#and i will not tone down anything about that because that's why i find his character so fun to write | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

youthguk · 2 days ago

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Terms & Conditions: Part 2 (Final Act)

when the suit comes off, the truth does too.

pairing: CEO’s son!Jungkook x assistant!Reader

summary: You swore you came here to build a career — not fall apart in the hands of the CEO’s son.

warnings: power imbalance, office tension, explicit sexual content (oral sex m. receiving, unprotected sex, rough sex, dirty talk, possessiveness), infidelity (both parties), arranged engagement themes, physical violence (fight scene), public scandal, emotional manipulation, toxic power dynamics, angst, some hurt/comfort.

w.c: 10k

Part 1 is required reading. This is a finale part 2.

You don’t even wait until the floor clears for lunch.

There’s no strategy left in you anymore — no calculated timing, no softened voice. You step into the corridor just as the meeting room doors close behind him, your clipboard still clutched in your hand, the adrenaline already humming in your ears like static. And when he sees you, he doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t pretend to be surprised. His gaze settles on yours with that same maddening calm — like the night he spent inside you meant nothing, like the woman draped over his arm the next evening wasn’t wearing the exact same shade of lipstick you left smeared across his throat.

Drawing in a single breath, you face him. "You're engaged."

It's not a question - it doesn't need to be. The silence that follows hangs heavy between you, thick enough to suffocate.

He releases a long sigh and, unusually, drops his typical facade of sarcasm and control. Meeting your gaze with unreadable eyes, he stands with hands in his pockets like a defendant who knows the verdict won't matter.

"Yes," he says simply. "I am."

You remain perfectly still, fingers tightening around your clipboard as you deliver your next words with razor-sharp precision. "So what was I, then? Disposable? Or just free?"

Your words strike true - you catch the flicker in his eyes, the subtle clench of his jaw, the shallow breath he takes. Yet he offers no apology, no explanation. Instead, he responds with the detached tone of a business presentation.

“It’s not like that.”

“No?” You step closer. Not much. Just enough to make him hold your gaze harder. “Then explain it. Explain why I was bleeding wine in front of investors while you stood there with your fiancée, saying nothing.”

He exhales through his nose, slow and tight, voice lowered now, like the weight of the conversation is finally dragging his composure down with it.

“It’s a business arrangement,” he says, words deliberate. “Old money. Shared capital. Our families have been connected since we were teenagers. This isn’t about love, or lust, or even choice. It’s about control. It’s about deals with names older than either of us.” A pause. “It’s expected.”

You laugh — short, bitter, too empty to sound like anything real.

“Expected,” you echo, your voice cracking on the word like it’s poison in your mouth. “And I was… what? Unexpected? A glitch in your system? Something to delete once the ink dried?”

His silence and downcast gaze speak volumes.

Your breath catches unsteadily as your heart pounds against your ribs. "You could've said something," you whisper, the words barely audible. "Could've stopped. Didn't have to kiss me, didn't have to stay."

His voice takes on a sharp edge. "And you didn't have to let me."

The accusation hits you like a physical blow, leaving you frozen in place. When you finally find your voice again, it emerges quiet and glacial. "I wasn't the one promising anything."

He meets your gaze, his expression unreadable but his voice carrying notes of both defense and warning. "You had a boyfriend."

The words strike deep - not because they're false, but because they expose the very wound you'd hoped he'd forgotten. He catches every micro-expression that crosses your face: the catch in your breath, the clench of your jaw, the momentary downward flicker of your eyes.

"You think this was one-sided?" he murmurs, drawing closer. "That I seduced you from nowhere? You kissed me back, begged for it, moaned my name while your boyfriend's contact was still in your phone."

You flinch but hold your ground, because beneath all the anger lies an unbearable truth: he's right. And that very fact feeds both your hatred for him and your self-loathing.

✓

You cut him from your life completely. No acknowledgment when he stands at the printer, no response to his comments in campaign threads, no glance during Monday syncs. You give him nothing - not a breath, not a look, not a hint of the woman who once surrendered to his touch.

Though you refuse to meet his gaze, you can feel it following you - heavy and deliberate, as if trying to summon back the version of you who trembled at his voice. Instead, you present him with a carefully crafted facade: high collars, red lipstick, clipboard held like armor. This version of you is untouched by memory, unmarked by the intimacy you once shared.

Two weeks later, she arrives. Nami. Her visit is mentioned casually in a morning brief about corporate guests from London, but the moment the elevator doors open, you understand. She embodies effortless elegance - her cream suit perfectly tailored, her heels precise, her smile polished to perfection. She and Jungkook move together with practiced grace, his arm hovering near hers without quite touching, their matched presence speaking of wealth and careful calculation.

Your stomach twists as you try to ignore them, but when his burning glance finds your desk, something shifts inside you. As Minho from strategic ops approaches with coffee and a smile, you seize the opportunity. Your fingers brush his arm, your laughter flows freely, your gratitude comes with lowered lashes and a voice too sweet to be genuine.

When you finally look across the space, Jungkook stands with Nami but his eyes are fixed on you. He remains motionless except for the tightening vein at his temple and the slight shift of his jaw. In that moment, you discover something colder than satisfaction blooming in your chest - the realization that you could wound him without a single touch, just as he wounded you.

You maintain your performance with Minho, your laughter pitched just loud enough, your proximity carefully calculated. Though you don't look Jungkook's way again, you can feel his unwavering attention. When you finally return to your desk, your smile falls away like a discarded mask. You press your lips together and resume working, knowing that if you must bleed, at least you're making him feel every drop.

✓

It’s late when he finds you again — not by accident, not by fate, but with the kind of deliberate intensity you can feel long before you hear the footsteps approaching from behind. You’re the only one left on the floor, most of the office dark now except for the hallway lamps casting low, golden streaks across the concrete, and the single strip of cold light above your desk where you sit, pretending to finish the expense report you opened twenty minutes ago but haven’t touched since.

You hear him before you see him — the soft thud of his shoes crossing the carpeted floor with just enough pressure to announce him and no one else.

He doesn’t speak your name — not at first — just lingers behind your chair for a moment too long, his presence as heavy as ever, a pull you can feel at your back like heat from an open flame.

When he finally moves, it’s slow — fingers brushing the edge of your desk, not touching you yet, just hovering like memory, like warning, until he steps closer, his voice low, already rough, already wrecked.

“You’re ignoring me.”

Silence is your only response as you click aimlessly through a spreadsheet, your eyes fixed on meaningless numbers while your throat constricts with the weight of everything left unsaid.

“Say something,” he pushes, his voice darker now, not cruel, but desperate in a way you’ve never heard it. “Or do you only speak when you’re on your knees?”

His crude remark ignites something in you. Rising with controlled fury, you send your chair rolling back with a sharp clatter. Your body turns to face him in one fluid motion as you shove his hand off your desk, stepping into his space until you're toe to toe, your carefully maintained composure finally shattering.

"Don't touch me." The words cut through the air between you, crystalline and absolute.

He remains rooted in place, breathing hard with stormy eyes and hands flexing at his sides - a man struggling against the magnetic pull between you, fighting the urge to close those final inches.

"I can't stop wanting you," he confesses through clenched teeth, each word brittle and raw. "You know that, right? You feel it too. Don't lie to me."

"You don't get to want me," you counter, your voice trembling with the effort to maintain your resolve. "Not while you still belong to someone else."

A soft curse escapes him as he reaches for your wrist, seeking something solid to anchor himself to - but you wrench away before his fingers can find purchase, your next words slicing through the tension like a blade across silk.

"Break it off."

He freezes as you fix him with an unwavering stare, your eyes blazing not with tears but with a fury that threatens to blind. "If you want to touch me again, if you want me at all," you continue, each word deliberately cruel and precise, "then end it. End your deal, your arrangement, your legacy contract or whatever the hell you call that woman, and choose me."

His jaw flexes, shoulders rigid, a muscle ticking in his cheek like the last thread holding him together. "It's not that simple," he manages finally - a hollow defense from a man suddenly realizing how little control he truly has.

Your voice drops to a whisper, steady and final. "Then this is over."

You leave him there, your heels clicking against the floor as you walk away without pause or backward glance. Your exhale trembles in your lungs as you disappear down the corridor, leaving him frozen in the harsh fluorescent light. The message is clear: if he wants you now, he'll have to earn you.

✓

You download the app that same night, your thumb hovering over the red-pink icon for a full minute before you tap it — like even that act alone requires courage, like even pretending you’re ready to move on might tear something inside you loose.

You don’t tell yourself it’s a statement. You don’t pretend it’s casual. It’s not about hunger or curiosity or trying to bury the feeling of Jungkook’s body still inside yours. It’s about escape. About choice. About quiet rebellion in the form of swipes and curated smiles and profiles that don’t mention empires or legacies or what their family owns in London.

Dan is the first to reach out, a welcome change from chasing someone else's silence. You like the fact that he doesn’t make you chase, doesn’t smirk behind every word, doesn’t leave you staring at your phone for three hours wondering if you imagined the weight of his silence. Dan is polite, easy to talk to, refreshingly available — a man who replies in full sentences, asks about your work with genuine interest, doesn’t look at you like you’re the puzzle he wants to solve before he breaks it.

You go on your first date with him the following Friday — a corner booth at a rooftop bar, not flashy, not elite, but just nice enough to make you wear a dress that hugs your waist and lipstick that isn’t red. Dan compliments you the second you sit down. He doesn’t stare at your mouth when you speak. He orders a whiskey neat, listens when you talk, smiles when you laugh. When he walks you to the curb and asks if he can see you again, he doesn’t linger too long or press too close. He just touches your elbow, soft and brief, and waits for your answer.

You say yes, though you're unsure if it's attraction or desperation driving you - if you're trying to forget or simply reclaim ownership of your body. That night, lying alone in bed, untouched by choice, you realize it's the first time in weeks you haven't dreamed of chains against your collarbone.

Dan becomes a steady presence. Your meetings increase from weekly to twice that, each time marked by thoughtful gestures - good morning texts before important meetings, unexpected coffee deliveries, genuine interest in your work and opinions. He never mentions your past, and Jungkook remains unspoken between you. Dan represents something fresh - no complicated history, no clandestine encounters, no sin-stained conference rooms. While love hasn't bloomed, you're finally open to its possibility.

The revelation comes naturally one morning, neither planned revenge nor calculated provocation, but something far more potent: simple truth. You're standing by the design team's table, adjusting files while half-listening to Lisa, the new junior manager from strategy, chat about Gangnam restaurants. Her perfectly manicured hand curls around her cold brew as others hover nearby, feigning work while eavesdropping.

When Lisa turns to you, eyes bright with curiosity about your upcoming second date, you feel your throat tighten. Across the floor, Jungkook stands with his back partially turned, close enough to overhear. Something reckless and wounded inside you makes you straighten your spine as you answer with practiced casualness, as if your voice had never caught in his throat.

"Tomorrow actually," you say, matching Lisa's enthusiasm when she comments on Dan's apparent interest. You offer a practiced smile - the kind reserved for men who don't leave marks on your soul. "He's nice. Stable. Makes plans, follows through."

Though you don't look directly at Jungkook, you notice the shift - his fingers gripping the desk edge with barely contained violence, his jaw tightening, shoulders tensing with unspoken words. His silence speaks volumes, and you savor this moment of control, cold and satisfying like salt in someone else's wound.

The smile remains fixed until you reach your desk, where reality spins slightly behind your eyes. You remind yourself of your choice - if he claimed it wasn't simple, you're making it elementary. You're moving forward, even if the progression feels like dying.

✓

It's been a month since you first let Dan in - not into your heart or the part that still twitches at Jungkook's voice, but into your space and body. When it happened, it was slow and considerate, with gentle hands and a mouth that didn't demand. You told yourself it was the right decision, even if it wasn't passionate or dangerous.

Dan had stayed the night, his chest warm against your back as he slept peacefully. You laid awake counting the ways his touch failed to ignite you, wondering when settling for "good" had become your compromise.

Now in the break room with your coworkers, you wear practiced casualness like armor as Mina leans in with a conspiratorial smile. "Are you still seeing that guy? The tall one?"

"Dan?" you ask, lifting your coffee cup.

She nods while Jiyoon from HR chimes in, "He's hot. Quiet, but... the good kind of quiet."

You could deflect, but something defiant stirs within you. "We've been seeing each other for a while now," you say evenly. "We slept together last weekend."

Their heads tilt forward as soft oh's and knowing mm-hmms fill the air. When Mina grins expectantly, you offer a measured laugh and a simple "He's good. Very... attentive."

It's just a casual comment, but the sudden silence behind you - where the automatic doors whisper open and closed - speaks volumes. You don't need to turn to know it's him. His presence pulses like a second heartbeat as you calmly sip your coffee, letting your words linger.

He stands frozen, tension radiating from his rigid frame, before walking away without a word. Though he doesn't speak, his silence echoes through your veins for hours as you approach the end of your workday.

You’re five minutes from slipping into your coat, catching the last train, and crawling into your apartment where Dan texted that he might stop by, and where your body aches more from stress than arousal. Your eyes are dry. Your shoulders sore. You’ve done nothing wrong all day, and yet the tension hasn’t left you since that moment in the break room — the quiet that trailed behind you like perfume, his silence thickening the air every time he passed.

The email lands in your inbox at 7:52 p.m. sharp.

From: Jeon Jungkook

Subject: Campaign Budget Review – URGENT

Need your eyes on the attached. Need edits by tonight. Stay.

The email lands without greeting or explanation - just a demand to stay late and review the campaign budget.

Though you could decline with a curt "will handle first thing tomorrow," you find yourself staying, unable to break free from the pull he still has on you after these past months. The numbers only need minor adjustments, but you meticulously revise each cell, turning the task into an act of quiet defiance.

By nine, the office falls silent save for your typing and the occasional sweep of headlights through the glass. His arrival comes not as a sound but as a presence - a shift in the air like an approaching storm. You maintain your focus on the spreadsheet, refusing to acknowledge how your pulse quickens under his gaze as he approaches your chair.

"You're sleeping with him." His words cut through the quiet.

You turn slowly, deliberately calm as you meet his eyes. "I'm sleeping with someone who isn't engaged," you say coolly. "Something new after you, I like that."

Though he doesn't flinch, his hands curl into fists. "Why?" The words strain like fraying rope. "You're bored. I know you are."

"And yet," you murmur, rising to face him, "I'm still choosing him over you."

He moves with sudden intensity, reaching for your waist with an instinctive need. You shove him away hard, your voice sharp with anger. "Don't you fucking touch me."

Instead of apologizing, he advances again, eyes burning. "You think I'm okay seeing you with someone else?" he hisses through clenched teeth. "You think I'm sleeping well at night, watching you walk around here like none of it meant anything—"

"Good," you cut in, breathless but unflinching. "Now you know how it feels."

His silence speaks volumes as he stares at you, finally understanding that what lies between you has transformed from seduction into consequence. You walk away first, knowing that this time, he has no right to follow.

✓

It’s the kind of evening that doesn’t tolerate mistakes — an annual investor gala held at the Seoul Grand Marquis, a glass-and-marble beast of a venue tucked into the heart of the business district, where every chandelier costs more than your rent and every napkin bears the weight of legacy branding. This night is about power, about vision, about shaking hands across glass tables while making eye contact that means money, and you’ve known since the moment the invitation appeared in your inbox that this would be a war disguised as a party.

Every department has representatives attending — not just for visibility, but for survival. The gala is where acquisitions are hinted at, expansions teased, internal stars subtly ranked by who they’re standing next to and how loudly the room stops to listen when they speak. It’s also the one night each year when employees are permitted to bring a date — a silent status symbol more than a courtesy. It’s the company’s way of saying: show us who’s beside you, so we know who you are outside of your salary.

Dan had offered without hesitation. He’d even asked what color you planned to wear before choosing his tie, showed up to your apartment early that evening with flowers wrapped in white tissue and a nervous smile that looked too genuine to ignore. You’d let him help with your zipper. You’d let him kiss your shoulder as you stepped into your heels. And you’d told yourself, not for the first time, that normal wasn’t boring — that stability could be seductive in its own quiet way.

You arrive just past seven, hand resting light against his arm, your dress a sleek, open-backed slip of black satin that clings at the waist and falls like smoke to the floor, elegant but not attention-hungry, chosen precisely for its control. You wear no necklace, just earrings — thin, delicate, silver — and your lipstick is not red. You’ve been careful with every inch of yourself tonight, each detail designed to say: I am not here to play the game. I am here to win it.

Dan’s hand lingers on your lower back as you’re escorted toward the mezzanine ballroom, his voice soft, full of small compliments, polite jokes, quiet awe at the decor. You listen, you smile, you nod — and yet even as the champagne flute settles between your fingers and the soft strings of a quartet unfurl through the air like silk, there’s only one thing you’re aware of beneath your skin.

The anticipation coils within you like a rising tide. You feel it the way sailors sense an approaching storm - not with fear, but with the quiet certainty of something inevitable approaching.

The air shifts, almost imperceptibly, but with unmistakable weight.

Conversations pause mid-sentence. Laughter drops in pitch. Heads begin to turn in one slow wave, like a tide drawn toward something gravitational. And you know — before you turn your head, before you finish your breath, before you even dare glance — that it’s him.

Jeon Jungkook arrives with all the ease of someone who has never had to ask permission to exist. His suit is black, tailored within a millimeter of precision, cut to showcase the width of his shoulders and the power of his frame in ways that were never accidental. His shirt collar is open. His watch is new. His posture is effortless. And beside him — arm tucked lightly through his, gaze serene, steps measured like choreography — walks her.

Nami.

Her dress is a shade between champagne and cream, expensive in the quiet way only generational wealth understands, cut high at the neck but low at the back, revealing the smooth curve of a spine trained to never flinch. Her hair is swept into a twist that probably cost more than your entire outfit, and diamonds gleam at her ears, her throat, her wrist — no single piece overwhelming, but together they form a statement louder than any introduction.

Together, they look untouchable - a picture of perfection as she leans into him with the quiet confidence of someone who belongs there. Her fingers brush his sleeve with practiced familiarity, each gesture speaking of countless moments shared and countless more to come.

While Dan remains absorbed in conversation beside you, eagerly trying to charm the executive before him, you feel yourself drawn across the ballroom into Jungkook's unflinching gaze. The man who once whispered promises against your skin now stares at you with an intensity that makes the rest of the room fade away.

His eyes find yours deliberately, purposefully.

He looks at you — all of you — and his stare does not flinch. His gaze traces your neckline, lingers at your mouth, dips to the curve of your waist where Dan’s hand rests lightly like a placeholder. And for a long, long moment, he says nothing.

His eyes speak volumes in that moment - a dark intensity that matches your unwavering stare. When you finally break his gaze, it's not from fear or weakness, but because you've seen enough. This carefully crafted facade - the ballroom, the elegance, the man himself - has lost its luster, and you're no longer interested in maintaining the illusion.

He doesn’t come near you, not once, not even when protocol would have allowed it, not even when the polite mingling between departments would have excused a nod, a half-smile, a harmless comment about the wine or the music or the work you're both supposed to be doing — instead, he remains at a distance all evening, and yet you feel him watching you like heat from a closed door, like the memory of being touched in a place no one else can see.

There’s no space between your bodies anymore, not truly — not with how often his eyes find you across the ballroom, always in the quiet between speeches, always in the hush just before applause, in the breath before someone says your name — his gaze never lingering long enough to be obvious, but never glancing away quickly enough to be innocent, always returning, always waiting, as if his vision can reach through fabric and skin and hours of practiced indifference.

You don’t give him the satisfaction of looking back.

You smile at Dan’s quiet jokes and accept the compliments from passing executives with a grace that feels like performance, not for the company, but for him, because everything about tonight has become a silent refusal to be anything less than composed — and if your spine is rigid beneath the satin of your gown, if your glass trembles slightly in your hand when you sip your champagne, no one else seems to notice.

Dan remains effortlessly attentive, not pushy, not overbearing, his presence beside you gentle in the way a safe harbor is, the kind of man who places a hand at the small of your back only when necessary — never to mark, never to command, only to anchor — and it’s during one of those moments, when you’re leaning in to listen to a conversation about the new China expansion strategy, that his fingers slide across your waist and settle low, pressing with the faintest pressure at the curve of your spine, grounding you without even knowing he’s touching a live wire.

You feel it instantly — not Dan’s touch, but the reaction it causes. Across the ballroom, Jungkook’s body shifts — subtly, almost imperceptibly, the kind of movement only someone who knows him too well would recognize — and even while mid-conversation with a group of executives near the bar, you see it, the sharp turn of his head, the flicker of his eyes, the rigid set of his shoulders the moment Dan’s hand settles exactly where Jungkook’s had once rested just before pushing you against his office door.

He doesn’t make a scene — he never does — but you see the way his jaw tightens, the way his hand flexes at his side like it’s fighting the need to close into a fist, the way his attention fractures mid-sentence as though his entire body has just become too tight to contain what he's feeling.

And then he walks away — not excusing himself, not smiling, not even pretending to maintain appearances, simply turning his back on whoever is still speaking and disappearing through the crowd with the kind of cold, singular focus that only ever means one thing when it comes to him: he’s going somewhere he isn’t supposed to be, to do something he’s no longer allowed to want.

Dan leans closer, says something about the main course arriving soon — something warm, something ordinary — and you nod, forcing a smile as if you’re still listening, still present, still in control.

But your body is already moving, your fingers setting down your glass, your eyes flicking toward the hallway behind the reception arch where the corridor leads away from the chandeliers and the silk and the curated spectacle of luxury, into the dim space lined with marble and mirror — a place built for privacy, for reapplication of lipstick and last-minute touch-ups, and, tonight, for whatever this has become between you and the man who just walked into the dark.

Without a word to Dan, you slip away into the shadows - drawn, as always, by a force stronger than reason.

The hallway behind the ballroom is dimly lit, lined with gilt-edged mirrors and low recessed sconces, the carpet thick enough to muffle footsteps, the air faintly perfumed with expensive citrus and something sweeter beneath it — and when you step past the velvet curtain that separates noise from silence, laughter from lust, you already know exactly where he’s gone.

The restroom is a cathedral of indulgence — marble floors, gold-trimmed stalls with private doors that close to the floor, velvet-paneled walls that swallow sound, plush settees for resting, reapplying, restrategizing. It’s the kind of room built for discretion. The kind of room that hears things and never repeats them.

You find him by the mirrors — his jacket off, sleeves rolled, chest rising a little too quickly for someone who claims to be fine. His eyes meet yours in the reflection first, and for a moment, neither of you speak. You stand there, inches apart and centuries away, the silence between you thick enough to drown in.

And then he turns.

“You need to stop,” he says, not as a command but as something closer to a plea, his voice rough, ragged at the edges, like he’s been holding it in all night and it’s finally breaking loose. “You can’t keep looking at me like I didn’t fuck you against a glass table and promise you it meant something.”

You don’t move. His steps are slow but certain as he closes the distance between you, and when he reaches you, his hands hover — not touching, not yet, just suspended at your waist like he’s begging your skin to remember him.

“I can’t do it anymore,” he breathes, softer now, just for you. “Not with you pretending he’s enough. Not with me standing there next to her, tasting you every time I close my fucking mouth.”

Fire burns in your gaze as you meet his eyes, wordless. Without hesitation, you pull him into a kiss.

Not gently. Not sweetly. You kiss him like punishment, like hunger, like you want to taste the lie in his throat and make it yours. His hands crash into your body the second your lips part — one gripping your jaw, the other dragging down to your hip, to your ass, squeezing hard enough to bruise. You pull him in with both fists knotted in his shirt, teeth clashing, breathless and furious and starving.

He breaks the kiss to bite at your neck, dragging his mouth down your throat as you walk him back into the furthest stall, slamming the door behind you with a force that makes the hinges rattle. He’s already unbuckling, already reaching for you, already so hard it’s like his body’s been waiting for this since the moment you left him standing in that empty office.

You sink gracefully to your knees before him, hands sliding up his thighs with deliberate intent. And when you look up at him, lips parted, breath hot, eyes blazing, you don’t need permission. You wrap one hand around his cock — flushed, thick, dripping at the tip — and lick a slow, deliberate stripe up the length, your tongue flat and obscene, your stare never wavering. He groans, low and choked, one hand flying to your hair, the other gripping the stall wall like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.

You start slow — lazy, teasing, letting him feel every inch of your mouth as you take him in, lips sealing tight, jaw relaxed as you begin to move, your hand following where your mouth can’t reach.

“Fuck—” he gasps, eyes falling shut, hips jerking just slightly. “God, your mouth��fuck, I missed this—”

You hum around him — deep and wicked — and he moans so loudly it vibrates through your chest.

He can’t stay still.

He starts moving with you, thrusting gently, then harder, until one hand’s cradling the back of your head, the other buried in your hair, guiding you with slow, rough pressure as your lips slide wet and filthy down his cock again and again, saliva spilling at the corners of your mouth.

You let him take control, wanting him to come undone beneath your touch. And when you suck harder, faster, your throat relaxing, his rhythm stutters — his hips twitch, his breath breaks, and he pulls you off with a sharp, wet pop, panting, dragging you up into his arms, kissing you with his cock still hard between you, his mouth crashing into yours like he needs you to taste yourself on his skin.

The kiss deepens into something raw and primal, tongues and teeth clashing as their hands grasp desperately at each other. He spins you, presses you against the velvet-paneled wall, his hands yanking up your gown, dragging your panties down with such urgency that you nearly fall forward — but he catches you, hoists you up, lifts your thigh, and sinks into you in one deep, punishing thrust that knocks the air from your lungs and sends your moan echoing off the polished gold.

There's nothing gentle about the way he takes you - it's raw and primal, the way it's always been between you. Not when months of silence and pride and punishment collapse into a kiss against velvet and gold, into the way his hand cradles the back of your thigh and pulls your leg higher so he can fuck you deeper, so he can hear exactly how soaked and wrecked you already are for him.

He fucks you with a fierce desperation, like you're both his salvation and destruction - a sacred thing he worships even as he breaks you apart.

Every thrust is rough, brutal, breathtaking — the kind of rhythm that feels almost angry, like he’s trying to rewrite history with each snap of his hips, like he’s punishing you for every night you kissed another man and didn’t come apart like this, for every time you smiled at Dan like your body didn’t still ache for his hands.

He grunts low in your ear, hips snapping up as your back arches, as his fingers dig into your thigh so hard you know it’ll bruise, but you don’t care — not with the way he fills you, the way his cock drags inside you with punishing precision, not with the way your breath hitches every time the base of him slams against you and makes your whole body jolt.

“Fuck—” he groans, voice breaking at the edges as his forehead presses to yours, sweat beading at his temple, “You feel—fuck, you feel better than I remember.”

Your answer is nothing but a moan — low, ragged, your fingernails tearing down his back through his shirt, your teeth clenching around the chain that hangs against your throat now, heavy and swinging with each thrust, catching between your lips as you pant, as you let it cut into your tongue like it’s his name.

He grabs your hips and pulls you down harder onto him, hips pistoning now, his thrusts deeper, meaner, his teeth grazing your neck, your collarbone, biting the slope of your shoulder until you gasp and clench around him so tight he curses again, voice rough in your ear, all breath and gravel and loss.

“You miss this?” he growls, dragging his lips across your jaw, his mouth brushing the shell of your ear as his pace falters, then sharpens again, somehow harder, somehow deeper. “Miss me fucking you like this? Filling you up so deep you forget your fucking name?”

You whimper — not a word, not an answer, just the kind of helpless sound you make when there’s no more room in your head for anything but him. Your hips roll instinctively, chasing friction, clinging to him as the coil inside you twists tighter and tighter, unbearable now, heat flooding low in your stomach.

His pace never falters, his rhythm relentless and demanding. One hand leaves your thigh and slides up to your chest, yanking down the top of your gown just enough to expose the curve of one breast, and his mouth is on you instantly — tongue hot, lips sucking hard as his teeth graze over your nipple, as your head hits the wall behind you and you cry out, desperate now, pleading.

“Please— Jungkook, please—”

He groans against your skin, teeth grazing your chest, voice shaking with the effort to hold back.

“Say you missed it.”

“I— fuck, I— I missed you,” you gasp, your voice breaking as your nails dig deeper into his back, as your thighs start to tremble around his hips. “Missed this— I need— please, don’t stop—”

“I’m not gonna fucking stop,” he snarls, his pace suddenly brutal, unrelenting, his body crushing into yours, one hand tangled in your hair now, the other still fisted in your thigh, his breath hot against your lips as he kisses you again — filthy, wet, tongues colliding, teeth scraping, nothing left of restraint or dignity, just hunger clawing out of both of you like it had been caged for too long.

You come undone with a sob, your entire body trembling as your climax rips through you like fever and lightning, your hands fisting in his shirt and lips parted around his chain. Your thighs lock around him as your nails dig half-moons into his shoulder blades, marking him as yours in this moment of blazing truth.

And when you bite down on that chain — hard, trembling, gasping his name like a prayer — he follows with a broken moan into your mouth, his thrusts growing erratic, then jerking once, twice, deep, as he spills into you, his whole body shaking with it, his mouth crashing into yours like he can’t bear to come without you swallowing it whole.

You stay like that — still joined, still breathless — forehead to forehead, hearts galloping in sync, the air around you heavy with sweat, sin, and something too quiet to name.

Outside, beyond the velvet walls and marble doors, the music drifts on, while inside this sanctuary, you remain locked in an intimate silence with him, neither of you ready to voice the weight of everything left unsaid.

Your breath is still tangled in his mouth, his forehead still resting against yours, the weight of what just happened settling over you like the hem of your gown, rumpled now around your hips, clinging to sweat-slicked skin. Your heart is still galloping in your chest, still racing from the pace of him, the sound of him, the way he said your name like it had always been meant for him to say.

And Jungkook is still inside you.

He doesn’t pull out immediately — just holds you there, both of you trembling, breathing hard, his hands gentler now, soothing, one trailing down your thigh, the other brushing a damp strand of hair away from your face.

And then he smiles - not with triumph or victory, but with the resignation of a man who's accepted losing everything else just to have this moment.

“You’ve got glitter on your nose,” he murmurs, voice thick and wrecked, and when you frown, confused, he leans forward and kisses it. Just once. Softly. Playfully. As if the gala still exists somewhere far away and the only thing real in the world is this ridiculous little smear of sparkle and the woman beneath it who just broke him open all over again.

You laugh — a small, incredulous sound, still breathless, still shaking, and he grins like the sound of it is the only thing that’s ever mattered.

“I hate you,” you whisper through your smile, biting back another laugh as he kisses your jaw, your cheekbone, your collarbone where his chain left a faint indentation in your skin.

“No you don’t,” he breathes, adjusting the strap of your gown with slow, reverent fingers. “If you did, you wouldn’t still taste like yes.”

You hit him lightly on the chest, and he catches your wrist mid-slap and kisses the inside of it, then your palm, then your mouth again — slower this time, almost delicate — before you finally push him back with a grin.

“Get dressed,” you murmur, already reaching for your panties, smoothing your gown down, fingers trembling just slightly. “You look like someone who got exactly what he wanted.”

“I did,” he says simply, tucking himself back into his slacks with only half a care, his eyes never leaving you, even as he buttons his cuffs again. “And I’d look a lot worse if you hadn’t.”

It’s absurd — how easy this feels, how light, how young. How it almost resembles happiness.

You fix your lipstick in the mirror above the sink. He watches you like a man watching a storm recede, like he’s not ready for the calm yet but knows it’s dangerous to ask for more.

And then, as you open the door together, walking into the velvet-lined hallway with your shoulders back and your smiles just barely still in place — you see her.

There she stands - Nami, waiting with crossed arms and perfect posture in her immaculate dress. Her expression remains composed, but her eyes slice through both of you with devastating clarity, as if she's been anticipating this moment while hoping you wouldn't be foolish enough to make it real.

When she speaks, her voice carries a quiet, lethal precision: "Of course it's you."

You and Jungkook freeze in unison, but Nami simply turns away with the elegant dismissiveness of someone brushing dust from silk. The deafening silence lasts only a heartbeat before you both lurch into motion - Jungkook cursing under his breath as he adjusts his jacket, you stumbling after him on trembling legs, your hand reaching desperately for his sleeve as you call out her name. But she continues down the endless hallway, refusing to acknowledge either of you.

✓

You’re still walking side by side, your steps nearly in sync but your heart thrashing beneath your dress like it knows this illusion of calm is already burning at the edges, when the sound of raised voices cuts through the ambient hush of the ballroom and makes you stop cold in your tracks.

At first, you can’t quite place the tone — it’s not yet shouting, but it carries the kind of tension that doesn’t belong among canapés and champagne, and it wraps around your spine with the certainty of something about to go very, very wrong.

Then, through the ambient hush, your name echoes through the hallway, followed immediately by his in a voice that makes your blood run cold.

You turn the corner just in time to see Nami standing beside your shared table — poised, polished, untouched by the unfolding storm — her flute of champagne still untouched in her hand, her expression unreadable in the way only women raised in legacy can manage, as if nothing happening around her is worth acknowledging. She doesn’t look at you. She doesn’t look at Jungkook, either. She looks directly at Dan, with her chin tilted slightly upward, her voice smooth and composed, as if she’s merely answering a question no one had the nerve to ask.

“I thought you should know,” she says, the corners of her mouth lifting just slightly, not enough to be called a smile, but enough to make the accusation feel like a verdict, “she’s been fucking Jungkook.”

And there is no gasp, no cinematic moment of a dropped wine glass — just the collective breath of the room catching and holding, suspended like a violin string pulled tight, waiting for someone to cut it loose.

Dan stands still at first, not blinking, not reacting, just staring at Nami like he’s trying to decipher whether what she said was real or a very cruel joke told far too well. The silence that stretches in the beat that follows feels sharp enough to slice clean through your skin.

Your throat closes around his name as you take a step forward, not fast, not frantic, just instinctive — as if proximity alone could soften what he’s already begun to believe.

“Dan—”

His head snaps toward you. And in that moment, his expression — the confusion, the hope, the disbelief — shatters.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” he says, and the volume of it is enough to silence every conversation within earshot. A few heads turn. More follow. By the time he takes a step back from the table, every gaze in your radius is fixed directly on the three of you.

“I defended you,” he says, voice shaking now, but loud, too loud, and cracking under the weight of humiliation. “I told people you weren’t sleeping your way up. I fucking trusted you.”

Your skin goes cold as shame washes over you, leaving you frozen and mute in its wake. His words hang in the air like smoke after a fire, and though he hasn't said it outright, that one cruel word - slut - vibrates beneath the surface of his tone, threatening to break free. Just as you brace yourself for what comes next, you feel him.

Jungkook — behind you now, still close, but his presence shifts, sharpens, becomes something solid and storm-dark in the space between your shoulder blades. You don’t even need to see him to feel the change in him — how still he goes, how quiet, how charged.

Dan sees him too. And the second their eyes meet across the chaos, Dan’s lip curls into something bitter and ugly and furious.

“Oh, now you want to show your face?” he spits, his voice rising, unhinged now. “She fucks you in secret and I get to be the dumbass holding her coat like a goddamn idiot?”

And maybe that would have been the moment it ended. Maybe if Dan had stopped there, if he hadn’t gone further, if he’d swallowed the rest of what he was about to say and let the shame stay between the three of you — maybe then it could have been salvaged.

But he doesn’t. He looks you up and down, then turns back to Jungkook, and with a voice too loud and too clear, he finishes the sentence like he’s spitting blood.

“Enjoy your office slut while she still lets you have her.”

A heartbeat of silence fills the room before Jungkook launches forward with no warning. He just steps forward with a precision so sudden it looks like instinct, his fist connecting with Dan’s jaw in one clean, devastating arc that sends the entire room spinning around them like they were never meant to witness this moment, but now can’t look away.

Dan crashes into the edge of the table behind him, knocking over wine, cutlery, crystal, dragging a stunned gasp from the nearest guests — but before he can right himself, Jungkook is on him again, grabbing the front of his suit jacket, fury carved into every line of his face as he shoves him back and shouts something you can’t even hear over the surge of movement and voices and chairs scraping the floor as people rush forward to separate them.

Someone grabs Jungkook’s shoulders. Two others pull Dan away, blood at the corner of his lip, eyes wild with disbelief and rage. Security is already on its way. The scene is already ruined. The gala is over before dessert.

And all you can do is stand there in the wreckage — exposed, humiliated, heartsick — with the taste of Jungkook still on your tongue, and the entire room watching like they’ve been waiting for this to happen from the beginning.

It isn’t just the party that ends in silence — it’s something deeper, something more private, something inside you that doesn’t know how to keep breathing once the shouting has faded and the chaos has been contained into the shallow hush of luxury’s aftermath, as if the room itself is trying to pretend nothing ever happened.

The moment Jungkook is dragged back by two men in tailored suits — the kind of men who are hired not to be noticed unless something needs fixing — and the moment Dan stumbles upright, unsteady, his lip bleeding and his tie askew like it’s choking him instead of holding him together, is the same moment your body seems to finally register what it’s done, what you’ve done, as if the weight of your choices only now decides to settle across your skin like a second gown, invisible but suffocating.

The tears don’t arrive in any cinematic fashion; there is no gasp, no trembling lower lip, no dramatic collapse to the floor — only the hot, dry sting behind your eyes that refuses to blink away, the slow withdrawal of blood from your fingers until your hands feel foreign, and the unbearable tightness in your chest that makes it impossible to breathe without thinking first, as if even your lungs are ashamed of you now.

Without running, speaking, or begging, you remain still - exposed beneath their stares. You simply stand there, the way shame always does — still and exposed and far too visible — as the room folds in around you like paper, heavy with whispers and half-averted stares, the air thick with what no one is brave enough to say aloud but everyone is already retelling in their heads.

The ballroom, once glittering with laughter and wine and curated joy, has turned into a stage abandoned mid-performance, every guest now an unwilling actor stuck in place with champagne still bubbling in flutes they no longer remember picking up, as conversations die mid-sentence and eyes flick between Dan, Jungkook, and you, tracing the messy triangle like a scandal lit in gold.

And standing at the center of it all — flawless, upright, radiant even in betrayal — is Nami. She hasn’t moved, not even a little; her posture remains exquisite, the line of her shoulders unbent, her hands still folded gently in front of her like this evening belongs to her still, like nothing has been taken from her because she refuses to acknowledge anything could ever be taken from her at all. Her gown is still perfect. Her lipstick hasn’t smudged. Her expression has not cracked.

She does not speak to you, nor look at you, nor shift so much as a breath in your direction — not because she’s uncertain, not because she’s restraining herself, but because there is nothing left in this room that requires her effort, and that includes you.

Her silence carries a devastating weight beyond mere emptiness - it's the crushing finality of everything that's been lost.

And what makes you crumble — not outwardly, not visibly, not yet — is the realization that she never needed to raise her voice, never needed to fight, never needed to defend herself or even retaliate, because she knew all along that you would lose this on your own, that the moment she said your name aloud, the rest would collapse without her lifting a finger.

Dan, still tasting blood, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes wild with disbelief but now clearing, now hardening, and when they land on you, there is nothing soft left inside them — no confusion, no heartbreak, only the sharp glint of something that once trusted and now despises.

“You two deserve each other,” he mutters, his voice no longer raised, but quiet and dangerous in the way a knife is when it rests against skin, and without looking back, he turns and walks straight through the crowd, parting the onlookers like he’s been released from a cage and no longer cares who sees the wreckage left behind.

No one moves to intervene, and Jungkook remains rooted in place, making no attempt to follow. He remains where security left him — his lip split, his white shirt crumpled at the chest, his knuckles smeared with red like ink — and though he does not speak, the intensity in his gaze burns across the distance like a thread that refuses to be cut. He does not apologize. He does not look ashamed. But his eyes, dark and electric, are no longer filled with want — they’re filled with need.

He isn't asking for forgiveness - he's asking you to choose him despite everything. And you stand frozen, breath caught in your throat, unable to form words or even move beneath the weight of this moment.

Because somewhere beneath the soft echo of heels clicking away and gasps fading into murmurs, you finally feel it — the ruin, the humiliation, the spotlight you can’t step out of — and it presses down on you with a clarity so sharp you could almost laugh.

In the wake of shattered crystal and spilled wine, the gala lies in ruins. Dan stands with blood on his lip, while Nami remains pristine and untouchable in her calculated victory. And you - you are the architect of this destruction, having sacrificed everything not for ambition or vengeance, but for that most dangerous of forces: pure and consuming desire.

✓

The night is colder than it should be, air damp and heavy with the kind of post-rain clarity that makes the concrete shimmer like glass, the luxury sedans and town cars lined up in the marble-bricked circle drive outside the venue suddenly looking less like power and more like armor no one can wear anymore. And there, near the far end of the lot, standing with his back to the building and his fists curled loosely at his sides, is Jungkook — breathing unevenly, chest rising too fast, his once-immaculate shirt wrinkled and half-untucked, the corner of his mouth still smudged with blood that hasn’t yet dried.

His knuckles are scraped. His cuff is torn. His jaw is tight in a way that suggests the only thing holding him together is the silence he’s forced to stand in.

And she is already waiting for him.

Nami stands two paces from his side, her arms folded neatly across her waist, her coat draped like a sheath of silk across her shoulders, as pristine now as when she first walked into the ballroom — her expression unreadable, but her voice, when it comes, clear and sharp and final.

“You’ll lose the London deal,” she says, no anger in it, no bitterness, only the practical coolness of someone who has been trained her entire life to count what things are worth.

And for a moment, he doesn’t respond.

Just stands there with his gaze fixed on the ground like he’s trying to burn a hole through the pavement, shoulders still shaking from the tail end of everything he just threw away.

Then he breathes — one long, low exhale — and lifts his head.

“I already lost something more important,” he answers, his voice cracked and hoarse and quieter than it’s ever been.

Nami remains silent, already understanding the weight of his words without needing them explained. When she walks away, her departure is as final as the evening itself.

It’s not until she disappears around the curve of the entrance that you step forward — slow, careful, like your body hasn’t fully remembered how to move yet, like the sight of him under the parking lot lights has knocked all the breath from your lungs again.

In the heavy silence between you, his eyes find yours - wide and bloodshot, rimmed with a shame that asks for nothing but your presence, a silent plea that you haven't turned away. While his hands tremble at his sides, your heels echo once against the stone before falling still. Without hesitation, you reach for him, your fingers finding the bruise blooming along his jaw as your thumb gently wipes away the smear of red beneath his lip.

His eyes drift closed as he leans into your touch. When you finally break the silence, your voice carries a gentle certainty that barely ripples the quiet air between you. "Let me take you home."

The simple nod he gives in response marks a shift - after months of games and secrets and unspoken wanting, he surrenders to your lead. There's nothing left to fight now, and you're the only anchor he has left to hold onto.

this is it for this story! please share your thoughts and feelings, your feedback means the world to me.

if you enjoy my stories and want to support me (and also get early access to my stories), you can support me on buymeacoffee 🖤

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inthelibrarybtw · 3 days ago

Text

you want me to pretend? | ten

SERIES MASTERLIST

pairing: college!basketball!captain!rafe x college!student!reader content: fluff, college au, smau/irl, jealousy, jordan, rafe crash out, cursing

summary: You were trying to make one problem disappear. You were tired, so you lied. That small lie led you to contact the last person you wanted to ask for help. It wasn’t that you didn’t like Rafe; only that you didn’t want to deal with his constant teasing more than you already did. Also, you two weren't that close, but this one lie was going to bring you two closer and maybe help some truths come to light.

word count: 1.1k

authors note: ten? when did this happen? I'm really thankful for all the love that you guys have given to my blind children. Enjoy another flashback 😚 I intended to post yesterday but I got a fever and went to sleep it off.

09 | 10 | 11

Sophomore Year - October 2022

Sophomore Year - November 2022

Thanksgiving had been the perfect opportunity to finally get together with Angie and fully discuss the topic of Jordan. Ever since the day you two had met, you had been consistently talking to each other. While he had initially caught your attention, now it was a whole different story. You talked all day, every day—well, almost every day.

“So you really like him right now?” Angie asked as she sat down on your bed.

“I feel like we’re becoming really close; we talk almost all the time,” you said with a small smile.

“Almost is not always.”

“Yeah, on weekends he just disappears, but he’s with his family and doing a lot of schoolwork, so that’s why.”

“Wait, so he just doesn’t answer on weekends?”

“We talk, but it's very little on weekends. He reappears on Sunday afternoon, and we talk again. It’s a lot of voice notes, and I like that.”

“Oh, he’s a voice note guy… Huh, he didn’t give me those vibes.”

“Yeah, I like that because I feel it’s more real. You hear the actual tone in which he is speaking, and it’s just really nice to hear him.”

“Maybe at first I wasn’t really sure about him, but I guess he’s not that bad.”

“He is really sweet; we can talk about a lot of stuff,” you smile again.

“You think it’s going to get deeper? Like are you and him, and me and Ethan, going to be having double dates soon?” she teases, and you chuckle.

“Oh, we are already talking about that?”

“Yeah, why not? Ethan and I have been talking for two months, and I think he is going to be my boyfriend,” Angie says, smiling.

“I’m so happy for you; he better treat you right.”

“Same goes for Jordan; he better treat you right. But from the audio you have sent me, he does sound nice, and he was very unexpected, so…” She wiggles her eyebrows.

“Yes, it could be something good. I don’t want to get too ahead of myself. We have been talking for just a month, so I don’t know where this is really going.”

“So, Rafe…?” You shake your head softly, “like at all?”

“I…” you stutter for a second.

“Ha!” She pointed at you, “I knew it.”

“I don’t like Rafe; I never liked him.”

“Then why the hell is this on your bed?” She grabbed the jellycat he had given you for your birthday.

“It was a gift; what was I supposed to do? Throw it away? It’s cute; I like it.”

“So, no emotional attachment to that or the person who gave it to you?” You shook your head, not realizing your face was saying quite the opposite.

“Right, so really, really nothing for Rafe?”

“Yeah,” your voice faltered, “nothing at all.” You smiled, but Angie knew better than to believe you.

“Zero? Nada? Nothing? Not even physically?”

“Finding someone attractive doesn’t mean you like them; I told you.”

“Ah, right, yeah.”

“Angie, stop it; I don’t like Rafe.” She lifted her hands in defeat.

“Fine, fine, you don’t like him.”

Sophomore Year - December 2022

Rafe sat down on the living room couch. The house was anything but quiet, but at least the living room was now clean and free of a screaming Emily. His sister had gotten far too excited about her Christmas presents, and with every single one, she had screamed. He understood it, but he was also not in the mood. They all had helped her get her new toys into her playroom. Wheezie stayed with Emily, so that was why he had gone back to the living room. His loneliness didn’t last long.

“What’s that face for?” Sarah asked, sitting next to him.

“What do you mean?” he replied.

“You look all annoyed. I have a wild guess as to why, but I don’t want to get ahead of myself.”

“The thing is, I feel like I shouldn’t feel this way. It's not like she’s my ex, you know.”

“Yeah, but you like her.”

“Yes, that much was obvious; thanks for stating it again.”

“I’m just saying it's normal to feel this way. She likes someone else, and you still like her.”

“Are you sure she likes him?”

“I haven’t talked about it much, but she has mentioned it sometimes; not a lot, though.” He sighed.

“Well, according to Kelce, he has gone MIA for weeks, then goes back to talk to her like nothing happened, and he claims it’s just because he’s busy, but no one can be that busy.”

“I feel like your jealousy is making everything way worse than it actually is.”

“Yeah, well.”

“It’s okay, though; I understand it, but I do have to say that you need to eventually move on.”

“I know. I decided that a few days ago, but Kelce told me he thought she liked me, and that threw me off. I just started thinking about that.”

“And you didn’t talk to him about this?”

“Why would I?”

“Right, you don’t talk about feelings with the boys,” Sarah said, rolling her eyes.

“I have you for that; I don’t need them,” he nudged her with his elbow.

“Aw, look, you are nice,” she chuckled.

“Shut up,” he chuckled back.

“Back to the Y/N thing… I know this is not what you want to hear, but try to meet someone just for the fun of it.”

“If you think I’m gonna get over her by dating someone else, you’re wrong. Before I say this, I know how cheesy and stupid it sounds, but that's just how things are.”

“I’m gonna let you finish.”

“I promise, the second I saw her, it was like the rest of the girls were nothing. I have tried, BELIEVE ME, I have tried talking to other girls and flirting with them, but they are all so… uninteresting, or maybe it is just because I really, really like her. I don’t even know why I like her so much,” he exhales and groans, “I’m so messed up.”

“Wow,” Sarah said, looking at him. “Yeah… you are messed up, but hopefully you will eventually get over her, right?”

“I hope you are right because this is embarrassing. Not even Topper got this down bad for you, and that man did some questionable things when he was trying to date you,” Sarah chuckled.

“Yeah, well, it worked, so…”

“For him. I’m not gonna embarrass myself, even if I wanted to. This problem is so easy to fix.”

“Okay, now you lost me.”

“Jordan. He is my problem. I could literally just kiss her, and voilà, problem solved.”

“Oh geez…” Sarah sighed. “First things first, you would create more problems by doing that.”

“Yeah, but he would go bye-bye.”

“You spend too much time with Emily.”

“She’s the coolest 4-year-old I know.”

“Yeah, because she’s your sister.”

As they started talking about Emily, Jordan and you got forgotten in the conversation, but not from Rafe’s mind. Much to his dislike, he was going to keep being annoyed and jealous about that for a few more months until he eventually called it a day.

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kizusof · 2 days ago

Note

hello, i really like how you characterize anaxa in your posts about him! as a request, may i ask for anaxa being protective or fussy about the reader's health and safety? thank you!

3 new rules

— Anaxagoras x reader

You were working on your lab, researching about chimeras because while you were out with Anaxagoras, you had found a chimera that looks exactly like him. You thought it was adorable, but it gave you an idea. You wanted to find a chimera that looked exactly like you, but it never happened.

So now you’re in a laboratory, staring at a poor chimera as it looks at you with big eyes. Your stomach growls, you’ve forgotten about lunch. Usually, you have lunch with your boyfriend, Anaxagoras, but you seemed to have forgotten to reply to his message that was asking you about lunch, you messaged him back, despite being 3 hours late.

“Im sorry for the late reply, I got busy with the chimera research I told you about. We can have lunch together tomorrow.”

You set the phone down to look at the chimera once again, your phone dings.

“Have you eaten?” You can hear his stern voice as you read his message.

“Not yet. I will in a bit.”

He liked your reply. You turned your phone off again as you went back to your research on how to create a chimera that looks exactly like you.

But hours went by, You didn’t mean to stay for more than 30 minutes but now another 3 hours passed by and you hear your doorbell ring. It took you by surprise and as you were playing around with the potions, you accidentally dropped one on the floor, glass shards stabbing your foot. You wince in pain as you sat on the floor to observe your foot.

Anaxagoras invited himself inside out of worry from hearing you in pain, He looked at you sitting on the floor with glass shards all over before looking at the set up infront of him, a sleeping chimera and papers everywhere filled with pictures of chimeras. He sighed as he picked you up, helping you sit on the couch as he looked at your foot.

“I wonder what happened.” he said in a tone recognizable to you, he didn’t exactly sound genuine, sarcasm written all over it.

You try to laugh it off but it ended in awkward silence.

Your stomach growls.

You looked at him, embarrassed. He paused from saving your foot to look at you.

“I must have forgotten to eat…”

“nn.. accident.. happens…. you know?”

You didn’t even try to laugh it off this time after you saw him stand up and look at you, eyebrows furrowed.

“Be glad I got us dinner then.”

“You haven’t eaten yet?”

You watched him as he walked to grab a bag with food, handing it to you.

“I haven’t, I’ll eat later. Start eating.” He says as he finishes up your foot. His voice was stern and strict, it was scary in a way. You obeyed and started eating, you were extremely hungry anyway.

Once you finished your food, you walked up to him as you watched him clean your lab. You call out to him and he glanced at you.

“Why are you up? does your foot not hurt? Sit back down.”

“It doesn’t hurt that much…“ you mumbled, but he could still hear you.

“Did you finish the food?”

“I did. It was delicious, thank you.”

The couple was met with silence again until you heard him sigh loudly

“Is this really worth starving for?” He faces the pieces of paper on your table.

“Yes! I want to own a chimera that looks exactly like me.”

You heard him sigh again.

“Let’s create new rules for you to follow.” You look at him in confusion. “Rule number 1, don’t forget to eat. Rule number 2, be more cautious. Don’t drop anything that can harm you, and Rule number 3, don’t overwork yourself. Understood?”

As you listened to the rules, you stare at him in disbelief. “Shouldn’t you be following your own rules? Especially the last one.”

“I created these rules for you. Don’t bring me into this.”

You continued to stare at him, blinking a few times before jumping on him giving him a warm embrace.

“What a caring boyfriend I have! so demanding and fussy.”

“A good partner would care for their significant other. This is only natural.”

“I’ll follow your rules if you follow it too. I won’t skip meals, I won’t accidentally harm myself, and I won’t overwork myself.”

He gives you a hum, as a sign of agreement. but you weren’t quite sure if he really promised to it.

You two eventually got to bed as you occasionally looked at your foot. You sigh as you sleep through the pain, having him take care of your foot for a few days.

a/n : sorry if this doesn’t reach your expectations . . .. I wasn’t quite sure how to approach this but i got something done! he worries but we worry for him too! he’s a concerning man after all. also did not proofread .. yet….. haha.. i will … soon.. ALSO! might be ooc like i said before.. ive been avoiding the quests like theres no tomorrow so i dont exactly have the full image of what hes really like.. im basing his character off of what i know and all the spoilers ive read. + my personal hcs !!!!!

#anaxagoras x you #anaxagoras x reader #anaxa x you #anaxa x y/n #anaxa x reader #honkai star rail x reader #hsr x y/n #hsr x you #hsr x reader #kizusof

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dragonridersandhighlords · 24 hours ago

Text

Chasing Shadows | F I V E

masterlist | CS Masterlist

Summary: Xaden’s POV of Ch 4 up until the ‘Battle Brief’ with Mira.

Notes: Surprise! Have another update!

Warnings: Violet is still a bitch (no I can’t off her but I wish I could), thats it

Word Count: 3.8k

previous part

X A D E N

I hammered my fists into the training post in the farthest corner of the gym, a sanctuary of shadows where the harsh lights couldn’t penetrate. The wooden post shuddered with each strike, splinters threatening to break free, but the pain I inflicted on it was nothing compared to the turmoil raging within me. My mind churned, relentless, replaying Wrenley’s words from the other night like a haunting melody I couldn't escape.

We should just call it now, Xay. We weren’t going to survive after graduation.

You wouldn’t be doing it because you love me. You’d be doing it to prove a point.

I do still care about you. I just can’t in the way I always have.

“You always did choose pain over answers,” Garrick's voice broke through the haze, flat and devoid of sympathy as he approached.

I refused to look up, my fists moving rhythmically against the post, the dull thud echoing in the hollow gym. “Didn’t ask for company,” I muttered.

“Good,” Garrick replied coldly, his words slicing through the tension. “I’m not here to keep you company.”

As I stilled, the silence draped over us like a thick fog, the air charged. Garrick's boots echoed against the stone floor, drawing closer, each step a countdown to the inevitable confrontation.

“Why did you do it?” he finally asked, a question heavy with accusation.

My shoulders tensed, a visceral reaction to the sharpness of his inquiry.

“You think I wouldn’t find out? She’s been closed off for days. Desa’s threatening to scorch anyone who even walks near her.” His exasperation crackled in the air, thickening the silence.

“It’s better for her this way,” I replied, my voice tinged with a desperation I couldn’t quite hide.

“That’s bullshit,” Garrick spat, the venom in his words hitting me like a physical blow. “You don’t get to play with her heart like that. Not after everything. Not after she trusted you with the parts of herself she won’t even show me.”

The truth of his words clenched around my heart, but I steeled myself. “You think I wanted this? You think this is easy for me?”

“No, I think you’re a goddamn coward,” Garrick shot back, his tone sharp as glass. “Because that girl loved you like you were the very oxygen she breathed. And you dropped her like it didn’t mean anything.”

“She was going to get hurt!” I shouted, my voice raw, bleeding like my fists against the post. “Every day she was around me, she was more at risk. You know what’s happening out there, what we're trying to do. She’s safer without me.”

Garrick stepped closer, an unyielding force of emotion that crackled in the stillness of the gym. The shadows clung to him as if they recognized the weight of his fury and hurt, painting his features with a grim determination. “You think she wanted safety?” His voice trembled, bitter with the grief that hung in the air like a storm cloud poised to unleash its wrath. “She wanted you. And now? She thinks she’s disposable.”

The words felt like another strike against my chest. I flinched, the imaginary impact forcing me to look away, my breath shallow and ragged as if I had been the one struck down. In that moment, I felt the icy grip of guilt coiling around my heart, tightening with each heartbeat.

“You think she’s better off without you?” Garrick pressed. “You don’t get to decide that for her. That’s not protecting her. That’s control, fear.” He paused, letting the silence settle, a heavy shroud that threatened to suffocate me. “And you don't get to say you love her and then destroy her to keep her safe.”

The words hung in the air, laden with truth, and the weight of them pressed down on my shoulders, threatening to crush me. I was lost in the echo of my failures, the shadows of my choices swirling like smoke around me.

“I trusted you with her,” Garrick continued, the raw edge of betrayal seeping into his tone. “And yeah, that’s on me.” With that, he turned, the silence stretching between us like an unbridgeable chasm. But before he could walk away, he cast one last glance over his shoulder, his voice iron-hard and resolute.

“You ever want to fix what you broke, you better start with telling her the truth. Because the version you left her with? It’s killing her.”

I’ve been avoiding Violet whenever possible. Jack nearly killing her during her challenge today wasn't helping that. Each time I glanced in her direction since we got to the infirmary, I felt the weight of guilt pressing down harder, especially after Wrenley witnessed me scoop Violet out of Ridoc’s arms in a panic.

I fidget with one of the daggers Wrenley had gifted me just before we were separated after the executions. The cool metal felt reassuring in my grip, a tether to a time when I felt more in control. The dim light flickered, casting shadows that danced across the walls, mirroring the turmoil within me. It was then that Violet stirred, her eyelids fluttering open, revealing a confusion that quickly morphed into recognition.

“Oranges?” I ask her.

“How many stitches?” she asked, concern weaving through her words as she propped herself up, a subtle wince betraying her pain.

“Eleven on one side and nineteen on the other,” I replied, trying to keep my tone light as I leaned in closer. “You turned oranges into a weapon, Violence?”

“I worked with what I had,” she shrugged, a flicker of pride glimmering in her eyes even amidst the hurt.

“Seeing as it kept you alive—kept us alive—I can’t really argue,” I said, leaning back in the chair, the wood creaking under my weight. “Telling Ridoc allowed Emetterio to get him here in time. Unfortunately, he’s five beds down from you, and he’ll live, unlike the second-year a row over. You could have killed him and saved us all a lot of drama.”

“I didn’t want to kill him,” she replied, her voice steady despite the pain etched on her face. She rolled her shoulder, a grimace crossing her features. “I just wanted him to stop killing me.”

“You should have told me.” The accusation tore from my lips in a snarl, fueled by frustration and fear.

“And you could have done nothing about it besides make me look weak. And you haven’t exactly been around to talk about anything in weeks. If I didn’t know better, I’d think that kiss scared you.” My heart sank at her words, an uncomfortable truth I wished I could erase from everyone’s memory.

“That’s not up for discussion.” I stated, trying to deflect, but the tension between us crackled, thick and suffocating.

“Seriously?” she pressed, and I could feel the ground shifting beneath us, the fragile lines we had drawn beginning to blur.

“It was a mistake.” I snap. “Not only are we going to be stationed together for the rest of our lives, never able to escape the other, but I am—was—in a serious relationship. What we did, even under the influence of our dragons, was wrong.” A cold weight settled in my chest as I realized the gravity of my actions; I can’t take it back, but I will make it right now.

Violet scoffs, a sound laced with disbelief, her expression a mixture of defiance and hurt. “This is because Wrenley broke up with you?” The mere mention of her name sends a sharp pang through me, and I fight the urge to lash out, to silence her before she digs deeper into the wounds that still throb beneath the surface. I can feel the tension coiling in my muscles, the instinctual urge to snap her neck so she'd shut up rising like bile in my throat.

“Getting involved—even on a physical level—is a colossal blunder.” The weight of my voice presses down, a finality that echoes within the small room. “You were a mistake that I will not repeatedly make. So there is no point talking about it.”I can almost see the wheels turning in her mind, the memory of our shared kiss—how I pulled her into my arms—taunting both of us with its undeniable intensity.

“What if I want to talk about it?” Her challenge is quiet, yet fierce, as she shifts to the edge of the bed, an instinctual movement that suggests she’s already plotting her escape.

“Then feel free, but it doesn’t mean I have to be a part of the conversation. We’re both allowed our boundaries, and this is one of mine.” My tone hardens, and I can sense her discomfort, the way her resolve falters at the finality of my words.

“I’ll agree that keeping my distance didn’t work out so well, and if today’s little stunt was about getting my attention, then congratulations. It’s yours.” I glance away, the admission weighing heavy in the air, a reluctant acknowledgment of the truth that I had tried to deny.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She deflects, but I know she’s searching for the boots so she can get as far away from this conversation as possible.

“Apparently I can’t trust Liam to report deadly situations or Rhiannon to train you on the mat, seeing how easily Barlowe had you pinned, so as of this moment, I’m taking over.” The words feel like an ultimatum, and I know deep down that this isn’t going to help me at all. But if I want to live long enough to convince Wrenley that it’s only ever been her, this is what I need to do.

“Taking over what?” Violet’s curiosity mingles with skepticism, and I brace myself for what’s to come.

“Everything when it comes to you.”

The bitter chill of the wind whips through the training grounds, biting at my skin, as I stare out over the distant horizon from the parapet. The last remnants of winter linger in the air, but it’s more the weight of the past weeks that settles heavily on my shoulders. Since the moment Wrenley learned about my intentions to train Violet, I felt a rift begin to carve its way between us. It was subtle at first, a fleeting glance turned away, a laugh that didn’t quite reach her eyes. But now, it’s an expansive gulf, and I’m not sure how to bridge it.

February slipped by in a blur of early morning training sessions and late-night sparring matches, each one punctuated by Violet’s persistent attempts to close the space between us. The thought of crossing that line again clawed at my insides, a constant battle between desire and the guilt that held me captive. Would Violet ever understand why I had to keep her at arm's length?

With March now drifting towards its end, I find myself alone, my thoughts swirling like the clouds above me. It’s my birthday, a day that should be filled with laughter and camaraderie, yet I’m isolated in my own head, wrestling with the choices that have led me here. Garrick, my best friend, barely acknowledges my existence outside of class.

Bodhi, ever the silent mediator, hovers nearby, but I can see the inner turmoil reflected in his gaze. He’s been forced to choose between his best friend and his last living relative, and I can’t help but feel like a shadow hanging over their friendship. If he ever asked me, I'd tell him without hesitation to choose Wrenley. I don’t deserve their loyalty, not after the way I’ve let everything spiral out of control. Wren deserves better than the mess I’ve made of our lives.

After what feels like hours of brooding, I make my way back to my room, the familiar walls closing in as I reach for the door. But the moment I open it, my heart skips a beat. There, on my desk, a single slice of chocolate cake sits, accompanied by a simple note:

Happy birthday. - Wren

The air hums with tension as cadets line up for the next Squad Battle challenge, the charged atmosphere thick with a mix of excitement and the sharp tang of fear. As I lean against the cool stone wall, my gaze sweeps over the sea of faces, each one a tapestry of anxiety and determination.

Then my focus is drawn, like a moth to a flame, to a familiar figure amidst the throng—a head full of auburn waves that glisten in the sunlight, my favorite shade. Wrenley shifts her weight from one foot to the other, her posture attempting nonchalance, yet the fidgeting of her fingers tells a different story. The little details—the way her brow furrows and the subtle quiver of her hands—betray her nerves.

“She looks like she’s gonna puke,” Garrick mutters beside me, his voice laced with a blend of concern and sarcasm.

“She’ll be fine,” I reply, though my eyes remain glued to her. I watch as she steadies her grip on the blade, taking a deep, grounding breath, and I reach for the area of the Aretian Cliffs in my mind where our connection usually resides, but I find nothing like usual.

And then Emettario calls for the match to begin and she moves like she was born for this, every motion fluid and instinctive, yet it’s not merely her physical prowess I’m observing—it's the strategic decisions she makes in the heat of battle. Her attacks are quick and calculated, her movements sharp and sudden, sending her opponent reeling. She plays them, baiting them into underestimating her, appearing weak while she strikes with fierce precision.

I feel my jaw tighten as her opponent fakes a drop and lunges toward her blind side. In an instant, Wrenley drops, spins, and connects with a kick to his ribs that sends him sprawling to the ground. My heart races, but I refuse to let my worry show.

When Emettario declares her the winner, I can’t help but notice the way her shoulders drop in relief, a weight lifted from her. I suppress the urge to smile, though warmth blooms in my chest, betraying my carefully maintained facade.

“She fought like she had something to prove,” Garrick remarks, breaking the silence.

“She does,” I mutter, my voice barely above a whisper.

To herself. To me.

She doesn’t need saving. She never did. But I’ll be damned if I don’t burn the world down for her, anyway.

Then I watch her run from the crowd, the jubilant cheers and claps fading into a distant hum, and my breath catches in my throat like a stone lodged deep within. Her movements are fluid and electric, every stride echoing her triumph, until she collides with Dain, their bodies connecting with a soft thud that feels like an eruption in my chest.

She lands against him, her momentum carrying her into his chest with a grace that suggests it’s the most natural thing in the world. He catches her effortlessly, a broad grin splitting his face like he’s the one who won. My heart sinks as I watch, arms instinctively clenching at my sides. His hands slide around her waist, the intimacy of the gesture sending a surge of something sharp and unsettling twisting in my chest. There it is, that radiant smile—so bright and unrestrained—that she once reserved solely for me.

I feel frozen in time, every instinct screaming to surge forward, to break through the thrumming crowd that separates us, to pull her back into my orbit, to explain the unbearable truth behind my silence. But I stand paralyzed, rooted to the spot, because I promised myself she’d be safer without me—and now, standing here, I have to confront the agonizing proof that she doesn’t need me at all.

Wrenley leans into him, head tipped back, the flush of victory painting her cheeks a vivid rose. She laughs at something Dain says, the sound ringing clear like a bell, slicing through the last vestiges of my resolve. They begin to walk together like it was always meant to be just them.

Beside me, Garrick watches the scene unfold, his expression a mask of contemplation, his jaw ticking rhythmically in a way that tells me he’s grappling with his own thoughts. “She’s allowed to be happy,” he finally says, breaking the thick silence that envelops us.

“She is,” I reply, though the words leave a bitter taste on my tongue, as if tainted by the very reality I’m struggling to accept.

As they disappear down the corridor, laughter trailing behind them, I remain in the shadows of the arena, grappling with the hollow ache inside me, wondering if this is what it feels like to win a war but lose the reason you fought it.

I’m pissed at Sgaeyl for dragging me to Montserrat just three days after Flame Section Second Squad departed to claim their prize for winning the Squad Battle last week. The air is thick with the salty tang of the sea, a bitter reminder of the excitement I’m missing. Each breath feels heavy with unspent adrenaline, and I can’t shake the feeling that I should be among my comrades, celebrating their victory instead of lurking in the shadows of this outpost.

As I make my way through the dimly lit halls, I stumble upon Violet and Rihannon sneaking back in with Mira. Before I can retreat to my own room, a cascade of hushed laughter wafts from the gates, pulling me closer, curiosity piquing my senses.

Wrenley slips in first, her bare feet soundless against the cool stone. Drops of water glisten in her hair, catching the light and shimmering like tiny stars trapped in the strands. She wears a jacket that swallows her whole, the fabric sagging at her shoulders. The sound of her laughter is soft and sweet, the kind of melody that wraps around the heart like a warm blanket, yet it stings to hear it aimed at someone else.

Dain follows closely behind her, both of their boots cradled in their hands like trophies, their faces alight with the thrill of rebellion. They look like teenagers, caught in a moment that feels both innocent and reckless, a stark contrast to the rigid expectations of marked cadets.

They don’t see me until it’s too late.

“Interesting choice of company,” I say, stepping from the shadows, the tension crackling in the air around us.

Wrenley freezes mid-step, her laughter evaporating like mist. Dain’s head snaps up, his entire demeanor shifting, a predator caught off guard in enemy territory.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” she stammers, blinking, her voice stripped of its usual steel, revealing a vulnerability that tugs at something deep within me. Guilt dances in her eyes, and I seize the opportunity.

“And you’re supposed to not be sneaking around at an outpost that you’re visiting.” My tone is even, each word a calculated jab. “What kind of leadership are you considering when I caught two of your cadets doing exactly the same?” Silence envelops us, heavy and charged. My gaze zeroes in on Wren. “Really? With the son of your father’s murderer?” Dain tries to interject, but I cut him off. “Don’t defend it.”

Wrenley steadies herself, her breath a deep inhale that seems to anchor her. She takes a step forward, and I can see the strength in her resolve, even as it wavers. “You don’t get to ambush me and throw my father’s death in my face, Xaden.”

“No?” I challenge, closing the distance between us. “Then explain it to me, Wren. Explain how the same girl who used to flinch at the name Aetos is now barefoot and grinning with his son.”

Wrenley’s jaw clenched, her emotions flickering behind her eyes like lightning across a stormy sky. “Because I realized I was being hypocritical when it came to Violet. And she’s done worse to me than Dain did.” The words hung in the air, heavy and jagged.

“That’s rich coming from you,” I retorted, my voice a low rumble of disbelief. “When your entire adult life has been built on hating what his family did to yours.”

Dain stood there, caught in the crossfire of our confrontation, the tension thrumming around him like a taut string ready to snap. He sensed this was no longer a conversation he belonged in, yet his presence added a different weight to the moment—one that wavered between uncomfortable and necessary.

“This isn’t about his father,” Wrenley declared, her voice firm, but I could see the cracks forming in her facade. “This is about Dain.”

“Exactly,” I hissed, my patience unraveling like thread pulled too tight. “And he’s not some neutral player. He is who he was raised to be. You think he doesn’t carry the same loyalty? The same blind obedience? You think you’re safe with him just because he’s nice to you now?” My words lashed out, sharp and cruel, and I watched as Wrenley flinched at the truth of them.

She stood her ground, her resolve hardening in the face of my aggression, but I could see the hurt playing across her features. “At least he chose me,” she said, her voice steady.

I stepped back, feeling as if she had pushed me with a force I couldn’t contest. The air between us crackled, charged with all the unsaid things that swirled like a tempest.

Dain cleared his throat, the sound awkward and misplaced amidst the palpable tension. “We should go.” His words felt like a lifeline, but they were also an admission of defeat.

Wrenley looked at me one last time, her eyes unreadable, a storm of emotions swirling just beneath the surface. “I didn’t mean for you to find out like this.”

“I don’t care how I found out,” I replied, my voice slicing through the lingering silence like a blade. “I care that you forgot.”

“Forgot what?” she whispered, confusion mingling with hurt, and I felt the weight of the moment press down on us like a heavy fog.

“That you’re not just choosing him. You’re choosing his name. And everything it cost yours.” My heart ached as I watched her, a fierce battle waging behind her eyes.

Without another word, they left, the space between us widening like a chasm, filled with unspoken feelings and uncharted regrets. I stood alone in the empty corridor, the echoes of our exchange reverberating through me like a haunting melody. I felt like a ghost, lingering in a place where warmth had just departed, wondering if I was losing her for good—or if she had just lost herself in her desperate attempt to forget me.

I hoped she realizes that Dain is up to something. I don't know what it is yet, but I will figure it out. Because I won't let her slip through my fingers, and get burned in the process.

next part

Everything Taglist: @lxnvmvrzx @bodhidurrans @bookwormysblog @nikfigueiredo

Chasing Shadows Taglist: @hiraethjules @fangirling-galore @sande5098 @javden @littlepippilongstocking @what-will-be-your-verse @xadenstyles @daisydark @messageforthesmallestman

also send me asks with reactions, theories, complete unhingedness! It's honestly so fun!

#Chasing Shadows #iron flame #fourth wing #onyx storm #fourth wing imagine #fourth wing fanfic #the empyrean #xaden riorson #xaden riorson x oc #oc! Wrenley Tavis #xaden riorson imagine #xaden riorson x reader

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gyeomsweetgyeom · 1 day ago

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fool for you teaser

fratboy!Johnny x f!reader

summary: Johnny has decided that enough is enough! He can’t stop thinking about you and he needs to do something about it! Well… it’s so much easier said than done

teaser word count: 586

expected fic word count: ~4k

release date: Saturday, May 10 at 5pm PDT

warnings: profanity

a/n: fic will be centered around our new and beloved, fratboy!Johnny universe and will chronologically follow after this post! taglist will be closing Friday afternoon at 5pm PDT, please comment/send me an ask/reblog even if you'd like to be added

divider creds to roseraris <3

His classes have already finished for the day, but he finds himself making the familiar walk across campus toward the humanities building. The sky is warm and the sun feels nice on his skin as he strolls and swipes through his phone. In the blink of an eye his phone is falling to the floor as his body collides with another.

“Oh shoot, I am so sorry,” he hears the other person say. Not just any other person, you. He gulps, falling to his knees beside you as you gather all your papers and books back into a neat pile. He can hear your nervous rambling, “I’m really sorry. I wasn't looking where I was going. I’m just running late on my way to the library and- Johnny? What are you doing on this side of campus?”

Johnny isn’t even thinking of a response because while he was listening to you speak, he wasn't listening to what you were saying. His brain was too busy memorizing the timbre and tone of your voice to focus on any words. It takes his brain a whole minute to process your question all while he stares at you blankly. He clears his throat, right, what was he doing over here, “I… the… I like that bathrooms over here…” What the hell, John?! The bathrooms?!

You giggle softly, “the bathrooms? Surely, the engineering building would have the nicest bathrooms since that building is the newest.”

Oh. You actually bought that flimsy excuse. He coughs softly, “are you… are you doing anything right now?” Wait a second, did your fingers just brush against his? Why was a simple brush of your fingers against making his heart race? What the heck was up with him?

“Yeah, actually, I’m on my way to another tutoring session,” you answer as you pile all your things into your arms before standing.

Johnny stands up slowly, looking down at you as his eyes trace over every small detail on your face, every curve and every edge. His eyes drag over the curve of your lips, the lashes that line your eyes, and the way your cheeks round as you smile up at him. He blinks slowly, once, twice… what was it about you that made him act like such a fool? Why didn’t his brain work how it was supposed to around you? “Right,” he shakes his head with a smile, “of course. I’m sorry for making you later.”

Your brows furrow just slightly before you smile up at him in such a sweet way that he might just feel his pupils turning into hearts. Your hand comes up to squeeze his forearm. Great, now he’s a puddle from a simple squeeze of your hand. “You get this really faraway look in your eye when you look at me. We’ll have to talk about that next time we see each other,” you tell him in the sweetest voice he’s ever heard before hustling away like you always do.

He doesn’t even care if you see him if you choose to turn away, but he hunches over, one hand griping his t-shirt as he tries to catch his breath. Fuck, this was the best feeling in the world, being around you, looking at you, talking to you. And was it just his imagination or did you hand actually linger when you squeezed his arm?

His train of thought is interrupted when someone coughs, “dude, are you having an asthma attack or something?”

“Something better,” Johnny breathes out.

( @severeanxietyissues I’m adding you to the taglist FIRST bc we all owe you for Johnny and Bee🙇🏻‍♀️)

#kpop imagines #kpop au #kpop scenarios #kpop reactions #nct #nct imagines #nct fluff #nct timestamps #nct x reader #nct drabbles #nct blurbs #frat!nct #fratboy!johnny #frat!johnny

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sebastianstan0813 · 9 hours ago

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Faking Injuries & Pure Dedication:

Warnings: Maybe slight spoilers about the living situation.

Summary: You move into the avengers tower and become close with Bucky who doesn’t miss an opportunity to confess his feelings. (Fluff!!)

It was the middle of the night when you moved into the Avengers’ tower with Yelena, Bucky, John, Ava, Alexei, and Bob. Yelena was the only person you knew to call when your relationship ended, and you knew she wouldn’t ask too many questions.

It was only supposed to be temporary until you could find somewhere affordable to live. But none of them minded you living there it was just in your nature to feel like a burden. You pulled your weight as best as possible, making sure to be the primary cook at the house. It only took John one time to burn the food for you to take that initiative.

Bob was helpful around the tower too, you bonded quickly over the fact that you felt like the two who “didn’t belong.” Bob was usually the one who bandaged everyone up and you proceeded to make sure everyone ate, you worked well as a team and the dynamic was more like siblings than anything else.

You did, however, have your sights set on Bucky. Bucky made you feel comfortable, and content and he never pushed too hard. Truthfully, he rarely spoke to you first, and given his history you didn’t blame him for keeping to himself.

You had zero shame following him around the tower like a lost puppy dog knowing he’d never harshly confront it because he found peace within you too. You had spent many nights watching movies together, always in the company of someone else but neither one of you paid them any mind. You had tons of inside jokes, and Bucky knew he could always count on you to stay up late when he couldn’t sleep. He just wasn’t sure if you felt the same way about him just yet.

It was a Thursday night when Bucky got carried into the house by Ava and Alexei, his ankle was swollen two times its normal size and you wanted to rush to his side immediately but hesitated as Bob and Yelena sprung into action.

••••

The next morning Bucky was sprawled out on the couch, two pillows under his ankle, and reading through a book he had no interest in. He sighed out loud more times than you could count and honestly, you couldn’t blame him. Everyone else was out completing their missions and he was stuck in this tower with you.

“Hey Bucky, good morning.” You shuffled over to him, still wearing your wrinkled pajamas and fuzzy slippers.

“Hi. Morning.” He winced as he attempted to scoot over to make room for you to sit.

“No, no! Don’t move!” You sat down by his feet, making sure not to bump into him. “How’re you feeling?” You eyed him up and down, he also had on comfortable clothes which was something you’d rarely ever seen him in. A navy t-shirt and gray sweatpants had never looked so good.

“Useless” he frowned, he hadn’t noticed the loving way you were looking at him just yet. “This has never really happened to me before. Normally the serum just kind of…” he paused for a second to look at you, noticing now how you had been looking him up and down.

When he stopped speaking you made eye contact, smiling back at him. Both of you felt your cheeks grow warm.

“Umm—well, Yelena said in a few hours you’d probably be completely fine right?”

Bucky nodded, wondering to himself why you were outright concerned. He had hoped he was reading this situation correctly, but wasn’t sure how to get it to progress. He didn’t say anything more and you awkwardly sat there beside him for a moment picking at your nails.

“Are you hungry? I can make us breakfast” You were ecstatic at the chance to spend time alone with him without the noise of the group.

“Wait, where’s Bob?” He looked around, wondering why he hadn’t heard him in the room just yet.

Your face dropped, wondering why it was such an issue that it was just the two of you.

“He’s still asleep, and probably will be for a while” Your tone shifted into disappointment and Bucky felt it immediately.

“I just wanted to make sure we were alone is all” he spoke softly, letting you know he wanted the same thing. “Can I help? I feel like you do all the cooking.”

“That’s probably because I actually do all the cooking” you giggled before standing up from the couch. “You really don’t have to help me though, you’re out of commission right now.”

“That’s actually really ableist of you to say” he teased earning a shocked wide-eyed look from you. A chuckle erupted from the both of you, the mood lightening at his joke.

“At least let me sit with you at the kitchen island. I’ve been told I stare but I like to say I observe.” He teased as he stood up from the couch.

“Do you need to lean on me? I can help you walk over there Bucky.”

Bucky shook his head, he stood up from the couch and walked with you to the kitchen.

“What if I told you that I’m completely fine and that I definitely didn’t need to stay home today?” He sat down on the bar stool in the kitchen as you started to take ingredients out of the fridge.

You turned to him and he had a giant smirk on his face, his blue eyes nearly taking your breath from your lungs.

“James Barnes— what are you saying?” You giggled as you stood across the island with your arms tightly crossed against your chest.

“Real answer?” He walked over to your side of the island, nervously shuffling around the ingredients you set down on the granite kitchen island.

“Of course.”

Bucky was never good at being vulnerable, but you had always provided a safe space for him so he thought it was now or never.

“I just really wanted to spend time with you alone today.”

You felt like the world stopped and Bucky couldn’t read your reaction, he started growing nervous at the thought of you rejecting him but he couldn’t find any more words to say so he sat there in silence.

“With me?” Your eyes softened and he realized then that you might just feel the same way about him as he did you.

“I mean yeah, you’re pretty much my favorite person” his voice came out soft and mumbled but you knew by now to pay close attention to the things he said or you’d miss them.

“Bucky, You’re my favorite person too” You took a step toward him and he wrapped his arms around you, wasting no time picking you up and placing you on the counter.

He placed his left hand under your chin to kiss you, the metal was cool against your skin making you shudder slightly. Your legs wrapped around his torso instinctively.

You had always wondered what it would be like to kiss him, and it was better than anything you imagined.

When the two of you came up for air, you saw a genuine smile on his face. It was rare, and it felt nice knowing you were the reason for it.

“Let me make you breakfast for a change” he patted your thighs with his hands, squeezing them softly before he helped you off the kitchen island.

“Only if you promise not to ruin my new pans” you giggled as you sat down across from him.

“I’m offended you’d think I’d even dream of doing that” he laughed knowing you were referring to the one whole time John Walker made food.

You watched Bucky as he made the two of you an omelet, he seemed so at peace which was abnormal for you to see and him to feel.

“Can I ask you something?” You spoke softly as you tried not to startle him. He turned to you with a hand on his hip and spatula in hand, “yes?”

“How long have you… well….” You were trying and failing to try to word this question correctly.

“Wanted to be with you?” He chuckled, plating your omelet and handing it over to you before sliding some hot sauce your way.

“You want to be with me?” You teased knowing how surprisingly easy it was to make him blush.

“I faked an injury so we could spend time together, isn’t it obvious?” his face deadpanned.

“Does everyone else know you were faking?” You cocked an eyebrow at him before taking a bite of your omelet.

“Yeah, they all knew what I was up to.” he let out a loud laugh as he sat down beside you, there was no use in lying now.

“I love the dedication” you smirked, moving your chair closer to his as you kissed his cheek.

He had only hoped that in no time you’d also love him too.

#Bucky Barnes #Bucky Barnes x reader #bucky barnes x y/n #My writing

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mieldreams · 1 day ago

Text

Pure Imagination

Summary: Come with me and you'll be in a world of pure imagination

or where Vader delivers sweet torture in cruel dreams

pairing: Darth Vader x reader

word count: 4,912

warnings: smut smut smut, minors DNI (as the title suggests, dream stuff and I'm not too sure abt how comprehensible this is ngl), inappropriate use of the force etc.

a/n: 5k of pure filth, wasn't actually planning on releasing this cuz I wrote it so long ago but...oh well. it's the first time I'm posting a full fledged smut fic, hope y'all like

You're in a rare deep slumber when you hear it, the unmistakable mechanical inhales and exhales coming from a dark silhouette in your mind. “You again.” That almost droid-like voice is hard to misidentify and all your senses freeze at once. Panic builds inside you but on the outside, you somehow remain asleep. “Vader? What the fuck?” You weren't exactly unfamiliar with the infamous Sith lord, having run into him on more occasions than you'd like, which established you on at least a ‘he can recognise me by face’ basis – much to your displeasure. But why in the kriffing hell were you hearing his voice in your mind right now? Hadn't you just gone to sleep? Fuck, had Vader found your secret base and infiltrated it? Had he taken you hostage and was he planning on torturing you through his weird mind fuckery? “Your inability to comprehend the ways of the Force does not make it absurd or a deception.” His hoarse voice echoes in your mind once again and you scoff. “Do not patronize me in my own mind. What the fuck do you want? Why are you here?” “You tell me, Rebel.” He spits out the word like it's venomous and putrid. You're losing patience, you're not sure what is happening – last time you checked you were supposed to be asleep in your room, so how was Vader manipulating your mind? “Your mind could be penetrated in my sleep, though I doubt I'd find anything of use.” His voice booms, emotionless as always, “However, it seems you have something rather interesting to show me.” You're starting to get pissed off by this giant fucking leather-wrapped tin can. “Hmmm, your tongue is sharp. If only the same could be said about your intellect.” He spits out, “After all, which perfect little rebel would want something like this.” Suddenly, an image flashes in your mind and your face immediately pales, appalled by what appears before you. In a quick flash you see yourself, lying on your back, goosebumps spreading across your skin as your bare breasts stiffen in the air. You hear your laboured breathing; see the way your chest heaves up and down. And then, you see him. The Darth Vader – in between your legs. His head over your most intimate area. You don't see his face, and the image cuts off right below his shoulders, but the way you're clutching him, pulling him in, and the way his head moves, the way your legs quiver and the way your mouth remains dropped open in pleasure very well lets you know what is going on. You gasp, your own horrified voice echoing in your mind, “What the fuck is this? What the fuck are you doing to me?” His tone would be teasing if he were speaking with his natural voice, “Would you like me to give a descriptive narration?” You growl, “What are you trying to do? Some new perverted mind trick your kind have come up with?” Despite the angry words thrown at him, on the inside you feel terrified. Because where even is this ‘him’? You're shouting at him in your mind but he isn't appearing to you. Just his hollow voice echoing endlessly in your brain with seemingly no origin. “Do not forget your place, Rebel.” It seems you have pissed him off now, or whatever weird body-less voice version of him at least, great. “These fantasies are a creation of your mind. Not so much a perfect rebel now, are we?” You're not going to just let him bullshit his way into your mind no matter what. “Your lies won't work on me.” “You think this is a lie?” He flashes the same image in your head again. This time you appear even more desperate in the filthy act he shows you, hips moving wildly as you moan and pull his head closer to your cunt. “A pity you fight against the want. Your subconscious betrays you.” “You're a kriffing liar!”

“Silence!” His voice booms in your head and you flinch. “A lie? You think I am lying? What about this?” Quickly the image changes, this time showing a close-up of your most intimate parts. Heat pours into your cheeks while anger burns through your veins. A black gloved hand comes into the frame, teasingly snaking up your thigh to caress your folds. You watch, frozen in horror, as it catches your clit, rubbing circles on the nub before dipping lower to tease at the slit. It does this a bunch of times till your empty hole is pulsating in demand, all the while your desperate little pants and whines colour the background. “Vader– want you inside me, please...” Your voice echoes through the dream. The hand, his hand, gently smacks your cunt to silence you before two of his long, gloved fingers enter you. Even through the image you can tell that they are thick, and to your surprise they move slowly at first, yet expertly, delivering deep thrusts that send shivers up your spine. “Stop this! Stop it! Why are you doing this?” You scream at him and his angry voice answers, “Why? Isn't this what you want? Isn't this what your body craves? Or do you still think this is a lie?” The image before you quickly shifts again, this time showing his fingers moving fast and hard inside you. He removes them to rub and pinch at your clit, before pressing on your slit again, this time with three fingers. “What do you want from me? Stop this! You're lying!” “Is that so?” The three fingers swiftly plunge into you, this time your loud moan sounds and your own hand comes into the picture, grabbing his wrist, holding him there. Vader's voice taunts you in your mind, “So this isn't what you want?” You watch as his hand quickly shakes yours off and the same hand that was inside you delivers a loud slap to your cunt, your hips jerking up in reaction but Vader's other hand pins them down. He delivers another wet slap to your cunt, then another and another, each one getting messier and messier as you get wetter and wetter. His fingers finally enter you again and it doesn't take long before you're gushing your release all over his hand. He prolongs your high by rubbing on your already sensitive clit and it has the dream-you begging, “Vader, please...” You shout in your head once again, “What the fuck is wrong with you? Stop this! Get out of my head!” “Do not assume that I am here by pleasure,” he clearly means to taunt you more, alluding to the embarrassing state you just saw yourself in, “it is your mind projecting this.” If you could, you would stab him. “So tell me, Rebel, am I to believe this is not something you want?” “I don't care what the fuck you believe. Get. out. of my fucking head.” He continues, “So you wouldn't want me to do this?” Out of nowhere, you feel a small pressure on your neck, one that steadily grows, as if someone were holding you by the throat. You panic – you had heard about the Sith Lord's preferred method of quickly disposing of his enemies – choking the life out of them as their flailing bodies struggled to get enough oxygen, limbs convulsing and face paling till they eventually died. He was going to kill you in your sleep. Your mind is on high alert, yet your body remains unconscious in bed. “Tell me, Princess, what does your body tell you.” “—If you think that is not enough, what about this?”

The next image he projects in your mind absolutely destroys you. You see your bare back facing you in the fantasy, though your torso is not enough to hide Vader's wide built silhouette in front of you. You are straddling him, but this time too the image is cut off just below your waist. However it doesn't take a genius to figure out what is going on when you can so clearly see the way your body moves on top of his, swivelling your hips sensually as you move up and down. The way your back arches, the way you cling to him, nails digging into the leather over his chest, the breathy moans that escape you. The you in the image grabs Vader's gloved hand and places it on your throat and the real you – or at least your consciousness in your mind gasps in mortification. “How scandalous. The proper princess of the rebellion wants me.” He mocks, “worse, she wants me to want her.” This whole time you had been angry, mad at the evil Sith Lord for showing you these lies – these perverted images that you don't understand the purpose of. What is he trying to achieve? Does he hope to shame you? Provoke you? Therefore weaken your mind's resolve and obtain some information from you? But then you watch yourself in the fantasy – your hips quickening their pace as your breathy moans become raspier and louder, Vader's huge hand roams your naked back, running the middle finger of his gloved palm down your spine before moving to your front again. He caresses your breasts, toying with them and it makes the dream-you mewl. Suddenly the Vader in the projection grabs your hips, stopping your movements entirely, making you whine. He lands a stern slap on your ass in warning before pulling you in by your waist, guiding your arms from his chest to lay over his shoulders.

You can only stare in horror and regretfully–arousal, as Vader takes full control, thrusting up into you with such precision it has you screaming. You still cannot see anything below your waists and yet the lewd sounds that now echo in your mind, mixed with your own traitorous mouth chanting his name in pleasure, asking him, begging him to make you cum, has a certain humiliating warmth pooling in your centre. You want to look away, you want him to stop showing you these cursed dreams – but you have no idea how. The images are directly showing in your head and Vader doesn't seem to actually be in your room. So how do you stop this? Before you get to shout at him again, the previous pressure on your neck, one that you had nearly forgotten about, grows stronger again, pressing more on your throat till you can hear your own heartbeat echoing in your head. You realise then that the pressure on your throat is definitely not something imagined and that somehow, Vader was actually choking you physically in your sleep. Were you wrong about your assumptions? Had Vader really somehow broken into your quarters? But the others would know. They'd wake you – they'd try to stop him. Wouldn't they? Or had they all already tried – and failed to stop him. Is that why you could physically feel his hands on your throat? “You think too much.” His voice echoes after a long time, “Tell me, Princess – after everything I've shown you – do you still dare to think of this as a deception?” You don't know what to say, you have always wished for Darth Vader's defeat in every battle you have been a part of, always hoped that the tyrannical rule he was a part of would end. And yet you also knew that there was something weird– something wrong here. Every time you had encountered the Sith Lord you had felt an odd sort of feeling in your mind, as if something was amiss. You had always been wary of the force-users and weren't entirely convinced of its powers– or better yet, its presence in the universe. Yet every time you ran into Vader, you had always felt a certain presence in your being – like a pull, a connection that wasn't quite complete. Like two wires of a running circuit that occasionally rubbed together and created sparks. But what does it mean? What does any of this mean? You still cannot believe that whatever Vader showed you was some sort of prediction of the future. However, he told you that it was your mind that projected this.

But can you believe him? You would scream and fight and argue that he's a cruel perverted liar and that none of this is true. But then why is there a part of you that suddenly feels heavy with need? You almost want to strangle yourself when you realise the wetness in your pants. And you suppose you really should just jump off a cliff when you realise that Vader can and probably is reading your mind right now. “I do not need to read your mind to know your desperation, Rebel.” Or maybe you could throw him off one instead. “While it would surely be amusing to see you attempt, right now, Princess, tell me – are you still convinced that all I've shown you is a deception?” With his words he slowly moves the pressure down your neck, tracing your collarbones to your breasts, cupping them as if they were naked. He fondles them, pinching and pulling and you whimper. “—that you don't want this?” His hands ghost down your torso, caressing your hips before moving further south. You freeze when you feel him slip below the waistband of your pants, going lower and lower before stopping right at your slit – the same way he had in the vision he showed you. He mimics the same actions from the fantasy on your body – running his fingers up and down teasingly before pausing on your clit to rub slow circles. “Tell me to stop, Princess.” He slips his fingers lower again to put pressure on your slit without actually slipping inside and you're not sure how to answer him. You want him to stop because this cannot be right – you already don't know how he's even doing this, and surely you don't want to fuck Vader? But then you don't want him to stop because the expertise with which he's teasing your tits and rubbing your clit is making it hard to think. Vader can tell that you're at the edge of your limits. He flashes all the images he's shown you once again, repeating them in your head as he lures you, “Look,” he can tell that you're trying to fight him, trying to break off his connection and stop him from showing you these visions. Too bad he's a Sith Lord and much better at controlling. Brats like you really need to be tamed. “I said look.” The images flash much quicker now, all of them with you naked and begging for Vader to take you. He uses the force to toy with your body once again – phantom lips kiss their way from the corner of your mouth and up your jaw to nibble at the sensitive spot right under your ear. He shows you your own face in the visions where you climax in his mouth, on his fingers, on his cock – your mouth dropped, brows scrunched and naked chest heaving as you whine and moan. He makes you listen to your own screams of pleasure, of begging – begging to give you his cock, to let you cum, to do it all over again.

The real Vader puts a steady thrumming pressure on your clit, one that would've had you immediately buckling at the knees if you weren't still asleep in your bed. You can't help the whimper that escapes you. “Vader, please...” You feel ashamed when you find yourself repeating the words from the dream, though you're not sure if you're pleading him to stop or asking for more. “What's the matter, Princess? Surely a proud rebel like yourself wouldn't want a Sith Lord?” His voice continues mocking you as the humming pressure turns into full vibrations over your clit and that combined with the way he pinches your nipples has you melting against your own wishes. Or is it? Is this really against your own wishes? You can lie to him, but can you really lie to yourself? And it seems Vader's presence in your mind is as attentive as ever as he soon questions. “Tell me to stop. You said I was lying – so why aren't you stopping me?” Vader can feel the steady build of a climax in you, you are right at the brink and he can tell that all it would take is one push to send you over the edge. Suddenly, he stops all his actions. Every way he was touching you–it all disappears in a second. It happens so quickly it's like your body gets whiplash. You feel naked despite the fact that your body is still fully clothed and tucked in bed. You sob, “Vader—” “What is it, Princess?” When your own inner turmoil keeps you silent he continues his provocation, “Surely, you do not want me–a Sith Lord, to fuck you?” He mocks with a surprised tone. “Surely you do not want something like this,” he once again flashes another image in your head. This time you're on your back again, fully naked, but the sight doesn't shock you after all that you have seen in the past few minutes. Your hair is strewn over the surface, nipples hard as your half-lidded eyes twinkle up at him, a teasing smile pulls on your lips as your nails dig into Vader's stomach, dragging them up before spreading your palms over his chest. You tug him to you, and Vader's wide frame covers your body.

He is still clothed and his cloak falls over his shoulders to drape over the two of you. You watch as he squeezes your throat, but unlike the panic that grows in you every time you feel Vader's hands over your neck, the you in the dream smiles. She smiles and puts her hand over his as if encouraging him and fuck that shouldn't make you drip even more but it does. Vader shuffles back a little and for the first time in all of the visions he's shown you do you get to see any part of him. The real parts. And it's his cock – thick and long, slightly curved–and heavy. Heavy as you watch yourself take him in your palms, heavy as Vader slips his hand under yours to pin your wrists above you before thumping his cock on your button, making you whimper. Heavy as he runs it up and down your slit before he hooks the fat head in your hole. The dream you hums in pleasure as Vader's thick cock parts your walls, except suddenly he stops. He stops halfway in, running his possessive hands up and down your hips and legs. The pause makes you whine, instinctually clenching around him to pull him deeper and it almost knocks the breath out of Vader. He leaves a stinging hand print on your ass as a reminder to behave before one of his hands comes down to where the two of you are joined. Watching his hands–it makes you think. Even during such an intimate act Vader never takes off his gloves, in fact he doesn't even take off his clothes. In every dream you have seen tonight he is always fully clothed and it almost makes you yearn to see what he actually looks like. The dream you was always busy being fucked senseless by Vader but you couldn't stop wondering about how he was underneath all that leather. How would it feel if he were to touch you, really touch you. Would his hands be warm to touch? Or would they be as cold as his voice? Your contemplation doesn't last long as that same vibrating pressure grows stronger on your clit, just as the pleasure blooms in your core. Every time Vader touches you, really touches you–with whatever weird sexual Force abilities he possesses, your mind goes entirely blank. It's like he quickly takes over every string controlling your body and all you can do is give in. You give in as Vader cups your sex and palms your throat–it's as if he's right there behind you, broad chest to your back, slow and deep breaths exhaled right next to your ear, tickling you and somehow arousing you further. When you start getting fussy he tightens his grip on your throat, “Watch.” He commands before directing your attention to what he's projecting in your mind. You stare in embarrassment and arousal as the dream Vader first makes you come on his tip, using his fingers to pinch and pull and rub on your clit, pushing you to your high till you're pulsing around the head of his cock. It makes him dig his nails into your plush thighs, slick fingers moving up to grip your ass and lift your hips up to use for his pleasure. Vader pulls out of you to tease you again. You had been whining the entire time he was playing with your body and it entirely distracted you from the way Vader was actually toying with you in reality. Or was this all a dream too?

Your thoughts are cut off as Vader lines his thick fingers to your slit, circling and circling till you're dripping and surely staining your pants. Your hips move on their own to get him to finally push inside. You're embarrassed but also glad that you have separate quarters and that you sleep alone. “You want it that bad, Princess?” His deep voice rumbles in your mind. Wasn't the bastard supposed to be able to read your mind? You don't answer, instead, you try to reach out to whatever it was Vader was using to toy with you, focusing in your mind on that odd sensation that seems to be the source of all this. Maybe it's Vader's own distracted nature that allows you to sense his presence so quickly in the Force, especially when he doesn't do anything to stop you as you reach out to him, to the feeling of him. You connect to his presence, as if gently caressing the very fabric of his being. It feels somewhat weird; you've never done anything like it before. It feels like you're weaving yourself into him as you concentrate on the feeling of him in your mind. Even his presence feels intimidating–strong and dark, imposing and fearful. Yet, you reach out, gently, a little unsure but determined to get him to do something, anything.

You wonder why Vader isn't doing anything to stop you, especially when you know he can, being all-powerful and all that. Did he want this just as much as you? Your contemplation is cut short as you feel a steady pressure on your entrance and you throw your head back, thinking fucking finally. You think you hear something like a deep chuckle echoing in your mind before the same dream from before flashes at the forefront again. This time, dream Vader lines his cock up with your hole just as you feel the force touch grow stronger on your cunt, and simultaneously you watch as Vader's cock swiftly enters you and you feel a thick length bury deep inside. A loud moan echoes in your mind and you can't tell if it was the dream you or you. This time Vader doesn't waste a second before he starts thrusting, both in the dream and inside you. You watch as Vader fucks you fast and hard and feel as the heavy girth parts your walls, before pulling back to deliver sharp and precise thrusts, making you feel so full that it steals your breath and renders you speechless. “Hmm, nothing to say now, Princess? No accusations of lies or deception?” When you say nothing Vader slows down his pace, again both in the dream and in you, and this time even if the dream you says anything it goes completely unheard as you whine out. After watching yourself come apart so many times, hearing your whines and begs, the lewd sounds of fucking, you were downright aching, desperate to have your want fulfilled and your cunt stuffed. “Tsk, tsk tsk, such filthy wants you have, Princess.” His mocking voice booms, “and here I thought you wanted me defeated and dead.” You did, you swear you did, just....after you were done with whatever this was. Because fuck Vader feels so good inside you, so big and so deep, especially as he grinds into you without pulling out. In the haze of your pleasure you barely notice Vader picking up pace again and in retaliation he delivers a slap to your ass and it's so much worse. It's so much worse because it feels so so good, your hole pulsating around nothing desperately. “Watch.” He echoes the same word again as he forces you to concentrate on the dream he's showing you. It's a struggle to focus as Vader expertly fucks you into the mattress, pleasure coursing through your veins as he hits that deep spot inside you again and again. It becomes so much more difficult when he makes you watch the way he fucks you, the way his broad frame covers you entirely, practically dwarfing you, the way you greedily swallow him, stretched to your limits as his thick cock thrusts into you – hard and fast, not showing any mercy. Holy shit, you realise, Vader was showing you how he would fuck you, and he's making you feel how he would fuck you. All without fucking you at all.

He's ruining you, absolutely ruining you as the lewd sounds of him thrusting hard and deep into your wet pussy echo in your mind. As sweat runs down your forehead, as your chest heaves, and as your cunt leaks and leaks, surely ruining your sleepwear. As you sob in pleasure and you can’t even tell if it’s from the dream or you.

You feel the pressure on your neck return and it makes you heady, your eyes roll to the back of your head as Vader toys with your clit again, not faltering in his pace of fucking you.

You’re barrelling towards the edge at record speed, but you would never admit to Vader that no one’s ever fucked you this good, not even the best sex of your real life came close to whatever Vader was doing to you now.

Did you feel guilty about it? Immeasurably so. But it wasn’t at the front of your mind when you could also feel the way you were so close. So so close – just one more deep thrust, just one more flick of your button, just one squeeze of your throat and you’d be—

Suddenly every bit of touch disappears from your body.

The long length inside you is no longer there, the wide palm on your bare throat has vanished and the thrumming pressure on your clit has faded into nothing.

You can’t help the cry that escapes you, calling out his name in desperation.

There is no reply. You writhe on the bed, your desperation showing in the way your knuckles protrude as you fist the bedsheet, your hips squirming and cunt pulsing in need for what was so cruelly stolen from you.

You quickly sit up as your mind awakes and your eyes shoot open. Your quick pants are the only sound you can hear in the pin drop silence of your separate quarters.

Your voice is shaky as you call out, “V-Vader?”

Still no reply. You let your head fall into your hands, a silent sob escaping you as you come down from the high. Your cheeks feel warm, in fact, your whole body feels on fire and you just can’t seem to get enough air into your lungs.

The tears that slip down your face, dry and cool your heated skin but it’s not enough.

Every encounter with Vader always made you feel like something was missing, and tonight that feeling’s stronger than ever, carving out a chunk of your being and wringing your stomach into knots.

You feel hollow. Unsure. Unsafe. And yet you want to forget all of this. There is no physical evidence of anything other than your ruined underwear that you’re more than willing to ignore. Maybe this was all just a dream. A very very bad dream. Nothing more.

Just as you’re about to chalk this all up to some weird way of the universe fucking with you, a deep inhale echoes in your mind.

“The temple is where our business will be finished.”

And just like that you’re once again left alone in the silent darkness of the room.

a/n: welp folks, here we have it. weird way to say it ig but happy star wars day! may the force be with you

(ignore that this is a day late and also absolutely not proofread, both becuz tumblr was being a bitch and I lost this fic like 6 times and I almost don't care anymore lol)

#anakin skywalker x reader #anakin x reader #anakin skywalker #anakin skywalker smut #anakin smut #darth vader x reader #darth vader smut #hayden christensen

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trustinsturniolos · 1 day ago

Text

luxurious ˗ˏˋ ✮ ˎˊ˗ chris sturniolo

❝chapter one — luxurious❞

❦ ᵎ!ᵎ player!chris x f!reader

⚠︎ ᵎ!ᵎ suggestive content ⟡ strong language ⟡ making out ⟡ lmk if more

ᝰ.ᐟ ᵎ!ᵎ idea from this song! i low-key like this but the ending is rushed! :(

people always saw you as tough and independent based off how you dressed, which fair enough, you are, but once people got to know you they’d realise you’re a sweetheart.

you never let anyone walk over you, sure you were sweet, but you had your guard up. ‘permanently’. except for chris.

he did what he wanted, acted how he wanted to, spoke to you how he wanted to, but for some reason you never did anything about it.

you two hook up constantly, but chris always has some silly reason to abruptly leave—a reason that was clearly fake; once it was that his dog, trevor, had died, but the next time you hooked up at his, you saw trevor and had questioned chris about it, but he’d simply shrugged—carelessly.

he often threw parties, to find girls to make out with, and you were always invited. whether he’d invited you himself, or your friend brought you, you always came.

and each time, you’d told yourself ‘don’t fucking go near chris’. but what did you do each time? go. near. chris.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

you giggled joyfully at your friend’s stupid jokes as you both sat on the cushiony couch, red ping pong cups filled with addictive alcohol inside occupied your hand, when you saw chris approaching.

your friend, obviously, was aware of your hookups with chris that filled you with nothing but regret after, so it wasn’t just your faces that dropped to a pissed off expression as chris approached you.

“hey darlin’.” chris charmed as he stood in front of you, predatorily looking down at you. the most smug grin painted on his ridiculously attractive face as his tooth swiped over his teeth.

“piss off, chris.” you spat, trying not to adore the way his perfectly tousled hair curved around his features, or the way his stupidly gorgeous blue eyes contrasted with the neon lights that flashed against his smooth skin.

he was so perfect—he was so chris.

it only made you want to hate him more, but you couldn’t. and he knew that.

“scoot over.” his friendly tone forced your friend’s eyes to narrow even more, especially as he tapped her shoulder to part you both.

“don’t touch me.” she demanded, the frustration in her making her want to spit in his face, or hit him. nevertheless, she moved over. just a little.

“good girl.” he sat down comfortably in between you both, flashing you an innocent, toothy grin, knowing his words would make you somewhat jealous.

you were his good girl, not your friend.

you weren’t annoyed at your friend at all, no. you were annoyed with chris. i mean, when aren’t you?

“so, how are you?” his calm tone made you blood boil.

“—‘how am i?’ get to the point chris, why are you here.” you snarked with a squint of your eyes and clench of your teeth.

“bratty already? wow.” you were about to interrupt him, when he quickly adds, “fine, fine, i’m here to make out with you in the bathroom.” his abruptness and confidence made you scoff loudly, jaw agape, eyes widened. the guts he has.

“what the fuck’s wrong with you, chris?! you’re so fucking irritating!” you jumped up from the couch. even you knew you would go with him, but why not prolong the wait?

“hey, hey, calm down, ma! you wanted me to get to the point.” he shrugged, his tone cocky and unbothered as he stood up from the couch.

as much as you hated to admit it, because of chris, you hadn’t been with another guy in ages. so any kind of sexual intimacy was irresistible to you.

“are you comin’ or not?” he held his warm hand out.

“i..no—chris..th—”

“just come.”

the mix of the increasingly loud volume of the music blaring through the speakers and the alcohol urged you to go with him now, but your head told you not to.

but what did you do? “fine.” with a roll of your eyes, you went with him, but not before slapping his hand away.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

your hands wrapped on both sides of his neck as you leaned into the kiss.

the kiss was sweet like sugar but passionate and the tension in the air was thick like honey—it was sexy.

“fuckin’ missed this, baby.” he spoke in between kisses, lust filled his voice.

you tried to ignore his words, he makes out with loads of girls—why would he miss you? did he mean it?

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

the kiss grew more intense, more needy. chris’ tongue pushing past your lips, selfishly invading your mouth as his tongue swirled around yours. his calloused hands roaming around your hip, fingers digging possessively into your flesh.

but it soon turned to more. your hand was now rapidly trying to undo his belt, as he slowly slid your trousers down, revealing the top of a lacy black thong.

“chris! hurry up man, i’m leaving!” matt’s voice boomed from outside the bathroom door, along with a harsh knock, just as chris was about to speak.

chris let out an audible groan, his jaw clenching tightly as his grip on you grew tighter. “fuck.” he stepped back, bringing his hand down to his crotch to palm his—hard, dick, temporarily relieving the pain from being hard.

“gotta go, message me.” he muttered frustratedly, before turning toward the door and yanking it open, greeting matt with a scowl.

he stormed off, towards the car, matt following behind.

taglist : @tezzzzzzzz @urgirlclaire @astrxl @sturnschris @persephonesluvs @presleycaudle @ivysturnss @obsessedwiththesturniolos @sofisturns @evansturn @rubyyyriddle @chrisbrowser @oh-icantgetaway @leiyanac @sturnedits @bookieluvss12 @choppeddestinywhispers @luvvnai @emely9274 @fancygladiatorwasteland @sturniolooofan @hearts4sturniolos @sophand4n4 @fics4thetrips @strombolisfavourite

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prettyboysdontlookatexplosions · 2 days ago

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medialog april 2k25

ok first of all i just want to say that a few years ago i decided i would start always counting months monday to sunday, four weeks with a few fives, and this year april was a 5-week month, so this is actually not late and also that’s why thunderbolts, a movie i saw on may 4th, is on my april list (because i am a crazy person). ok anyway

books

toni morrison, playing in the dark: whiteness and the literary imagination — obviously great, but what i appreciated most about it was the way that morrison takes pains to clarify that her present interest is in the literary uses of blackness in american literature — its place in the toolbox of american writers — separate from the question of whether or not such and such author/book “is” racist. i am similarly very interest in projects that explore this kind of question from a formal, aesthetic perspective, which is not to say a depoliticized one but to observe that politics makes it known formally and aesthetically as much as it does didactically. there are much more interesting things to say about this stuff than “that’s racist” even though the existence of this phenomenon is of course inseparable from racism.

jennette mccurdy, i’m glad my mother is dead — as good as you’ve heard, and then some. often genuinely quite brutal to read, but told with a clarity and lightness (sometimes even a bracing and dark sense of humor!) that speaks both to what must have been enormous psychoemotional work on mccurdy’s part and to a real command of what she wants to say, which is in some ways the most moving aspect of the book—she talks about writing being a desire authentic to her, one her mother stifled, and it’s really gratifying to see proof in the book you’re reading that she’s good at it. she’s really deft with what details to include, and with the way that she writes her own present-tense first-person perspective in a way that never outpaces her own understanding at a given point in the narrative but still makes it unmistakable for the reader exactly what’s going on. also contains some of the most unflinching writing about EDs — across the spectrum — that i’ve read.

f. scott fitzgerald, tender is the night — i’ve said my piece on this already but: changed me as a person, forged me as a writer, the most gorgeously written book in the english language, weirder and more complicated and funnier than i remember every time i go back to it, never fails to move me profoundly in the closing sequence

suzanne collins, sunrise on the reaping — i just like the hunger games… i think objectively this is probably the weakest of the series because it’s basically the same as the first book but while haymitch is quite lovable especially given the affection readers will bring from his role in the OG trilogy, and while collins’s knack for sketching instantly memorable and likable characters that it’s really fucked up to watch die remains intact, there is just no competing with katniss, as perfectly constructed a protagonist as children’s lit has ever seen. but i read it in like three days and it was so sad and fucked up it almost made my tummy hurt (there’s one scene in particular i have to imagine will be toned down for the screen adaptation…) and the post-series epilogue made me cry for real lmao.

elif batuman, the idiot — i guess this book does what it sets out to do but wow i just could not care about this person or the “events” that “happened” (generous use of the words) at any point in this book at all. i actually also finished this one in three days but it was because i was so bored that i couldn’t bear the idea of waking up over and over in a world where i still had more of this book to read. i just didn’t care about anyone or anything or find the prose or scenes pleasurable in any way except for like 3 times one of which was that really funny line about eating a baguette where she’s like “the baguette required ear muscles i had lost in two million years of evolution,” that was great. but overall i was just not on the wavelength. i also was very annoyed by batuman’s use of repetition for comedic (...?) effect / pseudonaturalism (...?)... i didn’t find it funny or convincing and i noticed it really early so it just felt like a tic and every time she did it again i was like ENOUGH ALREADY.

david carr, the night of the gun: a reporter investigates the darkest story of his life. his own. — i like addiction memoirs because i have always felt a very profound “there but for the grace of god go i” resonance with substance abuse and i tend to find them oddly relatable despite never being even a moderately heavy user of literally anything. i also like stuff about the unreliability of memory. so i was the target demo for this book more or less and my review should not be taken as objective, but i thought this was pretty great. two anecdotes that sort of boil down this book’s deal: (1) there’s a part early on where he says something like “would you like my story if i said i was a fat thug who dealt bad coke and beat women? what if i said i was a father of two in recovery who had gotten sober to raise my twin girls? well both are true, so.” (2) the incident that spurred him into final rehab/full sobriety* for real was not the birth of his twin daughters but the night he left them in the backseat of the car to go get cocaine… which he remembered as both taking place shortly after their spring births and being cold enough to dress them in their snowsuits, a contradiction resolved when his brother reminded him he had in fact spent several months shooting cocaine while theoretically being a father. (*asterisk because this also includes, unusually in recovery memoirs, a section about his later relapse into alcoholism.) if that sounds like a guy you want to read a book about you’d probably like it too!

charles king, every valley: the desperate lives and troubled times that made handel’s messiah — this is one of those books that sort of uses one thing as a hook to take us on a little historical tour, in this case messiah acting as the excuse to lead us around 18th century england (mostly), its deranged political climate, its mix of enlightenment philosophy and often miserable living conditions sprinkled with steady outbursts of violence, its theater scene (including a truly bananas series of events surrounding suzannah arne, who makes her way in because she was one of the soloists in the first performances of messiah). i don’t care too much about this period in this place and i did kinda want a slightly deeper dive into messiah itself, but i had fun. i particularly appreciated the inclusion of the story of ayuba diallo, an educated and wealthy west african who got kidnapped into slavery on the way to doing some slave trading of his own and somehow talked his way out of it, becoming a bit of a british curiosity before heading home, no more antislavery than he left but having talked the royal african company into offering a ransom option for enslaved muslims… fascinating stuff.

george eliot, silas marner — i just feel like maybe no one has ever understood human psychology and behavior better than eliot did… this book is quite short (less than 200 pages) and its length and the clockwork nature of its plot give it the feel of a fable or a parable, but it’s so astonishingly dense with how many observations about the ways people can be she works into her sweet little story of redemption. she’s just such a warm, funny, wise narrator, it’s wonderful to be allowed to see the world the way she sees it… and it’s crazy that this book is a century and a half old, describing a world old-fashioned by the time it was published, and soooo many little moments, reactions, etc. feel so timeless and modern and fresh… like dolly telling silas “oh don’t bother to buy her baby clothes, she’ll outgrow them right away, i have some hand-me-downs you can use,” a conversation probably happening all over the world right now. this book also has some of the best writing i’ve ever seen about how great it is to hang out with a baby… at one point the baby pouts for her shoes to be removed and then after silas takes them off “baby was at once happily occupied with the primary mystery of her own toes, inviting silas, with much chuckling, to consider the mystery too.” like… that’s so real… babies literally do love to ponder the mystery of their own toes…!

george saunders, tenth of december — HELL YEAH FUCKIN RIGHT!!! finally i came across a story collection i actively enjoyed reading… saunders is weird and inventive and fun and funny and interestingly moralistic (not a criticism), and really above all i just loved reading his voice, i would have let him take me anywhere. i think my favorite story was the collection opener “victory lap,” which introduces to a pollyanna-ish young girl and then has her get child abducted… but is not remotely a story about how her sunny worldview is proven wrong. i was really pleased and moved by that. but honestly i enjoyed reading every story in the book. great stuff! wonderful times!

jenny offill, dept. of speculation — this was alright. i thought the writing was pretty good and i basically enjoyed it on a sentence level — it’s a novel told in short little bursts of prose, not even vignettes really, some almost aphoristic, and some of these were real knockouts in terms of being poignant or unexpected or funny. and i more or less liked reading the day to day observational stuff, the chapter about the actual horror of bedbugs, the early parenting material… unfortunately i was not compelled at all by the actual plot, which hinges on the disruption and subsequent repair of the marriage after the husband’s affair… some of my best friends are adultery novels but this one made me feel like the people who complain they are tired of litfic about professors and affairs (the protagonist is a writer/creative writing professor which… also a hard sell tbh. this is just not as interesting as writers want it to be). it also really had me like… man, the standards for men are so low it’s crazy… he fucks some girl at work or whatever and then we never like actually see him putting in any effort whatsoever into fixing things, we’re told she has to drag everything out of him in couples therapy, and then the thing that fixes it is they move out of brooklyn to the country…? girl stand up… i just did not buy the emotional resolution of this story at all even a little bit and i truly feel like to do so you have to have internalized a certain psychological weight and depth to the concept of “marriage” which is inseparable from having the most minimal emotional standards in the world for men. all that said i did find the format creatively/artistically stimulating to think about and potentially useful to tuck away thoughts about for the future.

david grann, killers of the flower moon: the osage murders and the birth of the FBI — this was really good and also (appropriately) incredibly upsetting. grann is a clean and thoughtful writer and he tells an incredibly compelling narrative about a series of acts beyond comprehension in the depth of their evil. he also makes a point of citing osage historians & writers repeatedly, which i appreciated. i always feel guilty about finding the investigative/procedural side of stuff fascinating but well… it was…. as was the stuff about hoover’s reforms & ambitions and the case’s role as early PR buzz for the FBI (including an episode of their radio show about it… yikes!). what is most devastating is what the final portion of the book is dedicated to, which is the reality that after william hale was convicted, the FBI considered the case closed even though hale had not been conclusively linked to all 24 victims of the “reign of terror”… grann traces how his own attempt to learn more from the record about one of the potentially unsolved cases leads to the realization that the scope of white people killing osage indians for their oil money certainly extends far beyond those 24 names, and he does such a good job of articulating the psychic toll that takes on a community for generations that i had to put the last couple chapters down a few times to take some breaths.

movies

the long kiss goodnight - this is a very weird and badly directed movie where geena davis plays an amnesiac who has hired samuel l. jackson to investigate her past and then it turns out she is a CIA agent which makes this the second movie i have seen where brian cox plays a fed in charge of an amnesiac assassin for the US government… i’d only have two nickels etc. the thing that really sinks this i think is that the director just does not understand shane black’s sense of humor at all or have the mastery necessary to walk the tonal tightrope necessitated by the script… but its badness does highlight how fun it is to watch jackson do anything

vanilla sky - weird movie but weird in a way where it’s like a strange high-concept premise with a deliberately confusing middle portion but it’s directed by cameron crowe who’s like the least weird man alive so it’s very normal feeling in a way that feels at odds with its central project…? bold to cast tom cruise at his peak and hide his face under a weird serial killer mask or post-car-crash disfigurement make-up for much of the runtime… his hair looks incredible and also freakishly like that of squall from final fantasy viii. i guess it was fine

companion - please put yellowjackets out of its misery after season 4 so sophie thatcher can go make a million silly horror movies for me to see her in <3 her AND harvey guillén, with a surprise jaboukie appearance? incredibly star-studded cast for the niche demographic of people who live in my apartment. don’t expect it to be any smarter than it needs to be but i had a lot of fun!

jack reacher - tom cruise… i actually don’t know how to classify this. i was going to say spy movie but it’s not really that… there’s some action but it’s not an action movie… but it’s too action heavy to be a legal thriller… i guess just a regular thriller? ish? rosamund pike… honestly might have been miscast but i love watching her so i don’t really mind. one time the mission impossible podcast guys said something about how mcquarrie lights skin in rogue nation and i did find myself watching this thinking everyone’s skin looks great (not great like “great skin” great like “i like the way you put this skin on screen” oh my god that sounds like serial killer language w/e you know what i mean)

the usual suspects - i wanted to watch this mostly because i’m so fascinated by the fac that christopher mcquarrie won an oscar for this screenplay and then couldn’t get a movie made for eight years and now he’s professionally tom cruise’s director more or less. ummm it was alright. the twist was spoiled for me by the key and peele cat poster sketch years ago but was still fun to watch. benicio del toro is sooooo good in every second he’s on screen i needed 300% more of him

high school musical 2 - this movie is crazy lmao the “we spent more than twelve dollars on it this time” vibes are off the charts both in the general look of the movie (which is clearly still a disney channel movie but like… a way more expensive one) and the choreo/group numbers, which have been beefed the fuck UP. the gay brother plays a piano in a pool??? watched this as the first one kinda sotned with one friend who was a fellow novice and two younger millennial friends who sang along with every song except the crazy fake hawaiian racist ashley tisdale number in the middle which they had completely blocked from memory. 10/10 viewing experience no notes

sinners - SLAAAAAPPED. really beautiful to look at for almost the whole time, insanely well-acted, creative and clever and, can’t emphasize this enough, so much more historically grounded than a hollywood product almost ever is… there’s like actual ideas here and they’re connected to reality and they’re expressed in interesting and compelling ways through the metaphorical valence of a pretty sick-ass vampire movie. the final fight scene is a little weak compared to everything else and there were a few points where i was like “ok i get it”... but i really fucking loved living in the world of this movie.

thunderbolts - idk guys… this one really worked for me… i loved bucky as like everybody else’s trauma elder… i loved every single thing florence pugh did in this film… i loved lewis pullman’s twitchy pathetic wet cat vibe and the concept of a character in a superhero movie whose whole deal is that he is seriously, actually incredibly unwell… the yelena/red guardian family stuff here worked way better than it did in black widow (one scene made me cry lol)… no laser lightning fights at ALL… they went as unflashy as possible with some of the effects in ways that made them actually much more effective… unbelievably funny gag in the ending credits art… JLD funny… geraldine viswanathan there??? but also all i ever wanted from these dumbass movies was for them to use silly superhero stuff to tell unsubtle stories about big human feelings and this one marries the content and theme about as well as the MCU’s ever done it, IMO, and definitely the best since before endgame. again there’s a reason despite falling very out of love with the MCU i have never changed my icon on this, a blog i started because i couldn’t shut the fuck up about bucky barnes, so i am not an objective observer here… but i had a great time at the movies

television

the white lotus (s3) - i’m like the only person on earth who hated s2 and therefore had zero expectations going into s3 and so i sort of agree with all the complaints that boil down to “this show is kind of dumb” but didn’t actually mind any of the dumbness at any time. public act of service IMO to introduce gen z to parker posey

yellowjackets (s3) - it’s actually crazy how fucking shitty and bad and stupid and horrible and inane and dumb this season of television was considering how much i loved the show before… like i’ve just never seen anything like it some of the all-time worst writing in the history of the screen. unbelievably bad. surreally bad.

daredevil: born again (s1) - idk fine i guess? reminded me that i did always find charlie cox as matt murdock a really charming performance but in a way where i wished he was in a show i liked rather than one that was… fine. i never made it past season 1 of the netflix series but well it wasn’t homework for two separate ringer podcasts back then so i’ll probably tune in for s2 to access that sweet sweet Content

currently watching: andor, which it turns out everyone on earth correctly identified as Good Actually; we picked up cheers as a chillout sitcom watch and it really makes going to work in a bar where you and your boss sexually harass each other all day look sooooooo appealing

music

had an off month for music bc i started feeling overstimulated generally and couldn’t listen to any music at all for a while and then my phone broke… so not a lot of albums this month. but i have a bunch loaded on to a playlist and am tentatively optimistic about resuming my albums era! (finding my bluetooth headphones would help though.) this month’s single is this gorgeous track by debby friday which starts out light and trancey and goes in a sort of caroline-polacheck-remix-of-everything-is-romantic direction and just soars really beautifully:

youtube

ALT BLK ERA, rave immortal - loud & dumb & fun! they’re already wearing out their welcome but i enjoyed it

alisa xayalith, slow crush - i really loved her single “what the hell do we do now” but the album didn’t quite live up to its promise… pretty but mostly forgettable although a couple tracks might stick around

ZORA, Z D A Y - zora’s first 2025 album back in jan was the first new release i really loved and is still one of my faves of the year so i was very disappointed that this one was kind of a miss for me… not sure if it was rushed or if she’s just doing a different vibe but it felt very half-assed and forgettable

Btrickz, 80’z - a charming 11 minutes of chatty-sounding hispanophone rap, not my fave kind of thing but a cool vibe

#medialog #media 2k25 #Youtube

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