#button ripple effect

[divinector]

Buttons with Ripples Animation on Click

[akkivee]

fight-o ichiro!!!!!!!!!!

[whoevenisjavier]

sugar coated, lies unfolded

pairing: CEO harry castillo x exec. assistant f! reader

summary: you try to stay away, to do the right thing, but somehow, you end up back in your boss’ bed... well, your boss and his wife’s bed.

part 1 here

tags/warning: +18, mdni. harry castillo is 48 and married. reader is 25 and has a boyfriend. age gap. cheating. f!reader. partners dissing. oral sex (f! receiving). unprotected piv. anal fingering. she does stuff to him while his wife is on the phone i’m sorry.

w/c: 10k

Someone is talking about the ripple effects of the Forbes cover on New York’s business scene, explaining how the new feature on Harry Castillo will influence decisions made by investors and agents, especially now that Castillo & Co. is expanding operations in Asia.

“It’s an unbelievable feat to be on the cover of Forbes twice in just twenty months,” the public relations manager is saying.

You jot down the word unbelievable on your iPad before the rest of the sentence drowns in flashbacks from the night before, flooding your brain like quicksand made of memories, tastes, and touches.

You shift in your chair, wishing you were anywhere but a conference room at eight-thirty in the morning, and your gaze, though fixed on your tablet screen, starts to blur around the edges.

Between your legs is tender, deliciously sore in all the right ways after being claimed by the thick length of Harry until almost two in the morning, when he finally dropped you off at home.

You didn’t even make it to the bed in his Lenox Hill apartment. You had sex on the white oak floor in the living room, on top of a blanket, desperate, and everything on you is sensitive today.

You slept with your boss. You actually slept with your boss.

God. Harry has such a filthy mouth.

Someone calls your name.

“Do you think he’d want that?”

Your eyes meet those of Harry’s personal PR manager, who has one brow raised. You like her. She’s sharp and direct and doesn’t have time to waste, a trait that’s written all over the look she’s giving you now.

“Sorry, I didn’t catch that,” you admit. “What was the question?”

An impatient sigh.

“I asked if you think Harry would want to talk about his career journey.”

“No,” you say immediately. “He covered that in the last interview, and he’ll kill someone if he has to answer the same questions again.”

The intern to your left scrambles to erase something from her own iPad.

When you leave the meeting, it’s settled that Harry’s next interview will be with Forbes, set to be edited and published on a rush schedule. Now you need to inform him, schedule the interview, send ten thousand emails.

You press the elevator button and wait. When the doors finally open on your floor—Media, Marketing, and Advertising—there are three people inside, and your boss is one of them.

Your first instinct is to stay put, but one of the men is holding the door open for you, and Harry is looking at you with an unreadable expression. Everyone knows the two of you get along well, so you can’t exactly not step in.

“Good morning,” you say as you enter, greeted politely by the other two men. You stop beside Harry, both of you facing forward, side by side. “Good morning, Harry.”

“Morning.”

His tone is polite and to the point, as it always is when other people are around.

The doors close. The elevator screen shows stops on the fifth and seventh floors before heading to the fifteenth, where Harry’s office is. Background music resumes while you focus on breathing mechanically, because even that feels too tense right now.

Is he thinking about how he practically begged to come inside you twice?

The elevator stops. One of the men steps out, exchanging good mornings.

At some point last night, he brought up your boyfriend while he was still inside you, and you wanted to kill him for it, because your body was torn between being turned on by the wrongness of it all and feeling sorry for your partner, who was probably asleep at that hour, completely unaware of how his name was being dragged through the situation. But then the irrational possessiveness bug bit Harry and he made you admit your boyfriend didn’t fuck you nearly as well.

The elevator stops again. The last person exits, leaving just you and Harry in the confined space. The music starts up again.

Harry speaks first.

“Did I hurt you?” he asks quietly, still looking ahead.

“What do…” you start to say, then remember how, toward the end of the night, you told him you were so sensitive between your legs, something Harry then soothed with his own tongue. “No, you didn’t hurt me.”

“You complained.”

“I made an observation,” you clarify. “Because it’s true. You and my boyfriend are different. And with you, it was hours.”

He says nothing.

“We said we wouldn’t talk about this at work,” you remind him. “Last night didn’t happen.”

The doors open on your floor, and Harry, without addressing your last comment, holds them open for you to exit first. You both begin walking to your respective places — your desk, his office — and you slip back into your executive assistant persona. The one who doesn’t know what his sweaty skin smells like, how his kiss tastes, or the sound of that deep groan when whispered into your ear.

“I need to talk to you about the Forbes interview,” you call after him. “Can we schedule a meeting at three?”

“Yes. Put it on the calendar, please,” he says without slowing down or looking back.

He enters his office and shuts the door behind him, which means: do not disturb.

So you don’t.

You and Harry are good actors. That you gotta admit.

For the next three weeks, nothing happens. He’s your boss, you’re his assistant, and that’s the only dynamic that exists between you. The world keeps spinning. And you don’t get fired, which was a very real possibility in the mental report you filed the morning after that night.

You start arriving earlier so you don’t have to stay late, which means you don’t have to be alone with him. Harry stops sending cryptic messages about his meetings. He also stops emerging from his office when you walk in wearing the red dress he once said he loved.

Three weeks later, on a Friday at four p.m., Harry steps out of his office and walks over to your desk.

You look up from the Excel spreadsheet where you’re logging his personal expenses and ask politely,

“Can I help you, Harry?”

“Are you going to the cocktail party?”

He’s talking about the Castillo & Co. event tomorrow night, celebrating the release of the Forbes issue featuring his new interview.

“Yes, of course. Do you need something?”

“I need you to come with me to the tailor and take the suit to my apartment. I’ve got something at six, won’t have time to go back to my house.”

“Okay. Now?”

“Now.”

You nod, like the good assistant you are, and save the file before shutting down your computer.

In silence, you both head down to the parking garage and slide into the back seat of Harry’s car. His driver is already behind the wheel. Harry immediately crosses one leg over the other, foot bouncing, and pulls out his phone. You turn toward the window as the car leaves the underground lot.

This is the first time you two are in a car together after that night, that had felt so different.

Harry had dismissed the driver, so he was the one behind the wheel. The silence back then was heavy with anticipation, tension, and the electric certainty that something was going to happen. When he stopped at a red light, he leaned across the console to kiss you and slid a hand under your skirt, pressing against you through your underwear in a way that made you feel completely, undeniably his.

You squeeze your thighs together and close your eyes, steadying your breath.

The moment shatters with the sound of your phone. You glance down and see “baby” on the screen — your boyfriend. You’d asked him to call to plan dinner.

Shit. Perfect timing.

“Hey, babe,” you say softly. In your peripheral vision, you catch Harry’s foot stilling. Your boyfriend is cheerful, loud enough that Harry can probably hear every word. He asks if you’re still at the office. “No, I’m heading to the tailor with Harry, then I’ll go straight to your place. Is that okay?”

He says it is. Says he bought a special bottle of wine because the pink label reminded him of you—your favorite color—and the ache in your chest tightens.

“You’re so sweet to me,” you say, and maybe it’s just in your head, but your voice sounds too guilty. He tells you that you deserve it. You don’t know what to say, so you ask, “Do you want me to pick anything up for dinner?”

He says no. Says he just wants one thing from you. You lower your voice.

“What do you want?”

The car is dead silent. Your phone volume is up too high when he says, “I want you on the kitchen counter, wearing nothing but your panties, while I cook.” That’s your assignment, he adds.

You let out an awkward little laugh, praying Harry didn’t catch it.

“Deal,” you say. “See you tonight.”

When you hang up, Harry isn’t on his phone anymore. He’s just staring out the window, unreadable.

You arrive at the tailor and the driver opens your door. Harry joins you on the sidewalk and, for the first time in nearly a month, places a guiding hand at the base of your back as you walk inside. He used to do that all the time, but apparently that kind of touch was banned after what happened between you.

The receptionist greets you and leads you to one of the private fitting rooms. Three of the walls are mirrors and two velvet couches sit in the corner. There’s a tray with water and candied orange peels, and, In the center of it all, is the raised circular platform where Harry usually stands during fittings.

She shows him the suit, neatly arranged on two hangers, and tells him to try it on. Then she leaves, shutting the door behind her.

You head straight for one of the couches, which makes Harry’s hand fall away from your back.

“Want me to wait outside?” you ask, out of habit, as you sit down. You’ve done this a dozen times.

“Nothing you haven’t seen,” he says, pulling off his shoes.

You resist the urge to roll your eyes.

Off comes the blazer, placed on the rack. Then the watch and the cufflinks are dropped into the tray. Then come the buttons—first the sleeves, then the collar, all the way down…

You clear your throat and open your phone, responding to emails, not looking at him.

“So your boyfriend cooks for you,” Harry says casually.

And just like that, you know he heard everything.

Half his chest is exposed. He’s not even looking at you as he untucks his shirt and slides it off, standing shirtless in front of you, wearing only slacks.

“Yeah, he likes to cook.”

“Is it a special occasion?”

“Does it have to be?” you counter, eyes glued to your screen.

“Just asking.”

He unbuttons his pants, and you lock your gaze on your phone.

“Anniversary,” you finally say, which makes you realize that you’ll need new lingerie for tonight.

“What if he proposes again? Will you say yes?”

“Harry,” you say firmly, lifting your gaze now that he’s put on the dress pants. “That’s none of your business. You pay me to manage your life, but that doesn’t mean you get to know everything about mine.”

“I love how passive-aggressive you get when I bring up your relationship. You hate it.”

“I don’t hate my boyfriend.”

“I didn’t say you hate your boyfriend. I said you hate your relationship.”

He starts buttoning the newly fitted shirt, and his tone is so maddeningly casual you feel heat rising in your chest.

“You just want me to hate my relationship so you can feel a little better,” you say, holding your fingers up, barely apart, “just this much better, about the fact that you hate yours too.”

“I don’t need to feel better about it. I know the truth. If we didn’t hate our relationships, we wouldn’t have had sex.”

“We agreed not to talk about it.”

“Oh, that again. Has it helped? Not talking about it has made you think about it any less?”

You lock your phone and set it aside. Adjust yourself on the couch and look directly at him. Your voice stays quiet, but sharp.

“Of course not, but what do you want me to do? I’m in a relationship, you’re married, we have lives, and I need my job. And even if I do think about that night, I can’t do anything about it. So yeah, it’s better to pretend.”

“So you do think about it.”

“If that’s what strokes your ego, then fine, yes. I think about it. There hasn’t been a single damn day since that night that I haven’t remembered it. It haunts me.”

Harry finishes buttoning his shirt, tucks it in, then slips on the blazer. The suit fits like a glove. Every seam perfect, every line flattering.

“I told you I had morals,” Harry says quietly after a beat. “But I put them aside for you. And now, here I am, with none, asking you to keep going.”

Your heart stumbles.

“Keep going what?”

“What started that night in my office. I’m not going to ask you to break up with your boyfriend, and I won’t promise I’ll divorce my wife. I can sign a five-year job security agreement if that’s what it takes to make you feel safe. But I want you.”

“This won’t work.”

“Do you want it?”

What a stupid question. You nearly die a little every day from how much you want him.

But your answer never comes, because the tailor opens the door and walks in, greeting Harry cheerfully.

And now you can’t stop thinking

You think about it as you head to Harry’s apartment to drop off his suit, ignoring the pair of gold hoops on the entryway table that make it painfully obvious he’s a married man. You think about it later, when you go to your boyfriend’s place and undress for him. And even later, in the shower, when you notice the mark he left near your breast while you were having sex.

This has absolutely no chance of ending well, and you’ve never been the kind of person who lets irrational impulses get in the way of your career. But for the first time… you’re tempted.

And the worst part? You can’t tell anyone. Maybe your therapist, but she’ll just say again how unhealthy this dynamic is, and you don’t want to hear that. And you don’t trust her that much with this kind of secret.

You think about it as you get ready for Harry’s cocktail party, aching to see him and hoping for permission to touch him.

Your boyfriend approaches, eyes wide when he sees you in the strapless red gown, and lets out a whistle.

“Are you sure I’m even allowed to be seen with you tonight?” he teases, wrapping his arms around you from behind and kissing your neck. “You look gorgeous. Stunning dress.”

“Harry gave it to me. Well, he gave me the money and his personal shopper bought it,” you say, because there’s no way you could afford a Schiaparelli, and your boyfriend is used to hearing about the things Harry buys you whenever there’s an event.

All so you look presentable as Harry Castillo’s executive assistant, of course.

“Of course he did,” your boyfriend says, rolling his eyes. “Ready?”

When you arrive at Castillo & Co.’s event hall, hand in hand with your boyfriend, you realize that, no, you’re not ready. The decor is tasteful and elegant in shades of fawn, black, and ice white and everyone is in black-tie. At the back of the room, a digital display showcases the Forbes cover. Harry looks amazing in the photo, completely fitting for the role he holds, but the headline reads: From Concrete to the Top of the World.

He must’ve hated that.

“Do we have fancy whiskey?” your boyfriend asks as you start to cross the room. “And shrimp cocktail?”

The questions are rhetorical. Before you can answer, he plants a loud kiss on your lips and heads off toward the food tables. You watch him walk away, wishing he stayed with you, but then a waiter offers you a glass of champagne and you accept. You walk toward the edge of the room, and sip while scanning the space.

People are gathered in polished little clusters, all impeccably dressed and beaming. But there’s a larger group crowded around one person, and the reason is Harry, who’s speaking with ease and commanding the social scene with effortless charm, looking absolutely delicious in a tux.

Your view is partially blocked when his wife appears beside him, placing a hand on his forearm, looking radiant in a white off-shoulder draped gown. Without stopping his sentence or glancing her way, Harry slips an arm around her waist.

She seems to glow under his touch. You understand the feeling, despite the hundred-pound weight settling in your stomach.

How ridiculous, to feel jealous of the wife. You are the wrong one, not her. And how twisted is it that, beneath the jealousy, there’s a flicker of satisfaction because Harry wants you, not just her?

Harry laughs at something one of the men says. He scans the room briefly, and that’s when he sees you. Your stomach twists, and nearly melts, when his eyes sweep over you from head to toe, so subtly that no one else would notice.

Smoothly, he turns back to the conversation, as if his attention had never strayed.

Your own attention is pulled back by your boyfriend returning.

“There’s so much food,” he says, his excitement making you laugh. He laughs too, but insists, “Seriously. It’s insane. Have you eaten?”

You shake your head, and he grabs your hand, guiding you toward the buffet tables. There are a million options, and you let yourself get distracted by them so you don’t start looking for Harry, which doesn’t work, because ten minutes later, he’s the one who finds you.

His wife is with him.

“Darling,” she says, leaning in to kiss your cheek. “That dress is stunning. It’s Schiaparelli, isn’t it?”

“It is,” you reply, and she keeps looking at you like she’s waiting for an explanation. You add, “A loan from Harry, so I wouldn’t embarrass him.”

“It’s not a loan. It’s yours,” Harry says, leaning in to greet you with a kiss on the cheek. His smell, what the fuck. He extends a hand to your boyfriend. “So you’re the boyfriend.”

“So you’re the boss,” your boyfriend jokes as they shake hands. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Castillo.”

“Likewise,” Harry says, though the tone is anything but warm. Then to you: “My PR rep asked for a few photos of us. Can you do that now?”

“Sure,” you reply, accepting his offered arm.

Harry kisses his wife lightly and says he’ll be right back. You do the same with your boyfriend. Together, you walk toward the PR team, and once you’re far enough from the crowd, Harry speaks, eyes still forward.

“Have you thought about it?”

“Do I have a deadline?”

“So you’re considering it.”

That shuts you up. Yes, you are considering it.

“If we were to do this,” you murmur to Harry, smiling politely at one of his business partners entering your field of vision, who’s always courteous to you, “I’d want that job security agreement.”

“I’ll call my lawyer right now and have him draft the contract.”

The conversation pauses as you reach Harry’s publicist—a tall man who always wears eccentric suits, whether because of the patterns or the bold colors. Tonight, he’s in blood-red with round glasses and greets you with a giant smile.

“Stunning,” he says, kissing both of your cheeks. “What an honor for Harry to be seen with such a beautiful woman.”

You shoot him a look.

“Besides Mrs. Castillo, of course!” he adds quickly, and you decide not to check your boss’s face. “Shall we?”

You and Harry pose in front of a wide LED panel bearing the Castillo Construction & Co. logo. He places a hand on your waist without a hint of a smile, and you fall into your executive posture: back straight, polite, demure smile.

Photos are taken with instructions from both the photographer and the publicist. When it’s over, but before you and Harry can step apart, he leans in, under the guise of a polite hug, and whispers in your ear:

“She’s traveling for work tonight. If the answer is yes, you know where I live.”

Then he disappears into the sea of people who can’t wait to be near him.

By sheer luck, you don’t see Harry again during the next two hours you remain at the cocktail party. Your boyfriend indulges in the expensive whiskey, and you sip two more glasses of champagne, but there’s an anticipation humming beneath everything you do, like something is lurking.

Like the night won’t end at your home, in your bed, with your boyfriend.

You leave around nine, and you practically have to guide your boyfriend into the Uber waiting at the curb. He’s nearly unconscious on the ride back to his apartment, just awake enough to walk on his own. You help him inside, stay with him while he showers, and then watch over him as he collapses into bed.

A glass of water and two aspirins on the nightstand. A kiss on the forehead. And then he’s snoring, totally out.

You close the door gently behind you and, leaning your back against it, pick up your phone.

You open your chat with Harry. The last message is a simple “ok” you sent after he asked to reschedule a meeting.

There’s no telling how long you stand there, staring at the screen and imagining a thousand different scenarios, but when you finally type something, it’s:

“Let the front desk know I’m cleared to come up.”

Because even though your name is on the list of people with access to his apartment, the building has strict policies about non-residents after 8 p.m.

Harry replies ten minutes later:

“Done.”

The doorman, an older gentleman who’s always polite, greets you as always: with a gentle tone, a compliment (this time about your dress), and a polite question about whether Harry’s being a decent boss. But you catch the slight wrinkle between his brows, the subtle confusion in his smile. It says: What the hell are you doing here at this hour?

You see the same look from the security guards, and from the person at the front desk. But you lift your chin, square your shoulders, and pretend your reason for being here is purely professional.

You build a whole story in your mind as you walk across the marble lobby, your heels clicking with each step, just to make it easier to face. Harry needs a report for Monday morning, and he’s paying you overtime for it, but the source documents are physical, and he can’t scan them.

He took them home because he planned to work on them tonight, but the cocktail party took over his evening.

You step into the elevator and enter the code for Harry’s apartment.

And he remembered the report at the event, of course he did, because the partner he’s meeting on Monday mentioned looking forward to the negotiations. So you, ever the good employee, offered to stop by and grab the documents.

The elevator doors close, taking you toward the penthouse duplex, and you shut your eyes, erasing the fake narrative.

Now, it’s just you and your conscience.

There’s no report. No meeting. No overtime. Now it’s just Harry and you, both willingly choosing to do this and hurt your partners in exchange for nothing more than physical satisfaction.

The doors open into the private foyer of the penthouse, warmly lit and lined with framed art. Harry is standing in the doorway of the apartment, barefoot, blazer gone, bowtie undone and hanging loose at his collar.

You take one step forward, leaving the elevator.

“How was the rest of the party?” you ask, trying to sound casual through your nerves.

“Good. They liked the feature.”

You stop a few feet away, feeling his eyes on you. You twist your clutch in your hands.

“We left early because she had to catch the flight,” Harry adds, answering the question you hadn’t asked. “Want to come in? I think I still have some champagne.”

You nod, agreeing, and step inside as Harry closes the door behind you. The long hallway leading into the living room, all decorated in earth tones and golden light, greets you like a witness.

“There are some things I’m assuming based on the fact that you’re here,” Harry says behind you. You turn to face him. “But obviously, I need you to say it.”

“I don’t know if I can say it out loud.”

He watches you for a beat, reading your face.

“Morals?”

“It’s called having a heart.”

He smiles, and it’s far too sensual for the subject at hand.

“Speaking of hearts… what excuse did you give your boyfriend?”

He walks past you, heading down the hallway, and you follow. The two of you move into the living room, and you settle onto the couch, watching as Harry disappears for a few seconds and reemerges with an unopened bottle of Bollinger and two flutes in his hands. He sits beside you, and within moments, the bottle is open and champagne is flowing into both glasses.

You slip off your heels. Harry tosses his bow tie onto the coffee table. And only after you’ve taken your first sip of champagne do you finally answer.

“I didn’t need an excuse. He was asleep,” you say, referring to your boyfriend. “I think he had a lot of whiskey.”

“That’s a shame. He could’ve spent the night with you, but he chose to drink,” Harry replies, settling in beside you as he clicks his tongue. “Rookie mistake.”

“You think it’s exciting to sleep with me because it only happened once and it’s forbidden. After three years, he doesn’t think like that anymore.”

“There isn’t a universe where I don’t find having you in my bed exciting.”

That makes you blink slowly at him, then at the ring on his finger, while the champagne tastes suddenly bitter on your tongue.

He notices where your eyes have landed.

“Does it bother you?” he asks, gesturing to the ring.

You don’t even need to think, which probably bumps you up twenty points on the I’m-A-Terrible-Person scale.

“No,” you say, because it’s true. “Did you feel guilty?”

“Tonight?” you nod, and he draws in a long breath. He seems to test a million possible words before landing on: “No. I didn’t. I was angry at your boyfriend, and then I felt like an asshole for that.”

When you don’t respond, Harry throws the question back at you.

“Did you?”

You take another sip of champagne, gaze fixed on the massive TV mounted across from the sofa.

“I wish I had. It would be easier to deal with all this if I felt guilty.”

Harry reaches over and takes a lock of your hair that had fallen over your chest, twirling it around his finger before brushing it over your shoulder. He does the same with the others, gently moving each strand behind you, letting it fall down your back.

Before anything else, he places his glass on the coffee table beside the bottle and settles into the cushions.

“Come here.”

The way he pulls you brings your body into his, with your back partially resting against his chest and your legs tucked beneath you.

“I usually have answers for everything,” Harry says. “But for this? I don’t.”

You tilt your head just enough to hear the rhythmic beat of his heart beneath your ear, and you intertwine your fingers with his. His arm rests over your right shoulder.

“It’s okay… I don’t need comfort. I’m here because I want to be.”

Harry makes a low sound, like agreement, and presses his hand flat against your chest. He can probably feel the same quick heartbeat under his palm.

He changes the subject because that’s the smarter choice.

“You look beautiful in that dress,” he says near your ear, his voice more intimate now, more private. You close your eyes and savor the sound like it’s dessert. “Everyone was looking at you and envying your boyfriend.”

His hand drifts lower, cupping your breast over the smooth silk of your gown, his touch feather-light. Your skin prickles.

“But I’m the one they should envy, right?” Harry keeps whispering. The dress has a slit that’s just wide enough for him to slip his hand underneath and cup your breast. “I was trying to think of a way to make that obvious.”

“That you’re cheating on your wife with me?”

His soft thumb finds your hardened nipple, and a wave of heat rolls between your legs as he circles it.

“That I got what all those wide-eyed bastards wanted.”

“You’re awfully possessive for someone who’s the other man.”

He laughs, and you feel it more than you hear it, the vibration under your cheek against his chest. You smile, and the smile stays as Harry reaches for the small zipper on the side of your dress and slowly, slowly pulls it down.

The fabric loosens with each inch the zipper drops, and you’re the one who slides the top of the dress down to your waist, exposing your breasts. His hands cover them one at a time, squeezing gently, and you push them toward his palms.

Soon, it’s his mouth on your neck, lips parted over your sensitive skin. You have to tighten your grip around the champagne flute just to keep from dropping it as Harry kisses and bites your neck, his beard scraping and tickling in a way that leaves your whole body weak.

“Turn around and kiss me,” he says, taking the glass from your hand and placing it on the coffee table.

When he leans back into the couch again, you kneel on the seat beside him, just like that first night in his office, and meet his mouth. Harry holds your face with both hands but lets you set the pace, following your movements. And you devour it, because you’ve thought about this too much. His kiss, his taste, the way he leads without ever needing to be rough.

Your mouths part wider, undoing all the restraint that’s built up over the last three weeks. Harry slides one hand down to finish unzipping the dress completely and pushes it off your hips, leaving you in nothing but panties.

You’ve barely thrown the dress to the floor before his hand is already inside your underwear, and your knees weaken. He finds the slickness there and mutters a curse under his breath before sitting up straighter to get a better angle as he rubs slow circles over your clit.

The blood is pounding so hard in your ears that you barely register the phone ringing.

Both of you freeze, breaths and hearts racing. You meet Harry’s gaze, seeking some sort of shelter in it, and he looks back at you, lips red, before glancing toward the coffee table.

Before he can move, you kiss him again. Screw the phone. Harry immediately sinks back into the kiss, and the middle finger still inside your panties traces slowly from your clit down to your dripping entrance. It doesn’t take long before he slips it inside, and you swing a leg over his lap, settling into him.

The phone stops ringing.

Harry moves slowly, probably remembering how sensitive you were last time. He takes his time with just one finger, working you open, making you wetter. Your clit is practically throbbing, and he starts to speak—

—but the words are swallowed up by the phone ring again.

“Fuck’s sake,” Harry mutters, clearly annoyed, pulling his hand from your panties and gripping your waist. With you still in his lap, he leans forward and grabs the phone. You feel his whole body tense beneath you when he sees the screen.

“What is it?” you ask.

“My wife,” he says.

You want to be a bitch and tell him not to answer, to hang up, but you can’t. Even though you know he might actually listen if you said it.

“Answer. It could be important.”

Harry squeezes your waist as you try to move off his lap.

“Stay,” he says, and clears his throat before answering. “Hi, darling. Everything okay?”

“Hey, babe. Why didn’t you pick up the first time?”

You can hear her voice clearly because she’s speaking loudly and because of how close the two of you are, but you stay quiet and still, as if moving might somehow make her see you.

The lie rolls off his tongue effortlessly.

“Sorry. I was on a video call with some investors in Japan. I didn’t see the phone ring.”

You keep your eyes on his as your hand reaches the button on his pants. You undo it silently, then ease the zipper down.

Harry doesn’t stop you.

“I’m at the airport,” his wife is saying. “I upgraded to business class, but for some reason they need you to authorize the purchase on your bank app.”

“That’s strange. They’ve never needed confirmation before.”

With the zipper all the way down, you slide your hand into his underwear and pull out his hard cock. Your mouth practically waters.

“I said the same thing!” she laughs. “I think I’m just going to cancel and try using my own card… Not the joint account.”

Harry opens his mouth to answer, but it’s exactly when you lick your hand and wrap it around him. His jaw tightens and his eyes flutter shut. He pulls the phone away from his face to suck in a sharp breath.

“Harry?”

“I can authorize it from here,” he says into the phone, eyes glancing down to follow the motion of your hand. “Up to you.”

“Hmm… no worries, I’ll just use mine.” A pause. “My flight boards in thirty minutes and you know what I can’t stop thinking about?”

“What?”

You remove your hand from his cock only to quietly slip out of your panties. His gaze drops, devouring the space between your legs, and you sit back down on his thigh, not caring in the slightest if you leave a wet mark on his pants.

She says,

“The way you fingered me in the car after the party.”

Your hands freeze. You raise an eyebrow at Harry, and he gives you a small, crooked smile before replying to his wife,

“You liked that?”

“Mhm. Too bad I couldn’t make you come, too.”

You narrow your eyes and squirm with jealousy. You tighten your grip and focus on the swollen tip. Harry tries to stop you, but you challenge him and keep going, watching his expression break. You want her to hear.

“I didn’t need to,” he manages to say. “That was for you.”

Harry moves the phone away completely, whispering a curse just as her voice returns on the other end.

“But I miss sleeping with you.” Her tone is overly sweet, but there’s a hint of real sadness buried beneath it.

The smile that threatens to curl your lips is cruel and selfish, and you don’t dig too deep into what it means. Probably something about how you’re about to have what she wants. Which is awfully childish, you know that.

But part of you feels for her. That’s what you think as you lift yourself onto your knees, placing one over Harry’s thigh to get the angle right, and guide his erection to the slick heat between your legs.

You’d feel that way, too, if you were married to a man like Harry and he didn’t want you.

Harry leans his head back on the couch, avoiding your eyes. He stares at the ceiling, the knuckles of the hand holding the phone pale and strained.

“Sorry. A lot on my mind,” he says, just as you sink down on him.

His chest tightens in a heavy breath. His free hand clutches your hip, his thighs tense beneath you, a vein in his neck practically pulsing. He’s a vision of self-restraint, and you revel in it, grinding down onto him and biting your lip hard enough to nearly break skin just to keep quiet.

“I get it,” she says. “I just wanted you to know.”

“Darling, I need—”

“Promise me we’ll try harder.”

You lean forward as he stretches you, kissing the side of his damp neck while your fingers work on the buttons of his shirt, your tongue tracing the line of that vein. He shudders.

“I promise,” Harry says, his nails digging into your waist as you begin to rock in his lap, moaning against his skin. “I… I really need to go. Have to finish some documents. But text me when you land, okay?”

You don’t even register their goodbye. All you know is that Harry practically throws his phone onto the coffee table.

“Brat,” he mutters against your mouth as he pulls your hair, tugging off his shirt in one fluid motion. “Can’t believe the phone didn’t pick up the sound of this wet pussy.”

“Lucky you,” you say. “So Harry Castillo isn’t fucking his wife? What a shame.”

He tightens his grip around you and stands, pulling a gasp from your mouth as he slips out of you.

“You’re too old to be lifting like that,” you say, even as your thighs wrap around his hips. “Your physical therapist’s gonna be rich.”

“And you still want this old man?”

You nod, and Harry gives a smug little smile. Men are so easy to please.

He carries you through the hallway into the master bedroom. Your wide-eyed gaze meets his a moment before he sets you down on the enormous, messy bed. One glance to the side and you see the open door of his wife’s closet, purses and heels in view, just before Harry flips you onto your stomach and raises your hips.

You brace on your elbows, spine arching.

Two pillows rest at the head of the bed. One nightstand holds a book, a pair of glasses, and a man’s watch. The other has hand cream, a gold bracelet, a bottle of vitamins, and a pink hair clip.

It’s literally the most intimate part of a couple’s life, and this bedroom embodies that, exactly why you used to think, and agree, it was a line not to be crossed. But not for Harry, apparently, who climbs onto the bed behind you and slides into you again.

Your head drops forward, blocking your vision, fingers clutching the sheets as he sinks in fully.

Harry leans over your back, his fingers finding your pulsing clit, stroking in slow circles that make your whole body melt.

“Harry—”

“Come on my cock and I’ll fuck you.”

You writhe beneath him as his fingers move faster, smaller, tighter circles. You roll your hips forward and back in short, needy thrusts, just enough friction to push you toward the edge.

Your mouth dries, eyes squeezing shut as the tension coils in your belly. When Harry switches to horizontal strokes, rubbing directly across your clit, you come so hard it borders on painful, then dissolves into something warm and all-consuming, like being lowered into a hot bath.

“Just like that,” he whispers against your moans, slowing his movements so you can ride out every last wave. “I’m going to fuck you now.”

You nod, even though your ears are still buzzing. You nearly miss the weight of his body when he pulls back, but then one hand presses between your shoulder blades and the other grabs your hip, and he starts to thrust.

It’s almost too much. You’re still sensitive, your clit sparking with each slap of his balls, but it’s so good. You hear his grunts, low and rough, and you spread your knees wider, gripping the sheets. Your eyes land on his wife’s nightstand at the same moment Harry says,

“This what you wanted? Climbing on top of me while I was on the phone? Almost making me lose it?”

You nod. Harry pulls your left leg, then your right, laying you flat. He lies on top of you, keeping your legs tight between his, and thrusts again.

“Say it out loud.”

He kisses your neck, brushing your hair away. Your skin tingles.

“For a second, I wanted her to hear,” you admit, grateful you’re not facing him.

Harry breathes against your temple.

“Yeah?”

“I wanted her to know that what she wants…” You can’t finish before he speeds up, and you have to grit your teeth. With your legs squeezed together, every thrust hits deeper. “You’re giving it to me. And you’re so, so hard for me…”

There. You said it. This time, you break the rule about not talking about the others. And you can’t regret it, not when Harry wraps a hand around your throat, bites your shoulder, and fucks you, the slap of skin clashing with the wet sounds of his cock inside you, again and again, until he growls a curse.

He pulls out and flips you onto your back. Harry climbs over you, stroking himself, eyes roving over your body—your breasts, the space between your thighs. You touch yourself too, unable not to, watching his face tighten as he gets close.

And when he comes, it’s on your belly, whispering your name as the hot ropes of cum cover your skin.

“Open your legs,” he says, voice hoarse and skin sweaty. You fold your knees and spread your thighs. “You’re already close again… Look how you’re throbbing.”

This time it’s the tip of his cock that presses against your swollen clit, massaging it, smearing his cum across your skin as he strokes. His softening head glides over you in slow, steady movements. With his free hand, Harry uses his fingers to open you wider, and when he finds the exact spot again, he presses.

Your next orgasm isn’t as explosive as the first, but just as overwhelming. When it hits, you can’t take anymore. You clamp your legs shut and push his hand away.

He gets it. He lies down beside you, pulls you into his arms, and holds you while you catch your breath.

As your senses return, you notice the only light in the room is coming from the open closet. The bedroom is softly decorated, the sheets far too luxurious to have been chosen by a man, even one like Harry Castillo.

“Why did we have sex in here?” you ask.

“Hm?”

“You must have ten guest rooms in this penthouse. Why this one?”

He stays silent, stroking your back.

“Because doing something wrong turns you on?” you ask, turning to look at him. Harry meets your eyes, saying nothing, and his hand goes still on your ribs. “I get it. I think I got wetter when I realized where you brought me.”

Before he can reply, you ask,

“Will you think of me when you’re here with her?”

“I already do,” he says. “The difference is now I’ll have memories. Not just imagination.”

You lean in to kiss him, and Harry welcomes it.

Even so, the two of you sleep in the guest bedroom, because you don’t want to use her pillow or wrap yourself in the same sheets she does.

Harry takes you to the end of the hallway, into a room that seems like it’s never been used, even though the sheets smell like fabric softener.

The bed is bigger than yours, and after a quick shower, the two of you tangle up together, naked, beneath the covers. It’s the first time you’re actually about to fall asleep with him, and he behaves exactly as you expected: he wraps himself around you, throws a leg over yours, and presses you tightly to his body. You’re surrounded by Harry—in your skin, in your sweat, in the sheets, in the house, in the scent that wraps around you.

And just like that, sleep comes easy.

Maybe it’s the unfamiliar space, or the furnace that is Harry’s body, or the emotional chaos, but you wake up in the middle of the night.

He’s completely asleep, his legs trapping yours, and you try to fall back asleep for a few more minutes, but it doesn’t work. Slowly, you untangle yourself from his body and tiptoe out of the room to get your phone, which you’d left in your bag on the coffee table.

You sit on the couch to check for any unread messages, but the moment makes you feel exposed. The champagne bottle and flutes still sitting there give you a headache. You lower the brightness on your phone and go back to the guest room.

Harry hasn’t moved.

There’s a small loveseat by the window, and you curl up there, turning your phone screen back on. The first unread message is from your boyfriend, sent about an hour ago. He’s thanking you for taking care of him. Says you should’ve stayed at his place so he could wake you up with breakfast.

You deserve it for looking after me, he writes and you let out a humorless laugh, because you definitely don’t deserve anything.

There’s a message from your mom, a photo of her, and a few from your friends who saw your picture with Harry on Forbes’s Instagram. You click the link, and it takes you to the post.

Harry Castillo, CEO of Castillo Construction & Co., and his executive assistant, is the caption.

You both look good. You make a striking image.

Harry’s sleepy voice pulls your attention back.

“Can’t sleep?”

He’s rubbing his eyes, propped up on one elbow to look at you.

“Think it’s just the unfamiliar bed. I can’t fall back asleep.”

“That really all it is?”

You chew on your bottom lip, hugging your knees and resting your chin on them after leaving your phone aside. Even though you’re completely naked, you don’t feel uncomfortable around Harry, which is saying something.

“What now?” you ask instead, feeling sorry for him, seeing as he just woke up and is being struck with this emotional turbulence. “Are we something?”

“That was the proposal.”

“We’re gonna have to get really good at lying. You know that, right? At some point, ‘I need to stay late at the office’ won’t cut it anymore.” A headache pulses at your temples. You laugh. “This is crazy.”

“What is?”

“When I started working at the office, I was obsessed with you. I practically drooled when you walked by, watched all your interviews, melted whenever you talked to me. And then you got married, so I made it a point to find someone, or anyone, to date, just to get you out of my system.”

Harry looks at you in a way you don’t like.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you groan, rolling your eyes. “I’m not some virgin girl doing this because I’m in love. You fuck me well, and I like it. That’s all.”

Harry gets out of bed and grabs a pillow. He walks over to you and, without a word, places it on the floor in front of the chair. Then he kneels, and you fall silent at the sight of Harry Castillo on his knees before you, his hair tousled from sleep.

He lifts your left ankle, holding your leg halfway out to kiss from your ankle to your knee, taking his time. The moonlight from outside casts a soft glow over his profile.

You watch, heart pounding.

“I remember your first day at work,” Harry murmurs, sleep-rough voice breaking the silence as he parts his lips to kiss the inside of your thigh. Your stomach twists with nerves and anticipation. “You were wearing a white dress. Your hair was tied up. And you widened your eyes at everyone who came near, like a damn deer.”

Your own eyes are probably wide now as he rests your right leg on his shoulder, stretching your left again to repeat the same trail of kisses. You grip the edge of the seat.

He remembers what you wore your first day, four years ago.

“You came into my office,” he continues, and lifts your left leg to join the other on his shoulders, his face now nestled between your thighs as he places open-mouthed kisses along your skin. “Asked if I needed help with anything specific, and when I told you to sit beside me so I could show you how to open my encrypted report, you tripped over the edge of the rug. In that exact moment, I wanted you.”

He says the last words right before he opens his mouth over your pussy, the heat of his breath making you arch into the chair and clutch his hair.

He looks up at you, mouth still busy, and God… if you could capture a single moment in a photo, it would be this.

You slide your legs off his shoulders just to grab his face and pull him up so you can kiss him. Harry kisses back eagerly, and there’s nothing tender about the way he licks into your mouth. There’s nothing tender about the way he breaks the kiss either just to place your legs back over his shoulders and bury his face between them again. One hand presses down on your lower belly to keep you in place as his mouth seals around your clit and starts to suck.

You hold his face with both hands, pressing him harder against you, watching him, watching the way his cock hardens just from tasting you.

“So good,” you whisper, your fingers on his jaw. “You have no idea how good it feels to have Harry Castillo on his knees for me.”

He doesn’t pull away, but you swear, if he could, he’d be smiling.

What he does instead is lower his mouth until his tongue is inside you. Your eyes flutter closed. Moans echo in the room, along with the wet sounds of his mouth, and you lose yourself in all of it, until his thumb slides inside you. But just as quickly, it leaves, and instead, glides down.

You open your eyes with a jolt just in time to see Harry sucking your clit while his thumb starts circling your other entrance.

It’s different. Strange. Not unpleasant.

“You’ve done this before?” he asks, likely meaning anal.

You shake your head.

“Well, look at that,” Harry says, overly pleased, rubbing in slow circles. “So, in a way, you’re still a virgin. Can I?”

There are very few things you wouldn’t give Harry if he asked.

“Just the finger. Just one. Slowly.”

“Always, baby.”

And he goes slowly.

He waits until you’re melting under his tongue, licking his thumb before returning it to your tight rim and gently pushing in the tip. It doesn’t hurt—not with just the tip—but it’s unlike anything you’ve done, something you never even tried with your boyfriend, even though he asked.

“Relax for me, sweetheart,” Harry whispers. “Breathe. Let me in.”

You don’t know how much time passes before your breathing calms and something in you releases. You feel safer.

Harry plunges his tongue into your pussy and brings his other thumb to your clit, and you’re surrounded by him in every possible way when, slowly, he slips his lubricated thumb into your ass, pulling a deep moan from your chest. The build-up of sensitivity throughout the night, paired with the newness of it all, crashes into you, and you come in his mouth, pulsing around his fingers in both places.

He doesn’t stop, even when you try to push him away and close your legs. Harry keeps sucking your clit harder, and you shake beneath him, overstimulated. He brings you to the edge again with his mouth and hands, and just as you’re about to fall, he stops and tells you to ride him.

You do, on the floor of the guest room. Apparently, you two have a thing for sex on the floor, because it’s rawer, messier, heavier with tension. You kiss the whole time, grabbing at whatever part of him you can reach, and the two of you come together.

Harry, inside you.

You, wrapped around him.

Hardly a word between you.

The next morning, Harry drives you home in his car, without a driver.

You’re wearing one of his T-shirts over your dress, your hair still wet and your face free of makeup, and you probably look ridiculous. A charitable act from the CEO of CCC.

The good news is that the street is empty. It’s still nine a.m. on a Sunday, so there are fewer witnesses to your disastrous state. A few brave souls pass by in running clothes, others look like they rolled out of bed five seconds ago, forced outside by the physiological needs of the small dogs following on their leashes.

Harry parks in front of your building and turns off the engine.

“Too cliché if I thank you for the night?” he asks, leaning back in his seat.

“I’m not going to thank you for the orgasms, because yes, I think that’s cliché, but” you raise your index finger, watching the smug smile take over his face. “solid performance for a senior citizen. Forbes would love to know about the five orgasms.”

“Six,” he corrects, ignoring the comment about the ‘senior citizen.’ “Two this morning. One in bed and one in the shower.”

Oh, right.

“Six,” you agree. “High performance, Mr. Castillo.”

“Glad you approve,” he says. “I suppose I can’t kiss you here.”

You shake your head.

“Not here.” You exchange one last look, entirely charged. “See you tomorrow.”

“See you.” Harry says, and you force yourself to open the passenger door. You place one foot out of the car, but before you can get out, Harry places his palm on the back of your neck and makes you look at him.

“Thank you for tonight and for accepting my proposal.”

You turn just enough to place a kiss on Harry’s wrist and get out of the car, shutting the door behind you.

When you turn toward your building’s entrance, you find another gaze on you.

That gaze runs over you from head to toe, taking in the clothes from the night before, the wet hair, the bare face, and then shifts to Harry’s Mercedes.

A freezing terror takes hold of your entire body, paralyzing you where you stand.

And then your boyfriend’s cold eyes meet yours.

[growth-opportunities]

"Fuck... Fuck... FUCK!"

I staggered out of the club, cool air rushing around me, music still booming in the background. The hope was that the air on the water would be cool and rejuvenating, but I couldn't get any of it into my lungs. Sounds of creaking denim filled the air as my outfit tried to hold back my burgeoning curves. It clung to my widening hips, my thickening thighs. The buttons of my tube top failed one by one, only staying closed by the grace of my narrow waist. My breasts had been perfect handfuls, the perfect size for my frame, but now they bulged obscenely from the top, more tit spilling out of my top than I used to have altogether. Every tug on the unforgiving fabric sent ripples and wobbles through my curves, threatening to completely bounce out.

When the growth pills I found online said not to take with alcohol, I thought they meant it would make me sleepy or something. Now, as I watch my tits grow beneath my chin and my ass split the seams on my jeans, I realize that it apparently makes it more effective. And while outgrowing my clothes in the middle of the club isn't ideal... In the comfort of my own home might not be so bad.

[naomijoestar]

⋆.ೃ JJBA SCENARIOS ࿔*:･

Masterlist here <3

genre: erotic fiction

warnings: boners; doesn’t lead to anything tho, slight NSFW

characters: bucci gang

notes: F!reader, also i wasn’t going to include the 18- characters (giorno, narancia, fugo) but i set up a poll yesterday on whether I should include or exclude them and the majority of the votes told me to include so here you guys go!

Bucci gang members getting a hard-on from their crush

Giorno Giovanna

You and Giorno are sitting on an ornate balcony overlooking Naples, enjoying the sunset. The atmosphere is warm, the golden glow of the setting sun enhancing the intimacy.

Giorno listens carefully as you speak, but he's acutely aware of the way your body shifts closer, your fingers lightly brushing his thigh as you adjust yourself on the seat. The touch is innocent, but it sends a ripple of heat through him. He prides himself on his control, but he feels his breath hitch when you lean in even closer, your lips just inches from his ear, as you softly ask him a question.

His pulse quickens. His hand rests on his knee, and he clenches his fist discreetly, trying to maintain his calm façade. But beneath the table, he subtly shifts, trying to hide the involuntary reaction your proximity is causing.

You tilt your head curiously when he doesn't immediately answer, your eyes meeting his. "Giorno, are you okay? You seem a little... distant."

Giorno's face remains calm, though his voice is deeper than usual. "I'm fine," he replies, his words a touch slower, as if carefully measured. But the heat creeping up his neck and the tightness he feels under the table say otherwise.

His composure slips for just a moment as he brushes a strand of your hair away from your face, his fingers grazing your cheek.

Your soft smile doesn't help. It only fuels the heat in his chest, making him long for more, but Giorno, always the gentleman, leans back slightly to catch his breath, hoping you don’t notice the subtle tension building between you two

Bruno Bucciarati

You and Bruno are working on a mission late into the night. The small room is dimly lit, and you're seated next to each other, sharing the same space.

Bruno's focused, but as you lean over to point something out on the map, your chest lightly presses against his arm. He freezes for a split second, the warmth of your body suddenly igniting something in him. He keeps his eyes fixed on the map, trying to maintain his usual collected demeanor, but inside, his thoughts are racing.

Your breath tickles his ear as you speak softly, oblivious to the effect you’re having on him. The sensation of your body so close, combined with the scent of your perfume, stirs a primal response that even Bruno struggles to suppress.

His jaw clenches slightly, and he subtly shifts in his seat, his hand pressing against his thigh to calm himself. But when you laugh softly, your lips so close to his neck, he feels a surge of warmth, and he has to cross his legs beneath the table to hide the growing tension in his body.

You turn to him, your lips still curved in a smile. "Bruno? You're awfully quiet." There's a playful teasing in your tone, but Bruno only offers a tight smile, his usual confidence faltering.

"I'm just... concentrating," he says, though the slight huskiness in his voice betrays him. He swallows hard, his hands resting in his lap, hoping you don’t notice how affected he is by your presence.

Leone Abbacchio

You and Abbacchio are seated at a secluded corner of a bar, the dim lighting creating a sultry atmosphere. You have been teasing him all night, your laughter cutting through the low hum of the room.

Abbacchio's used to keeping his emotions in check, but you know just how to push his buttons. You lean in closer, your leg brushing against his under the table as you smirk at him.

"You're really fun to mess with, you know that?" you tease, your voice a little lower than before.

Your lips are dangerously close to his ear now, and Abbacchio tenses, feeling a surge of heat course through him. His body reacts instinctively to the closeness, and he grits his teeth, shifting slightly in his seat to try and adjust himself without making it obvious. The tightness in his pants is becoming more noticeable, and he silently curses his body's reaction.

He turns his head to glare at you, his usual scowl in place, but his eyes betray him-they're darker now, filled with something he's trying to keep under control. "You're playing with fire," he mutters, his voice low and gruff.

You lean back slightly, still smiling, but your eyes linger on him, noticing the tension in his body. Abbacchio crosses his arms, but it doesn't help; he's still keenly aware of the way his body is reacting to your proximity, and it frustrates him that he can't maintain his usual composure.

He quickly finishes his drink, hoping to distract himself, but the heat between you lingers, and Abbacchio is left sitting in silence, pretending he's unaffected, though you both know better

Guido Mista

You two are walking down a quiet street after a late-night hangout. The moonlight making everything feel more intimate.

You're laughing, the mood light, until you playfully nudge him, your hand resting on his chest for a moment longer than expected. Mista stops mid-sentence, the playful vibe suddenly shifting. Your touch sends a jolt through him, and he feels a wave of heat spreading downwards.

"Uh, wow," he says, his voice cracking slightly as he laughs awkwardly, trying to shake off the feeling. But his body's already reacting, and he glances down quickly, panicking as he realizes the situation unfolding in his pants.

Mista's always been confident, but right now, he feels the need to hide his growing arousal, pulling his jacket down to cover himself. "Hey, you wanna grab some gelato or something?" he blurts out, his voice a bit higher-pitched than usual as he tries to change the subject.

You look at him, amused by his sudden shift in energy, and arche a brow. "Mista, are you okay? You seem... flustered." Your tone is teasing, and Mista feels his face flush as he desperately tries to keep his cool.

"I'm not flustered! I just-uh, I really want ice cream, that's all," he says, laughing too loudly. But as you walk, his steps are a little stiffer, and he keeps his hands awkwardly in his pockets, trying to play it off. Inside, though, he's mentally cursing his body for betraying him so easily

Narancia Ghirga

You are hanging out on a rooftop, watching the city lights flicker below. The cool night air contrasts with the growing warmth between you as you sit close together.

Narancia's usually full of energy, but tonight, he's more subdued, his attention drawn to the way your leg brushes against his. You shift closer to him, your body pressing lightly against his, and Narancia feels his throat go dry. He's not used to feeling this kind of tension-it's different from anything he's experienced before.

Your hand grazes his knee, and suddenly, his body reacts with a jolt of heat. His breath hitches, and he shifts uncomfortably, feeling the tightness in his pants as his arousal becomes undeniable. He glances at you, panic flickering in his eyes as he tries to play it off.

“S-sorry, it's just a little cold up here," he stammers, though his voice betrays him. It's not cold at all, and the heat radiating from his body is unmistakable.

You look at him, your expression soft, but there's a hint of something more in your gaze. "Narancia, you okay?" you ask, your voice gentle, but your touch lingers on his leg, making his pulse race even faster.

He laughs nervously, scratching the back of his head. "Y-yeah, I'm fine! Just.. you know, uh... the city's really pretty tonight, huh?" He's babbling, trying to distract himself, but the tension between you is growing, and his body isn't giving him any breaks.

Narancia shifts again, pulling his shirt down as subtly as possible, hoping you don’t notice his very obvious reaction. But the way you’re looking at him with that knowing smile, makes him realize you probably already have

Pannacotta Fugo

The both of you are in the library, studying together late into the evening. The quiet atmosphere is heavy with tension, and the dim lighting makes everything feel more intimate.

Fugo’s eyes are glued to his book, but his thoughts are elsewhere. You are sitting right next to him, leaning over to look at the same text, and the scent of your perfume is clouding his usually sharp mind. Every now and then, your arm brushes against his, and with every accidental touch, Fugo feels his composure slipping.

He adjusts his collar, suddenly too aware of the warmth building in his chest—and lower. His mind races, scolding himself for letting his thoughts wander like this, but the tension between you is growing, and he can’t ignore it any longer. Your hand grazes his knee lightly, and the contact sends a shockwave through his body, stirring something deep inside him.

Fugo’s body reacts before his mind can catch up. He shifts awkwardly in his seat, crossing his legs beneath the table, but the pressure in his pants is undeniable. He glances at you from the corner of his eye, hoping you don’t notice the slight tremble in his hands as he grips the edge of the table, trying to stay focused on the book in front of him.

You lean in closer, your breath warm against his ear as you ask him something, your voice soft and teasing. “Fugo, you seem distracted… everything okay?”

He swallows hard, feeling a rush of heat up his neck. His voice is lower than usual as he replies, “I’m fine. Just… trying to concentrate.” But his body betrays him; his heart is racing, and the tension in his pants grows harder to hide.

You smile knowingly, your eyes lingering on his face for a moment longer than necessary. Fugo clenches his fist, fighting the urge to lose control. He’s always been careful, disciplined—but right now, with you so close, he feels himself dangerously close to crossing a line he’s never dared before.

In a sudden move, he pushes his chair back slightly, creating more space between you. “I need some air,” he mutters, his voice strained as he stands up quickly, hoping you don’t see the flush creeping across his face, or the other, much more obvious reaction he’s trying to hide

[sexlapis]

࿔ read me to sleep…

ᰋ nanami kento x gn!reader

ns4w, fluff, dirty talk no sex, very suggestive, finger sucking, petnames: baby, sweet thing, darling. soft nanami, nanami babies reader, nanami reading to reader, talks about cocks and holes 🤷‍♀️, d/s dynamics

. synopsis: after a long week, nanami helps you to relax.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 wc: 1.1k

a/n: me writing a fanfic? who would’ve thought?? extract is from ‘the professor’ by charlotte brontê. i enjoyed it but apparently it’s not very well liked. anyway, here’s me being very normal about nanami.

masterlists

*

your cheek rests on the cool, ivory porcelain of the bathtub. warm water envelopes your body, coming all the way up to your chest which is petaled with tufts of scented bubbles. the orange gleam of the sunset casts a gentle, easy light over the bathroom, colouring the bath water and the supple skin of your body.

it’s quiet. the only sounds being emitted come from the soft ripples of the water when you move and your husband’s low, soft speaking. your eyes droop.

“are you even listening?”

nanami sits on a wooden chair right in front of the bathtub. on long days like this, most of the time on a friday, you both just need to wind down, relax, unravel the knots curled up in your bones, ease the ache inside your head and erase the never ending thoughts in your mind.

‘…yet been my experience of life, I had once had the opportunity of contemplating, near at hand, an example of the results produced by a course of interesting and romantic domestic treachery. No golden halo of fiction was about this example, I saw it bare and real, and it was very loathsome. I saw a mind degraded by the practice of mean subterfuge, by the habit of perfidious deception, and a body depraved by the infectious influence of the vice-polluted soul. I had suffered much from the forced and prolonged view of this spectacle; those sufferings I did not now regret, for their simple recollection acted as a most wholesome antidote to temptation. They had inscribed on my reason the conviction that unlawful pleasure, trenching on another's rights, is delusive and envenomed pleasure; its hollowness disappoints at the time, its poison cruelly tortures afterwards, its effects deprave forever.’

he wears his white, button up shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his suit jacket long gone, his tie loose and dangling down, and dark slacks sit on his legs very nicely. and, your favourite thing of all, he wears his reading glasses, the pair that he only wears around you.

“yeah, yeah ‘m listening. just tired.”

you have, in fact, not been listening that much.

if you weren’t slowly dozing off to sleep to the smooth timbre of his voice, you were blatantly admiring the cerulean veins that travelled up the pale expanse of his forearm. and if not that, you watched with half-lidded eyes how the tendons of his large hands moved when he turned a page, or the sight of the pink pillows of his lips in motion, or the prominence of his adam’s apple or-

“you really aren’t listening, are you?”

this time, you had the sense to feel a little embarrassed, feel some heat rise on your face. “uhhhhhhh…”

nanami tilts his head, definitely not looking at your chest, “what is going on in that little head of yours?”

“what-nothing! i just, i-,” you sigh, licking your lips, unabashedly staring at the bulge in his slacks “you just look sexy.”

he chuckles, his eyes crinkled and the sound rumbling through his chest. nanami moves his chair forward, closer to where you rest your head, and leans down slightly.

“i don’t think it’s just that,” he utters. nanami then raises his hand to your sweet, languorous face, coated with droplets of water, your wet eyelashes framing the tender yet desiring gaze of eyes. his heart beats a little faster.

he cups your cheeks with one big hand, trailing his index and middle finger to your plush lips, asking for an opening. you do so gladly, moaning quietly when his thick, rough fingers sit and press on your tongue, saliva seeping around his fingers. “i think my little darling just wants my cock inside of that sloppy little hole. isn’t that right?”

his brash words and his fingers, they are inching further and further towards your throat, make your face burn and a dull, throbbing pit of want curl up where you want him the most.

you blink drowsily, almost half asleep at this point, nibbling on his fingers in your mouth, giving them one long lick. “yessss…yes i want it inside of me so much.”

“oh, baby,” nanami coos, “i’m only teasing you. i know you’re tired…”

you whine. it’s muffled over his fingers, which you continue to suck on softly. his eyes darken.

“don’t tempt me,” nanami groans, briefly relishing in the feeling of your mouth suctioned over his fingers, “you know i can't resist that little mouth of yours...”

his fingers leave your sighing mouth, now glistening and wet, connected by a silky line of gossamer to your lips.

nanami hums, pleased by the debauched, satisfied expression plastered on your face. he swipes your lips with your own spit, making them gleam in the shine of the sunset. such actions make you picture his taut, large length, how uses it to generously rub his expense all over your lips and cheeks, using and painting your face like his secret, erotic canvas.

unfortunately for you, your fatigue outweighs your lustful cravings. you let your eyes fall shut. a hand finds itself on top of your head, caressing there softly. a purr leaves your throat. nanami wills himself to ignore his very obvious desire for at this moment.

“i think it’s someone’s bedtime.”

nanami pats his thighs and stands to get your towel. you pout at the loss of stimulation on your head, but it’s quickly wiped away when nanami unplugs the bath, helps you out of it with his hand in yours, and wraps the towel around your damp body like a cocoon.

you waddle over to you and nanami’s shared bedroom, collapsing onto the bed. you were going to sleep so well tonight.

“nanami.” you whisper to him as he takes off his watch. “nanami, come here. read the rest of the chapter, please.”

“darling, you’re about to fall asleep.”

“yeah but i want you to read me to sleep.”

nanami huffs, a small smile on his face. the bed dios where he sits down next to your head, and you take the chance to lay your head on his lap, snuggling comfortably. his hand finds your head to caress one again, making you chirp with glee.

“alright. just this one chapter and that’s it.”

you let him read to you.

at first you listen, you really do, but after a few minutes his words turn into white noise, the low-tone of his voice rumbles through you, the warmth of his lap acts as a pillow and the final blow is when he decides to draw circles over your temple with his thumb.

before you know it, you’re gradually drifting off to sleep, into a serene dreamland, forgetting about all the stress you experienced today.

nanami closes the book and carefully manoeuvres you from his lap and onto the bed properly. he knows you’ll probably wake up shortly, considering you’re still just in your towel, but for now, he savours this moments and how endearing you look, curled up and snoring in your fluffy towel.

“sweet thing…” he kisses your forehead, resting his lips there fore a moment, “my sweet, little thing…”

*

…♡

[itsbeeble]

NO BITCHES?

SUMMARY: When you met Eric, you’d thought he was just another frat boy, looking to get into any woman’s pants (particularly yours at that moment). You never would’ve thought that he was just a loser who really liked FNAF and just thought you were pretty.

GENRE: smut, fluff, crack, mild angst

PAIRING: Eric Sohn x afab!reader (ft hak, sunwoo, sunwoo's gf, and sangyeon)

WC: 10.5k (there go my plans of proving Ally wrong)

SERIES MASTERLIST

PERM TAGLIST: @juyeonszn @winterchimez

18+ MDNI AGLESS BLOGS WILL BE BLOCKED

WARNINGS: um... okay so virgin!eric, kinda dom!reader, eric's a fucking loser, reader kinda makes fun of him at first for being a virgin, reader kinda teaches eric about everything from kissing to uh...yeah, dry humping, kissing, making out, oral (m and f receiving), eric cums in his pants, eric plays fnaf, um...public making out? public fingering?, multiple orgasms, eric goes from little virgin boy to I TOLD YOU WE NEEDED MORE GLITTER real fast, sunwoo slander, sunwoo's annoying in this idk, eric's a dumb gamer boy who needs desperate help from the boy who concussed his gf (cough sunwoo), slight bit of miscommunication?, eric cries (ummmm dacryphilia?), reader also cries (again...dacryphilia?), edging el oh el, sunwoo and. reader know the importance of CONSENT, i think that's all the important stuff

A/N: I'm never gonna beat the allegations... ally will always think i bias eric. Anyway, happy birthday to my little munchkin princess eric sohn 🥰🥰

Eric was practically shaking as he approached you. Scratch that, he was definitely shaking but he could blame the ripples covering the drinks in his hand on the pumping base. It thrummed in his veins, or maybe that was his pulse steadily increasing when he locked eyes with you.

You. His gorgeous, intelligent, perfect…

Lab partner. You were his lab partner and at that very moment, nothing more. At least, not in your eyes. Eric, though? He was enamored by you. The way you laugh, the teasing grin when he does something wrong and you scold him, the way your body looks in that dress—

“Hi.” You look away from your friends and face him, a curious look on your face. He’s starting to feel warm. Was it warm in here? He thinks he’s starting to sweat, and can feel something drip down the back of his neck.

“Hi…?” Your hands are empty, and Eric forces himself not to jump up and down with glee that he doesn’t have to make the excuse of having two drinks for himself. 

“I’m— Do you—” He stutters, and heat begins to spread from his neck to his cheeks as your friends giggle. You just smile. A kind smile that has his body slowly relaxing the more he looks at your face. “Do you wanna drink— I mean— fuck, I meant do you want a drink. Not— not do you wanna drink— I mean that could—  that is also a question, but—”

More laughter from your friends and Eric suddenly thinks he’s gonna throw up all over you, your dress, and his nice white button-up shirt that he’d forced Sangyeon to iron for him. 

“Thank you, Eric.” You say, reaching for the cup in his left hand. Your fingers brush against his, and his knees begin to wobble visibly. Your smile disappears into a concerned frown, and suddenly Eric’s attention is on your lips. He isn’t paying attention to his surroundings anymore. Can’t find himself caring that your friends are still laughing at the scenario, nor that you shoo them away. 

“Eric?” Your hand waves in front of his face, effectively catching the boy’s attention. “Are you okay?”  

“Yeah!” Eric says it far too quickly, knowing immediately that you don’t believe him. Fortunately, one of his many charms is that he’s very good at lying to people. “I’m perfectly fine. Why do you ask?” 

You giggle, and it’s the sweetest sound that he’s ever heard.

“You just— you seem a little uncomfortable right now.” You lean close to him, scanning his face under the flashing lights. You can hardly make out his features under the colors. Blue, purple, red, white, green, yellow. All the colors under the rainbow covered his face and changed every few seconds. When they flashed white, you swear you can see a flush in his cheeks. 

“Why would I be uncomfortable?” He leans toward you with a sudden surge of confidence that has your heart pounded a bit. “Why would I ever be uncomfortable around the most beautiful girl in the building?”

And there it is, folks, you think. Your eye twitches, something so subtle that Eric fails to catch it. The irritation, the disappointment. 

“Ah, I see.” You grimace, and Eric begins to panic again. 

“What— did I upset you?” He asks, and you roll your eyes. 

“Eric, if you wanna get into my pants you’re gonna have to try better than that.” 

Eric’s heart drops to the floor, his face flushing even more as he begins to panic. He stutters, he tries to backtrack, he tries to explain himself. You, however, are hearing none of it. Not a single word that comes out of his mouth reaches your ears. 

“Stop, Eric.” You snap and his mouth snaps shut. “Just…Just stop.” 

You set the cup he’d given you down on the table, and he stares at it dumbly while you storm away to find your friends again. The amber liquid in the cup sloshes with the base echoing around it and the loud noise of partygoers around him. 

He watches it spill over the lip of the cup, and then sets his own cup down next to it, turning around to return to the party but the weight of crushing rejection sits uncomfortably on his chest. 

It’s two days later when you see Eric again. Monday morning, an 8AM Physics lecture that no one wants to be in. Two weeks into the semester, and almost twenty people had already dropped the class. He walks in with a black hat covering his head, and a white tee shirt covering his torso. It’s certainly not clothing suitable for the cold air of early February, but he’d been unable to do his laundry over the weekend due to the parties on Friday and Saturday and the neverending clean-up that occurred on Sunday. 

He spots you, tucked well into the second row, and his eyes light up. Yours, on the other hand, narrow. You keep your gaze on him while he makes his way up to you as quickly as possible, hoping to have a chance to talk to you before the lecture begins. 

“Hey,” he grins at you, gently setting his bag on the chair to his left and turning to face you. Your eyes are still narrowed with suspicion. “How was your weekend?” 

How was your weekend? It’s as if the both of you hated that question; one of you cringing with something close to disgust, the other with something like horror. Is he stupid?

“It was fine,” you tell him curtly. Eric frowns, leaning back in his chair when you turn your gaze to the front. 

“Did I do something wrong?” He blurts out, and your shoulders sag. Was that the wrong thing to ask? Did he do something wrong?

“Did you seriously just ask me that?” You hiss out, glancing at him from the corner of your eye. He opens his mouth to speak, but he has a hard time finding the words. What is he even supposed to say? What if you think he’s an asshole for not knowing what was wrong? What if you never smile at him again?

“I— honestly I really don’t know!” You scoff and Eric sits up, leaning forward on the table to get a better view of your face. You can see the pout, see the way his eyebrows knit together in what you can only assume is faux confusion. There’s no way he doesn’t know what he did.

“You’re unbelievable, you know that?” You look at him fully now and watch the way his body recoils from the words. Hurt, confusion. No anger. You don’t think you’ve ever seen Eric Sohn angry in the two years you’d shared classes with him. 

“What— what did I even do?” The professor walks in, and he hushes his voice. “I can’t fix things if I don’t know what I did wrong!”

“That’s your own damn fault then, isn’t it?” You click your pen, and Eric shuts up. You almost feel bad, carefully watching as he takes out his own notebook to begin taking notes. He doesn’t say anything for the rest of the lecture, and you feel a pang of regret in your chest. Maybe he really doesn’t know what he did wrong, you think, nibbling on your lip in thought. No, there’s no way he doesn’t know. He’s the smartest guy in the room, no way does he not know what— 

You glance at Eric again, this time turning your head to fully look at him. His blond hair falls over his eyes, even with the hat covering his head. His shoulders are hunched, his hand moving so quickly over the lined paper so that he can at least try to keep up with your professor. For a moment, you think about Eric Sohn. About the frat boy who had been nothing but kind to you since the day you met. About the boy who once gave you notes far more detailed than you’d ever written during the week you were sick. About the boy who—

No, you shake your head and begin to write down more equations you know you’re going to have to ask Eric about later. He’s a frat boy. All he wants is a good fuck and then he’s gone. 

But why did he seem so hurt when you spoke to him so rudely? When you turned him away not once, but twice within the past three days. 

You liked him, you really did! He was kind, thoughtful, and he was always helping anyone he could. He never refused to help anyone, even if it was a subject that he didn’t know that well. Had you gotten it wrong? Was he just trying to talk to you and you had responded—

Your pen clicks again as you give up on the notes, and you lean back in your chair to squint at the whiteboard in front of you. 

Talking with Eric Sohn was inevitable, but it was only a matter of how long you could avoid the topic—

“I want all of you to pair up. These will be your partners for the midterm project.”

Eric’s gaze turns to you uneasily, tilting his head in question. You bite down hard on your tongue, fighting every urge inside of you to turn around and ask the girl behind you to be partners. 

Fuck, how could you say no to those eyes?

Your room is brighter than Eric thought it would be. When you originally invited him over to study that night, he had been terrified. Was your apartment going to be almost falling apart? What if it was really nice and he broke something? What if you killed him and stuffed him into a dumpster?

Fortunately, none of those things were necessarily true. Your building wasn’t falling apart, thankfully, although it was arguably nicer than any other off-campus apartments and you could still choose to kill him. 

It was nice, though. It was a two-bedroom apartment that you shared with your friend Eunseung, one full bathroom and another half-bathroom, a decent kitchen, and a nice-sized living space. According to what you told him in the last semester, the rent wasn’t too awful either. 

The walls of your bedroom were yellow, but not an ugly shade of yellow. It was pastel, not quite bright enough to be harsh on the eyes but not dark enough to make it hard to see. You’d lined bookshelves up to the wall, most filled with books but some with photos and plants and music albums. You had a small desk in the corner, and your bed was aligned with the center of the back wall, a light green comforter covering white sheets. 

“I’m surprised we’ve never studied here.” You hum, but your tone is distant. Eric laughs dryly and sets his bag down on the ground next to your bedframe. 

“You prefer the library,” he points out. “The lighting is easier for your eyes.” 

For a moment, you pause in your motions. How did he—

“How did you know that?” You ask, turning to face him. You can see the flush in your partner’s cheeks, and he ducks his head so that the baseball cap on his head covers his eyes. 

“I just— you would always squint when we studied at the library or— or at the TBZ house. I just…I figured that was the reason.” I pay attention. That’s what you knew he meant. 

Why does a boy who only wants to get into your pants care so much about you?

“Oh.” You dig your laptop out of your bag and take a seat on your bed, leaning against your pillows with your legs straight out in front of you. Eric joins you, sitting crosslegged at the other end of the bed. He’s careful not to get too close, shifting away from you when you adjust your position. Your skirt flares out to the side, ruffled by the blanket and exposing your thighs a bit more. Eric has to force his eyes to remain on his laptop. You notice, but there’s no anger with it. You choose to not even acknowledge it. 

“So what do we wanna do for our project?” His eyes flick over to you, and you shrug. 

“We could build something?” You suggest. “Maybe, like, a paper airplane launcher?” 

He hums, tilting his head back and wrinkling his nose in thought. 

“What about something with electromagnetism?” You nod slowly. 

“That could be good. We could keep with the idea of building something and make an electric motor with things people have lying around their houses?” 

Eric grins at you. “Now we’re thinking. We’ll have this done in no time at all.”

Eric was right. 

The brainstorming and research portion of the project had been completed within a few hours, and the two of you had cast your laptops to the side to search your apartment for things to use. Paper clips, some sort of copper wire (you had no idea why anyone would have a copper wire hanging around their house. Eric, however, said that there were several around the frat house), wood, some batteries. Anything that the two of you could use. The only thing neither of you had was a staple gun.

“It’s getting late,” Eric notes with a quick glance toward your living room window. You hum in response, lying back on your couch with your phone in your hand. “I should get going soon.”

Your eyes flick to him, but he isn’t looking at you. “Do you wanna stay the night?” 

Silence. A long moment of silence, and then Eric looks at you with a look nearing scandalized. 

“What?” You sit up, draping your arms over the back of your couch and getting a better look at him. 

“You heard me.” His face is bright red, similar to the night of the party. 

“Why would— why would I want— I mean th— thank you for the offer but— but I can’t stay the night. Why would— where would I even sleep? I don’t have clothes to sleep in!” He throws every excuse he could possibly think of at you, adding to your amusement. He had no clothes, where would he sleep, you had classes earlier in the morning than him, it would be weird if he stayed the night. It was cute. 

You’ll admit it, Eric was cute. The puppy-like look in his eyes, the pout on his lips. Everything about him was cute. It almost shocked you how fast you were able to get over the anger that he only wanted to sleep with you. In fact, you weren’t sure that’s what he even wanted from you. Only one way to find out, right?

“Eric,” you finally cut off his rambling and his voice stops, leaving your apartment oddly quiet. “Come here.��� 

He listens, slowly slinking toward you. Eric is nervous, you can tell. Every step he takes, every twitch when you shift your body. It fills you with pride, or maybe some other emotion. 

Eric stops when he’s right in front of you, just a few steps from the back of the couch and both of you (really just him) are all too aware of how his crotch is level with your mouth. 

“I wanna tell you something,” you beckon him toward you with one finger and he slowly, albeit a bit awkwardly as well, bends down so that his face is just above yours. Heat radiates off his face, so hot that you may start sweating soon. “Do you wanna know a secret?”

His Adam’s apple bobs, his hands gripping the couch for dear life, short nails digging into the cheap fabric. 

“Sure.” Eric’s voice is hoarse, and it makes you smile. 

“I kinda like you, Eric.” 

Your lips press gently against his. Entirely experimental, just enough to see what he would do. His body seizes up, his breath hitching in his throat. He doesn’t move against you, doesn’t tilt his head or part his lips. He sits there like the lead in a lame drama where the main characters seem like they couldn’t be less into each other. You begin to pull away from him, fearing you’d made him a bit uncomfortable, but a whine is pulled from his throat when your lips part from his. 

You look at him, but he’s already looking at you with wide, bulging eyes. 

“Eric…” You have a sneaking suspicion that you know why he didn’t kiss you. “Have you…has no one ever kissed you before?”

“What?” The boy’s voice is shrill, and you know the answer. “Of— of course, I’ve been kissed? What kind of question is that?” 

Your lips quirk up. “Are you sure? It’s nothing to be embarrassed about, you know.”

“What— why would I be embarrassed?” His frustration and denial are cute. Adorable, really. 

“Because you’re a sophomore in college and have been kissed once— by your physics partner, no less.” You smirk playfully and then gasp, pushing up and toward him suddenly. He reels back, nearly falling backward with the suddenness of the motion. “Eric Sohn! Are you a virgin?”

Eric looks like he’s about to cry from embarrassment, and he turns away from you completely. You grimace briefly and climb off the couch to come around and stand in front of him. He avoids your gaze by looking above you, around you, at the floor and the walls. 

“Eric,” your voice is gentle now. He doesn’t move, nor does he make any noise. He’s like a deer in headlights. “Eric, can you look at me.”

“No,” he denies, crossing his arms over his chest. You feel a bubble of amusement rising in your stomach. “You’re just gonna make fun of me.”

“I’m not gonna make fun of you.” You promise, your hand grazing his forearm. Eric’s eyes lock with yours, and for once you choose to hold his gaze. “Now, can you tell me the truth so I can help you?” 

“Help me,” he echoes with an air of offense. “I don’t need help!”

“Eric, you’re a sophomore in college who’s in the most popular frat on the campus. Add onto that your personality and your good looks, you should be getting bitches left and right.” You say pointedly and the tips of his ears flush red. Or, rather, as red as they can when his whole face is burning up from your prior insinuations. 

“What if I’m just waiting for marriage?” He counters. “Or— or the right person?” Your lips draw into a thin line, knowing that statement was bullshit. 

“We both know you wouldn’t be hard as a rock right now if that was the case.”

Eric’s heart plummets to the ground, his eyes following it to check for himself. To his complete and utter dismay, you weren’t lying. Pressing against the front of his cargo pants was the solid outline of his member, straining against the seam and begging to be released. 

“I— I am so— so sorry,” he stammers, his hands yanking the edge of his sweatshirt down to cover himself, his hands remaining carefully placed over his crotch but he knows it’s too late. “I didn’t— I don’t— oh my god I’m so sorry, Y/N.”

“It’s fine,” you reassure him, holding tightly onto his sleeve so he can’t run for the door. “I knew you wanted to sleep with me, it was kind of obvious.”

“No I— I don’t want—” Eric frantically shakes his head. “I don’t— I can’t— I don’t wanna sleep with you— I mean I do, I really really do, but not— not like this—”

The hand on his sleeve comes up to grab his cheeks, squeezing them together until his lips are pushed out and he can’t speak anymore. 

“You can admit it, Eric.” You hum, and with your hand still on his face, you begin to walk him back and around to the side of the couch. He yelps when you push him back, letting go of his face and watching him fall over the arm and land with an oof on the cushions. “You can admit that you wanted to fuck me from the moment you saw me.”

“But I—” He choked on spit before he could finish talking, eyes widening into saucers when you climbed onto the couch, crawling up to sit on his lap. He’s sitting up straight now, but the risk of falling back again is high with nothing to support his spine. Your hands just rest on his shoulders, not digging in or moving to grasp anything else. They stay there, waiting for him to make the first move. 

“Tell me if you don’t want me to continue, Eric.” His hands are trembling, his pulse higher than it’s ever been. He slowly rotates his body, placing his feet firmly on the ground and resting his spine against the back of the couch so that he doesn’t hurt either of you. 

“I want—” his voice cracks. 

“What do you want?” Your lips are on his neck, featherlight kisses being left in your wake and knocking the breath out of him. He’d never felt like this, he’d never been touched like this save for his own hand in the darkness of his room with an animated video on loop on his laptop screen. At his lack of response, you pull your lips back from his neck. Eric lets out a loud whine at this, his left hand coming to the back of your head to lightly try and push you back into him. 

“Keep doing that,” he gasps out, and you smile. 

“Don’t you want me to kiss you?” You ask him, and another whine tumbles from his lips.

“I— fuck, I do— god, why are you doing this to me?”

“I just wanna know what you want, Eric,” you’re teasing him and you know it, but you’re pretty sure Eric might fall to pieces if you don’t give him something soon. “Can’t you tell me what you want?” 

“Just—” he leans his head back, and you watch the rapid bobbing of his throat as he tries to swallow and take in air and do anything to calm himself down. “Just do something.”

“What’s the magic word?” He raises his head, gasping when he finds your lips suddenly inches from his own. 

“Ple— please?” Your lips quirk up.

“Actually, it was—”

You don’t get the chance to tease him anymore. He crushes your lips together with so much force that it almost hurts. There’s nothing coherent about the way he kisses you, although you could hardly call it a kiss at all. It was more him putting his mouth against yours, tilting his head, and squeezing his eyes shut. It’s clear from the moment it started that he’s never been kissed before and that knowledge has you squirming in his lap. 

“Eric,” you’ve barely pulled back and he’s chasing your lips as if you’re a glass of his favorite wine. “Eric, hold on.”

“Why?” His eyes flutter open and you have to force yourself not to kiss him senseless, even if he has no idea what he’s doing.

“Just—” You inhale deeply and the scent of his cologne begins to overwhelm your senses, practically intoxicating you. “You’ve never kissed anyone before.” 

He nods, his previous embarrassment returning when you say that. “I mean…Yeah, I— I haven’t. But I—I’ve used WikiHow—”

“It’s okay,” you cut him off and choose to ignore the comment about WikiHow, pressing a light kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Just follow my lead.” 

When he nods, you press your lips against his again. This time, it’s more fluid. It’s easier for you to kiss him when he’s copying your movements. It’s still awkward, your teeth smacking together painfully, but you can tell he’s getting used to the feeling. You’re able to part your lips against his, to open your mouth just enough for your tongue to slip out and brush against his lower lip. His whole body jolts, his hands digging into the fabric of your skirt hard enough that your skin would be bruised the next day. His hips roll up against yours, drawing a heady moan out of you. 

When Eric parts from you, his eyes are hazy. “Did— did you like when I did that?” 

“Yes,” you groan and begin to roll your hips down into his, watching the way his eyes roll into the back of his head and his back arches off the couch. 

“F-Fuck, okay,” He screws his eyes shut again, lips completely parted as the two of you begin to hump into each other like some damn animals. Your lips meld together again, and you let your tongue slither into his mouth. It’s obvious that Eric has no idea what to do with his tongue— pushing against yours aggressively, shoving it to the side, and trying to push his into your mouth— but as the minutes pass, he begins to understand what to do. He begins to understand what makes your body react positively and what has you unintentionally cringing away from him. 

Your lips part from his one more time but you hardly give him time to complain before you place a kiss on his cheek, then the corner of his jaw, and then right below his ear. He emits a nearly wild moan at this, his hips jerking up into yours in such a way that his bulge presses against your clit and punches a moan out of you. Being the quick learner that he is, Eric adjusts his position and rolls his hips up again and again and again, addicted to the way you sound and feel against him. 

“Eric,” you whine, parting from his neck. “Eric, oh my god.” 

He just huffs into your collarbone, licking and sucking and trying desperately to not cum too soon, but you just feel so good against him that he just can’t help it. 

His hips stutter against yours, and he moans so loud you fear that the neighbors hear it. You let him continue to grind into you, to work himself through his orgasm as your slips back and escapes you. It doesn’t matter, you’d get yourself when he leaves—

“You didn’t cum.” 

“What?” You blink dumbly at him, and Eric begins to pout. 

“You didn’t— you didn’t cum. You should’ve told me. I would’ve held off!” You knew that wasn’t true. He could barely hold himself together from a few kisses, what made him think he’d be able to hold himself off until you came? 

“It’s fine, Eric.” You reassure him, but he’s having none of it. You can’t stop him from lifting you off his hips and settling you against the couch cushions. Well…you probably could, but you wanted to see where this went. 

You watch as he unceremoniously yanks down your panties, not bothering with your skirt whether out of impatience or because he liked seeing you in it. 

“Do you even know what you’re doing?” Eric peers up at you, a boyish smile on his face. 

“Can’t be that hard, right?” You laugh, choosing not to argue with him. You’d tell him, when it came time, where your clit is but for now? You’d let him work things out for himself. 

Your body shudders when Eric takes his first taste, licking from the bottom to the top of your pussy. You’re amazed that he didn’t accidentally go too far down like most (slightly more experienced) men have. It’s almost impressive how much attention he pays to your quivering body, and you flip your skirt up so you can see his face buried into you. Every lick draws out a moan from both of you, and you can see him starting to roll his hips down onto the couch. 

“Fuck,” his words are muffled by your cunt, and vile slurping noises accompany him. “Could get addicted to the taste of you.”

“Mm, feels good, Eric.” Your eyes flutter shut, one of your hands slipping down to tangle in his blonde strands of hair and tugging him up slightly. Your other hand taps at your clit lightly, making your body jolt a bit. “Here. This— fuck— feels good here.”

“That’s it?” He drops his head down again, swatting your hand out of the way to replace it with his own. His touch is much rougher than yours, his hands thick and calloused compared to your delicate ones. “Right here?” 

You whine for him, and he has to bite on his tongue to not cum again so fast. He’s quick to attach his mouth to your clit, sucking violently and swiping his tongue against it. If you weren’t impressed by him before, you most certainly were now. It hadn’t taken him long at all to figure out what felt good for you. Reading your mind and body was almost second nature to him, it seemed, and it became abundantly clear when your orgasm began to rise again.

“Close, Eric!” You gasped out, “I’m close!”

He groans against you, catching your hips in his hands when they begin to roll into his face. Eric wanted to drown in you. He wanted to feel you shake around him for the rest of his damn life. He wanted to hear you screaming his name until your throat was raw and your voice was gone. 

And the sight of you cumming on his face, your essence soaking his chin and dripping onto his sweatshirt? 

If he could stay glued to you for the rest of his life, he fucking would.

Becoming a habit came easy for you and Eric. You’re not dating, but you’re unsure of whether the puppy-like boy cares or not. You discovered very quickly that he would do anything for you, would learn anything for you. You’d successfully taught him how to kiss a girl without looking like a dumbass (i.e. the straight-face-to-sudden-kiss scenario you’d faced too many times to count), how to finger you and hit all the right spots, where not to put his mouth and fingers unless explicitly told otherwise. There was, of course, your next problem.

Eric refused to put his dick in you.

You knew he was clean, both of you had gotten tested when you originally began screwing around. You knew he liked you, that much was obvious. He looked at you as if you hung the stars in the sky, he told you how much he loved you every time you gave him head. He just…never went farther than that. Was he scared? Did he not want you as bad as you (very clearly) wanted him? It made you nauseous to think about, but it was getting frustrating how all you two did was make out, grind on each other like teenagers, and give each other head every time you saw each other. Shit— he was even fine with fingering you underneath the table in your lecture the other day! 

That’s why you developed a plan. Here you were, standing outside of the Tau Beta Zeta frat house under the guise of needing to work on your project (which wasn’t necessarily a lie) but really planning on getting him to finally fuck you. Yes, you were aware of the fact that he was a virgin but it was obvious from the start that he didn’t give a shit about that.

Unless he did. Your hand pauses just inches from the door, but you shake your head to clear the anxious thought and you knock on the door. 

One, two, three…one, two three…one—

On the third round of knocks, a boy swings the door open. His eyes are wide, his hair in disarray. 

“Hi.” You wave your hand with a smile, but the boy just stands there with a dumb look on his face. Were all the TBZ boys like this? 

“…Hi?” He says it in the form of a question, which draws a laugh out of you. 

“I’m Y/N.”

“…Sunwoo…” 

“Oh, the star soccer player, right?” He nods and you grin. “I saw your last game, the one where your girlfriend— I’m assuming girlfriend— knocked some sense into you. You really killed it out there!”

“Thank you…uh…can— can I help you?” You rock back and forth on your heels, biting at your lip in thought. The idea of wearing a skirt is choosing to bite you in the ass as a cold breeze picks up. 

“I’m here for Eric, actually. Um…Eric Sohn? I think he lives here, right?” Sunwoo’s jaw drops, his head dipping down as well and he steps to the side to let you in. You smile, using your feet to pull your shoes off as you step into the entryway. You see a pile of shoes to your left, the larger men’s pairs shoved into a large pile while some smaller women’s shoes sit neatly. You can’t help but wonder if it was the girlfriends that did this or if one of the frat members cares a bit more about them than the others. 

“He’s…he’s on the second floor, third door on the left…” You thank Sunwoo, ignoring how he follows you with obvious confusion and awe. Another boy passes by you, staring in confusion but ends up in the same state as the soccer player when he explains the situation. 

You knock before you enter Eric’s room, rocking on your heels again as you wait for some sort of response. You get none, and when you go to interrupt him, the second boy stops you. 

“Hi, um, I’m Haknyeon— you can call me Hak, though— Eric’s— he’s— he’s gaming. You can just go in because there’s no way you’re gonna get his attention by— by, um— yeah.” He stumbles over his words in an almost incomprehensible way, but you get the basic idea. 

“Thanks, Hak,” you dip your head and twist the doorknob. Sunwoo and Hak both watch you enter the room, only snapping out of their daze when you shut the door tightly behind you. 

“You…you saw that too, right?” Haknyeon grabs Sunwoo by the shoulder with a grin on his face.

“My best friend…” Sunwoo’s voice is quiet with confusion. “He’s…he’s getting bitches?”

“What did I say about saying that,” his girlfriend pops around the corner with a scowl on her face. Sunwoo’s face lights up, but it disappears at the scolding gaze she gives him.

“Sorry, baby,” he pouts and she rolls her eyes. “I just wasn’t expecting it.”

“Give them some damn privacy,” she clicks her tongue, eyeing the door. “Lord knows they’re probably gonna need it.”

Eric is facing a large gaming setup when you enter the room. You can see the dark polo sweater which is partially unzipped to reveal some of his chest, the beige hat, and the khaki combo he had, unfortunately, chosen to wear today (you’re going to have to update his closet soon, whether you date him or not. You have to save the next girl he’s with). The lights, shockingly, are purple rather than the red you had expected. You can see expensive monitors and a keyboard, all of which are cleaner than any other gamer’s setup that you’d seen. In fact, his whole room is so much cleaner than you had ever given him credit for. You’d expected to see something absolutely filthy, but Eric never fails to shock you.

What doesn’t shock you, however?

Five Nights At Freddy’s playing on the screens.

You clear your throat, and he barely even spares a glance at you. You wonder if he even recognized that it was you—

“Yo, Y/N!” Oh god, this might not go as planned. “You’re early!” 

“Figured I’d come by to hang out before we got started on the paper.” You come up behind him, dropping your bag and jacket by the edge of the bed, revealing the black sheer top you’d chosen to go with your white skirt. You’d also chosen the perfume you know gets his attention the most, the one that always has him practically gluing his face to your neck. 

That doesn’t happen this time. He stays glued to his game, his legs spread wide open and tongue sticking out from the corner of his lips. 

“Feel— fuck!” His body jerks when an animatronic (Foxy, maybe?) comes out of a vent and gives him barely enough time to start protecting himself. “Feel free to make yourself comfortable, I might take a while.”

You hum, not moving from your spot. Your hands are on the back of his gaming chair, your eyes focused on the screen with fake intrigue. He doesn’t acknowledge you, so you let your hands begin to sink onto his shoulders. His chin tilts toward you a bit, but he corrects himself and goes back to ignoring you even when your nails graze the skin of his collarbone. 

“What are you doing?” Eric asks, but it’s more dismissive than anything. 

“Just watching you play,” you reply with a sly grin. Another jumpscare appears, and he grunts when you intentionally dig your nails into him (something you’ve learned he loves over the past two weeks). 

Part two of your scheme begins when you sink to your knees beside Eric and slip under his desk. This grabs his attention. Eric watches as you get comfortable, no longer paying attention to the screens in front of him when you run your hands up his thighs, grazing the button of his khaki pants. 

“Y/N, this—” his breath catches in his throat when you finally undo the button and pull the zipper down. You can see his member already hardening, twitching in his boxers. “You don’t have to— I don’t— why—”

“Jus’ play your game, baby.” You purr, your fingers hooking under the band of his boxers to tug them and his pants down at the same time. His jaw is hanging open, eyes wide with awe, but you stop your movements. “Play your game, Eric, or I’m leaving.”

His response is immediate, sliding his chair closer to you and lifting his hips to let you work. Your smirk is wide, and you yank his clothing down in one go, letting them rest around his ankles. Eric’s knee begins to bounce, and you rest your hand on top of it to steady him. His member, in just a few moments, has completely hardened. You can see the slick precum beginning to leak from his tip, and you lower your mouth to catch each drop on his tongue. 

The moan he emits is loud, and you pull your mouth back just an inch to dig your nails into his thigh.

“Stay quiet and don’t cum unless I say so.” He whimpers in response, and you bring your mouth back onto him. You begin by suckling at his tip, letting your tongue swirl around him like a lollypop, and listening to his barely restrained moans. You hear clicking and tapping on his keyboard, as well as random noises from the game

You take him a little deeper and his thighs tense, but he’s good at staying quiet. He’s good even when his tip hits the back of your throat and you gag around him. Even when you take him so deep that you’re choking on him and spit is dripping from your mouth and onto his skin. Even when you begin hollowing your mouth and bobbing your head, and swallowing around him a few times when you take him all the way down so your nose is against his pelvis. 

Another jumpscare and his hips jerk and force him farther down your throat. You moan around him, your eyes rolling back at the feeling, and that elicits a whine from him.

“Y/N,” he pleads. “I’ve been s-so good for yo—you right? Haven’t— Haven’t I been good? Ple—please let me cum. Jus’ wanna cum, please?” 

Eric sees you look up at him through your eyelashes, and just the sight of you slobbering all over him has his eyes rolling back in his head.

Then you pull off him completely, leaving his dick twitching and lonely against his stomach. 

“Why did— why did you pull off?” His eyes are dazed, and you flash a coy smile at him. 

“I told you to pay attention to the game, didn’t I?��� 

“I— yeah, you did but— but I just— you—” Eric is tearing up as you begin to push your body out from under the desk to stand in front of him. 

“Poor baby,” you cup his cheek and your stomach churns when he leans into your palm with a sigh. “Should’ve just paid attention and beat the night, then, hm?” 

“Please,” he whines, leaving little kisses on your palm and working his way to your wrist, your forearm, your elbow, and then he’s pulling you onto his lap so you’re nearly sitting on his dick. You can feel it pulsing against your core, and you can’t help the tiny rolls of your hips to gain some sort of friction. “Please, just— I’ll…I’ll do anything you want. I’ll— I’ll eat you out, I’ll finger you, fuck, I’ll— I’ll let you sit on my face if that’s what you want.”

You hum, tapping your fingers against his chest in thought. “What if I want you to fuck me?” 

His body tenses and his cheeks begin to flush, his eyes refusing to meet yours. 

“Eric,” you say softly, moving your hand to his chin and forcing him to look at you. “Eric, talk to me.”

“I— I don’t—”

“I’m not gonna force you to do anything, Eric,” you reassure him, stopping the ministrations of your hips and bringing your free hand to the side of his neck. “I just want to know why. I want to understand. Do you— do you not want me? Do you wanna save yourself for another girl?” 

“No!” He snaps, his voice a bit harsher than he’d intended for it to come out but it has you flinching away from him. In a moment of panic, he brings his hands to your waist and tugs you closer to him. “I— sorry. It’s not— it’s not that at all.”

“Then why?” Your hands are playing with the ends of his blonde hair, and Eric swallows once. Twice. And then he tucks his head into your shoulder. 

“I…I don’t know.” 

You nod, disappointment filling you, but you don’t let it show. 

“Let’s work on the project.” You slide off his lap, ignoring the somewhat heartbroken gaze he shoots you. “The paper is due in a couple of days, so I grabbed a few sources and drafted an outline.”

For a moment, he doesn’t say anything. He just tucks his member back into his pants and comes to join you on his bed. The air is tense and you know he wants to say something. You wait for him to say it. 

He doesn’t.

“Eric, you’re fucking stupid.” Sunwoo throws himself onto his best friend’s bed, staring at the ceiling and listening to the sound of Eric hitting his head on his desk.

“I know…”

“I mean, we already knew this from previous incidents. Ahem, giving my then-crush-now-girlfriend a concussion. But holy shit I thought it couldn’t possibly get any worse than that.”

“I know!” Eric whines, sitting heavily on the gaming chair he’d gotten head on almost four hours ago, and could have gotten laid in had he not been a damn moron.

“I mean, you’ve been trying to get laid by this chick for how long? And you cockblocked yourself because…” Sunwoo trails off, his eyebrows knitting together as he sits up. “Wait, why did you cockblock yourself?”

“I don’t know, man!” Eric huffs and leans his head back. “Fuck, she was so nice about it too. Too nice. I know damn well she’s pissed at me but she’s too fucking nice to say anything.”

“Well yeah,” Sunwoo shrugs. “Sex 101— don’t force yourself onto anyone. Hello? Why would she do that to you?”

Eric crosses his arms over his chest, using his feet to spin his chair back and forth lightly. You had been really sweet about everything. You could’ve gotten mad at him, especially since this wasn’t the first time this had happened, but you didn’t. You wanted him to be ready. 

And he was. He was so ready! He just— he gets nervous around you! What if he’s a disappointment? What if he’s so bad that you have to fake an orgasm? What if he doesn’t fit? What if he hurts you?

“Eric,” Sunwoo claps his hands together to snap Eric out of his thoughts. “Stop getting distracted while I’m trying to help you in a way that won’t lead to injuries.” 

The poor, self-cockblocked boy lifts his head with a pout. 

“There’s a party this weekend, right?” 

“Yeah…” Eric tilts his head.

“Make sure she’s there. Use whatever excuse you need to, and make sure she shows up. Then, ask her to talk. Go somewhere private, talk to her, tell her you’re ready, and then fuck until the sun comes up.” Sunwoo claps again, throwing his out to the side in a cocky I just made the best plan ever manner. “First of all, gets you laid, second of all— free revenge on Sangyeon.”

Eric drums his fingers against his legs in thought. The plan was good, he’d admit that. Of course, not out loud. No, he would never let Sunwoo know that he was right about something.

“Fine,” Eric agrees. “But if shit goes south, it’s your fault.”

“Deal,” Sunwoo grins mischievously. “And if shit goes right, you owe me and my girlfriend dinner.”

“Deal.”

Eric doesn’t see you at all that week, something that has him nearly crying on the ground in Sangyeon’s bedroom. He’d texted you, asked if you were okay, sent you notes, told you about the party but didn’t outright invite you. Nothing. No sign of you in lectures, no texts from you aside from a confirmation that you’d submit your written portion of the midterm.

“Take a damn breath.” Sangyeon rolls his eyes and tugs a formfitting black mock-neck shirt over his head, sliding a silver chain around his neck afterward. “She’s probably busy.”

“But she never goes this long without texting me! Or being in a lecture!” The youngest member of the frat holds his head in his hands, staring down at the white buttondown shirt that hung somewhat loosely on his body. 

“Maybe she hates you, I don’t know!” Sangyeon exclaims. “Stop bothering me about it!” Eric pouts up at the TBZ president.

“But you know how to handle these things!”

“Not when you’re on my ass about it all day every day for a week straight.” Sangyeon’s lip curls and Eric huffs, laying back on the hardwood floor. “Dude, just be patient. Who knows, maybe she was sick? Maybe she’ll show up today and you’ll get laid. Just. Be. Patient.”

And patient he was. 

He lurked around the party, a drink in his hand and a ripped red baseball cap covering his head and shielding his red-rimmed eyes from the public. They didn’t need to know he’d cried over his two-year-long crush ghosting him. 

“Who pissed in your cheerios?” He turns his body slowly, ready to crack a corny joke, and walk away from whoever yelled in his ear, but he stops dead in his tracks when he sees you. You’re in another tiny little black skirt and a black bralette that was used as a poor excuse for a shirt with a leather jacket thrown over it. He nearly crumbles in front of you, ready to worship you and the ground you walk on, ready to take you in front of all these people so they know that he’s yours.

“Oh my god.” 

You laugh at the dumbstruck look in his eyes, at the way his eyes are stuck on your chest, and the way your bralette pushes your boobs up just enough to catch attention. 

“You okay, Eric?” Your hand is on his arm, and in an instant his cup is thrown to the side and his lips are on yours, his tongue shoved into your mouth. You gasp at the sudden intrusion, and, really, the suddenness of it all, but you don’t complain. You love how frantic he is for you, love how he’s ready to risk it all after just a week of not seeing you. 

When he parts from you, there’s a string of spit connecting your lips that only breaks when you swipe your thumb across his lip. 

“How’s that for a hello?” You say just loud enough for him to hear it. 

“We need to talk.”

“We do.” You confirm, but his lips are on yours again, and you’re so glad that everyone is distracted by a game of beer pong on the other side of the room. You let your eyes flutter shut, moaning into his mouth when he pushes his tongue against yours. They dance together, swirling around each other but not fighting for dominance. No, this kiss isn’t about that. This is two people being addicted to the taste of each other, two people who could never get enough of what the other has to offer. 

You have to force yourself to part from him, turning away so you can find somewhere more private— preferably his bedroom. He doesn’t stray from you, gluing his lips to the side of your neck as you try to weave through the crowd. It’s not easy, especially with Eric on you and refusing to let go, but you don’t mind. 

Not when he shoves you against his dresser as soon as his bedroom door is shut and locked. 

The handles of the drawers dig against your spine, but you’re too distracted by Eric’s lips on your chest to care. His hat is missing, likely somewhere on the staircase. Your jacket has been thrown to the opposite side of the room, the straps of your bralette shoved down and both breasts freed from its confines so Eric can lick and suck and bite at the soft mounds. 

“Eric,” you moan out, arching your back into his hunched form. He groans against you, sucking hard at your nipple and eliciting a loud moan from you. “Eric, pick me up.” 

Without even pulling away, he does, plopping you unceremoniously onto his dresser and moving his lips to the other breast, replacing his mouth with his hand. Your hand comes to the back of his head, and you find yourself smiling at the desperation your lover shows. 

“Missed me that much, huh?” Your composure is crumbling, but you don’t care. “Might have to disappear more often.”

He rips away from your chest, eyes narrowed into a glare. “Don’t even joke about that. I thought you died.”

You kiss him again, both hands holding his face to yours, and your legs wrap around his waist. Eric’s hands find your thighs and he lifts you off the dresser. He sucks on your tongue, biting on your lip when you start to pull away and you whimper at the sting of pain. 

“Thought I died, hm?” You brush back the blonde strands of hair covering his sweaty forehead and smirk. “It’s a good thing I didn’t then, hm? What would you have done? Fucked your fist for the rest of your life?” 

A muscle in his jaw feathers and he throws you down on his bed. You yelp, eyes widening at the personality change. A week ago, he would’ve been begging you for any touch, would’ve been falling apart just for one look at your dripping pussy. But now?

Now he looks like a starved animal, and you’re the first helpless creature he’s seen in weeks. 

“Eric,” you warn, watching him unbutton his shirt. “Remember what I said.” 

He eyes you, smirking at the way your jaw drops when his shirt hits the floor. It’s odd, isn’t it? You’d probably been bare in front of him countless times but you’d hardly seen him with his pants down.

“Holy fuck.” You stare at his torso, at the chiseled abs and biceps, at the veins in his arms, at the trail of hair leading down to his dick. “You’re— you’re fucking shredded.”

“Shredded?” He quirks an eyebrow, undoing his belt and the button of his pants so he can push them down and kick them to the side. “That’s the first word you thought of?”

“Well—” you clear your throat and turn your gaze away from him. “I mean— you are.”

“Cute,” He coos and crawls over you, hooking his fingers into the hem of your skirt. “May I?”

“You may,” you look at him again, then down his body and swallow hard at the sight of him. You’ve seen him many times. You’ve held him in your hand, in your mouth. You know what to expect.

So why does it make you so nervous now?

“You’re getting distracted,” Eric kisses his teeth, lowering his face to yours but not kissing you. He traces his nose across your cheek, light kisses from his lips going with it. His nose nudges against your jaw, urging you to tilt your jaw up so he can kiss you there. You do, and his lips feel like fire against your skin. “I thought you liked it when people pay attention?”

“I— I do!” You gasp out, and Eric laughs against your skin. Where the fuck is all this confidence coming from? 

“Then why aren’t you paying attention to me?” His fingers press against your sopping-wet entrance and you lift your hips in a weak attempt to get them inside of you. 

“I am!” Tears are welling in your eyes. “I am paying attention to you, Eric, please!”

He juts out his lip in a mocking pout, using the hand that’s not against your heat to wipe the tears away. 

“Okay baby,” he says softly, sinking two thick, calloused fingers into you. “Don’t cry, not yet.” 

The intrusion has you crying out and Eric does his best to hush you, to soothe you, and then he’s thrusting his fingers in and out of you at a fast pace. Your fingers cling to his shoulders, feeling the muscles tense and shift with every movement of his arm. Eric grins when your eyes finally flutter shut, when you finally give in to him. He praises you when he slips a third finger into your core, and then a fourth. He praises you as he works you through the sting, curling his fingers gently to search for the spot he knows would have you falling to pieces under him. 

Eric finds it easily and is oh so pleased by your wail of his name. He grins almost maliciously, when you begin to shake, when your body begins to thrash, and your nails dig into his shoulders and drag down his back. 

“Always so easy for me,” he hums, staring in awe at the wrinkle between your eyebrows and how your tongue practically hangs out of your mouth. When he knows you’re about to cum, he crushes his lips against yours again and begins to move his hand faster. You’re sobbing into his mouth, unable to kiss him back between your cries and moans, but Eric doesn’t mind. 

He lets you grind against his hand until you’re not shaking anymore. Then, and only then, does he pull his fingers out of you, watching with curious satisfaction as your cum drips from his fingers and onto the blanket below you. 

“Don’t— don’t sit there staring at that shit.” you hiss, but Eric just smiles. 

“So you can speak coherently now?” 

“Shut up and fuck me already, or do you need me to teach you how to do that too?” 

Eric’s gaze hardens, his tongue pushing against his cheek. You push yourself to sit up, but Eric pushes you right back down and uses his hands to push your legs apart. 

“I don’t need you to teach me anything,” he grunts, lining his member up with your entrance. 

“Really? That’s not what it looked like three weeks ag—oh fuck!” Your back arches off the bed when he suddenly sinks into you. Four fingers seem to have been just barely enough, the sting fading just as fast as it came. Or maybe you just like the pain so much it turned into pleasure. Whatever the reason, you’re quick to tell Eric to pick up the pace. 

You’re both shocked and impressed by the movement of his hips. He alternates between smooth, sharp rolls and harsh, pointed thrusts that have your body forced up the bed and the headboard knocking against the wall.

“You think I need your help?” Eric growls, digging his hands into your thighs and spreading them farther apart, lifting the lower half of your body a bit to change the angle. This brings a new pleasure to both of you. Something that you’ve never felt before, and has your mind reeling. “I didn’t need you. I wanted you. I wanted every part of you. I craved you, craved your taste. It was pure fucking luck that you wanted me too.”

“Eric,” You gasp out, sinking your teeth into the side of his neck to leave another mark on his skin. “Eric, feels so good, god it feels so good please, please don’t stop. Don’t stop, oh my god!”

“Look at you,” he yanks your head out of his neck by your hair, staring down at your fucked out face as he continues to plow into you with no remorse. “All fucked out for me. I did this. Your little virgin boy. Isn’t it embarrassing?” 

You whine in response but apparently, that isn’t what he’s looking for because he slows down at your lack of response. 

“Answer me,” he hisses.

“I— I don’t— Eric I don’t—” You don’t even know what he’s trying to ask. You stopped listening as soon as he pulled your hair, the sting of it feeling too good. Eric laughs, picking up his pace again and dropping your head back down onto his pillows. 

“What? Too fucked out to answer me? Who would’ve thought that I was the virgin and not you? What would people think if they walked in here and saw me fucking you like this?” He doesn’t expect an answer this time, not that you’d be able to give him one anyway. 

Your legs draw tightly around his slim waist, holding him close as your orgasm approaches again, but Eric doesn’t seem to be even close to cumming. Even when your second orgasm washes over you, and then your third. He fucks you through each one, sweat dripping from his hair and down his torso until his body is sliding against yours. Your body feels numb, but at the same time, you can feel everything. Every drag of his length against your walls, every punch of his tip against your cervix. Your arms curl around his neck, but your grip is loose. 

When Eric’s hips finally begin to stutter, you’re about four orgasms in, the fifth about to wash over you. Your voice is hoarse, a puddle of drool on the pillow under your head. You can’t find it in you to make any more noise, just gasping breathes and quiet whines. You cum together, and the feeling of his cum filling you has your back arching again. This time, Eric catches you and holds your body against his. He kisses you gently, uncaring that you can barely breathe let alone kiss him. 

“That— that was a good talk,” he jokes, and you say nothing at first. “Um…are— are you okay?” 

“You just—” you clear your throat, but it does nothing. “You just fucked me within an inch of my life, as a completely inexperienced virgin, and you’re asking me if I’m okay?” 

Eric frowns, settling down on top of you, but careful not to lay his full weight onto your obviously aching body. He can see the bruises he’d left all over you— on your chest, your neck, your hips. Anywhere his lips or hands touched, there was a bruise left in his wake. He imagines, however, that he looks no different. He can feel the scratches you left on his back, marring every inch of his skin and likely drawing a bit of blood, he can see a hickey on his arm that you left at some point and can imagine how the front of his body looks.

“So…so you’re not okay?” He tries and you huff, throwing an arm over your eyes. 

“Eric, I love you, but you’re such a dumbass.” You groan, shoving him off your body so you can breathe properly. “Go draw a bath. I’m gonna need one after that shit.”

“Before I do, can you answer one question?” You pry your eyes open to scowl at him and his damn puppy-like eyes. 

“What?” 

“Are we— are we dating now?” 

“We won’t be for long if you don’t get that fucking bath going.” 

“Aw, yeah!” Eric cheers, jumping off the bed and running to the bathroom to start the bath like you asked. “Guess who isn’t single anymore, Sunwoo!”

“What’s your problem?” Haknyeon peers at Sangyeon over the lip of his mug. The frat president is glaring at you and Eric with something murderous in his eyes, which seem to have dark bags under them.

“My bedroom is right next to Eric’s.” Haknyeon raises an eyebrow, and Sangyeon clears his throat. “My bedroom is next to Eric’s.”

“Okay…oh. OH. Oh, shit man, I’m sorry.” Haknyeon turns his gaze to the two of you, grimacing at the thought of how long Sangyeon could have been kept up, but smiling when he sees how the two of you are cuddled on the couch. The grimace returns when he sees the state of your necks, neither of you having bothered to hide what you did to each other. 

“I mean,” Sunwoo sits on the counter, a bowl of cereal in his hand. “You kinda deserved it after what you did to him.”

“What the fuck— what did I do to him?” Sangyeon exclaims, and Sunwoo quirks an eyebrow. 

“You fucked your girlfriend for, what, seven rounds straight? The poor man didn’t get any sleep that night. Be glad you were able to rest after that.”

Haknyeon raises his cup, and the three frat boys return to “subtly” watching the two of you.

“Do you at least know if he was good? You know, for a virgin.”

“Oh my fucking god, Sunwoo, shut up.”

“You shut up, Hak! It was just a question!”

“You two are fucking nasty,” Sangyeon’s lip curls into a sneer, trying to block out the memories of last night. “But I’m gonna need a shit ton of bleach if I wanna forget that bullshit.”

“Hot.”

“Sunwoo, shut UP!”

© itsbeeble. do not steal, claim, or repost.

[nyctoaerah]

★ TAKING CARE OF YOU!

CONTENT: Fluff, Crack, Domestic Life, Timeline was two years after the final battle, Sexual Themes, Sanemi’s vulgar mouth (lmao)

PAIRINGS: Sanemi Shinazugawa x Fem! Reader

Sanemi hummed deeply as his calloused fingers tossed the pale yellow rice in the hot skillet.

You nuzzled your worn body against his back and inhaling the comforting scents of ginger and soy that rose from the pan. Wrapping your lone arm tightly around his waist, you pressed a gentle kiss between his shoulder blades and let out a contented sigh.

“You alright, love?”

Sanemi questioned upon hearing your weary exhale..

“A little bit tired...” Sluggishly, you tried squeezing him closer to convey your meaning, but your grip had slackened.

Concern rippled through Sanemi’s frame at your words. “Rest then,” he replied gruffly.

“But I wanna help,” you protested weakly, lifting your head with effort. Shifting to peer over his shoulder, you pulled your best pouting expression, though your exhaustion likely dulled the effect.

Sanemi huffed a sigh and rolled his eyes at your attempt.

“I’ve got this covered. You need to recover your strength,” he insisted, free hand rising to card through your disheveled hair in a rare gentle gesture, he frowned slightly as he saw that your usual radiance was muted, lovely eyes dull with exhaustion.

His eyes swept to your leaning form with a inspecting gaze that lingered on the space where your other arm had been.

“You can’t just expect me to let you cook and clean the house on your own when you only have one hand,” Sanemi muttered gruffly, turning back to the yakimeshi.

“Rest. You need it.” His voice was gentle as he tenderly ran his fingers through your hair, planting a soft kiss on your temple.

You furrowed your brows, a mix of exhaustion and defiance in your eyes as you stared at him. Your protest was on the tip of your tongue, but as Sanemi shot you a firm look, the words died down in your throat.

“Now.” he repeated, his tone leaving no room for argument.

With a defeated sigh, you begrudgingly pulled away from him, elbowing him lightly in the side as you did so. Sanemi let out a grunt of irritation, his eyes rolling in response to your brattiness.

“Just go rest, for me, darling...”

“Say please first.”

Sanemi shot you an exasperated glare, the lines on his forehead deepening in irritation.

“Just go and rest, for fuck’s sake, woman,” he grumbled, shaking his head in frustration and fondness.

“Nuh-uh. Say pretty please f’me, Nemi~” 

You couldn't help but taunt him further, a sly smile curling at the corners of your mouth.

“Say pretty please or you have no balls” you quipped, knowing exactly how to push his buttons.

He deadpanned at you.

“My darling [Name], my love, my soul, you let me fuck you senseless most of the time and you have the audacity to say that?” Sanemi’s voice was laced with disbelief, his narrowed eyes locking onto yours.

“what even is the connect of you having no balls to that...”

You muttered, weirded out at his bluntness as your smug facade crumbled under his scrutiny, a sudden rush of uncertainty creeping into your mind.

Before you could come up with a retort, frustration bubbled up within you, culminating in a defiant gesture as you raised your middle finger and stuck your tongue out petulantly.

“Rest now.” he commanded, his tone brooking no argument. You opened your mouth to shoot back a snarky remark, but his next words stopped you in your tracks.

“Or maybe I'll just fuck that attitude right out of you, and make you beg for rest,” he declared bluntly, a hint of amusement dancing in his eyes despite his bold words.

“You disgusting freak.”

A frown marred your features. You knew all too well that he wasn't one to make empty threats, his actions always speaking louder than words.

“Yeah, yeah, i am a disgusting freak. Now go.” He shooed you away.

“Fine,” you grumbled under your breath, not really in the mood for it, and casting a final eye-roll his way before reluctantly making your way back to your shared room.

“Hmph.” Sanemi scoffed.

As you left, Sanemi’s gaze lingered on you for a while before he went back to cooking again.

It has been two years since the demon slayer corps was disbanded.

And you and Sanemi now found solace in each other, joined as one in marriage — Just like the two of you had always dreamt off in the past — getting married together and making a family.

It was a bit tough for you two, since the both of you are technically amputees because of the final battle, but you two managed to make it work.

Though Sanemi had lost several fingers in the battle, your wounds ran far deeper — your left eye was gone, as was your left hand — it got sliced when you were fighting with the uppermoon one on the infinity fortress

It was tough being like this, but with you, he was happy.

After finishing cooking and preparing the fragrant yakimeshi, Sanemi hurried to your shared room and carefully placed the steaming tray of food on the polished wooden table, the aroma wafting through the air.

As he expected, you were not peacefully resting but reclining on the bed with a pout on your face — still seemingly bitter about him previously telling you to let him do all the work.

“Hey... Food is ready,” Sanemi announced, observing your reaction as you turned towards him, a hint of irritation in your expression.

“Are you forgetting something?” you questioned, arching an eyebrow expectantly.

What did you mean by that..?

Oh.

Oh..

Sanemi rolled his eyes before gracefully picking up the tray and lowering himself to his knees, presenting the delicious meal to you in a humble gesture.

“Here you go, your majesty. Your feast awaits,” he declared playfully, a smile tugging at his lips as you couldn’t help but giggle at the theatrical display. “Good, you may rise now,” you commanded in a regal tone, attempting to sound majestic, which only made him chuckle at how stupid you sound.

You curled your fingers around the smooth porcelain bowl, feeling its cold edges press into your skin as you lifted it from the tray.

Sanemi took the tray and placed it back on the table, as he kneeled before you once again.

“Can you eat it alone?” 

he asked, purple eyes searching your face.

“Of course I can,” you replied, feeling a small twist of irritation.

“I’m not paralyzed.”

“Just because I’m missing one hand doesn’t make me helpless.”

“I know that,” he grumbled, voice low. Reaching out, he cupped your thigh in one hand, calloused fingers brushing your skin in idle circles.

“But let me care for you, just this once,” He continued.

“Let your husband take care of you, just for once, hm?”

©𝐍𝐲𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐚𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐡 || 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐬, 𝐫𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐬, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝.♡

[dollwrites]

𝐟𝐚𝐢𝐫 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲 — 𝐠𝐨𝐣𝐨 𝐬𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐮

𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀 ∣ smut ( minors dni ), fem!student!reader, titty fucking ( busty!reader ), oral sex ( m!receiving ), facial ( gojo loves skincare!! ) noncon, little bit of manipulation, suggested age gap / power dynamic, all characters featured are aged 18+

𝗶𝗺𝗽𝗼𝗿𝘁𝗮𝗻𝘁 ∣ please reblog && leave feedback. not proofread so there’s probably mistakes. thanks for reading < 3

𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗺𝗶𝘀𝘀𝗶𝗼𝗻𝗲𝗱 𝗯𝘆 ∣ @tomatop [ thank you so much, i hope you like it! ]

“You look scared to death, baby girl.” Gojo was muttering with amusement as his long leg juts out behind him, kicking the door closed. it effectively traps you in the room with him, and at the same time, blocks out the dim light from the quiet hallway. your heart pounds heavy against your chest when darkness engulfs the room, and you reach out to flip the light switch, but his hand clapping around your wrist halts your movement, and your breath catches in your throat. “Don’t be. I’m not gonna eat ya.” you can feel the warmth of his body, and the wave of his breath against the shell of your ear, and you realize he’s right behind you. so close that the taunt muscles masked by his uniform bump against your shoulder blades. “Not until I’m done having my fun with you.”

a husky chuckle bubbles up from his throat, and you let out a nervous giggle, too. you’re not sure why you do that— maybe to ease the growing anxiety within you. but it embarrasses you how timid you sound when you murmur, “I don’t think we’re supposed to be in here—“

his hand careens upwards to grasp yours, guiding your delicate fingers to the light switch and flicking it. in a moment’s time, the room is flooded with the glow, and you realize you were staring down at your own feet. your bare knees peek out from underneath the navy skirt, tucked inwards towards one another.

“But, what better place to hold an exam than a quiet classroom?”

you turn to look over your shoulder at him, your perplexity getting the better of you. only, you hadn’t expected him to be so close. his blinding sapphires peeking out just enough from behind his sunglasses to make your heart skip a beat, and his cocky smirk inches from your face. “I— oh, I’m being tested??”

his smirk stretches wider, and he nods. “Mhm.” he answers simply, before taking a step closer to you. he would’ve knocked into you, had you not stumbled back just in time. “I wanna see just how badly you really want me as a mentor. Do you know what that means?” you shake your head, starting to take another step back when he swaggers closer, but this time, he reaches out as grasps your uniform top, stilling you in your tracks. your eyes widen, and flit downwards to see his slender digits creeping between the buttons, slithering like two, devious snakes, beneath the fabric. upon seeing your apprehension, as well as feeling your breasts heave with a heavy breath, Gojo chuckles again. “You gotta earn it, baby girl.”

as soon as the words left his lips, a shudder slipped down your spine, and he hooked his fingers against your blouse, anchoring them from the inside, and popping buttons as he wrenches it open to expose your chest to him. you were thankful for the durability of your bra where your uniform top had failed you, and the partially secured mounds ripple in response to his rough treatment of your garments. an inaudible gasp leaves your lips parted followed by a soft cry of protest, “W—wait..!” your face heating up with a furious blush, and Gojo elicits a soft, playful whistle.

“There we go. I’ve been waiting long enough to see what those tits looked like under that tight, little top you wear.” your new teacher snickers, allowing his middle finger to curl around the underwire of your lingerie, his knuckle nesting in your warm cleavage, and he uses that grip to pull you back to his body, sighing in content when you stumble, and your breasts smush against his chest. “Come a little bit closer, let me feel ‘em.”

both of his hands then envelop your clothed mounds, squeezing through the soft fabric of your lingerie to knead and grope at you, and he swoons at how easily your body squishes, how soft and warm your tits feel in his hands. even through your bra, you could tell he was enjoying it. the ever-growing lump in his dark trousers was beginning to prod at your bare thigh. you wince; his treatment growing increasingly more rough. you knew it was wrong, so you grasp his wrists in an attempt to pry his hands from you. but, Gojo merely ignores the gesture, and your silent protest.

“These feel good. Your little bra can hardly keep them contained, huh?” he snickers playfully, rubbing them in circles to hear the sounds you make. “So fucking soft,” Gojo whispers, more to himself than to you, and squeezes again, harder this time. when your breath catches in your throat, you elicit a quiet and almost pitiful squeak, and he suppressed a low growl. “They’re sensitive too, huh? Does it feel good, baby? Having your big, soft titties groped by your teacher?”

“No.” you lie, sheepishly. it was embarrassing, to say the very least, but you didn’t want to admit that deep down it felt good. it was so wrong. “Please, stop…”. the strength in his hands, and the way he grabbed handfuls, then groaned when your flesh attempts to spill out of their cups at his rough treatment. you look away, trying to ignore the humiliation of hearing yourself make such whiny mewls, but Gojo wouldn’t allow that.

“Look up at me, pretty girl. You know what I really want to do to these big, warm tits?”

your eyes flit back up to his countenance in a second. even the black lenses of his shades couldn’t completely mask the celestial glow of his glacier’s gaze, that drew your stare in as easily as a siren might send sailors to their death. “W—what?”

it didn’t even sound like your voice; you were completely and utterly entranced by Satoru Gojo.

he liked it.

a lot.

with a soft chuckle, his tongue swipes along his lower lip, before his voice drops to a low, husky octave. “Wanna see my cock sliding between them. Think you can do that for me, baby?” he doesn’t wait for you to answer; he gives you a little pat on the head, before tilting his own. “On your knees for me.”

you were hesitant, swallowing hard around the nervous lump in your throat, but he didn’t mind forcing you. one hand grasping your hair roughly at the roots, he guides you down, further and further, until you have no choice but to go to your knees to avoid the sting of your hair being pulled. “There you go, down, down, down. Just like that.”

“Ow,” you whine, just under your breath, and look up at him once you’re planted, your uniform skirt fluttering around your thighs. “You’re hurting me, Gojo-sensei…”

Gojo’s grin hadn’t left his face, not even for a second, and he uses the grip on your hair to tilt your head back so he can study your countenance with a soft hum. “If you’re a good girl for me, I won’t have to hurt you.” the flippant tone of his voice forced a chill up your spine as he continues, “But if you fight me, I will take what I want from you. And it will hurt. Think about that, pretty girl, while I fuck your tits.”

for a moment, you’re stunned, but you watch him fish inside his pants and pull his cock out, wrapping a powerful fist around it and pumping it roughly a couple of times. you stared at it, allowing your eyeline to trace every girthy, veiny, strong inch of him and you couldn’t help the involuntary gulp that you took, swallowing hard around the lump in your throat. it was one of the biggest dicks you’d ever seen.

“Like the view?” Gojo teased, but he smirked as he grasped the base and held the twitching muscle still for you to admire some more. “You can admit it. Makes you wet, doesn’t it?” you shake your head in denial again, and this time, clench your thighs together as you feel the telltale damp patch growing against your panties. electricity buzzed through your veins, anxiety over being so close to your teacher’s cock driving you insane. “You’re a bad liar, baby. I’ll have to treat your little pussy the next time, let her feel me slide in slow and fill you up. But first…” as he speaks, Gojo’s voice takes a lazy, sexy dip, and he pulls you by the wiring in your bra again, tugging it just far enough away from your body to slip his cock underneath, nesting it into your cleavage with a happy sigh. “If I don’t fuck those tits, I’m going to lose my mind. So, do me a favor, pretty girl…” Gojo’s hips rock forward, worming his cock between your tits until the plump, pink tip pokes out, inches from your glossy lips. “Stick out your tongue, and drool like a sweet, little slut.”

“Y—you can’t do this—“ you whined, “you can’t m—make me do this…”

but his grip on your hair jerked your mouth closer to the twitching, thick tip. your eyes widened. your mouth was already watering, almost uncontrollably, now that you could smell his musk— the arousal that clung to his cock, so all you had to do was stick your tongue out as instructed, and saliva drip, drip, dripped down on to the head of his dick. your eyes closed, but only for a minute, because a cruel tug at your roots reminds you where you are.

“Open up those pretty eyes, slut.” he demands, though his voice still sounds chillingly lighthearted. “Don’t want you pretending this isn’t happening. That wouldn’t be any fun at all.”

his hips had began to buck wildly; he fell into a quick greedy rhythm and started to moan. he was still smiling. his head rolled on his shoulders, but he kept his eyes, concealed by his glasses, on you, too. watching how you were jerked around by his tempo like a rag doll, and listening to the whimpers and whines of protest, gazing at the way his cock had smeared your spit between your breasts, creating a slick canal that he could pound into, as fervently as he would treat your cunt one day. “Fuck,” he hissed, grinding his teeth, and spread his feet wider, to plant himself more firmly. “Fuck, that’s it…” while one hand held loosely on to the middle of your bra, pulling you into a bobbing motion that complimented his rough thrusting, the other started to push down on the top of your head, his voice raspy with need.

“Suck the tip, baby. Take me in that pretty pout of yours.” as soon as your lips parted, creating a cushion for his sensitive tip to lay on as the rubbed himself off with your chest, he groans and nods, “There you go, pretty girl. Been thinking about how good your mouth would feel. Give me all those sweet kisses.”

you have no choice but to comply as he shoves your head down on him, moaning and sighing, panting against the cock tip as it plugs your mouth, muffling your noises. your palms flee to press against his abdomen trying to push him away, but your strength was still no match for his.

your eyelids fluttered as the raw flavor of Gojo Satoru coated your tongue, overtaking your mouth and claiming it in his name. his taste was intoxicating, and you were fighting an addiction already.

you had to remind yourself that you didn’t want this. you didn’t want him. but it was becoming increasingly harder to resist.

it was as if Gojo could read your internal struggle scribbled on your features, and he liked the idea of you hating him violating you so much, but being unable to stop it from turning your brain to mush. “You’re so cute,” he grunted, pushing your head down further, his fingers combing through your roots as he does so, “saying I can’t make you do this, but the more cock I feed you, the more your eyes start to glaze over. Do you know that? You can’t even help yourself; you’re gonna get addicted to it. I like watching you break. Gonna make me cum so quick, I’m almost embarrassed.” he was smirking, his playful nature evident, but you weren’t laughing.

Gojo’s grip tightens, both on your bra and your hair, and he drags you back and forth so fast that you worry you’ll get whiplash, using you like a toy to get himself off of.

“Going to paint you so pretty, hell-“ he cums only moments later; his jest about not lasting quite so long seeming to be only half a joke, and his fingers grope your hair at the root, pulling your mouth off of him just in time to shoot white streamers of warm release over your cheeks and across your forehead. you gasp, utterly humiliated by the way his sticky cum clings to your hair and cheeks. “There ya go… good girl.” he croons, pulling you by the hair once again to smear your mouth against his cock. you purse your lips, and the spunk still dribbling down coats them.

“You’re an obstinate, little thing.” Gojo moans, but he’s grinning from ear to ear. “I fucking love it. Gonna have way too much fun breaking you down, turning you into my personal slut. Forcing you to like it the more cock I make you take.” he takes a deep breath, rubbing his throbbing tip over the shape of your lips, and you suppress a happy squeak as you finally taste him. “Do you like your grade?” he teases, and when you merely glare up at him, he uses his grip on your hair to pull your head back just a bit. you can feel his cum clinging to your cheeks, and excess rolling into your hairline and dripping down your chin. his glasses slid down and you were staring into those hypnotizing eyes again. tasting, smelling, feeling him all over. your core throbbed— desperate for his attention, and you hated him for it. “Say ‘thank you for treating me like a pretty, little cumrag, Gojo-sensei’. Say it, and I’ll mentor you.”

begrudgingly, with your eyes shooting daggers up at him, you part your lips to speak. you didn’t want to, but you also wanted to be taught by the best of the best, and as despicable as he was, he was also the best. “Th—thank you, Gojo-sensei…” you cringed with each syllable, knowing that you were essentially giving in. knowing that now, he would do whatever he wanted to you, and you couldn’t say no. “For treating me like a pretty, little cumrag…”

[growthhyp]

Vincent's Growing Notes III

Adrian nervously stepped into the apartment, his eyes widening at the sight of the incredible transformation before him. It was more amazing than anything he could have ever imagined. "It's... it's so... big," Adrian murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, his eyes roving over the room in awe.

Vincent, the epitome of masculine perfection, grinned at Adrian's reaction. His biceps bulged as he casually flexed, showing off the fruits of his labors. "Thanks," he said, his voice thick with pride. "But it's not just about the size, it's about the power, the strength, the confidence."

Adrian's eyes darted to the fridge, which was stocked full of what looked like protein shakes. He knew better, though. Those were the nanobots, the key to this unbelievable change. "How does it work?" he asked, his voice trembling with a mix of fear and excitement.

Vincent strolled over to the fridge and grabbed two of the shakes, handing one to Adrian. "It's simple, really," he said, his smile never wavering. "You just drink this, and let the nanobots do their thing."

Adrian took the shake with a trembling hand. He was about to embark on a journey that would alter his life forever, and he couldn't help but feel a bit nervous. "What if something goes wrong?"

"Trust me, Adrian," Vincent said, his eyes sparkling with a hint of mischief. "You're in safe hands. The only side effect you might experience is a change in... your preferences." He winked, the muscles in his neck flexing.

Adrian took a deep breath and sipped the shake. It was cold and tasted faintly of something metallic, but he tried not to focus on it. "Okay," he said, his voice quavering. "But what's next?"

"Ah, the best part," Vincent said, his voice dripping with anticipation. "You see, Adrian, the most effective way for the nanobots to be transferred is through... intimate contact." He leaned in closer, his abs rippling with the movement. "The closer we are, the better they'll work."

Adrian's cheeks burned as he realized what Vincent was suggesting. "You want me to... to suck you off?" The words felt strange in his mouth, like a foreign language he hadn't quite mastered.

"Think of it as the ultimate protein shake," Vincent said with a wink. "And the best part is, the nanobots are pretty convincing. They might just open you up to a whole new world of experiences."

Adrian felt his resolve wavering. The thought of becoming like one of the muscular jocks he'd always envied was too tempting to resist. "I-I guess so," he stammered, his eyes darting to the floor.

Vincent's grin grew. "You won't regret it," he promised. "Now, do you want the change to be instant or gradual?"

"I-I want it now," Adrian whispered, his eyes meeting Vincent's. "I need to feel... powerful."

Vincent's smile grew even wider. "Good choice," he said. "But remember, Adrian, the more you enjoy this, the better the results."

Adrian nodded, his heart racing. He could feel his body already responding, his cock swelling in his pants. He reached out, his hand shaking, and touched the bulge in Vincent's shorts. "I-I understand," he managed to get out.

Vincent took Adrian's hand in his own, his grip firm and reassuring. "Good," he said, his voice dropping to a seductive purr. "Now, let's get down to business."

Adrian's breath hitched as he felt the warmth of Vincent's skin through the fabric. He fumbled with the button, his mind racing with thoughts he'd never allowed himself to have before. But the desire was too strong. He had to know what it felt like to be strong, to be desired like this.

Finally, the button gave way, and the zipper slid down with an agonizing slowness.

Vincent watched intently as Adrian's hand trembled, fumbling with the button and zipper of his shorts. Finally, the fabric parted and his cock sprang forth, thick and veiny. "Just like that," he breathed, his voice a hot whisper against Adrian's ear. "Now, take it out and show me your skills."

Adrian's eyes bugged out at the sight of Vincent's monstrous cock. He'd never seen anything so... massive before. It was like staring at a sculpture of pure masculine power. He took a deep breath, trying to quell the racing thoughts in his mind. What was he getting himself into? But the promise of power was too tempting. He leaned in, his lips parting to take the tip into his mouth.

The taste was strange, but as he tentatively began to suck, Adrian felt something new stirring within him. It was like he was discovering a whole new side to himself, a side he didn't know existed. Vincent's hand rested on the back of his head, guiding him gently, whispering sweet nothings that sent shivers down his spine.

Vincent's cock grew even thicker in his mouth, and Adrian could feel the other man's excitement building. He took it as a challenge, pushing aside the voice in his head telling him this wasn't who he was. The idea of becoming a Greek god-like figure was too much to resist. He took a deep breath and took more of Vincent into his mouth, his cheeks hollowing with the effort.

Vincent's eyes fluttered shut as Adrian's mouth worked its magic. "Mmm," he murmured, his hand tightening on Adrian's wrist. "You're a natural." His voice was thick with lust, his eyes glinting with an unspoken promise.

Adrian's eyes watered as he took more and more of Vincent's cock, but the feeling of power was addictive. He could feel the older man's body responding to him, and it was intoxicating. The voice in his head grew quieter as he focused on the task at hand.

Vincent's hand moved from Adrian's wrist to the back of his head, pushing him down further. "Take it all, baby," he rasped. "You're doing so good."

Adrian's throat tightened around the girth of Vincent's cock, but he kept going, eager to see this through. The pressure was intense, but the promise of what was to come was even more so.

Vincent's breath hitched, and his body grew taut. "Almost there," he whispered. "Just a little more."

Adrian's mouth was full, but he nodded, his cheeks hollowing as he took Vincent's cock deeper. He could feel the beginnings of something strange, something powerful.

And then it hit him. A warmth spread through his body, starting from his core and moving outwards. His muscles began to tingle, and he felt a strange stretching sensation. He looked down and gasped. His biceps were bulging, tearing through his shirt. His abs rippled, each one more defined than the last.

Vincent's eyes snapped open, and he watched Adrian's transformation with a mix of excitement and pride. "Keep going," he urged, his hips bucking slightly. "Swallow it all, and you'll be one step closer to becoming a god."

Adrian did as he was told, feeling the warmth spread through his body like wildfire. His eyes widened as he felt his cock growing, thickening, stretching his pants to the limit. He could feel his body changing, becoming something more.

The warmth grew more intense, and he could feel the nanobots working away, reshaping him into a new man. His shoulders widened, his chest grew, and his pants grew tighter and tighter around his burgeoning muscles. He felt like he was going to burst out of his skin.

Vincent's cock swelled even more in Adrian's mouth, and the older man couldn't hold back anymore. With a roar, he released his load into Adrian's willing mouth. "Swallow," he groaned, his hand tightening in Adrian's hair.

Adrian did so, feeling the warmth spread through his body even faster. His eyes glazed over as the transformation took hold, his body convulsing with the sheer power of it all. When it was over, he was left panting and trembling, staring at his new reflection in amazement.

He'd become a creature of pure muscle, standing at an impressive six feet tall and weighing in at a solid 250 pounds, with a body fat percentage of a mere 10%. His cock had grown to a staggering 16 centimeters in length and 19 centimeters in girth, and the sight of it made even Vincent's jaw drop.

Adrian's voice had deepened, his words now a low rumble that seemed to echo in the room. His personality had shifted as well, becoming more assertive, more confident. And his sexuality... it was as if a switch had been flipped. He was no longer straight; he was gay, and he felt it in every fiber of his being.

He looked at Vincent, his eyes filled with a newfound hunger. "What do we do now?" he asked, his voice thick with desire.

Vincent couldn't help but feel a swell of pride as he gazed upon Adrian's new form. The young man had always been a bit of a pushover, but now, with his body bulging with 250 pounds of solid muscle, he looked like he could bench press a car without breaking a sweat. The transformation had been quite dramatic, and Vincent had to admit, he enjoyed watching it unfold. Adrian had shot up to six-feet tall, and his frame had filled out in all the right places. His chest was a wall of pecs, his arms like tree trunks, and his legs looked like they could run for days without tiring. But the most impressive part of all? That had to be the monstrous cock that now dangled between his legs, a full 16 cm long and 19 cm thick. Vincent had to give it to him, Adrian was definitely packing some serious heat down there.

The transformation didn't just stop at his body, though. No, it had seeped into Adrian's very soul. His eyes had changed, now a deep, hungry blue that seemed to devour everything in their path. His voice had dropped, turning into a seductive purr that made Vincent's own cock stand at attention. And the way he moved? It was like watching a predator stalk its prey, all grace and power wrapped up in one delicious package.

But it was the personality change that was really the kicker. Adrian had gone from a shy, nerdy kid to a cocky jock with a taste for the finer things in life. He'd started strutting around like he owned the place, flexing his muscles and making not-so-subtle hints about wanting to get it on with Vincent. It was kind of cute, really, watching him try to seduce the man who had created him.

Vincent had to admit, he was a bit surprised when Adrian had first asked for the transformation. But he'd seen the desperation in his eyes, the longing to be something more, something powerful and desired. And let's be real, who wouldn't want to have a piece of that? So, he'd agreed, and now here they were.

As Adrian approached him, his hand sliding over the growing bulge in his pants, Vincent couldn't resist the urge to smirk. "Looks like you're enjoying the new you," he said, his voice dripping with amusement.

"Vincent," Adrian purred, his voice sending a shiver down Vincent's spine. "How about we... celebrate this transformation together?" He winked, his hand cupping the massive cock that was threatening to rip through his clothes.

Vincent's smile grew wider. "I knew you'd come around, Adrian," he said, his voice filled with the confidence of a man who's had his fair share of experiences. "But remember, this is just the beginning."

Adrian nodded eagerly, his eyes glazed over with lust. "Take me," he murmured, his voice now a mix of the old him and the new, confident jock he'd become. "Make me yours."

Vincent didn't need any further encouragement. He stood up and stepped closer to Adrian, their chests brushing together. He could feel the heat radiating from the younger man's body, could see the desire in his eyes. It was clear that Adrian was ready to embrace his new identity, to explore the kind of power that came with his new body.

They kissed, a deep, passionate kiss that seemed to go on forever. Adrian's tongue danced with Vincent's, exploring every inch of his mouth like he was trying to memorize the taste of him. And as their bodies pressed together, Vincent could feel Adrian's cock growing even larger, the fabric of his tight shorts straining to contain the beast within.

Vincent decided to take control, pushing Adrian down onto the bed. The younger man complied willingly, his legs spreading apart in invitation. Vincent took a moment to admire the view before he grabbed the hem of Adrian's shirt and yanked it over his head. The sight of those abs, those massive, sculpted abs, was almost too much to handle.

Adrian's eyes were wide with a mix of fear and excitement as Vincent loomed over him. "I'm ready," he whispered, his voice shaking with anticipation.

Vincent leaned in and whispered against Adrian's ear. "Good," he murmured. "Because I've been waiting for this." He kissed him again, his hands roaming over the bulging muscles of Adrian's chest.

Their bodies moved together, a symphony of flesh and desire. Vincent's cock was now at full mast, desperate to be let free. He pulled off his own shirt, revealing the muscles that rippled beneath the surface. Adrian's eyes widened at the sight, his own hands reaching out to explore.

They touched, their muscles sliding against each other, and it was electric. Adrian's hands were like branding irons on Vincent's skin, leaving trails of fire in their wake. Vincent groaned, his hips bucking as he felt Adrian's hands on him, squeezing and caressing his muscles like they were the most precious things in the world.

And then, it was time. Vincent reached down and unbuckled Adrian's shorts, sliding them off to reveal his massive cock. He couldn't believe how big it had gotten. It was like a third leg, standing tall and proud. He licked his lips, his mouth watering at the thought of what was to come.

He took Adrian's cock in his hand, stroking it gently at first, watching the younger man's face contort with pleasure. "Oh god," Adrian moaned, his body arching off the bed. "Yes, Vincent, yes."

Vincent's own cock was begging for attention, but he ignored it. This was Adrian's moment, after all. He'd earned it. He stroked faster, watching as Adrian's muscles tensed and his breath hitched. He knew the feeling, knew what was about to happen.

With a roar, Adrian came, his cum spurting out like a fountain, splattering all over the floor. Vincent couldn't help but laugh, the sight was just too much. Adrian looked up at him, his eyes glazed with pleasure, and Vincent felt something stir within him.

He leaned down and kissed Adrian, hard and deep, their tongues dueling as their cocks lay spent between them. "You're going to love being a jock," Vincent murmured against Adrian's lips. "The power, the attention... it's all yours."

Adrian's eyes flashed with something new, something darker. "And you're going to be right beside me," he said, his voice filled with a dominance that hadn't been there before. "Guiding me, showing me the ropes."

Vincent nodded, his heart racing with excitement. "Of course," he said, his hand sliding down to cup Adrian's chin. "You're mine now."

Adrian's body was still changing, still adapting to the nanobots' influence. His height shot up to 6'4", and his muscles bulged even more, reaching a ludicrous 300 pounds of pure, unadulterated power. His cock followed suit, stretching out to a mind-boggling 18 cm long and 20 cm thick. And the best part? It was all his, all for him to enjoy.

Vincent watched as the transformation settled, as Adrian's body finally reached its peak. The younger man looked up at him, a smug grin on his face. "How do I look?" he asked, flexing his biceps.

"Like a fucking god," Vincent said, his voice filled with awe. "Now, let's get you some clothes that actually fit."

They rummaged through Vincent's wardrobe, finding a tight tank top and a pair of spandex shorts that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. Adrian practically purred as he slipped them on, the fabric clinging to his muscles like a second skin. He looked like he'd just stepped out of a men's health magazine, all bulging biceps and rock-hard abs.

Vincent couldn't resist the urge to run his hands over Adrian's new body, feeling the power beneath the surface. "You look incredible," he murmured, his eyes dark with desire.

Adrian beamed, his confidence soaring. "Thanks to you," he said, leaning in to kiss Vincent again.

They decided to hit the gym, to see just what kind of workout Adrian's new body could handle. The other guys there couldn't help but stare, their jaws dropping as they watched the two of them lift weights that would have crushed a normal man. But Adrian was anything but normal now. He was a beast, a force to be reckoned with.

And as they worked out, side by side, Vincent couldn't help but feel a sense of pride. He'd created this masterpiece, this god of muscle and might. And better yet, Adrian was still under his spell, still eager to please.

Their workout was intense, their muscles straining and flexing as they pushed each other to their limits. And when they were done, they returned to the apartment, sweaty and exhausted. But the night was still young, and Adrian's eyes were filled with a hunger that only Vincent could satisfy.

They ended up on the bed again, their bodies tangled together as they explored the new landscape of muscle and power. It was a slow burn, a dance of dominance and submission that left them both panting and spent.

In the end, it was Adrian who was on top, his massive cock buried deep inside Vincent as he pumped away, their bodies moving as one. "Yes," Vincent moaned, his own cock throbbing in response. "That's it, take me, Adrian."

Adrian did just that, his thrusts growing more powerful with every passing moment. And when Vincent finally came, it was with a shout that echoed through the apartment, his orgasm so intense it felt like his entire body was on fire.

They lay there, panting and sweaty, their bodies still joined. "Thank you," Adrian murmured, his voice filled with a newfound sense of belonging. "Thank you for giving me this."

Vincent wrapped his arms around Adrian, pulling him closer. "You're welcome," he said, his voice thick with satisfaction. "But remember, this is just the beginning."

Adrian nodded, his eyes shining with excitement. "What's next?" he asked, his cock already starting to harden again.

Vincent grinned, his mind racing with possibilities. "We'll see," he said, his voice a low growl. "But one thing's for sure, we're going to have a lot of fun together."

And with that, they fell asleep, their bodies entwined, their futures as bright and shiny as the muscles that now adorned them.

[thirteenheavens]

Hi, how are u? Can i request a gyu smut in a private gym? Like y/n telling him "I can work u up too" 🤭 only if you're comfortable ofc. Thx.

You’re doing great|| Mingyu x Reader

Notes: guys I’m not the biggest gym person so don’t attack me I work out in my room LMAO

You walk into the private gym that Mingyu owns, your eyes widening at the state-of-the-art equipment. He's already there, dressed in a sleeveless shirt and shorts, his muscles glistening with sweat.

"Hey, you made it," he says, flashing you a charming smile. "I'm glad you could join me." You smile back, feeling a bit self-conscious in your workout clothes. "Thanks for inviting me," you reply, trying to sound confident.

Mingyu notices your hesitation and walks over to you. "Don't worry, I'll show you everything," he says, placing a reassuring hand on your shoulder. "Let's start with some cardio." You nod and follow him to the treadmill, watching as he sets it up for you. He starts jogging on the one next to yours, his pace steady and strong.

You hop on your own treadmill and begin to run, trying to match his speed. After a few minutes, you can feel your heart rate picking up and your muscles starting to warm up. Mingyu glances over at you and smirks. "Not bad," he says, increasing his speed slightly. "But I bet I can outlast you."

As the minutes tick by, you and Mingyu continue to run, your competitive spirits rising. You glance over at him and see that he's still keeping up his pace, but you can tell he's starting to sweat a little more. You increase your speed again, determined to beat him. "You're not going to win this one," you say, a hint of playfulness in your voice.

Mingyu laughs and matches your pace, his eyes locked on yours. "Oh really? I like a challenge," he says, his competitive side coming out. You run until your legs feel like jelly, but you refuse to give up. Finally, you slow down and hit the stop button on your treadmill, gasping for breath.

Mingyu follows suit, a satisfied grin on his face. "I guess I won this round," he says, wiping the sweat from his forehead. Mingyu leads you to the weightlifting area, where a variety of weights are set up. "Let's start with some bench presses," he says, grabbing a barbell and setting it up on the bench.

He shows you how to position yourself and demonstrates the proper technique. "Remember to keep your back straight and push upwards," he instructs, his eyes focused on your form. You lie down on the bench and grip the bar, feeling a bit nervous. Mingyu stands behind your head, ready to spot you if necessary.

"You got this," he encourages, his voice low and reassuring. "Just focus on your breathing and keep pushing." You take a deep breath and lift the bar off the rack, slowly lowering it to your chest and pushing it back up. With each rep, you feel a little more confident, your muscles burning with effort. As you finish your set, Mingyu takes the bar from you and sets it back on the rack. "Nice work," he says, his eyes scanning your body appreciatively. "You're stronger than you think."

You sit up and wipe the sweat from your forehead, feeling a rush of endorphins. "Thanks," you say, feeling proud of yourself. Mingyu grins and moves to the next piece of equipment. "Now for some bicep curls," he says, picking up a pair of dumbbells.

He shows you how to grip the dumbbells and demonstrates the proper form again. "Make sure to keep your elbows close to your sides," he says, standing behind you once more. You begin the curls, feeling the burn in your biceps as you lift the weights. Mingyu's hands are on your arms, guiding you through the movements.

"You're doing great," he murmurs, his breath hot against your ear. Mingyu moves to the other side of the gym, giving you some space to rest. You watch as he lifts weights and does various exercises, his muscles flexing and rippling with each movement. He catches you staring and smirks, knowing the effect he's having on you. "Like what you see?" he asks, teasingly.

You blush and look away, feeling a little embarrassed at being caught. But you can't deny that watching him work out is turning you on. Mingyu finishes his set and walks back over to you, a knowing glint in his eye. "Ready for some more?" he asks, his voice low and husky.

"I think I'm ready for something else," you say, your voice taking on a sultry tone. Mingyu raises an eyebrow, intrigued by your response. "Oh really? And what would that be?" he asks, stepping closer to you. You reach out and trace a finger down his sweaty chest, your touch light and teasing. "I think I could work you up too," you whisper, looking up at him with desire in your eyes.

Mingyu's eyes darken with lust as he takes in your words and actions. "Is that so?" he says, his voice low and rough. He grabs your wrist and pulls you closer, his body pressed against yours. "You think you can handle me?" he asks, his lips hovering just above yours.

You nod, feeling a surge of confidence. "I know I can," you say, your hands roaming over his muscular back. Mingyu growls and crashes his lips against yours, kissing you hungrily. His hands slide down to your hips, pulling you flush against him as he deepens the kiss.

You can feel his hardness pressing against you, and it sends a jolt of desire through your body. "Let's take this to the shower," he murmurs against your lips. As Mingyu leads you through the gym, you're surprised by the size of the building. It's much larger than you expected, with several rooms and even a shower area.

"I like to be prepared for anything," he says, noticing your expression. "This place has everything I need." He opens the door to the shower room and guides you inside. It's spacious and luxurious, with multiple shower heads and a large mirror.

"Strip," he commands, his eyes locked on yours. You feel a thrill of excitement as you comply with his command, slowly removing your workout clothes. Mingyu watches you intently, his gaze roaming over your body as it's revealed.

"You're even more beautiful than I imagined," he says, his voice thick with desire. He steps closer to you, his hands sliding up your sides as he begins to kiss your neck. "I'm going to make you feel so good," he murmurs, his fingers trailing down to tease your nipples. You moan softly, your head tilting back as he continues to explore your body. "Mingyu," you whisper, feeling yourself getting wetter by the second.

He smirks against your skin and guides you under the shower head, letting the warm water cascade over both of you. "Let's get you nice and clean first," he says, reaching for the soap. Mingyu's lips and hands are all over you, his kisses trailing down your neck and across your collarbone. His hands are everywhere, caressing your breasts, your stomach, and finally coming to rest on your hips.

"You're trembling," he says, his voice low and rough. "Are you nervous?" You shake your head, unable to speak as he nips at your earlobe. "No," you manage to say, your breath hitching as his fingers brush against your inner thigh.

Mingyu chuckles and turns you around, pressing you against the shower wall. "Good," he says, his body caging you in as he begins to soap up your back. "I want you to be excited." You feel the coolness of the soap on your skin as Mingyu's hands move over your back, his touch firm and deliberate. He kneads the muscles in your shoulders and neck, working out any tension you might have.

"Relax," he murmurs, his lips brushing against your ear. "Let me take care of you." His hands slide lower, massaging your lower back and then moving to your ass. He gives it a gentle squeeze, causing you to gasp.

"So perfect," he says, his voice thick with desire. "I can't wait to be inside you." You turn around to face Mingyu, your hand reaching out to wrap around his thick cock. He groans as you begin to stroke him, his eyes closing in pleasure.

"Fuck, that feels good," he says, his hips bucking slightly into your touch. You smile, feeling empowered by the way you're affecting him. You drop to your knees, your eyes locked on his as you lean in to take him into your mouth.

Mingyu's hands tangle in your hair as you swirl your tongue around the head of his cock, savoring the taste of him. "Y-Y/N," he moans, his grip on your hair tightening. You take him deeper into your mouth, bobbing your head up and down as you work him over. Mingyu's moans grow louder, his hips thrusting slightly as he tries to hold back.

"Stop, stop," he gasps, pulling you off him. "I don't want to cum yet." He helps you up and pins you against the wall again, his body pressed against yours. "I need to be inside you," he says, his voice hoarse with need. Mingyu turns you around once more, bending you over slightly as he positions himself behind you. You feel the head of his cock pressing against your entrance, and you push back against him.

"Eager, aren't we?" he teases, his hands gripping your hips. He slides into you slowly, inch by inch, until he's fully seated inside you. You gasp at the sensation of being filled so completely, your hands splayed against the shower wall for support.

Mingyu begins to move, his thrusts slow and deep at first, but quickly building in intensity. The sound of water splashing around you mixes with the sounds of your moans and his grunts as he pounds into you. Mingyu's pace is relentless as he drives into you, his fingers digging into your hips as he holds you in place. The water from the shower is running down your bodies, making everything slick and slippery.

"You feel so good," he growls, his chest pressed against your back. "So tight and wet for me." You arch your back, trying to take him even deeper, and he responds by reaching around to rub your clit in time with his thrusts. The sensation is overwhelming, and you feel yourself hurtling towards your orgasm.

"Mingyu, I'm going to-" you cry out, your words cut off by a moan as you come hard around his cock. Mingyu groans as he feels you clench around him, his own orgasm following close behind. He thrusts deep one last time, his cock pulsing as he spills inside you.

"Y-Y/N," he gasps, holding you tightly as he rides out his climax. You both stay like that for a moment, panting and shaking with the aftershocks of your orgasms. Mingyu finally pulls out and turns you around to face him, a satisfied smile on his face.

"That was incredible," he says, brushing a strand of wet hair from your face. "You're incredible."

"That was amazing," you say, your voice a little shaky. "I didn't know it could feel like that." Mingyu grins and kisses you softly, his hands stroking your back. "I'm glad I could show you," he says, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “This can be our new work out together.”

[tophatandboots]

I'm making another cloak because this pale green walkloden wool has been in my cupboard for 2 years and I thought oh, let's face it I'm not using that one for anything else, let's make a spring themed Practical Fantasy Cloak.

(these are my jam. It looks fancy as anything but it's nice thick 100% partially felted wool, double layered over the shoulders, and the hood will actually stay up when the wind blows so you will stay warm and dry.)

Just a simple one! Cloak, hood, capelet.

And the hood shall be lined in colour matching but soft shiny fabric so you don't have scratchy wool on your ears or neck. Embroidery of spring leaves and blossom around the hood, and the capelet shall be trimmed to make it look like a leaf with veins. The front opening will have the same trim to disguise the selvedge dots.

I'm going to make the trim myself, of course, by unevenly braiding four colours of embroidery floss for an organic look. It will fasten by satin ribbons held in place with wooden buttons.

Every edge that's under strain or experiences friction will be carefully finished and/or encased in the lining material, everything including the 5m hem sewn by hand.

The capelet will be tacked down at strategic points so it doesn't flap in the wind and gives a nice ripple effect. The whole thing will hang on the dress form for three days before hemming so that any bias stretch or fabric warp will be taken into account before the final levelling.

Sewing a comb into the top so the big fantasy hood stays up

Anyway I'm about to start the hem and final seam finishing bits. This thing is already worth, counting time and materials only, €397.50

It's going to be another few hours and I'm not even embroidering the leaves and blossoms on the front this time.

[fratttymatty]

The Popular Effect

(All characters are 18+)

Elliot Price was the kind of eighteen-year-old who made other nerds look cool. Buttoned-up shirt, tucked too tightly into khakis, a pen always clipped to his shirt pocket—even though he took notes on a laptop. He had straight A’s, no social life, and a permanent seat in the front row of every class.

Especially in Mrs. Davis’s Literature class.

Mrs. Davis was the kind of teacher students actually liked—strict but kind, fair but tough, with a way of making Shakespeare sound exciting and grammar seem like a tool of power. Elliot adored her. If he could've nominated her for sainthood, he would've.

The same couldn’t be said for Matt Carver.

Matt was the golden boy. Captain of the football team. Killer smile. Swagger in every step. And the worst part? He got away with everything. Teachers, girls, guys—everyone loved him. Everyone except Elliot.

It was fifth period on a Thursday. Elliot sat with his laptop open, ready to soak in every syllable of Mrs. Davis’s lecture on The Great Gatsby, when Matt slouched into class five minutes late, grinning like he owned the room.

“Nice of you to join us, Mr. Carver,” Mrs. Davis said, only slightly annoyed.

Matt flopped into his seat at the back and pulled a pen from someone else’s bag. “Wouldn’t miss a chance to hear you talk about how tragic rich people are.”

The class chuckled. Mrs. Davis rolled her eyes but continued. That was when Matt started really going off.

“You ever think about how boring this book is?” he said loud enough for everyone to hear. “I bet Gatsby was just another loser nerd like Elliot.”

The class burst out laughing.

Elliot turned bright red.

Mrs. Davis cleared her throat sharply. “That’s enough, Matt.”

But Matt wasn’t done. Leaning back, he smirked and said, “Yo, Mrs. Davis. Don’t ya wish you were a popular girl? Bet you were a nerd in school. Probably sat where Elliot’s sittin’, huh?”

A ripple of laughter ran through the class. Mrs. Davis’s mouth tightened, but she didn’t respond. Instead, she just told everyone to focus and carried on with the lesson.

Matt and his friends left early for football practice. Elliot watched him swagger out, slapping hands and tossing his usual charm around like confetti. But what Elliot didn’t see was the way Matt subtly placed a small, glittery pink bottle on Mrs. Davis’s desk.

It was Mia’s lip gloss. Mia was Matt’s girlfriend—head cheerleader, the queen bee of the school. Why her lip gloss was now on Mrs. Davis’s desk… no one noticed. No one except Matt. And maybe Mia.

After class, Elliot lingered for a moment, gathering his notes. Mrs. Davis stood at her desk, staring at the lip gloss.

She looked around the empty classroom, hesitating.

Then she uncapped it.

A sugary bubblegum scent filled the room as she dabbed a little on her lips.

And then—

Her breath hitched. Her eyes widened.

She staggered slightly, clutching the desk, her features shifting before Elliot’s stunned eyes. Her brown hair brightened into a platinum blonde, straightening into silky locks that bounced with every sudden head-tilt. Her glasses vanished. Her makeup became vibrant, lashes thick and fluttery.

Her business-casual clothes shimmered and transformed into a skintight, sparkly pink crop top and a cheer skirt with “CVHS” printed on it in rhinestones.

Mrs. Davis—the forty-something, wise, literary woman—was gone.

In her place stood an 18-year-old bombshell with a giggle that made Elliot’s stomach twist.

“Oh my gawd,” she squealed, flipping her hair. “Like, this is totes wild, y’know?”

Elliot stared, mouth open.

She looked down at herself and squealed again. “Ugh, finally! Being all, like, serious and teacher-y was sooo lame. I’m Lexi now. OMG, how adorbs is that?!”

“Mrs… Davis?” Elliot managed.

She rolled her eyes. “Ew, no! Like, who’s that even? I’m Lexi Summers, duh.” She popped her gum—where did that come from?—and winked. “Later, nerd-boy!”

And with that, Lexi strutted out of the classroom, hips swaying, texting on a hot-pink phone that hadn’t existed seconds earlier.

Elliot sat frozen in his seat, feeling the ground beneath his world begin to crack.

Tomorrow, everything would change.

Elliot didn’t sleep.

How could he? The image of Mrs. Davis transforming into Lexi Summers played over and over in his mind, like some twisted magical TikTok filter that had hijacked his entire sense of reality.

But when he walked into school Friday morning, reality hit harder.

There she was.

In the middle of the courtyard, sitting cross-legged on a picnic table in her cheer skirt and bubblegum-pink crop top, surrounded by Matt, Mia, and the rest of the popular crew, was Lexi—giggling, flipping her platinum-blonde hair, twirling a rhinestone-covered pen between her fingers.

And the most messed-up part? No one seemed to remember Mrs. Davis at all. Not the teachers. Not the students. Not even the principal. Everyone acted like Lexi had always been there.

Elliot lingered behind a tree, stunned. He clutched his books to his chest like a shield. His world had flipped, and he was the only one who noticed.

Then Lexi spotted him.

“O.M.G.,” she gasped, hopping off the table with a sparkly bounce. “Elliot! You look so… same-y. That’s, like, a tragedy.”

She was in front of him before he could move, practically bouncing on her toes, eyes wide and bright like polished glass.

“W-what happened to you?” Elliot stammered. “You were… you were a teacher.”

Lexi tilted her head. “Ugh. Gag me. Don’t even say that. I was, like, so boring before. But now I’m me—Lexi Summers. Queen of vibes, duh.”

Matt swaggered up behind her, tossing an arm around her waist. “Told you, nerd. You saw the glow-up. Now it’s your turn.”

“I—I don’t want a glow-up,” Elliot said weakly.

“Oh, honey,” Lexi cooed, patting his cheek. “It’s not about what you want. It’s about what you could be.”

Mia twirled a blue bottle of glittery lip gloss between her fingers, smiling like a villain from a sugar-sweet fairy tale. “This isn’t just about making you hot. It’s about making you, like, relevant.”

Lexi turned to Elliot, eyes sparkling. “After school. Boys’ locker room. Don’t make us come get you.”

And then they were gone, strutting away in perfect sync.

Elliot should have run.

He should have taken the long way home, blocked the school on every map, and transferred.

But something deep in his chest—something weak, bitter, and curious—dragged him to the locker room.

It was empty.

Except for Lexi, Mia, and Matt—waiting by a glowing mirror propped up against the lockers, shimmering with pulses of neon blue and pink.

“This is the Mirror of Makeover,” Lexi said dramatically, like she was hosting a reality show. “And this—” she held up a glowing blue sports drink with glitter swirling inside “—is your invitation to not be a total loser anymore.”

Elliot backed away. “I don’t want this.”

Mia rolled her eyes. “Nobody wants kale either. But it’s good for you.”

Before he could bolt, Matt grabbed his arms, and Lexi slid the drink into his hands.

“Just one sip,” she whispered. “You’ll totes thank us.”

The bottle was warm in his hands. It shimmered. His fingers moved almost without permission.

He drank.

The liquid was cold and sweet and fizzy—and then it burned.

Not in his mouth.

Everywhere.

His knees buckled as the mirror’s glow flared, pulling him forward. He stumbled into the reflection—and everything shattered.

His shoes melted into spotless white high-tops with gold accents. His khakis dissolved into tailored, ripped jeans. His polo shirt vanished, replaced by a fitted designer hoodie zipped halfway down to show a sculpted chest that hadn’t existed a second ago.

His skin cleared—blemishes smoothing out into a golden tan. His frame grew broader, more athletic, like someone carved out of gym selfies and protein powder. His wiry arms thickened with lean muscle. His posture straightened.

He saw his reflection—and it smiled back differently.

Then came the hair: shaggy brown locks turned sleek, stylish, effortlessly tousled like he'd just stepped out of a modeling shoot. His glasses vanished. His jaw sharpened. Cheekbones lifted.

And then his thoughts shifted.

Worry? Gone.

Self-doubt? Deleted.

He wasn’t nervous. He was confident. No—cocky.

He smirked. “Damn, I look good.”

Lexi clapped her hands. “Yesss! You’re, like, SO ready.”

Mia bit her lip. “Okay, he’s hot. What’s the name?”

“Not Elliot,” Matt said. “Too try-hard.”

Lexi giggled. “He’s totally an Ethan. Like, varsity vibes, bad boy energy, but still gives killer hugs.”

“Ethan,” the boy in the mirror repeated. He rolled the name around on his tongue. “Yeah. I’m Ethan now.”

The last piece fell into place—his memories of being Elliot faded like a dream. The humiliation, the awkwardness, the loneliness. All gone.

He turned from the mirror, grinning wide. “Let’s show this school what I’m made of.”

Lexi bounced over and wrapped her arms around him. “We’re gonna slay, babe.”

Ethan leaned down and kissed her—confident, bold, magnetic. Matt and Mia whooped and high-fived.

They left the locker room like royalty.

And behind them, in the flickering mirror, a lonely reflection of Elliot Price faded to nothing.

Monday morning arrived, and Crystal Valley High didn’t know what hit it.

The halls, once filled with the usual chaos of half-asleep students and boring announcements, now pulsed with something electric. Something bold. Something beautiful.

It wasn’t just the outfits, or the strut, or the perfect couple selfies taken at their lockers. It was the energy—the way Ethan and Lexi owned every step, every glance, every whisper behind their backs.

They were more than students now.

They were legends.

Lexi was perched on her glitter-covered throne—also known as the lunch table—legs crossed, sipping a matcha she absolutely did not pay for. Her blonde hair caught the light like a spotlight, and her laugh echoed across the courtyard like a pop song.

Ethan leaned against the table beside her, toned arms folded, exuding lazy confidence. He’d already been asked to try out for the football team—twice—even though he hadn’t touched a football in his life. Didn’t matter. He looked the part. He was the part.

“You see the way Coach tripped over himself trying to talk to you?” Lexi said, smirking up at him.

“Poor guy,” Ethan said, shrugging. “Can’t blame him. I’d trip over me too.”

She giggled, twirling her scrunchie around her finger. “Ugh, you’re like, perfect. Honestly, how were you ever a nerd?”

Ethan leaned in close. “Don’t remember. Don’t care.”

He meant it. The name Elliot Price was like an outdated username—forgettable, awkward, completely deleted. Who needed flashcards and extra credit when you had a face that turned heads and a girlfriend like Lexi?

Across the courtyard, people watched. They whispered. They admired.

Even Matt and Mia—once the top of the food chain—now orbited around Ethan and Lexi like backup dancers. And they were fine with it. Everyone was.

Because Lexi didn’t just command attention. She fed on it. And Ethan? He thrived on it.

By Wednesday, Lexi had completely taken over the cheer squad. The girls practically worshipped her. She introduced a new “mandatory sparkle quota,” and no one dared question it.

Ethan? He casually accepted the captain’s jacket of the football team after the actual captain “mysteriously” got a sprained ankle. He didn’t ask questions. He just looked good in the jacket.

During lunch, Lexi redesigned the social layout of the quad. Literally.

“We’re moving the art kids over there, the drama dweebs get that patch of shade, and our table needs a charging station and more sun.”

And it happened. Just like that.

No one argued. No one even tried.

They ruled with a smile, a wink, and a perfectly timed eye-roll. They didn’t need to be cruel—though they could be. Their power came from being so obviously better.

One afternoon, as the sun bathed the school in a golden haze, Lexi lay back on the cheer mat during practice, her pom-poms abandoned beside her.

Ethan walked up, tossing a Gatorade at her. “Thirsty?”

“Only for attention,” she purred.

They laughed.

“You ever miss being a teacher?” Ethan asked lazily, not because he cared—just curious.

Lexi rolled her eyes so hard they practically did a cartwheel. “Ew. No. I was, like, so repressed. Now I’m hot, happy, and I get to say ‘literally’ as often as I want.”

“Same,” Ethan said, stretching. “I used to freak out about homework. Now? I just get people to do it for me.”

Lexi sat up and crawled onto his lap, draping her arms around his neck. “We’re, like, the main characters, babe.”

“Damn right we are.”

They kissed, surrounded by the cheers of their squad, the stares of jealous classmates, and the soft buzz of their names whispered in awe.

No guilt.

No second thoughts.

Just glitter, glory, and total domination.

[a-deep-ocean-of-secrets]

Home Is Where I Want to Be (But I Guess I'm Already There) Moodboard

Created for @bucktommycharityrace

Donate to Lambda Legal

Summary:

The things is, Buck didn't mean to move in with Tommy.

Read here or on AO3 (3.8k words).

The thing is, Buck didn't mean to move in with Tommy.

Those first few giddy weeks and months (like bubbly champagne buzzing through his veins every time he saw Tommy’s smile, kissed Tommy’s full lips, found himself tangled in Tommy’s bed sheets) of staying over in his boyfriend's cozy, Venice bungalow have him living almost exclusively out of his trusty duffle bag. Which isn't a big deal. He's used to lugging that ratty thing back and forth from the firehouse to his apartment. 

Can it be annoying sometimes? Sure. His clothes are constantly wrinkled (which majorly sucks when he's trying to dress to impress on date nights) and he's always forgetting or running out of one toiletry or another. If it’s not his deodorant then it’s his mouthwash. If it’s not his aftershave then it’s his moisturizer. Minor inconveniences, really, but worth it every time to wake up in Tommy's king-sized bed with Tommy's strong arms wrapped around him and Tommy's hot breath on the back of his neck.  

It doesn't take long for that to change. Like a seed beginning to take root, Tommy, as he’s done since the very beginning, makes room for Buck in his life. Just as he opened his helicopter to Buck and his friends and flew them headfirst into a raging hurricane on nothing more than an outlandish hunch. The same way he took time out of his busy schedule to grant Buck a private tour of Harbor Station and answered all his jumbled questions as Buck nipped at his heels like an overeager golden retriever, tail wagging a mile a minute, wanting nothing more than to be closerclosercloser to the cool guy with a megawatt grin, who called him ‘Evan’ and had his heart skipping a beat even if he couldn’t identify the why of it all at the time.  

So it’s not a surprise at all when he carves out precious space in his closet and lets Buck's colorful and patterned button-ups and polos blend in with Tommy's neutral henleys and shackets. They’re two big guys with a penchant for working out, so their wide array of tank tops, sweatpants, and basketball shorts become indistinguishable from each other. Their LAFD-issued shirts are so interwoven that they've given up trying to tell them apart and frequently go to work wearing the other's name branded on their backs, much to their coworkers’ loud and endless amusement. 

Buck’s grapefruit shampoo and citrus body wash relocate to the shower niche alongside Tommy's own sandalwood and frankincense-scented products. On the vanity, Buck's red toothbrush is a companion to Tommy's green one. 

All these minute modifications to Tommy’s home are simple and understandable ripple effects of Buck regularly spending a few nights a week there. 

The offshoots of that single seed deepen into winding vines without Buck even noticing. 

First, it's Buck's lucky set of boxing gloves hanging innocently alongside Tommy's Muay Thai gear in the garage. After a frustrating and tedious shift, he enjoys nothing more than a few vigorous rounds with Tommy’s punching bag. Then, Buck's large and varied assortment of books (ranging from biographies on famous figures such as Marie Curie to The Book of 10,000 Incredible Facts to the new YA fantasy series that is all the rage among Christopher and his friends) slowly but steadily find a home among Tommy's WWI & II aviation history collection on the shelves of the reclaimed redwood bookcase Tommy crafted by hand. 

His favorite cast iron skillet and Instant Pot take up permanent residence in Tommy's kitchen, alongside his garlic press and waffle maker. His 'Buck Off' coffee mug (a gag gift from the 118) is always ready to go for lavender and daffodil-colored mornings spent on Tommy's front porch overlooking the canal as kayaks and paddle boards drift by in the early morning light. The sinfully soft, ocean blue afghan Carla knitted for him during the pandemic is draped over the back of Tommy's unfairly comfortable sectional. Christopher’s US History textbook is lying open on the coffee table, left behind after a pizza and study session. The newest season of The Bachelor (the combined forces of Maddie, Chimney, and Josh got him hooked. What can he say? He loves love.) is TiVoed on Tommy's flatscreen TV. His Jeep has its own designated spot next to Tommy's ’71 Bronco. 

The roots of their budding relationship grow deeper and extend farther than the eye can see. 

Buck's most cherished brand of coffee is readily available in the kitchen cabinets. His all-time favorite blend just so happens to be named The Beast. A fun fact that never fails to stop him from leering at Tommy and waggling his eyebrows every time he brews a cup. His favorite cereal is stocked in the cupboards and his favorite yogurt is in the fridge. The same fridge that is currently plastered with Jee-Yun's vibrant crayon drawings alongside pictures of Tommy’s nieces and nephews in Chicago. A true collage of sparkly princesses and menacing dragons beside Polaroids of beaming faces on the sandy shore of Lake Michigan and sitting in the stands of Wrigley Field with messy hotdogs and giant foam fingers. 

Even food Tommy turns his perfect, aquiline nose up to but Buck loves (like quinoa and chirimoya) are now staples in his pantry. His most treasured cookbook, battered with stained, dog-eared pages with the margins filled in with his own corrections in his scratchy scrawl, holds a place of honor on Tommy's countertop on a wooden stand Tommy scrounged up at the local flea market. 

He has to rack his brain to remember the last time he spent a night at the loft. The last time he had been there, to pick up some clothes from his rapidly depleting wardrobe, it had looked even emptier and barer than usual with hardly any food in the fridge, the bed sheets stale and unloved, and a thin layer of dust on his kitchen island. The industrial, modern space had felt cold and clinical and nothing like a living, breathing home. 

It lacked the wooden floors Tommy had spent weeks refinishing as he lovingly sought out the perfect stain. It lacked the extra-long, extra-wide hammock hanging off Tommy’s back patio where Buck delighted in taking the occasional catnap on sunny afternoons. The loft hadn't inspired even a fraction of the warmth that Tommy's home did every time he walked through the door with the key Tommy had given him three months in, dangling from a helicopter keychain that made him grin like a dope whenever he pulled it free from his pocket. 

Buck doesn't realize any of these very important and essential truths until one morning when he nearly trips over his running shoe that was lying discarded by the front door. At the sound of his clumsy stumble, Baron, Tommy's five-year-old Shepkita ("That's not a word, Evan. He's an Akita Shepherd.”), raises his head from where he's lounging on his overstuffed dog bed, exhausted from their early morning run at the beach. 

At the sight of Buck being Buck, Baron lets out a jaw-cracking yawn and puts his head back down to resume his beauty sleep. Kicking the offending sneaker out of the way, Buck stops dead center in the living room, hands on his hips and wearing Tommy’s faded USC sweater that’s been worn soft from years of washings and smells tantalizingly of Tommy’s laundry detergent, and can't help but survey the terrain and take stock of how much of himself is residing in Tommy's space. He's visible in every nook and cranny. 

He has completely, and totally, infiltrated Tommy's home. 

The thought instantly fills him with indescribable joy that blossoms like radiant sunflowers inside his chest. For all of ten seconds. He then remembers the last time he unknowingly moved in with someone and the heartbreaking consequences of it.

Abby.  

She had been so terribly sad and broken in the wake of her mother's death. It had been as easy as breathing for Buck to step up, to prove himself, to try and do everything in his power to fix her with his love and devotion. So he stayed with her day and night, and his things had steadily trickled into her apartment. It had been easier back then to do, he had had so little to his name other than the Jeep and his clothes. And he can't lie, it was a relief to get out of that glorified frat house filled with Connor and the others. 

It had seemed natural to move in with Abby (even if she had been unaware of it). He thought they were building something special together, something made to last. He hadn't known at the time that while he saw a new beginning, she saw entrapment. For her, she would be trading one role of caretaker for another. Going from a sick mother to a young punk (at 26, he had still been a kid) who was stumbling like a newborn giraffe through his first serious relationship. Had she stayed, there would have been so much handholding on her part as he continued to figure out all the volatile nuances of life and commitment. And that hadn't been fair of him to ask that of her when she was so vulnerable, he understands that now with valuable time and distance. She had been so lost that the only thing she could do to find herself again was travel halfway across the world and leave him behind in the process. 

He had lived (however briefly) with Abby. He was living with Tommy, even if he hadn't clocked it until just now. 

And he wants it, he realizes with a jolt not unlike the bolt of lightning that had struck him. He wants to live with Tommy. He wants to wake up with him every morning and come home to him every night (demanding schedules permitting, of course). He wants their high-energy workout sessions that always turn into a different kind of workout and their sunset strolls through the canals with an enthusiastic Baron (complete with goofy selfies in front of David Hasselhoff’s house from Baywatch). He wants their weekends at the Venice Farmers' Market. He wants their monthly meetings of the LGBTIQA+ book club that Hen and Karen started and that Tommy and Buck have hosted twice now inside this very house. 

He wants Tommy. Plain and simple. He always wants Tommy. Tommy, who has the world’s worst fake mouth static, but jokingly brags all the same about winning a medal for it. Tommy, who acts big and tough on the job and up in the air, but he never fails to shed a tear whenever they watch the climax of a romantic comedy. Tommy, who always has a heating pad and massage waiting on standby for rainy days when the pain in Buck’s bum leg flares up like relentless flames. 

Tommy, who has no idea that they're living together. 

An icy sliver of fear sluices down his back at the terrifying thought that once Tommy learns they're essentially playing house with each other he might turn tail and run away, just like Abby did. Or, perhaps, even worse, he won't run, but he won't want Buck here anymore either. He can already see it in crystal clear HD: Tommy's handsome face shuttering to stone as it does when he's uncomfortable but doesn’t want to show it. His blue eyes darting away and his lips thinning into a brittle line as he tells Buck that this is all moving far too fast, that maybe they should take a step back and put some space between them, and then Buck will be banished back to his sad, pathetic loft that doesn't have Tommy waiting for him in it. 

He cuts the catastrophizing off at the knees before it can spiral into something far more treacherous. Tommy, for all his flaws — he drinks orange juice straight from the carton like a Neanderthal and he doggedly believes that his directions are better than the GPS ("I spend most of my time in the air, Evan. I know all the shortcuts throughout Los Angeles County.") — isn't the kind of man who runs away from a fight when the going gets tough. He's the kind of man who digs his heels in and comes out swinging the next round. And he's been nothing but kind to Buck the entire time they've known each other. He enforces tough love when he deems fit, but it always comes from a place of kindness and gentleness. 

They love each other. And they live together. It's time Tommy knows it. 

So, screwing his courage to the sticking place (Jee-Yun loves Beauty and the Beast), Buck shuffles his way into the kitchen where his boyfriend is manning the stove and making their breakfast. In the oven, a frittata bakes away in Buck’s cast iron skillet and on the stovetop, turkey bacon sizzles as it fries. Tommy, hair curly and wet from his earlier shower, flips crispy pieces while humming along to The National playing softly in the background on the radio. 

God, Buck adores this man with everything in him. 

Tommy catches him out of the corner of his eye hovering there like a massive dweeb and flashes a dazzling smile his way. 

“Hey, babe. What was that noise I heard?” 

He can feel an embarrassed blush rapidly bloom across his cheeks until his face is as pink and splotchy as his birthmark. “Oh. That was just me. I, uh, tripped over my running shoe,” he lamely explains. 

“They can be quite the menace,” Tommy says with his usual brand of wry humor. He chuckles quietly to himself as he turns his attention back to the mouthwatering bacon. For a tempting moment, Buck just wants to forget the stunning revelation he’s had and instead stay in this blissful, domestic bubble that seems to exist whenever the two of them are alone together. It doesn’t matter where they are or what they’re doing, there’s just an undeniable ease to the two of them existing in the same space, breathing the same air, hearts beating in tandem. 

But, alas, he’s a man on a mission. 

Reaching up and rubbing awkwardly at the back of his neck, Buck thinks through his options. He’s come to learn, through many a messy trial and error, that honestly truly is the best policy. The last time he had so thoroughly ignored the elephant in the room was when he had asked Taylor to move in with him for all the wrong reasons. 

That had been a train wreck of epic proportions, even for him. He had well and truly bucked that situation up beyond repair. 

But that was then and this was now. And the only things Tommy and Taylor had in common were their initials and their partiality to cruising around LA in helicopters. His feelings for them were night and day as well. He had loved Taylor, but by the exhausting end of their relationship, he hadn’t genuinely liked her anymore as a person. They were too different, their morals too misaligned to exist harmoniously together. It isn’t like that with Tommy. He both loves and likes practically everything about his fellow firefighter, even the traits and bad habits that annoy the ever-living shit out of him. 

“So, hey, I, uh, kinda just realized something…pretty important.” 

Smooth start. And to think, before he met Tommy he had honestly had game. But something about the self-assured pilot, from the moment they met on the tarmac at Harbor and he introduced himself as Evan instead of his standard Buck, had him tripping over his tongue in both the best and worst ways. His foot-in-mouth syndrome had ruined their first date and nearly all chances he had had with Tommy, but it was that same unfiltered nature of his that had Tommy granting him another shot and scoring him as his plus one to Maddie and Chimney’s wedding that never was. 

Which reminds him: he owes Tommy a dance. He files that tidbit into his mental to-do list for another day. 

Tommy looks at him with a quizzical raise of his brow as he lazily twirls the spatula in his hand. “What? Found some more facts about that jellyfish? What’s it called? The spotted—“

“Chriodectes maculatus,” Buck corrects automatically. “Or more commonly known as the spotted box jellyfish. Only the rarest jellyfish in the world, I might add.” 

The corner of Tommy’s lush lips curl up into a fond half-smile. “Yeah, that’s the one. I thought you exhausted all knowledge on it last night when we watched that documentary.” 

“In the words of Chinese philosopher Zhuang Zhou, ‘Life is finite, while knowledge is infinite.’ So, no, I’ll never know enough about jellyfish, rare or otherwise, to exhaust myself, Thomas.” 

Tommy mouths ‘Thomas’ to himself and looks to be gearing up a quippy retort of his own when Buck realizes with tightening dread that he’s on the road to derailing this potentially monumental conversation with talk of jellyfish, of all things. Honestly, he can’t even believe himself half the time. 

Time to pivot. 

“Forget about the jellyfish. They’re not important right now.” 

Swiveling his broad-shouldered body, Tommy gives him his full attention as his eagle-eyed gaze slowly sweeps over the entirety of Buck’s 6’2” frame. Buck, for his part, staunchly fights the urge to fidget as he knows it would give him away in an instant. There’s something almost surgical in the way that Tommy, without ever saying a word, can expertly peel back all the layers of bone and marrow of Buck’s psyche down to his bleeding center where his festering insecurities and crippling self-doubt reside. 

If it were anyone else it’d feel violently invasive. But Tommy has only ever treated these undesirable parts of him with the tenderest of care, delicately stitching up invisible wounds Buck hadn’t even known existed until the moment Tommy kissed him in his kitchen and completely shook the bedrock of all his pre-conceived notions about himself. 

“Sounds serious,” he says after a moment of contemplative silence. The only sound in the kitchen is the hiss of the bacon roasting away on the stove. Through the window over the sink, a beam of sunlight shines in and bathes Tommy in its golden rays. 

Buck heavily exhales a breath out between his teeth. “It is. Or, it could be. Maybe. It really depends on how you look at it, I guess.” 

“Look at what?” Tommy asks, even-keeled as ever. It’d be infuriating if it wasn’t such a damn turn-on. 

It’s now or never. 

“Look at the fact that… We kinda, almost…sorta, seem to be living with each other?” 

Tommy freezes to the spot, his eyes going wide as he blinks, coming off as a perturbed owl for a moment before he schools his features back into his usual calm facade. He looks back down at the bacon and quickly flips some pieces before they can turn into a charred mess of meat. 

Composure regained, he asks, “Was that a question or a statement?” 

He’s always lightning-quick to toss the proverbial ball back into Buck’s court. Always willing to let him take the lead in their relationship and set the parameters and boundaries. Without fail, where Buck goes Tommy follows. It had been a sweet relief in the early days of their relationship when Buck was stumbling around blind, but nine months in and Buck needs Tommy on equal footing with him. It’s the only way forward. 

“It’s, uh, a statement.” Damn. That didn’t sound convincing at all. Closing his eyes and centering himself the way Dr. Copeland taught him, he slowly takes a deep breath, and then another, and then one more for good measure, opens his eyes, and looks Tommy square in the eye. “It’s a statement. We’re, for all intents and purposes, living together. And I want, no, I need to know what you think about…that.” 

Tommy’s gaze slides away and catches sight of Buck’s mug already topped off with his second cup of coffee for the day as swirling mist rises off of it. He sees Buck’s LAFD hoodie hanging off the back of one of the stools situated at the island. He spots Jee-Yun’s drawings on the fridge, giving the stainless steel appliance so much color and joy. He spies the Fokker Dr. I triplane chew toy Buck specialty ordered for Baron lying on the floor near the dining table. 

Tommy’s home hasn’t just been Tommy’s home in quite some time. 

He spots every single change that Buck has brought into his house with his very presence, and he gathers them to him like they’re the most precious of jewels. He turns to Buck and smiles at him. 

It nearly stops Buck’s heart for a moment. 

He loves all of Tommy’s smiles. He loves his smirk when he’s said something particularly snarky or deadpan. He loves the closed-mouth grin he does when Buck is batting his eyes and pouting and Tommy is steadfastly pretending he isn’t endeared by the silliness. He loves the smug curve of his lips when Tommy moves just right inside of him, hitting that elusive, perfect spot that has him seeing stars and clutching Tommy tighter to him until he can’t tell one limb from another. 

But this, this is his favorite Tommy smile by a far-flung mile. 

It is simply radiant. His smile is wide and open, with his straight, white teeth brilliantly on display. It stretches broadly across his rugged face, exposing his deep-set dimples on either side of his ample mouth. His nose adorably scrunches and his eyes are squinty with unbridled happiness. At the corners of his eyes, his crow’s feet spread like tiny estuaries spooling into the grooves of his tan skin. 

He looks boyish and carefree. And so very in love. 

All because of Buck. He was the cause of such boundless euphoria. No one has ever loved him the way Tommy unashamedly does. 

“What I think is,” Tommy says clearly and concisely, “I think we should make it official. What do you say, Evan? Will you move in with me?” 

Buck feels like he was socked in the gut, but only in the very best of ways. His breath is stolen from his body and he doesn’t even know if his feet are still on the ground or if he’s simply floated away with how incandescently lighthearted he feels at this very moment. 

“Y-You really mean that? You want to live together?” 

It never hurts to double-check. He does that every time with his faithful clipboard. It is truly the only way to be efficient. 

Tommy’s smile only widens further. “Evan. You’re my favorite person in the world. Of course, I want to live with you.” 

The sunflowers inside Buck’s chest come to full bloom. 

He and Tommy live together.

[dumdogs]

SLEAZE ✶⋆.˚ MIYA OSAMU

CHAPTER ONE: locked out

SOUNDTRACK: i don't know you by mannequin pussy

cw: implied ed/unhealthy relationship to food

For breakfast, she cracks an egg onto a hot pan. She ignores it, and lets it crack and bubble, turning her attention to a cold clump of white rice she pulled from the fridge. She turns on the faucet of her kitchen sink and lets the water run into the bowl before she tosses it in the microwave. Two minutes. The eggs pop and crackle in the pan.

When the microwave beeps, she grabs the bowl with her bare hands and burns them. She mumbles curses under her breath and equips herself with a dishrag before she goes at it again. Haphazardly, she slips the egg out of the pan and onto the steaming bowl of rice. She sits down at her counter, remembers that she left the stovetop on, and stands to turn it off before she gets her first bite in.

The eggs are overcooked and tough, but she likes it that way, because if the texture is too runny, it makes her think of snot, and she gets too repulsed to eat anymore. The rice is gummy and sticky. She eats about half of the egg and a quarter of the rice before she gives up, and, when she documents this failure to empty her plate, she cites her inability properly prepare food that isn’t a hot. mushy, chewy mess as the reason. She dumps the rest of it in the trash.

✶⋆.˚

She’s technically unemployed. When her mother calls her to try and rectify this, she falls back on Kenma.

“-and if you want to start auditioning again, I can call my agent friend, and we can get you set up. It’s really no trouble at all. He’d really love to see you on screen again. We all would, sweetie. It’s been so long, and you’re just so talented. Doesn’t it seem like a waste to just rot away in that apartment of yours? With the connections that you have it seems an awful shame. There are a lot of people who would kill for what you have, honey.”

There’s an unlit cigarette in her mouth. Kenma reaches out and snatches it from her mouth before she can light it. He doesn’t even look back at her as he snaps it in half.

“No, Mom, it’s okay,” she says, phone pressed between her elbow and her cheek as she shuffles to grab her pack out from her sweatshirt pocket again. “I got a lot of stuff going on with Kenma and his Bouncing Balls thing,” she pulls out the carton and flicks the lid open, “I don’t think I have the time to even prepare for an audition, and even if I wanted to,” Kenma grabs at the entire carton and forces it out of her hand. She hits his arm.

Her mother sighs wistfully on the other line. “Well, if you change your mind, let me know. It’d really make me happy to see you act again.”

She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. From his spot on his couch beside her, Kenma removes one hand from his phone to place it on her knee. “I know, Mom.”

“Just let me know. I’ve got to go now. I have a dinner with one of the producers of Ripple Effect. I know you don’t want me to, but I’ll bring your name up just in case. They’re always looking for guest stars. You never know, you might change your mind.”

“Yeah, I might,” she agrees, knowing that she won’t. She looks at Kenma, like she’s begging to be saved, but he keeps his focus on his phone, indifferent to her suffering. “Have fun at your dinner. I’ll talk to you later.”

She doesn’t wait for her mother’s response before she hangs up, but before she can press that red button, she can hear her mother’s half-hearted ‘love you,’ come through the speaker. She pockets her phone.

“It’s Bouncing Ball,” Kenma says, still not looking up from his phone.

“What?” She leans back against the arm of the couch, and kicks her legs out, so her calves are resting on Kenma’s lap. He used to push her legs off of him whenever she did this, but now it seems that it’s not worth the effort to him.

“It’s ball, not balls,” he corrects, and it occurs to her that this is far from the first time he’s had to do so. She can’t ever remember the difference. Ball or balls. Makes no difference to her. “And what are you so busy doing here that you can’t audition for anything?”  

If it weren’t for Kenma, she’d have to get a real job. But she has Kenma, so she was able to dish out enough of her child actor savings to throw at him, and he took it and made it so she gets a healthy paycheck at the end of every week. She doesn’t know how it works. Kenma’s explained it to her before, but she’s never really listened. Matters of money bore her. Most things bore her.

She likes to pretend that Kenma just likes spending time with her enough to pay her for it. It’s more interesting than being an investor or partial owner or whatever the fuck she actually is.

She gives Kenma a bright grin. “Keeping you company, of course.”

“You should get a real job, instead,” he tells her, shutting off his phone and tossing it on the couch cushion. “It’s a better way of spending your time than bothering me all day.”

“Stop pretending you don’t like me,” she tells him. Kenma’s indifference used to eat away at her. In high school, she would obsess over earning his affection, and it drove her insane that he wouldn’t give it up. She used to think she was in love with him, but it turned out she had just tied in her self-worth to his approval.

Turns out she does that kinda thing pretty often.

And anyways, Kenma’s indifference was never really indifference. He just took a few years to get used to.

“It’d be good for you,” he says. “If not for money, then just so you have something to do. Maybe just something part-time.”

Her eyes roll, almost automatically.  All anyone ever does is complain about the job they’ve got. Even if they love it. Even if they’ve dedicated their life to it. She has plenty of unread texts in her phone from Kuroo to prove it. “I’m plenty happy without one.”

Kenma makes some noise in the back of his throat that comes across as half disapproving and half disinterested. And the conversation ends there.

✶⋆.˚

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

The wind is whipping her hair in her face and blocking the view of the inside of her purse as her hands frantically push aside her belongings. Her lip-gloss and pepper spray and loose coins knock together as she tries to find her keys.

But no matter how much she moves around her purse’s insides, she can’t find them. And in fact, she can picture perfectly where they are: sitting on the edge of the counter in Kenma’s kitchen, next to her stolen pack of cigarettes and a half-empty can of an energy drink.

The wind is getting colder and she’s starting to shiver under her thin jacket. Just behind the locked door, there’s a faux minx coat hanging up above her shoe rack, and she’s fantasizing about its warmth.

“Fuck,” she grumbles again, eventually moving past denial and giving up her search for her keys in favor of her phone. Kenma’s the only person she ever calls, so she’s quick to find his contact. She calls his number, and steps away from her front door, one arm pressing her phone to her ear, and the other wrapping around her center, pulling the jacket tighter to her.

The phone rings, and rings, and Kenma does not answer. She hangs up and tries to dial again but gets the same result. “Fuck, Kenma, I left your keys at my place and now I’m locked out. Call me back please.”

She hangs up, and scrolls through her notifications, hoping that there’s some text from Kenma saying he found her keys and is already on his way to bring them to her.

kodzuken has gone live!

She’s fucked.

Feeling defeated, she flops back against the door, and pouts. The solution to most of her problems. Kenma wouldn’t notice if she kicked down his door. She’s sure she could break in, if she tried hard enough. Though one of his neighbors might call the police if she tries to break a window in. And even if they didn’t, Kenma might not forgive her for that one. He’d probably give her a pay cut, if he could. Actually, she’s not sure he could, she’s not really sure how it works.

“Hey!”

She lifts her head. The Miya of Onigiri Miya is standing at the edge of the sidewalk, hands deep in his pockets. A car passes between them, and then it’s just the two of them. She swallows.  

She takes a step forward without really thinking about it. He looks cold, arms exposed by the short sleeves of his t-shirt, covered in nothing else but his store apron. He grabs at the brim of his cap, and then pulls it down firm. “Are you okay?”

✶⋆.˚

In front of her is her usual lunch, salmon onigiri, plated neatly on the counter of Onigiri Miya. She sits there, the restaurant’s only occupant, and keeps her arms by her side, staring down at the meal before her.

“Is everything okay?”

Her eyes flick up. Behind the counter, where he usually is, is the owner. The titular Miya. With the arms.

She looks back down at her plate. The idea of eating her lunchtime food at night makes her uneasy. There’s a cold plate of curry rice in her fridge she was supposed to be heating up instead. She doesn’t want to eat in front of Miya. She does usually, during lunch, but it’s different. He’s too busy then, hands full with tasks and customers, to notice her eating. Now, it’s like there’s a spotlight on her.

“I just made your usual lunch order,” Miya says, like he went too long without an answer and got nervous. He scratches the back of his neck. “I’m sorry I didn’t ask what you want, I just figured. If it’s not what you wanted, I can make you something else.”

“No,” she shakes her head, now feeling like she’s got no choice. “This is great, thanks.”

She smiles at him, and he smiles back. And he doesn’t look away as she tepidly lifts the onigiri to take a small bite out of the corner, feeling nauseous and watched as she does so.

This seems to satisfy him. “Good?” he questions.

She nods as she chews, smiling as she swallows. “Yeah, great as always,” she tells him, lying. It tastes like everything else does to her. “You make my favorite food, y’know.”

That’s at least true. It is her favorite food. She likes that he makes it, carefully, with his own hands.

He blushes at this. “Thanks. I, uh, I appreciate that.”

She’s spent a lot of time imaging him, thinking of scenarios like this one. The two of them alone, passing tension-filled words and blushing flirtations. He has been carefully constructed, pieced together in her mind.

Though, he’s not as forward as she imagined him to be, not as talkative. In her head, he is bold and gives her straightforward compliments and he fusses over her and he is smooth with his words. In her head, he feeds her with his own hands and wipes the corner of her mouth with his thumb.

But in real life, he’s reserved. Polite but not saying more than he needs to. He hasn’t professed attraction or begged her for a date or pressed her against the wall. He hasn’t done anything but give her a plate of food and a warm place to wait for Kenma.

Which isn’t as disappointing as she thought it would be. It just sort of makes her want it more.

Her phone buzzes on the countertop. She flips it over to see nothing from Kenma, but a generic ‘here’s what you missed’ Twitter notification. She hesitantly takes another bite from her meal, and it hits the pit of her stomach like a wet pile of mud.

In her seat, she feels awkward. She tries to think of something intriguing to say. Something that would make him want to see more of her. But all she can think of his how hot the lights of the store feel when he’s there, watching as she eats.

“Thanks for letting me wait here,” she says eventually. “I am sorry to keep you here past closing, though.”

Miya shrugs. “Nah, don’t worry about it. It got me out of making dinner for my brother, so it actually works out pretty great for me.”

Her phone vibrates again. Her mother this time.

Dinner went well! I got a good word in with that producer, so you might be getting a call soon!

She can’t help but make a face. She wipes it off as soon as she feels it grow.

 “Bad news from your friend?” Miya asks, reading the sourness of her expression.

“Uh, no. Just my mom,” she explains, and shifts around in her seat. “She’s trying to get me on a television show.”

Miya leans forward, resting his forearms on the counter in front of her. It makes her oddly nervous. “And it’s not going well?”

She snickers. “Actually, it’s going a little too well. I’m not really into acting. I retired when I was eight.”

“Yeah, I remember,” he tells her. “Me and my brother used to watch Family Sized with our mom every week. He had a crush on you, and he cried when you left the show.”

It’s weird for her to think that people just know. Especially him. That he can just look back at some of the worst years of her life as just as a collection of fond moments from his childhood. An hour to bond once a week with his brother and mother. To sit in front of the television and watch her suffer through her childhood.

Him, and everyone else in the goddamn country.

“Yeah, my mom too,” she says wryly. “She’s been trying to get me back in it ever since then. Unfortunately for her, I like my current job too much.”

“Yeah? What’s your current job?”

She smiles. “I’m unemployed.”

Miya laughs, dropping his head down as he chuckles, and she feels oddly proud for making him laugh. Even if it’s at her own expense. He straightens up and stands upright. “Well, if you ever do want a job, you can always try it out here.”

It’s not an invitation for late night drinks, but she takes it as an indicator that maybe he wouldn’t mind spending more time with her. She’s counting it as a win. “Yeah, if you ever want to give your customers food poisoning, I’d be a great hire.”

Another notification from her phone. This one’s from Kenma.

I sent an Uber back to your place. Just stay at my place tonight. I don’t feel great about you going back and forth this late at night.

She looks down at her barely eaten onigiri and then back up at Miya again. “Got an Uber coming my way,” she tells him. “I’ll go outside and wait for it. Thanks for letting me stay here.”

“You sure you don’t need anything else?” he questions. “Do you want me to wrap up the rest of that for you so you can take it home?”

She says yes, because she thinks it would offend him if she said no. So he places the rest of it an a paper box for her and she says thank you as she takes it from him, knowing she has no intention of finishing it off.

A car pulls up to the outside of her apartment as she’s walking out the door. She turns back to Miya, and she says, “Tell your brother I’m sorry, by the way, for leaving the show and making him cry like that.”

He waves her off. “Don’t worry about him,” he tells her. “I’m hoping he’s over it, by now.”

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[atevanfool]

Prompt: Tommy has an NDE following Bobby's death and Buck breaks down

Thanks again for the ask; I love these angsty prompts so much. While I don't like seeing our boys suffer, I'm not going to lie and say that it's not fun to write. Also. I'm not sure if this counts as breaking down? Close enough.

Words: 1,878 | Rated: G

-------

"Buck." Maddie's voice is calm, but he hears the underlying tension. "I need you to listen to me, and I need you to remain calm. Can you do that for me?"

Still groggy from the dead sleep he's been woken from, he props himself up on one elbow and knuckles the crust out of his eyes. Glancing at his watch on the nightstand with bleary vision, screen lit up at his movement, he grumbles a bit as he replies, having to clear his throat. "Maddie? It's three in the morning." He barely has a hold on his phone. He's so tired. He's been home maybe four hours, and only asleep for two of them, after one of the most brutal shifts he's had since... Well. Since then. There's not an awake bone in his body or muscle in his brain.

Maddie clears her own throat, voice tight when she continues. "Tommy's been hurt, Buck." Immediately, he's awake and alert, shooting straight up in bed, kicking his legs over the side as he scrambles to find his pants. Fuck, why can't he put his clothes away like a normal human being?

"How bad?" He demands, damn near breaking his screen as he jabs at the speaker button with his thumb. His heart is in his throat; hears his blood pumping in his ears. This can't be happening. Not now. Not so soon after... He swallows back bile.

Maddie doesn't respond fast enough, so Buck shouts, not feeling guilty like he should, "Maddie. How. Bad?" The words are spoken through clenched teeth.

Sniffles from the other end of the line. It takes her way too long to say, "I... It's bad, Buck. The ambulance took him to 1st Pres, and they wheeled him back to surgery immediately, but they're not sure if he's going to make it."

"What the hell happened?" Buck demands as he shoves his arms through a sweatshirt that smells like smoke, but he doesn't care; doesn't have it in him to think of anything except getting to his heart before he can no longer touch it.

There's the sound of fabric rustling as she switches the phone to her other side. "There was a partial building collapse. He'd gone in to try and help the ground crew stabilize it before they completed the rescue, but... there was a tremor, or explosion shockwave, they're not really sure, that destabilized the area they were working in. Tommy pushed one of the other firefighters out of the way, and a concrete slab fell directly on him."

A flashback of the bridge collapse; screaming as he tried to get his people out; all alone and scared.

Tears form in his eyes, and he can't help it when they roll down his cheeks. "How could they not know if an explosion happened? That's a pretty damn loud thing to happen close enough to cause a rippling effect." He shoves down the anger, knowing that Maddie doesn't deserve it. She doesn't deserve any of the explosive emotions he's feeling right now. Furiously he swipes at his eyes as he snatches his keys and wallet from the side table. Really, he shouldn't be driving right now, but he doesn't have the patience to wait for a rideshare. He needed to be with Tommy. Now.

His sister sighs, shaky. "I don't know, Buck. I really don't. His team is at the hospital waiting for news. I called you as soon as I could step away."

He takes a deep, steadying breath to center himself. Turning back to headset mode, he holds the phone to his ear as he slides into his truck and mutters, "Thanks, Maddie. I... I'm sorry for-"

She cuts him off. "Don't worry about it, little brother. I'm here if you need me, okay? I get it. I know how scary it can be. Just, remember to keep me updated, okay?"

He sniffles. "Thanks, Mads. Love you."

"Love you, too, Evan." They let the silence hang for a second before Buck hits the end call button and starts his truck, determined to break land speed records just to get to his... To his pilot.

He reaches the hospital in record LA traffic time, almost squealing into the parking spot. He doesn't care that his back tires are outside the line because it's already been way too long since he's gotten an update and his ears feel like they're stuffed with cotton. The world around him has taken on a dreamlike quality, like he's losing his grip on reality.

Inside the emergency area waiting room, Tommy's coworkers stand huddled together in filthy turnouts, murmuring quietly amongst themselves. Tommy's captain is the only one seated and he's staring off into the distance at nothing, head on his fist like The Thinker. Lucy stands slightly off to the side on her own; he can't tell if she's holding up the wall, or if its holding her as she nibbles worriedly at her thumbnail.

She's the one he knows best so he calls out her name, breathless. "Lucy." When she looks up, her eyes are glassy and without a seconds hesitation, Buck wraps her up in a hug. She doesn't hesitate to hug him back. He holds on until she lets go first, a few of her tears dampening his sweatshirt. "H-have we heard anything?"

She shakes her head, voice wavering, "Nothing yet. He's still in surgery. Oh God, Buck. It was so bad."

He runs a hand through his hair, noticing for the first time that he's shaking. "What...?" The questions hangs in the air.

"Shattered leg. Fractured pelvis, possibly. At least a couple of broken ribs, though we're not entirely sure how that happened. And a collapsed lung from one of the ribs puncturing it. He was hardly breathing when they brought him out, even with the oxygen mask."

Buck's heart stills and the world spins. He reaches out for Lucy and has to use her shoulder as support. Maddie wasn't kidding. How could Tommy come back from this? He was no spring chicken anymore. "Fuck." The word is barely a passing of air through his vocal chords.

"You can say that again." Lucy agrees, gripping Buck's hand on her shoulder and holding it there.

The wait for news is long and painful. Buck wears holes in the shitty office grey carpet; drinks one too many cups of crappy hospital vending machine coffee but has to stop because he's going to throw it up he's so nervous; sits in a shitty plastic waiting chair and bounces his leg so violently some of the patients a few seats down glare at him because he's vibrating the entire row. Lucy takes a nap on his shoulder, clearly exhausted after helping out at the scene and then heading straight there.

After two hours gets a call from Maddie with no updates.

Four hours after that, he FaceTime's with Eddie and Christopher. Their sympathetic looks hurt him too much and he prematurely hangs up.

Another hour later, Hen shows up with Chimney and a blessed cup of high quality coffee that he still barely manages to choke down. They sit with him, Hen pulling him into her side and cuddling him, stroking his hair. Chimney is a quiet, reassuring presence on his other side, occasionally reaching over to squeeze his knee, or give him a reassuring pat. He lets him know that he called off for Buck so he doesn't need to worry about it.

He completely forgot about having to go in today. He was about to unintentionally play hooky.

Finally, Buck doesn't know how many hours later, a harried Doctor emerges from the emergency room doors, calling for the 217. He leaps to his feet, despite not being one of them. Lucy pulls him to her side and wraps an arm around his waist, which he's grateful for.

The Doctor prattles on for much longer than Buck wants; the itch to see his pilot is overwhelming. He doesn't care what happened during the surgery as long as Tommy made it through.

Finally they're allowed back in pairs. Buck is surprised when he's one of the first allowed back, and not a single one of Tommy's team asks him to leave as they shuffle through single file. Not that Buck notices; His Tommy is hooked up to so many machines, and his skin is covered in mottled bruises. His leg is elevated, covered in a thick white cast. The mask over his mouth is the only proof that he's actually breathing, air puffing out and clouding the plastic.

Not wanting to hurt him, but feeling compelled to be touching him, Evan takes one of Tommy's large, calloused hands between his and presses it to his own forward, muttering prayers and wishes as the time on the clock ticks by without end. Visiting hours end but the nurse doesn't manage to get him to leave, conceding to let him stay as long as he doesn't put up a fuss.

He doesn't. He doesn't move from his spot as he waits for the man to open those gorgeous, sky blue eyes; eyes the color of Tommy's favorite place to be. Hours pass. His ass is numb. His eyes feel like lead, and his stomach growls unhappily at the lack of sustenance. Still he doesn't move.

And then, those fingers twitch. Head shooting up, Buck sobs in relief as Tommy blinks his eyes slowly open, brows drawn in a frown as he tries to remember where he is. Tilting his head to the side he says, "Evan?" voice harsh from lack of water and hours of not talking. "Where am I?"

"Hospital." Buck chokes out, not withholding the sob that works up his throat. "You nearly met with Death."

Tommy chuckles weakly before closing his eyes again. "I'm not sure I'm ready to get that particular set of wings quite yet. What are you doing here?"

Bucks hold on that familiar hand tightens. "For you. Why else?"

Tommy cracks an eye open, still frowning, though it's small. "For... Me?"

"Yeah, you idiot. Maddie nearly gave me a heart attack when she told me how badly you were hurt." Tommy hums, but says nothing, clearly confused. "Tommy..." his breath catches. "You know that I'd do anything for you, right? Together or not, friends or just acquaintances, I will always be here for you. By your side. I... I don't know what I'd do without you in my life." Tommy's heart quickens and, though weak, he squeezes Buck's hand, both eyes open once again as he stares at Buck. "Of course, I'd love to be here by your side for the rest of your life as yours, but that's a conversation we can have when you're back on your feet, okay?"

It was Tommy's turn for his eyes to go misty. He snaps them shut but it's too late; Buck's already seen. It makes his heart flutter with hope.

Within minutes, his pilots breaths even out and the heart monitor beeps a happy rhythm as Tommy falls into a deeper slumber. No matter how long it takes, Buck is determined to be here by Tommy's side when he wakes up.

Just like how Tommy was there for him, no matter what.