inside the kitchen cabinets, tucked into her makeup bag, slipped between pages of her notebooks

the messages range from sweet (“you’re my favorite part of every day”) to silly (“u looked so hot last night i couldn’t see straight”) to downright flirty (“stop being so sexy. it’s distracting”)

her favorite? the one he left on her song notebook that just said “kill it today, you have the voice of an angel my love,” before she went to the studio

always calls to say goodnight if he’s away

no matter the time zone, no matter how tired he is—she always gets that call

it’s often soft and sleepy, with his voice low and raspy, “wish i was there holdin’ you. bed’s cold without you,”

sometimes he falls asleep mid-call with the phone still clutched in his hand, and she just listens to him breathe until she drifts off too

picks wildflowers for her (my nerdy little flower lover i KNOW you would do this)

not from a shop. from the side of the road. near the practice field. on a trail.

he’ll come in with a handful of crooked, colorful tangled wildflowers and just say, “they looked like you,”

and she’ll put them in a jar by the window like they’re the most expensive bouquet in the world

doodles her name

in the margins of playbooks. in notebooks. on napkins

sometimes it’s just her initials, sometimes it’s mrs. burrow in messy scribbles, sometimes it’s a little heart with her name inside

she finds them tucked into his pockets, his desk, his gym bag. tiny love notes he doesn’t even mean for her to find

he keeps one of her hair ties on his wrist

not just because she’s always losing them, but because it reminds him of her

she notices it every time, and every time he shrugs and says, “looks better on me anyway,”

he plays her demos in the car when she forgets about them

even if it’s just a rough cut or a voice memo, he’ll queue them up on a drive and nod along like it’s the best thing he’s ever heard

he doesn’t say much—just grips the wheel tighter and glances at her with that quiet admiration that says you don’t even know how talented you are

he keeps a playlist just for her

full of songs that remind him of her—some she’s never even heard

if she’s in the studio or driving home late, he’ll send her a link: track 7 made me think of that night in destin. and she listens. she always listens.

he brags about her casually

when someone compliments the food? “she made that from scratch. told you she’s magic,”

if someone mentions her work? “she’s been working her ass off lately. i’m proud as hell to see her at the top of her game,”

he’s not loud about it either to the point where it looks forced or cocky, he just glows with pride and adoration for his woman

game time shout-out

since she sits up in her own private suite (see here for the blurb on that), he makes sure to send her a sign of appreciation in his own subtle way

after he runs out, he does his cute little archer pose. but here's the thing, he only does it when she's at the game. if she can't be there? no archer pose

but when she is there, he does the pose...straight up to her suite

and what's even cuter, she playfully stumbles backward with her hands on her heart, as if she's just been shot by cupids arrow

which...she has been :)

[catiuskaa]

reggaeton & champagne.

PAIRING! lee minho x reader x bang chan

SUMMARY: you knew better than to go down to the club alone. and that guy should’ve known better than to mess with minho and chan’s property.

REQUESTED! by my pookie @sharonxdevi who requested this here! and it’s such a good idea, tysm for trusting me with it<3

CW: the boys may come off as a little possesive, there’s a touchy douche in the club, mentions of alcohol, it ain’t spicy but surely it’s nsfw.

WC: 2.3k

A/N: so i’ve never even thought of writing poly!skz relationships until now, but i think it came out nicely! (and if you kinda recognize the title— i just spend an unhealthy amount of time watching skz edits on instagram lololol)

[🔹☆💠☆🔹]

The sign of the club glowed with bluish neon lights at the entrance. There was also a man, notebook in hand, receiving IDs prior to welcoming the long queue of people. Although it was not the most expensive nightclub in the city, you could see the difference between it and the rest of the clubs in town, in the sense that the establishment was very tidy and clean, with security personnel scattered around the corners, watching that everything was going out smoothly.

It was unusual for you to want to go out clubbing, but considering the boys’ schedule, any chance to make plans together was welcomed with open arms.

Especially by Minho and Chan, who would never force you to go out, but their lingering stares and their arms that would sneakily clung to your waist or your shoulders —and in some cases, to lovingly slap your ass or thighs—, were meant as a way of encouragement when you dressed up and went for it.

And a way to say that, as always, you looked fine as hell.

You had chosen a short silver-coloured dress that reached your mid-thighs, accompanied by a pair of matching mesh thigh-highs with cute little clips that allowed them to stay in place, only because you knew how to entertain your public, and loved every single second their eyes stayed glued to you as you danced your heart out.

The music pounded against the walls and reverberated through the floor, but not as much as how the booze traveled through your veins, only giddy enough to celebrate how well their last tour had gone, and merely to have some well-deserved fun.

Minho’s hands grasped you by your waist, pulling you off Chan’s arms and smirking as he pushed your back flush against his body.

One of his hands remained in place, but the other one moved slowly, tempting fingers heading down to your thighs, as if walking, the motion almost ticklish. You could feel his cat-like grin from behind you as you looked at Chan, who wasn’t mad at all, rather cheekily enjoying the other man’s antics as you kept dancing against him, following the rhythm of the music.

Chris got closer to the both of you, taking your arms and settling them on his shoulders as he approached even further, now the two gentlemen dressed in fine clothes towering over you.

“Our princess is feeling good today, huh?” His hand cradled your face, holding your chin in a tender grasp, unlike Minho, who started to play with one of the clips on your high mesh stockings.

You were about to say something, but Minho tugged at one of the straps and chuckled next to your ear, slapping it back. Your breath hitched, and you bit your lip, feeling the blush rising to your cheeks, the light foundation you had applied not being able to cover it.

Chris snickered, and Minho lightly bit the shell of your ear, and they both laughed as you squirmed in between their arms.

“Ok, ok—!” You giggled, out of breath due to the tickling and else. You didn’t want to leave just yet, but didn’t want to stop teasing your boys either.

Tugging on Chan’s collar, you propelled him forward, his hands ending on Minho’s shoulders by reflex. You moved your body in between both of them, swaying your hips, playing with Chris’ hair as you turned your head to face the man behind you, and chuckled, biting his lip.

They both felt a rush of blood heading to their face—and downwards—, but you stopped Chan for pushing you against Minho even more, one of your soft hands nonchalantly moving from the back of his neck to his chest, cheekily stroking his toned upper body.

“I think we can use some more drinks, gentlemen.” Your tone was filled with an enticing mockery only powered by their presence, and you licked your lips, feeling Minho’s slender fingers playing with the rim of your dress, tapping your thigh gently.

“I think we should head to the VIP lounge.” He grunted against your ear, his breath tickling your there, but the gentle yet lust-filled kisses he left right below started driving you a bit crazy. “Whaddya think, Chan?” Minho smirked, swiftly lifting his head from your neck to stare at the older man.

With all the mix of bright coloured lights, you could notice slightly how Chris’ eyes grew darker. Almost so dark that they could fuck you themselves, and you squeezed your thighs at the thought.

“I think our little brat needs to learn that teasing won’t get her anywhere, hyung.” Minho’s slender fingers playfully traced mindless shapes on your thigh.

The older man swallowed hard, his breath deepening.

“Guess you’re on thin ice, princess.” He leaned in, and pecked Minho’s lips from above your shoulder. He then turned slightly, and spoke in your ear. “You have ten minutes to go get those drinks. Go up the VIP platform right after, like the good girl you are, mmh?”

His hum almost echoed through your body, falling into an endless pit of arousal that those two gorgeous men had created, now able to make you feel hot and bothered in just a cheeky wink or a deep look.

Making you oh so weak for them. Only them.

“Heard that, kitten?” Minho smirked, lovingly kissing your cheek, as close as he could to the corner of your lips. “Ten minutes. Tick-tock.”

You tried heading towards the bar without your knees giving out as they both moved away, and instantly missed their warmth and strong hold on your body. But before you could even try, Chris tsked, pulling you back to him and almost fiercely planting a deep kiss that lit fire on your body, and almost made you whine when he pulled away, biting your lip.

“Fuck.” He gasped, feeling breathless. “Make that five minutes for daddy, yeah?”

And with a tap on your hips and a teasing wink, he left, following where Minho had gone.

You were unable to wipe the giddy smile off your face, feeling your cheeks get hot, and you patted them, hoping that your slightly cooler hands would do something to low it down.

Shaking your head lightly, you waved at the bartender, a tall, blond and handsome young man, and he gave you a kind smile. You sat on the stool closest, and he approached you, leaning on the counter.

“Nice seeing you here for a change.” He said with a snicker.

“Wish I could say the same, Hyunjin.” You wiggled your eyebrows almost dramatically, making him laugh.

“Your three usuals, beautiful?” He asked with a grin, and you nodded. “Comin’ right up.”

You watched as he gracefully started to show off his abilities, passing drinks and metal cups and bottles in flashes and zooms, controlling every move so swiftly.

But then, you felt a hand on your waist.

“Sorry, scooching up real quick…” said a low voice from behind you.

His hands brushed your back, making you shiver. But it was a bad shiver. One that swiped away the giddiness your boys had left, but not as quickly as your smile took off.

The bold man dizzily sat on a stool that could’ve easily been a foot or two away, and your body relaxed easily at the new-formed distance.

You stared at him in a mix of slight disgust and raw astonishment. Used to your boys and the rest of the group, or people like Hyunjin, one could easily forget that people weren’t always respectful, nice and kind.

He noticed your blank stare, and misinterpreted it as interest. With a wide smile, he bent down, grabbing one of the legs of the stool you were sitting on, and smoothly moved it closer to his.

Another shiver ran through your back, goosebumps showing on your skin.

He smiled, and you held back a frown.

“Besides looking that sexy, what else do you do for a living?”

…

yikes.

That line didn’t only give you the ick, but you also noticed Hyunjin physically flinched, which made you snort, quickly covering your mouth.

The man was so drunk. You could smell it on his breath, and the guy looked rather pathetic. You didn’t feel too sorry for him, but wanted him as far as possible, and you moved to the edge of your stool.

The man looked proud of your giggles, but grew restless when you didn’t reply, so he took a sip from the glass of whiskey in front of him, kind of as if he hadn’t had anything to drink in a while.

You sat up straight, glaring at Hyunjin so he’d call security if things turned complicated, and he winked at you as a form of reassurance.

“Do you, eh, come here often?” He blurbed out.

You looked at your hands, staring at your nails, and waited for a second before giving him a side-eye from above your shoulder, slender eyes looking uninterested.

Quickly going back to your nails, you shrugged. “Enough to know that you don’t.” You brushed off coldly.

If you did, you’d know that I’m happily taken.

He stammered, his breath hitched, and you could almost feel him start getting even more nervous, as well as slightly angry.

“Huh? Why’s that?” He scoffed, eyebrows raised at you, who again, didn’t bother to look at him, a bit wary of his moody attitude.

Hyunjin smiled at you, coldly glaring at the clueless man next to you as he swiftly left the three drinks in place, pressing the red button underneath the counter to call for help.

The man smirked, going back to a confidence you didn’t want to know where he had gotten.

Placing his arm sneakily on your waist.

Huh?

“All those for you?”

Before you could react and slap him for his unrequested bold actions, you heard a grunt behind you.

“You gotta be fucking kidding me.”

At that moment, Chan wasn’t so sure if he was the pacific one in your relationship.

He trusted you and your ability to set your own boundaries, by any means necessary, even if it meant slapping someone across the face.

And he knew them by heart. He had watched how you grimaced, trying to take this drunkard’s hands away from you.

So he helped you by slapping them off your body.

As ‘gently’ as he could.

“Move aside.” He said in a low growl, failing to relax until you moved your hand and took his, squeezing it as a way of thanking him.

Instead of getting the hint, the man frowned.

“Hey, if you can’t tell, I was trying to—”

Minho scoffed, appearing behind the man.

“Keep babbling around our girl and I’ll give you a story to tell.” He said in a dark, low tone of voice, eyes and tongue so sharp that they could almost pierce right through the man. “Now shoo.”

Security came by a minute after and apologized for not taking care of him before, then fined him, following the nightclub’s rules and finally kicked the man out.

One of the security guys approached the three of you, and bowed swiftly, apologizing.

“I’m really sorry. This guy has already annoyed some other customers before. I’ll speak to the owner of the place and see if there is something we can do regarding his situation. As for you, miss…” He gave you his card, and you smiled at him, bowing your head gently.

“My name is Seo Changbin. If you ever need anything…” he sighed, a hand to his nape, the buff man slightly flustered. “Don’t hesitate to call me. I can’t think of another way to compensate you…”

Chan smiled, and shook hands with the security guard.

“No need to worry, mate. It’s fine now.” He stated calmly, his other hand still engulfing yours.

Minho bowed at him, his arm around your waist, as if trying to erase any marks or traces of the drunkard’s touch.

“Home, love?” He said in a gentle whisper, kissing your temple after you nodded. “S’okay.”

Minho opened the door to the car for you, and Chan’s hand never left your thigh the whole way back home.

As soon as you got back, you let out a tired sigh.

Chris hugged you from behind, and you melted under his touch. With a soft grin, Minho ushered Chan’s arms away from you, and swiftly took you in his arms.

“Sleepy?” The older one asked, but you shook your head. You didn’t want the night to end on this note. “Then I’ll go get something. You guys get going.” He smiled at you, eyes soft as he lovingly stroke your cheek, your face resting on Minho’s shoulder.

With a slight smirk, he patted Minho’s butt, and headed to his studio.

“Bang Chan!” He whisper-yelled, ears red, and you chuckled lowly.

“Cheeky little baby.” Minho cooed at you, heading to your shared room, and you giggled softly, hiding your head on the crook of his neck. “Let us take care of you, yeah?”

You moved your head from his neck and pecked his lips. Minho took you to bed, and tenderly took your heels off.

“Shower?” He asked softly, but you shook your head no, so he nodded, taking off your dress. With a cat-like grin, his fingers went back to your thighs.

“You have to wear these more often, you little tease.” He snickered, and you smiled, blushing softly. “You look so good in everything.” He said, stroking your cheek.

Chan quickly came back, fluffy blankets and laptop with him.

“Movie night!” He smiled, almost childishly, and both your and Minho’s heart tugged on your chests.

They took their fancy clothes off and put on sleeveless shirts and the matching pyjama pants you had gifted them for Christmas, who were at first meant as a joke, but remained being used just because how comfy they were.

There, snuggled between Chan and Minho, you smiled, taking both of their hands.

“I’m hungry.” You said, pouting unconciously.

“We can make popcorn if you want.” Christ suggested, pausing the movie.

You sat in your knees, looking at them with a smirk.

Minho smirked back, starting to guess where this was headed.

“What do you want to eat, kitten?”

You snickered.

“I want to have ramen.”

~kats, who hopes everyone understood that kdrama reference just now ;););););)

[mythvoiced]

“what makes me so special?” - hermes :3

@astremourante | more random dialogue prompts | ♥

---

Hermes blinks.

What an odd question.

And what an odd response. The great and swift God Hermes, known for his cunning, for his thirst for wit, so often depicted as silent and obedient in tales and myths and epics because it's easier to portray him doing his job than acknowledging how much faster his mind works than that of any other Olympian.

He'd followed Zeus around villages, watched as the old man disguised himself to test mortals, and he'd been silent.

He told Calypso to free Odysseus - he'd helped him remain human before the eyes of Circe.

He'd bedded Circe - or let her bed him.

He gave Perseus his shoes, connected him to Athena.

A lot of things have been recounted of him.

Stole Apollo's cattle, invented an instrument to give him, for the fun of it.

Befriended the ferryman himself.

He navigates quickly enough, and knows how to play by the rules smartly enough, that no one would assume him so inclined to further his own domain, to float and laugh over the heads of thieves and merchants alike, to beat paths into deserts if he found one suited to a crossroad, to invent melodies for Apollo's lyre with the clinking of his coins he'll never let him hear.

In a way, he's almost as aloof as Artemis.

Just much better at hiding it.

But here he is. A god, at the whims and commands of a woman, a mortal assassin. Had he chosen someone like Circe again, well, not many would have blinked twice. Had he tried to pursue Diomedes, Athena's favourite, wittier than Odysseus for his lack of hubris, no one would have batted an eye.

Cunning, witty, kings, goddesses, generals, hold power and dominance over large areas, witches, strategists, fools.

Amelia is by no means stupid, she glows with well-masked intelligence, hidden away as masterfully behind her frivolous, facetious exterior as her physical prowess, her pain.

What does make her so special? Some might argue she's lesser than others he's had.

He might argue she's so much more.

There's life in her he's so rarely sense in others. Pain and a thirst for justice and vengeance overpowered at times only for her thirst for punishment, familiarity over the ever so dreaded hoped for future. There's almost no future for her in which she won't crumble one way or another, if she succeeds and has nothing left to bleed for, if she fails and let's it define her.

And Hermes is no Fate, he cannot look into the future, has only ever seen the threads of life once cut in the souls he carries to Charon, or splendidly vibrant like Amelia at his side, so he can't guess how wrong he is, can't fathom if he's right.

When you're a god, you meet a person perhaps twelve times. Not the same one, but you can only go so far before behavioural patterns repeat, before you meet a character that reminds you so eerily of someone else. Yes, all mortals are unique, thank the gods or it would be rather dull to be in such close proximity and frequent exposure to them, but they aren't being invented a-new with each new generation.

Old traits, new media format.

And yet... and yet...

Hermes counts the freckles on Amelia's face. They look like cinnamon powder dusted over a bright, dangerous grin, or a soft threatening touch of vulnerability. She'd wanted him with malicious ferocity, with a bite hidden somewhere in her morals that had made him wonder if she'd wanted him because it would hurt to get him, or to prove something, or for this or for the other reason rather than the simple concept of bliss.

She'd pushed him away with a sense of self-respect he'd come to both expect from her but also be surprised to see. She gives him whiplashes, with the desperation she'd tried to drag a kiss out of him, coupled with the viciousness with which she'd demanded he play nice to get one.

Maybe it's that.

Maybe it's just a feeling.

"I'm not sure," he admits. He doesn't throw his usual smile into the mix, he seems... pensive, contemplating her being. "I just can't help but feel like, in hindsight, I'd been missing something, all the time leading up to knowing you."

"I can't give you a specific answer. I don't think about other mortals enough these days to remember what to compare you to."

[bubblebaththoughts]

Aphrodisiacs

Neteyam x Fem!Omatikayan!Reader

kinkmas masterlist

warnings: 18+ MDNI, dubcon for both parties, drug-like state, rough p in v, both uncontrollably horny, pre-established friendship, Neteyam and Reader are pining eachother but neither can make a move untilllll…

translations:

Syulang - flower

txe’lan - heart

tanhi - bioluminescent freckles

kuru - neural queue

“Keep up!” You yelled back to him

“I’m trying! Damn it!” Neteyam called up to you “Just, just wait for me!”

“I always wait for you Neteyam- Ah!” You scream, tripping onto the ground

As you fall out of Neteyam’s line of sight, panic courses through his veins.

“Syulang! Are you alright?” He called out as his pace sped up to find you

“Neteyam!” You call back “I- Something- happened!”

Neteyam approached you carefully, peering over silently.

You laid there on the ground, a pink dust covering your chest, along with a heavy sweat.

“Are you alright, Syulang?” He asked, towering over your body

“Mmm… Teyam, it hurts…” You whine, trying to reach for him

Neteyem drops to his knees by your side. “What hurts? Tell me what happened, it’s alright.”

“Something, poofed, in my face.” You tried to explain as you uncomfortably tried to also sit up

“Poof?” He reaches down, helping you sit up

Suddenly, he knew what you meant.

Poof.

He was suddenly in a pinkish-lavender haze as you invaded all of his senses.

“Uh- Um, where did you say it hurt, Syulang?” He asked, trying to compose himself

“Mmm.” You take him by the hand, guiding it to your chest. “txe’lan…”

Then you bring his hand lower, to your lower stomach. “Here feels empty…”

Empty… unfulfilled… yearning.

“Eywa help me.” He whispered a silent prayer as the drug-like-dust engulfed his mind

You didn’t remember who initiated it… you didn’t even really care. And neither did he.

It seemed that all you cared about right now was begging Neteyam to go deeper.

It was like a constant instruction in Neteyam’s mind: “In and out. In and out.”

He couldn’t even begin to count how many times you both had cum.

Like right now for example.

Your teeth were sunk into his shoulder as you tried to hold in a scream, and he was uncontrollably rutting into you like an animal.

He felt like an animal, but he couldn’t help himself, the feral feeling of needing to be inside of you overcame him.

He felt like he was being burned every time he would even try to pull away from you.

You clung to him desperately as you were just as deep into it as he was.

You might have been worse, you got the brunt of it.

It was like you never stopped whining, never stopped whining for him, or his cock, his tongue, his fingers, him.

All that you were able to think about was how good it felt for him to be thrusting into your right now.

No matter how many times either of you had cum, it was never ending, never enough. Neither of you could be satisfied.

It was unlike any rut or heat either of you had ever experienced.

More like you had both been hypnotized and this was the only thing stopping the both of you from actually going crazy.

“Ah- Uh! Fuck!” Neteyam called to you as he thrusted one more time, spilling into you for the umpteenth time today.

It was dark now, but the bioluminescent plants lit up the clearing.

You two lit up the clearing, your tanhi glowing brighter than ever.

Knowing Neteyam since birth, you saw a lot of him, all the time. You had memorized the pattern of his tanhi, how many there were on him, and where he glowed the brightest.

He nestled his head into your neck as he pulled out, making you whine for him. He peppered kisses on your neck while reassuring you that it was okay.

Neteyam slunk down in between your spread legs, watching as his load poured out of your pussy.

“So pretty.” He smiled up at you, making you whine

“Neteyam, it hurts.”

His hand gently squeezed your thigh, to let you know that everything was alright.

You can feel his breath against your clit, and you gasp in pleasure as his tongue circles around it. He licks and suckles, and you can feel the pleasure radiating from your core.

He moves lower, and you feel his tongue slide inside of you. He teases and teases until you can feel yourself close to cumming. He moves his tongue up and down, forcing you to get closer and closer.

And then, you feel his fingers slide up and find that spot inside of you. He moves his tongue and fingers in a rhythm, and you can feel yourself trembling with pleasure as you come. He continues to move his tongue and fingers until your orgasm fades away, and he slides his fingers out of you.

You feel his lips press against your neck, and you can feel his breath against your skin. You can feel his warmth radiating through you as he holds you close.

You push him on his back, sitting up to straddle him.

Immediately, you sink his throbbing cock back inside of you, a guttural moan escaping your lips.

Everything felt raw, like a throbbing open nerve.

“I wanna- I wanna.” He whines up at you

“What? What do you want?” You whine back as you ease down on him

“Want you.” He growled “Mine.”

He leaned up, holding you by the throat and roughly thrusted into you.

He worked his hips hard against your ass as he speared his cock deep inside of you. You relax against him, letting him completely take over.

“Want you to be just mine.” He whispered to you “All mine.”

You whimpered as you felt his hand tug on your kuru. “I want to- ah! I want to be yours Teyam.”

“For life.” He clarifies “As my mate.” He grunts as he continues to thrust into you

“Teyam!” You cried, completely falling apart in his arms, becoming similar to a rag-doll as he fucks you senseless

“How do you feel about that Syulang?” He whispered to you, “Mine forever?”

“Please Neteyam! Wanna be yours!” You cry

He smiles, pulling you against him tightly. One more thrust and he’s done for, spilling inside of you once again today.

The intense burn for you never stopped, his stilled inside of you, pulling you impossibly closer and holding onto you for dear life.

“Wanna make the bond.” He whispered to you quietly

“Tsaheylu?” You whimpered

“Mhm.” He moaned in your ear

“Please!” Your voice breaks him, it cracks as you cry out to him, begging him to make the bond.

His hand gently takes yours, letting the thick braid run over his fingers before he brought it up to your face.

The small tendrils dance around, a shiver runs down your back as you watch it.

Neteyam uses his free hand to grab his own Kuru, bringing it close to yours.

The sight was similar to watching magnets. Both of your queues had a magnetic pull to each other.

You bring your own hand up, and you gently ease your finger over the tendrils on his, making him gasp as they grip onto your finger

“Ah- Ah! Syulang! Mmm!” He moaned out as you played with his most sensitive part

You pull your finger away gently to relieve him.

“Are you sure this is what you want?” He emphasized the “You.”, a worried look on his face, “Because I- I’m completely sure about you, you’re all I’ve ever wanted.”

“All I’ve ever needed was you, Neteyam.” Your bright eyes shined up at him

Neteyam smiled down at you, his eyes now shining as well.

You took a breath before continuing, “I… I see you, Neteyam.”

“I see you.” He beamed at you, “I love you, so much.”

“I love you too.” You gushed

Slowly, he began to bring both queues together. And suddenly, the emptiness feeling you’ve felt since being sprayed in the face by that plant, was gone. Completely filled by Neteyam.

A moment of complete comfort. Complete clarity. Like this was meant to be. Written in the stars. Designed by Eywa.

“I see you!” You cried out to him again

“I see you, my love. I see you.” He embraced you, holding you impossibly closer. “I am with you forever.”

You lean up, kissing his lips passionately.

Neteyam takes care of you in the most tender and loving way. He wraps you up in his embrace, holding you close until the aftershocks of pleasure have faded away. He kisses your forehead and tells you how beautiful and special you are to him. He makes sure you are comfortable and taken care of, and that all of your needs are met.

Gently, he finally pulls out of you, coming down from the intense high of the pink dust. He soothes you with quiet praises, telling you how good you were for him, and that he was so proud of you.

You can feel the love radiating from your lover, and you know that you are safe and cherished in his arms. His touch is gentle and caring, and it's exactly what you need after a day of constant passionate sex. With just his touch, you can feel the bond between you growing even stronger.

taglist: @danniackerman @loaksslut