#There really is no such thing as unrealistic

[jungkoode]

𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 𝐟𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬

˗ˏˋ that first night (her POV) ˎˊ˗

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

⋆｡°✩ story details ✩°｡⋆

collection: Before It All (FMU)

wordcount: 15k

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

rating: explicit, 18+

playlist: spotify

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

✧ author's note ✧

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kiki. 🍓

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

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main story: fuck me up

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Emergency contact updated to my number?"

"Check."

"Spare key to my apartment?"

"Emma, I swear to god—"

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

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

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

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

If only you knew.

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

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

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

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

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

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

What's the worst that could happen?

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

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

Oh. Oh damn.

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

But he’s hot. Truth be told.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your face heats. "Emma, seriously—"

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

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

Your phone buzzes with an incoming wall of texts:

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

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

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

Great.

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

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

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

Even if you kinda wish it was.

"You're pretty."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Would you like to dance?"

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

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

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

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

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

Everything about this should feel more exciting than it does.

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

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

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

One second. Two. Three.

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

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

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

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

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

But something's... off.

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

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

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

"Everything alright?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dale, indeed.

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

And this? This is definitely dangerous.

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

But.

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

"Dance with me."

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

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

"That's bold."

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

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

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

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

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

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

And yeah.

Yeah, this is happening.

This is definitely happening.

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

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

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

Oh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Excuse you, you were staring at me."

"Maybe we were staring at each other."

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

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

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

"Wasn't alone. Had my friend."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Consider it a... suggestion."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Good luck with that."

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

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

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

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

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

"Pretentious much?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Cocky too."

"Haven't heard any complaints."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Might be worth it.

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

And fuck it. Fuck everything. You want more.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Mine either."

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

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

"Well, this is..."

"Stupid?" you offer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You: 𝚎𝚖𝚖𝚊, 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚠

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Could keep you warm."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But then he's moving closer.

And closer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What-fucking-ever.

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

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

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

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

His shirt comes off in one fluid motion and—

Jesus fucking Christ.

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's fucking electric.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh.

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

Fuck.

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

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

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

His free hand finds your throat again, and—

Oh god.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Either way, it's a little distracting.

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

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

Oh.

Oh fuck.

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

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

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

"Fuck."

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

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

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

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

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

"Holy shit."

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

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

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

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

Damn.

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

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

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

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

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

Yeah. Yeah, definitely hot.

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

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

Fuck.

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

And your brain's offline again. Good talk.

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

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

And he doesn't change a thing.

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

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

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

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

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

Oh.

Oh fuck.

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

But holy shit.

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

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

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

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

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

Oh.

Well then.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bad choice.

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

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

Fuck.

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

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

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

His laugh is rough, breathless.

"I’ll keep that in mind."

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

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

But then he starts moving and—oh.

Oh fuck.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Don’t you fucking dare."

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

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

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

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

Wait.

Hold the fucking phone.

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

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

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

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

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

This is just embarrassing.

But also really, really fucking good.

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

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

"Hnnngh—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Fuck, you're evil."

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

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

“Touch yourself for me."

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

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

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

"Oh?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Says the girl who came twice."

And—okay, rude. Accurate, but rude.

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

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

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

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

Fuck.

Fuck.

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

But.

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

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

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

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

Cocky bastard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Holy fuck.

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

Yeah, okay. Maybe worth the mortification.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Maybe I was faking."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Shut up shut up shut up—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Smell like vanilla now too."

⋆｡°✩ TAGLIST ✩°｡⋆

@cannotalwaysbenight @livingformintyoongi @itstoastsworld @somehowukook

© jungkoode 2025 no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[undomesticated-animal]

Honestly, body euphoria has done WONDERS for my ability to keep a physical self care routine, and I keep thinking back to Young Domi being so fucking OVERWHELMED by the thought of having to haul myself through the daily gauntlet of mirrors, lights, smells, self-shaming, and dysphoria inducing body modifictions made in a desperate bid to feel worthy of my skin. The idea that this could ever be anything but NEUTRAL AT BEST was laughable to me, so much so that I didn't even realize how terrified I felt by the possibility it could be real.

I can't go back and tell Past Domi all the things I understand now that I know would have mattered so much, but I can say them on the internet and maybe someone gets to learn them faster than I did.

Body euphoria isn't just for trans and intersex folks. And I mean this more than just "oh cis people should get gender ephoria too" (it's true!) because I also mean that the idea that body euphoria/dysphoria is neatly segmented up into little slices of life with no crossover is unrealistic and painful for everyone. Thinking that I was only allowed to care about my euphoria around gender actually made it REALLY hard to recognize I was having DYSphoria around my gender at all. After all, I avoided thinking about that in exactly the same ways I avoided thinking about the dysphoria around other aspects of my embodiment! I must just be bad at body positivity, "it's always easier to do for others than for myself 🤗 teehee" was a go to blow off for me when people asked me to confront how visibly uncomfortable I was in my body.

Because the thing is, it ISN'T easier to do for others than yourself. It really isn't. The part that's easier is avoiding the shame we feel about it. But once we confront the shame, loving your body is the easiest thing in the world. <- this is gonna be where Past Domi went "oh fuck this noise" and bounced but HEAR ME OUT

A body you cannot live with is a body you cannot care for, and a body you can't care for is a body you will almost always struggle to live with. This feedback loop is the CORNERSTONE of body dysphoria for a lot of people. It's a chicken and egg situation where it's nearly always going to be impossible to know what came first, but once either is present, the other will kick into gear to really hunker down in your psyche.

The feedback loop works the other direction too though. This is why people tell you to find the little things that make a tiny difference. They are (usually) not telling you that it'll be enough on its own, but every one of those you find uncovers new ones, and little by little you start feeling up to bigger pieces of self care because you've recovered enough to start putting int the front-loaded work for the worthwhile outcome

When that upwards feedback loop clicks? It's night and day. Like I genuinely don't know how to describe what it's like to just sort of.....wake up different. But it happens all the time, and it KEEPS happening. And you start to realize you're not "waking up different" you're just....getting to know yourself without feeling so uncomfortable with what you're learning that you shy away from yourself

I dunno man, I don't have a point here, but I've been processing old grief lately and the grief of how long I spent viciously hating myself and truly believing that's what neutrality feels like.....Little-Domi deserved better, and so do yall

[softlights-citylights]

covalently bonded

lab partner!kuroo x f!reader headcannons

content warning none really. kuroo makes bad chemistry jokes. characters are in university. fem pronouns used.

wc 599

m.list

on her first day in her chemistry class, everyone is assigned a lab partner and she just so happens to be paired up with Kuroo

at first, he seems weird and a little cocky

she soon finds out that Kuroo has a good reason to be. he's incredible at chemistry; its like second nature to him

he would try to find her during the lecture that paired with the lab. after spotting her in her usual seat, he would slide into the row behind her and tap her on the shoulder. Kuroo would make it a point to sit there every week and slide her notes during lecture

if she fell asleep, he would take notes for her and make a copy to give to her the next time they met

when he realizes that he likes his lab partner's company, he would drag things out. he would try to be the last group to leave the lab, just so he could get some alone time with her

if she isn't good at chemistry, Kuroo would be incredibly patient. offering to tutor her outside of class, when it was really just an excuse to spend more time with her. he would make sure that he executed every aspect of the lab perfectly, ensuring that she got good grades too

if she is good at chemistry, he would compete with her. he'd try to do more during lab, insisting that he had the experience when they were both in their second semester of college. Kuroo would make terrible chemistry puns at her and cackle at his own jokes even if she didn't laugh

he would ask for her number under the guise of helping each other with the lab reports.

Kuroo insists on working on the lab report together, even though they are graded separately. he just wants an excuse to spend more time with her.

while reactions ran, Kuroo would chat with her about anything under the sun. if they were doing pcr or waiting for a gel to finish running, he would lose track of time while talking to her.

if they were doing something a little more hands on, Kuroo would hover around her.

if her hands were full and her safety glasses began sliding down her face, Kuroo would carefully push them up with the clean part of his glove

run out of pipette tips? he's already got a new box

cant get the clamps to close? his hands are over hers, all too eager to help.

need new samples to run in the spectrophotometer? he's already started cleaning the cuvette and loading the next sample

cant get the data to show results? Kuroo would send a spreadsheet of all his excel data with little notes to help her understand his work

on the last day of lab, Kuroo would wish her luck on finals in the most nerdy way possible: by giving her a note that corresponded with elements on the periodic table for her to decipher

university has a funny way of bringing people together and pushing them apart, and he didn't want to risk falling out of her company. he wanted to make his feelings known, just in case they never saw each other again

he's well aware of how nerdy and lame he's being, but he says it anyways

Kuroo confesses with a drawing of a heart around a water molecule, saying, "it's kind of like us, we're covalently bonded"

m.list

a/n ive had this idea in my head for a while. i graduated with a degree in biochem recently and lemme just say this shit is so unrealistic. everyone wants to get the fuck out of lab asap. i was imagining an biochemistry lab with mostly bench work

[rainbowsky]

Hey rainbowsky, how's the legend of condor heroes really doing? it's hard to get a sense of it across the platforms and I'd love your factual information of it. Looked like Nezha 2 was blowing everyone away, but I know XS's movie was sold out like crazy. Any metrics we can trust out there?

Hi itisasitshouldbe, hope you're well! 😊

I'm a bit surprised you would ask me for this information because I'm not somebody who fixates on things like this. I do follow some of it, but not to the degree where I'm going to be able to give you a definitive, detailed breakdown. This is not my kind of thing.

In my view, people - especially fans - who are breathlessly comparing and competing LOCH with other films are being unrealistic, and actually doing the film a disservice.

Maybe people just aren't aware of what Ne Zha 2 is and don't realize how big of a competitor it is. It is a sequel to the most popular animated film to ever come out of China. It would be like putting Legend of the Condor Heroes up against Shrek during a holiday when families typically go to the movies together.

LOCH is a genre film, and a bit of a nostalgic throwback to a bygone era of wuxia. As such, there was never any chance that it would be as dominant as some of the other blockbusters. Holding it up against mainstream juggernauts and lamenting that it's not doing as well makes no sense.

In its category it has been doing exceptionally well. It has already broken many records, and last I saw it had already become the second highest grossing wuxia film of all time. It might have already broken that record.

In terms of box office for Spring Festival I think it was at 4th place last I saw, which is really strong considering what it has been up against and the amount of showings it's had compared with other films. And it's only been in theatres for a few days.

I see a lot of people freaking out over the number of screenings it has been getting, claiming it's being intentionally held back. While there is definitely some competition there, it's also important to remember that theatres are businesses, and they will screen what is most in demand. The number of screenings is more a reflection of the genre and audience interests than of any other factor. Conspiracy theories are frankly pointless and frustrating.

The film has already made over half a billion, and will make much more in the coming weeks and months. It is exceptionally well reviewed, and even superfans of the novels are singing its praises.

By every measure, it's doing exceptionally well. I urge fans to focus on the film rather than on bean counting.

To me, this film is most valuable for what it offers GG. The relationships he has made, the skills he has learned, the experience he has had, and the opportunity to get in front of mainstream audiences with an IP they understand well, and be able to prove himself as an actor (which he absolutely has done here)... all of these things are more important than box office returns.

[bananaactivity]

Personally, as someone who loves character design ( Like regular human character design is my forte but I can bust a monster or furry design out if I lock in) all the same hair is annoying when I'm trying to distinguish them like… you can distinguish Adam, Chase, Oliver, and Kaz in live-action cause they all have different heights, and ages and wear semi-different clothes. But when you draw them you realize… they all have the same flipping hairstyle at their most interesting points. And sometimes they wear the same kinda clothes and next thing you know it all feels so repetitive to draw.

Like wtf

Are we being dead ass rn wtf is this. ( ADAM THAT WIDOWS PEAK IS NOT SAVING YOUUU)

That coupled with the fact that they all wear extremely similar clothes and it's like in an unrealistic cartoon design class ts would be fucked. All of them have worn plaid shirts so it's not a Chase or Oli thing, all of them have worn Raglan tees so it's not a Kaz or Adam thing. Like their personalities are doing all the work and those are similar too. Funny stupid man and Smart bitchless man.

There are minute differences that a locked in fan could point out, but on a surface level, they're much too close. This is especially true for art and fanfics which already kinda fuck up the character's actual personalities for headcanons or misinterpretations or whatever but it's a stupid silly decade-old show, who gives a shit what the fans create. They literally destroyed three good shows over one measly boost in views. Now look at them the whole channel is basically gone nowadays.

I haven't done the same amount of work as I have for Kickin' It, but I'm working on it. The hair has already been fixed. I think.

Oli gets curls and a mullet, Kaz keeps his hair but make it more pointy, Adam gets a more swoopy slick thing and Chase gets a more exaggerated and messy pointy thing.

I don’t really have the same issues with Kai and Jack or Rudy and Ty from Kickin it cause my AU has them being mirrors of each other. Like Ty and Rudy are mirrors for each other and then as a whole they’re mirrors for the younger duo. it’s kinda the same thing as Adam/Chase and Douglas/ Donald, that whole breaking the cycle thing.

It works in my AU cause I can’t stand to write sad shit. I’m more of a goofy goober. Anyway enough yapping from me that was just my two cents

idk if this is an unpopular opinion but i miss their silly 2010’s swoopy hair :(

[letupabit]

An alternative torment

A/N: This pic takes place during the Thanos/Myung-gi bathroom fight scene, but for story purposes I changed up the dialogue and scenario :) This was so much fun to write! I tried to keep the characters as accurate as possible, sorry if it goes off course a lil! Hope you enjoy my lovelies!

Summary: Based off of a request from @saturnzskyzz, Thanos and Nam-gyu discover and exploit an entertaining weakness of the very person who brought them to the games- 'MG coin'. Ler!Thanos and Nam-gyu, Lee!Myung-gi (player 333).

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

Unlike previously hosted games, the latest bout had implemented a new feature- the ability for players to choose to cut the experience short and go home with the money accumulated thus far, split equally between them. They had this opportunity after every game, a small mercy for those not wanting to leave the facility in a gift-wrapped coffin. To somebody outside looking in, the prospect of being able to leave with your life as well as a sizeable cash prize sounded like the perfect way out; however, a lot of the players who actually had to live this nightmare weren’t convinced.  For most of them, the shared amount wouldn’t even have been close to paying off their debts, and they’d already gotten so far- why stop now?

After every game, the lucky contestants who had survived would approach a podium with a red X to leave, and a blue O to continue. Once the player had made their choice they would be given a Velcro badge with their corresponding group, and were then free to return to their beds.

Thanos and Nam-gyu, two friends who had voted to stay, glowered at their voting teammate as the red light of the ‘X’ button illuminated his face. Thanos intuitively felt his hand come up to his blue badge, thumbing the seamed fabric. 

‘I can’t believe Min-su betrayed us like that, man’ he muttered, half to himself and half to Nam-gyu, who was glaring daggers toward the other side of the room. 

‘You know he only did it because of that bitch, Se-mi. I knew she’d mess things up one way or another’ Nam-gyu scoffed without looking away from his former teammate, who was trying his best not to catch his eye.  The fact Min-su stood facing away from him got the black-haired man even angrier- did he think he was too good for them now or something?

The rest of the voting went as smoothly as one would expect with a few hundred debt-filled lives on the line. It ended in a draw, much to the ‘O’ side’s favour, as this meant the games carried on. Neither team had actually won, and yet it was undeniable that the players who voted ‘O’ felt as if they had anyway.

But this wasn’t good enough for Thanos and Nam-gyu. 

They knew that after the next game, the votes could very well change. It wouldn’t be unrealistic for even one more player to vote ‘X’ and sway the minds of the other players who had previously voted to stay. The majority of people in the games were just scared and unsure, and it was more than likely that they’d side with the majority- herd mentality was a powerful thing in times like these. 

At least, this is the conclusion Thanos came to. He made sure to spread this ideology to his remaining teammates, and Nam-gyu, being the suck-up he was, went along with it without question. Between the two, they decided the best course of action was to corner Min-su in the bathroom away from the prying eyes of the guards in an attempt to get him to change his mind.

‘I’m sorry, boy!’ Shouted Thanos as he banged his fists on the bathroom stall of which Min-su was occupying. ‘I know you don’t really want this, right? One more game and we’ll be set for life’  Meanwhile Nam-gyu was hanging halfway over the walls of said bathroom stall. ‘Come on, Min-su. Just one more game, okay?’ he said with false sincerity- and then when there was no reply, ‘c’mere!’ And Min-su felt his heart drop as Nam-gyu started to climb further over the wall, reaching out for him.

He went to rush out the door, only to be met by Thanos who’d been waiting for him. He felt himself forced back into the stall, the purple-haired man cornering him as his friend watched from above. 

‘Look, I’m sorry if you felt pressured- but you shouldn’t have betrayed us like that. It really hurt my feelings- I’m so fucking ANGRY, man!’

Min-su held his breath, not knowing what was to come next- until he heard a voice from outside the cubicle.

‘Hey, what do you think you’re doing? Trying to get more votes by force, huh?’ Thanos turned around at this, coming face to face with the very person who brought him here- Myung Gi. Or, as he knew him, MG coin.

Immediately Thanos felt his anger at Min-su redirected towards Myung-gi. He wouldn’t even be in this situation if it weren’t for him and his shitty advice. 

‘What’s made you so bold, huh?’ He sneered. Meanwhile Nam-gyu dropped from his position atop the cubicle wall and went to stand by his side. Thanos continued, his body language stiff and hostile. ‘Tryna scam me again?’

Myung-gi scoffed and rolled his eyes. ‘It’s not my fault you’re here. Maybe if you didn’t rely so much on the words of others’ he cast his eyes toward Nam-gyu before looking back at Thanos, ‘you’d be in a better position right now’

Thanos seethed at this. How dare this poser insinuate anything about him? And the audacity to not even take responsibility for him having to play these games- which in his mind, was absolutely Player 333’s fault.

Min-su had slipped past the druggie pair, using the conflict as a distraction, making a quick escape completely unnoticed. Meanwhile, Thanos and Myung-gi were practically nose to nose, the tension rising by the minute. Nam-gyu stood behind his friend, prepared to jump into action; honestly, he’d been so bored despite the prospect of death at every corner. A fight that was practically a guaranteed win seemed appealing.

‘Come on, man. It’s two against one- and this time that old-timer isn’t here to save your ass’. Thanos remarked with a nasty smirk, feeling ten foot tall.  He’d been waiting to get his own back ever since he got here, and now there was nothing to get in his way.

Myung-gi felt a sense of unease and, as much as he didn’t want to admit it, fear. As stupid as these two were, it was true that there was nobody else around to help him out, and he didn’t fancy his chances if it came to a 2-v-1. His eyes darted from Thanos to Nam-gyu, both looking at him the same way a fox would look at a bunny. He swallowed thickly, the gravity of the situation setting in. 

But he couldn’t show fear. Not to these two. They’d tear him apart for as long as he had to put up with them in these cruel games. 

So he decided to bluff. Fake it till you make it, right?

‘Tch, whatever. I’m not wasting anymore of my time with you morons’ he brushed past them, inwardly breathing a sigh of relief as they allowed him to do so with surprisingly little pushback. Maybe they were all bark and no bite? ‘Especially a moron who forgets his own lyrics’

A hand grabbed him by the shoulder and span him round. Oops. Maybe he shouldn’t have said that…

‘That’s it, MG coin’ hissed Thanos sarcastically. ‘I am taking you out of these games myself’ Behind him Nam-gyu looked giddy with excitement, although stayed quiet. 

Thanos shoved Myung-gi until he was up against the tiled walls of the bathroom, his face twisted with undeniable rage. He felt a flash of satisfaction as he caught a glimpse of genuine panic on Myung-gi’s face. 

‘Get off me you asshole!’ Shouted the former cryptocurrency trader, his hands coming up to push the furious man away. Thanos went to grab Myung-gi’s wrists, but in the chaos of the pre-scuffle he missed, instead unintentionally grabbing his sides instead. On instinct he made a squeezing motion with his hands, determined not to let this weasel wriggle his way out of this, a rush of adrenaline shooting through him as he saw a wince of pain on his opponents fac- wait. That wasn’t pain, that was…a smile?

‘What the hell is so funny, MG coin? Are you really that arrogant as to smile at a time like this?’ He squeezed his hands even tighter in an attempt to intimidate him and reinforce the fact that he had no chance of escape- but was he smiling again? Even bigger than before?

‘Answer me you bastard!’ His grip on Myung-gi tightened even more and this time he actually heard something that resembled a giggle. 

And then it clicked.

Thanos, without removing or loosening his grip, barked out a laugh of disbelief. Nam-gyu, who had also connected the dots, raised his hand to his face and chuckled into his fist, his eyebrows raised. 

‘No way, man’ Thanos turned to Nam-gyu as they shared an excited look. He turned his head back to his victim, who was cursing his uncontrollable reaction. The rapper had a sickening look of pure exhilaration on his face. In Thanos’ head, he had hit a gold mine. This was going to be so much fun…

‘I can’t believe the savvy MG coin is ticklish’ Laughed Nam-gyu, his voice laced with malice. He wasn’t even trying to hide his excitement at this discovery. He went to stand directly to the side of Myung-gi, effectively boxing him in. 

‘Oh, MG, we’re about to have such a good time’ Thanos chuckled darkly. ‘Well, we are’  he used one hand to motion to himself and Nam-gyu, his other hand not moving from his victim’s waist. ‘You, on the other hand, probably not’

‘Why do you look so serious, huh? Go on dude, make him laugh again’ The black-haired man nudged his friend and watched in sadistic glee as Myung-gi’s attempt at a stone-faced disposition (although his anxiety was obvious) crumbled instantly under Thanos’ slender fingers.  The two pill-poppers couldn’t believe their eyes as Player 333 squealed and immediately grabbed at Thanos’ wrists.

‘Fuck, stohohop! STOP! Wahahaihit!’ Myung-gi felt his grasp of rational thought fall away as his panic went up a notch, resigning himself to the fact that these two psychopaths now knew about this embarrassing weakness. This was so humiliating.

Thanos narrowly missed as a flying kick came his way. ‘Aww, is that the best you can do?’ He buried his fingers deep inbetween Myung-gi’s ribs and clawed wildly, revelling in the frantic laughter of the younger man. This was far, far better than just plain old fighting. He was suddenly caught off guard as another kick came his way, this time very narrowly missing his shins. 

‘He’s tryna fight back, man. Can’t have him ruining the fun’ Thanos made eye contact with Nam-gyu, and although no words were spoken, he picked up on Thanos’ intentions immediately. 

Myung-gi laughed particularly hard as the purple-haired man hit an especially ticklish rib and that’s when Nam-gyu saw his opening. ‘down you go!’ He exclaimed playfully. 

The two druggies worked together to quickly incapacitate their opponent further, and before Player 333 knew what was happening, he was on his back looking up at the unhinged duo. The tickling had stopped for the time being and he finally had a chance to gasp in air, wrapping his arms around his midsection.

‘Alright, look, I’m sorry- no more, okay? Just let me go back to the dorm’

‘Awww, you’re not giving up that easily, right?’ Myung-gi felt his heart drop as the weight of Thanos straddled his waist, the purple-haired man grinning toothily down at him. 124 hoisted his arms above his head, his grip strong and unbreakable. Especially now that Myung-gi had been weakened by the tickling.

‘You’ve been a massive pain in my ass even before these damn games. We’re not stopping just yet’ 

‘Yeah man, you’ve fucked up’ Nam-gyu added, every fibre of his being flaring with excitement to take this guy apart in the most embarrassing way possible. ‘You really shouldn’t have let us find this out’ 

Myung-gi felt his panic renew, struggling under the two druggies as hard as he could. It was no use- he was utterly trapped, at the mercy of these hooligans. He wished as hard as he could that the floor would just swallow him up. Or that a guard would come to his rescue. Or literally ANYTHING that would get him out of here. When he realised strength wouldn’t work, he tried bargaining his way out.

‘I promise I’ll stay out of your way if you just let me go. My friends will be wondering where I am and they’ll come looking- so just save yourself the hassle and let me go now’ 

There was a moment of silence, and Thanos and Nam-gyu looked at each other with deadpan expressions. Almost like they were actually contemplating freeing him. Had he done it? Had he actually made them change his mind? 

However the silence only lasted a few seconds at most until they couldn’t keep a straight face anymore, and burst out laughing. Looking back down at Myung-gi, Thanos said- ‘Fine, let ‘em come. They’ll see you laughing your ass off like the ticklish little girl you are’ and then, with a shrug, ‘we can have fun until then’

And without any further chance of talking his way into freedom, Thanos slipped his hands under Myung-gi’s shirt and gently scratched at his lean stomach. MG coin attempted to hide his face in his shoulder, biting his lip to stop the inevitable giggles he felt making their way up his throat. The sounds forced out of him throughout this made his face even redder.

‘Look at him, trying not to laugh. Come on, MG coin! I’m not gonna stooop~’ taunted Thanos in a sing-songy voice. 

‘Try his ribs again, that really got him before’

‘Good thinking’ and with that, Myung-gi felt the light scratches travel teasingly slowly up his torso until they reached his ribs. He could feel the cold metal of Thanos’ rings scraping along his skin, which made the whole thing so much worse.

He couldn’t hold back his laughter after that, and his bullies grinned at each other triumphantly. 

‘Well, would you look at that! You were right, Nam-su’

‘Uh, it’s Nam-gyu’ 

‘Whatever’ 

The bickering pair went back and forth for a moment, as if Thanos wasn’t tickling a flustered Myung-gi into hysterics. He let out a high-pitched yelp as one of the rapper’s hands moved from scratching at his left set of ribs and up to the thin, sensitive skin of his armpit. 

‘awww, listen to him. Isn’t he just so pathetic? C’mon, MG coin, laugh for us!’ Thanos braced himself as Myung-gi kicked his legs, this time not in self-defence but as an outlet to relieve the overwhelming tickling sensations. 

‘Cute, isn’t he?’ Taunted Nam-gyu as he took hold of both 333’s wrists in one hand, using his other to knuckle his upper ribs. ‘Hey, I wonder if we can get him to beg?’

Myung-gi only just heard this exchange over his deafening laughter. He felt a wave of renowned frustration and anger. He wasn’t gonna beg these two idiots. Especially over something as childish as being tickled.

‘FUHUHUHUuhuhuCK YOHOHOHOU ASSHOHOHOHLES!’ His chest burned but he refused to show any further weakness than the embarrassing display he’d already performed. They weren’t gonna get the best of him.

Thanos and Nam-gyu gasped in pretend shock. ‘Did you hear that? Even in this position he still thinks he’s got the upper hand, huh?’ Thanos looked back down at Myung-gi, who’s eyes were screwed shut as he laughed uncontrollably. 

‘Shit, dude, looks like he needs some more’ declared Nam-gyu, now spidering his hand in the hollows of Myung-gi’s underarms. As if they had any intention to stop anyway. 

The spidering technique paired with the assault on his ribs was almost too much for Myung-gi as he felt hot tears sting at the corners of his eyes. Fuck, where WAS everyone? Usually the bathroom was privy to a revolving door of players coming in and out, and now- nobody? He didn’t know how much more he could take but his pride refused to allow him to beg.

That is, until the verbal teasing was taken up a notch. Myung-gi was usually a put together guy, but in his vulnerable state it didn’t take much to crumble his defences even more. 

‘A-tickletickletickletickle!’ Nam-gyu cooed in a high pitched tone, wreaking ticklish havoc on the former youtuber. He decided that MG coin had been sufficiently weakened and didn’t need his arms held down any longer, so he was now subjected to four lots of hands spidering and squeezing and scratching his most sensitive spots. ‘How much more are you going to be able to handle? You poor thing’ 

‘Don’t cry, dude. We’re not being that mean, right?’ Mocked Thanos in a sickly sweet voice, his hands rapidly squeezing up and down his victim’s sides. Occasionally he’d tweak at his hip bones which he found especially amusing as this would force a higher, more desperate laugh. 

‘AHAHAHAHAHA-FUHUHUHAHAHAHAHA! FAHAHAHAHACK!’ 333 was completely beside himself, his chest and stomach aching, cheeks burning from laughing so hard. He shook his head from side to side, trying his best to ignore the taunting. ‘Speak up, bro!’ 

Myung-gi swore internally (it’s not like he could speak coherently out loud, anyway) and knew what he had to do. The tickling wouldn’t stop until he buried his pride and…begged. Ugh, even the thought made him feel ill. But the fingers drawing firm circles in his sides were making him feel even worse.

‘PL-PLEAAHAHAHAHASE! PLehaahahahahahaAHAHA! PLEAAHAHAHASE! IHIHIHIHIM SOHOHOHOHORRY!’ The act of forming words was exhausting and felt impossible. His laughter became squeaky when he felt dull nails trace patterns into his neck and under his chin and he hoped that his pleas were enough to satisfy 230 and 124. 

‘One more time? Come on, give it all you’ve got or we’re not stopping!’

‘Hey, MG, what would your little girlfriend say if she saw you like this?’

God these two sucked. Like, really really sucked. It had already taken a lot for him to plead in a somewhat concise manner, and now he had to do it again? He took as deep a breath as was possible whilst being tickled out of his mind.

‘STOHOHOHOP! PLEAHAHahahahaAHAHSE! PLEASE PLE-AHAHAH-PLEAHAHAAHSE! FUHUHUHUHUHUCK! YOOHOhohoHOHUHU GOHAHAHATTA STOHOhohohOHOP!’

And then it was over. The tormenting hands stopped their assault yet didn’t move from his body. But the tickling had stopped. 

He didn’t even care that he was wheezing and gasping for air in front of the two maniacs- he was just grateful to be able to do so in the first place. He felt Thanos’ weight shift and he stood up, looking down at him still but now from an even greater height. Nam-gyu followed suit but not before another jab to 333’s armpits, making him yelp and curl up, earning a mean chuckle from the two. 

‘Wasn’t so hard, was it, MG?’ jeered Thanos. ‘And for the record, we didn’t have to do anything. We only stopped so we didn’t kill you- where would the fun in that be?’ With a sneer, 230 and 124 turned and left. Nam-gyu gave a sarcastic wave before disappearing round the corner, presumably to get high. What a pair of lowlives.

Myung-gi stayed laying down, still catching his breath. He listened as the smug chatter of Thanos and Nam-gyu became more and more distant. He’d have to keep even more of an eye out than usual after today.

Those bastards...

[mrspiastri]

filmy dialogues 🎞️

pairing: oscar piastri x desi! reader

genre: fluff

wc: 1.5k words

an: ty anon for this request! i loved writing it!! <4

.° ｡𖦹˚ 𓇼 ｡𖦹° ｡. .° ｡𖦹˚ 𓇼 ｡𖦹° ｡. .° ｡𖦹˚ 𓇼 ｡𖦹° ｡. .° ｡

"And which one is this again?" Oscar asked as he settled in to watch the movie Y/N had picked out.

"It's a Bollywood movie! You're gonna love it—it was my favorite growing up."

"Is it one of those romance ones?"

Oscar was a bit of a bore when it came to movies. His favorite genre was sci-fi, while Y/N's was rom-coms. Naturally, choosing a movie to watch was always a challenge.

"Well… yes and no. It's like a heist movie, but it has a bit of everything in it, really."

"I don't trust your judgment since you made us watch that movie with those nepo babies."

"That was a mistake on my part, I agree. But this one is so good, I promise."

Movie nights were a staple of the couple’s routine, especially since Oscar was usually busy on weekends. Each week, they took turns picking a movie and rated it based on what they liked most about it. Last week, Oscar had made Y/N watch one of the Star Wars movies. While she wasn’t completely floored, she did agree that Hayden Christensen was a cutie.

"I've got the perfect one. It's called ‘Happy New Year’, and it’s iconic.”

"Very well, bring it on."

🎞️🎞️🎞️

The movie started. They skipped through the opening credits and got to the scene where Charlie's father gets framed.

"How did they just put him in jail? Wouldn't there be a formal investigation? Plus, he remembers being drugged. This is quite unrealistic," Oscar said, raising an eyebrow.

Y/N let out a sigh, already used to her boyfriend's antics.

"I'm sure they had one, but he was up against a really powerful guy, you know?"

Oscar nodded, not entirely convinced but not completely dismissing the explanation either. They continued watching, Y/N snuggling further into the couch and against her boyfriend's shoulder. It was an unspoken ritual of sorts—she would gently bump her head against his shoulder repeatedly until he laughed and wrapped his arms around her.

"How did he just hack the voting polls? This is part of a global competition. They have to have better firewalls. Also, Team Diamond was terrible—they got booed off stage! How is everyone just accepting that they won?"

Oscar was a yapper, especially during movies.

Y/N rolled her eyes, taking a sip of her (his) Sprite. "I mean, they have a hacker on their team. It’s possible."

"Yeah, he's like 19, doing all his hacking from a laptop. A regular DELL laptop. Not even a good computer with a proper processor," Oscar grumbled, stuffing some popcorn into his mouth.

She giggled. "Well, maybe he's just that good. Besides, you don’t even know how to hack."

"That’s beside the point, and you know it."

Eventually, they reached the movie’s climax, with things heating up for the team. Y/N sat staring at the screen like she didn’t already know exactly what was going to happen next—despite having watched the movie six times before.

"Wait, so they just enter the vault with him? How does that work?" Oscar continued, pointing out the movie’s logical flaws.

"I mean, they’re lookalikes, so yeah."

"But that fingerprint probably wouldn’t work. It’s been tampered with, so it should come across as invalid."

"Why are they exiting through the sewers? They could just leave normally. This makes no sense."

"Why are they returning?! Now they’ll get arrested!"

If there was one thing Oscar would do, it was interrupt a romantic date with dumb questions.

"Maybe you shouldn’t focus so much on the movie’s accuracy, you know?" Y/N teased. "Think instead about how good Deepika looks in that saree." She winked at him.

"You’d look better anyway, and this movie’s too stupid for me not to point out everything wrong with it."

"But that's the fun, right? You don’t need to think too much while watching. Just laugh at the funny stuff and roll your eyes at the dumb moments. It’s still enjoyable. Also, I never look that good in a saree. That’s why I don’t wear them anymore," she said.

"I think you need to stop choosing the movies from next time. And yes, you do look good! I've seen the photos where you wore that blue one!"

Oscar turned Y/N’s body, which had been leaning against his chest, so that she was facing him.

"That was taken when I was in the twelfth grade! I wore it for my graduation, and it looked dumb then too."

"Well, I think you looked beautiful, and you should wear one to that Diwali party we’re going to."

She looked away, cheeks pink.

"I don’t know… it’s such a hassle to drape one. I can’t even do it without my mom’s help."

"I’m right here, aren’t I? I’ll help." He cheerfully tugged her closer to his chest, resting his head on top of hers. She could hear—almost feel—his heartbeat quicken. It was a subtle reminder that even after all this time, Oscar still got butterflies around Y/N.

"It’s super tricky, especially with the pleats. You sure you can help?" she asked, doing her best to speak from where she was trapped under him.

"I’ll try my best, darling. You’ll look better than Deepika too." He chuckled, making Y/N laugh as well, feeling the vibrations of his laughter through where her head was resting.

"Now, forget about that. I wanna watch them dance and win at the finale!" She wriggled out of his hold, reaching for the remote to unpause the movie.

"Hey, no spoilers!"

"You knew that was going to happen!"

🎞️🎞️🎞️

The movie played on, the sounds of Bollywood music filling the room as the final dance number unfolded. Y/N, grinning, hummed along while Oscar groaned dramatically.

“I swear, if they win despite all the cheating—”

“They will win,” she cut in smugly.

Oscar rolled his eyes but didn’t complain further. His arm tightened around her, absentmindedly playing with her fingers. Y/N glanced up at him, finding that—despite all his so-called complaints—he was watching the screen with a slight smile.

"You're secretly enjoying it, aren’t you?" she accused playfully.

"I am not," he denied immediately, though the way his foot tapped to the music betrayed him.

Y/N smirked, scooting closer. "It’s okay, you can admit it."

Oscar sighed dramatically. "Fine. It’s slightly entertaining."

"Aha! I knew it!"

She leaned up, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek. "Maybe next time, you’ll actually pick a Bollywood movie yourself."

"Let’s not get ahead of ourselves," Oscar muttered, though his cheeks were pink now too.

They spent the rest of the movie in comfortable silence, save for Y/N’s occasional giggles and Oscar’s inevitable complaints. But when the credits rolled and Y/N stretched, ready to turn the TV off, she felt a pair of arms tighten around her waist.

"Five more minutes, let’s watch the final song,” Oscar mumbled into her hair.

Y/N smiled. "You like cuddling more than watching the movie, don’t you?"

"Maybe."

"That, I’ll allow," she whispered, settling against him once more.

As the grand finale song played, Oscar let out a long sigh, rubbing his temples.

"I don’t know how I just sat through two and a half hours of absolute madness,” he grumbled. "They danced their way into a vault, Y/N. A vault!"

Y/N, completely unbothered, swayed along to the music. "And they looked fabulous while doing it."

Oscar turned to her, suddenly dramatic. "You know what? Maybe I’ve been looking at this all wrong. Maybe I need to embrace the bollywoodness of it all."

Y/N raised an eyebrow. "Oh? And how do you plan on doing that?"

He dramatically placed a hand on his heart, took a deep breath, and, with all the seriousness he could muster, attempted a line he had definitely not practiced enough.

“Pyaar… dosti hai, Y/N. Aur agar woh… sabse… accha dost nahi ban… sak—wait, what’s the word?"

Y/N blinked. "Ban sakta?"

"Yeah, that. Ban sakta… toh main usko… kabhi love nahi kar sakta!”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Y/N burst out laughing. "That was the most accented Bollywood line I’ve ever heard!”

Oscar groaned. "Oi, cut me some slack! Hindi is hard!"

"It is," Y/N giggled, still shaking her head. "But you get points for effort."

Oscar leaned back into the couch, shaking his head. "I swear, your movies make it sound so easy. Everyone's just casually breaking into song, dropping poetic love lines, hacking government servers with a budget laptop—"

"That’s the magic of it."

He turned to look at her, her face still lit up from laughing, her eyes sparkling as she hummed along to the credits song.

Oscar sighed, shaking his head. "You know what? Maybe I should start watching more of these. Get my Hindi right. Who knows, I might actually end up enjoying one of them."

Y/N gasped. "Wait—are you saying you’ll finally watch ‘Kabhi Khushi Kabhi Gham’ with me?"

Oscar groaned. "I walked right into that, didn’t I?"

"Absolutely."

He sighed, but there was a small smile tugging at his lips as he pulled her closer. "Fine. But I’m allowed to complain."

"You always do."

Oscar rolled his eyes. "Fair."

And as the music played on, he had to admit—maybe Bollywood wasn't all bad, especially if he had her next to him singing along to all the songs.

my first request!! i was so geeked about this lol. also im sorry if you haven’t watched happy new year but it is unfortunately one of my favourites so go watch it rn its so stupidly good haha <4

[pueppielein]

Does Tatsumaki look like a child?

(before I get hate; I don't think she looks child like, she is a fictional petite and skinny woman with small chest...)

Tbh I am really scared to post this. But I just want to share my own opinions about it.

I think more of a "problem" is, that her head is drawn very big 🤔 and these chibi like proportions murata used more that in the beginning. That cover page is the most extreme example, as much as I remember:

It's a comic character and you can give characters unrealistic proportions. But imo that huge head and big forehead thing adds to the controversial. I can understand the people who rage and think such characters are p🐻do material a bit.

[shiroselia]

Something something if your media analysis starts and ends at “stereotypes bad because stereotypes bad” you’re really not doing all that I fear

Like there’s a whole thesis to write on this (in fact I’ve literally done media analysis involving dissecting stereotypes for school assignments before so there is Definitely theses to write on this), but there is a larger conversation to have about fictional stereotypes that doesn’t have to, and shouldn’t end, at “stereotypes bad/good” because at the end of the day it’s, well first and foremost incredibly telling about society at large (the interesting part) considering that stereotypes really is norms at their absolute most dense and eccentric peak, also dismissing actual people because there Are people who do act stereotypical or fit stereotypes (source: Hi, I’m sometimes so stereotypical I’m a statistic at times, like, y’know, they come from somewhere) (which seems kind of counterproductive since one of the most go-to arguments Against stereotypical portrayal is ‘nobody is like that’)

Idonno I just think it’s not doing media analysis any favour to still be stuck at “ew tropes” because it stops us from actually dissecting what’s actually up here because you refuse to acknowledge a very important aspect of a work, and if your first reaction to encountering stereotypical behaviour and dismissing it purely because “Oh but surely nobody acts like that hurdur” I think that says more about you at the end of the day

[blueberrybeomgyu]

୨⎯ "holding out" ⎯୧ (mjh)

+*:🍰:*﹤ask / smut w a little plot, sub!jaehyun, endurance training, kinda exhib+voy, nipple touching, petnames: sweetheart/sweetie/good boy/baby boy, reader fem anat, mentions of piv sex, handjobs / wc: 3.2k / masterlist

✧･ﾟ: *

jaehyun’s been acting weird, and that’s saying something, because he’s always been a bit strange. 

but it’s obvious he hasn’t been his usual self for the past week. when you ask him about it, he brushes it off quickly and changes the subject. 

then, whatever’s bothering him begins affecting your sex life. he's tense, visibly nervous before you guys do anything intimate. you can tell he's close when his high-pitched moans turn into quiet, choked off gasps. you know the signs, and you’re more than ready to feel his hot seed fill you up the way you like, but it never does. 

you see his face scrunch up in torment right before he hides in your neck. he continues to let out a string of pitiful whimpers, hips still thrusting sloppily until you're showing signs of orgasming yourself. this goes on for days before you notice a pattern. 

you guys get intimate, and for a little while afterward, he gets quieter, more reserved, almost…ashamed? he can’t even seem to look at you, and is quick to scoot away when you sit too close to him. it kind of hurts, but you give him time and space, figuring he’ll come to you if  he’s ever ready to talk. he never brings it up, but after a couple of hours, he’s back to the jaehyun you know–a bit strange, proposing unusual schemes and so hyper he’s basically bouncing off the walls.

the two of you often fall into intimate moments after bantering, sometimes even play fighting, and tonight’s no different. jaehyun’s his usual mischievous self, teasing you enough that it’s harmless, but gets under your skin. when tension arises and things get heated, you guys make eye contact, and he kind of just…deflates, moving from where he’s hovering over you to slump back against the couch.

you hesitate, because you don’t want to put him on the spot, but his behavior is beginning to make you concerned, and a little insecure. after a few moments, it’s obvious jaehyun’s not going to say anything, so you speak up.

"sweetie, we should talk." 

immediately, he tenses. he sits up, and his shoulders are so stiff it looks uncomfortable. his only noticeable movement is the fiddling with his fingers, wringing them as if he wants to crack his knuckles, but they’re not popping. you keep a safe distance between the two of you, but sit close enough that you can rest a comforting hand on his thigh.

his eyes are glossy, and his lip is caught in between his teeth when he finally looks at you. he looks like a kicked puppy, and you immediately want to scoop him in your arms and make him feel better. but, time and space.

"oh, baby. will you tell me what's bothering you?" 

his lips move, but almost no sound comes out. his cheeks visibly redden when you ask him to repeat himself.

"do you think i...finish too fast?" he asks, mumbling 'finish' shyly like it's dirty. you stare at him in confusion, rolling his words around in your head, trying to get them to make sense. since when is him cumming quickly an issue?

"sorry, was that too abrupt? just forget i-"

"no, you're fine, jae. i was just a little surprised," you look away from him for a moment to think about your next words carefully. "there's nothing wrong with being sensitive."

again, jaehyun deflates back into the couch, hands coming to hide his face.

“that’s probably the worst thing you could've said. seriously, ‘yes’ would’ve been less embarrassing.” he muffles his words with his palms says.

“i’m sorry, i just mean–” you pause. “even if you finish quickly, what’s wrong with that?”

“well, doesn’t it leave you…unsatisfied?” this time, he whispers ‘unsatisfied’ cautiously, and pre-winces like he’s waiting for the scariest answer possible.

almost immediately, you laugh, which sounds more like an amused scoff. just the thought of jaehyun leaving you high and dry is a bit silly–he’s a wonderful partner. even if he finishes quickly, he’s damn near always hard, and rarely fails to make you cum.

but, unfortunately, you don’t say that, so your laughter is your only response. jaehyun looks at you with his jaw hanging down and his eyes wide like he’s mortified.

“fuck, i shouldn’t have said anything,” he half-whines, running his hands through his hair in distress. instinctively, your hands come up to fix the mess, taming wild strands back into place so he looks less like a wet cat. 

“no– sorry, i’m sorry. i’m not laughing at you, it’s just-” you stammer your words out, trying to clean up the way you’re royally fucking this up. “jaehyun, you’ve never left me unsatisfied. you don’t even have to worry about that, okay?” you grab one of his hands and squeeze it lightly, trying to punctuate your statement. he doesn’t look entirely convinced, but he doesn’t push back, and instead reciprocates the hand-holding.

“but still, it kinda makes me feel bad. humiliated, i guess? we barely get started and i feel like i’m already creaming my pants.”

the statement almost makes you giggle again, but you hold it back because that’s not at all helpful. personally, you love jaehyun's sensitivity, the way he gets tender and desperate from a hand tracing his thigh, the way he's on the precipice after a little petting. it's cute, he's cute, but you don't know how to tell him this in a way that will stick, so you change courses.

“okay, this is a serious issue. what do you want to do about it?”

he looks at you bashfully, lips parted like he has something to say but isn’t sure how. interesting, he’s thought about this before.

“come on, myungjae. it’s just me. there’s no need to feel shy,” you shimmy your shoulders a little, drawing his attention to where your boobs are sitting braless in your shirt, and they jiggle the tiniest amount. it’s not a shallow movement–jaehyun’s easy to rile up, and you can tell he’s already tenting in his shorts. if he’s aroused, he’ll be much more comfortable talking about this, you hope.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:

“okay, what’s this called, again?” you ask just to be sure, getting comfortable laying near jaehyun’s chest. you two decided to do this in the bedroom, where jaehyun might be most comfortable, since this is new territory. he’s slumped against the pillows and headboard, looking down at you with a look of uncertainty and a bead of sweat already forming on his temple. 

“training,” he says shakily, voice trembling around the words. “i’m basically gonna edge myself, and hopefully with time, i’ll be able to last longer– or maybe i’ll have better stamina, or something.” his uncertainty makes you a bit nervous. it’s not like you two haven’t explored edging before, but you typically do it to each other, not watch one another do it to themselves. 

“and you’re positive you wanna do this?” you cup his cheeks, forcing him to maintain eye contact with you. he hesitates for a second, then there's a sense of determination in his eyes. they’re dark and determined when they meet your own. 

“i want to do this,” he says resolutely, nodding his head as much as he can in your grip. you release his face to let him get comfortable, and he has you set a five minute timer on your phone. your job is fairly simple–tell him to stop when five minutes are up until (hopefully) he’s done it for twenty minutes. 

“okay, but why can’t i do it for you?” you ask, trying to push away the urge to pout. you love feeling him tremble under your own hands, watching him fall apart from your touch.

“it’s better if i do it myself today. i t-think i might nut immediately if you touch me,” you’re a little disappointed, but you’re also intrigued about watching him touch himself, and this is important to him, so you want to be supportive. besides, he didn’t say you can’t spur him on.

jaehyun shimmies his shorts off and throws them somewhere on the floor, and you’re immediately distracted by the sight of his dick. it’s so cute and plump, and you stave off the need to put your mouth on it. you exchange “readies,” and jaehyun wraps a hand around his member. you watch as he jerks at the feeling. he takes a deep breath, and when he nods, you start the timer. 

he’s just building up a steady rhythm when the timer reads 10 seconds, after successfully overcoming his shyness and giving into the pleasure when he sees that you’re not judging him.

and boy, are you not judging him. 

looking at jaehyun from across a crowded room is usually enough to get you hot at your core, but this need was something new entirely. you watch the way his head mushrooms on upward strokes, and almost feel dizzy at the sight of him running his thumb across the tip expertly. of course jaehyun knows how to work his own body, but damn. it’s so effortless you almost feel like you're interrupting. 

he doesn’t notice the way you rub your thighs together to keep the feeling of insanity at bay. he’s too lost in his own pleasure, eyes squeezed shut as he spreads his precum down his penis, and you might actually be drooling.

he’s shaking like a leaf by the time ten minutes pass, huffing a frustrated breath and laying his head back against the pillows. he moans softly when you place a quick kiss on his neck. 

“what’s the matter, hyunie?” you say with a mischievous smile. he’s taking a small break from touching himself, so you rub little circles into his hip bones.

“god, i–” he stops to swallow, mouth dry from gasping and moaning. “dunno how m-much longer i c-can do this.”

“but you’re halfway there, baby boy. you can do it,” you encourage, running a hand through his ruffled hair. he doesn’t share that belief, it’s obvious in his eyes, but he wraps his hand around his member again. 

“there you go,” you commend. he doesn’t say anything about you touching him, so you keep doing it, bringing a hand up to lightly squeeze his pec. “is this okay?” 

he nods a little, whimpers a little in what you assume is permission, because he whines petulantly when you pull your hand away. 

after a few minutes, he’s breathing hard, and bucking his hips to meet his hand halfway. the timer reads 1 minute and 03 seconds left.

“fuck, i-i can–, can’t-” he babbles incoherently, thighs shaking where they lift in the air and fall back on the mattress rhythmically. he throws his head back again, neck on full display for you to make use of. you take the bait, latching onto his skin and sucking red, angry marks into it. you pull away to read the timer again, 21 seconds left. when you suck another mark into his neck, jaehyun gasps out.

“y/n, y/n, please, -m s’close– ah-h–” 

while you’re admiring his fucked-out state, your phone beeps next to you. you turn it off and look back at jaehyun. you’re surprised to see that he’s already looking at you, eyes big and glossy as he humps his hand. 

“time��s up, jae,” you say. he whines. “jaehyun, stop.”  he makes a little sound that you’re not sure what to call, something high-pitched and desperate as his hips stutter. “hyunie, do i have permission to touch you?” 

he nods quickly, desperately, likely under the impression that you’re gonna help him cum. the distressed whine he lets out when you pull his hand away from his cock is visceral, like he doesn’t have control over making it. 

he gasps for air greedily as he teeters from the edge. one of his hands clenches the duvet underneath him, and the other clasps your thigh instead, grip unforgiving. you’re so turned on you don’t even notice the pain, occupied by taking in his flushed face and messy hair. you connect your lips with his in what was meant to be a quick kiss, but he deepens it, the hand on the comforter coming to cup your cheek instead.

“almost lost yourself for a second there, huh?” you tease after pulling away, whispering in the small space between you guys’ parted lips.

“thi s-is s-so hard,” he mumbles, words trailing off into a whine, sloppy and slurring together. 

“but it’s been fifteen minutes, sweetheart. just five more and you can cum.” 

jaehyun squeezes his eyes shut in displeasure as he comprehends your words, and part of you wants to give in and let him have it. you know how badly he wants to succeed, and he’s already worked so hard. this was his idea, anyway.

but the other, seemingly sadistic part of you wants to watch as he pushes himself to agonizing pleasure. desperate jaehyun is one of your favorite sights–the way cute little tears roll down his cheeks and his body basically vibrates with a need only you can fulfill. 

it’s beautiful, to say the least, and the power goes straight to your cunt, getting you all hot and needy yourself. you clench around nothing at the mere thought of it, so you press “start” on the timer again and help wrap jaehyun’s hand back around his dick.

for a minute, jaehyun doesn’t say anything. his eyes roll back at the stimulation, and he fucks up into his hand dumbly as you lick his nipple into your mouth. 

"s-shit, fuck, n-needa cum- hahh, please, it hurts-" he whines in your hold, unoccupied hand trembling where it’s still laying on your thigh.

"don't you wanna last, sweet thing? you’re so close." 

"i-i- hn- don't w-wanna d-do this anym-more,” he stutters out, struggling to string the sentence together through the fog in his head and the pleasure coursing through his lower body. you halt the stimulation on his nipple at his words.

"what's your color, hyunie?"

"g-green, green, fuck, i just wanna cum," he says immediately, tears building up in his lash line and finally rolling down his cheeks. his hand wavers, then picks up speed again. 

you pretend to contemplate while trailing a finger along his shaft and pulling away when he chases the feeling. "you want me to give you permission? tell you to reach that overwhelming pleasure, make a mess all over yourself?" 

jaehyun nods, of course, but you’re not even sure he’s comprehending what you’re saying right now. his eyes are almost fully black with the way they’re dilated, and you’d be worried if you hadn’t just confirmed his color.

"but i don't think you deserve it, sweetheart,” you lie. of course he deserves it, but he’s so fun to play with. “it hasn't even been twenty minutes and you're already falling apart. maybe i should get a ring for your little cock, watch as you desperately work yourself through dry orgasms." his hips stutter at your degrading words, hand aggressive as it strokes his poor, throbbing dick. the need to have it in your cunt has never been as strong as it is now.

"n-noplea- f-fuck, i’ms'rry-" 

over jaehyun's slurred babbles, you almost don’t hear the timer go off. at the realization that it's been twenty minutes, you smile proudly and turn the alarm off. 

you shh jaehyun's whimpers and hiccups and bite another mark on his pec. you replace his hand with yours and thumb at his tip, then watch as he falls apart for you.

"hng- gonna cum- cumming, pleas-"

"you're so good, hyunie. you did it. cum for me." 

jaehyun looks at you almost in disbelief before his head falls back against the pillows and he's cumming so hard some of it lands on your shirt.

"you did it, myungjae. did such a good job for me," you congratulate again while peppering kisses on his face.

"did it," he mumbles breathlessly with a lopsided smile and droopy eyes.

"mhm. you deserve a reward, don't you think?"

"uh-h," he mutters, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. he looks so tired, but you’ve been with him long enough to know he could give you two more orgasms at least. you lift up to straddle his legs and rub up and down his thighs gently. 

"i don't mind your sensitivity, hyunie. can i show you why?" he nods silently again, eyes glossy and dazed. he’s breathing harshly through his nose, but looks like he’s in overall good shape, so you take his dick in your hand again and begin slowly pumping it.

"u-unh- too m-much-" he whimpers out, brows furrowed in euphoric torture. his hips twitch like he doesn't know if he should buck into the feeling or pull away from it. despite his moans in protest, he’s already filling up in your hand, ready to be played with again.

"see how you're already hard again, jae? all for me?" his mouth hangs open, but no words come out. instead, he grunts loudly when your pace increases. 

"i just wanna make you feel good," you squeeze his member lightly then tease at the slit. his head falls back again, and his back arches slightly, but he's still staring at you, eyes full of wonder and hanging onto every word you say.

"it doesn't matter if you cum quickly, ‘cause you can just do it again for me, isn't that right?" you twist your wrist just right, and he's shuddering through another orgasm, a pained, high-pitched whine coming from the back of his throat.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:

"t-thank you," he mutters, eyes struggling to stay open, boneless on top of the mattress. his words are still dragging, but they’re much more comprehensible. "-m sorry for making a big deal out of this. it all seems so silly now."

"if it matters to you, it matters to me, sweetheart," you reply, rubbing knots out of his shoulder from where you’re still straddling his legs. you’re still unbearably horny, and you’re pretty sure you’ve soaked through your underwear and your shorts by now.

"still..." he trails off, eyes following you as you stand up from the bed and strip off your clothing. you see the way he gulps, the way his eyes helplessly flit between your boobs and your cunt, but you don’t say anything–you figure he’s had enough teasing for one day.

you straddle him again with a mischievous smile on your face.

"let me ride you and i'll let you off the hook?"

✧･ﾟ: *

a/n : i'm actually kind of in love w this story and maybe it’s because i pulled an allnighter to write it and my brain cells aren’t all the way here, if you read this and something doesn’t make sense PLEASE tell me 😭 guys do nawt have me out here looking like a fool </3 i tried to make it different from the taesan one, it was supposed to be a drabble but please don’t ask me how it became literally 3k i DO NOT KNOW….that sleep deprivation boost ig </33 berry just a blogger tryin their best

special thanks to @zynz0 and this fic which made me literally insane. while writing this, i couldn't find the phrase for what jaehyun is doing here but that post helped me a lot!!!

now i will FINALLY SLEEEEEP RAHHHH i literally finished this at 9am

[maddie-grove]

I know it’s been eleven years and it’s a movie for children, but I do think it’s very funny that one of the messages of Frozen is “love at first sight isn’t real and believing in it will get you almost killed! Love after three days, however…”

[usagifuyusummer]

More silly and fun practice sketches on the Victorian Era FOP AU lol. Just gonna post them here first while we're still developing this and busy with our real-life duties as students.

There's actually a ton of my thoughts in the alt text of these images lol. I hope it's still there. I will also include the links of the existing posts relating to this AU to keep track of what has been created.

Origin Discussion Posts

Updated Character Designs 1

Updated Character Designs and Concepts 2

Concept Art 1: Boy with a Parasol

Tumblr Asks 1

Credit: @keyintheeye-blog original creator and the default character designer of this Victorian Era FOP AU.

I will post my other thoughts (something like a what's happening update) on the repost of this later. Gotta get back to my unavoidable university duties... Have a nice day tho 💐

[leathfaic]

Every year around Easter Ghost hides somewhere on the training grounds. If you find him you get half of his leave.

Soldiers all around go fucking feral, Ghost never takes any leave and there's rumours that start around Christmas of how long you'd be able to go home. Weeks probably aren't enough maybe a few months? Some are sure it's at least a full year.

Except of course no one ever finds him.

He's the Ghost and if he doesn't want to be found he isn't. He's just taking the piss, enjoying how the event has people riled up for weeks. He's not one for practical jokes, but this has him cackling.

Enter Soap, the FNG, the man who brings Ghost to his knees. They do their whole song and dance, and come Easter Ghost is hugging his boyfriend before preparing to hide.

Soap promising with a cocky smile that he'll find Ghost and they are going to use that leave for a nice holiday. Which Ghost smiles at, his sweet naive Soap, as if he's gonna hand him a win just because he loves him.

Imagine Ghost's shock when a few hours later he spots Johnny from his hiding spot. He's still high in a tree but the other man is walking directly in his direction and after a few moments he looks up.

Once Ghost is down the tree, still incredulous, but also very much in love, he asks Soap how he did it.

"Let my heart guide me, L.t." is the answer he gets which he calls out for the bloody nonsense it is.

Takes him all the way back to base to make him talk. And even then Johnny just hugs him, reaching around putting a hand in his back pocket (not unusual) and digging around (definitely unusual). Producing a small piece of technology.

"You fucking tracked me?!" his jaw nearly drops at the realisation.

"Aye, slipped it in this mornin' when we hugged."

"You little shit." is all that his brain will allow, mostly hung up on the cocky smile on Soap's face. The same as this morning.

He should be fuming. His proud record broken, he actually has to make good on the promise that so far has been all but hypothetical. Price will be in hysterics about the amount of paperwork that comes with it.

But he can't find it in him to care. He's mesmerized at Soap outplaying him. Drunk on the weird sense of pride that Johnny is so observant and skilled. Most of all he's blown away by the fact that he never even considered the possibility. It would be easy to blame hubris here, but that's not the reason no-one ever pulled a similar stunt.

No, Soap was able to do this because Ghost let him get close. Because he trusts him.

The Ghost that met Soap a few months ago would've panicked at this point. Soap had not only seen his weak spot, he clearly was also cunning enough to use it to his own advantage.

The Ghost that has been loved by Johnny for months now doesn't. Because he trusts him. And because he's proud. And because the rational part of his brain realises that any enemy agent would never have exposed their advantage for a game.

"If you ever do anything like this again-" he doesn't need to know where he wants to end that sentence, but Soap's interjection saves him the trouble "No worries, I like meself alive too."

He'll still have to be careful next year. After all he found a worthy opponent and he can't just make it too easy on him. Probably can not let Soap touch him before the game. Maybe not even the night before. Just to be safe. A fortnight should do it. But that also means a fortnight of not touching Soap...

But he can consider that later. For now he and Soap have a holiday to plan.

[royalarchivist]

This is what it feels like every time a new SMP has streamers I like

[holyshit]

.

[geegers22]

Just saw someone call zutara a crack ship…

I don’t think that word means what you think it means.