#I'm just frustrated and trying to make a point

[jungkoode]

𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 𝐟𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬

˗ˏˋ that first night (her POV) ˎˊ˗

"There's a theory that says you meet everyone in your life twice—once as strangers, and once when it matters. That first night at 'Pulse', with vodka cranberry on your tongue and his eyes burning into yours, was supposed to be the stranger part. No one warns you that six months later, he'll be standing in your new apartment's doorway, looking at you like he's seen a ghost. But that’s a problem for Future you."

⋆｡°✩ story details ✩°｡⋆

collection: Before It All (FMU)

wordcount: 15k

pairing: fmu!jungkook x fmu!yn (cocky!jkxbratty!reader)

rating: explicit, 18+

playlist: spotify

content: new york city setting, university setting, strangers to roommates (eventually), nightclub setting, hookup, one night stand, drunk hookup (buzzed/tipsy but consensual), explicit sexual content, oral sex (cunnilingus), protected penetrative sex, multiple orgasms, wall sex, rough sex, choking/breath play (light), hair pulling, marking/hickeys, size kink, manhandling, dirty talk, praise kink, bickering during sex, snarky banter, grinding, multiple positions, slight pain kink, slight degradation kink, praise kink if you squint, sexual tension, sexual chemistry, mild exhibitionism (making out in uber/club), slight voyeurism (being watched in club), mild dubious condom practices (that one scene), alcohol consumption, bite kink, aftercare (mild), spooning, scent kink, vanilla scented products, enemies to lovers (eventual), size difference (height), strength kink.

✧ author's note ✧

Hi my little demons! (｀∀´)Ψ Welcome to the prequel that started this absolute dumpster fire - AKA the night our emotionally constipated idiots first met.

Let's talk about how THIS happened, because honestly? I've rewritten this scene approximately 47 times (not exaggerating, my Google docs are a MESS). I initially wasn't even going to write it, but then my 3AM brain, fueled by what was probably my 8th espresso, decided we NEEDED to see these two disasters collide for the first time. And boy, did they collide. (￣ω￣;)

First things first: This is pure, unadulterated filth. I literally had to take several walks around my apartment complex while writing this because these two WOULD NOT BEHAVE. Like, I was trying to be somewhat respectable here, but they said "No♥️" and chose violence. So you know what? I just let them do their thing and documented it like the professional disaster that I am.

Now, let's talk about our girl for a second. Writing her at this specific point in her life was FASCINATING because you can really see all the pieces that made her who she is—the family pressure, the small-town suffocation, the desperate need for control while simultaneously wanting to lose it completely... She's such a beautifully complex mess and I love her for it. (Don't worry, she'll grow. Eventually. Maybe. We'll see.)

And Jungkook... Oh boy. There's SO MUCH about him that I've deliberately sprinkled throughout this chapter. Little details, subtle hints, tiny breadcrumbs that'll make sense later. I'm actually really proud of how many easter eggs I managed to hide in here - come back after future chapters and tell me if you caught them! (Though let's be real, you're probably not here for the literary analysis, you thirsty gremlins.)

The biggest challenge was honestly Emma. Like, how do you get the world's most protective best friend to leave her bestie alone in a club? I spent WEEKS trying to make this work in a way that felt authentic to her character. The sister crisis was my 3AM solution and I'm actually pretty proud of how it turned out. Realistic character motivation is my kink, okay? (＾▽＾)

Speaking of realism—that's literally why this fic exists. I got so frustrated with how many unrealistic elements I kept seeing in stories that I went "Fine, I'll do it myself" and here we are, 35 pages of smut later???? Huh. You're welcome????

Side note: I have this whole thing narrated in audio (female voice only, because no male voice matches Jungkook’s, my beloved ¯\_(ツ)_/¯) but Tumblr said "file too big bestie" so... might drop it on ko-fi if enough people are interested. Let me know in the comments! Speaking of comments—PLEASE tell me your theories about all the little hints I've dropped about Jungkook's past. I'm dying to see what you guys pick up on! (⌒ω⌒)ﾉ

Until next time, you disaster pandas! (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧

Kiki. 🍓

P.S. Any typos are between you and god because I've stared at this document for so long the words have lost all meaning.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

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main story: fuck me up

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So here's the thing about nightclubs: you either love them or you hate them.

You? You're more of a 'hate them' kinda girl. The sweat, the noise, the people... not your scene. Not usually, anyway.

But usual went out the window the second Emma suggested this little adventure. Sweet, reliable Emma who you lost touch with after high school but who immediately became your secret accomplice when you reached out about transferring to NYU. Who's been your underground informant for months now—sneaking you tips about the English department, virtually walking you through the campus layout via late-night FaceTime sessions, and helping you plot out the perfect transfer application your parents know nothing about.

Emma, who didn't even blink when you showed up at her door with a weekend bag and a story for your parents about "visiting your responsible friend in the city." (They bought it immediately because, well, it's Emma. Their golden standard of What A Good Influence Should Be.) You'd spent the whole day doing exactly what you came for—touring NYU's campus, sitting in on a couple of English classes Emma snuck you into, and gathering all the transfer information you could get your hands on.

"You can't just transfer here and not know what the nightlife is like," she'd insisted, already rummaging through her closet for something that wasn't your campus tour outfit. "That's like... buying a car without test driving it."

Which, okay, terrible analogy, but you get her point. You've spent months planning this transfer—going over NYU's transfer requirements, crafting the perfect escape from your suffocating small-town university, calculating exactly how to tell your parents once it's too late for them to stop you. The campus visit was supposed to be just that—visiting your responsible friend Emma for a weekend while secretly checking out NYU.

Emma, bless her overprotective heart, had taken one look at your face after that final tour—that specific blend of desperate hope and terrified excitement—and decided you needed to see the whole picture. "The real college experience," as she put it, already pulling out her phone to text her club promoter friend.

"Location sharing on?" she'd asked for the fifth time before you left her apartment, double-checking your phone settings like some kind of Gen-Z mother hen. As if you hadn’t spent the last three months planning this transfer with military-grade precision.

"Yes, mom," you'd rolled your eyes, but something warm had settled in your chest at her fussing. It's... nice, having someone in on the secret. Someone who gets it.

"Emergency contact updated to my number?"

"Check."

"Spare key to my apartment?"

"Emma, I swear to god—"

"Just checking!" She'd grinned, already knowing she was being ridiculous but doing it anyway. "One more thing..."

And that's how you ended up with a literal tracking app on your phone, an emergency SOS button setup, and Emma's solemn promise to "never leave your side, scout's honor." (She was never actually a scout, but whatever.)

Parents really think you're just visiting your studious, sensible friend Emma for a nice, quiet weekend in the city. Having some wholesome catching-up time. Maybe seeing some museums.

Ha. If only they knew you're actually scouting out your future escape route.

If only you knew.

Because let's be real, this isn't exactly in your wheelhouse. But Emma's right there, keeping her scout's honor promise, bouncing between the bar and dance floor like some kind of safety-conscious terror. And maybe it's the way she keeps checking in with subtle thumbs-up signals, or maybe it's just knowing someone's actually got your back in this whole secret college plan thing, but you're... kind of having fun?

Which is how you find yourself here, in this pulsing, thrumming mass of bodies and sound. 'Pulse', the club's called. Fitting, considering how you can feel the bass thumping in your veins, the strobe flashing like lightning in your skull. It's... a lot. But not in a bad way?

Yeah, definitely not bad, you decide as you scan the room. Leather booths, gleaming bar top, and a dance floor packed with the kind of gorgeous twenty-somethings that make you feel simultaneously inadequate and oddly triumphant. Like 'yeah, I might not be that, but at least I'm here.'

And honestly, it's pretty nice here. Clean, classy even. Good lighting over the bar, vigilant security, and Emma vouches for the place. She's your safety net tonight, because God knows you'd never try this solo. But Emma... Emma knows everyone. Gets you both in with a wink and a wave, like some kind of VIP.

The girl's got pull and she's not afraid to use it. You envy that a bit, that confidence. Wish you could borrow just a dash of it, to fortify your nerves as you perch on this barstool, spine too straight and fingers too tight around your glass. But it's fine, it's good, you're good. That’s what you tell yourself, anyways—even if it’s not entirely the truth.

It's just one night. One chance. One small rebellion before you go back home and drown yourself in expectations and demands. Hardly even counts as rebellion, really, in the grand scheme. Not like you're planning on getting blackout drunk and ending up in jail or anything. Just… dipping your toe. Sampling the other side. Just for a night.

What's the worst that could happen?

Famous last words. Or in this case, famous last thought, as you take a too-big sip of your drink and nearly choke on watery vodka cranberry. Good thing no one's paying attention.

Well, except for one guy, apparently. And he's...

Oh. Oh damn.

He's the kind of gorgeous that makes you almost forget how to swallow, even as you scoff internally. Guys who look like that? They're usually bad news. Cringe edgy boys. Like the ones you see on TikTok. The jaw, the eyes, the whole brooding bad-boy package. Not your type. Not even a little.

But he’s hot. Truth be told.

And he's watching you. Not in a creepy way, but… intense. Interested. And wow, okay, maybe there's something to be said for the whole 'still waters' vibe he's giving off, because that gaze is doing things to you. Things you're not entirely sure you're ready for.

But then again... isn't that the whole point? To try something new? To be someone new, just for a night? The girl who holds the stare of a beautiful stranger. The girl who lets the charge build, heart kicking up and skin tingling. The girl who—

"Shit, shit, shit." Emma's suddenly at your elbow, phone clutched to her chest, face twisted with genuine distress. "My sister just called. She's having some kind of breakdown about—god, I don't even know, her boyfriend? Something about him showing up at her dorm? She's hysterical, I can barely understand her—"

You watch Emma's face cycle through about twelve different emotions in three seconds. She keeps glancing between you and her phone, clearly torn. "I should go check on her. But I can't just leave you here alone. Fuck. Maybe we should both—"

"Em, I'm fine," you try to reassure her, even as your stomach sinks a little. Great. Just when things were getting interesting with dark eyes over there. "I can just get an Uber—"

"No, no, wait." Emma's scanning the club like she's looking for something specific. Her face lights up suddenly as she spots someone by the weights machine in the club's weird gym corner. Because apparently some clubs have those now. "Oh thank god—hey!!"

She waves frantically at some guy who's been doing bicep curls between taking selfies for his Instagram story. You vaguely recognize him from Emma's study group—one of those guys who probably knows the protein content of everything in his lunch and considers gym updates a legitimate form of social interaction.

"Perfect timing," Emma says as he approaches, already dabbing his face with a workout towel. She's rapid-fire texting, probably her sister. "You're still doing that safe walk program thing for the student union, right? The volunteer thing they made you do after that frat party incident?"

"Yeah bro, community service hours almost done," he confirms, then looks confused as Emma practically shoves her phone in his face, showing him what you assume is your location-sharing setup.

"Great. This is my best friend from high school. She's got location sharing on with me, SOS button setup, fully charged phone." Emma's talking so fast she's almost tripping over her words. "I have to go deal with my sister but I'll be back in an hour tops. Could you just... keep an eye out? Make sure no creeps bother her?"

Your face heats. "Emma, seriously—"

"I know, I know, you can handle yourself," Emma cuts you off, already shouldering her bag. "But humor me? He’s actually great at this. Always walks girls home after study group. Total golden retriever energy."

You catch the way her eyes flick meaningfully toward where dark eyes is still watching from across the room. Like she's trying to say 'here's your safe but slightly dim option if you want it, but...'

Your phone buzzes with an incoming wall of texts:

Emma: 𝚒'𝚖 𝚜𝚘 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚢!!! 𝚒 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚒 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚢 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚢𝚘𝚞 Emma: 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚒 𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚒'𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚗 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚝𝚘𝚙𝚜 Emma: 𝚑𝚎'𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚒𝚌𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚐𝚢𝚖 𝚋𝚛𝚘 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛, 𝚝𝚘𝚝𝚊𝚕 𝚙𝚞𝚙𝚙𝚢 Emma: 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚕𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚙𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜... 👀 Emma: (𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚔𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚕𝚘𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚗 & 𝚝𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚖𝚎 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚎!!!)

"Hey there. Emma had to run, but she didn't want to leave you alone. Asked me to keep you company. That okay?"

The voice cuts through your spiral, and you blink up at the interloper. Brent? Brad? Some monosyllabic gym bro who's friends with Emma and apparently your new babysitter.

Great.

You paste on a smile, even as your attention flickers back to him. Dark eyes, dark hair, and a mouth that could probably do very interesting things, you bet your money on it. But no. Don’t get distracted. Eyes on Brett. He's safe, he's known. Boring as a beige wall, but that's better. Smarter.

"Yeah, of course," you say brightly. Too brightly. Even you can hear the false note, and you cringe. "Thanks for keeping me company."

Because that's why you're here. For safety, for company, for sampling the world, but through a protective barrier. Not for tall, dark, and dangerously appealing over there. Definitely not for him.

Even if you kinda wish it was.

"You're pretty."

And like... okay? Thanks? But also, ugh. It's not that you're not flattered—you are, in that vaguely uncomfortable way that makes you want to simultaneously preen and roll your eyes into next week. Because yeah, duh, you know. You own mirrors. You're aware of your assets, thank you very much. But there's something so wonderfully, terribly basic about guys who lead with that.

Still. You give him another once-over, because fair's fair and also because like... why not? He's not bad. Actually pretty decent, if you're being honest (and you are, because what's the point of lying to yourself?). Broad shoulders, nice arms, that whole gym rat aesthetic that apparently some girls go crazy for.

Not that you're necessarily one of those girls. You've always preferred a more... balanced build. Something between "I can bench press you" and "I've never seen the inside of a gym." Like, yeah, muscles are nice and all, but you want to be able to actually cuddle without feeling like you're laying on a marble statue. Give you some softer edges any day. Something to sink into, you know?

But beggars can't be choosers and honestly? You're kind of tired of being a beggar. Or, well, not a beggar exactly, but definitely... selective. Too selective, maybe. Conservative. Careful. All those words that really mean "scared to actually live a little."

Not tonight though. Tonight you're in New York fucking City, three hundred miles from your parents' suffocating expectations and that small-town mindset that makes you want to scream into your pillow sometimes. Tonight you could be anyone.

So when you say, "Thank you, you're not bad yourself," it comes out smoother than expected. Almost flirty. And his laugh? Not terrible. Kind of nice actually, even if it doesn't quite reach his eyes. They're nice eyes too—warm brown, honest. Safe.

"Would you like to dance?"

The question hangs there, and you consider it. Really consider it. Because this—this whole thing—it's what you came for, isn't it? To try something new. To be someone new. Someone who says yes to dancing with attractive strangers in clubs that pulse with bass-heavy Usher remixes.

"You feeling confident?" you throw back, and okay, maybe that was a little sharp, a little too much of your usual self bleeding through. But he just smiles (no dimples, and why does that matter? Since when do you care about dimples?), and holds out his hand.

His fingers are cold when they wrap around yours. It's... not great. You've always hated cold hands, which is ironic considering yours are perpetually freezing. But you let him lead you onto the dance floor anyway, because what the hell. What the actual hell. You're here, you're young, you're... actually kind of buzzed now that you think about it. That vodka cran hitting different after all.

His hands hover at your hips, eyes asking permission, and you give him a look that you hope translates to "yes, but don't get crazy about it." Must work, because his palms settle, grip light but present. You rest your hands on his shoulders (nice shoulders, you'll give him that), and try to find the rhythm.

It's not terrible. Not amazing either, but definitely not terrible. He can move, keeps a decent beat, doesn't try to grind up on you like some horny teenager. His hands stay respectfully placed, thumbs making small circles that should probably feel more exciting than they do.

Everything about this should feel more exciting than it does.

Maybe you need another drink. Maybe you need to stop overthinking every little thing and just... be. Maybe...

Maybe that's when it happens. Your eyes drift up, over his shoulder, like they're being pulled by some invisible thread. Like something in you just knows where to look. And there he is.

Dark eyes locked on yours, expression unreadable in the strobing lights.

One second. Two. Three.

An eternity compressed into the space between heartbeats. Your skin prickles, heat crawling up your spine that has nothing to do with the crowded dance floor or the alcohol in your system. The weight of his stare is palpable, laden with something unnamed but acutely felt. Something that turns your mouth to the Sahara and your pulse into a kickdrum.

Usher croons about falling in love while Pitbull drops his signature "dale" in the background, and isn't that just fucking hilarious? Because this—this moment, this look, this stranger—this isn't about love. This is about want. Raw and simple and completely uncomplicated by things like names or histories or futures.

This is about the way his jaw clenches slightly as he watches you dance with someone else. About how his fingers drum against his glass in perfect time with the beat. About the little scar on his cheek that catches the light when he tilts his head, studying you like you're a puzzle he wants to take apart piece by piece.

Your dance partner's hands feel colder by the second.

It's not that his hands are bad, exactly. They're... nice hands. Big hands. The kind that wrap around your hips like they were made to be there, fingers long enough to span the distance between hipbone and hipbone. And yeah, okay, you have a thing for hands. Who doesn't? It's practically universal at this point—like liking bread or hating people who talk during movies. Just basic human nature.

But something's... off.

Your brain is doing that thing. That stupid, annoying, overthinking thing where it won't shut up long enough to let you enjoy anything. And god, you hate this. Hate how your mind rebels against perfectly good situations, like it's allergic to straightforward pleasure or something. Because objectively? This should be working. Hot guy, good music, decent amount of alcohol in your system. Your body's definitely on board—you can feel the low simmer of attraction, the way your skin warms under his touch. The basic chemistry is there.

But your mind? Your mind's like that one friend who shows up to parties just to list off everything that could possibly go wrong. His hands are cold. His laugh doesn't reach his eyes. No dimples. The way he said "pretty" like he was checking off a box on some "How to Pick Up Girls" checklist.

You sigh, already stepping back. Watch the confusion flicker across his face, quickly masked by what you're sure he thinks is an understanding smile.

"Everything alright?"

And like... no? Yes? Maybe? How do you even answer that when you're not sure what's wrong in the first place? When you're standing here on a dance floor that's vibrating with Usher's voice while your brain short-circuits over the temperature of some guy's hands?

"Yeah, I'm just..." You pause, teeth catching your bottom lip as you reconsider. Fuck it. Might as well go with the classics. "The vodka. Has me feeling buzzy, I think I'm not feeling too good."

It's a cop-out and you know it. But it's also an easy out, the kind that doesn't hurt anyone's feelings or make things weird. Because that's what you do, isn't it? Keep things smooth. Keep things nice. Even when you're lying through your teeth to some guy whose name you can't quite remember.

"Hey, that's okay." His smile stays steady, concerned even. "No hard feelings. You need a ride home?"

And that—that right there—that's actually kind of sweet. In another universe, maybe that offer would seal the deal. Nice guy, worried about your safety, probably has a stable job and calls his mother on Sundays. But in this universe? In this universe, your eyes are already drifting over his shoulder, drawn like a compass needle to true north.

You press your lips together, scanning the crowd like you're actually looking for someone. Like you haven’t known exactly where he is this whole time, haven’t felt his eyes raking you up and down non-stop.

"Actually I know someone just across the way, so honestly, zero worries."

The shock on his face would be comical if it weren’t so irksome. "You positive? Weren’t you visiting from out of town? Emma mentioned you were just in for the weekend."

And okay, what the actual fuck? Why does he need your whole life story? Yeah, sure, he's probably just being nice. Probably just wants to make sure you're not about to wander off and get murdered or something. But still. The irritation rises in your throat like bile, sharp and inexplicable.

"Doesn't mean I don't know anybody in New York," you say, and wow, okay, that came out with more edge than intended. Quick, fix it, smooth it over. You paste on a tight smile, the kind that probably looks more like a grimace but hey, at least you're trying. "See you around, Brent."

You're already moving as you say it, heels clicking against the floor with purpose. You think you hear him call after you—something about his name being Peter?—but you're beyond caring. Beyond thinking about cold hands and careful smiles and all the safe choices you should be making.

Because your feet know where they're going, even if your brain is screaming about bad decisions. Even if every rational part of you is throwing up warning signs and red flags. Even if—or maybe because—you can feel his eyes following your every move, heat spiraling up your spine with each step closer.

The bass drops, and your heart kicks up to match it.

Dale, indeed.

You don't need to look at him to know he's watching. You can tell. Can perceive it. It’s like standing too close to a bonfire. The kind of heat that makes you want to step closer even as your survival instincts scream danger, danger, danger.

And this? This is definitely dangerous.

You don't do this. Like, ever. There's a whole routine to these things, right? Guy sees girl, guy approaches girl, girl decides if she wants to deal with whatever fumbling attempt at flirtation follows. That's just... how it works. How it's always worked. Because guys? They're usually terrible at being approached. Their fragile little egos can't handle a girl making the first move. Plus, most of them aren't worth the effort anyway.

But.

But your feet are already moving. But your heart is already racing. But something about the way he's been watching you, like he could devour you whole and still be hungry—it makes you reckless. Makes you stupid. Makes you brave.

"Dance with me."

It comes out more command than question, your voice steadier than it has any right to be. He looks up at you from his seat, and fuck. Just... fuck. Because the way he tilts his head? The slow, deliberate motion of it? That should not be as hot as it is. That should be illegal in at least three states.

Then he smiles. Just one side of his mouth lifting, lazy and confident and—oh god. A dimple. One perfect little dimple that makes something in your chest squeeze tight.

"That's bold."

His voice is lower than you expected. Rougher. Like whiskey over gravel, and you want to drink it down until you're drunk on it. Want to find out what other sounds you can pull from that throat.

"You've been looking at me for 10 minutes." The words fall from your lips before you can stop them, sharp and challenging. "You gonna come dance or not?"

He chuckles—actually chuckles, who even does that?—and holy shit, there's another one. Two dimples. Two perfect little dents in his cheeks that make heat pool low in your belly, thick and sweet like honey. Your fingers twitch, aching to touch them, to press thumbs to those tiny curves and feel him beam against your flesh.

When he stands, it's one fluid motion that makes it feel like someone replaced your esophagus with a cracked porcelain vase. Because he's tall. Not incredibly, super tall. But yes the kind of tall that means you'd have to stretch up on your toes to reach his mouth, that means his hands could probably span your whole waist, that means—

No. Nope. Not going there. Not yet anyway.

He follows you onto the dance floor, and you can feel the energy shift. Like the air itself is charging up, preparing itself for both of you. His friend—some guy with killer dance moves who's been holding down a corner of the floor all night—catches his eye and shoots him a look. Something passes between them, quick and meaningful, before Mystery Man's attention is back on you. All on you.

And yeah.

Yeah, this is happening.

This is definitely happening.

The bass pounds through your marrow as Usher's voice continues suffusing the air, talking about DJs and falling in love, and honestly. At this point you’re barely listening to the music itself, too focused on finding a more secluded spot.

Your pulse picks up speed. Can’t help it, really. Because this? This is definitely going to be worth breaking all your rules for.

You lead him to some darker corner of the club—might be by a column, might be an alcove, who fucking knows because your brain's too busy short-circuiting to care about architectural details right now. All you know is it's slightly away from the main crush of bodies, slightly more private, slightly more...

Oh.

His hands find your hips the second you turn to face him. No hesitation. No silent question. No careful hovering or polite uncertainty like what's-his-name earlier. Just warm, sure palms sliding over the curve of your hips like they belong there, like he's claiming territory, and—

And you should be annoyed. You should be fucking livid. Because excuse you? The audacity of this man to just assume he can touch you without so much as a "may I?" Some feminist you are, getting weak in the knees over this caveman behavior while poor Brett (Blake? Whatever) at least had the decency to ask permission with those puppy dog eyes of his.

But your brain? Your traitorous, horny, absolutely useless brain? It's sending signals straight between your legs because apparently that's what does it for you now. The confidence. The heat of his hands—and god, they're so warm, burning through the thin fabric of your dress like brands. They're not as broad as the other guy's, but his fingers are longer, elegant almost. Artist's hands, scattered with tiny tattoos that disappear under his sleeve, and that silver ring on his middle finger catching the light as his grip tightens just slightly...

(Middle finger. Not left-hand fourth. So not married then. Good. Last thing you need tonight is adding "homewrecker" to your expanding list of dubious habits.)

Your arms loop around his neck almost on autopilot, and then you're moving. With him. Against him. The bass is a living thing between you, and he matches your rhythm instantly, like your bodies already know the steps to this dance. Like you've done this a hundred times before, in a hundred different lives.

His eyes lock onto yours, heavy-lidded and dark as sin, and every hair on your neck stands at attention. Electricity crackles down your spine, sharp and sweet, as his thumbs press into your hipbones. Just enough pressure to guide you closer, until there's barely room for breath between you.

"Didn't catch your name earlier," he says, voice pitched low enough that you have to lean in to hear him over the music. His breath fans hot against your ear, and you suppress a shiver.

"Didn't throw it," you shoot back, because apparently your mouth is running on autopilot now too. Great. Just great.

But he laughs—a quick, rough sound that you feel more than hear—and his hands flex against your hips. "Feisty. I like that."

"Bet you say that to all the girls who proposition you at clubs."

"Nah." His head dips closer, nose brushing your temple. "Just the ones who stare at me for ten minutes first."

"Excuse you, you were staring at me."

"Maybe we were staring at each other."

And okay, that's... fair actually. But you're not about to admit it. Instead, you roll your eyes, even as your fingers find the soft hair at his nape. "Does this usually work for you? This whole... whatever this is?"

"You tell me." His smile is audible in his voice, and you just know those dimples are making an appearance again. "You're the one who told me to dance."

"Maybe I just felt sorry for you, sitting there all alone."

"Wasn't alone. Had my friend."

"The dancer? Please, he was too busy killing it on the floor to keep you company."

His laugh vibrates through his chest into yours, and when did you get this close? When did your bodies start pressing together with every sway of the music? When did his thigh slip between yours, creating a friction that makes your breath catch?

"You been watching my friend too? Should I be jealous?"

The word sends an unexpected thrill through you, even though his tone is clearly teasing. "Wouldn't you like to know."

"Yeah," he says, and suddenly his voice isn't teasing at all. His grip tightens fractionally, pulling your hips more firmly against his. "Yeah, I would."

Goosebumps ripple across your arms, slow and inevitable, like lava carving its path through stone. His eyes burn into yours again, scorching hot, wild, and consuming—a downpour drowning a raging fire, leaving nothing but aftermath. What’s left in their wake is the kind of black that clings. Opaque. Dense. Like ash, settling over a forest stripped to its bare bones.

The sensible part of your brain—the part that usually keeps you from doing stupid, reckless things with beautiful strangers—is suspiciously quiet. Probably because all your blood is currently occupied elsewhere, namely with the way his hands are starting to trace slow patterns on your hips, the way his breath keeps ghosting over your neck, the way his body moves against yours like he's writing sin in cursive.

And maybe it's the vodka, or maybe it's how he's gazing at you like you're tranquility amidst his chaos, but you hear yourself say, "Buy me a drink first."

His smile is slow, dangerous. "That an order too?"

"Consider it a... suggestion."

"Mm." One hand slides to your lower back, pressing you impossibly closer for just a moment. "I'm starting to like your suggestions."

Your skin feels too tight, too hot, too everything. "Starting to?"

"Give me time." His lips brush your ear as he speaks, and this time you can't suppress the shiver. "Night's still young."

He actually does buy you that drink, which is... something. You're not sure what exactly, but definitely something. The way he guides you to the bar with his hand still on your lower back, fingers splayed wide enough to make you notice the imprint of his warmth? Also something.

"Another vodka cran," you tell the bartender, because hey, if it ain't broke. Then you catch his raised eyebrow and can't help adding, "What? Were you expecting something more sophisticated?"

"Nah." That damn dimple makes another appearance. "Just trying to figure you out."

"Good luck with that."

When he pulls out his wallet to pay, you catch a glimpse of multiple cards fanned out in the leather fold. Credit cards, maybe? Must have money then—or at least good credit. Not that it matters, because this is a one-time thing. A never-gonna-see-you-again thing. A what-happens-in-New-York stays-in-New-York thing.

Your fingers find the cocktail napkin beneath your glass, absently creating sharp creases with your thumbnail. It's one of those fancy ones with the bar's logo embossed in gold—pretentious, like everything else about this place.

Still. You notice how he pauses, studying one card for a beat too long before selecting it. Like he's making sure of something. Weird, but whatever.

The napkin disappears into your clutch without conscious thought. A habit you'll question later but can't explain now. You're too buzzed to care about his personal finances or your own questionable souvenir-keeping tendencies.

"Whiskey neat," he orders, and you barely contain your snort. Of fucking course he drinks whiskey. Probably thinks he's Don Draper or something.

"Pretentious much?"

"Says the girl drinking what's basically juice with a splash of alcohol."

"At least I'm not trying to prove anything."

His laugh is rough, genuine. "Who says I'm trying to prove anything?"

"Please. Whiskey at a club? That's like wearing a suit to McDonald's."

"Maybe I just like whiskey." He takes a deliberate sip, throat working in a way that absolutely doesn't make your mouth water. "Maybe I like the burn."

There's something in his voice when he says that, something that feeds the banked flame in your belly. His eyes are on you again, alternating between your eyes and your mouth like he can't quite decide where to focus.

"That line score you points often?" you manage to ask, even as your voice betrays you, emerging breathier than intended.

"I wouldn't know." He's definitely closer now. When did that happen? Did he move, or did you? "Is it scoring points now?"

And god help you, but it is. It really fucking is. Maybe it's the alcohol finally hitting your system properly, or maybe it's the way he's looking at you, but you find yourself swaying toward him. Drawn in like a moth to flame, even though you know you're probably going to get burned.

"You're kind of an asshole," you inform him, even as your free hand finds its way to his chest. His very firm chest, holy shit.

"Yeah?" His fingers trace up your spine, feather-light but deliberate. "Seem to like it though."

"Cocky too."

"Haven't heard any complaints."

He's so near now you can smell him—something clean and vicious, like a tempest raging on the coast. His breath fans across your lips, whiskey-warm and promising. One of his hands cups the back of your neck, thumb brushing your jaw in a way that makes your skin buzz.

"Anyone ever tell you you talk too much?" you murmur, and that's it—that's all it takes.

His mouth crashes into yours like a wave breaking against rocks, hot and insistent and absolutely fucking flawless. His lips are softer than you expected but he kisses hard, like he's trying to devour you whole. Like he's been thinking about this as much as you have. The hand on your neck tightens, tilting your head to deepen the angle, and holy fuck.

You've been kissed before. You've been kissed a lot, actually. But this? This is something else entirely. This is lightning in a bottle, this is matches in gasoline, this is every hackneyed poetry metaphor about fire and flame and immolation except it actually makes sense now because your entire body is electric with it.

His tongue swipes across your bottom lip and you open for him without hesitation, vodka cranberry forgotten in your hand. He tastes like alcohol and dewdrops and something else you can't name but instantly crave more of. The noise he makes when you tug his hair—low and ravenous and almost startled—shoots straight between your legs.

Someone whistles nearby—probably his dancer friend—but you couldn't care less. Not when his other hand is sliding down to your hip, pulling you closer. Not when he's kissing you like he's trying to memorize the shape of your mouth with his tongue. Not when everything in you is screaming more, closer, now.

You're definitely going to hell for this. But with the way he's kissing you?

Might be worth it.

His forehead rests against yours, and you're both breathing like you've run a marathon. Which is... embarrassing, actually. When was the last time a kiss left you this affected? What are you, some freshman at their first house party? Because this is ridiculous. You're ridiculous. Your heart is hammering against your ribs like it's trying to escape, and your lips are tingling, and—

And fuck it. Fuck everything. You want more.

"Let's take this outside," you say, surprising yourself with how steady your voice sounds considering your internal chaos. Because yes. Outside. Away from the crowd and the music and all these people who aren't him.

"Your house?" The words are barely out of his mouth before you can finish your suggestion, and okay, that's kind of hot. The eagerness. The way his fingers flex against your hip like he's already imagining it.

You can't help the smile that tugs at your lips. At least you're not alone in this desperate teenage hormone bullshit. At least he's just as affected as you are.

But then reality crashes in like a bucket of ice water. Your house? What house? You're crashing at Emma's place and—oh god, Emma would actually murder you. Like, literal homicide. She's already doing you a solid by covering for you with your parents, and bringing back some random (incredibly hot) guy from a club? Yeah, that would definitely void the best-friend contract.

"Yours?" you counter, trying not to sound too hopeful.

He makes this sound—half hiss, half groan—that shouldn't be as sexy as it is. "Can't."

"What, mommy and daddy don't let you?" The snark is automatic, defense mechanism kicking in to mask your disappointment.

"Nah, but my friend might not like it."

"Mine either."

You stare at each other for a moment, eyes darting back and forth like you're both trying to solve the same puzzle. The absurdity of the situation hits you at the same time—two grown adults, hot and bothered in a club, cockblocked by their respective roommate situations—and suddenly you're both laughing.

His chuckle is deep, rumbling through his chest where you're still pressed against him, and it's... nice. Really nice. The way his eyes crinkle at the corners, the way his dimples flash (and seriously, those things should come with a warning label), the way his thumb absently strokes your hip like he's forgotten he's doing it.

"Well, this is..."

"Stupid?" you offer.

"I was gonna say unfortunate, but yeah. Stupid works too."

You're still close enough to feel his breath on your lips, still wound tight with want, still buzzing from that kiss. And now you're both laughing about it, which should probably kill the mood but somehow doesn't. Somehow makes it better, actually. More real. Less like some fantasy hookup and more like...

Nope. Not going there. This is still just a one-night thing. A one-night thing that's currently being cockblocked by your respective living situations, but still. Just one night.

"So what now?" he asks, and his voice has dropped back into that lower register that you really want to hate. "Because I really want to kiss you again."

"Just kiss?" The words slip out before you can stop them, teasing and suggestive and probably way too candid.

His grip tightens, just marginally. Just enough to make your breath catch. "Definitely not just kiss."

"Fuck," you breathe, because eloquence has left the building. Possibly the state.

"That's the idea, yeah." And how he says it—all gruff edges and sinful vow—makes embers spark low in your abdomen. "Just need to sort out the logistics."

Which brings you right back to your current predicament. No Emma's place, no his place, and you're pretty sure having sex in the club bathroom is both tacky and probably illegal. But the way he's looking at you, like he really, really wants to wreck you…

"We could..." you start, then pause. Because what? What brilliant solution are you about to offer here? Your practical brain is absolutely useless right now, short-circuited by the lingering taste of whiskey on your tongue and the steady pressure of his hands on your body.

"Could what?" His thumb traces your bottom lip, and your train of thought derails completely.

"I have no idea," you admit, and his laugh is somehow both frustrated and fond.

"This is definitely stupid," he says, but he's still holding you close, still looking at your mouth like he's considering kissing you again anyway, roommate situations be damned.

"So stupid," you agree, already tilting your face up to meet him halfway.

You lick your lips, tasting geosmin and want and really awful decision-making skills.

Fuck it. Fuck everything. Emma can kill you tomorrow.

Your fingers wrap around his wrist—god, his hands are so warm—and you're already moving, already pulling up the Uber app with your free hand. Thank fuck for muscle memory because your brain is absolutely useless right now, too busy cataloging the way his pulse jumps under your fingers, the way he follows without hesitation.

"Where we goin'?" His voice is low and hoarse as he trails behind you, wrist a hostage to your grip.

"To my friend's place," you mutter, trying to type Emma's address without typos.

You: 𝚎𝚖𝚖𝚊, 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚠

You don’t mention you’re not heading home alone. She’ll find out herself.

The dude, for his part, just hums in response, like he's fine with whatever as long as it means getting somewhere private. Which, fair. You're kind of operating on the same wavelength here.

You make it to the coat check line first, because priorities. You’re not leaving your jacket behind. And it is moving at a glacial pace, because of course it is. The universe clearly wants to test your self-control by forcing you to stand here, his chest pressed against your back, his breath hot on your neck.

The way his fingers keep "accidentally" brushing your thigh has you seriously considering saying fuck it and just leaving your jacket behind.

"Could just come back for it tomorrow," he murmurs, like he's reading your mind. His lips brush your ear as he speaks, and you barely sigh in response. Bastard knows exactly what he's doing.

"It's January in New York. I'm not getting hypothermia just because you can't keep it in your pants for five minutes."

"Could keep you warm."

And okay, that line should be cringeworthy. That's the kind of shit that would usually make you roll your eyes so hard they'd get stuck. But he has a way with words—or maybe it’s just his fucking voice—and somehow you like it.

"Next," the coat check girl calls, mercifully saving you from having to respond. You practically lunge forward, fumbling with your ticket. Better than letting him feel how that stupid line affected you.

He reaches past you to hand over his own ticket, arm bracketing you against the counter. And really? Really? This is some romance novel bullshit right here. Who does he think he is, Christian Grey? You should be annoyed. You should definitely not be noticing how good he smells, or how the position highlights just how much bigger he is than you, or—

"Here you go!" The coat check girl's voice is way too cheerful for—you check your phone—3:46 AM. She hands over your coats with a knowing smile that makes your face heat. Great. Just great. Even the coat check girl can tell you're about to make terrible life choices.

He helps you into your jacket because apparently he's decided to be a gentleman now, after spending the last hour making you question your life choices with his mouth. His hands linger on your shoulders just a fraction too long, and you have to bite your lip to keep from making an embarrassing sound.

"Ready?" he asks, voice still pitched low enough to make your skin tingle. You nod, not trusting yourself to speak, and let him guide you toward the exit with his hand on your lower back.

The coat check girl calls out "Have fun!" as you leave, and you seriously consider moving to a different city. Maybe a different country. Somewhere people don't immediately clock your questionable decision-making skills.

The Uber arrives embarrassingly fast—some higher power must be looking out for horny idiots tonight—and you both slide into the backseat. You start on opposite sides because you're trying to be decent human beings, trying to remember that your poor driver doesn't deserve a free show.

But then he's moving closer.

And closer.

And suddenly his mouth is on yours again, hot and demanding, and okay, yeah, sorry Mr. Uber driver but this is happening. His hand cups your jaw, tilting your head just so, and you're definitely making some kind of noise in the back of your throat but you're beyond caring. Beyond thinking about anything except the way his tongue slides against yours, the way his other hand grips your thigh.

Fifteen minutes. That's all it is from the club to Emma's place. Fifteen minutes that somehow feel like both seconds and eternity, lost in a haze of wandering hands and stolen kisses and trying (failing) to keep things PG-13. You're vaguely aware of streets passing, of turns and stops, of the driver pointedly turning up the radio.

And then your attention shifts. His teeth graze your bottom lip, fingers slowly sliding on your inner thigh. Hisses when your nails find his scalp. Heat. Want. Need. Building higher with each passing minute until you're practically vibrating out of your skin.

By some miracle (or possibly divine intervention), you make it to Emma’s building. You stumble out of the Uber, giving the driver your most apologetic smile-grimace combo. He just shakes his head, probably adding you to his mental list of "drunk hookups I never want to see again."

But then he's pressing you against the building's front door, mouth hot on your neck, and you really can't bring yourself to care about your Uber rating right now. Not when his hands are everywhere, not when he's making these little sounds against your skin that go straight between your legs.

It takes three tries to get the key in the lock—partly because it's 4 AM and you're tipsy, mostly because he won't stop kissing you long enough to focus. When you finally get the door open, you nearly fall through it, saved only by his arm around your waist.

"Smooth," he murmurs against your lips, laughing softly.

"Shut up," you breathe back, already pulling him in for another kiss. His back hits the closing door with a thud that's definitely too loud for 4 AM, but you're past caring. Past thinking about anything except the way his hands feel sliding up your sides, the way he tastes, the way he's eating you up with his eyes.

Emma's definitely going to murder you tomorrow. But with the way his fingers are digging into your hips, the way he's kissing you like he's trying to crawl inside your skin?

What-fucking-ever.

He pushes off the door like a man on a mission, and suddenly you're airborne—your legs wrapping around his waist on pure instinct. And okay, that's hot. The way he lifts you like you weigh nothing, the solid press of his body against yours, the little growl he makes when your hips roll against his.

"Room?" His voice is wrecked already, breath hot against your mouth between kisses that make your head spin.

You gesture vaguely toward Emma's guest room, too busy mapping the muscles of his shoulders to form actual words. He exhales sharply against your lips, already moving. Your jackets become casualties somewhere in the hallway, dropped with fumbling hands and zero grace because yeah, the vodka's definitely hitting now. Everything's warm and hazy and electric, your skin buzzing everywhere he touches.

Then you're falling backward onto the bed, and holy fuck. The way he's looking down at you—like he's been lost in the desert and you're a fucking oasis—it makes your breath catch in your throat. Makes heat pool low in your belly, makes your thighs press together in anticipation.

His shirt comes off in one fluid motion and—

Jesus fucking Christ.

You've seen attractive guys before. You've seen gym bros and athletes and the whole spectrum of male bodies. But this? This is like someone took Michelangelo's David and decided to make him real but better. He's all lean muscle and smooth skin, but with just enough softness to make him touchable. Human. Perfect.

And his chest—god, his chest. It's not the rock-hard wall of muscle you'd expect from someone who looks like that. Instead, there's this ideal balance of firm and soft, creating the most magnificent set of man tiddies you've ever laid eyes on. The kind you could actually cuddle up to without feeling like you're resting on concrete. The kind that would make a flawless pillow after—

Your lusty brain stops working as he leans down, pressing his hips deliberately against yours as his mouth finds your neck. His tongue traces patterns on your skin that make you arch up against him, desperate for more contact.

"Fuck," he breathes against your throat, nosing along your pulse point. "You smell so good. Like vanilla and..." He inhales deeply, making your skin erupt in goosebumps. "Like something sweet I wanna taste."

Your hands slide up his back, feeling the play of muscles under warm skin. He's perfectly balanced above you, using just enough of his weight to make you feel deliciously pinned without crushing you. You fucking love it. Don’t know why, don’t know how. Maybe it's just how attractive he is, or the heat of his mouth on your neck, or the press of his body against yours or the way he keeps making these little sounds like he can't help himself.

He's kissing you again before your vodka-soaked brain can process anything beyond rudimentary want, primal need. It's all heat and tongue and teeth, messy and perfect in the way only drunken hookups can be. One of his hands slides up your neck, fingers spreading across your throat. Not squeezing, just...resting.

It's fucking electric.

Your hands map the expanse of his back, nails dragging lightly in a way that makes him groan into your mouth. He's all smooth skin and sinewy muscle, hot to the touch and absolutely unfair. No one should be allowed to feel this good. To make you feel this good, just by existing.

He drags his mouth down your neck, teeth grazing your artery. Your fingers tangle in his hair, gripping tight enough to make him hiss. Which is hot. Way too hot, because that noise? It immediately spirals straight between your thighs.

And fuck, how he grinds down against you in response. It's obscenely filthy, the perfect pressure in just the right spot to make you want to moan aloud. To be shameless.

"Fuck," he breathes against your skin, and you feel it more than hear it. Feel the heat of his breath, the barely restrained want in the way he's touching you. "You feel so fucking good."

Your hips roll up to meet his in a way that's purely instinctual. Because yeah, he feels good too. Better than good. You feel the maddening length of him grinding against you through his jeans; his hand around your neck and—god, you want to claw his back, to wrap your legs around his waist and just take.

The hand on your neck flexes just slightly, thumb brushing your jawline and you think you die just a little because hello? You like that. You really, really fucking like that. New kink unlocked, it seems.

"Want you," he murmurs, voice low and rough with arousal. "Want you so fucking bad, you have no idea."

And oh, you do. You really, really do. Because wanting him is all you can think about right now. All you can focus on beyond the thrumming of your heart, the aching throb between your thighs. You want his hands, his mouth, his—

"Off," you manage, tugging at his jeans with clumsy fingers. "These need to come off like, yesterday."

His chuckle vibrates through his chest into yours. "So fucking bossy."

But he's already leaning back, already working on his fly as you prop yourself up on your elbows to watch. And Jesus Christ, the way he looks right now—shirtless and disheveled, dark hair falling into darker eyes, lips red from your kisses—it's unfair. Unreal.

So fucking hot you think you might actually die if he doesn't touch you again in the next ten seconds.

His jeans hit the floor with a soft thud and holy fuck—the sight of him in just black boxer briefs should be illegal in at least forty-eight states. Like, someone call the police because this? This is absolutely criminal. The way the fabric clings to his thighs, the obvious bulge that makes your mouth water—

But then he's on you again, and thinking becomes a foreign concept.

His hands find the hem of your dress, bunching the fabric up with an urgency that makes heat pool between your legs. You arch up to help him, already anticipating the slide of fabric over skin, but—

Oh.

The second the dress clears your elbows, he presses down. Uses the fabric to pin your arms above your head, effectively trapping you against the mattress. And that's... that's...

Fuck.

His mouth is suddenly on your breast, hot and wet and absolutely perfect. No hesitation, no teasing—just the wet slide of his tongue over your nipple before he sucks it into his mouth, and holy shit.

Thank god you wore this dress. Thank every fucking deity that you chose the tight red one that doesn’t need a bra, because the feeling of his mouth directly on your skin is absolutely devastating.

A moan tears from your throat—embarrassingly loud in the quiet room—as his teeth graze sensitive flesh. His responding groan vibrates through your chest, sending shivers down your spine. Your back arches instinctively, pressing more firmly into his mouth as his tongue swirls around your peaked nipple.

His free hand finds your throat again, and—

Oh god.

His fingers spread wide, applying the slightest pressure. Testing. Exploring. Like he's curious about your reaction, about the way he feels your heartbeat flutter faster in response.

You can't help the soft sound that escapes you—somewhere between a whimper and a moan. His grip tightens fractionally in response, and your cunt clenches around nothing. Because fuck, that shouldn't be as hot as it is. The way he's controlling your breath, the way he's holding you down, the way his mouth is absolutely ruining you one suck at a time...

"Sensitive," he murmurs against your skin, and you can hear the smirk in his voice. Bastard. His thumb strokes along your jugular, feeling the way your breath hitches. "Wonder what other sounds I can get that pretty throat to make."

You'd have a snappy comeback for that. You know you would. But then he's switching to your other breast, teeth scraping just right, and coherent thought becomes a distant memory. All you can focus on is the wet heat of his mouth, the steady pressure of his hand on your throat, the way he's using his other hand to keep you pinned against the bed.

And maybe it's the situation, or maybe it's just him, but you've never been this turned on in your life. Never been this wet, this desperate, this needy. It should be embarrassing really—the way you're practically writhing beneath him, the way every little touch sends electricity sparking through your veins.

But with the way he's groaning against your skin, the way his hips keep grinding against yours like he needs it? Maybe you're not the only one that’s losing sanity here.

His teeth catch your nipple just as his fingers flex against your throat, and the combination pulls a sound from you that you didn’t even know you could make. High and breathy and absolutely wrecked.

"Fuck," he breathes, hot against your wet skin. "The sounds you make..."

His thumb brushes over your throat again, slower this time, before gliding up. Along the underside of your jaw. Pausing at your bottom lip. He applies the slightest pressure, watching as your mouth falls open on instinct. You're not sure whether you breathe or whimper, but it makes his gaze go impossibly darker, makes his hips roll against yours in response.

And then his thumb is there, pressing against your tongue, and—goddamn him—you're sucking without a second thought. The groan he lets out is a shattered thing, low and guttural, as though he's just as wrecked as you.

For three glorious seconds, he just... freezes. Like his brain's temporarily offline, like you've actually managed to short-circuit whatever smooth operator routine he had going.

And okay, maybe that gives you enough time to yank the dress out the rest of the way, tossing it off your bent elbows in a way that you hope was sexier than it felt. He doesn’t seem to notice—too busy looking at you like he's forgotten how he got here. Or how to breathe.

Either way, it's a little distracting.

But then he's moving, yanking his hand back like you've scorched him. And before you can even process the loss, he's sliding down your body, trailing open-mouthed kisses that make your skin come alive.

Your tipsy brain tries to catch up with what's unfolding—manages to register the flex of his shoulders, the heat of his mouth marking a path down your stomach, the way his hands are suddenly gripping your thighs and—

Oh.

Oh fuck.

He pulls you to the edge of the bed like you weigh nothing, kneeling between your spread legs like he belongs there. And how he looks up at you through his lashes, mouth hovering just inches from where you're absolutely drenched through your panties...

You prop yourself up on your elbows because fuck if you're missing this show. The movement makes your head spin slightly—reminder that you are definitely not sober—but the sight of him between your thighs is worth any potential vertigo.

His breath fans hot against your core, and your hips twitch involuntarily. A smirk plays at the corners of his mouth, but before you can call him out on it, he's leaning in. Pressing his open mouth against you through the thin fabric of your underwear, and—

"Fuck."

The word tears from your throat unbidden because holy shit, this shouldn't feel this good already. It's barely anything—just the heat of his mouth, the slight pressure of his tongue through fabric—but your body's lighting up like a fucking supernova. Like every nerve ending is suddenly dialed to a hundred.

Your fingers find his hair without conscious thought, tangling in the dark strands as he works you through your panties. The grip of his hands on your thighs tightens in response, and fuck—that's definitely going to leave marks.

And okay, yeah. Maybe you're embarrassingly wet. Maybe you can feel it soaking through the fabric, making everything slick and messy. Maybe you should care about that, about being this affected this quickly.

But you don’t. Not really, with the way he's groaning against you like he's dying for it. Like he can't get enough. Yeah, dignity can take a backseat.

Besides, all thoughts of pride or shame fly right out the window when he finally, finally hooks his fingers under the waistband of your panties. Your hips lift automatically, helping him slide them down your legs. They catch on your heels because of course you're still wearing your fuck-me pumps, but he doesn't seem to mind. Just lets the fabric dangle from one ankle as he dives back in, and—

"Holy shit."

His tongue drags up your slit in one long, deliberate stroke, and your brain temporarily stops working. Like, full system shutdown. Windows XP error sound and everything. Because fuck—that shouldn't feel as mindbogglingly good as it does.

Then he flicks your clit with the tip of his tongue and you make this absolutely mortifying noise—some choked little "guh" that would humiliate you if you were sober enough to care. His lip ring adds this extra edge of sensation that makes your thighs quake, cool metal a sharp contrast to the heat of his mouth.

He makes this sound against you—something between a hum and a growl (and okay, yeah, maybe 'growl' isn't the right word because what are you, fucking animals? But you're drunk and getting your pussy eaten properly for the first time in forever, so vocabulary can fuck right off). Whatever it is, it vibrates through you in a way that has your hips jerking up, seeking more.

Then he's doing these small, slow circles around your clit. So. Fucking. Slow. Like he wants to drive you crazy, wants you to fucking writhe against him. You try not to just grind up against his face. Because that would be desperate, right? That would be—

Damn.

The circles suddenly get faster, tighter, more intense. His tongue flicking over your clit with the kind of speed and precision that would put Fast & Furious to shame. And the sounds coming out of your mouth? Yeah, those aren't even words anymore. Just a stream of "oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck."

If Emma’s home—because it’s probably been an hour already—she’s probably getting one hell of a show through these paper-thin walls. But you know what? She fucking owes you. All those times you covered for her sneaking out to Bobby Martinez's house in high school? Yeah, consider this payback with interest.

He drags his tongue back down, gathering your wetness (and okay, yeah, you're basically flooding at this point but whatever), then slides back up. Adding texture to his movements like some kind of oral sex virtuoso. Because apparently this stranger knows exactly what he's doing with that mouth, and honestly? Good for you. You deserve this. You deserve to have your pussy eaten by someone who treats it like a goddamn art form.

So you lean back, let yourself enjoy it. Let him explore and taste and fuck—the way he's absolutely feasting on you like you're his last meal. His tongue finds your clit again, and this time he sucks it into his mouth, and the sound that rips from your throat probably violates noise ordinances in several states.

The wet sounds of his mouth on you are absolutely obscene. Like, pornographic-level obscene. All sucking and slurping and Jesus fucking Christ, you should not find that as hot as you do. But with your stiletto digging into his back (when did that happen?) and his hands gripping your thighs hard enough to leave fingerprints...

Yeah. Yeah, definitely hot.

Then his tongue drags down, down, down—and fuck, you can feel every ridge, every texture against your sensitive flesh. He reaches your entrance and just... circles it. Like he's mapping you out. Like he’s thinking about his next move.

Five blessed seconds where you can actually catch your breath. Where your brain starts to come back online and—

Fuck.

His tongue plunges into you without warning and your hand definitely just yanks out some of his hair but who fucking cares because his nose is nudging your clit while he tongue-fucks you and—and—

And your brain's offline again. Good talk.

He adjusts his arms, somehow pulling you even closer to his face. As if you weren't already basically smothering him. As if he literally wants to drown in your cunt. And that thought shouldn't be as scorching hot as it is but holy shit.

A moan tears from your throat—loud enough that Emma's probably googling noise complaint laws right now. But you can feel it building, that telltale tightening, that electric tension spreading through your core. Your clit's throbbing in time with your racing pulse and—

And he doesn't change a thing.

Because this guy? This absolute genius between your legs? He knows better than to pull that amateur hour bullshit where they speed up right when you're close. No, he maintains the exact same rhythm, the exact same pressure that got you here. Like he's done this before. Like he actually pays attention to what works.

(And okay, maybe you shouldn't be thinking about his past experience right now but your brain's kind of shorting out so whatever.)

Your stiletto digs deeper into his shoulder—might actually be drawing blood at this point but he doesn't seem to care one iota. If anything, he groans against you like he's getting off on it. Like pain turns him on. And that's...that's definitely something to stash away for later.

Or never. Because this is a one-time thing. Right. Focus.

Except focusing is basically impossible when he's eating you out like it's his actual job. When the pressure's building and building and—

Oh.

Oh fuck.

Your back arches off the bed like you're auditioning for America's Next Top Model: After Dark Edition. The orgasm hits you like a riptide, waves of pleasure so intense your vision actually whites out for a second. Your thighs clamp around his head, heel probably leaving permanent marks on his back, and you're definitely making sounds that would make a porn star blush but—

But holy shit.

His tongue flicks over your oversensitive clit one last time—the absolute bastard—and your whole body jerks as you whimper. Which, okay, definitely earned that one. Because holy fuck.

You slump back against the bed, bones liquified, as he prowls up your body. His hands plant on either side of your face and—wow, okay, up close he's even more unfairly beautiful. All sharp jawline and scorching eyes and lips that are literally glistening with...yeah.

"You taste exactly like you smell," he murmurs, and what kind of weird-ass compliment is that? Like, thanks? Good to know your pussy matches your perfume brand?

Except...it kind of works? Something tingles in your face and no. Absolutely not. You are not getting all swoony just because Hot Stranger is saying vaguely poetic shit during sex. This is just your horny lizard brain going 'hot man say words, neurons go brr.' That's all.

Then his mouth is on your neck and—yeah, okay, thinking is canceled anyway. His hands trace maddening patterns down your stomach, feather-light touches that make your muscles jump. And when he tugs his briefs down, his cock springs free and—

Oh.

Well then.

Your body apparently didn’t get the memo about the standard refractory period because hello, Round Two suddenly seems very appealing. It hasn’t even been five minutes since you came but here you are, already clenching around nothing like some kind of sex-starved teenager.

He leans back slightly, reaching for something and—ah. His jeans. More specifically, his wallet. From which he produces not one but multiple condoms, and honestly? We love a prepared king. Nothing hotter than a guy who practices safe sex without having to be asked.

(And yes, you're literally evaluating his sexual responsibility while naked and still tingling from one of the best orgasms of your life. Sue you.)

He grabs one condom and tosses the others somewhere on the bed. Then—because apparently he's auditioning for some porno-meets-action-movie hybrid—he puts the wrapper between his teeth. Locks eyes with you. Rips it open.

And okay, PSA time: Kids (not that any kids should be reading this, what the fuck brain?)—this is not how you open condoms. Use your fingers like a normal person, not your teeth like some kind of sexual menace. That's literally Condom Safety 101.

But then again, when a guy this stupid hot does literally anything, your brain just kind of... accepts it. Like yeah, sure, demolish that condom wrapper with your teeth while maintaining smoldering eye contact. That's normal. That's fine. You're fine.

He gives the condom a cursory check (okay, at least he's being thorough), pinches the tip between his fingers and you just... watch. Wait.

"You gonna fuck me tomorrow or...?" The words slip out before your self-censor can nab them, biting and teasing.

Bad choice.

His hand—his stupidly large, stupidly warm hand—wraps around your thigh and yanks you down the bed in one fluid motion. And why the fuck is that so hot? Why are you noticing how his fingers practically span your whole thigh? Why is the heat of his palm against your skin making your breath catch?

Your eyes flicker back to his cock and—oh. When did he even get the condom on? You must have missed that while you were having your crisis about his hands. But he's ready now, thick and hard and—

Fuck.

He pushes in with one swift motion and your body just... takes him. Like you're literally eager for it, still slick and open from his mouth. He makes this soft gasping sound like he's actually dying, like your cunt is some kind of religious experience.

"Fuck, you're so wet," he groans, hips flush against yours. "So fucking slippery and warm, feels like silk—"

"That's—ah—what happens when you eat someone out properly," you manage, even as your walls flutter around him. Because apparently your mouth doesn’t know when to quit, even with a dick inside you.

His laugh is rough, breathless.

"I’ll keep that in mind."

And fuck—the way he says it, like a promise, like a threat. Your cunt clenches at the thought and he actually growls.

He pushes your thighs down against the mattress and—ow. Okay, that's definitely going to hurt tomorrow. Future You is probably already plotting Present You's murder, adding your name to some karmic hit list right next to Emma’s (who, let’s be real, is definitely contemplating homicide through these paper-thin walls right now).

But then he starts moving and—oh.

Oh fuck.

Every coherent thought evaporates because he's burying himself so deep you swear he's trying to carve out a permanent place inside you. Like he wants your body to remember exactly how he feels, wants to leave an impression that'll last long after tonight.

You didn’t even get a proper look at his size earlier (too busy fizzing over his hands, his mouth, literally everything else), but holy shit. What you do know is he's thick—like, properly thick. Every inch of him pressed against your walls like he's trying to eliminate any space between you, like he's mapping out your insides for future reference.

"Fuck, you're tight," he groans, and you actually feel him twitch inside you. "So fucking—"

"Less talking," you manage to gasp out, "more moving."

His laugh is rough, breathless. "As you wish."

He snaps his hips once—testing, exploring—and your breath hitches in your throat. Then again. And again. Quick thrust in, torturously slow pull out, and every single time has you gasping like some Victorian maiden with a too-tight corset.

"Like that?" He sounds way too smug for someone balls-deep in a stranger. "The way you squeeze me every time I—"

"You always this chatty during sex?" Your voice comes out embarrassingly breathy, but whatever. "Or am I just special?"

Another snap of his hips that makes your eyes roll back. "Maybe I just like the sounds you make when I'm inside you."

And fuck—why is that hot? That shouldn’t be hot. You're still so wet from earlier that you can hear it, can feel how smoothly he glides in and out, nice and easy.

"You're certainly—ah—confident," you manage between thrusts, because apparently your mouth doesn’t know when to quit. "Compensating for something?"

His grip on your thighs tightens. "Want me to stop and let you check?"

"Don’t you fucking dare."

His pace quickens and—oh hello, is that a smirk he's biting back? It is. It absolutely fucking is. And your brain, your stupid, traitorous brain, finds that scorching. Because of course it does. You squint your eyes shut because you can’t deal with how cocky he looks right now, can’t process how that cockiness is actually doing it for you.

Congratulations, you've officially lost it. This is your villain origin story. Death by dick-induced insanity. They'll write case studies about you in Psychology Today: "Local Woman's Brain Melts Because Hot Stranger Has Good Dick Game." Your mother would be so proud.

But also? Also shut the fuck up, brain, because you're literally getting the best dick of your life right now so maybe save the self-reproach for later? Like, there's a time and place for your characteristic overthinking and this ain’t it.

He leans forward then, changing the angle as he chases your mouth, and holy fuck. Each thrust goes deeper, harder, faster—like he's trying to reach parts of you no one else has touched. His kiss is messy, all tongue and teeth and desperation, and you're actually whimpering into his mouth like some kind of—

Wait.

Hold the fucking phone.

Since when do you whimper? What is this, some kind of Harlequin romance novel? Are you secretly the protagonist of a Fabio-covered paperback? Because you don’t whimper. You don’t make these soft, needy little sounds into strange men’s mouths. That’s not your brand. That’s not—

But then he rolls his hips in this way that makes you see actual fucking stars, and okay, you know what? Fuck your brand. Fuck everything. Because the way he's moving? The way he's filling you up like you're some kind of horny piñata? Yeah, that takes precedence over your identity crisis.

And speaking of crises—why does this feel so fucking good? Like, mathematically speaking, dick is dick. It's basic anatomy. Tab A into Slot B. So why does every thrust feel like he's rewriting the laws of physics? Why does your body respond to him like he's got some kind of sexual Midas touch?

The worst part? The absolute worst part? You can feel another orgasm building already. Which is ridiculous. Impossible. You literally came like ten minutes ago. This man hasn’t even finished once and here you are, ready to go again like some kind of horny Energizer bunny.

You need to have a serious conversation with your pussy about standards and expectations. Like, what happened to the refractory period? What happened to playing hard to get? Because this? This instant response to everything he does? This eager little flutter every time he hits that spot just right?

This is just embarrassing.

But also really, really fucking good.

"You take my cock so fuckin' well," he groans against your neck, voice rough and slurred. "Like y'were made for it, so perfect—"

And okay, what kind of porn dialogue bullshit is that? Who actually says things like that during sex? More importantly, why is it working? Why does every filthy word from his mouth send electricity shooting straight to your cunt?

"Hnnngh—"

That's it. That's all you can manage because your brain-to-mouth filter is totally fried. Your nails dig into his shoulders as he hits that spot just right, and you're pretty sure you're leaving marks but whatever. Future Him problems.

"F-fuck, how you clench around me when I say shit like that," his words come out breathless, hitching. "Like hearing how good you feel? How tight and wet and fucking flawless—"

"Shut up." But it comes out more like a whine than a command, completely undermining any attempt at snark. Your walls flutter around him traitorously, and his responding groan vibrates through your whole body.

"Make me," he challenges, punctuating it with a particularly vicious thrust that has your eyes rolling back. "Or maybe you don't want me to? Maybe you secretly get off on—fuck—on hearing how amazing you are, how nobody's ever swallowed me this deep before—"

"Nghh—" Your brain's offline. Completely fucking offline. No thoughts, head empty, just the overwhelming sensation of him moving inside you, the heat of his breath against your neck, the absolute filth falling from his lips.

"S'true though," he pants, pace growing erratic. "Never felt anything like this, like your—oh fuck—"

A moan tears from your throat—loud and wanton and utterly mortifying. But you can't help it, not when he's fucking you like he's trying to ruin you for anyone else, not when he keeps saying these things that make your insides turn to molten lava.

"That's it, lemme hear you," he encourages, and you want to punch him for how smug he sounds but you also want him to never stop. "Love the sounds you make when I'm deep in this pussy, when I—shit—"

His voice catches as you deliberately tighten around him, a small victory that makes you smirk despite how your body's on fire.

"Fuck, you're evil."

"You talk too much," you manage to get out between gasps, even as your hips chase his rhythm desperately. You're close—so fucking close—but not quite there.

He laughs against your neck, the sound dark and promising.

“Touch yourself for me."

When you don't immediately comply—because for some reason you still want to challenge him—he pulls back just enough to look you in the eye.

"Rub that pretty clit, show me how you like it."

The command in his voice shouldn't turn you on this much. "Make me," you challenge, because apparently your mouth has a death wish.

"Oh?"

His rhythm slows to something torturous, each thrust deep and deliberate. "Do I need to show you where it is? Guide those lovely fingers myself?"

You're about to snark back when his hand slides between your bodies, and—oh. Oh.

"Found it," he says with infuriating smugness, circling your clit with practiced ease. Your whole body jerks at the contact, oversensitive and desperate. "Seems like I know exactly where it is. Don't I?"

"Fuck—" Your voice breaks as he applies just the right amount of pressure, the bastard. "You're so—nghh—"

"I'm so what?" He's grinning now, you can hear it in his voice even as you squeeze your eyes shut. "C'mon, tell me. Use your words."

"Insufferable," you grit out, but your body betrays you, arching into his touch. "Arrogant—ah—asshole—"

"Maybe." His fingers speed up, matching the pace of his thrusts, and holy shit you're going to die. "But I'm an arrogant asshole who's about to make you cum again, aren't I?"

He's right and you hate it. Hate how well he reads your body, hate how he found your clit without hesitation like he's got some kind of carnal GPS, hate how fucking good he is at this.

"That's it," he encourages as your breathing hitches, as your nails dig into his shoulders. "Let me feel you fall apart. Wanna feel this cunt clamp down on my cock when you—"

His hips stutter and you can feel him pulsing inside you, even through the condom. The way his whole body tenses, the broken sound he makes against your throat—it pushes you right over the edge. Yeah. Your second orgasm says hi; has you curling your toes against his back, tensing your thighs around him as if he would ever dream of leaving right now.

"Fuck fuck fuck—" You're not even sure which one of you is saying it anymore. Maybe both. Maybe neither. Maybe you're having an out-of-body experience because Jesus Christ.

For a moment, there's just silence. Just breathing. Just the sound of your heart trying to recall its normal cadence. Then he chuckles against your cheek—a low, sated sound that you'll deny remembering tomorrow—and follows it with a quick nip that makes you jolt.

"Fuck, that was good," he breathes, still catching his breath.

"S'alright," you manage, even though your legs are literally jelly and your brain's still rebooting.

He pulls back just enough to quirk an eyebrow at you, that infuriating smirk playing at his lips. "Just alright?"

"Fishing for compliments?" You raise your own eyebrow, trying to ignore how his hand is still absently stroking your hip. "That's kind of desperate."

"Says the girl who came twice."

And—okay, rude. Accurate, but rude.

He shifts then, carefully pulling out (and at least he's considerate about it, making sure not to hurt you), and starts dealing with the condom. But then he just... stands there. Looking lost. Condom in hand and this adorably bemused expression that makes something in your chest do a weird little flip.

No. Not adorable. Nothing about this guy is adorable. Hot? Yes. Skilled with his tongue? Abso-fucking-lutely. But not adorable. You refuse to find anything about him cute, especially not the way he's glancing around the room like a lost puppy trying to figure out where to—

You can't stifle the snort that escapes you. "Trash can's over there, genius." You gesture with your head toward the small bin by the dresser. "Try not to get lost on the way."

He rolls his eyes but moves across the room, and you definitely don't watch the play of muscles in his back as he walks. Or the way his ass looks in the dim light. Or how his hand rakes through his tousled hair as he leans down to dispose of the condom and—

Fuck.

Fuck.

Because here's the thing: you've had one-night stands before. You know how this goes. Quick fuck, awkward goodbye, never see each other again. That's the routine. That's the protocol. That's what smart, sensible people do.

But.

But you're already thinking about how his mouth felt between your legs. About how he filled you up just right. About how he seemed to know exactly what to do with his hands, his hips, his—

And you know what? Fuck it. Fuck being sensible and sane. Fuck playing it cool. You've got a hot guy with stellar dick game right here, right now. Might as well take advantage while you can.

Before your brain can talk you out of it, you're launching yourself off the bed. Your legs are still a bit wobbly (thanks, Mr. Two Orgasms), but you manage to catch him just as he turns around. Your mouth crashes into his, messy and demanding, as you push him against the wall.

His surprised grunt turns into a pleased hum against your lips, and his hands immediately find your hips like they belong there. Like this is exactly what he was hoping would happen.

Cocky bastard.

He spins you around so fast your head spins—or maybe that's just the lingering vodka. Either way, suddenly your back's hitting the wall and—oh. Okay. This is happening. Again. Because apparently your body doesn't give two shits about being thoroughly fucked already.

His mouth crashes back into yours, hungry and insistent, and it should be gross really—you can taste yourself on his tongue, everything's messy and uncoordinated and frantic. But instead it's just...hot. So fucking hot you feel like you're melting from the inside out.

Then his hands slide down to your thighs and he's lifting you like you weigh zilch (and seriously, what is it with this guy and manhandling? More importantly, why do you like it?). Your legs wrap around his waist automatically, and how his cock twitches against your stomach—already getting hard again—should not make you feel this smug.

"Eager?" you manage to gasp between kisses, because apparently your mouth doesn't know when to quit.

He bites your bottom lip in response, just hard enough to make you whimper (and fuck, there's that sound again, what is wrong with you tonight?). "I’m sorry? Weren’t you the one jumping me?”

"Just felt sorry for you." The words come out breathier than intended as his mouth finds that spot behind your ear. "Standing there looking all lost with your used condom—"

His growl cuts you off, vibrating through his chest into yours. One of his hands tangles in your hair, yanking your head back to expose your throat, and—fuck. The way he attacks your neck like he's trying to mark you up, like he wants everyone to know exactly what you've been doing...

Then his mouth finds yours again, swallowing whatever protest you might have made. And it's different this time—sloppier, needier. All clashing teeth and warring tongues and his hands everywhere at once. You're pressed so tightly between him and the wall you can feel every twitch of his muscles, every stuttered breath.

One of his hands slides up your thigh, fingertips trailing fire in their wake, and you're already embarrassingly slick again. Already aching for him like you didn't just have him inside you minutes ago. Your hips roll against him craving friction, and the sound he makes—half groan, half snarl—shoots straight between your legs.

"Condom," you gasp against his mouth. "Need a—"

"Yeah," he breathes, but he doesn't move away. Just keeps kissing you like he's suffocating and you're oxygen, like he can't bear to stop even for a heartbeat. "Yeah, just—fuck, you feel so good—"

Your brain's rapidly disintegrating, especially with the way he keeps grinding against you, the way his mouth keeps doing that to your neck. But you manage to remember: "Bed. Other condoms. On the bed."

He makes this sound of acknowledgment but still doesn't budge, just shifts his hips in a way that has his cock sliding against your clit and—jesus fuck.

"If you don't get a condom right now," you warn, voice embarrassingly unsteady, "I'm going to kill you."

His laugh is rough, breathless. "Such violence."

He practically teleports to the bed—like, Olympic-level sprinting for that condom. It'd be comical, the way he fumbles with the wrapper (apparently Mr. Smooth isn't so smooth when he's desperate), except you're too busy being embarrassingly turned on by his urgency.

You're about to suggest moving to the bed—because your legs are already shaking and wall sex seems ambitious after two orgasms—but—

Holy fuck.

He's got you up against the wall again in one fluid motion, hands gripping your thighs as he lines himself up and—oh god. The sound that rips from your throat as he fills you in one swift thrust is utterly shameful. But the broken "fuck" that falls from his lips? How his whole body shudders as he bottoms out?

Yeah, okay. Maybe worth the mortification.

"Jesus fuck," he breathes against your neck, voice wrecked. "You feel—shit, how do you feel even better than before?"

"Hush it," you gasp, even as your walls flutter around him. "And move."

He laughs, breathless and gritty. "Demanding little thing." But he's already moving, setting a pace that has your head lolling back. "God, you’re even wetter than before, taking me so well—”

"That your professional opinion?" Your attempt at snark falls flat when it comes out as more of a moan. "Done extensive research, have you?"

His hips snap up particularly hard at that. "Never—fuck—never felt anything like this."

And that should be a line. That should be the kind of bullshit guys say during hookups to stroke their own egos. Except the way he says it—all breathless wonder and raw honesty—makes something hot unfurl in your chest.

"Yeah?" It comes out embarrassingly breathy, but whatever. Can’t really care when every thrust is melting honey down your spine. "Prove it."

He makes this sound—half growl, half moan—like he fucking loves your audacity. "Already made you come twice."

"Maybe I was faking."

"Sweetheart, nobody's that good an actress."

And honestly? Fair. But you're not about to admit that, not when he's already so smug about how well he plays your body. Instead, you drag him down for a kiss that's more teeth than finesse, swallowing his groans as his pace gets more erratic.

"F-fuck," he pants against your mouth. "Gonna make you come again. Wanna feel you—"

"Big talk for someone who—ah—hasn't delivered yet."

His responding thrust makes your back arch off the wall. "Jus’ wait."

His hips snap up harder at your challenge, making your head thump back against the wall. And fuck—the way he's moving now, all rough desperation and graceless rhythm. Everything's wet and messy and absolutely filthy, the sounds of skin on skin blending with your breathless moans.

"Still—ah—ah—waiting for that delivery," you manage, even as your nails dig into his shoulders.

"Fuckin’—" His breathless laugh is menacing. "Always—fuck—gotta have the last word, don’tcha?”

You'd have a comeback for that, you really would, except he chooses that moment to shift his angle and—holy shit. Because now? Now his pubic bone grinds against your clit every time he moves, every time he thrusts deep inside you. And honestly? Fucking unfair that even his bones know where your clit is.

You can feel him twitching inside you, can tell he's close by the way his breath comes in harsh pants against your neck. And you're almost there too, just need a little more—

But then he's groaning, hips stuttering as he cums. His whole body tenses, pressing you flatter against the wall as he empties into the condom.

And okay, great for him, congratulations, but you were so fucking close.

You tap his back urgently. "Keep goin’."

"What?" He's still catching his breath, forehead pressed against your shoulder. "Gimme a second, ah—I just—"

"I was—right there," you whine (and yes, you're actually whining now, this is what you've been reduced to). "Don't you dare stop."

He lifts his head, looking at you incredulously. "I literally just filled the condom—"

"I don't give a fuck, just move."

And okay, yeah, PSA time number two: This is definitely not safe sex practice. The second a condom's full, it needs to be changed. That's like, Sex Ed 101. But also? Also your clit is throbbing and you were this close to coming and your horny lizard brain has completely taken over.

"Jesus," he breathes, but he's already starting to move again, shallow little thrusts that make your eyes roll back. "You're fucking insatiable."

"Like earlier," you gasp, grinding down against him. "With the… with your hipbone."

He laughs against your neck—a rough, breathless sound that shouldn't be as arousing as it is. "Gotcha."

And he does. Repositions himself, makes sure he’s got exactly the same position he had earlier. His hipbone comes in contact with your clit as he begins thrusting faster again, and fucking yeah, that’s what you needed.

"Fuck, the way you feel," he groans. "So slick and snug and—shit—"

"Shut up shut up shut up—"

Because you can't handle his voice right now, can't deal with how his words make the drowning sensation grow more and more intense by the second. You're so close you can taste it, right on the precipice, just need a little more—

Then he nips at your neck, his tongue flattening against your pulse point. And that's it. You're a goner. Again. For the third time tonight.

Your entire body locks up as bliss courses through, lapping at your core like waves at a shore. Your eyes instinctively close as you relish it in all its intensity, and you're pretty sure you make some kind of mortifying noise but whatever. Three orgasms in, dignity is a distant memory.

He slows his movements gradually, letting you ride it out, and you can feel him softening inside you. Your head drops to his shoulder because keeping it upright seems like way too much effort right now. The residual booze is hitting different after getting thoroughly wrecked—everything soft and fuzzy around the edges.

You vaguely register him checking the condom with his free hand—the other one still supporting your ass because apparently you're not ready to unwrap your legs from his waist yet. Your brain's moving in slow motion, heavy with alcohol and mist and the kind of bone-deep exhaustion that only comes from really good sex.

"Hey." He taps your back lightly. "You falling asleep on me? Dick game that good?"

"Die," you mumble into his shoulder, not even bothering to lift your head. "Just... shut up and die."

You hear him chuckle, vaguely. It should be irritating. It isn't. You're too drained to care. Everything's warm and hazy and your limbs feel like they're crafted from lead.

You're only half-aware of him moving you to the bed, of sheets being pulled up, of a warm body pressing against your back. Your consciousness is already drifting, floating in that space between awake and asleep where nothing quite computes.

The last thing you register, right before slumber claims you completely, is his nose pressed against your neck and his drowsy murmur:

“Smell like vanilla now too."

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© jungkoode 2025 no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[mutedtempest]

Yeah, as someone who's Hard of Hearing and also autistic, my processing of language when trying to learn is just...not the best. It's incredibly frustrating because I really want to learn and work at it consistently and lot. I (try to, doesn't always happen) devote an hour a day to Ukrainian and one to Danish, and listen to Swedish podcasts in the background because I understand it just fine, but my speaking isn't great because I just blank the fuck out when I need to say something. I do that for English too, simply because my brain just shorts out and words aren't really something I can manage to find a lot of the time. I spend less time on Irish and Estonian, which is something I'm working on, but there are only so many hours in a day and I live in Denmark and am very involved in the Ukrainian diaspora here, so....yeah.

I always thought I was just an idiot, but the autism diagnosis explained a lot. For English, which is sadly the only language I'm fluent in since I grew up in hillbilly region USA, I have a very extensive vocabulary so it's not as much of an issue. I'm still awkward as fuck and will hem and haw and talk about stuff not even related, but I'm talking. With languages I'm learning, that word arsenal isn't there, so I have nothing to fall back on when I'm trying to give myself time to find the right words, and don't have fillers. That makes me terrified to say anything because I know how it'll go - I'll look stupid and not be able to cover it, and anyone around me will get frustrated too.

Placeholders are such a good idea. I always make it a point to learn the basic everyday words - hello, how are you, thank you, please, where is..., I'm sorry, help, bye, etc. - before I travel anywhere, but having placeholder words would make a world of difference and even possibly get me over the terror and shame of trying to speak when I know I'm going to fuck up every single time I try.

i'm a huge believer that like the first week of language classes should include teaching everyone whatever some of the local placeholder words are

it expands the number of ideas you can communicate HUGELY if you know how to say "thing", "person", "that" and "like" because now you can ask for/about anything you can gesture at (what's that thing? what's that person doing? can i have that thing? etc.) or describe vaguely (i need the person for the lights [electrician], i want a thing like that, etc.) and check in if you're doing stuff "properly" (you do it like that? i do it like that?)

[firelxdykatara]

I think part of what frustrates me about age gap discourse with respect to BTVS specifically is that framing Buffy's relationship with Angel as 'grown man preys on teenage girl' requires that you ignore everything about the context of the show, the context that their relationship occurs within, and also what it means for both of them as characters and for the show as a whole.

It's also just like, really boring?

Like before you get to any of the story reasons why that's just a stupidly reductive analytical framework, you have to start with this: in a story aimed at teenagers, the fantasy is of being special and desired by a sexy immortal, and because the story is aimed at teenagers, the main characters are (or start as) teenagers, since the coming of age narrative that underpins everything else doesn't work without it. Hard to tackle that transition from adolescence to adulthood with a main character who begins the series as an adult!

(And it's not as if coming of age stories for adults don't exist. Phoebe Halliwell is a very good example--unlike her older sisters, she starts off unemployed and kind of adrift and desperate to find a purpose, which she ultimately does as a witch and a Charmed One, and all of this is done while she, as the youngest, is in her early twenties at the series start, because the show is primarily aimed at adults.)

And the thing is, Angel isn't just some adult man preying on a highschooler for kicks because he can't find women his own age. As Angelus, he spent well over a century enamored with Darla and committing wanton slaughter and destruction by her side. As Angel, with the exception of Buffy, all of his love interests are adults, and his love for Buffy is not tied to her youth, innocence, or naivete, considering that it links and binds them so completely that they keep crossing in and out of each other's lives through the end of Buffy's show, with the door explicitly open for a future relationship once Buffy's finished baking.

What draws Angel to Buffy--and what makes their relationship so dangerously compelling and also ultimately spells its downfall as, within the text of the show, it is explicitly a tragedy--is the fact that she's the Slayer.

That's the key point--her status as the Chosen One! He is drawn to her (as all vampires are, to a greater or lesser extent, but it's no accident that her only other truly earth shattering romantic relationship in the series is with another vampire) because she's the Slayer, and because of the soul he was cursed to bear and the guilt he feels for the evil he committed as a vampire, he wants to protect and save her as part of his atonement. He falls in love with her because she brings light back into the darkness he has been cast into since being forced to bear a soul even as a monster. And he would be 241 years old whether he was turned as a teenager and could pass as one of her peers or turned at 26 (the show is inconsistent on the age at which he was turned and it really doesn't matter, since the buffyverse never tries to pretend vampires are 'frozen' at the age they're turned anyway), and yes, part of what is darkly compelling about their relationship is that the age difference is obvious (Sarah Michelle Gellar was 20 and David Boreanaz was 28 during season 1), but the reason Angel being an 'older man' is never considered super relevant (aside from a few lampshades) is because... it really isn't.

The important thing, the critical thing, the thing that matters in the context of their relationship is that Angel is a vampire. That's why when Angel pulls out his 'I'm 241, you're 16' spiel it rings so hollow--because that doesn't really matter to either of them and he knows it. He's trying to push her away because it's the only way he can really protect her, and even then it doesn't work, and they all suffer for it horribly, Buffy most of all. (And even then she can't stop loving him, nor he her, and that makes it all the more tragic when he realizes the only thing he can do for her is leave.)

Also, it really throws into sharp relief the fact that people care so much about Buffy being a teenage girl when it comes to her romantic relationships but not at all when it comes to her being fated to die. Something the show itself is also quite critical of, because that's part of the point--being the Slayer is an awful burden that none of them have ever had a choice but to bear, and Buffy was supposed to die at sixteen years old. The only reason she survives is because she broke the rules by trying to have a normal life in addition to being the Slayer, which is the only reason she has friends to help her and save her, and I'm supposed to look at all of that and care that her broody vampire bf was a 'grown man' when he was turned? Really?

I don't think so. You can't just be willing to take what the show says for itself at face value when it comes to all the fighting and killing and dying but then balk when it comes to sex. That just doesn't work for me. (I mean, you can, and a lot of people do, but it's frustrating, hence this post.)

[silent-stories]

𝐖𝐑𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐄𝐃 𝐀𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐑

Pairing: Noah Sebastian x reader

Summary: taking care of Noah's hair.

Noah had a love-hate relationship with his hair. He liked how it looked, liked the way it framed his face and fell over his shoulders when he performed. But when it came to actually taking care of it? That was another story. Brushing it was a nightmare, washing it was a chore, and styling it? He barely put in the effort.

You had long since taken it upon yourself to help, whether he wanted you to or not. And most of the time, he acted like a stubborn kid about it—complaining, resisting, insisting he could do it himself even when it was clear he had no idea what he was doing. But the truth was, and you knew it, he secretly liked when you helped. He just had too much pride to admit it.

Like right now.

Noah sat on the edge of the bed, shoulders tense, one hand gripping his hairbrush while the other tried—unsuccessfully—to work through the tangled strands of his long, brown locks. Every few seconds, he let out an irritated sigh, yanking the brush through his hair with little patience. The strands snagged, pulling at his scalp, and he groaned dramatically, holding up the few stray hairs that had fallen loose.

“That’s it,” he muttered. “I’m going bald.”

You, watching from the doorway, crossed your arms and leaned against the frame with an amused smile. “You’re not going bald.”

He turned to you with a serious expression, holding up the evidence between his fingers. “Oh yeah? Then what do you call this?”

“I call it brushing your hair like you’re fighting for your life,” you teased, stepping into the room. “You’re being too rough.”

He let out another frustrated sigh, dropping his hands into his lap. “I'm trying.”

You shook your head, walking over to where he sat. “Move up.”

He eyed you suspiciously. “Why?”

“So I can fix this mess.”

Noah hesitated for a moment but eventually scooted forward, leaving enough space behind him on the bed. You climbed up, settling yourself behind him with your legs on either side of his hips. Reaching forward, you gently gathered his hair over his shoulder, your fingertips brushing against the back of his neck.

“Give me that,” you said, plucking the brush from his hand before he could protest.

He sighed again, but this time, it wasn’t frustration—it was surrender.

You started at the very ends, carefully working your way up instead of forcing the brush straight through the knots like he had been doing. The first few strokes made him tense out of habit, but as the tangles smoothed out, you felt him relax against you.

“You’re too impatient with it,” you murmured, dragging the brush through again, this time with even slower, more deliberate movements.

“Feels different when you do it,” he admitted, voice quieter now.

You smiled softly, running your fingers through the sections you had already brushed. His hair was thin, slightly wavy, and softer than he gave it credit for. You took your time, smoothing down stray strands, making sure to be gentle with every motion.

The room was quiet except for the soft sound of the brush gliding through his hair and the occasional deep sigh from Noah, his body gradually melting into yours.

At some point, he shifted just a little, resting his arms over his knees and letting his weight fully relax against your body.

“This is nice,” he murmured, almost as if he hadn’t meant to say it out loud.

You smiled, setting the brush aside as you ran your fingers through his now-detangled locks. “Told you.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, his voice laced with drowsiness. “Yeah, yeah. You love being right, don’t you?”

You leaned forward, letting your lips brush against the side of his neck before pressing a slow, lingering kiss just below his ear.

"What was that for?"

You nuzzled against him, “Just rewarding you for sitting still.”

Noah let out a low chuckle, tilting his head slightly to give you better access. “Mmm, I could get used to this.”

You pressed another soft kiss to his skin, letting your fingers trail down the length of his hair before resting your hands on his shoulders. He reached up, fingers lightly grazing over yours, his touch warm and absentminded.

“You gonna let me brush your hair more often now?” you asked, smirking against his neck.

He sighed dramatically, but the small smile tugging at his lips gave him away. “Guess I don’t have a choice, do I?”

“Not really.”

He chuckled, squeezing your hand before finally turning his head slightly to look at you. “Didn’t think so.”

And then, there were the times when he showed up with something so weird on his head that it would be too polite to call it a "bun."

You walked into the kitchen, ready to start the day, only to be greeted by Noah standing there with a ridiculous, lopsided bun on top of his head. A few stray pieces of hair were sticking out at odd angles, making him look like he’d tried to put his hair in a bun while half-asleep and then just gave up halfway through.

You stared at him, trying to keep your face neutral, but the sight of his botched attempt was too much.

“What is that?” you asked, unable to hide your amusement.

Noah glanced up at you, his expression a mix of pride and defiance. “It’s a bun.”

“A bun?” You raised an eyebrow, crossing your arms as you eyed the mess on his head. “I don’t know, Noah. That looks more like a bird’s nest after a storm.”

He scowled. “It’s fine. It gets the hair out of my face.”

You laughed. “Out of your face? It looks like it’s about to fall out of your head at any moment. Come here.”

“No, seriously, it’s fine—”

But before he could finish, you grabbed his sleeve and make him sit on the couch next to you, redoing his bun with careful precision, your fingers running through his hair and untangling the mess.

You worked quietly, fixing it just the way you knew he liked it. You made sure no stray strands stuck out and that the bun wasn’t too tight but still held.

When you were finished, you stepped back and eyed the results with satisfaction. “There we go. Now that’s a bun.”

Noah reached up, feeling the newly styled hair. Then, he looked at you with a sly grin, “So, where’s my kiss?”

You blinked, confused. “What?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Every time you help me with my hair, I get a kiss. I want my kiss now.”

You blinked at him in disbelief before you started laughing, unable to hold it in. He watched you with a satisfied expression, clearly enjoying the effect his request had.

He leaned in even closer, the playful glint in his eyes never fading, and suddenly, before you could catch your breath, he was completely over you, supporting himself with his arms so he wouldn’t crush you. He kissed you, his lips soft and warm, teasing and sweet, as you laughed against him.

You pulled away, breathless, still giggling, when you heard a voice from the doorway.

“Please don’t have sex on the couch,” Ruffilo said, his tone deadpan, but the disgusted grin on his face made it clear he was joking.

Noah hid his face in the crook of your neck, muffling his laughter as he tried to keep the situation light, his shoulders shaking with barely contained giggles. You couldn’t stop laughing either, feeling his chest rumble with each chuckle.

Ruffilo, standing in the doorway, rolled his eyes and shook his head. “I sit there all the time, c’mon, be decent,” he said as he walked away.

Once he was gone, Noah pulled back just enough to look at you. “I guess I’ll have to keep needing help with my hair, huh?”

You grinned, your fingers brushing the hair at the nape of his neck. “Oh, don’t worry, I’ll make sure your buns are always perfect.”

Noah’s grin widened, clearly pleased with both the hair and the attention, his laughter still lingering in the air as he lowered himself on you a second time to kiss you again.

And there were the nights spent doing nothing and just cuddling.

Nights like these were your favorite—just you and Noah curled up in bed, the soft glow of the TV casting a dim light over the room as some anime played in the background.

The blankets were piled over both of you, and Noah was sprawled out with his head resting on your stomach, completely at ease. His long hair fanned out over your shirt, strands slipping between your fingers as you absentmindedly played with them.

You scratched his scalp lightly, running your nails over his skin in slow, soothing motions. He hummed, a deep, contented sound vibrating through him, his eyes half-lidded as he let himself melt into your touch. His body was completely relaxed, one of his arms draped lazily across your waist as he focused on the TV.

You took a loose strand of his hair and twirled it around your finger, watching as it coiled and then slipped free again.

The soft, silky texture was familiar now. You loved it. You loved the way it suited him, the way it made him look like some sort of dark fairytale prince but also your own personal 6'3'' teddy bear.

Then, out of nowhere, he spoke. “I was thinking about cutting it.”

Your fingers paused in his hair, and your eyes flickered down to look at him. “Cutting it?”

Noah let out a small sigh, staring at the screen but not really watching anymore. “Yeah. Just… I dunno. It’s a pain to take care of sometimes.” He hesitated for a second, then added, “But I feel like I’d look so fucking ugly with short hair.”

You scoffed, rolling your eyes playfully as you flicked the strand of hair you’d been twirling. “That’s dumb.”

He snorted. “Wow. Thanks.”

You smiled, your fingers resuming their gentle movements in his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp. “I just mean… you’re always going to be handsome, Noah. That’s not even a question.” Your voice softened a little. “But… I do love your hair like this.”

His expression shifted, and though he didn’t lift his head, you could tell he was smirking. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you murmured, twirling another strand around your finger.

Noah hummed again, considering your words, but he didn’t say anything else. He just let himself relax, his body sinking further into you as his breathing slowed. You didn’t speak either—you just kept running your fingers through his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp, twisting soft strands between your fingers.

The room was quiet except for the soft sounds of the anime playing in the background, the occasional flicker of light from the screen casting over his face.

And then, slowly, the tension in his body faded entirely. His breathing evened out, and without even realizing it, he had drifted into sleep.

And then there was the more intimate moments. Like when you and Noah showered together. The steam from the water fogging up the mirrors and the sound of running water filling the bathroom was calming as you stood together under the warm spray of the shower, the hot water cascading down around you both, washing away the stresses of the day.

Noah’s tall frame was a little too much for the space, and his head, even slightly bowed, was still a bit out of reach for you when it came to washing his hair. But you loved doing it anyway.

“Can I wash your hair?” you asked softly, your hands already reaching for the shampoo bottle, hopeful.

Noah turned toward you, a mischievous glint in his eyes as he smirked. “I can do it. I’m perfectly capable.”

You pouted, crossing your arms over your chest. “But I wanna do it.”

He chuckled, ruffling your wet hair with his big hand. “You really wanna wash my hair that badly?”

“Yeah,” you said, a hint of playfulness in your voice. “I like it and I know you like it too. So c’mon, let me do it.”

With a sigh that was more out of amusement than reluctance, Noah sat down on the shower floor. His tall frame had no choice but to sink down so you could reach his head.

You smiled at his obedience, loving the way he let you take care of him sometimes. He sat on the cool tiles, legs crossed, looking at you with that soft, trusting expression of his.

“Comfortable?” you asked, your voice soft, already working the shampoo into your hands.

“Yeah,” he replied, his voice warm and amused as you carefully massaged the shampoo into his scalp and worked your fingers gently through his hair.

It was intimate andsimple, and you took your time, savoring the way his body seemed to relax under your touch, his head tilting back slightly as you massaged his scalp. The smell of the shampoo filled the air, mixing with the steam and the scent of his skin.

You rinsed the shampoo out slowly, making sure to get every last bit. Then, you applied the conditioner, working it through his hair as carefully as you had the shampoo.

The way his hair felt between your fingers was so familiar now, comforting. It wasn’t just about the act of washing his hair—it was about being this close to him, being able to care for him in such a simple, loving way.

Once you’d thoroughly rinsed the conditioner out, you helped Noah back to his feet even if he didn't need your hand. He stood tall again, water cascading down his body, droplets glistening on his skin. You smiled up at him, heart swelling at how much you loved this man. Without thinking, you reached up, cupping his face in your hands, and covered him in soft, lingering kisses.

His eyes widened, but a laugh escaped him as you kissed him over and over, on his cheek, on his lips, on the corner of his mouth, each one sweeter than the last. His hands moved to your waist, steadying you as he smiled through your affection.

“That’s because I let you wash my hair, huh?” he teased, his voice full of that playful tone you loved.

You paused, looking up at him with a smile, your fingers brushing along his jaw. “No,” you whispered, leaning in to kiss his lips once more, “just because I love you.”

His expression softened, the teasing replaced with something softer. “I love you too,” he said quietly, his lips brushing against your forehead in a gentle kiss. “I love you too."

Tags: @anything-more-than-human @ladyveronikawrites @iloveyoutodeathbutimdrowning @collisionofyourkissmakesitsohard @fadingangelwisp @xmads-omensx @iwasntstable @thisbicc @pathion @flowery-mess @into-the-grey @lacy1986 @tosoundlessdarkistare @stardustsirenmelody @thewrstinme @hurricanesfollowyou @ichoosetenderomens @chey-h @alwaysfightforwhoyouare @follow-me-down-to-wonderland @missduffsblog

[piratecaptainscaptainpirates]

Okay okay listen. Potential time loop AU fic idea.

So I'm imagining a modern AU where Ed's stuck in a time loop, right? It's something akin to Russian Doll's, where it can last for varying amounts of time with each loop, and always ends with him dying, and usually in a violent or comedic fashion. He's had loops where he's made it five minutes to midnight before a the roof of his house caves in, and he's had loops where he trips going down the stairs and it lasts five minutes. Because he's Ed, he's keeping very meticulous lists of what happens, who he sees, what to avoid, what to make sure he does.

And the twist is that he doesn't want the loop to end at all. He kind of likes it. After a lifetime of having to be in perfect control, it's kind of nice to be forced to give it up. It's kind of nice to know the shit people in his life are going to say to him - a lot easier to hear that he's an insane, unpleasant shell of a man when it's the thousandth time he's hearing it and it just sounds like video game dialogue at this point. Helps that it feels like the punishment he's earned, dying over and over again every day until he can feel like he's earned some kind of penance. He tells himself that he can break the loop at any time, he's just not trying very hard.

And, of course, it all changes when one day, the loop changes, and there's this weirdo blond guy who seems just as frustrated with everyone saying the same things over and over to him as Ed is...

[aeria-arc]

[LoveAndDeepSpace Translation Review] | Main Story | Homecoming Wings CH 02 Night Unending: 09 "Captive Bird"

Bringing you an unfiltered version of the EN translations for the infamous "Captive Bird" cutscene. This is for the girlies who appreciate Caleb in all ways and form. Caleb is not my man but consider me intrigued. ~♡🍎

Disclaimer: I'm Southeast Asian Chinese (english/chinese speaking). Not from China. Not a language expert. Just a lore and Xavier girlie who's way too invested. My reviews are my interpretation and should not be taken as facts. -More Details: HERE

Key: Orange = official EN version Pink = official CN version « » = my version (based on CN's script) Blue = external links [EDIT] = notes added after initial draft ★ = bullet points

09: Captive Bird

Caleb: Sit first. We need to tend to your wound. Caleb: 坐好，你的伤口要尽快处理 «Sit properly, your wound needs to be treated quickly.»

MC: Is the Colonel ordering me around? Or is Caleb worried about me? MC: 这是长官的命令，还是哥哥的关心？ «Is this an officer's order, or an older brother's concern?»

Caleb: Do you remember that injured cat you brought back home? Back when we were kids. Caleb: 还记得小时候，你抱回来了一只受伤的猫吗 «Do you remember when we were young, you brought back an injured cat?»

Caleb: We kept it in the backyard. But that cat always kept trying to run away before it fully recovered. Caleb: 我们把它养在院子里，它却不领情，伤还没好就总想逃 «We raised it in the courtyard yet it was ungrateful. It kept wanting to escape even though its injuries have not healed.»

MC: I don't want to listen to this. MC: 我不想听你说这些 «I don't want to listen to you talk about this.»

Caleb: Do you want to know what I did in response? Caleb: 后来，你知道我想了一个什么办法么？ «Then, do you know what I came up with?»

Caleb: I got a collar with a bell. I put it on the cat. That way, it couldn't escape without being noisy. Caleb: 我给它系了一个铃铛，走到哪里都叮铃铃的，它就再也逃不掉了 «I attached a bell to it and it made a ringing sound wherever it went. That's how it will never run away again.»

Caleb: If I had that kind of bell right now... Caleb: 你说，这样的铃铛…… «What do you say, a bell like this...»

Caleb: I should make you wear it, right? Caleb: 我是不是也该给你系一个？ «Should I also attach one to you?»

======================================= Choice 1 <Is this your "protection"?> <这就是你的“保护”吗?> «same as EN»

MC: Is this how you'll "protect" me? I just need to be glued to your side? MC: ……把我困在身边，这就是你所谓的“保护”吗？ «...keeping me trapped by your side, is this your so-called "protection"?»

Caleb: I know it's unfair. But... Caleb: 这的确对你不公平，可是…… «This is indeed unfair to you, but...»

======================================= Choice 2 <Fine. I'll let you do what you want.> <好呀，哥哥做什么都可以> «It's all fine, older brother can do anything you want.»

MC: Okay, fine. I guess I'll let you do what you want. MC: 好啊，你是哥哥，自然做什么都可以 «Fine, go ahead, you are the older brother, naturally you can do anything you want and it'll be ok.»

Caleb: Is there anything I can do? Caleb: 身为“哥哥”，我能对你做什么 «As the "older brother", what can I even do to you?*»

[*NOTE: He is responding to mc being sarcastic about how older brothers have the 'authority' to do anything. She probably wants to get a rise out of him out of frustration but caleb doesn't take the bait. He shuts it down by saying as a brother in the proper sense, he can't do anything to her that will cause her harm. By saying this it is implying that in his mind, keeping her by his side is not "harmful" but for "her own good". He goes on to 'justify' this by talking about her wound infection.]

=======================================

Caleb: Because of that monster, your wound is infected. Caleb: 被那种怪物攻击，你的伤口已经轻度感染了 «After being attacked by those kind of monsters, your wound has already been slightly infected.»

Caleb: Is there truly a way for you to run around without getting injured? Caleb: 你说，我要怎么安心放你一个人到处跑？ «Tell me, how can I be at ease and let you run around out there alone?»

MC: Are you still the Caleb who confronted danger with me? MC: 你还是那个和我一起对抗危险的夏以昼吗？ «Are you still the same Caleb who fought against danger together with me?»

Caleb: ……

MC: I've had enough of... your "protection". MC: 你所谓的保护，我也受够了 «Your so-called protection, I've had enough of it.»

Caleb: If being with me only brings you pain, then just put up with this for three more days. Caleb: 如果待在我身边让你这么痛苦，那么，最多再三天 «If being by my side makes you suffer so much, then, three more days, at most.»

MC: What are you going to do? MC: 你要去干什么？ «same as EN»

Caleb: Tie up loose ends. Caleb: 最后的善后 «The final clean-up.»

Caleb: And then... All of this will be over. I just need three more days. Caleb: 三天过后，这一切就都结束了 «After three more days, all of this will come to an end»

[Three days later...]

News Report: Our reporters out in the field confirmed the lockdown will be lifted after being in effect for weeks. The Farspace Fleet assures everyone that the explosion in the Cascade District will not happen again... News Report: 本台前线报导，持续数周的全面戒严已结束。远空舰队称，流云区爆炸案将不会再次发生…… «um whatever EN says lol»

Caleb: After all this is over... The Fleet will return to the Deepspace Tunnel. You'll be safe. For now. Caleb: 这次动荡过后……舰队会回到隧道里，你暂时安全了 «After this recent unrest...the Fleet will return to the Deepspace Tunnel, you will be safe for now.»

MC: In other words, you'll just disappear again? And not even say anything? MC: 所以这一次，你又要什么都不说就离开吗？ «So this time around, you're also going to leave without saying a word?»

Caleb: I'll be gone. Aren't you happy you won't have to see me then? Caleb: 看不见我，你不是应该很开心吗 «Not seeing me, shouldn't you be happy?»

Caleb: I'm about to leave. It'd be nice if we had a meal together. Caleb: 我就要走了，陪我再吃顿晚饭吧 «I'll be leaving soon, come have dinner with me once more.»

MC: So I have to listen to the Colonel even when it comes to eating and drinking now? MC: 不仅是行动，现在连吃什么喝什么，我都要遵从执舰官的命令吗？ «Not just my actions, now it's what I eat and drink too? Do I need to obey the colonel's orders for everything?»

Caleb: You can be mad, but don't let it affect your health. Caleb: 你可以生气，但不要以身体为代价 «You can get angry, but not at the cost of your health.»

MC: I'm not mad. MC: 我没有生气 «I'm not angry.»

Caleb: Growing up, we knew each other well. Better than most, even. Caleb: 从小到大，我是最了解你的人 «Since young, I'm the person who understands you the most.»

Caleb: I could see through your lies when you'd blink. Bite your lip, and I could tell you were upset. Caleb: 你眨一下眼睛我就知道你在说谎，咬下嘴唇就知道是受了委屈…… «You'll blink and I would know you are lying, bite your lip and I would know you must have felt wronged.»

MC: In that case, tell me. What am I thinking about right now? MC: 既然是最了解我的人，那哥哥知道我现在在想什么吗？ «Since you know me the best, then older brother do you know what I'm thinking right now?»

MC: I wonder. How did you turn into someone I hardly recognize? MC: 我在想，你怎么会变成一个让我这么陌生的人 «I'm thinking, how could you have become someone who is like a stranger to me.»

Caleb: Oh I know. You're thinking some chip got put into my brain, right? And now, I'm no longer who I used to be. Caleb: 我知道你想说什么。你想说，我是不是也被什么芯片控制了，变得不像我自己 «I know what you want to say. You're thinking of saying, could it be I'm also being controlled by some chip, and have turned into someone unfamiliar(/not like myself).»

Caleb: What if I told you I was always like this? Caleb: 如果我说，我本来就是这样的人呢？ «What if I said, I have always been this kind of person?»

Caleb: Your life has threats around every corner. Caleb: 是你还活在想象的世界里 «It's you who is still living in an imaginary world»

Caleb: The people who are after your power, who wanna hurt you—they should all just... disappear. Caleb: 那些觊觎你力量、想要伤害你的人，不论是谁……都该消失 «Those who covet your power, those who wish to harm you, no matter who it is....they all need to disappear.»

Caleb: You're only safe when you're by my side. Caleb: 只有我身边才是最安全的 «You are safest only by my side.»

MC: I'd rather face danger head-on than "safely" live like this! I don't need you— MC: 比起这种“安全”，我宁愿去面对危险！不需要你来…… «Compared to having this kind of "safety", I'd rather face the danger head-on! I don't need you to...»

Caleb: You don't need me? Is that what you think? Caleb: 不需要我？ «Don't need me?»

Caleb: All right. What do you need? You can tell me. Caleb: 好啊，那你需要什么？我都可以答应 «Fine, then what do you need? I'll agree to anything»

Caleb: We can return to Linkon if that's what you want. Caleb: 你想要回临空，我们就回临空 «You want to return to Linkon, we can return to Linkon»

Caleb: If you want to return to the past, we'll rebuild our old house and move in together. Caleb: 你想回到从前，我们就把老宅翻修，一起住回去 «If you want to return to the past, we can rebuild the old house and live in it together again.»

Caleb: And if one house isn't enough, I'll build you a whole maze. Caleb: 一座房子不够，那就给你建一座迷宫 «If a house is not enough, then I'll build a maze for you.»

Caleb: I'll decorate it with everything you could ever want. It will be the most beautiful, stunning garden you've ever seen. Caleb: 我会在里面给你准备最好的一切，把它建成世界上最漂亮的花园 «Within it I will prepare the best of everything for you, make it the world's most beautiful garden.»

Caleb: No one will be able to find you ever again. I'll protect you forever. Caleb: 有我陪着，以后，他们就再也找不到你了 «With me keeping you company, in future, they will never ever find you again.»

MC: Caleb... You can't just... MC: 夏以昼……你不该是这样的 «Caleb......you shouldn't be like this.»

MC: You're very important to me. And no one could ever replace you... MC: 你明明是我的哥哥，是我重要的家人…… «You are clearly my older brother, my important family member......»

Caleb: Really? Caleb: 哥哥？ «Older brother?»

Caleb: (MC name), I've always held myself back and endured. Day, after day, after day. It was suffocating. Caleb: (玩家)，你最大的错，就是以为我愿意一直扮演你的好哥哥 «(MC name), your biggest mistake, is thinking I was willing to keep up the act as your good older brother»

Caleb: But now, I'm tired of playing these games. Caleb: 这种过家家的游戏，我早就玩腻了 «This game of house, I've long been tired of playing it.»

Additional Notes

★ Chapter Title Meaning

The chapter title "Night Unending" in CN is "无昼长夜", and it has a double meaning. The phrase has the character "昼" in it, which is also part of Caleb's CN name (夏以昼). A quick breakdown of his name: 夏 (xià) = summer 以 (yǐ) = with/by (preposition) 昼 (zhòu) = daytime

Caleb's name roughly translates to something like "summer by day".

Back to our title, the actual idiom referenced is "无昼无夜", it refers to living as if there's "no day, no night"; i.e. it means being so occupied with something all through the day and night, to the point that there's no distinction between daytime and nighttime. The writers changed it from "无昼无夜" to "无昼长夜", so now it means "no day, long night". In other words, "without caleb, long night". The EN title "Unending Night" is not wrong, it's just missing the wordplay on his name.

My guess: On the surface this is likely referencing Caleb's long disappearances at night during the chapter, but if we think deeper, it might have to do with mc's feelings about Caleb's absence (nights are long without Caleb).

[*fun fact: any tales of themis fan here? In case u didn't know, Luke has the same CN surname as Caleb. Coincidence? ;) ]

[opashoo]

Do you have any advice on how not to get so overwhelmed when it comes to conlanging? I get overwhelmed way too fast with the information I read on the conlang subreddit David j Petersons book I have or YouTubers I just get burned out.

I start out on my phonological sounds and sometimes I add a new sound or get rid of a few I find unnecessary phonotactics is where I end up getting stuck/frustrated and stoping completely. I don’t know why but my brain just cannot compute when it comes to phonotactics no matter how many videos I watch of people explaining it or looking through Wikipedia just doesn’t register in my brain. I’m assuming this is happening because I’m autistic which is even more frustrating I’m so slow when it comes to learning or I end up comparing myself to others for understanding/learning things faster than me. I get motivated to make a language and then I get overwhelmed it’s just a repeat cycle to the point where I just want to give up. I’m not even sure if it’s possible for me to make a conlang at this point. And then I stumble across something I never heard before from someone else said and I stress about that too and I constantly worry I’m going to make a conlang I spent so much time on only for someone to point out that it’s a reflex and I need to scrap the whole thing and start all over :(

So I have two big pieces of advice that have helped enormously with this sort of thing and they are to work small (the big picture will come together) and to know your goals. It's gonna be a lot so I'm putting it past a readmore. I also talk a bit about my own project, but it's all the way at the bottom.

First, focus on one thing at a time and take small steps. As your familiarity with your own work grows, the bigger picture will start to come together, just focus on one thing at a time.

If there's a linguistic phenomenon or grammatical construction or concept or something that you want to explore but you don't understand it entirely, then just focus on that for a while. I like to make toy languages, really, really small and simple conlangs with extremely simply words and sounds that are meant to focus specifically on one or two concepts at a time. I don't worry about anything else but those concepts; no phonotactics, no worrying about how pretty or ugly the language sounds, I don't worry about naturalism or sound changes, I don't focus on any of these things unless those things are what I'm making the toy language to explore.

My current project, Yongasabi, has a consonantal root system inspired by Arabic, but understanding the concept in a satisfactory manner where I felt confident including it in a project that I plan on publishing took actual years. I made three separate toylangs, one of which I revised and overhauled three times before eventually using that as a basis for Yongasabi. I needed that time and work to focus on absolutely nothing but sound changes and how a system like this evolves in natural languages. While I was playing around with sound changes in one toy language, in another toy language I was also trying to figure out how a system of derivation like this could into systems of nouns, adjectives and verbs. I did not focus on anything else with those toy language but those core concepts because to do any more would be overwhelming and confusing.

It's the same when you're working on a more complete language project, you build it little by little. Focus on one aspect at a time, one concept at a time. As you become more familiar with your own work and you use and apply it, you will start to see the things that work and the things that don't, and you'll be able to make decisions accordingly. It'll happen over time, but you have to avoid stressing about the whole thing.

And if there's something causing you trouble that's stopping you from making the language, there's no one stopping you from avoiding it until you're ready. I never actually properly wrote down Yongasabi's sound inventory, assimilations, and allophones until the grammar document was at 204 pages because I hate working on that stuff. :huntershruggy: That's usually the first thing a lot of people like to work on for some reason, but I hate it and I just went by instinct for 204 pages and five months. If I let that stop me, I never would have made any progress. There were some things I had to go back and update because of it, and that took extra time, but extra work with progress is better than no work and no progress.

Second, understand your goals.

A piece of advice I got from David Peterson's videos and several other conlanging youtubers is to know why you're making your language and what your endgoal is. As long as you understand what your goal is, you can prioritize and decide what steps you need to take to get there. You need to understand what you want or else you'll never be able to work towards it, and you reduce the chances that you'll be happy with it.

For example, I've known some conlangers whose goal is to make some kind of secret, diegetically constructed language for a fictional setting, or maybe a secret language to use with their friends, but they get caught up on rules of naturalism and worry about naturalistic development. You don't need naturalism if the point of your language is that it didn't develop naturally. That's just a waste of your time.

Conversely, I've known some naturalistic conlangers who feel obligated to add every new concept they come across with the idea that "Well if it evolved in a real world language, then it must have some use to real speakers and thus belongs in this language" but they miss the point that a natural language doesn't need to contain every naturally developed phenomenon. In the end they're left with something bloated, hugely redundant, and incredibly disappointing to them.

I've also met conlangers whose goal is to make a naturalistic conlang for a fictional setting only to be hugely dissatisfied when they follow the rules of naturalistic development and it makes a language that doesn't sound the way they want, or it doesn't evoke the feeling they want, or they find that their progress is unnecessarily bogged down by learning rules they find boring, because they don't actually want a naturalistic language, they want an artlang that services their story.

In all of these cases, the authors of these conlangs didn't understand their goals. They did work they didn't like to make end products they were dissatisfied with because they failed to meet their real goals. These goals can shift over time, but in the end that's fine as long as it makes you happy. You need to be making your conlang for you and your purposes! You say that you've gotten stuck on phonotactics and that's stopped you before, but Yongasabi doesn't even have phonotactics outside of literally one single rule, and it's that there can never be more than two consonants in a cluster. I hate working with phonotactics too, so I made my language in a way that let me minimize that work. It doesn't interfere with my goal so I'm totally fine with that.

I know this is a lot but it really does boil down to those two points: work small so that you don't get overwhelmed, and know your goals so you can set your priorities. My goals with Yongasabi were:

Make a language that allows me to explore this fictional culture I made for the slugcats of Rain World

Derive sounds from Mongolian, Korean and Filipino (And a little bit of Vietnamese)

Explore grammatical concepts that I find cool from these languages and others (My main focus was converbs and agglutination in tandem with a consonantal root system, but in general there's a lot of Chinese, Japanese, and Korean in the grammar)

Make sure I like the sound of the language

My main guiding forces were:

Have a rough basis in naturalistic sound changes, but if it leads to sounds or situations I don't like, change it; the readers won't notice because they don't see the development process

If something starts to feel weird or stops fitting in with the rest of the language, don't be afraid to change it or get rid of it entirely because that in a way reflects organic change in the language (and extra work for progress is better than no work for no progress)

If there's an opportunity for the culture to express itself in the language, take it

If you want to judge how well I've realized those goals, you can check it out here (I'm making this post free to reblog unlike the last one because the link is hidden under all this text and 1st edition release is super close anyway I am so excited).

Anyway, good luck! I hope my advice helps!

[pilots-and-protons]

Sorry, that ask wasn’t meant to upset you. I was just letting you know why Tom not having a wedding ring in Lower Decks likely wasn’t a continuity error. Since it’s kind of shitty to call the animators careless or lazy for something like that, especially on a show with as much love and attention to detail put into it as Lower Decks

Ok fine, I will answer this one.

First of all, I did not call the animators lazy or careless and I don't like you implying that I did. What little I have seen from LD has delighted me, and I appreciate wholeheartedly how much they actually reference and joke about Star Trek with love.

What I said (in a post on my blog with all of like 10 followers), was that I was offended they didn't take the time to animate Tom's wedding ring. Now, I shouldn't have to put long disclaimers on every short text post I make here on tumblr dot com, but I guess this time apparently I do.

I am very aware that it is a tiny and minor detail (especially in terms of animation), which the (often underpaid) animators probably didn't have the time or luxury to put in. But I also know that I am autistic and often fixate on minor details that I KNOW a lot of people just won't think about. So yes, I still have every reason to believe that people either forgot about it (and that is understandable; wedding rings are very old fashioned in a futuristic setting), or didn't think it was important enough to include (again, possibly because of money or time issues which are, again, completely understandable and not the animators' fault).

What you're missing is the POINT of the original post, which is just that I was sad - because Tom's arc of growing into a committed husband and family man is very important to his character. So not including this one obvious indication of his arc in a new and often very detail-oriented show (which notably makes no indication of Tom's relationship at all), was personally disappointing to me. THAT IS ALL. Especially since nothing that happens in the episode would need to address the absence of B'Elanna with or without the ring (since it already didn't).

As a side note, many books and even the most recent 2022/23 IDW comic have all included the fact that Tom is a married man with a family - even when B'Elanna is not present in the story. Regardless of whether someone is available to voice-act or not, in a clearly one-shot episode appearance for Tom, I'm legitimately not sure why LD did not include any reference to it. I think it would have been entirely in-character to hear from someone that B'Elanna is annoyed Tom's going around on a handshake tour while she's busy doing real work. But even if no one wanted to force it into dialogue, including the ring would have still given us something for a relationship that was carefully built over multiple seasons of the source series.

Lastly, if you've been on this blog at all you should know that I am clearly a fan of Tom/B'Elanna (among other ships). So I'm really not sure why you'd think that coming into my askbox to insist all post-Voyager canon would either have B'Elanna divorced from Tom or DEAD, wouldn't make me upset!?

[bookshelf-in-progress]

Most important thing to know before writing: What is the point of your story?

There are two parts to that question.

-What are the main story elements you want to feature? A certain character? A setting? A moment of the plot? A particular theme? Which elements are essential to the story you're trying to tell?

-What type of ending are you aiming toward? It doesn't have to be super-detailed, but knowing something about where the story is going is how you know you have a story and not just an image. Is the main character going to change/grow somehow? Learn the answer to a question? Accomplish a certain goal? Make a friend?

Defining those things before you start lets you know that your idea is a story, not just an image or a concept that won't go anywhere. It also gives you a core to base the story around and keeps you from going off-track.

As long as you have defined the essentials to the story and the general direction that you need the story to go in, everything else is negotiable. You have freedom to adjust the non-essentials and explore different possibilities as you discovery-write, so long as none of those non-essentials interfere with the point of the story. If it distracts from the main point, or turns the plot in a way that'll make it impossible to reach main point of the story, it needs to be discarded. Anything else will most likely enrich your story.

[finalgirlgretchen]

if one more person tries to claim that the oh hellos are no longer christian i am going to lose my shit

[fromtheseventhhell]

Do you ever think about how Arya being left-handed most likely had an impact on her needlework and other tasks? And how she needed special attention not only because she wasn't as naturally gifted as her sister but because the way she was being taught fundamentally didn't work for her? And how instead of being given the attention she needed she was instead held to an unfair standard by her teacher and used as a measure for bad behavior? And how this all impacted her self-esteem and her views on being a Lady?

[zukkaoru]

could you tell me more about why you dislike femskk?

okay disclaimer before i begin: this is not meant to be a dig on every person who enjoys femskk. the biggest reason i don't like it is honestly because it's just not my cup of tea and honestly it really makes no difference to me if other people like it. but beyond that my biggest issues with it are

1. the phenomenon of fans "yuri-ifying" the most popular m/m ship and then using that to prove they like female characters and f/f ships. this is not a bsd-exclusive thing; it happens with stsg too and i don't like femstsg for the same reason. but there's a big difference between actually liking female characters and just genderbending (or even making transfem) the big m/m ship. i literally went to the f/f category in bsd on ao3 the other day looking for fics and about half of them are skk fics instead of fics about like. the actual female characters in bsd. who i was looking for fics of. similarly, there have been some redraw trends going around twitter - specifically the i prefer girls cover redraw - and i have seen. i don't even know how many femskk redraws of that (along with a couple femfyolais and a femrimlaine) but only one redraw with actual female characters from bsd. same with the scene 14 redraw that was going around, and while that one wasn't originally two female characters, i have still seen significantly more femskk (and femsigzai, femsigchuu, femfyolai, etc) than i have ships with even one character who is female in the source material.

and imo this phenomenon is made even worse in the bsd fandom bc so many fans just see bsd as the skk show. so of course they're writing off the actual female characters; they literally don't care about anything besides skk. and obviously i can't do anything to force anyone to care about other characters but like.... bsd has so many other wonderful characters and dynamics (both romantic and platonic) that a good half of the fanbase won't even glance at because they're not skk. i do like skk, but bsd is about so much more than just them. they are, objectively, only one small part of it. like if you only care about skk, then just be outright about it and don't pretend you're "proving" you like female characters and sapphic ships bc you like femskk too

2. of the fans who only like skk and nothing else about bsd, most of them. don't even characterize dazai and chuuya correctly? i think the some of the best skk characterizations i've seen have been from people who actually like other characters and ships too, and some of the worst skk characterization i've seen has come from people who literally don't care about any other ships or characters. this isn't a hard and fast rule obviously but even with 30k skk fics on ao3, i have struggled to find ones that actually feel true to their characters. and the characterization seems to only get worse when it's femskk. if you're just going to turn femdazai and femchuuya into two completely different people, what's the point in it even being skk? why not write k.ousano or h.igugin or even a ship with one canonically female character? if you have to change the core characteristics of both dazai and chuuya... do you even really like them?

3. about femdazai: i actually don't mind the transfem dazai headcanon in general but most fans get her wrong. i made a post about it here but basically so many times i see femdazais that are just. completely unrecognizable as dazai. you can't strip away core aspects of dazai like idk the fact that dazai doesn't show any skin from neck to toe just because you made her a girl. i have seen some femdazai that's good! but i have seen so much that is just fundamentally wrong for dazai's character as a whole. mostly on twitter.

4. about femchuuya: i really truly just don't get femchuuya. i THINK the hype here is probably bc lesbians seem to get attached to chuuya (which. valid. i am also a lesbian chuuya fan.) and so they want to draw a chuuya they can be attracted to (i.e. femchuuya) which like. cool whatever i'm not here to judge. but looking at it from a "would this character actually identify as female" perspective, i don't actually think i can picture that for chuuya. maybe it's just because i so strongly hc them as nonbinary? idk. this one is honestly just a neutral "i don't see that but you do you"

tl;dr: from what i've seen, femskk is often mischaracterized, and genderbending the big m/m ships in a fandom is often a way fans "prove" they like the female characters and f/f ships while not actually caring about anything other than their main m/m ship

[paranormaljones]

.

[thevegetablewhichnoonedaresname]

sorry. I just saw another video with some guy being "hurr durr Japanese has two syllabaries plus kanji so why don't they just ditch kanji and one of the syllabaries and start putting spaces between the words" idk man why does English retain spelling patterns from a bajillion different languages instead of reforming spelling so that everything looks the way it sounds. that stuff fossilizes language history that no one's thinking about otherwise, it's really hard to convince a whole country or multiple countries full of literate people to change everything about the way they read and write, and, yeah, it does carry semantic value that you're underestimating the importance of as well. shut up. I don't ever want to hear about this again

[queenofmalkier]

I just have to say, there's constructive discussion about what the show isn't getting right and then there's attacking people who are still enjoying it for what it is, more or less labeling them as bad fans or not "true" fans.

(And then getting mad when people call out what you're doing.)

[brittlebutch]

i kind of hate to say it because i feel like i'll get pushback for it,,, but i kind of feel like if you're going to be making informational posts about autism online you do need to be reading actual autism research and literature. at least some of the times. like you can't just make things up and then present them as fact.