#Saying 'damn I should not make a half part as long as a normal one'

[goatswithtoast]

Part 4.5, Pixal :DD

As the group flew off from the town, Nya joked that they should throw a party to celebrate Cole joining the group, which Lloyd decided to make a reality, quickly steering Ultra down to the next town.

As the group made a list of party supplies they would need, They bump into a group of kids whispering at the corner of a shop. They're just in time to hear an accusatory "You went up the weird-house-hill?!"

"What's weird house hill?" Lloyd asked, the three kids jumping at the intrusion.

"Well... legend states that if you hike up this mountain in the dead of night, and-!"

"It's a hill with a house."

The other two kids looked at the third with disappointed looks.

"It's not that scary guys. Calm down."

With their interest peaked, the gang decided to pay this house a visit.

As they flew closer, they were able to make out this scary house-on-a-hill.

The house has a strange amalgamation of parts attached to it, including, but not limited to, a long cylinder on the roof pointed at the sky, a large brass horn pointed towards the valley the house looked over and several hundred pipes and tubes running circles around the building. The main two, however, were the two protrusions that looked suspiciously like a pair of squatted legs, with 'feet' and all.

"Look, there's a clearing." Nya pointed down below, where there was a patch absent of trees.

"Wait no, don't land there." Cole countered. "Look how rocky it is."

"Yeah, Ultra could kick a few around while we check out the house!" Lloyd suggested

Cole shook his head. "It's too unstable, they're loose rocks. We'd just tumble off the mountain."

Nya crossed her arms and looked for another spot. "Well, looks like we won't have any cover. They'll see us coming." She turned to look to Lloyd.

"Well, we're just going down to look at the house. How much trouble could we get into for looking?" Lloyd wondered with a shrug.

Once they had landed not too far from the house, Lloyd immediately ran up to the 'legs' to see exactly how they worked, with Nya quickly following him out of curiosity.

Zane and Cole, meanwhile, simply observed from where they landed.

"I do wonder who lives in such a building." Zane pondered aloud with a hand scratching his chin.

Cole shrugged. "Then why not ask?"

Zane looked to him quizzically before Cole elaborated.

"I mean we could just knock. Nothing's stopping us."

"Oh no, no. I wouldn't want to disturb them." Zane explained right before Lloyd gave a yelp as he lost his balance. He caught himself with his bending and shouted a quick "I'm ok!" back to them.

Zane sighed and walked up to the door.

"I suppose it would be better to apologize for the noise at this point."

After giving the door a few knocks, it's answered by a young woman who, strangely enough, sported a bun of grey hair. She slowly opened the door just enough that she could fit her head in the gap, essentially blocking their entrance.

"Good afternoon, how may we help you?"

Any notions Zane had of answering disappeared the second he laid eyes on her. His voice rendered useless under her bright green gaze.

At Zane's extended silence, Cole stepped in. "Hi, sorry to bother. We just came up to look at the house." He said with a smile, that turned strained when more shouts and thumps came from outside. "And to apologize for the noise."

The girl gave them a long look up and down before slowly opening the door to them. "You're earlier than we expected, but I can assure you the house is working as per your standards."

Cole was quite confused, Zane too, once he had processed what was happening.

As they went to follow this woman into the house they were pushed from behind by Lloyd. "I saw the door open. I wanna see what's inside!"

Nya walked in behind him and rolled her eyes.

Following this woman inside, they spotted all kinds of knickknacks and doohickeys scattered over every surface. Small balls would burst open to become a bigger one at the slightest touch, Cone shapes topped with propellers would spin back down when thrown up and tubes that each made a different noise.

"Hey, Nya!" Lloyd called. "Look at this for water bending!" He turned one of the tubes over. It did sound very much like rain hitting the roof. This earned him a playful punch on the shoulder.

Their exploring was interrupted by the woman ringing a bell. "My father will be down with you shortly."

After a few moments of silence, Zane blurted, "You have a lovely home!" Everyone turned to give him various looks of confusion. Zane even seemed to make one himself.

"...Thank you." replied the woman, fidgeting with her sleeve.

After a moment of uncomfortable silence, a series of bangs and creaks became noticeable from the ceiling. After several concerning noises, a man in a chair wheeled himself into the room.

"Apologies! Deepest apologies! I had no idea you'd be back so soon!" He rushed to clarify. As he slowed down he gave the group a long look, as if analyzing them. "They're sending you lot very young." He barrelled past them towards a table with some mechanism. "No matter, I'm sure you're qualified to inspect our progress."

He held it up like he was about to give a lecture on it before being interrupted by Nya. "You two keep saying we're inspecting. You know we just showed up to check out your weird house, right?"

The man sat with his mouth open for a second. "You- you mean you aren't here for my weapons?" He shared a quick look with his daughter. "You aren't Fire Nation inspectors?"

Cole scoffed. "Spirits no. We just got done destroying one of their dams- he's the Avatar for crying out loud!" He gestured to Lloyd, who gave a small wave from behind Zane.

"The Avatar-?" The man gasped before giving a hearty laugh. "Well! My, isn't this a pleasant surprise!" He pushed himself back to the group to offer them his hand. "I must introduce myself! Cyrus Borg, inventor under duress. And this is my daughter, Pixal." He shook each of their hands as they introduced themselves.

Pixal nodded her head in greeting.

Zane turned to Pixal and held out his hand. "Zane." He introduced himself with a smile.

She took it, her own smile a small, shy thing. "Pixal."

"You have a lovely name." He said, a bit quieter now, as he looked down slightly while a blush began to creep onto his face.

After a few moments she replied "Thank you, yours is nice too." Focusing on the hem of her top in an effort to hide her own face.

"Aww, look at those two in the corner!" Cole nudged Lloyd, who had been picking at the various knickknacks on the tables, with a mock whisper.

"Blegh! Why would you make me see that Cole? You weirdo." Cole just laughed and turned back to Cyrus and Nya, who was asking the man several questions about the mechanism he would've presented.

"And it would just keep going, no effort needed?"

"Yes, well see that's the idea." He replied, spinning a gear as he spoke. "This is only a prototype, it's had success on flat terrain, but it appears to be as stubborn as I am when faced with hill climbing!"

Nya waved the thought away. "A few more tries and that'll be sorted out. It's so cool!"

After a while of talking they eventually figured out why Cyrus worked for the Fire Nation when it was so obvious he didn't want to. "They locked us down." Was the simple answer given by Borg. "We had stopped on this hill for the night and when we woke up, we couldn't move. They had clamped us with locks too thick for anything I made to break, can't even pick the darned things." He lamented.

"I had wanted to see the stars." Pixal added remorsefully. "I insisted the hill was the best place to stop in this area, all because I wanted to see some lights in the sky."

"Pixal, that's not-"

"It is! If we had stayed by the trees like you had said, they never would've spotted us in the middle of the night."

Before Cyrus could reassure her, Cole piped up. "We could break them for you, smash them with a few boulders."

The Borgs shared a look of cautious hope. "We'd love if you could, however, the legs couldn't take a battering like that."

Zane smiled "We can try it with a bit more... Finesse." He looked to Nya and she understood.

"Let's break these locks!"

The group made their way outside to examine the locks holding the house down and were dumbfounded by the amount and size of all the locks, not to mention the variety of keyholes each one had.

"That would drive me mad trying to pick all of those." Nya said, shaking her head in disbelief.

"And you would have to do it twice over, remember." Zane pointed out, gesturing to the other leg.

"Well then, isn't it a good thing you won't have to?" Cyrus Borg clapped them on the back, directing them back to their task.

Nya and Zane nodded before getting to work. They each borrowed a portion of water out of the bucket Pixal had brought them. They chose a leg each and got started.

Nya chose a lock and began slicing the shackle with her bending, shooting the water back and forth like a hacksaw. All these locks wouldn't stop her. She'd break them down.

Zane guided the water as steadily as he could into the keyholes of his lock before freezing it. As the ice expanded, it pushed the metal to it's breaking point. He had to repeat the process a few times but soon, the lock fell apart.

The Borg's excitement grew with each lock that fell, and it was certainly contagious. Lloyd started to try and help Nya, she would start cutting and make a slash for Lloyd to follow. Cole kept a careful eye on the bucket, refilling it whenever it got too low for his liking.

Cyrus and Pixal knew how many locks held down their home, and with each one that fell, they counted down to their long awaited freedom.

Nya had sawed through almost all of the locks with Lloyd tackling a few behind her. Zane was in a similar situation on his side. A couple more minutes of sawing and bursting locks, and finally, the last one clanged to the ground, letting the Borg house free for the first time in years.

The group took a second to react after all of that. A shriek of delight erupted from Pixal as she rushed to hug her father, who himself, began to laugh in disbelief.

Zane and Nya wiped their brows with smiles and shared high fives with Lloyd.

"That was so amazing guys!" Cole congratulated, slinging his arms around their shoulders.

"Yes, we simply cannot thank you enough!" Cyrus piped up, making his way over to them. "I- I thought we might never be free again."

Pixal moved forward and shook their hands one by one. "If there's anything you might need, don't hesitate to ask."

When she reached Zane, he froze for a moment when he met her eyes. He quickly shook himself out of it and took her hand in both of his. "Helping you was all that I- we needed."

Pixal stopped for a second before wrapping her arms around him in a genuine hug. When she pulled away, she bumped him on the shoulder. "You know, the Birds always managed to find our house, wherever we went."

Zane could only blush in response.

And so, with a few playful jabs at Zane, and a promise for anything they may want from the Borg invention team in the future, the gang continued on to the rest of the kingdom to find others that may need the Avatar's help.

Part 1 (Nya, Zane +Kai) | Part 2 (Lloyd) | Part 2.5 (Morro) | Part 3 (Meetup) | Part 4 (Cole) | >Part 4.5 (Pixal) |

[bootycallin]

ACTUALLY PLEASE DO A PART TWO?? I NEED TO KNOW WHAT I DOES TO READERS CLIT ❤️

OOH—BETTER THAN ME?

꩜ .ᐟ basically; vi made a proposal. imagine what i can do, she said. not that you could've ever even imagined, imagined, anyways.

cw: wlw. porn with slight plot this time!! not a direct continuation but sort of. vi catches u jorkin it. implied perv!vi (lol). masturbation. mutual masturbation. bsfwb? fingering. bushvi (!!). reader’s briefly described as smaller than her. scissoring. swearing. vi's a sweetie pie. begging. overstim. aftercare? v fluffy ending. not proofread.

a/n: dinner is fucking served

NSFW UTC

now, the real question is, how’d she get you so addicted?

damn, it’s not like you’ve never had sex before. quite the opposite, you have sex pretty often.

but she was different.

maybe cause she showed something you could never really do. maybe because it was one time and you’re best friends and you’re overthinking. or maybe the dick was just really good. god knows. one way or the other, you can’t stop thinking about it.

you don’t know it, but vi can’t either. so when she hears you whimpering from your room, she can’t fucking help herself.

what kind of fucking black magic does she have? there’s no way your fingers are just short. you’re trying, you really are—legs wide, lips spread so you can press two of your fingers inside your saturated hole. it’s not enough. you’ve been neglecting your clit, as well—because supposedly, you should be able to do it.

it’s not enough. your clit’s twitching, breath shaky, curling your fingers—not enough. thrusting them in? not enough. just briefly smacking the tip of your clit with your palm? not. enough.

you’ve been trying to avoid it, but you need her.

“fuck, vi…” and what is it they say? about speaking of the devil?

‘cause she’s right there. say her name three times to summon, or some bullshit? because you could’ve fucking sworn you were alone—as you are most times when you’re masturbating.

(well, that’s what you think. vi’s conscience is a little heavy because of that. can you blame her? she’s just a woman!)

you barely have enough time to realize it. pulling your fingers out, grabbing the nearest blanket there was to cover your body as if she hadn’t already seen enough of it to know exactly what you look like. shit.

“vi—“ again. broken record, much?

“‘s fine,” she mentally scolds herself for how her voice sounds. shaky, unprepared, even—she’s been behind that door for a hot second and she’s already aching. she can’t deny it, damn it, she needs you. now.

“can’t…?”

“no.”

whether that’s you asking her to stop or confirming her thoughts, god knows. she does, too, apparently, as she hums slightly. there’s a smirk on her face, but she’s just as needy, just as nervous as you. fuck, she needs you so bad.

and at the opportunity, she’s rushing into bed with you, lips crashing against yours. she’s missed this so much. the feeling of your lips against hers—she really could get used to this. like, really get used to it. dare she say, she wants it. she grasps at the covers you used to shield your body, pulling them down so she can see your bare skin. she’s been imagining this for so long.

her teeth nip at your bottom lip, looking up at you to find your half-lidded eyes that widen when she spreads your legs open, settling comfortably between them.

“this okay..?”

“yes.”

what kind of question even was that? you knew damn well she could see how you were practically buzzing at the idea of having sex with her again. is this normal? yeah, no. but it’s happening and you’re definitely not thinking twice about it.

you stop her midway through kissing down your neck, hands softly grasping at her hair, making her gasp. your eyes are flitting down to her lips, but most importantly, the damned tank top. not that it didn’t look good on her.

just that it would look better off.

“vi-“ there’s barely enough time for you to even speak, as you grab at her shoulder straps and pull, leading her to nearly rip the shirt off altogether.

and there she is. between your legs, bare in all her glory. damn, you knew she was muscular, but fuck…

she can practically feel you eye-fucking her. trailing up and down, on her sculpted and. you could swear they used to make greek statues based off of her. oh, and when your eyes catch that little bit of red poking out from the hem of her boxers—

“y’alright?”

“yeah…” you mumbled, dreamily. your hands reach for her so you can run your hands over her body, over the mark of her collarbones, the curve of her breasts, the dips of her abs. fuuuck. you can barely hear how vi gasps, her eyes laser-focused on the way your smaller hands run over her skin. she’s been dreaming of this.

“baby,” she whispers, breath shaky. her own hands find yours, guiding one down to run down her body, fingers briefly making contact with the hairs of her happy trail. that’s enough to drive her insane.

she let’s go of your hand to grab at the hem of her shorts, nearly ripping her goddamn boxers off. it’s the first time you’ve really, really seen vi’s body. her pussy’s fucking throbbing just by the way you look at her. damn.

there’s really no words not to be said. you don’t want to talk. you want her, and that’s it. you grab at her shoulders, making her gasp at the sudden eagerness. your lips crash against hers, she nips at your bottom lip. it’s messy. eager and messy and so fucking hot to both of you. your tongue meets hers, spit mingling and all—

she can’t take it.

she pulls away, making you whine and in turn making her smirk. cute.

(she’s acting like she’s not just as giddy. if not more. if you were to press your palm against her chest, you’d probably be a little concerned she’d have a heart attack. you’re just so pretty).

her hands run down your body, over the length of your thighs, spreading them open carefully. she can see how your eyes narrow a little at the stretch, but fall half lidded again when she ends up resting your legs atop of hers. she’s now sitting comfortably between your legs, your thighs sitting above her muscular ones.

“you want me to help you again, baby?” fuck, if that doesn’t make your face burn. she knows damn well what you want. if she didn’t, you wouldn’t be naked in front of each other like this.

“please…” even you are surprised at how whiny your voice sounds. you’re just frustrated. again.

“i-i can’t—“

“‘s fine.” she leaned forward to press a kiss to the crown of your head, something almost a little too heartwarming for the ‘best friends’ situation you two had. not that you were complaining. her lips were soft. vi was soft. for someone like her, you’d think she’s a little more… well, jagged. but, nope.

she’s soft through and through. principally when it comes to you.

her lips trail down your forehead to your nose, then to her cheeks, one of her hands—namely her right one—following the same pace, except down your body. over your belly, down to your lower navel, down until…

she swallows the moan you let out when her fingers just barely brush over your clit. she can’t help wondering if you’re really that sensitive or she just has the power to do that to you—which would definitely be an ego boost. gods, she hopes that’s what it is. you whine when she starts drawing slow little circles over your hood, your thighs tensing on instinct, breath catching.

“you want me to help you, yeah?” she asked, trailing her fingers further below—not before briefly smacking the nub of your clit with her middle fingers, an almost embarrassingly large gush of pre leaving your already sopping pussy. her mouth’s watering just thinking of it.

“violet,” not the usual vi. you sounded like you were trying to sound demeaning, but it really just came out as whiny. vi raised an eyebrow like you had insulted her.

but she herself was way too needy to give a damn. even if you did. her hand trailed down, fingers parting your lips and eyes laser-focused on your wet cunt. her index briefly prods at your hole, ripping an audible whimper from you which she just loves. but she doesn’t slip her finger in yet—not like she couldn’t. you’re wet enough that it would be like butter.

“wha…?”

“i just,” she looks up at you, free hand rubbing your thigh, “just had a thought.”

before explaining, she grabs one your hand, pulling it down so it hovered right over your pussy the same way it was when she first walked in the room.

“just…” her breath was slightly heavy, as she cupped the back of your hand. she spread her fingers so they matched yours, and you could only watch as she moved your finger to prod at your hole, tip just barely sliding in.

there’s not a lot of resistance. after all, you had already been doing it before she even got to this point. she’s watching your reaction carefully to see if there’s any discomfort, looking like it’s the most attention she’s ever given something. Her eyes are surprisingly wide. not scared. rather, it’s almost puppy eyes—she just needs to see it. needs to see you let go. needs to see you break again. needs to see you whine and scream her name again, like it’s the one word you know.

her hand guided your movements, one finger pushing your knuckle so your finger moved in and out, not a lot of movement, but enough to feel it. you let out a few pleasured sighs and slightly whimpers, but not compared to the whines and screams she managed to rip from you that time. both of them were good, though—she could deal with it. she was patient. unfortunately, you were not.

“i don’t feel it.”

“that’s fine,” she muttered, continuing to hide your movements. she watched your face, your body as it squirmed slightly. not necessarily from any great reaction, but rather because you just needed more. and because she was here. watching. she could watch you masturbate for hours. not that she hasn’t—well, imagine it… she’s overthinking. either way, it’s fine if you don’t feel it. that’s what she’s there for, isn’t it?

“do this.” she takes your hand away from yours for a second to show you how, finger doing the usual come-hither motion. you tilted your head back, a groan escaping from the back of your throat. obviously, you didn't take that all too seriously.

“it doesn’t work,” you’ve tried it already. never really did anything for you. you weren’t lying when you said you only did manage to cum when you played with your clit… well, not until vi, but that’s besides the point.

“trust me,” she mutters, staring at you, her gaze subtly speaking: you should. you know what she can do, don’t you? if there’s anyone you should be trusting, it’s probably her.you pouted and whined a little more, just to show her you didn’t like that whole idea. if you kept doing that, she might just have to wreck you—well, not that she wasn’t going to in the first place; she’s been holding back from jumping your bones since that last time.

a second of silence, and you end up doing as asked. it really makes no difference for you. people tried to make it sound better than it really was. you guess, because it really just didn’t work like that for you. never had that pornographic sensitivity to immediately squirt whenever you tried to reach your g spot, you don’t think you’ve ever even found it yourself.

it does feel a little different, but you’re guessing it’s just because vi is right there. between your legs. watching. you don’t know why she makes you feel like this. every little touch. it’s you’re a sleeper agent and she’s your goddamn activation. one little sexual touch or comment, and you already wanna fuck.

she has to hold back a groan when you do as she says. “yeah. like that,” she murmured, voice low and dangerous, “good girl…”

vi’s not even thinking when she says that. her brain isn’t really working, honestly. she’s way too preoccupied with watching as your face twists, the blood that rushes up your cheeks, flushing it a pretty pink she just wants to kiss so bad. her words had an obvious effect.

she shifts up slightly and you can only watch as her other hand, previously on your thigh, moves up to your lower belly, pressing down with the pads of her fingers right over your bladder.

you immediately stop when she does that. after all, it was just… a weird sensation. that same one from last time, but it still caught you off guard. a curse leaves from between your lips in a hiss, teeth catching your bottom lip briefly.

“‘s fine.” she reassured. “just do it.”

if she kept using that honeyed voice, you’d probably do anything she told you to. her free hand slides down to move another digit of yours inside, “just do as i told you.”

and of fucking course you do. because who the fuck are you to disobey her? it would be embarrassing if you didn’t like it so much, but god knows you do. you move your fingers in that ‘come here’ motion, wincing and whimpering at the feeling as the pads of your fingers press against the top walls of your pussy. you can nearly feel them, pressing up against that spongy spot, vi’s hand pressing down right on top of your bladder just making that all the more real.

“yeah.” she groaned, “like that… good girl. keep going.”

vi sounded like she was trying to encourage you. you made a mess on her once, she’s not gonna freak out if you do it again. i mean, she was expecting that for a while, but of course she always has to make the first goddamn move.

“vi, i—“ vi hushed you just with a sharp little glare that told you don’t test me. if she kept looking at you like that you’re sure you would discombobulate.

and of fucking course you do it. because if she tells you to, you’re more than likely doing it. at least here. you continue moving, her eyes locked in on you. on your body, your reactions. watching your face twist slightly and the little shakes of your thighs.

“vi…”

“fuck.” she groaned, moving to press her face against the crook of her neck. she kissed at the skin, just barely biting down, canines pricking. she herself was getting impatient. her pussy was fucking aching to just feel you and she couldn’t really think straight. the only part that managed to stop her from completely letting go is that she’s focused on your own pleasure.

but when she looks down, looks at your slick covered fingers—that sweet clit she wanted to touch—she couldn’t help it.

she lowered herself, lips latching to the nub. she made a point to ignore your surprised noise, how your hips jerked away. you seemed to relax soon enough. she looked up at you, noticing your fingers had halted.

“continue.” she muttered against the hood of your clit, pressing a soft kiss to the sensitive skin there. you whined but obeyed, fingers moving in that same motion she just showed you. it’s definitely affecting you more when she’s kissing and licking your clit.

vi’s a messy eater. she’s always been messy, but it comes down even to that. she flicks, sucks, nips, laps. likes licking up from your hole to your clit, lapping up whatever comes like a needy dog. she feels like one right now. she’s practically humping the mattress in a desperate need to get some friction while pleasuring you. it always came first in her head.

“vi, fuuuck,” you gasp. she’s still lapping up at your clit, flicking the bean with her tongue in quick movements, better than any fucking vibrator you’ve ever fucking used. you’re sensitive, bit almost hurts a little, but it’s good. hurts so good you don’t want to stop her. you find that your fingers get quicker before you can even think about it, curling up over and over again ‘til you’re soaking.

“fuck.” she pulls away before you can get your high, though. before you can ask, she’s stopping your fingers, pulling your hand away from your heat. you whined, but shut up when she switched your fingers with hers.

“ah-!” a sharp gasp comes from your throat. vi’s fingers were thicker, bigger than yours. you like to think that’s why you can’t make yourself cum, but when she starts moving, you start realizing the problem really is that you just can’t finger correctly.

“shiiiit…” you drawled out, head tilted back and everything. you’re embarrassingly wet. not that vi really cares, anyways; you should know that.

“been waiting… f’so fucking long,” she drawled out, panting, shifting so she’s upright. “so fucking long to play with this pussy.”

“vi…”

your hand reached out to grab her wrist, but it’s worthless, as her thumb manages to poke through to tap at your clit briefly. that alone sends you over the edge in probably the quickest orgasm you’ve ever had. your vision blur and you can swear you see stars.

for vi, all she can see is how you wet her fingers, little liquidy gushes spraying from you the most she curls and rams her fingers into your g-spot, until you’re practically shaking. your whining doesn’t stop until she removes her fingers, pussy clenching around nothing, hips bucking into air. it’s truly a sight for her sore eyes.

but she needs more.

she grabs your thigh, pulling it closer to her until your leg’s basically hooked over her shoulder, holding the back of your knee. you barely have enough time to process till you feel the tickle of crimson hairs, as her wetness swipes right over yours.

“shii!—“ you hiss. it’s a feeling like never before. you’ve felt her fingers, her tongue, the silicone of that strap she dicked you down with a bit ago—but not her own pussy. you didn’t even think to realize it, you’ve never really touched her there before. mostly because vi seemed to prioritize having your pleasure over her own more than anything. (she’s probably converted you by now. god, you don’t want another guy inside you ever again).

“cupcake,” her rough voice rasps, mouth hung open in a way that’s almost too needy for her pride, heavy panting making her chest heave. what else is there to say? she's been fantasizing about this shit for the longest time. finally getting to feel you like this, rubbing her cunt against yours 'til neither of you can fucking think right.

not that she is exactly thinking about anything when she starts humping against you like a bitch in heat. her head hangs, eyes squeezing shut on instinct. she's desperate, feeling the heat building up in her lower stomach quicker than before. no pillow could ever replace the wet warmth of your cunt, the slick that coats her folds, sticky and messy and so fucking good.

"fuck, fuck, fuck—" vi's really hardly hearing you, her own groans being the one thing she can hear. you cum easily. after all, she had just ripped one from you, and here she is again, taking yet another one. all she can really discern is that you're impossibly wetter, essentially just lubing her up and making her own job easier. there's a whimper that tries to escape her throat, desperate, but she forces it out as a groan, head falling and top teeth tugging at her bottom lip.

"fuck, princess..." she growled, hands a vice-grip on your thigh. "please, fuck. yeah, shit, give it to me, give it to me..."

she's like a broken record, chasing her own high, while you tried to keep from screaming, body trembling and jerking with the aftershocks of your second orgasm.

"viii!—" a pitchy whine, ripping from your throat, strained at the angle of your head tilted backwards. "'s too much! gh-- too much!"

"fuck, baby," vi groans, a deep growl that rose from her throat, "shit, i know, i know. you can take it. you can take it, right?" her voice drops even lower, as she spoke through pants. her free hand shoots up to grab your face, making you look at her. powdery blue eyes meet yours, pupils blown wide, face flushed, sweat dripping down her temple. she looked like an angel.

"you can take it, right? fuck, please, baby..." her voice is borderline whiny, getting pitchier the closer she gets to the edge, which is rapidly approaching. how could you say no to a face like that? she half expected you not to answer.

"yeah, vi," you pant, trying to keep your voice as stabe as possible. "keep... g-"

"shit!"

she hissed, her abdomen locking, pussy gushing right over yours, not stopping, only jackhammering her clit against yours 'til you're cumming yet again, a silent scream leaving you, chest heaving. she has to bite the skin of your knee that's hooked over your shoulder so she doesn't cry out. you can tell, though, by the vibrations that run down your skin.

vi collapsed on top of you when she was finally done, her own body trembling. she has half the mind left to kiss up your neck, arms wrapping around your waist.

you both lay in the afterglow for a few minutes, not bothering with words. just the way she holds you is good enough, more than words can speak. she eventually lifts her head, eyes meeting yours, gentle and loving like you've never seen.

"you alright?" vi asks, voice like raspy but still like sweet honey. "i didn't hurt you, right?" yeah, she might've acted like a brainless mutt back there, but she's can recognize she overstimulated you. she liked hearing your cries, sure, but she doesn't want to hurt you.

"no. of course not." you reassure her, hand reaching to cup the back of her head, then her cheek. she found herself leaning into it like a needy cat, nose nuzzling into your palm.

"you sure?" she asked yet again, pulling a genuine chuckle from you.

"yeah. i promise," you rub your thumb down the slope of her cheel, the slight bump of her cheekbone. she's always been sculpted like a greek goddamn statue. beautiful.

“mhm." she grumbled. she hated that you could get her like this. so weak, so... vulnerable. but if it was for you, she'd probably be able to handle it.

"fuck, i-" she starts, without thinking, "i love you..."

before she can panic over her words, nervously meeting your eyes, you replied, "i love you too."

and she can rest easy knowing that you love her, that she didn't fuck it up. that all this was worth something, not just a quick fuck to you. to her, it never was.

you've always been more than her best friend to her. way, way more than that. her love.

𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃 © bootycallin on tumblr. do not copy, translate or cross post without permission. ᛝ

[ggukivrse]

study break - part one | jjk

summary. in which you’re all distraction and no remorse, and jungkook keeps coming back for more

pairing: jungkook x f!reader

genre: college au, established relationship, smut (?)

word count: 1.4k

warnings: jk wears glasses (yes that is a warning), oc and jk are both menaces, kissing, making out, allusions to sex

note: this is result of me listening to house of cards on repeat while ovulating. if you guys like it, i might do a part two with proper smut :>

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Jungkook’s apartment is dimly lit, warm in that comfortable, lived-in way you’ve come to crave more than you probably should. A soft playlist hums from the speaker in the corner, barely louder than the sound of your breathing.

His living room looks the same as always — chaotic in the most him way. Hoodies thrown over chairs, open notebooks stacked beside the couch, a half-empty bag of chips spilling onto the ground.

You’re both on the floor, backs against the couch, knees almost brushing. Your laptop’s abandoned by your side, dark screen catching the glow from the window. His is still open, cursor blinking like it’s mocking your lack of productivity. 

It’s supposed to be a study night. Like the five others you’ve had in the last two weeks.

But Jungkook’s wearing that loose white t-shirt again — the one that clings to his skin just a little when he stretches — and those damn grey sweatpants that should be illegal.

His hair is messy, dark strands falling across his forehead in that careless way that looks intentional even though you know it isn’t. His glasses are slipping down his nose again, and he keeps pushing them up without looking away from the flashcards in his hand.

The sight of him — relaxed, comfortable, stupidly hot — should be background noise by now.

But it isn’t.

Your gaze drops. to his jaw, to the slope of his neck, to the curve of his thigh under those sweatpants, to the way his arm flexes when he flips a card.

And suddenly, studying the notes in front of you feels like the least important thing in the world.

You let out a dramatic sigh, dragging your fingers through your hair and flopping your head back against the couch.

“I’m so bored I might actually combust,” you mumble.

Jungkook barely glances over. “You say that every time.”

“And I mean it every time.”

His mouth twitches like he’s trying not to smile. he flips another card. “Then stop texting me to come over.”

You roll your head to the side, eyes narrowing. “You could say no.”

He finally looks at you, eyes dark and unreadable behind his glasses. “Have you met you?”

Your stomach flips. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” he says, slow and deliberate, “You say ‘wanna study?’ and I stop thinking about anything else. That’s not normal, by the way.”

You blink. He’s back to looking at his cards like he didn’t just casually say something that made your heart punch your ribs.

You watch him for another beat, then let your hand drift — casual, like it’s nothing — to the edge of his sweatpants. You toy with the drawstring, looping it around your finger. Not pulling, just... touching.

“You’re not really helping me focus, you know,” you say softly.

“Funny,” he says without looking up, “I was about to say the same thing.”

You smile. Not sweet — sharp. “You could kick me out.”

He turns his head slowly, meets your eyes again. There’s a flicker there — of something teasing yet dark. “You think I don’t want to?”

Your breath catches.

But you don’t back down. Instead, you tilt your chin slightly and close the small distance between you, your knees knocking together now. “You never do.”

Jungkook huffs out a laugh — low and breathless — and leans his head back against the couch. His eyes close for a second like he’s trying to pull himself together.

“Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?” 

“Like you don’t know exactly what you’re doing.”

You shrug one shoulder. “Maybe I do. Maybe I just like seeing how long you’ll last.”

He doesn’t answer right away, just turns his head to face you again. He looks at you in a way that makes your whole body feel too warm. Then, slowly, he shifts. His thigh brushes against yours, firmer this time, and his hand — the one that was holding the flashcards — drops to his lap.

“I’m not made of stone, you know,” he says, voice low.

“No,” you murmur, eyes dropping to his mouth. “You’re not.”

Neither of you move. Not really.

But the space between you shrinks anyway. Electrified. Waiting.

His gaze drops to your mouth. Yours does the same.

“You’re evil,” he mutters.

You smile. “You love it.”

He brings his hand up to cradle your cheek. “I really fucking do,” he says, not even trying to hide it.

His lips meet yours before you can think of a snarky comeback.

Jungkook kisses you like a starved man — like he’s been holding back for too long and now that he’s had a taste, he’s not letting go.

It steals your breath. Literally. Your lungs forget how to work for a moment as your mouth parts for his, the soft slide of his lips over yours turning quickly into something more intense. Hungrier. You can feel the warmth of it spread instantly — through your chest, down your arms, pooling in your stomach.

You don’t think. You just move.

Shifting up onto your knees, you climb into his lap and straddle him with ease, hands coming up to cup his jaw. He makes a soft sound against your mouth as your fingers slide into his hair, nails grazing lightly at the roots. his hands find your waist immediately, fingers squeezing — grounding, claiming, maybe both.

Your hips settle against his, the stretch of fabric between you suddenly way too noticeable. You can feel the tension in his thighs, in the way his fingers flex against your waist, how his chest rises and falls just a little too fast under you.

You tug gently at his hair and he lets out a low sound, something between a gasp and a groan, muffled against your lips. It makes your stomach flip, sharp and electric, heat blooming between your legs.

He kisses you harder.

His hands roam — sliding up your sides, over your ribs, skimming the underside of your shirt. Every touch is deliberate, slow but unrestrained, like he wants to memorise every inch of you with his palms. When his thumbs brush just beneath your bra, you inhale sharply, your lips breaking from his.

You lean back, taking in his form: glasses askew on his face, tilted enough to look ridiculous, your tinted lip gloss smeared across his lips, flushed and shiny from kissing, painting the corners of his mouth like you’d marked him.

Something about the sight makes your heart thud faster.

“Here,” you murmur, breath catching, as you reach up and gently pull the glasses off his face.

He blinks, eyes slightly unfocused, lashes fluttering as he tries to reorient himself — like he forgot where he was the second your lips left his.

You set the glasses aside carefully, then glance back down at him. “Better,” you whisper.

Before he can say anything, you dive back in — mouths colliding again, your fingers back in his hair like you can’t stand to not be touching him. His hands move too, sliding beneath the hem of your shirt, spreading warmth across your skin.

His hands settle at your lower back, pulling you flush against him, and you can feel him now — cock hard beneath you, obvious and impossible to ignore. You rock forward slightly, not to tease, not intentionally — just to get closer — and he groans into your mouth again, the sound deep and low.

You bite back a smile, pulling back just enough to look at him again. His cheeks are flushed, lips pink and swollen, eyes heavy-lidded and focused only on you. He looks drunk — drunk on your lips, drunk on your taste, drunk on your touch.

“You’re really bad at studying,” you whisper.

“So are you,” he shoots back, breathless, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

His hands slide up under your shirt before he connects your lips again, fingertips dragging gently along your spine. You shiver, leaning into him, your nose brushing his as you kiss and kiss and kiss until the world feels far away — until the only things that exist are his hands, his mouth, the heat of his body under yours.

And fuck, if this is what procrastination always feels like?

You never want to study again.

→ read part two here

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[cheezritsu]

Itoshi Sae has far more feline traits than those narrow turquoise eyes of his. At the top of your notes app titled “I don’t need a cat, my boyfriend already is one,” is the fact that Sae will never, ever be clingy, will never ask for your touch, and is coy about romance as a whole—but he just has to be near you.

Manshine City is playing Ubers. Ubers cannot resist having a yellow card every time they step on the pitch, and Manshine City pisses Sae off more than even he knows. You’ll press him about that later, because he’s watching the match in your shared bedroom and not the living room television which is not only bigger, but louder like he likes. Why is he fixing your temperpedic to be a damn near 90 degree angle when there’s a perfectly good couch in another room?

“Who’s winning?” You call from the bathroom. You’ve chosen to grab a bar stool from the kitchen to make yourself comfortable as you part your hair into four sections. It’s a hard ritual, but it pays dividends; you noticed that you were shedding a lot less hair when you sat down and pre-detangled before the shower. And you were a little optimistic about your last style and ended up stretching it out a few days longer than you should have. The end result wouldn’t be good to your heart.

You’re half way through finger detangling your section when you realize Sae hasn’t answered you. You lean back, the open door to your bedroom allowing you to catch a glimpse of him. There’s something off about his expression—Sae’s normally indifferent looking, sure, but there is a harder frown etched into his face. And he’s not even looking at the game. He’s glaring at…the door frame?

“Babe,” you say, and it breaks his trance. He looks up at you, but you’ve once again disappeared from his line of sight. That lean back was killing your spine.

“Huh?”

“I asked who was winning.” You carefully two-strand twist the now slippery section together, then use an alligator clip to keep it off your back. It’s kind of crazy how long your hair is now compared to the beginning of the year. You take down your next section, looking up from your lap and-!

“Holy shit!”

Sae gives you an unimpressed look in the mirror. You look at his reflection instead of him when you demand “When did you get in here?”

“While you were daydreaming.”

The tv is off. Or it’s paused. The vacuum of silence is a little uncomfortable. You were doing your hair in an old tshirt; a reprint of Sae’s U20 match jersey. It would make plenty money on the internet, and here you were getting hair products all over it. Sae looks at the front of your shirt with a wrinkled nose. Other reasons your boyfriend is a cat: he needs a fucking collar, and he pulls faces instead of vocalizing.

“What are you doing?”

“My hair.”

You can see his roaming gaze trying to piece together the exact routine you have, but he’s struggling. Before another quip can leave his mouth you elaborate. “Pre-detagnling. That way when I wash my hair it has less breakage.” You squeeze your detangler into your hands and slather it into the wetted section of hair you were working on. “I wanna keep what little hair I have.”

You get a real reaction this time—a snort of disbelief. “You have more hair on your head than Aiku has on his entire body.”

You blink. “That’s not really a metric I’m privy too.”

“He’s like a gorilla. It’s gross.”

You hum, but you love Sae’s endless opinions. You can tell he still has some rattling around in his brain that he’s having trouble spitting out. Perhaps he’s finally using a filter around you, or he’s really trying to find just the right delivery to piss you off. It’s 50/50.

He finally settles on, “You hair has gotten really long,” as he’s transfixed by the quick motion of your digits twisting the hair into a long rope. When it drops against the side of your head and he sees where it reaches, he shakes his head. “Like, really long.”

“Thanks,” you smile, and warmth spreads in Sae’s chest. “Weren’t you watching the match?”

“I paused it.”

“Why?”

He doesn’t answer. “I thought long hair bothered you?”

“It does,” you answer slowly, really trying to keep up with this conversation. Sae pings questions at you like the midfielder he is, but this is a little too quick. “But I think when I was growing my hair out the first time I never shaped it, or did styles with it. There was this girl at a restaurant I went to, like, years ago when I was at the beach with my parents who had long natural hair. She had it pulled back in a satin scarf and had like two little front pieces sticking out.” You create the style by gesturing your hands over your head. Sae’s gaze melts, the usual hard line of his mouth settling into something content.

“She was so pretty.” You have a distant look on your face, and Sae doesn’t doubt you have that crystal clear memory in your head. “I wanted to be as pretty as her. But I didn’t really know what to do with my hair, and it has really hot all the time, so I cut it. I think about it all the time though.”

Sae acknowledges your story with a nod. He traces shape of your curls with his finger, careful not to pull too hard. A soft tug elongated the spiral, and then it snapped back.

“Your hair is beautiful,” Sae suddenly spits, making eye contact with you in the mirror. “I liked it when it was short, and it’s pretty now that it’s longer. I don’t know if I ever told you.”

He hasn’t. Not so bluntly, at least. Sae never needs to occupy his hands, so he doesn’t touch your hair at all, ever, but now he coils the strands around his finger like his own personal fidget. Something stupid balloons in you lungs and press hard against your ribcage. Pride, maybe? Love, probably. You twist your neck and the piece of hair slips from his grasp.

“‘Preciate it,” you reply, adopting his casual air to force down your excitement. Sae’s face stays the same though, and he even goes so far as to press a little kiss to your exposed shoulder blade. He must feel the heat of your skin, because a smirk curls across his face. Oh, you could kill him.

“Alright, alright,” you shoo him. “I gotta get to work. This is just the pre-wash, so I’m going to take a minute in here.”

“I could shower,” he says absently, and before you could even protest, Sae is opening the shower door, rearranging products around the wall to make sure your shampoo, conditioner and wide tooth comb are front and center. “It’ll be warm though, and not scalding hot like you like it.”

“Then don’t shower with me.”

The pipes turn on, Sae’s funger’s dipping under the water the check the temperature. “It’s bad for your skin anyways.”

You don’t even mention it. You probably will halfway through when he’s “unknowingly” doing your hair for you, but it could wait.

[savanir]

DP x DC prompt [3]

during one of the final psych evals at Arkham right before he gets to be released, the whole thing wrapped up so tidy, just a little relapse which involved a robbery. Getting sent back to Arkham, but he got to stay at the asylum so long that he no longer has to serve a prison sentence, score!

But during that eval his overseeing psychiatrist recommended him to have a change of scenery, some fresh non polluted air.

Riddler was rather convinced the guy was making this recommendation to everyone in Arkham in their own weird way to convince them to just leave Gotham and become someone else's problem. should he notify Batman about it somehow? nah, it’ll be more interesting to see how this is gonna turn out in the long run.

But can he leave the state? Can he even leave the city? he never really bothered to look into it, at least not legally, up until now if he felt he needed to leave for one of his plans he just did it.

Turns out he can, it’s a whole hassle and a half though, first a judge and then a probation officer and he’s pretty sure both were like “what the hell is this psychiatrist guy thinking!?” but at the same time, shrink probably knows what he’s doing (WRONG) so he’s allowed to go visit out of state family or whatever.

he had to wear this nice ankle monitor though, Wayne Enterprises™ tech, not overly bulky but still very present. real fancy, and a fun extra challenge heh.

now as for a good reason to leave New Jersey he’s going to need distant relatives, and he finds some, great grandpa walker also has a son, who had a son who had a daughter Madeline, who married some guy Jack Fenton, and she lives somewhere out in the boonies Illinois. great he’ll visit her.

far enough away in all sense of the word that there is no way she knows anything about him. it would be best to call her first though, be polite about it.

“hello, you have reached Fenton works, this is Maddie speaking” 

“Riddle me this-” ah whoops, habit, oh whatever, “we don’t share parents, but certainly a part of your life, from laughter to strife. Who am I?”

there is a pause …  he’s going to be a bit disappointed if she hangs up if he’s honest.

“cousins~” comes the cheery reply.

“correct! the name is Edward Nygma, we are distantly related you and I and well-”

“oh you simply must come visit!” 

well this was rather easy, perhaps a little too easy, but she lives in the midwest so maybe just going with whatever some guy says over the phone is normal there? stranger danger not really a thing in a small town where everyone knows everyone?

things start to make a little more sense once he gets there and he’s starting to think some things might run in the family. like a preference for the colour green and weird hyperfixations and genius bordering on insanity. Though that remains to be seen, Jack does not seem like a very bright light after his very enthusiastic welcome.

their kids however are observant and sharp. young Jasmine is wasting no time trying to psychoanalyze him. and the boy, Danny, he had not really meant to and he swears he’s sticking with calling the kid Danny so he wouldn’t seem overly familiar, but he might have called him little bird a couple times now.

but that’s all whatever, he’s playing nice here. and he doesn’t even have to worry about his eccentricities tripping him up because this place is insane.

There actually is a local teen vigilante active but he seems about as loved as he’s disliked. and the ghost boy’s enemies are basically all his own kind, which another crazy thing to now know about. ghost. they are real actually, how is Gotham not completely overrun? and how do they even work? and where do they keep coming from?

Edward might be getting a little sidetracked here. He had fully intended to sneakily get his next big game plan underway all the way out here, ankle monitor be damned. but he hasn’t made any progress at all.

Instead he’s been listening to Madeline and Jack to maybe figure out what the deal is with these ectoplasmic entities, he has to know, at this point he might go crazier if he doesn’t. 

He’s making Jasmine promise him not to get her doctorate in Gotham, he’s going back and forth with space riddles with Danny.

so yeah the whole thing kinda just became a vacation, maybe the psychiatrist had the right idea after all? hmm nah, probably not. but this is fun. He’s thinking about recommending this place to some of the others.

It's different enough to get the vacation feel, but enough crazy shit happens to make it all feel like home.

it is not until Maddie wants to talk with him about potentially switching the position of godfather of Danny to him rather than some weird rich friend of theirs that Edward realizes he might have lost the plot somewhere

Apparently the little bird basically begged them with a powerpoint presentation on how he likes Edward so much more than that Vladimir guy. 

And honestly, the fellow sounds like a Dracula Lutho so even if it’s kinda sad Edward can understand why he’d be considered a better option. Even if the guy has more money and a huge company that makes him said money. And it’s not like the Fentons know about his Riddler activities.

Thinking it over, Edward does think that Danny would like Gotham and Wayne has that space program thing right? The kid is definitely smart enough for that (Nygma certified), and yeah Edward does quite like their space themed back and forth. So, fuck it, why not, what is the worst that could happen?

He doubts Maddie and Jack are gonna kick it any time soon anyway out here in the boonies, it’s just a title thing, a stamp of approval or something.

he should have known he was going to eat those words later… he had this whole beautifully elaborate trap set up for the whole Batclan, and he was just getting to the good part when his phone went off.

Had to put the whole thing on pause cause that particular contact wasn’t gonna get ignored. He did promise to be available.

If the whole thing he had planned now went tits up he could at the very least laugh later at the reactions of the bats as he told them to “hold up one second, I have to take this.” while they were all in various perilous positions. 

Sadly he did have to go, he had a very distressed godson to pick up.

[noorpersona]

Pregnancy: Kuroo (NSFW)

You’re not sure when it started. Maybe sometime last week, maybe even before that—but the switch flipped quietly, without warning. One minute you were just a little tired, a little bloated, trying to get comfortable with the weird limbo that is second trimester pregnancy. And the next?

You were staring at your husband like he was carved from marble. Like every movement of his arms under that damn fitted black t-shirt was offensive. Like the way his voice dipped when he answered a work call should be punishable by law.

You hadn’t touched him in days—partly because you were tired, partly because the two of you were still adjusting to the wave of appointments and vitamins and new routines. But now, now your skin feels too tight for your body. You can’t stop thinking about his hands. His stupid smirk. The stretch of muscle across his stomach when he reaches for the top shelf. You keep shifting in your chair at the kitchen table, thighs pressed together as you half-watch him move around the apartment, trying not to combust every time he bends to grab something or stretches his arms over his head like a personal attack.

You're four months pregnant, and your hormones are holding you hostage.

But how the hell are you supposed to say that? Hey honey, I want you so bad it’s making me delusional? You’re turning me on just by walking?

You'd rather burst into flames.

So instead, you sit quietly, pretending to scroll through your phone while your eyes flicker up to him every ten seconds like a heat-seeking missile. You’re trying to be subtle. You really are.

Unfortunately for you, Kuroo Tetsurou has known you long enough to spot a mood shift from fifty paces away—and he’s been watching. Smugly. Patiently. Waiting.

The first hint that you’ve been caught comes when he strolls by with a bowl of chopped strawberries, casually plucks one from the bowl, and leans over to offer it to you without a word. You’re caught off guard, lips parting automatically as he feeds it to you. Your teeth graze the tip of his fingers, just barely, and his lips twitch.

He doesn’t move. Just watches you chew. Slow. Calm.

Then, in a voice dipped in dry amusement: “You’ve been staring at me for twenty minutes.”

You blink, swallow. “I haven’t.”

“Mm,” he hums, straightening up. “Sure you haven’t.”

You grit your teeth. Heat burns your cheeks. You can already feel the spiral beginning.

He doesn’t press. Just walks around the kitchen like he didn’t just call you out for mentally undressing him on the spot. His movements are so casual it’s infuriating. He grabs a dish towel, wipes down the counter, opens the fridge, all while your brain is on fire.

You stare down at your phone, eyes unfocused, and will yourself to get it together. You just need to act normal. You’re not gonna combust. It’s fine. It’s just hormones.

“You okay?” he asks, voice far too neutral. You glance up. He’s leaning against the counter now, arms crossed over that broad chest, eyebrow lifted in feigned innocence.

“Yeah. Why?”

“You’re flushed.” His head tilts. “You hot?”

“I’m fine.”

“You sure?”

You shift in your seat, pressing your knees together. “Yes.”

Another pause. Then:

“You hungry?”

Your eyes shoot to him instinctively—and that’s when you realize he knows. Not just suspects. Not maybe. Knows.

And worse: he’s enjoying it.

Your mouth opens, but no sound comes out. You look away again, hands gripping your phone like it might save you from yourself.

When he crosses the room, you don’t even notice until he’s crouching beside your chair, resting one arm on the armrest, the other hand brushing lightly over your thigh. You freeze.

“Sweetheart,” he says, voice dipped in syrup, eyes glinting with something dangerous, “you’ve been lookin’ at me like you want to climb me.”

You blink rapidly. “That’s not—”

“You sigh every time I stretch.” His fingers trace up to your knee. “You squirm when I talk. You’ve eaten, slept, and had your iron supplements. So unless there’s a sudden new strawberry emergency—”

“Tetsuro.”

“—I think,” he murmurs, leaning closer, “there’s something you’re not saying.”

You bury your face in your hands, groaning into your palms. “This is so embarrassing.”

He laughs softly, warm breath fanning over your shoulder as he presses a kiss to your temple. “It’s adorable.”

“It’s feral, Tetsu. I feel like a monster.”

“Monsters don’t look at me like that,” he says, voice low against your skin. “They don’t whimper every time I bend over.”

You groan louder, but your body leans into him on instinct.

“Say it,” he teases. “C’mon. Say you want me.”

“I hate you.”

“You want me.”

“I’m four months pregnant and deranged, don’t flatter yourself.”

“Oh, baby,” he grins, pulling you gently into his lap, “you’re carrying my kid and horny for me? I’m the luckiest bastard alive.”

Mortified beyond recovery, you squirm your way out of his lap, muttering something unintelligible as you bolt from the kitchen. It’s half an attempt to escape, half a desperate grab for your dignity. You make it three steps into the hallway before you hear him laugh—low and knowing—and then feel his hands at your hips.

“Where d’you think you’re going?” he murmurs, lips brushing the curve of your ear as he tugs you back against him. “You’re not getting away from me after saying all that.”

You fumble for a response, but it vanishes the second his hands find the hem of your shirt, fingertips grazing your skin with unbearable slowness. You tilt your head back without thinking, breath catching.

“Tetsurou—”

“Yeah?” he answers, already kissing down your neck, voice infuriatingly calm. “Say the word, and I’ll stop.”

You don’t. You can’t.

Instead, your hands find his wrists and guide them higher. You melt into him like wax to flame.

“Good girl,” he breathes against your jaw. “That’s more like it.”

Before you can catch your breath, he has you gently turned, your back pressing against the hallway wall. His hands settle firmly on your hips, then slide lower, fingers working with a confidence that has your knees buckling. You gasp when he pops the button of your pants, the sound deafening in the quiet space between your bodies.

“Tetsurou—”

“Shh,” he murmurs, his lips brushing over your collarbone with the lightest graze, voice so low and deliberate it sends a pulse through your spine. His hand dips beneath the waistband of your underwear with a languid slowness, his knuckles dragging along your skin like he wants you to feel everything.

“Let me take care of you, yeah? You’ve been trying so hard to hold it together.”

You inhale sharply as his fingers slide deeper, seeking out the ache you’ve been trying to ignore for days. When he finds it—you—it’s like your body short-circuits. Your breath stutters, hips jolting forward as if your body’s been waiting for this exact moment, this exact touch.

His fingers move with maddening precision—expert and unhurried—stroking you in a rhythm that melts the strength from your knees. He presses you harder into the wall, not with force but weight, anchoring you there while your body twists and trembles under his control. His mouth trails along your neck, slow kisses blooming across your pulse point as you gasp, the sound catching in your throat.

"Just relax, sweetheart," he murmurs, his breath hot against your skin, "Let me make it better."

Your hands cling to his arms, fingers digging into his sleeves as your body arches into him. The tension coils tighter and tighter, strung high by weeks of restrained want, the heat of your own embarrassment fueling the need. He murmurs low praise into your skin—good girl, so soft, so perfect, so fucking sweet like this—and the words alone nearly undo you.

And when you do come, it’s a quiet, raw thing—your body trembling in his hold, face tucked against his shoulder, a muffled cry of Tetsurou slipping from your lips like confession. He holds you steady through it, one arm around your waist, the other still curled low, fingers easing you through every last tremor.

When your breathing slows, when the fog begins to lift, his hand gently slips free and he cradles your face, brushing back damp strands of hair with the same fingers that just unraveled you.

“God, you’re perfect,” he whispers, his forehead resting against yours. “My gorgeous, needy wife. All mine.”

Your breath comes out in short, shaky bursts, still reeling, still trembling in his hands. “I can’t believe I—” you start, but the words collapse in your throat, too breathless, too flustered to finish.

Tetsurou chuckles softly, and before you can even think about collecting yourself, he’s hooking one arm under your knees and the other behind your back, lifting you with effortless strength.

You yelp, arms flying around his neck as he princess carries you down the hallway, your face burning hot against his shoulder. “Tetsu—! What are you doing?!”

He glances down at you, grin smug, eyes molten. “You didn’t think we were done, did you?” he murmurs, already walking with you in his arms toward the bedroom. His voice is velvet and heat, wrapped around every word, promising more. “I’ve got you all night, baby. You’re not going anywhere.”

[dismalflo]

a shitty IT job

Sirius Black x reader who thinks sirius is cool, tattoos and all ✩ 635 words

cw: office au, pre-relationship, fluff, reader and Sirius have worked together for a while.

part 1 | part 2 | part 3

an: the start is vaguely inspired by shitty comments i've had said to me because i have a fair few tattoos.

“You don’t exactly look like you should work here, y’know?” you remark casually, leaning against the counter beside the kettle in the breakroom.

Sirius feels the familiar wave of disappointment rise in his chest, but he forces it down with a long, controlled breath. He’s heard this line a thousand times before, as though his tattoos and unruly hair are better suited for fast food or bartending. Never mind the fact that he’s more than qualified for the job he’s doing, a job he’s damn good at, thank you very much.

Normally, comments like this slide off him without a second thought, but when it’s coming from you—his favourite person here, the one he shares his breaks with and the only person in this place he actually cares about—it hits a little harder. You, the sweetest person he’s ever met, looking at him with that same judgmental eye that everyone else does, feels wrong.

He hums in response, bracing himself for the next comment.

You glance over your shoulder, a playful smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “You look like you belong on stage or something—way too cool for a shitty IT job.” Your voice is light, teasing, but there’s a softness beneath the words that doesn’t escape him. Then, almost on instinct, you add, the grin turning slightly guilty, “I probably shouldn’t say that. You might actually leave me here to suffer, and let’s face it, no one else is half as good as you at this stuff.”

Oh.

The weight lifts off his shoulders like a breath he didn’t even realize he was holding. Of course you didn’t mean it the way others do. You get it. You think he’s cool. Sirius feels something warm spread through his chest, a feeling that’s rare and precious—being seen for who he really is, not the rough edges others assume come with his appearance.

“Don’t worry,” he says, his voice soft yet full of playful confidence. “I’m not going anywhere. Besides, who else is going to save your arse when the servers crash for the hundredth time this week?”

“Oh, Sirius Black, my great savior,” you tease, and his smile deepens.

“Don’t go getting too sentimental on me now,” he jokes, his eyes twinkling as he meets your gaze. “I might start thinking you actually like me or something.”

You laugh, but there’s a slight flush to your cheeks that makes his heart beat a little faster. You quickly turn back to the kettle, pretending to focus on making your coffee, but he catches the quick glance you throw his way before you avert your eyes again.

Sirius bites back the smirk threatening to tug at his lips, feeling the familiar heat in his chest again, the kind that always seems to flare up when you’re around. It’s the same feeling he’s been trying to ignore for months now—the fluttering in his stomach whenever you smile at him, the way his pulse speeds up when you laugh, the way he can't help but look for you whenever he walks into the room.

"Alright, time to stop distracting me," you mutter, but your voice is light, almost shy now, as you stir your coffee.

Sirius takes a step back from the counter, bending to pick up his bag on the floor beside him. He glances at you once more, the flicker of something unspoken passing between you, but he doesn’t press it. Not yet.

"Back to work," he says, with an easy grin, though his mind's racing with the implications of the quiet moment. "If you need saving, call me."

You roll your eyes but laugh, and he can’t help but feel a little lighter than before. As he heads out of the breakroom, he looks over his shoulder, catching a glimpse of you watching him.

[evilminji]

Oh... my god? Ghost Reporters.

Imagine it. Their office is in the Zone. They literally FEED of hunting for The Next Big Scoop! And Revealing The Truth! Every honest reporter that got silenced for getting a little too close to the facts. The bloody, beating, heart of societies underbelly.

Every Lois Lane that had no Kryptonian to stop some rich and powerful jackals putting them in the ground.

Well Death sure didn't stop THEM! They STILL want answers! But now they have co-wokers. Oh~ and SUPERPOWERS! And best part?

The newly appointed KING is going too and from the living world. That must mean it's okay now, RIGHT? Your majesty? You're not a RAGING HYPOCRITE, aaaaare you? :) 🎤

And... look. Danny knows full well what these piranhas are up too. He's not stupid. But Madeline Fenton raised a lot of things. Fool? Not one of um. That a LOT of reporters with sharp, sharp teeth and bloodlust in their eyes. He wants to half-live.

He compromises. Illusion of control and all that. Yeah, yeah, they all tooootally respect his authority etc. Give them Them Scoop! He, wisely, gets the fuck out of the way. Whoosh! Off they go!

Thats.... probably gonna be a problem. *siiiiiips his morning coffee* But it's not HIS problem. Not right now.

And? Suddenly all these politicians and business leaders are getting fucking AMBUSHED. Oh? You thought you'd get soft ball "aren't I a man of the people. Buy oil!" Bullshit questions? HA! Where were you on June 27th, 1978, at-

And "according to YOUR words, exact quote as follows-"

Just? They BEAT the leader with the STICK. "Oh but you'll lose access". They'd love to see HOW! They can go through WALLS! Answer the question, coward. "Your gonna make powerful enemies!" Oh nooooo, what are they gonna DO?

Shoot us TWICE?

Hey Mr. Family Values! How's the three mistresses your wife doesn't know about?? "No comment"? That's fine. We already have THEIRS. >:D Good luck with your upcoming election!

And like? As newspapers are shutting down and turning clickbait all across the country? This ONE(1) tiny, middle of nowhere town? Somehow has a horrid, horrid, ARMY of Satan's own Reporters. All apparently willing to die for the News. Throwing themselves at dictators and Supervillians alike.

"We see no God here but the Truth" is literally their papers MOTTO.

The damn thing is basicly a BRICK. You get a paperback of news. Entire planet AND THEN SOME. How?! How are they reporting, IN DETAIL, on the break down of talks between two planets 16 galaxies over? Hal says it's accurate. But what Earth paper would even HAVE that information?

And?? The whole town treats this as normal? There are human children, complaining about the weight of papers, because it makes their paper routes a pain in the ass. Soccer moms discussing alien celebrity drama. Farmers muttering over foreign unrest and how it will impact their corn harvest.

Fucking Lex Luthor, clearly deciding to roll with it, coming to sign himself up for a paper. Gaining a new life long Nemesis upon meeting Vladimir Master, whom he decides is both hot and unbearable. Someone is heard shouting "oh god, there's TWO OF THEM!"

And?? Look. Clark isn't MAD. Or JEALOUS. Nor is he in a secret Reporting War with Jerry from the Amity Chronicle. Because that would be petty and childish. He's just SAYING, maybe they should check the place out!

Maybe Jerry is a DICK and deserves it, is all. (Lois stop laughing.)

@hypewinter @hdgnj @ailithnight

[scp230kinnie]

:3 IT'S ME AGAIN HEYYYU

SOOOO HYUNSU, BOTH MONSTER AND HUMAN SIDE'S REACTION TO A READER WHO'S NORMALLY SHY BUT WITH A MONSTER SIDE THAT'S ALL OVER HIM.

Like the monster side literally adores him and likes to annoy his monsters.

And also the monster side being a bad bitch in general cause we slay.

Again, feel free to ignore.

IM GONNA MARRY YOU FOR LEAVING ALL THESE LMFAO WHOEVER YOU ARE

Back from my five hour long hiatus (nap) and now back to my day job

SPOILERS FOR SEASON 2/3 OF SWEET HOME

Cha Hyun-Su x half monster clingy reader

Idk vro that’s the best title ur getting

Probably ooc but I don’t care

Starting with general if/when you turned hcs, and will gradually get into the main plot

Once he saw the signs of you turning into a monster he was extremely worried

He didn’t know if you’d be able to control it, like him, or if you’d turn fully into a monster like most of the people he’s seen before

And because he’s seen so many people turn and die painfully, he wants to make sure you don’t

Once he saw that you were able to control it, even at least a little bit, he was so relieved, and wanted to do everything he could to help you

He knows that since you’re a monster, (I’m not calling them special infectees fuck right off😭) you can’t really get hurt/die for the most part

But he still likes to keep you at a safe distance just to make sure his monster side doesn’t accidentally hurt you

(Not too far tho :3)

He always knew you were shy, so he knew that trying to teach you to control it would be a little bit difficult

That was, until you were in your monster form.

In your monster form, you were a lot more clingy towards him, which came as a stark contrast to your usual shy, closed off demeanour.

Not that he minds, he just finds it to be kind of a surprise

In his human form, he’s not scared of you accidentally hurting him or something as a monster

In his human form, he loves to let you cling to him

It reminds him that you’re still you despite the infection

This man can protect himself for sure. But let’s say you and him are doing whatever, maybe walking around, you’re both in human form and a (hostile) monster shows up.

His immediate thought is to protect you, because even though you can turn into a monster yourself, he forgets.

He goes to protect you, his monster side takes over (cause let’s say one of his desires is protecting you okay hear me out)

And then you, wanting to protect him, or show that you can defend yourself, or who know why , turn into your monster form and fend off the monster in some badass way

God damn. Maybe his human side is surprised but the monster side, if bro was out and saw that. You earned respect

The monster side of him has seen you before the transformation. All shy or whatever. He is also quite surprised when you turn and all of a sudden you’re all up on him

At first his monster side would probably push you away a little bit like “wtf is bro doing who are you”

Sometimes his monster side is a lil emo and has to be a lone wolf or something, but when you show up as a monster and follow him around and doing to him eventually he realizes you probably won’t stop until you turn back

His monster side pulls the whole “how pathetic and weak” thing when you cling to him, and you just go right ahead and let your monster self argue that

No matter how much you adore him as a monster, you can and will win a fight/argument against him

Maybe sometimes he lets you win. So what, a win is a win?

When your human side is out and you’re back to your shy self, both sides of him kind of miss your monster side

He likes feeling loved

—————————————————————

Um so sorry if this sucks

Hyun-su is the definition of this tweet

Tips on how to stop HEALING piercings from falling out r greatly appreciated thanks

Everyone should leave sweet home requests yes yes I do most if not all characters

[followerofmercy]

Oh my God I just realized the reason Arlecchino is Like That is because she's never known a parental figure as anything but an antagonist. Essay incoming:

I saw some really good analysis pointing out that Crucabena's existence was almost certainly a retcon for the Knave/Director of the House of Hearth's unforgivable behavior, and I agree. Nobody's ages make any sense without having to do a mental contortionist act and there was a distinct vibe of the Chasm Hearthlings being particularly brutal.

(That is part of why I don't usually get into super long-running stories. There will inevitably be some half baked ideas that you have to introduce early on for foreshadowing, but then the rest of the story moves in a way where there's a better option, and then you have to find a way to make the new idea work with the groundwork already laid. Personally, I think a footnote saying "We changed our minds - this is the edited version" is perfectly acceptable. A story is a conversation between the audience and author but whatever)

ANYWAY! It feels so fucking weird saying this because while I'm on the "they should be Worse, Actually" train 99% of the time, this is that 1% where I think Arlecchino being on the very very light side of morally gray makes for a way more interesting story than if they had've kept her true to the original idea.

I love evil women more than the next guy but I think the continued operation of the House of Hearth being a spit in the face to the Fontainian government and the Fatui and the idea of how a 'normal' family should look - because none of these kids are normal and that has directly led to their abuse - and that being a good thing is. Idk. Refreshing? I think it's a much more powerful message that Arlecchino was the only goddamn person that actually got results trying to do something about all these abused children. She is actually doing some incredible work in a terrible situation. In a world where these kids’ options are “being trafficked” and “Fatui pawns,” I think “Independent child soldiers operating under the Fatui banner but staying true to themselves” is a pretty damn good alternative. 

It’s also important that the rest of society’s lack of care is directly responsible for the continued existence of the House of Hearth as it is. I mean fuck’s sake, Fontaine has a community of people living in the SEWER. If there was a public orphanage that wasn’t operated by predators, I’m sure most children would be there instead! But no. Nobody wants these kids. And, God forbid Wriothesley decided to do something about being sold. The victim blaming is off the charts. There is no way for Arlecchino to operate peacefully within the existing system, so she made her own. 

So the actual point of this essay: It’s everywhere in Arlecchino’s story, dialogue and actions that she wants her children to support each other, but because of how Crucabena raised her, she can’t really envision herself as part of that family (even if she actually is part of it and the majority of the kids love her dearly.) A parent is something to be feared, eventually killed, and removed from the path of their successor. Everyone likes to highlight little Perurere asking if it’s normal for biological mothers and daughters to argue. On some level I think she knows it’s wrong, but still. Literally all she’s ever seen is a parent as an obstacle to overcome. None of the children in her care had good parents and, if they did, the parents are dead. 

(Also hot take that Crucabena probably thought extremely highly of Arlecchino and gave her special treatment. She felt that Clervie was holding her actual favorite daughter back. I imagine Arlecchino also has very complicated feelings in Crucabena’s role in raising her to be as strong as she is while also being an objective monster, but that’s a topic for another time.) 

Even Arlecchino’s constellation talks about her being alone while instructing her children to care for one another. That separation ties into her being outwardly contradictory about rules. In her story quest, she spends the majority of it aware that her children are disobeying her, but as long as she doesn’t catch them, she can’t rightfully punish them now can she? Now excuse her while she makes herself scarce so they can get up to their mischief. She lip services - and by that I mean lies - about the importance of rules. She Actively Encourages her children to disobey her so long as they do it smart, which is a way to teach them how to circumvent the unjust laws of Fontaine and the Fatui without getting caught. If her kids fuck up bad enough she’ll “punish” them before they get actually killed by something worse than her, and if they successfully trick her (with her blessing), then there’s a good chance they’ll live. (Or, yk, if they wanna leave she’ll let them asldfj) 

So, again, I'll keep preaching that Arlecchino's whole MO is that she is setting herself up as an antagonist for her children, and her children's allies, to test themselves against. She actively encourages rebellion against her, unfair rules, the system, the Fatui, Fontaine, etc, because that's how she survived her own upbringing and the only way she knows for her family to protect themselves. She is keenly aware that she is Not Gentle, Not Fair (even if I do neglect that part in my own writing), and that there probably is a better way to do things. That’s why she wants Lyney specifically to succeed her. She cannot envision a perfect Hearth with her in it because she is the Parent, and historically, Parents are obstacles to be removed. 

Arlecchino’s greatest wish as the King of the House of Hearth is to be dethroned, and I think that is WAY more interesting than the abusive, violent tyrant Hoyo teased at first.

[interloved]

toxic!anakin skywalker; ex boyfriend edition.

description box; your ex boyfriend anakin skywalker finds you at a party after weeks after your alleged break up. in his eyes, you’re still his girlfriend, so… why’re you hanging out with that guy? have you forgotten you’re his? you probably need him to remind you again… and he’ll do that with pleasure.

warnings; nsfw warning, mature themes like violence —> minor blogs do not read, TOXIC BEHAVIOUR LIKE THIS SHOULD NOT BE ROMANTICISED!!; porn with plot, anakin is a toxic little psychopath as always (therapy when??), smut under the cut!, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!

part one.

ONE THING ABOUT YOUR ex boyfriend anakin skywalker that you absolutely hate is how a fight between the two of you never fails to become a yelling match. anakin doesn’t always initiate it, you have to admit that, sometimes you did too, but it was usually his fault it became an argument at all.

another thing you hate is how the two of you have an unofficial “break up ritual”—and it’s escalated so badly that it’s gotten to the point where your friends are telling you to break up with him. constantly.

they say it’s unhealthy, it’s toxic, he’s not good for you. they say he’s controlling, he’s possessive, and that he’s a gaslighter. they say he’s a master manipulator, that his issues can’t be fixed by anyone, and that you should leave him before it’s too late.

it’s not like you haven’t tried. you have, you just keep failing again and again somehow. maybe because if anakin is anything, it’s addictive. you’re not sure what it is, but something about him always has you crawling back, back to his comforting embrace, back into his apartment, back into his arms.

you don’t know how he does it—maybe it’s that damned “break up ritual”. he’ll yell, you’ll yell back, he’ll cry and beg you to forgive him and to come back home, you’ll give him the cold shoulder for a month or two, he begs you to come back again, you make up (have sex), pretend that fight never happened and repeat. it’s always the same.

but this time, it’s different.

anakin and you have been broken up for about two months and a half, and your ex boyfriend is getting nervous. it’s never taken you this long to return home—usually, it’s never taken you more than two months to come back.

but never this long. and you’ve never attended a party without him. let alone talk to a guy. ever.

anakin’s fingers drummed on his steering wheel at somewhat irregular intervals, and he looked at the house he was parked in front of. the pictures his friend had snapped and sent him were blurry and dark, but there was no doubt he had captured your small frame—and the guy standing next to you.

“OK, that’s it.” he snarls, and he closes the door of his car.

you belong to me, he thinks.

IT DOESN’T TAKE YOU long to figure out the guy you’ve been talking to ditched you. you’ve been wandering around, looking almost everywhere for him, but you just couldn’t seem to find him. it appeared like you had been left alone.

but then, you found someone else. leaning on a doorframe. head slightly cocked, a small, triumphant smile. one that you were used to more than anything.

“ani?” you whisper in confusion, and you were thankful the music was too loud for him to hear that damned nickname you always used to call him. he made his way to you and for one split of a second, you considered just running away.

“hey, you,” he grins at you, “partying, huh?”

you blink. this was… too normal. he was acting like you guys had never broken up. but you were willing to believe he’d changed.

“yeah. um, my friend ditched me for dinner, sooo… now i’m here.”

he clicks his tongue, “aw, that sucks.” and suddenly, he’s looking at you with such an intense gaze. he’s always been this way—so overwhelmingly intense, possessive but intense. passionate, but intense. scary intense.

“i would’ve never ditched you.”

and there it is again. that possessive glint in his eye.

“i don’t belong to you anymore,” you mutter, looking away.

and then, all of a sudden, “i miss you.”

your head whips around. you didn’t expect that—partly because anakin isn’t the type to admit his feelings in generl, and partly because anakin’s never been the one to try and get you back. it’s always been you crawling back to him, never him chasing after you.

it’s such a stupid thought but, maybe he’s changed. he hasn’t

“listen, i know what you’re probably going to say, but why don’t we grab a coffee some time and just, i don’t know, talk—”

“sure,” you find yourself answering, you answered too quickly for your own liking and because you want to soften your response a little, you add, “why not? it’ll be nice catching up.”

anakin grins at you with a way that is just so unmistakenly anakin, and flashes you cheeky wink. “it’s a date, then.”

and maybe it’s because you’re lonely, or because you’re tipsy, or because you really do miss anakin too, but you return his mischievous smirk with a little smile of your own. and maybe it’s because you’re drunk, but you genuinely believed he had changed.

how wrong you were.

PART TWO COMING SOON!

[mermaidchansons]

Divine Indeed: Part Two

Neighbor!Terry Richmond x Divine Wells (black OC)

Story Summary: Divine Wells, a 31-year-old seamstress, deals with waves of change after she picks up her life and moves to San Diego for a new job. She thought she’d finally found peace in her new normal; until Oshun decided to push her path to collide with her fine ass neighbor, Terry Richmond.

Words: 2300+

Warnings: mentions of loss, lust

Author’s Note: Better late than never lmfao. Feedback is always encouraged! Don’t keep your thoughts in that pretty head, share with me, bby <3 - Ashanti

Pt. 1 Pt. 2 Pt.3

Meow! 

“I hear you, T. Just give me 5 seconds, man.” 

Terry looked down at his watch, watching the seconds hand cross over the 12 and stopping the alarm just as it began to ring out. The music in his ears transitioned to the next song on Death’s ‘…For The Whole World To See’ album. It was 7:30 AM, which meant breakfast time for the one-year-old Maine Coon, and he was intent on making it everyone’s problem. He scampered over to where his human was sitting to tie his sneakers and placed his big front paws on Terry’s knees; claws slightly sinking into the outer layer of his owner's skin. Shaking his head, Terry headed out of his bedroom and over to the kitchen where elevated bowls with the name T’Challa written in black. 

Terry tightened the loop of his gym bag at his chest as he briskly walked across the room with his cat in tow; mewling at him in annoyance. He moved to San Diego just over two years prior, intent on putting his past behind him and finding himself again; or whoever he was now that his only living family member was gone. The sense of self that he had felt confident in was shaken and depleted. The Marines instilled Terry with discipline and determination where Michael gave him a sense of adventure and a purpose; a reason to keep going. For years, he had a purpose in two entities. But now that time and circumstance had ripped both out of his grasp, he needed a change of scenery; to get out of the south. Terry was stagnant for once in 10 years and in becoming familiar with the suffocating, muggy feeling of loss, he knew he needed out. Loss would have eaten him whole with no regret or second thoughts.

Terry reached into the tall food container, scooping up dry kibbles and moving to the food bowl. As if on cue, T’Challa stood on his stocky hind legs with his face in the bowl, waiting for the kibbles to drop. Terry attempted to push the cat’s long face away, rolling his eyes at the sound of a very long drawn-out meow. The little man was impatient as hell and acted as if Terry would ever let him miss a meal. T’Challa resisted as always, hellbent on being in the way and Terry poured the food directly onto his head, calling him an ‘asshole’. He would never get over how half of the kibble never made it into the bowl. When he first moved into this apartment, the woman who helped him sign the lease suggested that he’d get a furry companion to help ‘evade the inevitable loneliness’. And yet it was times like this that made him wonder if he should have chosen loneliness instead.

“I better not find any of that food in that damn bed, T,” Terry warned the cat as he walked out the front door, locking it behind him; jiggling the handle for good measure. Bypassing the elevator and heading to the staircase, Terry checked his texts to see that his client would be 15 minutes late. He flexed his jaw incredulously, shoving the phone in his pocket. He’d have to nip that in the bud. Tardiness was something Terry would not tolerate. After being berated by his Creole grandmother in front of her book club for his tardiness, a 7-year-old Terry had decided that he would never be late to anything ever again. And he never was. ‘Cause who would he be if he went against Grandma Thérèse’s orders? A smirk appeared on his face as he landed on the second floor, hearing her voice in his ear saying ‘if you’re on time, you’re late. And if you’re late, you may as well have stayed home, chile’. 

Terry waltzed into gym room #7 with his attention to his phone and stopped in his tracks. The music in his ears seemed to also be playing out loud, causing him to blink at the impending confusion. Pausing the music and taking out his AirPods, he finally looked up. A candy pink speaker sat against the farthest wall blasting the tail end of ‘Politicians In My Eyes’ by Death. Across from the speaker was a person high up on the stair master, squeezing her eyes shut as she stepped up each step. Her pink afro bubble braids were half up, half of them hanging down her back; just passed the cup of her thick backside. 

Terry hid a growing smile when he took a closer look at the gym set the beautiful stranger was wearing. A light blue with water ripples and bright yellow rubber ducks that warped and jiggled with each hike she made. It was almost comical, but not nearly enough to distract him. His mouth went dry as he observed the stranger, taking in every curve and roll as she climbed the stairs to the beat of a new song. He was staring for far too long and he knew it. But she made it hard to turn away; the swing of her plentiful hips with each step was enough to make him drop to his knees and beg her for an ounce of attention. Just an ounce, he knew he didn’t deserve any more than that. No one on earth was deserving of someone like her. Refocus, be cool. 

“My bad, I didn’t know this room was booked up,” Terry yelled over the electronic music. 

Her head whipped to look at him before she scrambled, trying to stop the machine and pause the music at the same time. She stood on the side of the machine, frantically ripping out the safety chord and turning down the music with both hands. Her chest bounced up and down wildly, trying to catch her breath. Terry fixed his mouth to ask if she was alright, but she stuck out her index finger, silencing him. He nodded and walked over to the panting goddess, holding out his hand in support. She gingerly placed her small palm in his, letting him guide her back down to safety. He picked up what he assumed to be her pink, sticker ladened hydro flask and handed it to her. Terry watched intently as she mouthed a thank you. 

“I didn’t mean to barge in on your time,” Terry apologized, one foot behind him, ready to leave her to her own devices. 

“No, no- don’t mind me, we can share for the last 10 minutes.” 

Pink bubble braids swayed around her as she made her way over to a pile of weight plates on the floor, left behind by someone in a rush no doubt. Terry watched as she bent down to pick up a plate, but stayed down. She had to have known it was too heavy, but she continued to strain. 

How long is she going to keep this up? Terry tried his best to quell the bubbling laughter rising in him. With arms crossed, he observed as she finally lifted the plate off of the ground and practically threw it onto the bench. He watched her face contort in the reflection of the mirror, scrunching her cute little round nose at the sudden clanging of metal. Down again she went, moving into a deep squat to lift the next plate. Terry shut his eyes tight, pulling his lips in as the laugh began trickling out of him, making an audible pffft. 

“You could help you know,” the beautiful stranger whined with an incredulous look on her face; which soon melted into a smirk once she saw the smile plastered on Terry. 

“Yes, ma’am.” Terry jogged over, trading laughs between them. He didn’t have much experience in the art of flirting, and never really had the urge to engage in it. Leading as many lives as Terry had, one would think romance must have wiggled its way in at some point. Yet, here he stood, unable to remember how long it’s been since he’d been on a date. It couldn’t have been in the last year, he’d been a hermit since he’d moved to San Diego. 

“It’s hard to take you seriously with all the ducks and cuteness.”

“Listen, you wouldn’t be saying that if you saw the lack of cute workout clothes in size fat. I had to make these myself.” 

Terry took the weight plate out of her hands. “Word? Is that what you do?” He bent down to return the plates, his eyes darting to the rubber duck charms dangling from her blue sneakers.

“Yeah, kinda,” she sighed before taking a long swig of water, “I’m a seamstress so I mostly execute other people’s visions. I don’t get a lot of time to work on my own stuff.” 

“By the way you sound saying that you might need to make some time for yourself. Otherwise, you gone sound like a depressed robot.” 

Terry nudged her shoulder with his and she dramatically swayed to the side. Her tooth gems gleamed in the light when her chubby cheeks squished up into a smile. Warmth radiated in the tips of Terry’s ears and he swallowed dryly to extinguish the growing desire in his abdomen. 

“Marvin? Stop, my mom used to call me that. She loves that movie.” She started to walk towards the door and Terry’s feet moved with hers, no thoughts required.

“That was one of the last movies I saw in theater.” 

She scrunched up her face and stopped in her tracks. Terry stopped with her in tandem and waited in curiosity. He looked down at her with his brow lifted in question. 

“Wait, that was like a bajillion years ago! You gotta get out more, dude. Listen, there’s a theater two blocks away that does $5 Wednesday showings.” 

Terry cheesed hard watching the little deity jump into a myriad of movie titles and where to watch them online. She looked almost offended that he had not had the chance to experience these movies, going into her recommendations for the month. Sure, he hadn’t dated in what felt like a century, but maybe a movie date would be nice. 

“My bad, I’m running my mouth about a special interest and I don’t even know your name yet.” 

Terry blinked away the date ideas swirling in his head and brought himself back to the present, rewinding and replaying the last sentence sent into the air. “You’re good. Nice to meet you, I’m Terry. Terry Richmond. I’m on level 5.”

She slid a small, gold-adorned hand into his larger one and pulled her shoulders back. “Pleasure to meet you, Terry of Level 5. My name’s Divine Wells, first of her name, keeper, and dweller of level 2.” 

He watched her bow into an assisted curtsey, giggling; clearly tickled by her joke. She was an absolute nut and he grew entranced with every word that fell from her pouty pink lips. Her name echoed in his head in a voice other than his own and rushing water sounded in his ears. The voice repeated her name until it melted into the familiar pitter-patter of raindrops against a window. What was she doing to him? Her brown sugar eyes broke away from his to look out the window at the sudden rain. He immediately missed their connection, desperate to be beneath her gaze once more. Looking down at their still connected hands, he felt almost magnetized to her. 

When Divine returned her attention to his face, her eyes grew large with shock and she took her hand out of his. “My bad,” she said in hushed tones.

“You’re good, Divine.” Terry’s eyes racked up and down her body once more before offering her a small, genial smile. She bit her lip and drew her eyes away. Was she blushing? Terry slyly dug into his pocket for a business card, getting one ready to hand to her.

“You know I-”

“Hermano, my bad bro, my alarm didn’t go off and I had this honey over last night. I lost track of time, bro.” An olive-skinned man projected his voice as he tip-toed in, vacuuming away the swells of lust in the air. Terry crossed his arms and pointed his eyes like daggers at the man. Divine’s shot between them and let out a small ‘oop’. 

“Stretch.” 

One word from Terry and the man damn near sprinted to the other side of the gym room, his overly large gym bag rustling loudly with each step. Terry looked over to see Divine gathering her things to prepare to leave. 

A waterfall of pink puffs covered her face as she bent down to her belongings into a bag. Rubber ducks jiggled with her behind as she stepped, drawing Terry’s attention again. He had to stop looking at her like this. If he didn’t, he’d have to step away from his client session to take care of the growing pain below his abdomen. 

Divine walked towards the door waving with one hand, and put on her headphones with the other. “Nice meeting you, Terry.” 

“You too. Hold up.” Terry took three steps forward, his heart jumping a beat as he watched Divine bite her lip once more; those eyes flooding him with heat. “I know we don’t know each other like that but here’s my number. Let me know if you ever need anything, I take this community shit seriously.” 

Her eyes lit up as she took the card from his hand and Terry flexed his jaw. He was in agony just looking at her.

“Whatever you say, Terry.” He watched Divine and her rubber duck-lined outfit walk away as the rain picked up outside. He was in trouble.

Tags:

@babybluepeaches @muse-of-mbaku @melaninmarvel @naturallyqueenie @howtoshuckatlife @goldieccentric @archivistofwakanda @alexundefined @minyara-kun @destinio1 @raysunshine78 @madamslayyy @notdsg @ghostfacekill-monger @soufcakmistress @greennightspider @bitchacho25 @jordanhelah @puremolasses @ajspencer1892 @monochrome-pineapple @psuedo4 @bubblyqueen @chaneajoyyy @blowmymbackout @tchallasbabymama @megamindsecretlair @nahimjustfeelingit-writes @jvzmine19 @ashanti-notthesinger

Thanks For Reading!

[sissylittlefeather]

Kinktober Day 21: Teasing

What Happens in Vegas

Warnings: 18+ SMUT, public sex (kinda)

Word Count: ~1.1k

Kinktober Masterlist

It's not the first time you've been out with Elvis, but it's the first time you've brought him to the hotel in Vegas where you normally dance. You've taken the week off to be with him, but he wanted to go to the show and he isn't really a man to be argued with. 

You first sit at a table side by side, but people keep bothering you for pictures, so you move to a smaller table sitting across from each other in a darker part of the room. From here, he can see the dancers, but no one can really see him. That’s fine by you until you realize how much he is watching the other girls. You know better than to expect that you're the only girl he's seeing. He's Elvis Presley. But you had kinda hoped that when he was with you, he would be with you, so when he's openly ogling the dancers on stage, you start to get a little annoyed. 

The first thing you do is order a drink with a cherry in it. When he finally does look at you, you roll the cherry around on your lips and tongue as he talks. He quickly loses his train of thought, stuttering and stumbling over words. But before too long he's back to staring at the girls. 

You think to yourself that it's time to switch tactics, so the next time he looks at you to speak, you settle your breasts against the table and squeeze your arms together. Your dress is sinfully low cut and doing this pushes your breasts up so high that he can almost see the tops of your nipples. This time he stops talking completely and has to remind himself to close his mouth. 

“Honey, what are you doin’?!” You look at him with your eyes wide and innocent. 

“What do you mean?” He groans and looks away again, but you're not about to be discouraged. You look around for something else to tease him with and then realize the table is small. You can easily reach him with your foot. 

Slipping off your heel, you snake your stocking-covered toes up his leg to his thigh. He whips his head around to you and gasps, speechless at first. When your little foot finds his clothed member where it always is against his left leg, he damn near screams. 

“Honey?!”

“Oh, I'm sorry, am I distracting you from watching the girls?”

“Little bit. What do you think you're doing?” He whimpers as you start to stroke him with your toes. He’s already pretty hard from your earlier antics and the stage full of half-naked women. “Baby…”

“You want me to stop?”

“Yes.” He mutters half-heartedly as his eyes are closed and he's biting his bottom lip. It doesn't look like he really does. You continue to move your toes on him where he's fully hard now. 

“That's too bad. You should've been paying more attention to me.”  

He whimpers as you stroke him with a little more pressure. You know he loves your feet. He's said it about a hundred times and it's not the first time you've had your toes on his cock.

“Honey, please. I'll s-stop. Just… oh…” He moans softly as you squeeze him a little. 

Just then, the waitress comes by to check and see if you need any more drinks. He answers in a strained voice as you move your foot on him a little faster. 

“Nope! We're doing just… fine…” He says the last part through gritted teeth and she looks at you both strangely before walking away. 

“Damn it, honey, if you don't stop-”

“What? What will you do?” He groans loudly and leans his head back with his eyes closed. The people at the next table glare at him for making such a loud noise. He smiles at them awkwardly and gestures that they should look back up at the stage. 

“Honey!! Goddamnit stop!” 

“You gonna stare some more at the bouncing tits on stage?” You pout and use the space between your big toe and second toe to pump him. 

“No! I'm gonna look at your tits and yours alone.” He hisses. 

“You sure about that?” You're moving your foot on him pretty good now with the perfect amount of pressure and speed. Sweat droplets have started to form on his forehead and he's biting his knuckle to try to stay quiet. 

“Yes, now please, stop!” You click your tongue and shrug. 

“Oh, I dunno, this is fun.” His dick twitches between your toes and you smirk. Then his hips buck and he looks at you in a panic. 

“Fuck. Honey. If you don't stop right now I'm gonna cum right here at this table.” You can tell by the look in his eyes that he's not joking or just trying to get you to stop. You've pushed him too far and it's already almost too late. 

He can't very well walk out of there with a cumstain on his pants, so you look around the table frantically as he whimpers. You'd stop, but it might actually be painful at this point, so instead you toss him your napkin. He grabs it, rips his pants open under the table and cums hard into the black cloth. You try very hard to suppress a giggle as he leans all the way forward and puts his forehead on the tablecloth. 

“Fuck, honey.” He grumbles, grunting. 

“I'm sorry…” You whisper, trying to keep the laughter out of your voice. He sits up and looks at you with his eyes wide. 

“What the fuck am I supposed to do with this now?! I can't leave it here?!” 

“Oh, shit.” You look at each other in stunned silence for a few seconds before you hand him your purse. “Put it in there.”

“Really?” 

“What choice do we have?!” It's just then that the absurdity of the situation dawns on him and he starts laughing as he takes your purse and stuffs the napkin inside it. 

“Oh, honey, that one kinda backfired on you, didn't it?” He can't stop laughing now as he hands your purse back to you. 

“Oh hush.” You crinkle your nose and look at your little bag. “You owe me a purse.”

“Don't worry, honey. After that, I'll buy you ten purses. Let's get out of here. I'm tired of these girls anyway.” You smile at him as he stands up next to the table. 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. You're the only one I really wanna look at anyway. You and those pretty little feet.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Taglist:

@ccab @atleastpleasetelephone @deltafalax @msamarican @angschrof @lustnhim @jhoneybees @polksaladava @searchingforgravity @librababe99 @hooked-on-elvis @theelvisprincess @makethemorning @your-nanas-house @peaceloveelvis @mrspresley69

[desired-misery]

Serennedy Week 2025: Day 06 "Angst"

[Day 01] [Day 02] [Day 03] [Day 04] [Day 05] [Day 07]

Leon has scars, of course he does. Luis expects that of him. He wonders how many Leon has under his clothes, where he can't easily see, but they aren't there yet (Luis isn't there yet, and Leon acts so normal about it, it's almost eerie how casual Leon is about it all).

He has seen the faint scars on Leon's hands; has felt them more easily than they are spotted— they must be old. What Luis remembers from Spain, the injuries Leon had, those are a little more obvious. They are all far more healed than they should be (plaga-enhanced healing; it's why Luis is alive), but still they are a more-obvious pink color cutting through his pale skin. There are a few across Leon's forearms— defensive wounds, Leon says with a wry smirk, with the kind of smirk that could either be Leon being amused by something strange or the kind of smirk that Leon does when he is trying to avoid dealing with the seriousness of a topic.

Luis has seen the one across Leon's thigh, has watched Leon roll out his left shoulder— got shot, Leon says, with that same smirk that grows into a half-smile when Luis' reacts in shock— in the morning after sleeping. Luis hasn't seen that one yet, but Leon says it's not much to look at. Just two coin-sized scars, marking the path a bullet tunneled through him once.

(It very much sounds like a big deal to be shot, surely— but Leon does not want it to be one. And besides, Leon does not make a big deal over Luis' very obvious scar that he clearly has— the mess of his back— so it is only fair that they don't yet get to see each other's more serious injuries, if that's not something either of them are ready for). So Luis does not ask while Leon does not ask, and they move along as if it's not anything that really matters.

But it does matter— one of them does. Luis had no idea this scar was one Leon didn't want to talk about, either. Damn his curiosity, his damn mouth. Damn his hands that have grown used to tracing along the scars across Leon's own— something Leon does not mind, that Leon allows— so he thinks he can get away with the same when he kisses Leon while they are on the couch together.

It is the the scar that crinkles and results in the most subtle asymmetry in Leon's face when he smiles wide and laughs loudly. It is hardly nothing, faint other than a shimmery pink line about three centimeters long bisection his cheek, over his cheekbone. Leon has never flinches when Luis has touched him before, but he does now when the pad of Luis' thumb traces it, sliding across the subtle texture difference.

"Where'd you get this one?" Luis asks— as he has asked before, about other scars. It has never been a problem before.

Leon stares. And stares. Luis pulls his hand away, but Leon takes his wrist before he can withdraw entirely, putting a pause on the apology Luis was forming already in response to what he did wrong.

Leon breathes, finally. His eyes stay on Luis', that clear blue focused like a laser. "From the same man who gave you yours."

Luis freezes. His whole body— well. The part of him that he can control still— goes stiff.

"Krauser," Luis says. "The mercenary—"

Leon’s hand on his wrist tightens. "You don't remember? It happened— I had it when we both thought you were dying."

"I was dying."

And instead of smiling or getting that Luis was meaning it mostly as a joke, Leon’s grip spasms. "I know—"

"I don't remember that much, just pieces." Luis says, in the tone of an apology.

One that Leon hears and accepts based on how he lets out a shaky breath and his hand slides down Luis' arm, resting close to his elbow. "You don't?"

Luis shakes his head. "Not really. Hardly anything, I think."

Leon is looking at him as if he wants to speak but the words aren't there for him to access. Luis waits, but Leon does not seem to know how to voice what he wants to say, so Luis continues. Sometimes, filling in the gaps will prompt Leon to speak, let him have some time to figure things out.

"I remember the shock and confusion on your face," Luis says, gentling his tone. "The pain, of course, then going down hard. But that's the last concrete thing I remember."

Leon’s jaw tightens. Luis can see the muscles in his cheek and temple contract as if he's trying to chew up the words before they get out, but they escape anyway.

"Do you remember shooting at him?" Leon asks, way too steady in comparison to how long it takes him to speak.

"Vaguely," Luis says— truthfully, but somehow that is still a wrong answer. He keeps answering these questions incorrectly— in a way Leon does not like, but he cannot answer them any other way.

Luis continues, in case that is what will fix this. "Just that you were on the ground and he was above you. I remember thinking I didn't want him to kill you, too."

Leon’s expression twists before going way too blank. "After that?"

"Hmm," Luis pauses to think. He knows what he remembers— not much— but he'll try to see if there is something that sticks out, something that Leon is searching for. "I remember how hard it was to breathe, how much it hurt… and you were there."

Leon's throat moves as he swallows. "Did— do you remember anything else?"

Leon is absolutely wanting a specific answer— and Luis cannot figure out what it is. Luis frowns. "What are you wanting me to say, Leon?"

Leon's fake-frozen expression shutters, stutters like a scratched CD. Luis almost gets a glimpse of something clear enough to identify, but Leon takes it away when his brow tightens in a safe, practiced frown. "That you remember what you said to me."

Luis almost blurts out 'when?' but that might push Leon away— so much could push Leon away— that's the last thing he wants. Leon is still here, sitting between Luis' thighs, still touching his elbow as if he needs contact to keep himself steady because so many other times Leon will withdraw and that's the opposite of what Luis wants.

Luis rethinks, tries to recall what he said, but even that period right before is not clear, so he cannot say anything with confidence. He speaks slowly, hesitating, as if there would be some miracle that could give him the right thing to say if he just starts talking. "I… I remember wanting to say so much, Leon, but I don't—"

"You said, 'People can change, right?'" Leon says— hoarse and thin and desperate. "'People can change, right?' And then you fucking stopped breathing—"

Luis blinks too many times, because he remembers Leon saying that to him, weeks ago— and the emotion in it makes sense now, because that's what Luis told him, what was intended to be his last words—

"Leon, I'm sorry—"

"It's not your fault," Leon says. Said so quickly, ready to give Luis that.

"It's not yours, neither," Luis says back, as easily—

But the way Leon recoils, jerking his head off to the side as if Luis came at him with a weapon—

"It's not," Luis insists. "You didn't know—"

Leon’s expression relaxes again, adopting that protective flatness that is duller than a scuffed-up penny decades old.

"I knew him," Leon says. "Krauser. Before— before Valdelobos."

Luis has to reprocess that after hearing that admission. His breath leaves him in a sigh more than a proper word. "Oh."

"He was— we were—" Leon grits his teeth, the tension in his jaw the only clue as to his mood. The rest of his face is nonreactive, eyes on Luis, as if Leon is reading something as boring as a menu. "It was…"

"You don't have to tell me," Luis says, over the impulsive pang of of curiosity. He tells himself to not even try to fill in that blank, not right now— not to ask, it's not important unless Leon wants it to be.

Leon’s jaw works again. His gaze hardens into steel. "I killed him."

Luis figured that much. "After I…?"

"Yes," Leon says, with anger so cold it is death. "Later. He wanted—"

Only because Leon is so close does Luis notice the tremble that crawls up Leon’s spine. Because he can feel it.

"I've never been so fucking angry," Leon says— growls, words staying stuck in the back of his throat, rough and low. "I've never wanted to hurt someone as badly as I— I wanted to tear him apart, but once I got him on the ground, I…"

"He betrayed you."

"He betrayed his country," Leon spits— which surprises Luis because Leon has said some very critical, scathing things about the US, which he thought meant Leon wasn't as patriotic as Luis initially assumed. "He went against everything he used to stand for—"

"He betrayed you."

The second times gets through. Leon’s disgusted snarl freezes, then melts into a conflicted, pained frown. Leon takes a breath, the first one short and quick. The second breath is slower, unsteady.

"He needed to die," Leon says, quiet, avoiding eye contact. In a tone of voice that surely Leon has heard before, that sounds way too much like something someone else told him and Leon has been carrying that as a reminder ever since, as if that can erase his pain.

"He needed to die," Leon says. "But, god— I wish it didn't have to be me to be the one to kill him."

Luis tries to duck his head to coax Leon into looking at him, to try to get a better read on his emotional state because this is new, this is very new and Luis does not know what would be best to say, how he should approach this— So Luis keeps his mouth shut (for once), and instead does what Leon likes to do and opens up the silence for more. If Leon wants to say more.

Leon has already said so much— by Leon's standards and opinions, probably too much—

Leon is quiet, no longer even attempting to reestablish eye-contact. "I wish it hadn't ended that way."

"Could it have ended another way?" Luis asks, voice pitched in a whisper, as if speaking softly could keep Leon from shying away from such a question.

Instead of withdrawing further— Luis is amazed that Leon hasn't gotten off the couch, hasn't broken off physical contact because that is how Leon handles these sorts of conversations (with plenty of distance and avoidance even if he can be verbally cornered into engaging), Leon stays. He stays still and silent.

Luis thinks that is a refusal to answer, so he turns his hand over, palm up, and waits to see if Leon will respond. But Leon takes a breath and takes that empty space in the conversation for himself again.

"If he hadn't changed, maybe…" Leon trails off for another long pause, longer than a minute.

But his hand slips into Luis' during that time, which makes Luis relax, finally— Luis squeezes, watching Leon's eyes dart up from where they were cast off to the side, avoiding everything as if Luis is going to shame him, to scold him. Leon does not meet Luis' gaze, but he does look at their fingers so Leon can thread his fingers through Luis'.

"People change," Leon says— like it's a curse and not a prayer.

[tasteleeknow]

HELLO STRANGER. PART FOUR.

PAIRING: minho ft. hyunjin x fem!reader GENRE: smut, angst, fluff, soulmate!au. enemies to lovers. jealousy. pining. unrequited love. WORD COUNT: 6k

masterlist and taglist ♡ pt.1 | pt.5

Minho keeps his word. He’s hardly around for the first few weeks, disappearing early in the morning and returning late enough at night that you can almost forget you live with him. It helps that Luna had a chance to adjust weeks before you. She’s decided this is home. You attempt to follow her lead. She’s a little leader, your girl. She always has one of Minho’s cats trailing her, a little companion on her adventures around the apartment. She’s never alone. 

Hyunjin tosses his towel into the laundry as he rushes past you. “I’ll clean up when I get back,” he says just before stuffing a strawberry in his mouth. “Promise,” he mumbles around the fruit. 

“Mm, don’t worry about it. Just have a safe trip.”

He was taking a well deserved break, a weekend away with his parents. When he’d asked you for permission you’d been taken off guard. Why would he feel the need to ask you? And then Minho’s cat had made himself comfortable on your lap. Ah. The roommate/soulmate. You didn’t expect anything to change. As long as you both kept to your normal routine, you’d practically have the place to yourself. 

You should be happy to have some space. But you can’t help sinking a little as the door closes behind him. 

The weekend passes with the only trace of your soulmate the water running through the pipes in the early morning. He’s gone before you emerge. As always. 

It isn’t until you get a warning for severe weather and a text from Hyunjin that everything goes wrong. He was trapped. The ferry had been cancelled due to weather. He wouldn’t be back. Then you get a call from work. Stay home and bunker down. It’s a storm not seen in years, says the evening news. Expect power cuts and prepare accordingly. It’s enough to have you shoving your heaviest jacket on and rushing out the door to the convenience store. It was forecast to last two days. Two days of food and water and some candles, then you could hunker down. 

The rain starts as you’re shoving your haul into your shopping bag, the wheels making the walk back to your building easy—in good weather at least. The sky lights up with lightning as your phone buzzes in your pocket. 

Minho. Right. You were getting good at forgetting about him. 

“Yeah?”

“Where are you?” he asks, sounding a little breathless. 

“Out. Why?” 

A door shuts in the background. “Have you seen the weather warnings? I’ll come get you.” 

“It’s fine. I’m around the corner.” 

A rumble of thunder punctuates your sentence. He was holding you up. It feels like the wind is picking up by the second, trees lining the sidewalk shaking their leaves onto the pavement. 

“You’re walking? Do you have an umbrella?” he asks.

An umbrella was useless by this point, the wind would make it unbearable. You weren’t going to waste time arguing with him about it. “I’m good.” Not exactly a lie. “See you soon.” 

It makes sense he’s home. You’re not sure why you’d let it slip your mind completely. It seems like the entire city is preparing to bunker down. You shove your hood over head as you venture out, keeping your head down and marching as quickly as the small wheels on your trolley can manage as it rattles along behind you. You’d broken a wheel off your suitcase this way when you’d moved in. Hyunjin had taken it from you, half carrying the heavy baggage over the bumpy surface. He wasn’t here to help you now, to cushion the tension between you and your soulmate, to carry some of your load for you.

You only had Minho.

You hesitate at the elevator. Wouldn’t it be just your luck for the power to go out just as you take the short ride upstairs. Still, there’s no way you can lug the heavy bag up the stairs. So you’d have to suck it up, your slight anxiety around elevators be damned. 

It’s your last moment alone as you watch the numbers tick over above the door. You’d be trapped with Minho for at least two days. You can’t decide if you’re grateful to not have to weather the storm alone. 

The apartment door swings open before you have a chance to fish for your key. 

“You’re drenched,” Minho comments, pointing out the obvious. His hair is a mess, damp and tousled.

It’s not worth an answer as you nudge past him, dumping your heavy jacket and sodden shoes in the entryway. He follows behind you to the kitchen and then begins moving the items you unpack around the counter like he’s helping. 

“Are you preparing for the apocalypse?” he asks, clearly amused as he starts arranging the many packs of water along the bench. “There’s enough water here to last us weeks.”

You pause your unpacking, turning to face him. “Us?” 

He blinks. “You’re not sharing?” 

You hum, feigning deep thought as you press your lips together. “Haven’t decided.” 

“You’d let your soulmate die of thirst?” 

He uses that word so casually now. ‘Soulmate’ slips past his lips like it’s easy, like he hasn’t thrown the entire concept at his feet and stamped it into the ground, like he didn’t admit to hating you for being his. He’s clearly in a good mood, his tone light and playful. It makes you want to shove him into your trolley and push it down the stairs. 

You take a step towards him, keeping your expression neutral. “Haven’t decided,” you repeat before leaving him to unpack the rest himself.

You needed a hot shower. 

—

He’s gone when you finish. You find all the supplies neatly packed away and the cats devouring their dinner. The light under his bedroom door is the only indication he’s still in the apartment. You settle into the lounge with a heavy blanket as the storm continues to roll in. Storms are nice, as long as you have light. Rain you loved, thunder and lightning. It was the threat of blackouts that had a tiny fluttering of butterflies starting in your stomach. Mina had said it was irrational, to be so afraid of the dark. You didn’t think so. 

What was irrational about being unable to see? It makes you vulnerable. It makes you alone. 

—

You’re completely disoriented when you wake. Two of the cats are sleeping between your legs, your neck hurts from the awkward angle you’d passed out in, and every single light is off. 

It had to happen. You’d been mentally preparing yourself for hours. You’re fine, you tell yourself. 

The sky lights up just as a crack of thunder jolts the cats off the lounge and into the darkness. 

You’re fine. Alone. Fine. 

Minho had left the candles out on the bench. You’d made a mental note of it after your shower. Phone. You had a phone. Where’s your phone? You dig between the couch cushions, willing your eyes to adjust to the darkness. It’s amazing how good brains can be at interpreting any noise in the dark as a threat. What was perhaps once a useful evolutionary adaptation, now serves to freak you out in your own apartment. You swear you hear a shuffle in the kitchen. The sound of slippers moving across tiles. 

“Minho?” you whisper. It feels safer to whisper. 

Silence. The sound of the whistling wind and heavy rain doesn't comfort you like it normally would. Not in the dark. Not when you’re alone. 

“Minho!” you call. You could be embarrassed about this later, in the daylight. 

A crash. You practically jump out of your skin, kicking your toe on the small table in front of the lounge as you leap to your feet. 

Then a door opens. 

Minho. 

“The power’s out. I—” 

“You’re alright?” he interrupts, voice croaky from disturbed sleep. 

“I—I yeah, I just… I thought I heard someone and it’s dark and—” 

“Fuck me,” he groans, clearly irritated. Then he sighs. “Alright. I left candles over here…” You tuck your feet up underneath you as he shuffles around. Then, “Hi, baby. You alright?”

Your heart skips. 

“Oh you’re braver than your brother’s, hm?” he continues. 

He’s talking to Luna.

It’s only when a faint glow appears over the kitchen counter that you manage to pull yourself up. You’re not alone. You have light. 

“I’m sorry if I woke you,” you offer as he emerges with two thick candles. The embarrassment comes with the light. “I don’t like the dark.” 

It makes sense to get the confession out of the way. What’s he going to do? Think you’re stupid? He couldn't care less about you. You have nothing to lose. 

“Ah,” is all he says in response. He places one of the candles down in front of you carefully, making sure it's away from the tissue box also resting on the small table. “I don’t like heights,” he adds, almost like an afterthought. 

He says it easily. It’s irrelevant. He’s saying it just to offer something. You shared, so he shared in return. You’re not sure why it renders you completely speechless. Nevermind the fact you’d learned as much from your bridge experience. The bridge. The one where he'd called you an infection. A buzzing fly. The memory snaps you from your stupor. 

You snatch the candle from the table. 

“Goodnight,” you offer curtly, silently wishing you weren’t alone—that you didn’t have to bunker down with your flickering candle and try not to think of the darkness surrounding you. 

—

Hours. It had to have been hours. Luna does her best to offer you comfort, curling around your arm as you wait for the storm to settle. It doesn’t. 

It should be easy, in theory, to walk across the hallway and knock on Minho’s door. To ask if he could sleep with his door open just so the thick darkness recedes a little around you. Alone. Alone. Alone. 

But it’s not easy. 

He’s not Hyunjin. 

You reach for your phone. 3% battery. He was unlikely to answer anyway. Not at 2am. Thunder rumbles through the building as you wait for him to answer. Wait and wait and wait. 

“Hello?” he croaks out. “You alright?” 

“Hi,” is all you manage in return, suddenly embarrassed. “Sorry.” 

“What’s wrong?” 

He sounds more awake now. Awake at 2am when he should be enjoying his time away with his family. Guilt seeps in to join the embarrassment. 

“It’s—I mean the power went out.” 

He’s quiet for a moment, then: “You don’t like the dark?”

He makes it so easy. “No, not really,” you confess. “Not when it’s storming anyway. It makes it worse… I guess.” 

“Minho home?”

“Mm.”

He’s quiet on the other end. A small comfortable silence. Like he knows you just don’t want to be alone. You can hear the storm through the phone. He’s so close, close enough to be feeling the same crashing of thunder and lightning. 

“Has he been behaving?” he asks. His tone is light but you can’t help feeling he means it, that he’s genuinely worried you’ve had a horrific clash the moment he’s left you alone together. 

“We’ve been fine, honestly. He helped me find the candles earlier when I got a little freaked out. We’re good.” 

“Really?” 

“Really.” 

“That’s good,” he hums, sounding tired again. 

You attempt to convince yourself you feel better, that you can let him go back to sleep and then follow him soon after. “My phone is about to die. I’ll let you go.” 

“Mm,” he hums. “Goodnight.” 

“Night.” 

You can be brave, you tell yourself as the line goes dead. It lasts until the next rumble of thunder. Alone. Alone. Alone. 

Minho would be unlikely to murder you if you woke him again. He seemed to be insistent on getting along for Hyunjin’s sake. It’s a risk worth taking as your heart jumps at the next flash of lightning. 

With your flickering candle and racing heart you make your way to his door, attempting to ignore the shadows closing in around you. The cats are around somewhere, you remind yourself. You can attribute the noises you swear you hear down the hallway to them. 

What would you say when he opens his door? This would be the second time you’d disturbed his sleep tonight. Hi, sorry. I know you hate me and resent my presence in your life but I was wondering if you could keep me company? I’m afraid of the dark and the soulmate that rejected me is better than no company at all. Please.

You suck in a shallow breath as you rap your knuckles on the door softly, hesitantly. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9—

He opens the door slowly, eyes bleary and heavy. You’re not sure what to say. So you say nothing. 

“Yeah?” he says after a moment, when it’s clear you’re going to continue standing there in silence. 

Your lips part. Then close. 

A crack of lightning strikes nearby, the loudest yet. 

You watch as his eyes drop down your body, then trail their way back up to your face—like he’s processing the fact you’re really standing there at his door in the middle of night with nothing to say. 

“Is the power back?” he mumbles as he rubs at one eye. 

“No.” You lift the candle up between you like an offering—a silent answer. 

“Ah,” he says. 

You’re trapped. It’s up to you to lead this somewhere, to break this strange encounter before it lapses into awkward silence. You can’t just leave. You need an excuse. An excuse… An—

“Is it the storm?” Minho asks, pulling you from your panic. He’s leaning against the doorframe, his hands in the pockets of his sweats. “I’ve never heard anything about you being afraid of the dark,” he clarifies. “Is it the storm?” 

You shuffle back and forth on your feet, swaying a little. “I… I guess, yeah.” 

He’s quiet, waiting for you to continue. It’s easier to watch the small flickering flame as you speak. “I love storms. Rain too. It’s just… the combination with darkness and… being alone,” you mumble as the flickering candle casts shadows between you. “It sounds stupid.”

“How are the cats?”

You look up, finding his deep brown eyes on you. “What?” 

“Storms usually freak them out a little.”

“Oh.” You take a small step back before attempting to make out any shapes down the hallway. Pointless. It’s completely dark. “I haven’t seen them since… since I woke you up earlier.” 

Then he’s moving past you, into the darkness. You follow with your small candle, offering him the light he needs. He shuffles his feet as he walks, socks sliding a little across the floor. You feel better already, you realise as you follow him around. Suddenly the heavy rain and whistling wind feels like a curtain, shielding you rather than closing in. You’re safe and warm and you’re not alone. 

“Here they are,” Minho announces as he slides down onto the floor with his back up against the couch. He reaches under the small table and pulls one of the cat’s out. You’re not entirely sure what to do with yourself, standing there with your candle as you watch him console a sleepy cat. 

You decide to place the candle onto the table and sit opposite him. If you stay quiet maybe he won’t leave. Luna slinks out to join you, stretching lazily. None of them look disturbed to you. At all.

So there you are, sitting across from Minho, each with a cat in your lap. At 2am.

It’s nice. 

If only Hyunjin could see you now. You can’t help letting a small breath of amusement out at the thought. 

“What is it?” Minho questions, the candle lighting his face softly. 

“Was just thinking of Hyunjin.” 

He tilts his head a little, confused. 

“He asked me earlier if you’d been behaving, like we were gonna attack each other the second he left us alone.” You pause, watching his expression. You can’t figure it out at all. 

“What’d you say?”

“That we were fine.” 

He blinks, keeping his eyes fixed on you until a crack of lighting pulls your attention to the window. It always seemed to be late at night that you found yourself in situations like this with him. Were you only capable of getting along in the strange period between midnight and sunrise?

“Are we?” he says after a moment—in a quiet window between rumbles of thunder. 

You could lie. You could tell him you’re willing to forget who he is—what he did to you. For Hyunjin’s sake. You almost want to. But you find—as you sit there watching the candle light cast shadows across his cheeks—that you can’t. 

“No,” you whisper. “I wish we were.” 

Luna stirs in your lap, a small noise of contentment accompanying her readjustment before she settles again. She’s completely unbothered by the storm, your brave girl. 

“You don’t like storms at night,” Minho says, apparently deciding to turn away from the current conversation. You were fine with that. “What else?” 

“Hm?” 

“What else are you afraid of?” 

Okay maybe you weren't fine with the change of direction. “Why?” 

His lips turn up at one corner. “Conversation.” 

“We’ve never been very good at that.” 

The other corner joins in—transforming his crooked smirk into a full smile. “So is that one of them? Conversations with me?” 

“No.” 

His smile drops off slowly, then he looks down into his lap. “Good,” he murmurs. “That’s good.” 

“Swimming,” you offer. “I don’t… like swimming.” 

“I can’t swim either.” 

“I can swim. I just don’t like it.” 

“Why?” 

It feels dangerous—offering him parts of yourself. It was naive to think you could live with a person and not let them know you at all. Still, it’s scary. You’re afraid. You suppose you are scared of conversations with him. 

You clear your throat as Luna leaves your lap and you wrap your arms around your knees—tugging them to your chest. “I uh—I nearly drowned as a kid.” 

He says nothing, just waits. He expects more. He wants more? 

“It was stupid,” you continue. “I spent a lot of time at the beach. My friends and I would go down at night—sit on the sand when we had the whole beach to ourselves. We never went in the water—not at night. It freaked us out.” A flash of lightning lights up the room again. Minho is still watching you, like he cares about your stupid teenage misadventures. “My friend’s brother came with us one night. We sat on the sand and watched a storm roll in across the ocean… watched the sky light up on the horizon as the sound of thunder got closer and closer. Then… well he dared me to go in the water with him.”

“And you went?” 

“I’d had a crush on him for 3 years,” you offer in explanation. “I went.” You sigh, stretching your legs out in front of you—under the small table. One of the cats drops its paw across your ankle. “I got dunked by a wave. It was dark and the sky lit up with lightning and I thought I was going to die.” You can’t look at him anymore. You’ve shared too much of yourself. “It’s stupid. When I surfaced… the storm had reached us… and this guy I liked was back on shore with everyone else. They weren’t even looking for me. They hadn’t noticed I was in trouble… I was completely alone.” 

The storm quiets down for a moment, leaving you and Minho sitting there in silence. It’s unbearable. 

“Storms at night,” he murmurs after a crack of lightning disturbs the quiet. 

You look up at him. He’s pulled his hoodie up over his head and his hair falls over one of his eyes. His big brown eyes that gleam in the candlelight. “Storms at night,” you whisper. 

You’re grateful when he’s quiet after that—quiet as the candle flickers between you and the storms rages around you. You’re grateful he hasn’t left. 

And then he stands. “Well…” he starts, “should we eat then?” 

You blink up at him. “That’s not fair.” 

“What? You decided you’re not gonna share your apocalypse stash?” 

“You haven’t shared your fears.” 

He crosses his arms across his chest before slumping into the couch behind him. “Ah,” he says with a deep sigh. “I guess that’s fair.” 

You tuck your knees to your chest again and wait for him to start. You imagine you look a little like an eager child waiting for her favourite show to start. You attempt to wipe a little of the eagerness off your face. 

He clears his throat as he plays with the hoodie drawstrings hanging down his chest. “Well… there’s heights.”

Bridge. Infection. 

“And uh… I don’t really like bugs,” he continues. 

Buzzing around like a fucking fly.

“That’s it?” you question as your shoulders drop. 

He shrugs. Shrugs. As if you hadn’t just told him about your stupid fucking childhood-deep fears. 

“Bugs? That’s all you can offer?” You pull yourself onto your feet and cross your arms across your chest, suddenly chilled. “I’ve never told anyone about the beach before.” 

He tugs his hoodie down, revealing his dishevelled bed hair. He almost looks guilty for a moment before he wipes his expression clean and stands up—the small table working as a barrier between you. “I’m hungry,” he says. 

“Tell me what you’re afraid of.” 

“Starving,” he says with a straight face.

You step around the table, the flickering candlelight and conveniently timed lightning strike making the action seem far more dramatic than it should be. “Tell me,” you repeat, poking him in the chest with your index finger. 

“You’re braver than me,” he says as his eyes flick across your face. “I’m not ready to talk about my storms at night.” 

“That’s not fair,” you mumble.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers as a particularly loud rumble of thunder rolls through the building. You almost don’t hear him. You can probably pretend you haven’t. 

“Fine,” you mutter. “Let’s eat.” 

He follows you to the kitchen, trailing behind you much like you had trailed after him earlier. “You’re sharing?” he asks, a hint of amusement in his voice. 

He leans against the doorframe as you dig out some of the snacks you’d grabbed at the convenient store as an afterthought. Chips and chocolate covered almonds were all you could offer at 3am. “You’re Hyunjin’s best friend. I’m obligated not to let you starve to death,” you say as you toss him the bag of chips. 

He catches them easily. “I’m grateful,” he says. It makes you a little uncomfortable—the way he says it. The way he looks at you. Like he means it. You’re not sure he’s talking about the chips. 

—

You wake up sprawled across the couch, a chocolate almond pressing into your cheek. It’s light out—as light as it can be during a raging storm. 

Minho sleeps on his stomach on the carpet, his head resting on his arm and two of the cats pressed up against his sides. 

He hadn’t left you. 

You’re not sure if it was intentional. If he’d decided to stay with you or if he’d merely fallen asleep without much thought about you and your fears of being alone. 

His blanket is much heavier than you imagined as you drag it from his bed and drape it over him before crawling into your own bed. It didn’t have to mean anything more than a silent thank you for not leaving. You weren’t capable of offering him a verbal one. 

That’s the last time you see him that day. He’s around though. You hear the water run through the pipes as he showers and the clattering of him doing the dishes as the sun goes down. You manage to spend that night alone, curled up under your blanket with the knowledge that Minho was only across the hallway—that you could knock on his door and he’d answer. It made it easier knowing that he would spend the night with you if you asked. You weren’t alone. 

Hyunjin interrogates you when he gets home. He waits until Minho’s in the shower. It takes you until the water stops running to convince him you really, honestly, truly hadn’t argued the entire time. 

His shoulders sag the moment he finally believes you. 

It’s easy to decide then—watching the relief flood across his pretty face—you’ll never argue with Minho anywhere near him again. You won’t add to his heavy load. He didn’t need to carry anything for you anymore. It was the last thing he deserved. 

—

“Please,” Hyunjin whines as he drapes himself over your shoulders, disrupting your fork's path to your mouth. You sigh, dropping your head back onto his shoulder. His breath tickles your neck when he speaks next. “I’m sick of going alone.” 

Minho sits silently across the table, slowly making his way through his own breakfast. He’d started emerging from his room more often—hanging around in shared spaces when you’re around. It was a silent agreement you’d made, to share space—silently. Conversation was still rare. 

“I’ve already showered,” you say, lifting your head from Hyunjin’s shoulder to find Minho watching you. “Besides, I don’t like swimming.” 

Hyunjin detaches himself from you and drops into the chair beside you. “Why? I know you like getting wet.” 

Minho’s spoon clatters onto his plate. 

“Rain is different,” you say, ignoring the man across the table. “I haven’t been swimming in years. It’s just… different.” 

“Why?” Hyunjin asks. 

It’s innocent. He doesn’t know. You can feel Minho’s eyes on you. The weight of both of them waiting for you to answer. 

“I’ll come,” Minho says. It’s the first thing he’s said since his mumbled ‘Morning’ as he’d stumbled from the bathroom and into the kitchen. His voice is still a little croaky from sleep. 

The chair scrapes against the floor as Hyunjin stands. “You don’t swim.” 

“You can teach me,” Minho says with a shrug before attempting to shovel the rest of his food into his mouth. 

The grin that lights up Hyunjin’s face almost takes your breath away. “I’ll come,” you find yourself saying  before you’ve realised you’d had the thought. “I’ll come too.” 

Hyunjin drops a kiss to the top of your head. 

—

You own one swimsuit. You’d worn it once a few years ago on a day Mina had dragged you to the beach. It takes you longer than it should to find; to dig it out of a box you’ve left unpacked in the corner of your room. 

It’s snug. Your boobs spill over the top a little more than you remember. You turn to check the back covers your cheeks. Could be better, but not the worst. You’re just grateful it’s a one piece. You suck in a deep breath as you attempt to tug it up a little higher on your chest. You could back out, tell Hyunjin you’ve changed your mind. But then you remember his smile, his soft kiss to the crown of your head. You wrap your towel around you and suck it up. Act casual, you tell yourself as you emerge to find both men waiting for you. 

“Let’s go,” you say with a smile, snatching the keys from Minho’s hands and taking the lead out of the apartment.

It’s just early enough to miss the wave of early morning commuters clogging the elevators. It’s a quick trip down to the pool. You’ve seen it in passing—on your rare trip down the gym. You’ve never seen anyone using it. Hyunjin seemed to be the only regular user. Every single morning he’d make the trip downstairs with Minho before they separated—Hyunjin to the pool, Minho to the gym. 

“It’s heated,” Hyunjin announces as he drops his towel onto one of the poolside chairs. He’s in before you have a chance to do the same—diving into the water like it’s as easy as breathing. You wish you could do the same. But the thought of either of these men seeing your tits spilling out the top of your deep red swimsuit is a little more than you can handle—let alone the body of water you’re expected to enter. 

Minho’s lowered voice drags your eyes from the water as Hyunjin swims to the other end. “You alright?” he asks. If you hadn’t been regretting sharing your storms at night with him already, you were now. How are you supposed to drop your towel when he’s watching you like you might break down in tears at any second.

“I’m fine,” you say, offering a smile. You hope to god it’s convincing. “You?” 

“I’m fine,” he says, “You’re obligated to keep me alive, remember?” 

The storm supplies.

“Does it go the other way?” You drop your towel and tug your hair free, letting it loose. “You’ve gotta keep me alive for Hyunjin’s sake too, right?”

He blinks, a habit you’ve learned to read. He’s processing, sorting through his thoughts. “Yeah,” he says once he’s done. “It goes the other way.”

The water is warmer than you imagined, so warm you almost enjoy sinking beneath the surface. You can count the number of times you’ve done this since the beach on one hand. You usually manage fine. It’s the thought of sinking beneath water in the dark that makes your heart race. The fluesorant lights make it bearable. You can see Hyunjin. He’s here and he’s not leaving you. 

“Nice?” he asks as he makes his way over to you, water dripping from his hair onto his shoulders. 

“So warm,” you reply with a small smile. 

He smiles back, bright and tender. You’re almost convinced if all the lights went out this very second he’d manage to light the place up himself. You can’t imagine feeling darkness at all with him here in front of you. 

“Better than rain?”

“Not even close.” 

—

It becomes a habit—morning swims. You never manage to eat beforehand, the anxiety makes it impossible. But once you’re in? It settles. You’re fine—each day a little more so. 

“Why do you do it?” Minho asks as Hyunjin does his laps. He never attempts much swimming, spending his time soaking in the shallow end. 

“Do what?” you ask in return, turning to find his eyes snapping up from the waterline to your face. 

“This. Swimming.”

You must look confused because he pushes his wet hair from his face and continues. “Is it because he asked? You can say no. You don’t have to do everything he wants. He won’t break.” He looks over at where Hyunjin is about to touch the wall at the other end of the pool. “You said you were afraid,” he says in a lowered voice. 

“So?”

His brows draw together. “So… why do you swim if you’re afraid of swimming?” 

“Because it’s nice. I’m afraid and then I get in and I like it.”

He still looks confused. It’s enough to tug a small smile on your lips. 

“It’d be sad to let fear keep me from something that makes me happy, right?” you continue. “Fear is hardly ever a good guide. I think I’m slowly figuring out I’ve gotta try and ignore it when I can.” 

He blinks. 

“Oi!” Hyunjin calls from the other end. “Stop standing around. You’re supposed to be swimming.” 

“You hear that?” you say, turning to Minho again. “Lift your feet off the ground or it doesn’t count.” 

He’s quiet, clearly still thinking—processing. You leave him to it, making your way to Hyunjin at the other end. 

—

The first time you remember throwing up, you were five. You’d begged your mother to make it stop. You didn’t wanna throw up, it was the worst feeling in the world. Then it happened again a year later. A few years after that you’d dropped a lollipop on the ground, picked it up, and popped it back into your mouth. You’d thrown up more times in the following few days than you had in your entire life. Each time you promised yourself you’d never take feeling normal for granted again. Still, you knew that you’d get sick again. You’d throw up again at some point in your life. It was bound to happen eventually. It was inevitable.

Some things are like that, inevitable: getting sick, fighting with your roommate—who also happens to be your soulmate. 

“It’s not up to you!”

He takes a step closer as you shout at him, as calm as he was when this had started. It makes it worse—the way he stays so calm, the fact it’s you who has resorted to shouting. 

“Oh, but it's fine for you?” he says in a level tone. “You can stick your nose in and make choices for him and it’s fine?” 

You suck in a few deep breaths. He’s too close. It’s making it worse. “Oh, I’m sorry. Am I buzzing around like a fucking fly, Minho?” you blurt out.

He takes a step back, almost staggers backwards. You suddenly get the urge to cry, that horrible feeling in your throat foreshadowing tears. 

“You wanna fuck around in shit you don’t understand? Go ahead,” he says. “You’ll hurt him. You’ll fuck up and you’ll hurt him and then you’ll blame yourself and then I’ll—” He sucks in a breath and falls back against the wall. You watch as he drops his face into his hands and steadies his breathing. You wait for him to lift his face again, much calmer now—almost expressionless. “Please,” he says. “Trust me, just this once. You don’t know… you don’t know enough.” 

“Then tell me.” 

“It’s not for me to tell,” he says. He sounds tired now. Looks tired. “It’s his storms at night.” 

There’s a beam of sunlight shining in from the window across the room. It cuts nearly directly between you. Nearly. A sliver of it catches his hair and the side of his face. He practically glows. 

���Alright,” you breathe. 

He sags against the wall, a heavy silence falling over you both. It’s awful, the silence after a fight. Embarrassment. Shame. Regret. Exhaustion. Inevitable. 

“Don’t cry,” he whispers. 

You hadn’t even noticed the tear rolling slowly down your cheek. You wipe it quickly with your sleeve. “I don’t wanna fight anymore. 

He takes a small step forward. Then, “Me neither.”

—

You’re not used to keeping quiet. Mina wasn’t shy. You were free to slip your hands between your legs at night without any worry about holding back your whimpers. 

It’s different now. You live with two men. Two men you very much do not want to hear you whimpering at night. Still, it’s a hard habit to break. 

A tiny whine slips out as your fingers trace through your folds. It’s hard to even tell how loud you’re being. You’re hardly present. You’re somewhere else, somewhere with a faceless man with gentle hands and sweet words. He wants you, he wants to press himself up behind you and slip his heavy cock between your legs… grind himself against you… beg you to let him inside. 

Then you hear it… the running pipes. Minho is the only one home. Minho’s in the shower. It’s impossible to prevent the faceless man morphing into your roommate. You’re too far gone—brainless. It’s his body pressed up to yours, his voice whispering in your ear, his cock sliding between your legs. He wants you. 

You lose yourself with a gasp and whine, far too loud. The only thing that saves you is the fact he’s showering. Minho. 

Fuck. 

Fuck!

You scramble out of bed. You’re so completely fucked. 

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↳ main masterlist

[tokiwarcube]

Later

You didn’t mean to start the game, but don’t worry — Skwisgaar will happily finish it for you.

Or, in which you rile up Skwisgaar just a little too much at the album release party, and you remember what a damn-good flirt he is.

Skwisgaar Skwigelf/Reader (AFAB, GN.)

Handjobs, unintentional edging/orgasm denial, penetrative sex, unprotected sex, creampie, mild exhibitionism, semi-public sex, mirror sex, slight size kink. Established relationship, you guys are very much in love. 3.9k

All things considered, Skwisgaar is pretty put-together at big events like this. He doesn’t get too horrifically wasted, or yell at the waiters, or do anything to attract unnecessary attention. Sure, the little things he doesn’t mind letting loose on, but when it matters, he’s generally pretty good at not causing a scene.

But that doesn’t mean he’s on good behavior.

No, what he does is far more secretive. You’re reminded of this as he places his hands on your hips from behind — long digits reaching far more than your own hands ever could — leaning down to rest his chin on your shoulder. To anyone else, it looks like an innocent gesture — knowing your luck, this moment would be commemorated as little more than a photo in Times Magazine, with some tagline about the happy couple embracing at their album release party.

But what the world doesn’t see is the way his half-hard cock presses against your lower back.

You let your eyes sweep across the room, searching for staring eyes as he tilts his head to press an insistent kiss on your jawline. Shutters sound like gunshots in the busy room, and you tense when you realize there is indeed a lens trained on the two of you. You watch them check the preview on the screen, and you watch their face for any reaction… and… nothing. No furrowed brows or double takes — no new taglines to be added to tomorrow’s newspaper as they, thankfully, move on to capture more of the party. You breathe a sigh of relief, relaxing, and Skwisgaar’s lips upturn against your skin.

“You ams looking very pretty tonights.”

You smile, and huff out a laugh. Always one for the flattery.

“You always say that.”

He’s been chasing you around the label party all night, each time with a new attempt to get into your pants — sweet words here, a graze across the shoulder there. You can’t say you mind, especially considering the events leading up to now, although now he seems to be growing more bold in spite of your reassurances for “later.” Part of you thinks he’s growing impatient, although another part of you thinks he’s enjoying this game you’re playing just a little too much. You switch your drink to your other hand so you can reach around and run your fingers through his hair — his hips buck into yours at the contact, noticeably reflexive with how his fingers flex over your clothes, but you cling to your composure.

“And I always means it,” he says.

He takes your hand in his own, rough callouses rubbing gentle circles into your wrist, and that, that’s, what almost gets you. Flashes of tangled limbs and white satin sheets flash through your mind, as familiar as the feeling of air in your lungs. His voice drops as he presses his lips to the back of your hand, still kept close to your ear.

“But I think you ams especially pretty in white.”

Bastard.

He places one last kiss to your jaw before leaning back up, pulling you back into him a bit more as he does so, his chest a firm wall beneath your back. "This ams boring,” he says, this time at normal volume, “we should leaves.” He punctuates his words with another tempting rock of his hips against yours, cock filling out further with each consecutive half-thrust.

“Later,” you murmur, although this time, its more for your sake than his. He hums low in his chest, continuing to drag his thumb across the exposed skin of your wrist — undeterred even as you drag him to the dance floor, even as you sit among the label staff; and even as you’re seated for dinner among all of the people that makes your shared lives possible. With how free he’s become around you — less of his cool facade, and more of the humorous man he really is — you had almost forgotten how damn well he can flirt… especially with his new repertoire of little tricks curated just for you. Your resolve begins to crumble bit by bit as the night goes on, and you find quickly yourself regretting this game that you, albeit inadvertently, started.

You’d known about the party for months. It was impossible to miss really, with how often Charles reminded the lot of you of the date and it’s importance — a simple message of “don’t fuck this up” coming through in all of his reminders. And maybe if the sun didn’t filter through your curtains just so, illuminating the features of your lover so heavenly, maybe you would have thought about that just a bit more before placing an insistent trail of kisses along his jawline to rouse him from his slumber.

He sighs as he wakes, elegant as ever, ocean-blue eyes peeling open to peer blearily at you. Too early for his tastes he squints for a moment, eyes softening as he takes in your own sleepy features, before throwing an arm around you and hiding his face in your neck.

“Good mornings,” he hums into your hair and, insatiable as ever, you feel him stiffen against your bare thigh — still unclothed from last night’s activities. You titter out a quiet laugh, running your hand through his tresses for a moment, end to end, before burying your hand deeper to scratch gently at his scalp, coaxing a quiet groan of contentment from his throat.

“Good morning to you too,” you tease, “sleep well?”

“With you? Always.” His vowels and consonants always seem to slur together a bit more in the early hours of the day, accent more prominent in the fog that comes with waking. It’s a charming thing, but you don’t have time to savor it when he’s being so damn distracting — running his hand down your side so lovingly, so tenderly, before easing you onto your back. Your hands fall to your sides at his fluid movements, and silken white sheets cradle you as he presses his soft, plush lips to your collarbone. Then, to the left clavicle. Then the right. And then lower, to your sternum; your stomach; the crest of your pelvic bone. He moves so slow, so sensual, that it’s almost — almost — embarrassing how easily he works you up. But then he’s rising back to your lips, knee slotting itself back to where his mouth almost was, and you rock yourself against him at the same time you wrap your fingers around his cock. He groans into your mouth as you twist your grip around his length, and with a morning voice so pretty, how could you not want to pull him undone?

You drag the blunt of your nails along the planes of his chest, reveling in the goosebumps that rise in your wake, and you drink up every little reaction greedily. Slow movements from each of you drag out the experience — his own shallow thrusts into your grip, your steady movements against the leg parting your thighs — its a slow rise to pleasure, as slow as your rise to wakefulness. He pulls his mouth from yours for a quick breath, lips kiss swollen, and you can’t help but run your thumb across them in admiration.

It’s then that he takes your free hand in his hold, guitar callouses rubbing undeniably fond circles into the underside of your wrist. Soft lips press equally soft kisses to each one of your extended fingers, humping into your loose grip with a steady rhythm all the while, before finally interlocking your digits with his own. Your conjoined hands press gently into the bedspread, and from this angle he looks positively divine — golden hair falling delicately to form a shimmering curtain around the two of you, plush lips parted in growing pleasure, long eyelashes fluttering… He’s always so beautiful, but like this, it’s enough to—

The shriek of your alarm startles you from your stupor, and shit, Charles is going to kill the two of you if you’re late. You drop your hand from his cock, scrambling for your phone as best you can in this position, thankfully turning off the shrill screaming. His face falls — his whole body following soon after, and collapsing his face into your neck for the second time this morning. He makes a noise of discontent into your shoulder, moving to wind his arms around you in protest. And yes, it’s cute, and maybe another day you would indulge him, but you have to go.

“Come ons,” he groans, “it ams too early for a stupids meetings.”

“Baby, it’s not a meeting, it’s release day,” you shake his shoulder lightly, but he doesn’t budge. Instead, he places a kiss to the junction of where your shoulder meets your neck, and the offer is tempting, but then the memory of your alarm shrieking plays in your head, and Jesus, Charles will actually kill you two if you’re late. You tell him as such, and for his credit, he does roll on his side to let you free, albeit with a sigh. You scramble out of bed, darting towards the closet when you cast a look over your shoulder at him, mouth parted to urge him into getting ready… But the view of him spread across the white sheets has you pausing.

His eyes roam over your naked form as you stand — slow, intentional, like he’s mapping all of the places he wants to bite and hold, and you know that’s exactly what he’s doing when his lashes flutter, eyes darkening. Its almost enough to tempt you back into his arms, to risk the reprimand from the higher ups. Silently, with a raise of his brows, he extends his hand back to you. Expectant. Cocky. Confident. You bite the inside of your cheek, mulling over the consequences in your mind as you take a half step forward. And really, what’s—

Shit. Second alarm.

His face falls again as you turn and dart toward your wardrobe, this time with an unshakable determination. And while there’s truly nothing you’d want more than to spend the day in bed with him, you know damn-well that you can’t.

“Later,” you promise, rifling through your closet.

Although you know, this isn’t all entirely your fault, either. Because if he didn’t look so kissable in the plane taking you to the event, you wouldn’t have nibbled at his lip the way that you did. If he didn’t fill out that suit so nicely, you wouldn’t have drug your nails up his thigh in the moments before takeoff, wouldn’t have cupped his bulge as he hardened in his slacks. And maybe it’s his fault for getting worked up so easily — you know well enough that he has no problems testing your self-restraint, so really, what’s the harm in throwing it back at him a little bit? But he seems to care for none of this now in the present, as your previous promise of “later” leads you to the sprawling dinner table.

And God, you feel like you’re on fire. His hand rests on the inside of your thigh, petting gently, never too close, but just close enough to impart a heat that grows further and further up your face with every passing second. And any time he deems you too comfortable, he squeezes firmly, bringing you straight back to attention. You hate how composed he looks through it all too, casually sipping at his glass without even casting a glance towards your trembling form. Although you suspect he must be watching you in his peripherals, as his lips upturn coyly when you pout in his direction.

He’s getting off on watching you lose your composure.

Thoughts grow fuzzy the longer he teases, long digits never quite landing where you need them to be — but with so many watchful eyes, you can’t quite tell whether or not it’s a blessing or a curse. You’re just thankful that nobody’s asking you for extra details about the album, tonight — you’re not sure if you can even form a coherent thought at this point, nevermind formulate a truthful response. You lean against your lover a bit, canting your head up for a kiss, and graciously, he does meet you in the middle for one — quick and chaste, but it gives you enough time to mumble out a half-hearted “mean” against his lips. He grins at the same time your lips quirk downwards.

“Later,” he says mockingly, throwing your words from earlier at you, and takes another sip from his glass. More for show at this point, really, the damnable bastard. You huff, but accept your fate nonetheless — it’s not like you can go home any time soon considering Charles’ insistence on your full attendance. And, well, getting Skwisgaar to keep his hands to himself on any night is nothing short of a Herculean task, nevermind one where he’s already worked up. You lean a bit further into him, trying to will away the heat in your cheeks.

What you don’t expect is for him to take your wrist in his grip, and place your hand over his bulge. He presses your digits insistently against him, dragging the tips of your fingers up to trace along his length, from the head the rests on his right thigh, and back up to the base. He spreads his legs a bit further beneath the table cloth, giving you a bit more access, and even that little movement is enough to spark vivid memories that leave you more affected than you’d like to admit. You swallow thickly, feeling the heat pool further between your legs — his words, his touch, his own unabashed arousal all mixing together in your thoughts — and you’re just about ready to say fuck it to this whole event. You’ve done everything the label has asked of you, so do they really have a reason to keep you?

He knows he has you when you drag your hand across him of your own accord, stroking him beneath his slacks. He drops your hand then, and against your better judgement, you keep up your movements. Each inch your fingertips caress beneath the table cloth is an inch you ache to have buried in you, and Jesus Christ, you’ve never wanted to leave an event more.

His lips meet the top of your head for a moment — another sweet couples photo for Times, you think to yourself — evidently pleased at the fact that finally, you were chasing him.

“How abouts we finds a place a bit more… private?” He murmurs against your hair, for your ears only, “Been wantings to fuck you stupid since we woke up this mornings.” You feel him grin, victorious, when you nod shallowly, and he continues on with your confirmation. “Bathroom at the ends of the hall. Right sides. Five minutes.” And with that he’s rising from his seat, pushing his chair out and turning off to stride down the corridor.

And maybe you’re a bit too obvious in the way you let your eyes trail up his long legs as he moves away from you, but you’re glad to have taken the second look, because the short few minutes spent apart from him is tortuous. You squeeze your thighs together eagerly, swallowing at the barest bit of friction it provides to your clit, and when the time feels right, finally rise to your feet to follow after him. It’s easy enough to slip away unnoticed, with how little you’ve been chatting with your not-quite-peers tonight, and you only feel your excitement grow as you turn the corner — right, you remember — and dip into the bathroom.

You hardly have time to take in your surroundings as a pair of large hands come to cradle your face, bringing your lips to his own. This kiss lacks all of the restraint of the ones before — sensual precision replaced with desperate wanting as his tongue presses insistently at your lips and into your mouth. Hot and heavy, the breath is all but stolen from your lungs as you meet again and again, and yet you can’t seem to get enough. Kissing you this deep, he nearly has to fold himself to meet your mouth, and the image has you whining wantonly, dizzy on him. His blazer falls to the floor just after in an uncharacteristic display of impatience, but his hands aren’t off of you for long. The click of the lock is hardly heard over the thrum of your heart in your ears as he spins you gently away from the door and walks you backwards, not once breaking away from your passionate embrace.

It’s only when your backside brushes against the edge of the counter that he parts, and you quickly realize why he chose this bathroom in particular. Donned in hues of white and gold, this bathroom is full length, with a large, curving mirror towering over the countertop that he, evidently, wants little more than to bend you over. Curious hands roam up your sides, and flat against your ribcage like this, it’s startling how much room they take up.

“Ams such a tease,” he breathes, following the shape of your curves with his long fingers, and squeezing your hips firmly. It’s enough to draw a gasp from your lips, and you don’t have time to defend yourself against the accusations because soon after his hands are tugging insistently at your own slacks, fingers pressing against your dripping core through the fabric beneath them. You buck up into his touch involuntarily, stretched thin with want and lust, and God, you can’t believe he’s this damn good at taking you apart.

“Actings like you don’t wants this as much as me,” he scoffs, “you wants me to takes care of you? Huh?” He circles tightly around your clit through the fabric, as though to punctuate his sentence, and it’s enough to have you nodding your head rapidly in want. But that’s not enough.

“Ams you sure? Sure you don’t want to wait for laters?”

You whine high in your throat, pressing your hips against his hand insistently. “Skwisgaar, please— please, I want you.”

“Say it.” His pupils are blown wide, watching your expression eagerly, lips upturned at your wanting.

“Please fuck me? Please?”

And that, that finally seems to be enough for him — because just as the words leave your mouth he’s spinning you around to bend you over the sink, marble ice cold against your too-hot body. You hear the jingling of his belt as he shucks his slacks, and you wag your ass in temptation, netting you a firm hand to grope at you, and then come down with a soft crack against the tender flesh. He then slips the last of your bottoms off, nudging your feet apart with his own. Your pussy welcomes his fingers eagerly as they stretch you out — you were ready hours ago, embarrassed as you are to admit it — and with the newfound stimulation, you feel like a fucking live wire beneath him.

“‘Skwis—”

He hushes you, withdrawing his hand with a lewd slick. You flush at the noise — an undeniable fact of your wanting — but all thoughts die when the head of his cock runs through your folds, smearing your slickness before sliding slowly into you. You sigh in unison as he bottoms out — and suddenly all too aware of the party just down the hall you bite your tongue just as he grips your hips for a bit of leverage to find a rhythm.

Focused on keeping your voice low, the only noise for a bit is the sound of your shared panting, hips meeting with the soft jingle of his loosened belt. But it’s hard to hold your composure for long, with how his cock drags so expertly against your walls— sensitive, with the hours of wanting leading up to now.

He tangles his hand in your hair, pulling your eyes up to the mirror in front of you. There, you see the two of you — moving in tandem, a perfect song and dance, chasing your shared high. From this position you can’t see the way he enters you, taking you apart with each calculated thrust — but you can see the effects of it everywhere else. You’re a mess — all tousled hair and kiss-swollen lips — and he’s not much better for wear. His hair bounces with every thrust, pressing deeper and deeper each time; lips bitten raw from his cycle of biting and panting; muscles tense and lean, with the veins in his hands popping in the cold light of the bathroom. His undershirt clings to his chest, slick with sweat, tie long loosened for that extra bit of breathing room. He’s a vision — all disheveled, and undeniably gorgeous — and with a view like this, you could watch him pull you apart all day long.

Again and again his hips meet yours, growing more desperate with every passing second, and he slaps his hand across your mouth when your cries become too loud, too risky. Each thrust gets more shallow, more forceful, and you have to slap a hand of your own against the mirror to keep from sliding too far up the countertop. Soon enough he’s folding himself over you, hardly pulling out more than an inch before slamming back into you again, and again, and again—

“So fucking goods for me,” he praises low in your ear, “always takes me so well. Been waiting for this all night, haven’ts you?” A kiss just below your ear finishes his statement, but a hand on your clit starts a new one.

“So needy, getting fucked in publics like this, where anyone could just walk in and see. But you’re all mine, amnst you?”

You moan against the hand silencing you as he draws rapid, tight circles, nodding fervently. You hardly catch the praise that follows your needy submission, the coos of “that’s right,” as you’re cumming hard enough to send your head swimming. Your walls tighten around him, and it’s not much longer until he’s lurching forward with a stifled groan of his own — cock kicking as he fills you.

The room falls into silence again, save for the sound of your panting. After a few minutes of shared breathing he runs his hand reverently up your spine, then over your ribcage, before massaging your shoulders gently. A kiss to the base of your neck, and then he’s leaning back, pulling his softening cock from your folds and drawing a hiss from both of your lips. You can feel the way he drips from you as you catch your breath against the cold marble countertop, willing your heart into a slower rhythm. He gives one last affectionate squeeze to your hips before tucking his softening cock back into his pants... and then pulls your undergarments back up, for you. You feel the remnants of him leak onto the fabric as you stand, and you’re just about to scold him, to go grab some poor sod’s hand towel to wipe yourself down with, but he grabs your wrists before you can even think of moving.

Callouses. Little circles. A kiss. Your same song and dance that you always do. You pause.

“Amnst done with you yet,” he promises, “Want you like this.”

Turns your wrist, placing a kiss to the back of your hand. Then your shoulder. And then your collarbone. You swallow, and he smiles against your jugular as he moves up just a fraction more. His breath is hot against your neck, as he murmurs:

“Later.”