#(Where I thought he was fine for the most part)

[em1i2a3]

I Want You (Fever)

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry/The Void x Avengers!Fem!Reader

Summary: Grocery shopping turns into one of the most nerve wrecking nights that Bob has had in a long time (This is a continuation of “Plainclothes Man”)

Warnings: No Warnings only like…Semi-Spoilers for Thunderbolts because Bob? lol, this is just pure fluff with a hint of jealousy mixed in

Author's Note: Ask and you shall receive! I had this in my drafts this weekend and needed to do a little bit of fine tuning before I posted (I ended up throwing out the original idea and reworked it!). Hope y’all enjoy :) (ALSO WHAT A HIGH QUALITY GIF GOOD LORD)

Word Count: 4,465

Bob couldn’t take his eyes off you.

He’d been trying for the last twenty minutes, gripping the cart like it might keep him tethered to reality, but every aisle felt like a trap laid by fate itself. Every glance at you was a temptation, and every time he failed to resist it, it got worse.

It wasn’t just the sweatpants anymore–though God help him, those were doing their own slow damage. It was the way you moved in them. The lazy sway of fabric, the way the drawstrings danced against your thighs when you walked, the casual tug you gave them to keep the waistband in place. Like you’d forgotten they weren’t yours, even though that was far from the case.

But more than that, it was you in general. It was the quiet laugh you gave when he made a bad joke in the cereal aisle. The way you picked up the most ridiculous snack and turned to him with a grin, asking, “Okay, but what kind of monster thought making sour patch flavoured Oreos was a good idea?” just to keep him talking. The way you read your grocery list out loud like you needed him to hear it–like he was part of the journey. Like you wanted him woven into the moment.

You had no idea what you were doing to him, and that might’ve been the part that killed him the most, because you weren’t trying. You weren’t teasing him, you were just being yourself–open, warm, familiar in the kind of way that made his chest ache and his stomach twist into knots. You could’ve led him off the side of a mountain for all he cared and once he hit the ground he would’ve said “Thank you, now help me up so I can do it again.” You had so much power even though you weren’t aware of it.

”There’s your chips!” You said suddenly, and just like that, Bob’s brain and eyes were back to focusing directly on you.

You were a few steps ahead of him, half-turned toward the shelf with your hand already reaching up. There was such mundaneness to it, the way your fingers flexed slightly as you overextended your arm like you had done this a hundred times–which technically you had, though Bob just wasn’t around to see it. The oversized shirt lifted enough with the extension and his eyes–against his better judgement–flicked down.

And then he saw it, not just your skin, not just the soft slope of your waist. He saw the scar. He could see the faint, silvered edge of it–just a little shimmer near your lower back, peeking out where your shirt had roadie up and the waistband of his sweatpants dipped with movement. It wasn’t much, but it was just enough to remind him of it.

You’d told him about it once offhandedly, like it didn’t mean much to you anymore–but your voice had caught halfway through the story. A mission gone sideways. A blade you didn’t see coming. You had offered to show it to him, but he said no in the most polite and sheepish way he could manage.

Not because he didn’t want to see it, but because he didn’t trust himself not to reach for you. Not in a way that would’ve crossed a line–but in a way that would’ve revealed too much. That he cared too much. That seeing something that had hurt you, marked you, and almost taken you might undo him completely.

He remembered the way your lips had twitched–half-amused and touched–when he mumbled something like “I believe you. You don’t have to prove anything to me…” And you let it go.

But now, standing behind you in the aisle lit by flickering fluorescents, with your shirt riding up and the edge of the scar showing and glistening like a silver thread stitched into your soft skin, he felt like his soul was going to leave his body.

Because it wasn’t just a scar. It was proof that you trusted him enough to offer to show him it. Proof that he knew you–in ways not everyone did. And yet…Not in the way he wanted to.

And he wondered what it would feel like to press his palm there. Not to possess, nor to claim, but just to be close to you.

When your arm finally dropped, and the shirt settled back, you put the chips into the cart as if nothing happened.

”Extra crunchy plain kettle chips…I never thought these would be so popular.” You said jokingly. He opened his mouth–but he didn’t even know what he was going to say back. Maybe it was going to be something stupid, or maybe he was just going to confess right then and there, something along the lines of “You have absolutely no idea how much I want to touch you, not just because of how perfect you look to me, but because of everything that’s made you who you are.”

But the words never even formed in his throat.

”Y/N?” Your name rang out behind you, clear and surprised and full of recognition. It was a gravelly and deep voice, a man's voice. Bob could feel his stomach fall through him.

You turned first, and your smile lit up like a struck match.

”Oh my god! Connor?” The excitement in your voice almost killed him, and immediately he could feel himself grow hot with the idea of what he was about to witness.

He watched as the man appeared from the far end of the aisle–tall, sharp-edged with a little scar over his eye, clean-shaven and still somehow scruffy in that confident, ex-special ops kind of way.

Connor was already walking toward you with the familiarity of someone who used to share early morning missions and late-night runs with you. His voice was warm, loud, and confident, he was unmistakably sure of himself.

”I thought that was you!” Connor grinned, coming to a stop just in front of you, “I almost didn’t recognize you without the tactical vest and blood on your face.” You gave him a short laugh and glanced down at yourself.

”I clean up well enough, right?” You motioned to the clothes that you were wearing.

”More than well enough,” Connor replied, tone light but lingering, his eyes sweeping over you quickly before adding, “I always said you were the best-looking one in the unit.” You rolled your eyes, but the smile you gave him was real–warmed by shared history, by something friendly and effortless. Bob felt himself wanting to interject, but all he could do was stand there, and watch, like he was just part of the scenery now.

”You only said that because you didn’t want me breaking your nose during drills.” Connor smirked.

”Hey, you were always close to doing it though, you always had that elbow twitch. I remember.” And you laughed again–open, easy, head tilted back just enough that Bob saw the line of your throat, saw the way you leaned in just a little when you nudged Connor’s arm.

You weren’t really flirting, it wasn’t anything heavy and meaningful, it was like two friends catching up on lost time. But Bob felt it like a shard of glass under his ribs. He didn’t know what hurt more though–the way you smiled at Connor, or the way that Connor had so many experiences with you, and so many stories. Bob only had a few months, a few soft mornings, and one mission where he was the person they were up against. It was hard to imagine that you and him could ever be that close, and all he could feel was his heart sinking lower and lower.

Connor slung his hands into his pockets, “So, what’ve you been up to? I figured you were halfway across the world still setting fire to buildings and pissing off diplomates.” You shook your head, brushing your knuckles across your forehead.

”Took a break from international chaos. I’m with The New Avengers now. It’s a stateside thing, mostly.” Connor raised a brow.

”The New Avengers, huh? Never figured you to be the reformation type.” He commented, continuing to look at you.

”Yeah well…” You shrugged, “Figured I’d try being a little less feral, for now at least.” He laughed at that, then glanced over your shoulder for the first time since the conversation started–like he just remembered you weren’t alone.

”And who’s this?” He motioned with his chin, “Your backup?” You turned slightly to Bob, tilting your head with a small smile, waving him over like you were finally letting him in on a secret. The look in your eyes was unreadable as he approached slowly, and it made him nervous.

“This is Bob. Bob Reynolds.” You said. There were no titles, no explanations, no qualifiers, just his name–spoken like it was enough. Bob offered his hand to Connor automatically, even though his mind was already spiraling from the lack of any defining words.

The handshake was firm, yet casual.

“Bob Reynolds,” Connor repeated with a smirk, giving him a once-over, before glancing over at you, “Didn’t peg you to be someone who dates within the team.” Bob froze. The words landed like a live wire straight to his chest. His vision didn’t blur–but it tunneled. Everything around him narrowed, and went strangely quiet, like the store had vacuumed the sound right out of the air.

And then–you smiled. Not with embarrassment, or hesitation, but with this soft, relaxed kind of warmth–like the mixup didn’t bother you at all. You didn’t correct him either. You didn’t say no, that’s not what we are. You didn’t say we’re just teammates. You said nothing at all, and neither did Bob.

Because in that moment, something inside him had short-circuited, and he felt like he couldn’t breathe. Something about your silence felt good to him. Terrifying, yes. But…Good. Dangerous, and hopeful as well. Like maybe–just maybe– you liked the idea that people thought he was yours.

Connor chuckled, and nudged your shoulder, “Didn’t think you’d go for the soft ones, but I get it. Balances you out.” He commented, which made Bob turn a bit red in embarrassment and you shrugged.

”He grows on you.” Bob nearly forgot how to stand upright, because you weren’t joking. There was affection under those words, and just by hearing you say them, it was like his blood had turned electric beneath his skin. Like every inch had been tuned too tight, and he was about to snap in half from the tension. From the possibility.

Connor clapped him lightly on the arm, “Well, hey–good luck surviving her. She’s the reason I still have shoulder pain in cold weather.”

“I’m very proud of that,” You replied breezily, already reaching for another snack on the shelf like your words, or lack thereof, just hadn’t rearranged his. Connor gave you a small wink and started to walk off.

”Always good seeing you Y/N, you two have fun playing house.” And then he was gone, just like that. Bob stayed frozen where he stood, realizing he said absolutely nothing during the conversation. You turned back to him with a small smile, tossing a bag of popcorn into the cart.

”We still need to go to the dessert section for Walker's cinnamon rolls.” You said, like nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

——————-

Once you were done shopping, Bob loaded the trunk with all the bags and returned the shopping cart to the store, sliding into the passenger seat in complete silence.

The engine hummed low beneath the weight of all that was unspoken, and the grocery bags rustled faintly as you rolled down the window to let some air into the stuffy car. You pulled out of the parking lot and onto the street, glancing once in Bob’s direction.

He hadn’t said a word since Connor left, and he looked absolutely dazed.

His hands were folded in his lap, not clenched–but fidgeting. His fingers were tangled loosely together, thumbs moving over one another in slow rhythmic circles. It was the kind of motion that only meant one thing when it came from Bob: he was nervous, really nervous. Tied-up-in-knots and about to implode kind of nervous.

You flicked your turn signal and merged into the next lane.

”Are you okay?” You asked gently. Bob didn’t answer right away, his eyes just stayed locked on the road ahead, but he wasn’t really seeing it–you could tell. His mind was miles away. Still stuck in aisle seven, maybe.

You hit a stoplight.

The soft red glow filtered into the car through the windshield, casting a faint warmth across your features. It slid like watercolor across your cheekbones, deepened the shadows around your mouth, and softened the bridge of your nose. It made you look celestial, like something that was too alive to exist in a place as mundane as this.

Bob turned his head to look at you–and once he did, he couldn’t look away.

The red glow painted you like a portrait Bob didn’t think he deserved to see. Something about it made everything more unreal. More dangerous. He didn’t even realize how long he’d been staring–until you caught him doing it.

You blinked and tilted your head, eyes narrowing with something like concern.

”Bob,” You said softly, “What’s going on?” His mouth parted, but nothing came out.

And then the light turned green.

You let the car roll forward slowly, but then you took the next turn–off the main road, down a quiet street lined with trees that filtered the dying daylight like gold dust. You pulled the car over, your tires crunching softly against gravel. And then you put it in park and killed the engine.

The silence fell like a held breath, as a gust of wind blew the cool spring air into the car. It smelled like moss, with a hint of dew, like it was going to rain, even though the sky was showing to be clear.

You unbuckled your seatbelt and turned toward him, shifting so you could see him fully. His profile was tight–tense in a way you rarely saw. He was breathing, but too shallow. His jaw worked like he was chewing on glass.

“Okay,” You said, voice calm but firm. “You haven’t said more than three words since we saw Connor. You’re fidgeting so much your thumbs are gonna rub raw. And you keep looking at me like you’ve got something to say…”Bob blinked, once and swallowed the lump in his throat, as a sheen of sweat began to form on the back of his neck.

Still nothing.

“So,” You continued, leaning a little closer to him, your tone gentler now. “Tell me. What happened?” Bob’s mouth opened like he was about to finally speak—but the words caught somewhere in his throat and came out as a half-breath instead.

You watched him closely, waiting.

“I… n-nothing happened,” he stammered, eyes flicking toward the windshield like it might offer him an escape. “I’m fine. Everything’s fine. I mean it’s not—it’s not not fine—but it’s not, like… bad. It’s just…”

He trailed off, his voice shrinking with every word until it was barely audible.

You didn’t say anything at first. You just looked at him. Really looked.

Then you slowly shifted closer.

Your thigh brushed his. Barely. Just enough that the contact registered like a spark. And when you leaned in, the warmth of you carried with it the scent of cinnamon and nutmeg–the smell of fall during spring, and Bob’s lungs forgot how to behave.

“Is it me?” you asked softly.

His eyes shot to you like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t have.

“I—no,” he blurted, too fast, too flustered. “No! I mean. Not like—It’s not bad. It’s just, um…”

He trailed off again. His shoulders sank.

You tilted your head. “Bob.”

He closed his eyes and exhaled through his nose.

“…I don’t know how to be around you right now.”

That made you pause. Your gaze softened, but you didn’t pull back. If anything, you inched even closer–your arm brushing his this time.

“Why?” you asked. Your voice wasn’t teasing. Just curious. Barely above a whisper.

He opened his eyes and looked at you again–and this time, there was no hiding in the silence.

“Because Connor thought we were together,” he said, breathless. “And you didn’t c-correct him at–at all. And I’ve been trying not to hope for too much. Trying no–not to want that so much. But the second he said it, and you didn’t say anything–I haven’t been able to think straight since.”

You stared at him for a second, the air between you charged like a live wire.

And then…

“Did you ever think,” You said slowly, “That maybe I didn’t want to correct him because I liked what I heard?”

That made him blink–hard. His breath hitched audibly.

His mouth parted, but no words came. His hand–still folded in his lap–tightened slightly, like he was holding onto something that might float away.

You watched his lips part and close again, watched his chest rise and fall with uneven breaths, and you could feel the space between you contracting, the tension building like something was about to snap.

“Bob,” You said, softer now, “Am I the one that’s making you nervous?”

He nodded–tiny. Almost imperceptible. Then managed a whisper:

“A-Always.”

There was a beat of stillness.

Then you reached up, slow and steady, and brushed your fingers along the edge of his jaw. He flinched–not from discomfort, but from shock, closing his eyes at the sensation of your touch tracing along his stubble. Like he didn’t know how to receive that kind of closeness. Like he hadn’t dared imagine it outside of his dreams.

Your voice stayed low. Intimate.

“You don’t have to be nervous with me,” You said. “Not if you want the same thing I do.”

He could feel his heart seizing in his chest, his mouth going dry, lips parting again. “A-And what do you w-want?”

You smiled–just barely, just enough for him to see the truth in it. Something quiet and unguarded. Something only for him.

Then you leaned in.

And he felt it first in the air—how your breath brushed across his lips before your mouth ever touched his. Soft and warm, like the stir of wind before a storm. It made every muscle in his body go tight with anticipation. The space between you was shrinking by the second, his senses narrowing to the way you looked at him–like you already knew what this would do to him.

”You…That’s what I want.” You whispered. Bob swallowed hard. His pulse thundered in his ears. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t blink. His hand twitched in his lap like it wanted to reach for you but didn’t dare.

And then–

You kissed him.

Your lips found his like they’d been there before in a hundred different dreams. They were soft, impossibly soft, and he swore time folded in on itself. It wasn’t rushed, or messy, or careless–it was a moment made of weightless things. Breath and longing. The quiet hum of the earth under your feet and the echo of a hope that had waited far too long to bloom.

Bob didn’t kiss back at first–not out of hesitation, but out of sheer disbelief. His breath hitched like he was afraid he’d ruin it by moving. But then your hand slid into his hair, your thumb grazing the curve of his jaw again, and something in him unspooled completely.

He kissed you back like he’d been drowning for years and only just now found air. Gentle at first–uncertain–but then a little more desperate. His fingers found your thigh where your legs were still touching, squeezing it gently, anchoring him to the here and now. He tilted his head slightly, deepening the kiss by a fraction, like he was afraid you might vanish if he didn’t get closer. Like he needed to memorize the shape of your mouth, the warmth of your breath, the soft sigh you let out when his lips parted just barely against yours.

And for a moment, there was nothing else. No car. No road. No Connor. Just the two of you suspended in something delicate and golden and sacred.

He was still breathing like he’d just run ten miles when you pulled back. He pressed his forehead against yours, eyes shutting tight like he was trying to hold onto the feeling, preserving it in his chest like a light in a jaw. The windows were fogging at the corners now, despite them being open, and the air between you had turned warm and close, while every shared breath was a little shallower, a little hungrier than the one before.

You tilted your head just slightly, brushing the tip of your nose along his cheek, and he shuddered.

“Jesus Y/N…” He whispered, “I-I think I’m gonna pass out.” You smiled gently against his skin, letting your lips brush over the corner of his mouth.

“You’re doing better than you think.” You whispered, as your hand slid down from his jaw to rest against his chest, right over his heart–feeling it pounding like a war drum. He looked at you then, dazed and wide-eyed, mouth still pink and parted, and when you shifted your weight toward him, his breath caught.

“Can I…?” you asked, your voice softer than ever, your gaze flicking downward–toward his lap.

He nodded before you could finish the question. Like it wasn’t even a decision, just a reflex. “Y-yeah. Yeah. Please.”

You climbed over the center console slowly, carefully, and Bob’s hands went to your hips instinctively, steadying you like you might disappear mid-motion. The second you settled on top of him, straddling his lap, he tensed beneath you–shoulders rigid, breath shallow–but his grip never wavered.

“Okay?” you asked again, brushing your thumbs over the fabric of his shirt.

He nodded again, voice trembling. “Yeah. I just… I don’t know what to do with my hands.”

You smiled, sliding yours over his. “You’re already doing fine.”

And then you kissed him again.

This time, it wasn’t soft.

It was warm and slow, sure–but there was something boiling under the surface now. A spark that had caught flame. You kissed him like you’d been waiting for this, starving for it, and Bob melted into it like he didn’t know how not to. His hands tightened at your hips, not possessive, just desperate for anchoring. For something real.

He moaned against your mouth when your fingers slid into his hair again, tugging just lightly. It was a sound you felt before you heard it–a low vibration in your chest where your bodies were brushing, where your thighs pressed against his hips.

You rolled your hips once, slowly, more a shift than a grind–and Bob gasped into your kiss.

“O-Oh god,” He breathed, voice trembling, forehead falling to your shoulder for a second as he tried to collect himself.

“You okay?” You murmured, pressing a kiss to his temple.

He nodded, his voice shaky and stunned. “Y-You’re gonna kill me.”

You kissed him again before he could spiral further, and this time his hands slid under your shirt, trailing up your back, like he wanted to feel every inch of you he was allowed. The smooth skin was vast, and all he realized was just how soft you truly were as he pulled your body against his. His mouth opened beneath yours, and you deepened the kiss slowly, tilting your head, tasting the warmth of him, the desperation he was too shy to say out loud.

And then his hips shifted under you, unintentionally–and the friction made you both gasp. His fingers flexed against your back, clinging. Needy. His breath came faster, rougher, and he whined into your mouth when your hips shifted again, intentionally this time–grinding against him with slow, aching friction.

“Y-Y/N,” he whimpered, voice cracking apart, and your hand found the back of his neck, holding him close as you kissed him harder. The car felt too small now, too warm, too full of air that wasn’t moving–but neither of you could stop. Not yet.

His mouth opened wider, tongue brushing yours hesitantly–like he was asking permission even now, like he didn’t know if you still wanted this. But the second you deepened it, the second your lips parted and your tongue met his with a soft, slick slide–he lost whatever fragile control he had left.

He moaned–quiet and broken–and then his hips lifted just barely into yours. You both froze at the pressure, the friction.

His fingers dug into your hips. “I-I can’t–” He breathed, forehead falling back to yours. “I’m gonna–if we keep–I can’t think.”

“Hey,” You whispered, brushing your nose against his, breathless, lips still ghosting his, “It’s okay. We can stop.”

“I don’t want to stop,” He blurted, and it sounded like a confession, “I just–I need to. I want to…So so bad, it’s just–god, I want to do it right.”

You smiled, fingers slipping up to his flushed cheeks, holding him there–trembling, dazed, burning beneath you.

“You are doing it right, Bob,” You murmured, kissing him once more—slower this time, gentler, reverent. “We don’t have to rush anything.”

His arms slid around your waist, holding you like he couldn’t let go, like if he did the whole thing might vanish like a fever dream. His breath was hot against your collarbone now, lips resting against your skin, and he nodded, finally beginning to breathe again.

“I-I just want to be close to–to you,” He whispered. “Even if it’s just like this. Even if we don’t–y’know. Yet.”

You leaned your head against his, your hand stroking the back of his neck slowly, grounding him.

“Then let’s just stay like this,” You said softly. “You and me.”

He nodded again, arms tightening around you.

“Yeah,” He whispered. “You and me.”

The windows stayed fogged, your breaths remained shallow, your lips kiss-swollen and raw. But you didn’t move.

And in the quiet heat of that parked car, it felt like something had finally started. Something that didn’t need words.

[abbotjack]

when would jack stutter, have to catch his breath? whether it be something he sees, hears, smells. what makes him take pause?

Jack Abbot doesn’t stutter for effect. He doesn’t lose his words in arguments or get flustered in tension. He was trained—trained—to speak clearly through chaos. To radio for medevac while pressure-wrapping a wound with one hand. To give the date, time, and morphine dose to a nineteen-year-old he was holding together by sheer will while bullets cracked overhead. Words, for Jack, have always been tools. Precise. Tactical. Controlled.

So when Jack stutters, it’s never performance. It’s never dramatics. It’s malfunction. It means something short-circuited so violently inside him that all his practiced scripts—the field medic instincts, the ER attending cadence, the gallows humor—all of it collapses under the weight of something real.

It’s not trauma that makes him pause. He’s acclimated to that. It’s gentleness. It’s earnestness. It's the things no one ever trained him to survive.

It starts small.

You’re in his kitchen one morning, still in sleep clothes. No makeup. You open the fridge and mutter, “We need more eggs.” Not he needs. Not you need. We.

Jack freezes.

Just for a second. Just long enough that the corner of the coffee filter burns.

Because he’s spent years learning how to survive alone. Alone is safe. Alone is math he can do. But we? We is dangerous. We has loss baked into it.

So when you say something that sounds like permanence without even realizing it, Jack looks down at the mug in his hand like he forgot how it got there.

“You okay?” you ask, still rummaging.

“Yeah, I just—” He exhales, blinks. “I—uh, it’s—fine.”

It’s not the word he’s fumbling over. It’s the feeling.

Then it escalates.

You wear his sweatshirt to the grocery store and complain about the sleeves being too long. You say it in passing—no agenda, no performance. Just an offhanded “How the hell do your arms fit in this thing?”

Jack laughs. He nods. He goes quiet.

And later, when you’re brushing your teeth, he stands in the doorway, arms crossed, watching you like he’s never seen anything more disarming.

“You know you, uh—” He pauses. Swallows. “You look good in that.”

And that stutter? It’s not nerves. It’s not lust. It’s ache. It’s how dare you look like home in my clothes when I never thought I’d have one again. It’s him tasting the fact that someone might love him with the lights on. With the ghosts still in the room.

But the worst of it—the deepest malfunction—is when you touch the part of him he hides.

It’s a Tuesday. You’re lying in bed. Jack’s out of the shower, towel around his waist, residual steam curling off his shoulders. You’re half asleep when he climbs in, careful, always careful. The prosthetic is off. His right leg ends below the knee, the skin there pale, uneven in tone, scarred in a way that doesn’t fade with time.

You don’t flinch. You never have.

You roll over, press your face into his chest, and—without thinking—run your hand down his thigh and stop at the point where flesh becomes absence. Where history lives in muscle memory.

He draws in a sharp breath—sudden, ragged—like it knocked the wind out of him.

“Sorry,” you whisper, pulling back.

But he grabs your wrist. Not to stop you. To ground himself. To hold the moment in place.

“No, I—” His voice cracks. The words don’t follow. “It’s not—I just—” He blinks fast, jaw twitching. “I wasn’t—expecting that.”

Because what you touched wasn’t just skin. It was the thing he’s ashamed of needing love through. The thing people look at and get polite. The thing strangers pretend not to notice. The thing he never believed could be part of desire. And you just touched it like it was his. Like it was safe.

That’s when Jack stutters.

When you make the part of him he’s spent years compartmentalizing feel not just accepted—but wanted.

But maybe the most dangerous kind of stutter—the kind that ruins him—isn’t even about touch.

It’s when you fight.

Not over something petty. Something real. Something that threatens the fragile trust he’s learning to build. Maybe you accuse him of shutting you out again. Of pulling back every time things get too close. And you’re right. You’re so right it guts him.

He raises his voice. Snaps something defensive. His default. Control the room. Win the logic. Out-talk the fear.

But then you say it.

“Jack, you don’t have to be perfect to be loved.”

And that sentence? That sentence breaks him.

Not because of what it is.

Because of what it isn’t.

It isn’t a demand. It isn’t a plea. It’s grace. Unconditional. Unflinching. And it makes no goddamn sense to a man who’s only ever been valued for what he can fix, what he can endure, what he can sacrifice.

So he stares at you.

“You don’t—” His voice falters. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I do,” you whisper.

And he stutters. He turns away. Rubs his jaw. Blinks hard.

Because he wants to believe you. More than anything. But his nervous system doesn’t know how to file that truth under anything but threat.

He says, “I just—” and never finishes.

Because he can’t.

Because it’s too much.

Because your love is louder than his guilt, and that is a sound Jack Abbot doesn’t know how to live through.

That’s when he stutters.

When you say something that unravels the wire he’s been holding himself together with since the war. Since the job started asking more than he had to give and he gave it anyway.

When you look at him like he is not a burden. Like he is allowed to stay.

That’s what makes Jack Abbot forget how to speak.

Not blood.

Not death.

But the unbearable mercy of being loved anyway.

[mrsbarnesblog]

the zipper

masterlist

summary: when you ask Bucky to help with your dress while you two at the gala, it doesn't go the way you planned

words count: 2.1k

warnings: semi-public sex, fingering, unprotected sex, dirty talk, mild dominance, light overstimulation,

a/n: I guess there are already tons of fics with congressman Bucky at the Gala (even though I still haven't read any of them), but this has been on my mind for a few days, so I have to give it to y'all.

also, do any of you want to be on my tag list? I thought about it randomly because many writers do it and I have so many followers... so if you would like to be tagged on my bucky fics, you can leave a comment or send me a message in my inbox🪼

The gala was in full swing, with way too many important people wandering around, talking, and pretending that they like each other. Bucky didn’t like it. He didn’t like the crowdedness, the tight and fancy suit, and the fact that he still couldn’t fully figure out what Valentina was doing irritated him even more. 

At least he had you by his side, and most of the time you were on his arm, soothingly rubbing his back or placing a kiss on his cheek when you noticed him getting overwhelmed. You were a good distraction—his favorite and only one. 

Though while he was talking to Congressman Gary, Bucky couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that you went to the bathroom about fifteen minutes ago and still didn’t come back. His mind started wandering off, barely listening to the man in front of him, even if it was extremely important. He just couldn’t focus when he didn’t know where you were and what was happening. 

In that exact same moment, his phone rang with a notification from you. 

Buck, I have a problem with a zipper. Could you come and help me, please?

He physically felt himself relaxing, knowing that you were just struggling with your dress, and he excused himself from the conversation as he went down the fancy hall. Bucky knocked a few times at the door until your head poked out of it with a shy smile, and you gestured to him to walk in. He locked the door before fully taking you in when you stepped further into the room. 

Hair pinned up, with a lip gloss in your hand, you applied it standing in front of the mirror. Bucky’s breath hitched when his eyes fell lower, at your chest, to be exact. Probably that was the reason you called him, because the zipper on your back was only halfway done, making the front part of your dress hang dangerously loose. The fabric barely covered your boobs, as it slid so low that Bucky could see that there was no bra underneath. 

You stood there unbothered, looking at yourself in a mirror, and completely unaware that within a second you caused him to have a hard-on. 

“...and I took it off to remove the label from the inside, but I can’t zip it back.” His ears caught only the last part of your sentence, while you were still innocently focused on your reflection. “I’ve tried so hard to reach it, but I’m afraid that I might break my nail… Buck, you okay?” Your soft voice snapped him out of his thoughts, and he stepped behind you, metal hand on your waist. 

“Yeah, just fine, doll.” He mumbled in a gruff voice. Bucky was higher than you, so standing behind your back, he could perfectly see that your loosely hanging dress left basically nothing for the imagination. He looked down at the smooth skin of your back, framed by the soft color of the silk fabric, letting out a deep sigh as his other hand hesitated in the air. 

His cock was pulsating in his suit pants, desperately craving your attention, the feeling of you. So before he could think of anything better, his hand tugged the zipper down to your ass, and he groaned, looking back in the mirror to see the full front part of your dress falling down and bunching at your hips. 

“Bucky!” You gasped at the feeling of cold air against your bare skin. Your hands instantly shot up to cover yourself, your lip gloss fell on the floor and was probably ruined, but Bucky moved quicker, wrapping one hand around your body. “We’re… at the gala…” 

“Like I care, baby. You don’t know what you’re doing to me.” His head fell forward into your neck, stubble scratching your delicate skin, lips ghosting just enough to send shivers down your spine. He pushed his hips forward, grinding his bulge against your ass and groaning at the feeling. You gasped again, instinctively melting in his arms, when his metal thumb brushed around your nipple. “No fucking bra, God damn, do you want to kill me here?”

“You don’t wear a bra in such dresses.” You mumbled weakly, throwing your head backwards and barely able to hold back your moans when Bucky teased each of your breasts. 

“Mhm, you should wear them more often then.” 

His other hand trailed down your stomach, using a high slit on your dress to sneak in between your thighs and press his palm against your core. He palmed you shamelessly, feeling the warmth of your pussy through the lacy material, which already started to get soaked. Bicky knew your body better than he knew himself, so the subtle movements like the tilt of your head to the side, parted lips, and barely noticeable rocking of your hips gave him everything he needed to take you right in this bathroom. 

You knew that you shouldn’t do anything in the middle of the gala, when you still had to go to the main room afterwards and face people, pretending that nothing had happened. But it was Bucky, the one who could make you feel lightheaded with only one touch, who always found an excuse to fuck you anywhere and everywhere, who was currently intoxicating you with his cologne and fingers that he already pushed inside of you.

“Oh, please—” You whimpered as he pumped his fingers into your dripping hole, pressing a thumb against your puffy clit. His other hand was still busy with your boobs, twisting and pinching your nipples, almost sending you to tears. 

“‘M gonna fuck you, baby. Fuck, you’re so hot like this.” He groaned against your ear, withdrawing his fingers with a loud, wet sound and immediately reaching for his pants. You felt him fidgeting with the buckle, then pushing your dress up for easy access. His hand softly pushed in between your shoulder blades until you bent over with your hands on the sink and your ass on display for him. 

Bucky’s metal hand pushed your legs further from each other, then slid your panties down until they were bunched around your ankles. At that point you wanted to cry from desperation, looking at him through the mirror and basically dripping from how horny you were. But then you felt the blunt tip of his cock sliding through your puffy folds, teasingly nudging your clit, as Bucky let out a loud moan. “Just soaking my cock, doll. You need it bad, huh?” He teased, slapping your ass once, just nudging your entrance but not pushing inside. “We got five minutes before someone notices. Think you can be quiet for me?”

“Yes. James, just please…” Your eyes rolled back the moment he slammed into you in one smooth motion, stretching you wide around him just the way you both liked, not even giving you time to think when he started slamming into you with full force. Bucky’s eyes stayed locked on the mirror, obsessed, addicted. Your reflection was pure sin—mouth parted, brows knitted in pleasure, tits bouncing with every savage snap of his hips. You tried to muffle your sounds, biting your lip until it hurt, but your breath kept catching on broken little gasps that made Bucky thrust even harder.

He groaned behind you, gripping the flesh of your ass, probably leaving marks on the skin, and keeping you still so he could use you the way he wanted. The wet sounds of your bodies slapping together filled the room, mixing with the faint music echoing from the gala. 

“Fuck, you feel so good.” He rasped, voice rough like gravel, forehead slick with sweat as he leaned over you. “You were made for me, doll. Fuckin’ made for me.” Your walls fluttered around his cock, making him twitch deep inside you, and Bucky let out another guttural groan. 

His relentless assault on your G-spot easily pushed you closer to the edge, making you gasp for air in poor attempts to not moan out loud. When an orgasm washed over you, Bucky didn’t stop or follow you the way you expected him to. Oh no, after mumbling a bunch of curses mixed with praise, the palm of his hand pressed on your lower stomach, and his fingers reached your clit, moving in circles. 

“Gonna cum again, doll? Soak my cock, huh?” He growled, breath hot against the shell of your ear, his fingers working your clit with maddening precision while his cock kept pushing into your sopping cunt.

Your answer was a strangled moan, your body trembling as overstimulation surged through you like fire. The first orgasm hadn’t even faded, and he was already pushing you into another, forcing your body to submit, to unravel under his touch again and again.

“Jesus, Bucky—” You whispered, your voice wrecked, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes as your thighs started to shake. “Too much, I—” He hushed you softly, his metal arm wrapping around your waist to keep you steady as he pounded into you mercilessly, lips brushing your ear.

“You can take it. You will take it. Give me another one, sweetheart. Be my good girl.”

That tipped you over the edge. Again.

Your mouth fell open in a silent scream, your nails scraping at the counter as another orgasm ripped through you, harsher this time, your vision nearly whiting out from how intense it was. Your whole body went limp, but Bucky held you upright, grunting as your walls clamped down on him like a vise.

“Fuck, baby—fuck.” He hissed, his thrusts losing rhythm as you dragged him over the edge with you. One final snap of his hips and he buried himself to the hilt, spilling into you with a moan and then pushing his cum into you like he didn’t want to waste a single drop. 

“You’re insane…” You managed to mumble, barely able to straighten up. Bucky shifted behind you, slowly pulling out with a groan and tucking himself back in his pants. He bent down to help you pull your panties back in place, and then, as if nothing had happened, he fixed the back of your dress, lifted up the front, and this time properly zipped it. 

“That’s your fault.” Bucky shrugged casually, giving you a shit-eating grin after spinning you to face him. You slightly wobbled in your heels, and you gripped his shoulders for some stability. He placed his hands on your waist, leaning in for a slow and soft kiss. Being a gentleman, as if he hadn’t just railed against the sink like there was no tomorrow. “Still shaky?” He whispered against your lips, the hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You gave him a playful glare, but it was half-lidded and dazed. “Gee, I wonder why.” You took one look in the mirror—your hair still mostly intact, makeup a little disheveled but passable, and your eyes? Yeah, they were screaming just fucked, and you wondered how many people could pick up on that instantly. “I guess we have to go back now. Even though I look totally fucked. Both literary and figuratively.” 

“You look perfect, I promise.” Bucky chuckled lowly, his hand slipping into yours as he led you toward the door, his fingers lingering just a second longer than necessary. “I’m more interested in seeing how you’re gonna keep that poker face of yours. You’re gonna have to hold it together, doll. Until we get back home.”

You shot him a sidelong glance, fighting the flush that threatened to creep up your neck, knowing exactly what he meant. “Oh, I can do poker faces.”

“Mm-hmm.” He didn’t sound convinced, but the playful gleam in his eyes told you he was looking forward to watching you try.

[your-resident-boat-person]

Okay, I've taken a closer look at the study, and I can state soundly that I do take issue with several of their methods and conclusions. For example, they criticize a lot of the subjects for not knowing that this story takes place in court, even though the story uses "Lincoln's Inn Hall". Most assumed it was an Inn. I take issue with this criticism for a reason I've already mentioned. To someone unfamiliar with the location in this time period, there's nothing wrong with assuming that a place called am Inn is an Inn. They preemptively waive off this issue with "they could have googled it", but I take issue with THAT because why would any of these people who think they know the meaning of this word randomly Google it. If it was a word they've never heard before, then fine. But if you know what an Inn is, and the place is called an Inn, why the hell would you google it? My second problem was absolutely on point, without knowledge of the specific location and time period the story is set in, it is difficult to understand. The study acknowledges this, but still somehow places the blame on the readers. I suspect this also confirms my first problem. If you gave this same passage to history majors (especially ones who focus their study on 19th century England), they would have had a much easier time with this. Also, unrelated, but they made most of the participants read aloud, and they would be periodically stopped to translate what they just read into plain (modern) english. I can say personally that if I was being made to read this passage aloud to someone under a time limit, and I was being interrogated about the meaning of every few sentences, I would have done SIGNIFICANTLY worse. I had the luxury of reading it to myself in the comfort of my own home.

However, despite all of these criticisms, I do think they're on to SOMETHING. Here are 2 examples from the passage I'd like to focus on.

"As much mud in the streets as if the waters had but newly retired from the face of the earth, and it would not be wonderful to meet a Megalosaurus, forty feet long or so, waddling like an elephantine lizard up Holborn Hill."

And

"Chancellor ought to be sitting here—as here he is—with a foggy glory round his head, softly fenced in with crimson cloth and curtains, addressed by a large advocate with great whiskers, a little voice, and an interminable brief, and outwardly directing his contemplation to the lantern in the roof, where he can see nothing but fog."

Now, with example one, they gave an example of a participant who literally thought Dickens was describing that the bones of a Megalosaurus washed up on the street. They quickly realize that Dickens then goes on to say that the Megalosaurus then waddles up the hill, so it can't be just bones, and settles on there being a literal living breathing dinosaur in the street. Now, the things I mentioned earlier MAY be a factor in this interpretation. Maybe if this person read quietly to themselves like I did, they would have understood perfectly. However, I struggle to imagine even myself, someone with anxiety issues, having this same problem. They note that the Megalosaurus part tripped up a significant portion of the respondents, so this isn't an isolated incident. Furthermore, this example is divorced from the historical context issue, and most respondents at the very least understood implicitly that "Megalosaurus" is a dinosaur.

Now, for the second example, the respondent they highlight thought that there was a giant cat in the room. They saw the word "whiskers" and immediately jumped to cat. Now, when *I* see the sentence "addressed by a large advocate with great whiskers, a little voice..." I imagined a lawyer who was fat, had a bushy beard, and a quiet voice. I understood that advocate meant lawyer, and whiskers meant facial hair. Maybe this is another example of my historical knowledge making this section easier for me. I don't think I've ever heard someone irl refer to facial hair as whiskers, but I have seen it a lot in descriptions of ship captains from the late 19th and early 20th century. So maybe I'm uniquely equipped to understand this section. But maybe I'm also giving these respondents too much credit, and they should have realized that they're not meant to imagine a giant cat in the courtroom.

To me, these 2 examples should more or less be understandable and interperetable without the aforementioned historical context. Or at the very least, the imagery of literal dinosaurs and giant cats should have obviously been WAY off the mark even to these respondents. They describe a story more akin to that of Alice in Wonderland or the Wizard of Oz than what is actually being depicted here.

In my personal opinion, these two examples, SPECIFICALLY, of common problem areas for many respondents is indicative of a greater issue, even if the methods of the study are dubious, and their findings disingenuous. I think more studies of this problem are absolutely warranted, and probably necessary.

i appreciated this study: "They Can't Read Very Well: A Study of the Reading Comprehension Skills Of English Majors At Two Midwestern Universities"

essentially, a pair of professors set out to test their intuitive sense that students at the college level were struggling with complex text. they recruited 85 students, a mix of english majors and english education majors - so, theoretically, people focusing on literature, and people preparing to teach adolescents how to read literature - and had them read-while-summarizing the first seven paragraphs of dickens's bleak house (or as much as they made it through in the 20 minute session). they provided dictionaries and also said students could use their phones to look up whatever they wanted, including any unfamiliar words or references. they found that the majority of the students - 58%, or 49 out of the 85 students - functionally could not understand dickens at all, and only 5% - a mere 4 out of the 85 students - proved themselves proficient readers (leaving the remaining 38%, or 32 students, as what the study authors deemed "competent" students, most of whom could understand about half the literal meaning - pretty low bar for competence - although a few of whom, they note, did much better than the rest in this group if not quite well enough to be considered proficient).

what i really appreciated about this study was its qualitative descriptions of the challenges and reading behaviors of what the authors call "problematic readers" (that bottom 58%), which resonated strongly with my own experiences of students who struggle with reading. here's their blunt big picture overview of these 49 students:

The majority of these subjects could understand very little of Bleak House and did not have effective reading tactics. All had so much trouble comprehending concrete detail in consecutive clauses and phrases that they could not link the meaning of one sentence to the next. Although it was clear that these subjects did try to use various tactics while they read the passage, they were not able to use those tactics successfully. For example, 43 percent of the problematic readers tried to look up words they did not understand, but only five percent were able to look up the meaning of a word and place it back correctly into a sentence. The subjects frequently looked up a word they did not know, realized that they did not understand the sentence the word had come from, and skipped translating the sentence altogether.

the idea that they had so many trouble with every small piece of a text that they could not connect ideas on a sentence by sentence basis is very familiar to me from teaching and tutoring, as was the habit of thought seen in the example of the student who gloms on to the word "whiskers" in a sea of confusion and guesses incorrectly that a cat is present - struggling readers, in my experience, seem to use familiar nouns as stepping stones in a flood of overwhelm, hopping as best they can from one seemingly familiar image to the next. so was this observation, building off the example of a student who misses the fact that dickens is being figurative when he imagines a megalodon stalking the streets of london:

She first guesses that the dinosaur is just “bones” and then is stuck stating that the bones are “waddling, um, all up the hill” because she can see that Dickens has the dinosaur moving. Because she cannot logically tie the ideas together, she just leaves her interpretation as is and goes on to the next sentence. Like this subject, most of the problematic readers were not concerned if their literal translations of Bleak House were not coherent, so obvious logical errors never seemed to affect them. In fact, none of the readers in this category ever questioned their own interpretations of figures of speech, no matter how irrational the results. Worse, their inability to understand figurative language was constant, even though most of the subjects had spent at least two years in literature classes that discussed figures of speech. Some could correctly identify a figure of speech, and even explain its use in a sentence, but correct responses were inconsistent and haphazard. None of the problematic readers showed any evidence that they could read recursively or fix previous errors in comprehension. They would stick to their reading tactics even if they were unhappy with the results.

i have seen this repeatedly, too - actually i was particularly taken with how similar this is to the behavior of struggling readers at much younger ages - and would summarize the hypothesis i have forged over time as: struggling readers do not expect what they read to make sense. my hypothesis for why this is the case is that their reading deficits were not attended to or remediated adequately early enough, and so, in their formative years - the early to mid elementary grades - they spent a lot of time "reading" things that did not make sense to them - in fact they spent much more time doing this than they ever did reading things that did make sense to them - and so they did not internalize a meaningful subjective sense of what it feels like to actually read things.

like, i've said this before, but the year i taught third grade i had multiple students who told me they loved reading and then when i asked them about a book they were reading revealed that they had absolutely no idea what was going on - on a really basic literal level like "didn't know who said which lines of dialogue" and "couldn't identify which things or characters given pronouns referred to" - and were as best as i could tell sort of constructing their own story along the way using these little bits of things they thought they understood. that's what "reading" was, in their heads. and they were, in the curriculum/model that we used at the private school where i taught, receiving basically no support to clarify that that was not what reading was, nor any instruction that would actually help them with what they needed to do to improve (understand sentences) - and i realized over the course of that year that the master's program that had certified me in teaching elementary school had provided me with very little understanding of how to help these kids (with perhaps the sole exception of the class i took on communications disorders, not because these kids had communications disorders but because that was the only class where we ever talked, even briefly, about things like sentence structures that students may need instruction in and practice with to comprehend independently). when it comes to the literal, basic understanding of a text, the model of reading pedagogy i was taught has about 6 million little "tools" that all boil down to telling kids who functionally can't read to try harder to read. this is not productive, in my experience and opinion, for kids whose maximum effort persistently yields confusion. but things are so dysfunctional all the way up and down the ladder that you can be a senior in college majoring in english without anyone but a pair of professors with a strong work ethic noticing that you can't actually read.

couple other notes:

obviously it's a small study but i'm not sure i see a reason to believe these are particularly outlierish results (ACT scores - an imperfect metric but not a meritless one IMO for reading specifically, where the task mostly really is to read a set of texts written for the educated layperson and answer factual questions about them - were a little bit above the national average)

the study was published last year, but the research was conducted january to april 2015. so there's no pandemic influence, no AI issue - these are millennials who now would span roughly ages 28-32 (i guess it's possible one of the four first-year students was one of the very first members of gen z lol). if you're in your late 20s or early 30s, we are talking about people your age, and whatever the culprit is here, it was happening when you were in school.

i think some people might want to blame this on NCLB but i find this unconvincing for a variety of reasons. first of all, NCLB did not pass because everyone in 2001 agreed that education was super hunky-dory; in fact, the sold a story podcast outlines how an explicit goal of NCLB was to train teachers in systematic phonics instruction, because that was not the norm when NCLB was passed, and an unfortunate outcome was that phonics became politicized in ed world. second, anyone who understands anything about reading should need about ten minutes max to spend some time on standardized test prep and recognize that if your goal is truly to maximize scores... then the vast majority of your instructional time should be spent on improving actual reading skills because you actually can't meaningfully game these tests by "practicing main idea questions" (timothy shanahan addresses this briefly near the top of this post). so i find it very difficult to believe that any school that pivoted to multiple choice drill time in an attempt to boost reading scores was teaching reading effectively pre-NCLB, because no set of competent literacy professionals would think that would work even for the goal of raising test scores. third, NCLB mandated yearly testing in grades 3-8 but only one test year in high school; kansas set its reading and math test year in high school as tenth grade. so theoretically these kids all had two years of sweet sweet freedom from NCLB in which their teachers could have done whatever the fuck they wanted to teach these kids to actually read. the fact that they didn't suggests perhaps there were other problems afoot. fourth, and maybe most saliently for this particular study, the sample text was the first seven paragraphs of a novel - in other words, the exact kind of short incomplete text that NCLB allegedly demanded excessive time spent on. i'm not really sure what universe it makes sense in that students who can't read the first seven paragraphs of a novel would have become much better reader if everything else had been the same but they had been making completely wack associations based on nonsense guesses for all 300 pages instead. (if you read the study it's really clear that for problematic readers, things go off the rails immediately, in a way that a good program targeted at teaching mastery of text of 500 words or less would have done something about.)

all but 3 of the students reported A's and B's in their english classes and, again, 69% of them are juniors and seniors, so like... i mean idk kudos to these professors for being like "hold up can these kids actually read?" but clearly something is wack at the college level too [in 2015] if you can make your way through nearly an entire english major without being able to read the first seven paragraphs of a dickens novel. (once again i really do encourage you to look at the qualitative samples in the study, lest you think i am being uncharitable by summarizing understandable misunderstandings or areas of confusion that may resolve themselves with further exposure to the text as "can't read.") not to mention the fact that most students could not what they had learned in previous or current english classes and when asked to name british and american authors and/or works of the nineteenth century, roughly half the sample at each college could name at most one.

the authors of the study are struck by the fact that students who cannot parse the first 3 sentences of bleak house feel very confident about their ability to read the entire novel, and discover that this seeming disconnect is resolved by the fact that these students seem to conceptualize "reading" as "skimming and then reading sparknotes." i think it's really tempting to Kids These Days this phenomenon (although again these are people who in some cases have now been in the workforce for a decade) and categorize it as laziness or a lack of effort, but i think that there is, as i described above, a real and sincere confusion over what "reading" is in which this makes a certain logical sense because it's not like they have some store of actual reading experiences to compare it to. i also think it's pretty obvious looking at just how wildly severed from actual textual comprehension their readings are that these are not - or at least not entirely - students who could just work harder and master the entirety of bleak house all on their own. like i don't think you get from "charles dickens is describing a bunch of dinosaur bones actually walking the streets of london" to comfortably reading nineteenth century literature by just trying harder. i really just don't (and i say that acknowledging i personally have had students who like... were good readers if i was forcing them to work at it constantly... but i have also had students, including ones getting ready to enter college, who were clearly giving me everything they had and what they had was at the present moment insufficient). i think that speaks to a missing skillset that they don't know are missing, because they don't have any other experience of "reading" to compare it to.

just wanna highlight again that although they don't give the breakdown some of these students are not just english majors but english education majors a.k.a. the high school english teachers of tomorrow. some of them may be teaching high school english right now, in case anyone wishes to consider whether "maybe some high school english teachers can't read the first seven paragraphs of bleak house?" should be kept in mind when we discuss present-day educational ills.

[nobodysavemysoulitsperfectlyfine]

The day that people accept that Frank Zhang is more than just an insecure but strong softie is the day I rest because WHY does nobody remember little vro being canonically pessimistic as fuck. Even if he didn't say half the things he thought (which he most certainly did), the guy was absolutely the mayor of frown town at times.

What do you mean you never realized he was bitter and resentful outside of Leo? You missed the part where he started acting out after his mother died? HE SHATTERED HIS GRANDMA'S FINE CHINA DAWG. Brochacho constantly got frustrated by how perfect Percy was. He was pissed when Hazel held hands with Leo. HE CHOKESLAMED CALIGULA?? THAT TRIP GUY? He definitely CONSIDERED beating the shit out of Nico when be couldn't heal her. WIPED OUT A FLEET OF THOSE POISON SPEWING COWS?? he set himself on FIRE. That man can turn himself into a dragon, a swarm of bees, and fuck knows what else. A praetor with Mar's ability to control the dead.

OBVIOUSLY Frank is a gentle guy, but it's BECAUSE he's GROWN to be emotionally mature enough to deal with most of those emotions. That dude had Ares AND Mars telling him to beat the shit out of fuck ass da grease ball. HE SHOVED A SOCK IN A GODDESSES MOUTH, HIS OWN DAMN SOCK.

I need more angsty Frank that isn't just him hating his body or Leo. Those were just the tip of the iceberg for a whole mother load of issues.

[devotedlyandrogynousyouth]

Fic where jason teaches reader to smoke using a blunt or bong? Shotgunning?

Ooooo i really like this one! Just warning you though, I actually don't smoke so this may not be super accurate!

Light Those Lips

He'd gotten better about using an ashtray, at least.

Jason Todd x Reader

Yay! Some fluff-ish smut-ish writing✨ Obvious warnings for marijuana use and some very very slight choking, if you squint

It was supposed to be an easy night- most nights that he's over are, and more often than not they end up with Jason falling asleep on your couch with the burned-out stub of a blunt on your coffee table.

And, look, you weren't particularly interested in smoking as it was. Sure, you may have taken edibles with him before, or maybe you hadn't. Either way, smoking a joint with Jason was new territory.

You've poked fun at him before, saying that you won't be donating your lungs when his are finally black and shriveled from the amount of marijuana he smokes. But, deep down, you know why he smokes.

At first you thought it was just a hobby of his, which was fine. Until you got closer. It wasn't easy for him to open up about the Lazerous Pits or just how badly they fucked him up. Even then, it was difficult to get Jason to explain any of it. Nearly every day was a struggle for him, and his nights patrolling Gotham were no better.

His shoulders were too tight. His hips would cramp up upon nearly any movement. His knees would pop every time he stood or landed too hard pulling some dangerous stunt.

Taking that into consideration, you weren't too shocked to smell the weed wafting from the door of your apartment when you came home from work. Or when it practically hit you in the face as you turned the door knob.

As expected, you were met with the sight of Jason lounging on your couch, a large, burning blunt placed lazily between his lips. You made sure to close the door as quickly as possible so your neighbors wouldn't complain.

His head was leaned back, feet propped up on your coffee table like you've scolded him to stop doing, and his eyes were closed tightly, as if the lights of your apartment were too bright but he couldnt be bothered to turn them off.

"Migraine again?"

The most you're met with is a barely-noticable nod before he takes a short drag.

It made your heart twist to see just how disgruntled Jason looks, his body clearly aching and in pain in ways that you couldn't help. But, then again, you warned him last night before he left to take it easy on his patrol.

Did he listen? Absolutely the fuck not.

It didn't take long for you to be cuddled against his side on the tattered, worn couch, your work bag long forgotten on the kitchen countertop. His free arm is around you in an instant, pulling you as close as possible without getting too close to the burning blunt- he's too worried about burning you on accident.

Then there was a silence between the two of you, stretching wide and thin like a blanket. It was comfortable. Home. Like some part of you that gets torn away every time Jason goes out.

You let your eyes close softly, pressing a kiss onto Jason shoulder before moving your head to be comfortable again. You expected the night to turn out like this, cuddled against his side until he was out of pain enough to fall asleep.

What you didnt expect was for him to lightly press his blunt against your lips.

You opened your eyes again, looking up at him with an expression that could only be described as confused. You didn't know how to smoke a cigarette, let alone an actual blunt! "Jay, I don't... I haven't-"

"I know, sweetness," he cuts you off slightly, his free hand moving to rub loving circles along your back, "you don't have to try it. Just wan' you to know the option's there."

And you know he would never pressure you into anything like that. You know that your boyfriend would never guilt you into smoking or taking substances with him. But something in you wants to, just out of curiosity. What does it even feel like?

Your fingers are careful as they take the roll from between his, making sure not to let any of the ash hit him on accident. From the corner of your eye, you can almost see the amused look on his face. And his eyes being all red and puffy.

"Suck in, baby..."

The paper felt weird against your lips, but certainly not unpleasant. You wrapped your lips around the edge of it, taking in a small breath and feeling the smoke fill your lungs. And your lungs sputtering to get it out.

In the background, you can hear Jason laughing a little at all of your coughing, but it's overshadowed by the burning in your lungs. After a moment, though, he's rubbing your back and cooing soft things like "Good job, angel..." or "You did great, babycakes."

He decides to save you from a bit of misery by cautiously taking the blunt back and taking a long drag before whispering "Come here, baby... I can help."

You have such a love-hate relationship with just how quick you are to listen to him, yet there's jo reservation when you sit up again, letting your lungs expand fully again as your eyes meet.

Jason pulls you forward slightly, his free hand resting on your cheek before he pulls you in for something like a kiss, his mouth pushing just the slightest bit of smoke into your lungs. Your breath stutters a little, struggling to catch up with the sudden invasion, until you slowly adapt.

The taste of it almost weighs down your tongue, pressing against your diaphragm like a weighted blanket. You cough less this time, at least, with your hands moving to rest on his biceps. Your fingers trail up and under the sleeves of his shirt, just the way he likes it- it makes him feel closer to you without needing to be fully naked.

Eventually, all of the smoke is pushed from his mouth to your lungs, filling you up like some drug balloon. You didn't think that anything would really hit right away, but your body began to feel... fuzzy. It's definitely different than getting high from an edible, thats for sure. You almost kind of get why he smokes to take the edge off of his pain omce it all kicks in.

Jason pulls away slightly, his eyes still puffy and red in a way that only weed could explain. And then, he laughs. Fucking laughs. "Christ, baby... You already feeling it?" He teases, taking a drag and letting the smoke settle in his lungs before breathing it out again.

"Am not!"

But you both know the truth. The feeling is... Unfamiliar, but definitely not bad. Jason's grin only widens as he offers an invitation: "Come take another hit, beautiful." His tone is smooth, almost charismatic, and it has a way of just making you feel at ease. Or maybe it's the pot. Probably the pot.

You don't hesitate to press your lips to his again as he takes another drag, this one longer and deeper. The smoke entering your lungs through his mouth only enhances the fuzzy, numb feeling building in your very bones. And right now? It's almost making you want to climb your hunk of a boyfriend like a god damn tree.

Jason doesn't pull away once the smoke has left his body. Instead, his lips move steadily across yours, his free hand moving to tilt your head to the perfect angle for him to slip his tongue into your mouth. He'd be lying if he said he didn't get incredibly hard from the aftertaste of marijuana on you.

The longer you stay locked in this intimate embrace, the more you find yourself getting lost in Jason's touch, in the lingering taste of weed and something distinctly masculine on his tongue. Your own hands seem to move on their own accord, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as they slide up the firm planes of his back.

Jason's arm around your waist tightens, crushing you against his chest as he deepens the kiss with a low groan. The blunt falls forgotten from his fingers, clattering onto the couch cushion beside you as his hand comes up to cradle your jaw, thumb brushing over the apple of your cheek.

"Fuck, you taste good like this," he rasps against your lips, voice gravelly and thick with desire. "Getting me all sorts of worked up, baby."

He punctuates his words with a roll of his hips, the rigid length of his cock pressing against your stomach through the worn denim of his jeans. A shiver runs through you at the contact, your core clenching with anticipation.

Jason seems to take your body's reaction as the green light he needs. In a flash, he's maneuvering you onto your back on the couch, his larger frame blanketing yours as he settles between your spread thighs. You can feel the heat of him seeping through your clothes, warming you from the inside out.

"Tell me you don't feel that, angel," he growls, grinding his clothed erection against your aching center. "Tell me you don't fucking want this."

His words are nearly swallowed by the sound of your whimper, head falling back against the cushion as pleasure sparks behind your eyelids. Your fingers fist in his hair, nails digging into his scalp as you hold him close.

"Jason..." Your voice is breathless, barely above a whisper, but it's enough to spur him on.

A deep, approving rumble builds in his chest as he ducks his head, lips trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses along the column of your throat. Each press of his mouth against your skin sends a bolt of lightning straight to your core, stoking the growing heat between your legs.

"Been thinkin' 'bout this all fuckin' day," he confesses, teeth grazing your collarbone. "Could barely focus on shit, knew I had you waitin' for me back here. Couldn't fuckin' wait for this pretty pussy."

His filthy words, gravelly and dripping with lust, make your toes curl in your boots. You can feel your cheeks flushing, but it's not just from embarrassment. No, the heat spreading through you is because of the raw, unbridled desire burning in his eyes as he stares down at you, pupils blown wide and dark with want.

Jason's hand slides down from your jaw to your throat, long fingers wrapping around your neck in a loose, possessive hold. His thumb presses against your racing pulse, feeling it jump beneath his touch. A wicked smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.

"You're fuckin' gorgeous like this, you know that?" he murmurs, voice a low, intimate rumble. "Flushed and fuckin' needy, just for me. I fuckin' love it."

To punctuate his point, he rolls his hips sharply against yours, the thick line of his cock grinding against your leaking pussy. The friction sends a jolt of pleasure shooting up your spine, drawing a choked gasp from your lips.

Jason's smirk widens into a full-blown grin, eyes glinting with satisfaction and a hint of smugness. "That's it, baby. Wanna hear all those pretty noises spillin' from this sexy little mouth. Wanna make you fuckin' scream."

His other hand finds the hem of your sweater, calloused fingers dipping beneath to stroke the soft skin of your stomach. His touch is electric, leaving tingling trails in its wake as he slowly pushes the fabric up and up, exposing inch after inch of smooth, creamy flesh.

You squirm beneath him, suddenly feeling shy under his heated gaze. But before you can cover yourself, his hand is there, palming the soft swell of your breast. His thumb and forefinger find your nipple, rolling and pinching the sensitive bud until it pebbles beneath his touch.

"Fuck, these tits..." Jason groans, ducking his head to press open-mouthed kisses to the valley between your breasts. "Been fuckin' dyin' to get my hands on these perfect fuckin' tits."

He pushes the sweater up further, until it's bunched under your chin, baring your chest completely to his hungry gaze. Then, with a low growl, he dips his head and takes your nipple into his mouth, sucking hard.

That is, until the door bell rings.

You jump a lot more than Jason does, the marijuana making you a little paranoid. Before Jason can even process any of it, you've already scampered away and pulled your sweater back over your chest.

"Crap..." Jason mumbles as he finally makes a move to answer the door, "forgot I ordered a pizza."

Masterlist

[kpoplustzone]

PART 2 - BUSINESS PROPOSAL SMUT - KIM SEJEONG

PART 2 - BUSINESS PROPOSAL SMUT -  KIM SEJEONG

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The door opened, and Kang Tae-moo stepped into the room, a bright smile on his face as he held up a bouquet of vibrant roses and a small carton. "Grandfather, I brought your favorites!" He glanced at Ha-ri, his smile widening. "Ha-ri-ya, you're here too! That's wonderful." He placed the flowers in a vase on the table and offered the ginseng drink to his grandfather.

"Thank you, Tae-moo-yah," Grandfather Kang said, his voice sounding a little too hearty, his eyes flicking nervously towards Ha-ri. "Ha-ri was just keeping me company."

"She's always so thoughtful," Tae-moo said, beaming at Ha-ri, completely oblivious to the charged atmosphere that had just filled the room.

As Tae-moo busied himself arranging the flowers, Grandfather Kang subtly shifted in his bed, his hand inching its way towards where Ha-ri was standing beside him. Under the guise of needing to adjust his position, his hand brushed against her thigh, his fingers lingering for a fleeting moment on the curve of her buttock. Ha-ri’s breath hitched, her cheeks flushing slightly. She subtly shifted away, trying to maintain a neutral expression for Tae-moo's sake.

"Grandfather, did you sleep well?" Tae-moo asked, turning back to the bed.

"Like a log, my boy, like a log," the grandfather replied, his eyes betraying a mischievous glint as he watched Ha-ri. He then engaged Tae-moo in conversation about his day, asking about work and upcoming projects.

While Tae-moo was focused on his grandfather, the old man took another chance. This time, his hand, seemingly resting innocently on the bed beside Ha-ri, subtly edged closer to her. His fingers, with surprising dexterity, managed to brush against the soft fabric of her dress right over her most sensitive area. Ha-ri’s body tensed, a gasp caught in her throat. She subtly pressed her thighs together, trying to minimize the contact, her heart pounding in her chest.

Tae-moo, still talking animatedly, didn’t notice her discomfort. Grandfather Kang, however, offered Ha-ri a sly, almost imperceptible wink, a silent acknowledgment of his sneaky touch.

Later, as Tae-moo briefly stepped out to talk to a nurse, Grandfather Kang turned to Ha-ri, a seemingly innocent expression on his face. "Ha-ri-ya, you were singing so beautifully earlier. You have a very… soothing touch," he said, his eyes flicking down to her lap with a knowing look.

Ha-ri, understanding the double meaning perfectly, offered a strained smile. "Thank you, Grandfather. I'm glad I could… lift your spirits." Her own gaze flickered down to the blanket covering his lower body, a silent reminder of their earlier activities.

"Indeed you did," the grandfather replied, a chuckle in his voice. "You have a way of… handling things that is quite remarkable for someone so young."

Tae-moo returned, oblivious to the undercurrent of their conversation. "Everything alright here?" he asked, noticing the slight flush on Ha-ri’s cheeks.

"Perfectly fine, my boy," the grandfather said, his voice now clear and steady. "Ha-ri was just telling me how much she enjoys… caring for me." He gave Ha-ri another subtle wink, a secret shared between them that Tae-moo remained completely unaware of. Ha-ri forced another smile, the situation feeling increasingly awkward and undeniably charged

Grandfather Kang, emboldened by his earlier success and the thrill of the forbidden, continued his seemingly innocent conversation with Tae-moo about the company's recent successes. His voice was steady, his gaze primarily focused on his grandson, but his aged hand, now more daring, subtly shifted its position against Ha-ri’s body. With minuscule movements, he edged his fingers lower, inching past the hem of her dress, his touch feather-light against her bare thigh.

Ha-ri stood beside the bed, trying to focus on Tae-moo's words, nodding occasionally to appear engaged. But beneath her forced composure, her body was a tight coil of nerves. The grandfather's hand was now dangerously close to her center, the anticipation sending shivers through her. Just as Tae-moo was explaining a new marketing strategy, the old man’s fingers, with surprising agility, slipped past the edge of her underwear.

Ha-ri’s breath hitched, her heart leaping into her throat. She squeezed her thighs together instinctively, but the grandfather’s knowing fingers had already found their target. He gently parted the soft folds of her vagina lips, his touch surprisingly tender yet undeniably invasive. A jolt of pure electricity shot through Ha-ri’s core, her body instantly reacting with a deep, internal tremor. She bit down hard on her lip, her knuckles turning white as she clenched her hands at her sides, desperate to suppress the moan that threatened to erupt from her throat.

Meanwhile, Grandfather Kang smoothly continued his conversation with Tae-moo, his other hand gesturing in the air for emphasis as he discussed profit margins. His touch on Ha-ri remained subtle, almost imperceptible from the outside, but for Ha-ri, it was a blatant and intensely arousing invasion. He began to gently rub her swollen lips, his thumb making small, circular motions that sent waves of heat spreading through her pelvis. She could feel her own wetness intensifying, her body betraying her outward attempts to appear normal.

Tae-moo, still completely unaware, chuckled at something his grandfather said. Ha-ri forced a weak smile, her eyes darting down momentarily, a silent plea for the grandfather to stop, but his aged face held an innocent, almost cherubic expression as he continued to pleasure himself with her body, hidden from his grandson's view. The contrast between the innocent conversation about business and the intensely sexual manipulation happening just inches away was both shocking and undeniably thrilling for Ha-ri, her body trembling uncontrollably beneath the surface, her moans trapped behind tightly clenched teeth.

Tae-moo, sensing a lull in their conversation, decided it was a good moment to broach the topic that had been weighing on his mind. He took a deep breath and turned to his grandfather, his expression earnest. "Grandfather," he began, his voice respectful but firm, "I really want to talk to you about Ha-ri."

Grandfather Kang, whose hand was still subtly caressing the outer curve of Ha-ri’s vagina through her dress, turned his attention to his grandson, his expression now one of mild curiosity. "About Ha-ri-ssi? What is there to discuss, Tae-moo-yah?" His fingers, meanwhile, edged a fraction closer to her center, the pressure gentle but persistent.

"I know you haven't been entirely supportive of our relationship," Tae-moo continued, his eyes meeting his grandfather’s directly. "But I truly care for Ha-ri, and she makes me incredibly happy. I really hope you can come to accept her."

Grandfather Kang sighed theatrically, but his gaze flickered towards Ha-ri, a mischievous glint in his eyes. His fingers, under the cover of the bedsheets near her thigh, managed to slip a little further under her dress, finding the soft fabric of her underwear again. "Happy, you say? Well, happiness is important, of course. But a family like ours also has… certain responsibilities." His fingers brushed against the edge of her wet lips, a barely perceptible touch that sent a jolt through Ha-ri.

Ha-ri, trying to appear attentive to the conversation, subtly pressed her thighs together, but the grandfather’s touch was precise and knowing. She managed a strained smile towards Tae-moo, her heart pounding in her chest.

"Exactly," Tae-moo agreed, nodding eagerly. "And Ha-ri understands that. She's kind, intelligent, and she cares deeply about our family… about you, Grandfather."

Grandfather Kang’s gaze lingered on Ha-ri, his fingers now gently rubbing against her swollen flesh. "Kindness is important in a daughter-in-law," he mused aloud, his voice laced with a double entendre that flew straight over Tae-moo’s head. "And intelligence… well, that can be useful too. Especially when it comes to… understanding one's duties." His thumb pressed lightly against her clit through the thin fabric, making Ha-ri’s body tense almost imperceptibly.

"She really does," Ha-ri interjected, her voice a little breathy, her eyes meeting the grandfather’s for a fleeting moment, a silent acknowledgment of his touch. "I would be honored to… serve your family in any way I can, Grandfather."

"Serve the family," Grandfather Kang repeated, a satisfied smirk playing on his lips. His fingers continued their subtle exploration, and Ha-ri had to bite her lip to suppress a moan. "Yes, yes, that's exactly what we need. Someone willing to… put in the effort to ensure our lineage continues." He looked at Tae-moo, a seemingly serious expression on his face. "A strong family needs strong… foundations, wouldn't you agree, my boy? And a new generation to carry on our name." His gaze shifted back to Ha-ri, his fingers now rhythmically rubbing her, a silent promise of what he expected from her. "Someone… fertile, perhaps? Someone capable of… nurturing new life within our household."

Ha-ri’s cheeks flushed a deep crimson. She understood the true meaning behind his words, the lewd implication that went far beyond simply continuing the family line. The grandfather’s fingers were now working with a practiced ease, and the sensations were becoming increasingly difficult to ignore, especially with Tae-moo looking at them expectantly. She managed a tight nod, her voice barely a whisper. "I… I certainly hope so, Grandfather."

Tae-moo, completely missing the underlying sexual tension and the grandfather’s blatant manipulation, smiled with relief. "See, Grandfather? Ha-ri understands completely. I told you she was wonderful!" He reached out and squeezed Ha-ri’s hand, completely unaware of the secret, scandalous interaction that was happening right beside him. Grandfather Kang offered Ha-ri a sly wink, his fingers continuing their pleasurable assault, a silent agreement passing between them amid Tae-moo’s innocent joy.

Grandfather Kang, his hand still subtly kneading the soft mound beneath Ha-ri’s dress, turned to Tae-moo with a seemingly thoughtful expression. "Tae-moo-yah, that was very kind of you to come. But I'm feeling a little tired now, and I think I need to have a more… detailed conversation with Ha-ri-ssi. About… becoming a part of our family, you see." His fingers gave a gentle, suggestive squeeze against Ha-ri’s wetness.

Tae-moo’s face lit up with relief and joy. "Really, Grandfather? You mean you… you're okay with it?" He looked at Ha-ri, his eyes shining. "This is wonderful!"

Grandfather Kang offered a weak, but seemingly sincere, smile. "Yes, yes. I need to… understand her intentions fully, as the one who will be carrying on our lineage. It's an important matter, wouldn't you agree?" His gaze lingered on Ha-ri, the unspoken implication hanging heavy in the air.

Tae-moo, completely misinterpreting his grandfather’s true intentions, clapped his hands together happily. "Of course! You two take your time and talk everything through. I'm so glad you're finally coming around, Grandfather." He gave Ha-ri another beaming smile. "I'll let you two have some privacy then. I need to head back to the office anyway. I'll check on you both later." He leaned down and kissed his grandfather on the forehead. "Thank you, Grandfather. This means the world to me." He then turned to Ha-ri. "I knew you'd win him over, jagiya!" With one last, happy glance, he exited the hospital room, closing the door gently behind him.

The moment the door clicked shut, the atmosphere in the room shifted dramatically. The grandfather’s innocent facade dropped, replaced by a sly, knowing smirk. His hand, which had been subtly caressing Ha-ri, now moved with more confidence, his fingers slipping deeper between her legs, directly onto her swollen, wet flesh. He looked up at Ha-ri, his aged eyes filled with a predatory gleam. "Well, my dear," he rasped, his voice now low and thick with lust. "Now that we have some privacy… let's discuss those 'details' of you joining our family, shall we? Starting with how well you plan on… serving your new grandfather."

"Grandfather!" Ha-ri exclaimed, her cheeks flushed a deeper shade of crimson, but there was a breathless quality to her voice that betrayed her internal state. "That's… that's not appropriate. Tae-moo trusts us. You shouldn't talk to me like that." She tried to sound firm, to convey her disapproval, but the lingering warmth between her legs, the undeniable dampness caused by his earlier ministrations, made her words lack their intended force. She bit down on her lower lip, a nervous habit whenever she felt flustered or aroused, and her thighs involuntarily pressed together, the subtle friction against her dress sending another wave of heat through her core. Her gaze flickered down towards the blanket covering his lower body, a stark reminder of the earlier intimacy.

Grandfather Kang, his eyes sharp and knowing, observed her reaction with a smug satisfaction. He saw the slight tremor in her hands, the flush on her cheeks, and the tell-tale movement of her thighs. He understood perfectly that despite her chiding words, her body was betraying a different story. A slow smile spread across his wrinkled face as he reached down with a deliberate motion and yanked the sheet away.

The thin cotton blanket fell to the side, revealing Grandfather Kang lying in the hospital bed, his white boxers now doing little to conceal his impressive erection. His cock stood thick and hard, a surprising sight on a man of his age, its length and girth undeniable. It jutted upwards with a stubborn insistence, the head already glistening with a pre-come that spoke volumes about his arousal. The contrast between his frail, aged body and the vibrant, engorged member was stark and undeniably attention-grabbing. He watched Ha-ri, his eyes filled with a triumphant gleam, waiting for her reaction to the full, unveiled display of his aged virility.

Ha-ri’s eyes were glued to the impressive sight before her. She had seen Tae-moo’s cock, of course, and found it perfectly satisfying. But the sheer size and thickness of his grandfather’s erection were something else entirely. It pulsed with a life of its own, a testament to a virility she hadn't expected from a man of his age. Almost against her will, her gaze traveled from the engorged head, glistening with moisture, down the thick shaft, noticing the prominent veins that ran its length.

A strange mix of fascination and a burgeoning desire took hold of her. Slowly, as if in a trance, she leaned forward, her mouth drawing closer to the exposed erection. The air between them seemed to crackle with anticipation. She could feel the heat radiating from his body, a primal energy that was both intimidating and undeniably alluring.

Just inches away, she paused, her breath catching in her throat. She marveled at the sheer size of it, the thickness especially. It was a veteran, she thought, experienced and substantial. A vivid image flashed through her mind – the feeling of that impressive length filling her, stretching her in ways she hadn’t imagined. A wave of pure, unadulterated lust washed over her, making her core throb with anticipation. Her mouth watered slightly, and she could only swallow hard, the thought echoing in her mind: How would this feel inside me?

Her warm breath ghosted over the velvety skin of his cock, sending a shiver through Grandfather Kang’s aged body. The sterile air of the hospital room suddenly felt thick with a palpable sexual energy. Ha-ri’s gaze traced the engorged veins that pulsed faintly beneath the surface, a roadmap of his arousal. The head of his cock, a dark, swollen crown, seemed to beckon her closer. A bead of moisture clung to its tip, reflecting the dim light of the bedside lamp.

“You like what you see, hmm?” Grandfather Kang rasped, his voice husky with anticipation. “Bet it’s bigger than my grandson’s little pecker, ain’t it?” His words were crude, direct, igniting a fresh wave of heat in Ha-ri’s core.

A soft gasp escaped Ha-ri’s lips as she finally succumbed to the urge. She extended her tongue, just the very tip, and flicked it lightly against the underside of his cock head. A jolt, like a sudden spark, shot through the old man. He let out a low groan, his hands gripping the sheets beside him.

“Oh, you’re a tease, aren’t you?” he muttered, his breathing becoming more rapid. “Go on, girl. Don’t just look. Taste it.”

Ha-ri’s heart pounded in her chest. The forbidden thrill of this encounter was intoxicating. Slowly, deliberately, she opened her mouth wider, taking the head of his thick cock inside. The sensation was surprisingly smooth, the skin taut and hot. She swirled her tongue around the sensitive crown, relishing the way he groaned again, his body tensing beneath her touch.

She took a little more of him into her mouth, the sheer girth making her stretch. She looked up at him through her lashes, a silent question in her eyes. He nodded, a lustful gleam in his aged gaze. Encouraged, she slid her mouth further down his shaft, taking as much as she could manage, the thick vein beneath throbbing against her tongue. The sterile scent of the hospital room faded, replaced by the earthy, musky aroma of his arousal, a scent that both repulsed and intensely attracted her.

Grandfather Kang’s hands clenched the sheets tighter, his body arching slightly off the bed. “Oh, sweet Jesus,” he breathed, his voice shaky. “You’ve got a good mouth on you, girl.” His words were rough, raw, adding to the illicit thrill of the moment.

Ha-ri continued her slow exploration, her lips and tongue working their magic, savoring the surprised groans and gasps that escaped the old man’s lips. The fluorescent lights above cast long shadows on his face, highlighting the mix of pleasure and shock in his expression. She knew this was wrong, utterly wrong, but the forbidden excitement, the sheer audacity of the situation, had completely consumed her.

Ha-ri deepened her suck, taking more of his thick shaft into her mouth. The taste was surprisingly clean, with a hint of soapiness from his recent bath. Her cheeks stretched slightly as she accommodated his impressive girth, her tongue working rhythmically, stroking the underside while her lips maintained a firm seal. Grandfather Kang let out a shuddering breath, his grip on the sheets tightening further.

“That’s it, baby,” he rasped, his voice thick with lust. “Suck it good for grandpa. You know how to please an old man, don’t you?” His words were coarse, but they fueled the illicit excitement that coursed through Ha-ri.

She varied her pace, sometimes sucking deeply and greedily, other times teasing him with light, flicking motions of her tongue. She paid special attention to the sensitive frenulum beneath the head, eliciting sharp intakes of breath from him. The sterile silence of the hospital room was broken only by the wet sounds of her mouth on his cock and the grandfather’s increasingly ragged breathing.

He shifted slightly in the bed, his hands coming up to grip her hair gently, guiding her movements. “Yeah, just like that,” he groaned, his head falling back against the pillows. “You’re making this old man feel like he’s young again.”

Ha-ri continued her ministrations, her focus entirely on the pleasure she was giving, and the forbidden thrill of the act itself. She ran her hands up his thighs, feeling the surprisingly firm muscles beneath his aged skin. As she reached his hips, she pressed down gently, urging him closer into her mouth.

“Oh, you’re hungry, aren’t you?” he chuckled, a hint of lewdness in his voice. “Well, grandpa’s got plenty for you.”

She increased the pressure, taking him deeper, feeling the back of her throat tickle. Grandfather Kang let out a long, guttural moan, a sound that echoed in the quiet room. He was clearly teetering on the edge.

Suddenly, the faint beeping of his heart monitor seemed to grow louder, a stark reminder of their surroundings, the sterile, clinical reality that framed their intensely sensual encounter. Ha-ri paused momentarily, her eyes flicking towards the machine, a fleeting thought of the potential consequences flashing through her mind. But the grandfather’s hand tightened in her hair, gently urging her back to her task. The lure of the forbidden was too strong to resist.

Ha-ri obeyed the silent urging of his hand, her mouth resuming its rhythmic dance on his engorged flesh. She explored him with more confidence now, her tongue tracing the prominent vein on his shaft, feeling its throb against her. She ran her lips up and down his length, savoring the contrast between the smooth skin and the rougher texture near the base.

“You’re a natural, you know that?” Grandfather Kang panted, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps. “Never thought an old man like me would get such a treat in a place like this.” He chuckled, a low, lewd sound that echoed the forbidden nature of their encounter within the sterile walls of the hospital room.

Ha-ri’s hands, which had been resting on his thighs, now moved with more intention. She slid them upwards, past his hips, and gently cupped his buttocks, feeling the surprisingly firm muscles beneath her palms. She squeezed lightly, eliciting another groan from the old man.

She varied the pace of her sucking, sometimes taking him deep into her mouth, her cheeks stretching around his impressive girth, other times teasing him with quick, shallow licks. She used her fingers to gently caress his balls, feeling their weight in her hand, the contrast between their softness and the hard, throbbing cock in her mouth adding another layer of sensation to the forbidden act.

“Oh, baby, you’re driving me crazy,” Grandfather Kang moaned, his fingers now tangling more tightly in her hair, guiding her movements with a desperate urgency. “Suck it like you want it all.”

Ha-ri obliged, her desire now fully awakened by the sheer audacity of the situation and the grandfather’s explicit encouragement. She imagined herself as a secret indulgence for this powerful man, a forbidden pleasure in his otherwise sterile existence. The thought only intensified her efforts.

She tilted her head slightly, allowing her to take more of his length into her mouth, feeling the head press against the back of her throat. Grandfather Kang let out a choked cry, his body arching further off the bed. His breathing became rapid and shallow, and his hands tightened in her hair, his aged fingers surprisingly strong.

“I’m gonna… I’m gonna…” he gasped, his voice strained, his body tensing.

Ha-ri sensed his imminent climax and increased the intensity of her suction, her tongue working frantically, her hands gripping his buttocks tightly. The air in the small hospital room was thick with anticipation, the only sounds the wet slurping of her mouth on his cock and the grandfather’s desperate, ragged breaths. The sterile scent of antiseptic was now completely overpowered by the raw, animalistic aroma of their mutual arousal.

Grandfather Kang’s body shuddered violently, and a guttural cry escaped his lips as he unleashed his climax into Ha-ri’s mouth. She continued to suckle him until the last throbbing spasm subsided, swallowing his thick, warm ejaculate. When he finally stilled, his breathing heavy and ragged, she slowly pulled away, her lips wet and glistening.

He looked down at her, his aged eyes filled with a mixture of spent lust and a newfound appreciation. “Damn, girl,” he rasped, a satisfied smirk on his face. “You’ve got a mouth that could make a dead man come back to life.”

Ha-ri, her cheeks flushed and her heart still pounding, simply met his gaze, a strange mix of embarrassment and a lingering arousal swirling within her. The forbidden thrill of what they had just done hung heavy in the air.

Grandfather Kang reached out, his frail fingers gently stroking her cheek. “You know, Ha-ri-ya,” he said, his voice now softer, almost conspiratorial, “I think you and I have a little secret now.” His eyes flickered down to her lips, then back to hers. “And secrets like ours… they often lead to more… intimate moments.” A knowing smile spread across his face, a clear implication that this was just the beginning of their illicit encounters, and that soon, very soon, his impressive cock would find its way inside her.

[bitchinbarzal]

Marry Me | N Hischier

Inspired by: Marry Me by Thomas Rhett

Summary: You’re getting married. Not to him. And Nico, who’s loved you quietly for years, is about to let you go for good.

-

She always said she wanted magnolias.

“I want it small,” she told him once, on a summer drive through the countryside. “Just a few people. White dress, magnolias in my hair, my granddaddy preaching the ceremony. Nothing too big. Save my dad some money.”

He hadn’t said anything then. Just looked over at her legs up on the dash, her fingers out the window tracing the breeze. She was golden in that late August light, all sun-kissed and free. The kind of moment you wish you could pause.

He committed it to memory.

Because he already knew. Somewhere deep down, before he even let himself admit it, he knew.

He loved her.

The invitation came on a Thursday.

Cream cardstock tied with twine, her handwriting on the envelope.

His heart sank before he even opened it.

When he saw her name, alongside someone else’s, he sat down on the edge of his couch and didn’t move for a long time. Just stared at the RSVP line like it might change if he blinked enough.

He thought about not going.

But something tugged at him.

A whisper that said he needed to see it. To see her. To prove to himself that she was really someone else’s now. To finally bury all the things he never said.

The chapel is exactly how she described it.

Out in the country. Quiet. Intimate. A warm breeze moves through the white draped tent outside where guests are sipping lemonade. Every pew inside is decorated with soft white ribbons and blooming magnolias.

Nico’s in the back row. Not dressed for attention. He’s not here for that.

He’s here because he has to be.

Because this is the day he lets her go.

She finds him before the ceremony. He’s near the side garden, trying to breathe.

“Nico?”

Her voice catches him off guard.

When he turns, she’s there. In her dress. It’s simple, ivory, laced at the sleeves. A magnolia is tucked into her hair. She’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

“You came,” she says softly, stepping toward him.

He nods, unsure if his voice will even work.

“I wasn’t sure I should.”

She smiles faintly. “I’m glad you did.”

It’s quiet for a moment. There’s so much noise around them—music, laughter, rustling flowers—but here, in this little pocket of space, it’s just the two of them.

“You look like you,” he says, because it’s all he can manage.

She looks down, then up again. “You okay?”

He could lie. Say he’s happy for her. Say he’s fine.

Instead, he exhales. “I got your invite. I stared at it for a long time.”

She doesn’t respond right away, but the air shifts. There’s something unspoken between them, buzzing just under the surface.

“I remember the night I almost kissed you,” Nico says, the words slipping out like a confession. “On my couch. You were wearing my hoodie. We’d just watched that movie you loved.”

Her lips part slightly.

“I leaned in,” he says. “But I panicked. We were friends, and you meant too much. I didn’t want to ruin it.”

“I remember,” she whispers.

Nico’s heart stutters.

There it is.

The truth.

The memory they both buried.

“You did?” he asks.

She nods, eyes glossy. “I waited.”

It hits him like a punch. The years that could’ve been. The space that might’ve held them, if he hadn’t pulled back.

He could say it now. Could finally tell her everything. That she’s still his favorite person, that he never stopped thinking about her, that she doesn’t have to go through with it if there’s even a sliver of doubt.

But she’s standing in her wedding dress. There’s a man at the altar who thinks today is the best day of his life.

And Nico won’t be the reason she looks back on it with regret.

“I just wanted to wish you the best,” he says instead, voice rough. “That’s all.”

She blinks fast. Nods. “Thank you.”

He turns to leave, but something pulls him back one last time.

“I should’ve kissed you that night,” he says. “I think about it all the time.”

She doesn’t move.

Neither does he.

“I’m sorry,” he adds.

And then he walks away.

Because some stories don’t get rewritten.

And some people never get the kiss they always wanted.

[maybejj]

Okayyy now what about JJ’s (or everyone’s, completely up to you) reaction when reader comes back to the island after being away? I didn’t know if she would surprise all of them together or maybe try and surprise them all individually? idk just thought it would be cute!!

you come home and jj feels whole again.

jj maybank x gossipgirl!reader

warnings: swearing, slight panic attack ?

notes: decided to just focus on jj! will be doing the rest of the pogues reunion eventually!

it had been 3 weeks when you told your uncle you were ready to go back home. he tried to get you to stay longer but you missed your friends. you missed staying up all night talking with sarah. you missed john b’s crazy rambles. you missed the chateau. you missed home.

but most importantly, you missed jj. you hadn’t talked to him much since you left. you wanted to focus on healing, mentally and physically.

physically, you were doing better. all the bruises and swelling had gone away. you were perfectly fine. on the outside.

mentally? it would take awhile. what he did to you betrayed the deepest parts of your trust. destroyed a part of yourself you didn’t know if you could get back. but damnit you were going to try. so for now, you just wanted to go home and heal with your friends.

the boys would have a lot of questions. you know they would. but you don’t know if you could bring yourself to tell them. you could barely think about that night without wanting to throw up. your chest would get tight and you were pretty sure you stopped breathing when his name got brought up. so you decided to focus on something or someone that made you feel whole.

which is where you found yourself now. outside the chateau.

the twinkie was gone but jj’s bike was out front and you caught a glimpse of his blonde hair through the window when you were walking up the driveway so you knew he was inside.

you smiled gently. you had missed him. just seeing his fluffy blonde hair already had you smiling like an idiot.

you took a deep breath before you walked through the front door.

“bro i can explain the broken glas-“ jj’s words stopped when he turned around and saw you standing in the doorway. he was pretty sure he was dreaming because there was no way you were right in front of him. you had never mentioned when you were coming home so seeing you standing in front of him with the same jaw dropping smile he had engraved into his brain made his heart stutter.

“miss me?” you tease him while taking a step closer to him. it was like your words broke him out of the trance he was stuck in because the next moment you’re being squished against his chest, face tucked under his chin, legs being lifted off the ground.

“holy shit! you’re actually- are you- fuck!” he swung you around a few times before setting you down. his hands automatically cradling your face.

“you’re actually home? is this real? did i smoke too much weed?”

“don’t you always?” you smile while placing your hands over his.

you could tell he was still processing your presence and didn’t respond to your retort, “fuck, is this real? this can’t be real. why didn’t you tell me you were coming back? i would’ve planned a party or got some beer or even ordered that cake you like from the bakery down the road-“

you place a hand over his mouth to stop his rambling.

“i wanted to surprise everyone. guess i did a good job.” you see him nod his head while he removes your hand from his face. he’s staring at you like he’s scared you’ll leave again. his eyes go soft, his forehead rests against yours.

“i missed you so fucking much.” his lips are so close to yours but you don’t move and neither does he.

“i missed you too.”

“sarah said nothing happened at the party and you were okay but i swear to god if adam did-“ you swallow thickly at his words, heart clenching in panic.

you squeeze his hand in fear, “i don’t want to talk about it. i’ve moved on. we’re over and that’s all that matters.”

you can tell in the way he studies your face that he doesn’t want to drop the conversation but because you asked he does. he can’t risk running you off again. it would destroy him.

“okay. i’m just glad you’re home.” he brings you in for another hug. he arms are wrapped fully around you and his chin rests on the top of your head while he squeezes you tight, eyes closed.

this is the best he’s felt in the past month. it feels like the world starts turning again. like the days won’t be so dreadful. he can feel the hallow pit in his chest fading away every time he feels you breathe.

“why is there glass everywhere?”

jj’s eyes pop open and he winces while surveying the room, “uh… don’t worry about it.”

the glass on the floor may be broken, but he no longer was.

tagging my old gossip girl peeps <3: @hopelesssheaven @annasturn0lo @sheisntyou @onelonelybitch @marleymarleymarleymarley @pr3tty-pink @freyawhitexxx1 @aesthetic-lyss @voidangxls @kathryn-maraudersversion @hotvampdragon @jaydaaasworld @sunflouer04 @coriiiioooooo @xdbug-bob @rafe-cameronswife @idiotussupremus @grapejuice32 @dr3wstarkey @ineedtherapy1 @moustacherryismyhusband @davinashifts333 @barnesboo1967 @mirellef2001 @lillell467 @spenceatiny18 @obxshift @justsomerandompersonintheworld @thepopcultureaddict @justdamnpeachy @acidfeens @starsval @cali-888 @vivian-555 @sky-full-0f-fl0wers @moonywhisp3rs @jaes-last-words @itsmimi16 @crvcified-kinx @sabrina-carpenter-stan-account @tbhashtonn @bbyg4rl

[42dragonsarecooler]

The aha bit the Southlanders group was the hardest I’d laughed in a long time when I saw it. I was genuinely concerned I’d wake my housemates at the time. I made them watch it with me the next day and they didn’t find it nearly as funny as my reaction. Which is fine.

But then I went to visit family for a while and I came back to sticky notes with aha puns on absolutely everything I owned. It was hilarious. I was literally finding them for months.

So anyways. I wrote about the Southlanders for the groups and co-labs day.

The games were always exhausting, though the reason changed as each season went on.

Later the paranoia would start to set in. Alliances would strain. Trust would fade. For that sleep would suffer. Fights would get more frequent and severe. The threats would get bigger as people built up their gear and bases and traps.

But early in the game like this, before the Watchers really sunk their claws into them and began their manipulation, the exhaustion was just mundane new world stuff.

Grian had run back and forth across the entire map before finding a hobbled together group that would take him. Their bond formed of ridiculous puns none of them could seem to stop. They laughed and chopped down trees to build themselves a place in the southern most part of the world. If they ignored the impenetrable wall of magic locking them in, they could just pretend they wanted to be there. They could pretend they were having fun, before the reality of the game really sank in.

Here in this little bubble of time before they knew who would turn on who. Before they knew some of the people they promised now to keep alive, would be the ones to end them. In this time where the canary still sang and there was still peace, they could forget why the canary needed to sing for them at all.

And lying there, head still fairly clear for being involved in their game, Grian lay awake among his allies. There hadn’t been enough time to finish secure bases for all of them, nor enough wool for enough beds. So the five of them had settled down in a hole carved into the side of the hill.

Jimmy and Mumbo had drawn straws to share the bed, though being the two tallest of the group, there was quite a bit of lanky limbs hanging over the edge. Impulse, Martyn, and Grian were curled up on the floor nearby, the stone hastily swapped out for slightly softer dirt. Impulse was sprawled out on his back, volunteering himself to be the pillow. Martyn had his head resting on one shoulder and Grian the other. In return they cuddled close to Impulse to help fend off the chill of the night.

And despite their best efforts, and a long exhausting day of work, and somehow play, none of them were asleep. Though none of them spoke.

And Grian found himself fighting back a noise of disappointment as his thoughts dredged up a truly terrible idea. His stomach still hurt a little from how hard he’d been laughing earlier. And really he shouldn’t but his mind was on it now. And really what kind of ally would he be if he didn’t inflict some harmless suffering on his team. They were his allies too. They were supposed to share this sort of thing.

So, with a heavy sigh, “Sounds like we all have a bit of ins-aha-mnia.”

He grinned at the chorus of groans and tired, begrudging chuckles he got for it.

“I thought we we’re done with th-aha-t.” Martyn fired back anyways.

“Guys please.” Jimmy was pleading, while Mumbo was just laughing his endless stream of uncontrolled aha’s. Impulse wasn’t much better. Grian and Martyn’s heads bounced with his laughter.

“You guys are the wo-hurst.” Impulse’s accent didn’t lend itself as well to the bit, but the inflection itself was contagious and worsened by laughter and exasperation, which he carried in spades.

“I’m s-aha-rry.” Grian wiped at the tear forming in his eye. “I had to.”

“It’s n-aha-t even that funny.” Mumbo nearly wheezed. “W-aha-y is it so funny?”

“You’re not even doing it on purpose anymore are you?” Jimmy accused.

“No!” Mumbo fired back. Probably the longest sentence he could get out without laughing more and accidentally aha-ing.

“Gods why can’t I sleep.” Grian lamented. “I’m exh-aha-sted.”

“Please.” Impulse wrapped his arm around Grian and dragged him up to lay more on top of him. He held Grian hostage there, still mindful of his tightly bound wings.

“It’s your own fault this time, Birdy.” Martyn, showing extreme self restraint, skipped out on the pun opportunity. “I was nodding off.”

He brought his hand up to pet the fine feathers at the back of Grian’s head, remembering the times back on Evo together. So many of them had little tricks to get the others to sleep. It had been one of the only tools they’d had to try and keep each other from completely loosing it in the face of the Watchers meddling. So when better to use it again than there, in the Watchers’ game.

Mumbo and Jimmy were settling down again, rearranging themselves a bit. Jimmy had sprawled out across Mumbo’s chest in protest of his aha’s, but now neither of them seemed particularly inclined to re-separate. Impulse was beginning to doze off again as well, having pulled Grian and Martyn both closer to him. And Martyn relaxed as he continued massaging the feathers at the back of Grian’s head. He watched his old friend’s eye droop, as he too relaxed and quickly fell asleep.

With the last of their giggles worked out of their systems, the Southlanders drifted off into a deep dreamless sleep that matched the present peace. Temporary.

Soon enough these peaceful nights would dwindle. They’d be driven apart. They’d turn on each other. They’d fight and kill in a world made up only of friends. Friends who, for the moment, wouldn’t be. But for now,

They slept.

[goyardgoyangi]

enemies to lovers (intern edition)

You’re starting to think the universe has a personal vendetta against you.

Because despite your very best efforts to keep things professional—to pretend that Eren Yeager is just another intern, just another face in the sea of overachieving college students trying to make it in corporate America—he keeps finding ways to worm himself into your life.

Case in point:

“Alright, teams,” your manager announces at the end of the weekly check-in. “For this next sprint, we’re pairing up for a deep-dive project. Deliverables are due in two weeks, so make sure you’re coordinating closely.”

You’re barely listening, already skimming through your notes, mentally calculating how much work you’ll need to do over the weekend to stay ahead.

And then—

“Pairings are up in the Slack channel,” the manager continues. “Alright, that’s all for today!”

Laptops snap shut. Chairs scrape against the floor as everyone starts packing up. You casually open Slack, expecting to see a random name beside yours.

No. Because that would be too easy.

Instead, right there, bolded in neat little text—your name, listed next to ”& Eren Yeager’.

You stare at the screen.

No.

No, no, no.

You scroll back. Refresh. Check the file name. Maybe this is a mistake. Maybe this is a sick joke. Maybe you opened the wrong document.

But there it is. Again. Your name, tied to his like a cruel punchline.

You flick your gaze across the room.

He’s already looking at you.

Chin propped in his hand, like he’d been watching. Like he knew this was coming. Like he’s been waiting for the moment you realized.

And worse—he looks amused.

Smug, even.

His lips twitch into the smallest, most insufferable smile.

You want to throw your laptop across the room. You want to throw him across the room.

Sasha peers over your shoulder and whistles. “Oh. Good luck with that.”

You groan, shoving your laptop into your bag like it personally betrayed you. “I’m gonna need it.”

She pats your back sympathetically before bouncing off to meet her own partner. Meanwhile, you’re bracing yourself as Eren stands, stretching lazily before slinging his bag over one shoulder.

“Well,” he drawls, stopping in front of your desk. “Guess you’re stuck with me.”

You exhale sharply through your nose, pushing your chair back. “Guess so.”

“Try not to look too excited.”

You scowl, standing up. “I’ll try my best.”

He chuckles, unfazed. “When are you free to meet?”

You pull out your phone and skim your schedule. “I have some time tomorrow afternoon. I can book a meeting room at three?”

Eren hums, tilting his head slightly, like he’s thinking. Then—

“Nah. Let’s go somewhere else.”

You blink. “Where else would we have a meeting... if not in a meeting room?”

“The café down the street,” he says. “Better ambiance. Fewer people than in the office.”

You hesitate. You could argue, keep things strictly professional. But the idea of a sweet treat and something warm to drink while working through soul-draining corporate tasks sounds… kind of nice.

“…Fine.” You sigh, slipping your phone back into your pocket. “Three o’clock.”

Eren grins. “Looking forward to it.”

You walk off before he can say anything else, but as you leave, you can still feel him watching you.

And for the first time in weeks, you can’t tell if you’re dreading tomorrow—or looking forward to it.

You don’t know why you’re nervous.

It’s just a meeting. A work-related, professional, totally normal meeting.

And yet, as you approach the café, you feel the beginnings of unease settle in your stomach. Maybe it’s because this is the first time you’ll be alone with Eren outside of the office. Maybe it’s because, despite your best efforts, you haven’t been able to shake the lingering awareness of him—of his glances, his smirks, the way he always seems too entertained by your reactions.

Or maybe it’s because some small, irrational part of you is still clinging to the memory of the rejection. The way he’d shut you down without hesitation.

You shake the thought away as you step inside.

The café is warm, the scent of coffee and pastries hanging in the air. You scan the room quickly, spotting Eren near the back, already seated at a small table. He’s dressed more casually today—sleeves rolled up, hair pulled into a loose bun, silver rings glinting on his annoyingly **attractive hands as he idly taps his fingers against the table.

You steel yourself and walk over.

“You always pick the back corner?” you ask, setting your bag down before sliding into the seat across from him.

Eren looks up, smirking slightly. “Best view in the room.”

You glance around, skeptical. “Of what? The exit sign?”

He shrugs, unbothered. “Didn’t say I was looking at the décor.”

You blink, caught slightly off guard by his tone—but you don’t press it. Instead, you pull out your laptop, trying to stay focused. “Let’s get started.”

He nods but doesn’t move for his bag. Instead, he leans back, head tilting slightly as he nods toward the counter. “You thinking of getting anything?”

You hesitate, eyeing the pastry case. “Maybe. Still deciding.”

“What do you usually go for?” he presses—but there’s a quiet curiosity beneath it.

You glance at him, a little wary. “Strawberry matcha, usually. And... that Nutella croissant looks good.”

His smirk grows, subtle but unmistakably smug. “Knew it.”

Your brows lift. “You knew?”

He’s already pushing back his chair. “Took a guess when I saw the menu. I’ll get you both. I wanted the Nutella croissant too.”

You blink. “Wait—are you sure?”

Eren nods, already walking toward the counter. “Yeah. I’ll grab my coffee while I’m at it. Easier if I just pay for everything.”

And even though you should be reviewing project notes or pulling up the presentation while he’s at the counter, your brain is annoyingly hyper-aware of him—of the way the barista seems a little too interested in him, of the easy way he leans against the counter as he waits.

You force yourself to look away. Focus.

By the time he returns, sliding your coffee across the table, you’ve managed to pull up a shared document.

“Alright,” you say briskly, “let’s start by breaking down the deliverables.”

Eren hums, taking a sip of his own drink. “So serious.”

You shoot him a look. “That’s kind of the point of this, isn’t it?”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Relax. We’ve got time.”

You resist the urge to groan. “Eren.”

“Alright, alright,” he says, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “Let’s get to work.”

And to your surprise, he actually does.

The next few hours pass by smoothly. Eren—despite his usual laid-back demeanor—is sharp, quick to pick up on details, throwing out ideas that you begrudgingly admit are good. The conversation flows easier than expected, and for the first time, you feel yourself settling into something… comfortable.

Then—

“You always this tense?”

You glance up from your screen, brow furrowing. “What?”

Eren leans forward slightly, studying you with an unreadable expression. “You’re always on edge around me.”

Your grip tightens around your cup. “I am not.”

He tilts his head. “You sure?”

You sigh, looking away. “We’re working. That’s all this is.”

Eren hums, but he doesn’t look convinced. “If you say so.”

The air shifts, something unspoken hanging between you. You don’t like it—you don’t want to acknowledge it—so you do what you do best.

You ignore it.

The next few days pass in a blur.

Despite everything, the two of you fall into a rhythm. The tasks have already been divided. You both know what needs to be done, and Eren’s competent—frustratingly so—and it makes it easier to ignore the tension that simmers beneath the surface.

Mostly.

You’d love to pretend you’re fine—casual, even—but it’s hard to ignore the way your skin prickles every time you feel his gaze settle on you.

No matter how hard you try to bury yourself in work, drown in project tasks, or choke down scheduled meetings—nothing is enough to keep you from running into Eren again.

Like today.

You’re crammed into a small meeting room with the rest of your team, laptops open, diagrams pulled up on the screen, conversation moving quickly from one update to the next. You’re halfway through explaining a revision to the prototype structure when the door creaks open.

And there he is.

Eren.

He steps in like he owns the place, long frame filling the doorway, hair loose around his shoulders, sleeves pushed up, lanyard half tucked into the pocket of his jeans.

You freeze. Of course, he would come in now.

He doesn’t even speak—just lifts a brow slightly, like you were the one interrupting him.

He looks around the room, slow and unhurried, before setting his laptop down on the table and taking a seat next to you, much to your dismay.

And then—he smiles.

Not big. Not wide. Just enough to say, Yeah, I know you saw me.

You grit your teeth and pretend to refocus on the screen, willing yourself not to notice the way his presence seems to take up more space than it should. You can feel the heat of him beside you, his scent, woodsy and clean, is way too close for comfort.

And you hate it. You’re supposed to be focused on the project, on your career, on your goals. Not him.

You arrive at the office the next morning with a game plan: ignore, deflect, and work. No distractions. No unnecessary interactions. No Eren Yeager.

But as luck would have it, within the first hour, that plan goes to hell.

It starts small—his gaze lingering on you when your team gathers for the daily check-in, the way he seems way too at ease in your proximity. Then comes the subtle, almost imperceptible smirk when you fumble with your professionalism as if he was waiting for you to finally slip up— to react to him.

You don’t. You won’t. Except you do—when you’re forced to spend the entire afternoon stuck in a tiny meeting room with him, reviewing an important deliverable of the project together.

You sit at opposite ends of the table, both typing away on your laptops, silence stretching between you. It should be comfortable—just two interns in the same stage of life, work towards the same goals, spending precious time of their youth working together as comrades—but it isn’t. There’s an unspoken awareness, or in your case, awkwardness, that makes the air feel heavier than it should.

Eventually, you exhale sharply, breaking the silence. “Look, can you just—” You pause, searching for the right words.

Eren finally looks up, one brow slightly raised. “Just what?”

“Stop making this weird.”

His lips twitch, like he’s amused that you think you have control over that. “I’m not making it weird.”

You give him a flat look. “You literally brought up asking me you out. In front of everyone. In front of our boss.”

He shrugs, leaning back in his chair. “You brought it up first.”

Your jaw drops. “I—no, I didn’t!”

“You called it ‘unfortunate probability.’”

“That’s not bringing it up, that’s just—” You inhale sharply, cutting yourself off. You refuse to engage in this ridiculous back-and-forth with him. You are a professional. A serious intern, someone’s here to get a return offer.

Eren, however, is entirely unbothered, watching you with that same lazy amusement. “Relax,” he says. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Easy for you to say,” you mutter under your breath, turning back to your screen.

Silence settles again, but this time, it’s charged. You try to focus, but you can feel his gaze flicker to you every now and then, like he’s waiting to see if you’ll talk back, to give a reaction first.

Again, you repeat the same mantra. You don’t. You won’t.

But this time, he speaks first.

“So, why’d you do it?”

You blink. “Do what?”

He tilts his head slightly, long strands of hair beautifully framing his face. “Ask me out.”

Your heart stops. How can someone annoying be so natrually handsome? Then starts again—way too fast for your liking.

You should learn from your mistakes last week’s team lunch and this time actually tell a lie. Say it was a dare. Say anything that will downplay the sheer mortification of that moment. But again, you blurt out the truth before you can stop yourself.

“I don’t know. You just seemed interesting.”

More like infuriatingly hot, but also not a lie. There was something about him that day—something about his quiet confidence, his complete indifference to the high-stakes nature of the last step of being hired— the behavioral interview, like he already knew he had it in the bag. It annoyed you. It intrigued you.

Eren studies you for a beat, like he’s weighing your words. Then, to your utter disbelief, he grins.

“What?” you demand, suspicious.

“Nothing,” he says, shaking his head, still smirking. “Just funny, that’s all.”

You narrow your eyes. “Funny how?”

But before he can answer, the door swings open and one of your team members pokes their head in, asking about a deadline.

The moment breaks.

Eren turns back to his laptop, looking perfectly at ease, while you sit there, heart hammering, feeling like you just lost some sort of invisible battle.

You don’t know what game he’s playing. But you have a feeling that Eren is messing with you. There’s no other explanation.

Ever since that meeting room conversation—ever since you stupidly admitted he seemed interesting—he’s been acting different. Not outright obnoxious, but just enough to genuinely annoy you.

Like now.

Your team is gathered in a shared workspace, going over project updates. You’re laser-focused on your laptop, taking notes as your team lead speaks, when you feel it—his gaze.

You don’t have to look to know it’s him. You just know.

And it’s distracting.

You shift in your seat, resisting the urge to glance up. Ignore. Deflect. Work.

But then—

“So,” Eren’s voice cuts through the discussion, completely unprompted. “You’re a statistics person, right?”

You freeze.

Slowly, you look up. He’s leaning back in his chair, looking far too entertained.

“…Yeah?” you say warily.

Eren nods, like he’s deep in thought. “So, statistically speaking, what do you think the odds are of us running into each other again after this internship?”

Your brain short-circuits.

Jean snorts from across the table. “Damn, Yeager. You applying probability theory to your love life now?”

Sasha perks up immediately. “Wait, why? Are you planning on running into her again?”

Your mouth opens. Then closes. Then opens again.

You’re going to kill him.

Eren, unfazed, shrugs. “Just curious.”

You narrow your eyes, trying to decipher his angle. Is he teasing you? Is this payback? Or is he just naturally inclined to be the most insufferable person you’ve ever met?

Probably all three.

“I wouldn’t know,” you say, forcing your voice to stay even. “Maybe I’ll run a regression model on it later.”

Sasha gasps, delighted. “Ooh, academic flirtation. I love it.”

You shoot her a please stop look, but she’s having too much fun at your expense.

Meanwhile, Eren just hums, tilting his head slightly. “Let me know what you find.”

And then, as if he didn’t just drop that bomb, he goes right back to working, leaving you reeling.

After that bullshit of a conversation, you’re two seconds away from flipping the table and walking out. But since professionalism is still a thing, you settle for excusing yourself to grab coffee instead. The office break room is thankfully empty when you step inside. You exhale sharply, pressing your palms against the counter. What is his problem?

The way Eren keeps pushing at you, throwing you off balance—it’s getting unbearable.

Worse, you can’t even tell if he’s doing it on purpose or if this is just who he is. Maybe life is fair after all, being as endowed in the looks and brains department can’t come without sacrifices—his unbearable personality.

Maybe your girlfriends were onto something when they said that men were more handsome before they opened their mouths.

You’re starting to understand the appeal of a silent, brooding type. At least they don’t make you want to throw things every time they speak.

Is this some sort of game for him? To see how much you can take before you snap?

You shake your head, reaching for a coffee pod and shoving it into the machine with more force than necessary.

“Damn. What did the Keurig do to you?”

Your whole body tenses.

Of course. Of course.

You don’t even have to turn around to know who it is.

He reaches for a cup, and for a second, you swear he’s deliberately moving slow, drawing out the moment to stand behind you, towering over your frame.

You can feel his presence, radiating off him like heat, and it makes your skin prickle in a way that has nothing to do with the temperature of the room.

Fuck, what if he sees a gray hair? You probably have one from all the stress he’s giving you. Maybe more than one. It wouldn’t be surprising—this feels like the kind of situation that would age you by ten years in a single afternoon.

You force yourself to focus, stirring your drink slowly, keeping your gaze fixed on the cup. You don’t want to look up, don’t want to give him the satisfaction of seeing your reaction. But his voice is there, always there, like it’s in your head, too.

“Don’t you have something better to do?” you ask, your tone a little sharper than you intended, but you refuse to back down.

Eren tilts his head, and you can hear the amusement in his voice. “You trying to get rid of me that quickly?”

You can feel the heat rising in your cheeks. This is exactly why you’ve been avoiding him. The way he’s so easy, so confident, like he knows he can mess with you and you won’t say a word.

You take a long sip, as if the simple action could cool the rising heat in your chest.

“Well,” you say, voice flat as you put the cup back down with a little too much force. “I’m not in the mood for your… whatever this is.”

For a moment, his expression falters, like you’ve caught him off guard. His eyes flicker, just briefly, and you can tell something shifts in him—like your irritation has actually affected him more than he’d like to admit.

He straightens up, running a hand through his hair, looking at you with something more genuine in his gaze. “Oh—” He pauses, taking a breath, and you can see him trying to recalibrate. “I wasn’t trying to make you mad, just wanted to get your attention. I don’t... want you pissed off at me.”

You exhale slowly, trying to keep yourself composed, but the words are out before you can stop them: “You’ve been doing this for weeks, Eren. It’s not funny anymore. It’s... it’s not a joke when you keep teasing me in front of everyone, in front of our boss. It’s embarrassing.”

His eyes widen, the sincerity in them growing, but you’re not interested in that right now.

“I’m not just here to entertain you,” you continue, your voice shaky now, and you curse yourself internally for letting it slip. “Being here is really important to me, and I’m just trying to get things done. But you keep making me feel like an idiot in front of people. It’s not just you anymore. It’s your whole attitude and... I can’t even—” You cut yourself off, frustrated tears threatening to spill. God, not now.

His face softens, but you’re already stepping back, gripping your drink tighter like it could hold you together. You feel small.

And worse, you’re starting to feel like you’ve just become another punchline in his little game.

Eren steps back, eyes searching yours, but you don’t meet his gaze. You’re not sure what he expects from you now. You don’t even know what you expect now. An apology? A hug?

Instead, all you feel is the knot in your throat tightening. You don’t want to cry here, not in front of him. So, you just force out a small breath and pretend like everything is fine again.

[medievalharlot]

An Eventful Evening 彡 Geta x f!reader x Caracalla

find my masterlist here!

Pairing: Geta x f!reader x Caracalla

Synopsis: You finally give into them, so they reward you by teaching you how to please an emperor

Wordcount: 2,7k

Tags: Smut 18+ minors DNI, threesome, oral (both m and f receiving), implied breeding kink, degrading kink, praise kink, fingering, male masturbation, hint of deepthroathing, cuckolding (?), dirty talk, nipple play, Caracalla has mommy issues its canon

A/N: The long awaited smut! I have decided to make it a little serie since y’all love it so much. Decided to make Geta and Calla a bit of polar opposites. I love pathetic mommy’s boy Calla and dom teasing Geta sm. If you wished to get tagged in the next part please join the taglist here!

While sitting at your vanity desk, you let your maid brush your hair, in your hands you nervously play with the coral bracelet that Geta had gifted you a while back. The night air swept through the room, making the silk curtains dance ever so slightly. It was a calm night, the calmest night since you had gotten to Rome so far. Usually, you could hear a banquet from one of the senators, one of the emperors’ orgies or a mewling cat on the streets. But not tonight. It was eerily quiet on Palantine Hill. You had promised the twins you would join them for dinner and you knew where that was going to lead. You wanted to make sure you looked presentable and to their liking. Since noon you had been busy. Your maid, Alba, knew exactly what the two emperor’s would like. She had soaked you in donkey milk bath, scrubbing you squeaky clean. Then she insisted on rubbing beeswax with saffron on your skin. Alba knew exactly what she was doing. Deep down you had no idea what to expect. Of course, you knew how everything worked. You just had never done it.

“You will make a fine empress, my lady.” Alba spoke as she applied some rouge on your cheeks. You looked at yourself in the mirror. She had applied some paste to make your skin more even, erasing any blemish you might have. You didn’t look like yourself, but if this is what the twins would want you to look like you were going to have to get used to it.

“I am no empress yet, Alba.” You nervously roll the beads of red coral between your fingers. “What if I am not to their liking? They will throw me away like a used toy.” You couldn’t help but confess your worries to her.

“They would not have vouched for your attention this long if they do not want to keep you around.” Alba helps you into your gown. It was a sheer silken stola that had a slight purple tint to it and gold trimmings. Your nipples harden because of the cold air, perking through the sheer fabric. You had decided to keep your hair down, an intimate gesture. Despite the simple look, you thought you looked beautiful.

Alba smiles at you. “Trust me, my lady, they seem to be fond of you.” She continued to brush your hair, letting the shiny locks fall into her caring hands. “They have not been interested in a noble lady before, they must intend to marry you.”

The thought was exciting to you. To be the empress of the greatess nation on the planet. Not only that, you would have both the emperors’ attention and love. It also made you nervous, you grew up on the country side. How would you manage to actually survive in a city like Rome for the rest of your life. Surely, there were people here that would want you dead. It was a threat you rarely faced back home.

Home. You did miss home a lot. Your family, the animals and most definitely the peace and quiet. Almost every night in Syracuse was as quiet as this night in Rome. But Rome was your new home now, you knew the emperors would not let you leave after tonight. Not that you minded, you came to enjoy the idea of living with them over time. Besides, Clemens would come to the city soon. You would have your family close again.

A knock on the door made both of you turn your head. It was soldier. He had told you the twins were ready to receive you. You inhale and exhale deeply, pushing down your nerves. After bidding Alba farewell you followed the soldier. Alba had given you a sympethetic look as you left, She knew your faith, as did you.

The soldier announces your name and titles as you entered their chambers. You took a good look around. The room was twice as big as your own. The dining table was already filled with all sorts of food. You followed the marble pillars in the room to a bed. They were making you have dinner in one of their bedrooms.

“Please have a seat, my lady.” Geta’s voice made you flinch. Caracalla was already seated at the table, slouched in his seat. He did not say a word, biting the nail of his thumb as he watched you. Geta offers his hand for you to take, leading you to your seat. He was at the head of the table, Caracalla was across from you. “I hope the food is to your liking, it would be a waste to throw it all away because of your lack of appetite.” There was a certain threat in his voice. They did not want you to wither away as you have been these last few weeks.

“The food looks divine, Ceres has truly given us her blessing this year.” You smile politely while grabbing a fig. The juice was dripping down your chin after you bit into the ripe fruit.

Caracalla had been watching you the entire time. First just your face, then he noticed your gown. Without any shame he had been staring at your chest, then back at your face, and then your chest again. Still, not a word came out of his mouth.

“I assume your brother has received our invite?” Geta spoke again, his voice echoed through the room. “You see, our citizens get rewarded if they are compliant, my lady.” A grin spreads onto his features. Suddenly, Caracalla was watching his brother. Geta gets up to walk to the side of the bed, he never was a patient man. “Come.” He basically commands you.

“But your majesty, the food-”

“I said come.” His tone was harsher. There was no room for debate. You get up, your hands folded infront of you as you walk to Geta. Like a cat, Caracalla maneuvered around you as he followed you to the bed.

“That wasn’t that hard, now was it.” He reached out to touch your body, his hand landing on your hips. It trailed up to your breast, brushing softly over your nipple. Geta watches your reaction like a predator watching its prey. “You have been so good to me, to Caracalla. Haven’t you?” He whispers as his thumb circled over your hard nipple, he got a small moan in return. You could feel the heat rise between your legs.

You look around, trying to find Caracalla. He had managed to sit down on the bed without you noticing. There was a big smile on his face as he watches his brother take what he wanted to have for weeks now, the look on his face mirroring that of when he was watching the games in the Colosseum.

After brushing over your nipple one more time, Geta’s hand travelled up to wrap around your neck. He wasn’t squeezing your throat hard, it was probably to test your reaction. When he noticed you did not protest he moved to slip his fingers under the straps of your stola. Gently, he pushes them off your shoulders, making the gown pool around your ankles. The sight alone of you, bare, in front of him made his loins stir.

There you stood, naked. The cold night air hit your skin, making you shiver. Geta’s smile only grew when he finally got see what he had been dreaming about all this time. He places a finger under your chin, making you look up him. “You have been hiding this beauty under those clothes all this time.” Geta brushed his thumb over your bottom lip, moving his hand to cup your cheek. “You want this, don’t you?” He was coaxing the right answer out of you.

You couldn’t even speak, your desire clouding your moan. Not trusting your voice to do the talking, you just merely nodded. In return you got a hum of approval from Geta. “Let me show you how to please your emperor.” He turned to Caracalla, who was still sitting in silence on the bed.

Geta leads you to the bed and within the blink of an eye, Caracalla was all over you. His lips were attached to your breast, his hands softly kneeding the other. He sucked them like a man dying of thirst. ”You are so divine, my love. The Gods should hide in shame because of your beauty.” He muttered between his kisses.

You lean back against Geta’s firm chest, who was drinking up every sound you made. His large hands find your thighs, slowly spreading them for his brother. Caracalla latched off your breast and smiled at the sight of your wet cunt. He couldn’t help himself as he lowered himself between your thighs, leaving a trail of kisses on your stomach. “So beautiful.” He spoke before diving between your legs, lapping at your core.

You couldn’t control the moans that left your lips. With the way Caracalla was eating you out and the way he was looking up at you, you felt like you were up in the clouds with the Gods. “You like that don’t you? Not so innocent now hmm?” Geta started to whisper all sorts of filth in your ear. “Can’t wait to fuck you pregnant, would you like that my lady?” You could feel his hardness against your lower back, he was getting off on watching his brother eat you out.

“Yea — ah, Yes please.” You moan as Caracalla sticks two fingers into your sopping cunt, he was going to have to prepare your virgin hole to take either one of them. He slowly pumps them into you as you started whining. “You sound almost like a whore, my love. Are you sure that we are you are not a whore?” Geta bit your earlobe as he continued to speak depravities into your ear. “Well?”

“No! Y-You’re my first.” You couldn’t even think straight any more. This was unlike anything you had ever felt before. Of course you had tried pleasuring yourself, but in the fear of your father finding out you always stopped your attempts before you got anywhere. This was all extremely overwhelming.

Caracalla removes his mouth from your core. He sucks on your breast again, his fingers still pumping into you. It leaves you feeling needy so you turn to look at Geta. He smiled, kissing your cheek. “Is the lady needy?” He says as his hand travels to your clit, his finger softly rubbing the sensetive bud while his brother still had his fingers inside you.

It was all a bit too much. They’re hands were everywhere, turning you into a moaning mess. The combination of Caracalla moaning sweet nothingness’ and Geta whispering absolute filth into your ear made your head do summersaults.

With the way you were clenching around his fingers Caracalla knew you were going to orgasm soon. He dove between your legs again. “Wanna taste you cum.” He mumbles, pushing Geta’s hands away so he could suck on your clit again.

Geta was smirked, you could feel it against your ear. “You’re gonna cum already? Go on, cum on your emperor’s tongue.” His hands strays upwards to play with your tits. Just as you were about to cum, Geta kissed you, swallowing up all your soft moans. Your orgasm washed over you, painting Caracalla’s tongue with your juices.

You laid against Geta’s chest for a moment, catching your breath. Caracalla gave your pussy another kiss before sitting up straight and giggling at your blissful face. “We should have that painted, hang it up for the senate to see.” He grins as he sits on his knees, his cock painfully hard through his blue robes.

“Such a good girl.” Geta wiped his spit of your lips. “We have been awfully generous, how about you return the favor, hmm sweetheart?” He nodded toward Caracalla.

“I don’t— I’ve never done that before.” You stumble over your words after you understand what he was getting at.

“Don’t worry, I told you I would teach you wouldn’t I?” He said, gently placing a hand on the beak of your head and pushing it down. You followed his lead, hovering your face above Caracalla’s dick. It was larger than you expected, bright red and standing proud.

“Spit.” He told you. You opened your mouth and let the spit fall onto Caracalla’s cock. “Now give it a few pumps.” Like a dog you obeyed his command, wrapping your hand around his member. It felt heavy in your hands. “And now you suck it like the good little whore you are.” Geta pushed your head a little again.

You followed his lead once more, wrapping your lips around the tip. Caracalla threw his head slightly back at the feeling of your warm lips. He replaces Geta’s hands on your head, burrying his hands into your hair. “You gotta—” He helps you bop you head on a comfortable pace. “Just like that, so pretty. Taking me so well.”

You could feel Geta move around on the bed, you nearly choked on Caracalla’s dick when you felt Geta drag his tip along your wet slit. Instictively, you moved your hips back. Geta clicked his tongue against his teeth. “Tch, you would like that wouldn’t you? Want me to fuck you full of cum.” He collected your slick with his dick, giving himself a few strokes before he sat down next to his brother.

“Such a nasty girl. Not tonight tho. Wouldn’t want to upset Juno by giving you my child before we are wed.” Geta knew exactly what he was doing. He wanted you to crave this as much as he craved you. And as far as he could tell from the way your pussy was drooling for him, it was working.

“Can you stop it. She is supposed to be paying attention to me.” Caracalla sneered at his brother, giving your head a harder push. He tried his luck, pushing your head all the way down so your nose touched his red hair. When he noticed you struggling he quickly let you go.

“As long as you don’t break her, she isn’t one of your whores.” Geta retorted, jacking off to the sight of you sucking dick. The tears in your eyes only spurring him on more

Carcalla was a little gentler, but his grip on your hair was still rough. The sounds he made went from groans to desperate whines and moans. Once again, he melted under your touch. He was petting your head, mumbling incoherent sentences. His cock hit the back of your throat when he started bucking his hips.

“Can I cum in your mouth? Please?” Geta had never seen Caracalla ask, but something in you brought that side out of him. It was beautifull display, watching his future empress naked on all fours sucking cock. He didn’t care that it was his brothers’.

Before you could even try to reply, Caracalla pushed your head down again. With a breathy moan he came in your mouth, shooting rope after rope of hot seed into your throat. He let you stay there for a moment, before letting you go.

When your mouth popped off, Geta quickly moved his finger under your chin. “Not yet. Just hold it in there a little longer.” He kneels, furiously pumping his cock infront of your lips. “Open up sweetheart.” With his fingers he pried open your mouth, shooting his cum into your mouth aswell.

He sits down in front of you when he was done, both their seed mixed in your mouth. Geta placed a hand on your throat. “Now swallow.” He could feel both their loads get swallowed, a smirk on his face as he watched.

Gently, Caracalla crawls to kiss you everywhere. Your neck, your cheek, your lips. “You’re so good to me. So sweet.” He mumbles as his hands kneed at your flesh again. Like a needy child he pulls you close to lay with him in the bed, revelling in your warmth. He latched onto one of your nipples again, sucking it softly. Though this time it seemed he did it for comfort, not as a sexual act.

Geta sits next to you. He looks at you, a gentle look on his face. “Are you alright?” He asks, cupping your cheek.

“I am fine.” You smile, your voice was a bit hoarse. “That was fun.”

He kisses your forehead, also laying down besides you. He leans in close, his hands around your waist. “Can’t wait to pump you full of my children, my empress.”

taglist: @Robinbuckleywife , @punkrockmlchael , @yearsbecomingcool , @samslvrgirl , @doves1120 , @frensiswithnogun , @fandomgirl1999 , @fariecherry , @eddiesguitarskills , @nicestgirlonline , @jeangeniex , @happysparklingshadows , @emxxblog , @littlemissholy , @duckyhowls

[jihoonjuseyo]

Hey its been a long we’ve heard from you. Are you doing okay? still writing?

Too Close for Practice

Woozi x You (Reader, gender-neutral)

Suggestive, slow-burn, charged but soft, previously flirty situationship, idol collaboration project

⸻

The dance studio lights were dimmed, the mirror reflecting the last golden streaks of the setting sun. Most of the team had already gone, their chatter fading into the hallway as you bent over to grab your water bottle. This collaboration was kicking your ass, but it came with quirks.

speaking of such quirks…

“I thought you left,” Jihoon’s voice said behind you, startling you just enough to drop the cap.

You turned to see him leaning against the wall, one eyebrow slightly raised, arms crossed. He was in a plain tee and sweats, a towel slung around his neck, damp from rehearsal.

“I stayed to stretch,” you replied, heart still tapping fast. “You’re still here too.”

He pushed off the wall and stepped closer, every movement casual but weighted. “Yeah. Thought I’d run through the bridge section one more time.”

You didn’t miss how his gaze flicked to your reflection in the mirror. Not obvious. Not bold. Just enough to make your skin heat beneath your hoodie.

“You could help,” he added, tone deceptively light.

“Help how?”

“Partner section,” he said. “I’m not happy with the spacing.”

You swallowed, trying to keep your face neutral. You knew exactly what section he meant—the one with barely an inch between bodies, the one that made your pulse jump even during rehearsals.

Still, you nodded.

The music started low. He stepped into place. You followed.

The choreography was clean, muscle memory carrying you both until that one part—the step-slide-close, where his hand brushed your waist and his chest nearly touched yours.

But this time, his eyes didn’t move away.

“You’re tense,” he said, breath grazing your cheek.

You tilted your head, searching for a reply that wouldn’t betray you.

“I’m fine.”

He didn’t move back. “Then why aren’t you breathing?”

You weren’t.

You exhaled slowly, trying not to lean in. His hand hadn’t moved—still hovering just above the curve of your waist, fingers splayed like he was deciding something.

“You know,” he said, voice lower now, “you do this thing where you pretend you’re unaffected.”

You blinked up at him. “And you don’t?”

He smiled—barely. “I didn’t say that.”

His fingers finally landed lightly on your waist, pressure feather-soft but deliberate.

The music played on, but neither of you moved.

“You’re supposed to spin here,” he murmured.

“I know.”

“You’re not spinning.”

“Maybe I forgot.”

He tilted his head slightly, amused. “Convenient.”

Your hands were still on his shoulders, steadying yourself. But your grip had changed—more anchor than guidance. Your pulse was in your ears.

“You’re not letting go,” you pointed out.

“Maybe I forgot.”

The silence after that beat louder than the music. Charged. Sharp. Soft at the edges.

Then, just before the song ended, he leaned in close—close enough that your breath caught, close enough to feel the ghost of a smile at your jawline—and whispered,

“We should mess up choreography more often.”

And then he stepped away. Cool. Collected. As if nothing had happened.

But his hand brushed yours as he passed by—fingers trailing just long enough to promise more, if you wanted..

[sevikasprincesss]

𐙚 ̊ don't hide from me, you're beautiful ⋆˙⟡

Chapter 4 - Seen, not heard

sevika x reader ← click for my ao3 for all five chapters.

18+ only (minors and men dni) ✮ word count ── 3500ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

content warnings; this chapter is a lot of angst, some flirting, but a protective sevika comes out to fight for you. but the full story on my ao3 has the following- nsfw, mature content, smut with storyline, vaginal sex, oral, explicit language, angst, 18+ readers only, reader has female anatomy, sevika top/dominant <3

🃜 🃚 🃖 🃁 🂭 🂺 🃜 🃚 🃖 🃁 🂭 🂺 🃜 🃚 🃖 🃁 🂭 🂺

CHAPTER 4

I woke to the sound of the jukebox cracking into life which tore me from unconsciousness with a rude awakening. I couldn’t help but frown, rubbing my eyes before they flickered open and realising where I was – curled on the sofa with my head in Sevika’s lap as she played cards with two of Silco’s men. Upon realising I was stirring, she placed her hand on my head and stroked my hair absentmindedly, continuing to play her card game.

It wasn’t long until she won. Of course she won, she rarely ever lost. I often wondered if they only continued to play with her out of fear, because surely their ego must take a hit every time they have to hand over a large stack of coin. She smirked, taking the money and sliding it onto her pile on the table.

“Alright, prin?” she said smoothly, fixing her eyes onto mine with a smirk. She took a long sip from her glass, the strong scent of whiskey filling the air. I frowned at her, she simply chuckled at my puzzled expression, “Thought I’d give you a new nickname.”

“Prin?” is what I tried to say, forgetting my mouth was still covered by the facemask. Only a garbled sort of sound escaped me. I rolled my eyes, sitting upright. The two men she was playing with laughed at my expense and she glared at them, clearly only she was allowed the honour of laughing at my current situation. Their laughter turned into coughs, as they immediately stood and walked away, her gaze followed them until they were out of sight.

My hand gripped her thigh as I pushed myself to my feet, pausing as I felt her, unable to ignore how muscly she was. My gaze lingered on her as I stood, wondering what it would feel like to be close to her—to please her. As if she knew what I was thinking, she smirked.

“Like what you see?”

I smiled, blushing softly, almost glad the mask hid most of the redness as I walked away. I was still sore, but not too bad. It was manageable, though I felt like I was dying of thirst. I poured myself a glass of water and fiddled with a straw, tying to slide it through the side of the mask somehow. It didn’t work. The part that sat inside my mouth prevented my efforts, my face scrunched in frustration. I was so thirsty. My mouth felt drier than a nuns cun…

“Come here,” Sevika said from behind me, she’d followed me to the bar and reached for the mask, trying to untie it. I pulled away at once, eyes wide and shaking my head. Terrible torturous images of being handed to the doctor filled my mind, Silco’s warning still at the forefront of my mind.

“He won’t mind, its only for a moment,” she soothed, trying once more to free her.

“Oh won’t I?” Silco’s voice was smooth, sly, even, as he walked down the stairs and into view. “Hunger can wait, she’s to leave it on.”

“Sir,” she said, eyes falling back to mine, “she needs water.”

“I’m sure she’ll survive.” His voice was bored, unimpressed.

“She hasn’t drank anything all day.”

“Hmm.” His gaze hardened, fixing onto me, contemplating. After a short while, he rolled his eyes, muttering, “Fine.”

My eyes must’ve revealed my excitement, as he added, “You aren’t to say a word while its off, do you understand?”

I nodded.

“You don’t want to push me on this,” he said, glaring at me, “it isn’t too late to call the doctor.”

The smile fell from my face, but I nodded slowly. Sevika just looked between us, evidently confused. Silco slid his hands through my hair, feeling for the clasp at the back of my head and unhooking it. The mask fell, my saliva dripping from it as he threw it into Sevika’s hands. I cringe at this, rubbing my face from where it was pressing into my skin.

“Make sure it goes back on.” He glanced at her, walking away.

“Yes, sir,” she said, confused, but smiling at me as he left the last drop.

“You okay?” she walked towards me, cupping my face in her hand. I can’t help but lean into her touch, ever so soft these days. I nod slowly, looking up into her eyes. “You can talk, I won’t tell him,” she said softly, looking into my eyes.

I shook my head ever-so slightly. She seemed to understand, drawing me closer and pressing a gentle kiss to my forehead. Then, she rested her forehead against mine, our eyes locking on each other.

“I haven’t got long, gotta run a few errands, but first,” Sevika kissed me on the lips and I couldn’t help but smile in response. “A drink.”

She moved behind the bar, taking a glass and filling it with a fizzy tropical drink, dropping a straw inside and sliding it towards me. I smiled at her, eyes full of life once more. For the first time, someone had made me a drink. Me! Usually it was me running around after everybody else, fetching drinks, food, god knows what else they wanted. I couldn’t remember the last time someone bothered to do anything for me. Maybe it was nothing—but her softness meant everything to me. I’d never have expected it from her.

My gaze lingered on hers as I leant over the bar, sipping from the straw, getting lost in a brief moment of calm. She bit her lip, eyes darting to my slightly exposed chest, then back to my face as if hoping I didn’t notice. I smirked, holding her hand and bringing it closer to my chest, sliding it inside my dress so she could feel me. Her eyes gleamed with mischief, looking around and making sure they were quite alone.

She felt me, squeezed me under my clothes and I let out a soft moan into her ear as she ran softly squeezed my nipple.

“Such a tease,” she scoffed, eyes not leaving mine. She gave a sharp pinch before removing her hand, to which I squealed. “Finish your drink.” 

I ran my hand over my breast soothing the sharp pain that lingered and she smirked, watching me closely as she took a sip from her own glass. I walk towards her, kissing her gently as I look up to her.

“Shame I’ve gotta put this back on,” she smirked, lifting the mask with her finger. I frowned, sighing and looking away. After a few moments, she said softly, “I can’t help but feel it’s my fault.”

I look back at her, brows furrowed and head tilted in confusion.

“I didn’t think he’d do this to you,” she said honestly.

I shrug. It is what it is, I wanted to say. I bit my lip, looking around for any sign of Silco, but I decided his wrath wasn’t worth a whisper. Shaking my head in frustration, I pull out the tiny notepad and pencil I kept in my pocket for waiting and scribble on it.

It’s not your fault.

I slid it across the bar to her and she laughed softly, handing it back to me. “How can I make it up to you?”

I smiled as she watched me closely.

When I’ve been given back my voice, let it speak only your name.

Her eyes widened briefly as she read the note, trying to stop the sly smirk from appearing on her face. She inhaled deeply, biting her lip and whispered into my ear.

 “That,” she said, “I can do.”

She leant against the wall behind me, pushing us closer together as she looked down at me, smiling between kisses. She kissed my neck, her hand holding my chin to keep it in place. A soft moan left my mouth, not caring about being overheard. After a few shared kisses, she pulled away, “I’ve gotta go,” she said, “But I’ll be back later?”

I nodded. My silence seemed to remind her, as she stiffened.

“I’m sorry,” she said, reaching for the face mask. She looked it, too. It was so humiliating. Just what he wanted, of course. Swallowing whatever pride I thought I had, I nodded, allowing her to slide it into my mouth and fasten it behind my head—although, a lot looser than before. She paused, pressing her head close to the back of mine and inhaling, kissing my head and stroking my arms softly.

She pulled away, slipping the note into her pocket and walked away. I held her hand as she tried to leave, pulling her back slightly, but she just smiled softly and left the last drop without a backwards glance.

—————————

The night was slow—a lot slower than usual. Maybe it was due to expectancy, the glimmer of hope that Sevika would return to her any minute now. My gaze couldn’t help but wander to the doors every time they swung open, in hopes of seeing her there. But she didn’t show, and I drowned in the disappointment.

Eventually, hope escaped me and I stopped eyeing the door altogether. Perhaps she’d got caught up in something. It wouldn’t be the first time.

Only when I gave up hope and continued the bar work did I realise I had gained a shadow in the form of a creepy guy lurking in the shadows, his gaze following me everywhere I went. At first, I thought maybe just coincidence and tried my best to ignore him. But as the night went on, my discomfort only grew as I felt his eyes burning into my skin no matter where I went. When he approached the bar, he lingered like a bad smell. He insisted on getting too close to me, forcing me to slide past him in tight spaces, growling into my ear, muttering stupid little jokes, knowing full well I can’t reply or tell him to fuck off.

If I hadn’t already gotten into trouble for my lack of respect to Silco’s customers, perhaps I’d have been a bit more confident. Maybe I’d even have resulted to violence as I felt his hand wandering my body as I brushed past him. But as it was, I remained on my best behaviour. I shrugged it off, focusing on my work, hoping the night would pass quickly.

It was just past midnight when I made my first mistake. I’d left the protection of the bar, entering the side rooms in order to gather the bottles and empty glasses from those who had been playing poker. It was empty now, I didn’t expect to back into him as I turned to leave, my hands full of glasses. He must’ve followed me in.

Then came my second mistake—instead of pushing past him and leaving, I backed further into the room, allowing him to push forwards and block my exit. One moment, a tiny fleeting moment, which could’ve maybe changed the situation was now lost.

As it was, I was now trapped in this room on my own with a creepy dude who’d been tailing me all night. I try to step around him, but he blocked my way, closing the gap between us with a smirk. I could smell my fear, mixed with the scent of alcohol on his breath. I cringed as he glared at me with lustful eyes, you didn’t need to be a mind reader to see the darkened desire on his face.

“Hey there, little lady,” he sneered as his hand flew to the wall, blocking my escape, “what’s the hurry?”

I glared at him, eyes wide. I looked to the door, eyeing the stairs that lead to Silco’s office, then back to the man in front of me. He smirked, toying with my hair that draped down my face. Disgust was plainly plastered on my face. I’d always struggled to hide my emotions, particularly in times like this.

“I’m sure he won’t mind you making a customer a little happier,” he smirked, walking towards me as I backed away, dropping the glasses to the floor.

“No,” I tried to say, but it didn’t come out right. My eyes fixed on him, shaking my head desperately. He only laughed. I tried to push past him but he hit me with the back of his hand, right across the face. I stumbled, my back hitting the wall. All I could hear was a slight buzzing noise and lights popping in my vision.

“I’d love to thank Silco for muzzling you like this, girls should be seen and not heard, right?” He laughed, cornering me, unbuckling his trousers as he strode towards me. “It’ll make things a lot easier… for me, anyway.”

My third mistake came next. I wish I could say that I fought him off bravely, or that I somehow managed to flee. But neither of those happened. No, I just froze. Hands raised and covering my face, backing into a corner. I didn’t move, or make a sound at all. I just stood there, hiding myself like a coward resigning to their fate.

I felt his hands gripping my arms, but as soon as the pressure of his touch came, it vanished. Still covering my head, eyes tightly closed, I could only hear garbled groans, a loud thud and crashing noises. Then came the familiar whirring of Sevika’s mechanical arm as she lifted him into the air, pinning him against the wall as he gripped onto her.

Sevika had returned and not a moment too late. I exhaled the air I didn’t realise I’d been holding, breathing felt a little easier now, knowing she was here.

“G…get off…” he hissed, holding onto her arm.

A hatred so strong, and rarely ever seen, was fixed firmly on Sevika’s face as she glowered at him. Her hate morphing into disgust, disgust into loathing. She growled, throwing him across the room and sending him crashing into the chairs opposite.

Sevika’s attention fell to me, the anger softening into concern as she held my arms, pulling them away from my face and stroking my cheek with her hand. She wiped the blood from my eye, examining the slight cut his ring made against my skin as he back handed me. My wide eyes found hers, still in a shell-shocked kind of state. She frowned, seeing my fear, then turned back to him in a rage.

He was being lifted to his feet by two large men and forced into a kneeling position in front of Sevika, who grabbed him by the throat once more and raised her mechanical arm, ready to hit him once more.

“What happened here, then?” Silco soothed, emerging from the shadows and taking in the scene.

“He put his hands on her,” Sevika seethed, furious, eyes burning into him.

“Is that true?” Silco asked him, softly, holding out his hand to stop Sevika. She dropped the man, begrudgingly, stepping backwards. The man looked at Silco, and somehow seemed to know how dangerous he could be.

He shook his head.

Sevika stepped forward, firing up at once, but Silco held out his hand to her, stopping her in her tracks. She glared at the kneeling man, her anger palpable. She stood in front of me protectively, shielding me from view.

“Want to know a secret?” Silco leant down to the man kneeling at his feet, sneering at him, “The last man who lied to me lost his tongue.”

The man’s eyes widened in horror.

“I’ll give you one chance, boy,” Silco said softly, “were you really so brazen as to put your hands on my barmaid?”

“Yes… but it’s not like that, I swear,” he panted. “I was just saying hello, that’s all.” His eyes fell on me, pleading silently, but I didn’t notice. I just stared vaguely ahead, eyes focused on the glass covered floor.

Silco stood glaring at him, before moving his attention to me as he walked towards me, stopping to examine my appearance. He lifted my chin so I’d look at him, tears swimming in my eyes. His thumb traced the cut on my eye and he frowned, was it anger? With a sigh, he slid his hands through my hair once more and unfastened the mask. It fell to the floor.

“Speak,” he commanded, barely an inch from my face. The tension in the room was palpable—every stare burned into my skin. I fidgeted under his gaze, looking away. He gripped my face, staring into my eyes as if trying to read my thoughts—searching for any signs of deceit.. “I need the truth.”

With deep and shaky breaths, I begin recounting what happened.

“He said… he wanted to thank you for… for muzzling me,” my eyes fell to the floor, “that I should be seen, not heard… that it would make things easier for him.”

My gaze flickered to Sevika, who’s eyes were fixed on mine, horrified. I looked back to Silco who was still watching me closely. “I tried to get away. He hit me. He unbuckled his pants and…”

“Enough.” Silco’s voice was dark, heavy. His gaze hardened as he turned to face the kneeling man, his eyes full of the fear he tried to instil in me earlier. He seemed to realise my confession was his conviction as Silco’s fury landed on him.

I wasn’t sure who looked angrier, Silco, or Sevika. Her anger was the kind that exploded, would happily tear you to shreds without mercy… whereas Silco rage was a silent, calculating type. The scariest, in my opinion. It was almost as if he was plotting every move, assessing how to cause the most damage. His anger radiated from him.

He muttered something into Sevika’s ear and she nodded, turning to me and guiding me from the room.

“Seen and not heard, you say,” Silco soothed, gripping the man’s face in his hand, “just the way you like it.”

He nodded at his men and muttered, “His hands, too.”

Sevika pulled me back through to the main rooms. As we left, I heard a garbled yell and a deafening scream, as I looked back ever so briefly, I saw blood spurting across the room. Sevika wrapped her arm around me, guiding me outside, “Don’t look.”

I looked up at her, anger still clouding her face. The softness of earlier was nowhere to be seen. I nuzzled into her as she held her arm around my shoulder protectively.

“Lock up,” she said, voice commanding. She dug inside her pocket, throwing the keys at Thieram and guided me out of the door, into the lanes.

[wolfertinger]

Now Salem is complaining on his blog about how mean other trans men are to him about his fursona and use their “internalized dysphoria” against him and that’s why he’s not part of the transmasc community. The reason so many of these trans men he calls transphobic don’t like his art or attitude is we don’t actually want to see hyperfeminized FTMs — most of us don’t WANT big boobs or to be posed seductively wearing bikinis, we want to look like MEN. And then when a trans man says art like that makes him feel dysphoric and promotes the idea that trans men are still girls, Salem cries to his thousands of ass-patting followers about the mean transmascs who persecute him. It’s no wonder he has no community. Signed, a frustrated trans man.

tbh. i can see on both sides of this, personally. i could see salem's point, that yes, there is a fairly significant number of trans men with harmful ideas of what a "real" man is, including putting other transmascs down, if they are not masc "enough". for example, the kalvin garrah types, who think unless you 100% medically transition, go on the highest doses of t, and "act male", you are a "trender". when the reality is, AS IF every cisman is a pale, 6'0, jacked, chad jawlined dude bro. the reality is, men come in all shapes and sizes, and to insist there is a correct and incorrect way of being born and living your life, is not just wrong, but ignorant.

HOWEVER. salem's attitude toward transitioning men and mascs, is very clearly disdainful. of his few ocs, with gender affirming care. he retroactively gave one boobs again, and gave the other an hourglass figure, when he was triangular, before.

that in itself, is not inherently bad. tastes can change. but when you look into his posts. he shows, he either has very little understanding of what transitioning is, or how bad dysphoria can get, for other trans men. just because his dysphoria "went away" after, "he let his boobs hang," does not mean that is a capable fix, for transmascs with severe dysphoria. nor does he actually seem to understand HOW binders work, as he assumes they will be a sensory nightmare for him, and assumes that c cup breasts, are "too big for any binder".

similarly. he tried using his experiences as a broad brush, to claim that all trans men have the collective trauma of misogyny, and religious/sexual trauma. i understand, what he was trying to say. but ultimately what he says here is, "you are only scared of femininity, because you are traumatized, so you have to unlearn that" followed up with, positioning himself as some kind of figurehead of trans men, unable to recognize when HE oversteps, yet perfectly able to recognize when OTHERS, overstep his own boundaries.

and to be honest. i get constant messages from trans men now, expressing that salem doing his thing would be fine, but that his yapping about accepting femininity, is actively normalizing this line of thought with NON-trans men. meaning, harmful ideas of what it means to be a trans men are being internalized, and eventually just accepted as fact.

i have even received several pms, detailing how some trans men noticed an uptick of transphobic/detransitioning content, mostly with non-trans men fetishizing the """inherent femininity""" of trans men, their ability to get pregnant, or "forcefemming" content. (i have seen these things first hand. i cannot get screenshots. but i can personally say, it is fucking gross.) is this directly related to salem? i think he has a part in it, but he himself has stated, after he drew feminine trans men, many others began doing so, as well. salem, as a trans man, can treat himself and his characters, however. but the fact is, the more he speaks, the more he reveals how harmful his own internal thoughts are, toward himself and to others. and rather than putting himself in a position, where he speaks for all trans men. he needs to recognize his experience, is unique to HIM, not anyone else.

[kitty-valentinex]

Part 1 of my Choso x Reader

READ THE NEXT PART ON WATTPAD: My Stories - Wattpad

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'We're still going back to that haunted mansion after school, right?' Itadori whispers to you, giving you a cheeky grin. 

'Of course!' You reply back. 'We need to get our gains up somehow!' 

'That was a silly question.' Itadori admits, chuckling quietly. He knew you would always be down for an adventure.

'You bet!' you exclaim, forgetting the pressing need to keep your voice down. 

'Oi, Y/N, Itadori! Keep it down back there!' A stern voice calls out. 

It was Mr. Fushiguro, the substitute martial arts teacher that every student hated. He was bitter and pessimistic, which he never tried to hide. Most students avoided him, others tried to play pranks on him, but you always tried your best to get on his good side since, he was Megumi's - one of your closest friend and crush, dad. 

'Sorry, sir!' You and Itadori blurt out, not keen on starting anything with Mr. Fushiguro. 

'You're forgiven.' 

You wink at Itadori, relieved that you both have been let off the hook, to which he reciprocates.

The remainder of Mr. Fushiguro's lesson dragged on. The classroom was filled with silence as everyone worked away at their given assignments. You, however, were not concerned in the slightest about your academics. You planned to become a sorcerer, fighting spirits, curses and celestial beings alike. Your biggest goal, which yourself and Itadori both shared, was to eventually join the ESA - The Elite Sorcery Association, which only accepted S-tier sorcerers. To do so, you needed to get accepted into Jujutsu High and perform at least 1000 exorcisms before the time you graduated. You and Itadori had already started hunting down spirits and curses, in hopes that your accomplishments would increase your chances of getting into your dream college. 

As you fantasied about your future career, you were suddenly filled with delight upon hearing the long-awaited 'ding dong' of the bell, bringing the school day to a close. 

'Finally!' You jump in relief, stuffing all of your belongings into your backpack. 'Are you ready to go, Itadori?' 

'I was born ready!' Itadori answers, matching your excitement. 'Let's go!' 

As you and Itadori make your way towards the school's exit, you feel a light tap on your left shoulder, causing you to whirl around - it was Megumi. 

'Oh hey Megumi!' You cheer, giving him a high-five. 'How was physics class?' 

'It was fine.' Megumi replies 'How was martial arts?' 

'Man, your dad is so scary!' Itadori jumps in. 'I thought he was gonna kill us for talking!' 

'I wouldn't put it past him.' Megumi scoffs. 'Where were you two heading? You seemed eager to get out of school.' 

'We're going spirit hunting!' Itadori announces. 

'Shhh!' You hush him, putting your finger against his lips. 'We can't let anyone else hear about our new catch!' 

'You're right!' Itadori jolts as he covers his mouth. 

'Again?' Megumi cocks his eyebrow. 'You two should really try take your academics more seriously.' 

'I know, I know.. But we're gonna become Sorcerers! What do we need school for?' You retort, nudging Itadori.

'Ditto!' 

'Whatever you say...' Megumi doubles down. 'That reminds me Y/N. Would you be free to come down to my house on Friday to work on the chemistry project?' 

'Of course!' You instantly agree, barely able to contain your excitement. 

'Great,  I'll see you then.' Megumi gives you a warm smile before walking away. 

'Oh my gosh, Itadori... PINCH ME!' You squeal, burying your flustered face in your hands. 'MEGUMI JUST INVITED ME TO HIS HOUSE!' 

'He sure did!' Itadori rejoices along with you. 'But let's celebrate after we exorcise some curses.' 

'You bet!' You high-five Itadori as you make your way to the haunted mansion.  

When you and Itadori reached the mansion, you were both relieved to find it in the same state as the last time you visited it. The antiquated door was still unlocked, the 'Keep Out' tape hanging on by a thread, and the adrenaline you felt - it was all the same.  You glance at Itadori, who gives you an assuring nod. Filled with anticipation, the two of you leap over the barricades and rush inside, every cell in your body feeling electrified. 

'We made it in.. again!' You chuff, giving Itadori a thumbs up. 

'Y-yeah..' Itadori responds, sounding almost hesitant? 

'Is everything alright, Itadori?' You voice your concerns. 'You almost sound like you're... scared?' 

'Am not!' Itadori fires back. 'It's just...' 

'It's just what?' 

But before Itadori could answer your question, you feel an ominous presence looming over you. Petrified of what could possibly possess such a foreboding aura, you quickly lash out your Dao blade and whirl around, ready to face whatever cursed spirit was standing before you. But to your horror it wasn't just any cursed spirit, it was a high ranked celestial being - a ghoul - and one with strength beyond your capabilities at that. You could tell that much simply by his cursed energy. 

'Itadori!' you cry out. 'Let's get out of here! That's a ghoul!' 

'I-itadori?!' you call out again, but to your astonishment, he just stands there, captivated by the ghoul towering over him. 

Concerned, you follow Itadori's gaze and affix your eyes on the celestial being for the first time. For some odd reason, just like Itadori, you cannot seem to look away, not out of fear of seeing a ghoul for the first time, but because it was actually... beautiful, ethereal even. It looked nothing like how ghouls were portrayed in the books. The ghoul seemed so human-like, you questioned if your discernment was telling you the truth, but you knew you weren't mistaken once it launched at you with a bloodthirsty look in its eyes...