#He's going to think I was making fun of him! He's not going to want to marry me now!

[zyafics]

GIRL UNDER THE MOONLIGHT | Rafe Cameron

MASTERLIST (Oneshot)

Pairing – Rafe x Mermaid!Female Reader

Summary — Rafe invites you out to the Druthers for a sunrise event with Sarah and his friends.

Word Count — 2.3K

Content — fluff, protective!Rafe, Sarah being a good sister (and considerate to you!), you being clingy and possessive of Rafe, and suggestive scenes. A continuum of this and this and this!

“She can’t be a mermaid,” Sarah announces unexpectedly.

Rafe stops what he’s doing to turn to his sister, “What?”

“I poured some water on her skin,” she diligently informs, leaning against the doorframe of his office, her arms crossed over her chest with this vindicated look. "Nothing happened. Therefore, she can’t be a mermaid.”

Rafe scoffs at Sarah’s hypothesis. “What did you do? Chuck it at her?”

“Who do you think I am?” She rolls her eyes. “I just dropped some water on her… accidentally. I even brought towels—just in case.”

“A scientist,” Rafe drawls sarcastically, returning to his work.

“Precisely.”

Rafe had nearly forgotten that little quirk about you. It’s been almost a month since your arrival, and while there have been some occasional odd moments, nothing has proved evident about your supposed mermaid abilities. Finally, Rafe tucked it in the back of his head as nothing more than a phrase—a figment of your imagination, your fantasy transcending into the natural world.

Nothing more.

“Why is this relevant?” Rafe asks stodgily, flipping through the account books of Cameron Development, his fingers trailing the edge of the sheets.

“Because now you can bring her to the sunrise trip,” Sarah declares.

It takes Rafe a second to remember what she’s referring to. A summertime tradition where Sarah and Rafe host their friends on the Druthers, taking it out to sea to stay a night and wake up before sunrise.

Sarah had tested whether you were truly a mermaid to make you a candidate for the journey.

Rafe scoffs, “So that’s what that little experiment is for,”

“I had to,” she smiles sweetly, “Didn’t want her to turn into a fish when we’re out at sea. It’ll ruin the fun.”

“My fun or yours?”

Sarah doesn’t answer, giving him a knowing wink, before departing from his office.

That night, Rafe asks you. He was getting ready for bed, turning off all the lights, before you patter your way into his doorway, shyly inviting yourself into his room. Rafe no longer is surprised by your arrival, and with a wave of a hand, he beckons you forward and you sink in his arms.

You’re always giddily, full of soul, and when Rafe has you in his arms, it amplifies. You detail him about your day—the time spent along the coastline of his estate, traveling barefoot along the empty roads, interacting with land critters. You’re always so fascinated by the mundane, the landscape and sights, but the way you go about it—it’s a soothing sound, full of bursting energy.

He can, and has, fallen asleep to it.

Knowing you’re in a good mood, Rafe decides to pop the question. He tells you about the trip, taking his yacht out, and watching the flaming palette of orange-blue light in the morning sky. He thinks you’ll enjoy it; after all, you’re a self-proclaimed mermaid with a fascination for all human derivatives.

But, for the first time, you say no.

“Why not?” Rafe asks as you lay on his chest, shaking your head at the invitation. Your nails are tracing the fabric of his shirt, drawing doodles in similar manners you would do at the bottom of the ocean floor.

“I don’t want to,” your voice is quiet and tiny as if you don’t like the idea of saying no to him.

“It’s just for one night,” Rafe assures. Perhaps you’ve gotten used to the stability of the Tannyhill estate.

You persist, declining the offer.

“It’ll be fun,” Rafe reasons, but there’s a bitterness in the way he’s pushing the topic. Truthfully, if you don’t attend, Rafe doesn’t have much incentive to join either. Yes, it’s been a long-standing tradition, but he wants to experience it with you. Ever since you entered into his life, he’s been feeling that way.

Yet, he knows he has to go. Sarah doesn’t know how to drive the Druthers, and she’s been looking forward to this all summer. Despite their bickering, he doesn’t want to let her down.

You shake your head quietly, slouching your shoulders inwards, making yourself small. It’s as if your body is physically recoiling at denying Rafe.

He doesn’t know what’s going on. You never do this. You’ve always been pliant, and obedient, agreeing to every little concoction he conspires. It’s one of the many things he adores about you; yet, for the first time, you’re being wayward.

“Are you afraid of the water?” Rafe asks gently, stroking the curve of your spine with his finger, in a way that makes you relax your muscles. He accidentally hooks it underneath the shirt—his shirt—drawing it up to expose your skin; soft, tender, and perfect.

Sarah had been right. Normally, you don’t like wearing clothes. Only when Rafe asks you to whenever you go out together, but preferably, you choose to remain as close to naked as possible. It’s too hot, you told him. You’ve gone years without clothes, and the actual barrier produces heat. The only exception, however, is if you get to wear his.

Again, you don’t answer. Your fingers coils around the loose fabric of his shirt, bundling it into a fist, as if you’re frightened by the suggestion. Rafe sees it—feels it—emulating from your body, and he stops for a second and relinquishes his touch.

“We’re just going to be on the boat. You don’t have to go into the water if you don’t want to,” Rafe reassures, hoping his words soothe something over you. He knows he’s been persistent, but he truly doesn’t want to leave you alone—not even for one night. “I’ll protect you.”

Normally, under that advisement, it would palliate all concerns; and would coaxe you into an affirmative yes. But you say nothing, and finally, with a tick of agitation pulsing through him, Rafe gently grabs your chin and lifts your tender gaze to his.

“Don’t you trust me?”

Your teeth sink into your bottom lip; plumped, fresh, coasted with this perpetual wetness that makes Rafe burn with desire. And you nod your head, listening, but not actively responding.

His thumb traces your lower lip, pulling down the plumpness and forcing it to split apart. Your eyes meet Rafe with a tenderness, almost hunger, while your breathing slightly stills.

You still don’t answer him.

And this time, Rafe decides to let it go.

“If you don’t want to go, you don’t have to.”

This should make you happy, for him to drop it, but the coated disappointment in his tone causes your stomach to twist. You don’t like upsetting him, don’t like the idea that you’re not meeting the standard and his needs.

“But you’ll still go?” You ask softly, gently, like an ocean breeze.

“I have to. Sarah doesn’t know how to drive,”

Your brows pinch, furrowing together. “Will there be other females there?”

“Yeah,” Rafe nods. “Some of Sarah’s girl friends.”

You purse your lips, eyes squinting. You don’t like that. You’re possessive about your mate. You understand Sarah’s his sister, and that company is natural, but with other women? Unrelated to him? It’s wrong.

You can’t stand it.

“Okay,” you murmur softly, conceding in a way that Rafe likes. “I’ll come.”

The next morning, everyone’s at the docks of the Tannyhill estate, loading onto the yacht. Sarah brought a variety of fruits and snacks, while Kelce and Topper helped her and her friends abroad. They climb up the slippery steps and enter into the cockpit, settling with their things.

You stay close to Rafe, timid among the new crowd.

Out at sea, everything is smooth sailing. Today’s a beautiful day, with steady waves, and it’s meant to last the entire week. Rafe parks the Druthers off the coast, where you can’t see Kildare anymore, save for a small coastal cove that’s within view. The boat gently bobs against the rolling tides, and the sounds of Sarah and her friends are screeching with enthusiasm as they take a swim around the yacht.

You watch from above the deck, your focus on the distance, staring at the island cove.

When Rafe slips out of the cockpit, his hand slides over your waist, snapping you out of your concentration. You lift your gaze to meet his, and the furrowed crease between your brows disappears, shoulders relaxing upon his touch.

Rafe offers you a rare, gentle smile. “You wanna swim?”

You shake your head, “Not with them.”

He likes the fact that you don’t entertain his friends, that you want him and only him. “You were waiting for me?”

You nod, leaning your head against his shoulders. “You looked busy,”

“You could’ve told me,” Rafe declares, “Better yet, you could’ve joined me.”

You huff softly, amused, as Rafe pulls you closer to his side. Again, he smells the scent of the sea—but it’s fragrance, exuding from you. His eyes drift to the direction you were looking at, “What's that?”

“Nothing,” you hum, but there’s a pang of longing. You tip your chin skyward to find his gaze once more. “Can we go inside now?”

A couple of hours later, Sarah’s right. Again. The whole crew is having dinner on the main deck, and someone accidentally spills a cup of water on your arm, but nothing happened. Rafe was ready to see something—a twinkle, a glow, or a glimmer—but it was absolute zilch. One of her friends who did it apologizes, and you chuckle softly, wiping it away with a towel, not a care in the world.

He truly doesn’t understand this mermaid business. He really doesn’t.

Maybe you’re someone who loves the sea so much, you claim it as part of your identity. You want to be closer to the ocean, to the marines, to the corals and the sea creatures that the title is merely an expression of self, rather than a true folktale.

You can’t be a mermaid, Rafe reasons, you don’t even have a tail.

Later, everyone shuffles off to their individual cabins. Rafe claimed the biggest one—because of course he did. When you step out of the small bathroom, in nothing but a large shirt of his, Rafe swallows thickly. Because most times, when you come into his room, it’s night, punctured with darkness saved for a glow of moonlight through his curtains.

Now, the cabin lights remain perpetually on, at low brightness, and it allows Rafe to see everything. He’s reminded of the tidbit from Sarah—how you hate panties—and his eyes drop to your thighs, where the shirt casually brushes mid-level, almost revealing more. His heart beats heavily, and you slowly climb onto the bed, wrapping yourself around him.

You fall asleep on his chest, as you normally do, and the weight is like a natural blanket to him. Something he knows, expects, and remembers. It tames all the raging emotions inside of him, silences all the busy thoughts, and hones in completely and only you.

During the duration of the night, while the yacht slowly rocks against the stronger currents, his hand falls on your back protectively.

Until it doesn’t.

Something doesn’t feel right; missing. His eyes slowly blink awake, drowsiness coating his features, while his eyes adjust to the low cabin lights. His hands weaved through thin air.

You’re gone.

With the door of the cabin wide open.

Consciousness strikes Rafe, and he jumps out of bed, rushing out of the cabin, and following the hallway lights to the deck. Slowly, with the rocking of the tides, Rafe climbs up the stairs, to the main deck, and finds you in the stark darkness.

Standing on the ledge.

You’re at the gap where the railing ends, allowing an opening to jump to the swim platform. You’re standing dangerously close to it, his shirt flapping against the wind, a loose hand wrapped on the safety handle.

Rafe calls your name, but you don’t turn around. He suspects you’re sleepwalking, entranced in a dream, that led you up here. Ocean calling you home, it’s evidence for his theory.

But you’re not a mermaid and you can’t survive that leap.

Cautiously, Rafe approaches you, slowly, tenderly, calling your name. He’s afraid of waking you, afraid of startling you from your dream and causing you to release and fall. With each step closer, he hears the thumping of his own heartbeat and the prize within reachable fingertips.

He’s almost there.

He’s so close.

Until you jump.

Rafe screams as he reaches the ledge, his eyes adjusting to the dark currents of the sea. Nothing is visible, not a stream of light underneath, except for the glowing reflection of the full moon bathing the dark waters.

He’s calling your name, again and again, trying to see if you’ll surface to the sound of his voice.

But nothing happens.

Rafe’s already taking off his shoes, taking off his shirt. He’s gearing up to jump in after, especially if you don’t surface within the next minute.

He’s praying. A godless man as himself, who doesn’t believe in a higher power, is begging for you to come up unscathed.

But he still sees nothing.

Until something cuts the waves, a sharp prodding sculpture that slices through the harsh currents.

A tail?

He isn’t sure if his eyes are deceiving him, especially with the drowsiness of his sleep, but he sees another cut in the ocean, this time paired with an iridescent color of a fin, scaly and glimmering.

He calls out your name once more, a little timid, a little frightened.

And you raise to the surface.

Attached to a long, kaleidoscopic tail, with skin full of scales, climbing up your shoulders and throat, you’re flipping through the water; your smile bright, eager, and real.

Rafe breathes out a sigh of disbelief.

“Holy shit,”

IMPORTANT INFO ABOUT TAGLIST AND UPDATES: if you want to be notified about all my fics and updates, follow @zyafics-library and turn on notifications! however, if you want to be added to this specific taglist, let me know (but to remain tagged, you must interact with the posts).

TAGLIST FOR MERMAID!READER: @nemesyaaa / @promiscuousg1rl / @fullofsunshineandloneliness / @erwinsvow / @perfectprettypisces / @immalosersblog / @carolinevoight / @drewswife / @skye-44 / @ggraycelynn / @tinythebunni / @rain-likes-purple / @drewstarkeyspecs / @lolasangelz / @chalahyung01 / @waywardalpacaoctopus / @jjasmiineee / @chelzaa / @tinythebunni / @rain-likes-purple / @walkingwithoutreason / @mega-kittyglitter-1 / @m1-na / @mattyskies / @thatawkwardlittlefangirl

[okwonyo]

DRUNK–DAZED ✴️ when they are drunk

𝗢𝗥──────── 𝗂 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅 𝗂𝗍, 𝗆𝗒 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽’𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝖺 𝖽𝖺𝗓𝖾. 𝗂’𝗆 𝖺𝖽𝖽𝗂𝖼𝗍𝖾𝖽, 𝗂 𝗋𝖾𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗂𝗍.

𝖲𝖧𝖮𝖶𝓉𝖨𝖬𝖤 𖹭 drunk!enhypen x female!reader 13OO established relationship 𝒊 skinship kissing alcohol

❛ 姫　❜ this has been on my mind for a while now, it’s not what i wanted it to be but it’s fun nonetheless 😚 @bywonyo 寝るんだ ..

reblogs⠀⠀ꢾ꣒⠀ feedbacks please ˊᯅˋ quotidian 。

HEESEUNG

it is not your first time seeing your boyfriend desperately drunk. it is not the last time either— that is for sure. however, no matter how many times you experience this side of him, you can’t help but giggle each time.

“heeseung,” you call him, although his doe eyes are already fixated on you. he doesn’t respond, unable to due to the big smile drawn on his face. he looks like he is waiting for you to continue. “are you drunk?”

the answer is more than obvious. but it isn’t what you are waiting for, absolutely not. there is always something more.

the man sitting in front of you parts his mouth, about to give a response to your question. he is close from forming proper words to respond to you. but soon enough, he forgets it halfway and breaks into a fit of giggles instead.

you are quick to join him in his sudden burst. you let him pull you closer to himself, hiding his face in the crook of your neck while he laughs.

JAY

a sudden pressure on your body makes you jolt awake, aggressively dragging you out of your slumber.

you look around. the ongoing television makes you understand that you are not in your room. perhaps, without meaning to, you fell asleep as you were waiting for your lover to come back home.

the scent of his cologne mixed with the faint smell of liquor as well as the nose rubbing against your neck’s skin tells you that he is home already.

“honey,” you start. he hums, sounding like a cat, when you pat the back of his head. to get ever more comfortable, the man hugs your waist before you continue, “you’re heavy.”

he doesn’t move. “you were waiting for me,” he affirms, deciding to ignore you by starting a new conversation. “i love you.”

JAKE

you were a tad taken aback the first time you saw your boyfriend getting drunk. him getting progressively more sad and teary made you feel the same way that watching a movie would do. the dramatic addition to it was the ending; him being a sobbing mess into your arms.

it is natural that you get a little worried whenever he goes out without you. which is why he always promises you that he won’t drink too much— and you make his friends swear to watch after him.

it never works out. the usual course of his nights out ends up with him weeping on the phone, asking for you to come pick him up quickly and making your heart beat with worry.

“baby, why are you crying?” you ask him, you gently shake his head cupped in your hands as do so. he sits in the chair in front of you. he always looks lovely when he cries, you can’t stop thinking about it when you wipe his tears, standing between his legs.

his voice is wobbly whereupon he speaks, “because you weren’t there,” his grip on your shirt gets tighter. “and i missed you.”

you coo, rubbing the skin under his eyes to make the tears go away. you lean in, “but i’m here now.”

his eyes grow wide, the realization hits him just when you say it and he sobs. he gives you a bone breaking hug and puts his face in your chest.

SUNGHOON

it doesn’t take much for his hands to be all over you. even while sober, he is a very touchy boyfriend. and despite what he looks at first he loves to touch you, he loves to touch youa in public.

after a few drinks, he is even more touchy than he usually is— saying a lot would be an understatement. he doesn’t only want to become one with you but he refuses to let you go anywhere as well.

“hoon,” the man doesn’t need to turn his head to focus on you, he hasn’t stopped looking at you since he pulled you on his laps a few moments ago, “i need to go.”

there wouldn’t be the need to announce that to him if his grip on your hip wasn’t so strong. you are surprised when it gets somehow stronger, “to go where?”

you smile at his genuinely worried tone. his eyes are a bit sleepy because of the alcohol and the way his eyebrows shoot up makes you weak. “to the bathroom.”

he stays quiet for a moment, the loud music fills the silence between the two of you during the time he thinks about whether he should let you go or not. “i’ll go with you.”

SUNOO

it is impressive, really, how good he can take alcohol. for the entire time where you have known each other and been together, you don’t think you ever saw him getting drunk.

at the end of every party you attend, the one who is more drunk than the other is always you— and tonight, you decided to do everything to see your boyfriend more than just tipsy.

he takes the bet. he stays still, maintaining eye contact while you hold his chin. his gaze is teasing, challenging. you don’t tear your eyes off of him either as he downs the liquor, ignoring his adam apple that you want to admire so badly.

a drop of his drink falls on the side of his mouth, running down his chin. you wipe it off with your thumb before speaking, “are you drunk now?”

he thinks for a moment, his eyes follow you when you put the empty glass on the table next to you both.

“no,” he says and you can’t help but groan. “but i think that you feeding me makes me feel a lot of things.”

JUNGWON

the best time to try new things, according to him and his decisions, is when he is drunk out of his mind.

therefore, he sits next to you with the most serious expression he could muster. he runs his hand through his hair before starting, “do you like raisins?”

you furrow your brows, both confused by his question and about how he looks so cute all the time. there is a smile on your face when you answer, “yes, i do.”

that’s what he wanted to hear, his grin says it all. he puts his arm around you shoulder and gifts closer in a smooth motion, “what about a date?”

honestly, you don’t know if it’s because he is close enough for you to count his eyelashes or because you are also a bit tipsy but a laugh escapes from the barrier of your lips before you can notice it.

he doesn’t pull away or seem offended at all. after a long silence, he starts to giggle— his dimples get more obvious as he tells you, “you are so pretty.”

RIKI

he has been craving your lips ever since his first drink. his mind the tendency of voguing on the thought of kissing you as soon as the liquor connects with his tongue.

therefore, instead of telling you about it, he decides to corner you between the wall and himself. he makes sure his body is pressed into yours enough to make you unable to leave.

“kiss me,” his voice is low as he tells you. his eyes are dazed, focused on the pink shade of your lips while a smirk dances on his.

you giggle, “riki,” he is already halfway through your lips, the call of his name makes him halt in his movements, “no.”

he doesn’t move for a bit, then he grins, “why? you got a boyfriend?” there is a drunk sincerity in his voice, he has forgotten he is your boyfriend. “he doesn’t need to know, baby, nothing at all.”

he kisses you before you can protest. “no—” you smile against his mouth when he kisses you. “riki, you’re—” another kiss. “too drunk!”

taglist open + net— @sgz-net

[hyunebunx]

˖˙ ᰋ ── highlighter? what's that?

﹙ʚɞ˚﹚. genre: fluff

﹙ʚɞ˚﹚. a/n: very much inspired by the video hyun did with risabae <3 very self indulgent; hyun's a cutiepie and i wanna squish his cheeks. i hope you enjoy!! <3

“Baby, what is this?”

Hyunjin looks up from his phone in wonder, raising both eyebrows as you thrust a pink, round, and strange-looking sponge in his face.

He pauses, gaze finding yours, scoffing as your smile widens.

“A beauty blender. How stupid do you think I am?”

You can't help but laugh, putting the item away to cradle his face and place a soft kiss on his forehead. “Stupid isn't a word I actively associate with you, my love.”

You can feel him melt at your words, and as he leans into the touch to capture your lips, you pull back to get another product, as committed to the bit as one could be.

“What about this?”

Hyunjin is confused, a pout settling over his pillowy lips. He studies the pencil in your hand, stopping at the blunt tip that can barely tell him what color it's supposed to be anymore.

“Is this one of my drawing pencils? But I don't remember owning such a shade.” He takes it from your hand to have a closer look, studying it curiously. “A crayon?”

“A crayon, baby?”

He nods, smiling brightly. “I didn't know you got back into coloring! I'm so glad!”

He's too cute to disagree with, so your only response is a smile full of fondness as you turn away from him once again, setting the lip liner aside.

“What are you doing?”

“I saw this on tiktok.” Hyunjin groans loudly, letting his head fall back against the couch in the most dramatic manner he could muster. “It’s looked like so much fun! All you have to do is name these products you've seen me use hundreds of times.”

Your boyfriend shakes his head, staring at the ceiling in contemplation. “Nothing from that app can be fun.”

“So, you're not having fun?” You pout, trying to meet his eyes and weaken his defences.

Silence greets your question for a few heartbeats which aids you in hearing the gears in Hyunjin’s head working overtime, pondering over his next words.

Eventually, he sighs and grumbles under his breath. “I didn't say that...”

When Hyunjin returns to sitting properly, you hold up a familiar product he is bound to guess even with his eyes closed.

“That's lipstick. Your favorite one. You love peppering kisses all over my face while wearing it just so it would stain my skin.”

Your grin is so wide that your cheeks start to hurt, happiness contagious as it pulls the same smile from your previously grumpy boyfriend. “Great job, baby!” You clap, reaching out to run your hand through his short hair, the texture that has him resembling a hedgehog pleasant on your skin. As expected, he leans into your touch once again, like a moth drawn to a flame, or a cat craving affection after a whole day spent apart. At this point, you’re sure he’s not even aware of how often he does it.

“I got it right.” He mumbles, grabbing your other hand before you can run away to plant soft kisses all over your knuckles. “Now where’s my reward?”

“A reward?” You ask, raising a curious brow while your hand stills on his head. “What do you want?”

“You.”

Your heart flutters, somehow still not used to his characteristic boldness that never shies away from expressing what he desires, making you go weak in the knees without fail.

You weren’t done with him yet, but Hyunjin did have a point – his patience deserved a reward after getting roped into another one of your schemes, even though you could always tell he loved your spontaneous mind and silly ideas.

Without a word, you dip down to plant a sweet kiss on his awaiting lips, one that lingers for as long as you’re both willing to get lost in each other. Which is a long time, an eternity if only your need for air didn’t butt in every few minutes to ruin the moment.

His strong arms circle your waist, keeping you in place as he kisses all of your thoughts away. His cheeky tongue caresses your bottom lip as if politely asking for entrance. You comply, only for a fleeting moment, allowing him to taste you as your hands squish his cheeks together, unable to help yourself.

When you pull away, you’re both a little out of breath, lips red and slick with each other’s saliva. Hyunjin’s looking up at you after resting his chin above your stomach, eyes full of the love only you can ignite in him, and the sight doesn’t fail to pull on your sensitive heartstrings.

Gently, with utmost care, you wipe at his bottom lip, causing his hold on you to tighten and pull you even closer, almost seating you on his lap.

Somehow, you manage to twist your body in his embrace and reach for the next product, still not willing to give up on your game.

“Baby,” you coo, caressing his jaw, “do you recognize this one?”

Releasing you, Hyunjin reaches for the small product that looks even tinier in his big hands, inspecting it thoroughly. He’s turning it around, analyzing it from every angle, before finally figuring out how to open it. A gasp escapes his full lips as a cloud of glitter greets him, the particles flying in his face like they too longed for a chance at his love, to touch and kiss his face like you were just doing minutes prior.

“It’s so shiny.” He mumbles, in awe of all the colorful hues he can see in the white powder. “Is this the thing you put on your eyes? What was it called?”

You can’t help but laugh, your heart growing in size at the adorable look on his face, the furrow between his eyebrows you had to hold yourself back from kissing away. “I guess you can use it on your eyes as well, yeah.”

“It’s a highlighter, Hyun.”

“Highlighter?” Hyunjin whispers, still as lost as ever, searching his mind for all the memories in which he’s witnessed you use this thing.

You nod, grabbing his hand to help him dip his fingers in, gently. “See how it sparkles?”

Hyunjin is mesmerized, staring at the swatch you just did on his hand with the curiosity of a little kid that just received a new, shiny toy he couldn’t bring himself to tear out of the package yet.

The sight is so endearing that your heart threatens to jump out of your chest at any second, leaving you behind in favor of finding a new home among Hyunjin’s other organs, deeming him more worthy. That’s why, you let her dictate your next move, leaning down to sweetly peck his lips once again, a kiss he returns automatically.

Now, he’s frowning because of a whole other reason, holding himself back from chasing after your lips. “I got it wrong though?”

You shake your head, beaming. “It doesn’t matter. Your cuteness deserves a reward either way.”

The last thing you see is his bright smile before you turn your back to him again, reaching for the eyelash curler that is bound to give him some trouble.

Once Hyunjin’s doe eyes settle on the small piece of metal in your hands, his smile vanishes as an emotion resembling fear clouds the chocolate color.

“Absolutely not! Get that torture device away from me!”

Oh, how much you loved your boyfriend and his dramatic antics.

[goreandbunnies]

❝ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚎𝚛!𝚂𝚞𝚔𝚞𝚗𝚊 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚗𝚜 ➺

Inspired by @sweetlandspos ‘s fanart ♡

Part 1 | Part 2

Dealer!Sukuna who’s a notorious frat boy on campus. Everyone goes to him for a fix or some fun. He’s invited to every single party, that’s where you meet him.

Dealer!Sukuna who notices you after a moment and sees how lonely you seem to be, on your own, in a corner, so he approaches you, smirking, to offer you something to have some fun.

Dealer!Sukuna who immediately loves how nervous you are around him. He responds with teasing to every small shake of your head when he proposes you share a joint with him.

Dealer!Sukuna who still places the joint between his plump lips, dragging your attention on how soft and warm they look. The corner of that damn mouth slightly tilts upward, causing you to look away, blushing.

Dealer!Sukuna who hands you his pink lighter and asks you for help lighting up his joint. You fumble with it, struggling to spark a flame with trembling hands when you eventually succeed and lift it to his face.

Dealer!Sukuna who wraps both his big, warm hands around yours and brings the lighter to the end of his joint. His eyes are on yours, observing your reactions as he inhales a couple of times, holding onto your hand still.

Dealer!Sukuna who eventually lets go, reluctantly, but stays next to you, unable to go back to the rest of the crowd. He leans against the wall next to you, making small talk but his presence is overwhelming. He’s so tall, much taller than you and impressive, you wonder why he’s even talking to you.

You’ve heard about Dealer!Sukuna before when your dorm mate asked around for some weed. His reputation precedes him. He’s an asshole to most people, including his inner circle. That’s why you don’t understand why he’s being nice to you.

You notice how he licks his lips after each drag he takes, blowing the smoke in your direction. His oddly coloured crimson eyes never leave you, even when someone comes by and asks him for party goods.

Dealer!Sukuna who tells him to fuck off, wanting to continue his little observation in peace. He blows another cloud of spicy smoke your way before nodding at the stairs, inviting you to follow him.

Clutching your red cup, you wonder if you should answer the siren’s call or not. As tempting and luring as he is, you can’t bring yourself to follow him. He notices how torn you are but remain by the wall, tearing your eyes away from him.

Dealer!Sukuna who walks over to you and gently lifts your chin to make you look up at him. You’re the first not to beg him for even some of his attention and he fucking loves it. He loves how preppy and innocent you look, different from the girls who he usually hangs out with. You’re a shiny new toy and he has every intention to keep you to himself, no matter how much time and effort it takes.

“I wont bite, you know,” he eventually tells you, teasing again. “Unless… that’s your thing, maybe?” His wolfish grin widens as your heart beats harder in your chest.

He’s everything you’ve been taught to stay away from. The tattoos, the pink hair, the reputation, the drugs - forbidden yet you’re feeling like a moth to a flame, willingly getting too close just to feel its warmth for a second.

“Why won’t you get upstairs with me? I’ll make it worth your time,” he nods confidently, his thumb gently caressing your jaw.

“No, thank you, I-“ you stutter, struggling to maintain eye contact with him. “I have to go home,” you want to put some distance between the two of you, but the wall behind you keeps you trapped against him.

“Need a ride maybe?” He tilts his head slightly to the side, looking like he’s deciding how to devour you.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” you sneak a peek at his reddened eyes. He’s past high, probably a little drunk as well, no matter how composed and confident he looks.

“Come on, you gotta give me something,” his eyes trail along your neck and spontaneously, he takes a strand of your hair, twirling it gently around his finger. You don’t know how to breathe anymore, how to move or even what he asked you three seconds ago. “At least gimme me your name, baby,” his voice is pure lust and the slight desperation in it almost gets to you.

Dealer!Sukuna who watches you hurry outside with flushed cheeks, a little disappointed he couldn’t get more out of you. He doesn’t mind. He looks forward to seeing you again, the idea of chasing after you turning his curiosity into a blooming obsession.

Dividers by @cafekitsune and @firefly-graphics

Copyright © goreandbunnies 2024-2025, all rights reserved, do not repost, use or plagiarize

[rechvlle]

۶ৎ sticky like lipgloss ₊˚♡

ᝰ.ᐟ synopsis ── after a particularly intense fight with your boyfriend, thanos, you seek out the comfort of his best friend, nam-gyu, which, not only is wrong—at least to thanos—but it ends up wrong, too.

♡ featuring ── thanos/choi su-bong (player 230) x female!reader x nam-gyu (player 124) ♡ word count ── 3.4k ♡ content warnings ── college au (they have money and aren't in debt, not as bad, anyway) ◞ established relationship ◞ cheating ◞ soft!namgyu ◞ desperate!needy!reader ◞ slight (more implied) emotional abuse ◞ manipulation ◞ toxic relationship(s) ◞ impulsive decisions ◞ kissing ◞ mentions of make-up sex ◞ vaginal fingering ◞ vaginal penetration ◞ pet names (baby, sugar, etc.) ◞ praying mantis position ◞ downward doggy position ◞ safe sex ◞ slight praise kink ◞ lowkey vanilla ◞ spanking ◞ mentions of anal ◞ coincidental creampie ♡ author note ── me after finishing fanfic after months of deleting and rewriting over ten…? i mean, this is a one-shot so… anyway tho, the title has kinda no correlation to the fic, i just needed a title guys, don't sue me :-( anyway, had fun writing this ^_^ tell me if I missed any tags…

What could—no, what is worse: being held at gunpoint, fearing for your life, or having an argument with your boyfriend? Being held at gunpoint; the choice is obvious and it isn’t arguable, it’s quite objective. Whilst fearing for your life is truly terrifying and will, most certainly, cause trauma to one another, your body simply cannot tell the difference between such.

It’s pitiful, truly. In a way, you’re too attached to your drugged-up, junkie-ass boyfriend, so due to the amount of love you have for him, whenever the two of you argue, it’s as if you—and your body—cannot tell the difference in a near-death experience versus arguing or being yelled at by your boyfriend. You are truly pathetic.

It’s sickening at how easily you and Su-bong, or well, Thanos, fight.

Oddly enough, not too soon after he started his rapping career, he wanted you to call him Thanos. You two fought about that—except, he started the fight. He thought that you didn’t love him because you weren’t going to familiarly call him Thanos instead of Su-bong. You obliged in the end, though; you didn’t want him to think the worst of you.

You were addicted to his touch, his love, his affection—anything and everything that he would be willing to give you—so whenever he’s upset, you need to make him happy, to resolve things as quickly as possible. So, sex was common after fights. Su-bong never rejected the offer, he wanted it, too—almost always, anyway.

Except, this time, he wasn’t going to fold so easily.

“Come on, baby! We both know what happened,” Su-bong said, gripping your forearm tightly with his left arm.

His nails dug into your skin, leaving small crescent marks; expression guarded, angry, almost hateful. Su-bong slightly shook you, not hard enough or just enough to make you dizzy, but the right amount to make you annoyed.

“Su-bong, I didn’t—“

The hand that held your arm shot up to your face, interrupting you with his index finger to your lips.

“Ah-ah, not my name,” Su-bong spoke in a sing-song voice, almost mocking.

“Thanos,” you started—his face turned towards more approving, but you could still see (and sense) his anger. “I wasn’t flirting with anyone.”

Right. He’s upset, no, furious, at you for “cheating on him,” because you “flirted” with someone else (you asked for a pen during class). And of course, like the “professional accuser” that he is—and due to you and him having that class together—he took your words as flirting.

Because 1) why would you need anything else from anyone other than him? Is he not good enough for you? 2) you don’t need to talk to anyone else other than him, let alone ask for something. It’s disrespectful, you’re cheating, a liar.

“Don’t lie, now. You didn’t need to ask him,” Su-bong—no, Thanos—whined. He pulled his hand away from your face, rolling his eyes in the process.

“It was just for a pen. You know I’m not like that!” You almost screamed, you were already breathing pretty hard; you were overwhelmed, overstimulated.

Thanos is high, of course, so there’s no telling how extreme his reactions will be. Once, he slammed you against the wall, even smacked you, but nothing too fatal or hurtful. Maybe.

“Y/N, I’m bein’ pretty fuckin’ lenient with you right now,” he scoffed, rolling his eyes, yet again.

“Thanos, I’m sorry, really! It didn't mean anything!” You pleaded with him, your hands coming to grasp his arms, biting your lip.

You gave Thanos your signature look: seductive eyes, bitten bottom lip, the touches—oh, he loved it all. Yet, to him, at this moment, he doesn't feel any sort of sympathy for you, he doesn't feel aroused or turned on by this. He finds it too serious—especially when he’s high out of his mind, much like how he is now.

“Nuh-uh, baby, that isn't going to work on me right now.”

You could, in a way, feel your heart drop. What did he mean it wasn't going to work? Doesn't he see how stressed out you are right now? How needy—in a way—that you are right now?

“Thanos, please, let me make it up to you!” You could feel the tears brimming in your eyes, the pouty, desperate look you had on your face.

“Nah, I know what you’re trying to do. Cheat me out like a whore, huh?” He pulled away from your touch, shoving you in the process.

“Why don’t you go to that bitch you asked to borrow from?” He looked at you, almost crazed, gripping your arms now, hard, his nails, yet again, digging into your skin. It was painful.

Your mouth was agape as he continued to yell at you, hurling a few insults your way: “Fuckin’ whore,” “dumb bitch,” would be a few.

You couldn't take it. You were borderline hyperventilating, stressed, and hurt. Why would Thanos think of you as a cheater? You’ve never done anything that could prove you to be one; never cheated or lied to do something with another. He has, yet you trust him.

As soon as you got out of Thanos’ grip, you bolted out of your guy’s dormitory. You could smell the weed on him, the redness in his eyes told you everything you needed to know.

Normally, you didn't care if he was high or got high, as long as it wasn't hardcore drugs—although, he lied every time you asked, always saying it was weed. You knew better, you’re smarter than that, yet you still trusted him.

Now, though? You’re upset and hurt, and who was the first person that came to your mind? Nam-gyu. Every time you and Thanos fought, he was always there for you to cheer you up, make you feel better, and reassure you when Thanos didn't (or wouldn’t).

The knocks against Nam-gyu’s door were insistent; your knuckles rasped against the wood of it. You stood outside for a few seconds, waiting, your arms slightly crossed, your hands holding onto your elbows.

Nam-gyu opened the door, rubbing his eyes for a moment, his gaze focusing on you.

“Y/N? What’re you doin’ here?” He asked, grabbing one of your arms, and pulling you inside.

“It—he…” You couldn't get your words out, just shaking your head. Nam-gyu understood, though.

“‘Ey, it’s okay, c’mere,” he pulled you in for a hug, nothing tight, though. “Just tell me what happened.”

Of course, you did, through a series of sobs and pauses, but he gave his advice.

“It’ll be okay, Y/N. Look, I’m sure he didn't mean to hurt your feelings,” he held you against his chest, sitting down on the couch in his living area.

You sniffle, nodding, your hands draped around his neck. He could feel your cold hands against his warm neck. Nam-gyu always smelt of some sort of musk and drugs, dirty. In a way, it was a very comforting smell to you.

He rubbed your lower back before patting your head, running his hands through your hair, rubbing your scalp, too. It was always so comforting to you: his touches, the way he softly kisses your head, rubs your body, makes you feel so good.

“Nam-gyu, can you…?” You stopped yourself before you could finish your sentence, a bit unsure of how to word your question.

“Yeah? What is it?”

You stayed silent for a moment before looking up at him. You spoke softly to him, “Make me feel better, please.”

Nam-gyu was a bit stunned; you’re Thanos’ girl, not his, not Nam-gyu’s. Yet ever since Thanos introduced you two, Nam-gyu has always had a thing for you: checking you out, those subtle touches and “platonic,” “reassuring” kisses that he’d give you, the soft and sweet way he’d talk to you.

In a way, he wanted to take you as his own. He knows that Thanos would be upset, angry, really fucking angry. Yet he can’t help himself to these thoughts, these sick, dirty thoughts.

Nam-gyu quickly recovered, though, a smirk on his face.

“Yeah, baby, just let me take care of you,” his voice was sickeningly sweet, twisted, a little.

Nam-gyu cradled you, picking you up in one swing, your hands still wrapped around his neck, his hands holding you by your waist and your butt. He kept you close, walking you to his bedroom. (His dorm mates were out, no need to worry.)

He sat you down on the edge of his bed, just your feet sticking out. His sheets were rough, nothing like the silk you sleep on in your room. You didn't mind it, though.

You know it’s wrong; just before leaving, you told Thanos that you’d never cheat, yet here you are. Although, a part of you didn't care. Thanos was being a dick, a complete douche. Maybe all you need is a little break from his toxic cock, maybe you need to try his friend’s.

Nam-gyu pulled your shirt up and over your head, the cute, lace, pink bra you normally wear fully exposed to him. He smirked in response, wrapping one of his arms around your upper back, pushing your body up just enough to unclasp your bra, pulling the straps of your bra down, and pulling it off of you.

You felt fully exposed. You’ve only ever been this close to Thanos and an ex from high school. Nam-gyu would be the third person to ever be this close, this intimate.

He let go of her body, letting her body hit the bed.

“You know, you’re beautiful, Y/N,” he spoke, leaning into your neck, peppering kisses down your neck, collarbone, and then to your chest. His mouth found the areola of your breast, licking and sucking on your nipple. His right-hand kneaded at her breast, sending stimulants.

You softly moaned at the sensation. It wasn't as intense as rubbing your clit would be or penetration, but it was still stimulating to get you wet (and ready).

Nam-gyu continued to suck at your breast while his left-hand unbuttoned your jean shorts, slipping his hand through the rough fabric of the denim and the same, lace fabric—of your matching bra—of your panties.

You sucked in a breath, your corresponding hand coming to grab at the one inside your pants.

“Nam-gyu, wait—”

His mouth retracted from your breast, his hands still their movement. He thought you wanted this.

“What is it, sweetheart?”

Your lips twitched. You wanted to tell him to stop, that this would be wrong. You asked for it, though, and truly you wanted it, so you retracted your hand. Nam-gyu didn't let your hesitant expression slip his interest.

“You want me to stop?”

You quickly shook your head. Nam-gyu smirked, muttering an “okay,” before slipping your denim shorts off. His eyes stayed on the lace fabric of your panties, he could see the damp spot, your wetness, your arousal.

His fingers went to massage the area, swirling the fabric around with his fingers.

“Man, look at that…” His tone was almost mocking, it made you whimper, almost reminding you of Thanos’ toxic words. “You’re so wet, sweetheart.”

His words made you clench, around nothing, too. That didn’t go unnoticed by Nam-gyu, he could just feel your desperation through your panties. He pulled his fingers away, slipping them off of you.

Your breath hitched at his actions. You could feel the cold air of Nam-gyu’s dorm against your core. He noticed and took advantage of that: moving his hand in a way that would blow air toward you. He noticed your slightly erotic reaction and slathered himself in the success of pleasing you, even just slightly.

You whined, “Don’t tease, please,” your voice was almost angelic to him, the neediness in it just spoke to him like a siren to a sailor.

Nam-gyu obliged, of course. He didn’t want to put any more stress on you than there already is. He dove right in: his middle and ring finger rubbing at your already-wet clit.

“You wanted this, baby?”

You eagerly nodded at Nam-gyu’s words, softly whimpering at his actions. He reveled in the fact that he could pleasure you, maybe even better so than Thanos. His fingers continued their ministrations on your clit, rubbing you just the right way; you moaned at such, almost wanting to beg for more.

Nam-gyu took your whimpers, moans, and gasps as a sign to go further. His fingers moved away from your clit to the inside of your cunny. It was a fast movement, it made you gasp a bit louder, but you enjoyed it nonetheless.

He pumped his fingers in and out of you, your hands found themselves clawing at his sheets. He kept his fingers at a steady pace, curling them up at just the right spot.

“Oh-oh, Nam-gyu…” You whined out the last vowel in his name, feeling his fingers curl up at your g-spot.

“Yeah? Wha’d’ya want, sugar?” He continued to speak with a mocking yet also prideful tone.

You couldn't respond, as you could barely form a coherent thought. The only thing that you are thinking of right now: is Nam-gyu, and the damn-good way that he’s fingering you.

Except, something clicked in your mind. Sugar. He called you “sugar.” Thanos would often use that nickname on you whenever he was doting on you, loving on you—overall, just being a good boyfriend. Except for the fact that his emotions can change like a flipped switch…

That didn't matter to you, though, you quickly blocked it out of your mind. You didn't want to focus on your piece of shit boyfriend.

Just as quickly as the thought occurred to you and as quickly as you pushed it out, you came; your orgasm crashing down on you. Nam-gyu certainly knows how to work with his hands, and you loved that. (Maybe his work was better than Thanos’.)

He pulled his fingers out of you, looking at the sticky substance that coated them, a thin line that connected between his ring and middle finger. He rubbed his hand back onto your pussy.

“Come on, sugar, time for the real show.”

Nam-gyu shrugged his sweatpants and boxers off in a blink, his thick cock springing out. He was already leaking pre-cum.

“Condom?” He asked you, his eyes darting away from your wetness.

Your eyes met his, nodding. If you were going to cheat, you didn't want to be an absolute bitch and get pregnant by his best friend. Just “casual,” “I need some stress relief,” fucking (because of your boyfriend’s douchebag ways.)

Nam-gyu sat up and off of his bed, he grabbed a condom off of a random shelf in his room. You didn't question it.

“Scoot up a bit.”

You did as he asked, moving your body up until your head felt the (very slight) comfort of his pillows. He smiled at the action, moving over and on top of you. He lined his manhood up to your wet entrance.

“You ready, baby?” He asked, his hands coming to rub on your sides, you nodded.

Nam-gyu almost immediately enveloped himself inside of you. You scream-moaned. He was thick, nothing like Thanos—not to say he wasn’t, but the difference was transparent.

“Fuck, fuck…” You breathed heavily, and your hands went to grab at his shoulders, feeling the pain of being stretched out.

Nam-gyu was a patient man, though (sometimes, not really), he didn't want to rush you.

“Too much?”

You shook your head at his question, almost whining. You didn't want him to stop. The stretch was fucking intense, but good God did it feel good.

Nam-gyu nodded, moving slowly at first, just to test the waters.

“Oh-Ah!” Your nails dug into his shoulders, fuck, it felt good.

Nam-gyu halted his movements, his eyes making contact with yours as you moaned. He gave you a look (as if) to ask: “Keep going?” or “Are you okay?” You nodded when you two made eye contact. You wanted this.

Nam-gyu did so. He started sluggish, sensual as if to memorize the feeling of your insides. You were tight, perfect. God, he loved the way that you felt.

It was almost teasing at how slow his movements were. Of course, he wanted to prolong the moment, but you needed this release.

“Nam-gyu, please, just go a bit faster, because shit, I—”

Almost as on cue, he heard you say “faster,” he did. His hips moved at a swift pace, you could hear the lewd sounds of his balls slapping against your skin.

He moved his right hand from your side, using it to grab your leg, throwing it over his shoulder. His cock went deeper inside you.

“Aah—Nam-gyu!” You couldn't help but moan, your head leaning back into the pillow, your hands marking up his back, now.

He grunted at your sounds, not letting up his pace. After such a toxic night with your boyfriend, how could he not give you what you want, what you need?

Your legs twitched at his movements, God, you loved it. His cock hit your cervix a few times, and his movements became a bit more rough. With the new angle, his balls were slapping against your ass.

He kept up, his hand roughly smacking against the thigh that he held up. He knows that you're close, and he wants you to feel that pleasure, yet at the same time, he also wants to prolong this moment as long as possible. He needs this pussy, your pussy.

Just as he felt your walls clench around him, he pulled out—not like he was about to cum.

“Flip over for me, sugar,” He said, patting your thigh before letting it go.

You knew where this was going, and you wanted to entertain that, so you obliged. Your head was in the pillow, ass up.

Nam-gyu held onto your hips as he pushed his dick back inside you.

“Shit, I’m never letting you go after this.”

Nam-gyu knew how upset Thanos would be if he knew that he was fucking his girlfriend right now, but she came onto him. Not his fault (even if he did like her first.) In a way, though, he didn't care about his reaction, all he was focusing on was the pretty pussy that he was fucking right now.

You moaned at the sensations, loud and slutty; like a whore. In which, you were one, but you didn't care about that at the moment.

“So good for me, sugar. Just the way I like it,” Nam-gyu picked up on the fact you liked being praised.

You couldn't help the moan of pleasure and need that came out of your mouth from his words. Good God, how much you like being praised, being told how good you are, it’s pathetic; makes you go completely weak, like a helpless puppy.

You moved your hips against him, in a way so you could feel more of him, get him as deeply inside you as possible.

Nam-gyu smirked at your actions, one of his hands smacking your ass.

“Shh, c’mon. Let me do the work,” He sounded so confident, so sure of himself that he could please you, and you loved it.

The way his thrusts were almost rhythmic yet rough. His cock was thick and just perfect for you, the move of his hips was perfect, too.

“Nam-gyu, fuck…” You couldn't help but moan out his name, it felt so good on your tongue.

He smacked your ass again, speaking to you with a bit more authority, “Yeah, ‘atta girl. Who do you belong to?”

“You! You, Nam-gyu!”

You couldn't help the words that just rolled out of your mouth. Thanos would always ask you that question during sex, while his dick was deep inside your cunny or your ass, you’d always say that you belong to him.

Nam-gyu continued his assault on your pussy, his movements becoming more ragged and uncontrolled. He knew he was close. You were, too; the way your gummy, little walls were clenching around his dick.

With a final thrust of his hips, he came inside the condom inside of you. Your orgasm came washing down over you at the same time he did. You breathed heavily, feeling his cock leave you empty. Yet, at the same time that he pulled out, so did another substance.

©2025 rechvlle do not plagiarize, translate, or repost any of my work on any other sites.

[mashtatosworld]

lover boy(s)

summary: 'making plans in front of your partner but not inviting them prank'

[GD, TOP, D-LITE]

Kwon Jiyong (GD)

Jiyong was in the walk-in closet, flipping through hangers with a look of deep concentration. Every now and then, you could hear the rustle of fabric and the occasional mumble as he judged each outfit.

That was when you decided it was the perfect time.

On the bed you lay on your stomach, facing away from the closet, grabbing your phone and talking loud enough for him to hear.

"Yeah, let's do dinner and drinks - oh, and then maybe some shopping. Yeah! It’ll be so fun."

You heard the hangers stop clinking.

Jiyong had gone quiet.

Hooked.

You kept going, biting your lip to keep from laughing.

"Oh, Jiyong? No, no, he’s busy. I don’t think he’d wanna come anyway.”

Silence. Then -

A slow creak of the wardrobe door.

You glanced over your shoulder just in time to see Jiyong’s head peek out, his dyed hair slightly messy from changing clothes. His eyes narrowed, full of intrigue.

You turned your back to him again, continuing the fake conversation. “Yeah, just us! I can't wait.”

There was shuffling. Then, the soft patter of socked feet against the hardwood floor.

“Jagi.” His voice was closer now.

You ignored him.

A moment later - tug.

Jiyong’s hand wrapped around your ankle, giving it a gentle pull.

You almost lost it right then and there.

“Jagiya,” he whined, tugging again. “I want to come with you.”

You bit your lip, pretending to be too engaged in the phone call.

You squeaked as he gave it a firm tug, dragging you closer to the edge of the bed.

“Jiyong - ” you gasped, biting back a laugh as he pulled again, making you slide a little further.

“Jagi,” he whined, his grip tightening around your ankle. “Why can’t I come?”

You covered your mouth holding in a laugh.

Jiyong huffed dramatically, releasing your ankle before hurrying away.

You barely had time to process his retreat when he returned - striding across the room, holding something small and expensive-looking in his hands.

A mini Birkin bag.

Your jaw dropped.

He knew you’d been obsessing over that bag for weeks.

Jiyong smirked, holding it up like a prize as he casually paced back and forth in front of you, flashing it in your line of vision.

You completely forgot about the prank.

“Oh my god!” you shrieked, flinging your phone somewhere as you scrambled upright on the bed.

You reached your hand out for the bag, eyes wide with excitement - only for him to jerk it out of reach at the last second.

You blinked, confused. “Jiyong - ?!”

“Can I come?”

You threw your hands up. “I was just joking.”

He tsk’d, twirling the bag between his fingers. “Then say I can come.”

“Jiyong - ”

“No.” He held it further away. “Say it.”

You launched yourself from the bed at him.

Jiyong let out a startled laugh as you collided into his chest, nearly knocking him over. His arms instinctively wrapped around your waist, holding you steady.

You peppered his face with gratitude kisses, giggling between each one. “Thank you, thank you, thank you! Of course I'd have invited you."

You knew that he'd live inside your purse if he could.

His grip on you tightened, his smirk softening into something fond.

And with that, the prank was long forgotten.

𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪

Seunghyun (TOP)

You were lying in bed together when you decided to pull the prank. He was sat against the headboard, wrapped in a blanket and scrolling through Netflix to find a film to watch as you casually raised the phone to your ear.

“Hey y/f/n... what's up? Oh, you want to go out tonight?” you saw him from the corner of your eye shaking his head in protest. "That new club in town?"

He huffed and puffed, crossing his arms like a petulant child. You bit your lip and continued.

"It's ok, I'm not doing anything right now anyway."

Seunghyun pushed his head in front of your line of sight. "Am I invisible?"

You ignored him, pushing him away with a laugh. "I can be ready in twenty minutes."

That was all it took.

Without a word, Seunghyun dramatically unwrapped himself from the comfort his blanket and rolled.

Right on top of you.

A heavy oof left your lungs as his full weight pressed you into the mattress.

“Seunghyun - !”

Nothing. No reaction. Just a deep, satisfied sigh as he settled in, his head resting against your chest like a human sandbag.

You wriggled beneath him, your phone falling from your hand. “You’re crushing me!”

He hummed in response. Completely unfazed.

“Get up!” you whined, trying to shove at his shoulders. He didn’t budge.

Instead, he stretched out even more, making himself heavier, pinning you down completely.

“What?” he murmured, his voice lazy and calm. “I’m just getting comfortable.”

You squirmed. “Seunghyun - move!”

“You’re warm,” he mumbled, ignoring you entirely. “Good pillow.”

“I’m not a pillow!”

Another deep sigh.

“Shh,” he murmured, patting your arm like you were the one being unreasonable. “Just relax.”

“Relax?!” you wheezed. “I can't breathe!”

Still, nothing.

You could hear the smirk in his voice when he finally said, “Well, guess you’re not going out then.”

Oh, he was enjoying this.

You sighed, limbs going limp in defeat. “I hate you.”

He chuckled, nuzzling against you. “No, you don’t. Pillows aren't hateful. They're soft and smell nice."

He squished into you further, if that was even possible.

And just like that, your fate was sealed. Plans? Cancelled. Freedom? Denied. You were now officially a prisoner beneath the world’s heaviest (and smuggest) boyfriend.

𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪

Daesung (D-Lite)

You’re sitting on the couch, scrolling through TikTok when you see another video about the 'making plans without your bf' trend. You like the post and decide to test it out on your too-sweet-for-his-own-good boyfriend, Daesung.

Casually, you stretch and say, “Ooh, y/f/n just messaged me. She said the girls are going to karaoke tonight - "

Before you can even clarify, Daesung’s head snaps up from his book.

“Karaoke!?” His whole face lights up, eyes practically sparkling with excitement.

You blink. “I - ”

But it’s too late. The book has been tossed to one side.

He’s up on his feet, racing to grab both your shoes before bouncing over to you, grinning ear to ear. “Babe! This is perfect! What should we sing first? Oh! We need warm-ups. Ok... that's fine we can do them in the car."

He then hurries to the kitchen but you can still hear him and the joy in his voice. "Do we have honey tea? Wait! Shall we do a duet?" He runs back into the room, his hair bouncing with his elevated movements. "Why are you still sitting?"

You stare at him, heart sinking, realising you’ve just doomed yourself to a night full of singing.

You were never actually going to karaoke.

But now… now you have to.

Because how could you possibly look at that huge, excited grin and tell him he’s not invited?

You force a smile. “Uh… of course! Karaoke! Let’s go…”

Daesung cheers, practically skipping to the door. He didn't even care that you were still in your matching tracksuits and crocs.

You sigh, shooting a quick text to your friends.

guys. help. i messed up. anyone up for karaoke tonight????

And then you follow your way-too-happy boyfriend out the door, mentally preparing yourself for a full three-hour concert… starring Daesung.

Yet you couldn't help but smile to yourself. His happiness was infectious.

𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪

these boys... can't not love em

a little different from my usual but had the prank inspo from @topluvr ! go check out their fic too <3

taglist: @petersasteria, @mirahyun , @allthoughtsmindfull , @gdinthehouseee , @infinetlyforgotten , @redhoodedtoad , @kathaelipwse , @lxvemaze , @loveesiren , @sherrayyyyy , @getyoassoutthetrunk , @shieraseastarrs , @ctrldivinev

[cloudyluun]

Ruin me, Love me, Lose me| fratboy&playboy!harry

Summary: You hate Harry Styles. Or at least, you really, really want to. He’s the frat house king, the campus playboy, the smug asshole who always has a girl (or three) in his bed. You swear you’ll never be one of them.

And then one night, you kiss him.

And then another night, you sleep with him.

And then suddenly, you’re tangled in his sheets, in his arms, in his world, telling yourself it means nothing.

Until it does.

Wordt Count: 5k

A/N: Ah, yes. Another classic case of let’s make this as toxic as possible but pretend it’s fine because the tension is hot. This was supposed to be a slow burn, and then my brain said, “What if they suffered immediately instead?” Anyway, enjoy the angst, the mess, and the self-inflicted emotional damage. Love you, mean it. 💔 Based on this request! 

Warnings: 

Smut (18+ only)

Toxic relationships

Angst (like, a lot)

Jealousy & possessiveness

Alcohol use

Slight degradation & rough moments

Heartbreak (sorry in advance)

Some emotional whiplash

Questionable life choices

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

The party is suffocating.

It reeks of stale beer, sweat, and something obnoxiously expensive, probably the cologne of some guy who thinks dousing himself in Tom Ford will make up for his complete lack of personality. Bodies are packed together like sardines, moving in drunken waves, grinding against each other to the bass-heavy music blasting from the speakers.

You feel completely out of place.

And honestly? You couldn’t give less of a fuck.

The only reason you’re here is because your best friend practically dragged you. Come on, she had pleaded, hands clasped together like she was making a sacred vow. You never go out, you never have fun, and I swear to God, if you don’t start acting like a college student at least once, I’m going to lose my mind.

So, against your better judgment, you let her shove you into a dress and apply a little makeup, hyping you up like this was going to be some life-changing experience. Spoiler alert: it’s not. It’s exactly what you expected: obnoxiously loud, unbearably sweaty, and full of people who are so wrapped up in their own egos that they wouldn’t notice if the house caught fire.

You’ve only been here for an hour, and you already want to leave.

You retreat to the kitchen, seeking some kind of escape. It’s quieter here, if only marginally. The countertops are littered with half-empty cups and sticky spills that no one will bother cleaning up. A couple is making out against the fridge like they’re in a fucking movie, completely unbothered by the fact that people are walking around them.

And then there’s him.

Harry Styles.

You don’t have to look directly at him to know he’s there, you feel his presence before you even see him. It’s like the air shifts when he walks into a room, demanding attention without even trying. He’s exactly the kind of guy you can’t stand: arrogant, entitled, and so used to getting his way that he probably doesn’t even remember the last time someone told him no.

Everyone here worships him.

It’s disgusting.

You finally glance up, and there he is, standing just a few feet away, leaning lazily against the counter like he owns the place. He’s wearing all black—ripped jeans, an unbuttoned shirt that shows off just enough tattoos to make girls swoon, and a smirk that tells you he knows exactly how good he looks.

His eyes flicker toward you, and in an instant, you know exactly what’s coming.

“Y’look like you hate it here, sweetheart.”

His voice is smooth, like whiskey on ice, laced with just enough amusement to let you know he finds this entertaining.

You exhale sharply, unimpressed. “That’s because I do.”

Instead of being deterred, his smirk deepens, like he finds your resistance amusing. He steps closer—not enough to be invasive, but enough to make it clear that he’s testing you, waiting to see how you’ll react.

“Then why are you here?” he asks, cocking his head slightly.

You don’t take the bait.

Instead, you roll your eyes, brushing past him with a dry, “Because some of us actually care about our friends.”

You expect that to be the end of it. Guys like Harry don’t waste time on girls who aren’t immediately fawning over them. He could have any girl in this house—hell, most of them would kill for the chance.

But he doesn’t let it go.

He follows.

And when you turn to glance back at him, you find his green eyes locked onto you like a predator stalking its prey.

It’s a look you’ve seen before—the kind that says he’s intrigued, that you’ve just become a challenge.

And you know, without a doubt, that Harry Styles never walks away from a challenge.

You should have seen it coming.

From that night on, it becomes a game to him—one you never agreed to play.

He makes it his personal mission to get under your skin, to test your patience at every opportunity. It’s not obvious at first, just small things that could almost be coincidental. A glance held for a second too long. A smirk thrown your way when you pass each other on campus. An overheard comment about some girl he hooked up with the night before, loud enough that he knows you’ll hear.

You don’t care.

(You do.)

But you refuse to give him the satisfaction.

The second run-in happens at another party, because of course it does.

This time, you arrive more prepared—mentally, at least. You’ve made peace with the fact that these events are unavoidable, that your best friend will always drag you to them, that the college social scene is a relentless cycle of alcohol-fueled chaos. You can survive a couple of hours. You’ll drink just enough to take the edge off, then find a way to slip out before midnight.

It’s a decent plan.

Until you see him.

He’s lounging on the frat house couch like it’s a fucking throne, an arm draped lazily over the backrest, legs spread wide in a way that’s both infuriating and devastatingly attractive. He’s surrounded by girls—of course he is—all of them leaning in, waiting for his attention, laughing too loudly at things he hasn’t even said.

You roll your eyes and turn away.

You don’t care.

(You do.)

You tell yourself you’re imagining it, but you can feel his eyes on you as you move through the party, can sense the smirk tugging at his lips. He doesn’t call you over, doesn’t make a scene—he doesn’t have to. The air shifts when he’s near, gravity bending in his favor.

And then, just when you think you’ve escaped unscathed—

“Y’keep lookin’ at me, sweetheart.”

The words send a sharp, unwelcome shiver down your spine.

You scoff before you even turn around, willing yourself to appear unaffected. “As if.”

His grin deepens, slow and lazy, like he enjoys watching you squirm.

You hate that it works.

You hate that the sharp cut of his jawline and the teasing glint in his eyes make your stomach twist in ways that aren’t entirely rooted in hatred.

You refuse to play his game.

You take a step back, ready to leave, but before you can—

His hand catches your wrist.

It’s not forceful, just firm enough to make you pause.

And then he leans in.

Close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath against your skin, close enough that his voice drops into something dark and slow, something meant only for you.

“You sure about that?”

The scent of whiskey and expensive cologne wraps around you like a noose, tightening around your resolve.

You rip yourself away from him, but it’s too late.

Your body has already betrayed you.

And it will again.

Another night. Another party.

By now, you should have learned your lesson. But somehow, you always end up here—another crowded house, another room filled with drunken laughter and cheap beer, another encounter with him.

It’s inevitable.

You don’t even know how it starts this time. It’s not some grand moment, not some life-altering realization. It’s just him—pushing, teasing, testing. Like he always does.

You’re in the kitchen again, arms crossed, a drink in your hand that you’ve barely touched. You’ve been avoiding him for most of the night, keeping your distance, but it doesn’t matter. He finds you anyway.

He always does.

“Y’gonna keep ignoring me all night?”

You don’t even look up. “That was the plan.”

A low chuckle, the kind that makes your stomach clench. “M’not that easy to ignore, sweetheart.”

Unfortunately, he’s right.

You take a slow sip of your drink, willing yourself to remain unaffected. “Try me.”

And that’s all it takes. That single challenge.

His eyes spark with something dark and dangerous. His smirk sharpens. And then—

“You act like you hate me,” he murmurs, stepping in closer, “but we both know that’s not true.”

Your fingers tighten around your glass.

“It is.”

“Liar.”

You finally look up at him, glaring. “Go to hell, Harry.”

He grins, cocky and infuriating. “Take me there yourself.”

And then—

It happens.

Fast.

Too fast.

One second, you’re standing there, glaring at him. The next, his lips are on yours.

There’s no hesitation, no slow build-up, no moment to think. Just heat.

His hands are in your hair, fingers tangling, tugging. Your back meets the nearest wall, the cold surface a shocking contrast to the fire raging between you.

It’s rough. Desperate.

You should stop.

You should.

But his body is pressed against yours, and you can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t do anything except feel.

Your fingers find their way to the hem of his shirt, gripping it like a lifeline. His hands slide down, tracing over your hips, pulling you in like he can’t get close enough.

And maybe he can’t.

Maybe you can’t.

He pulls back just enough to look at you. His lips are swollen, pupils blown wide, chest rising and falling in ragged breaths.

“Tell me you don’t want me,” he says, voice low, wrecked. “And I’ll stop.”

Your lips part.

To say what?

To tell the truth?

But before you can, before you even know what you want to say—

Your hands fist in his shirt.

And you crash into him all over again.

You pull away first, gasping for breath, your chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven movements. Reality slams into you like a freight train, but Harry doesn’t move. He watches you, his pupils blown, lips parted, his breath warm as it ghosts over your face. His hands are still on you—one firm at your waist, the other curled loosely around the nape of your neck. Holding you in place.

Like he’s afraid you’ll run.

Like he knows you want to.

A smirk tugs at his mouth, something smug and knowing. “Told you,” he murmurs, his voice rough, dark, like he’s just swallowed gravel. “You don’t hate me.”

You should.

You should hate him. You should push him away, put an ocean of space between you before this turns into something irreversible. Something you can’t take back.

But your body betrays you before your mind can catch up.

Your fingers tighten in the fabric of his shirt instead of letting go. Your legs feel weak, but you’re not sure if it’s from the adrenaline or the way he’s looking at you. His green eyes flicker in the dim lighting, unreadable, but there’s something behind them—something waiting, something burning.

Something dangerous.

“This is a mistake,” you whisper, the words shaky, uncertain. You don’t even know if you believe them.

His thumb drags along your jaw, featherlight, and his lips barely, barely graze yours when he speaks. “Maybe.”

That single word is enough to send your stomach into freefall. Maybe. Maybe this is a mistake. Maybe this is the worst idea you’ve ever had. Maybe you’re going to regret this the second the sun comes up.

Or maybe you won’t.

Maybe you’ll regret it more if you stop now.

Maybe that’s what terrifies you the most.

Your body makes the decision for you.

His fingers slide down your wrist, tracing the delicate skin there before his hand finds yours, fingers lacing together like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like they belong there.

And you let him take you.

The party behind you becomes a distant blur—flashes of neon lights, the thud of bass vibrating through the floor, drunken laughter echoing from downstairs. It all feels like it’s happening in another universe, detached from this moment. From him. From you.

Each step up the stairs feels heavier than the last, weighted with unspoken words, with history, with everything you’ve been pretending isn’t still there. The heat of his palm against yours sends sparks up your spine, and you squeeze your thighs together, ignoring the ache building in your stomach.

You don’t stop.

Not when you reach the landing.

Not when he leads you down the darkened hallway, past closed doors, past muffled voices, past all the chances you could have taken to turn back.

And not when he pushes open a door, guiding you inside.

Then—

The door clicks shut behind you.

The world disappears.

The second the lock turns, something inside you snaps.

There’s no hesitation this time. No second-guessing. No thinking. Just feeling.

Then he’s on you.

His mouth crashes into yours, rough and insistent, swallowing the gasp that slips from your lips. The kiss is nothing like the ones you’ve shared in the past—those were controlled, careful, measured. This? This is raw. Hungry. Starving.

His hands find your waist, gripping hard, pulling you flush against him. You can feel the way his chest heaves, the way his heartbeat slams against your own. Your fingers thread through his hair, tugging sharply, and he groans into your mouth, his grip tightening, like he’s trying to pull you even closer, like he wants to crawl inside you.

You barely have time to process before your back hits the wall.

You gasp at the contact, but he doesn’t let up. His lips trail down your jaw, hot and desperate, and when his teeth graze the sensitive spot beneath your ear, a sharp whimper escapes before you can stop it.

“Fuck,” he breathes, voice wrecked. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

His hands roam, sliding down your sides, gripping at your thighs, hitching them around his waist like he can’t stand the thought of any space between you.

You don’t think.

You move.

Your hands push his jacket off his shoulders, and he shrugs out of it without breaking contact. Your fingers fumble at the buttons of his shirt, but he beats you to it, ripping it open in one swift motion, buttons scattering to the floor.

Then his skin is against yours, and it sends a shockwave through your entire body.

Heat pools low in your stomach, a coil winding tighter and tighter with every brush of his hands, every press of his lips, every ragged breath against your skin.

Clothes disappear—hurried, impatient.

Your dress slips down your shoulders, pooling at your feet. His belt clinks as he unfastens it, the sound cutting through the heavy air like a gunshot.

You don’t stop him.

You don’t want to.

His hands grip your thighs again, lifting you effortlessly, and your legs tighten around him. You can feel him—hard, straining against the fabric still separating you.

There’s a pause, just for a second.

A breath.

His forehead presses against yours, his lips barely touching, his fingers digging into your skin like he’s trying to ground himself. His voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper.

“Tell me to stop.”

You don’t.

Instead, you kiss him again.

And there’s no turning back now.

His body presses against yours, firm and unrelenting, as he walks you backward until the backs of your knees hit the edge of the mattress. He doesn’t let go. His hands are still gripping your thighs, still holding you against him like he’s afraid you’ll slip away.

Then he lowers you onto the bed.

The world tilts, and the air thickens as he leans over you, his weight bracing against his arms, caging you beneath him. His eyes flicker across your face—like he’s memorizing every inch, every breath, every little way you react to him. His fingers trace up your side, slow and teasing, and the way you shudder makes his lips twitch.

“Still think this is a mistake?” he taunts, voice low and rough as his lips brush against your collarbone.

Your breath hitches, but you don’t answer. You don’t have to. The way your fingers clutch at his back, the way your hips shift beneath him, the way your body is already arching into his touch—it’s all the answer he needs.

He smirks against your skin. “That’s what I thought.”

Then he stops talking.

Because there’s nothing left to say.

It’s messy. Desperate. The kind of passion that comes from months of unresolved tension, from too much history, from too many things left unsaid.

He kisses you like he’s trying to claim you. Like he’s trying to burn himself into your skin. Like if he kisses you hard enough, you’ll never be able to forget this—forget him.

His hands are everywhere. Exploring. Learning. Worshipping.

Every brush of his lips, every drag of his fingers, every slow roll of his hips is deliberate, pulling you apart piece by piece. He takes his time, but not too much time—because patience is a luxury neither of you have tonight.

You feel like you’re unraveling beneath him.

He notices.

He thrives on it.

His mouth moves lower, teeth grazing, tongue soothing. His fingers leave fire in their wake as they trail down your body, mapping out every inch, every soft curve, every sharp gasp he pulls from your lips.

It’s intoxicating, the way he touches you—like he already knows what you need before you do.

He whispers your name against your skin, and it sends a shiver down your spine.

Your hands are greedy, desperate as they roam over him—his shoulders, his chest, the firm muscles in his back. You want to touch all of him. Feel all of him.

And he lets you.

He lets you pull him closer, lets you tangle your legs around his, lets you drag your nails down his spine, leaving behind faint, red lines that he’ll wear like battle scars tomorrow.

The room is filled with nothing but heavy breathing, quiet moans, the rustle of sheets, the sound of skin against skin.

And when it finally happens—when he finally, finally gives you what you both need—it steals the breath from your lungs.

It’s not slow. It’s not soft. It’s not sweet.

It’s raw.

It’s rough, desperate, punishing. It’s weeks of tension snapping all at once, a storm breaking, waves crashing, a fire finally given the air it needs to burn.

His name falls from your lips like a prayer, like a curse, like something you were never supposed to say out loud.

He groans, his forehead pressing against yours, his breath ragged. His fingers lace with yours, pinning your hands above your head. His body moves against yours in perfect rhythm—pushing, pulling, giving, taking.

It’s the kind of night that changes things.

The kind you won’t be able to take back.

The kind that leaves its mark.

And then—

Stillness.

Silence.

Just the sound of your breathing, heavy and uneven, filling the space between you.

His body is still pressed against yours, warm and solid and grounding. The weight of what just happened settles in, thick and undeniable.

You should get up.

You should leave.

But you don’t.

Instead, you stay.

Just for a little longer.

But "a little longer" turns into something else entirely.

Because it doesn’t stop at one night.

It should have. You tell yourself that over and over again. That night—the way his hands fit so perfectly against your skin, the way he pulled you apart and put you back together, the way his mouth made you forget your own name—it should have been enough. A single mistake. A one-time thing.

But it isn’t.

It’s never just once.

It happens again. And again. And again.

It’s always late. Always secret.

Always a text, a glance across the room, a lingering touch when no one is watching. Always a whispered come here against the shell of your ear, a door clicking shut behind you, a tangle of limbs in the dark.

It’s never soft. Never sweet.

It’s fast, desperate, all-consuming.

It’s hands fisting sheets, breathless moans swallowed into pillows. His body pressed against yours, heavy and unrelenting, holding you down, keeping you exactly where he wants you.

And he knows what he’s doing to you.

He’s filthy, cocky, teasing—he draws it out just to make you beg.

“Knew you’d be so fuckin’ sweet for me, baby,” he murmurs against your skin, voice rough, wicked, smug.

His rings feel cold against your burning skin as his fingers trail down your stomach, between your thighs, spreading you open like a secret. Like something meant only for him.

You bite your lip, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a sound.

He chuckles, dark and knowing.

“This what you hate me for? Hm?” His lips brush against your jaw, down your throat, his breath hot and taunting. “’Cause I make you come harder than anyone else ever could?”

You hate him.

(You don’t.)

You hate that he’s right. That he knows he’s right. That he’s so good at this—at ruining you, at making you fall apart over and over again until you can’t think straight, until all you know is him. His name. His touch. His body moving against yours.

And every time, you tell yourself it’s the last.

That this is it. That you’re done.

That this means nothing.

And every time, you end up back in his bed.

But then you see him with someone else.

It’s late, the party is loud, and the music thrums through your body, drowning out everything else. You’re just stepping out for air when you spot him across the street. A girl is clinging to his arm, laughing at something he’s said, and his hand is low on her back as he leads her toward a car.

He doesn’t even look at you.

Doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t falter. Doesn’t even pretend to care that you’re standing right there, watching him disappear into the night with someone else.

And it shouldn’t hurt.

Because you knew he wasn’t yours. You never asked him to be. Never wanted him to be.

Right?

So why does it feel like the ground just cracked open beneath you? Why does it feel like something inside you just snapped?

You go back inside, down a drink, let someone else pull you onto the dance floor. You lose yourself in the crowd, in the music, in the way someone’s hands settle on your waist—too light, too unfamiliar.

It doesn’t work.

Because when he finds you later, when he corners you in a dark hallway, there’s still fire burning in your chest, in your throat, in the way your hands clench at your sides.

He smirks, like nothing happened. Like he didn’t just walk out of here with someone else a few hours ago. Like he knew you’d still be here.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” His voice is low, amused. “Jealous?”

The word makes you snap.

“You’re disgusting.”

His smirk widens, but there’s something behind his eyes now—something sharper, more dangerous.

“Funny,” he murmurs, stepping closer, eyes dark, predatory. “Wasn’t what y’said last night.”

He reaches for you, fingers curling around your wrist, but you yank yourself away like he burns.

“We’re done.” Your voice is ice, your eyes colder.

And his smirk falters.

Just for a second.

Just long enough for you to see something else flicker across his face—confusion, disbelief, something dangerously close to panic.

Then it’s gone.

And he laughs. Soft. Low. Infuriating.

“That’s cute,” he drawls, tilting his head. “Think y’can just walk away from me.”

You meet his gaze head-on, jaw clenched, shoulders squared.

“Watch me.”

Then you turn.

And this time—this time—you don’t look back.

-- 

Weeks pass.

You don’t speak.

Not a word. Not a text. Not even a glance when you’re in the same room.

And it’s fine.

It has to be.

You throw yourself into distractions—work, friends, nights out where the music is too loud and the drinks burn too much. You let other people flirt with you. Let hands that aren’t his touch you. Let lips that don’t taste like him press against yours in dimly lit corners.

You pretend you don’t miss him.

(You do.)

But you tell yourself this is better. Cleaner. Easier.

Until you start hearing things.

He’s been drinking more.

Fighting more.

Losing his temper over nothing.

You overhear his name in conversations, whispered between mutual friends. You see his face in the back of a blurry Instagram story, bottle in hand, eyes dark and unfocused.

And you tell yourself it doesn’t matter.

You tell yourself he’s not your problem anymore.

Until he shows up at your door.

It’s late. Too late for him to be here.

The knock is sharp, impatient. Like he already knows you’re home. Like he already knows you’re going to answer.

You shouldn’t.

You hesitate, fingers hovering over the handle, breath caught somewhere in your throat.

And then—

“Just let me in.”

His voice is quiet. Rough.

You open the door.

And he looks wrecked.

Tired. Haunted. Something’s different.

There’s none of the usual arrogance, none of the teasing smirk, none of the sharp-edged confidence that he wears like armor.

Just him.

His hands shoved deep into his pockets, his jaw tight, his eyes heavy-lidded and unreadable as they drag over you like he’s trying to convince himself you’re real.

Your throat tightens. “Harry—”

“I know,” he cuts you off, shaking his head. “I know, just—”

He exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. His eyes flicker over your face again, and for a second—just a second—you swear you see something crack.

And then he looks at you like that.

Like you’re his last fucking breath.

Like if you tell him to leave, it’ll break him.

And you cave.

You step aside.

You let him in.

And maybe that should be enough.

Maybe the way he holds you like you’re something fragile, the way his breath stutters when you touch him, the way his lips tremble against yours—that should be enough.

But it’s not.

Because fear is still there. Lurking. Poisoning everything it touches.

And you should’ve known.

You should’ve known that no matter how much he wants this, no matter how much he means it in the moment—

He’s still him.

And you’re still you.

And happy endings don’t exist for people like you.

So of course, he fucks up again.

Not with another girl. Not with whispered names and lipstick stains and the kind of betrayal that you could at least understand.

No.

This time, he betrays you with his own fear.

It happens fast. A conversation that turns into an argument, an argument that turns into something worse.

Maybe it starts because you ask too much. Maybe it starts because he’s never learned how to let himself have something good.

But all you know is that suddenly—he’s cold.

Detached.

Suddenly, his walls are back up.

“I don’t do relationships,” he says.

Flat. Emotionless.

Like none of it meant anything.

Like you don’t mean anything.

And it hits you harder than any slap ever could.

You flinch, like you’ve been physically wounded, like he’s just driven a knife between your ribs and twisted it.

Your voice shakes. “Then why did you tell me you loved me?”

Silence.

His jaw clenches.

But he doesn’t answer.

And that’s the worst part.

Not the fight. Not the distance.

The silence.

The fact that he has nothing to say.

And that’s when you know.

That’s when you realize—

This is it.

This is the moment he chooses to let you go.

You shake your head, chest heaving, eyes burning, throat closing up around the words you don’t know how to say.

“You don’t get to do this to me.”

But he already has.

And this time, you don’t give him the chance to stop you.

You walk out.

You don’t look back.

And he lets you.

--

Weeks pass.

You try to move on.

You tell yourself that you’re better off. That you should hate him. That you do hate him.

But then, one night—he shows up.

At your dorm.

At your fucking door, looking like he hasn’t slept, looking like he’s been through hell and back.

His hands are shoved into the pockets of his hoodie, his jaw is tense, his eyes are desperate.

And you—

You want to slam the door in his face.

You want to tell him that he doesn’t get to do this.

That he doesn’t get to come back.

But you don’t.

Because you need to hear what he has to say.

So you glare at him, arms crossed tightly over your chest, forcing your voice to stay steady. “What do you want, Harry?”

He exhales sharply. “I lied.”

Your stomach twists.

You swallow. “About what?”

He hesitates. Shifts his weight. But then—he steps closer.

“About not doing relationships.”

And suddenly, the air is too thick, too heavy.

Your head shakes. Your throat tightens. “You don’t get to do this to me.”

“I know.” His voice is barely above a whisper. “I know, I just—” He sighs, running a frustrated hand through his hair. “I was scared, okay? I didn’t know how to—”

A pause. A beat of silence.

He looks at you, eyes searching, pleading.

“I don’t want to lose you.”

Your lips part. But you don’t say anything.

Because after everything—after all of it—how do you know?

How do you know if this time will be different?

So you stare at him, pulse hammering in your throat, chest rising and falling with uneven breaths.

And then—

“So prove it.”

The challenge hangs between you.

And for the first time in his life—

He doesn’t run.

He doesn’t push you away.

He doesn’t fuck it up.

Instead, he nods.

And he does. --

It’s not instant.

There’s no cinematic moment, no dramatic declaration in the rain, no sudden, sweeping realization that makes everything fall into place.

It’s slow. It’s awkward. It’s frustrating.

But it’s real.

The first time you see him after that night at your dorm, it’s different. He’s different.

He doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t tease. Doesn’t act like he already has you figured out.

Instead, he waits.

You’re the one who has to break the silence.

“You really think you can change?”

His jaw clenches, hands flexing like he wants to reach for you but knows he doesn’t have the right to.

“I know I can.”

And for the first time, you almost believe him.

--

It starts with the little things.

Like how he texts first. Every morning. Every night. Even when there’s nothing to say. Even when it’s just, Hey, eat something. Or, Are you sleeping? Or, I know you’re still awake, don’t lie.

Like how he shows up. Actually shows up.

Not just for the easy moments. Not just for the nights when he’s desperate for you.

But for the moments when you’re exhausted, when you’re in a bad mood, when you’re not the version of yourself that’s easy to love.

And he stays anyway.

--

The first time you test him, it’s almost accidental.

He calls, asks if you want to come over.

And for the first time, you tell him no.

A few months ago, that would’ve been the end of it.

A few months ago, he would’ve gone out, found someone else, let his frustration morph into recklessness.

But this time, he just exhales. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

A pause.

Then, softly— “Yeah, baby. That’s okay.”

And that’s when you realize—this isn’t the same boy who let you walk away.

He’s trying.

For the first time in his life, he’s trying.

--

It takes time.

Weeks. Months.

You make him work for it.

Because love shouldn’t be easy—not after everything.

Not after the hurt, the late nights spent waiting for him to choose you, the months wasted pretending it was nothing.

He should prove it.

And he does.

--

The first time he holds your hand in public, it’s instinctive. Thoughtless.

You’re walking down the street, talking about something unimportant, when suddenly—his fingers brush against yours.

And instead of pulling away, he just…takes your hand.

Like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Like he’s not even thinking about it.

Like he’s not the same man who once made you feel like a secret.

You don’t say anything.

But you don’t let go, either.

And neither does he.

--

One night, he’s driving you home when he suddenly pulls over.

You blink at him. “Uh. What are we doing?”

His fingers drum against the steering wheel. He won’t look at you.

“D’you know the last time I did this?”

You frown. “Did what?”

“Took you home.” He swallows, finally turning to face you. “Last time, I let you walk away.”

Your stomach twists. You remember. Of course, you remember.

He inhales sharply. “Not this time.”

And then, he says it.

“I love you.”

Not because he’s scared. Not because he thinks you’re slipping away.

Just because he does.

And for the first time, you don’t have to question if he means it.

Because this time, he’s not running.

This time, he stays.

And this time—so do you.

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

Thank you so much for reading! I appreciate any support so remember to comment, reblog, & like ❤️‍🔥

current taglist:

@oscahpastry

@mema10

@angelbabyyy99

@iloveharrystyles04

@cinemharry

@drwho06

@donutsandpalmtrees

@panini

@mads3502

@imgonnadreamaboutthewayyoutaaaa

@one-sweet-gubler

@rizosrizos26

@ciriceimpera

@everyscarisahealingplace

@hello-heyhi

@sexymfharriet

@lizsogolden

@hannah9921

@chicabonitasblog

@huhidontknowstuff

@berrywoods1245

@jennovaaa

@angeldavis777

@prettygurl-2009

@almostcontentcreator

@run-for-the-hills

@maudie-duan

@dipmeinhoneyh

@harrrrystylesslut

@watarmelon212

@georgiarose94

[stupidusernamerequest-blog]

You really notice the women teaching girls to be girls and men teaching boys to be boys when raising your own children. There is a definite shift in what is acceptable to boys at a distressingly young age that can only have come from within their own homes. Same for girls. What was once ok suddenly becomes yuck or something to be made fun of at a very young age.

Girl example: my daughter used to wear boys underwear because it fit better so was the better option. Once they started doing swimming lessons at school she suddenly refused to wear them anymore and swapped back to the underwear she found uncomfortable because the other little girls made comments about her wearing boys undies. They were maybe 6 but already (unconsciously) policing what clothing was acceptable to wear

Boy example: my very gentle soul 10 year old needed new sneakers. He loves bright colours and cute things. He picked pink sneakers to try on and I had to have the conversation with him that other children might make mean comments and make fun of him for wearing them.

Him: is it because people think pink is a girls colour?

Me: yes

Him: I don't believe that. Colours are for everyone.

Me: you're absolutely right but people are still mean and think otherwise so be prepared if you pick these ones.

He ended up getting a black pair with bright purple accents (a typically girl coded sneaker) because they were more comfortable but that night BOTH his sisters made comments to me about him wearing girls shoes and why did I let him do that.

When every other family appears to be teaching their children these strict gender roles it is so hard to encourage your children to go against them. Especially when your kids just want to fit in and don't have the resilience to go against the norm.

this is going to be a generalized take, so please forgive me, but women are an underrated enforcer of femininity.

I’ve noticed this with hairdressers. multiple times I’ve gone to lady hairdressers and said “cut it all off,” and they’ve gone “hmm alright,” and basically just trimmed the split ends. meanwhile I can go to a dude and say “hey, can you make my hair slightly shorter?” and he’ll go “on it boss,” and shave me bald.

twice now, I’ve also had lady tattoo artists add pink to femme up a tattoo, despite that not being on the initial design.

god, also thinking about this brought back a memory. my mom once threw a fit because my shoes were “too masculine” (they were black women’s flats), saying that I’d upset my dad and ruin the formal event we were going to. I wore the shoes, my dad didn’t give a shit.

I dunno. it just feels like the misogyny is coming from inside the house sometimes.

[bernardsbendystraws]

𝐑𝐞𝐯𝐨𝐥𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐃𝐨𝐨𝐫 — 𝐌.𝐒.

Synopsis: Matt finds out about your self harm.

Warnings: Self harm, mentions of not eating, angst, overall dark themes. Read at your own discretion.

A/N: Please reach out to hotlines if you are struggling, you are not alone <333

With love and big tits, Rose

wc: 1500+

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

00: Not-so-sweet escape

Everyone needs an escape. Reality is harsh, too painful to bathe in every second of the day. All you wanted was something you could cope with, something that would make the ache of breathing sting a little less. 

It started small—very small. Sometimes you’d purposefully just not eat, purposefully make your body feel weak. But it escalated. Like everything else, the addiction became lethal. 

01: Fake it

You’re exhausted. Every bone feels like it’s withering away beneath your itchy skin. It’s like your body is reacting to your mind, mimicking how dead you feel. 

The bathroom is dark. You’ve been sitting on the cold tile for ages, wishing that the dark would somehow consume you. But it doesn’t. All it does is mock you in silence, the quiet peace haunting your running thoughts, jealousy burning through your face as you feel tears swell in your eyes. 

“Hey, do you wanna go out for ice cream?” 

Matt. He knocks softly, his brows furrowed as he sees the lack of light illuminating from the door gap from the floor. He’s worried. He doesn’t wanna say anything, he barely has a reason to be concerned other than the fact that he can just feel it—feel something awful as if it’s contagious. 

The lump in your throat is thick. You bite down hard on your inner cheek, letting the back of your head fall against the wall. “Yeah, that… that sounds like fun.” 

You don’t have it in yourself to do anything but pretend. 

02: Pretty Weak

It’s running smoothly until it doesn’t. The way you fake it is sometimes too convincing. You find yourself truly believing in hope until you’re alone again, feening for some sort of relief that you don’t think will ever come. 

The sun is rising, your mind is barely awake. Matt has your face nuzzled in his chest, his hand wrapped around the bottom of your thigh as he pulls you in even closer, kissing the top of your head lovingly. 

“You look so pretty,” he compliments. 

And then it stops. Those words trigger your body to stiffen just the slightest before falling lifelessly. You don’t feel pretty. And it wasn’t necessarily about your body either, it was your eyes. They looked so… dull—like something inside your body had failed, leaving you as some sort of corpse left to rot in reality. 

“I’m gonna go make breakfast, okay? You stay here, I wanna eat in bed with you.” 

His words are sweet, truly. But they make you feel guilty. He’s so full of love, everything good. And you’re full of… well, you’re full of nothing. Your blood feels like dust, your tears caressing your cheeks like dry clouds. 

It’s just so empty, so useless. 

As Matt leaves the room, you can’t help but stare towards the bathroom. You want it. You want it so bad. The relief is all that seems to linger when you recall memories of such a brutal coping mechanism. You can’t find it in yourself to search for the reasons why you stopped in the first place. 

But you don’t. You can’t. 

He’ll see it. 

Anywhere you put a single mark, Matt would always see it. You live together, he constantly helps get you dressed, sometimes you even shower together. But right now? Right now you just don’t care—not when you feel this unbearable urge, an unbearable itch. You need it. 

And the worst part? The worst part is that you feel so weak. Nothing bad has even happened. Your boyfriend’s making you breakfast after calling you pretty and somehow that isn’t enough to make you happy. 

03: Cope 

Relationships are supposed to be built and maintained on bricks of trust. And that’s what you have with Matt. Well, used to. You’ve been lying to him constantly, giving excuses, avoiding him like the plague—even though you feel like you’re the disease. 

But it’s just too much. You can’t put this on him, you won’t. Not when this isn’t his battle to fight, not when you gave into the past addiction so easily. 

“Sweetheart, do you wanna take a bath together? I got all the fun stuff,” he says excitedly, lifting items out of a plastic grocery bag, showing you all the best things—bubbles, candles, scrubs… everything. 

He didn’t do it for any other reason other than wanting to spend more intimate time with you. Physical touch is important to him. It doesn’t necessarily mean sex, but he craves your skin on his, he needs the rawness of being close to you. 

You feel bad rejecting the offer. In all honesty, it sounds so nice. But you can’t. Not when you know he’ll see it. Then he’ll worry. And he doesn’t need to worry. This helps you, he wouldn’t understand that. 

Matt’s shoulders slump as he tries to spare a small smile, not wanting to seem too disappointed. The awful guilt crawls up your chest, creating a lump in your throat. 

And there’s only one way to cope. 

04: He Knows

His heart feels like it’s ripping out of his chest. The more hints he slowly picks up on, the more he realizes what’s really going on. He doesn’t want to believe it. Denial is logical to him. Afterall, you’d tell him, right?

The trust he has for you is unfathomable, immeasurable. He’s certain you’d tell him. He’s certain he’d know immediately if things were that bad. 

And then he stops feeling the ripping of his heart in his chest. Instead, he hears it—a loud cry leaving his lips. 

Matt was never one to snoop. He respects your privacy more than anything. But he saw pink water resting above the shower drain after you had exited fully clothed. You’re not on your period, he knows that for a fact. And—you didn’t really shave in that quick of a shower. 

He knows. 

05: Lose

They’ve gone missing. Every tool you’ve ever used and hidden in your bathroom drawer—they’re just… gone. 

Your stomach drops, your fingers aching as you furiously shuffle through the miscellaneous products in your drawer, trying to find anything. But it’s not there. 

Matt couldn’t bring himself to fully confront you without knowing more. The pink water haunted him as he flipped through the pages of your journal, his stomach twisting in knots when he saw the dates trace back further and further.

How did he not know sooner? 

What if he had never known until it was too late? 

Even the thought makes him sick. He can’t fathom the thought of you completely out of his everyday life. He needs you. 

Matt hears you rummaging through the drawers, his chest shaking as he tries to take a deep breath. 

He’s just not ready to lose you. 

06: Lost

Horrified fear. The look on your face is viciously distraught, your hands twisting into fists as you sit on the edge of the bed, Matt’s voice ringing through the air. He explains the pink water, how he didn’t mean to intrude on your privacy, he was only concerned. 

Part of you is angry. You want to snap at him for going through your stuff. But he had a valid reason—he wasn’t wrong. 

“-and I’ll help. We can look into therapists, I’m here every step of the way–”

“You don’t understand, Matt.” 

Your words are bitter. Matt’s face scrunches, almost as if he’s in pain. It hurts to look at someone you love suffering—especially when they’re looking at you with pure hatred. And that’s exactly what you’re doing. 

Although, you don’t hate him, you hate how he makes you see yourself. You’re weak. You couldn’t even reach out for help to your boyfriend who has never failed you. 

It could’ve been worse. He could’ve lost you. But as you walk out the door, it kinda feels like he has. 

07: Escape

Oh god it hurt his heart. The pain in his chest is the most brutal violence of emotions he has ever felt in his life. And he just wants it to stop, but he knows it won’t. Not when he’s holding you, consoling you as you scream at him. 

“I know it’s bad! I’m not fucking stupid, I just-”

Your words fall weaker, your fists hammering against his chest starting to unclench as you let out a sad cry.

“I just needed an escape.”

08: Revolving Door

Your cheek is raw from how often your teeth seemed to knaw into the muscle. Matt’s sitting on the desk chair, trying to not stare at you as you write down in a journal. 

You refused to go to therapy. The thought of saying everything out loud made you sick. So, this is the best he could come up with—put it on a page so it doesn’t have to rest in your mind. And honestly, it helped. It helped more long term than anything else.

But you just missed it—the immediate relief. 

Matt assures you that you’re not weak when you explain this to him. He’s there to let you cry and sit numbly, as long as he’s there to make sure you’re safe—not walking into the revolving door until you’re so scattered that you don’t even know how to get back out. 

He loves you—even if it’s not as a lover and just as a soul. He’ll hold open any door, take you places that make it easier to breathe. He makes you feel strong—strong enough to not turn back to that revolving door.

[bluemerakis]

─────── ❝ sugar high ❞ ⋆˙ 𖦹 ˚.⋆

────────── ᝰ bluemerakis ༝༚༝༚ ────

pairing ୨୧ munch .ᐟ beau arlen x fem .ᐟ reader

warnings .ᐟ cussing, oral f receiving, fingering, overstimulation, pet names

synopsis ─ beau arlen is a take the scenic route munch. that’s all, folks. that’s plenty.

word count ~ 2k

based on this ask

──────────────────────

“You like that a lot, don’tcha?” Beau chuckles gently, and the sound drips from his glistening lips like a stray trail of honey—tantalisingly sweet and so, so sparse throughout his focused fondling of you. He surveys you over the arch of your stomach, your lower back long since lifted from the mattress in search of his wet warmth.

“Mhm,” you breathe out—both spent and disoriented by the haze of pleasure Beau’s tongue seems to effortlessly elicit. But you’re overcome with a sudden groan of protest, head lifting from your pillow’s support with utmost difficulty to peer at him accusingly. “Why’d you stop?” You ask indignantly, but the lack of energy behind those words makes it come off as more of a pathetic whine.

He’s been at it for at least half an hour, now, tongue entangling with your folds like a shameless exploration, stumbling upon your pot of fine gold time and time again—only to drop it into a scattered, disappointing mess of nothing. A relentless tease that has your every nerve ignited at the ends and hot with the plea to quell its prolonged misery.

The sheriff beams from his place between your thighs, the strong arms he’d exploited to trap your lower half against the bed shifting to pry your legs even further apart. His grip is a practiced type of firm—refined by all the years he’s spent immobilising fugitives—yet he’s always overly conscious of the way his fingers root themselves within your tender flesh.

“I ain’t stopped nothin’—been goin’ at it for quite some time, actually,” he pokes smugly, but he’s perfectly aware of his selfish mischief. “It’s called havin’ fun, darlin’. Y’know, savourin’ what’s good for the soul,” he adds with a glint to his eyes that’s so boyishly mischievous, you can’t help but flick your eyes in response.

“I don’t think I can do this much longer,” you complain, your lower half squirming with the urge to pinch your thighs together, but Beau’s got a passive, vice-like grip on them that doesn’t allow you to go anywhere without his leniency. And he’s not lenient—not now, at least.

“Naw, come on,” he drawls as his hands gently flatten your thighs back into a helpless sprawl, where he fortifies their position with an encouraging squeeze. “I think you’re pretty darn capable of pullin’ through this. It’s why you’re my best gal. My sweet gal,” he adds with a purposeful wink, tongue poking through to glide along his lips like he’s savouring the very taste of you that lingers.

Your head shakes lightly—you’re at your wits end with him. “You’re plain, old mean,” you huff out, but the pout instantly softens as you feel as Beau’s arm uncurl from your thigh to glide his fingers over the sensitive inner. The teasing contact jettisons your pique from the ledge of care down into the deep, deep depths of arousal, where your core is trapped in constant exploitation.

Beau’s got you right where he wants you—hot, bothered, numb. That is, numb until he makes you feel all sorts of things.

Shivers hare up your spine as you feel his fingers trail a path all the way down to your slicked entrance, where they curl inside with a driven destination. “Am I, now?” He tests softly—the words accentuated like he’s slipped them through the crack of a grin. “Mean, that is?” He clarifies with a sparse chuckle to further ruffle the edges of his nerve, and then he drives the point home with a gentle pump into the tunnel of your warmth.

A broken gasp purses your lips as the girth of his manhandling stretches out your walls—all worked up and tense with the empty promise of fulfilment. Your head burrows back into the pillow, where it practically swallows you whole in the midst of your fragile collapse.

“Fucking hell!” You gasp into the air, eyes screwing shut as you surf the sensation of your body letting loose—a desperate scramble to accommodate his intrusion. “Don’t stop, Beau—just like that,” you hiss thickly.

Beau’s throat echoes with a throaty hum, like he’s savouring the way you melt onto his hand—so betraying of the aggrieved words that’d jumped from the ledge of your lips only seconds ago. “Just like that?” He echoes sweetly, fingers curling in a motion similar to the last, but with a new desire to delve deeper.

“Just like that,” you reaffirm in a slight whimper, lip drawn into a passionate bite as the sheriff eagerly obeys your pleas. With every thrust, he plunges deeper than he’d been before, like he’s got some silent record to beat. “And don’t stop this time—please.”

“Nah, I won’t, darlin’,” Beau hums comfortingly, and the pace he maintains drives a hard bargain. “And to think you had half the nerve to call me mean,” he teases lightly, the singular hand he’d left behind to safeguard your thigh rubbing sensual circles along the sensitive skin. “Me? Mean? When I’m takin’ such good care of my sweet girl? If it were true—and it ain’t—I’d have me locked up on the account o’ neglect.”

Your eyes don’t crack open once as he rambles on, too afraid to snuff out the focus you’ve worked to nurture into something akin to your high. “Just stop talking,” you scoff with the little air you’ve still got loitering within your spent lungs, a weak smile beaming through.

“Why, yes, ma’am,” he chuckles lightly. There’s no offence lingering in his tone—and you know it’s because he’s well aware of his hand in tonight’s foul play. The overstimulation is far too profuse from time to time, but you tend to hang in there on the knowledge that he’s not doing it to be mean. He merely enjoys indulging in the prolonged haven of your scent, sounds and slick. Enjoys you.

He’s obsessed with you.

“Still feelin’ dandy as a lion?” He pipes up after a string of thrusts, the fingers burrowed into your entrance continuing to plunge deeper and deeper at a pace so steady that it tugs at the last string of your sanity. And the knot that’s been building in your core threatens to unravel when his thumb daringly reaches up to flick over your sensitive clit. “Talk to me, sweet girl,” he coos when you don’t offer him the sought out input.

“Beau,” you protest helplessly, eyes burning teary behind the shield of your lids. Your fingers curl into the sheets as you grapple with his ministrations, your clit still trilling with the unexpected caress. “I think I’m gonna come—I can’t hold it back anymore.”

“Sure ya can, sweetheart,” he argues softly, temporarily halting his thrusts within you to lower his head to your mound. Your core flutters with the hope to feel his lips envelop your core with a welcoming heat that makes you forget your own, but you’re only graced with the chafe of his beard against your inner thigh, where he places a chaste kiss that lingers for a long second that feels taunting.

“I can’t.”

“Just hold on a little longer for me, alright? I know ya can do it. Just wanna taste you one last time before you let it rain down on me,” he drawls against you, the sound husky and distracted, like he’s entirely beguiled by the glistening view of you. And then his bearded jaw juts into your folds, where his lips engulf your swollen clit. Then, his tongue does a sweep of the area to take the sensitive organ under a wave so brutal, it has you gasping for air.

“Oh, god—yes!” You answer hopelessly. Unsolicited. Your thighs draw rigid with the combined stimulation of him—the resumed pump of his fingers, the tango of his tongue against your spent clit, and the hot chafe of his beard that feels determined to rub you raw. It’s all incredibly overwhelming in all the right ways. “I’m gonna come,” you mewl helplessly.

“That’s it, sweet girl,” he coos proudly—the words slurred by the way his lips meld with yours. “Doin’ so good f’me. You’re a damn trooper—and you’re showin’ me up, that’s for sure. A girl like you? She’s got all it takes to see shit through. All the way down to the end o’ the line, baby’.” The deep rumble of his voice is a weapon of its own, adding to the unrelenting seize on your senses.

His pumps within you grow more vigorous and greedy with each passing second, reaching depths you didn’t think was possible—but your body welcomes it. And simultaneously braces against it, like it dreads the overwhelming finale it’s bound to present.

“Beau, that feels so good. You feel so good,” you slur weakly, your thighs tensing with the growing approach of your high. And this time, Beau grants you the grace of letting them bracket his head—like he’s made himself a willing, appreciative prisoner within your personal keep.

The only occasion where the sheriff welcomes his own detainment.

The arm he’s wrapped around your thighs ease up an inch as he imbues all focus into nurturing your finish. “Hm—ain’t ya just the sweetest?” He murmurs absentmindedly—appreciatively, and the words sound as winded as you feel. “I ain’t gonna stop this time, darlin’, so go ahead ‘nd let go f’me. Let me taste you—all o’ you,” he urges before he’s burrowed himself back into you with a rhythm of his jaw that’s entirely unforgiving.

And he doesn’t stop until you’ve painted him with the sloppy medium he’s been seeking out all evening.

You let out a broken gasp as your lower half shudders with the built up release, and Beau only adds to the grand finale as his throat rumbles against you with a low noise of euphoria—which strikes the heart of your sensitive clit. He laps at your glistening folds one last time—like it’s the last, guilty lick of the plate after dessert, before the warmth of his tongue finally forsakes you.

“Atta girl,” Beau praises breathlessly, the hand buried within your fluttering walls slowly pulling free of its suction. His other hand finally releases your thigh, the fabric of his clothes rustling as he shifts from the position he’d become solidified within. His palms return to your body in a gentle cupping of your thighs before he trails them up the length of your stomach. “Now, I dunno ‘bout you, but I could do this every night,” he chuckles softly once he’s brought himself up to hover over you, elbows propping him up at either of your shoulders.

You lift your head from your pillow with a frailty that threatens to topple you back into the plumy comfort, but your eyes catch on Beau’s face, and the sight of him is enough to keep you tethered in the air. The entirety of his jaw is slathered with your arousal, the fine hairs of his beard glistening like a proud display—almost as bright as the toothy grin nestled between his parted lips. His hair has scattered across his forehead in unruly strands, giving him a rugged look that only adds to his Texan charm.

He stares back at you with a knowing look in his eyes, like he’s fully aware of the state of himself. And he’s proud of it.

Proud of you for deconstructing him this way.

After a gentle string of pants, you finally heave a breath that allows you to speak. “I couldn’t do this every night,” you laugh hoarsely, your thighs pressing together like the mere thought of it chides you. “I might just pass away.”

Beau’s lips press into a playful pout, his brows furrowing with a look of disagreement. “On the contrary,” he says matter-of-a-factly, one hand coming up to wipe the sweat from your forehead before he settles for a gentle hold on your jaw. “If anythin’, you’ll be the death of me. You’re my sweet girl. And I’ll be damned if I was a diabetic ‘cause I’d just ‘bout drop dead gettin’ all sugar-highed on the taste o’ you.”

You giggle at that, your head shaking in light appreciation of his absurdity. “You’re something else entirely, Beau Arlen,” you murmur through a loving grin.

“And don’t I know it,” he laughs, hand gently pinching your jaw before he lowers himself to your lips, where he hovers just shy of your touch. “Just wait ‘til ya get a taste o’ you—then you’ll understand where I’m comin’ from,” he husks with a lazy grin before finally pressing his lips to yours.

And he’s right—you do taste sweet.

──────────────────────

a/n ─ beau does not stfu during sex sorry 🤷‍♀️ bro is a yapper at heart but it’s ok bc he doesn’t slack ❗️❗️❗️initially this piece was gonna be a combination of drabbles with munch dean, beau & sb but bc dean & sb’s part isn’t done yet and i wanted to get something out, have this!! i told myself i was gonna finish the other two boys’ tonight and release them all together but… i’ve been working on something else instead 👀

thank you for reading! likes & comments are appreciated—but reblogs go a much longer way, so please support your writers with it! <3

tags ─ @gibson-g1rl @bohemianblasphemy @dulcescorderitas @titsout4jackles @deansbeer @starzify @ultravi0lence14 @daylighted @figthoughts @deansbbyx @honeyryewhiskey @beausling @florchids @jasvtsc @rositaslabyrinth @nperoconelcositoarriba @angelicjackles @youdontknowe @misatxox @alidiggory92 @idk-123-0 @mahi-wayy @tuxedoe @cas-only-angel @cassiecourtemanche @abox-of-rocks @viluren @lanasgirlfr @idontwannabehere7 @lunaleah @beelzebzb @ilovedeanwinchester4

want to become part of the taglist for any future beau arlen works?

other works ─ masterlist

© bluemerakis ─ do not plagiarise or steal any of my works.

[oreo-creampies]

𝐒𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐮 𝐮𝐬𝐞𝐬 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐧𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐭𝐨 𝐤𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐢𝐦 𝐚𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐫𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐲 𝐜𝐨𝐜𝐤

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: some punishment for bratting, hints of jealous!brat!reader, confessions, full Nelson, praise/degradation, control orgasm, creampie, Satoru doesn't last long once he feels you, cream pie, hints of pussy drunk Satoru, overstimulation, choking, manhandling, light size kink, light begging

𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧: Imagine you’re being a brat and to punish you gojo turns on infinity so you can’t touch him and you HATE it. He’s driving you insane and you can’t even touch him..oof

Oreo: I'm sorry this took forever 😓, I'm so glad I got to it, it was so much fun to write thank you for this wonderful prompt lovely anon

You’re full of Satoru’s long cock, gliding your sloppy cunt on him. Your sensitive clit rubbing the skin above his cock. “Please I wanna feel your warm cock, I miss feeling your head rub deep in my cunt.” Your cunt spasms, clenching his cock, your thick cum trickling down his balls.

He won’t cum, unable to get close due to not being able to feel your soft cunt gliding on his cock. With his arms crossed behind his head, and a large smirk on his face, he doesn’t seem to be bothered.

Leaning forward, hands above his chest. You want to feel his thick pecs, glide your fingers along the hard line of his abs. “It’s been an hour! My knees and legs are hurting! Please! I can’t keep going!” Pausing with his hard cock stuffed in your sore cunt.

Your knees throbbing, thighs trembling. “I wanna make you cum! Wanna feel your puffy veins pulse right before you do. Please I’m sorry for getting jealous, I wanted all of your attention!” It’s not fair not being able to touch your beautiful Satoru.

Sliding your hand down his bare sculpted chest admiring him. “I know you’re an attention-needy brat no matter how much I give you you’ll always want more.” He grabs your hips, without actually touching you. “That’s what I love about you, you and your greedy cunt can keep up with me.”

Looking away your cheeks burn, “I love you too, I’m worried you’ll tire of me.” Satoru slowly gliding you off his cock, standing up turning you around with ease. Reaching back, the infinity vanishes allowing you to slide your fingers through his undercut over his blind fold. Grabbing a fistful of his fluffy, soft hair.

His chest warm pressed to your back, lining up his cock. You moan in relief, the warmth and softness of his cock head stroking your cunt. “Whose are you?” Nudging in just the tip, holding your there. After being denied so long it’s not enough.

Wiggling your hips, you can't slip anymore of him inside. He hooks your legs over his arms, firmly clasping his hands around your neck. “I’m yours! I'm all yours! I’m a greedy jealous slut who wants you all to myself. I can’t get enough please! Please fuck me!” Moaning, biting your bottom lip, curling your toes.

Satoru feels better than anything else could. His large warm hands around your neck, the weightless feeling of held up and mercilessly fucked. You cry, tensing up when he hits your cervix.

It’s a strange, overwhelming intense almost painful sensation that becomes better with ease hit. Satoru ruts his hips up to meet your hips when he forces you down on his long, being cock. “That’s it!” Satoru’s breathy moans are beautiful, your cunt clenching his veiny cock.

He croons, “That was a punishment for me too not being able to feel ya sweet cunt. Missed it so much, I'll stop her from flirting, make it clear that I'm lucky to be yours.” Fucking your sloppy cunt faster, stroking your sweet spot, bruising your soft cervix. Making it hard to think.

“Whose am I?” His words fall of deaf ears, whining, cuming, squeezing Satoru. The thick veins on his cock pulse, his head nudges deep inside and you feel warm thick cum spurting out.

Refusing to stop, unable to get enough of your tight, squelching cunt. “You’re mine! My Toru! My handsome Satoru! Please! That it! Right there please, your cock feels so good.” He squeezes your neck.

Your sloppy wet cunt gripping him just right, keeping his sensitive cock hard. “All yours sweetheart, fuck, I don't want anyone else but you beautiful. Your slutty little cunt is perfect, the way you say my name, how you welcome me home, fuck I love getting your texts throughout the day. Nnn if I saw someone else flirting with you, I'd been making you scream my name till your voice goes out.”

oreo’s m.list

[belovedbright]

It was great fun being The World’s Most Ridiculous Supervillain. You threatened trains with chemical warfare (butyric acid, after all you didn’t want anyone to get hurt). You kidnapped mayor’s & government officials, suspending them over “dangerous acid” for the heroes to rescue. (It was a vat of vinegar.) You even tried the sea bass with lasers thing, before discovering that 1. Sea bass aren’t smart enough to handle lasers, 2. At least they’re tasty. You felt bad, but the henchmen ate well that night. You started having your own fans & wasn’t that fun?

Except there started to be pressure for higher stakes, bigger explosions. You ramped things up with robotics, with demolitions, power suits. It would carry that fame for a while… until it didn’t. Until some hardcore fans started screaming about how boring you’d become.

And then there was the day it all went horribly wrong.

You’d known the nuke was too much. But you also knew you’d be stopped. You’d always be stopped.

Instead of the league of heroes, only one showed up. The Scarlet Shield. He’d always been your favorite. The most earnest, the most kind. The guy who’d finish a battle, then sign trading cards at the children’s hospital.

“Where is everyone?” you demanded, baffled.

“Dam failure upstate. Massive fires in the central region. And three other dickhead villains like you tying us up with plots today.”

You reel as if slapped. You’re not a dickhead villain. You’re a fun villain! No one takes you seriously. Everyone likes you.

Your train of thought is derailed as Scarlet Shield takes off his mask. He’s younger than you thought, dark skinned with startling green eyes. “I could lose myself in those eyes,” you think.

“It was fun,” he’s saying. “At first, it was fun. But a nuke Daniel? An actual nuke?”

Shame and anger flood through you in equal measure. “I —,” you stammer, wanting to defend yourself. He walks up to you, putting a hand on your shoulder. You flash through hundreds of gestures & smiles between you over the years.

“I’m not saying you’re a bad person. I don’t think you are. But it’s getting bad out there. Climate disasters alone are more than we can handle. And the real bad guys — the ones who actually want to go through with this shit, are getting bolder.”

“Please,” he says, leaning his forehead against yours. You can see in that moment how tired he is. “Please, stop. Stop this, or help us. You’re smart enough to be able to do so much more.”

“Okay,” you whisper, “I’m sorry .” He hugs you hard with a sigh. You feel something loosen in your chest, a release of the anxiety over ever bigger plots. More than that, there’s the way he’s smiling at you now, as he steps back.

“Could we—“ you start to ask.

Then he’s falling, hitting the floor, and my god there is so much blood. You you realize you distantly hear the shot through your panic, as you kneel, watching the blood pour out of him, watching those too green eyes lose their focus.

You hear gritty footsteps as a man crosses the rooftop. “I’ll be taking that weapon,” he says. “Thank you for your assistance, “Azure Mastermind.” He says your name with a sneer.

“What if I try to stop you?” you ask.

“Then I shoot you, idiot. But you won’t. You’re not a hero. You’re not even a villain. You’re just a useful idiot. Go back to being a pointless distraction while the real grownups do what’s necessary.”

“And what’s that?” you ask.

“A lot of things. Mostly making sure the right people get the right things they deserve. The rest? Well, just keep being part of the bread & circuses kid. It’s what you’re good for.”

You stare at Scarlet Shield’s body. You don’t move. When the man is gone, picked up by a private helicopter, you know three things.

Firstly, he’s underestimated you. Even you weren’t dumb enough to take a bomb that could actually accidentally be used. The core is safely contained where you stole the damn thing from.

Secondly, clearly Scarlet was right. You had been wasting their time, but you’re starting to think that was deliberate. How many “fans” were an act of manipulation? How many other disasters were part of a larger plot? How many other “villains” have been manipulated?

Lastly, this is going to stop now. It’s time to find the real villains. Not the small time guys on the street. Not even the misery merchants who cause local violence. No, it’s time to think bigger.

You close Scarlet Shield’s eyes, and if you’re crying no one is close enough to see it. You pick up his shield and rise up.

You purposefully became a cartoonish supervillain. Your evil schemes are stupid and hilariously idiotic, just so people can get a laugh at them. The heroes adore going after you, and the citizens love to watch them do it. The superhero business can be dark, but you always manage to make it fun!

[orionremastered]

Hey! Hello!

Your works are so cool, I've read them all! How about the Villain! reader? Like the reader kills/steals or something like that, but this is only for the good.

I think this would be more an anti-hero type thing, but we can do both, and because I thought it'd be fun... Soulmates!

Masterlist

Villain/anti-hero Soulmate

Bruce

Devastated. Triple the brooding. ‘What did I do to deserve this?’ practically a mid life crisis for him.

Will try to convert you to good. It is inevitable. Do not try to think otherwise.

Will probably ignore you for as long as possible

If you meet him as Batman, he'd be reluctant to tell you his actual identity for a while

Once he's accepted it, he's always going to be worrying about you or about what you're doing.

You will have to fight tooth and nail in the beginning for any affection at all

It's worth it tho

30000000000000 trackers on you at all times btw

Still worth it tho

Dick

Would be semi okay with it, but like Jason, has some hard nos

His top priority is your safety. Not as many teachers as Bruce, maybe one or two

Offers to team up/train you if you want

Would more subtly than Bruce try to steer you into good, but he wouldn't expect you to become a hero

Just have a better moral compass

Doesn't like when you have to leave for long missions at all. Only the tiniest bit clingy.

Jason

Would be the okay with it as an anti-hero himself

Just as long as you don't mess with any kids and stuff like that you're probably fine

Team ups. Lots of team ups.

Would be super reluctant to let you meet his family. Especially Bruce.

Extra worried about you. At all times.

It'd be easier to open up with you rather than a civilian.

Tim

1000% deadass believed it's a hallucination or fever dream at first before laughing at his bad luck

Look as long as you're not Ra's Al Ghul trying to make him lead a cult of assassins you're good

Would try to improve your moral compass, but just so that you don't harm any innocent people

As many trackers as Bruce. This is Tim drake we are talking about. The literal canonical stalker. Do not try to get away from him. You will not succeed.

Would be semi okay with introducing you to his family (Bruce) but would be more open to introducing you to his friends

I.e. blackmailing them into not judging you (he's got the spirit guys give him some credit)

Damian

Like Jason, pretty okay with it, but likely with less hard nos

Would show off to you constantly, or at least have competitions to see who is the best

Overprotective secretive little worrier like Bruce, but less upfront about it

Would wait until you come home to go to sleep. He worries too much (like literally I wonder who he gets it from. Hmm)

Would at least try to get you the best gear possible. The less risk the better

The least likely to try to improve your moral compass

[lilbabypanda-blog2]

MAKE THE MYDEI x READER INTO A FULL FANFIC NOW BUDDY! what if u made mydei x reader X phainon …. heh

Ohhh I see where this is going, Phainons curiosity about Mydei's friend turning into adoration and maybe more 😉

Mydei x(fem) reader x Phainon

Mydei's secret friend (phainon taking a liking to reader)

Mydei had never been the type to let things get under his skin so easily. Annoyance, yes. Irritation, constantly. But this? This was something else. Ever since the Chrysos heirs found out about Y/N, there had been no peace.

It started with Phainon. Mydei should have expected it. The man was a relentless force of nature, a golden retriever in human form, always shoving his way into things with that damnable grin. Mydei could handle his usual antics, but this was different.

Phainon had taken an interest in Y/N. A keen, persistent interest.

“Mydei, you never told us she was so fun to be around!” Phainon had said just the other day, nudging him in the ribs with a knowing smirk.

“I didn’t tell you anything,” Mydei shot back, arms crossed as he watched Phainon and Y/N talk a short distance away. Y/N had laughed at something Phainon said, a sound Mydei was familiar with, but suddenly, it irked him in a way he couldn’t place.

And it didn’t stop there. Phainon kept showing up whenever Y/N was around. If she was out at the market, Phainon was there, carrying her bags, grinning ear to ear. If she was training, Phainon somehow found a way to join in. If she was simply walking through the city, there he was, chatting her up, acting far too familiar.

It gnawed at Mydei, deep and unrelenting. It was beyond irritation now. He felt something tight coil in his chest whenever he saw them together. It made no sense. He wasn’t possessive. Y/N was her own person. And yet, every time he saw Phainon getting closer to her, making her laugh, watching her smile at him, something in Mydei burned.

One evening, after yet another instance of Phainon keeping Y/N occupied with his relentless charm, Mydei had had enough. When she finally managed to break away and approached him, he let out an annoyed huff.

“Enjoying yourself?” he asked, voice laced with irritation.

Y/N raised a brow. “Are you upset?”

“No,” he snapped too quickly. “I just didn’t think you’d enjoy being around an idiot that much.”

Y/N smirked knowingly. “Phainon’s nice. He’s easy to talk to.”

“Talk to someone else,” he muttered under his breath, turning away before she could see the rare flash of something vulnerable in his eyes.

And as much as he wanted to ignore it, the feeling refused to go away.

It started small. Mydei didn’t even realize what he was doing at first. It was just... instinct. A need to assert his superiority over Phainon, though he would never admit it.

The first instance was at the training grounds. Y/N had stopped by to observe, completely unaware of the sudden shift in atmosphere. Mydei—normally one to fight with controlled, efficient movements—suddenly found himself putting extra effort into each strike, his golden armor gleaming in the sunlight.

Phainon, of course, caught on immediately.

“Oh? So we’re showing off today?” he grinned, rolling his shoulders before stepping forward. “Alright then, let’s see what you’ve got.”

What followed was an all-out display of strength, skill, and pure stubbornness. Mydei’s fists clashed against Phainon’s blade in a flurry of strikes, neither willing to back down. When Mydei created a crimson crystal barrier mid-fight to block an incoming attack, Phainon laughed and responded by amplifying his own blows with radiant energy.

Y/N clapped when the spar ended in a near-draw, completely unaware of the competitive tension. “That was impressive,” she admitted with a smile.

Mydei crossed his arms, smugly glancing at Phainon. “Of course it was.”

The next instance was in the marketplace. Y/N was carrying a bag filled with supplies, humming softly as she browsed. Before she could even ask for help, Mydei took it from her with an effortless scoff. “You shouldn’t carry heavy things,” he muttered.

Phainon, who had been watching, quickly grabbed another bag before Mydei could stop him. “You’re right, she shouldn’t. That’s why I’ll take the rest,” he said, grinning as he loaded up more bags onto his arms.

Y/N blinked between them before sighing with a small smile. “Oh, thanks! That was nice of you both.”

Neither of them acknowledged that comment.

Later, at a casual meal with Y/N, Mydei—who normally didn’t care for cooking—suddenly found himself making something for her. He placed a perfectly prepared dish in front of her and crossed his arms expectantly.

Phainon, not one to be outdone, immediately grabbed ingredients and threw together his own creation. “Try mine next!” he grinned, setting the plate down with a wink.

Y/N chuckled, unaware of their true intentions. “Wow, you both made something? That’s great! I love free food.”

Mydei scoffed. “No big deal.”

Phainon beamed. “Absolutely.”

Y/N happily ate, completely missing the pointed glances and competitive tension between the two. If they wanted to keep doing nice things for her, who was she to stop them?

Another moment happened while walking through the city. Y/N had been admiring a small trinket at a market stall, but before she could even decide if she wanted it, Mydei had already handed the merchant a coin. “Take it,” he said, handing it to her.

Phainon huffed and immediately bought another, holding it out. “Or you could take this one! It’s even better.”

Y/N, confused but amused, took them both with a laugh. “I didn’t even ask for these, but thank you!”

And then there was the time Y/N was struggling to reach a book on a high shelf at the library. Mydei casually plucked it down and handed it to her before Phainon could react. Not to be outdone, Phainon grabbed another book and said, “This one looks even more interesting, you should read it too!”

She simply smiled and accepted both, once again oblivious to their antics.

The rivalry continued in different ways—offering to train with her first, stepping ahead of each other to hold doors open, even subtly trying to one-up each other in casual conversations.

Y/N, blissfully unaware, simply enjoyed the attention, having no idea of the silent battle for her favor that raged around her.

[snoopychris]

TA!matt discovering camgirl!reader online

warnings: masturbation, kinda sub!matt, matt's kind of an ass, cammy used in place of y/n

11:03am

“ok… professor thomas isn’t here today. you guys are stuck with me. i’m not legally… allowed to teach so just. do whatever. you can leave if you want.” matt speaks, his voice booming clearly throughout the room. the tests you had taken the week before were sitting face down in front of each seat. you’re almost scared to look at your grade. your friend, melissa, takes her seat next to you, flipping her page over instantly.

“78. how’d you do cammy?” she asks, glancing at the marks on her paper before you flip yours over. 65. “what the hell?” you whisper, looking around the room. nobody else seems to be freaking out over their scores. you make your way to matt’s temporary desk, setting your paper down. “a 65?” you mumble, glancing between matt and the paper. he sets his phone down on the desk, looking up at you. “well, yeah. your determinants were wrong and you did the wrong method. i was being generous with the grade.” 

you shake your head in disbelief, glancing over matt’s features. “i didn’t… i was so confident in… is there anything you can do for me?” you whisper, biting your lip so hard that it begins to bleed. matt shakes his head, flipping through his textbook. “do the problems on page 117. give them to me on friday and ill use some of those as proof that you know what you’re doing. daddy’s money can’t pay its way through college” you scoffed at his words. sure, you had a lot of materialistic things, always having the best backpack, the best notebook, dressed in the best clothes, but was always from your own pocket. “that’s not fair.” “oh no... you actually have to work for something for once. crazy isn’t it?” matt replies, looking back down at the papers he was grading. 

it feels like the walk of shame on your way back to your seat. when you sit down, melissa elbows your ribs, making you chuckle. “i mean shit, cammy, i’d give anything for him to talk to me like that. at least he’s hot though, right cammy?” “i’d never ever think that man was attractive. i would never. ever. do anything with him. matter of fact. hit me if i ever do.” 

11:03 pm.

matt had been going through the worst dry spell of his life. chris and nick had been making fun of him for it nonstop. he just felt desperate. in the back of his mind, he knew what he was doing was pathetic and probably frowned upon by some people. a wednesday night isn’t typically spent looking through a camgirl website hoping that one of them is cheap enough for him to afford them walking him through an orgasm. he was twenty two years old for gods sake. he shouldn’t be doing… whatever this was. the girls on his screen were all beautiful. they all had a confidence he wishes he could have. he didn’t judge the girls on the other side. he’s been desperate for money too. it’d be a lie to say that he hadn’t considered pornography. the scrolling continued for a while, only coming to a halt when he saw a free livestream.

on the other side of the city, you were growing bored. there can’t have possibly been that many other cam girls available at this time on a wednesday night. you had been live for about an hour, talking to nobody other than yourself. your face was hidden from the camera, only your lips and lower body visible. still, with no audience, you tried your best to make it seem like you were doing anything. a bullet vibrator sat near your clit, attached to your fingers by a holster. it was off, and you weren’t doing anything other than moving it in circles. maybe this whole free thing hadn’t been the best ideas. your face brightens slightly when a user finally joins. mateo81. “hello mateo… y’got yourself a private show tonight. everybody’s too busy for me.” you pout, your voice covered by a voice changer. they were common on this app. 

matt thinks it’s almost too corny. then again… you look good. just his type. and free. he would’ve paid if he had too. was it too good to be true? he should find out right? matt puts the website on full screen, typing a message out in the chat. completely free? NSA?

“completely free mateo… no strings attached.” you smile, tapping your bullet vibrator on the camera. “unless you wanna tip. i do a free stream every once in a while… you got lucky today and got it allllll for yourself. you’re gonna be such a good boy for me aren’t you?” you whisper, your voice like silk. usually matt’s not into this stuff. he’s not submissive. there’s something about you that’s making him do it all. he types another message, swallowing roughly. he doesn’t even remember getting as hard as he is right now. please. so hard rn. he pushes his boxers down, staring intently at the screen. every word you say is like a potion, drawing him further under your spell. he hopes there’s no antidote. 

you chuckle as you turn your vibrator on, holding it on your clothed clit. you bite your lip, holding back a small moan as you await another message. how much for you to take it off? you giggle once more, shrugging your shoulders as you press your tits together with one hand. “just gotta ask nicely baby…” you smile, slipping the small panties—if you could even call them that— off of your figure. 

matt watches with full attention as you do so, fisting his cock faster and faster. he wasn’t trying to cum so fast, but he had gone so long without any form of release that he felt like he had to. besides, it’s not like you’d see him. the precum that was coating his tip is rubbed away gently when matt rubs a thumb over his slit, biting the hem of his t-shirt as he reaches his first orgasm of the night. he doesn’t send a message regarding his cum coated hand, but opts to send one anyway. tits look nice. he hopes he doesn’t sound too pathetic or weird. 

your top is quickly discarded, gently jiggling your breasts on the camera for the person watching over the screen. matt groans at the sight, his sticky hand beginning to move up and down again. you continue to rub the vibrating toy on your clit, letting out small whines and whimpers. you always made it a point to not fake moan like other cam girls. you’d rather be authentic than seem fake and money hungry like some girls on the app were. 

“you’re doing such a good job… wish i could touch you right now. bet you’re dripping aren’t you? you dripping out of your dick over the fact that i’m fuckin myself with this toy for you?” matt could hardly type at this point with how covered in cum his hands were. he didn’t even remember having a second orgasm. or a third. but he knows that he did.  your words were making him feel something so different than anything he’s ever felt before.

with shaky hands, he types a yes, sending it to your screen—wherever you are. you chuckle at the message , pouting your lips for your sole viewer. “such a good boy mateo. so so good… fuck i’m gonna cum… gonna cum for you okay? do it with me yeah? unless you’ve already done it… won’t judge you…” he nods even though you can’t see him, meeting his climax once more. you whine loudly as you release, your body squirming as the feeling takes over. “f-fuck.” you whisper, pressing a small lip gloss kiss to the camera. matt chuckles at the sight, using his discarded shorts to clean himself off. 

his computers pointer moves to the follow button, clicking it as he begins typing a message in the chat. this was fun. do it again sometime? i’ll actually pay haha. he sighs of relief when you nod on camera, giggling quietly. “i can’t wait. i gotta go now. have to pee and all. i’ll see you next time okay, mateo?” you smile, turning your live stream off. matt feels a pang of sadness when he audibly says goodbye and gets no reply.

he glances at his clock, noticing that the minutes are just ticking by. there’s still a pile of math tests on his desk waiting to be graded. he throws his head back and groans, standing up to wash his hands before sitting back down at his work area. the first test he grades is almost a perfect score. 98%. he always tries to avoid names when grading test to avoid any unintentional bias. he chuckles to himself when he reads the name after he’s done grading it. cammy.

you whine as you shut your laptop, walking into the kitchen. you’re still in minimal clothes after putting your top back, but it’s decent enough to be seen by your roommate. he walks into the room, clapping slowly at your performance on the other side of the wall. “you did great, cammy. truly. always put on a show! you get this months rent yet?” he asks, handing you a cloth towel for you to wipe off any sweat with. you chuckle at his words, downing the water bottle in your hand. “free show tonight tucker. y’shoulda seen em! all… one of them! the art of camming is dying and i am going to bring it back. mark my words.” tucker chuckles at your words, grabbing his own water from the fridge. he pops it open, taking a long swig before ruffling your hair. “no judgement here. i support your whore career so long as you support my music career.” you can’t help but smile at his words, knowing he’s being genuine. he supports you in everything that you do. he always has. “yeah whatever. you’re such a good role model.” tucker rolls his eyes as he opens the fridge once more, grabbing some precooked pasta to heat up. 

“did you ever get that math test back? i got an 85. i think that matt guy really likes me or something cause i did so much shit wrong and yet here i am” you shake your head at his question, putting on a tshirt that was thrown over the couch. “no he doesn’t like me much. in fact im probably the last person on his mind 24/7 and when i am on his mind its probably all about how he dislikes me and how bad of a linear algebra student i am.” you shrug, taking a bite of your roommates pasta. “im sure that’s not true.” “oh no. it’s definitely true. there is absolutely no way that I am on his mind right now.” matt got through the stack of papers faster than he had expected. he used your nearly perfect example as an answer key of sorts. he began getting ready for bed, properly this time, knowing that he had an early start to his day with a few morning classes, followed by his nightly internship. he needed to find more time for himself. as he nestles into bed, jellycats at his side, he stares up at the ceiling for a few minutes. his mind keeps drifting back to the camgirl from earlier. cherry. he hopes she’s okay right now. that she’s had a good meal and that she was safe, wherever she was. it was all that was on his mind. the only person on matt’s mind was you. and it had absolutely nothing to do with your mathematical abilities. in fact— he wasn’t even thinking about your test grades anymore. you were absolutely on matt's mind right now, even if neither of you knew it.

tags(reply/message to be added!): @mattsstarlet @oopsiedaisydeer @marrykisskilled @ifwdominicfike @frankoceanfanpage @mattssslutbby @sophand4n4 @matthewsturnsgf @izzylovesmatt @m11rx @chris-hallelujah @sturniolotoast @mattsbrat @wastelandzella @le4hsblog @mattsd0llfac3 @st7rnioioss @isabellewhatt @sturnslutz @freshhhloveee @courta13 @sturns-mermaid @ivysturnss @slutformatt17 @emely9274 @princessesgarden @cykss @throatgoat4u @blahbel668 @ivyyyyyysposts @h0e4fictionalme-n @sofieeeeex @littlebookworm803 @allylovescody @ribread03 @cheesecakedolll @chrislova @ikyoudreamofme @jetaimevous @muwapsturniolo @sturnsrecord @13hoax @whore4mattsturniolo @sophsturns @chrissweetheart @cl1tlover3000 @applecidersturniolo @babytrapsosa @backwardshatnick

dividers by rose @bernardsbendystraws !

[emisafan]

Love when memes end up causing nice discussions. It's so interesting to see what everyone is saying. Reading things people in the community wrote, I saw different things like... he doesn't know how to cook well but makes nice sandwiches, he mealpreps, he's sufficient enough to teach Harry how to cook, or seems to be getting takeout everytime -- if a generous neighbor (or Harry) doesn't feed him. That's some that I remember at least.

Something that makes me think that Harry knows how to cook is when you are trying get Gastons sandwich and - maybe Harry is just really good at bullshitting, but it seems like he knows what he's talking about. (Or maybe he can't cook and he just read a lot of cooking books. I mostly agree with the people saying it depends on how a check is going - either a masterpiece or the house is burning down)

Maybe running a sideblog for polls like this might be fun, bc I have another question about what people think their tastes are like. I've seen some give Kim a sweettooth, or have him only eat healthy and lightweight food, other times he'd dislike mesque or seolite food. - and then there's the "he didn't eat anything all day" thing where he's just too busy to eat. For Harry I've mostly seen them give him a very greasy and/or protein rich diet - doesn't seem to eat many vegetables.

It's the things where we don't really have canon information about them and people make up their own things, that intrest me here. All I know for certain is that neither Harry or Kim are vegetarian/vegan , because they both ate the salami. (And Kim liked eating the salami more than being forced to share that vegan gluten free pastry lol, I get that that's the only time Harry didn't bully people into giving him food, but still) (Hold on, does Harry know what a vegetarian is?)

Uhh anyway now I wrote more than I wanted to, oh well.

Saw this tiktok of someone horribly failing at making brownies and I thought of them