#day 1 without weed

[crestfallen-infatuation]

I'm hella sad. 😔

[thesmokinpossum]

Btw I broke my last record and I'm currently 15 days weedless going strong :)

[doberrrman]

I have this feeling that I have unofficial beef with my neighbor...

[chanxoxyeol]

Went to the dispensary today and only purchased a disposable cart and no flower of any kind because I really need to like.. chill lol I’m going on a cruise this summer and spoiler alert I can’t have weed with me so I’ve gotta slow my roll LOL

[heejamas]

SEE YOU AT THE MOVIES

⭒ pairing: heeseung x fem!reader ⭒ synopsis: every thursday night, you walk into the theater alone, big popcorn in hand, like it’s a sacred ritual. heeseung, the overworked (and nosy) employee, can’t help but wonder—do you just hate people, or are you on a mission to watch every movie ever made? either way, he’s starting to think he kinda wants to be your plus-one. ⭒ genre: social media au (smau), fluff, crack, strangers to lovers, movie theatre au ⭒ status: ongoing (started 05/09/2024) ⭒ playlist: like the movies - laufey

⭒ warnings: profanity, sexual jokes, weed consumption, alcohol consumption, cursing, ignore timestamps please!!! it's all crack zero braincells kinda au (again)

chapters ⭒ profiles: 1 | 2 0. prologue 🎥 1. when harry met sally 2. anyone but you 3. how to lose a guy in 10 days 4. there's something about mary 5. notting hill 6. you've got mail 7. wedding crashers 8. the proposal 9. 50 first dates 10. crazy, stupid, love 11. love actually 12. sweet home alabama 13. (500) days of summer 14. bridget jones's diary 15. to all the boys i've loved before 16. isn't it romantic 17. love, rosie 18. clueless 19. about time 20. silver linings playbook 21. the wedding planner 22. enchanted 23. breakfast at tiffany's (epilogue)

author's note: hi besties !! this is my second long smau and my first one about heeseung (aka my bias, so you know i’m putting my whole heart into this). i hope you guys love it as much as i love writing it !! if you wanna be part of the taglist, just comment on this post <3

(btw, i imagined the drake & josh movie premiere to get into the vibe. that’s the energy we’re channeling here.)

my masterlist 📎 | previous smau: nicest guy 🏈

© all rights reserved @/heejamas — do not repost, copy, translate, or modify my works without explicit permission. these are works of fiction and are not meant to represent real-life actions, thoughts, or personalities of any public figures

[sixxels]

mr. take your girl ~ satoru. g

frat!sukuna x reader → frat!gojo x reader

!!disclaimer!! LONG ONESHOT ! smut, toxicity, angst, heavy themes of situationships, sukuna is mean, this is messy, satoru friends (?) to lovers (?), mentions of alcohol consumption. based on this ask!

wc: 10k

the party is a blur before it even begins. music so loud it feels like it’s stitched into your skin, like it’s blooming under your ribs. you can’t hear anything else. just bass, bass, bass, thudding through the floorboards, leaking into your bloodstream, softening your bones. smoke coils from the living room, lights pulse like strobes behind your eyelids, and everything is hot and slow and sticky.

sukuna’s hands are already on your waist.

you don’t even remember how you got here. one minute, you were talking to yuki in the kitchen, her voice low, laughing, bottle of pink moscato dangling from her fingertips. the next, you were in the living room, pressed back against sukuna like it was always going to happen.

he smells like spice and weed and tequila. he moves like a sin you’ve already committed.

“fuck, you look good,” he slurs into your ear, voice raspy, heavy with smoke and desire. his breath fans against your neck and you shiver, even though it’s hot enough to melt the drywall. his rings dig into the skin above your hips and your head tips back without thinking, like gravity wants you to fall for him.

you’re not even drunk yet. you wish you were.

your hands find his shoulders, anchor there. he’s wearing that shirt you like, black mesh, thin enough to see the ink stretched across his chest. you feel him breathe against you, the hitch in his throat when you grind back into him, slow, deliberate. he curses under his breath. you pretend not to hear it.

and it’s always like this.

you and sukuna have been doing this for months. no labels. no rules. just late-night texts and bodies tangled in the dark, his voice in your ear telling you everything and nothing. it started after one party, after one kiss that lasted too long in a hallway filled with smoke. he said it didn’t mean anything. you said okay.

but then it happened again. and again. and again.

he never asked you to stay the night, but he never pushed you away when you did. he didn’t tell you he missed you, but he’d show up at your door at 1 a.m. with a look in his eyes like he’d die without you. sometimes you’d pretend it was real. sometimes you’d forget it wasn’t.

but it never changed. he never changed.

the lights flash magenta, blue, red, and then no color at all. just his mouth, brushing the edge of your jaw, just his hand slipping down the front of your skirt like he owns you.

you shouldn’t be here. not with him.

not again.

but your body is a traitor. it always is with sukuna.

there’s something about the way he touches you, like you’re his, like he never wants to let go, like no one else could ever touch you the same. it makes you forget things. like how he never texts back. how he never asks you how your day was. how last week you caught him flirting with some delta sig girl in the hallway, and he didn’t even have the decency to look guilty.

your breath catches as he dips his head lower, mouth dragging along your collarbone. you can feel him smirk against your skin. it’s toxic, the way he knows exactly where to put his hands, exactly how to make your heart stutter even when you swore it wouldn’t.

“missed you,” he murmurs, like a lie.

your eyes flutter shut. you hate how much you believe him.

the room swims. everything is too much and not enough. fingers clutching your hips, that familiar voice dripping with arrogance and hunger. someone spills beer behind you. someone laughs too loud. you don’t care. not when sukuna’s thigh is slotted between yours, not when his lips graze the corner of your mouth like he’s daring you to give in.

you do.

of course you do.

your mouth finds his and it’s ugly, desperate, soaked in months of mixed signals and unspoken rules. he tastes like tequila and spearmint gum and something bitter underneath. you bite his bottom lip a little too hard and he groans against your tongue, gripping you tighter, like punishment, like proof.

god, you wish this meant something.

you wish it wasn’t just this. dark rooms, lingering touches, his name stuck in your throat like smoke you can’t cough up.

but you already know the truth: sukuna doesn’t want you. not really. not in the way you want him. he likes to touch, not feel. he likes the idea of you, how you look in his lap, how you moan his name, how you always come back, no matter how many times he disappears on you.

“wanna get out of here?” he mumbles, dragging his mouth down your neck, teeth skimming your pulse.

you nod before you can think.

you always do.

because every time feels like it might be different, like maybe this time, he’ll mean it. maybe this time, he’ll hold your face like it’s delicate, not like it’s something he can drop when the music fades.

his hand slips into yours. the lights blur again. someone bumps into you and mumbles an apology. you barely hear it. all you hear is your heartbeat, all you feel is his grip, possessive, heavy, and unbearably warm.

and then he comes into sight. satoru passes you in the hallway.

you almost don’t register it. his white hair glows under the led lights, sunglasses pushed into his curls, solo cup in hand. he raises his brows when he sees you with sukuna, just for a second. it’s subtle. just a flicker.

but it lands.

you know what it means.

you look away before you can think about it too hard.

sukuna pulls you toward the stairs, toward the dark, toward the place where you’ll forget how lonely this makes you feel until morning. you let him.

you always do.

~

“…fuck, sukuna,”

your voice cracks on his name, high and breathless, your thighs trembling around his hips. the headboard thuds softly against the wall with every push of his body into yours, a steady rhythm you’ve learned by heart, like a song you never wanted to memorize but somehow know all the lyrics to.

his fingers dig into your waist like he’s trying to brand himself into your skin, pulling you closer with every thrust, hips snapping forward hard enough to steal the breath right from your lungs.

“say it again,” he grits out, voice thick and rough with lust. his mouth is hot against your neck, teeth grazing the same spot he always goes for, just beneath your jaw, where it’ll bruise in the morning.

“sukuna!” it’s not even a name anymore. it’s a plea.

his pace stutters, and then he groans low in his throat, forehead dropping to your shoulder. sweat beads along his hairline. his body is burning against yours, all sharp angles and muscle and frustration. you cling to him like he’s going to disappear, because he will. he always does. you arch up to meet him, chasing something you wish felt more like love and less like punishment. the air in the room is thick, sweet and sour, like weed smoke and sweat and every bad decision you’ve ever made.

his hand slips between your legs and your back arches instinctively. your fingers clutch the sheets, a choked whimper falling from your lips.

“you like that, huh?” he mutters, cocky, breathless, like he’s already forgotten the way you looked at him downstairs, like you wanted this to mean something.

you nod, dizzy. he knows what he’s doing. he always fucking knows.

he fucks like he talks, mean, smooth, unforgiving. every thrust is a promise he’ll break before sunrise. every kiss is laced with the kind of heat that doesn’t last. but you still take it. you always do.

your nails drag down his back, leaving angry little lines behind. he hisses through his teeth, hips grinding in deeper, slower now, like he wants to make you feel every inch of him. you do. god, you do.

“you’re mine,” he murmurs, almost too soft to hear.

you don’t say anything. because he isn’t yours. and you’re not his. not really. this isn’t love, it’s habit. it’s desperation wrapped in heat. it’s lonely nights that turn into mornings you can’t remember, only feel.

but you moan for him anyway. because that’s what he wants. because maybe, for just a moment, you can pretend that’s what you want too.

his thrusts get sloppier, rougher. his breath stutters against your throat.

“gonna cum,” he groans, voice wrecked and guttural.

“inside,” you whisper before you can stop yourself, before you remember that he never stays long enough to deal with what comes after.

he growls against your skin, hips bucking harder, and when he finally spills into you, it feels like something inside you shatters. like maybe you’ve finally reached the bottom of this endless, aching thing you keep falling into.

he collapses on top of you, heavy and too warm, chest heaving. his fingers curl into the sheets beside your head, and for a second, you think he might say something real, something soft, something honest.

but then he pulls out without a word.

and you don’t ask him to stay.

~

you wake up to sunlight slicing across the sheets like a blade.

everything is too bright. too warm. too quiet.

the first thing you notice is that your mouth is dry, like sandpaper, like regret. the second thing is the empty space beside you in the bed.

sukuna’s gone.

you blink slowly, head pounding, eyes struggling to adjust to the daylight bleeding through the crooked blinds. the room smells like him, sharp and familiar, smoke and spice and the bitter aftertaste of cheap liquor. your body still aches from the night before. thighs sore. lips swollen. the imprint of his hands still faintly lingering on your skin like shadows.

you pull the blanket tighter around yourself even though the room is hot. too hot. like the air hasn’t moved since he left.

and you already know he left a while ago.

you sit up slowly, the sheet slipping off your chest. there’s no sign of him, not really, just a crumpled hoodie tossed in the corner, the faint echo of his cologne clinging to the pillow. no note. no text. not even a glass of water on the nightstand. your phone buzzes somewhere across the room but it’s not him. it never is.

you shouldn’t be surprised.

you should be used to this by now.

you and sukuna have been… something for months. not dating. never dating. just a messy, unspoken arrangement full of late-night hook-ups and blurred lines, stolen glances at parties and long stretches of silence in between. no promises. no expectations. except you’ve been making promises to yourself anyway, letting expectations build in the space between his fingers and your ribs.

because when he wants you, when he really wants you, it feels like gravity, like heat and hunger and attention so sharp it makes you forget how shallow it actually is. he looks at you like you’re the only girl in the room. until he doesn’t.

and the worst part is, you know what this is. you know who he is.

ryomen sukuna: vice president of kappa tau, campus heartbreaker, smug bastard with a jawline sharp enough to wound and a laugh that sounds like danger. he’s too hot for his own good, too charming when he wants to be, and too good at pretending it means nothing when he leaves you cold in his bed.

he was like this before you. he’ll be like this long after you.

and still, you let him in. you drag yourself out of the bed, wrapping the sheet around you as you stumble toward the small mirror above his dresser. your mascara is smudged. your neck is bruised. there’s a fingerprint-shaped bloom of red on your thigh.

you feel like a cliché.

outside the door, you can hear voices, deep and lazy, laced with laughter and the clink of beer bottles, even though it’s not even noon. it’s always like this at the kappa house. chaos, constant. frat boys draped over furniture like throw pillows, the living room still sticky from last night’s party, someone yelling about pong rules in the kitchen.

you know the sound of them all by now, geto’s low, easy drawl, nanami’s flat exasperation, toji’s cocky laugh.

but most of all, gojo satoru.

he’s the only one who ever remembers your name.

you met him in your first semester, bio chem 101, second row from the back. he showed up late, slid into the seat next to you, and passed you a pack of sour gummies during the lecture like it was perfectly normal. he’d told you you had “bored pretty girl face,” and then spent the rest of the class cracking jokes under his breath just to make you laugh.

and somehow, that never stopped.

he’s the only kappa guy who never made you feel like a punchline, never looked at you like just another notch in someone’s bedpost. even at parties, when you showed up with sukuna, gojo would make room for you on the couch, pass you a drink already opened, always nonchalant but never unkind.

last week, you’d mentioned that you bombed a quiz in passing, just an offhand comment. two days later, he showed up with an entire color-coded study guide.

sometimes you wonder what it would be like, if it had been gojo instead. if you hadn’t wasted all your feelings on someone who only ever meets you halfway. if you’d chosen the boy who listens instead of the one who only calls when the moon’s up and his hands are restless.

but then sukuna looks at you with that hungry, half-lidded gaze, and you forget how to want anything else.

and now look at you.

cold in his bed. abandoned. again.

you sit down on the edge of the mattress and let the ache bloom in your chest, slow and awful. like bruised ribs. like heartbreak that isn’t allowed to be called heartbreak because you were never dating. he made that clear.

but your body doesn’t know the difference. your heart certainly doesn’t.

you press your fingers to your temples, trying to will the nausea down. it’s not just the hangover. it’s the shame. the familiarity. the way you knew this would happen and still let him in.

you thought, stupidly, selfishly, that maybe this time he’d stay. that maybe the way he kissed you last night meant something more. that the way he said missed you was a crack in the wall he always keeps up, not just something he said to get between your legs.

but you were wrong.

again.

and the worst part?

you knew you would be.

you force yourself to stand.

you get dressed slowly, hands shaking as you pull your dress back on. the same dress you wore last night, black, tight, low-cut. you remember how he tugged it up around your waist in the hallway before even getting to the bed. how his eyes raked over you like you were some prize he earned.

now it just feels… pathetic.

you find your shoes under the bed. your phone beside the bottle on the floor, cracked along the corner. your lipstick smudged, your hair a mess. you don’t even try to fix it. you just take a breath, square your shoulders, and open the door.

the hallway outside is dim, reeking of stale weed and sweat and old pizza. music murmurs low from someone’s room, a bassline throbbing lazily through the floorboards. you take the steps slow, head down, praying no one’s around to see you like this.

but of course, it’s kappa tau.

someone’s always around.

you make it halfway down the stairs when you hear his voice.

“whoa, hey, hey—morning, sunshine.”

you freeze for half a second, then glance up. satoru gojo is sprawled across the couch at the bottom of the staircase, a bag of chips on his chest, one sock on, hair a disaster of soft silver strands curling in every direction. his sunglasses are pushed up into his hair, and he’s wearing a sweatshirt that’s far too big for him, blue, with a bleach stain on one sleeve and the kappa crest printed on the back in cracked white ink.

his eyes land on you and go soft.

you must look like hell.

he’s already sitting up, setting the chips aside and standing with a stretch that makes his shirt ride up a little, enough to show a sliver of toned stomach and that tattoo on his hip you always pretend not to stare at in class.

you look away, cheeks burning. your dress feels shorter now than it did last night. tighter. you tug it down instinctively, but it doesn’t help. the shame is already clinging to your skin like sweat.

without a word, gojo shrugs off his hoodie and walks up to you, casual, smooth, like this is just something he does every saturday morning.

“you’ll catch a cold,” he says simply, slipping the sweatshirt around your shoulders before you can protest.

you open your mouth to say something, maybe thank you, maybe what are you doing, but he’s already ushering you down the last few steps, hand gentle on the small of your back.

“c’mon, honey,” he murmurs, lips tilted in that lazy smile, “let’s get you outta here.”

he doesn’t look at you like you’re a mess. doesn’t make a joke about the walk of shame. he just walks with you, calm and confident, like he’s done this before. maybe he has.

but it still feels like something sacred.

he keeps talking as you both move through the house, voice light and teasing but never unkind. like he’s trying to keep the silence from swallowing you whole.

“you know, i’m pretty sure this hoodie’s lucky,” he says, glancing at you as he holds the door open. “i wore it to my midterm last week. got an eighty-five, even though i studied for maybe twelve minutes and spent the night before watching shrek 2 on edibles.”

you huff a laugh, small, surprised.

he grins wider. “there she is.”

the air outside hits you like a slap, cold and sharp, the kind that clears your head whether you want it to or not. you shiver instinctively, pulling the hoodie tighter around yourself. it smells like detergent and weed and faintly like boy. not like sukuna. not like last night.

you step onto the sidewalk and exhale, like you’ve been holding your breath since you woke up.

gojo walks beside you in silence for a few beats, hands in his pockets, shoulders relaxed.

“i can walk you back,” he offers softly, voice gentler now. “if you want. no pressure.”

you glance over at him. he’s not looking at you, just staring straight ahead, like he’s giving you room.

you nod.

he smiles again, smaller this time, and starts walking.

the quiet stretches between you. not awkward. just quiet. like he knows you’re not ready to talk. like he’s willing to wait until you are.

after a while, you find yourself saying it without even meaning to.

“ryo... he... he didn’t even say goodbye.”

gojo doesn’t flinch. doesn’t smirk. he just hums, like he’s not surprised.

“yeah,” he says, low, thoughtful. “he’s good at that.”

you bite your lip. “i keep thinking maybe he’ll change.”

“maybe,” gojo says. then adds, “but maybe he won’t. maybe he doesn’t want to.”

you blink. the honesty is startling.

he kicks a rock down the sidewalk, hands still deep in his pockets. “people like him… they take until someone stops letting them. doesn’t mean you’re stupid. just means you gave him more than he deserved.”

your throat tightens.

“for what it’s worth,” he says, turning to look at you fully, “you deserve way more than a guy who leaves you cold in the morning.”

you swallow. your voice feels small. “you don’t even know me.”

“sure i do,” he says easily. “you sit two seats over in chem. you underline your notes in three different colors depending on how likely it is to be on the exam. you chew your straw when you’re nervous. you hold your drink with both hands at parties, like it’s a shield.”

you stop walking.

he keeps going a few more steps before realizing, then turns back with a sheepish grin.

“also, you laugh at my jokes even when they’re bad, which makes you either incredibly kind or completely unhinged.”

you blink at him.

gojo shrugs, smile soft now. “i know enough.”

and you believe him.

for the first time in hours, the ache in your chest loosens. just a little, just for now.

you start walking again, slowly.

the street is quiet at this time of morning. just the rustle of leaves in the wind, the distant sound of traffic, the occasional jogger passing by with earbuds in and a grim expression.

he keeps glancing at you every now and then, not in a probing way, not even expectantly. just… checking in. like he’s making sure you haven’t slipped too far inside your own head again.

“you eat anything yet?” he asks eventually, cocking his head toward you.

you shake your head. “no. just wanted to get out of there.”

“understandable. that place smells like a frat boy’s sock drawer after a heatwave.”

you laugh under your breath.

he smiles again, like that’s all he needed to hear.

“you want me to grab you something? coffee, bagel?” he asks. “there’s that little spot on third with the cinnamon buns the size of your head. best post-regret breakfast in town.”

you glance at him. “you’re not hungover?”

“perks of being god’s favorite,” he says, deadpan. “or maybe it’s the fact i’ve been drinking gatorade since 8 a.m. like a responsible adult.”

you blink. “you woke up at 8?”

“well,” he says, “i never really went to sleep. i crashed on the couch watching akira and trying to figure out what geto meant when he said i have ‘emotional chihuahua energy.’”

you let out a surprised little snort.

“don’t laugh. that man has a phd in psychological warfare.”

you both fall into a more comfortable rhythm after that. step by step. quiet, but not heavy. you tell him no on the coffee, gently, and with a faint apology that you don’t really know why you offer. he waves it off, saying, “next time,” like it’s a promise instead of a maybe.

your dorm comes into view sooner than you expected.

you slow a little when you reach the front steps, unsure how to say goodbye. still wearing his hoodie. still not ready to step back into your room and sit alone with what’s left of your morning.

gojo notices. of course he does.

he rocks back on his heels a bit, watching you with those pale, unreadable eyes. there’s something behind the teasing today. something steadier. like he knows what it feels like to be used up and spit out and expected to smile anyway.

“hey,” he says lightly, “there’s a mixer this weekend at alpha pi.”

you blink. “you guys mix with other frats?”

he grins. “we’re very inclusive.”

you raise an eyebrow. “isn’t that the one with the margarita slushie machine?”

“and a mechanical bull,” he adds. “don’t say i never offer you culture.”

you should say no. you want to say no. you’ve sworn off parties a dozen times in the last month. they always start with lipgloss and promise and end in disappointment. in cold beds and unanswered texts.

but something about the way he’s looking at you, soft, expectant, like he’s offering you a way to start over, just a little, makes it hard to pull away.

“you don’t have to stay long,” he says. “just swing by. let me embarrass myself trying to dance to pitbull.”

you bite the inside of your cheek.

“…maybe,” you say quietly.

he smiles so wide it could light the whole damn campus.

“i’ll count that as a yes.”

he reaches out then, fingers brushing the edge of the hoodie where it sits loose around your shoulders.

“keep this, by the way,” he murmurs. “i’ve got more.” you look up at him. “you sure?”

he shrugs. “looks better on you anyway.”

and just like that, he’s gone.

he walks backward a few steps, tossing you a lazy salute, then turns down the path, humming some awful early-2000s song under his breath.

you stand there for a long time after the door shuts behind you, the hoodie warm on your skin, your heartbeat just a little steadier than it was before.

~~

the music hits you before you even reach the door, deep, pulsing bass that rattles through your ribcage and melts into your skin like heat. alpha pi is already overflowing with bodies, beer, and bravado. red solo cups in every hand, laughter loud and chaotic spilling from every room.

you hesitate on the front step, just for a moment.

you’re wearing your best version of don’t-look-at-me-but-actually-look-at-me, a dress that clings in all the right places, heels that make your legs look longer, hair done up like you haven’t cried over a boy in a week. and gojo’s hoodie is gone, left folded on your desk, not forgotten but not worn. this night is about something else.

you step inside.

immediately, someone hands you a drink. music swells. heat curls at your collarbones. you scan the crowd and spot him before anyone else.

gojo.

he’s by the makeshift bar, laughing at something geto says, holding a red cup in one hand and gesturing wildly with the other. his shirt’s undone just enough to show that tattoo again, his hair messy in the way it always is, like he rolled out of bed and accidentally looked gorgeous. when he sees you, his face lights up.

but before you can take a step toward him,

he finds you.

sukuna...

he comes out of nowhere, moving through the crowd like he owns it, like he’s gravity and everyone’s just orbiting. shirt half unbuttoned, eyes dark and heavy-lidded, gold chain glinting against his throat. he sees you and smirks, slow, sharp, wolfish.

“well, well,” he purrs, already closing the distance. “look who came crawling back.”

you open your mouth, to tell him off, to say this isn’t crawling, to remind him he didn’t even say goodbye last time, but his hand slides around your waist before you can speak, tugging you close until your chest brushes his and your breath catches.

he smells like smoke and sex and the kind of trouble you never really learned to resist.

“miss me, princess?” he murmurs against your ear.

you hate how your body answers for you, the way your breath hitches, the way your knees soften, the way you melt into him like you always do.

“don’t flatter yourself,” you manage, voice thinner than you want it to be.

his grin widens. “don’t have to. you’re already lookin’ at me like you want to be ruined.”

your stomach twists.

you should pull away. you should walk toward gojo. you should not let this happen again.

but then sukuna’s mouth is against your neck, hot and slow and claiming, and his hand is trailing lower, resting just at the curve of your ass as he pulls you into the sway of the music.

“did you wear this dress for me?” he whispers, dragging his teeth along your jaw. “knew you’d come back. you always do. nobody fucks you like i do, right?”

your heart is pounding. your hands are on his chest before you even think about it. not pushing, gripping.

and he knows it.

“tell me you missed it,” he breathes. “tell me you missed this cock, missed the way i wreck you, how you forget everything else when i’ve got my hands on you.”

your eyes flutter shut.

you can feel it happening. the way you fall back under. the way his voice makes your spine go slack and your thoughts get fuzzy. it’s always like this with him, fast, hot, wrong.

and yet.

your eyes open, just for a second, and across the room, gojo is watching.

he hasn’t moved. just standing there, still holding his drink. his face is unreadable, but his smile is small. tight. polite. not quite reaching his eyes.

he raises his cup to you in a little mock-toast, then turns away.

your chest aches.

but sukuna’s hand is sliding up your thigh now, fingers bold under the hem of your dress, and his mouth is on your collarbone.

“fuck,” he groans, “this body’s mine. always has been.”

you want to tell him he’s wrong. you want to tell yourself you don’t belong to anyone.

but you lean into him anyway.

you always do.

he pulls you away from the main room like he always does, with that sure, possessive grip on your wrist, like the crowd is nothing but static, and you’re the only thing he wants to hear.

you barely register the way people part for him. they always do. like they know.

he drags you down a dim hallway, lit only by some fucked-up LED strip that flickers red and pink and purple, a pulsing, low-light hell that turns everything fever-dream warm. you barely get your bearings before he’s on you.

your back hits the wall with a soft thud, and his mouth is on yours before you can even gasp.

it’s immediate.

hot, greedy, all tongue and teeth. there’s no patience, no buildup. he kisses like he’s claiming territory, like he’s trying to leave a mark on the inside of your chest, not just your lips. his hands are everywhere, rough at your waist, sliding down to grip the meat of your thigh, dragging it up against his hip like he needs you to feel what you do to him.

you moan against his mouth, your body already giving in before your head can catch up.

“fuck,” he growls, breaking the kiss to drag his teeth down your neck. “this little dress, knew you were wearing it for me. always so ready to act like a good girl, but you show up dripping like you need me.”

your knees nearly give out when he grinds against you, cock heavy against the zipper of his jeans, and you let out a strangled little sound, half a whimper, half a plea. it’s too much. it’s good, but it’s too much.

his fingers are under your dress now, dragging against your inner thigh, slipping higher, and your brain is swimming, everything hot and too loud and him.

“been thinking about this pussy all week,” he mutters, voice dark and dangerous. “tight little thing, fuckin’ made for me.” his hand reaches your underwear, fingers pressing in, not even slow about it, and your breath catches hard in your throat. he kisses you again, deeper this time, all spit and possession. one hand fists in your hair, yanking your head back slightly to bite down on your throat.

your chest is heaving.

it’s too much.

you can barely think. the music is a distant, pounding blur somewhere far away, and it feels like your body isn’t even your own, like he’s pulling you apart faster than you can put yourself back together.

and for a second, you want to let it happen.

you want to disappear into the heat of his mouth, the drag of his tongue, the dirt in his voice when he says your name.

but then,

your stomach flips.

not with pleasure. not with anticipation.

with panic.

you push lightly at his chest. “sukuna—wait, just—give me a sec—”

he doesn’t move right away. his mouth is still trailing down your jaw.

you push again, firmer. “seriously, i—I need to slow down.”

his hands go still.

he leans back just enough to look at you, and for one second, there’s something unreadable in his eyes.

and then it’s gone.

his mouth twists into something cold.

“are you fucking kidding me?”

your stomach drops.

“no, i just—I got overwhelmed, i’m not saying no, I just—I need to breathe for a minute—”

he steps back like your touch burns.

“jesus christ,” he mutters, raking a hand through his hair like you’ve ruined his whole night. “why the fuck do you always do this?”

your throat goes dry. “do what?”

he laughs, sharp and humorless. “get me all worked up, act like you’re down, and then pull some ‘wait I’m not ready’ bullshit. again.”

you flinch.

“that’s not fair—”

“you’re not fair,” he snaps, eyes narrowing. “you show up looking like that, practically begging for it, and now you wanna play innocent? fuck off.”

he turns before you can reply, storming back down the hallway and disappearing into the crowd, swallowing him whole like he was never there.

you’re left alone in the too-warm hallway, breath shallow, dress askew, the imprint of his mouth still tingling against your skin.

your chest is tight. shame coils low in your gut.

but worse than that, there’s a hole there now.

a fresh one.

you lean back against the wall, blinking fast. trying not to cry. trying to remind yourself that this isn’t new. that this is exactly how it always ends with him, want, heat, need, and then nothing. like it was all a mirage. like you’re the problem for falling for it.

again.

get it together, you think. you are not going to let him ruin this night.

you take a deep breath. fix your dress. press your lips together hard enough to hurt.

and then you walk out of that hallway like nothing happened.

the music swallows you whole. sweat, perfume, the sticky scent of cheap beer and something burning in a corner, it’s overwhelming and exactly what you need. you don’t look for him. you don’t even let your eyes scan the crowd. you just find the rhythm again, find the chaos, find anything that isn’t him.

“there you are!” yuki’s voice cuts through the bass like a lifeline.

she finds you before you can fall too deep into your own head, radiant in rhinestones and a tiny crop top that clings to her like a second skin. she already looks three drinks in and fucking gorgeous.

she grabs your hand without asking, tugging you into the mess of bodies like she’s been waiting for you all night.

“we’re celebrating, bitch,” she grins, holding up her cup like a trophy. “i just got ghosted by a philosophy major with a man bun, and you look like you need to commit a felony. let’s dance.”

and god, you do.

you lose yourself in it, in the pulsing lights, in the blurred edges, in the way your body knows how to move even when your heart’s still trying to remember how to beat without breaking. the music climbs higher, deeper, meaner. the floor vibrates. people are shouting over the sound, laughing, kissing, spilling drinks, the whole world turned up too loud, and somehow, it’s the only thing keeping you from falling apart.

you and yuki take over the dance floor like you own it.

you laugh so hard you snort.

you let your hair fall wild around your face.

you throw your head back and sing along to songs you don’t know the words to. your dress rides up and you don’t fix it. your shoes hurt and you don’t care.

you let a random guy buy you a shot. it tastes like watermelon and regret.

yuki cheers beside you. she twirls under the strobe lights and kisses your cheek like you’re made of moonlight. “this,” she says, voice slurred and shining, “is what being young and hot is for.”

and for a while, you believe her.

you let it all pour out of you, the ache, the shame, the bitter aftertaste of his voice in your ear. you dance until your thighs burn, until your throat is raw from laughing, until it feels like you could float out of your body and finally feel weightless.

but then,

a beat drops. the crowd shifts. someone brushes too close behind you and the scent of his cologne hits your nose.

and just like that, it comes crashing back.

sukuna.

the hallway.

his mouth on yours. his hands.

the way his voice dipped when he said mine.

the way it turned sharp the second you pulled away.

you sway, just slightly, your smile faltering. you don’t mean to think about it. you don’t want to. but it sneaks up on you anyway, sticky and cruel, like smoke in your lungs.

why do you always do this?

you told him to slow down.

you said you were overwhelmed.

you didn’t say no. not exactly.

but your body responded. you kissed him back. you let it get that far.

your stomach knots.

you blink against the sting behind your eyes and try to focus on yuki, who’s singing with her eyes closed and hands raised, pure chaos and glitter. you copy her. you smile wide. you lift your arms and pretend it’s still fun. pretend it still feels good.

but the guilt claws at your ribs.

he was angry.

he was hurt. (?)

and maybe he was right.

maybe you did lead him on.

you hate how your heart lurches at the thought. you hate how you care, even after everything. how his disappointment still cuts deeper than his anger. how it lingers in your bloodstream like poison.

why do you always fall for him?

you press your palms to your temples, just for a second. the heat of the room, the crowd, the drink, it’s all blurring together. you feel like you’re vibrating from the inside out.

“you okay?” yuki asks, leaning in close, voice slightly breathless. “you look kinda—spaced.”

you shake your head, force another smile. “just tipsy. keep dancing.”

she watches you for a beat longer than you want her to. then she nods, grabs your hands again, and pulls you into another spin.

and you let her.

because you’re good at this part.

the pretending. the dancing. the chasing of something bigger, louder, prettier than whatever’s breaking inside you.

you dance until your feet go numb and the room tilts sideways.

you laugh too hard at things you don’t hear.

you take another drink even though your stomach says don’t.

and all the while, somewhere in the far, buried part of you, under the music and the light and the haze, there’s still him.

his voice. his hands. his anger.

and your guilt, sitting heavy in your chest like a secret you’ll never admit out loud.

you’re halfway through pretending your buzz is still warm and good when you feel it, that ripple through the room. not like sukuna’s gravity, all heat and danger. no, this one’s different. softer. brighter. like the way the sun feels when it hits your back through the window after a shitty night’s sleep.

satoru.

you don’t even have to turn around to know it’s him.

yuki’s already clocked him, her eyes going wide like she just spotted a celebrity.

“well hellooo,” she laughs under her breath, tugging at your wrist. “dilf-in-training at nine o’clock.”

you roll your eyes, but when you glance over your shoulder, he’s already making his way through the crowd, solo cup in one hand, smile soft and low-lidded. hair a little messy, shirt collar askew. he’s got that same laidback, stoned-and-sweet energy he always carries, like the world could be on fire and he’d still find a way to flirt about it.

his eyes land on you, and the smile grows.

“sorry for not saying hi earlier,” he says, stopping in front of you, voice loud enough to rise above the music but not intrusive.

“you're right, so rude!” you toss back, teasing because it’s easier than being honest.

his grin tilts. “i was gonna. you just looked… preoccupied.”

the meaning’s not subtle, but it’s not cruel either. it hangs there in the air between you, unspoken but not ignored.

you stiffen for a second, not enough for most people to notice. but gojo? he always notices.

he leans down a little, voice dropping. “you okay?”

you nod quickly, too quickly. “yeah. yeah, i’m good. just… blowing off steam.”

he doesn’t call you out.

doesn’t push.

just hums, then smiles like the whole thing is no big deal.

yuki, bless her, takes the hint and melts back into the dance floor with a wink, leaving you two in a little bubble of calm right in the middle of the storm.

gojo leans casually against the wall beside you, holding out his cup. “wanna sip? i promise it’s not as gross as it looks.”

you take it, partly because you want to, and partly because it feels like an anchor.

he watches you with that lazy amusement as you drink, eyes sharp beneath the sleepiness.

“you clean up good,” he says after a beat. “this dress? dangerous. should’ve come with a warning label.”

you laugh, a real one this time, shaking your head. “pretty sure you say that to everyone.”

he places a hand dramatically over his heart. “i would never. i’m all about honesty.”

“you’re all about being a menace.”

“same thing, really.”

you don’t mean to smile as much as you do. but with him, it’s impossible not to. there’s just something about the way he talks to you, like you’re not part of the chaos, like you’re real and whole and seen.

and it feels… good.

like the first inhale after holding your breath too long.

“so,” he says, bumping your shoulder gently, “you coming to the alpha pi bonfire next weekend? it’s technically a mixer but mostly just an excuse to see who can make the worst s’more and still get laid.”

you laugh again. “tempting.”

“you should come. the playlist’s mine, so you know it’ll slap. and—” he leans in slightly, voice dipping low and playful, “—i’ll save you a chair by the fire.”

you look at him, trying to read the edges of it, trying to figure out if he’s just being charming or if there’s something else under it. but it’s gojo. even when he means something, he wraps it in jokes and grins and lazy affection.

still… something in you settles.

his presence is like cold water after too much heat. sobering. grounding. you hadn’t realized how far gone you were until he showed up and reminded you what steady felt like.

“thanks,” you say, quieter now. “for, you know… this.”

he tilts his head. “for showing up twenty minutes late to flirt with you and offer you mystery juice?”

you snort. “yeah. for that.”

he watches you for a second. not intensely, just… observantly.

“you deserve more,” he says. soft. careful. “than the bullshit you keep settling for.”

you blink.

it’s not an accusation.

not a judgment.

just a truth, handed over with kindness.

you don’t know what to say to that. so you just look away, heart beating somewhere between guilt and comfort.

he lets it sit for a second. then bumps your shoulder again, lighter this time. “come on. you owe me a dance.”

you glance at him. “oh, do i?”

“mmhm. i saved you from your own spiral. that’s at least worth a song and a half.”

you hesitate.

but his hand is already held out.

open. patient.

and for once, it doesn’t feel like a trap. doesn’t feel like a test.

so you take it.

and as he pulls you gently back into the party, all warmth and ease and that stupid grin, the knot in your chest loosens, just a little.

for the first time tonight, you let yourself believe that maybe things could be okay.

maybe not perfect. maybe not easy.

but okay.

and that’s something.

you’re light on your feet when you slip away from the crowd, laughter still clinging to your skin like perfume. the dance with gojo had left you floating, just a little. like maybe the night hadn’t ruined you after all. like maybe, just maybe, things were still salvageable.

you weave through bodies, squeeze past beer-soaked couches and someone’s half-naked beer pong victory dance. your head’s buzzing with alcohol and adrenaline, but your smile’s real, finally. warm.

“gonna pee before my bladder gives out,” you’d told yuki, who’d nodded and handed you her vape like a parting gift before getting pulled back onto the floor.

you head up the stairs alone.

the hallway upstairs is quieter. not silent, but muffled. far away from the music and chaos, just the hum of bass under your feet and the sticky creak of the floorboards as you walk.

you know this hallway.

you’ve walked it a dozen times. too many.

the second door on the right is the guest bathroom. tiny, a little grimy, but usually empty during parties. you wrap your knuckles on the wood anyway, just in case.

no answer.

you try the handle. unlocked.

and then the door swings open,

and the world ends.

he’s there.

sukuna.

half-naked, pants around his thighs, hips snapping into the girl bent over the sink like she’s his fucking religion.

your breath catches so hard it chokes you.

she’s moaning. breathy. fake. her heels are still on. her nails are digging into the bathroom counter, red tips clutching marble like this is the best thing that’s ever happened to her.

and him,

his head’s tilted back, mouth open, flushed and focused. sharp hands gripping her waist like he owns her.

he doesn’t even look up.

not until she glances over her shoulder and says, through a giggle, “uhhh… someone’s watching.”

his eyes meet yours.

and everything stops.

your throat closes.

your heart cracks, not clean, but jagged, like shattering glass in slow motion.

you don’t move.

you can’t.

it’s not real. it can’t be real.

but it is.

“shit,” he mutters, pulling out of her like it’s an inconvenience. like you just interrupted him.

his voice is casual. unbothered. “didn’t know anyone was up here.”

you’re still standing in the doorway.

your hands are trembling.

your mouth opens. closes. no sound comes out.

he runs a hand through his hair, already reaching for his shirt like this is nothing. like you’re just some stranger. like you’re not the girl he fucked last weekend. and the weekend before that. and the one before that. like you haven’t been crawling into his bed for months now, stupid and in love and hopeful.

“wait,” he says, taking a step toward you, zipper still half-down. “it’s not— it’s not what it looks like.”

you laugh.

you don’t mean to.

it just rips out of you. broken. small. deranged.

“you’re literally—” your voice cracks, “—fucking someone else.”

his jaw tenses. like you’ve said something offensive.

“it’s a party,” he shrugs. “people hook up.”

you stare at him, disbelief pouring down your spine like ice water.

the girl behind him doesn’t even care. she’s adjusting her top, barely glancing your way. like you’re nothing. like you’re no one.

your knees feel like glass.

“we’ve been sleeping together,” you whisper, like if you say it out loud, it might matter. “for months, sukuna.”

he sighs. “yeah. and?”

and?

your stomach twists.

you feel like you’re going to be sick. right here. in this disgusting hallway, in this frat house that already reeks of sweat and shame.

“you’re such a fucking joke,” you breathe, voice shaking so hard it barely makes it out.

his eyes flash, defensive. “don’t act like you’re some innocent victim. you knew what this was.”

“i thought you cared,” you say, and it breaks something in your throat.

a tear slips down your cheek, hot and fast. you don’t wipe it away.

you just turn.

and run.

down the stairs. through the crowd. someone tries to stop you, a hand on your arm, a slurred hey, you good?, but you shrug them off, vision blurring, everything warping under your feet like you’re dreaming and can’t wake up.

you push through the front door and into the night.

the air hits your face like a slap. cold. hard.

you stumble off the porch, down the steps, into the front yard like you’re drunk even though your buzz has evaporated.

your chest aches.

your hands are shaking.

you press a palm to your ribs like you can hold the pain in, like you can keep it from spilling out of your mouth and onto the grass. you want to scream.

you want to vomit.

you want to run until your feet fall off and your heart stops aching,

but all you do is stand there.

in your stupid dress.

alone.

humiliated.

hollow.

your tears come faster now, flooding your cheeks, wetting your collarbone. you clutch your arms around yourself like it’ll help. it doesn’t,

because it wasn’t nothing. not to you.

he kissed you like he meant it. he touched you like you were his. he held you after. not every time, but enough. enough to make you think maybe , maybe , you weren’t just another body to him.

but you were.

you are.

a sob slips out.

you slap a hand over your mouth like you can take it back.

but the pain is crawling up your throat, into your ears, behind your eyes. overwhelming. unbearable. endless.

you sink onto the curb and bury your face in your hands.

and for a while, all you do is cry.

messy, gasping, open-mouthed sobs. like your body’s trying to purge him from your system. like if you cry hard enough, it’ll erase the sound of his voice, the weight of his body, the taste of his skin.

you don’t know how long you sit there.

minutes. maybe hours.

until the front door creaks again.

footsteps,

then a voice.

soft. careful.

“hey.”

you freeze.

his voice is soft, barely more than a breath.

but it cuts through the fog like light.

“hey, y/n.”

you don’t move. can’t.

not with your knees pulled up to your chest, not with your hands clutching at your sleeves like they’re the only things keeping you from falling apart.

but he’s already stepping closer.

not rushing. not startling. like he’s approaching a kicked puppy,

he crouches in front of you, eyes wide and impossibly gentle, and says your name like it’s a question.

a whisper.

your head stays down. the tears won’t stop.

your throat aches, clogged with every sob you’ve bitten back since the bathroom.

you hate this. hate that he’s seeing you like this—mascara-streaked, shivering, used.

but gojo just tilts his head slightly. like he’s trying to read your mind. like he’s piecing it all together without you needing to say a word.

he doesn’t push. doesn’t ask what happened,

he already knows,

instead, he sinks down beside you on the curb, his arm slips around your back, firm and warm and steady.

“you’re okay,” he murmurs, barely brushing your skin, “i got you.”

you shudder.

“shhh, hey… it’s alright,” he says again, his voice syrupy and slow. “you’re not alone.”

and then, without even thinking, you lean into him,

his body welcomes you without hesitation, a warmth that feels too good, too safe, too real. his hand comes up, tentative at first, then sure, threading gently through your hair.

his palm presses lightly against the back of your head, cradling, protecting.

you bury your face in his chest, into the soft cotton of his t-shirt, where his heartbeat thuds steady and calm beneath your cheek.

you’ve never cried like this in front of anyone. not even him.

not like this.

not so raw. not so ruined.

but he doesn’t flinch.

he doesn’t tell you to stop.

doesn’t ask you to explain.

he just holds you , like he’s trying to keep the world from hurting you again.

“you didn’t deserve that,” he whispers. “not even close.”

a breath hitches in your chest.

you don’t respond.

you can’t,

because if you open your mouth you might just sob until your lungs give out.

he shifts slightly, pulling your knees across his lap until you’re curled against him completely.

your whole body feels like it’s trembling, and he just keeps rocking you gently, brushing hair from your face, knuckles grazing your jaw.

“hey,” he says, so quietly you almost miss it. “you’re still beautiful, y’know.”

your breath catches.

“not just, like, super hot, which, obviously,” he adds, like it’s some cosmic fact, trying to draw a laugh out of you. “but… like. you glow. even like this.”

you finally lift your head just a little, looking at him through your lashes, dazed.

“even now?” you whisper, broken and small. “after what i saw?”

he meets your gaze like it’s the most important thing in the world.

“especially now.”

he reaches out, thumb brushing beneath your eye, catching the streak of a fresh tear.

“fuck him for making you cry,” he says softly. “seriously. he doesn’t know what he’s losing.”

another tear slips down. he catches that one too.

“you’re the kind of girl people remember,” gojo murmurs. “the kind that ruins other people for them. he’s just too fucking stupid to know it.”

your heart cracks all over again, but it’s a different kind of pain. not betrayal. not devastation.

it’s softness.

it’s someone seeing you when you’re shattered,

and still wanting to stay.

you swallow the lump in your throat and whisper, “i feel stupid.”

“nah,” he says gently. “you feel human. and honestly, you’re handling this better than i would.”

“you don’t have to say all this,” you murmur. “you don’t have to pretend.”

his expression softens even more. “who’s pretending?”

he presses his forehead to yours, close enough that his breath fans across your skin.

“you wanna know a secret?” he says, voice low and boyish, like it’s just for you. “i came to the party tonight for you.”

your eyes widen.

he smiles, small and sad. “saw you with him and just, figured i’d missed my chance. again.”

“gojo��”

“it’s okay,” he says, brushing his thumb across your cheek again. “i just didn’t want you to think no one noticed how amazing you are.”

you blink up at him, tears still clinging to your lashes, and you feel it , a shift,

a weight in your chest starting to melt.

the ache’s still there. it probably will be for a while.

but his presence makes it bearable.

his warmth makes it real.

and for a second, just one second, you don’t feel like a mistake.

you feel held.

safe.

wanted.

you breathe him in , peppermint and beer and something sweet underneath it all. he smells like comfort, like home, like everything sukuna never gave you.

his arm tightens around you as if he can feel you relaxing, even just slightly.

“there she is,” he murmurs, smiling against your temple. “there’s my girl.”

you don’t even question it.

you don’t tell him to stop.

because right now, in this tiny moment on a shitty frat house curb, you want to believe him.

you want to let him say all the things sukuna never did.

you want to let someone take care of you, finally, without games or silence or conditions.

so you close your eyes,

and let him.

omg this oneshot was longg

[corruptology]

being addicted to weed is literally so embarrassing lmao

[23xfgg]

YANDERE! BATFAM x DRUG USER/SOBER! READER

(Ch. 1)

Ch. 2 <-

(Ch. 3)

(Ch. 3.o5)

An // this is part 2 of drug user / sober! Reader and I would like to thank you guys for actually liking the last one even though it wasn’t great. I do want to clarify that there won’t be any speech in this as I’m terrified of writing dialogue sorry <3

Again I’m sorry if this sounds messy and disjointed

I will also try making a tag list (max 10 or 20) that would be included at the end of the chapters.

TW// death, drugs, depression, drinking

It has been a couple of months since you stumbled across the drug party and met Adam. Your friendship with him started as aquenences who know nobody else but each other at the function to becoming quite close. You obviously had no way to contact him other than when you see each other at the “drug pit”.

Sometimes there would just be people popping pills, drinking, smoking, snorting, etc with only a few words being shared here or there. Other days it’s like a full blown party. The place is cramped, people are rubbing their bodies on others, coke lines on a random girls chest, mixing all kind of substances together and of course music blasting so loud people outside can hear it. This place feels like a second home to you. The first being your life with your mother and never including the manor.

Thinking about that place just gives you more reason to down another shot and buy a lollipop from a suspicious man in the corner.

Your addiction was a slow start, from turning up at the alley once a week to only smoke weed and gradually increasing to popping pills, drinking along with smoking. And your presence there increased from once a week to now almost every other day. Your frequency to turning to those drugs only ever increased when Damian just has to remind you that your existence will never amount to anything and you might as well save the whole family a favour and just disappear.

Honestly, even when you tried to ignore it his words did have an effect on your mental health, making you feel more depressed. And the depression will lead to grief as you just wish your life was normal before your mom died. You missed how she will hold you when you felt sad. She knew words had little effect so she just let her presence comfort you. Feeling safe in her arms surrounded by her floral perfumes gave you a sense of security. A security now lost because she is gone. She’s not there to hold you and comfort you. So now you resort to crying out on your pillows and popping a few pills whenever you smell the slightest trace of her clean floral perfume.

To keep your “family” off your back about your actions (which wasn’t that hard) you had a simple routine after school to keep any suspicion off you. After school you spent some time in your room, changing into a hoodie and ripped jeans, telling Alfred you will be with a friend and not to say any dinner for you and then you’re off.

Off to have whatever fun you want without any of the judging eyes you would get from the bat family. Whatever fun you want without having to avoid eye contact with your “father” Bruce and his disapproving glare. All the fun you want without a tiny body big attitude gremlin (who is sadly you half brother) telling you how much of a disappointment and a failure you are to the Wayne name.

It was so easy to hide you habits from them when they themselves don’t notice you. You take little care in making sure the spotlight of their attention was not on you. Not like it was hard to begin with. They were always buys with some shit regarding themselves.

You knew all the best hiding spots around Gotham. Including the manor. So you hid your stash based on importance/ how offer you would reach for it. Your pills and week you keep in a shoebox place under creaky floor boards in your room. The slightly harder stuff you have them hidden behind loose bricks, abandoned buildings and in alleyways. And some extra cash in all those spots. Heck, you even have thoes shoes that have compartments in the hell to hide your stuff in when the manor gets a little to risky to leave stuff alone.

You have taken (not) every necessary steps to ensure that the rest of them don’t find your little part time hobby, even when you know they won’t pay enough attention to notice (or will they…). But still as long as it stays with you in the shadows it will be easier as the days go by.

You have thought about quitting. But that was just a brief thought. The high and comfort was just too much for you to leave. It helped you cope. It helped keeping you out of your own dark thoughts. You never had to think of anything regarding your life when you’re high.

All you need was just pills and a joint and you are almost as happy when your mom was alive.

Almost…

An // ahh this chapter is shiiiitt. I srs don’t know what to do here 😭😭😭

I have plans for more chapters that may or may not come just be patient and ignore the mess that is my writing.

Tag list (if I have forgotten you I’m sorry pls just comment and I will add you in the next one) : @welpthisisboring @vanessa-boo @shycreatorreview @jsprien213 @1abi

Bye bye now 🤘

[so-i-did-this-thing]

Hey there! I saw in one of another post of yours that you dealt with hoarding, any tips for de-hoarding the house?

Oh boy, do I have a lot. Here's what has helped me, a hoarder who lived several years at Level 4 (squalor, utilities shut off frequently):

Always be kind to yourself. Hoarding is a disorder and for me it was triggered by accumulated trauma. It will take a while to dig out, and you will likely have to wrestle with hoarding urges all your life.

Mindset tips:

Space is more valuable than stuff. Clear pathways, room to sit & sleep, prepare food, work on crafts -- it is *valuable*

Your home is not an optimization problem for storage. Again, space and clean surfaces are necessary! Not having paralysis of choice is valuable!

Cultivate awareness of when you aquire things and devise ways to break out of a buying pattern - put the phone away, go for a walk, etc.

Make some short-term rules: nothing comes in before two things go out. Only buy things you know you will use in the next month. Etc.

Kill sunk-cost-fallacy. The real value is peace of mind, not the potential of an object.

Decluttering tips

Clean out trash, first. Just get the obvious garbage out so you have space to work in.

Get some bankers boxes or bins. Create a group for sale/donate. Put some "keep" boxes in each room.

Start with 1 room to declutter. Again - trash, first. Then, go through objects in that room, putting in the group sale/donate boxes, or directly into the "keep" box for the room that object should live in. Don't worry about *where* in the room the "keep" items go in -- they go in the box, for now.

Try to get the decluttered room to a point where you can move furniture for a deep clean. And try to avoid putting anything in this room that doesn't belong there. You are focusing on 1 room at a time to fix.

Assess your decluttered room for how it might encourage hoarding. Again, is there not enough space? Do you need to take out or rearrange furniture to encourage living/working surfaces?

Don't be in a rush to sort through any of your boxes. Focus on reclaiming space.

Go through the boxes after you've had time to decompress. Some time should have passed and you now can look at your items more neutrally.

For your possessions, ask: does this spark joy? Do I have something similar already? Why am I holding onto it? Is the potential worth the time and space to hang onto it? If it is sentimental, is there a better way to use or display it? If it is broken or a crafting item, will I really fix/use it?

Get in the habit of giving objects a permanent home. Label shelves, bins, whatever else you need to.

Maintenance tips:

Avoid buying things when you're overly emotional

Designate landing pads for items. They don't have to be in the traditional places -- if you take your shoes off in the kitchen, then buy a boot tray and put it in there. Always put your wallet in the same space. Etc.

If daily clutter overtakes surfaces in your home, consider catch-all baskets. I have some in high traffic areas, like the dining room, staircase, and living room. Go through the baskets on a regular basis to weed out junk and put items away where they live.

Be honest with how much time you have to enjoy your possessions. Will you read that many books? Wear all those clothes? Make all those crafting kits? Are you spending more time aquiring vs enjoying?

Regularly assess your belongings and see what you can let go. If you are not sure yet, put items in a box and see if you can live without for several months. Date the box, and be brutal about dealing with it in the time frame you decide upon.

Get into a chore routine. Sometimes, chores are easier if the cleaning supplies are right there. I have an upstairs vacuum and a downstairs vacuum for this very reason.

A 10 minute "reset" at the end of the day goes really far, especially if you are a crafter.

Find something more benign to collect, if you are a magpie. I collect public domain stuff in digital format, video game items, etc. I'd rather be a hoarder in Skyrim than IRL.

I also "collect" experiences now -- I am currently seeing how many different trails I can hike. Maybe you would like something like birdwatching, to sate your hoarding urges. Redirection can go a long way.

I can go more into specifics, but these are always on my mind when I think about controlling one's hoarding. I hope it helps!

[bittertasteofhoney]

Good Day Sunshine | Ch. 1

Seems Like Years Since It's Been Here

Summary: You’re fully immersed in your sunny life in Jackson when a certain Miller brother’s harsh nature cracks your bright demeanor.

|| angst, jackson!joel, jackson!tommy, this will be a slooooooowwww burn, joel being a bit of a butthole ||

Notes: My first time ever posting on tumblr so please be kind! Also if this isn’t your thing, feel free to keep exploring. :) I had to put my brain rot somewhere. This idea would not leave me alone. 

The characters, names and characterizations belong to HBO Max and The Last of Us franchise. This work is my creative property and aside of re-blogs and shares, I do not give permission to share or copy my work without permission or consent.

The sun burns your back in a way that translates to a hard day’s work. Your knees ache and you are elbow-deep in soil, but your cheeks also hurt from grinning with your co-workers. Being a part of the gardening crew in Jackson wasn’t an easy task but in your opinion, it was one of the most gratifying. 

Everyone had their talents. Some were good with their hands in the way that saw wood transformed into reinforced gates for the town or furniture to welcome a newbie home. Others were the brains behind the operation, making sure the cogs in the great machine that was Jackson were well-oiled and plentiful, to not only make sure everyone was safe but they had room to thrive and help the town in turn. 

Within the garden, you got to witness the beauty of the deep soil nurturing the seeds and growing the food that kept the town going. In tandem with the farmers, you made sure each citizen of Jackson went to bed with a stomach filled with wholesome food. 

It was life complete with such harmony that it was easy to forget what lurked beyond the gates. You rarely ever ventured out thanks to your steady position in the rows of produce. There were times where you wished you could be of more help but the days of prowling through the woods with a gun clutched in your hand were thankfully behind you. 

Life existed before Jackson but you were only interested in keeping your sights on your future here. 

You stand, bracing your hands on your hips as you stretch out your legs and back from hours spent knelt over weeding and clipping. 

“You goin’ to check the inventory?” Your head snaps to your coworker, Roberta, who was also standing for a stretch break. Her bright, red hair shining under the midday sun and her clothes equally speckled with dirt. You flash her one of your well-known smiles and give her a small shake of the head. 

“No. Actually, I'm going to check to see if that welcome box got picked up before I grab lunch for everyone.” She gives you a nod of her head and continues twisting from side to side to stretch out her joints. You lean down to grab the mason jar you keep near you during the day to stay hydrated and head to the greenhouse. 

You pass by rows of your other coworkers working through their to-do list under the Wyoming sun, waving and smiling as you pass. 

Your nickname, Sunshine, was well-earned throughout town. You didn’t realize it but after a year or two living here, you became known not by your overall appearance or bright personality but the thousand-watt smile you always flashed towards people, friends or strangers. Like everyone in Jackson knew, life past the gates was harsh beyond words. In your mind, a smile could go a long way if someone was struggling with memories from life before or if they were still recovering from those monstrous memories.

However, your smile never seemed to work on a certain Miller brother, recently returned from an seemingly impromptu trip outside Jackson. He left just as fast as he came and the most you were able to see of him was a glimpse of a tense conversation between him and his brother Tommy, Maria and the little girl Ellie in the mess hall before he and Ellie were gone again the next day.

When the pair returned, they kept close to one another, leaving little for any outside introductions. Eventually, Ellie befriended one of the local girls and in turn, settled into the younger Jackson population. Meanwhile, Joel kept close to Tommy and Maria. You occasionally bumped into him around town, while walking to work or at the Tipsy Bison. Like clockwork, you always flashed him a smile but in turn rarely got anything more than a grimace and if you were lucky, a grunt. Those always turned out to be good days. 

Despite how many smiles you flashed at him, knocks on his front door and reminders to Tommy, neither Joel nor Ellie ever came to pick up their welcome produce box. To make the transition into Jackson life simpler, your team always curated a box filled with the season’s fresh veggies and fruits, a selection of canned spreads, a baked good or two and coffee. 

Jackson’s citizens picked up their weekly rations like clockwork and ate a majority of their meals at the mess hall. These boxes and weekly rations made it easy to make breakfast at home, have nutritious snacks on hand and host the occasional gathering at one’s own home. Joel however, took it upon himself to not even bother with stocking up the home and instead make the mess hall his and Ellie’s only food destination.

You couldn’t blame them really. It was convenient and there was always friendly conversation to be had but all the same. Their welcome box was starting to wilt.

You step into the greenhouse and spot the cardboard box sitting next to the inventory station. Dropping your mason jar in the communal sink, you pick up the box and head up the road towards the direction of the Miller house. The walk was on the long side but you welcome the feeling of the breeze and a chance to move more than from one row of tomatoes to the next. You spot a patch of wildflowers and decide to pluck them to add a little life to the box.

You spot their crooked mailbox and walk up the path, dropping the box on their stoop before knocking on the door. After a few minutes of polite tapping, you realize no one is home. You could drop the box on the stoop and head to the mess hall but you want to make sure they knew how the town’s ration system worked and you couldn’t trust Tommy to explain it truthfully. That man will flash a wink and smile any day of the week if it means he can snag a little extra of anything to surprise Maria with. It usually worked too. It was hard saying no to the town’s resident hero and handyman. 

You shake your head to yourself and lift the box again to head into the main part of town to hit up the mess hall for sandwiches for your crew. A few minutes of smiles and neighborly waves later, you enter the bustling building filled to the brim thanks to the lunchtime hour. 

You step inside almost tripping over a gaggle of your neighbor Lisa’s kids playing near the entrance. You smile off the almost misstep and continue inside, spotting the serving station. You weave around a few tables almost reaching the counter when you hear a familiar booming laugh. You smirk, knowing that goofing cadence anywhere. Tommy Miller. 

Your eyes scan the room until you see the mop of curly, black waves and next to him, a shorter set of grayer waves. Bingo. Smiling to yourself, you redirect your path up to their table, slowing down when you catch a piece of their conversation. Joel’s back was to you and Tommy was too busy frowning at his brother to notice your slow approach. Both were clothed in dusty plaids and denim, matching the overall town population.

“Oh, c’mon Joel. Stop being so hard. All you gotta do is pick up the damn box and get on with your day. Stop making work for everyone else.” You see the back of Joel’s head snap up, previously fixated on the plate in front of him.

“I ain’t making work. It’s plenty easy grabbin’ food here throughout the day and plus it saves me from Little Miss Sunshine.” You freeze about a table’s length away from them. 

Jesse, one of the town's younger patrolmen notices you pause next to him and he half turns to you, cracking a crooked smile. You don’t notice him until you feel a slight tug on your work shorts. You frown down at him, still listening.

Tommy groans in annoyance. “Really? Of course you’d have a problem with the sweetest girl in town.”

“I don’t have a problem. I just don’t feel like wastin’ my time on idle small talk is all. There’s no point.”

“She’s just bein’ nice, Joel. Can’t really blame her.” You can almost feel Joel’s eyes narrowing at his brother.

“I ain’t got time to spend losing brain cells to listen to some airhead talk. Don’t worry. I’ll send Ellie to pick it up.” You see Tommy scrunch his eyebrows at Joel, half incredulous and half pissed.

“Really? And she’ll pick up your weekly rations too? Scared Sunshine’ll flash you a smile and you’ll fall-” 

You don’t wait to hear the rest. You take a deep breath and finally turn towards Jesse and hold out the box to him. “Mind handing that over to Joel for me?” You give him a weak, watery smile. “I gotta grab food for the crew and he seems a bit tied up.” 

Jesse nods at you confused and replies, “‘Course.”

You scurry off to the counter to quickly grab a set of sandwiches before beelining for the exit, counting to twenty in your head to keep the tears at bay. Airhead. You shake your head to propel the thought momentarily away while you walk outside. 

Meanwhile, Jesse walks up to the table and deposits the produce box in front of Joel. The older Miller peers down at the arrangement of goods in confusion and looks up at Tommy who passes the look to Jesse. The younger boy shrugs and motions to your hurrying form. “She asked me to drop it. Said y’all looked busy.”

Tommy’s eyes catch a glimpse of you and he’s quick to notice your rushed steps.“Shit. She hear anythin’?” The only response the two brothers get to Tommy’s question is the narrowed look Jesse gives Joel. 

Joel hangs his head muttering under his breath before swinging his leg over the bench, abandoning the harsh look his brother was pointing towards him and the box of good intentions. He takes quick strides to the exit, hoping to catch you before you get too far down the street but when he steps back into the sunlight, you’re long gone down a side street he has yet to discover.  

Next Chapter.

[7-deadly-cats]

killing me softly | extra ☆

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rafe has a solo session in his room thinking of you 18+ // mdni

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K M S M A S T E R L I S T | <- C H . 2 0 | C H . 2 1 ->

✿ C O N T E N T W A R N I N G ✿ EXPLICIT content (18+ MDNI), smut, strong language, male masturbation, needy!rafe, slight possessiveness, imagined scenarios [oral & handjob (m receiving), inexperienced / kinda soft dom reader], hints at praise kink & sub!rafe, reader implied but not present, viewing her from slightly sexualized to pure yearning, post nut clarity hitting this boy hard (me too after writing this lmfao)

✿ W O R D C O U N T ✿ 2.3k

✿ A / N ✿ kinda wanted to drop this without saying anything bc EMBARRASSING but yeah. that's like my 3rd smut fic in my whole life so hahahhaha and i only proofread like twice so maybe this is complete nonsense and i feel fucking weird for making my smut fics so long and detailed help. ok. haha. enjoy. feel like i ruined kms!rafe with this BUT WELP, too late now. if you feel comfortable, lmk what you think (comment or ask idc) <3 xx ᓚᘏᗢ

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As soon as the front door of Tannyhill shut behind him, Rafe went straight upstairs. The faint sound of some awful drama series coming from the living room—probably Rose staying up late, sipping on her third glass of wine (sure, yeah, of course, what fucking else was his dad’s wine cellar for if not that).

Whatever.

He didn’t care about saying hi to that bitch. As long as Rafe could avoid her, he would.

Completely wrecked from this crazy-ass day, he let the door to his room fall shut behind him, letting out a heavy exhale. Keys, phone, and wallet landed on his nightstand with a dull thud, the silence in his room almost immediately suffocating him without any kind of background noise around.

No annoying people arguing about annoying shit. No shitty movie blasting in the background. No soft giggles or amused scoffs, no teasing chuckles or dumbass jokes. No laughter. No soft jingle of a bracelet.

No one here to fill this gut-wrenching silence that felt like a deep low after a coke-induced high.

Fuck.

He’d said goodbye to you what, ten, maybe twenty minutes before ordering a shitty Uber to get home (the same old lady driving as earlier), and he already wished your presence back.

You’d offered to drive him home but he’d seen the sleepiness in your pretty half-lidded eyes. Shit, Rafe was dead tired himself, and still, he could’ve spent the whole damn night with you awake, driving around, letting you babble about shit that excited you, and just enjoy you being there with him.

He’d even joked about you coming home with him to continue your bonding session over here (no sketchy intentions, alright), but you’d just laughed in that sweet way of yours and rolled your eyes, hugging him goodbye, not realizing that—yeah—Rafe had meant it.

Whatever he’d felt with you on that shitty lounge bed tonight... he didn’t even have the words. It had felt like the best parts of weed and coke combined—deep relaxation, and yet, such a rush of euphoria and energy.

Your warm body pressed against his, your sweet scent lingering between you, the way your hand had rested on his stomach, your head on his chest. The way you’d kept glancing up at him with that cheeky smile of yours while rambling about something.

The fact you’d chosen to stay with him. Twice.

Twice, you’d made the decision to stay, and twice, Rafe had felt like he’d won the damn jackpot. And then, a third time, you’d picked him out of everyone else to spend the rest of the night with.

And now that warmth of your body was gone, your perfume left behind at your place, your head now resting on a pillow instead of his chest.

Shit. Rafe wanted you back.

He didn’t even fight the feeling, that pull. Why the fuck should he? He liked you. Being around you felt good. Feeling you close felt good.

Shit, it felt right.

And now he wished he hadn’t turned his desire for you to stay over into a joke but instead voiced it like an actual invitation.

Fuck. But that would’ve been so fucking pathetic and embarrassing, and you’d probably think he just wanted to hook up with you, or worse, that he was some kind of loser who couldn't be alone. Especially after he’d begged you not to leave him during that argument in the parking lot.

Thing was, he didn’t even need you curled up against him. Just... just be there. Lying next to him. Hearing the sound of your breathing as you slept a few inches away, feeling how the blanket rose and fell with every inhale.

Just feel your presence. Knowing you were there. Maybe, one more time, hearing you say that you’d work things out with him. That you’d figure shit out together.

That you wouldn't leave.

Shit, seriously, though, what the fuck was up with him that he was so needy all of a sudden?

Ugh, he was too tired to even question it.

Rafe let out a heavy breath, ran a hand through his hair, and undressed. Polo and shorts tossed onto the desk chair, socks on the floor. Too tired to even brush his teeth or wash his face, let alone take a shower. He'd do that shit tomorrow morning.

So, he just slipped under the blanket big enough for two, and leaned back against the bed, resting his head against the frame.

This fucking day had drained everything out of him.

Nah, psycho bitch Ruthie had.

Shit. Eugh. Fuck, no. He didn’t want to waste a single more thought on this crazy bitch.

So, maybe he could... nah, that was crazy.

But the sudden urge to call you hit him hard. Just hear your voice, your giggle, maybe even see your pretty face and smile on FaceTime one last time before falling asleep, and--Fuck.

The thought of you picking up, lying in bed in some cute little pajamas, braless underneath... shit, maybe you even slept naked—who the fuck knew—didn’t even matter.

Because, now that the image was in his mind, right now, he didn’t just want to hear or see you.

He needed to feel you.

Your body against his, clinging to him like earlier, spending him warmth and comfort as you were pressed against him in whatever clothes you'd decided to sleep in.

Or not sleep in.

Fucking shit. Rafe could already feel his blood rushing downward again.

And then, the image of your dress riding up your thighs earlier popped up in his head. The way it had revealed that soft skin underneath, the way your knee had found his when you were pressed close, and by God—your tits.

The way they’d pressed against the side of his chest while you were babbling about something he couldn’t even remember anymore, some shit about how to handle the Ruthie situation or whatever, and—

Too late.

His cock had already finished the thought, now pressing tightly against his boxers.

Fuck.

You'd made him hard again. For the second fucking time tonight.

But before he could second-guess or talk himself down from this sudden wave of need, he shifted downward into a more comfortable position, buried his head in the upper half of his pillow, and pushed his boxers down past his ankles.

Shit, what, he didn’t even need the lube in his nightstand—precum already gathered at the tip of his hardened length, the tension of today catching up to him. The need right there.

The moonlight cast soft shadows over his abs through the large windows behind him as Rafe spread his legs slightly, shifting them upward a little while he threw off that fuckass annoying blanket in frustration. One hand came to rest on his bare thigh, while the other wrapped around his already throbbing member.

Okay, fuck it.

As he closed his eyes, he let his head fall back against the pillow, letting out a deep tensed breath, and began moving his hand—slowly, instinctively—stroking up and down, spreading the already collected fluid over his tip and along his length for better glide.

His mind jumped from one image to the next, trying to find some kind of girl he could think of, some hot chick he'd already had beneath him, or hell, shit, maybe even fucking Megan Fox in that Transformers movie.

Yeah. Yeah, why not. The way she'd looked in that way too tight jeans shorts, bending over one car, and--

Shit.

You.

Without warning, his entire mind flooded with images of you, washing away every image or hint of any other girl. Instead, a kaleidoscope with snippets of you flashed in his head.

Your pretty face, those beautiful eyes, your addictive smile, and god—those lips he’d stared at way too often today.

Shit.

He could only wonder how those same lips might feel wrapped around his length. Warm and wet, those pretty eyes looking up at him, shy and embarrassed, probably wondering if you were doing a good job, eyes widening a little as you slowly took all of him in.

Fuck.

Rafe had to bite down on his lip to stifle a groan, his breathing now shallow, movements more deliberate.

Shit, just the thought of you trying to get him off, sitting all awkward in front of him, unsure of what to do, how to even place your hand. And how sheepishly you’d chuckle, face flushed, eyes wide and uncertain as your fingers hesitantly wrapped around his hardened length, softly stroking up and down, nervously asking things like, “Am I doing it right?” or “Like this?” and fuuck, yeah—Yeah! Exactly like that.

This time, Rafe couldn’t hold back the quiet groan that escaped his lips as he kept moving his hand, hips twitching upward for a second, his rhythm now quicker.

Fuck, honestly? Just the idea of you touching him in any way made his heart race like crazy. Not just sexually, shit no, it felt like, with you, Rafe craved a deeper kind of touch.

And tonight—you clinging to him like that on the lounge bed, all cozied up to him—that had awakened this crazy kind of longing. This insanely deep feeling in his chest Rafe didn't even know existed.

Shit, he didn’t even know, he just—

He just wanted to sink into you. Bury his face in your neck and forget everything else. Wanted you to hold him like that forever. Stroke his hair. Tell him he didn’t have to be anything but this.

So, a different kind of scene appeared in his head.

Your hands on his biceps as you sat on his lap (clothed or not, he couldn’t care less), legs resting on either side of his hips. Your fingers traced over his collarbone, drifting down his chest and abs, brushing gently over his skin as a warm laugh slipped from your lips. Your breath ghosting across the skin of his shoulder as Rafe pulled you closer by the waist, pressing soft kisses to your collarbone, breathing in that goddamn addicting scent of yours, head buried in the crook of your neck while your arms slung over his shoulders.

A quiet whimper left Rafe's lips at the thought of you hugging him close like that, soft fingers brushing over the bruise on his cheek, carefully and gently, and how you'd kiss the very same spot afterward, once, twice, twenty times, whispering that everything was okay.

Sliding your fingers through his hair as you told him once more that everything was fine, that you were there for him, that he wasn't alone in this new fucked up situation. That you were staying no matter what, no matter how much he'd fuck up.

That he was good despite how many things seemed to be wrong with him.

Shit.

Another low groan slipped out, Rafe's hand now desperate and more deliberate, slowly massaging the tip of his cock as his breathing came in shallow gasps, his mind hazy as the slick sound of his movements faded into the background.

“Shiit.”

He was so fucking close.

And then. His mind went back to the image of your hand around his length. You sitting between his legs on this bed, warm hand slowly working him, loving and gentle, your pretty eyes watching him watch you, lips swollen from how hard you’d been biting them out of nervousness and awkwardness, letting out soft, embarrassed giggles as he begged you to keep going.

And all the while your hand kept moving—up and down, sweet and gentle—that little bracelet around your wrist would jingle, those tiny metallic charms clinking together softly. A quiet reminder to anyone that you were Rafe’s girl--!

Friend.

That he was the one who'd given you that bracelet. That he was the one you'd chosen to lay with tonight, cozy up to, and press your body against.

Him.

Rafe.

Holy. Fucking. Shit. And then another quiet groan left his lips as he thought about every time you’d said his name tonight in that sweet voice of yours. And each time, he'd felt his heart skip a beat when those four letters had left your mouth as if his name purely existed to be called by you.

Shiiit.

He bit the inside of his cheek, trying to stifle a moan, legs tensing while the build-up threatened to tear him apart. But somehow he couldn’t push himself over the edge.

Why the fuck was he holding back? Why the fuck couldn’t he just— Why did he feel so fucking ashamed of getting off, no, shit—finishing to the image of you?

Fuck.

God, this felt so wrong. So horribly wrong and twisted. And yet—fuck, his head was filled with you and your stupidly pretty face, that sweet smile and teasing glimmer in your eyes, and Rafe couldn’t stop. He ached for this.

For your body, your face, eyes, smile, laugh.

You.

His toes curled as he pushed his head back deep into the pillow with a quiet whimper, breathing so uneven, fingers slick, just trying to relieve this pressure that you had caused.

“Oh fuck,” he groaned as low and quiet as he was capable of, trying hard not to make a sound that might carry through the walls, his other hand digging harshly into his thigh.

And then his mind went back to earlier.

Your upper body—your boobs—pressed up against his side as you looked at him, all sheepish and smiley. Face so close. Lips right there.

He could’ve just leaned in—just a little—or, fuck it, let his hand slip to your neck, thumb grazing your jaw as he pulled you toward him, giving in to the need to feel you close. Lips barely brushing yours, aching for the shape of your mouth, your taste.

Another whimper slipped past him as he thought of the surprised giggle you'd make when your chest pressed flush against his while he pulled you closer at the waist.

God, and the way your hands would clutch to his polo, a sweet and shy chuckle spilling into the kiss while his hands would find your butt to heave you onto him, your his bracelet jingling around your wrist in that movement.

And now, you fully seated on his lap, butt pressed on his crotch while you leaned forward, soft hands finding his cheeks as you pressed gentle kisses on his jaw, cheek, lips, and—

His hips jerked, legs tensing as a low, groaning “Fuuck” escaped his mouth, face twisted with release as it rushed right through him.

Warm seed spilled onto his lower stomach while his hand worked out every last bit of this insane climax. His cock twitched as his thigh muscles clenched, deliberately trying to massage the last bit of release out of him.

Finally, Rafe let out a heavy exhale, his clean hand going through his sweaty hair, the other slipping from his length and falling to the mattress as his length slowly softened against his stomach, twitching one last time.

Shit. He hadn’t even lasted five minutes.

And then, it hit him.

Almost instantly, shame and guilt crashed over him like a dark, heavy suffocating wave. As fast as the high had come, it had also faded just as quickly, replaced by a sick twisting feeling in his gut. Now all he felt was hollow. Gross. Like he’d crossed some invisible line.

Rafe just lay there, chest rising and falling, one hand sticky, his heart pounding like crazy—but for all the wrong reasons now.

The fact that he’d actually used you to get off—his new friend—to relieve this awful pressure.

Fuck.

Those images while being around you were already overwhelming, but doing this to those thoughts?

It just felt wrong. Shit, no, fucked up.

Yeah. Fucking great. Post-nut clarity hit him like a fucking truck.

And the worst part?

That pressure Rafe had believed to be just sexual tension—just pent-up frustration from not hooking up with some chick in a while—it hadn’t lifted at all.

Yeah, sure, great, the physical tension might’ve been gone for a little while now. But everything else?

That pull toward you. That need to be close to you. That aching desire to have you back against his body, hugging him close like there was no one else you'd rather be with than him.

Still very much fucking there.

And truth be told, even worse than before.

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K M S M A S T E R L I S T | <- C H . 2 0 | C H . 2 1 ->

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T A G L I S T F O R M (taglist for this series is CLOSED but you can sign up for my other stuff through this link)

@ursogorgeous13 @my-name-is-baby @moneybaby07 @jjasmiineee @sttaejoon-blog @vogueprincess @princesspeaxhh @wtfisastiles @wefelldowntherabbithole13 @rafes4 @kathryn-maraudersversion @wuluhwuhmaster @torturedtypewritersdept @sfotiegiuls @ltristessedureratoujours @stoned-writer @lunaleah @akobx @cokewithcameron @b00klvrs @rafesdrew @mattyskies @yktayy9669 @beabafreakbee @c1gsafterwhat @drewstarkeyswife-7 @wtfdudesblog @akobx @wintercrows @miaaaoa @setmefreemyg @pogueprincesa @chimchimjiminie16 @drewstarkeysrightarm @wtfdudesblog @wolfstarsimpxx @emmiesummers @brycesfav @ayy1234567 @rgeraldg @stanseventeen @louvrgirl @chaoticromantic @drewstarkeysrealwife @drewstarkeyswifehoe @psychicnatural @mysticbby2009 @oreocheescake-12 @miniiminie @drunkinthemiddleoftheday @drewstarkeyywife @persiar9

[celuere]

arlecchino

all of my arlecchino works, either with fem! or gn!reader

𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐠𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐬

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ good night ritual. (nsfw)

cw: cunnilingus

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ teaser. (nsfw)

cw: semi-public, stimulation , mentions of giving head

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ teased. (nsfw)

cw: voyeurism, deepthroating, mirror sex, mild degradation, praising, full nelson

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ the hearth is now extinguished. pt. 1 (suggestive)

cw: unspoken feelings, doomed yuri, mutual pining

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ my hearth. pt. 2 (nsfw)

cw: mentions of blood, bit of angst, oral sesbian lex at the end

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ sweet dreams. (nsfw)

cw: threesome, arle and bossform!arle taking turns on you, overstimulation, fingering, mild degrading, squirting, cuckolding, oral

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ not enough. (nsfw)

cw: fingering, making out, marking, Arlecchino being desperate for her wife, mentions of pregnancy

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ give me what I want. (nsfw)

cw: porn without plot, strap-on, rough sex, overstimulation, pussydrunk Arle

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ arle finding out you‘re pregnant (sfw)

cw: slight angst

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ hard day. (nsfw)

cw: fingering, praising, fluffy through and through, comforting, worshipping

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ arle with a chubby wife (nsfw)

cw: body dysmorphia, insecurity, mirror sex, fingering, body worship, arle being a goner

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ be quiet. (nsfw)

cw: creampie ig??, against a wall, semi-public, almost getting caught, orgasm denial

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ fallen angel!arle x devoted follower!reader (nsfw)

cw: au, loss of virginity, hands down filthy sesbian lex, degrading, worship, arle fucking you out of pure spite for the divine

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ i know if i‘m haunting you, you must be haunting me (sfw)

cw: grief, doomed yuri, angst with smh comfort, depression

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ blunt rotation. (nsfw)

cw: modern college au, threesome, usage of weed, high sex, reader getting passed around, unprotected sesbian lex, might be a little ooc, backshots, cunnilingus (reader receiving and giving)

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ sometimes silence guides the mind (sfw)

cw: pregnant wife!reader

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ kiss it, bite it, can i fit it? (nsfw)

cw: modern au, dilf arle, implied age gap, shameless flirting, reader is lowkey inexperienced, strap-on, cunnilingus, vaginal fingering, arle introduces you into the world of awesome sesbian lex, body worship

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ lockjaw (nsfw)

cw: sub!arle, faceriding, overstimulation

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ a little bit scandalous (nsfw)

cw: mild exhibitionism, carriage sex, dick sucking, riding, unprotected sex, pet names, slight degradation, slight homophobia

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ prepare for trouble & make it double (nsfw)

cw: arle uses her fancy domain trick on you, threesome, bossform arle, vaginal fingering, riding, bondage, cuckolding (kinda?????), squirting, degrading, size kink

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ help me get away from myself (nsfw)

cw: bloodsucking, cockwarming, vampire!arle

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ birds of a feather (nsfw)

cw: fingering, arles fat dick, soft sex, pathetic lesbian arlecchino, fluff, body worship, breeding, slight lactation kink

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ hopefully we don‘t have no babies (nsfw)

cw: modern au, experienced dilf!arle, implied age gap, pet names, praising, arle teaches you how to properly finger yourself, mirrors, voyeurism, strap-on, rough sex, dumbification, arle is called peruere

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ her body temperature. (sfw)

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ arle x wife!reader (sfw)

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ parent!arlecchino (sfw OFC.)

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ arle taking care of her pregnant wife (sfw)

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ MORE of arle caring for her pregnant wife (sfw)

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ vampire!arlecchino (suggestive)

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ nsfw headcanons (nsfw duh)

cw: degrading, bondage, sub!arle, breeding

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ random hcs about her (sfw+nsfw)

cw: dacryphilia, strap-on

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ girlcock headcanons (nsfw)

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐭 𝐚𝐬𝐤𝐬/𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭𝐬

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ speaking french. (nsfw)

cw: fingering

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ playable character!reader earning her talent mats (nsfw)

cw: cunnilingus, strap-on, bondage

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ biker!arlecchino taking you on her bike (nsfw)

cw: semi-public, modern arle

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ hand or vibrator? (nsfw)

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ what happens once her markings reach her heart? (sfw)

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ pathetic girlfailure arle (nsfw)

cw: sub!arle, bondage

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ girldad arle (sfw obv)

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ strapped up arle (nsfw)

cw: cockwarming, public

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ bassist!arle (sfw)

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ more about her body temperature (nsfw)

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ game night with the hearth (sfw)

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ arle with a morning boner (nsfw)

cw: somnophilia

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ dilf!arle x milf!reader (nsfw)

cw: breeding, body worship

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ trying out your new lipstick (nsfw)

cw: deepthroating, masturbating, dacryphilia, slightly obsessive arle

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ arle assembling your furniture (nsfw)

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ size kink with arle (nsfw)

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ arle and her love for bushes <3 (nsfw)

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ DIY strapon (nsfw)

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ giving her a tit job (nsfw)

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ dad!arlecchino and baby slings (sfw)

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ arle coming home to see you wearing her jacket (nsfw)

cw: strap-on

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ giving you backshots (nsfw)

cw: strap-on, degradation, dumbification, overstimulation, teasing, pet names, forced quiet sex

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ she loves teasing you on a date (nsfw)

cw: arles fat fucking dick, stripteasing ngh, teasing, overstimulation, voyeurism kinda??, usage of a vibrator

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ divorced!arle and the ex-wife she still yearns for (suggestive)

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ decorating the nursery (sfw)

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ her favorite positions (nsfw)

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ you can’t stop taking stray animals home (sfw)

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ pathetic arle begging for your pussy (suggestive)

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ sauna thoughts… (nsfw)

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ pregnancy lex (nsfw)

cw: pregnant!reader, transfem!arlecchino

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ yearner husband arlecchino (nsfw)

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ it‘s her first time living too (sfw)

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ grinding on her abs (nsfw)

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ office sex (nsfw)

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ arlecchino clones hmfghhfg… (nsfw)

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ arlezani blunt rotation (nsfw)

cw: transfem!Arle and Zani, usage of weed, creampie, unprotected sex

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

[fifthnailinstevesbat]

thinking of a new steddie fic/au hmmm.

It’s just the classic, Steve buys weed from Eddie in season 1 era, he and Tommy meet him at the bench in the woods behind school. Steve and Eddie have some playful banter and clearly get along, but it’s dismissed as just a drug deal and they go on about their lives.

Next time they meet is when a frantic Steve comes and finds Eddie after he’s just fought off the demogorgon for the first time. He’s rattled, and skittish, wearing a nasty black bruise on his eye, and just overall not acting like himself. He snaps at Eddie multiple times to just ‘hurry up’ and ‘get him his stuff’, and sure he’s being an asshole, but more than anything Eddie is just concerned. He has never seen The King Steve Harrington lose his cool like this. So Eddie cautiously gives him the weed, making sure not to give too much, and lets him go about his day, but not before asking if he’s alright. Steve clearly wasn’t expecting this and brushes it off defensively, but that doesn’t mean he’s not thinking about it for the rest of his week. How the hell did Eddie Munson notice something was wrong, when his own parents didn’t? Nor his “friends”?

They cross paths again a year later, the beginning of season two. Steve is still with Nancy and has freshly dumped his old douchebag crew of superficial friends. He is still sitting quite comfortably on the higher ranks of popularity, but there is no denying his status is not what it used to be. He comes to buy weed from Eddie in the first week back at school, and it’s a casual interaction. He’s still as charmingly stuck up as he ever was, but now without Tommy there to judge his every move, he seems a little more at ease when making casual conversation with Eddie. Eddie doesn’t mention the year before and Steve is so glad for it, secretly very embarrassed that he went to Eddie for some refuge after arguably his most traumatic experience to date. He gets his stuff, giving Eddie a smirk when he notices he’s dropped the price significantly for Steve when it’s just him alone. Eddie gives him a challenging smile back, almost daring him to call it out, but he doesn’t. They both just laugh and part ways.

The next run in is tina’s halloween party. They notice eachother when Steve first arrives, making eye contact and giving a polite nod. Maybe Eddie lifts his drink up to Steve in a silly salute. They don’t speak at all or make any effort to hang around eachother. That is, until Steve storms down the stairs in a rage after he’d gone up there with Nancy Wheeler. But then are those- tears? Eddie was standing on the front porch smoking a cigarette, trying to discreetly hide from one Billy Hargrove to avoid having to sell him anything, but staying visible enough that he won’t lose all chances of making any money tonight. Steve storms right past him and hits his shoulder. Eddie whips around and is about to call him a dick before he sees who it is.

Steve tries to quickly wipe his face, he won’t make eye contact with Eddie, and he’s clearly trying to get out as fast as he can. Eddie doesn’t let him, though, since he’s obviously not thinking very clearly and is most likely about to do something emotional and stupid. He asks if Steve’s alright, and his answers are all short and rushed, so he’s definitely not. They’re not really friends, but Eddie’s not an asshole.

— “Did you drive?” Eddie asks

“Yeah”

“Well, you’re drunk, Steve. You can’t get behind a wheel right now. And if I knowingly let you, then that makes me an accomplice. I’ll take you home.”

Steve tries to protest, attempting to push past him, but Eddie interjects. “Yeah, yeah, alright! Don’t thank me yet, Steve’o. This is not for you, see, I’m not trying to get a criminal record, here. I cant go to prison, Steve. Do you know what they’d do to a pretty guy like me in prison? Nope, let’s go hot stuff.” —

Eddie takes Steve home. They don’t talk much. By the time they reach Steve’s drive way and Eddie has put his van in park, Steve is making no attempt to exit the vehicle just yet. Eddie doesn’t know what to do, he didn’t really plan this far, so he’s just tapping away awkwardly at his steering wheel while Harrington stares down the dashboard so clearly lost in thought Eddie fears his head might explode. Steve tells Eddie what happened, says it’s ‘relationship troubles’, and he’s not quite sure what compelled him into being so honest with Eddie Munson, but he’s blaming the alcohol. Eddie wasn’t expecting that. They chat for a bit, Eddie makes Steve laugh and considers the whole night a success after that. Then they start cracking jokes about their shared hatred for Hargrove, and Steve looks and sounds a bit more ok to go inside. He thanks Eddie, quite sincerely actually, and it throws him a bit. He stutters a ‘yeah, for sure. It’s no problem.’ And Steve goes home.

After that, it’s a little different. Steve, doesn’t actually really have anyone, anymore. When they go back to school he’s now greeting Eddie here and there in the hallways, making conversation when they find themselves alone together, in the lunch line or at the bathroom sink. He doesn’t approach Eddie when there’s too many people around, though. As much as he’s grown, Steve Harrington still carry’s some prejudice in him about how certain things may make him look. But it doesn’t bother Eddie too much. It’s not like they are really friends, they’re just like, strange acquaintances. And Steve would never deny that they get along, that really Eddie’s ‘not so bad’. So that’s a win.

Steve finds Eddie again not long after the party to buy some more weed, a plan that sparked purely out of boredom. Eddie says yes, of course, but tells him if he wants it today he will need to wait till after school and meet Eddie at his place, since he was busy. So Steve takes a trip to the Munson trailer to make his deal. Eddie invites him inside and they sit together on the couch as he gets Steve’s bag ready. They end up making quite pleasant conversation, joking around and ultimately finding they are really enjoying each other’s company. They enjoy it so much so, that Steve ends up smoking there, with Eddie. So now they are kind of like, hanging out? And it’s fun, so they do it again. Still they’re not, friends friends, they just get along. Eddie just sells Steve weed sometimes and they keep it civil.

He doesn’t hear from Steve for a while, and the next time he sees him it’s from a distance, in passing. The man has the most roughed up face Eddie has ever seen, bruised and swollen in multiple areas, stitches and bandages all over. It’s really, concerning? completely metal, but alarming. This is the second time Eddie has seen the guy all beaten up like that. He knew that boys fight, but surely not that bad? As worried as he was, Eddie doesn’t approach him to ask questions, because they don’t know eachother like that. So he goes on about his day, and he doesn’t see Steve again after that for quite some time.

Then it’s summer, Eddie isn’t graduating again, and he’s not really sure what to do with himself over the break. The new mall has just opened up, and there’s a cool music store up on the second floor that he likes to visit sometimes with his band friends. And wouldn’t you know, working at the Scoops Ahoy located directly across from his favourite store, is Steve Harrington. The guy hasn’t come to Eddie for any weed since last year, and then there was that sighting where he looked like he’d just fallen face first into a flying fist or two, so it’s been a minute since Eddie’s seen him. And he’d be lying if he said it wasn’t a nice surprise. He only goes into scoops once. He’s curious, okay? Sue him. And, he knows the girl who works with him, Robin. So he plays it off like he had no idea he’d see Steve there. And to his surprise, Steve actually acknowledges him. He doesn’t act like Eddie is a total stranger just because they’re not in school anymore. The interaction is quick, they make very casual conversation, Eddie says hi to Robin, grabs his milkshake and goes home. That’s all. He doesn’t go back, and he doesn’t really plan to. Steve’s nice, and he knows Eddie’s around if he needs to buy from him again, and that’s really as far as their relationship goes. That’s all it ever was. It’s been fun getting to know Steve Harrington a little bit better, even if it was just for a short time. Eddie liked having the chance to see in past the quaffed hair and pressed polo shirts to learn that Steve was really just a person under it all. He never thought he’d say it, but Harrington wasn’t so bad. It was a nice little eye opening experience for Eddie.

Eddie was ready to write off his little blips of interaction with Steve Harrington as a thing of the past, no hard feelings, and move on with his life. That is, until he gets a knock at his front door in the middle of the night afew days after the big mall fire. And it’s Steve on the other side. And he looks awful, his face is the worst Eddie’s ever seen it. And he wasn’t really knocking, more like pounding. He says he needs Eddie’s help.

What the fuck?

[corasexigence]

Intox Play Primer

Vet for high risk play. If you don't have the utmost trust in someone, control what you're putting in your own body and know where it all came from.

Check for interactions. Yes, this means sharing complete information about whatever medications the person getting drugged is on. No, the interactions are not always intuitive. Yes, this includes things like alcohol. Ideally, ask your doctor about interactions with whatever you're about to play with- they're trained in spotting interactions, you're probably not. (ETA- @vekarin-striae mentioned that pharmacists are often cheaper, more specialized, and less invasive to talk to about drug interactions.)

If you've checked the interactions yourself, assume you might have missed something. Even if you've gotten your doctor to check, be aware they might have missed something. I once caught a potassium deficiency issue in someone's existing medication that their doctor prescribed them.

ROUND 1- Use it for its own sake before you play with it. Spend the time together and set yourself up for success: easy access to food, water, comfort media, and comfortable places to sit and lie down. Know how long it should last. Get someone who's used it before to tripsit if you can. Don't give yourself any tasks that involve new skills. Be ready to offer yourself or your partner a redirect from negative or anxious trains of thought.

Know what a good time on your drug physically looks and feels like. This is crucial, because things might go sideways in a way you're not expecting. Don't just be watching for specific signs of an overdose (though those are worth keeping in mind too)- if something seems wrong, get help. Seconds matter and you're probably not a professional.

Similarly: if the drug is at all sedative, or a downer, or long-lasting, and they're unconscious before it's out of their system, check for breathing and check for pulse. Also, your risk profile is your own, but I don't fuck around with hard sedatives- there's too fine a line between which body systems they shut down.

Start with a low-to-standard dose, and adjust doses for any relevant interactions (e.g. estradiol approximately halves liver tolerance [alcohol, weed, diphenhydramine]).

In order to avoid dependence issues, I wait a default of two weeks between recreational uses of any drug. (I only count caffeine here if I'm having more than two cups of tea in a day.)

ROUND 2- Play with it scripted and above board before you play with it in an explicitly cnc way. Your communication and mental state will have shifted, and you'll need to learn to accommodate that; make sure you try things out without added communication barriers first. Also, make sure to talk about how everything went afterwards when you're both sober!

If you're going to adjust doses, do it slowly and carefully. Most easily accessible recreational drugs can be incremented by half the standard dose. Some drugs are incredibly sensitive to fine adjustments; this is why Fentanyl, for example, is so dangerous and not recommended to use.

ROUND 3- Don't get comfortable. Try to have as peaceful and relaxed an experience as you want, and keep an eye on things as you play with different emotional states- but DEFINITELY continue to keep an eye on safety. It doesn't stop being a concern because you've done it once and everything went fine.

ETA- Mind how drugs affect things like pain tolerance! You might miss important signals from your body. Also, pay attention to overlap with your neurotype when planning and risk profiling. You might desire or achieve different effects depending on your own specific brain.

[nerdykeppie]

Holiday Shopping that fights period poverty for college students? Yep! Read on. :)

After the success of our June/Pride 2024 sales goal, where we managed to eliminate a lot of the debt we accumulated while I was unable to work earlier this year & stock up cash so we didn't have to borrow for payroll during the fall lull and also donate to @queerliblib, we were considering where to focus on this year when a conversation I had with my mom pointed me in the direction of our charity for Holidays 2024: the East Stroudsburg University Warrior Food Pantry, and specifically, stocking menstrual products at the pantry.

Without getting too much into the weeds about the details - which I'll talk about under the cut for those of you who are interested - here's the pitch: we need to hit a gross sales goal of $45K in December in order to pay our bills and payroll basically until Pride starts up. Businesses like ours are very much feast or famine, and we've got to eat and we've got people whose paychecks depend on us having the cash to pay them.

If we hit that goal, we'll donate the equivalent of 1% of our net profit from the month of December in period products -- tampons and pads, specifically, by request of the food pantry, and possibly reusable pads and menstrual cups, if the pantry wants that from us. (At the end of the day, this is about taking care of people the way they need, and we'll listen to the pantry staff about what people are requesting.)

We've currently got our Bottoms & Tops sale going, too, so you can buy 2 tops or bottoms from the linked collection & get 69% off the 3rd item from that collection.

Okay, so for the long version whys and wherefores:

My mom taught math at ESU for 35 years, and she and Dad now volunteer running the food pantry along with a couple of other people. ESU is a state school, and as such is one of the few remaining vaguely affordable schools in Pennsylvania. A lot of its students are self-supporting for one reason or another -- many are "non-traditional"/adult students, have kids, or don't have families that can support them while they go to school. Mom & Dad have pushed to expand what the food pantry offers to personal care items, which has been difficult due to a bunch of boring stuff about money and state entities and also people thinking 'that's not food,' but Mom is stubborn about it, because -- to paraphrase her -- how can you focus on class when you feel gross? This struggle has been especially difficult for menstrual products, and way more so for tampons, because it's a rather conservative area and... yeah. People get weird about it.

I've been really broke, with a young kid, and reliant on food pantries, which rarely, if ever, have any menstrual products, let alone tampons. Period poverty is very real, and it sucks.

Plus, I gotta tell you, if we can send a bunch of boxes of tampons and pads to the food pantry, well... Rumor has it this will help my mom win an argument over whether those items should be carried at all, because what are they gonna do, throw them out? They're here! They've been donated! Wasting them would be terrible. :)

So that's the pitch, guys. Help me make a direct, measurable difference in the lives of people at the school where I went to winter swim team, the school that fed me growing up... and help my mom win an argument about making people's lives better... and get your holiday shopping done while you do. ;) We start counting sales from the minute I hit post. :P

[inklore]

I’ve seen your reblog ‘“i’ve been thinking about you all day” as they’re filling your pussy’ and I was wondering if it was okay to request this with Jordan Li (established relationship)

NIGHTS LIKE THESE

pairing: jordan li x (f)reader

contents: foreplay, p in v, oral, this is very soft, it’s basically fluff with smut, both of their presenting forms involved, everyone is love sick and clingy idk | wc: 860

note: they're everything to me!! i have something much longer in the works for them but i needed to write something quick and yearny.

Your wrists are pinned above your head, their fingers twined with yours as they hold you in place, as if you’d ever escape them, leave them, or try to. 

As if you could go anywhere with their body pressed against yours and their hips moving between your thighs. 

Slow thrusts that make you feel every inch of them moving inside of you. Fucking you at that languid pace that comes from the frustration of long days and the yearning that pricks at one’s heart from being separated for too long. 

Course work and keeping your rankings are chores in and of themselves, but living up to the expectations it sets is even harder. So if a day goes by and Jordan can’t have you pressed up against them, at their side, or at the very least your nose in your test books laying against the other sprawled on their bed, each of you doing your own thing: their day just doesn't feel right. 

Doesn’t feel normal if they can’t pull you to the side in the hall and press a kiss on your lips. 

Can’t get the death glare you always give them when they forget to eat lunch because they were too busy helping Brink, and you surprise them with dinner and dessert—the dessert usually forgotten and turns into you between their legs or vice versa. 

Their days aren’t normal unless you’re in them. 

They haven’t felt normal since the two of you decided to try this. To be together. 

“You’ve rewired me,” they mumble against your shoulder as the two of you try to fall asleep one night. The clock on your nightstand glowing 1:00AM in big, haunting letters. Your night supposed to be spent working, but there are only so many sneaking glances and innocent touches against skin before you are both done pretending you want to do anything besides have the other naked and against you all day. 

And you know that they’ve rewired you too. 

Made the fucked up in your life a little less fucked, made the days easier to endure when there’s the constant pressure of greatness looming over you. 

You could crash and burn, and you know you’d still have their support, just as they would have yours. And that’s a higher score than rankings could ever give you. 

It’s rare the two of you will go a day without seeing each other, without ending up pressed together in bed—weed filled lungs laughing until the haze lolls you to sleep and you’re waking the next morning to Jordan’s alarm clock and the shifting groan of both their forms pulling their pillow over their head. Pulling you back down into bed when you actually do something crazy like get up and not lay with them for five more minutes. 

But nights like these make up for days when you are both swamped and Brink needs Jordan for something, and you are stuck alone with your nose in a book or forcing Marie and Emma to get Vought A Burger with you. 

Nights where there’s no rush. No need to go fast and get off as many times as your body aches for—as many times as the other wants to swallow and taste the pleasure each time you come against them, on top of them, or inside of you. Like you’re both dying of thirst, and only the others come will do. 

These nights are slow. Savored. Like you’ve been away at war rather than occupied over a span of twenty four hours. 

Jordan kisses you achingly slowly these nights. Let’s their tongue linger in your mouth for longer than normal, nipping at your bottom lip with gentle teeth. Their fingers stripping you of your clothes like they need to press their lips to every bit of skin they free. 

And when their tongue finally makes contact with your pussy it feels like you can finally breathe. Like you’ve been holding your breath for days—all night—for them to finally soothe the ache that they’ve caused. 

Their hips buck against the air when you switch positions, and your tongue presses between their thighs. A slow tease of teeth and tongue tracing down their hip bones until you’ve reached where they’re soaked, or hard for you. 

Neither of you letting the other come until Jordan is inside of you. 

Until you’re both sighing from that first initial push inside, the head of their cock easily fills you with how wet you are—how wet they’ve made you. Gasps breathed into mouths from that first slow roll of their hips. 

It’s heady and fucking torturous, and you love it. 

You both do. 

“I’ve been thinking about you all day,” they murmur against your lips. Their fingers flexing against yours as they keep them above your head, as they completely take control of your body and show you just what they’ve been thinking about. “You take up every part of my brain, and it’s a problem, but I fucking love it.” They moan into your mouth; roll their hips in that way that has air whooshing from your lungs and your pelvis pushing up to drive them deeper.