#i'm actually so proud of myself for this one

[jungkoode]

𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 𝐟𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬

˗ˏˋ that first night (her POV) ˎˊ˗

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

⋆｡°✩ story details ✩°｡⋆

collection: Before It All (FMU)

wordcount: 15k

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

rating: explicit, 18+

playlist: spotify

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

✧ author's note ✧

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kiki. 🍓

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

⋆｡°✩ read more ✩°｡⋆

main story: fuck me up

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Emergency contact updated to my number?"

"Check."

"Spare key to my apartment?"

"Emma, I swear to god—"

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

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

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

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

If only you knew.

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

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

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

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

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

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

What's the worst that could happen?

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

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

Oh. Oh damn.

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

But he’s hot. Truth be told.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your face heats. "Emma, seriously—"

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

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

Your phone buzzes with an incoming wall of texts:

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

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

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

Great.

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

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

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

Even if you kinda wish it was.

"You're pretty."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Would you like to dance?"

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

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

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

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

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

Everything about this should feel more exciting than it does.

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

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

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

One second. Two. Three.

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

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

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

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

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

But something's... off.

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

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

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

"Everything alright?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dale, indeed.

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

And this? This is definitely dangerous.

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

But.

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

"Dance with me."

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

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

"That's bold."

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

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

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

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

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

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

And yeah.

Yeah, this is happening.

This is definitely happening.

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

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

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

Oh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Excuse you, you were staring at me."

"Maybe we were staring at each other."

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

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

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

"Wasn't alone. Had my friend."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Consider it a... suggestion."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Good luck with that."

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

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

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

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

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

"Pretentious much?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Cocky too."

"Haven't heard any complaints."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Might be worth it.

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

And fuck it. Fuck everything. You want more.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Mine either."

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

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

"Well, this is..."

"Stupid?" you offer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You: 𝚎𝚖𝚖𝚊, 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚠

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Could keep you warm."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But then he's moving closer.

And closer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What-fucking-ever.

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

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

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

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

His shirt comes off in one fluid motion and—

Jesus fucking Christ.

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's fucking electric.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh.

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

Fuck.

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

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

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

His free hand finds your throat again, and—

Oh god.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Either way, it's a little distracting.

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

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

Oh.

Oh fuck.

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

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

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

"Fuck."

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

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

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

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

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

"Holy shit."

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

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

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

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

Damn.

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

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

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

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

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

Yeah. Yeah, definitely hot.

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

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

Fuck.

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

And your brain's offline again. Good talk.

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

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

And he doesn't change a thing.

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

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

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

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

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

Oh.

Oh fuck.

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

But holy shit.

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

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

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

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

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

Oh.

Well then.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bad choice.

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

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

Fuck.

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

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

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

His laugh is rough, breathless.

"I’ll keep that in mind."

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

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

But then he starts moving and—oh.

Oh fuck.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Don’t you fucking dare."

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

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

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

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

Wait.

Hold the fucking phone.

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

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

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

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

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

This is just embarrassing.

But also really, really fucking good.

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

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

"Hnnngh—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Fuck, you're evil."

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

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

“Touch yourself for me."

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

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

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

"Oh?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Says the girl who came twice."

And—okay, rude. Accurate, but rude.

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

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

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

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

Fuck.

Fuck.

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

But.

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

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

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

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

Cocky bastard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Holy fuck.

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

Yeah, okay. Maybe worth the mortification.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Maybe I was faking."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Shut up shut up shut up—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Smell like vanilla now too."

⋆｡°✩ TAGLIST ✩°｡⋆

@cannotalwaysbenight @livingformintyoongi @itstoastsworld @somehowukook

© jungkoode 2025 no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[cherryredz]

Skating on Thin Ice

one-shot

Summary: After weeks of exchanging lighthearted texts and meeting up for casual coffee dates, Harry decides to take you on your first official date. Wanting to do something fun and a bit nostalgic, he suggests ice skating at a nearby outdoor rink that’s been set up for the winter. You have never skated before and hesitate at first. But in the end you agree, intrigued by the idea of trying something new with him.

Warnings: none

_______________________________________________

It was a crisp winter evening, the kind that made the world feel still and quiet, save for the soft sound of skates carving through ice. Harry stood beside the outdoor rink, waiting for you to arrive. The twinkling lights around the rink shimmered, casting a warm glow over everything. When he spotted you walking toward him, your breath visible in the cold air, he smiled.

"Hey," you greeted, your cheeks flushed from the cold, your eyes bright with excitement and nervousness. "I can't believe I'm actually doing this."

Harry grinned, stepping forward to meet you. "I promise it’s going to be fun. No pressure, we’re here to enjoy the night." He held out a hand, helping you with your skates. "Let’s get these on first."

"I’m already having second thoughts," you laughed, pulling the laces tight around your boots. "I’ve never been on ice before. What if I fall?"

"You won’t fall," Harry reassured you, tying your skate laces with an expert hand. "Well, you might... but I’ll be there to catch you."

You raised an eyebrow, an amused smile playing on your lips. "You’re so confident, I’m starting to feel like I might just embarrass myself."

"No chance." Harry finished with the skates, standing up and offering you a hand. "Come on, I’ll show you how it’s done."

You stepped onto the ice together, and you immediately clutched the edge of the rink. Harry, laughing softly, stayed by your side, one hand resting on your back to steady you.

"Okay, this is definitely harder than it looks," you muttered, trying to shift your weight but feeling unsteady.

"Take your time," Harry said gently. "Just shift your weight, one foot at a time."

You hesitated, glancing at Harry. "I feel like a baby deer on skates."

Harry chuckled. "We all start somewhere. I’m not exactly a pro either." He nudged you playfully. "Just don’t fall into me."

"I’ll try not to," you teased, trying to keep your balance. "I feel like I’m going to wipe out any second."

Harry steadied you once more, a warm smile on his face. "You’re doing great. I’ll be right here."

As you slowly circled the rink together, your conversation shifted to more personal topics. "So," you started, your voice light, "you’re always so calm and collected. How do you do it?"

Harry shrugged, gliding along smoothly beside you. "It’s just easier to keep it together when the world’s watching. But sometimes, it gets... tiring, you know? People expect you to always be happy, always on."

You nodded, your thoughts drifting to your own insecurities. "I get that. I guess I try to keep a brave face too, but there’s always this pressure, this feeling like I’m never enough."

Harry glanced at you, his expression softening. "You don’t have to feel like that, Y/N. I mean, you’re here, with me, right now. And that’s enough."

You smiled, the warmth of his words melting some of your nerves. "Thanks, Harry. I... I think I needed to hear that."

You continued skating, Harry occasionally giving you pointers, laughing at the little stumbles you both made. The ice became more familiar, and your confidence began to grow.

"You’re getting better," Harry commented, slowing down beside you as you gained more control. "Look at you go."

You grinned, feeling proud of yourself. "I guess I’m not so bad after all."

You skated in silence for a moment, both of you enjoying the peacefulness of the rink. The cold air was refreshing, and the twinkling lights above you gave the night an almost magical quality.

"I think I could get used to this," you said softly, your hand brushing against his. You glanced up at him, your breath coming in soft puffs. "Thanks for pushing me to try something new."

Harry stopped skating for a moment, turning to face you. "I’m glad you did. It’s fun, right?"

You nodded, your heart racing a little faster than it had been before. "Yeah, it is." You looked into his eyes, the connection between you growing stronger by the second. The moments of awkwardness had turned into something more—something real.

Harry, who had been trying to keep his composure, suddenly felt a shift. The nervousness he’d felt at the beginning of the night had turned into something far more tender. He stepped closer, his voice quieter now. "Y/N…"

Before he could say anything else, you took a small step closer as well, the gap between you closing. Your faces were inches apart, the warmth of your bodies contrasting with the chill in the air. Your heart pounded, and Harry’s breath was shallow. You paused for a moment, and in the next breath, Harry leaned in, capturing your lips in a soft, unexpected kiss.

It was gentle, tentative at first, but when you kissed him back, all the hesitation melted away. You pulled back slightly, your faces still close, eyes meeting in the glow of the lights. Your lips were warm against his, and the spark between you was undeniable.

"That was..." you breathed out, your voice barely above a whisper.

"Yeah," Harry replied, his voice just as soft. "Perfect."

You lingered there for a moment, basking in the magic of the moment before Harry smiled and extended his hand. "Shall we go get some cocoa? I’m freezing."

"That sounds amazing," you said, grinning. "Lead the way."

You walked off the ice together, the sound of your laughter echoing in the crisp winter air. Harry pulled you close, and you shared a quiet moment as you headed for the warmth of the car, the ice rink behind you already becoming a cherished memory.

As you parted ways later that night, Harry paused before walking off into the night, a glint of mischief in his eyes. "This is just the beginning, Y/N."

You smiled, your heart still racing, as you watched him go. "I’m looking forward to it."

_______________________________________________

This is the first ever time I'm writing something here, hope you like it! Let me know what you think :))

p.s. English is not my first language so I apologise for any mistakes.

[trina-makes-an-entrance]

I FINISHED IT OMFG

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH

I'M SO HAPPY ABOUT HOW IT TURNED OUT!!!

I actually didn't expect this to turn out so good! Specially since it's my first time using new techniques to draw—

And the shading on the clothes could have been better, but I'M SO PROUD OF MYSELF FOR NOT ABANDONING THIS PROJECT!!!

Also, a couple of days ago I finished reading Legoland and I'm OBSESSED

The whole thing about Penny wanting to be an animal conservationist just fits her so well ("When a lioness has children..."), plus, I love how unhinged and anxious she is

If you look closely, you can see one of the pins has the "7 UP" logo on them because Penny loves them and I wanted to put a little reference to Legoland and stuff. And I also added the planet necklace because my headcanon is that Ricky and her are besties in another universe and he info dumps about Zolar and cats, and he made her a zolar necklace and she adores it and stuff (Constance probably made her the starry bracelet)

That's it yall hope you like it :D

[marvelstoriesepic]

Like a Phoenix (7)

Pairing: Mercenary!Bucky x Princess!Reader

Series Summary: An attack on your palace thrusts your only hope for survival into the hands of a mercenary who is forced to protect you, all due to a vow he made many years before. Though, those are circumstances neither of you have chosen.

Word Count: 7.7k

Warnings: mentions of murder, fire, death, knives, blood, loss of parents, fever, betrayal; injuries; grief; self-loathing; crying; heavy revelations; tension

Author’s Note: Omg I'm over 50k into this story, I can’t believe it lol. I'm actually proud of myself. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter! ♡

Series Masterlist | Masterlist

The collections of brilliant greens and golden blossoms are spread out before you. The merge of all the wildflowers and herbs is sharp with pine and earth and mint and honey-like. Invigorating.

You kneel on a patch of mossy ground near the campfire. Bucky had lit it the second you got back. The fire is crackling.

Pine needles shimmer faintly with dew, their resinous tang sharp in your nose. Feverfew with its delicate flowers nestle beside clusters of clover blooms, their soft pink petals almost luminous in the flecked sunlight.

Contemplating with what you are going to begin, you run your fingers across goldenrod stems, their tiny mustard-colored buds crumbling slightly under your touch. The medicinal scent of yarrow stands proud among the rest.

The familiar smells and colors again bring echoes of your mother’s voice from the palace gardens. Patient and gentle as she taught you the properties of each plant.

The pale leaves of Lily’s Balm feel waxy on your fingers. They are good for soothing inflamed wounds and drawing out heat from infection. Feverfew against his overheated skin, lowering the fever, its green frilled edges so delicate and lace-like. Wild mint will ease his breathing and calm his body. Clover blooms for their gentle healing abilities. Yarrow and Goldenrod, both strong bases, to slow his bleeding. Wild thyme to cleanse, and pine, sticky with resin, pungent and purifying.

You exhale slowly, deliberately dragging air through your lungs. This is your time to be useful. To actually do something other than dwell in your sorrows and the losses you had to endure.

Bucky is slightly hovering in your line of vision. He is silent. But you don’t like him walking and shuffling around the way he does while the fever sweat hangs onto his brows and the freshly stained blood lingers on his shirt. It makes you queasy. You don’t know if he hid his injury due to oversight or simple stubbornness, but either way, he should not walk around like that.

“You should sit down,” you tell him while beginning to strip the yarrow leaves from their stems.

He doesn’t answer right away, so you glance up. He stands there stubbornly arms crossed over his chest, looking right back at you with a guarded expression. Though he definitely looks paler than he should be. And you avoid looking at the blood stain on purpose.

“M’ fine,” he grumbles, brushing you off. And before you get to an answer, he continues. “Your side,” he counters, voice gravelly. “Let me check it first.”

“I am not the one bleeding.”

His lips purse. “You callin’ me color blind, darlin’? I know what I'm seein’. That’s definitely red there.”

Well, maybe you did bleed through Bucky’s bandage, but that will have to wait.

“We can get to that later.”

Bucky takes a step closer, shadows flickering across his face from the low fire. “Princess-”

“No. Now sit,” you instruct, cutting him off and surprising even yourself with your tone.

Bucky is silent for a beat. You hear him shifting but stay focused on your herbs. “You tellin’ me what to do now, princess?” There is a sparkle of amusement in his voice and in the tug of the corner of his mouth.

Briefly glancing back at him, you meet his eyes with a steadiness you don’t quite feel. “No,” you tell him. “I am telling you I would not know what to do if you passed out.”

He scoffs, clearly offended by the suggestion. “Gonna take more than that to knock me out, darlin’.”

Your lips twitch despite yourself. “Humor me?”

He watches you for a moment longer, eyes narrowing, trying to decide whether to argue further. But then he relents with a low huff, lowering himself onto a flat rock by the fire basically in front of you. The movement is slow and you catch the wince he tries to hide. But he looks more relaxed sitting down.

Satisfied, you turn back to your work. The yarrow leaves are crunched between your fingers. Their pungent smell rises while you release the healing oils from the leaves and add them to a small tin cup filled with clean water from the stream.

The goldenrod comes next. The yellow of the flowers vivid against the darker-turning liquid.

Furrowing your brow slightly, you swirl your head around to look for something that might help you prepare and stir the herbs. And then you remember. Hurriedly, you get up and walk over to the discarded cloak, the one you had laid over Bucky in his sleep. There’s something safely tucked inside that you can use at the moment.

It’s a dagger. It’s not as lengthy as Bucky’s, but it is enough. You took it from the fight. Obviously, it is not the very same one you picked up to throw at Rumlow, because that one is likely still buried in his body, but you found it lying on the ground and picked it up.

You just did not find something useful to do with it. Until now.

You walk back to the herbs and Bucky at the fire.

Since Bucky’s gaze followed you, he catches sight of the blade immediately and looks up at you in surprise. “You kept that?”

Not looking back at him, you settle down and focus on slicing the leaves of Lily’s Balm into thin ribbons. “Didn’t know whether I would have to save your life again,” you quip.

You don’t know where that came from. Perhaps having a real purpose for once is making you regain something akin to confidence.

The sound that follows though, startles you. It’s a laugh. Bucky’s laugh. Sudden and loud and gruff, lifting somewhere far within his chest. It’s so unbridled, stemming from surprise. And it is utterly captivating. It makes your hands halt. Never have you heard him laugh before. Really laugh. Not like this. You are entranced. The sound floats for a while and you never want it to stop. It makes his voice to a soft glow of mirth.

You stare at him, half amazed, half in disbelief.

But he isn’t even looking at you. His head is tilted to the ground, shaking. He’s still chuckling to himself. Lips pulled into a wide grin. “Aren’t you full of surprises, darlin’.”

You watch him for a few seconds longer. The corners of your mouth lift and there is nothing you can do to stop them. “I am glad that this is entertaining for you.”

Turning back to the leaves, you try to calm the fast pace of your heart. The blade slices cleanly through the stems and leaves. But you can’t really focus on that. The shake of Bucky’s shoulders in a silent laugh catches your vision. His laughter keeps ringing in your mind. And you still want to hear it again.

Pine resin is sticky on your skin, the sap gleaming amber in the sunlight. You crush the prepared leaves into the dark liquor and mix it into a fine paste, adding the pine resin to create a thick, fragrant balm. The yarrow adds a cooling element, its sharp scent cutting through the heavier tones. It is perfect to stop the bleeding and prevent infection.

You take a quick glance over at Bucky. His head is bowed, forearms resting on his knees, but his eyes are fixed on you, sharp despite his fever. There is something quiet in the way he watches you. Astonishment. Curiosity.

“Where did you learn that?” he speaks up quietly, as if using a normal voice would disturb something intimate. There is something about the way he uses his voice and winds his tone, that almost makes you believe he is admiring what you are doing. As if this is a wonder.

You don’t look up at him, hoping he won’t notice the slight flinch in your fingers. Or the pang in your chest. “My mother taught me.” Your voice is even quieter than his has been.

He doesn’t say more. Perhaps he doesn’t even have to see the pang in your chest. He heard it in your voice.

You start the second tincture, the one for him to drink. Feverfew, wild thyme, clover blooms, and wild mint. Combined they will help ease his fever and cleanse his body.

Your hands almost move on their own, preparing the leaves. On instinct. It feels unexpected. But it makes you realize just how important those moments with your mother really were to you. And now they turn so monumental, it makes your chest close in on itself. You carry this from your old world. Something useful. Something that has survived of her even if everything else now lays in ruins.

Your breath trembles on the cusp of grief. But you get a hold of it.

Another glance over at Bucky makes something cold skate down your back, leaving a trail of tension.

Sweat accumulates again on his forehead despite the coolness of the forest. His lips are pressed together. The bloodstain on his right shoulder has again spread further than you hoped, darkening the brown leather of his armor. His fever is climbing. That’s not good.

You rush through the second tincture, mixing everything in water again and heating it over the fire at the same time. The liquor is thick and green with a sharp scent. Carefully, you pour it into another small tin cup, making sure it’s not too hot for him to drink.

Rising, you cross the short distance to him and crouch down again.

“What’s that?” Bucky asks immediately, eying it warily.

“It will help you relax and lower the fever,” you assure him gently. “Drink it.”

He leans forward slightly, skepticism written all over his face. He grimaces faintly at the smell and you have to hold back an amused smile. For a man like him, he surely acts like a diva.

“You sure you’re not tryin’a poison me, darlin’?” he drawls, humor winding through his words. However, if you’re not wrong, you can detect a hint of nervousness.

It makes your heart sink but you manage to play lightly, rolling your eyes. “You are the reason I am alive, so I am pretty sure poisoning you would be counterproductive.”

His brows inch upward as he looks at you with an unreadable, but intense expression. With a deep sigh, he then takes the cup from your hands and downs it in one swift motion. His face twists with disgust and he swipes the back of his hand against his lips, releasing a cough. “Tastes like dirt,” he rasps.

Biting back a smile, you get up to retrieve the balm for his wound. “I think you will live.”

You watch him set down the cup with a heavy sigh, the lines of his face softening.

“You don’t gotta do this, darlin’.”

“You have done it for me,” you retort, walking back over to him and kneeling down. This time with the tin cup holding the balm for his wound.

Bucky lets out a breathless laugh, shaking his head at your stubbornness. He watches you with intrigued eyes. But there still is that nervousness surrounding him.

“Let me see,” you request, almost timidly, but willing strength into your voice.

He shifts where he sits on the rock, clearly uncomfortable with the request. His jaw is hard. Muscles are tense beneath the bloodied remains of his shirt.

“You are still bleeding,” you acknowledge more firmly. “Take it off.”

His brows rise at your sudden authority, but there is amusement in the motion. A smirk curves his lips despite himself. He doesn’t make a move to do what you say though.

“Gettin’ a little too bossy there, for my likin’, princess,” he teases, each word dripping with sly delight.

“Bucky.” Your tone turns soft again, but your resolve remains firm. His shoulder is worrying you. “Please.”

After a tense moment of quiet, he drags out a long and sharp breath through his nose and straightens up. With a grimace, he slowly shrugs off his brown armor. His shirt underneath is sticking to his torso, dark with sweat and dried but also fresh blood.

You swallow hard as he peels the fabric away from his shoulder, revealing a part of the wound he’s been keeping to himself.

The gash extends out from his shoulder and dips slightly towards his upper chest. It’s an arc of torn and angry flesh. A mass of swelling blood crusts around the edges under a layer of sweat, laying a dreary tapestry of red and brown on the skin below. It looks puckered and bumpy, suggesting that the blade that pierced him must have been of serrated or distorted nature upon impact.

You might have stared at it a second too long because Bucky lets out an uncomfortable cough.

“Lucky swing,” he says tersely, to make this a little less awkward. It does not quite work out, because now you are staring at his face oddly. To you, this does not look like someone got lucky, considering the fact that the man responsible for this is dead now and Bucky has to carry this around.

But what snaps your attention back to the wound is the heat you feel radiating off it. And it confirms what you already suspected - infection is setting in. The skin around the wound is inflamed, making it glisten ominously.

However, what makes your hands tremble lightly in discomfort is the fact that you won’t be able to access every part of that gash with his shirt on.

“You, uhm-” you start nervously, unsure of how he will react. “I am going to need you to take your shirt off as well.”

He stares at you.

“I will not be able to reach everything like this,” you explain, still timid.

He sighs, dropping his head a fraction, before slowly starting to peel his shirt off. He winces with the movements of his arms, fabric tugging against drying blood.

The full extent of his wound looks even uglier. You try your best to ignore the pale lines of violence scattered across his skin, especially his other shoulder - the scars you caught glimpses of at the river. Your gaze quickly moves to the flesh injury.

You don’t want him to feel uncomfortable. Well, not more than he already seems to be.

“Lean back for me,” you instruct, not wanting to waste more time, but keeping your voice kind.

There definitely is something surreal about telling Bucky what to do. You’ve been doing that basically your whole life - giving instructions and following the ones you’ve been told by people higher than you - but with Bucky, it feels different. The words taste odd in your mouth.

Bucky hesitates. His lips press into a thin line and he eyes the tin cup gloomily. He looks as though he might argue but then he thinks better of it. Reluctantly, he shifts his weight and braces himself against a tree behind him.

You dip your fingers into the balm, the cool, thick paste sticking to your skin. Bucky watches you, his whole body full of tension. A tremor passes through his throat as he forces a breath past the lump there.

He is not used to this. To being cared for in this way, to having someone’s full attention on his pain. That much is clear.

“This might sting,” you warn, voice quiet.

He grunts.

Steeling yourself, you let your hand hover over his shoulder. “Are you ready?”

He grunts again, giving you a tight nod. You try to ignore the way he watches you. He seems to be bracing for more than the sting of the tincture.

Warming the balm between your fingers, you press it gently against the torn flesh. The scent of the wild herbs is strong in the air.

Bucky goes incredibly rigid. His breath hitches sharply. His eyes flash for a fraction of a second before settling into a void you can’t decode.

Even the forest around you seems quieter while you spread the self-made lotion on his shoulder. You are precise in your sweeps, careful not to meet any of his skin that doesn’t need your touch.

The more you work, the steadier he gets. He doesn’t make a sound, but the discomfort doesn’t entirely leave his body. Discomfort of pain or vulnerability, you can’t tell. Probably both. His hands are clenched into loose fists at his sides. But you do notice the few relieved sighs he lets slip unintentionally after a few swipes over his skin.

The wound resists at first, but you move your fingers with patience and caution, in even strokes. Quickly, the ointment begins to calm the irritated areas, drawing out some of the heat.

Bucky’s chest rises in a deep inhale against your fingers and you avoid the almost magnetic pull his piercing eyes have on you. He watches you so intently, all you can do is to keep your gaze on your task and resist whatever heat simmers in his stare.

The herbs already seem to ease the swelling a little bit and you are confident that they will stave off the infection. It makes you breathe easier, despite the intimacy of your current situation. You’re so close to him, asking so much of him, and with every careful sweep across his torn skin, you are getting more aware of it.

Then, without warning, one of his hands reaches up and wraps around your wrist gently. Making you still mid-motion.

“Stop,” he says quietly, his voice rough but not unkind.

You freeze startled, blinking at him. “What?”

“Keep some of that for yourself,” he insists, slowly pulling your hand away from his shoulder. “You need it.”

You take a moment to consider what he even means. Then, you shake your head. “I do not-”

“You don’t wanna argue with me, darlin’. Keep the rest for yourself,” he repeats, more sternly this time. His eyes darken into something bordering on concern.

You stare at him. And then you don’t. Eyes going to his now-covered wound, and the tin cup in your hand that still holds some of the paste you made.

Biting pressure makes your heart seem to seize.

You didn’t even consider using the balm for yourself. Your side is still stinging. The bandage is still red with blood. But you did not spare it a single thought. Did not think about caring for it in the way you did for Bucky’s wound.

Every leaf, every petal, every drop of resin has been meant for him. The idea of keeping any for your own wound has never so much as crossed your mind. You haven’t thought about it consciously, but now it is glaringly obvious. You would use every last drop of the balm for him without hesitation. There’s something wrong about that, something you dislike confessing even to yourself.

Bucky is still watching you with his brows drawn together. He nods toward the tin cup in your hand but keeps his eyes on you. “If you knew how to do that the whole time, then why don’t do it earlier? For yourself?”

You take a pause. His hand is still warm around your wrist, basically lying on his lap. Sharp eyes are gauging your reaction.

“I just- It did not come to my mind,” you admit, shaking your head dismissively. “But it is of little consequence now.”

His expression is hard. Not the kind of hard you knew his features to hold when you met him. It’s not meant for you directly. But it still is there because of you, because of the way you think. His jaw shifts, muscles moving in tense vibrations, grappling with words he isn’t sure he should say. “That’s bullshit,” he voices with a stiffness in his tone.

The blunt language of this man is an insult on its own. But the meaning of his words still hit you.

A shaky breath falls from your lips.

Never once have you thought of soothing the pain of your own conscience or making a balm for yourself.

Your side has ached, the wound pulsing and throbbing and hurting, but it faded to insignificance as soon as you saw the streaks of sweat trickling from him and the blood blooming across his shirt. Every instinct has driven you to help him.

And why? Because you somehow deserve the agony, don’t you? The thought is bitter in your chest. You don’t believe you deserve the care, the relief of healing herbs, the preservation of your own body.

You haven’t been of use to him, needing his protection at every waking moment. You killed a man. You failed to stay out of harm’s way like Bucky had told you to. That’s what got you injured in the first place. Stupid girl.

It is shameful to think of how invulnerable you have thought him to be. You relied on him so utterly, so selfishly, leaned on him without a care in the world, and laid all your troubles upon his already burdened shoulders. How many times did you assume he is untouchable, indestructible? And now here he is, bleeding, just like everybody else, and keeping it to himself. Because you haven’t been enough.

This is your fault. You relied on him too much, demanded too much, not even considering the toll.

Darkness engulfs those thoughts.

Your throat feels bound. Your heart works in stuttered pauses. Breathing doesn’t feel like relief. Swallowing doesn’t drag down the tide of self-loathing making its way up your spine.

Bucky’s thumb brushes against your pulse and it snaps your attention right back to him. You pull away from his hold and he releases your wrist immediately. Though his hand retreats to his side rather slowly.

“Whatever you’re thinkin’, don’t” he states rather calmly but somehow still so intensely. His voice is so low it seems to be scraping against something hard.

You meet his eyes then. They are insistent. Resolved. Sharp. They make you attempt another try to gulp down the knot in your throat but it doesn’t work.

“What?” you ask weakly.

His persistent eyes remain fixed on you. “I know that look. Stop it.”

A choking sensation cinches tight around your throat. It is strangling and stifling and makes you want to turn away. But he somehow manages to keep you on the spot.

“I-”

“Don’t,” repeats, softer this time. His hand twitches at his side and he takes a quick glance at the quiver in your own fingers. “This isn’t on you, got it?” His voice is rough with conviction, so fierce.

His gaze still is so relentlessly focused on you to get his point across.

It makes you want to vomit. His words push against the very flimsy barrier of defenses that you have constructed around your guilt. He sees right through it. His gaze makes it see-through. Ineffective. Worthless. Fruitless. Just like how you feel.

“It is not about that,” you try to defend yourself, but it comes out with a frail voice.

“Yeah, it is,” he maintains. “Whatever you’re punishin’ yourself for. Stop. It ain’t gonna get you nowhere.”

The tension in your shoulders doesn’t fully ebb, but something grows warmer around you.

Letting out a long, reluctant sigh, you let your shoulders slump with surrender. Bucky’s gaze softens, something like gratitude crossing his face.

“Thank you, darlin’,” he says quietly, his voice sincere and grounding. “For this.” There is no bravado, just a genuine gratefulness.

You shake your head, heat flooding your features. Your knees ache when you shift and the pain in your side kicks in again.

Bucky stands up slowly and his expression shifts, something resolute settling in his features. “Now,” he announces. “Let me help you with that.”

You blink, thrown off by the sudden change in his tone.

“You don’t-”

He cuts you off with a raised brow and a gesture that brings back his commanding nature. “Sit down,” he orders, pointing you to the stone he sat on moments before. “And better do it now. Because that’s not lookin’ too good.” He throws a concerned look at the tear in your dress that reveals the bloodied dressing he put on.

You open your mouth but his eyes are authoritative enough. You stand up, only to reluctantly sit down again on the very same rock he’s been sitting on. You calculate your movements, to not show him how painful it actually is.

“You always interrupt me. That is not very nice,” you exclaime, perhaps to make his attention on you waver, or just to throw him off with another topic and distract you or him from what he is going to do. Or maybe you should really be annoyed at the way he doesn’t let you finish speaking. But somehow him constantly interrupting you even feels endearing in some kind of way you can’t explain, considering the fact that he only ever does it when he knows he won’t like the words coming from your mouth. Maybe because you tend to talk yourself small.

Bucky’s lips quirk into that maddeningly amused smirk as he takes the tin cup out of your hands. “Not used to people interruptin’ you, princess?” The title carries no cruelty, only an enjoyable warmth that causes a tingling sensation on your skin.

You huff. “Well, I am getting used to it now,” you grumble.

And there it is again. The sound that has caught you off guard before. That laugh. Full-bodied, sonorous, and so utterly disarming in its power over you. It makes its way into your chest. His head is tipped slightly backward, exposing faint laugh lines at the corners of his eyes.

You find yourself staring breathlessly. It’s a sound so human, so rare, so special, that you wish you could bottle it up and keep it safe.

You’re mesmerized by the perfect way his teeth are gleaming at his wide grin.

He catches your gaze and you quickly avert your own, neck turning hot.

Bucky shakes his head, an amused look on his face he obviously tries to stifle. “Come on. You made me listen. Now it’s your turn.”

You sigh, while Bucky moves closer to you in a crouched position. His eyes move to your side and his expression shifts to something far more serious.

“Let me see,” he orders, tone gentle, but somehow not meant to go against it.

The weariness in your body wins out. Or rather, his voice wins out. You pull apart the torn pieces of your dress to give him enough access to the makeshift bandage wrapped around your side. His brow furrows as he takes it in.

“You should’ve said somethin’,” he mutters, seemingly more to himself somehow.

“I was otherwise occupied.”

He snorts, clearly unimpressed with your lame excuse. “Bein’ the stubborn girl you are.”

“Do you feel a change yet? Is the fever going down?”you inquire after a beat.

“You tryin’a distract me, princess?” he hums with amusement. His lip tugs upward lightly.

“I might.” You guess, you can't directly tell him you're genuinely concerned about whether he's feeling any better yet. He certainly appears better, however. He ceased sweating, his eyes are focused and his actions are more precise than before. It causes you to inhale deeply. A sigh that is full of relief.

Bucky breathes out a small laugh. “Don’t know what it is that you did there exactly, but it worked,” he acknowledges with a lighter voice. There is something like disbelief in his tone. Delight. Appreciation. That tiny hint of admiration that seems grow an inch or two.

You watch him carefully remove the fabric around your wound, to look at the injury beneath it. His brows immediately cease together tightly. Tension draws along the lines of his face, knotting his jaw. His face is hard again.

He doesn’t waste time, dipping his fingers into the salve you prepared, the thick paste now covering his calloused fingertips. His other hand brushes against your soft skin as he rather unnecessarily helps you peel back the fabric of your dress on your side.

His other hand moves to your gash so slowly, reverent almost. The first touch to your wound makes you hiss through your teeth and he lets you adjust to the feeling before spreading it around gingerly.

Blue eyes glance up to your face, watching closely for any sign of discomfort as his fingers move over your side, slowing his pace, when he sees your brows twitch, and your breath hitch.

The light of the day shimmers faintly against the angry red margins of your wound getting deliberately covered by the dark paste.

The trail of the many intertwined scents goes for your nose, mingling with faint metallic tangs of blood.

The mixture tingles against your skin, cooling and soothing the angry redness.

It’s a distraction from the fact that he hasn’t bothered to put his shirt back on.

He’s still shirtless.

The forest air kisses bare flesh. The light brings a glimmer of sweat to stand out like bronze, bringing to life the scars and distortions of his muscles. You try and tear your gaze away, dizzy with heat as it spreads over your neck and cheeks, but curiosity is what pulls your eyes back.

He is so very close in front of you. You basically see everything. Each of those lines across his naked chest and shoulders has its own tale you are sure you will never be told. You look away again, but your gaze goes hopping back.

He’s so mesmerizing in every way. He was bleeding in front of you just a moment before, but he still looks so strong. So bulky, despite the fact that he can’t eat much out here and keep his muscles trained because he has to keep an eye on you.

“You’re starin’,” he remarks quietly, not looking up. Fixed on applying the ointment.

The next beat of your heart skips. “I was not-”

“You were,” he confirms, though his tone isn’t accusing. It’s rather light. Lighter than you would have imagined. Amusement underlines his statement.

You bite your cheek, seeking to say something. “I was just thinking,” you mumble, half-heartedly attempting a defense.

“That right?” Soft and subtle humor winds around his tone. He doesn’t glance up, still thoroughly smearing more of the balm over your skin, respecting your reactions. Concentration on his features.

Silence hangs in the air, only interrupted by the rustle of clumps of leaves and a softly wafting breeze.

You hesitate. Your heart gallops in your ears. You tentatively nod at the tin cup in his hand. “Maybe this might help with your scars?” you ask, voice so soft, they almost turn into a whisper. Your fingers are clammy. It’s a feeble question.

Bucky’s hand stills. For a moment, you think he might pull away, but he does not. His finger continues to sweep but a shadow of thought passes over his face. It is not hostile. Not repelling. Just contemplative. Maybe a little surprised.

Then, there is a faint shake of his head. “They don’t hurt anymore,” he says finally. There is a subtle thickness to his voice. But he seems to have control over it.

“We could try,” you say quietly, almost in a hopeful way. So full of good intention, it makes Bucky freeze again.

He huffs out a tiny and gasping laugh. It reaches your collarbone, grazing it faintly. His head drops as though it has become too heavy for him momentarily.

“It won’t work, darlin’.” He says it so softly. Carrying an almost apologetic tone, sympathy wringing his voice dry. His thumb lightly swipes over your skin right above where the wound sits as if it is you who needs the grounding.

Your eyes move to the forest floor. There is a stillness in the air between you, unsaid things hovering in the void. The only sound is the fire crackling undisturbed.

The balm is starting to cover your wound, fragrant with mint and resin, its healing properties also somehow meant for wounds deeper than skin.

The firelight dances across his scars, making them look almost alive. Like memories etched too deep to fade.

Timidly, your quiet voice breaks the silence. “How long?”

Bucky’s brows twitch further together, lips pressing into a thin line. He watches his fingers move over your skin. You see the glimmer of reluctance in his eyes, the internal debate waging behind them.

You immediately regret asking. “You do not have to answer that,” you rush to say. “I apologize for asking.”

He exhales slowly, a sigh heavy with something unnamable rising and falling with his chest. After a long, deliberate pause, his voice is almost indifferent. “Five years.”

The simple answer hits you harder than expected. Five years. A timeline begins forming in your mind, grim shadows stretching across those years - the kind of scars that can’t always be seen.

Your back tightens as a cold shiver winds through you.

Five years. You find it hard to process. Five years of carrying whatever - whoever - has carved those scars into his body.

“You were a soldier,” you express quietly, voice so small, almost fragile.

His eyes are detached when he nods once. It’s a simple gesture and yet so complex. “I was.” His voice is clipped, but not harsh. He lets out a sound resembling a cough.

You needed the confirmation. Needed to hear it from his own lips. It solidified something inside you.

You feel your breath grow shallow, thoughts going into a haze. You have heard the bitterness in his voice whenever your father was mentioned, words tinged with disdain. He didn’t hide his contempt. He even let it out on you. But it begins to take shape. Those scars. The way he no longer claims the title of soldier as if that privilege was taken from him along with something far more precious.

He still carries himself with that form of discipline, even when standing still. Always ready for the next hit to strike. But he tried to shrug off the remnants of that past as a soldier - a soldier in your father’s army, no less.

Something has happened. Something shattering. Something traumatic.

A shiver of unease crawls along your spine, prickling every nerve.

Your father always held you to impossible standards. His love was a conditional thing that you were forever grasping to earn. He has always been a man of authority, his word was a law, and his decisions were never questioned. But there were cracks in that facade, fractures that you have chosen to ignore a long time ago. And now, those cracks are gaping, yawning wide, and you are meant to fall into them.

Your gaze falls back to the marks on his shoulder. Throat feeling constricted.

“Did my father have a hand in that?” Your voice is wavering. Anxiety gnaws at your chest, each heartbeat heavy with dread.

Bucky’s gaze lifts to you. He looks you in the eyes so intensely. Whatever he’s thinking remains locked behind his gaze, hidden from reach. But he seems to be contemplating whether to shield you from the truth.

“Yes,” he admits then, the single word falling like a stone into the silence.

It struck you with breathtaking force. The earth seems to have slipped beneath your feet and the world tilts, causing a sudden strain in your chest with the awareness that came.

You want to deny it. You want to argue that your father wasn’t capable of such treachery. But deep down, you know better. The cracks have always been there. Carefully tucked behind his walls.

Your throat is a clenched fist, made of muscle, gripping hard against the swell of emotion threatening to rise. Every breath that tries making it up your throat is only getting squeezed out by that fist.

Tears are gathering behind your eyes, the sting of them uncomfortable.

Bucky watches you. He is gauging your reaction with a poignant gentleness - not cruel, not gloating. Just honest. His expression softens, guilt shadowing his features as he takes in your reaction. He clearly does not revel in your heartbreak. It’s clear he regrets having to say it.

You fidget with your fingers. It takes Bucky finishing attending to your wound - smearing the last bit of the balm onto it and dressing it again - until you get a hold of your voice again.

“What happened?” Your voice cracks. Part of you wants to withdraw the question, fearing what he might answer. Or if he even will.

He sighs again. A hand moves to slide over his face as he sits back down, keeping the tin cup in his hand. His forearms lean on his knees, head tilted to the ground. He stays like that for a little while.

He only lifts his head for a second to see the shake in your hands.

“We were in battle. Rumlow and his men went behind our backs. Slaughtered every standin’ soldier. Got me real good, but I wasn’t quite dead. Learned to stay real quiet. Lyin’ on the ground, and all.” He huffs out a humorless laugh. He can’t meet your eyes.

You don’t know if you’re still breathing. It feels like you aren’t.

Your hands clench instinctively, grasping for something that might steady you, but the air only offers shifting shadows.

“And my father-” you choke on a swallow. “He-”

Bucky nods once, sharp and terse. His jaw locks, bracing for words he’d rather not say. “He covered it up.”

An intense pain builds in your heart, burning through the last traces of your faith in the man who has raised you.

The muscles in your face are trembling and there is that stubborn pulse inside your chest where that sob you won’t release tries to carve its way free.

Your father had a hand in Bucky’s pain.

Not just the scars on Bucky’s body, but the ones that run far deeper, the ones so deeply embedded into his very being. A soldier, abandoned by the kingdom he served, betrayed by the very man who should have protected him. Betrayed by the very man whose daughter he’s now been forced to protect. It is such a cruel reality, you can’t breath.

You feel like the air is trying to choke you. Gravity itself seems to conspire against you, pulling you down into the earth’s depths where the air is thin and hope does not exist. It slips between your lungs before it can soothe you.

A picture forms you haven’t dared to assemble until now.

And it makes tears well in your eyes. Pain stabbing and stabbing and stabbing your heart to death. You blink furiously, unwilling to let them fall. You can’t look at him. Not even closely.

Bucky told you about his mother and sister. He told you that your mother sent them away for their own safety. But he didn’t tell you why they were in danger in the first place.

Now you understand.

Your heart races, seeming to try and outrun the collapse of your world. It hammers against your ribs like fists on a locked door. The more it hammers, the more chaotic it gets, beating to the tempo of misery.

“No,” you whisper, lips wobbling. Tears cling to your lashes. Your chest heaves with the effort to breathe through the pain.

Bucky’s brows are deeply furrowed. His eyes never left you, teeth grinding together. His features are full of a struggle he tries to break out of.

Bucky Barnes was a soldier, abandoned by the kingdom he served, betrayed by the very man who should have protected him. And worse, threatened into silence by the safety of his family.

“No,” you repeat, the word a single quiver. “Your mother, and- and your sister-”

Bucky’s head drops. His hand moves over his hair. His breath leaves him with a harsh, strained sound.

Your father has threatened them, using their lives as leverage to keep Bucky silent about whatever horrors he had endured. Because exposing the truth would have cost Bucky everything he held dear.

Bucky’s eyes are the confirmation of what you are already puzzling together.

And you can’t look at him any longer. A choking sound leaves you. Your gaze moves to the flames of the fire lazily flickering upwards into the sky. The heat sears in your eyes but you don’t look away.

If you weren’t sitting already, you’d be lying on the ground by now. Your muscles are unsure whether to hold firm or buckle under the pressure. A tremor starts in your knees, making its way upward like a warning your body already understands.

How could the man you once idolized be capable of such cruelty? And how has Bucky borne it all, carrying all of this silently, without breaking?

Shame prickles under your ribs, seeping through every breath. It’s like a slow erosion happening inside you. A sense that you are both too much and never enough. You burn, consumed by something that leaves no smoke but scars all the same. Each breath fans the flames. No matter how full or brittle.

Bucky’s eyes burn you down and you can’t help but meet them again.

His face is softened in a way you’ve never seen before - not even in those rare moments when his walls seemed to crumble just enough for something warmer. There are shadows in those blues but they lock onto yours with a gentleness that has your muscles trembling.

A tear slips from the corner of your eye and you swipe at it hurriedly. You try desperately to pull your thoughts together, but there is nothing left to be done. The dam has already burst. A sob leaves you.

Another tear follows, streaking down your cheek, hot and bitter, filled with all the hurt that has just been released between you.

“Hey,” Bucky says quietly, a gritted note in his voice full of kindness. “No.”

A large, calloused hand cups your face, his thumb swiping the damp trail across your cheekbone.

The unexpected tenderness makes your breath quake, and more shame creeps onto your skin for having allowed yourself to shatter in the open.

“C’mon don’t do that,” he murmurs under his breath. He sounds pained by the sight of you. The sight of your tears. Again. Like something in him is crying out for an answer to your broken heart.

He leans closer, shifting on the dirty ground, to brush his other hand gently against the side of your jaw, framing your face between rough palms. His palms feel warm in contrast to the hot current running through your body, but he holds on steadily.

Bucky tilts your chin enough for you to meet his gaze, blue irises that grapple with guilt, but also something more subdued. Something soft and real you aren’t sure you even earned from him.

“Don’t cry, sweetheart. Please,” he pleads near a whisper and it rips something off inside you.

The pain in your heart only seems to get stronger. You want to claim him wrong, that if anyone should rightfully feel grief or tears for the pain they carry, it is him. But the words refuse to leave your throat. All that comes is a strangled sound, a whimper, a sob, followed by a few more sweltering tears.

His thumbs continue to diligently brush your cheeks once more, painstakingly slow as if erasing the evidence of your hurt could undo it altogether.

“I mean it, darlin’,” he implores quietly. His voice is still rough. “Don’t.”

It does not feel easy though. You just found out how much has been robbed from him, how your father has contributed to it all, the man who has loomed over your life like a shadow not easily warded off with a single light. The personification of cold judgment.

And still, Bucky is softhearted and steady-eyed against your breaking moment, offering kindness and comfort.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper thickly. “I am so sorry.” Your voice is fractured. It feels inadequate. Hollow. Not enough.

Bucky’s thumbs rest against your temples as if trying to reground you.

He bites down hard on a slightly trembling lip, the muscle in his cheek standing out sharply. For a moment, his eyes seem to look for a distraction somewhere far away, somewhere only he can see.

When they return to you, there is a pool of his own apology shimmering within them, deep enough to drown in.

He releases a gruff breath. “Not on you. This is not your fault, Y/n.” His voice is firm but also breaking with a sorrow he can’t fully express. “Wasn’t exactly easy on you,” he says lowly, gravelly. He clears his throat. “I was wrong. About you.”

You shake your head, still wedged between his hands. Your lips are wobbling, your voice in cracks. “You had every right.”

“No.” His voice is resolute. Tension pulls at his jaw. His brows almost meet each other. He shakes his head, letting his hands slide into your hair. “I didn’t.”

You sniffle. A harsh, wavering breath falls from your lips. A sob crawls up your spine. “I do not blame you for hating me.”

Bucky’s hands against your face go still. They stiffen. He even seems to flinch ever so faintly and it makes you look at him briefly. He bites back a dry swallow as if something wedged there might never leave. Something urgent pulls at his jaw, making it tick.

“I don’t hate you,” he leans his head in, looking you directly in the eyes. “Don’t hate you, princess. Alright? Don’t think that. God, please don’t think that.”

Your hands are still shaking in your lap and Bucky’s own hands fall from your face for an instant so he can trail the pads of his fingers along your wrist.

“I’m the one bein’ sorry, sweetheart.” His voice falters, a huskiness catching in his tone.

Your chest is swollen from the hard work of breathing against its pressure, while new tears still threaten to slip out of the corners of your eyes. But Bucky stays close. Still kneeling right in front of you.

“Look at me, please.”

You do, although your tears blur your vision.

“I’ll say it again,” he murmurs, swallowing dryly. “Please don’t cry, darlin’. Don’t cry.”

His eyes hold the pain he is too broken to voice.

“Yes, you will rise from the ashes, but the burning comes first. For this part, darling, you must be brave.”

- Kalen Dion

Taglist: @cjand10 @unaxv @bellamoret @singsosworld @mrsnikstan @melsunshine @hawkinsavclub1983 @homiesexual-or-homosexual @vvs-dlxodyd

[on-a-lucky-tide]

GODDAMN

How am I meant to explain to people that my main motivation to drag my dysphoric and depressed ass to the gym is a blog about beautiful military men??

"Find the motivation to take care of yourself<3" ok so it's these texts about a russian guy-

Listen. Wanting to look like Russell Adler is a reasonable goal for a german transman.

Sorry this is a hot mess, recently started working out and got questioned, I'm so tired man(in general)

Bro, you don't need to explain yourself to anyone. Or just make some random shit up. You don't owe anyone jackshit when it comes to your personal health and wellbeing. Here, you can borrow some of mine:

So if I ever top I leave my partner a mess, but you [the homophobic/misogynistic creep "acquaintance"] wouldn't know anything about that, would you, cause the orgasm gap between straight men and women is larger than the mariana trench.

Dicks don't ride themselves, do they, sweetheart?

So they have to shoot to kill when they come for me.

So I can lift my partner out of bed and into a bath when we are old.

So I can carry the weight of conversations with you [the recipient].

Seriously, mate, let go of the need to justify yourself to others and you will be set free. And that goes for everything from characters you love, to what you eat, to how you dress. Shame is social control.

Someone very, very cruel and unwell once told me when I was at my lowest that "some people just need someone to hate, and that's you". They were trying to stick the knife in and kick me when I was down, but what they actually did is flip a switch in my head. If, by even existing, people are gonna hate me, then fuck 'em. I will be defiantly, spitefully myself, answering to no one.

For what it's worth, I am fucking proud of you. It takes courage to choose healing over misery. Just turn up for yourself. It's worth it. Promise.

[gday-gecko]

EEEEEEEEEE I AM AMAZING (said with modesty) AND NO ONE CAN TELL ME OTHERWISE

i bound a book!!! from scratch!!! :DD

i got sick of the godawful formatting in tfc so i reformatted it and printed it (which i was only able to do bc we finally got a new printer lol)

all those videos on yt and tt use so much equipment but it's all a lie. the only thing i bought was stuff to make the cover (fabric, card, end papers)

im actually so proud of myself tho like i wasn't expecting it to look good- obvi it's not as good as the other ones out there but i reckon it was pretty alright for a first go

progess pics :) + what i did:

the paper i printed on was 70gsm and 28 sheets per section (7 a4 pages, 14 pages when folded) ALSO do NOT print in booklet formatting from word BC it messes it up (i learnt that the hard way ;-;)

i put holes with a thumbtack at 2cm, 5cm, 7cm, 9.5cm, 11.5cm, 14cm, 16cm, 19cm and used a wool needle to sew them. i probably should've pressed them before sewing them together coz it would've been tighter but oh well. next time.

my book press was 2 wooden chopping boards and some clamps. + put paper on the inside so it doesn't stick to the boards. idk if using baking paper wouldve stuck less, but when you take it off, u gotta kinda pull it off from the back.

i couldn't find my spatular so i used my finger to spead the glue which wasn't very efficient but it got the job done

i found some non-stretchy cotten and stuck some kind of iron on back into it to make it thicker.

the little things at the top and bottom of the spine was just a strip of fabric folded over a toothpick and glued together. also i used my ruler to make folds and smooth stuff out

anyway i think it's really cool and i'm definitely gonna do it for the other 2 :D

[hongjoongspoetry]

hongjoongspoetry's tumblr wrapped, 2024

Thank you @bvidzsoo for the tag!! 🩷

2024 review

2024 was the year I really got into writing for ateez. I've been writing fanfics since middle school and used to be in a lot of different fandoms. I used to post on wattpad, but was never consistent or managed to finish any of my stories. Ateez is the first group/fandom that I've really kept writing for a long period of time and not lost interest in, plus I've also managed to write complete oneshots and am almost even done with my first series (ever)!!!

Total statistics of 2024

- no. of fics: 8 - wc: 151.3K - no. of wips: 9

Genres explored in 2024

Horror, action, romance, dystopia, historical, sports fiction, slice of life, comedy, pirate fics (that one's in the drafts but it was written in 2024), can't forget the golden trio of fluff, smut and angst!!

first fic of 2024: Reassuring Words and Mellow Touches

- posted: feb 17th - pairing: Idol!San x F!Reader - comments: I believe this was my first ever ateez fic and it was actually "self indulgent" too. As stated in the author's note, I have a fear of giving birth and it's known in my primary family, but no one takes my fear seriously. So, back then, wrote the things I needed to hear in the moment and it was to have someone be understanding of my feelings.

longest fic: Bones, Blood and Teeth Erode

- posted: oct 8th - pairing: non idol!Yunho x F!Reader - comments: I never imagined to write something pushing 40k words!!! I'm actually amazed and proud of myself for finishing it. It was certainly a challenge as BBATE wasn't anything I've written before.

last fic: A Love Written in Gold | Chapter 1

- posted: nov 8th - pairing: Proletarian!Hongjoong x Nobility!Reader - comments: I'm so excited for this fic and everything I've planned for it!! I was originally not going to post it until Cold Hands, Warm Heart was done, but I couldn't hold myself from writing lmaooo.

top 3 most popular fics of 2024

Reassuring Words and Mellow Touches

- posted: feb 17th - pairing: Idol!San x F!Reader - comments: so this is getting quite repetitive 😭 it is what it is lmaoo, im just happy people could find comfort in my writing. Back then, I didn't expect it to get the attention it did or that people would reach out and tell me how much they feel seen.

Too Sweet

- posted: apr 24th - pairing: Upcoming rockstar!Yunho x F!Reader - comments: This fic is entirely inspired by Hozier's Too Sweet. I was obsessed with that song when it came out and I think I listened to it on REPEAT. I just had to write a fic to it and at the time, it was the longest fic I had eve written!

Baby, Love Me Lights Out

- posted: sep 21st - pairing: Idol!San x GN!Reader - comments: okay so this one, I just wrote it for shits and giggles 😭 that was the day I learned just how much atiny love drunken san lmaooo.

mina's personal picks

Cold Hands, Warm Heart

- posted: jun 3rd - pairing: hockey player!mingi x figure skater!reader - comments: this is my fav fic (series) from 2024! I've always wanted to do an ice sports fanfic, but never really had the time nor like "knowledge" to do it when I was younger lmao. I have so many ideas for this fic and this universe overall because the other boys will have their own stories later on, so they are all connected!! AND we get small cameos/easter eggs in each series of what the other boys' fics will be about! Although there are a lot of readers who liked CHWH, I'm still a bit sad it didn't get more recognition as I did put in a lot of thought behind it, but I'm still happy its almsot done. Mainly because it's my first ever series and well, I just love the characters I've created

A Love Written in Gold

- posted: oct 8th - pairing: Proletarian!Hongjoong x Nobility!Reader - comment: Okay, so season 3 of bridgerton really sparked this idea of writing a bridgerteez fanfic and I just had to write something for my bias! I'm a sucker for the forbidden love trope so this was the perfect fic to use it for lmaooo. No, but this is also a fic I have so so so much to planned for and I really can't wait to share it with you!! It's also really fun to write, which I can say I don't feel the same for some fics. If you have time and love bridgerton, I advice you to give it a chance!

2025 goals

One of my goals for 2025 is to write more and publish more fics than I did in 2024, but I don't know if I will achieve it as I'm swimming in work from uni hahah. If not, then I at least wish to finish my series cold hands, warm heart and a love written in gold before 2025 ends. I also want to start writing the next instalment Puzzle Pieces!

No pressure tags: @ennysbookstore @solaris-amethyst @seongwars @desirehorizon @everyonewooeverywhere + anyone else who wants to do this! 🩷

[asyisnotok]

i!! do!! NOT!! have an unhealthy obsession with gear five!!!

[mblue-art]

You made Killer such a cute little sad boy omg I am screaming. Please hug him or something, or trap him under a content little kitty idk but he needs it.

I love your art, it's so soft, sweet, warm, and cozy. Like marshmallows in warm hot cocoa <3

awe, ur sweet anon, thank u i appreciate this very much <333

belated cuddles from a kibby and his crush!! for the birthday boy! (napping at the coziest corner at ccino's 😎)

<< 🎯

[nomiyakazehaya]

super late night doodle, shoulder started protesting so this is as far as i'll go for now 😩

good night

[tpup]

this was the most painful, gut-wretching summer of my life. but I did look good as hell

cheer me up. throne / c@shapp: houndt

[spotaus]

The brothers meet again

Ohhh my gods, this one was so daunting (I don't like backgrounds 😭) but it was so fun!!! This scene is going to be like. The really fun dramatic one when I get around to writing it, but for now here's a piece for it instead!!

Very quick explanation for those who haven't seen my insane rambles: Dream was about to kill Killer (finish him off) when Nightmare bursts out of hiding to get between them!

Now, bonus stuff!

^ He's actually very handsome <3

^Thinner version with a crop I like better??

^ I had to check sizing a few times (but Killer is angled so idk if it really helped?) And I just thought this was REALLY funny

^ Just the twins!

[adhdtsukasa]

tsukasa tenma has ADHD!! except it's an actual analysis because 1. look at my url 2. i'm mentally unwell (and i started to love tsukasa mostly because i immediately recognized my ADHD traits in him). which is a thing i should probably leave for ADHD awareness month, HOWEVER!! it was my birthday yesterday and i wanted to spoil myself (i just kinda overlooked how much time writing it from scratch would take me, so i'm a bit late with it). and i reaaally don't wanna wait until november when i finally wrote it down because i'm so HYPED because i was preparing for it like what? two years? somewhere around it. and that's a LONG time.

please keep in mind that i'm no psychologist, psychiatrist nor a neurologist and while i do use some sources (cannot really confirm if they are true, though... because i forgot to write credits down... so i'm really sorry for that), most of this analysis was just based off on my personal experiences with the disorder (and i don't really have the full professional knowledge of what i struggle with i'm just a Boy). i mean, i am analyzing a character from a hatsune miku game. i think i'm already putting way too many effort than i should.

also the examples of tsukasa's behavior here are not all of the things, because i wrote down only the things i remember off from the top of my head. sorry, guys. my hyperactive ass is not sitting thru all the stories again just to get my crumbs, unfortunately.

anyways, with this a little bit unprofessional and messy introduction, let's get it started!

1. THE MAIN PART OF THIS WHOLE THING, AKA HOW THE ADHD SYMPTOMS CORRESPOND TO TSUKASA'S BEHAVIOR

i wanted to write it down in my own words, but i think the screen above has summed it up perfectly; there are some established symptoms of ADHD, but to be an ADHDer you don't have to experience them all. and this is going to explain why i'm gonna show a lot of these symptoms later, yet gonna connect only some of them with tsukasa. it's only these i have evidence for, and yet i think they're good enough to point at tsukasa and already say woah! an ADHDer!!

in short, there are three types of ADHD: hyperactive, inattentive (ADD) and combined. the combined one is the most common iirc, so that's also what i'm going to focus on today. especially since for a rep of the other types, i could say that shizuku's a rather great representation of ADD — but that's not the point of my ted talk today, so i'm not going to go into the detail about it. i'm sure some momojan or shizuku oshi would do better than me in this field, so i'm leaving it to the experts.

these are the symptoms that i managed to gather — the first two screens being about the symptoms viewed in children, the last one being about the symptoms viewed in adults. "in which one of them tsukasa belongs to?" that's a good question, because i actually don't know. calling a high schooler a child doesn't sit quite right with me, yet a freshly turned 17/18-years-old is not exactly an adult, either (although most of the symptoms i'm analyzing come from these that are viewed in adults). and while i do think tsukasa has more of the symptoms viewed in adults, we're gonna analyse them all! because i'm putting my all into this.

FORGETFULNESS

i believe there's not much left to say, as this is the most obvious one and everyone already knows that. even though it's not touched that much anymore for some reason, tsukasa's forgetfulness is his very apparent trait. it varies in severity a lot of times: from him basically forgetting both his childhood and true feelings in the main story to him, for example, forgetting his own phone and lunch (in the same day!!) in hinamatsuri. even saki in the same event, while they were arguing, called him a "big, dumb forgetter" and assumed that he forgot what happened the day he brought her the hinamatsuri dolls to hospital. while forgetting basically half of your life is not exactly normal and can be a sign of something bigger, like dissociative amnesia, his forgetting of just the ordinary things and it happening a lot definitely still fits this trait.

EXCESSIVE TALKING/PHYSICAL MOVEMENT

while this is something that you'd rather connect to emu (and for a good reason), it's not like tsukasa is completely devoid of it either; he talks a lot. he moves a lot. it's not on emu's level of hyperactivity, but it's also not "a lot" that's taken as a social norm, based on how the people around him react. he's putting the 1 in oddball 1 2, after all.

in holy night or some side stories connected to it (it might be meiko's side story? but i'm not exactly sure) it was also said that tsukasa moves in his sleep a lot to this point that his parents have to leave his christmas presents under his door instead of next to his bed.

oh, and he also talks to himself a lot. even in class, which was confirmed in chapter 6 of dazzling (or maybe even earlier, it's just the one moment that i remember). (but i'll get to this moment later on)

he says his long monologues, he strikes his poses at every occasion — and while i don't think that's the first thing you think of when you have "excessive talking/movement" in mind, for me it sure does count as it.

LITTLE OR NO SENSE OF DANGER

this point can seem rather weird, because "isn't tsukasa always riddiculed at rui's weird inventions"? well, yeah, he is, that is not a thing to deny. but he also agrees to try out most of them, if not all, if it's for the sake of the show. he's aware of what can happen, but he also doesn't back away if it means that he'll be one step closer to achieving his dream of stardom.

does it count as "little sense of danger"? well, i'm actually not sure, for me it doesn't, but maybe for someone it does. i'd say that's a rather weak point, but i wanted to include the explanation for the counterpoint of it — that's why i even mentioned it in the first place. i don't have a lot to say about this tbh.

update: oh, actually no, wait, i just remembered. remember how tsukasa in phoenix decided to not eat anything for three days just to be able to resonate with rio, while also having to do straining exercise on top of that? you certainly cannot say that's a safe thing to do, but he still went along with that in order to get the role. it makes me come to a conclusion that tsukasa actually has a sense of danger, but sometimes chooses to willingly ignore it if only it makes him get closer to fulfilling his dream. i think it's coming close enough to the little/no sense of danger to be actually considered an ADHD trait.

DIFFICULTY KEEPING QUIET

while i'm not sure if what i'm going to talk about is a difficulty keeping quiet in a traditional sense of way, it definitely counts as it, somehow: tsukasa is loud. like, really loud. and that's another obvious fact both for us and for characters in-universe, especially when thinking of tsukasa shiho's first thought is that he's kinda noisy, which can be seen in the "a friend's brother" 1koma. (and probably a lot of other cases. free shiho.)

tsukasa doesn't seem to realize that he's way louder than he should be and that him being loud is his first impression in most of the cases, though, or at least i don't remember any moment where it happens (and it's a possibility. then that's on me, i guess.). and yeah, i know what's the reason for it, obviously — he's supposed to be a comic relief character. because wansho's stories are mostly supposed to make you smile, as this is what wansho's aspiration is. however, as much as being intended to make the viewer laugh it wouldn't be, it still is a part of tsukasa's character, and a rather important one on top of that. his constant loudness is something that's definitely not considered normal by the society and could very well fit into this symptom.

and since i promised to elaborate on the mentioned before scene from dazzling chapter 6: when tsukasa talks to himself in class, it always ends up to be loud. and it already happened a few times.

(tl by tsukasa's #3 fan on youtube because i don't have proseka on my phone wah)

if it's not a difficulty keeping quiet, then i don't know what is. bro can scream up to 120dB as measured by robonene for god's sake.

IRRITABILITY/QUICK TEMPER

again, this is something that was more apparent with early game tsukasa, maybe he just got medicated. idk man. but even if it happened three, almost four years ago, it still happened, i don't make the rules. back in the early game, tsukasa was really easily losing his temper and getting annoyed, mad even — i mean, that was the whole point of the main story argument: tsukasa's first response to nene accidentally messing up their show, which was not even her fault, was to shout at her. and while this was obviously very important thing to him and being upset at this is a rather understandable reaction, taking this as far as screaming at a poor girl for not being to face the audience because of her anxiety is not something a person who can control their anger would do.

it could be also easily seen by his reaction to emu and rui's antics back in the early game, which were often stained with irritation.

another example is his hinamatsuri argument with saki, where, despite loving her so much, he still got slightly mad at her for not liking the new dolls he bought her. he started to regret his harsh words and actions soon enough, obviously, but it doesn't change the fact that it was rather easy for him to get him across.

INABILITY TO DEAL WITH STRESS

if i'm not mistaken, tsukasa has once said something along the lines of "is it anxiety? there's no way a star like me would feel anxiety" — but i cannot recall for the love of my life in which story it appeared, so i don't want to take it as a face value when i don't have a solid proof for it.

other than this vague mention of "something that's in the story but i don't remember where", i'll admit, i don't really have anything backing me up for this tbf. i mean, i guess maybe tsukasa doing his best to appear strong as a child to not worry his parents could work? because the stress of saki being in the hospital definitely was also present here, although i just see this more as a coping mechanism for his situation than a reaction to stress, so that's not a solid evidence either.

so, yeah. take this one with a grain of salt, actually.

from the symptoms that weren't listed here, i remember reading something about people with ADHD enjoying to show off more, which is certainly what tsukasa does often — and while it actually applies to me too, it wasn't on an english site so i didn't screenshot it and i cannot really find it anywhere in english... so even though i treat it just like my whole argument for the inability to deal with stress, i thought it's just worth mentioning.

however, there is obviously one more thing...

HYPERFIXATION/SPECIAL INTEREST

obviously, i'm talking about acting here: for tsukasa, acting aligns with all these criterias. it is his deep passion; it is something highly engaging for him; it is sometimes all-consuming for him; he tunes out the world around him when he thinks about how can he possibly improve his acting (see: the dazzling moment i showed earlier. yeah, i like to use it as a backing point a lot, as you can see.); and it is something that is his life-long interest.

is it his special interest or his hyperfixation, though? well, it's hard to tell...? because while according to screen two, spinterest revolves around a topic and hyperfixation revolves around an activity, so it would qualify what tsukasa feels towards acting as a hyperfixation, it's still kinda hard for me to call it so because of its length. yes, screen three clearly says that hyperfixation can last years, but they mostly revolve around shorter periods of time, after all (my longest hyperfixation was just a year long, for example). i think it's up to you to determine whether you'd call tsukasa's love for acting a hyperfixation or a special interest, but it's something from these two most certainly.

i'm also a big fan of the headcanon that tsukasa's other spinterest is kaito ww it's in no way a canon evidence (unfortunately!), but kaito's 1* side story, where tsukasa and emu are watching kaito's show and tsukasa is explaining to her why kaito's wearing a scarf somewhat implies that tsukasa knew a thing or two about kaito before the main story. and i'm all for it. colopale let tsukasa be a kaito fanboy pleaseee.

2. I REALLY LIKE ANALYZING SONGS, IF YOU CAN'T TELL

those who have already read a few of my things probably know what i love to do the most — analyzing songs!! so i wouldn't be myself if i just left tsukasa's commisions without analyzing them under the angle of neurodivergence, especially since the sole reason i became obsessed with the thought of ADHD tsukasa was that one sekahaji line (there's too much noise, so much noise and it keeps getting worse you will always be famous).

of course, remember that only the world hasn't even started yet should be taken as a canon value! producers are often given space to do whatever they want in the lyrics of the songs they are commissioned for, so they're not canonical in any way. i think it's still fun to look at their lyrics and ramble about them for a bit, though. i've already got too carried away anyways.

won't be posting photos of the lyrics since i'd hit the images limit, but you can check them yourself — all the translations i'm taking, as always, from the vocaloid lyrics wiki. (since filament fever has two tls on there, i want to clarify that i've only looked at and considered in my analysis the official english one, because it's, well, official.)

THE WORLD HASN'T EVEN STARTED YET

besides the mentioned earlier there's too much noise, so much noise and it keeps getting worse, which i think of as a representation of overstimulation (since i used to see people asking "oh but why tsukasa has something about there being too much noise in a song made out of his feelings when he's such a loud person himself". because he likes the noise he makes, not the overwhelming, overstimulating noise from the outside!!), sekahaji also has a rather good amount of quotes that could be read as something connected to neurodivergence (based on the fact that it's not supposed to be a song about this topic): the main theme of these are procrastination, which can be seen in let's cross the end of all of this, partying forever and the world hasn't even started yet line itself. the thought of the world not even starting implies that there's still a lot of time left to do something, while "partying forever" can refer to deciding to give up on doing the things you should do and going to drown in something that indulges only you and yourself for the rest of eternity. while procrastination is not counted as an official ADHD symptom, it's a trait that people with the disorder very often have (for reasons obvious).

other lines, which i couldn't entirely fit into a box of a certain symptom, are there's too much conflict, so much conflict and it keeps growing (a parallel line to the noise one, so it means something! right) and let's break the plans for a harmonious future. in my personal interpretation, they both can be viewed as your typical neurodivergent struggle in a neurotypical society — "too much conflict" refering to an internal struggle of not being completely normal, while the "harmonious future" that's going to get broken are just the social norms that are going to be broken because of an off-putting, neurodivergent behavior. something that some neurotypical people dooon't really like.

TONDEMO-WONDERZ

since i've just talked about breaking the social norms, "why?!" and "do it like this!!" aren't like you, huh? line from tondemo-wonderz is going to go first, because it revolves around the same topic. it's the same case: it's about (subconscious, not intentional) fighting what's accepted by the society by just being yourself — because you're neurodivergent, you're different.

from the other lines in tondemo-wonderz, i have only one and it's take an eraser to your memories?!, which is pretty much self explanatory. as always, a mention of forgetting something in tsukasa's commision. who would've thought.

88 SHOOTING STARS

another self explanatory line that i have written down as first: it's okay if you only remember a little part of it sometimes. another mention of tsukasa forgor™, and while it corresponds with what happened in dazzling, it's still a line mentioning forgetfulness — so it's worth mentioning.

aren't we just inevitably going around in circles? and it's okay if you take a rest for a little bit sometimes can be interpreted as another mention of procrastination and while it's not that apparent as it was with sekahaji, because going in circles can refer to something else and taking a rest sometimes is not a bad thing at all, i still wanted to mention them here. for the record.

you ought to slip and fall in panic in the final moment is connected to a symptom that i showed, yet didn't elaborate on it (because i didn't have anything to work with) — making careless mistakes. the same case, yet with another symptom goes with is this not enough yet again? is this not how it's supposed to be? couldn't we go even further than this?, which can be seen as a reflection of unability to listen to instructions. a bit of reaching with this one (like this whole part damn), but as i said earlier: for the record, i'm leaving it here. to show that i had some intense thoughts.

tbf, when i think about it now, maybe the mentioned earlier "why?!" and "do it like this!!" aren't like you [...] could very well fit this symptom too.

MR SHOWTIME

mr showtime you will always be famous, because this is a song that gave me a looot of things to work with. i was so flabbergasted when i read these lyrics for the first time. tsukasa tenma why are you like this. /aff

there are a lot of lines hinting being easily distracted, and these are basically the very first ones, too: you know what? i just can't make up my mind, it's so messed up that i can't put my thoughts together and a merry-go-round (my thought process) goes round and round are all about it. like you cannot deny it this time, if it's not about being unable to stay focused then i really don't know what is [insert the tsukasa don't look away stamp here because i love it and it's my biggest motivation to actually focus whenever i do something]. the more i mess around and waste time, the more i become hungry / and i can't handle it can be seen as about procrastination again, and even not "can be seen", it's literally being frustrated at yourself for wasting time, that's the sole outcome of a procrastination!! being bothered by feeling anxious, meanwhile, is resonating with the inability to deal with stress once again.

also jumping the gun. driving in a zigzag manner can actually connected with the little to no sense of danger. because, as far as i'm aware, driving in a zigzag manner is certainly not a safe activity. don't do it at home.

from the symptoms that i haven't yet mentioned to this point, am i taking a long way? am i making a fruitless effort? can be reflecting difficulty organizing tasks — since the poor planning of your activities can make you take a long way and can make you do a fruitless effort. then, where's the fun in taking shortcuts all the time? can be read along the lines of something coming close to extreme impatience and while a person that's extremely impatient would actually enjoy taking the shortcuts to get closer to their goal or destination, said impatience can be also connected with the desire for something interesting to happen. a task can make you impatient not because it's long, but because it's simply boring — avoiding shortcuts can make it less boring, even if it extends its duration. with this explanation, it makes the unexpectedness (unexpected program) is the best part of the show (my life) perfectly fit into this category, even though i wouldn't call this line a sign of impatience on its own.

i have some issues with i'm pathetic. i can't satisfy myself, because... at first i thought of connecting it with either mood swings or inability to deal with stress, however i'm not sure if that's really it. i'm pretty sure it connects to neurodivergence in some way, but i just can't put my finger on it, so... i'm just leaving it here for the record, once again.

oh, and there's also i got lost in the world (stage) and / the end credits rolled (the curtain fell), which also is pretty much summing up the experience of being neurodivergent in the neurotypical society. in the middle of trying to stay true to yourself and having to mask just to be accepted, it's easy to get lost — and once you do so, there's no going back. the curtain falls.

to end this part of the analysis, i'd show the lyrics from filament fever and sekai wo terasu tetrad here. i won't do this, however, and the reason for it is fairly simple — they don't give me much material to work with and i'm not really surprised, because mr showtime has succesfully sucked all of the neurodivergent coded lyrics into itself. there just won't be another song like mr showtime, i fear.

i can just say that in filament fever there is running away from the flow of time — which got me thinking of either procrastination and unability to stick to time-consuming tasks, with the former being more plausible as a potential interpretation... but that would be it.

3. NAKAYAMA IS A METAPHOR FOR NEURODIVERGENT MASKING AND IT'S THE STUPIDEST THING I'VE EVER SAID BUT YOU HAVE TO HEAR ME OUT ON THIS

listen, i know how it sounds.

i'm not actually a fan of trying to fit every thing a character does into a box of a metaphor, symbol or allegory, i really am not. i think some things should just stay as simple as they are, but this thought has been bothering me ever since i've first seen spoilers of what's happening in a story where you're the star for the very first time. i'm in no way saying it has any canonical meaning, but i just thought it would be fun to include. because maaaybe someone sees my vision.

for those who haven't seen tsukasa4 yet or want to have a recap of what has happened in it: the whole event story revolves around tsukasa trying to grasp his role (as always). wxs got recommended to shunmei-za by shousuke and went there to practice their acting skills, immediately getting thrown onto the preparation for their next performance. tsukasa, however, is not a lead this time — he got the role of a supporting character and has got basically three lines to say on stage total. since tsukasa's used to playing lead roles, he obviously has issues with grasping the role — it's hard to use method acting in regards of a character that says three sentences total and nothing more. with help of bakuno reki, one of the actors in shunmei-za, and the rest of wxs, he manages to create a portrayal of nakayama that would make him "come to life" and "be a protagonist of his own story", something that would make it easier for him to get into role, however...

he gets a little bit too carried away with his acting during the actual performance.

and this is not something that would ruin the whole play, obviously, he's just a supporting character, the less invested audience would probably forgot about his impact on the story after five minutes of his last appearance — but he still made a slip-up. he still resonated with his role, but didn't achieve the utmost perfection. he still did well acting, after all, he managed to receive praise from the director in the end... but it's still a very apparent mistake that was made.

(tl, once again, by the awesome tsukasa's #3 fan)

and that's where the nakayama masking metaphor theory (it's not even a theory but it sounds cooler this way) comes in.

nakayama is supposed to be just a man. from what we know about him, he's in his late twenties and works as an editor — and even though tsukasa makes up a whole backstory for him later on, he's still supposed to be ordinary. nothing special. he's coming nowhere near the other roles that tsukasa has played, he's not on the same level as miles, torpe and rio. and while you could possibly consider torpe and rio as rather ordinary, they still had something interesting to happen to them, the main reason why they were lead roles for their respective plays. in the tsukasa4 play, nakayama has nothing like that. he's literally just a guy, he's normal. and "normal" is a keyword here.

tsukasa did everything he could to fit into nakayama's role. he followed the script, he took the advice from a more talented and professional actor that is bakuno, he didn't do any mistakes during his preparations — and yet he still managed to mess up in the end. why?, besides of the fact that he just let himself become one with nakayama during the performance and it resulted in a supporting character outshining the lead?

if we take as a fact that tsukasa is, in fact, neurodivergent, it would make sense that he's having troubles with playing a normal person — because he's not exactly normal either. and this would very well work out as a metaphor of masking; even when you try your best, even when you mask yourself perfectly, you can still make slip-ups. you can still accidentally drop the act in middle of something that absolutely required it, or, similiar to what tsukasa did, can accidentally overdo it and end up perceived as even more weird than you'd be without masking. something something i got lost in the world and the end credits rolled. rings a bell?

and i'm not saying that tsukasa has a problem with masking, because he doesn't. he tries his best to pass as a normal member of society, but he also makes no effort in actively masking his weirdness (or else he wouldn't be a part of oddball one two). however, if you want to neurodivergent code your character, it would make sense to include a possibility of it in some way, right? especially since wxs stories' already had the theme of dealing with being perceived as weird (eg. rui's whole backstory, obviously). even if it's not affecting tsukasa directly, i think it would be cool to include something that indicates this issue's existence in his story and, in a way, his struggles.

however, as i said earlier, this is a very stupid thought and that's why i left it for the very end. i don't actually think that how tsukasa played nakayama was supposed to be a metaphor for masking, it's just a pure coincidence that it could be interpreted like that when you think about it too much.

aaand with this, we've finally come to an end!! (finally. i'm so exhausted.) i don't have anything more to say about this topic. maybe i'll retweet it with some more evidence in the future if we ever get more ADHDkasa content. for now, it would be all!

is tsukasa actually intentionally written as an ADHDer? Who Knows! there's a possibility that he is, but even if he's not, he's still one in my heart. regardless of the status of his possible neurodivergence, analyzing his behavior in this light was still very fun! and maybe i even converted someone into the ADHDkasa hell.

feel free to add something if you want to, and feel free to correct me if i got some things wrong! i still hope that even though of how messy this whole thing is written, i did tsukasa justice and didn't accidentally say too much nonsense lmao

...i hate ending analyses.

[vulpinesaint]

Venom + Kissing Death by MOTHICA

[figs-oliomedley]

it's time I come out: I am a Samukai fan. He's in my top 5, if not number one, Ninjago villains.

anyways 24 HOUR ANIMATION CHALLENGE BABY SOLVES ALL YOUR PROBLEMS WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO (except hand pain) I CAME I SAW I DIDN'T EAT COZ THAT'S A TIME LOSS BUT I COOKED

I wanted to add all the other ninja and I had their bits planned out, but hey, that's life. Hope to return to this in the future!

[sweetladymoon]

If you ever scroll past a fic on ao3 that hasn't been updated in a while and think to yourself "man they've probably abandoned this", just know that the authors do constantly think about these fics and it does keep them up at night.

(In other news I've just uploaded the last chapter to a fic I haven't updated in three years ajdkjakdjak)