#It can be a hard line between that and like... trying to get close to someone? | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

moonlightdreamzz · 1 day ago

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SOMEWHERE BETWEEN YOURS, AND HIS — FINALE.

chapter one — what we don’t talk about ☆ chapter two — half-truths and jungle juice ☆ chapter 3 — fuck! ☆ chapter 4 — the tower.

chapter summary. things fall apart—and not quietly. after one truth comes out, another follows, and suddenly everything feels louder, heavier, and harder to explain. lines are crossed. words can’t be taken back. and by the end of the night, nothing is as simple as it was before.

pairing. jungwon x reader x sunghoon.

genre. college!au, angst, fluff, slow burn, smut.

themes. love triangle, messy relationships and decisions, love or lust?

authors note. thank you guys so much for the support you’ve given me for this entire series. when i made it, i genuinely never would’ve guessed you guys would love it so much. it’s meant the world to me and I really hope i can continue to give you guys an escape from reality!

your heart drops straight through the floor.

like it fell out of your chest, rolled across the concrete, and got crushed under the weight of your own consequences.

sunghoon’s voice still echoes in your ears. the silence after it is louder.

he walks off first. doesn’t say another word. doesn’t look back. the hallway swallows him whole.

you don’t follow.

you want to.

your body twitches like it might—like it could explain, justify, fix—but your feet stay where they are. frozen. guilt pooling like cement in your shoes.

and then there’s jungwon.

he’s still staring at you.

still hasn’t moved.

you’ve never seen him like this.

not even close.

there’s something about his face—so still. so unreadable. it’s the look people get when they realize something’s over.

his jaw clenches. his breath is shallow. and behind all that restraint, behind the way he won’t blink or breathe too loud—his eyes are glassing over.

and then—

a tear.

just one. it slips down his cheek without warning. slow. silent. and that does it. it shatters you.

you open your mouth to say something—anything—but nothing comes out.

you reach for him instinctively. not because you think you deserve to. just because that’s what your body does when it sees him hurt.

but he flinches.

a full step back.

like your fingers are fire.

and then he laughs.

low. broken. humorless.

“was that your plan the whole time?” he asks. his voice is hoarse. “have your little moment with him and then come find me?”

“jungwon…”

“no,” he cuts you off. “don’t. just—don’t.”

you swallow hard. “it wasn’t like that.”

he nods slowly. like he doesn’t believe you, but he’s already too tired to argue.

you lied to me.”

“i didn’t want to,” you say, voice tight, finally cracking. “but what did you expect me to say?”

he stares.

“you asked me that night if anything happened, and—what, you think if i said ‘yeah, i fucked him,’ you would’ve still taken me to the fair? kissed me like that? held my hand like nothing changed?”

he doesn’t answer.

“you wouldn’t have,” you whisper. “you would’ve walked away.”

he looks like he wants to argue. but he doesn’t. because you’re not wrong.

“i’m not saying it was right,” you continue. “but i panicked. i was trying to protect what we had. protect what i wanted.”

your voice wavers.

“and what i want… is you.”

it hangs there.

heavy. honest. desperate.

but his face doesn’t change.

his eyes are still wet.

his hands still shaking.

“you don’t protect love by lying to it,” he says quietly. “you just make it harder to recognize.”

you feel yourself start to break.

“i know,” you say. “i know, i fucked up. but i didn’t do it to hurt you.”

he nods once. slow.

“i just don’t know what to believe anymore.”

and then—

he turns.

and walks away.

no doors slamming. no yelling. just the sound of a goodbye that didn’t get spoken.

and you—you’re still standing there. hurting. holding the truth like a grenade with the pin pulled out.

you don’t know how long you’ve been sitting there.

long enough for the sweat on your back to cool. long enough for your face to stop burning. long enough for the ache in your chest to settle into something quiet. not gone—just manageable. like background noise.

the world feels too loud. the air too still. the sky too pretty for how ugly your insides feel.

you hear footsteps.soft ones. not stomping like sunghoon. not hesitant like jungwon.

you don’t look up.

“i sent them off,” jake says. “the girls.”

you keep staring at the ground.

he sits beside you. doesn’t ask. just does it.

a long silence.

then he says, gentle, “you wanna talk?”

you shake your head.

“you need to?”

you sniffle. “not really.”

he nods.

doesn’t push.

you love that about him. but today, you wish he would.

after a few seconds, he does.

“so… you and hoon?”

you nod. barely.

“you and won?”

another nod.

he exhales slow. “fuck.”

you laugh. bitter. broken. “yeah.”

“i didn’t know,” he says. “swear to god. like, i knew hoon liked you. but i didn’t think it was serious. and i didn’t see anything happening with jungwon.”

you shrug. “it wasn’t supposed to.”

“but it did.”

you don’t answer.

jake leans forward, arms draped over his knees. he’s quiet for a second, chewing on his next words.

then he says, “i feel like i missed it.”

“you did.”

“i was high half the time.”

you huff a laugh. “i know.”

he gives a soft smile. then it fades.

“can i ask something?”

you nod.

“why’d you lie to him?”

your throat tightens.

“not judging,” he adds quickly. “i just… i wanna get it. ‘cause you don’t lie. not like that.”

you’re quiet. then—

“i panicked.”

jake nods.

“i just… he asked me. and i could see it in his face. like, the second i said yes, it would’ve been over. and i couldn’t do it. i couldn’t lose him.”

“so you lied to keep him.”

“yeah.”

“and now you might lose him anyway.”

you blink down at your hands. they’re trembling a little.

he looks at you sideways. not judgmental. just present.

“you know he loves you, right?” he says. “i mean—like actually loves you. the kind of love that makes you want to kill your best friend in a public amusement park.”

you press your lips together. try not to cry again.

“but sunghoon…” jake trails off. “you didn’t do that with him for no reason either.”

you wipe your face. “i didn’t plan it. it just—happened.”

he nods. “shit like that doesn’t ‘just happen’ unless there’s something already there.”

you shrug helplessly. “i don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“nothing’s wrong with you.”

you look at him.

he means it.

“you’re not a bad person,” he says. “you’re just scared. scared of wanting too much. scared of fucking it up. so you spread the risk. but that doesn’t make you evil. it just makes you human.”

you swallow hard.

“i think…” he goes quiet for a second, picking his words carefully. “i think you’ve been waiting your whole life for someone to make you feel safe. and now you’ve got two people who see you. but you’re still scared to be seen.”

your breath catches.

“it’s not about choosing who wants you more,” he says. “it’s about choosing who you’re ready to be real with.”

you stare at him. really stare. he’s never said anything that made you want to cry so fast in your life.

“jake…”

he nudges your shoulder.

“whatever you do,” he says softly, “do it because you want it. not because you’re trying to fix what already broke.”

you nod. eyes glassy. and for a moment, he just sits there.

quiet.

gentle.

solid.

finally acting like the best friend you needed this whole time.

“…can you give me a ride back?”

his brow lifts like it should’ve been obvious. “of course. come on.”

he doesn’t say anything else, just leads you toward the car. and it’s not until you reach the passenger door that you see him.

sunghoon.

already in the backseat.

you freeze.

jake hesitates. “you want me to—”

“no,” you cut in. “it’s fine.”

you open the door. get in. shut it. the tension follows you like perfume.

you don’t speak. neither does he. not even a glance. just silence.

jake sighs as he starts the engine. “great vibes, guys. loving this.”

no one laughs.

the house is quiet when you get back.

jake lingers in the doorway like he wants to say something—but then just nods once and disappears to his room.

leaving you. and sunghoon. again.

you toss your bag onto the couch. lean over the coffee table. start pulling out your tray, your papers, the grinder.

you don’t ask if he’s staying. you just roll.

he doesn’t say anything until your lighter sparks.

“…you really smoking without me?”

you glance up.

he’s watching you. eyes a little softer now.

you hold out the joint. “then take it.”

he walks over. takes it. sits down beside you.

you don’t speak. not right away. you just sit. you pass. inhale. pass again.

finally, you say it. low.

“this is so fucked.”

he lets out a breath. “yeah.”

you stare at the floor.

“i didn’t want to hurt anybody,” you say.

“you did.”

“i know.”

he nods. slow. thoughtful. “so did i.”

you glance at him. he’s not looking at you.

“but if i’m being real,” he adds, voice quiet, “i don’t regret it.”

you blink.

he looks at you now. eyes sharp but not cruel. real.

“what happened between us? i’ve never had that with anyone.”

you swallow.

“and yeah,” he says, “maybe the timing was shit. maybe we were both drunk. maybe this whole thing is a disaster. but i meant it.”

you look at him. really look.

“i’ve known you for a blink,” he says, “but it already feels like too much. like if i walked away right now, i’d be leaving something i wasn’t supposed to.”

your chest tightens.

“it’s not just lust. it’s not just tension. it’s not even about him.”

he leans forward. elbows on his knees.

“it’s about you.”

you don’t speak.

“i see the way you care. the way you hold your hurt in your mouth and still smile. you’re not like anyone i’ve ever met. and if i already feel like this now…?”

he trails off.

you whisper, “what happens a month from now?”

he nods. “what happens a year from now?”

you both go quiet.

the joint burns low between your fingers.

“look,” he says eventually, “if you pick him, i’ll deal with it. i’m not gonna blow your shit up. i’m not gonna act like you owe me.”

he shifts closer. not touching you. just there.

“but you don’t have to doubt if i meant it.”

your throat gets tight. you nod once. “okay.”

he leans back.

you both let the silence settle again. not heavy this time. just… open.

and somewhere in the back of your mind, a question starts to bloom—

do i want more of this?

you don’t mean to end up in his room.

not really.

you’re just walking. breathing. looking for someplace still.

somewhere the air doesn’t feel so loud.

the door’s open like always. like it’s waiting. like maybe he thought you’d come.

you step inside. and for a second, it’s just… quiet. like nothing happened.

same gray sheets. same faint scent of his cologne. the desk lamp is off. the window cracked just a little, letting in the faint sound of wind chimes from the porch.

you sit on the edge of the bed.just to breathe. just to remember how.

and that’s when you start to notice.

your favorite snacks. lined up in the back corner of his shelf. unopened. untouched. not the kind he eats. not even the kind he buys for guests.

above his bed—polaroids.

a few are crooked. most are grainy.

but they’re all you.

you laughing, mid-bite of something you made him try. you sleeping on the couch, barely in frame. you never posed for any of them. you didn’t even know they existed. but he kept them anyway.

you blink.

the lump in your throat grows tighter when your eyes land on the blanket in his closet.

thin. gray. worn down from use.

the one he always said he needed because he got cold easy.

he used to keep it on his bed. every night. everywhere.

but not anymore. now there’s a quilt. thicker. softer. newer.

and you remember mentioning how cold his room always felt.

how you’d shiver under the fan and joke that he must be part reptile. how he didn’t say anything that night—just got up and brought you a sweatshirt.

you didn’t notice the quilt then. but it’s here now. has been for a while.

and that’s when it hits you.

how much he’s changed around you. how much space he made. without asking for anything back.

this is what love looks like. not loud. not obvious. but tucked into corners. hung above beds. folded in closets.

he made his room warmer.

for you.

he made himself warmer. and you didn’t see it—

until now. until the ache was loud enough to drown everything else out.

you sit there, staring at your own face on his wall. trying to remember the exact moment it all began. and when, exactly, you stopped believing it could end.

you don’t hear the door creak. don’t feel the shift in the air behind you. your eyes are still on the wall. your hands curled in the hem of your hoodie. you’re not crying, but you feel like you could if someone looked at you too long.

and then—

a breath.

not yours.

you turn, slow.

he’s there.

standing just inside the doorway.

hood down. eyes low.

you don’t know how long he’s been there.

long enough.

his voice is quiet. like if he speaks too loud, the moment might break.

“you found the quilt.”

your heart stops.

you nod. “yeah.”

he steps closer.

not all the way. just enough to see you clearly. you’re still sitting on his bed. still holding onto nothing.

he glances at the closet, then the wall, then back to you. his throat works like he’s swallowing words he doesn’t know how to say.

“i didn’t mean to make you feel like you had to choose me,” he says finally.

you blink. “you didn’t.”

“i just…” he trails off. shrugs. “i just didn’t want to keep waiting for a moment that was never gonna come.”

your chest pulls.

“it wasn’t just a moment,” you say. “it was a hundred of them. and i didn’t realize how many were yours until it was already too late.”

he walks forward. slow. like he’s not sure if he’s allowed. but he sits beside you anyway. you both stare at the wall.

the polaroids. the little shelf.

the window cracked just slightly.

“i love you,” he says.

it’s quiet. so quiet you almost miss it. but you don’t. your breath catches.

“i love you too, jungwon,” you whisper.

his eyes flick to the blanket in your hands, then back to your face.

then: “did you mean it?”

your breath catches.

“when you said you wanted to be with me,” he adds. “was that true?”

your throat tightens. you nod.

he looks down. his voice comes quieter now. raw. hoarse.

“then come here.”

you don’t think. you just go.

your arms wrap around his waist. your face buries into his shoulder.

he holds you so tight it knocks the air out of your chest.

you don’t realize you’re crying until he says, “hey,” soft and low, “you’re okay. we’re okay.”

and for once—you believe it.

his lips brush your temple. then your cheek. you look up. his mouth meets yours.

finally.

it’s soft. slower than you thought it’d be. more patient. more gentle.

his hand comes up to cradle your jaw. he kisses you like he doesn’t want to scare you. like he wants you to feel everything.

you do.

you kiss him back.

long. deeper. your hands slide up his chest, gripping the collar of his shirt like you need him to stay right here, right now.

he pulls back. just enough to whisper, “is this okay?”

you nod. “yes.”

he kisses you again.

this time—he means it.

you walk backwards toward the bed, pulling him with you. his hands find your waist. yours tangle in his hair.

when the backs of your knees hit the mattress, he lowers you down like you’re something sacred.

like this is the moment he’s been scared to believe would ever come true.

he doesn’t rush.

he takes his time undressing you. tugging off your hoodie, brushing your hair out of your face, kissing your shoulder, your collarbone, your ribs.

every inch.

he peels his shirt off, drops it to the floor, and your fingers reach for his skin like they already know the shape of him.

his weight settles between your legs.

you gasp when he grinds into you, slow and clothed, just to feel you.

you whisper his name.

he groans—low, in your ear—like he’s been waiting his whole life to hear it said like this.

you wrap your arms around him. hips rolling instinctively.

his breath is hot against your throat.

“i’ve wanted this for so long,” he says, barely audible. “you have no idea.”

you do.

you reach between you. pull him closer. pull him in.

when he slides into you—it’s slow. reverent.

like he doesn’t want to miss a second of the way your breath catches. your eyes flutter. the way your body clings to him like it knows this isn’t just sex.

this is home.

he doesn’t talk much. not like Sunghoon did.

but the way he touches you—how he looks at you—says everything.

he kisses you through it.

his hands are everywhere. your hips, your waist, the back of your neck.

he says your name like a prayer.

like he’s scared it’s the only thing keeping him here.

you match his rhythm. slow. deep. sweet.

your bodies fit like they’ve always known each other.

his pace falters when you tighten around him. when you whimper in his ear. when you whisper things you don’t even remember saying—things like please and don’t stop and i love you.

he chokes on a breath.

“say it again,” he whispers.

you do.

he falls apart on top of you—quiet. breathless.

your hands stay tangled in his hair. your chest rises and falls against his.

he doesn’t pull away.

he stays right there.

forehead pressed to yours. breath catching. heart pounding.

he looks at you like he’s never seen you before.

like he has—but only just now let himself believe you’re really his.

you reach up. tuck a piece of hair behind his ear.

he kisses you again.

and this time—you both know it’s real.

your heart’s still racing from the way he touched you.

from the way he looked at you—like you weren’t just something he wanted, but something he almost lost. and maybe that’s what this is. not just love. not just lust. but the fear of finally holding something you’re terrified of ruining.

you’re still staring at him when he speaks again.

soft at first.

like he’s not sure if you’re ready to hear it.

“i forgive you.”

your chest tightens.

“i don’t like that you lied,” he admits. “but i get it.”

you blink.

he shifts closer, his hand brushing your thigh, like he needs to keep touching you or else he’ll unravel again.

“you didn’t lie to hurt me. you lied because you didn’t know where you stood with me. and that’s on me.”

you try to look away. you can’t.

“i made you feel like you had to guess,” he says, quieter now. “like you had to read my mind instead of just hearing how i felt.”

he swallows. his voice dips.

“i loved you the whole time.”

your breath catches.

“but i was scared,” he says. “so fucking scared of what it would mean if i said it out loud. of how much you mattered to me. of how easy it was to love you. how hard it was to stop.”

you say his name, soft, unsure.

but he just shakes his head.

“if i’d just stepped up. if i’d just said it first. none of this would’ve happened. and that’s what kills me.”

you look down.

he reaches for your hand.

“but i’m saying it now,” he says. “and if you give me a chance… i’ll be everything you believed i could be. everything i should’ve been this whole time.”

you blink fast.

“i don’t wanna just have you when it’s easy. or when the timing’s good. i wanna have you because you chose me. because i finally chose you back.”

he pulls you closer.

his forehead against yours.

“i love you,” he whispers. “i’m not scared to say it anymore. so if there’s even a part of you that still wants this… then let me prove it.”

beat.

he pulls back just enough to look at you fully.

his eyes don’t flinch.

“choose me.”

who do you choose?

➤ jungwon

➤ sunghoon

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orlaunderrated · 1 day ago

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The Edges of Us: Chapter 9

First Chapter | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Will Lenney x fem reader; George Clarke x fem reader

Summary: Y/N has always been close to George—but everything changes when she catches feelings for his sharp-tongued, infuriatingly charming friend, Will. Torn between loyalty and desire, Y/N finds herself caught in a messy tangle of friendship, secrets, and unexpected love.

Word Count: 5.5k+

Note: LMAO i wrote this at 'work' (i have a weekend job where i work as a 'supervisor' and i sit in an office and play the sims and get paid for it). THNAK YOU EVERYONE for the kindest of words. my heart is so full with everyone talking about this series.

also this chapter is a bit of a love letter to my friends at my own version of The Van. i pray they never see this but i love those guys. also also you all need to play Beerio Kart it goes so hard.

xxx

By the time I get to Ruth’s, her flat is already buzzing. It's the Tuesday crew from The Van, and a few extra people I don’t recognise.

There’s someone from the soup run — I think his name’s Leon — curled up in the armchair, nursing a can of lager and shouting advice at the screen. One of the newer volunteers, Naomi, is painting her nails on the coffee table like it’s not covered in half-eaten biscuits and empty crisp packets. And someone I don’t recognise — probably someone’s partner or flatmate — is crouched in front of the TV cabinet, trying to get the Switch working, sleeves rolled up like it's been a tough day at work.

Ruth lights up when she sees me. “Ugh, finally. We’re all sick of Quiplash. Come teach everyone Beerio Kart”

She claps her hands like a teacher calling a class to order. “Okay! Y/N is going to explain the rules for those of us who don’t know how to play… which is all of us.”

She practically shoves me onto the couch like I’m about to deliver a TED Talk.

I lean in, pointing to my fellow volunteers like a revolutionary leader. “Rule one: you can’t drink and drive. Mario world has standards. Both hands off the controller while you’re drinking.”

“Justice for Toad!” someone yells. Laughter ripples through the room.

“Two: you have to finish your beer before the race ends. Or you lose. Morally.” Everyone is now calculating their strategies.

“You can drink during countdowns, when you fall off the track, when you get shelled—”

“—when your ex texts you mid-race and ruins your whole life,” Naomi adds from the floor. More laughter. I laugh but I do not get the joke, or if there even is a joke.

So I drop into the last open spot — a beanbag wedged between Tom (a guy from Thursday nights who always brings his own gloves) and someone covered in tattoos who’s currently balancing a beer can on their head.

“Three… two… one—GO!” someone shouts, and half the room starts chugging like we’re at some sacred, chaotic communion.

To my left, Amina (who's homemade banana bread is to die for) downs her entire beer before her kart even moves. By the time she slams her can down, she’s already in 12th place, but she’s grinning. “Now I can actually drive, losers!”

Across the room, one of the quieter volunteers — Sam, I think — is casually cruising in second place until he brakes right before the finish line and sips the rest of his can like he’s got all the time in the world.

“Bold move, Sam,” someone mutters, as he finishes with one dramatic gulp and crosses the line with milliseconds to spare.

I, on the other hand, am doing what most of us are doing: swerving off Rainbow Road, nursing bruises from red shells, and sneaking sips during every crash. I’ve barely made it through half the can and I’m losing spectacularly, but Ruth keeps shouting, “You’re doing amazing, sweetie!” every time I get back on track.

There’s shouting, laughing, cans cracking open. Someone yells, “Wait, I spilled beer in my controller!” and no one stops playing. No one even really cares who’s winning. The flat smells like beer, dry shampoo, and warm energy.

My character flies off the edge of the course for the third time in one lap.

“Perfect time for a drink,” I mutter, tipping my can back.

From across the room, Ruth hollers, “THAT’S the spirit!”

It’s stupid and chaotic and none of it makes sense. But for once, I don’t feel like I’m on the outside looking in. Not even a little bit.

I'm still getting to know these people, but they’re kind. Loud in the right ways. Familiar in a way that doesn’t ask too much of me. Ruth shoots me a grin from the corner, one that says: See? Told you this would be fun.

And for a minute, it is.

Even if I've been inked and and I’ve been hit by three shells in a row.

Even if the memory of Will’s kiss — and George’s look — hovers at the edge of my mind like stormclouds threatening to crack open.

Right now, I’m here.

And I’m winning.

Sort of.

Xxx

The Uber was called, and the room still buzzed with energy. People darted around, perfecting eyeliner flicks and dabbing on last-minute lipstick. The chaos from Beerio Kart had settled into a warm, tipsy glow — everyone flushed and laughing, convinced the game had been a smashing success.

Ruth caught my eye and tilted her head, a mischievous grin spreading across her face.

“So, why were you late?” she whispered, eyes sparkling.

I hesitated, cheeks heating up. “Kissing Will,” I blurted, half proud, half embarrassed.

Her eyes practically popped. “WHAT, no way! Spill the tea — I did not see that coming. I mean I did, but I was thinking in like, 3 to 6 months.”

I shrugged, trying to play it cool, but damn, the memory of his lips was still burning a hole in my brain.

We lean in like we’re conspirators plotting something way more interesting than makeup tips.

I explain to her that George had a bunch of his friends over for pre-drinks, “So, he texts me, right?” I grin, leaning in like I’m spilling some top-secret intel. “He can see my shadows moving—and straight-up demands to be let into my room. Like, no ‘hey’ or ‘what’s up,’ just full-on ‘open this door now’ energy.”

Ruth bursts out laughing. “Oh girl, that’s borderline stalker-chic. I’m here for it.”

I roll my eyes but can’t stop smiling. “Yeah, well, it worked. Then he hits me with, ‘I’m tired of pretending I don’t like you,’ which is like, okay, chill.”

Ruth raises an eyebrow. “Ooooh, so he’s got a soft side? Didn’t know that was in his skill set.”

I shrug, trying to play it cool. “Right? And then he goes, ‘I would’ve kissed you back’—which is crazy work, so obviously he’s been talking to George.” Ruth looks unamused at that.

“But then we kiss, because, what else do you say to that? It was literally crazy. Fully like Nick-And-Jess-From-New-Girl-First-Kiss-Vibes. It was soooo unexpected but damn, electric.”

She wiggles her eyebrows. “Electric, huh? And then what? Spill.”

I laugh, cheeks warming. “Okay, so then I tell him to leave, and he pushes me against the wall and kisses me again. More like ‘can’t-help-myself’ vibes. I swear my brain took a coffee break and my lips just did their own thing.”

Ruth claps her hands softly. “Girl, that’s textbook ‘can’t resist’ behaviour. Love it.”

I’m laughing. Genuinely. Not performative or polite — real.

Then Maya—Ruth’s close friend—sits cross-legged on the floor, phone out as a mirror. She's moving her lip gloss wand with the precision of a heart surgeon. She glances up at me, wine glass wobbling in her hand. “Wait, is this Will? Like, your friend WillNE on YouTube?”

I don’t even have to wonder how she knows; Ruth’s been bragging about living with ‘influencers’ all week. I freeze just enough for Maya to catch it.

She grins, totally misreading my silence. “Sorry, I only ask ‘cause I thought he had a girlfriend.”

My stomach twists. A tiny, traitorous lurch.

“What?” I say, too casual, too fast.

Maya’s already scrolling on her phone but keeps talking. “Yeah, he’s all over this girl’s Insta. Brunette, Welsh, really pretty. Posted a pic with him at some gig last week—total boyfriend vibes. Hands-on-thigh kind of thing.”

Ruth shoots me a pointed look, but I don’t meet it. My face stays calm, but inside my heart is pounding like a drum.

“Oh?” I say, voice thin, stretched too tight, like a balloon about to pop.

I stare into my drink, the buzz fading fast, the edges of the room blurring and going cold.

Cue the slow-motion crash in my chest. Sharp, hollow, humiliating. Will never mentioned her. Not once. And here I am, catching feelings like an idiot, clinging to every glance, every inside joke, every stupid little moment like it meant something. Like he meant something.

I thought he was a friend. That’s the worst part. He’s been inviting me everywhere, pulling me into his life like there was space for me. Making me feel like I belonged. I thought he saw me. Really saw me.

And now? Now I just feel used. Like a placeholder. Like some sad, temporary girl who was dumb enough to believe that any of it was real. That feeling creeps in, the feeling where he looks at me like some kind of charity case. Something broken he could fix to feel better about himself. A project. Nothing permanent, just a distraction dressed up as concern.

I feel like an idiot.

Stupid for letting myself want more — for a second kiss, a text that means something, anything that isn’t just some blurry grey area he gets to walk away from untouched.

I take a long sip of my drink, trying to wash the embarrassment down with cheap rosé and bravado. But it lingers, tight in my throat, prickling behind my eyes. God, I feel so naive. Like a punchline he forgot to tell me I was part of.

Maya’s already moved on, chatting about something else, blissfully unaware of the landmine she just stepped on. But my mind is miles away now — back in my bedroom, back against the door, his mouth on my neck, whispering things that now feel like lies. Or worse.

Just meaningless.

I decide I'm back to hating him again, and for the first time in weeks, I don’t want to see him. Not tonight. Not at all.

But I already know that I will.

Xxx

The club is a boiling pot of chaos — packed, sweaty, East London at its wildest. Bodies press against each other in a blur of sequins, smoke, and flashing lights. The bass doesn’t just shake the floor — it owns it — thudding through my chest with a relentless rhythm that matches the anger simmering just beneath my skin. Every beat feels like a dare, every strobe flash a spotlight on the pieces of me I’m trying to burn away.

I’m already buzzed, teetering on the edge of drunk, riding that sharp, reckless wave heartbreak always leaves behind — the kind that makes everything shimmer and sting at the same time. There’s glitter stuck to my collarbones, a smear of lipstick I don’t remember applying, and a voice in my head saying: Don’t think. Just move.

So I do.

I dance with my head thrown back, laughing too loud, drinking too fast. My arms are in the air, hair sticking to the back of my neck, spinning in circles like I can outrun the memory of his mouth on my skin. Around me, strangers cheer and twirl and grind and kiss like they’ve never been hurt. Like none of it matters. And maybe, for a moment, it doesn’t.

Someone hands me a drink — I don’t ask what it is. I just down it like it’s a potion to forget. Like it might bleach out the part of me still holding onto his name like it’s something sacred.

I’m hot, dizzy, untouchable. Or at least, I’m pretending to be. There’s something feral in me tonight — a girl made of spite and vodka and eyeliner, just daring the universe to give her another reason to self-destruct.

And under the lights, with my heart cracked wide open and every nerve on fire, I almost feel free.

Almost.

Then I see them.

George, Chris, and a few other familiar faces slice through the crowd like sharks hunting territory. I spot the two Arthurs and Bach, who I’m pretty sure I met once, maybe? One of the group I recognise as he threw a party the first week I got to London. A couple are Sidemen members — I know that because Will’s hyped about them all the time and even showed me a video where he was in. There are others too, faces I don’t fully recognize but feel like I’ve seen somewhere—maybe on my FYP, scrolling past late at night.

How did this even happen? How do a bunch of broke volunteers and a pack of overpaid YouTubers end up in the same club in East London? It feels like a cosmic joke, like the universe just couldn’t resist putting me in the middle of some weird influencer fever dream. I’m in op-shop boots and borrowed eyeliner, and they’re in designer jackets and thousand-pound smiles, casually famous in ways I still don’t fully understand.

Basically, I feel surrounded. Like I’m the odd one in a sea of familiar strangers.

Then, my eyes lock on the girl Maya showed me earlier. Small, built, gorgeous—she moves through the crowd like she owns it, every inch the part. And yeah, she’s with Will.

George locks eyes with me — that same deer-in-headlights look I’ve seen on him before, like he wasn’t expecting me to be here, like I’m some ghost that just stepped through the smoke machine haze. But there��s something else tangled in his expression now. Something darker. Jealousy? Regret? I can’t tell.

His mouth parts slightly, like he’s about to say something — or maybe it’s just shock. He doesn’t move. Just stares across the crowd like I’ve knocked the air out of him. And maybe I have. I’m not sure what I was expecting from him — a wave? A smirk? Indifference? Anything would’ve hurt, but this uncertainty burns.

The lights flash blue, then red, then white, catching the sharp angle of his jaw, the tension in his shoulders. He looks good. Stupidly good. Which only pisses me off more.

So I turn away first.

I throw my head back and laugh at something someone beside me didn’t even say, just to make sure he sees it. I let my hands slide down the arms of the person dancing with me. It's Quiet Sam. He's a bit confused, but he's also very drunk (he played Beerio Kart with shots). He smells like sweat and cheap cologne and safety. It’s petty. It’s deliberate. It’s survival.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see George shift. Like he wants to move toward me, or maybe away? Like he’s caught in the middle of two impulses and doesn’t trust either one. He raises his drink to his lips and downs half of it in one go. His hand is tight around the glass like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

There’s a beat, just one, where the crowd parts a little and there’s nothing between us. No bodies. No bass. Just silence and neon. And in that breathless, glittering pause, I see it again. Not just jealousy. Not just regret.

Longing.

And it knocks the wind out of me, because for a second, I want to reach for him too.

But then Amina grabs my hand, spinning me in a lazy circle. I let it happen. I let the moment pass. I don’t look back.

And then, Will spots me.

It happens mid-laugh — his, not mine. He’s leaning against the bar, drink in one hand, surrounded by people who probably don't even know his last name. His head’s thrown back, mouth open in that easy, effortless way that used to make my stomach flutter, fuck it still does. Then his eyes flick toward the dance floor—just casually, just a sweep—and he sees me.

He freezes.

Like a record scratch in the middle of a perfect song. Like I’ve just stepped out of a dream he thought he was still safely inside.

And to be fair, last time we spoke — what, five hours ago? — we were making out like idiots in my bedroom when all of his friends were in the next room. Breathless. Hands tangled in clothes. Him saying things like “I’m tired of pretending”, me believing them for long enough to let my guard down. He texted me after and I didn’t text back.

He has no idea I’m mad.

He has no idea.

So when he sees me now — glitter-smeared, mascara smudged, drink in hand like a weapon — he’s smiling. That same smile he wore when his mouth was on my neck. Open, stupid, happy. Like we’re still in that soft moment. Like nothing’s changed.

I make sure it shatters.

I don’t smile. I don’t wave. I don’t acknowledge him.

Instead, I tilt my head back and laugh at something that Sam says in my ear— laugh like I’m free, like nothing in the world is heavy or complicated or still haunting me. Then, without even thinking, I lean in and kiss that same guy on the cheek. Just loud enough that Will sees it. That everyone sees it. A blatant, glittering middle finger. A declaration: I’ve moved on. You were never that important.

It’s petty. It’s calculated. It’s completely unhinged.

But God, it feels good.

And when I finally glance back — just for a second, just to twist the knife — Will’s no longer smiling.

He looks confused. Hurt. Like he can’t quite compute what the hell just happened. He shifts his weight, scanning my face for any version of the girl who kissed him against a doorframe just hours ago. And he can’t find her. Because I buried her the second Maya said “girlfriend.”

He’s blinking too fast. Adjusting. You can see it all playing out behind his eyes: Did I do something? Did she regret it? Is this a joke?

And maybe I should feel bad — but I don’t. Because I did mean it. Every second of it.

And he didn’t think I deserved the truth.

Eventually, Will corners me at the bar, where neon flashes bounce off the bottles. He leans in, shouting over the bass. “You’re ignoring me!” He doesn’t let go of my gaze.

I raise my voice back, trying to sound casual but fierce: “Figured you’ve got options. Don’t let me get in the way.”

He blinks, clearly thrown. “What are you talking about?” He says loudly, confused, like he’s trying to piece together a puzzle he didn’t even know existed.

Before he can say more, the girl sidles up to him, shouting something I can’t quite catch over the pounding bass. She pats his back like she owns the moment, then turns and walks away, leaving him standing there like a question mark.

Will’s jaw tightens. His eyes flick away, darting to the floor, to the crowd—anywhere but me. I can almost hear the shame vibrating through the thrum of the music, mixing with the sweat and heat and everything else suffocating the room.

He opens his mouth to say something, maybe to explain, maybe to beg.

So I spin away from him, grab another drink, down half of it in one go. The sting in my chest has nothing to do with the tequila. I throw myself into the rhythm—into the chaos—trying to drown the ache in bodies and basslines. The club is heaving, sweat and light and noise pressing in on all sides.

And then it changes.

A slower song pulses through the speakers, the bass heavy and honey-thick, like it’s moving through molasses. The lights shift, casting everything in a red-blue haze. It’s still loud, but the energy has dipped into something darker, more charged.

I feel him before I see him. The heat of him at my back. His breath close to my ear, just above the music: “Let me just talk to you.”

I don’t move. Not right away. My body goes still, rigid.

And then—I turn.

And we lock eyes.

And for a second, just one suspended moment in the chaos, it’s like the entire club goes silent. Like the bass cuts out, the crowd dissolves, the song holds its breath. Just me, him, and the gravity pulling between us. His face is flushed, eyes wide, desperate and soft all at once.

I nod. Barely. But he sees it.

And he reaches for my hand.

The noise crashes back around us as we move—shoulders bumping, drinks sloshing, bodies pressing past—but it all feels distant now. He’s pulling me toward the exit, and the club peels away behind us, like a fever breaking.

Like the night’s about to change.

We slip out of the chaos of the dancefloor together and into the smokers’ area. Neither of us smokes—thank God—because I hate the smell of cigarettes. I had a boyfriend in high school who smoked, and I remember how the smell clung to everything—his clothes, his hair, even his lips. I swore back then that I’d never kiss anyone who smoked again. It was one of those teenage promises I thought I’d never break.

To be fair, most people out here are vaping instead, that sweet, artificial fog hanging in the air instead of smoke. It’s better, I guess—less harsh, less lingering—but the smell still makes me wrinkle my nose. It’s a reminder of all the times I tried to convince myself that love could change things. That people could change.

The cold night air hits my skin, sharp and real against the muffled thrum of the club behind us. Suddenly, everything feels quieter, slower—the kind of space where you can finally breathe, and maybe even say what’s been tangled up inside your chest all day.

I glance over at him, searching his face in the dim light, and wonder if he has any idea how much has shifted in these last five hours since we were tangled up, kissing, careless. Five hours since he sent that text, expecting a reply I never gave. Five hours since I decided to hold all my words inside, bottled up like a secret I wasn’t ready to share.

Here, away from the crowd, away from the noise and flashing lights, the weight of it all presses down. And maybe, just maybe, this is the moment where we either break or begin to mend.

“What's going on? Why didn’t you answer my text?” Will asks, his voice low but urgent.

I meet his eyes, steady. “I heard about your girlfriend. I’m not interested in being the sidepiece, especially for someone like you.”

He blinks, caught off guard. “Okay, ouch. Also… what girlfriend? I don’t have a girlfriend.”

I nod toward the club. “That girl in there. She’s touching you like she owns you. Maya showed me her Instagram.”

He scoffs, disbelief flashing across his face. “Becky? She’s a YouTuber like me. She touches everyone when she’s drunk.”

I fold my arms, unconvinced. “I don’t believe you.”

He looks hurt, defensive. “You’re going to believe Maya—someone you’ve never even spoken about—over me?”

“Yeah,” I say, voice flat.

He shakes his head, frustrated. “God, if you actually watched any YouTube, you’d know this.”

“Sorry, I have a real job,” I snap back. He looks at me in a way I can’t describe — hurt, maybe, or just tired of this. Of me. I don’t mean it, obviously, but I go for the kill anyway, aiming for something I know will land. “I never asked to be your little project, Will. I don’t need your charity.”

He breathes in deeply, and runs a hand through his hair. “Okay, I’m going back. We can have this conversation when were both sober”

He’s true to his word. Without another glance, he turns and melts back into the smoky swirl of strawberry-ice haze, leaving me standing there with the sharp sting of unanswered questions—and a bitter taste that isn’t from a vape.

I return inside, the club swallowing me back up like nothing happened. Like I hadn’t just stood outside in a fog of strawberry vape and bad decisions, tearing into someone who maybe didn’t even deserve it.

The music has shifted — something bouncier now, unserious and sticky with synths. I find the guy with too many tattoos by the speakers, his shirt half-unbuttoned and grinning like the night owes him something. He pulls me into a lazy twirl without asking, and I let him. It feels good to move. To not think.

Leon joins us halfway through the song, clutching two drinks and somehow still managing to shimmy in time with the beat. “I lost the others,” he yells over the music. “Maya tried to get into VIP by pretending to be Dua Lipa’s cousin.”

"She’s got the eyebrows for it,” I shout, grinning.

We fall into step, hips swinging, limbs loose. At some point, Tattoo Guy tries to do a body roll and almost knocks over Leon’s drink. We’re all giggling too hard to care. Leon makes a show of pretending to sue him for emotional damages.

“My cocktail is trauma now,” he shouts, faking solemnity, holding up the sloshed glass.

“I want that on a t-shirt,” I say, and Tattoo Guy immediately offers to design it — “I’ve got a guy who prints stuff.”

The lights spin above us, dizzy-bright. The kind that make everything feel a little more alive. For a while, I let myself forget. The boys who can’t decide. The messages left on read. The city that wants to swallow me whole.

But then I catch sight of George across the club — dim corner, low lighting, the kind of shadows that swallow things. He’s kissing a girl.

At first, I think my brain’s playing tricks on me.

She looks just like me.

Same hair — dark and messy like we both ran our fingers through it too many times tonight. Same build — same height, same posture, same kind of slightly hunched shoulders that come from never being sure if you’re taking up too much space. She’s even wearing a lace top and trousers combo that looks so similar to mine it’s almost funny. Almost.

My stomach flips. Sharp. Sour. Like I’ve swallowed something that’s about to come back up.

They’re by the bar — George and this almost-me — and he’s leaning in close, hand brushing her hip like he’s done it before. She’s laughing at something he’s said, tilting her head the way I do when I’m pretending not to care. And then, just like that, he kisses her.

It’s not even a maybe. It’s a full, real kiss. Slow, certain. Like he’s trying to say something with it. Like he means it.

And all I can think is: Is that what I looked like, when it was me?

Is that the version of me he wanted? Or maybe — and this might be worse — maybe any girl who looks vaguely like me would’ve done.

Suddenly the music is too loud, the lights too bright. The sticky heat of the club clings to my skin like shame. Like rejection. Like I’ve been replaced by a mirror image who doesn’t know yet that this ends in heartbreak.

She’s laughing into his mouth like it’s easy. Like it’s nothing. Like I didn’t once sit on his bedroom floor and paint his toenails. Like he didn’t say he was glad I moved back to him and then reject me entirely.

It hits me in the throat. A weird, mirrored ache. Like watching yourself be replaced in real time — upgraded or downgraded, who knows. Just... swapped out.

I turn away so fast the room spins.

And that’s when I see Will again.

He's leaning against the bar, shoulders slouched, hair a little too perfectly messy. I make my way toward him before I’ve even decided what I’m doing. Maybe it’s instinct. Maybe it’s self-destruction. Maybe it’s both.

When he sees me, something in his jaw tenses. But I don’t give him time to speak.

I slide close to him, too close. My fingers ghost along his wrist as the music blares, low and dirty. He stiffens at first, but then his hands find my hips like muscle memory.

“I still hate you,” I whisper, eyes locked on his like it’s a dare. I don’t even know why I hate him now. Maybe I just want to. I’m angry and humiliated and wired with adrenaline, and he’s standing there looking at me like I matter. He’s probably telling the truth about Becky — I know that, deep down. But knowing doesn’t make it hurt less. I also lost count of the amount of assorted alcohol in my system hours ago. Somewhere between the cheap rosé and someone handing me a tequila shot “for vibes,” I stopped keeping track.

“I know,” he says, low and hoarse.

We dance. Or something like it.

It’s all teeth and tension, hips brushing, hands lingering where they shouldn’t. It’s not romantic. It’s not even flirty. It’s messy and desperate and soaked in the complicated residue of our back-and-forths and bad timing and too many feelings left unspoken.

When I left Ruth’s flat, I hadn’t planned on pressing my body against Will like that. I’d planned on ignoring him, on rolling my eyes and laughing with someone else, on pretending he didn’t exist. But here I am—hips swaying to a beat I can barely register, sweat slicking the small of my back, and his hands firm on my waist like he needs something to hold onto before the whole damn room spins away.

It’s messy and deliberate, our bodies in sync and out of sync all at once. I can feel the tension in his grip, the way his thumbs press a little harder when I move against him, like he thinks I might vanish if he lets go. His mouth is near my ear, but he doesn’t say anything. Maybe he knows better. Maybe he knows words are useless here—too loud, too late.

I toss a look over my shoulder just to see how wrecked he looks. He does. His jaw’s tight, brows drawn together like this whole thing is hurting him in ways he doesn’t know how to name. Good. I want him wrecked. I want him to feel something other than smug certainty.

“I still hate you,” I murmur, loud enough for him to hear but soft enough to keep it intimate, like a confession sealed in bass and sweat and noise.

His grip falters just for a second, then tightens again. Like he knows this is the only version of an apology he’s going to get right now. Me—still dancing, still close, but furious and unforgiving in every breath. This is punishment. This is power.

And maybe, a little bit, it’s still wanting him.

I don’t know what I’m trying to prove. To him. To myself. To George, who’s somewhere out there kissing the ghost of me.

Will says nothing else, just moves with me. And I let him.

There’s no forgiveness in it, not really. Just rhythm and proximity and the quiet relief of being touched by someone who still feels like home, even if that home is full of cracks. We don’t speak—our bodies do all the talking. Frustration, guilt, want. It thrums between us like a second beat under the music.

I don’t know when the plan changes, but we end up sharing an Uber home. Silent, shoulder to shoulder, the air between us is thick and buzzing like static.

I don’t reach for his hand.

And he doesn’t ask me to explain.

We sit there like two halves of a broken thought, still tethered by something neither of us wants to name. Maybe pride. Maybe fear. Maybe the memory of his mouth on mine just hours ago, back when the night still felt full of promise.

Six months ago, the Uber with George to his flat was a bubble of warmth and quiet friendship — the heater cranked just right, the soft lo-fi humming through the speakers, raindrops blurring the city outside into a watercolor dream. Inside, I felt safe, like slipping back into an old jumper. The awkwardness dissolved into easy banter and the kind of comfort that only years of knowing someone can build.

Tonight’s Uber to Will’s flat couldn’t be more different. It’s too warm again, but the heat feels like a weight pressing down instead of a gentle hug. The windows are fogged, but the city beyond feels colder, more distant — the raindrops tracing lazy patterns like a slow, mocking countdown. The scent inside is less familiar: a mix of cheap air freshener and something synthetic, sterile.

There’s no easy music, no quiet laughter — just the hum of the engine and the tight knot twisting in my chest. I lean against the window, but instead of city lights bleeding into soft memories, I’m staring at shadows, wondering how I ended up here.

When the car pulls up outside his flat, neither of us moves at first. The engine hums softly, the night stretching between us.

We both get out of the Uber, the cool air hitting me like a shock after the warmth inside. I stand there for a moment, hesitant, the quiet buzzing in my ears louder than the city around us.

Then I turn toward Will’s apartment foyer, the glass doors glowing faintly in the dark.

I breathe in the echo of the night and try to figure out if stepping inside with him is power… or just another kind of surrender.

#george clarke #george clarkey #george clarke x reader #george clarkey x reader #george clarke fics #george clarke fluff #george clarke imagine #will lenney #WillNE #willne x reader #willne fic #willne fluff #willne imagine #ukyt #george clarkey angst #willne angst

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incloudcity · 3 days ago

Text

hold the line | ld29

requests are open summary: leon’s always been hard to read — cold, some might say. But you’ve always known how he feels about you. Or you thought you did.

You always knew loving Leon would be quiet.

He’s not dramatic. Not a talker. He doesn’t do grand romantic gestures or stay up until 2 a.m. whispering promises into the phone.

He shows love in quieter ways. In the way he keeps a hand on your thigh when he drives. In the way he remembers how you take your coffee, even if he never drinks it himself. In the way he leans into your shoulder instead of saying, I missed you.

You were okay with that. You liked it, even. The steadiness. The security of it.

Until now.

Because lately, the silence hasn’t felt steady. It’s felt like a countdown.

You’re used to the distance — him in Edmonton, you in Vancouver. It's never been easy, but it's been doable. You’ve made it work for nearly a year. Calls, visits, weekends stolen between games and your job’s endless hours.

But two weeks ago, something shifted.

The calls got shorter.

Then they stopped entirely.

Texts went from thoughtful to sparse. One-word replies. Half a heart emoji. Sometimes, nothing at all.

You’d brushed it off at first. Everyone gets busy. He’d tell you if something was wrong.

Right?

But now it’s nine days until he’s supposed to fly out and you haven’t heard his voice in a week.

The last text he sent was five days ago.

“Busy day. Will call later.”

He didn’t.

You tell yourself you won’t spiral. Then you check his Instagram.

Nothing new. But that makes it worse. He’s been completely silent. No stories. No posts. Just gone.

So, you cave.

You call him.

It rings once. Then twice.

Straight to voicemail.

You try again.

Nothing.

Then, a third time. You leave a message this time, trying to sound light.

“Hey. Just… wondering what’s going on. You don’t have to call tonight, just let me know you’re okay. I miss you.”

You hang up and stare at the wall for five solid minutes.

Then you text.

“If you’re not coming next week, just let me know.” “You can say it, Leon. I can handle it.”

You end up deleting the last one.

You set the phone down and go to bed. Alone.

Again.

He calls two days later.

You’re half-asleep on the couch, the TV flickering some true crime doc in the background, when the screen lights up.

LEON DRAISAITL.

You answer on the second ring, voice flat. “Hey.”

He sounds rushed. Distracted. Like he’s walking through a parking lot or flipping through his bag.

“Hey—shit, sorry, I meant to call yesterday. It’s been a crazy few days.”

You press the phone harder to your ear. “Right.”

“I’ve just had a lot to figure out, and the flights were—uh, hang on—sorry, one sec.”

You wait. Silent.

He comes back, muttering something under his breath. “Anyway. It’s good now. I’ll explain soon.”

You pause. The silence buzzes in your ears. He sounds like he’s somewhere else. Wants to be somewhere else.

“You don’t have to explain anything,” you say, voice barely above a whisper.

He hesitates. “What?”

You close your eyes. “Nothing. It's nothing.”

“Wait what—”

You hang up before he can answer.

He shows up the next morning.

You open the door in pajama pants and your ex’s hoodie — the one Leon always pretended not to hate but definitely did.

And there he is.

Leon. On your doorstep. With his duffel bag and his tired eyes and confusion written all over his face.

You cross your arms. Your voice comes out cold, flat, like you rehearsed it in a dream.

“So you really flew out just to break up with me in person, huh?”

He blinks. “What?”

“You could’ve just sent a text, you know. But I guess I should give you credit for flying across provinces to make it official.”

He steps inside slowly, like approaching a wild animal.

“What are you talking about?”

You laugh bitterly. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Pretend you don’t know what this is.” Your voice wavers. “You’ve been ghosting me for days, Leon. You sound like you don’t even want to be here.”

His brow furrows. “I’ve been planning a trip. For us.”

You stare at him.

“I flew out early,” he says, a little breathless. “I booked us a cabin. In the valley. You said you were burned out. I wanted to give you a week away from your inbox and your shitty coffee maker.”

Your mouth opens. Closes.

“I’ve been trying to coordinate everything—rental, car, making sure the team didn’t say anything. It’s supposed to be a surprise.”

You’re blinking fast now. “You planned a vacation?”

“Yes.”

“And you just… stopped talking to me?”

He rubs a hand over his face. “Okay I didn’t mean to. I was trying to do it right. Keep it a secret, make it perfect. But I fucked it up.”

You sink onto the arm of the couch, stunned. “I thought you were done with me.”

Leon’s face crumples. “I could never be done with you.”

You want to yell at him. You want to cry.

Instead, you just whisper, “Then why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because I don’t always know how to do this right,” he says, voice rough. “I’m not good with words. I don’t know how to show things in a way that makes sense to people. But I know what I feel.”

You look at him — really look at him. The way his shoulders slope slightly toward you. The nervous twitch in his thumb. The overnight bag still zipped like he didn’t expect to stay if this went badly.

You think of every time he’s flown out on a red-eye to make a dinner. Every text where he noticed something small you said days before. Every time he held you like you were the only thing keeping him grounded.

“You’ve always been hard to read,” you whisper.

“I know.”

“Sometimes I don’t know if you love me, or if I’m just… convenient.”

He crouches down in front of you.

“You are everything to me,” he says. “Even when I don’t know how to say it.”

You believe him.

Not because it’s pretty.

But because it’s real.

Later, after you’ve both showered and eaten and laid in bed quietly for a while, you turn to him.

“You’re still taking me on that vacation, right?”

He smiles. “Already packed snacks.”

“And you’re not secretly planning to dump me by the lake?”

He laughs, pulling you closer. “Not unless you keep wearing that hoodie.”

You smack his chest and he catches your wrist, pressing a kiss to your knuckles like he doesn’t want to let go.

“You know I love you, right?” he says.

You nod. “Yeah. I do.”

You always have.

Even in the silence.

#leon draisaitl x reader #nhl x reader #edmonton oilers x reader

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ylvalev · 3 days ago

Note

hi! Visages anon wrestling my social anxiety into submission to come off anon for an actual reply. also, this is very long and rambley.

sorry not sorry about making you sad, but the thought hit me like a truck and I had to share it. and, it does kinda hold up. there’s a lot of guilt going around about Verso and it informs a lot of the story. Alicia (and others) drawing a direct line from something she did to the fire that killed him, Renoir’s ghost implying it was an old rivalry/feud that his generation should have dealt with before their kids got tangled up in it, even some of Aline’s hyperfocus on him in the Canvas can be read as the fact that she was a leader among them who didn’t address a threat properly and it had very personal consequences.

the Dessendre’s are a mess, individually and as a group. I too try to avoid Discourse (there are some…questionable takes floating around that have made me back away slowly) so I’m not really sure what the consensus is but I read the family as, prior to the fire, loving and fairly close, but struggling to really see eye to eye with one another in a lot of ways. Aline seemed to be the stricter parent of the pair, but Renoir is also said to coach everything in parables and hidden lessons which can be irritating and while I got the feel the Aline and Renoir were a pretty solid Team until grief split them, that doesn’t mean everything between them was always perfect. I got the impression the Clea was similar to her parents in ways that made them both understand each other but also butt heads and made the places where they were different really stark and difficult to deal with, while Verso was something of a people pleasing peace maker buffering his family’s harder edges. which kinda works with their chosen arts: Clea as a sculptor has a vision and its form is set, while Verso as a musician is more adaptable. Alicia seems a little the odd one out with literature but honestly, that actually tracks with my sense of her as a much younger sibling struggling to find her place in an established family dynamic?

you mention the ghost on Sirene’s island and what that meant with respect to the pair of them drifting apart. I kinda read it as the withdrawal happening after the fire. we don’t get an exact timeline, but I felt that the fire was some months prior to the game, long enough for Alicia to physically recover and for repairs on the Manor to be underway but not so long that it’s not still very fresh. Aline’s withdrawal would have likely begun during the time they were all distracted by the aftermath and based on her own journal, it seems to me that it started slowly. that journal implies that she created the Painted Dessendre’s and only spent little snippets of time with them at the start, but that like with any addiction, it didn’t stay small and eventually it consumed her. Renoir didn’t notice her slipping because of everything else until she was too deep in it to pull out.

the favorite child conversation is a little…not quite sure what my opinions are on that one. with Renoir, it seemed like Clea might have been the one he understood the best, Verso perhaps the one he understood the least, and Alicia the one he was perhaps softest with as she was the youngest and still growing into herself? Aline’s relationship with her kids is difficult to pin down as we rarely see her and when we do meet her she’d not exactly firing on all cylinders. I’m not trying to excuse her setting Maelle on fire, that was monumentally fucked up and has no excuse, but I think it’s clear that the extended time in the Canvas is having a detrimental effect on her mental state, not just her physical health. I think it would be easy to say Verso was her favorite, but sometimes I think that that’s too easy? she’s certainly fixated on him right now, but he’s also the one who recently died in a fairly traumatic manner so…it’s a little hard to say for sure. I also go a bit back and forth on her painting Alicia with her scars. on the one hand, yeah it’s kinda cruel but on the other, it is the truth of her flesh and blood daughter’s reality so I think it can be interpreted in multiple ways.

which, kinda a running thing in the game? Painted Renoir’s line about it being a kindness not a cruelty after killing Gustave applies to so many characters and actions where individual perspective dictates if that character/action might be cruel, kind, or even both. everyone and everything here is messy and contradictory in very real and human ways.

re: Aline blaming Alicia, I think that comes back around to guilt and projection. Alicia clearly got involved in something that went very badly, but both Renoir and Aline allude to the idea that the situation as a whole ought to have been handled better by them or their peers and they both have their own guilt about it. seems to me that Aline is projecting a lot onto Alicia but also that she knows that and knows that it’s irrational. unfortunately, emotions don’t have to be rational and doubly unfortunately, you kind of have to feel them before you can manage them properly and feeling them/managing them is a thing that Aline is quite specifically not doing and it shows in her behavior.

don’t know how coherent any of this is but I kinda ran out of steam so here it is and I'm gonna hit post before I overthink myself out of it. also: I would love to read all of your tangents if you ever feel like making them their own posts.

hi! anon of the Visages/Renoir analogue question.

firstly, yes those were the two I was thinking about.

secondly, I am actually just as unsure as you are about it. I kinda think there's solid evidence for either read, and now I am also really curious if the Hauler had an analogue in it or not and what either that might say about the Dessendre's. it's difficult to try to piece together the out of Canvas family dynamics b/c it's pretty much entirely told to us through implication, unreliable narration and the twisted lens that is the aftermath of the worst day of their lives and the absolute wreckage it made of them.

I suppose it's possible that that's the reason Visages doesn't have a helper: Verso's dead. Renoir can't be there for him anymore in any way, shape or form b/c Verso's not here. Renoir can't help him, Renoir can't be with him, and even in this painted parable, he can't imagine himself in any sort of support role with respect to Verso b/c he can't escape the belief that he wasn't there at the moment when Verso really, truly needed him the most and wow, I just made myself really sad.

kinda ended this on a depressing note, but I hope it gives you more to chew on! love to hear your thoughts on it

yay, you're back!

And you made me sad, too :(

But also, you made me very excited to rant about the Dessendres for a while.

I think you're onto something with Renoir and his missing analogue in Visages. The Fading Man repeats twice that "I would have traded my years for his." He'd have given anything, done anything, to keep his son alive, and yet he couldn't help him. And he says that Verso "paid the price for our hubris." That whole conversation is drenched in guilt: that Renoir (and more importantly Aline and the Painters' Council, I assume) first provoked the Writers and then failed to protect Verso from them. Couldn't even be there to die in his place.

I so agree about the Dessendres, as well. Each of them is so individually complex! How can we really deduce anything about Renoir unless we understand his artistic philosophy and what that suggests about the clues he leaves behind in the Canvas... but how can we understand his artistic philosophy without first knowing something about the man? And then, as you say, we're looking at the shattered wreckage of the family and trying to extrapolate back into normality.

But the family dynamics. I'm fascinated. I don't hang out in the tags very much at the moment so I might be mischaracterising the Discourse, but my sense is there's some consensus the Dessendres were an incredibly close, loving family. There's lots of evidence for that, all over the game and the soundtrack.

But I don't know. I like the idea that the family was struggling a bit. That there was a lot of love, but also fractures. Partly just because that satisfies my own particular taste for angst: I think losing a deeply loved person at a moment when the relationship is damaged is uniquely tragic. To be cheated out of the opportunity to reconcile and always wonder if they even knew you still loved them. Awful. And if that was the case, it only increases Renoir's desperation to save Aline's life, because they've been fighting for decades in this Canvas. What if she, too, slips away before he can save her? Before he can make things right between them?

But I do think there's some actual textual (or at least subtextual) support for some very complicated family dynamics, though. I haven't nailed down a Unified Theory of the Dessendre Family, but here's some speculation about the possible fault lines and what evidence there might be for them.

Artistic sensibilities

We know for a fact there's conflict between the Writers and the Painters. And I've really latched on to the idea that, in a world where artists can literally create and destroy worlds through their art, one's preferred art form becomes really salient to one's identity, politics, and spiritual/philosophical beliefs. I've yammered on at length about Verso's musicianship as it relates to his personality and his relationship with Renoir, but I'm toying with the idea that this extends to the rest of the family, too.

The manor is full of instruments, books, and sculptures, not just paintings. And these are scattered through the house; Alicia's isn't the only large collection of books, Verso's isn't the only room with an instrument. It's pretty clear the Dessendre family appreciated other forms of art than painting, and probably all of them practiced other arts. But we know Verso's greatest passion was music, Alicia's literature. I think we can infer some preferences for the rest of the family and speculate from there.

Both Aline's tremendous skill and her former leadership of the Painters' political organisation suggest she devoted herself primarily to painting. I can't think of any particular evidence, but I suspect Renoir's primarily a painter, too. I think his love of Aline and their shared creative work are all bound up together. He and Aline are a unit, and that unit paints.

That leaves Clea, the only Paintress skilled enough to paint over somebody else's creation. But we know she also sculpts, and I can't remember if it's canon, fanon, or somebody's headcanon but somewhere along the line I've become convinced that sculpting is her preferred mode. (Maybe I got that idea from this post, which doesn't actually claim its her favourite, by @linka-from-captain-planet who has pretty much singlehandedly shaped my thinking about Clea).

So to wildly speculate! I'd draw a loose fracture line down the middle of the family with Verso and Alicia on one side, Renoir, Aline and Clea on the other. Literature isn't a performance, which I think is an important difference between music and painting when it comes to Verso and Renoir's relationship. But it is, like music and theatre, an unfolding narrative that you experience over time in a manner determined by the artist. The writer guides you through a story, concealing and revealing information as they choose. And at the end of the story, some part of the storyworld has changed. By contrast, painting—and sculpture—capture images, moments, static representations of beauty that you can gaze at however you like.

I've combed through my likes looking for this post and can't find it, so apologies to whoever I'm stealing this idea from: somebody speculated that while the Painters create worlds, the Writers' powers might have more to do with manifesting events within their own worlds. I'm not sure I have a strong opinion on what the Writers' special powers actually look like, but I do like the idea that these sorts of differences in the experience of creating and consuming art have very fundamental implications for how the different artistic factions see the world and each other. And how the individual Dessendres do.

Of course, there's plenty of arguments against this reading or for a version of this reading that puts the fault line somewhere else. Clea potentially throws a fairly large wrench in the works, but that's another post.

Aline and Renoir

Love affair for the ages, absolutely. But the Fading Man on Sirène's island makes me think perhaps there was something happening before Verso's loss. He wonders

"What I missed… that might have changed things. What is it that I didn't see? That I couldn't make myself see? ... When did she start pulling away…"

This might just mean he regrets not seeing how much Aline was drowning in her grief, but unless several months or more passed between Verso's death and Aline's retreat to the canvas, it sounds more to me like regret for a gradual pulling away without a clear inciting incident.

(I think he has to be talking about Aline, here, given the location. But maybe "she" is Alicia? And he regrets not seeing a change in Alicia, a drift towards the Writers that would set the stage for the catastrophe that befell the family. I don't think this is the case, but everything in this game is so ambiguous, it's such a fun sandbox to play in.)

Parents and Children

Painted Verso and Maelle quibble a little during the Reacher over whether Clea or Alicia was Renoir's favourite; Verso's name isn't even thrown in the ring.

So did Renoir have a favourite? I think perhaps he was closest to Clea, if only because she was the most like him and she loved to challenge him (thank you @athenas-only-daughter for assembling the Clea post from which I'm stealing this point!). But maybe challenge is something he loved about Verso, too: that in spite of their different ideas and difficulties understanding one another, Verso presented him with new ideas, new understandings of art, new ways of being.

But then again, Renoir's analogue is hard at work building Alicia's wings; there's no Renoir analogue with Verso's axon and we don't know about Clea's, before its death. I tend to think Renoir didn’t have a favourite, but you could make the case for any of them.

I think Aline did have a favourite. And it definitely wasn't Alicia.

Because what the fuck, Aline.

When we meet Aline in the monolith, she believes (or is trying to convince herself) that Maelle is not Alicia but a painted version made by Renoir. But even if she believes Alicia is safe at home, it's wild to me that she was able to watch someone who looks just like her daughter suffer in a fire, just as her daughter had, by her own hand. Presumably, she was willing to watch that someone die in that fire, because she makes no move to douse it until painted Verso puts himself at risk of the flames.

Yes, painted Verso is now the only Verso; maybe that matters here (not to me!). But she knows he's painted and she knows he's immortal. And while she'll watch Maelle suffer and die, she can't bear to relive Verso's death.

I'm not arguing that Aline is evil or a terrible mother. I think it's quite possible that her anger at Alicia is to some degree justified; we have no idea of the details of Verso's death. Even so, Aline's journal entry suggests that she knows its unfair to blame Alicia for Verso's death; maybe part of her motivation for clinging to the Canvas is that she doesn't want Alicia to have to live with a mother who cannot forgive her. @obibail posits in this post that Painters would have to develop some mental distance from their creations, and so perhaps Aline, despite living for some time with the humans she created in this world, skews more towards Clea on the question of their personhood. Perhaps all the humans of the canvas, even painted Verso, are just shadows to her, a poor facsimile of her real life, only worth enduring because even a poor facsimile of Verso is worth having.

I don't know. I'm the sort of person who cannot make the evil or mean choice in video games because I can't bear to hurt the little pixel people's feelings. I find it difficult to understand, even given that paragraph of justification, Aline's indifference to Maelle's pain or that she gave her own painted Alicia the scarred face or damaged throat. The only way it makes any emotional sense to me is if Verso was her favourite and something was already wrong in her relationship with Alicia.

(Sidebar: Just proofreading this and then definitely hitting post before my dogs spontaneously combust because I've been ignoring them so long. But I went back to check the Fading Man dialogue for the paragraph way up top about Visages. I hadn't quite twigged until now that, at least from Renoir's perspective, the Painters either started or renewed the conflict with the Writers. Another datapoint RE Aline placing sooo much blame on Alicia but I realllllly have to wrap up!

Perfection

There something here that means something about the family, but I'm not sure what. The word perfection is constantly coming up: Clea seeks perfection, Renoir counsels her against it, Verso fails to achieve it, but Clea is perhaps, still jealous of him? Perfection is Painted Verso's battle mechanic; Maelle's fighting style is precise and graceful—perfect. Can art be perfect? Should it be perfect, or is there beauty in imperfection?

Whew. I don't know.

OP, it's been four hours since I sat down to answer you and I am forcing myself to stop here. I've cut paragraphs upon paragraphs of tangents, started a couple of drafts and added points to a few more that have been languishing a while.

Which is to say, thank you so much. Both of your asks have given me tons to chew on AND gotten me to sit down and do the writing part, without which my thoughts are an incoherent jumble. Come chat about this game anytime!

(Edit, fifteen minutes later, remembering to FINISH the proofread I began: added some transition sentences, fixed a couple typos.)

#clair obscur: expedition 33 #clair obscur spoilers

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diluc33rpm · 1 year ago

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the romance/relationship system in bg3 is genuinely some of the worst designed shit i've ever seen in any game with that feature but at least the memes we get out of it are funny. once saw someone comment something along the lines of 'patch note: waving at gale will no longer cause him to buy a house for the two of you to retire in' and i've never recovered since

#i love gale he doesn't deserve (most of) the incel slander #but it's painfully such a good riff because it really really does feel like that #the player choices being a b/w alternation between 'hey there' and 'YOU SHOULD KILL YOURSELF... NOW!' normally is already comical as is #the fact that it carries over into interactions with the party members who you're presumably trying to be close with is... something else #and what makes it worse is it ISN'T jokey hyperbole. anyone remember 'send a mental image of you kissing him or HIS HEAD ON A PIKE.' c'mon #trying to chat and vibe at the refugee camp celebration and the sum of conversation i get is one (1) line asking how they're doing #because going any further than that elicits marking you down for the path of boning take it or leave it #it's genuinely so hard to get to feel like you can deepen a relationship with the characters in ways that aren't trying to pursue them #yes! halsin! i really want to know you better! i just don't want the ass!! why is trying to hit the only option other than up and leaving!!#99% of the time i expect nothing from media creators in terms of writing interactive relationships #larian are beyond parody in that they've somehow managed to do worse than the already suboptimal majority #we're just going to impose the roadblock of do you want to fuck y/n right off the bat. good luck finding a way to talk around that if not #the obscuration surrounding where exactly the checks are really does not help at all either #when the shit's got even the allos complaining about it you know it's BAD #shame because i was excited for character scenes given that's a lot of what's hyped up about the game #but no it's all just the romances. 'what if i'd like to breathe in someone's general direction-' well now have you heard of our romances?#fish fear them party members fear them and tav is going to have to walk alone on this sinful earth #conservative bigoted relative at the family reunion withers era was a fucking time before they tweaked that line speaking of #just so crazy they can get away with this shit #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 liveblog

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melodyofthevoid · 2 years ago

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Hello! Recently found out about your Ocean Idiots stuff and fell in love with the writing and animatics, was just curious to know, where did you find all the wonderful people you made this stuff with? I've always wanted to do something of the sort for fun but it always fell short

I'll be honest anon I got lucky as hell. My journey on Tumblr/Discord led me to meeting a lot of really rad people, so I guess my advice is to be genuine? Leave nice comments/tags, send asks, join discord servers and be active, etc.

#It can be a hard line between that and like... trying to get close to someone?#like just going up to someone and saying 'your stuff is sooo cool want to start a project with me' will probably not work?#melody rambles #it's a flawed process #I guess the thing was we didn't have expectations for each other #I didn't go into this being like 'I'm going to befriend all of these people' but as I got to know them I connected #idk #but yeah don't be transactional about it #fandom communities can also be a mixed bag I won't lie #sometimes people are rude or a server has bad vibes #it happens #just have to pick yourself up and see where it takes you

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bonefall · 4 months ago

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Is there beef with the Holstein cows and you or what was that joke lol

It's kind of wild It's just never come up on this blog before, but I HATE holsteins. Bottom 10 cow breeds for me. I hate how they're so common they account for the majority of milk produced. I hate that they're the "default" cow to the point where some don't even know cattle HAVE other colors. I hate their tiny horns (IF THEY EVEN HAVE THAT. LOSER ASS HORNLESS COW) and their painfully massive udders.

Legit I'm trying so hard to not launch into a No Mouth Must Scream style AM speech-- shoot my hand slipped.

(AM speech about why i dont like holsteins below the cut)

For starters, I have to give a brief lesson on what these terms mean; the "Holstein" is the American strain of the "Frisian" breed. Frisians are an ancient breed from Frisia, in the north of what we now consider the Netherlands. Crosses between the breeds are "Holstein-Frisians."

(There’s even more to this but im keeping it as simple as possible. Also one of my friends is Frisian and she is probably going to kill me for describing it like that.)

Historically, livestock was adapted to the environment they lived in. Frisians were bred by the Frisii people for hundreds of years in extremely grass-rich, lush, flat environments. The "polders" of the northern parts of the Netherlands. They're huge and eat a LOT of food.

Traditional Frisians were developed to produce as much meat and milk from a single individual as possible, without compromising the health of the cattle with constant inbreeding to get quick gains. We are talking about a breed that is over 2000 years old. They had the perfect environment to make The Ultimate Food Cow and by god they did it. I can respect that.

So, take that, drag it across an ocean to a place that does NOT have polders, and add the rapid enshittification of capitalism to it. BAM you've got a fucking holstein.

There is ONE goal for "improving" the holstein. Make More Milk. As long as the black and white milkbag leaks enough, nothing else matters. Health? Fertility? Feed ratio? Ability to not die of infection? WHO CARES. MILK LINE GO UP.

Over 90% of holsteins are inbred to start with, because Milk Line Go Up. To the tune of having an average COI of 8%-- where extreme negative effects (think Hapsburgs) start to crop up around 10%

Holstein bulls are aggressive bastards (many dairy bulls are), so no one wants to keep intact males in their herds, meaning most cows are artificially inseminated

Not being limited by the natural lifespan of a living bull means that the same stud can keep having direct offspring for decades after his death

Toystory the bull had 500,000 calves before he died, and hit over 1 million offspring in 2015. That's ONE animal and to put this in perspective, there are 9 million holsteins in the US.

DON'T WORRY IT GETS WORSE

Not only can 99% of holsteins be traced back to just two bulls-- 99% of male holsteins share one of two exact Y chromosomes with those two bulls.

The gene pool is so small that it's equivalent to about 60 individuals. Warrior Cat allegiances are larger than that. That's barely bigger than modern ThunderClan.

"Massive lack of genetic diversity" does not begin to capture the existential dread of this situation. Mark my words, WATCH, when the Bird Flu finally mutates a strain that rips through a mammalian population, it's gonna be in the USA and it's going to be through our dairy cattle.

This is not prophecy or me laying a curse on the land, this is the natural consequence of basing the stability of US milk production on the equivalent of 9 million clones of two classrooms worth of individuals, and then packing them in close quarters

And we don't have to wait for doomsday for the impacts to be apparent on the cattle themelves

Holstein fertility has also dropped by half since the 1960s when the intensive inbreeding really kicked into high gear

Because their whole body is dedicating all of their resources to milk production, they have a notoriously "bony" frame.

Show judges, however, like this because they think that's a very "feminine" look for a 1600 pound ruminant. Very normal thing to think.

Like. I don't know if i can communicate this to people who don't look at cows a lot (it's not quite as obviously dramatic as a pug skull) but here is a comparison of an "ideal" show holstein and an "unselected" holstein from a herd that's been established as a sort of "control group" for what they looked like back in the 1960s;

The way that the artery on the "modern" cow's belly runs to the udder like a big pink worm freaks me out the most ngl

The udder also bulges out from between the back legs

The show cow is so thin

And then compare these both to a Holstein-Frisian cross who leans more on the Frisian side;

Proper weight, developed legs. Its biggest "problem" is actually just the udder shape-- deep udders, which "hang" low like that, aren't optimal for milk-focused breeds because the higher away from the ground the less chance there is of infection. In that department, the "unselected" holstein clearly outclasses the holstein-frisian.

But it probably won't be surprising to hear that the "show holstein," with its massive, swollen udder, is SUPER prone to infections such as mastitis.

But it is also just more prone to getting sick generally

And, to keep up with these insane demands, holsteins need a TON of food. You aren't going to just turn these things out into a pasture and be done with it. Even its ancestor the Frisian needed premium Dutch polder grass to be such a good cow-- crank that up to 11 with these Monuments to Humanity's Hubrice

The Texas Longhorn developed in semi-feral conditions and can eat a bush to become the best thing in a 10 mile radius. The Scottish Highland was iron-forged in upland moors with a steady diet of turf and rain.

Meanwhile if a Holstein has less than 5 homemade meals a day without poland spring bottled water it will die to death.

And the WORST part? You have to use these if you want to make money in dairy farming. It's WAAY too expensive to just run a suboptimal farm. Their milk isn't great, but they sure do make a lot of it.

...so Holsteins and Holstein-Frisians (and other "super efficient" breeds) have absolutely decimated heritage cattle. The American Milking Devon is a deep reddish brown with gorgeous horns and low maintenance; rare. Randall Linebacks are painted with lines of white speckles down the back and can be used for any purpose; critically endangered. The Niata was a pug-faced cow who could fight jaguars; extinct.

And THAT'S what makes me hate them most of all. I LOVE cows, but whenever I see a reference to one, it's a holstein. It's always boring black and white splotches with big pink udders. They're practically synonymous with "cow" when their homogeniety is actually hiding much cooler breeds from you.

Did you know cows can be tiger-striped?

And that England has its own type of longhorn?

Or that cow horns can twist upwards like an antelope?

And that they can have REALLY LONG ears?

And that they can be blue?

And that's not even getting into some of the cows that have gotten a small crumb of attention lately, such as Highlands, Ankole-Watusi, and Texas Longhorns. There's so many cool cows out there! And they're all really different from holsteins! MOST of them are also a lot healthier and produce tastier milk and meat!

TL;DR yeah i don't like holsteins and I like sniping at them. For reasons both legit and petty.

#Not wc #Cows #Yeens and cows are my favorite animals btw #Cows my beloved #Again kinda interesting it just never really came up until now? But this is a cat blog I suppose #But yeah cows are one of my special interests and have been for like... 10 years now

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mw00nie · 23 days ago

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you’ve been quiet all evening.

not your usual soft, thoughtful kind of quiet, either. this is heavy, sulking silence. a quiet born from hurt. you won’t look at him when he walks in, and you don’t meet him at the door like you usually do.

you’re on the couch, legs tucked under you, your face barely illuminated by the glow of the tv you’re not even watching.

kento sees it immediately. the damage he’s done.

he exhales. his tie is loose, his shirt half-unbuttoned from a long day, and he doesn’t even take his shoes off before walking over to you. he drops to one knee in front of the couch, large hands finding your thighs, and you flinch.

just a little. but enough.

he closes his eyes and swears under his breath.

“sweetheart.” his voice is rough, regretful. “look at me.”

you don’t.

“i shouldn’t have snapped at you.”

still, you won’t lift your gaze. he cups your jaw gently, guiding your face toward him.

“i came home and took it out on you. you did nothing wrong.”

you blink, lashes fluttering like you’re holding back something. maybe anger? maybe tears? either way, it twists in his chest like a dagger.

“i’m sorry,” he murmurs. “you can punish me however you want. just don’t shut me out like this. i can’t take it.”

and then he leans in. softly. tentatively. kissing the corner of your mouth like he’s trying not to scare you away.

you don’t push him off.

but you don’t lean in either.

but when his lips brush against yours again, slower this time, his fingers stroking your thigh, he feels you sigh. quiet. resigned. wanting.

he deepens the kiss slowly. like he’s savoring every second. one hand finds your waist, pulling you closer, and the other slides up under your oversized shirt his shirt until his palm is resting just under your breast.

you gasp into his mouth, and he pulls back to look at you.

“let me make it up to you,” he says, voice low and rough. “let me show you how sorry I am.”

and when you whisper, “okay…” it comes out breathy, hesitant. he kisses you again, harder this time. less patient. more desperate.

he carries you to the bedroom, kissing your neck the whole way there, muttering apologies between each press of his lips.

once you’re on the bed, he strips you slow. reverent. like he’s trying to re-memorize your body, like he thinks he’s lost the right to touch it. he undresses himself only after you’re bare before him. flushed and shy but still watching him now, finally.

when he pushes your thighs open and settles between them, he just looks at you.

“you’re the softest thing I’ve ever known,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “i don’t deserve to be this close to you.”

his mouth trails down your tummy, tongue dipping into your navel, teeth grazing the inside of your thigh. you squirm when he kisses lower, and his large hands wrap around your thighs, holding you in place.

he eats you out like it’s penance.

slow, slow drags of his tongue from your entrance to your clit. then again. then again. he flicks it, circles it, sucks gently until your hips buck, and he doesn’t stop. he flattens his tongue and moans low against you when you whimper his name.

“you taste so fucking sweet,” he breathes, voice strained, like he’s losing his mind. “i could stay here all night.”

two fingers slide into you, thick and slow, curling just right until your back arches off the bed. he doesn’t stop when you come, if anything, he gets hungrier. stays there until your thighs tremble, until you're panting, oversensitive and breathless.

“turn around,” he says softly. then, catching your hesitation, adds: “please.”

you do. on your hands and knees now, cheek pressed to the pillow, thighs still shaky from how hard you came. He kneels behind you, one hand smoothing down your back, then gripping your hip as he lines himself up.

“gonna be good for me?” he murmurs, running his leaking tip through your slick folds.

you nod quickly. “yes. please…”

he pushes in slowly. inches at a time.

you both groan when he bottoms out. you’re so tight, warm, wet. he has to close his eyes and grip your hips to keep from losing it immediately.

“fuck,” he grits out. “you always feel like this after i’ve been an asshole to you?”

you whine, half flustered, half desperate. and he leans over you, pressing kisses between your shoulder blades.

“say I’m forgiven,” he rasps. “say it, and i’ll take care of you.”

“i forgive you,” you whisper.

he thrusts once. deep. controlled.

you choke on a moan.

“again.”

“i forgive you– ken– please–”

he sets a rhythm, deep and slow, dragging his dick against every sensitive part of you. one hand slides under your stomach, pressing down right where the bulge forms when he fucks you deep.

“you feel that?” he growls in your ear. “feel me right here?”

you nod helplessly, mouth open, drool slipping down your chin.

he wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you upright, back to his chest, fucking up into you from beneath now. one hand snakes between your thighs to rub your clit while the other grabs your throat, tilting your head back so he can kiss your jaw.

“mine,” he breathes. “my sweet girl. i’m so fucking sorry.”

you clench tight around him, moaning his name again and again until your body tensed, shaking, and you come hard, thighs trembling, hips twitching.

he groans, burying himself deep one last time, spilling inside you with a low, broken curse.

afterward, he doesn't pull out. just keeps holding you close, lips brushing your shoulder, your temple, your hair.

“you’re everything to me,” he whispers. “even when I’m too stupid to act like it.”

you murmur something back, barely audible, and he shifts to kiss your cheek.

“what was that?”

“i said…” You glance at him, eyes soft. “you’re forgiven. but you’re making me sore.”

he chuckles low, pressing a kiss to your temple. “then i guess i’ll just have to rub your thighs and draw you a bath.”

you hum sleepily against his chest.

“…and maybe eat you out again before you fall asleep.”

you chuckled. and he smiles for real this time.

because nothing feels better than being let back in.

#x yn #fanfic #jjk #fanficiton #jjk x reader #jjk smut #jujutsu kaisen #kento nanami #nanami x you #jujutsu nanami #jjk nanami #nanami kento #nanami x reader #nanami #kento #kento fluff #kento smut #kento x reader

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chososcutie · 3 months ago

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MAKE THAT PULL-OUT GAME WEAK!

synopsis❤︎: jjk men when they 'accidentally' cum inside..

featuring❤︎: gojo, toji, nanami, & choso

tags❤︎: fem!reader, unprotected sex, reverse cowgirl, premature ejaculations, breeding kink, praise, petnames, office sex, voyeurism, needy!men, submissiveness, slight dubcon

SATORU GOJO

“h-hah baby.. fuck!” satoru throws his head back, hips arching upward as you bounce on his cock reverse cowgirl style.

he looved this position for a variety of reasons, mostly because of the way your ass would move, reaching out to squeeze a handful of the soft, supple globes and watching as your pussy greedily swallowed every inch, slamming up and down on him repeatedly, echoing smacks! of skin on skin filling the room.

you had been going for quite some time now, your hips never faltering as satoru feels his taut stomach grow even achingly knottier, each heaving breath an effort as his eyes fall half-lidded.

“s-slow down.. mmph!” he moans as you pause, only to roll and gyrate your hips, cock molding your gummy insides perfectly as his thickened tip hits deep into your cervix, dragging swelteringly hot strokes back n’ forth as the sensitive veins lining his dick thump thump!

“such a biiig stretch..” you toss him a look over your shoulder, eyelashes lowered and fluttering, and your cheeks flushed. “feels s’good ‘toru..”

he closes his eyes briefly, the coil in his stomach tightening as your sticky thighs and dripping cunt hover over him and raise yourself up and down, riding him into oblivion with a mischievous little smile.

you knew what you were doing.

his hands come to your hips, helping you to bounce faster, feeling your pussy clamp tight before spasming, a slutty little moan drifting out of your mouth as you cream all over his cock, drenching him in honeyed slick. “mmph.. cumming, cumming..!”

and as your cunt tightens and clenches hard around him, until every ridge and vein of his is contoured to your warm, plush walls, it’s all too much.

“baby..! get off! get off!”

satoru tries to warn you desperately of his furiously fast-approaching orgasm, his cock throbbing deep into you, as he tries to hold off and lift you off him, but you’re too far gone, coming down from your own climax with euphoria.

he screws his eyes shut tightly, trying to last but then you wriggle your hips, wedging him deeper, pussy squeezing like a vice and it’s over.

endless spurts of ribbons n’ ribbons of creamy white pulse into you as steadily, satoru’s grip on your hips pins you down on top of him while he fills you up, a milky white ring forming around his base as he sucks in gasping heaves of breath.

you shudder, your voice coming out in a whine. “s’toru are you.. cumming?”

his cock is still drooling stringy wads as his answer comes strained and breathless. “fuck.. m’sorry baby. i couldn’t.. pull out.”

TOJI FUSHIGURO

“please doll.. need you s’bad.” rough palms slide up your stomach to cup your breasts, toji’s veiny, thickened tip bumping your entrance as he leans over you, jagged scar on his lip coming to brush your cheek gruffly as he pleads with you.

“b-but we don’t have an.. ah.. condom!” you manage to breathe, your body betraying you as it squirms and tries to align itself with toji’s round, pulsing cock head, smearing the sloshing slick of your cunt back n’ forth with a hoarse grunt.

“i can pull out.. heh.” his already sweaty forehead is pressed to yours, head drooping downward as he sucks in feverish breath after feverish breath, hips slightly grinding against the plush softness of your tummy for relief.

your legs part slightly, revealing the beads of shimmery sheen dripping from between your thighs, your need palpable from the way your puffy clit twitches and throbs. “o-okay.. just please.”

he chuckles lowly at the sight, voice catching in a slight growl as he slots himself between, heavy jumping cock resting against you.

he splays a big hand across your stomach, just above your belly button, and you feel him start to push in, chubbed inch by inch. “gonna feel me all the way here..” he pushes down slightly on the growing bulge steadily sheathing itself deep inside you.

you moan out something caught between a whimper and a plead, and with one sharp thrust, he buries himself to the hilt, bludgeony tip prodding into your cervix and heavy balls smacking against your ass.

and he’s already moving, one hand coming to your throat, holding you down as he ravages you, shamelessly throwing his head back and grunting.

you had never felt him raw before, and your glassy eyes rolled back at how every delicious vein, curve, and ridge of his cock was plummeting inside you, shaping your insides to fit him perfectly.

“ohh.. so mm’ fucking tight..” he growls softly, slamming his hips roughly into you, grip bruising as he hits your cushy, sweet spot repeatedly, watching your face contort in drunken pleasure, lascivious drool pouring out of your slacken jaw. “feels even better without a.. hah.. piece of rubber in the way.”

thick digits wander down to your puffy bud, rubbing slow circles as you squirm, whining how close you are, before all of a sudden, you’re cumming hard, absolutely drenching toji’s muscular lower abdominals in your squirt, his nasty hips reeling back before suddenly pausing.

“did you jus’..” he shudders, hips twitching frantically as he begins to pull out, but he’s too slow as his sudden orgasm washes over him all at once, hot, sweltering gushes of seed that fill you to the very brim of your overstuffed cunt, so much pouring out in creamy sheens, it has your stomach bulging and sloshing with it all.

“toooji..” you whine, peering at how gooey wads of white dribble down your thighs messily, clearly not having pulled out.

and still cumming, he looks up at you sheepishly with glossy eyes.

"wan' be a pretty mama, doll? 'cause you just might be after this.."

KENTO NANAMI

nanami was a practical man, he worked hard at his office, he was sweet to you even during intimacy, his hands were always gentle and composed, and he definitely didn’t forget protection.

but that all went out the window the second you, his pretty wife came to visit him at his office, bringing along a special lunch you had cooked just for him, knowing how stressed and overworked your poor husband was.

and a few minutes later, with his sloppy hips pistoning in and out of you, and your tits pressed harshly against his desk with your cheek squished against his neatly stacked paperwork, it turned out he was hungry for something else..

“got all dolled up jus’ f’me?” he coos softly, slamming his reddened cock, blushing and beading pearly precum at the tip in n’ out roughly, your skirt and panties bunched up at your waist carelessly, visible to anyone who walks by kento’s office.

but he doesn’t seem to care, usually neatly trimmed blonde hair sticking to his forehead sweatily, plunging himself so deep into you, you swear you can feel him all the way in your throat, a dumb little fucked-out expression on your face as you cling onto the rattling desk for dear life, back arched so sluttily as his hands grasp tightly onto your hips, rolling you back n' forth onto his cock, you're surprised no one else hears the filthily wet noises echoing throughout the office.

“darling, i might have to pull out..” he sucks in gasping heaves of breath, brows knitting together almost painfully as he tries to hold off his oncoming orgasm, placing his hands on your hips gently to slide himself out of your gummy warmth, much to your dismay.

“w-wait, m’so closeee!” you whine, backing up steadily into him to suck in more of his fat cock. “just a lil’ longer, c’mon..”

and oh, who was nanami to say no to his darling wife?

with a winding tightness in his stomach, he fucks into you harder, hips slapping against you with every thrust, until you’re whining, messy tears spilling from your eyes as your scorching hot walls clamp so tight around him, he couldn’t pull out if he tried.

and then you’re cumming, your pussy drooling your saturated shimmery essence, and fluttering around nanami’s sensitive, twitching dick.

“honey.. ngh!”

and that’s all he can say, before he’s absolutely dumping loads n’ loads of sticky white seed into your clamping pussy, euphoria overtaking his senses as he drills his cock deeper, forcing you to take every last drop.

"fuck sweetheart!" he curses low as his hips snap ferally into yours, unable to stop the copious amounts of hot white cum he's endlessly spurting into you, your traitorous cunt milking him for all he's worth as you squeak in surprise.

"kentooo.." you watch his milky dredges drip! drip! drip! out of your messy, sloppy pussy, folds stickily glued together, as his hand comes almost reverently to push on the little bump in your stomach, watching in awe as all of his creamy ropes instantly gush out of you generously.

"sorry honey.." his voice is raspy, strained, but his eyes are heavy-lidded and filled with desire. "but this makes me think.. wan' have a baby?"

CHOSO KAMO

your plushy thighs sprawl apart under the frantically panting man above you, practically ripping your panties off as he nuzzles his cock between your thighs, humping softly with needy little tears pricking at his dark, fluttering lashes.

“i knooow i didn’t bring a condom..” he whines, thick leaky member pulsating steadily in between you, thickened mushroomy head ever so slightly bumping the entrance of your pussy as he pleads.

"buut i'll be good, swear! m'gonna.. hah.. pull out! please just let me.."

his dick nestles itself in between your sappy sticky folds, choso's hips rutting animalistically back n' forth between them, barely restraining himself from just plunging into your hot, gooey walls right then and there.

"s'okay cho.." you whisper, stroking through his messy black space buns and tugging slightly, causing a whine to leave his throat. "just fuck me."

instantly his hands are fumbling to wrap around your waist, as he sloowly pushes himself in, groaning at your tight clamping muscles of resistance as you squeeze around him tightly.

you had always used protection, so the feeling of him going in raw was completely unlike anything you'd ever felt before.

every throbbing vein, pulsing ridge, and his hot bulbous tip pressed directly into your cervix is magnified, making the room hot n' humid, choso's feverish forehead dropping onto yours with a pathetic little moan.

experimentally, he pulls out until only the tip is inside you before slamming himself back in harshly, the wet sound of skin on skin echoing as he quickly finds a pace, fucking you roughly, with your legs intertwined behind his back.

you moan softly as his hefty balls slap into your ass with every thrust, tits pressed against his sweaty bare chest only heightening your sensations until you're so close to cumming, you can taste it, your vision starting to blacken at the corners.

choso is close too, obviously not able to last very long with the feeling of your bare pussy wrapped around him like a vice, his grunts turning breathier and needier as he feels his stomach go taut.

and just as he's about to regretfully pull out of your warm, welcoming cunt, you squeal, legs tightening around his back and effectively trapping him as you gush all over his poor, sensitive cock, stringy drools of your slick running down all along your thighs messily.

"uungh..! baby! baby open your legs!" he tries to get out, but he's barely able to finish the last word before he's absolutely spurting heaps of buttery seed, unable to stop as he shudders, hips stuttering and bucking into you sloppily.

you have a cute little flushed look on your face as you come down from your high, staring at where you two are connected, and watching choso's hot, slithery ropes seep out of you steadily with a little giggle.

you shift, widening your legs as you press a kiss to his nose. "s'okay cho, i'm on the pill."

he lets out a shameless whimper, throwing his head back as his hips press further into you. "that's good 'cause m'still cumming.."

LIKES AND REBLOGS APPRECIATED!!!

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tonycries · 1 year ago

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Girl, I Do This Often

Synopsis. How does he cope with a séx ban? He doesn’t.

Pairings. [SEPARATE] Gojo x Reader, Sukuna x Reader, Choso x Reader, Geto x Reader, Nanami x Reader, Toji x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! reader, established relationship, rough séx, unprotected, stuff with pantíes, gaggíng, bréeding, Nanami is a bit mean, overstím, finger suckíng, really desperate boys, light smackíng (Nanami), bondagé + víbrators (Geto), swearing.

Word count. 5.2k

A/N. Guess what, ya girl just turned 19 yippeeeee.

♡ TOJI FUSHIGURO - 4 days

On the first day, Toji’s more amused than anything.

A sex ban? With him? Ridiculous, he predicted a full 24 hours before you come crawling back, just begging to be split-apart on his cock. And he tells you so, too - a little over five times as he kisses your pouty lips, muttering a smug, “You’ll be eating your words soon enough, doll.”

By the third day, he’s beginning to think that okay, maybe you were serious about the ban after all. How cute - real cute.

He’s left to do nothing but complain pathetically on the phone to a very reluctant Shiu. Who doesn’t have much to say other than cut off Toji’s ramblings about “not having your pretty pussy all day” to groan, “Shut the fuck up and beg for her forgiveness. I’m hanging up.”

Toji can only scoff at the thought. Beg for forgiveness? Him? Toji Fushiguro never begs, he never-

That was until the fourth day.

With you - bent over the kitchen counter in his t-shirt - and nothing but his t-shirt.

“Please, pretty.” Toji drags his lips down your neck, just loving the way your traitorous hips are grinding back into his. “Said m’sorry, right? Don’t ya miss this?”

And you can only look behind your shoulder at the big arms around your waist, muscled thighs pressed up against yours. Angling your head just right to catch the way his hands snake down to your squirming hips to help you draw slow little circles against the rock-hard erection straining against his pants.

So close. So big.

Big enough that you’re almost thinking of throwing this sec ban out of the window altogether - almost.

But that little smirk of Toji’s is infuriating enough that you’re gasping out a breathless little, “I-I’m still mad at you, y’know? You never let me-” The words die in your throat as Toji pulls his pants down just enough for his aching cock to spring free. So angry and painfully hard, leaking hot precum all over your thighs.

“No no no- hah. Keep talking.” he grits out, breath hot against your ear. Hips pushing and pulling. “Please- keep talking.”

And fuck you didn’t know what was harder - trying to find your voice, or ripping your eyes away from Toji’s cock long enough that you could.

“B-because you-” you choke out, watching the way he takes his massive cock in his hands. Staring to pump so slow - so lazy - no rhythm or reason other than getting off so filthily to the sound of your voice. “You never let me take-” He wraps your smaller hands around his dick, so hot and heavy in your palms. “-charge.”

“F-fuck-” Toji lets out a low hiss, head thrown back as you thumb teasingly under his sensitive slit, trying to fuck something delicious out. “Yer killin’ me doll. Killing me.” Whether from your words or from the way you’re sliding him so lewdly between your puffy folds, you didn’t know.

And Toji didn’t either. Hell, he doesn’t even seem to be breathing as he shifts his toned hips so familiarly. Head filled with only you and your heavenly cunt and you.

“Toji-” you mewl. “Need you so bad.”

If he was any lesser man, Toji would’ve just bullied himself into your dripping cunt already, fucked you into the counter until there was nothing about any sex ban in your pretty lil’ mind. Instead, he’s panting out an absolutely wrecked, “Please. Then take all the charge you want, pretty.” Fat head lining up with your sloppy hole. “Next time.”

And oh has it really been that long?

Because Toji’s just barely pushing into your plushy walls, and he already feels like he could cum right then and there. The stretch too sinful. Your walls too tight. So cute how you’re already mumbling his name so deliriously.

“Awww,” he coos, watching awe-struck at the way you flatten your hands on the counter, fucking yourself back into him in short, shallow little grinds. “The s-sex ban was for ah- nothing, huh?”

You’re pulling him impossibly closer by the hair, catching his lips in such a searing kiss. Drinking in Toji’s guttural grunt as you bite down on his lower lip, “Are ya gonna sh-shut up n’ fuck me or do I need ngh- another sex ban?”

“No, ma’am.” he grins, kissing back so mockingly soft. And you know he’s making fun of you with the way he’s twitching so wildly inside your pussy. Veins dragging against all the right spots as he reels his hips back, back, back - only to slam his cock fully inside. “Guess you’re the one mm- in charge right now, huh?”

Over and over again. Fucking you exactly the way he’s wanted these past four days - and then some.

Hitting your cervix - but it feels like your fucking lungs. Heavy balls smacking against your ass, so hard that he’s sure it’ll leave some obscene marks for him to point out next time. One hand around your throat, the other keeping your slutty, trembling hips in place while you’re torn between running away and bucking back for more more more-

“Right here.”

It’s all you can do to whirl your head around, eyes glassy and unfocused, whining a broken, “Wh-what?”

“Right…” Trailing down, featherlight, right where he knew he was wrecking your insides. “Here. S’where I belong.” Pressing hard. “N’ m’gonna make sure you don’t forget it.”

♡ NANAMI KENTO - 1 week

A week. One week of being patient with your silly idea to “spice things up”. One week of pretending like he wasn’t excusing himself during important meetings to have his cock in his hands - thinking of nothing but you and that sinful little dress you had on today.

One week was all it took for Nanami to have a bad day at work. And you could tell when he did.

By the way that front door slammed, unfamiliarly harsh footsteps sounding against the hardwood floors. And all it takes is one look at you laid out so prettily on the couch and Nanami’s mouth drops into a soft oh!

One hand immediately loosening his tie, the other snaking down to his belt. Ashen, tense, - and you have half the mind to wonder whether he’s even breathing.

Not even looking at you as he mutters a low, “Panties off. Spread those legs.”

That was a few hours ago.

Before you knew it, your husband had you splayed out like such a slut for him on the couch - too starved to even think about making it to the bed. Legs on his sculpted shoulders, panties in tatters on the floor because you were taking too fucking long. Cock so angry and sensitive as he bullies into your snug cunt, stuffing you full of his cum.

Again. And again and again like he wanted to fuck any and every thought of that stupid sex ban out of your delirious mind.

“K-Kento- what-” he pulls you into a bruising kiss. Just a sloppy clash of teeth and spit and hands everywhere. “You’re ngh- different.”

At this, Nanami has the audacity to laugh - laugh. Hips snapping impossibly deeper, “Yeah? N’ who’s fault is hah- that? Who’s fault is it th-that we ended hngh- up like-” Pushing your knees all the way up to your tits, groaning at the mess of cum and slick pooling beneath you. “-this?”

Cock just ramming into you, prominent veins nudging against your gummy walls so agonizingly. The couch creaking in protest as he uses your pretty lil’ cunt exactly the way he’s been fantasizing this past week.

And when all you can do is let out delirious little moans in response, Nanami raises his hand up, up, up. Coming down on your ass, hard.

Smack!

“Didn’t you know we’d end up here?”

Oh the words hit you harder than that large palm-print stinging your ass. Tight pussy clenching and trying to milk the fucking soul out of him as you sob, “I- I didn’t-” Smack! You’re jolting at the impact, hips bucking wildly as you gasp, “-I did! Wanted this so bad, Kento. I did I did-”

And yeah, Nanami knew that. He knew you’d pulled this little “sex ban” stunt to make him break - to have him fuck you like the slut you are. But hearing the words from your pretty mouth had his balls squeezing so painfully.

“Knew it.” he manages to grit out. “Knew you were such a slut, my love.” Words strained with each harsh thrust, “N’ as my slut, y-you can ngh- take one more, right?” You keen at how soft his tone was, like he was whispering sweet little nothings to you instead of promises to absolutely break you. Fingers trailing down to draw lewd patterns on your throbbing clit, “Right?”

And as if to prove you could, he’s squeezing his swollen cock harder into your plushy walls. Faster. Unforgiving. Fat, leaking tip hitting all those sweet spots he’s mapped out, in time with his abuse on your clit.

“Didn’t hah- have to lock myself in my office for nothing, right?” Pulling your trembling hips flush against his toned ones, “Have to get by with j-just a pretty picture this week for nothing?” Hips out of control now. Bruising. Almost painful with the stretch and the sheer pressure of being so full. “S’all for this, right?”

Smack!

“Oh God, Kento- Fuck fuck fuck fuck.”

“Yeah? Feels good?” he nips at your lower lip, “Good enough to fuck- take another one?”

You were sure if he came once more then it might just be the death of you.

You’re not even lucid enough to realize what reaction you’re giving him - all you know is that it isn’t good enough for Nanami.

Because he lets out a tut, hand dancing across your stomach to where he knew he was absolutely making a mess of you inside.

“Fine.” And something about the way he says it makes your heart stop, already knowing that it didn’t bode well for you or your poor cunt. “Guess I hafta ngh- help you.” Sure enough, Nanami wastes no time before pushing down on your abdomen.

The both of you watch - awe-struck and speechless - as your overfilled pussy gushes all around him.

And shit neither of you can even begin to think of what a bitch it’ll be to clean out this couch later on. Too caught up in the way you’re soaking Nanami’s merciless cock in that sinful mix of cum and slick. Thick, and hot, drooling down the side of your puffy folds.

“See? Enough space, no?”

You raise your eyes, teary and hazy with lust, up to meet Nanami’s darkened ones and oh-

You weren’t going to make it out alive.

Especially not when he leans down, whispering so raggedly in your ear, “Now I get to give ya another week’s worth more, right?”

♡ GETO SUGURU - 9 days

Bzzzt-bzzzt-bzzzt-

You didn’t know how it ended up this way. How that stupid bet about who’d be the needier one made Geto the one with the sex ban.

How he had you tied across from him so prettily on the bed, a bullet vibrator stuffed up your dripping cunt, unable to do anything but whine and watch as he spreads his bare, muscled thighs.

Tip flushed your favorite shade of pink, matching those panties wrapped around his throbbing cock. So angry and leaking all over his fist as one hand slides up, up, up. The other, fiddling with that tiny metal remote.

“You’re drooling, gorgeous. So desperate, huh?”

You know you aren’t - but you can’t help the way your face burns at your boyfriend’s low chuckle. Thighs squeezing together at the heavenly sight before you. “N-no fair, Sugu.” you whine. “I want to-”

Intensity setting 2.

But whatever words get stuck in your throat as Geto draws harsh, quick little circles on the intensity setting, smirking at the way you’re so wrecked already.

Bzzzt-bzzzt-bzzzt-

“I-I want to-” he mocks your pathetic little whines, acting for all the life of him that they didn’t make his dick twitch so wildly in his hands. “My poor baby. S’not nice, right?” And if you were embarrassed before then it was absolutely nothing in comparison to when Geto knits his brows in mock concern, eyes locked on yours. Hand still moving down his cock, “But isn’t this what you wanted? With the sex ban? Isn’t this-” Hips bucking up to show off how sloppily he’s fucking his fist - and your panties along with it, “-what you were asking for?”

“No.” you’re tugging at the ties at your wrist, “I wanted…”

Intensity setting 3.

But oh it’s like Geto was well and fully intent on leaving you speechless - and succeeding at it too.

Because he immediately brings up your panties - flimsy and just so soaked - up to his face, breathing in so filthily. And as if he couldn’t help himself - as if he didn’t want to help himself - the remote falls out of Geto’s hand, “accidentally” locked on the highest setting, first wrapping around his cock to make a mess of himself.

“F-fuck-” he cracks one eye open, balls squeezing so painfully at the way you were almost in tears trying to get some semblance of friction. “Heh, looks like I’m winning the bet.”

You scoff, but it comes out so pathetically like a whine. “You’re a cheater, I’d have w-won this bet otherwise.”

Ah, how Geto loved your smart mouth - though, he probably loved it even more when you’re fucked dumb. But, right now, bet at the forefront of his mind, the next best thing he could do is shove those sinful panties into your mouth.

Hand flying up and down his cock faster and faster as you choke like such a slut on it. Greedily eyeing the way your lip wobbles, big fat tears welling up in your eyes, cunt all glistening and quivering as Geto blindly reaches behind to grab ahold of that remote again.

Intensity setting 4.

“And you’re too cute.” he drops his head, breath ghosting your lips. “So if you ask me nicely I might just-” Thumb playing around with the intensity, pressing down, hard. As if it would translate to your needy cunt, “-give you my cock, gorgeous.”

Bzzzt-bzzzt-bzzzt-

It’s all you can do to keen as his fingers get faster on the remote, other hand getting so sloppy on his painfully hard cock. Matching that sinful little ah! ah! ah! leaving your swollen lips. Sinful - and stubborn, still refusing to say those words that you knew Geto wanted to hear so badly.

“Awww, still not giving up?” At your delirious little headshake, “Then how about this?”

Intensity setting 5.

And shit it makes you arch off the bed entirely. It makes you let out a strangled yelp of, “Oh- fuck. Fuck fuck fuck Sugu, m’gonna-” It makes you cum.

“Tha’s it.” Geto can’t help but let go of his aching cock to draw rough, messy little circles on your clit. Grinning at the way you’re so pretty when you cum untouched - all for him. Over and over and- He reaches over to catch your lips with his, tongue dancing with yours, around your soaked panties.

So filthy and dizzying that he almost forgets about that bet - almost. Because you’re murmuring something so incoherent into his lips.

Bzzzt-bzzzt-bzzzt-

God, doesn’t matter who wins next time - he needs to fucking do this again.

“What’s that?” he leans in tauntingly, pulling the fabric out of your mouth, finger still running circles around the intensity. Absolutely addicted to the way you’re twitching and whining at the aftershocks of your orgasm, “M’sorry, gorgeous, this vibrator is too loud. Speak up f’me, hm?”

“P-please fuck me, Sugu.”

“Thought you’d never ask.”

♡ CHOSO KAMO - 21 hours

If Choso had it his way, then you’d both still be at home and he’d be balls-deep inside your sloppy pussy - fucking you over and over into the mattress until the neighbours file another noise complaint.

But, alas, Jin Itadori was sure to hire a hitman - or worse, Sukuna - on him if he missed another family dinner. Which is how it ended up with you, sat so prettily across the table from him, watching through his long lashes at the way that red dress hugged you so sinfully.

So right, in a way that made Choso almost jealous. So irresistibly, in a way that had Sukuna looking over a few too many times and-

Choso’s chair almost hits the floor with how fast he stands.

Fuck it.

“Sh-shit, Choso I-”

“Keep ah- that dress up, baby. Unless ya wanna get it d-dirty.” he’s panting into your open mouth, tongue so hotly toying with yours as he gives you another harsh thrust. “Though, I don’t ngh- mind.”

And he was telling the truth, too. Choso was in no way gentle with the way he had you sat on the bathroom counter, flimsy dress bunched up at your hips. Strong arms spreading your legs so shamefully while he bullied his cock into you with reckless abandon.

Over and over and-

“Cho!” you yelp, as he hits that one spot so expertly. Flashing you a fucked-out grin as how you’re scrambling to cover your mouth. “Th-they’ll hear.”

“So?”

And it’s all you can do to stop your jaw from falling slack once more - both in disbelief and at the way he’s fucking you so mean. So desperately like he hasn’t in months - years, even. Just unfocused, sloppy movements to milk his cock on your snug cunt.

“I don’t mind hah- that either.” Hand dipping underneath your soaked panties - just lazily pulled to the side - to roll your swollen clit between two fingers. “W-what I do mind is my oh- fuck girl holdin’ out on me and wearing that fucking dress on the s-same day.”

Oh you knew you were pushing the limits of your sex ban by wearing his favorite dress, that it would drive him absolutely wild. You just didn’t know it would be this easy.

“But you promised.” you’re letting out such broken little whines, muffled through your fingers, ones that go straight to Choso’s achingly hard cock. “You hngh- promised we wouldn’t at your family’s…”

The only response you get is Choso rolling his hips deeper into yours, so bruising in a way you knew would make you feel so guilty even when all the marks are covered up. Leaving hot, open-mouthed kisses down your neck in time with the way he alternates between hitting your poor, abused cervix and that one spot.

Gasping out a ragged, “I know- I know I know fuck- Hah- I know.” Words strained - like he was losing a bit of his sanity with each thrust. And needed you to be the same. “But shit, baby. Do you know how p-pretty you look right now? Hngh- how fuckable?”

“Y-you’re so fuckin’ dirty.” you mewl, as if you were any better. As if your gummy walls weren’t sucking the fuckin soul out of Choso right now. “Should’ve made the ngh- sex ban even long-”

He bites down at the soft crook of your neck, growling out a little, “Don’t even joke about that.”

And if Choso expected a response, then he didn’t act that way.

Hips just erratic against yours, fingers even worse. Not even moving in circles anymore, just messy, sloppy patterns to-

No.

You gasp at the realization, the deft movements of Choso’s fingers, and it just makes you all the more fucked-out underneath him. Scrambling to grab at the counter - Choso’s hair - his shoulders - just anything and everything to stop yourself from alerting the entire household to what you two were up to. Letting him fuck you like his favorite sextoy, fingers so so messy and spelling out a relentless little C-H-O-S-O-C-H-O-S-

And then you’re cumming and cumming so hard that it almost hurts. Stars behind your eyes, blood roaring in your eyes. Choso’s massive cock fucking any and every thought of the dinner just downstairs out of your mind.

“F-fuck fuck fuck- ngh- we’re never coming back here for dinner again.”

And it’s all you can do to drag your nails down his broad back, leaving deep red marks that make his balls squeeze so painfully.

It makes him throw his head back, gasping out your name so loud. It makes him pull your hips so bruisingly against his.

It makes him cum, spilling thick, hot ropes of cum into your pussy. So messy with the way it’s too much to bear, dribbling down your swollen folds, forming a lewd little pool below you. And Choso doesn’t give a fuck - doesn’t care if he leaves marks that everyone will see. Or if that slutty dress of yours has a suspicious little damp patch as he swiftly pulls out to snap your panties back in place.

Whispering lowly against your lips, “K-keep it in till we leave, hm?”

“Cho-”

Knock! Knock! Knock!

“The fuck? You brats fall in or something?”

♡ RYOMEN SUKUNA - 2 days

The great Ryomen Sukuna has always been terrifying - but never before has he been this ruthless. So utterly savage. Destroying every single curse he comes across in the blink of an eye - friend or foe, big or small.

Why? All because he hasn’t been able to fuck your pretty lil’ cunt in two days. Which, in his opinion, are two days too long. All because of some stupid little experiment about wanting to see how long it would take to see the king of curses crack.

And when those trembling curses heard about this ah- sex ban through the grapevine, well, they wrote it off as another baseless rumor. Ha, Ryomen Sukuna cracking? Never.

“Please…brat.” he bites down on your earlobe, further pushing up your expensive robes - ones he’d bought just to get on your good side - to sink his cock deeper inside your heavenly cunt. “There I said it. Now jus’ a bit more-”

And maybe you’re a mastermind - maybe you’re an idiot. Because you’re digging your heels into the mattress, pushing off ever-so-slightly from his aching hard cock. So thick and angry as it slips out of your sloppy hole.

You bat your lashes so deceivingly innocently up at a pissed off Sukuna, “I didn’t like your tone.” Crossing your legs to cover that view he was so fixated on, “Either you beg n’ start all over again or-”

“Fine.” he grits out the word, like it physically hurt to. Though, nothing for what falls from his lips next, “Please.”

“Louder.”

“Please.”

There you had it. And you can’t help but smirk, “Well, I liked that one-”

Nothing more is said - in Sukuna’s eyes, nothing more has to be said. Because he’s got his favorite lil’ human all needy and spread so shamefully in front of him, what more could he want? Sukuna grabs your ankles, pulling you to him like a ragdoll. Wasting no time before he’s splitting you apart on his rock-hard cock.

“Ya don’t hah- know how many curses I killed these past two days.” he kisses your ankles so softly. “How many I wanted to kill.”

And God, if you didn’t know any better you’d say it’s like he wanted to kill you with the way Sukuna barely even gives you time to adjust. Stuffing you full of his cock, so hot and thumping against your gummy walls in a maddening little bump! bump! bump!

Letting out a strangled moan of, “There you go.” Brows scrunching together, looking wrecked already as he rocks his hips into yours - fast. Hard. hands coming up underneath your ass to arch you deeper into him, “Squeezin’ me so- tight. Heh, almost ”

“Oh hngh- ‘Kuna!” you moan, eyes snapping down to the way your cunt was taking him up so good. Puffy folds bulging around his massive cock, looking like they were sucking the fucking soul out of Sukuna as his massive cock disappears in and out in and out in and- “S’too- much-”

“Shut up.” he drops his head, one hand so bruising all over your body - groping your ass, your tits, playing with your throbbing clit. “Ya wanted hah- me to talk, right? And I say-” The other, squeezing your cheeks together into a pathetic lil’ pout, “Open up.”

It’s so embarrassing the way you can’t do anything but let your mouth fall open so sluttily, tongue lolling out just in time to catch the stream of saliva as Sukuna spits once. Twice.

So filthy with the way he lets it splatter against the corner of your mouth - on purpose.

“Wanted the king to beg, huh?” Each word is punctuated by such a harsh thrust, twitching balls stinging against your ass. “Well you got it. H-how does it feel, huh?”

And you couldn’t speak up even if you wanted to. Sukuna’s hand too tight around your face, cock too merciless. Slamming his hips down faster and faster as he runs his mouth, like he was taking revenge for the last two days. Again. And again. And again and again-

Grinning at your delirious little gurgles, “Heh, what? Can’t talk?”

And as if to prove his point, Sukuna loops two big arms around your waist, falling back on his knees with you sat like such a slut on his cock. Fingers lacing above your head to sink you impossibly deeper and deeper-

“Oh my god- K-” Your breath hitches as he fucks up into you so easily. Feeling more and more like some plaything with each ripple of his muscles underneath your legs. So hard you were sure it would leave marks - both confirming and condemning those rumors you knew have been flying around. His balls on your ass, thighs underneath yours, nails dragging lightly down your skin.

Resting on your waist, holding your quivering hips still as he grunts, “Now shut up. M’gonna get my fill of the last two days.”

♡ GOJO SATORU - 4 hours

To the great Gojo Satoru, this droning, 4-hour meeting with the elders was a nightmare. To you, it was exactly where you wanted him

It wasn’t often that the strongest was tense - jittery, even, like he was about to jump out of his seat at any given moment. But, really, it was almost impossible not to, considering that stern talking-to you’d given him about “no sneaking out during meetings.” Especially when you’re sat across from him looking so beautifully unbothered.

Your smile too pretty, your uniform unbuttoned just enough that it gave him such a heavenly view when you bent over just so.

Oh, how Gojo wishes he could just-

And that was when he felt it.

That slow, slight touch up his inner thigh - so fleeting and light that he almost thinks he’s imagining it. But, no, Gojo could never mistake any touch from you.

It sends his entire skin burning to catch your eye ever-so-briefly from across the table. A tiny smirk gracing those pretty lips as your heel inches up, up, up-

“Gojo, do you have anything to comment on the recent increase in curse sightings?”

He stifles a groan underneath one palm, the other snaking under the table just in time to catch your ankle before you can carefully slip away. “I think…” he manages to grit out, heady gaze flitting over to yours, “-that is a question my lovely wife and I must discuss first.”

Oh?

And then, your back is hitting a plush mattress before you know it - long before the realization hits you that this bastard just fucking teleported the two of you to your bedroom.

“T-Toru-” you sputter out, whatever reprimand getting stuck in your throat at how desperate Gojo was acting. Your uniform buttons hitting the floor as he rips open your shirt, hands bunching up your skirt, only having enough patience to just pull aside your soaked panties, rolling your pretty clit between two fingers. Needy. “The meeting-”

“The meeting isn’t here now, right?”

Words so hoarse it takes you a moment to recognize it as your husband’s. You were only beginning to wonder just what the fuck you’ve gotten yourself into when Gojo tugs down his pants just enough that his rock-hard cock springs free.

And oh then it makes sense. Because Gojo was so hard that it looked painful - so so red, and angry. Soaked in enough precum that it made a damp little patch on his trousers, heavy balls twitching at the mere sound of your voice.

“D-didn’t I say no sneaking out this time, Toru?” You buck into his touch, despite your words, eyes locked on the way Gojo stops toying with your clit to pool your sweet sweet juices on his fingertips.

“You did.” Raising his long, glossy fingers to those pretty pink lips, “But this is teleporting, not sneaking out, sweetheart.”

Gojo’s like a man possessed as he pops your slick-covered fingers into his mouth, eyes rolling to the back of his head at the sinful taste.

Gasping out a wet, “Fuck the ban. Can’t go without ya. Can’t-” One hand sliding his fat tip between your swollen folds, up and down up and down - spreading them apart, just barely dipping into your sloppy entrance. “-can’t live without this pretty cunt.”

And then it’s like something snaps - Gojo’s patience, his sanity, the last of his restraint as he sinks his throbbing cock into your plushy walls.

Pushing past that first, tight ring of muscle, and at the first feeling of your gummy walls milking his cock, he pants out a strained, “Fuck- oh fuck fuck fuck, yer the stuff of dreams, my girl. This cunt- ngh-” Pushing your legs further apart, fingers back on your clit “-would’ve fucked this cunt right in ah- front of those old toads. But, you’re lucky I’m a jealous man.”

“Oh- oh my god, s’too- too- big!”

God, you needed to spread your legs more - as if they weren’t being folded apart so easily by a delirious Gojo - maybe breathe, try to relax because Gojo was so big. And so unforgiving.

Feeling like he was pushing all the way into your lungs as he thrusts in quick, shallow little thrusts to bully himself inside your snug cunt. Jagged - like he was fighting with some absolutely, depraved, feral part of himself.

You can feel the way your hips are torn between pushing away and grinding back down for more more more- And Gojo can, too.

“No-” he hisses. Brows scrunching in frustration, hips becoming more and more sloppy - frenzied. “No no no no no- hold on, sweetheart. Need this, need this so bad.”

Going faster.

Deeper.

You sob, ankles locking around his slutty waist. “B-but Toru-” You make a feeble last attempt at regaining your sanity. Your entire body jolting as Gojo presses so hard on your clit. “-we should ngh- hurry up. W-we’ll be late to the meeting-”

But does it really matter? Gojo doesn’t think so, not when he finally bottoms out in one, rough thrust. Groaning as his sensitive balls smack your ass.

Your cunt so slutty and tight - sucking him up so good despite your cute lil’ pleas about something stupid like “responsibilities”.

So he really can’t help the way he wastes no time before reeling his hips back - all the way till his weeping tip is just kissing your sloppy hole. Before fucking into you completely - rough. Unrestrained. The same way he imagined taking you on that meeting room table. Over and over and-

“Not yet.” he grins against your lips, “We’re not done discussing the recent increase in curse sightings.”

A/N. Gojo’s came out toooo long I don’t even like this man fr (loud incorrect buzzer).

Plagiarism not authorized.

19K notes · View notes

dior-luxury · 3 months ago

Note

I need some teasing romantic fluff, can I request the housewardens reaction to being pulled into a random room by their lover and being smother with kisses. Please and thank you 💖💖

Kiss And Make-Out

( ✧ ) ────── boyfriend stories . fluff - she/her .

- [𝐜𝐡.] dormleaders

- [𝐩:𝐬] suggestive themes . mentions of making out ofc

Note: Honestly thing took me shorter than I thought it would to write Lol. And I tried my best to not make it extremely suggestive... But I then realized I have free will and just made it regularly suggestive.

Riddle Rosehearts

The hallway was quiet, lined with the dignified wallpaper and polished wood of Heartslabyul’s east wing. Riddle was walking beside you, dutifully listing the upcoming events for the next dorm meeting, when you suddenly grabbed his wrist.

"Wait—what are you—!" he sputtered, blinking rapidly as you tugged him into a nearby, empty reading room.

The door slammed shut behind you. Bookshelves stood in neat rows, sunlight streaming through high windows. But you didn’t give Riddle a chance to take in the room. You spun him to face you, pressing your body close, your hands already cupping his cheeks.

“[Name]!” Riddle gasped, eyes wide, ears turning red. “This is highly improper—”

You kissed him before he could finish.

His breath hitched as your lips met his in a flurry of soft, passionate kisses—one on the lips, another on the cheek, then two more down his neck. His back gently met the shelf behind him, a soft thump muffled by his uniform. He stood stiff for a second, flustered beyond belief, but then…

"...You're being completely unreasonable," he mumbled between kisses, although his hands were now resting on your waist. "I can't focus when you do that."

But he didn’t stop you.

Your kisses moved down to his collarbone, and Riddle squirmed just a bit. His face was a flaming red now, his breathing shallow. You could feel the way his heart was thudding under your fingertips as you ran your hands through his soft red hair.

“I’m trying to behave…” he whispered.

“But you’re so cute when you’re flustered,” you replied sweetly, stealing another kiss from his lips.

Eventually, he buried his face in the crook of your neck, letting out a quiet, surrendering sigh. “Only you could get away with something like this…” he muttered, arms now wrapped around your waist. “But if Trey walks in, I’m blaming you.”

Leona Kingscholar

You knew Leona was headed back from Spelldrive practice—his shirt clinging to his broad chest, his hair tousled, golden skin glistening with sweat. You had timed it perfectly.

As he turned the corner toward the dorm hallway, you jumped out from behind a tapestry, grabbing his shirt with both hands.

“Tch—what the hell—”

You dragged him into an unused music room, slamming the door behind you.

“Oi, herbivore, are you trying to start a fight?” Leona snapped, eyebrows furrowed, tail lashing in confusion.

But your only answer was kissing him hard.

The snarl caught in his throat immediately vanished as you caught him by surprise, hands sliding up his toned chest, lips moving over his with soft, heated insistence. For a moment, he stood stock-still, blinking, your kiss leaving him dazed. Then you kissed the corner of his mouth, then under his jaw, and he let out a slow, very audible groan.

“You really woke up and chose chaos today, huh,” he muttered against your lips.

He let his bag drop with a thud. “You could’ve waited ‘til I showered, but nah, you want your king like this?”

You nipped at his lip playfully, whispering, “I want you like this especially.”

That was enough.

Leona’s hands gripped your hips with a growl, spinning you and pressing you back against the wall, kissing you with fierce hunger now. His tongue brushed yours, his fangs grazing your lower lip as he kissed you harder, deeper. His tail flicked behind him, betraying his rising desire.

“I should punish you for ambushing me like that,” he murmured against your ear, voice gravelly.

“But I won’t.”

His smirk was dangerous and lazy all at once.

“Not yet, anyway.”

Azul Ashengrotto

Azul had just finished another long meeting in Mostro Lounge. You waited until the twins had left him alone in the hallway before you struck.

“Azul, can I borrow you for a second?” you said sweetly, tugging at his sleeve.

“Ah, certainly, my pearl—wait, where are we—?”

You pulled him into a supply closet of all places. It was dimly lit, a little dusty, but private. Azul looked around in confusion, pushing up his glasses.

“I—is this about the contract I was drafting—?”

You didn’t answer. You kissed him.

The poor boy short-circuited. He froze as your hands slid into his hair, tugging just enough to make him gasp. You kissed his lips, then his cheek, then the underside of his jaw, and he visibly shivered.

“[Name]—w-wait—why now? I-I didn’t prepare—!” he stammered, glasses askew, already blushing violently.

You wrapped your arms around his neck and kissed him again, long and slow this time. Azul's knees buckled slightly, and he caught himself by gripping the shelves behind him. His breath was trembling as you ran your fingers down his sides.

“You… you’re going to kill me,” he whispered, eyes wide behind his fogged glasses. “This is too much for a man of my constitution…”

But even as he said that, his hands found your waist, gently pulling you closer. His lips brushed your ear.

“I suppose I shouldn’t complain about having such an affectionate girlfriend…”

You smiled. “You love it.”

“…Don’t tell the twins.”

Kalim Al-Asim

You caught Kalim just as he was coming down the golden staircase in Scarabia, humming to himself, all sunny and unbothered. His eyes lit up the moment he saw you.

“[Name]!! I was just about to look for—WHOAAA!!”

You didn’t let him finish. You grabbed his wrist and yanked him into the nearest room—one of the spare guest suites with gauzy curtains and sun spilling in through the arched windows. He stumbled in after you, laughing the whole time.

“You’re so full of surprises today—ACK!”

You tackled him onto the cushions, landing right on top of him with a mischievous grin. Before he could ask anything, you started kissing him—peppering his cheeks, his forehead, his nose, and his lips with kisses so fast he couldn’t even catch his breath.

“Wha—mmf! Wahahaha—[Name]!! Wait!!” Kalim laughed uncontrollably, trying to catch your hands in his. “You’re kissing me too fast—I’m gonna pass out from happiness!!”

You finally paused just long enough to look down at him. His white hair was a little messy, his golden eyes gleaming, his face flushed and grinning like the sun itself.

“Was that all for me?” he asked breathlessly, cheeks glowing.

You nodded and leaned in again, kissing his lips a little slower this time.

He melted under you like butter on hot sand.

“Wow,” he murmured, now dazed. “You’re… amazing. I think my heart just did a triple somersault. I should throw a party just to celebrate this moment!”

You laughed, resting your forehead against his. “You really would, huh?”

“Of course!! I’ve never felt this lucky in my life!”

Vil Schoenheit

Vil was walking briskly through the upper halls of Pomefiore, hair and uniform immaculate as ever, when you stepped directly into his path.

“Vil,” you said, breathless and determined.

He arched a single, elegant eyebrow. “Yes, darling?”

Without answering, you grabbed his hand and pulled him into a side hallway, then pushed open a door into one of the unused dressing rooms. The full-length mirrors and velvet furniture gave the room an intimate feel—one Vil would usually approve of.

“What exactly are we—mmph!”

You shut him up with your lips.

You kissed him firmly, again and again, ignoring his stunned stillness. His back lightly hit the vanity table, and your hands found his jaw, tilting his head as you kissed a path from his lips to his cheek to that spot right below his ear.

Vil sucked in a sharp breath.

“[Name]… this is hardly a—ah—suitable location…” he said, voice breathy despite himself.

You kissed down his neck, and he gripped the edge of the table hard enough for the wood to creak.

“…I’m trying to remain composed,” he hissed, eyes fluttering shut. “You’re ruining my lip gloss.”

You kissed him again, slower this time, tasting the faint berry gloss on your lips. “I’ll buy you another one,” you whispered.

His hands finally slid up your arms, resting on your waist. His expression softened, pride melting into fond exasperation.

“You’re so bold when you want to be,” he murmured, brushing his forehead against yours. “But you should know… if you keep kissing me like that, I might not let you leave this room for a while.”

Idia Shroud

You had to be sneaky with Idia—if you startled him too hard, he’d vanish into a puff of blue flame and digital pixels.

So when you saw him walking back from the library with headphones in and Ortho floating behind him, you waited until he was alone—just outside the server room in Ignihyde.

You pounced.

“AHHH—SYSTEM ERROR, WHAT THE—?!”

You yanked him into an empty tech room and closed the door behind you. Idia stumbled backward, hair flaring slightly blue with panic.

“W-Wait, are we being chased?! Is this a boss battle? Did you glitch through reality again—?”

You didn’t let him finish.

You kissed him. Right on his startled, slightly parted lips.

His brain blue-screened.

Idia’s body stiffened like a glitching NPC. You kissed him again, this time on the cheek, then again, trailing little kisses along his jawline. His hoodie bunched under your fingers as you leaned into him, holding him close, while his hands flailed in the air like he didn’t know what to do with them.

“M-M-M-M-Moe overload—emergency shutdown imminent—!!”

You giggled and pressed a softer kiss to the tip of his nose.

That seemed to reboot him. Slowly, his shaking arms wrapped around you, awkward at first, but growing tighter as you kept going. His voice dropped to a whisper.

“Are you real? Like… for real real?”

“Very real,” you said, kissing him one more time.

He leaned into you then, forehead pressed to your shoulder, still flustered but clinging to you like you were the only stable thing in his world.

“…You’re OP,” he mumbled. “Totally broken character build. It’s unfair. Nerf girlfriend pls.”

Malleus Draconia

It was late evening, just after sundown, and you spotted Malleus walking alone through one of the lesser-used halls of Night Raven College—moonlight catching on his horns, his cape flowing behind him like royalty incarnate.

“Malleus!” you called, jogging up beside him.

He turned with a small smile, the kind that he reserved just for you. “Ah, my love. What fortune brings you to this path?”

Without warning, you grabbed his hand—cool, calloused, always gentle—and tugged him through the closest heavy oak door. The room was empty, dark except for the faint shimmer of magic-laced torches. Dusty furniture and a grand window gave it an old, castle-like feel. Perfect.

“Where are we going?” he asked, tilting his head. “Is there danger?”

You didn’t answer. You pushed him back gently against the wall and kissed him.

His eyes went wide, not in shock, but in the quiet kind of awe that only Malleus seemed capable of. You kissed his lips, then his cheek, then the pale stretch of skin along his neck. Your hands moved to his shoulders, pulling him closer, kissing him again and again—slow, soft, reverent.

“Dearest,” he whispered, voice thick with emotion, “your affection is… overwhelming.”

You kissed the tip of his jaw. “Is that a problem?”

“…Not in the slightest.”

His voice dropped low, velvety and deep, as he rested his forehead against yours. “You wield power greater than most—did you know? Not in magic, but in how effortlessly you undo me.”

You smiled and kissed him again, this time slower, and something in him finally gave way. His arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you close as his lips met yours again, more certain now, more claiming. His kisses were intense and unhurried—like time stopped for you and him alone.

“If this is what it means to be mortal,” he whispered between kisses, “then I never wish to be a god again.”

4K notes · View notes

alygator77 · 3 months ago

Text

── try again

a/n. i've been sitting on wanting to create a small scene like this for a while now. so here ya go! lemme tell ya'll... breastfeeding is not always this magical and beautiful thing that people make it out to be. it hurts like hell, my bloody nipples can attest.

cw: domestic fluff. angst with comfort. satoru's trying to make breastfeeding easier for you.

“Satoru,” you whisper, voice tight with frustration. “She won’t latch.”

You’re trying not to cry.

Looking down at your newborn, you can see her frustration—tiny fists clenching, soft, hungry cries spilling from her mouth as she wriggles restlessly in your arms. You shift again, adjusting her position, cradling her closer, trying—begging—for something to click.

But it doesn’t.

Her mouth bobs and searches blindly, cheeks flushing red with effort, and the desperation building in her fragile little body mirrors your own.

“I—I don’t know what I’m doing wrong,” you choke out, blinking hard as tears blur your vision.

You’re exhausted. Beyond it. The sleepless nights at the hospital. Your body aches in places you didn’t even know could hurt. And this—this thing that was supposed to be natural, instinctual, beautiful—feels awkward and impossible—like a test you’re failing over and over again.

“Please, baby girl…” your voice trembles as you guide her to your breast one more time. “Just—c’mon—o-ow!”

She latches, but it’s wrong. A searing pain shoots through your chest and you flinch, instinctively pulling her away. Your nipple throbs—red, sore, screaming for relief. With a shrill cry, your baby’s tiny face crumples in protest, and your own tears finally fall—hot and helpless.

“Why is this so hard?” you whisper, voice cracking as you hold her close, shaking.

“Hey, hey… it’s okay. You’re doing everything right.”

Satoru's voice is low behind you—steady, but laced with worry.

His hands come to rest gently on your shoulders, warm and trembling, his thumbs moving in slow circles like he can massage away the frustration knotting in your muscles.

“She’s only a few days old…” he murmurs, leaning down to kiss the top of your head, lips lingering in your hair. “She’s still learning. Fuck… we are too.” He exhales shakily. “You’re doing the best you can, sweetheart. Please don’t be so hard on yourself.”

He straightens, blue eyes darting around the room like he’s searching for something—anything—to help.

“What can I do? Do you need anything? Where’s that—hang on—where’s that damn pillow thing…?” he mumbles, and you watch through watery eyes as he scrambles, clumsily grabbing the nursing pillow, adjusting it like he’s trying to solve a puzzle without the picture on the box. His movements are uncoordinated, frantic—but full of love.

Satoru kneels beside you as you try again, baby blue eyes flicking between your face and your daughter’s, willing the pieces to fall into place.

"C'mon baby girl... be nice to your momma for me, yeah?"

But when your little one latches again and you gasp, pulling her off with a pained cry, your resolve shatters.

“I—I can’t do it Satoru!” you say, brokenly. “I can't get her to latch, and when she does… it just hurts. So much.”

You feel like a failure. How can you not feed your baby?

As you look up at him through watery lashes, tears clinging to your cheeks, Satoru's expression cracks. He nods quickly, white brows furrowing as his lips press into a tight line, like he’s holding back the helplessness swelling in his chest.

“I know, baby. I know. Just… wait one sec.”

He’s on his feet in an instant, practically tripping over the edge of the rug as he rushes across the room. A moment later, he’s back—dragging a stool with one hand and clutching a spare pillow in the other. Dropping down in front of you, he crouches low, gently lifting your legs and placing them on the makeshift footrest.

“There,” he murmurs, positioning the pillow with care. “Put your feet up. Maybe if you’re more comfortable…”

Satoru fluffs the nursing pillow again with extra care, tucks the baby’s blanket around her tiny frame, then grabs your water bottle from the side table—uncapping it as he gently places it in your hand.

“C’mon momma... gotta stay hydrated.”

His voice is hushed, but purposeful. You sniffle, taking a sip of water, and he's shifting back toward the kitchen, glancing over his shoulder.

“Um… do you want a snack? I think there’s some of those lactation cookies in the kitchen…" his blue eyes flick back to you, and you see the gears turning in his head. "Or... I can make you something? Or—shit—I’ll Postmate something! What do you want? Fuck, I’ll Postmate everything if it’ll help.”

A tired, wet laugh escapes you—half amusement, half relief. “Great..." you wipe the tears from your eyes, smiling softly. "Now you’re spiraling too...”

He huffs out a sheepish breath, dragging a hand down his face as he plops beside you again. “Yeah… yeah, I am definitely spiraling.”

Reaching up, he brushes a damp strand of hair from your face, fingers grazing your temple with featherlight tenderness.

“You’re in pain...” he murmurs, blue eyes shimmering with concern. “And... I feel helpless just standing here. I can’t feed her. I can’t fix this…” he pauses, lips dropping into an exaggerated pout. “My nipples are completely useless, by the way.”

A choked, breathless laugh escapes through your tears, and his entire face softens at the sound, like it’s the only thing that’s mattered all day.

“What?” he grins. “It’s true. I’ve got nothing going on up here. Decorative at best. Yours, on the other hand—” he gestures with a flourish, “—doing heroic work. Damn sexy, too. Just sayin'.”

You roll your eyes through the blur of tears, laughing again, and lean into the warmth of his palm as it cradles your cheek.

It still hurts. You’re still exhausted, still raw, still aching in every possible way.

But in this moment—wrapped in Satoru's love, soothed by his gentle chaos and relentless care—you don’t feel quite so alone.

And somehow, with him by your side, you find the strength to try again.

And again.

Until finally… you get it right.

7K notes · View notes

kenntoria · 5 days ago

Text

you’re lying in bed with nanami, skin still warm from the shower, legs tangled under the sheets. the night is quiet, city buzz faint behind thick windows, the kind of calm that only settles in when the world’s already asleep.

he’s on his side, propped up on one elbow, thumb brushing slow lines along your hip. the bedside lamp casts soft gold over his face, and for a second you think you could look at him forever and never get tired of it.

“can i ask you something?” you murmur, voice muffled against his chest.

“of course.”

you hesitate, not because it’s a hard question, but because the quiet between you feels so delicate. like it might shatter if you speak too loudly.

“when did you know you liked me?”

he’s quiet for a second. thinking, not avoiding. and then—

“i think it was the first time you fell asleep on me,” he says, voice low. “you were talking about something—i don’t remember what—but your head was on my shoulder and you just… drifted off. you trusted me enough to do that.”

you glance up at him. “that’s it?”

his mouth twitches. “you drooled on me, too. just a little. really cute.”

you groan and try to hide your face but he catches your wrist and kisses your knuckles, laughter in his breath.

“no, really,” he says, quieter now. “i liked you before that. but that night… it settled something. i knew i wanted you forever.”

you smile into his chest, tracing lazy shapes into his skin.

“what about you?” he asks. “when did you know?”

you hum, pretending to think, even though you’ve always known.

“when my shower broke.”

you feel him shift slightly to look down at you. “your shower?”

you nod. “remember? i called you. it was like, stupid late, and i barely knew you. but you came over anyway. you didn’t even ask questions, just showed up and fixed the whole thing like it was nothing.”

he blinks. “i do remember. you looked… distressed.”

“i was so close to crying,” you laugh softly. “and then you showed up and just handled it. and i was standing there like, god, i should probably offer to suck him off or something.”

his laugh is a quiet rumble under your cheek.

“i didn’t,” you add, mock stern. “i had some self-control.”

“that’s very admirable of you.”

you shift a little, looking up at him again. “i mean it, though. you could’ve just told me to call a plumber in the morning.”

he’s looking at you like he’s trying to memorize you, every blink and curve and whisper.

“it wasn’t a big deal,” he says.

“it was to me.”

he pulls you closer, his hand pressing against your back, grounding. steady.

“always calling me a sap— you’re a sap too, aren’t you, kento?” you murmur, but your voice is fond, teasing.

he kisses your forehead, lingering.

“i’m in love,” he says simply. “what else am i supposed to be?”

you don’t have an answer. just a full heart and a man who never lets you fall apart alone.

and for once, that’s more than enough.

3K notes · View notes

enhaflixer · 4 months ago

Text

HARD HOURS - enha reaction when you wont let them sleep because you're too needy.

cw (MDNI): breeding, explicit activity, super filthy, face sitting, spitting, mean language, swearing, squirting, oral m!receiving, oral f!receiving, harmless choking let me know if theres anyth i missed! AN: i had a stroke brought back to life and produced this. wc: 10K

@naurwayyyyy @ziiao @somuchdard @ijustwannareadstuff20 @brianashiftz @niki-tty @jakeyismine

𝐋𝐞𝐞 𝐇𝐞𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐮𝐧𝐠

Heeseung is dead to the world—or so it seems. He’s sprawled on his stomach, head half-buried in the pillow, blankets barely hanging onto his hips. You can tell by the slow, heavy breaths that he’s on the edge of deep sleep. In other words, the perfect target for your mischief.

You start small: a soft kiss against his ear, teeth gently dragging along the shell. Nothing. Heeseung barely stirs, only letting out a faint groan. You smirk, inching closer until your body is pressed flush to his back.

Then, you whisper your first sinful line:

“God, Hee, I can’t stop thinking about you filling me up… Wanna feel your cum dripping out.”

A slight twitch of his shoulders. Still not enough. You drag your lips lower, biting softly at his earlobe, letting your breath fan over the sensitive skin. This time, you feel his entire body tense, a quiet grunt rumbling in his chest.

“Mm… baby,” he mumbles, voice muffled by the pillow, “why are you so… fucking horny?”

You grin into his ear, hooking your leg over his calf to keep him from rolling away. “Because you’re so goddamn hotwhen you’re half-asleep,” you purr. “And because I know you love the idea of breeding me.”

Heeseung freezes. Then, a soft exhale that sounds suspiciously like a groan. “Shit… not this again,” he complains, though his tone betrays a hint of intrigue.

You trail your hand beneath the blanket, grazing the waistband of his boxers. “Yes, this again. Don’t pretend you don’t get off on the thought of knocking me up.” You can’t help the wicked smile curling at your lips. “Think about it, Hee… I’d be so full with your baby—everyone would know you fucked me so good that—”

“Stop,” he grumbles, face still squished into the pillow, but you hear his breathing pick up. “Don’t talk like that when I’m… trying… to sleep…” His words are disjointed, lazy from exhaustion, but there’s no mistaking the twitch in his boxers.

You press closer, cupping him through the fabric. He’s already half-hard—despite how desperate he is to stay asleep. “Feels like you don’t really want me to stop,” you tease, giving him a firm squeeze. “C’mon, Hee, you can breed me in your sleep if you want. I’ll do all the work. Just fill me up ‘til I’m pregnant with your baby.”

Heeseung lets out a muffled curse, finally rolling onto his side to face you, though his eyes are still lidded with exhaustion. “You’re… so fucking… relentless,” he mutters. “I was literally about to pass out.”

You just tilt your head, giving him your sweetest, most innocent smile. “Well, if you can’t handle it, guess I’ll just—” You start to pull your hand away, as if giving up.

But the second you try, Heeseung catches your wrist, pressing your palm fully against his length. “Shut up,” he mutters, brows furrowed. “You started this. Now you’d better take responsibility.”

You arch a brow. “Responsibility?” The corner of your mouth twitches. “As in… riding you ‘til you pump me full?”

He swallows hard, cock throbbing beneath your hand. “If that’s what it takes to get you to let me sleep afterwards,” he growls, though the sleepy rasp in his voice makes him sound more needy than threatening.

You can’t help the rush of arousal pooling between your thighs. You slip your hand under his waistband, fingers closing around the hot, stiff length of him. He gasps—quietly, but it’s enough to confirm you’ve got him.

“Fuck…” Heeseung’s eyes flutter, half-lidded, teeth sinking into his lower lip. “Fine. But don’t… don’t expect me to do all the work. I’m literally about to pass out.”

You laugh softly, sliding your leg over his hip until you’re straddling him. “I told you,” you purr, leaning in to nibble at his ear again, “I’ll do everything. You just gotta lie there and let me use that gorgeous cock. Let me fuck your baby into me.”

A trembling exhale leaves him, and for a second, you think he might actually fall asleep mid-conversation. But then, he ruts upward, desperate, jaw clenched. “Don’t… say that if you’re not serious,” he warns, voice cracking from both arousal and exhaustion. “You know how I get when you mention… that.”

You smirk, shimmying your sweats off, aligning yourself with him. “Who says I’m not serious?” Another deliberate roll of your hips, letting the tip of his cock slide between your folds. “Wanna see you get all possessive, Hee. Wanna watch your face when you realize you can’t help but fill me up ‘til I’m stuffed with your cum.”

He hisses, fists gripping the sheets as you sink down on him. His eyes squeeze shut, a low groan vibrating in his throat. “You’re… so fucking wet,” he mutters. “God, babe, you’re insane.”

You start a slow grind, rolling your hips to coax him deeper. “Mm, blame yourself,” you tease, leaning in to brush your lips against his ear again. “You’re the one who made me this wet by… existing. By being so fucking adorable even when you’re grumpy.”

He exhales a laugh—somewhere between a scoff and genuine amusement—then clutches your hips, fingers digging in as he tries to thrust up. But you quickly pin him, reminding him of your promise that you’ll do the work. He shudders, letting his head fall back into the pillow, letting out a string of curses when your pace increases.

“Fuck… you’re—” he starts, but the words catch in his throat as you slam down harder. His hands slide up under your shirt, caressing your waist as he tries to hold on to some sense of control. But you can tell he’s close to just letting go.

“You gonna cum already, Hee?” you taunt sweetly, nails scratching lightly along his torso. “Gonna fill me up with your baby while you’re half-asleep?”

He practically growls, eyes fluttering open to glare at you in a haze of lust. “Shut up,” he groans, “you’re the one who started—fuck—this.”

The slide of his cock is delicious, each wet smack of your bodies echoing in the quiet. His face contorts with pleasure, and you can tell from the shaky moans that he’s right on the edge. Suddenly, he grips your thighs, forcing you down until you’re fully impaled, burying himself to the hilt.

A ragged cry leaves him. “Shit, babe—I’m… oh, fuck—” His eyes roll back as he spills inside you, warmth flooding your core. His entire body trembles, half-lidded gaze locked on the sight of you perched on his lap.

Panting, you watch him struggle to stay awake, a lazy grin spreading across his face. “God, you’re so—fucking—difficult,” he gasps out, voice raspy with exhaustion. “But… so good.”

You gently stroke his hair, leaning down to press a soft kiss to his lips. “Told you you’d like it.”

Heeseung groans again, arms wrapping around your waist. “Yeah, yeah. Now let me sleep,” he mumbles, eyes already fluttering shut. “Unless you want me to… pass out mid-round two.”

You laugh, settling over his chest, feeling the sticky warmth of his release still dripping between your thighs. “Mm, maybe I’ll let you get some rest, big boy.”

He half-smiles, nuzzling into your neck. “Why… are you so… horny… all the time…?”

You just chuckle, letting your fingers trace random patterns along his spine. “Maybe it’s because you’re so fucking irresistible, Hee.”

He makes a small, pleased sound—somewhere between a hum and a sigh—and finally drifts off, still inside you, arms locked around your waist like you might vanish if he loosened his grip.

You won this round—but at least he gets to sleep now… right?

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐉𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐧𝐠

Jay was out cold. Face half-buried in the pillow, arms stretched above his head, lounge pants slung low around his hips. He’d come home dead tired—only to doze off in that weird position where his eyes stayed half-open, like he was on autopilot even in sleep.

Meanwhile, you were in the bathroom, freshening up… and slipping into a brand-new black lace lingerie set. The bra was sheer enough to flaunt your nipples behind intricate lace, a garter belt hugged your hips, and the star of the show? Crotchless panties that revealed you in all the right places. The plan was to wake him gently—or, well, not so gently.

When you crept back into the bedroom, Jay let out a sleepy grunt, barely stirring. You flicked on the bedside lamp to a dim glow, stepping into his line of sight. He blinked once, confusion painting his features. Then he actually registered the lace.

His half-lidded gaze roamed you from head to toe, lingering on the straps across your thighs and the mouthwatering curve of your hips. “Mmph,” he muttered, voice thick with sleep. “Is that… new?”

You grinned, coming closer. “Wanna see the best part?” Without waiting for an answer, you lifted the edge of the delicate garter belt, letting him notice the open gap between your thighs.

His eyes snapped all the way open. “Fuck, are those… crotchless?”

“Mhm.” You tilted your hips, showing him exactly how very little was covered. The lace was basically framing your folds, leaving you entirely accessible. “Thought you’d like it, babe.”

A soft exhale left him as he tried to push himself upright. Sleep still clung to his movements, but the desire in his eyes was quickly burning away any drowsiness. “You’re so… fucking… I can’t even think.”

You slid onto the bed, hooking a leg over his hip. “So don’t think,” you teased, brushing your lips against his ear. “Just do what you do best… service top, right?”

He let out a quiet laugh, pressing a hand to his eyes. “God, you’re gonna kill me. I’m supposed to be passed out right now.”

Your answer was a playful nibble at his jaw. “But you won’t pass out. Because look at what I’m wearing—for you.”

He parted his fingers, peeking at you through them. “Yeah, well, you know I can’t resist that.” His hand dropped, sliding around to cup your ass, fingertips brushing the lace. “I mean, shit, you’re basically exposed but still so fucking sexy.” He swallowed hard, blinking away the last remnants of sleep. “Okay, okay, I’m awake now.”

Leaning back, you very purposefully let him see the parted crotch of your panties. “Let’s put them to use,” you murmured, your voice low.

Jay bit his lip, half a smirk forming. “You really want me to devour you right now, yeah?”

“You say that like it’s a question.” A single tug at his lounge pants exposed the growing outline of his cock, straining for attention. You pressed a palm over it, feeling him twitch. “I want to feel that mouth of yours first, though.”

He groaned, “Fuck… I can’t say no to you, can I?” Carefully, he pushed himself up, fluffing a pillow behind his head. The faint shadow of a grin on his lips. “Come here, let me see those crotchless panties up close.”

Your stomach fluttered as you crawled forward, positioning yourself above him—straddling his chest. You hovered for a moment, letting him admire the black lace hugging your thighs, the sheen of your arousal already evident.

His gaze flicked from your eyes to that sinful opening. “Christ,” he whispered, “they're so fucking—” He shook his head like he couldn’t find the words.

Taking it as a cue, you moved up, planting your knees on either side of his head. His hands automatically flew to your hips, steadying you. The closeness, the warmth—it was intense. One of his hands slid beneath the lace, and his breath caught when he felt how soaked you were.

“Damn,” he murmured, voice rasping with lust, “already this wet?”

You smirked, “I’ve been thinking about this all night.” Lowering yourself an inch more, you whispered, “You ready for me to ride your face, husband?”

A flash of pure hunger lit his eyes. “Fuck yes.” Then, half-lidded gaze locked on yours, he tugged you down the final distance, pressing his mouth directly to your exposed folds. The first caress of his tongue had you shivering, your entire body drawn tight.

“Jay…” you moaned softly, threading your fingers into his hair. The angle was perfect: he didn’t even have to remove the panties, just push the delicate lace aside with his nose, leaving you completely accessible to that talented mouth.

He started slowly—soft, deliberate licks that explored your folds. Each pass of his tongue was accompanied by a low hum of approval, a subtle roll of your hips. Then, gathering more confidence, he parted you further, letting his tongue delve deeper, swirling around your clit in lazy circles. You inhaled sharply, nails scraping his scalp, which earned a muffled groan from him.

Husband material, indeed.

“Shit…” you gasped, thighs trembling around his face. “God, you’re so— so good at this—“

His only response was a low chuckle, the vibrations making your toes curl. He pressed his tongue flat against your bundle of nerves, flicking it with just enough pressure to make your head spin. Each ragged breath, each swirl of his tongue, coaxed you closer to the edge.

Desperate to balance yourself, you gripped the headboard, half-riding his mouth in a rhythm that matched your ragged moans. The black lace framed his cheeks, reminding you again how easy it was for him to devour you in these crotchless panties. You bit your lip, panting harder.

He seemed to sense you edging near your climax, because he slid one hand up your thigh, hooking around the garter strap. With the other, he reached up to dig into your hips, urging you to bear more weight. And you obliged, pressing down, letting him bury his face fully against your heated core.

Your breath caught. “Jay… I’m gonna— oh fuck—“

He took that as permission, latching onto your clit with suction and a flick of his tongue that ripped a choked sob from your throat. The orgasm crashed over you, wave after wave of trembling pleasure, your thighs clamping around his head. He rode it out with you, licking and kissing through each aftershock.

When you finally released him, he gasped for air, lips slick with your arousal. But the grin on his face? Absolutely triumphant.

“Feel better?” he teased, voice still rough with lust. Before you could answer, he reached out, tugging you down for a messy kiss. You tasted yourself on his tongue, a heady mixture of heat and satisfaction.

You pulled away, chest heaving, eyes glazed. “Fuck, Jay… that was—“ “Yeah?” he murmured, half-smiling. “Think you can still handle me inside you, or did I wear you out?”

You let out a breathless laugh, “Oh, I can handle you. Don’t forget who started this.” Sliding off him, you kicked aside the sheets. “Now hurry up, big boy… you’re not going back to sleep until I’ve made you come at least twice.”

A crooked smirk tugged at his lips as he positioned himself over you, hooking his thumbs under the waistband of his sweats to shuffle them off. “You’re trying to kill me, huh?” Then, leaning in to nibble your ear, he whispered, “Glad you woke me up for this, wifey.”

Your only response was a blissed-out hum as he lined himself up, the crotchless panties conveniently parting to give him full access. Husband material? Absolutely. Service top? One thousand percent.

And you were about to enjoy every second of it.

𝐒𝐢𝐦 𝐉𝐚𝐞𝐲𝐮𝐧

Jake lay on his stomach, hair damp from a rushed shower, half-naked in a pair of boxers that barely clung to his hips. The clock on the nightstand blinked an unholy hour—he had football practice at sunrise, and he’d been moaning for the last hour about how he needed rest. Yet the moment you snuck onto the bed behind him, hooking your fingers under his waistband, his body betrayed all that whining.

“Stop,” he mumbled into the pillow, voice muffled and trembling with fatigue. “I—swear, I’m dying, I can’t do this.” Even as he spoke, you felt him twitch under your touch, a half-muffled groan escaping his lips. His half-lidded eyes flicked open, shooting you a watery glare. “You... you’re so damn pushy.”

With a soft smile, you trailed your nails along his back. “But you’re already half-hard, Jake,” you murmured, pressing a kiss just below his shoulder blade. “Look at you, complaining about sleep when your body obviously wants more.”

He huffed a pitiful laugh, letting his head turn on the pillow so you caught a glimpse of his flushed cheeks. “I—I can’t help it,” he stammered, eyes fluttering shut again. “If you keep going, I’ll... I’ll do something insane. I can’t even stand.”

A surge of excitement twisted in your belly. “Then eat me out from behind,” you suggested, your voice carrying a teasing, sultry note. “It won’t take much movement.”

Jake froze, letting out a ragged exhale. “God, you’re unstoppable. Fine. But if I pass out mid-lick, it’s on you.” He rolled slowly onto his side, hooking his arm around your waist to nudge you into position. His half-dead eyes scanned your body as you shoved your shorts down, arching your back, cheeks aflame. “Jesus,” he muttered, voice shaky, “you’re... so wet already. Are you really that needy?”

A tremor ran through you at his drowsy, borderline mocking tone. “Mhmm,” you breathed. “All yours, baby.”

“Don’t call me that,” he groaned, pushing your thighs apart as he knelt behind you. “I’m too tired for sweet talk.” He tugged your underwear free, letting it drop onto the sheets. The next second, his warm breath ghosted across your folds. “If I say something messed up, it’s your fault for pushing me this far.”

And with that, he latched on, tongue dragging a wet stripe through your slick. The shock tore a sharp moan from your throat. “Oh—Jake,” you gasped, fingers clenching in the sheets. “That’s— oh god—”

“Shut up,” he slurred, half-laugh, half-growl. “You asked for it.” He pressed his mouth tighter, swirling his tongue around your clit in sloppy, uncoordinated but devastating motions. Every time you jerked or whimpered, he let out a whiny grunt, eyes barely open, jaw slack with exhaustion. “Fuck, you taste so good. Hate you for making me do this when I’m half-dead. You— you little whore, waking me up... oh, shit.”

Your cheeks flamed at the nasty name, a sob-laced moan slipping out. “Jake, oh my god—”

He let out a broken giggle, hooking an arm around your hips to pin you in place. “I told you,” he muttered. “No filter. You’re basically my cocksleeve, right? Couldn’t even let me rest.” Another swirl of his tongue, and you felt him bitelightly at the undercurve of your ass.

A startled cry left your lips. “Jake, that hurts—”

“Shit, sorry,” he said, sounding half-dazed. “I— can’t help it.” Then, in a swift, delirious move, he latched onto the same spot, sucking until you knew it’d bruise. “Marking you up. My messy little bitch.”

Tears burned at your eyes from the mix of pleasure and stinging pain. Your nails dug into the mattress, breath coming in short, ragged pants. “N-never heard you talk like that,” you managed, voice trembling with arousal.

Jake half-laughed, half-whined. “Yeah, well, I never let myself go this far. Tired as fuck—makes me nasty.” He sealed his lips around your clit, sending a white-hot spark through your core. The sloppy suction and swirl of his tongue drove you to the brink in record time.

He let out a pitiful moan, half-lidded eyes threatening to shut completely. “Hurry up,” he mumbled, mouth dragging along your folds. “Come on my tongue so I can pass out. You’re so fucking tasty— shit, I love this, but I might die. So hurry.”

That final taunt threw you over the edge. You let out a wail, thighs trembling violently as a wave of ecstasy slammed through you. He groaned, lapping you through every aftershock until you collapsed forward, sweat beading along your spine, tears stinging your eyes from the intensity.

Jake pulled away, panting, chest rising and falling. “God,” he grumbled, pressing his forehead to your lower back, “that was insane. I can’t believe the shit I just said. My brain is mush.”

You gave a shaky little laugh, trying to catch your breath. “I... loved it,” you admitted, cheeks aflame. But a surge of leftover arousal still hummed in your veins. Turning your head, you shot him a pleading look. “Jake... I still want more.”

He stiffened, letting out a half-yell of frustration. “You want more?” he nearly shrieked, voice cracking. “I’m half-dead, woman. What else do you want from me?”

Biting your lip, you shifted around until you were kneeling to face him. “Let me ride you,” you whispered. “Just once. We can finish quick. Please?”

He glared at you with watery eyes, fury warring with raw lust, cheeks flaming. “Ugh, fine,” he snapped, hooking an arm around your waist. “Come on, then.”

He flopped onto his back, yanking down his boxers enough to free his cock. You saw how stiff he was, the tip gleaming with his own arousal. “Do it,” he mumbled, voice slurring. “Ride me. But if I fucking black out, that’s on you.”

Heart racing, you straddled him, letting your knees frame his hips. Leaning down, you murmured a soft “Thank you,” but he just grunted.

“Don’t thank me,” he mumbled, hooking his hands under your thighs. “Use me, you goddamn succubus.” Another delirious laugh, then in a shocking move, he grabbed your chin, tilting your face down. “Open,” he commanded, half-lidded gaze glinting.

You parted your lips in confusion, and he spat lightly into your mouth, the humiliating shock making your entire body jolt. “There,” he slurred, cheeks aflame. “You want filthy? I’m fucking filthy. Now move.”

A stunned moan escaped you. You swallowed reflexively, your mind spinning at the primal gesture. Then, carefully, you aligned yourself and sank onto his length, a gasping cry tearing from your throat as you fully impaled yourself.

He whined, eyes rolling back. “Fuck, that’s— so tight,” he whimpered, nails biting into your hips. “Can’t believe I’m letting you do this. You better ride me well, you slutty— oh god, you see? I can’t shut up.”

You started moving, thighs burning, the angle hitting deeper than you anticipated. He hissed, moaning loudly, half-laughing at how overwhelmed he felt. “Shit, you’re so wet,” he rasped, voice cracking into a higher pitch. “Keep going, keep grinding. I can’t do anything or I’ll collapse.”

Tears clung to your lashes from overstimulation, your earlier orgasm making you extra sensitive. His filthy words poured out in a half-slurred stream: “That’s it, fuck, you ride me so good. My pathetic whore, always wanting more, can’t get enough of my cock, can you? Gonna make me come so fast, oh god—”

Your own breath stuttered, hips rolling faster, each bounce driving you closer to a mind-shattering peak. “Jake,” you sobbed, nails scraping his chest. “I’m gonna— oh fuck— I can’t believe how filthy you are.”

He let out a pitiful yelp, hooking an arm behind your back to pull you down, letting his teeth graze your shoulder. “I’m filthy because of you,” he hissed, voice fracturing. “I— I want you screaming, baby. Scream for me.”

It all came crashing down: your body locked up, a desperate scream tore from your lips, tears streaming as your orgasm blindsided you. Jake moaned brokenly, hips jerking up even in his half-conscious state. He spilled inside you with a ragged cry, arms trembling to keep you close.

For a moment, you both stayed locked together, hearts racing, sweat glistening. Then Jake let out a raw, shuddering breath, hooking his hand around your neck in a softer hold, pressing quick, frantic kisses along your jaw and collarbone.

“Shit,” he whispered, voice still high and whimpery but now laced with guilt. “Oh god, I’m so fucking sorry, my baby,” he stammered, the tears in his eyes no longer just from exhaustion but from sudden remorse. “Did I hurt you? Did I say something awful? Fuck, I bit you, I— spat in your mouth, called you a whore. I’m so sorry, my beautiful wife, fuck, I’m so sorry.”

Your heart flipped at the sudden shift. “Jake,” you breathed, wiping his sweaty bangs aside. His cheeks were glowing, tears threatening to spill. “No, it’s okay,” you whispered, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. “I liked it, I promise. You didn’t hurt me in a bad way. It was perfect for me.”

He let out a shaky sigh, hooking an arm around your waist to bury his face against your chest. “I can’t believe I said all that. M’ just so tired, I can’t filter. I’m so sorry, my baby, my sweet girl— please forgive me,” he mumbled between kisses to your collarbone, each one almost frantic with guilt. “I love you, I love you— I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

You cradled his head, tears pricking your eyes for a different reason now. “I love you too,” you whispered, pressing your lips to his damp forehead. “It was so intense and raw, but I’m okay, truly.”

He let out another half-sob, half-laugh, relief flooding his features. “Thank god,” he murmured, letting his eyes finally drift shut as he clung to you. “You’re my baby, and I called you all those names— I just— oh my god.”

“Shh,” you soothed, brushing his cheek. “We’ll rest now, okay?”

He gave a small nod, exhaling the last of his tension. “Rest,” he echoed, voice spent. “I can actually sleep.” Another watery chuckle, then he pressed a tender, lingering kiss to your lips. “I love you,” he repeated in a near whisper, arms wrapping around you in a lazy embrace.

You settled against his chest, letting him roll onto his side so you both could fit under the covers. Despite the sticky heat and bruises you’d surely find in the morning, a drowsy peace enveloped you both. He drifted off, still half-mumbling apologies, and you held him close, heart full—knowing that no matter how filthy the night had been, the love that followed was unwavering and sweet.

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐒𝐮𝐧𝐠𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐧

Sunghoon was drifting in that half-awake, half-asleep realm—eyes heavy-lidded, cheek pressed into the pillow, hair messy from tossing around. He had one arm slung across his stomach, the other dangling off the bed, looking like he might doze off at any second.

You, on the other hand, had far too much energy. And far too many thoughts about your craving for roughness—particularly choking. But rather than just blurt it out, you wanted to theorize, to talk about the deeper psychology behind it… with him, while he was half-asleep.

So you scooted closer, your knee brushing his thigh. He grunted, eyes flickering open to a sliver.

“Sunghoon,” you started, voice low, “can we talk about something? Like, a deep… philosophical something?”

He exhaled, shifting onto his back and letting out a low groan. “Oh my God,” he muttered, obviously not thrilled. “You… want me to have a deep philosophical conversation right now?”

You nodded, biting your lip. “It’s about choking.”

He squinted, brow furrowed. “Choking. As in… me choking you.” His gaze darted to your throat, then back to your eyes.

“Mhm,” you confirmed, pushing a stray hair from his face. “I’ve been thinking about why I want it. Is it about trust? About letting go of control? Or, like, the raw primal side of us—”

He let out a weary groan, rolling his head toward the ceiling. “You’re a psycho,” he mumbled, not even bothering to keep his voice down. “Who the hell sits here and tries to dissect choking kink like it’s some academic thesis when I’m literally about to pass out?”

You tried not to laugh, pressing your palm to his chest. “I just think it’s interesting. I mean, it’s not just ‘I want you to choke me’—it’s why do I want you to choke me? Don’t you ever wonder about the deeper—”

“Shut up,” Sunghoon cut in, eyes pinching shut as if he could block you out. “Seriously. I’m too tired for your ‘fascinating deep dive’ on kinks.”

You arched a brow, half-smiling. “You can’t just bury your head in the sand.”

He let out a sharp exhale, turning onto his side so his back was partially to you. “Yes, I can,” he grumbled. “I can bury my head in this pillow. Then maybe I won’t have to listen to you psychoanalyze choking.”

Undeterred, you scooted closer, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “But Hoonie, imagine how hot it’d be if you pinned me against the wall, your hand around my throat, talking about how you’ll—”

He jerked away, letting out a soft snarl. “You’re seriously insane. Why the hell are you wanting a full lecture on me choking you? Just—shut up or I’ll… I’ll shut you up.”

You blinked, pulse skipping at the edge in his tone. “That sounds promising,” you teased, eyes glinting with excitement.

“Fuck’s sake,” he muttered, half-laughing despite himself. “You want me to choke you so bad?”

You nodded earnestly. “Yeah. And maybe call me your little slut or something—”

He shot you a scandalized look, half-lidded eyes burning with a mixture of exhaustion and sudden arousal. “Jesus,” he breathed, raking a hand through his messy hair. “You seriously don’t know when to quit.”

You grinned. “Nope.”

For a moment, he just stared, seemingly debating whether to actually indulge you or roll over and pass out. Then, with a low grunt, he shifted, turning all the way to face you. His hand came up, fingers wrapping lightly around your throat—not applying pressure yet, just resting there.

“This what you wanted?” he mumbled, gaze flicking over your face.

Your heart thumped as you nodded, pressing your neck into his palm. “Yes. I like it rough, and I trust you to not actually kill me,” you said, half-laughing.

He let out a short, exasperated snort, a lazy smile tugging at his lips. “You’re a menace.” Then, without warning, he tightened his grip—not painfully, but enough to send a bolt of arousal straight to your core.

A surprised gasp escaped your lips. “Hoon—”

“Shut up,” he repeated, voice suddenly dripping with that dark amusement you’d been craving. “You talk too damn much.”

Your cheeks flamed, the mixture of slight pressure on your windpipe and his rough tone making your skin prickle. “So you are interested in the ‘philosophy’,” you tried to joke, but he tightened his hold just enough to cut you off.

“I said shut up or I’ll do it for you,” he whispered, eyes half-lidded with sleep but blazing with intent. “Guess the best way to keep you from yapping is by fucking you speechless.”

Your pulse skyrocketed. “Then do it,” you challenged, letting your hand curl around his wrist lightly in a silent sign of both caution and consent. “Show me how you’d shut me up.”

Sunghoon let out a soft grunt, hooking his free arm around your waist to pull you flush against him. You could feel the hardness beneath his boxers pressing into your thigh—so apparently, he wasn’t too tired to get turned on.

“God, you’re so—” he started, but cut himself off, leaning in to capture your mouth in a rough, hungry kiss. The hand at your throat stayed in place, a persistent reminder of his quiet dominance. Every time you tried to speak, he muffled it with his lips, swallowing your protests or giggles.

A muffled moan left you, your body arching into his. He parted from the kiss only to growl, “Turn over,” voice heavy with drowsy impatience. “I can’t choke you properly like this.”

You complied in a heartbeat, flipping to your back. He followed, pinning you underneath him, knee nudging your legs apart. The weight of his hand on your throat never wavering, though it wasn’t enough to cut off your air—just a firm, possessive hold.

“How’s this?” he muttered, half-lidded eyes scanning your face. “Better for your psycho talk?”

You swallowed, breath shaky. “Mmm, yes. Love it,” you whispered, letting your hand cup his cheek. “Now maybe—”

He tightened his grip slightly, a cocky smirk curving his lips. “What part of shut up don’t you understand?”

Heat pooled between your legs, your lips parting in a silent moan. “H-hoon,” you stammered, cut off by a slight squeeze that halted your voice.

“Still talking,” he teased, leaning down to brush his lips over yours. Then, he thrust his hips forward, letting you feel his erection straining through the thin fabric of his boxers. “You want me to fuck you so badly, you can’t stop hammering on about it, huh?”

A strangled whimper escaped you, nodding fervently. The pressure on your neck, the sleepy yet intense glint in his eye—all of it was turning you on beyond belief.

Sunghoon snorted softly, sliding his hand from your throat to grab your jaw instead. “I’ll do it,” he murmured, hooking a thumb under your chin to tilt your head up, “but next time, pick a better moment for your philosophical kink talk. Deal?”

Before you could respond, he lowered his head, kissing along the line of your jaw while his free hand slipped beneath the waistband of your shorts. The chill of his fingers against your heated skin made you gasp, and he smirked at your reaction.

“God, you’re soaked,” he mumbled, eyebrows arching in mild surprise. “You really do get off on this, huh?”

You exhaled shakily, “Mm. Yeah. Hard choking… your rough side… everything.”

Sunghoon let out a quiet chuckle that bordered on an exasperated sigh. “You’re fucking insane,” he repeated, though he pressed a sweet, fleeting kiss to your lips that took the sting out of his words. “But I guess that makes two of us, because I’m into it.”

He parted your thighs, tugging your shorts down enough to expose you. Sliding himself free, he lined up, and in one swift push, sank into you with a low moan that made your toes curl.

He pinned you by the throat again—not enough to hurt, just enough to keep you from speaking easily. The sensation danced on the edge of adrenaline and euphoria, exactly what you’d craved.

“You want me to… slam you so hard you can’t think?” he panted, voice shaky from both fatigue and lust. “‘Cause I can do that.”

Your eyes fluttered, a wave of arousal washing over you. “Yes, please,” you gasped, reaching up to grab his wrist lightly, ensuring you could tap out if it got too intense.

He started thrusting, each roll of his hips pushing you deeper into the mattress. Your breathing stuttered around his hand, and it was glorious. Each stroke fed the craving you’d asked for: that borderline savage, primal taking, balanced by the knowledge he’d never actually harm you.

“Oh God, Hoon,” you moaned, nails raking down his bicep. “This is—”

He cut you off with a tighter squeeze, delivering a sharper thrust that stole any chance of finishing your sentence. “I said shut up,” he teased, though you could see the corners of his mouth tugging in a faint smirk. “Don’t you get it?”

Your retort died in your throat, replaced by a series of moans as he slammed into you harder, faster. The bed creaked with the force, and every breath you managed was ragged, tinted with the exhilarating rush of being pinned at the neck.

It didn’t take long before your body tensed, that coil in your lower belly about to snap. Sunghoon must’ve felt it, too, because he groaned, eyelids drooping with pleasure. “Fuck,” he muttered, “you’re so tight—gonna come too soon.”

You tried to reply, but all you got out was a choked moan as the orgasm washed over you, limbs trembling. He followed in short order, a broken cry escaping his lips as he spilled into you, hips stuttering with each wave of ecstasy. His grip on your throat eased, letting you gulp down air.

Panting and spent, he collapsed half on top of you, one arm bracing him so he didn’t crush you entirely. “You… are a fucking… menace,” he breathed, voice rough. “But God… that was so good.”

You gave him a languid smile, sliding your hand up to brush his damp hair from his forehead. “Thanks for indulging me,” you whispered, pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek.

He closed his eyes, letting out a tired laugh. “Yeah, yeah,” he mumbled. “Next time, remind me not to call you a psycho or you might bring up a million more kinks.”

You laughed softly, wrapping your arms around his neck. “Admit it, you love that I’m psycho.”

A half-snort. “Maybe,” he teased, snuggling closer. “But if you ever start another deep philosophical conversation about choking when I’m half-asleep, I might just choke you out of spite.”

“Promise?” you teased, eyes shining with amusement.

He kissed the corner of your mouth, letting his head flop onto your shoulder. “Shut up and go to sleep,” he murmured, voice drowsy again.

You both drifted off in that warm afterglow, your throat bearing the faintest trace of his grip—and your heart absolutely brimming with satisfaction. Because for all his complaints, Sunghoon had given you exactly the intense, borderline savage scene you’d been craving… with all the trust and love behind it.

𝐊𝐢𝐦 𝐒𝐮𝐧𝐨𝐨

Sunoo lay on his back, eyes half-shut, body sinking comfortably into the mattress. He wasn’t completely knocked out, but he was definitely hovering on the edge of slumber—breathing slow, shoulders rising and falling in a steady rhythm. From the dim glow of the bedside lamp, you could see his hair falling softly across his forehead, lips parted in a faint sigh. He looked adorable, all relaxed and unguarded.

A spark of arousal buzzed through you as you took in the sight of him, that subtle line of bare skin where his shirt had ridden up. You really wanted him, but not in the usual way—this time, you wanted your mouth on him. Swallowing the slight nerves, you slipped onto the bed, edging closer until you hovered just above his side.

“Sunoo,” you whispered, running your hand over his chest in gentle circles. “You awake?”

He breathed out a quiet exhale, lids fluttering open a fraction. “Mmh,” he responded, voice thick with sleep. “A little. Why?”

“Well,” you said, letting your palm drift lower toward his stomach, “I was thinking… I really want to take care of you tonight. With my mouth.”

His eyes opened a bit more, revealing that soft, drowsy confusion. “You… want to do that right now?” he murmured, eyebrows lifting slightly. “I’m kinda… half-asleep.”

A smile tugged at your lips. “I know. But just let me do the work, okay? You can lie there and relax.”

Sunoo let out a soft grunt, shifting onto his back more fully. “Alright,” he conceded, the corners of his mouth curving in a faint smirk. “Though I can’t promise I’ll be, like, super talkative or anything.”

You chuckled, leaning in to press a light kiss to his shoulder. “Don’t worry about talking. Just let me make you feel good.”

With that, you lifted the blanket, revealing his waist. He was wearing a loose pair of boxers, and from the slight shape beneath the fabric, you could tell his body was already responding, if only a little. Your hand slipped under the elastic, wrapping around the warm length of him. He inhaled sharply, eyelids falling shut again.

“Oh,” he breathed, biting his lower lip in a subtle show of anticipation. “You’re serious about this, huh?”

“Completely serious,” you teased, stroking him with a gentle motion to coax him fully hard. “Does it feel nice?”

He let out a low hum. “Yeah. Feels… good.” He wasn’t whiny—but the light rasp in his voice suggested a battle between comfort and arousal. “I was, like, thirty seconds away from dozing off, but now… you’re making me want more.”

“Mm, that’s exactly what I’m aiming for,” you murmured. “Lift your hips a bit?”

He complied, letting you slip the boxers down enough to free him. You settled between his legs, the blanket sliding down to pool around your knees, and watched as he dragged in a steadying breath. You couldn’t help but smile at how relaxedhe still seemed, even with the flush creeping into his cheeks.

Slowly, you lowered your head, pressing a soft kiss to the tip of his cock. Sunoo’s breathing hitched, and you heard him mutter something too low to catch—possibly your name. Then, you licked a gentle stripe across the head, tasting the faint salt of his skin. His stomach tensed under your palm.

“S-still tired?” you asked, voice quiet, lips ghosting over him.

He opened one eye halfway. “Tired, yeah,” he admitted, “but I’m definitely not complaining.” A lazy grin tugged at the corners of his mouth, and he let out a calmer breath. “Keep going.”

You did, taking him in deeper, inch by inch, letting your tongue swirl around him. Sunoo parted his lips in a soft moan, not loud, but filled with enough warmth to make your blood race. His hand drifted to your hair, a gentle touch that neither pushed nor pulled—just a sweet sign of appreciation.

“Feels… amazing,” he murmured, breathing more heavily now. “Like I could drift off, but also… can’t, because you feel too good.”

Your heart fluttered at that. You began a slow, steady rhythm—bobbing your head, stroking the base with your hand, letting each motion draw out another quiet moan or short, content sigh from him. He didn’t whimper or whine—he just exhaled in these controlled, hushed groans, the edges of sleep still clinging to his voice.

“God,” he whispered, eyelids flickering shut again. “You’re so good at that.”

Encouraged, you took him deeper, relaxing your throat, letting him feel more of your warmth. His spine arched slightly, and you heard the sheets rustle as he bunched them in one fist.

“Mm,” he hummed, letting out a shaky breath. “You’re… making it hard to stay calm.” Even half-asleep, there was a sweet chuckle layered with arousal in his tone.

You smiled around him, pumping the rest of his length with your hand in time with each bob of your head. The slick sound of your mouth on him filled the quiet bedroom, and he exhaled in something that approached a groan, head lolling to the side.

When you glanced up, you saw that his eyes were still mostly closed, though his mouth formed a small ‘o’ with each ragged breath. “You good?” you asked softly, lifting your head just enough to speak.

He nodded, letting out an unsteady sigh. “Y-yeah, keep going. Please.” Another short laugh. “I can’t… believe how chill this feels”

You took that as your cue to slip him back inside your mouth, swirling your tongue against the underside. This time, he gave a longer, deeper moan, hips pressing up involuntarily—though not forcefully enough to choke you. You found a perfect synergy in that moment: him too sleepy to control everything, and you fully in the driver’s seat.

Eventually, his breath grew more labored, each inhale trembling with need. The subtle push of his thighs told you he was close to the edge. You hollowed your cheeks, moving quicker, coaxing him toward that release.

“Ah— oh, fuck,” he muttered, voice taut, a slight tremor in his thighs. “I’m— I think— yeah, ‘m gonna… oh God—”

His back arched off the bed, a sudden wave of pleasure making him jerk. He came with a few short thrusts, and you stayed with him, swallowing everything he gave you, feeling his entire body shudder beneath your hands. A breathy, almost disbelieving moan escaped him, half-lost in the pillow he’d turned his face into.

The aftershocks lingered, and you eased off him slowly, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. He blinked up at you, eyes drowsy but deeply satisfied.

“That was…” he breathed, a serene smile curving his lips. “God, you’re… incredible. I can’t even form words properly.”

You crawled back up to his side, pressing a gentle kiss to his flushed cheek. “You don’t have to form words. Just rest. I got what I wanted,” you teased softly.

A soft chuckle left him, and he slipped an arm around your waist. “You’re so smug,” he murmured, letting his eyes drift shut again. “But I’m not complaining.” Another quiet breath, and he nuzzled into your hair. “Loved it, truly. Thank you.”

You snuggled closer, resting your head on his shoulder. “Anytime, Sunoo. Sleep well.”

He let out one last contented exhale, drifting back toward that drowsy serenity. Because even if he was exhausted, he’d let you do anything to keep you satisfied—and you both wouldn’t have it any other way.

𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐠 𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠𝐰𝐨𝐧

Jungwon sprawled on the bed, face half-buried in the pillow, shirt ridden up around his ribcage, one foot sockless. He looked so done with the world—like all he needed was unconsciousness to recharge his soul. The moment you crawled on the mattress, he let out a theatrical groan.

“Don’t,” he muttered, voice thick with fatigue, “just…don’t. I’m literally about to pass out.”

You snickered, resting a palm on his exposed waist. “You always say that, but then two minutes later, you’re losing your mind.”

He nudged your hand away, letting his head roll to the side so he could half-glare at you. “Because you never give me peace,” he grumbled. “You’re always whispering disgusting things until I can’t think straight. I’m exhausted, and you’re about to—”

You silenced him by lifting two fingers to his lips. He blinked, eyebrows arching in confusion, but parted his mouth anyway, letting you slip them in. The instant his tongue met your skin, a tremor of lust sparked in your belly. He sucked lazily, half-lidded eyes drifting shut like he might as well indulge before dozing off.

He popped them out with a soft, wet sound, cheeks noticeably pink. “I can’t believe you,” he groaned, flicking a glance downward. “You see this?” He gestured at his shorts, where a distinct bulge now strained. “I was about to sleep. Now I have a boner. This is your fault.”

A smug grin curled your lips. “Your body can’t resist me,” you teased, trailing your hand to the waistband of his shorts.

He grunted. “No, my body can’t resist your filthy mouth. Big difference.” Then, with a dramatic sigh, he pushed your hand away. “I’m so done. Done.”

You let your palm slip lower, purposely brushing his stiffening cock beneath the fabric. He sucked in a breath, eyes widening. “Stop,” he hissed, half-laughing in exasperation. “God, you’re unbearable. Just say your nasty line about wanting me to ‘fuck you ‘til you cry.’”

You leaned down to whisper in his ear. “I want you to fuck me ‘til I cry, Jungwon. That’s exactly it. And I know you want that too, even if you’re too tired to admit it.”

He twisted, half trying to turn away, half pressing closer. “I swear to God, you’re an actual menace,” he spat. But you felt the twitch under your fingers, proving he couldn’t resist. “Fine,” he mumbled. “If I ruin you, don’t come whining tomorrow.”

In a flash of frustration-laced lust, he flipped you onto your back, pulling down your shorts in one yank. You barely had time to blink before he thrust inside you—harsh, sudden. Your eyes watered from the abrupt stretch. A startled cry tore from your lips.

“Fuck,” you gasped, clinging to his shoulders. “Jungwon—holy—”

He exhaled shakily, setting a pace that felt half-punishment, half-lust. “You asked for rough,” he grumbled, each thrust knocking a breathy sob from your throat. “I was about to conk out, and now I’m pounding you. Don’t whine about it.”

Tears already pricked at your eyes from the intensity, stinging and exquisite all at once. “D-don’t worry,” you whimpered, voice hitching. “I love it—God, you’re so—”

“Shut it,” he murmured, an edge to his tone, though his cheeks flamed red at the sight of tears spilling down your cheeks. “You want to cry? Fine, cry for me.”

The tension built alarmingly fast, each collision of his hips pushing you higher. Tears blurred your vision, your nails biting into his arms. Suddenly, that coil in your belly snapped, a hot rush of fluid spattering out. You let out a raw scream, mortified yet overwhelmed by pleasure.

Jungwon froze mid-thrust, eyes wide. “What the—?” He felt the warmth drenching his thighs, and a flicker of disbelief crossed his face. “You just…did you squirt?”

Fresh tears streamed as you half-sobbed, half-laughed. “I—I think so. Oh my god, I’ve never—”

“Holy shit,” he breathed, blinking down at the slick coating your inner thighs and his stomach. “That’s…” A shaky laugh escaped him. “That’s fucking hot.”

Without warning, he pulled out, ignoring your tremors, and shoved your thighs apart to inspect the wetness. You burned with embarrassment and leftover pleasure, tears still dripping. “Jungwon,” you started, but he was already leaning down, pressing a slow, messy lick to your oversensitive folds.

A gasp wrenched from your chest, oversensitivity slamming into you. “Wait—no—I can’t—”

He groaned against your skin, lapping up the fluid with a low, humming satisfaction. “God,” he muttered, “I was so done with you, but I need to taste this.” His tongue slid in broad, lazy strokes, ignoring your sobs of overstimulation.

You could barely see through the tears, your body twitching. “I—I’m so sensitive, oh my god—”

“Too bad,” he mumbled, pulling back at last, chest heaving. He looked at you with a crazed mix of exhaustion and pure, unhinged lust. “I can’t believe how unbelievably fucking hot that was. I didn’t even know you could do that. Didn’t think I could get so turned on by it.”

Your cheeks flamed, tears still welling. “I—I didn’t know either,” you whispered. “I thought you were tired…”

He snorted, wiping the back of his hand across his chin. “I am tired. But guess what?” He nudged his still half-erect length, letting you see how it bobbed for attention. “You just woke me up. And now, I want more.”

A watery laugh escaped you. “You’re unstoppable,” you teased.

“Apparently,” he said dryly, hooking a hand under your knee. “Now, come here, baby. Sit on my face. Squirt on my face this time.”

Your heart stumbled, adrenaline spiking. “You can’t be serious— I might actually die if I come again.”

He flashed you a half-deranged grin. “Then die. Don’t think you can just do that once and get away scot-free.”

Before you could form a coherent protest, he manhandled you upward, guiding your trembling thighs until you hovered above his mouth. Tears still clung to your lashes, the entire bottom half of your body throbbing. “Careful,” you choked, bracing your arms on the headboard.

Jungwon gripped your hips, ignoring your oversensitivity. “No complaining,” he muttered, eyes gleaming with challenge. “If you squirt again, it better be on my face. Understand?”

You gave a weak nod, tears slipping anew. The moment you lowered yourself, he latched on, mouth devouring your slickness in messy, hungry motions. You let out a wail, overstimulation rocking your core. “Jung— oh God—”

He hummed a response against you, the vibrations almost too much. Your thighs shook, tears dripping off your chin. You felt his tongue swirl around your clit, each motion a jolt of borderline painful pleasure.

Sobs caught in your throat. “It’s— too strong, oh god, please—”

He just pulled you down more firmly, his grip relentless, his own breath ragged. Even from above, you could see him half-rolling his eyes like, This is what you get. “Wanted me so bad, wanted to cry,” he murmured between licks. “Deal with it.”

Surprisingly, you didn’t squirt again this time, but you came dangerously close, tears pouring as you trembled on the edge of blacking out. Finally, he released you, chest heaving, face shining with your fluids. He managed a tired smirk, eyes glazed with leftover adrenaline.

“Look at you,” he said, voice low. “You’re crying, you’re half-dead, and I’m still fucking hard. This is your fault.”

You collapsed to his side, breath stuttering, tears still on your cheeks. “I—I know,” you croaked, adrenaline crashing into exhaustion. “Sorry, guess that means no sleep for either of us.”

He snorted, half-laughing at the absurdity. “Guess so.”

Then, ignoring every complaint he’d had about being done, he buried his face in your neck. “You might’ve awakened something in me,” he muttered, eyes drifting shut with a lazy grin. “So next time, watch your filthy mouth… or maybe don’t.”

Despite everything, warmth spilled through you at his words. “I won’t,” you whispered, resting a shaky hand on his cheek. “I like turning you into this insane version of yourself.”

Jungwon just let out a short laugh, hooking an arm around your waist. “Then don’t blame me when you cry and squirt all over the place again,” he quipped, pressing a small, affectionate kiss to your temple.

Your entire body still hummed with leftover pleasure and oversensitivity, tears drying against your skin. But there, wrapped up in his arms, both of you wide awake and sticky, you couldn’t imagine wanting to be anywhere else. Sleep? That could wait.

Because with Jungwon complaining and you pushing every button, the night had only just begun.

𝐍𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐦𝐮𝐫𝐚 𝐑𝐢𝐤𝐢

Riki was sprawled face-down on his bed, still wearing his loose training shorts, hair damp from a quick shower. He looked done for the day—exhausted posture, half-buried face in the pillow, letting out random grunts that signaled just how close he was to passing out. The bedside clock read 10:47, and he had to be up at 4 AM for football practice. Yet here you were, creeping onto his bed, brimming with a plan that definitely wasn’t “sleep.”

He let out a muffled groan the second he felt the mattress dip under your weight. “Don’t,” he mumbled, not even lifting his head. “I’m a dead man walking in six hours if I don’t sleep. Whatever insane idea you have, can it wait?”

You grinned, moving to sit beside him. “But,” you cooed, laying a gentle hand on his back, “I want to try your favorite position.”

He froze for a second, letting out a short laugh that sounded half in disbelief. “My—my favorite position? That’s what this is about?” A resigned sigh left him, and he half-turned his head so one eye peeked out from the pillow. “You pick now, of all times, to bring that up?”

You shrugged, rubbing soft circles over the dip of his lower back. “I can’t help it. You talked it up so much, said it was the best feeling in the world. If it’s your favorite, I’m curious.”

He groaned dramatically, rolling onto his side, blinking up at you like he was the sole survivor of a disaster. “I do love it. But it’s, like, really…involved. And I have to be up at four. If we do this, I’ll get, what, five hours of sleep max?”

“And you’ll be unstoppable on the field,” you teased, sliding your hand up to his waist. “Trust me, you’ll feel amazing.”

He parted his lips to argue—only to draw a sharp breath when your hand brushed dangerously close to the obvious bulge forming beneath his shorts. “You see?” he complained, half-laugh, half-whine. “I was literally about to pass out, but you had to show up with that filthy grin and mention my favorite position. Now I’m awake in the worst possible way.”

Your grin spread wider. “Worst for your sleep schedule, maybe. Best for me.”

He snorted, pushing himself up on one elbow. “Fine,” he muttered, dragging a hand over his face in exasperation. “Fine. But I swear if you make me come so hard I can’t function in the morning, it’s on you.” He pressed his lips together, cheeks pink. “And if we do this, you better not bail halfway. My favorite position’s kinda—intense.”

“Deal,” you said sweetly, hooking a finger into the waistband of his shorts. “Show me. Or are you too chicken?”

That got him. “Oh my god, you’re the worst,” he muttered, cheeks burning as he scooted onto his knees, motioning for you to get into place. “You remember how I told you to—yeah, yeah, just turn around.” He gestured for you to face away from him, then pulled at your clothes, yanking them free of your hips. “I still can’t believe I’m doing this. I should be unconscious.”

You bit your lip, a flush creeping up your cheeks as you positioned yourself the way he’d once described—one leg bent, the other extended a bit, letting him fit behind you. “Then don’t think,” you teased softly. “Just do.”

He exhaled a half-laugh, half-groan, hooking one arm around your waist. “Don’t blame me,” he warned, “when you can’t handle how good this is.” Then, in a quick motion, he pushed his shorts down enough to free himself, pressing his cock against you. You shivered at the heat, bracing for the rush.

When he thrust in, it was sudden, deeper than expected, and you let out a shocked moan. He dropped his forehead against your shoulder, letting out a shaky exhale. “See?” he mumbled, voice vibrating with frustrated lust. “This is why it’s my favorite. Angles, control…so good.” A half-smile twitched on his lips, despite his annoyed tone.

You whimpered a bit, arching into him. “Okay, I get it,” you breathed, heart pounding. “It’s—really intense from this angle.”

He let out a breathless laugh. “Told you. You said you wanted to try it.” Carefully, he adjusted his stance, starting a slow, deliberate rhythm that made the muscles in his arms flex as he guided your hips to match him. Each motion was potent, a targeted friction that drew gasps from your throat. His tiredness seemed to fuse into this almost savage focus on the pleasure. “God,” he whispered, voice cracking, “you feel so…holy crap.”

You couldn’t form coherent words, overwhelmed by how every thrust hit that perfect spot. Your nails bit into the sheets, a half-laugh falling from your lips. “You’re sure you’re about to pass out?” you teased, breath hitching.

He grumbled, burying his face in the crook of your neck. “Shut up,” he whispered, laughter stirring in his chest. “I’m so tired, but my body’s going insane.” He rolled his hips, hitting even deeper, and you let out a strangled moan that made him smirk. “Mmm, yeah, that’s it,” he mumbled, eyes fluttering. “This is it. Best position for a reason.”

Your body trembled, overwhelmed by the relentless strokes that seemed to find every nerve. It was filthy and comedic all at once—Riki complaining about his schedule yet pounding into you like he had all the time in the world. Overstimulation built quickly, pleasure surging, your cries getting louder.

“R-Riki,” you gasped, voice quivering on the edge. “I’m so close—”

“I can tell,” he muttered, breath ragged. “God, I can barely keep my eyes open, but I can feel you clenching. That’s insane.” He upped the pace, a low moan slipping out when you squeezed tight, your walls fluttering around him. His own voice wobbled with nearing release. “We’re finishing this fast, okay? I can’t do a marathon tonight.”

You nodded frantically, each thrust a jolt to your system. Overstimulation soared, your body threatening to snap. “I’m close, I’m—”

“Me too,” he cut you off, letting out a soft whine of disbelief. “That’s what you get for messing with me right before bed. Gonna—gonna come—” He let out a guttural moan, hips snapping roughly as he lost himself in the final moments.

You fell headlong into orgasm with a cry, your nails scraping the sheets, body seizing around him. He followed you with a broken groan, spilling inside you as his thighs tensed. For a moment, you both froze, locked together, breathing ragged. Then he stumbled back, pulling out with a shaky laugh that wobbled in his chest.

“Damn,” he panted, half-laughing through the haze. “That was—like, the best worst idea. I’m definitely half-dead now, but I can’t even be mad.”

You let out a tired laugh, letting your arms and legs sprawl. “So…worth it,” you managed, face flushed, body still humming from the overstimulation. “Your favorite position is no joke.”

He dropped onto his back next to you, chest heaving as he stared at the ceiling. “I told you,” he murmured, a lazy grin on his lips, “I’m unstoppable in that position. Good thing we went quick, though, ‘cause I can literally feel my eyelids shutting as we speak.” He peeked over at you, cheeks still warm. “You satisfied, demon?”

“Very,” you replied, wiggling closer to press your lips to his damp shoulder. “Now you can sleep, unstoppable football star.”

He chuckled, letting his arm drape over your waist to tug you in. “If I show up tomorrow and pass out mid-drill, it’s on you,” he teased, burying his face in your hair. “But I guess it was worth it.”

As you both settled under the covers, hearts still pounding, you marveled at how he remained half-lidded with exhaustion yet so unbelievably satisfied. Tomorrow’s early morning might be brutal, but neither of you regretted diving into that comedic, filthy chaos for the sake of his favorite position. If anything, it just made the night that much sweeter—and the morning that much more hilariously challenging.

fin.

guys this was insane sorry abt that where did all thsi even come from

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