#it doesn’t even matter if I don’t get it

[munybagd]

NEW POST FROM @munybagd

i am going to fuck him … i have a thing for men that moan especially the ones with deep voices .. mm makes my toes sweat 😛 ( NSFW )

whimpers came out as he tried his best to talk “ mmm fuck baby p-please,” his nail dug into your hips as he helped you bounce on his cock faster. he didn’t want you to stop — oh no, he doesn’t know what he would do with himself if you stopped .. maybe he would cry or beg on his knees. honestly, he would do anything for you to keep going. “ oh yeah … don’t stop — i w-want you to make a mess of m-me ” oh he looked so pretty under you … tears streaming down his cheeks as he looked at you -sucking on your fingers .. he so nasty but you like it. LINK 1

he fucks you sooo good that he’s moaning too. “ o-oh my good girl .. my good fucking girl ” his plan is to slut you out doesn’t matter if it’s in the bed, living room, kitchen, or even the car. he wants you a moaning mess which slowly turns him into a moaning mess as well. “ yeahhh th-there you go .. mm you’re daddy’s good girl, taking my c-cock so fucking well ” It’s like a race ‘ who can tap out first ’ by the way he’s moans you would think it’s him with his heavy breathing but little do you know that this is just the beginning.. LINK 2

sensitive, dom, and a moaning mess … he is a three-in-one! gosh, you love it — the way he sharply breathes in when he strokes his cock into you, the way he moans in between words, and the way he talks dirty to you excites you. “ mm s-say it .. u-use your words, baby ” makes you wanna cum right then and there. he loves hearing you talk, even if it’s just babbling, it makes him smile, but not like you would know cause his face is pressed against your neck due to him leaving deep bite marks. LINK 3

( BOUNS )

no shame in his game . he enjoys making audios for you, especially in random places it’s his favorite thing to do and he ALWAYS sends them to you when you’re out and about. “ guess where i-i’m at baby — mm i’m in our parking g-garage ” things like this turns him on and he knows that you get to turn on hearing him slur and stutter on his words. “ i-i-i have our f-favorite toy .. fuck i wish y-you were here to use it on m-me” gosh why does he do this to you and when you come home he acts like nothing is wrong :/ LINK 4

[aomiiine]

TUTORING GONE SOUTH

A TUTORING SESSION … college student!caleb x fem!reader warning(s) -> nsfw, MDNI (18+), pure filth ahead !! somewhat attraction to intelligence (vaguely STEM focused), established relationship (bf/gf), slightly perverted caleb, oral (f receiving), pussy drunk caleb, he makes you read smth while eating you out, not proofread wordcount. 1.6k (small rushed smth to get my creative juices flowing so this is just word-vomit//it was NOT supposed to be this long lol) taglist. @jellysix @tinycatharsis @wonuwuuuu @wonryllis @tsukkisukkii

A TUTORING SESSION WITH YOUR BOYFRIEND takes a turn for the better, or worse, when he finds your legs nudging his more than normal under the table. He finds your fascination with him just as interesting.

it was somewhere in the afternoon when you persuaded caleb to be your personal tutor. Well, not exactly ‘persuaded’, really, since he was more than willing to help you with anything. Including academics.

“You’re doing good so far.. Understanding it better after my explanation, pip-squeak?” Caleb asked, genuinely curious if you made any progress with his help. He knew some courses weren’t exactly for the weak, especially any mathematical or scientifical subjects. The one he was helping you with right now, physics. His specialty. It had to be considering his course.

“Yes, much better than my professor’s lectures. I should pay you for this, Caleb. How much for an hour?” You teased, peeling your attention from the book on the table to look at him with a playful smirk.

Caleb scoffed in response, turning his body to face you more than he already way. “Pay me? Yeah, why don’t you pay your beloved boyfriend with a kiss.” Caleb grinned mischievously at you, leaning in close to your face, clearly expectant for you to keep your word.

“As if,” you grumbled, head dipping back down to the thick book laid on the flat surface of the table, a familiar heat crawling to your cheeks. Your knee began to bounce traitorously beneath the table, unintentionally bumping his thigh beside you.

“Hm, you’re right.. A kiss isn’t enough,” he murmured, eyes observing every detail of you with a lazy smile all the while resting his temple on his knuckles. Caleb shifts, hand moving down to steady your thigh, slender fingers rubbing soothing circles over your knee as his palm caressed your skin through the skirt you wore. The contact made you freeze, brows furrowing in an attempt to ignore and concentrate.

“I always need more of your, princess.. doesn’t matter when, where or how.” Caleb’s hand travelled further up your inner thigh as he confessed his greed, squeezing the plump flesh he found beneath your skirt, the fabric lifting up high. The soft gasp you exhaled didn’t go unnoticed by his perceptive ears, your clear sign of pleasure responded with his fingers teasing the edges of your lacy panties.

“Caleb, I should be studying..” you muttered weakly, legs squirming at his invading fingers, playing with the seams of your panties with gentle tugs, letting it snap back onto your skin to leave a little sting. “Then keep on studying. Act like I’m not here, playing with your pretty pussy,” he murmured the last part hotly into your ear, being sure to lean in close enough that you’re acutely aware of his presence beside you.

“W-wait—too soon!” you yelped helplessly, grip on your pen tightening when his fingers reached beneath your panties, smearing your folds with slick arousal and impatiently delving two digits into your entrance the second he found it. Your head dipped once more, teeth biting on lip to stifle your pathetic moans.

Caleb didn’t say a word, admiring his effect on you as his fingers curled and thrusted in your wet heat, using the heel of his palm to grind against your sensitive clit. He smirked mischievously, violet eyes glinting with the same sentiment before he decided to tease you further, quickening the pace of his fingers long enough for you to feel yourself brought to edge.

He keeps on going even when your thighs quiver and part wide on your seat for him, hips rolling to meet his plummeting in desperation to chase your high—only to be denied of it.

“You son of a—aah, Caleb,” you whined, gaze hazy with lust now wide open and sharp to glare at your boyfriend sitting beside you undoubtedly amused. “Why’d you stop? I was so fucking close..”

“Because I wanted to,” he answered with a chuckle that grated on your nerves, making you more frustrated than you already were. He watched you struggle to recompose and grip your pen tighter, eyes searching for the exercise you were doing in attempt to continue. Yet, the moment you scribbled something down, his slender fingers slid out of you, digits glistening with your slick, making you hiss.

“Enough of this. Come up here.” Caleb withdrew his hand from your core, squeezing the flesh of your thigh before resting on your hip, fingers digging into your skin in a gentle pull.

you grumbled a curse beneath your breath before getting up from your seat, taking a few steps to stand in front of him after he pushed his chair back with a screech, making space for you without his hand leaving your body. He lifted the other arm, lifting you up with ease and setting you down on the edge of the table.

“What’re you planning?” Caleb’s hands moved to part your legs, letting you lean back on the table, a hand held behind you to support yourself up. “Nothing special.. Just a little playtime.” He said so with a smirk, voice filled with innuendo.

You huffed, eyes fixed on him as you felt his fingers hook over your panties, pulling it down and off swiftly. Just when you thought he’d dip his head down to your core, he stopped for a little something, reaching out for your textbook on the table and flipping the pages for a long yet familiar paragraph.

“Here. I want you to read this aloud, princess,” he instructed, a hint of authority in his tone. The side-long glance he made at you told you he wasn’t going to take no for an answer at all.

Caleb kept his eyes on you until you nodded, swallowing to dampen your suddenly dry throat. He hooked his arms under your thighs, fingers caressing your skin wherever he found it. His leaned down close to your bare pussy, blowing a hot breath against your folds to get a reaction—which he did—before his tongue darted out to lick a firm stripe up your entrance, delving into your folds with ease to find your slit. He buried his face deeper, nose grazing your throbbing clit the harder he ground himself into you.

You didn’t began reading straight away, moaning his name to adjust to his tongue invading your tight pussy with enthusiasm. “O-okay, so..” you exhaled heavily, head turned down to your shoulder to read the words of the text, stammering on your way with how skilfully his tongue curled deep inside your warm channel, pulling out to flick and suckle on your bundle of nerves.

“.. which leads to, ngh” you trailed off, eyes fluttering shut and mouth left agape in for a silent, breathless moan when Caleb’s hand trailed up from your thighs to your hips, fingers clinging onto your ass-cheeks, pulling you impossibly closer to him.

“Wrong line, princess.. You’re supposed to be on paragraph two, not three,” he groaned against your fluttering cunt, chin smeared with arousal as he lapped up your nectar with fervour, eager to swallow it all.

“Don’t think I don’t have that text memorised, baby,” he laughed lowly, desire filled eyes glancing up at your crumbling self, barely able to focus on the task he gave you. “So you better read it right if you wanna cum,” he warned with a sharp slap to your rear, revelling in the way you jolted at the impact, giving him the opportunity to ravish you further.

“Yes, please, Caleb, I wanna cum—holy fuck,” you moaned whorishly, head thrown back in pure, unadulterated pleasure when the slick muscle of his tongue fucked your insides rapidly, bringing you inches closer to your impending orgasm. The text was long forgotten by you for the moment, until he slowed agonisingly slow again, raising a silent demanding brow up at you. It seemed like your begging could only do so much.

You bit back a curse before turning down for the book beside you again, picking up where you left off. Caleb, ever the so-closeted-sadist, chucked shamelessly against your aching pussy, savouring the way your walls fluttered around his tongue while you struggled to read, words tripping as you went and sped up your little presentation so he could finally let you cum.

Reaching the last syllable, you shifted your attention back to the ruthless assault he made on your clit, finally able to close your eyes and let him lead you to sexual bliss. A hand of yours drifted from the edge of the table to tangle your fingers inside his dark locks, grabbing a fistful to push him further, deeper, in your depths, taking away his privilege to suck in some air.

“Fuck, that’s my girl.. my girl needs to cum, doesn’t she? ‘fcourse she does,” he growled softly between fleeting moans, mouth alternating between your clit and your slit, obsessed on the thought of making you climax. Your moans and cries reached a pitch, nails raking over his scalp gently as your pleasure reached a crescendo, toes curling and legs quivering like a knot ready to snap.

With one last nibble on your sensitive nub, your orgasm came in like a tidal wave, overwhelming your every nerve. Caleb stayed in place all the way, waiting for your twitches to stop and helping you bask in the afterglow. Panting with a heaving chest, you collapsed back onto the table, hair sprawled with beads of sweat falling down your temple, skin sheened with sweat.

“I’ll help you relax for a while, okay? Then, we’ll get back to our study session. I’m not done getting your mind in shape yet,” he grinned drunkenly, licking his lips for all the rest of your juices that he swallowed in thirsty gulps.

[missdynamighttt]

if husband! katsuki had a dream that you served him divorce papers, he would be SO mad at you.

katsuki woke up with a start, his chest heaving as the remnants of the vivid dream clung to his mind. in the dream, you had stood in front of him, utterly calm, as you handed him his worst nightmare: divorce papers.

“it's not you, its me,” you said, your expression indifferent as if breaking his heart meant nothing. "i'm just bored, katsuki."

it wasn’t real, he knew that. but the image of you walking away from him felt too real, too painful. the words echoed in his head as he sat on the edge of the bed, his fists clenched. bored? how could you say that after everything you've been through? even though it was just a dream, it shook him to near death.

and when katsuki saw you later that morning, smiling and greeting him like usual, he couldn’t help but scowl. normally, the sight would calm him, but instead, a strange sense of betrayal bubbled up inside him. how could dream-you say something like that? and why couldn’t he shake the feeling?

“morning, katsuki,” you said cheerfully, leaning in to kiss him on the cheek.

he turned his head slightly, causing your lips to brush his jaw instead. you blinked, confused. “uh… everything okay?”

“fine,” he muttered, getting up and leaving you all alone in the bed.

all day, katsuki avoided your texts, kept his responses curt, and barely looked your way when you crossed paths at home. you quickly realized something was off but couldn’t figure out what. by evening, you had enough.

"okay, whats your problem? you've been sulking all day,” you said firmly, standing in front of him while he sat on the couch. “you’ve been acting like i killed your damn dog. what did i do?”

katsuki glared at you, his emotions finally bubbling over. “you left me! that’s what you did!”

you stared at him, completely baffled. “what are you talking about? i didn’t leave you. i’ve been here all day!”

katsuki exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “fine. i had this stupid dream, alright? you—” he hesitated, the words catching in his throat. “you divorced me. you said you were bored and just... left me.”

for a moment, there was silence as you processed what he was saying. then, to katsuki’s annoyance, you started laughing.

“you’re mad at me... because of a dream?” you asked, your laughter bubbling out uncontrollably.

“it felt real!” he barked, his cheeks flushing slightly. “you don’t get to laugh! this isn't fuckin' funny! do you know how shitty that felt?!”

“i’m sorry!” you gasped between giggles, clutching your stomach. “it’s just… do you really think i’d ever do that?”

katsuki’s scowl deepened. “its not that. its just... you said it so casually in the dream. like i didn’t even matter.”

you tried to stifle your laughter, but your amusement was clear as day. “katsuki... you’re everything to me. i would never leave you. ever. especially not because i was bored. you’re the opposite of boring. you’re the most stubborn, infuriating, incredible man I’ve ever met.”

he grunted, looking away. “tch. doesn’t change the fact that it felt real.”

you bit your lip, guilt swirling in your chest. you could see how much the dream had affected katsuki, even if it wasn’t real. determined to make it up to him, you climbed onto his lap, straddling him, and cupped his face in your hands.

“i’m sorry your brain decided to torture you like that,” you said softly before leaning in to pepper his face with kisses. “but let me remind you of how much i love you.”

your lips pressed against his forehead, his cheeks, his nose, and finally, his lips. each kiss was light and playful, drawing a reluctant smirk from him.

“sweets,” katsuki muttered, trying to keep up the tough act, but you didn’t let up.

you continued your attack, kissing down his jaw and back to his lips, murmuring between kisses. “i'm so happy you're my husband.”

katsuki finally relented, his hands settling on your hips as he let out a low chuckle. “you’re fuckin' weird.”

“and you’re grumpy,” you teased. “but i love you anyway.”

“hmph. i love you too,” he admitted, his voice softer now as his arms wrap around you, brushing your nose against his. “sorry for being an idiot today.”

“you’re not an idiot. just... talk to me about it next time, okay?”

"fine. be my fuckin' wife for forever, 'kay?"

"i promise," you cut him off with a kiss.

and katsuki kissed you back, finally letting the tension melt away, drowning himself in the taste of your and your presence. you're here. you weren't gonna leave him because he was bored. you never would.

"tch. i’m still blaming you for my bad dreams though."

‎‧₊˚✧[ it's me, kia ! ]✧˚₊‧ ｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ ‎‧₊˚✧[ more of katsuki ! ]✧˚₊‧

[bunnybeaches]

141 s/o’s love language is bicep chewing

Price literally could care less. He’s been with you for so long that at this point he’s used to it. Whether it be laying in bed or while he’s working, you’re always nomming on that bicep.

”Honey I’m almost done I promise” John adjusts his glasses as he types away at his laptop in bed. He’s been working all night and frankly you’re tired of it, so you do what you always do. Bite on your favorite chew toy, his bicep.

“Oh dove you really couldn’t help yourself could you? Give me two more minutes” John just chuckles as you chew on his arm. Seems he’s just as stubborn as you are.

Now Johnny will chew on you right back. This man has absolutely no shame. Two playful idiots chewing on each other? sign this man up!! Will absolutely get turned on by this doesn’t matter when or where.

He’s wearing that shirt. That one compression shirt that hugs everything soooo perfectly. His stupidly perfect pecs, toned abs, and god those arms. Those biceps. You can’t help but take a small bite!

“Did ye just bite me?” Johnny stares at you with a dumbfounded expression before he’s tackling you to the ground. Chewing on your arms, soft tummy and your amazing thighs. “Don’t start a fight ye can’t win my love.”

Sweet baby Kyle doesn’t even notice you being silly. Thinks it’s something you do to calm yourself down. At the market? nom. Training? nom. Everywhere? nom.

“Baby can you hand me the list please? I want to see what’s on it.” Kyle looks at you but your mouth is on the bicep of his right arm. Not even chewing your mouth just gently resting there. He stops pushing the cart and moves to stroke your hair. “You ok love? The shoppings almost done then we can go home” He lets you chew or relax your mouth for however long you need.

Simon completely ignores you. You could bite him hard and man wouldn’t even bat an eye. Just like John he’s used to his silly wife’s antics.

Simon lets out the heaviest sigh you’ve ever heard. You really were trying to watch a movie (key word trying) and you decided you needed a little snack. No not that snack, your husband’s delicious bicep. Nothing not a word or anything after you bit down. Your husband just keeps watching the movie. Nothing can get him huh?

Anon i hope i did your ask justice! i accidentally lost it whoops

[drafty-castle]

The comments section of this post is, well, very Tumblr. However: @slothorperhapscrow and others who are ‘wait, so he’s a Nazi but not a Nazi but is a Nazi?’ or perhaps just ‘water is wet’ about this, I’d like to give another interpretation.

I don’t think this post was made for those who already hate Elon Musk, who despise him, who have followed the money and the social media fails over years and are already aware of the kind of person he is.

I think this post was for those who still follow him, who still believe in the mask he has created, who have fallen for all the propaganda. I think the point is to hammer home to these people that he isn't who he presents himself to be, he doesn’t believe in what they believe in, no matter what signals - like the salute - he sends out because all he really believes in is his own power. Philip Low is telling the tech bros that Musk is not one of them. Low is telling the republicans who have accepted the propaganda how Musk has historically lied and manipulated his image to get him - personally -the most money, with no thought of those around him, including his friends. Low is telling the bigots and racists and even the actual Nazis in America that they're supporting someone that does not hold to their ideals and is using them to prop up his own personal power base.

I think its possible that post is even for those who are fence-sitters. People who don't like Musk - or don't have enough of an opinion on him - as a person but are willing to continue using his corporate products - using twitter/x, buying Tesla cars, etc. - all actions that continue to funnel money into Musk's pocket.

Functionally, I think this letter to the editor post was trying to break up some of Musk's middle and working class power base - his cult of personality, if you will - by bringing to light the ideological differences between him and many of his followers through symbolic actions such as the Sieg Heil. To highlight Musk's loyalty to no cause other than his own personal power and ego and dispel the idea - through the deliberate use of the Hitler salute - to all Nazi, fascists, and sympathizers that he is "one of them". As well as cut through as much of the "autism" smokescreen that has been thrown up in front of it as possible among those who have been trying to dismiss his actions as "awkward" rather than acknowledge them for the dog-whistle it was.

I don't know Philip Low, never heard of him before and don't plan on looking him up. Personally, I don't think billionaires should exist and that "self-made billionaire" is an oxymoron. That said, the 1% - hells, the 0.01% - live completely different lives than the rest of us. I am completely willing to believe that he has insight into Elon Musk's past dealings and personal interactions amongst fellow billionaires that the general public would have no way of having access to. I am also willing to accept that such a billionaire can look at what has been going on in the last few weeks - or few years - and lay out an analysis of Musk's actions and motivations that strip away all the flash and glamor to show the pathetic, if incredibly dangerous, man Elon Musk actually is.

[wendichester]

⭒˚.⋆ sacrifice,

summary. you make a deal to save dean's life but he's not having it

pairing. dean winchester x reader ; angsty

wordcount. 558

The second Dean walks into the room, you know you’re screwed.

His eyes are wild, shoulders tight with rage, jaw clenched so hard you’re surprised his teeth don’t crack. He storms toward you, fists balled at his sides, and for a second, you think he might actually punch the wall.

“What the hell did you do?” His voice is raw, shaking.

You swallow hard, but there’s no point in pretending. He knows. He must’ve found out. Maybe from Sam, maybe from the demon itself—doesn’t matter. The secret’s out.

“I did what I had to,” you say, keeping your voice steady even as your heart hammers in your chest.

Dean laughs, but there’s no humor in it. Just something broken, something desperate. “What you had to?” he echoes, stepping closer, eyes burning into you. “You made a deal for me.”

You cross your arms, trying to keep your ground. “You were dying, Dean. There was no other way.”

“There’s always another way!” His voice rises, shaking the walls of the motel room. His breathing is heavy, uneven. “Damn it, you think I’d let you sacrifice yourself for me? Not a chance, sweetheart.”

“Like you haven’t done the same?” you snap, voice sharp. “How many times have you thrown yourself in the line of fire for me? How many times have you died for Sam? For everyone? But the second I try to save you, suddenly it’s a problem?”

Dean’s nostrils flare. “That’s different.”

“How?”

“Because I can’t—” His voice breaks, and he stops, squeezing his eyes shut like he can force the emotion out of his body. His hands are trembling. When he opens his eyes again, they’re glassy, rimmed red with something too painful to name. “Because I can’t lose you,” he says, voice quieter now, rough and raw and full of a kind of desperation that shatters you.

Your chest tightens, the weight of it all pressing down on you.

“You weren’t supposed to find out,” you whisper.

Dean exhales sharply, shaking his head. “Jesus, you really thought I wouldn’t? You think I wouldn’t tear apart the whole goddamn world trying to figure out why you were acting off?” He runs a hand down his face, and when he looks at you again, he’s a mess of anger and devastation. “How long do you have?”

You hesitate, and that alone is enough of an answer.

“Goddammit,” he chokes, turning away from you like he can’t bear to look. He presses his hands to his knees, breathing heavy.

“I didn’t do this for you to waste time feeling guilty,” you say, stepping closer, placing a hand on his arm. “I did this because I love you. Because you deserve to live.”

Dean turns back to you, and before you can say another word, his hands are on your face, cupping your cheeks like you might disappear if he lets go. His forehead presses against yours, and his breath is shaky, uneven.

“I’m getting you out of this,” he swears, voice trembling with determination. “I don’t care what it takes. I don’t care if I have to burn Hell to the ground. You’re not going to die for me.”

Tears sting your eyes, but you don’t fight him.

Because if there’s one thing you know about Dean Winchester—it’s that when he makes a promise, he damn well keeps it.

want be part of the taglist.ᐣ ⋆.˚ ★— @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing ⋆ @deans-daydream ⋆ @ariasong11 ⋆ @ambiguous-avery ⋆ @krabog ⋆ @itsdearapril ⋆ @nymphet-quenn ⋆ @bluemerakis ⋆ @titsout4jackles ⋆ @lyarr24 ⋆ @hauntedrose555 ⋆ @chevroletdean ⋆ @dulcescorderitas ⋆ @blackmarketfruitrollups ⋆ @impala67rollingthroughtown ⋆ @rulesareshadesofgrey ⋆ @nervoussystemss ⋆ @daryls-luvrr ⋆ @defnot-svnshine ⋆ @sunnyteume ⋆ @drakelover78 ⋆ @angelblqde ⋆ @mostlymarvelgirl ⋆ @whisperingdaze ⋆ @bossyblondie ⋆ @lieutenantchaos ⋆ @iluvnewtie ⋆ @dyhsversion ⋆ @funkenniffler ⋆ @lovewolfspirit ⋆ @drakelover78 ⋆ @KayleighWinchester ⋆ @s0urw00lf

[goldfades]

joe burrow x popstar

watching edits together and getting so surprised by how freaky ppl are

warnings: nothing but fluff!!!

It starts with Joe’s arm slung lazily over the back of the couch, his thumb absentmindedly brushing the bare skin of your shoulder. The TV flickers in front of you, some forgettable show playing in the background, its dialogue drowned out by the comfortable silence you’ve both perfected over time. It’s the kind of quiet that doesn’t need filling.

Your phone is in your lap, screen dim until curiosity—or maybe boredom—gets the best of you. A harmless scroll through social media, a pit stop at the tagged photos section, and suddenly you’re spiraling.

“Oh my God,” you blurt out, sitting up straighter, your thumb jabbing the screen with newfound urgency. “Joe. Joe, look at this.”

He leans in without hesitation, chin practically resting on your shoulder, his body radiating that signature warmth. His eyes squint a little, adjusting to the smaller screen, before widening in real time as the video plays—a fan edit, dramatic music swelling, quick cuts of the two of you like you’re the lead roles in some forbidden romance movie. Except it’s not just stolen glances and soft smiles. No, these people are bold.

Very bold.

Joe’s brow arches, mouth falling open slightly. “Is that—did they just—”

“They did.”

You don’t even finish the sentence because the next clip is somehow worse—or better, depending on how you look at it. And honestly, you’re not sure if you want to laugh, cry, or throw your phone across the room.

“Why is it in slow motion?” Joe asks, genuinely perplexed, his voice low and warm against your ear.

“Because that makes it dramatic,” you deadpan, thumb hovering over the screen like it might self-destruct. “Obviously.”

Joe snorts, the sound bursting out of him, and that’s what does it—you both dissolve into laughter, the kind that leaves you breathless and aching. He leans back, his head hitting the cushion with a soft thud, one hand clutching his chest like the sheer absurdity physically hurts.

“Play it again,” he gasps between laughs.

You oblige, because how could you not? The video is somehow funnier the second time around, now that you’re prepared for the dramatic zooms and questionable song choice (yes, False God by Taylor Swift). Joe wipes a tear from the corner of his eye, shaking his head.

“Do people really think we look at each other like that?” he asks, trying to catch his breath.

You glance at him, the way his eyes crinkle when he laughs, the faint flush on his cheeks, the curve of his smile.

“I mean,” you tease, nudging his knee with yours, “they’re not completely wrong.”

His laughter softens into something quieter, something warmer. He shifts, leaning in again, his hand finding yours without thinking, fingers threading together like they always do. The TV is still on, the fan edit paused mid-dramatic frame, but none of that matters now.

“Yeah,” he says softly, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “Guess they’re not.”

And just like that, the absurdity of fan edits fades into the background, leaving only the warmth of his gaze, the comfort of his touch, and the quiet realization that maybe the fans see something you’ve both known all along.

↳ make sure to check out my navigation or masterlist if you enjoyed! any interaction is greatly appreciated !

↳ thank you for reading all the way through, as always ♡

[aleskie]

YOU DON'T NEED TO LIFT A FINGER | Jack Hughes x Fem!Reader

SUMMARY: When a guy just cannot get the hint, Jack makes sure to put him in his place. He's got your back. Always.

Warnings: none!! pure fluff and jack gets protective!! Full discloure, this is for realsies Fem!Reader!! Author's Note: This was supposed to come out a dayyyyys ago but Tumblr was NOT letting me post my drafts 😭😭 my poor therapist spent an hour watching me crash out about it najsjsshjjk

You were beautiful.

Of course you were.

In Jack’s eyes, you were the most beautiful creature to ever walk the earth.

Which is why he understands why you get hit on. He really does. Hell, once upon a time, he was hitting on you. And he still hits on you, even now, years into the relationship, because you’re worth it. Because you light up rooms without even trying. Because he’s always been a sucker for the way you roll your eyes and smile at his cheesy attempts to be smooth with you.

You’re beautiful and smart and funny, and you’re so effortlessly charming—of course people would want you for themselves. He gets it. He really does. And honestly, there’s a part of him that loves it. He loves that people notice those qualities about you, that they see in you what he sees every day. It feels like validation, like the universe itself is confirming that he’s the luckiest guy alive. He basks in the knowledge that no matter how many people give you those hungry looks and shitty pick-up lines, he’s the one you're coming home with, his hand resting possessively on your hip as he gives all those people a smirk, his claim laid without him even lifting a finger.

What he doesn’t love is when people don’t take the damn hint.

And you give a lot of hints.

Take this guy right here—Dave, or Doug, or whatever his name is—He’d somehow wiggled his way into the booth you guys shared with your friends for a night out and, while he seemed harmless at first, he was now solely focused on you. And your legs that were highlighted by the body shimmer Jack helped put on you earlier tonight (his fingers still slightly shimmering to prove it—a badge of honor, in his opinion).

You’d been giving him that polite, fake smile since he joined in—the one Jack knows so well and that always makes him chuckle, the one you use when you’re being patient but are clearly not enjoying yourself—and you’ve barely paid him any attention, save for a few fake laughs and an “Oh, that sounds cool” every so often as Darren, or Dino, continues to brag about himself, not even trying to ask about you (a grave mistake, Jack thinks, since you were the most interesting person he knew).

Jack wonders if this guy even realizes you’ve been leaning against Jack this entire time, your head on his shoulder and his hand resting on your upper thigh, or if he’s chosen to ignore that in favor of trying (and failing) to shoot his shot. Better yet, does he even recognize Jack is here, drink untouched and jaw tightening as he watches Danny (or was it Dylan) lean in just a little too close?

Jack glances at you. You’re still handling it with grace, of course you are. You always do. But he knows you. He sees the subtle tension in your shoulders, the way you lean further against him to put some distance between you and Dexter, the way your fingers tighten around your glass, and he knows you’d rather not have to deal with this.

He shifts slightly and stands, leaning forward to smile at the intruder, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Hey, Diego, right?” he says. His tone is casual, even pleasant, but there’s steel underneath it.

“It’s Dave, actua—”

Jack extends a hand, cutting through the guy’s attempt at small talk. “Right, yeah. Sorry to interrupt, but I think my girlfriend and I are gonna go dance now.”

He puts an emphasis on girlfriend, just to make sure this guy gets the point.

Jack gives you a soft look, the kind that makes your breath hitch just a little, and you immediately stand up, reaching for him. His arm wraps around you instinctively, his touch steady and familiar. You can already feel the tension in his body lessening now that he has you close, now that he’s leading you away from whatever-his-name-is and back into the safe, easy rhythm of you and him.

But before you can leave, the guy speaks again.

“Sorry, man, didn’t realize she was yours. You know how women are. With that dress and those legs, she was totally leading me on.”

Jack freezes.

For a second, the world seems to pause, almost like he couldn’t believe what was coming out of this guy’s mouth, like he didn’t want to believe anyone could be that stupid.

Slowly, he straightens, turning back toward the guy—Dave or Doug or whatever his name was—with a look so calm it’s almost serene. Too calm. And that’s how you know Jack is angry.

Not the playful kind of angry, where he pretends to pout when you steal the last fry or kiss him everywhere but his lips. Not the frustrated kind, like when he can’t find his keys for the third time that week or when he’s had a particularly bad game.

No, this is something deeper. Colder. Controlled.

His fingers graze your arm lightly, a small, grounding touch meant just for you. It’s subtle, but you know what it means. I’ve got this. You don’t need to lift a finger.

Jack tilts his head ever so slightly. “You wanna say that again?” His voice is so even it borders on soft, a quiet thing wrapped in steel.

Dave—or Dino or Darryl—seems to think Jack is inviting him to elaborate, which is perhaps the worst decision he’s made all night.

“I’m just saying, y’know,” Dave shrugs, his tone shifting to something almost conspiratorial, like he thinks Jack might actually agree with him if he just explains it better. “When women dress like that, you can’t blame a guy for—”

“Yeah, I’m gonna need you to shut up before I do something we both regret.”

Jack doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t have to. The weight of his words alone is enough to send a ripple of silence through the space between them.

Dave blinks, the beginning stages of intimidation creeping onto his face. He glances at you, as if expecting backup, but you’re already leaning back against the wall, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised as you watch Jack dismantle him.

There’s a small smirk on your lips. Because this? This was a sight you didn’t get to see in public too often.

Many times, people assumed your lovely boyfriend—so easygoing, so effortlessly charming—would lack the sharpness to cut someone down when needed, would stick to uhmms and ahhhs and crassnes.

They mistook his laid-back nature for passivity, his warmth for softness. But you knew better. Your Jack could be quite a wonder with words when he wanted to be. He didn’t need to be loud to command attention. He didn’t need to throw a punch to land a hit.

So you hang back and let him handle this one, finding comfort in the thought of his arms around you later, his breath warm against your ear as you danced the rest of the night away.

“Listen, buddy,” Jack continues, stepping closer. His tone is light, almost conversational, but there’s no mistaking the edge beneath it. “You don’t talk to anyone like that. You definitely don’t get to talk to her like that. You hear me?”

“God, c’mon, man! No need to get all—”

“I already told you to shut up.” Jack’s scowl deepens. His words are slow, deliberate. “The fact that she was polite enough to give you the slightest bit of attention doesn’t mean she was hitting on you. Whatever you thought was going on tonight? Not an invitation.”

Dave—Dino? Derek?—opens his mouth, probably to dig himself into an even deeper hole, but stops when Jack leans in slightly, just enough to make his presence feel heavier. Like a storm cloud about to break.

“She’s kind,” Jack says, voice quieter now, deadlier. “So she tolerated you. But she doesn’t owe you a fucking thing.”

The last of Dave’s bravado starts to crumble. His shoulders inch inward, his gaze flickering around the booth, searching for an exit, for reinforcements—for anything that might save him from this moment.

Jack watches him for a second longer, then exhales sharply, like he’s already bored. “You think being desperate and cocky gets you the girl,” he says, shaking his head. “But I don’t need any of that to keep her by my side.” His fingers brush against yours, finding their place like they always do. “And we don’t need to waste any more time entertaining douchebags like you.”

Jack steps back, his hand sliding fully into yours as he finally tears his gaze from Daniel? Don?—who cares?—and looks at you instead. The shift is immediate, his features easing, the sharpness in his eyes softening into something familiar. Something yours.

“Let’s go, babe,” he says simply, his voice lighter now, more like himself.

And just like that, the moment is over.

As you stand, letting Jack guide you away from the booth, you hear Dave mutter something under his breath—something weak and defensive that doesn’t deserve acknowledgment. It’s the kind of parting shot people throw out when they know they’ve lost. Neither of you glance back.

The music swells around you, the bass thrumming beneath your feet, but Jack doesn’t lead you straight to the dance floor. Instead, he pulls you toward a quieter corner, away from the crowd, where the lights are dimmer, the world a little smaller.

He exhales, then wordlessly nestles his head in the crook of your shoulder.

You smile, running your fingers through his hair, your nails lightly grazing his scalp. He sighs at the touch, his arms slipping around your waist as he lets himself melt into you for just a moment. You press a soft kiss to his hair, breathing him in, grounding both of you in something steady, something real.

After a beat, he tilts his head up, a sheepish grin playing at his lips. “Did I go overboard?”

You roll your eyes fondly, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze. “You were absolutely perfect,” you murmur, leaning in to press a kiss to his cheek.

His grin widens, boyish and bright, and just like that, the weight of the night lifts. He tugs you closer, his arm tightening around your waist as he starts to sway you to the music. You laugh as he spins you unexpectedly, sneaking in kisses between the DJ’s transitions, his lips catching your temple, your jaw, the curve of your shoulder.

The man who bothered you is forgotten. The tension, the sharp edges of the night—gone.

All that’s left is this. You and him and the music. The warmth of his hands on you, the sound of your laughter melting together, the rest of the world fading into nothing.

[alilobsessive]

The Terrible Crow

All your life you desired recognition from your father, well you got it! But not from your bio dad, things only grow worse from there. For the Bats, not for you.

All your life you have longed for one thing, you’re Father’s recognition. At first it was simple things, like getting good grades, school awards. Anything for him to tell you how good of a job you’re doing. When he brought in Dick that changed, the escalation was quick. If he could be Robin, if he could fight with your Father why couldn’t you? Eventually after years of begging he agreed, then not even a week later he took in Jason and he became the new Robin. Your Father told you it was because he was older then you, already making it safer for him to go then you. When you brought up the fact that you’re the same age as Dick when he started, your father countered that Dick already had years more training with his parents than you.

After that you reluctantly didn’t argue, scared of seeming like nothing more than a spoiled kid. Jason in you began training together, although the two of you grew a bond it never felt right. Everyone called you close and although you liked him a part of you was resentful. You’re Father was always tougher on your training then Dick or Jason, always finding a flaw no matter how long you practice. In a way it helped you perfect your skills to the last detail. But he never told you “good job” not like Dick or Jason, it was always moving right on to the next thing. After Jason’s death the training got worse, he was somehow harder and stricter than before. You went to bed sore with aching bones and bruises from training, if you went to bed at all that is. Sometimes your sleep schedule was what was being trained, he would make you stay up for days at I time, rarely doing anything more than a nap. He told you this was similar to the training he went through, that it would make you stronger.

You never got the chance to prove it though, not even a half a year since Jason died a new boy was brought in. Tim’s the same age as you, highly intelligent and good at stealth but completely untrained. “SO WHY IS HE ROBIN!” You screeched at the man you call Father, Tim stands there glaring at you. He has a red mark on his cheek from where you slapped him when you were told he would be Robin. You were instantly yelled at and reprimanded by your Father for this, which started this argument in the first place. “I HAVE TRAINED FOR MOST OF MY LIFE FOR THIS, I HAVE DONE ALMOST EVERYTHING YOU WANTED ME TO! I FOLLOWED YOUR ORDERS I DEDICATED MY LIFE TO THIS” You scream at him, tears filling your eyes and falling down your cheeks. He just stares at you, expression blank and unchanging “what made you think I’d ever make you Robin?” Is all he says. Freezing you just stare at him crushed. “You’re dismissed” you feel like he spits it out, he doesn’t but it feels like he does “don’t ever train here again, nor even think about being a vigilante” you’ve never felt so much rage and sorrow before. You turn around to leave pushing Tim to the ground as you do “you’re grounded!” He calls out. Without even looking back you flip him off “fuck you Bruce!”.

After that things were never the same, you never wanted to try at anything anymore. What was the point in constantly studying if it meant nothing? So you did whatever you wanted, there were barely any consequences. Bruce didn’t give a shit about you, he never truly did. Alfred always sided with Bruce, sure he called him out when he was in the wrong, but that rarely changed anything with you. Dick was as absent in your life as ever. Finally you and Tim’s relationship was shit, it would never recover, at least you didn’t care if it did or not.

Eventually though you stumbled across a niche that peaked your interest. It started small, quick one minute videos about animal biology you finished the nearly 10 year old channel's entire library of content in 2 days. Then it evolved into animal psychology and finally to humans, what made them tick. It was fascinating every last detail interested you, from the mating habits of raccoons to the study that showed most humans could pick out snakes in extremely pixelated and blurry images. Even the more questionable experiments that would never pass today, like the wire and cloth mothers, and the monster study. Things that would have been difficult to prove or research if it wasn’t for the unethicalness of it all. Hell, even the bullshit study with gorillas learning sign language was interesting, even if the whole thing was completely pointless and awfully mismanaged. It was just so interesting to learn about.

Then you stumbled across it, a familiar name, Jonathan Crane, the Scarecrow. All his published studies were almost 2 decades old, but that didn’t stop how interesting they were. Both as a glimpse into the mind of a madman who long had his license revoked and as a study in how the mind understood fear in general. Sure you were made to memorize his habits, his usual schemes, hell you even helped reverse engineer and make a cure for several of his fear toxin strands. But you never learned about his studies, never learned about the person behind the mask. But now you wanted to, desperately, of course you couldn’t just go to Arkham. Bruce would learn about it and who knows what he would do once he learns of your little…. curiosity.

No, you didn’t want that, so you lied in wait for the perfect time. But while you did so you studied, falling back into old habits. Day and night you obsessively researched human psychology, several studies both bullshit and true. You memorized everything, dates, names, places, what effects they had, any changes or new revelations in the study, what they were studying and in some cases what they ended up actually studying. You even ended up dabbing deeper into chemistry. All of this to impress someone, but you enjoyed learning these things. All of this was fun, unlike dealing with Bruce.

Then finally the day came, Scarecrow broke out of Arkham. Using the skills Bruce ground into your brain you found him. It was pretty easy, you're shocked he didn’t find Scarecrow sooner. Of course you ended up captured, tied to a chair in one of his labs. Oh also a gun pointed at your head, neat! “What are you doing here?” Scarecrow says suspiciously, a wide grin forms on your face as you happily say “I want you to teach me!” The man just looked at you strangely. Then he laughed, “this isn’t a very funny joke kid” the man sneered at you. “But I’m not! I’ve read your work Mr. Crane! It’s absolutely fascinating! I want to learn more, especially about your newer unpublished stuff!” He just stares at you, “really?” He asks, pointing the gun down. Although he doesn’t look like he believes you, “then prove it” before you can even react the gun is back at your head and he shoots.

The bullet barely misses but you don’t move, don’t even flinch, you just smile. You know how manic you look, but you don’t care. Scarecrow just stares at you surprised, he completely lowered the gun and put it away. “Well..” he mumbles, “I guess I can give you a test” that made you feel nothing but pure glee.

The costume you were put in started out simple, a almost completely black suit with blue gloves and a mask vaguely resembling a plague doctor. You thought you looked like a rip off emperor's coven member but that’s not that important. As Crow as his apprentice you were first given grunt work, helping and leading his henchman in getting supplies for whatever project he was working on. That was when you weren’t doing homework, taking notes, organizing documents. The Bat’s were completely unaware of what you were doing, sure they knew you had something after school. The one time they asked you told them you got an internship. They didn’t even bother to verify if that was true or not. Alfred was the only one who even slightly cared and even then he was just proud that you finally found a calling away from the vigilante life. Boy was he only slightly correct.

Things started ramping up after you defeated Tim, Robin in combat. The pure smug joy you felt at that moment is indescribable. The rejected Robin, who's rusty, proving that they're stronger, faster, smarter, better than the current? You were so excited you almost went into hysterics, and the fear on his face as you brutally kicked his ass? Priceless! They didn’t even realize it was you, but Scarecrow did, he recognized how similar your fighting style are instantly. At first you were worried, scared even about what he’d do now that he knew. Truthfully he was suspicious at first, but once you told him your story, how you were rejected from being Robin in favor of the second and third. How cruel they were to you before and after, even said you would tell him the secret identities of the bat’s and everyone you know is affiliated with them. Both publicly and privately, although he rejected your offer he saw your desperation. How much you want, no needed to stay, to keep this. Scarecrow accepted your loyalty and at that moment you truly became Crow.

To commemorate this occasion you got an outfit change. It became more padded, the mask looking more like a helmet then anything, and boots that increase your height by several inches. You were also made to train in a different combat style with both the added height and change of vision it was a necessity. But also to help cover your tracks as Crow from the Bat’s. So you grow, you changed, you trained and trained and they never noticed. Not when you came back injured from work, with new bruises and scars. Not when you came home with gifts, or when you brought your assignments back with you. They were completely ignorant as Scarecrow, Jonathan Crane, he became your family, your father.

Eventually though Bruce got suspicious, he never figured out who you were, not until much later. But he realized you're doing something shady, the man never put in the effort to figure out what exactly. So he sent you off to a college far from the city, of course he let you pick the field you wanted. It wasn’t too hard to figure out what to do, psychology was already your passion after all and you were being trained by the best. The only issue was Crow, how to excuse there absence. So faking an extreme injury a week before you left easily fixed that. Afterwards you packed up and went to school, a school you would never return from, not to the manor at least.

There you continued your studies, your training in all forms and your contacts with Scarecrow. The only real difficult thing was not getting caught in your less ethical studies. You spent from the age of 18 to 24 studying as much as possible in your field getting both a bachelor’s and master’s. The plan was to go for a PHD too, but sadly things were interrupted and you quickly returned home. Your dad, Scarecrow was extremely injured during a fight and was in the hospital. Someone needed to step up, that person was you.

This time your outfit changed once more, it made you look even bigger and bulkier then you were. A cloak with a feathered collar, iron gloves with clawed ends, the faceless bird helmet looking even more imposing. Everything in your power to make you look as menacing as possible, large and imposing, a night to rival the knight. As you were making your return known you discovered something interesting, a new Robin, a baby brother. Dispute your issue with your family something about this was exciting. You felt so happy and you didn’t know why, but the fact he’s a Robin? Well, the kid needed to be taught a very important lesson before he learned it the hard way.

It wasn’t hard leading him to Wayne tower by himself. Kid had the skills but no discipline, reckless and willing to do anything to prove himself worthy. You can relate, which is way it has to be you who dose this. You approach the 10 year old boy from the shadows “you came alone hatchling?” You say in a soft voice. He jumps away and wipes his head around to face you eyes wide, he pulls out his sword and points it at you. “How-“ “a magician never reveals there secrets” you say playfully “now put the sword down baby bird” he doesn’t just glares at you. He then lunges forward aiming for your throat, but it wasn’t hard to grab the blade and rip it from his hand. He stares at you wide eyed as you throw it to the other side of the building, he quickly reorganize himself and throw a punch. But you dodge it, each kick and punch he sent was easily avoided.

As he moved to kick your head you grabbed his leg, and pulled him away. “You know” you begin walking to the edge tone not changing, “in nature Crows and Robins have an interest relationship. Crows are an omnivorous creature, they don’t just eat seeds and nuts like some people will have you believe. They’ve even been reported to peck out the eyes and tongues of lambs. Robins are no exception,” you hold him over the edge and watch as his eyes widen. He squirms and yells, “Crows will actually protect the nests of Robins, for a fee of course.” Batman should appear any minute now. “There young, they take and feast on the eggs and hatchlings. They basically farm them, it’s fascinating really. Crows are one of the smartest birds, about as intelligent as a 7 year old human. We’re watching the first signs of the evolution of a society!” You say almost giddy, “little mafias! It’s adorable and fascinating!” “We’re are you going with this” you just stare down at him, your mask making it nothing more then a dark void. You can practically feel his presence close to you, “it’s simple really! I’ve never been payed my dues! And you’re just a hatchling that doesn’t know better” and you drop him.

Batman catches him of course, but by the time he does and gets back up the tower you’re already long gone.

——————

Sorry if it takes a while for me to post things! I haven’t been feeling great both physically and mentally lately.

[sunnie-angel]

jason todd x gn!neutral reader

a/n: inspired by this incredible piece of art by @jjenthusee, part of the february acts of kindness challenge

“dance with me,” you say, slipping off the couch and extending your hand.

“hm?” jason todd hums, finger marking his spot in his book as he looks up at you.

“dance with me.” the music fills the apartment like a physical thing, a neighbour’s practice session with their trumpet seeping through the walls.

“what, now?” he asks. you nod and hold out your hand again.

“c’mon, it’ll be fun,” you cajole him. the lamplight in the darkening evening gilds him golden. he hesitates and you sigh. “please? the world could end tomorrow or i’ll end up getting called into overtime in a never ending loop or maybe you’ll break a leg slipping off a roof—”

“i’m not that accident prone!” he defends himself indignantly. “i haven’t been injured on patrol in three weeks!”

“yes, yes, and i’m very proud of you darling but my point is, the future’s an unknown country and i want to dance today.”

he laughs at your plaintive tone, but he pushes up from the couch, leather creaking under his shifting weight and grabs a hold of your hand. he uses it to pull you close, a little twirl that makes you gasp thrown in for good measure. you rest your cheek against the plane of his chest, warmth seeping through the cotton fabric of his shirt, and sigh. the trumpet player, whoever they are, aren’t perfect. there’s slightly flat notes and rhythms taken a half beat too fast but in the moment, it’s perfect.

what is decidedly less perfect is coming home the next evening to a crouched figure on the fire escape, the cherry red end of the cigarette the only indication of life. you sigh, then set down your groceries on the counter before going for the first aid kit under the kitchen sink.

“you’d better not be dying out there,” you call out. the figure twitches, then turns to face the music.

there’s blood on his face. no matter how glib you might sound or how many times it happens, it always opens up a pit in your stomach. your fingers tighten around the plastic of the first aide kit.

“oh sweetheart, don’t worry, it’s just a lil’ blood.” he’s aiming for reassuring but it’s landing somewhere north of cocky. you roll your eyes and lean out the window to take his chin in your hand, turning his head gently to get a better look at the damage.

“anything broken?” you ask instead.

he stubs out the cigarette on the little ashtray you’d insisted he keep out there if he wasn’t gonna stop smoking, and moves to join you inside the apartment.

“my pride’s a little banged up but that’s about it. should have seen the knuckle dusters coming,” he sighs, hand ruffling through his hair. in the distance, your neighbour takes up his trumpet again.

“looks like your injury-free record is back down to zero,” you tease, the first aid kit back under the sink. to your surprise, Jason’s standing right behind you, smelling of fresh air and nicotine.

“got anything frozen?” he asks, jutting his chin out towards the groceries still sitting on the counter, abandoned.

“no but—”

“good. let’s dance,” he interrupts you, a half smile tugging at his lips.

“what, now?” you ask, aware of the absurd parody to the previous night.

“no better time,” he insists. he pulls you to the centre of the room, where there’s nothing to stop him from twirling you about. “the world didn’t end, you didn’t get called in to overtime, and I didn’t break my leg.”

“might’ve broken your nose,” you sniff, trying not to let his charm get to you. it doesn’t work. he laughs, head thrown back and unguarded.

“pinkie promise it’s not broken, just bruised sweetheart, like my ego’s gonna be if i can’t you to dance with me.”

you plant a quick kiss on his bloodied cheek and let out an undignified giggle when he tries to dip you.

“i’ll keep coming home to dance,” he murmurs into your ear, pulling you close as he pulls you upright. “s’long as it’s with you.”

the trumpeter plays on, a little more on key and a little less out of time with your heart.

[mulloey]

distracted

bad students must face the consequences of their behaviour. it doesn’t matter who your boyfriend is.

words: 2.9k

part of my february festival event

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warnings: dom!professors matz x sub!student reader, teacher-student relationship (hongjoong x you), power dynamics, threesome, punishment, spanking with ruler, very light anal play, face fucking, double penetration (mouth & pussy), under-negotiated kink, unprotected sex, sir kink, degradation, light dumbification etc

i am not responsible for the content you consume.

“What is this?”

He waves the sheet in front of your face indignantly and you recognise it instantly as the test you’d taken last week; the red D scrawled in the top corner gives you away and you huff. “How did you even—”

“Seonghwa,” he says, cutting you off. You’d roll your eyes if you thought you’d get away with it right now.

You knew it was a bad idea, really, dating Hongjoong; he may not have been your professor, but he is a professor, so you should’ve figured he’d be in cahoots with your teachers. It’s not like discretion was a massive concern, anyway; your relationship is an open secret among the staff. It’s technically not allowed, but you’re a grad student, an independent adult and your parents donate enough money to the school that neither of you would be in too much trouble if anyone did find out anyway. So you suppose you shouldn’t be surprised that, when you turned in a piss-poor exam, Seonghwa had run off tattling to your boyfriend. Dickhead.

“I was just having a bad day,” you say. “I studied, really. I don't know what happened.”

Neither of you believe that, but you push your lips into a pout and do your best to look contrite—to play the sweet, innocent girl your boyfriend loves to ruin.

“Joong…” You try to sound scared but you both know you’re not; there’s nothing he could do to you that you wouldn’t enjoy, after all. You’re just as sick as each other.

Hongjoong chuckles, clicking his tongue. He looks thoughtful for a moment, like he’s pretending to be conflicted over whether to punish you or not, but he’s not very good at hiding his excitement. The regretful sigh he lets out when he makes his decision is laughably disingenuous. “Bad girl,” he says, shaking his head. “You know I can’t let you get away with this, sweetheart.”

You open your mouth to respond but he doesn’t give you time; he shoves you down harshly, bending you over his desk so your ass is sticking up in the air. It’s a familiar position that you’ve found yourself in time and time again since you met him and you body prepares itself automatically; expecting him to spank you, you stick your ass up higher and wait with bated breath for the first blow. It doesn’t come. You crane your head around, confused. “Joong, what—” Oh.

You don’t need to finish the question; standing behind you, next to Hongjoong, is the very man who’d got you in this predicament in the first place— your medieval history professor, Park Seonghwa himself. He tilts his head, smiling sweetly. “Good afternoon.”

Your jaw drops. You hadn’t expected this—when did he even come in, anyway? “Joong—”

“You think we didn’t notice how you look at him?” Your boyfriend asks coolly. It’s only because of the cock in his hand, hard and already leaking, that you’re not worried he’s mad at you; no, he loves this. You should’ve known.

“Is that why you failed?” Seonghwa asks. “Too busy dreaming about me bending you over your desk? You have a boyfriend; an esteemed colleague of mine, in fact.” His tone is chiding and you feel yourself flush.

Hongjoong snorts almost petulantly. “As if she cares about that.”

“No?” Seonghwa asks. “What does she care about, then?”

“Pull her panties down and find out.”

Your cunt throbs painfully at the surety of the demand and the dark look in Seonghwa’s eyes as he obliges without hesitation. He doesn’t ask permission before he touches you—he already has it from the one who matters, after all—but when he pushes your skirt up your back, his hands still momentarily; you smile into the wood as you realise what they’re both looking at—the white, lacy panties sitting snugly across your pert cheeks.

“Well, isn’t that a sight.” Seonghwa’s voice is hoarse and affected as he rubs a hand across the delicate material. You feel yourself tense under his touch, the unfamiliar feeling of his skin on yours, and he gently pinches the soft flesh. “Relax,” he mumbles. “Be good, yeah? I won’t hurt you, I’ll be gentle.”

A sweet sounding lie; you can tell from the heaviness of his hand as it comes to rest on your ass that he has no such intentions. He fingers softly at the lace of your panties, sighing ruefully. “These really are beautiful,” he muses. “I hate to have to take them down like this, but bad students have to learn, don’t they?”

“They certainly do.” You crane your neck to follow your boyfriend’s voice and find him leaning against the wall behind Seonghwa, staring you down with familiarly cold eyes. He cocks an eyebrow when you finally catch his gaze. “Got something to say, precious?”

“No, sir,” you whisper.

“Turn around, then,” he smiles. “I’m just here to watch.”

You turn back, though more so he doesn’t see you roll your eyes than out of a desire to obey him. Seonghwa has carefully shimmied your panties down to the middle of your thighs and the cold air of the office bites at your sensitive pussy.

“Spread your legs,” he says. “Show me how wet you are.“

Blushing furiously, you part your legs, spreading them as far as you can without snapping the panties bunched around your thighs. Seonghwa hums, running a long finger through your wet folds. The touch is unexpected but Hongjoong’s trained you well enough that you manage to stay still despite your surprise. You whine a little when he pulls away and you hear both men chuckle.

“Professor Kim,” Seonghwa says. His voice has a new quality; delicate and flirtatious as he addresses your boyfriend. “Come and taste how wet she is.”

You hear Hongjoong approach the elder and try to move around to see it, but Seonghwa’s firm hand on your neck holds you still. “I don’t think so, bad girl,” he tuts. “Only good little girls get to watch. Keep still.”

“Good call,” Hongjoong purrs. “She’s always loved seeing me with other people. Little pervert would probably start humping the table if she saw me doing this.”

You hear the wet, lewd sounds of Hongjoong sucking at Seonghwa’s finger, lapping up your juices with a noise of pleasure. “Delicious little slut,” he chuckles. “Let’s get her properly disciplined so we can play with her how she wants.”

Somehow you hear the wide grin in Seonghwa’s voice as Hongjoong backs away. “I quite agree.”

His hands rests on your ass again, squeezing it softly. “This is what’s gonna happen, little one. You got a 48 on my exam, didn’t you?”

You’re almost embarrassed to hear the number and you know Hongjoong is too. “Yes,” you whisper.

“Yes, Professor will do,” he says. “You’re not my friend, sweetheart. You’re just a wayward student being put back on the right path.”

Shame courses through you but it would be a lie to say it’s anything but thrilling. “Yes, professor,” you whisper.

He taps your ass appreciatively. “Good girl. So, you got a 48 on my exam. What was the pass mark?”

“60, Professor,” you mumble.

“Now that’s not very hard to achieve, is it Professor Kim?”

“It’s not. The pass marks in my class are higher, in fact.”

You want to roll your eyes at their smug, jovial tones but you’re too aroused now to do anything but anticipate.

“A pathetic score, really.” Seonghwa’s voice is closer than ever and you feel his presence just inches away. “Especially for such a bright young woman. I think you need to learn to separate your head—” he gathers a piece of your hair, gently folding it behind your ear “—and your pussy, hm?”

“Yes, Professor.”

“Good.“ Something long and thin taps at your bare skin and you recognise it instantly—the wooden ruler Hongjoong keeps in his desk drawer for when he’s feeling particularly on-the-nose about the taboo nature of your relationship.

“I’m going to hit you with this twelve times,” Seonghwa purrs. “For each of the marks you easily could have gotten if you hadn’t been too busy imagining my cock in your mouth. Yeah?”

You nod, feeling yourself pulse. “Yes, Professor.”

“Repeat after me, alright?” The first hit is quick and sharp, spread over your ass and it makes you gasp. Seonghwa chuckles and rubs the reddening flesh before he grabs your hair, yanking your head back to whisper in your ear. “One,” he says. “I’m sorry for being such a slut, Professor.”

You repeat it quietly and he tuts. “Louder than that, love. I’m sure your boyfriend wants to know you’re learning your lesson.”

You oblige, repeating it louder and he makes a noise of satisfaction before the ruler comes down again, this time at the tops of your thighs. “Two,” he says. “I’m sorry for thinking with my pussy instead of my head.”

“Two, I’m… I’m sorry for thinking with my pussy instead of my head.”

The next hit lands in the same spot. “Three. I’m sorry for dripping over Professor Kim’s desk just from being spanked.”

You blush in embarrassment; you’d half hoped he wouldn’t notice, but that was a tall order anyway. When it comes to Hongjoong and anything to do with him, you’ve never been subtle.

The next hits follow the same pattern, spread across your ass and thighs with each one making you gasp louder than the last.

“Four. I’m sorry for making Professor Park waste his time disciplining me.”

“Five. I’m sorry for daydreaming about choking on another man’s cock.”

“Six. I’m sorry for being arrogant enough to think I’d get away with such an embarrassing performance.”

The last one hits you right on your dripping pussy, making you scream and he grabs your hair, spinning you around to face him and your boyfriend; your eyes hone in on Hongjoong’s cock, pulsing in his hands before Seonghwa forces your attention back to him. “Twelve,” he growls. “I’m sorry for being such a cockwhore that I’m making Professor Park break his rule about sleeping with students.”

You can’t help but grin as you repeat his words, feeling proud. Of course, you knew from the moment you turned around and saw him standing there what was going to happen, but it’s nice to hear it from him. He smiles, grasping your neck gently. “Did you like that?” He asks. “Getting spanked by your professor while your boyfriend jerks off to it?”

“Yeah,” you breathe. “I liked it.”

“Well, now that you’ve learnt your lesson,” he says, “I think it’s time you got fucked, no?”

You nod and turn to your boyfriend; he tilts his head, nodding towards his hard cock. “You know what to do,” he says.

“Yes, sir.” You sink to your knees, staring up at Seonghwa and sending him a teasing smile before crawling towards Hongjoong. You open your mouth, letting him push his dick inside; after all this time together, he doesn’t need to ease you into it anymore and can go straight to fucking your mouth and you take it diligently, opening your throat the way he’s trained you to. You hear Seonghwa whistle, admiring.

“She sucks cock like a fucking pro,” he laughs; the arousal in his voice is thick and unmistakable. “You’ve trained her well, Hongjoong.”

Hongjoong laughs too, patting your head. “I had an excellent student,” he grins. You smile around him at the praise and he curses. “You’re too good at this, babe, Jesus. Gonna cum before I even fuck you.”

He thrusts into your mouth a few more times before pulling out abruptly, shoving you off of him and in an instant Seonghwa’s hands are in your hair as he pulls you to your feet and shoves you back over the desk. You collide painfully with the wood but you barely notice; you’re used to being manhandled by now, and it only makes you more excited.

Large hands you recognise as Seonghwa’s grab your ass cheeks, pulling them apart slowly; the air hits your exposed holes and makes you jump in surprise but you quickly regain your composure. As you still yourself again you feel Hongjoong’s finger running gently across your asshole, almost like he’s inspecting it, before it slides down to toy with your pussy.

“Hm…” Seonghwa’s voice is teasing. “What’s your favourite hole of hers, Professor Kim?”

“What a question,” Hongjoong chuckles and you hear the smile in his voice. His finger prods gently at your rim, making you tense unconsciously and he tuts, lightly slapping the tight little hole. It’s a subtle, painless chastisement but it makes you whine all the same. “Now, now, kitty cat,” he chuckles. “I didn’t train you to squirm, did I?”

“No, sir,” you mumble.

“Good,” he says. “To answer your question, Hwa, I’d have to say her pussy. I love her ass, of course, but nothing compares to the way that little cunt clings to my dick like it’s just begging for a baby.”

“Well that does sound nice.” Seonghwa’s hands leave your ass, returning to your pussy to spread you open. “It looks snug,” he says. “What do you think, little one? Want your professor to breed you?”

It takes you a moment for your brain to catch up with the rest of you and you frown in confusion. “I- you mean you, Professor Park?” You ask. It comes out as more of a strangled cry; your head is a mess of arousal and you barely even register what he’s saying to you, let alone comprehend it fully.

He laughs, patting your soft skin gently. “Yes, perhaps I should be more clear. It must be confusing to be bending over in front of two of your teachers.”

Your face burns at the obvious mockery; the degrading, sneering tone of his voice but you say nothing. Seonghwa hums. “So?” He asks sweetly. “You want me in your cunt, baby girl?”

“Yes,” you breathe. “Please, Professor.”

“There’s those manners,” he praises.

He keeps a firm grip on your hips as he slides in from behind; the feeling of his skin against your still burning ass is uncomfortable, but the way his cock is stretching you as he buries himself inside you is the only thing your brain can process right now.

He’s just as big as Hongjoong, maybe a little bigger, but his thrusts are more fluid and controlled; where Hongjoong fucks you like an animal hungry for more, Seonghwa fucks you with precision; with intention. His hands on your hips are firm yet gentle and the way he finds you in your deepest places has your head spinning with euphoria. “Jesus,” he curses. “Pretty little thing, aren’t you?”

You open your mouth to respond, barely getting a whine out before you feel hands in your hair, yanking at it to pull you forward. Hongjoong comes into view on the other side of the desk, his dick somehow still hard as he feeds it into your mouth. “There you go,” he coos. “Keep it hard, baby.”

You nod as best as you can and the friction against his dick makes your boyfriend groan. “Fuck,” he mutters. “You’re so fucking good with cock you could make me cum on accident.”

The feeling of two dicks inside you makes it hard to focus on either one; let alone to begin to process the filthy words they spit down at you. Intesd you close your eyes, letting the tears fall as Hongjoong starts to fuck your throat again; you’re limp against the desk now, held up solely by the wood and by the two men using you to satisfy themselves. “Oh shit,” Hongjoong says, seeing your dazed expression. “Baby’s gone dumb already.” He strokes your hair gently, a small comfort between punishing thrusts. “You okay, little dove?”

You groan in response, unable to do much else; it makes them laugh and Seonghwa pats your ass affectionately. “You’re doing so well,” he says. “I’m almost there, sweetheart. Gonna fill you up real nice, yeah?”

“Y-yeah,” you gasp.

The feeling of Seonghwa’s thrusts growing faster and harder and more desperate is overwhelming; coupled with the sensation of Hongjoong’s cock hitting the back of your throat again and again, it’s almost unbearable. Your fingers claw against the wood, surely leaving marks but you don’t care; you feel unlike you ever have before, stuffed full and used by two of the most attractive men you’ve ever even imagined.

You’re in so deep that you don’t even realise it’s over until the emptiness of your mouth and cunt becomes obvious; you feel cum leaking from your hole, a wet substance dripping down the desk and only when you look closer do you figure out what it is—squirt. You squirted. You squirted all over your boyfriend’s desk with another man’s cock in your pussy and you’ve never been more fucked out and satisfied than you are now.

When you stand up fully your legs, numbed and weakened by their abuse, start to give out but Hongjoong is there in an instant; he catches you in his arms, lowering himself to the ground so he can cradle you in his lap. You’re faintly aware of Seonghwa’s voice and strong hands stroking your hair before he’s gone, and it’s just you and Hongjoong.

“Good girl,” he mutters. “You took that so well.”

“Really?”

“Of course,” he smiles. “I only hope your performance in Professor Park’s class improves soon. Otherwise he’ll have to tutor you if you want to keep your spot in his class.”

Your heart jumps. “What?”

“Uni rules,” he shrugs, appearing nonchalant but the knowing smile on his face tells all. “If you fail two exams in a row, that’s what happens.”

You don’t know why he seems so surprised when you turn up in his office a month later with a D-minus and an already leaking pussy. He always knew you were insatiable.

Lucky for you, so are they.

—

comments/reblogs appreciated! i’m not sure im super happy with the ending but we move. let me know your thoughts! love🖤🖤🖤

ateez taglist: @pixie0627 @hon3ysun @bbdeongi @hwaromi @tangerineastronaut @fancypeacepersona @aloevendetta (unable to tag: @lemonkait00 @mylovelymito)

february festival taglist: @hohongsan @nopension

[forcaleb]

bound by shadows — caleb

warnings — yandere caleb, written before i read the main story and his myth, saw some quotes on other apps, slight angst, no fluff

notes — knock knock its user raffswife here my old account is broken for some reason lets hope its not the same here </3 tags: @aomiiine

caleb doesn’t understand why you’re so afraid of him.

he’s keeping you safe from people who want to hurt you, from those who would use you for the aether core inside your body. his house is the safest place in skyhaven — no one can reach you here, not without caleb’s permission, at least.

so why are you cowering on your bed, looking at him with those fearful eyes? why are you leaning away from his touch? he wants to take care of you, not hurt you.

“caleb… please let me go,” you beg for the tenth time today, refusing to take the food he’s given you. “i promise i’ll come back when my mission is done- just… please let me go outside.”

“can’t do that, princess,” caleb murmurs quietly. “you know how much i hate it when you go out by yourself. besides, didn’t i tell you how dangerous it is right now? people are coming after you, pipsqueak.”

pipsqueak. the nickname you used to love as a little girl now sends shivers down your spine. you hate it when caleb gets like this — possessive and obsessed with you. sure, having him around keeps the weird guys away, but that doesn’t mean you’re okay with him stopping you from going out and meeting your friends.

he gets ridiculously jealous. the first time he saw you hanging out with a male coworker — who, mind you, has a girlfriend (now fiancée) — he wouldn’t let it go for weeks.

it doesn’t make sense. what happened to the sweet boy you’ve known since you were five? the boy who used to cook your favorite meals when you returned from missions? the boy who promised he’d do anything to make you happy?

“caleb, i don’t want to be locked up in here forever!” you exclaim, pulling at his uniform, desperation laced in your tone. “i have a life outside of this. i-i want to be able to work, have fun, and live my normal life again. i don’t need you to-”

“you don’t need me? is that what you think?” caleb grabs your wrist, pulling it away from his uniform. “tell me. what do you need? we can go back to linkon if that’s what you want. if you want to return to our past, we’ll rebuild our old house and move in together.” his grip on your wrist tightens. “and if one house isn’t enough, i’ll build you a whole maze. i’ll decorate it with everything you could ever want,” he says, bringing a hand to your face and gently cupping your left cheek. “it will be the most beautiful, stunning garden you’ve ever seen.”

“caleb, you can’t just-”

“no one will ever find you again. i’ll protect you forever,” caleb cuts you off, his eyes showing no room for argument. you don’t even know what to say. caleb is terrifying when he (or the toring chip) acts like this. it doesn’t matter if he insists he’s the same old caleb from your childhood — he just doesn’t feel like your caleb anymore.

“caleb…” you whisper, tears spilling down your cheeks. you don’t know what else to say. it’s too overwhelming when he becomes like this. his touch, words, basically everything about him is suffocating.

“shh,” caleb says, gently wiping the tears from your eyes. “don’t cry, pipsqueak. you know i hate it when i see you cry.” he smiles softly as your tears begin to dry. “i promise you, once everyone who wants to hurt you or use you for your aether core disappears, you’ll finally be safe.”

[tojisteddy]

If you have a problem, Toji can easily correct it.

cw: 3.1k words (dawg it was NOT supposed to be that long), brat! taming, oral (m receiving), face fucking, piv, overstím, dom/sub dynamic, dacryphilia, dub-con, punishment, breath play (kinda idk), Daddy (?) kink, creampie, spanking, pet names (baby, sweet girl, doll, mama, ma), no use of y/n, just plain debauchery.

No because Toji has to have his hands on you. Whether it be your hips, your back, your neck, your ass, hand holding, his arm around your shoulders— anything to let him know you were in arms reach and close. It wasn’t like he was a needy fuck, no, not some strict spouse that didn’t let you do your own thing.

But when you were together, he wanted— no— had to keep you near, you needed to be together.

But today, since you’d left from your place and to the bar with friends, you’d been avoiding his touch.

Purposely.

Just wanting to test the waters out since you didn’t mind constantly being close. He was your spouse after all. Unless you said otherwise, he could touch you anytime he wanted.

His hand went for your back for the sixth time tonight and there you were, silently shifting out of his reach as you went on and on to your friend about some twitter gossip he didn’t give a fuck about. He was being oh-so patient with you but you were being a brat.

He looked over at you who acted as if all was well with the world and hysterically laughed to himself, fuck, you were good.

Toji put down his beer he couldn’t be bothered to finish. His hand slowly making its was around your shoulder, you were trying to get out of his grasp yet again. But he snuggled you close, a casual look on his face as he replied to something a friend said. He’d looked down at you with a glint in his emerald eyes.

‘keep it up.’

It was silent, unnoticeable to those around you.

Fuck, you were 10-0, you knew you were losing and had already lost the game you were playing. But sometimes you gotta shoot for the stars, aim for the moon, make a slam dunk when you don’t even know the first steps to playing basketball!

So you went for an illegal home run on bullshit.

Avoiding Toji’s gaze, his touch, his voice— hell— going to get another drink you were gonna pass off to your friend just to get away from him. You were hitting all the bases, and with knowing smile, you jumped on home plate.

Imagine giggling and waving with a stupid grin on your face on national tv after losing the championship game knowing the coach was about to hound on you like the second rapture— it was like that when the night came to an end.

You both said your goodbyes without any issue, Toji’s hand at the small of your back like a gun.

‘Keep still.’

He didn’t need to say anything, you didn’t have to try anymore, he’d give you what you wanted.

~~•~~

“Hmmaahh Toji—“

“No.”

“Papaaa.”

“God damn, you’re so loud— Shut. The fuck. Up.”

You regretted it.

Seriously, you regretted it.

If you had, had your lawyers (you) properly look over the legal documents (aka the current situation) before you signed it, they would’ve snatched the pen away and burned it.

Counting.

A “game” Toji suggested you two play when you got back home. No matter how much music played, or the way Toji made casual conversation with you about your shared plans for tomorrow despite his knuckles turning white as he gripped the steering wheel— there wasn’t enough room in the car for you to say no.

The game consisted of you having to count to 100 as Toji’s large hand laid excruciating slaps to your ass. It was fine the first ten but then you got to 20, and then suddenly— you groaned, gripping onto the older man’s pants leg. As if he, of all people, was going to save you from this situation.

“Thirrty threeee.”

He scuffed, “Don’t tell me you can’t count. Start over.”

“Wha- Toji!”

“I won’t repeat myself.”

Another painful smack. You hiccuped, looking back at Toji who was looking down at you emotionless. As if he was telling you, ‘We can start again, it doesn’t matter to me.’

“O-one.”

“Keep going.”

“T-twooo.”

You were slurring your words, tears coming out of your face and you lost count again around 40

But that wasn’t good enough, he’d rangled you to the floor and on your knees (he knew your ass hurt and made sure to give you a quick break, a sweetheart :) ), forcing your mouth open without a care about how you felt and putting the tip of his swelling cock to your pretty, moisturized lips. Not wanting to make him any more upset, you opened your mouth. You expected praise because that’s what Toji always did, but instead your head got pressed to go further down his manhood. You went to take the base of it with your hands but Toji slapped them away.

“Keep your hands to yourself baby. No touching tonight.”

And what the hell did that mean?

Even though a third of his girthy cock was in your mouth, and he was still gripping your hair to get closer— there’s no way he expected you to take all of him, there’s absolutely no way.

“Relax your cute little throat, or I’ll shove it all in. Your choice.”

Shit.

“Theeeere you go, baby. Therrrre you go! Look like a fucking slut trying to take all ‘f me, good thing I’m here help, right?”

Toji was big, too big. To the point, you couldn’t breathe as he slowly gave you the last few inches of his dick. But fuck, the less you were able to breathe the more you relaxed. It oddly made you feel good. You could hear your clit pulsing as Toji pulled your head back, causing you to gasp and then shoving it back in before you got the chance to breathe. In and out, in and out, in and out, in—

The man gripped the curls, that took you so long to define each and every strand, his cock leaking even more at the sight of you. You were so perfect. Hopless but perfect.

“Your pretty mouth— shiit— must’ve been made for this. All you wanted to do was take this dick. Haaa, prove tuh Papa how bad you are but you only want me to abuse that tight fucking throat of yours.”

You had precum falling down your chin to your breasts, his balls slapping against you every single time he thrusted into your tight ass mouth, you could hear the sound of squelching in your mouth— it was filthy.

But the way Toji looked down at you, his emerald eyes looking as you were the scum of the earth— God, you couldn’t get enough of it.

Your nose was touching the black pubic hairs, your glanced up, his head thrown back, moans unable to escape him because you felt so damn good. That sight alone, turned you on further, a harsh moan coming around Toji’s veiny cock.

You were a moaning disheveled, disgusting, mess after that. You felt good simply knowing you were the one making Toji lose himself around you. It wasn’t helping the lack of air going to your brain. Your gummy walls were fluttering and hard, your brain felt foggy, all you could focus on was Toji and Toni ramming into your mouth like you were the only person on earth. You felt his cock twitch at the back your throat and suddenly, your mouth warm. Film to the brim with a thick, white substance.

“Swallow.”

Toji shoved you off of him and you fell to the floor. Gasping for air, cum dripping from your chin but your mouth was empty, and your cunt sopping in your panties, fucking clenching again and again for him. You weren’t just trying to catch your breath from his thick member being in your mouth, your chest out disheveled breaths, your legs were shaking— and Toji knew that lazy, stupid look like the back of his hand.

A deep, bellowed laugh came from the man’s stomach as he looked down at you. You’d unknowingly came. Untouched.

“Fuck, since when could you— shit mama.”

He was shaking his head, delirious with the thought, you were complete and utter putty in his hands.

“Again.”

“Huh?”

“Come on, suck it again. You’re not done.”

Toji wasn’t one to usually do punishments, there was no need to. You knew better.

But it was things like this that, in the grand scheme of things, weren’t a big deal. But Toji always made it very clear to you when he was angry— that it wasn’t just bully!Toji fucking with you. This was asshole!Toji who was gonna drag you down to hell with him, the one who you’d think is calm but had a knife behind his back, the one you actually pissed off and the one who would make it so very clear— you didn’t need to try it again.

Your eyes were puffy from crying so much, snot kept trying to come out that you kept sniffing back up and rubbing away, full lips swollen from taking his large cock to the hilt, your ass was completely red, you could practically see the hand prints on your brown skin, bite marks and hickies only left around your thighs, and your poor, sopping cunt was sore. Your clit was begging for mercy.

Above all else, this whole time: Toji wouldn’t hold you.

Wouldn’t let you wrap your arms around his back or shoulders when he was drilling you into oblivion, wouldn’t let you use his chest when you were riding him, kept your hands above your head or pinned them to the side, wouldn’t kiss you or even bite you. He wouldn’t even grip onto your hips for leverage as he was fucking from the back or as you rode him, only grabbing you by the hair or giving your ass a hard smack.

“No. Take all of it.”

“Stop it, you know how to move. Fuck it like it’s yours.”

“We don’t touch each other, now do we Doll?”

You’d apologized numerous times already, saying anything that could come to mind that would make the man happy but, no. Toji wouldn’t accept it, hell- he didn’t even give the idea of your apology the time of day. Your movements had come to a sudden stop, taking a few deep breaths. You needed a break, a minute— maybe a vacation after this. The man had spent hours eating you out like Jesus at the last meal till you snatched his head away by his hair.

Another mistake.

He’d had you sat in his lap, riding his cock, your hands hold your chest because ‘touching isn’t allowed.’ He kept you cumming, kept you shaking, kept your whimpering for more, more, more.

It didn’t satisfy you.

You hated how you felt, it made your heart ache, you felt nauseous. You felt unloved, detestable, abandoned— even though you knew Toji loved you. How he adored every inch of you, and you him. The older man was right there, in arms reach literally, you’d been taking all of his borderline monster cock tonight, everywhere he wanted, but he wouldn’t because you weren’t a good—

Oh, fuck.

No, you were really gonna cry. Like hyperventilating, sobbing on the floor after a terrible day of work and you can’t find the food your mind was dead set on eating cry. The sob was building in the back of your throat, more tears stung your eyes, your hands were shaking slowly reaching up his stomach. Trying again, the words unable to come out.

‘Please.’

Toji saw it, you were an inch shy from going into sub drop. He had looked like he was bored of you, but his eyes followed your every move. How your hips shook when he gave you one thrust to keep moving. Or how you’d tilt your head, curls following to the side of your face when you called out to him, for him to do anything to you.

Problem was, Toji didn’t just want you to feel what he felt earlier tonight— he wanted to completely ache for his touch. Even to go as far as pleading with the devil just for him to brush his fingers against your chin.

If you had to be a sobbing, babbling mess, so be it.

You were his to fuck up, his to fix, and his to discipline. And he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Your weary eyes stuck on him, you looked so helpless, how precious, his sweet doll. Toji quickly put out the cigarette that he’d gotten half way through, motioning you over with one finger.

“Come ‘ere.”

Hell.

You were having an outer body experience. You felt your body fall on him, the sob escaped without a second thought, you clung to him as hard as you could. Your nails scratching his lower back as he held you tight. The two of you were practically blending together.

“Sorryy, ‘m sorry Papa- I-I-I didn’t mean toooo!”

That was a lie, but he knew what you meant. Though you usually stayed in your lane, sure you pissed him off now and then, but you were his brat, weren’t you?

“ ‘S okay baby, but just don’t like it when I can’t touch you. Told ya that before, didn’t I? You should listen to me next time, yeah?”

It didn’t sound comforting.

It never was.

But when you were in his big arms, the smell of cigarettes and a hint of oak on him, his soft kisses on your teary cheeks, the sound of his heart beat— you felt so reassured. Treasured. Cared for.

He hummed, sitting you up, still sitting on his fat, pulsing cock. He took your pretty face in his calloused hands, thumbs gently at the fallin tears. You leaned into his touch, fuck you loved his hands. So big, warm, veins all over them, they could be so sweet sometimes but so damn mean. Regardless of what happened, you’d be craving to feel them.

“What’s the safe word, [+]? Tell me.”

You sniffed, “dear.”

The older man’s hands slowly went down your sides, to your bruised hips, gently rubbing circles with his fingers.

“Wanna say it? ‘S okay if you do. Big girls say it.”

The room was still, the only sound was the both of your breathing and your soft sniffles. You kept rubbing your face, trying to get yourself together after being at your lowest and then being brought back up. Your hand gripped onto Toji’s bicep, just trying to feel him, any of him.

“Don’t need to. I’m okay.”

“Yeah?” He hummed, “Then whatd’ya wanna do baby? Whatever you want.”

Your voice cracked, it was embarrassing but who gives a shit? You needed him. You were desperate for him.

“Fuck, need you to hold me Toji!” you mewled.

Like a switch, the man was on you. Yanking you back down to him, slamming your hips down on him while thrusting up into you like his life depended it.

He loved snapping his hips up to meet yours, the gorgeous sight of your ass and hips rippling was droll worthy. He rasped, “Attaa girl, haaa, atta. fuckin. girl. Handle it so well ma. ”

“Toojiii!” Your eyes rolled to the back of your head, mouth agape as you took every harsh thrust against your cervix. It was all so much, your chests pressed against each other. Toji’s breath was right your ear, biting your earlobe then sucking the sensitive area, his hands holding your two sore ass cheeks, using it as leverage— just what you needed.

“Love you! I— hmmm— love you, fuckin love you Papa! Sooo mu-ughh!”

“I knoooow mama,” he snickered, you were such a love sick baby, “bein so sweet f’ me. I love you baby.”

You moaned at his words, your heart swelling right along with your cunt. Pussy clenching around him and he groaned. He slammed you down on him even faster, even swiveling your hips around so you could cum.

“Toj—“

“Fuck, come on sweet girl, know you want to. Get there, hfff- fuckin make a pretty mess like you always do.”

You felt your lungs leave your body, quickly patting Toji’s shoulder as you quickly sat up, shattering around his dick. But Toji wouldn’t let you go, sitting up further against the headboard of the bed, taking your legs and throwing them over his biceps, his hands gripping into the two mounds of your bruised ass. Tip rubbing your folds that were crying ones, filled with plenty of white tears.

Toji eased his monster dick back into you, your mixed cum gushing out of you getting a moan out of him. He was drunk off you.

“Toji- ca- aagh! I can’t.” You hiccuped, using your hands to try and take him out of you. But he held you tighter putting your foreheads together with a huff,

“You can, hmm- shiit baby— you will.”

He was already slowly, slamming you down as hard as could. Your gummy walls, basically begging the older man not to let go of him. You two were huffing and puffing in each other’s open mouths, one of your hands going around Toji’s shoulder, the other griping his jet black hair that felt so nice between your fingers.

“Gonna— gotta give it to you just how you need, huh mama? Hmm— fuck meee baby— Just needed your Toji to set you straight.”

Your toes curled, a ‘yes papa.’ Leaving your pretty dark pink lips.

“Shit— kiss me Doll. Kiss me while you cum on my cock.”

Your lips immediately went to his, deliriously molding his pink lips to your two tone ones. It was sloppy, his tongue was at the back of your throat, you could hear how fucking wet it was a yards away. A string of saliva forming every time you pulled away for air.

His thrusts were slow, but they were so fucking mean, kissing your cervix every time he slammed you back down to the base of his cock, then lifted you up, up, up so the mushroom tip was almost hanging out then back down, so you would feel every. single. ridged vein, every pulse that ran through his manhood.

Your climax is like a punch to the gut, you scream into Toji’s mouth and he bit your lip. Immediately tipping over at the feeling of your walls clutching onto him like you needed his milk.

Your body shook as the black dots in your eyes consumed you. Toji brushes your hair back, fully enamored at the sight of you, leaving tender kisses around you neck and chest, heavily breathing from everything you two have just done.

“Good fuckin girl.”

[coryndoll]

authors note: broken up with so i made THIS its 3am please

is it okay to want your ex to be the person beside you when you wake up from a dream about them, even when you know you’re supposed to be moving on?

because if it’s not, then you’re already doing this all wrong.

you wake up too suddenly, almost like your own body betrayed you, forcing you out of something you weren’t ready to leave behind. your eyes snap open, heart hammering, the kind of startled wake-up that leaves you disoriented for a moment, stuck between dream and reality.

you lift your head, blinking against the dark, and look down at the sheets pooled around your waist, then slowly, like maybe you already know what you’ll find, you glance toward the other side of the bed.

empty.

your stomach sinks, but you tell yourself that’s stupid. of course it’s empty. why wouldn’t it be?

but it doesn’t matter what your head knows. it’s what your heart feels that always screws you up, because for one blissful, delirious second, you expected him to be there. warmth beside you, an arm draped across your waist, his steady breathing pulling you back under.

but that was the dream.

and god, what a cruel dream.

you don’t even know if you were just friends or something more in it, if you’d crossed back over that invisible line or if you were still dancing around it, but what you do know is how it felt. how you felt. that dizzy kind of giddiness, the way your stomach flipped with every glance, every touch, every little moment of something unspoken but understood. it felt like starting over, like all the space between you had been erased, like maybe you could still have him.

and then you woke up.

you swallow hard and let your head fall back against the pillow, eyes squeezing shut. you shouldn’t be dreaming about him. you shouldn’t be feeling like this.

you’re supposed to be getting over him.

but now it’s four in the morning, and you’re wide awake with a lingering ache in your chest, a knot in your stomach, and a dream you can’t shake no matter how much you tell yourself it doesn’t mean anything.

you try to sleep again. you roll over, adjust the blankets, close your eyes, and breathe deep like you read somewhere that might help, but it doesn’t. so you grab your phone from the nightstand and scroll through tiktok, letting the mindless flood of videos wash over you, but none of them make you laugh, none of them distract you the way you want them to. the flashes of what you remember come every now and then.

you think about making food, something small, because eating always makes you sleepy. but that feels like too much effort, and the last thing you want is to be alone with your thoughts in the kitchen, staring at the clock and counting the hours until you have to pretend like you’re fine.

so you give up and swipe through your notifications instead, clearing some out, replying to a text from your mom, letting the dull routine of it settle you.

but then you see his name, just sitting there in your recents like it belongs, like it hasn’t been haunting you since the breakup.

your thumb hesitates over the screen, and that’s all it takes. the thought is already there, already burrowing into your brain like an instinct you can’t fight.

you shouldn’t. you know you shouldn’t.

are you on non-speaking terms for now?

is it safe to send just one text?

but the dream is still fresh, still clinging to you like secondhand smoke, and every fiber of your being is screaming at you to just reach out. just once. just this one time.

before you can talk yourself out of it, before you can convince yourself to be strong, you tap his name and press the call button.

you sit up slowly, pressing your phone to your ear, and listen to the dial tone.

one ring.

two.

three.

your stomach twists. this was a mistake. he’s sleeping. maybe he has his ringer on and you’re waking him up. shame on you. you should hang up. you should—

then a noise. a shift.

your breath catches, your heart lurches.

you pull the phone away, staring at the screen, frozen in panic. maybe it was nothing. maybe he just moved in his sleep. maybe he won’t even remember this in the morning—

“hello?”

his voice is groggy, rough around the edges like he hasn’t fully woken up yet. like he doesn’t know who’s calling him at this hour.

and holy shit, you almost hang up right then. almost.

but something in you makes you lift the phone back to your ear, makes you swallow the lump in your throat, makes you whisper, “hello?”

there’s a pause, like maybe he’s still caught somewhere between sleep and reality. you hear the shift of fabric, the rustling of blankets as he moves, like he’s rolling onto his back, maybe rubbing at his face, trying to shake off the haze of sleep.

and then, recognition. “y/n— hey? why are you up?”

your lips part, but for a moment, nothing comes out.

because what are you supposed to say? that you woke up from a dream about him, and it felt so real that for half a second, you thought he’d actually been there? that it left you feeling warm and whole and painfully desperate to hold onto something that isn’t even yours anymore? that the idea of moving on feels impossible when your subconscious won’t even let you pretend you’re over it?

you swallow, forcing yourself to say something, anything, before the silence stretches too long.

“i couldn’t sleep,” you whisper, and before the guilt can settle too deep in your chest, you add, “sorry if i woke you.”

on the other end, you hear him shift again. there’s a faint rustling, the kind that makes you picture him shaking his head, before he murmurs, “you didn’t.”

you let out a small breath, a quiet scoff, something close to a laugh but not quite. “yeah?” your voice is just a little teasing, just a little skeptical. “you sound like it.”

for a second, there’s nothing. then he chuckles.

soft and low, the kind of laugh that makes your stomach twist, that makes you feel like you’ve caught him in a lie. and you have, obviously. you know his voice too well, you can hear the exhaustion in it, the roughness in his throat. you know he was asleep. but he’s trying to make you feel better about it, trying to brush it off like it doesn’t matter.

it’s nothing. it’s barely anything.

but it’s enough to make you slip.

you press your lips together, fingers tightening around your phone. because for a second, just a second, it feels normal again. like you can still call him in the middle of the night just because, like you can hear his sleepy laugh and joke about it, like you haven’t lost this part of him.

but then reality catches up.

your stomach sinks, the warmth in your chest cooling into something heavier, something bitter. your smile fades, and you shift, pressing your forehead against your knee, closing your eyes.

you shouldn’t be doing this. you shouldn’t be letting yourself fall back into something you know isn’t yours anymore.

but you force yourself to get to the point.

“would it be stupid if i asked you to come over?” you murmur, barely louder than a breath, barely brave enough to ask, but desperate enough to say it anyway.

the second the words leave your mouth, you regret them. the silence is immediate. so much silence that it makes your stomach twist, makes your pulse spike, makes you feel like you should just end the call right now and save yourself from whatever is about to happen next.

you pull your phone away for a second, checking to see if the call is even still connected.

“y/n.”

it’s soft, but the weight behind it is heavy. there’s something careful in the way he says your name, something almost hesitant, like he’s reminding you of something neither of you want to say out loud.

you know what he’s about to tell you. that there’s a reason you aren’t in each other’s beds anymore. there’s a reason you aren’t supposed to be doing this. and suddenly, panic sets in.

“nevermind,” you rush out, shaking your head at yourself like he can see you. “that was— i shouldn’t have asked. i just— i’m tired. i’m sorry i woke you, i’ll let you go. goodnight—"

“stop.” his voice is firm, cutting through your words before you can finish. you freeze, fingers curling into the fabric of your blanket, breath hitching, and you wait. you don’t say anything.

then, more shuffling on his end. you strain to listen, and then it hits you. he’s moving. getting out of bed.

“yeah,” he exhales, voice still thick with exhaustion, but steady now. certain. “i’ll be there.”

there’s a pause, the quiet hum of the phone line stretching between you both. you can still hear him moving; maybe grabbing his keys, maybe slipping on a hoodie. the thought alone makes your stomach flip. then, his voice, softer this time. careful. “do you need anything else?”

the question is simple, but there’s something about the way he asks it that makes you hesitate. like he’s offering you something more than just his presence. like if you asked for it, he’d give you anything. but you’re already pushing it. you know that.

so you shake your head, pressing your lips together before making a small sound of refusal, “mm-mm.”

on the other end, drew exhales, barely audible, and when he speaks again, it’s quiet. steady. “alright,” and then the call ends.

you lower your phone from your ear, staring at the screen as the seconds of silence stretch on, until the brightness fades and leaves you staring at your own faint reflection.

your teeth sink into your bottom lip, eyes flickering toward your dresser, but you’re not really seeing it. your mind is running too fast, thoughts spiraling, pulling you in two different directions.

there’s an uneasy feeling settling in your chest, pressing against your ribs. like maybe you shouldn’t have done this. like maybe this is exactly why you and drew shouldn’t be calling each other in the middle of the night anymore. but then, there’s something else. something warmer.

because he agreed. without hesitation too. without a single question. he’s coming over. does that mean something? the thought almost makes you smile. hope.

drew doesn’t live far, thankfully. all that space in los angeles, and yet, somehow, you both ended up just a mile or two apart. it had been convenient back then, when late-night filming ran over, when you were both too tired to do anything but collapse into each other’s arms, when going home meant a five-minute drive instead of a long trek across the city.

it made sense, being close. you’d even talked about closing the distance completely before, like moving out of your separate places and into one together. it wasn’t a serious discussion, more like a fleeting idea thrown out between shared meals and lazy mornings, but it had lingered. but you never put any real time into it. and maybe that was for the best. or maybe it wasn’t.

because if drew can come over now, without question, without hesitation, just because you asked, then what would it have been like if you had actually lived together?

you can’t stop your mind from running with the thought, from spiraling into a thousand different possibilities.

if you had shared a home, would he have stayed in your bed on nights like these, when you couldn’t sleep, when the weight of missing him pressed heavy on your chest? or would he have made himself comfortable in some extra room, always just across the hall, close enough to feel present but far enough to keep a safe distance?

if you had already built a life under the same roof, would he have been the one to move out? or would he have stayed, finding excuses to linger, to keep things from changing too much, to hold on to something that neither of you were sure how to let go of?

or would he have stayed in the same bed, too disciplined to let emotions dictate his choices, too mature to act like sharing a bed meant something more than what it was—just sleep, just comfort, just the two of you existing in the same space like you always had?

because that’s who drew is. realistic, rational, someone who believes in keeping things separate, even if it hurts.

he wouldn’t have been reckless about it. he wouldn’t have let longing turn into excuses or blurred lines. he would have figured out what to do, how to move forward, how to live in the same space while still trying to get over you. he wouldn’t have let himself slip.

but you? you don’t think you’d be able to pretend so easily. because lying next to him, feeling his presence just inches away, knowing it was him but that you weren’t his anymore. it would break you, piece by piece, every single night.

but he’s there soon, riding up the elevator like it’s nothing, like this isn’t something that should feel bigger than it is. like this isn’t something that should be happening at all. ten minutes. that’s all it takes.

when the knock comes, you practically stumble out of bed, feeling unsteady in your own body. you don’t know how to carry yourself, don’t know if you should be composed or apologetic, don’t know if you should even be doing this. but you move anyway, making your way to the door on autopilot, fingers unsteady as they reach for the handle.

when you open it, there he is. hood on, sweats hanging low on his hips, a stupid pair of sandals on his feet like he didn’t think twice about what he was wearing before leaving. like he didn’t care. but his eyes . . . his tired, knowing, impossibly soft eyes, tell you otherwise.

and you feel it then. the guilt. all over again.

it’s humiliating, the way you can’t get over him. the way your chest tightens just from seeing him stand in your doorway. the way he can read it all over your face like it’s written there in bold letters. he exhales, something quiet, something almost affectionate, and then murmurs, “c’mon, angel.”

his voice is low, thick with sleep, and it only makes you feel worse, but you let him in anyway. you step aside, and he moves past you, closing the door behind him, locking it with the ease of muscle memory. it’s dark. the lights are off, nothing illuminating the space except for the soft, golden glow bleeding through the thin curtain covering your balcony door. it’s just enough to see him, to see the way he’s watching you, the way his brows pull together when he sees the wetness brimming in your eyes.

you cover your face with your hands, disappointment settling deep in your stomach. you shouldn’t have called him. you shouldn’t have let him come. you shouldn’t be standing here, crying in front of him like you’re still his to comfort.

but then his arms are around you, wrapping around your shoulders, around your head, pulling you into his chest before you can even think to push him away.

he’s warm.

his scent, familiar, overwhelming, engulfs you instantly. and suddenly, it all feels . . . warm in here. safe. like something you shouldn’t still want. like something you don’t know how to let go of.

and soon you’re back under the sheets, and so is he.

it’s quiet. on purpose.

he sits upright against the headboard, back pressed into the pillows, the fabric of his hoodie bunching slightly where his shoulders meet the wood. you’re not sure where he’s looking, but his gaze is far away, unfocused, lost in thoughts he won’t say out loud.

you don’t try to figure them out. you don’t ask. instead, you just let yourself sink into him, pressing your cheek against his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall beneath you. his warmth seeps into your skin, into the cotton of your sleep shirt, into the spaces between each breath. it feels familiar. dangerously so.

one of your hands stays curled between your bodies, fingers pressing into your own palm like you’re trying to hold something in. the other rests lightly on his abdomen, just for a second, just enough to feel the soft give of fabric over skin. hesitation creeps in, a warning, a reminder, but you ignore it. your fingers trace a barely-there path lower, brushing against his hand.

he doesn’t pull away.

your fingertips graze his knuckles first, featherlight, and then you take his hand completely, slipping your fingers between his, linking them like muscle memory.

he squeezes.

it’s subtle, almost unconscious, but it’s there. his hand is warm, slightly calloused, the way it’s always been. the way it shouldn’t still feel so right.

he exhales slowly, and you hear it more than you see it, feel it more than you acknowledge it. but when you glance up at him, you catch the shift in his face. the slight furrow of his brows. the parting of his lips, like there’s something sitting on his tongue, something he won’t say.

his eyes are trained on nothing. somewhere in the distance. worried. like he knows this is wrong too. but he stays. neither of you move, neither of you loosen your grip.

he reaches over and turns off the bedside lamp, but nothing really changes. the silence lingers. the warmth stays. you both just lay there, tangled in something you shouldn’t be, holding onto something neither of you know how to let go of.

and maybe that just sums you two up as a whole.

[puck-luck]

patchwork hearts | nico hischier

warnings: unprotected p in v, chatgpt-level swiss german (since google translate doesn’t have swiss german. only regular german. f u google translate), angst i guess (argument), make-up sex, pretty vanilla all in all, oral f!receiving, fingering.

pairing: nico hischier x fem!reader

request: Reader and Nico get into a fight before we leaves for away from away games in the west coast and they make up when he comes back (or while he is away). Request by @hockeygirl1328. thanks queen! sorry it took so long!!

wc: 3,345

The memory of the argument flashes through your mind when Nico’s face appears on your screen. It’s the cuddliest photo you’ve ever taken of him, scruff in full form and hair messy, but that still doesn’t improve your mood. Just before he left for this road trip, you’d gotten into a massive fight about his constant travel. You love Nico, so much, but he’s always gone. It’s your first season together and the adjustment from Summer Nico to Season Nico has been really difficult.

Maybe you were being selfish, but you didn’t want to miss Nico for another week. He comes home for a few days, then leaves for a few more. The cycle repeats over and over again and there’s not enough time for you and Nico to establish a routine. There’s not enough time for you to even see Nico some days, which is just disheartening. Your boyfriend is basically a half-version of himself and, most of the time, it feels like his only priority in life is hockey. You don’t even rank.

Nico’s words had hurt, even though you know in your heart that he was right. It was just excessive, the way he’d dug his claws into you with only a few words. 

As the phone rings out, you hear the echo of what he said. “You knew what this life was when we got together. I don’t have time for a constant guilt trip every time I leave!”

“I didn’t sign up to be an afterthought,” you’d fought back.

“Not everything is about you, you know,” Nico snapped. “The world doesn’t revolve around you– my world doesn’t revolve around you.”

His eyes had grown immediately wide and his jaw had dropped, like he couldn’t believe he just said that. You couldn’t believe he’d said that. The argument ended immediately– only because there was nothing you could muster up in reply. 

You hadn’t broken up with Nico for the mere statement, although you’ll admit that it crossed your mind. Instead, you’d sat in place as Nico’s many apologies fell on deaf ears. You felt almost catatonic as he’d kenlt down in front of you and tried to gauge your reaction, touching your knee with a gentle nudge. He’d wiped away the tears that leaked from your eyes, even though you’d tried to turn away from his touch. 

You’d slept over that night because you hadn’t felt you were able to move. The shock kept you in place. Nico had tucked you into his bed and relegated himself to the couch. When you woke up and you’d finally felt able to move, ready to face the boy, he was gone. There was a note on the door and a message left on your phone, both of which said roughly the same thing: that Nico was sorry he had to go, but he couldn’t stay. You knew why, of course. It was time for his California roadie. As much as you felt like an afterthought at times, you aren’t unreasonable. You know that he has to travel for his job. 

You’re still hurt, to be fair. No matter how many times Nico apologized after dropping that bomb, it continues to cut at you and pop up in your mind whenever he calls. You’ve answered twice over the duration of the roadie, but the conversations had felt stilted and forced. After the last call, just over a day ago, Nico had asked if he could come over to your apartment and see you when he got back. 

You think that he was calling a moment ago because he made it back to the Prudential Center and would be driving to your place soon. Your palms are a bit sweaty knowing that Nico is on the way. You don’t want to fight with him again and you have a feeling that he doesn’t want to fight either, but you know it’s not resolved.

You take the time before Nico arrives to calm yourself. You get a glass of water, you grab a handful of your favorite snack, and you sit on the couch to watch a bit of TV.

He calls again a few minutes later. This time, you answer.

“Hi, Nico,” you greet, voice quiet.

“Hi, I’m downstairs,” Nico says. “Just wanted to let you know I’m here before I come up.”

“Okay, Nee. I’ll see you soon.” You pull the phone away fom your ear and end the call, standing up to unlock your front door. You return to the couch and when he knocks, you call out to tell him that it’s open.

Nico comes through the door and toes off his shoes. “How was your day?” Nico asks, coming over to the couch to join you. 

“Not bad. I went to work and the gym and then I came home,” you reply. You attempt a smile at Nico when he sits on the couch and circles his fingers around your ankle, rubbing his thumb against your skin. “How was California?”

“I missed you,” Nico says. “It was hard to focus on the games when I was thinking about you. I’m sorry I left after the fight. I wish I hadn’t needed to go. I wanted to stay and make things better.”

The breath leaves your chest in a deep sigh. “It was unfortunate timing.”

“I know,” Nico agrees, nodding. “It gave me a little time to think about what to say to you, which is nice. I know I can’t really make up for what happened last week, but–” Nico takes your hand and grasps it. “I’m sorry I said you weren’t a priority for me. You are. You’re a huge part of my life and I wouldn’t be anywhere without you, supporting me and cheering me on and being there for me every day. I’m sorry I wasn’t more considerate of your feelings.”

You almost want to cry again after hearing him spout this heartfelt apology. Nico sits in front of you and waits, blinking patiently and chewing on his lower lip while you take in his words. The lines under his eyes are deep and you can tell that he lost sleep over something this past week, likely this incident if his words have any truth to them. You nod and reach forward, cradling Nico’s face in your hands. “I’m sorry for not giving you the benefit of the doubt,” you tell Nico. “I know you can’t help that hockey is such a big part of your life. I know you don’t mean to put me on the backburner. I just felt a little neglected and I’m sorry that I accused you of making me an afterthought.”

“You shouldn’t have to apologize because of how you feel,” Nico says. He slides his arm down to your waist. “I was caught up in everything else in my life and didn’t give you the attention you deserve. I never want to make you feel that way again.”

“You won’t,” you say. “I know you won’t.” You lean in and press a chaste kiss to Nico’s lips. After kissing him, you shuffle forward and tuck yourself against his chest. 

Nico pulls you onto his lap and cradles you there, kissing the top and side of your head. He touches as much of your body as he can, rubbing your back and your arms, your waist and your thighs. You breathe together, leaning against each other, and taking in the presence of the other person.

“Please let me show you how much I love you,” Nico requests after a few minutes, caressing your sides and looking at you with his big, brown eyes. “And how sorry I am for acting like I don’t care. I care, babe, I care so much.” He drops a kiss on your forehead, then your cheek. “Please.”

You don’t reply, but you turn your head and find his lips. You touch the scuff on Nico’s face, which he seems to have shaved over his roadie, but it’s starting to grow back. His hair is at risk of being deemed “too long” in his own opinion, so you touch the strands reverently, knowing that they’ll be gone sooner than later. 

“Let me take care of you,” Nico murmurs, dipping down to brush a kiss over your jawline. 

“Okay,” you whisper back, touching the side of Nico’s neck and the curve of his bicep. 

He fits his strong palms under your thighs, lifting you. You wrap your legs around his waist and do your best to distract Nico on his walk to the bedroom. You might still be a little sad about what Nico said a week ago, but the apology worked well enough that you’re trying to let it go. 

Nico lays you on the bed, kissing down your body and undressing you as he goes. His touch is loving, almost overwhelmingly so. He removes his shirt and settles between your legs, kissing from your calf to the inside of your knee, up your thigh and all the way to your hip bone. 

The only sound that fills the room is the shared sigh of relief when Nico connects with your core. As his tongue flattens and licks a stripe up your slit, Nico’s eyes flutter shut and his hands fix on your hips to pull you closer. 

Ninety percent of the time, Nico gets ravenous when he’s eating you out. Today is different. 

His tongue trails through your folds. The tip of the muscle traces every inch of your cunt before he even considers pressing closer. Nico takes his time– he savors the taste of your slick. “Mm, liebste,” Nico groans. “You taste so good.” 

He works his tongue against your cunt, licking around the rim of your entrance before flicking further inside. One of his hands comes to your front, thumb contacting your clit and rubbing soothing circles over it. His other hand travels underneath your body and you let out a startled gasp when his fingers dig into the flesh of your ass, dragging you even closer.

He’s systematic and precise, kitten licking at your insides. He focuses on one part of your body, then another– in this case, he goes from your hole to wrapping his all-consuming lips around your clit and suckling. 

His index finger finds your entrance and soothes the smooth ring, drawing circles over the outline of your most intimate area before you lift your hips into his touch. You’re silently asking for more and Nico understands that, gently pushing his finger inside. Just like with his mouthwork, he’s slow and attentive. 

The pad of Nico’s fingertip feels out your inner walls, welcoming the hug of your cunt around his digit eagerly and repaying you by trying to find that spot inside of you, the one that always makes you see stars. 

His hair has started to fall messily over his forehead, brushing his eyebrows. You find the strands with your hands, clutching at them and moving his head where you need it to be– for all intents and purposes, you keep him mostly aligned with your clit, but the movement of his head provides a friction that pure suction could not offer.

As you do this, his middle finger pokes at your entrance. The first knuckle disappears inside you with little resistance, then Nico starts to work on opening you up. His fingers scissor inside of you, spearing against the gummy ridges of your muscle, preparing you for his cock. 

You clench down a bit at the thought of his member, pleas for the length on the tip of your tongue. You know Nico is thinking about fucking you too, just based on the way he rolls his hips against the mattress and hums. 

He releases your clit from between his lips, which draws a whine of protest from you. Nico chuckles quietly and turns his head, planting a kiss on your inner thigh. Then, he dips his head and twists his wrist so that his palm faces upward. Nico licks between his two fingers, his eyelids open just enough that you can see how he looks up at you and takes you in. 

Nico draws away from your pussy only to ask, “Chunsch du, schatz?” 

He’s teasing you, plucking at an inside joke from when you felt you were brave enough to try to learn Swiss German. Thinking it would be sweet, you’d tried your hand at talking Nico’s native tongue in bed, but your words had just seemed too formal. Still, it’s something you can laugh over. Nico loves to parrot your effort at “Are you coming?” back at you, always smiling fondly when he does.

He’s worked his tongue back between his fingers, looking up at you with raised eyebrows. He waits for you to answer his question, sure to bump his nose against your clit when you open your mouth, so that you produce a moan instead of a sentence. Nico giggles at his little joke, cheeks dimpling and eyes crinkling. He brings his mouth to your clit and kisses over the bud, steadily pumping his fingers to really bring you to orgasm.

You whimper when he works a third thick finger into your entrance, stuffing you full. You know it’s necessary since his cock is also thick, but there’s a dull ache at the first stretch that has you writhing on the bed. 

“I know, I know,” Nico soothes, lathing kiss after kiss to your sensitive center. “But I have to get you all open for me, baby. So you feel good later, hm?” He bends his knuckles and comes into contact with your sweet spot, the rush of pleasure making your back arch involuntarily. Nico notices this and grins, eyes determined and set on continuing this feeling for you.

Your noises grow more slurred with each touch of his fingertips to your walls, especially when he flicks his tongue rapidly over your clit. He’s still teasing you, dangling the climax just out of reach with the way he’ll overwhelm your clit with his tongue and then slow down, licking flat stripes along the parts of your slit that he can reach. 

“Nico,” you lament with a frown when he pulls away again, just as you were about to come.

“Sorry,” Nico apologizes with a crinkle-eyed smile. He captures your clit and keeps his mouth there, beckoning his fingers and creating a vacuum around the bundle of nerves at the apex of your vagina. This time, he doesn’t let up– he goes and goes and goes until your hands have found their way back to his hair and pull so hard that there’s a stinging sensation along Nico’s scalp.

He allows his eyes to drift shut again, free hand dancing up your body until he finds your tits, finally giving them the attention that he feels they deserve. With a few harsh gropes, a pinch or two to your nipple, and even a tug at your chest, you’re unraveling over Nico’s digits and making your situation very well known to your neighbors.

“Bravo, süsse,” Nico praises over the heaving of your chest. He stays in contact with your center, but slows his movements to something that keeps you teetering on the precipice of pleasure rather than in the throws of it. “Do you think you’re ready for my cock?”

“Yes,” you rasp out, reaching for Nico and catching him by his biceps. You coax him forward, palms sliding up to his jawline. You lick over the seam of Nico’s lips and taste yourself already, the flavor of your cum only growing stronger when Nico parts his lips and slides his tongue against yours. “Fuck me, Nico.”

“Mm, hase, I’m not going to fuck you,” Nico corrects. “I’m going to take care of you. And you’re going to take care of me.”

While you were ready to protest the first part of his statement, your mouth quickly snaps shut when he finishes speaking. You lay back against the pillows, propping your head up, and you bring Nico with you. His body blankets yours, shifting atop you as he tries to remove his bottoms with one hand. His other roams on your torso, stroking the curves of your sides and stomach.

“So schön,” Nico murmurs.

“So beautiful,” you repeat, thumbing over his cheekbone. 

Nico reaches between your bodies and lines himself up with your entrance. Just like before, he moves slowly. He moves with purpose. You can feel every inch of Nico’s length as it sinks into you. 

When you roll your head back to let out a soft moan, Nico seizes the opportunity to paint a series of open-mouthed kisses on your neck. “I love you so much,” he mumbles against your skin. He rolls his hips, filling you further. “So much.”

“I love you too,” you reply, hands scrambling for purchase on the expanse of his back when Nico’s tip brushes against the cartilaginous wall of your cervix. He knocks against that wall again on his next thrust forward, only drawing out about halfway before snapping forward suddenly. 

Regardless of how he fills you, his movements are still tinged with reverence and tenderness. Nico holds you like something that will break under the pressure of his fingertips, but he’s still desperate to keep you close. He’ll let his hips fall flush with yours and remain there sometimes, then other times he’ll roll and snap his hips like your lives depend on it. 

You know that there was once an argument between you, but all that matters is the fact that Nico is here and he’s doing exactly what he promised he’d do: take care of you.

His hand finds your arm, then trails up to your wrist. He presses your wrist into the cushion above your head, but doesn’t stop there. He brings his fingers up to your palm, tracing over the lines that represent your love and your life. He slots his fingers between yours and intertwines your fingers, holding your hand tight as he continues to thrust into you. He repeats the same process on the other side, until both of your hands are wrapped in his. He pins you to the bed, but you feel only safe and secure, not trapped in the slightest. 

“You’re so tight around me, baby,” Nico says, ending his statement with a kiss. His voice is low and rough, breathless and nearly spent due to the tango you’re performing now. “Gonna fill you up, fill you ‘til all of my love is dripping out of you.”

You were already overwhelmed, but when he said that– and then nibbled your bottom lip after– you feel a dam break inside of you. You come suddenly and without warning, jaw dropping. A high keen falls from your mouth, only to be met with a coo from Nico and a deep grunt as he continues to fuck into your even tighter entrance. 

The squeeze of your cunt around Nico’s cock is enough to make him come too, the white spurts of cum filling your hole just like he’d promised. You can feel Nico trembling a bit from the aftershocks, your chest meeting his as you arch up into his touch and he deflates from exhaustion. He covers you just like a warm comforter and kisses you lazily, both of you wanting to stay connected after such an intense reunion.

You feel satiated, calm and happy that Nico came to you when he returned instead of going home and basking in the misery of the argument from a week prior. You certainly feel better now, after having gone through the throes of that low point in your relationship.

“Mm,” Nico hums, like he remembered something suddenly. His head tilts and he kisses along the crook of your neck. “During the break in February, I thought you’d like to come home with me. We can have a little couples vacation at home, just you and me. How does that sound?”

“Amazing, Nico,” you tell him, smoothing his hair beneath your fingertips. “That sounds amazing.”

note: read a stoner!nico fic recently that Cece reblogged and I tweaked. thinking of y'all! i think you'll see nico a lot sooner on this blog than you expect... perhaps a little "nico x ____ x reader".....

[sidekick-hero]

Sing Me A Love Song

rating: t | cw: off-screen domestic violence | wc: 5.6 k | tags: fluff, modern au, love songs, first love, bartender Steve and Eddie, platonic hellcheer, Jason Carver being an asshole as usual, hurt!Chrissy (off-screen)

AO3 LINK

My fill for the @steddielovemonth Day 1. Prompts: 🎵 You and Me - Lifehouse and ❣️"Every heart sings a song, incomplete, until another heart whispers back. Those who wish to sing always find a song. At the touch of love everyone becomes a poet." - Plato

"Every heart sings a song, incomplete, until another heart whispers back. Those who wish to sing always find a song. At the touch of love everyone becomes a poet." - Plato

“You don’t understand,” Eddie groans, raking a hand through his curls. “If I don’t get this done, I might lose my contract.”

Chrissy doesn’t look impressed. She wipes down the counter in front of him, barely sparing him a glance. “I still think you’re being dramatic. You already have, what, ten songs? Isn’t that enough for an album?”

God, he wishes she were right. She should be right. Ten songs isn’t a lot, but it’s enough. Maybe he could throw in a cover, remaster one of his old tracks, stretch it to eleven. A solid number. A prime number, even—Jesus, he really needs to stop talking to Jeff.

But none of that matters. Because the problem isn’t the number.

The problem is the clause in his contract that requires one of those songs to be a love song.

Why did he agree to that? Oh, right. Desperation.

He needed the deal. Needed the money. Because Wayne’s life depends on it. And if Eddie can’t pay for his treatment, his uncle—the one person who’s always been there for him—will die.

So, yeah. It was either this record deal or selling a kidney in Tijuana.

“It’s not enough, Chris. I need one more song. And it’s like—” He exhales sharply, gripping his hair. “It’s like I’ve never written music before. My head’s empty, my hands are clumsier than a toddler’s, and I don’t know what to do. I can’t fail. I just can’t.”

That finally makes Chrissy pause. She sets down the rag, brows drawing together as her bright blue eyes search his face. “Eddie… this doesn’t sound like it’s just about an album.”

The bar is empty. No one’s here to overhear when he finally breaks.

Wayne’s diagnosis. The impossible cost of his treatment. The record label that dropped him like a bad habit the second he was outed—one stupid drunken mistake and suddenly, he was toxic. The desperate, humiliating scramble to find a new label, the rejection after rejection until he finally landed in Chicago, closer to Wayne, signing this contract.

Signing that clause.

Chrissy listens without interrupting, her hands folded over his. When he’s done, she exhales.

“A love song? Why would they insist on a love song?”

Eddie shrugs. “Something about bad boys with a secret soft side pulling in fans.”

She snorts. Loudly.

“Oi!”

“Eddie, sweetie.” Her grin is infuriating. “When I first met you during our shift, I thought you’d be mean and scary. But the moment you tried to slide over the bar and ate shit instead? Yeah. I knew you were just a giant dork.”

It’s impossible to fight off the answering grin tugging at his lips.

“I should be offended, but you’re not wrong. Just don’t tell anyone, okay? I have a reputation to uphold.”

Chrissy hops onto the bar, swinging her legs as she leans in to press a quick kiss to his cheek. “Sure. Whatever helps you sleep at night.” Then, more gently, “Look, don’t overthink it. Just write about the first guy you fell in love with. First love’s always a hit.”

Yeah. If only it were that simple.

“Great idea. Know any guys willing to fill that spot?”

Chrissy blinks. “Wha—” She stops, eyes narrowing as she really looks at him. “Wait. Are you— Is this your way of telling me you’ve never been in love?”

Eddie gives her finger guns. “Ding, ding, ding! The pretty young lady wins the jackpot.”

She just stares at him. Eddie braces himself, expecting pity, but all he finds in her eyes is warmth. Understanding.

Chrissy exhales. “Well. Shit.”

“Yeah. Shit.”

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

Bartending wasn’t exactly the glamorous, fame-laden career Eddie had dreamed of. But it was something he was surprisingly good at—always had been. Even back in high school, when he worked at the local dive bar just to buy himself and his band a weekly gig.

More importantly, though, it paid the bills.

Most of the first half of his record deal advance had gone straight to Wayne’s medical expenses. A small chunk covered recording costs, but food and rent were a whole different story. Maybe, if he actually delivers this album, the rest of the money will be enough to buy himself a place. But that’s a big if.

So, for now, bartending it is. It keeps a roof over his head, food in his fridge, and—maybe the best part—it gave him his first real friend in this city: Chrissy.

She keeps him sane on the bad days, when the anxiety sinks its teeth into him and won’t let go. And when he told her the embarrassing truth about his love life—or complete lack thereof—she had been nothing but kind. She offered tips, boosted his ego with her sheer bewilderment that someone like him had never been in love, and insisted it was only a matter of time.

Eddie isn’t so sure.

Most of his time is spent combing through Wayne’s medical reports or checking in with his nurse. He calls every day. Visits three times a week, taking the long trip back to rural Indiana to be with the only real father figure he’s ever had.

His nights—except Tuesdays and Wednesdays—are spent at the bar. Sure, plenty of the regulars are hot, and a few of them are actually nice, but Eddie isn’t naïve. He doesn’t expect to show up to work one day and suddenly have the man of his dreams stroll right up to him and say—

“Hello? Are you Eddie, by any chance?”

Eddie looks up from where he’s been taking stock of the liquor and locks eyes with the most ridiculously gorgeous pair of hazel eyes he’s ever seen.

It’s like grabbing a live wire. A jolt of electricity races through him, buzzing under his skin, making his heart slam against his ribs and his stomach do an actual, literal flip.

What the fuck is happening?

“I—uhm, yeah, that’s Eddie. Me. I mean—me is Eddie. Goddammit.” He squeezes his eyes shut for half a second, mentally kicking himself. “I’m Eddie. That’s right. How can I help you?”

The guy in front of him looks like he’s this close to laughing, biting down on a full bottom lip, hazel eyes twinkling with amusement. But he holds back, tilting his head slightly before offering a warm, easy smile.

“I’m Steve. Steve Harrington? Chrissy said she’d give you a call—told you I’d be covering for her for the next six weeks.”

She had done no such thing. Eddie would remember if she had.

Now that he thinks about it, he hasn’t heard from her all day. Not that they text constantly, but there’s always something—a meme, a random thought, a conversation that drags out over days. It’s Thursday now, and the last time they talked was Tuesday night, when she asked about Wayne.

His stomach twists.

“From the look on your face, she hasn’t done that.”

Eddie exhales. “Uh, no. No, she hasn’t. What happened? Why does she need someone to cover for her?”

Six weeks. That sounds serious. That sounds… bad.

Steve’s expression softens, but his voice is firm. “It’s not my place to say, I’m afraid.”

That just makes Eddie’s anxiety spike. He should appreciate that Steve is protecting Chrissy’s privacy—normally, he would—but right now, it’s just frustrating. Besides, Chrissy has never mentioned a Steve before. And he tells the guy as much.

Steve nods like he expected that. “She’s a friend of my best friend and roommate, Robin. That’s how we met. She asked me to help out, and that’s all I can tell you, man. I’m sorry.”

He does sound sorry. And Eddie does care about Chrissy, which means he needs to talk to her, not interrogate some guy she apparently trusts enough to take her place.

Steve must read something in his face because he adds, “If you want to call her, I can handle things here. Just tell me what to do.”

It sounds more like a question than an offer, like Steve isn’t sure where he stands and doesn’t want to overstep. Eddie has always had a problem with authority, with people telling him what to do. Steve doesn’t know that, but it still rubs him the wrong way for half a second—until he realizes Steve isn’t telling him anything. He’s offering.

Eddie hesitates for a beat, then exhales sharply and nods. "Yeah, okay. Thanks. Just start by restocking the bar—I’ll show you how to place an order for liquor and supplies when I get back."

Right now, he needs to hear Chrissy’s voice. Needs to know she’s okay. Everything else can wait.

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

Turns out that Chrissy’s asshole of a boyfriend—ex-boyfriend now, thank fuck—had grabbed her so hard during a fight that he broke her wrist. The only good thing about it was that it had finally been the last straw for Chrissy. She kicked his sorry ass to the curb.

Eddie had hated Jason from the second he walked into the bar, all possessive grip and territorial bullshit. Throw in the holier-than-thou attitude, the obsession with “purity” and Christian values, and the way he sneered at Eddie the moment Chrissy’s back was turned? Yeah. He saw this coming from a mile away.

They talk for a few minutes, and Eddie promises to stop by her place tomorrow. He’ll bring ice cream, they’ll watch some cheesy rom-com, and he’ll do whatever it takes to cheer her up.

When he walks back into the bar, his face must be as thunderous as he feels because Steve actually winces.

“She told you what happened, huh?”

Eddie nods, grinding his teeth. “Fucking asshole. I wish I’d run him over with my van when I had the chance.”

Steve doesn’t even blink. “Amen to that. Robin’s already plotting his demise. You two should team up. I volunteered to get rid of the body, because Robin’s not exactly… athletic. Can’t dig deep holes, can’t lift heavy stuff. But she’s scary smart—probably knows some undetectable poison or something. What’s your specialty?”

Eddie hates what happened to Chrissy. Hates that she had to go through it. But hearing Steve talk like this, hearing how much her friends care? It makes him feel a little better. And the fact that he’s apparently included in this unhinged murder plot now? Yeah.

Maybe he got lucky, after all.

“I’m creative and ridiculously good at planning—years of being a Dungeon Master. No one thinks of as many scenarios as I do. I’ll cover every possibility. They’ll never catch us.”

They grin at each other, and for the first time since hearing Chrissy’s small, shaken voice, Eddie feels like himself again.

Steve grins. “Perfect. We’ll make a great team.”

And just like that, the weight on Eddie’s chest lifts a little. It’s easy with Steve, like they’ve known each other longer than just—what, an hour? He’s funny, sharp, and clearly good to the people he cares about.

And, well. It doesn’t hurt that he’s stupidly attractive.

They slip into working together without much effort. Eddie shows Steve the ropes while stealing little glances when he thinks the other man isn’t looking—at the way his fingers move deftly around the bottles, the smooth way he leans against the bar when talking to customers, the stretch of his arms when he reaches for a glass on the top shelf.

He’s a natural. Charismatic as hell, too. More than one customer lingers just a little longer when Steve serves them, and Eddie is absolutely not annoyed by that. Nope. Not at all.

“You know,” Steve says at one point, when the rush has died down, “you’re not bad at this.”

Eddie scoffs, tossing a bar rag over his shoulder. “Not bad? Please. I’m great at this.”

Steve hums, eyes twinkling. “If you say so. I guess I’ll have to stick around to see for myself.”

There’s something in his voice, something that makes heat curl in Eddie’s stomach. A challenge. A tease. A promise, maybe.

Eddie leans in, close enough to catch a hint of cologne and something unmistakably Steve. "Yeah?” he murmurs, smirking. “Guess you will.”

The air crackles between them, heavy and charged, until a customer clears their throat and pulls them back to reality.

Eddie straightens, fighting back a grin as he goes to take the order.

He has a feeling working with Steve is going to be very interesting.

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

Turns out he was right—working with Steve is definitely interesting. It’s also confusing and exhilarating. And, honestly? It’s driving him insane.

Steve is everything Eddie never knew he wanted or needed. None of the guys Eddie’s ever hooked up with or tried dating were even close to being like Steve. And maybe that had been his mistake all along.

Because Steve makes him feel things he didn’t even know he could feel. He catches himself daydreaming about kissing the moles on Steve’s neck and face, wondering what it would be like to run his fingers along the smooth line of his jaw. He catches himself thinking about what he could ask Steve next, wanting to learn more and more about him. Eddie wants to make him laugh, wants to tell Steve about his day, about the last book he read, ask him what he thinks of a certain song or movie.

It’s like every little moment with Steve only deepens the curiosity, the pull. And Eddie can’t seem to stop himself from wanting more.

And yet, he can’t bring himself to take it any further than the harmless flirting they’ve been doing. Steve never seems to mind Eddie’s over-the-top flirting—calling him pet names, throwing himself at his feet dramatically, draping himself over Steve and acting like personal space is a suggestion, not a boundary.

One night, after another intense moment between them, the air crackling with something Eddie can’t quite name, he comes home, sits down, and writes it all out. He lets all these feelings he doesn’t even really understand pour onto the page. Every thought, every feeling—the longing and wonder, the joy and insanity of liking someone, wanting someone so much it’s almost physical.

A few weeks ago, he would’ve been bouncing off the walls with excitement at having written his first love song.

Now? He has a hard time bringing himself to care, because all he wants is to tell Steve these things. To have the courage to look into those beloved hazel eyes and make Steve understand the depth of what Eddie feels for him.

Now, all Eddie wants is to take Steve home and never let him go.

That’s why he’s struggling to feel as joyous as he should when Chrissy tells him she’ll be back next week.

Eddie’s wiping down the bar when Steve steps up, leaning against it with a casual ease that makes Eddie’s heart skip, like it always does when Steve’s close.

“Hey,” Steve says, a little more softly than usual. “You heard from Chrissy?”

Eddie pauses, glancing up, not quite meeting Steve’s eyes. “Yeah. She’s coming back next week. Gonna be back at the bar on Monday.”

“Ah, that’s great,” Steve says with a smile, but there’s something in his tone that doesn’t quite match the words.

Eddie raises an eyebrow. “You don’t seem so excited.”

Steve shrugs, the movement casual but his gaze fixed on Eddie now. “I mean, I am. I’m glad she’s doing better. Just… I don’t know. Things’ve been good here, you know?”

Eddie’s pulse quickens, his mind racing. He knows exactly what Steve means. Things have been good. They’ve been intense—charged, even. And now, with Chrissy coming back, it feels like a door he’s been carefully edging toward might slam shut.

“Yeah, I get that,” Eddie says, trying to sound casual even though his throat feels tight. “It’s been… nice, having you here.”

Steve’s lips twitch into a smile, a little teasing. “Nice, huh? Just nice?”

Eddie meets his gaze then, the air between them thick with unspoken words. “Yeah. More than nice. I—” He cuts himself off, shaking his head. “Forget it.”

Steve doesn’t let it slide. His eyes narrow slightly, and he leans in, his voice lowering. “No, come on. What were you gonna say?”

Eddie hesitates, heart pounding. He wants to say so much, but the weight of it is too much. Instead, he grabs a glass, fills it with water, and hands it to Steve, forcing a smile. “Doesn’t matter.”

But Steve isn’t buying it. He takes the glass, but his eyes stay locked on Eddie. “It does matter. You matter, Eddie.”

There’s a long silence, and Eddie feels like he’s about to drown in it. He opens his mouth to speak but nothing comes out.

“Hey,” Steve says, his voice softer now, “don’t worry about it. I get it. Chrissy’s your friend.”

Eddie nods, but it doesn’t feel like he’s actually hearing him. He’s still stuck on the fact that the connection between them has shifted somehow. And now, Chrissy coming back just feels like the beginning of the end of whatever this is.

But all Steve does is give him that reassuring smile, and for a moment, it feels like maybe he’s not as worried about it as Eddie is. Maybe.

“I’m just glad you’re here,” Eddie murmurs, the words slipping out before he can stop them.

Steve’s expression softens. “Me too, man.”

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

On Sunday, Eddie gets a visit from Chrissy. He’s just in his pajama bottoms, pouring himself a cup of coffee when the doorbell rings.

“Chris! What are you doing here?”

She steps into his flat, pressing a fleeting kiss to his cheek as she brushes past him. “I’m happy to see you, too.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. Just surprised to have you drop by like that. I’m always happy to see you, you know that.”

He follows her into the flat, where she’s already made herself at home at the kitchen island, pouring herself a cup as well.

“Yes, I know, I was just teasing you. I wanted to drop by to see how you’re doing.”

“You’ll see me tomorrow at work.” He tries to keep the disappointment out of his voice, but he probably doesn’t succeed. He really needs to work on his poker face.

Chrissy eyes him like she can see right through him, like maybe she’s already read his mind. Eddie knows better than to think she hasn’t. She’s sharp like that.

“Yeah, and something tells me you’re not doing so great because of that.”

That’s his girl—blunt and straight to the point. Eddie considers brushing it off, pretending he has no idea what she’s talking about, but he knows better. She deserves his honesty.

“No. I’m not really. Not because I don’t want you back,” he adds quickly, his eyes pleading with her to understand. “I missed you, Chris. Like crazy. You’re one of my best friends, and I’m so happy to have you back.”

She nods, her small hand curling over his in a comforting gesture. “But you don’t want Steve to go.”

“How—”

Her smile is soft and amused, like they’re in on some private joke together. “You’ve been talking about nothing but him for the past few weeks, Eds. I’ve never seen you take to anyone so fast. It took me months to get you to talk to me about anything but work. And you and Steve are sending each other memes and texts all day.”

Then, with a mischievous gleam in her eye, she adds, “Besides, you should see your face when you talk about him. I’m just waiting for you to start twirling your hair or kicking your feet.”

“Shut up! I’m not doing that.”

“Might as well be, with the way you’re acting. You like him.” She singsongs.

Burying his face in his hands, Eddie groans dramatically. “God, I hate you.”

Chrissy pulls his hands away, her fingers warm as she gently makes him look at her. Her face is a picture of seriousness, though a hint of a smile still lingers at the corner of her lips. “No, you don’t. You just know I’m right. I told you it was only a matter of time until you fell for someone. Tell me I’m wrong.”

Eddie glares at her, but there’s no real heat behind it. He stays quiet, his eyes darting around the room like he’s searching for an escape. When he doesn’t say anything, she raises her brows, giving him that ‘I knew it’ look. “See? Now you can write your love song!”

He mutters something under his breath, too low for her to hear.

“What was that?”

“I said... I already did,” Eddie says, a little sheepish, but trying to keep his cool. “It’s actually pretty good, I think. One of my best.”

Chrissy’s eyes light up, her voice bubbling with excitement. “Eddie, that’s awesome!”

Eddie shrugs, though his expression is far from pleased. “Yeah, but it’s not enough. He’s still leaving after tonight, and then... I’ll never see him again.”

Chrissy waves a hand like she’s brushing off a bad thought. “That’s such a load of crap, and you know it. We can totally visit him and Robin. I’ll invite them over! You’ll still get to hang out.”

Eddie sighs, leaning back in his chair. “Maybe, but it’s not the same. I won’t see him every day, won’t have an excuse to talk to him, flirt with him. We’ll just be... acquaintances.”

Chrissy taps her chin, looking like she’s piecing things together in that genius way of hers. “Okay, but... have you ever thought about just telling him?”

“Stop saying that like it’s easy,” Eddie demands. Okay, whines. He’s aware he’s acting like a petulant child instead of a grown-ass 26-year-old, but honestly? He doesn’t care. This shit sucks. No wonder he never bothered with it before—falling for someone is exhausting.

“It could be,” Chrissy says with that maddening calm of hers, like she’s solving a simple math problem instead of his entire emotional crisis.

Eddie glares. “Oh yeah? How do you figure?”

“Well,” she says, taking a casual sip of her coffee like she’s not about to drop a bombshell, “it’s not like Steve isn’t talking about you just as much.”

“He is?” Eddie all but shrieks, and Chrissy winces at the sheer volume. He claps a hand over his mouth. “Sorry, sorry. He is?” he repeats, softer this time, though he still sounds way too giddy to play it cool.

Chrissy just laughs at him. “Yes, Edward. Steve talks about you, too. Or so I heard from Robin. And the few times we talked, he asked me questions about you.”

Eddie’s heart picks up speed, slamming against his ribs like it’s trying to break free. That’s something, right?

“What did he ask?” he presses, leaning forward like Chrissy is holding onto state secrets rather than just casual conversation.

She taps her chin, pretending to think it over. “Oh, just normal stuff. How long I’ve known you, what you did before coming to Chicago… if you’re single.”

Eddie freezes. The butterflies in his stomach go feral.

But then—like someone dumped a bucket of ice water over his head—another thought creeps in.

“Then why didn’t he make a move?” he asks, deflating just as quickly as he puffed up.

Chrissy just raises an unimpressed brow. “Why didn’t you?”

Fair.

“Because I’ve never dated anyone before,” Eddie admits, rubbing the back of his neck. “Never felt like this for anyone before. I have no idea what I’m doing. I highly doubt Steve has been single all his life.”

Chrissy opens her mouth, then hesitates, like she’s conceding his point. Normally, Eddie loves to be right, but this time? He wants to be wrong. Wants Steve’s questions to mean something.

“I see your point, okay,” she finally says, then adds, “but maybe there’s something in Steve’s past that makes him cautious too. Ever think of that?”

Eddie frowns. “Like what?”

Chrissy’s face softens. “It’s not my place to say,” she says gently. “Let’s just say… love can hurt. And if you’ve been burned before, it makes you scared to touch the stove again.”

Eddie’s chest tightens, both at the thought of Steve getting hurt and at the way Chrissy’s voice dips—because she’s speaking from experience, too. Without thinking, he reaches for her, pulling her into a tight hug. Her head tucks neatly under his chin, her small frame warm against him.

“I’m sorry, Chris,” he murmurs. “You deserved better.”

She nods against his chest. “Yeah. And I’ll get over it. Just need some time. Just like Steve, probably. Maybe he’s not sure if he’s ready to let someone in again, you know?”

Eddie does know. Letting someone in after you've experienced the pain of losing someone, of mourning the presence someone once had in your life, it's scary as hell.

But maybe… just maybe… it’s worth the risk.

“I think I have an idea,” he says, and really hopes he’ll be brave enough to follow through.

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Their last shift together goes by way too fast.

It’s weird. Like Eddie’s waiting for something to happen, anything. He doesn’t know what exactly—except that’s a lie. He does know.

He wants Steve to kiss him. Wants Steve to grab him, lift him onto the bar top, step between his legs, and cradle his face in those steady hands before finally—finally—giving him a first kiss that means something.

More than that, he wants Steve to tell him. That Eddie’s not crazy, not alone in this. That he feels it too—this maddening, electric pull that makes Eddie’s knees weak, makes his stomach flip, makes his heart hammer against his ribs like it’s trying to escape.

Steve does none of those things.

Instead, they pour drinks, chat with the regulars, do their jobs. And when the night winds down—when the last stool is flipped onto the tables, the floors are swept, and Eddie flicks off the lights—they step outside and fall into each other’s arms without a single word.

They hold on for far longer than what anyone would call normal.

Fuck normal, Eddie thinks, tightening his grip around Steve’s solid frame. Normal never made me feel like this.

Steve exhales against his neck, his voice quiet but soaked in something Eddie can’t name. “I’ll miss this,” he murmurs. “I’ll miss you.”

Say it, Eddie begs in his head. Please. Just say you feel this too.

But Steve doesn’t.

Eddie wishes that he were brave, wishes that he could bridge the metaphorical gap between the two of them by simply taking a leap of faith.

But he doesn’t.

So they pull away, exchanging promises to stay in touch, and Eddie walks away feeling like he just lost something he never even had.

Two weeks later, Eddie finds himself back at The Upside Down, waiting for Chrissy. But this time, he’s not behind the bar, taking stock of liquor bottles or wiping down counters.

He’s behind the curtain of the small stage they built at the far end of the bar, fidgeting with the strap of his guitar, his heart hammering and his hands shaking. The stage usually belongs to local bands on the weekends, filling the space with music that draws in bigger crowds.

But today is Monday. And behind the bar—his bar—is Steve, restocking the cabinets, just like he did the first time he stepped in to cover for Chrissy. Full circle, Eddie thinks, watching from the shadows.

Except this time, Steve is covering for Eddie.

Steve thinks Eddie had to leave for an emergency, an excuse Chrissy fed him about needing to see his uncle. Eddie isn’t exactly proud of using Wayne’s health as a pretext to lure Steve here under false pretenses. But what’s the saying?

All’s fair in love and war.

And if Eddie is going to do something about this mess of feelings, he’s going to do it in the way he knows best.

Through music.

“We’re ready,” Chrissy whispers, squeezing his arm. “Bar’s surprisingly full for a Monday, so don’t be nervous. The only thing that matters is getting your man.”

Eddie salutes her with a grin that’s only half forced. “Aye, aye, captain.”

Then, with a deep breath, he settles onto the small stool at center stage, guitar resting on his knee. The curtain pulls back, and suddenly, he’s bathed in the warm glow of the stage lights, staring out at the sea of faces in front of him.

But there’s only one face that matters.

His eyes find Steve instantly, standing behind the bar, frozen mid-motion with a bottle in his hand, wide-eyed and staring like he’s just had the wind knocked out of him.

Eddie taps the mic, wincing at the light thump it makes through the speakers. “Is this thing on? Yeah, sounds like it.” He clears his throat, nerves tightening in his chest. Here goes nothing.

“Hi, everybody. Some of you might know me as the guy who pours your drinks and listens to your problems, but tonight, I’m here as a humble musician playing a song.” His fingers flex around the neck of his guitar as he exhales. “A special song for a special someone.”

A ripple of murmurs runs through the crowd, but Eddie barely hears it. His pulse is pounding too loud in his ears.

“I ask you to be kind because—well, this is a love song. And I’ve never done that before.” He huffs a breathless laugh. “Written a love song, I mean. Or been in love.” His fingers tighten on the frets, his throat thick with something unnamed. “But then I met someone who changed all of that. Someone who makes me laugh even when I don’t want to. Who makes me want to rip my hair out with how much I want to touch and hold them.”

A beat of silence. His heart feels like it’s about to break his ribs.

“Someone who is kind and brave and quick-witted. A secret nerd.” A small smile tugs at his lips. “And the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.”

The room feels impossibly still. Eddie can feel Steve’s eyes on him now, burning, waiting. But he doesn’t dare look. If he meets those hazel eyes, he’s not sure he’ll make it through this without forgetting how to breathe.

He takes another shaky inhale, tilts his chin toward the mic. “So, yeah. Please be kind, because this is all new to me.”

And then—he plays.

All of the things that I want to say just aren't coming out right I'm tripping on words You've got my head spinning I don't know where to go from here 'Cause it's you and me and all of the people with nothing to do Nothing to prove And it's you and me and all other people And I don't know why, I can't keep my eyes off of you

The last note fades into the air, leaving the bar in a thick, charged silence. For a split second, Eddie’s convinced he’s just made the biggest mistake of his life. His fingers hover over the strings, his breath caught somewhere between his lungs and his throat.

And then—

The bar erupts into applause.

Someone calls his name, and he thinks he hears Chrissy cheer Bravo but Eddie barely registers it because his brain is still trying to catch up.

But then he sees him.

Steve.

Still standing behind the bar, both hands braced against the counter like he needs the support. His mouth is slightly open, his eyes wide and shining in the dim lighting. And then Steve runs a hand through his hair, shakes his head in what looks like pure disbelief, and laughs.

Not a mean laugh. Not a nervous one. A stunned, overwhelmed, delighted kind of laugh.

Eddie barely has time to put his guitar down before Steve moves.

He pushes past the bar, past the regulars clapping him on the back, eyes locked onto Eddie like there’s no one else in the damn room. Eddie stands frozen on stage, unsure what’s about to happen but aching for whatever it is.

And then Steve’s there, grabbing Eddie’s face in his hands and kissing him.

It’s not a shy, hesitant kiss. It’s everything. Warm, firm, desperate. Steve’s lips press against Eddie’s like he’s making up for lost time, and Eddie melts into it without hesitation, gripping Steve’s waist like he’s afraid he’ll disappear.

The bar goes wild.

Someone catcalls. Eddie hears Chrissy’s delighted I knew it! but all of it is background noise to the way Steve feels against him, the way his fingers tighten in Eddie’s hair, the way he lingers even as they finally—reluctantly—pull apart just enough to breathe.

Steve's forehead presses against Eddie's, his voice barely a whisper. "Please tell me that song was for me. Otherwise this is going to get awkward very quickly."

Eddie's laugh is joyous, relief palpable in every tone. "Of course. Who else would it be about?"

"I don't know, I've seen the looks you give Herbert," Steve grins, his eyebrows wagging. God, Eddie loves him.

Eddie kisses him again. "No, unfortunately my heart is set on you. Does your reaction to my song mean you feel the same?"

“You idiot,” Steve murmurs, but he’s smiling. Grinning. “You really think you’re the only one who feels this?”

Eddie exhales a laugh, overwhelmed and dizzy and so stupidly happy he can’t stand it. “I dunno,” he rasps. “You never said anything.”

Steve huffs, nudging their noses together. “Neither did you.”

Eddie grins. “Yeah, well. I wrote a song instead.”

Steve shakes his head, laughing again, and kisses him once more—just because he can.