#it happened SEVERAL TIMES in one of my fics

[jungkoode]

𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 𝐟𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬

˗ˏˋ that first night (her POV) ˎˊ˗

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

⋆｡°✩ story details ✩°｡⋆

collection: Before It All (FMU)

wordcount: 15k

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

rating: explicit, 18+

playlist: spotify

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

✧ author's note ✧

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kiki. 🍓

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

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main story: fuck me up

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Emergency contact updated to my number?"

"Check."

"Spare key to my apartment?"

"Emma, I swear to god—"

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

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

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

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

If only you knew.

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

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

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

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

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

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

What's the worst that could happen?

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

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

Oh. Oh damn.

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

But he’s hot. Truth be told.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your face heats. "Emma, seriously—"

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

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

Your phone buzzes with an incoming wall of texts:

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

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

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

Great.

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

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

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

Even if you kinda wish it was.

"You're pretty."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Would you like to dance?"

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

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

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

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

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

Everything about this should feel more exciting than it does.

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

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

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

One second. Two. Three.

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

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

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

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

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

But something's... off.

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

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

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

"Everything alright?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dale, indeed.

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

And this? This is definitely dangerous.

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

But.

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

"Dance with me."

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

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

"That's bold."

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

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

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

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

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

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

And yeah.

Yeah, this is happening.

This is definitely happening.

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

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

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

Oh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Excuse you, you were staring at me."

"Maybe we were staring at each other."

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

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

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

"Wasn't alone. Had my friend."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Consider it a... suggestion."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Good luck with that."

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

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

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

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

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

"Pretentious much?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Cocky too."

"Haven't heard any complaints."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Might be worth it.

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

And fuck it. Fuck everything. You want more.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Mine either."

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

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

"Well, this is..."

"Stupid?" you offer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You: 𝚎𝚖𝚖𝚊, 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚠

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Could keep you warm."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But then he's moving closer.

And closer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What-fucking-ever.

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

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

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

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

His shirt comes off in one fluid motion and—

Jesus fucking Christ.

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's fucking electric.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh.

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

Fuck.

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

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

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

His free hand finds your throat again, and—

Oh god.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Either way, it's a little distracting.

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

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

Oh.

Oh fuck.

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

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

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

"Fuck."

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

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

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

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

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

"Holy shit."

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

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

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

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

Damn.

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

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

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

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

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

Yeah. Yeah, definitely hot.

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

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

Fuck.

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

And your brain's offline again. Good talk.

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

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

And he doesn't change a thing.

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

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

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

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

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

Oh.

Oh fuck.

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

But holy shit.

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

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

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

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

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

Oh.

Well then.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bad choice.

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

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

Fuck.

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

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

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

His laugh is rough, breathless.

"I’ll keep that in mind."

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

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

But then he starts moving and—oh.

Oh fuck.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Don’t you fucking dare."

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

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

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

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

Wait.

Hold the fucking phone.

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

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

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

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

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

This is just embarrassing.

But also really, really fucking good.

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

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

"Hnnngh—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Fuck, you're evil."

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

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

“Touch yourself for me."

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

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

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

"Oh?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Says the girl who came twice."

And—okay, rude. Accurate, but rude.

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

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

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

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

Fuck.

Fuck.

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

But.

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

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

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

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

Cocky bastard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Holy fuck.

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

Yeah, okay. Maybe worth the mortification.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Maybe I was faking."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Shut up shut up shut up—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Smell like vanilla now too."

⋆｡°✩ TAGLIST ✩°｡⋆

@cannotalwaysbenight @livingformintyoongi @itstoastsworld @somehowukook

© jungkoode 2025 no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[cillians-sweetheart]

https://www.tumblr.com/cillians-sweetheart/772157725448847360/whos-got-fic-ideas-i-got-writers

Maybe Cills with a younger reader (25-35 ish?) and they actually decided not to have more children but she gets accidentally pregnant? But of angst but ends with fluff? Sorry very basic 😭

Not basic! Love it!! 😋 And I hope you love it too!

A Miracle Arrival - Cillian Murphy

Cillian Murphy(36) x Wife!Reader(25)

Plot: After a date night, Y/N and Cillian put the kids to bed and have some well needed alone time that ends in an unexpected surprise.

Content: kissing, slight sexual content, speak of menstruation, marriage, kids, pregnancy, emotional melt down (f), fluff

During our four years of marriage, people would expect that after a few months, our desires towards each other would just disappear and we wouldn't crave to touch each other day to day. But that wasn’t the case. In a marriage between two heavily passionate lovers meant that our love from our wedding day to today, never changed. Not even fading in the slightest.

Already at age 25, I’ve had 2 beautiful children. The perfect duo of an older daughter (Georgia), and younger son (Christian), ages three and one. Our daughter, now being able to speak full sentences, has begun to develop Cillians accent. But it wasn't surprising as she always took after him, and loved him more than me. And my son is the opposite, a mini me with his looks and attitude.

We decided after having Christian that we were done for children. Having two toddlers was difficult but also I couldn't picture myself going through labour ever again. Two was enough.

On a Friday evening, Cillians mother came by the house to watch the children for a few hours and put them to bed while he and I went out. We learned that monthly dates help keep the spark in our relationship. It wasn’t that we didn’t feel anything towards each other anymore, we just feared that someday that spark would be gone.

“So… I was thinking that after dinner, we would send mom home and just lay low in the bedroom for the night. Yeah?” Cillian offered, holding his glass of wine in his hand. .

“Yes,” I answered, reading through the menu. “I don’t really have the energy for anything fancy. Laying in bed sounds perfect.”

And that’s what we did. At first.

When we got home his mother sat in the living room reading a book, but left shortly after as we were now home. The house was silent and the kids were asleep. We didn’t waste a single moment to finally be lazy after both of our long days.

We changed into comfortable clothes, and cuddled closely beneath the warm duvet. The tv played a show we hadn’t paid attention to and the tension between us grew hotter with each passing moment. And once our single kiss became sloppy and never-ending, the tv came off. As with our clothes.

It all happened so quickly. In just seconds he was above me kissing roughly at my neck, and my legs tightly wrapped around his hips. We didn’t think about anything in the moment, nothing but wanting more from each other's bodies. The pleasure filling both of us made it almost impossible to stay quiet. I had to bite back moans, hiding in his muscular shoulder.

After the hour which felt of 20 minutes, we both fell weak side by side. I didn’t think of anything but just being ready to go to sleep in the arms of the man I loved.

A month went by and life carried on -as usual- I was ‘delightfully’ greeted by an absence of my period. Normally I wouldn’t care, but I’m a week overdue. My heart sank at the possible reason why I was like this. Why I was late, nauseated, and really hungry.

While Cillian was off at work I stopped by the drug store and to the aisle I really didn’t want to be in. With rows and rows of pregnancy tests. I looked over my shoulders and quickly scanned over the several options of tests. I picked the cheapest one to not cause suspicion on Cillian and I’s shared credit card. If it had to come to it, I’d say I bought the kids some candy.

I waited anxiously for the remainder of the day. I was terrified to take that test, but also itching to get an answer. If I were pregnant, I’d need to plan what was going to happen, and if I wasn’t I could’ve been rattled for nothing. So I took the test.

I hid myself in Cillian and I’s bathroom while he made supper for the kids. The test shook from my shaky hands as my eyes squeezed shut waiting for it to be done. And after two minutes, I flipped the little plastic stick towards me. two bright red lines.

My mind went blank. I was in shock, and felt nothing. Until a minute after the fear kicked in and I cried and puked the way I did when pregnant with Christian. All those memories of my fat, stretched skin, and agonzing contractions, came back to me like a bullet to the skull. I couldn’t do this. I couldn’t afford another child, nor could my body. How would I ever tell Cillian…

It wasn’t until 5 minutes later I was able to clear my tears. Quickly, I coated my face in concealer to hide the redness to not cause worry to Cillian or our children. I put on an awkward grin and entered the kitchen to where Cillian had been spoon feeding our youngest, and Georgia putting her food everywheres it wasn't supposed to.

“Hey,” He turned his head towards me, standing straight from kneeling on the floor. “You alright?” He asked with a tilt of his head.

“Yeah I just needed to use the bathroom.” I walked past him with a napkin and wiped our daughter's messy face.

Cillian didn’t take any suspicion, and continued to feed Christian and clean the kitchen. He was always so good with them. Like he could hundreds and do perfectly fine. But there was no way I was having a third child. Because it was me that would actually birth them, not him.

After supper with the kids tucked into bed, Cillian and I sat closely on the couch in the living room watching the Tv. My legs laid over his lap and my head rested against his shoulder. His gentle hand lightly stroked my thigh. I began to remember all those feelings from earlier. The fear, the angst, the pain. Tightness grew in my chest and my face turned cold. I was frozen in my spot. Tears welding in my eyes.

My breath being held and my slight shaking caught Cillian’s attention from the Tv. Taking the remote in his hand, he turned the Tv off and turned his face down to mine.”Y/N? Baby.” He took my cheek in his hand and turned me to look at him. “What’s going on?” His voice held concern but tenderness. His thumb lightly rubbing my cheek.

“I um…” I froze up, looking down with a single tear falling from my right eye. I debated in my head with other answers besides the truth to tell him. I dreaded telling him such a thing.

“What love?” His face leaned down closer to mine with sympathy in his eyes.

“I- I’m pregnant.” My eyes fell down to my lap with shame. It became silent for a moment. An unbreakable tension grew heavy between us.

“Are you- Really?” I nodded with another tear rolling down my cheek. “Oh sweetheart.” Cillian pulled me into his chest, holding me while I broke down into the same emotional state I was when pregnant with Georgia and Christian.

Cillian lightly rubbed my belly while his other hand stroked my back.

“I don't know what to do.” I sniffled and choked on my tears. “I can’t do this… I’m already a crap mom, I- I can't have another one!” I said with irritation mostly towards myself.

“No you’re not love.” Cillian cooed, kissing the top of my head.

“But,” I mumbled. “You do so much for them… while I hide in the bathroom.”

He took my face in my hands looking seriously into my eyes. “A real mother is one who is not afraid to have her own space.”

I looked back at Cillian with adoration and nodded at his words. “I just… my body can’t go through this again.”

“Is it your body, or your mind?”

“I don’t even know anymore…”

“Well, I want you to do whatever it is that feels right. Okay?”

“Mhm,” I nodded. “But if I did somehow want to have another… would you mind?” My watery eyes glared up to his.

“Not at all love, I love our children and would love just as many more.” He grinned the same grin that made me fall in love with him for the first time. I felt the warmth and tenderness in his voice. “Do you want another?”

“Well I don’t want to get rid of this one…” I lightly rubbed my lower belly. Cillian’s hand held over top of mine.

“We don’t have to then. I’d be more than happy for another baby.” He kissed my forehead. “If there was anyway they’d turn out like our already beautiful children, then how could I say no.”

I looked up with a warm smile at him. “Oh I love you…” I said lovingly touching his cheek with my hand.

“I love you too my love.”

And nine months later with Cillian at my side, I was handed the most precious baby girl who held my every feature. My twin. She cooed lightly and her eyes twinkled open for the first time in the light. And when those little eyes fully opened, they melted with love seeing my face.

She was so perfect, an angel little girl. And everyday since the day she was born, I thanked Cillian for being the loving husband he is and teaching me to listen to my heart. Because if I hadn’t that day I wouldn’t have had this sweet girl who I later named Mila. My miracle sent from heaven.

[short-honey-badger]

Hello!

This is the first time ever that I ask for a writing to a headcanon and it’s exciting. :) I have been eating up your Shamrock/Shanks writings, love them!

There is this idea living in my head that the female reader

a) falls very ill

b) gets poisoned by rivals of the Figarland family

And is then discovered by Shamrock who comes looking for us, wondering why we don’t react to him calling our name.

In both scenarios mentioned, the reader is then lying in bed and very weak, suffering and slipping in and out of consciousness.

Meanwhile, Shamrock deals with guilt, fear and shock about this even happening right under his nose

Shanks of course would be there too, angry with his brother for not looking out enough for Reader

I know this is very angsty (think about that scene from Gone with the Wind where Scarlett fell down the stairs and was ill) and I am not sure if you said anywhere that this isn’t something you would like to write about.

Still, I would love to see what you make of this little snippet. :) Your Shamrock characterization is great 👍

Okay anon. This was probably one of my favorite ones I've done so far so thank you dearly for the wonderful prompt. I hope I have done it justice! ❤️❤️

Watch me Wither

Pairings! Shanks x Female Reader x Figarland Shamrock

Warnings! Not many? Angsty sick fic

Shamrock Masterlist-> HERE

Shamrock stands vigil over your still form, lips set in a harsh frown. It's been three days, and still your condition has yet to improve. Guilt eats at him, knowing that if he had listened to his brother for once that this wouldn't have happened. That you, their most precious person, would not be lying here still as a corpse. How could he let this happen when he had sworn to you that you would be safe here with him?

When you don't come to his office to share lunch with the leader of the Holy Knights, Shamrock knows that there is something going on. He stands from his desk and leaves his office, booted feet slapping against the stone of his home as he navigates the halls to the room he had set you up in a month ago.

Shanks had argued against you staying in Marie Geoise with Shamrock, seemingly convinced that you would be happier, safer with him and his crew. Shamrock had scoffed and rolled his eyes at his younger twin, lips pursed and arms crossed.

“She will be perfectly fine here with me, safe where no bloody pirates can steal her away when you aren't paying attention.”

Shanks had rolled his eyes but backed down, face set in a scowl as he turned on his heel to go tell you goodbye.

Shamrock knocks on your door, knowing that you value your privacy, but when you didn't answer after several moments, the holy knight turned the handle and strode inside. He stalks forward, scowl on his face as he comes to a stop beside your bed. He can see the lump you make under the blankets and calls your name, but still, there is no response from you. He rolls his eyes and reaches out, pulling the quilt down and freezing when he sees the yellow pallor of your face, your hair weighed down by sweat.

His heart siezed in his chest, eyes going wide as he reached out, on ehand wrapping around your shoulder and shaking you gently, “Darling, my love, please, wake up.”

A wretched groan left your mouth, eyes cracking open just enough that he could see the way your pupils had shrunk, tiny pinpoints surrounded by the dull color of your iris and bloodshot white sclera.

He had jumped into action when you fell back into unconsciousness seconds later, eyes drooping and body going lax in his hold. Shamrock had scooped you up and ran like he had never before, heedless of puting up a front in front of the servants and other members of his household until he made it to the room that their personal healer stayed. He’d woken Jurgan, demanding that the old man examine you, and what he found had made dreaded guilt well up inside the holy knight.

Someone, either an enemy of the Figarland household or one of their enemies, had poisoned you.

Now Shamrock could do nothing but regret his choice in keeping you here. He had called Shanks on the second day that you were admitted into the medical ward, and had sat still and silent as his twin lay into him, furious at Shamrock for allowing this to happen right under his nose. He deserved the dressing down, and it only added to his guilt and fear that because of him, they would never see that shy little grin that was only meant for them, ever again.

Shanks had told him that he would be back as quickly as he could, wanting to be there for his twin and for you if you ever happened to wake for longer periods of time. Shamrock had just quietly agreed, not feeling the need to argue against his younger brother, not when you were in such a delicate position.

You would wake long enough each day that Shamrock for drip water into your mouth, his eyes intent as he watched you slowly consume the liquid before you would drop back off, still too weak to do much but slowly recover. Jurgan had purged your system with a concoction of drugs, but even then, the doctor had informed him that it may not be enough for you to pull through. Only time would tell.

Shamrock didn’t know what he would do if you didn’t make it. You had become an extension of his life, a need that he would happily let consume him if only to receive your soft hands and sweet attitude that you rewarded him and Shanks with. Raging guilt eats at him, knowing that he failed you, that the promise he had made you and Shanks has been broken by being too prideful, too sure in the knowledge that you would be safe in his home.

A low groan gains his attention, and Shamrock cuts his eyes down at you, loping forward to grasp your hand in his own when he sees your hand twitch in his direction. You grip his fingers weakly, and the holy knight kneels by your side, burgundy eyes soft as he reaches out with his other hand to gently card his fingers through your hair. You look pitiful, but it gives him hope that you are beginning to feel better when you crack your eyes open to meet his own.

“Sham?”

Your voice is scratchy with disuse, but Shamrock is just happy to hear your voice. He squeezes your fingers, the hand in your hair smoothing down to cup your cheek, “I’m here, darling.”

Shamrock doesn’t know what to do or how he could make you feel better other than just by being at your side. His father had huffed and sneered, telling his older son that he needed to get over this, and get back to his duties, but the redhead found that he was always pulled back to your side, unable to be away from you for too long.

“Red?” You rasp quietly and frown when Shamrock shakes his head.

“Shanks is on his way, my love,” he murmurs, and the knowledge that the other twin was on the way seems to settle you, face smoothing out into something peaceful. He watches you for a while longer until your hand goes slack and you seem to slip back to sleep. Shamrock sighs and carefully disentangles his hand from yours and stands. He knows that you are unlikely to wake again in the next couple of hours, so as much as it pains him to leave your side, Shamrock does. He must before his father comes to collect him.

The next several days passed the same way, Shamrock would come and stay by your side, the guilt inside him eating away at him as he stared at your pale form resting under warm blankets. He would hold your hand, a silent sentinel. He seethed and raged inside his mind, furious that he was no closer to finding out the culprit behind your poisoning. He watched you wither further every day, and it killed him on the inside little by little.

Shanks arrived on the seventh day, running through the halls of a home he held no fond memories of. He ignored the sneers that were directed at him, not caring that the household thought of him as lesser just because he refused to bow to their whims. He found his twin sitting beside you in the medical ward, the other redhead looking worse than Shanks has ever seen his older brother.

“How is she?” He asks as he shuts the door behind him. He comes and stands at his twin's side, eyes wide as he stares down at you. He wanted to touch, to feel you, to make sure that you were still holding on, but he was terrified of making your condition worse.

“Better,” Shamrock murmured, voice rough from disuse. He watched his younger brother, seeing the look of fear etched on the face that looked so much like his own, and felt that same remorse well up. He drops his eyes quickly, averting them back to where you lay, “Jurgan says that she will recover, but the poison did a number on her internal organs. She will never be as strong as she once was.”

Shanks grits his teeth, his anger at his brother coming back with a vengeance. He doesn't bother looking at the other man, but his voice is tense and full of displeasure, “I told you that she wouldn't be safe here. You should have known better than to keep the one weakness you have so close. Her staying here was doomed from the start, Sham.”

Shamrock grits his teeth, shoulders hunching. He knows that Shanks is right, having already berated himself mentally more than his brother ever could.

“So you've already said last time we spoke,” He murmurs, and thankfully, Shanks doesn't say anything else about his failings. The two sit in silence, both content to watch your chest move up and down in your sleep. It isn't until there is a catch in your breath that they snap to attention.

Your brow furrows, and soft sound leaves you. You shift on the bed, arm snaking out from under the blankets, and Shanks stands, beating his brother to grasp your hand in his own. Your eyes crack open a moment later, blurry but more focused now than you seem to have been in days. You turn your head, lips pulling up in a tiny smile when you see both of your boys sitting beside you. You squeeze the hand you hold, voice scratching and throat sore.

“Shanks, you're here.”

The redhead smiles sadly, squeezing your hand back tightly, “Yeah, baby. I'm right here. How are you feeling?”

You shift with a wince to lay on your side, sliding your other hand out and reaching for the older twin. Shamrock easily slides his hand into yours, eyes soft as he stares at you.

“Better now that you're both here,” you say quietly and give them both a meager smile. You can tell, even in your pained and muddled state, that there is more than the usual tension between the two brothers. You sigh softly and squeeze Shanks’ hand again to gain his attention.

“Don't be mad, Red. This is my own fault. I should have been more careful.”

Both men widen their eyes, confused and about to argue that they are the ones who are supposed to take care of you, but you plow on before they can get a word out, “You can't be by my side every waking hour, loves. I knew this place would be dangerous even when I agreed to stay here. I got too comfortable, and that cost me.”

“But-”

You cut the holy knight off, “But nothing, Sham. You have duties, and Shanks, you have a crew to take care of. I don't want the two of you beating yourselves up or each other up.”

They watch you swallow harshly, lips moving into a weary smile full of sadness both men dearly wished they could wipe away.

“I heard what you said, Shamrock, and if it's as bad as you say it is, then I'm going to need you. Both of you.”

Shanks nods immediately, crouching down so that he can be at eye level with you. He leans forward, lips kissing your brow before he pulls back to give you a smile, “We'll be here, baby.”

Shamrock clutches your hand, still feeling that raging guilt that threatens to suffocate him, but he shoves it down for now. You were right. They would need to be there. He leans in and kisses your knuckles where they wrap around his hand, voice a soft promise, “Always, my love. We have you.”

You give them both a small smile, exhaustion suddenly eating away at you, and you squeeze their hands again, grip going slack as moments later, “I know.”

You are asleep seconds later, but neither man has any plans of going anywhere, not when you would need them when you woke up next. You had a long road of recovery ahead, but you would get there with them at your side.

@mit-suri @mfreedomstuff @sanjisleggy @nocturnalrorobin

[arthrobug]

Am I one of the only people who thinks that writers and artists who make Killer, Ink, or whoever the mom when there's a shipkid involved or even just a simple relationship really odd?

They just make one of them the mom and sometimes have them act completely different (I mean WAY different) from canon- I CAN'T BE THE ONLY ONE WHO THINKS THAT'S STRANGE, RIGHT??

If it's because they have the headcanon or in the story it's canon that, for example, Nightmare is a trans woman, or the character has clearly stated they prefer to be called mother beforehand, than valid! But if they are both regarded as dudes, prefer masculine pronouns and identification, but then they're the mother simply because they 'are the more submissive/nicer one' (sometimes it's just because that individual character carried the child if it's mpreg), THAT'S REALLY UNCOMFORTABLE, MAN.

It's a relationship between two men, there is no automatic woman role. It is a child with two men as their parents, there is no automatic mother role.

If I used weird English or something seems confusing, please don't yell at me, just reblog or comment with a question about it and I'll reword what I meant 👍

Too long;Didn't Read: I'm weirded out that some creators basically unconsciously or consciously enforce heteronormative roles on fictional skeletons in relationships of all kinds.

[courfee]

it's been exactly a year since the last chapter of Operation Walburga's Arbitrary No Kissing Ever Rule and I still miss it. This scene is probably one of my favourite things I've ever written and I've wanted to draw it for forever, so now seemed like an appropriate time

[ricky-mortis]

Curtwen Week Day 6: Happy Ending

[lil-lemon-snails]

"I can't ignore what's under dancefloor boards, The rhythm of my heart a dead-as-disco beat, But I still move my feet, to slip out of this groove, I'm free" ~ 2econd 2ight 2eer, Will Wood, The Normal Album

I have been plagued with visions of LDR Sun every time I listen to this song and I NEEDED to get this out of my system @spadillelicious when do we get to smooch the boy pLEASE

v textless version and close ups under cut!! v

[oh-no-its-bird]

Getting deep in the self indulgence w this one chat

[skitskatdacat63]

This is my personal crossover event of the century

[scarymonsters-andsupercreeps]

The Miracle We Need

Chapter 5

<-previous next->

With Kakyoin and Avdol in the hospital, Holly uses this time to regroup. However, her rest is cut short by an uncanny new enemy.

Read on AO3 here!

No warnings as far as I’m aware, only a minor nightmare mention

Chapter 5: Try My Best, Be a Real Individual

Outside of the hospital in Aswan, after dropping off Avdol and Kakyoin, the remainder of the group stood to discuss their plans.

“What do we do?” Polnareff said. He’d recovered from his blood loss, so the doctors had agreed to let him leave. His leg was bound tightly, having 10 stitches. He was to use a crutch to make sure he didn’t rip them. He wore a spare pair of baggy gray cargo pants until he could buy a new white pair.

“We can’t afford to wait around here for long. Even though Holly isn’t sick, there’s the threat of DIO becoming too strong. Every day we don’t reach him is another day he gets to grow stronger,” Joseph said, touching his chin.

“The doctors said Kakyoin’s eyes are doing well with the first aid we did, and they’re healing rapidly. Maybe we can give him a couple days?” Holly said. “Avdol will probably be ready to go in that time.”

Holly thought back to Kakyoin. The boy suffered for the whole car ride. She had felt awful about it, and tried to make him as comfortable as possible, but it was really no use. The pain he’d been in must have been unbearable. Now, however, he was already much better. Just being in the hospital had perked him up, as well as having been healed by Holly. Avdol had not been much better. He slipped in and out of consciousness, although his wounds were not as severe and had taken the Hamon better, probably because Joseph was the one who healed him. Seeing Holly do it had inspired the old man.

Joseph nodded. “That’s reasonable. We need the time to regroup anyways. We’ll stay here for two days or until Avdol is better, whichever comes first.”

“What do we do in the meantime?” Jotaro said. “Get supplies?”

“That, and rest. This will be a good chance for us to recuperate after so long without a good night’s sleep. I’ll even splurge on a good hotel!” Joseph said with a grin.

“Oh, I’ll buy some ingredients while we’re out. I’ll make everyone a big dinner to help stay strong. I’ll do dessert too,” Holly said. “Oh, and snacks for Kakyoin and Avdol!”

She saw Jotaro visibly perk up at the prospect of her making dinner. “Sure,” he said coolly. “I’ve got a few errands as well.” He adjusted his jacket, which was freshly mended from the fight yesterday. His shoulder was okay for now, but he wasn’t supposed to use it if he could help it.

Joseph checked his watch. “Alright, we’ll split up. We’ll go visit Avdol and Kakyoin around dinner whenever Holly finishes the food, so do whatever you want until then.”

Polnareff pouted. “What am I supposed to do? I have to use a crutch all day…”

“You could go book our rooms at the hotel and hang out there,” Holly said. “You should rest there if you can. Your leg will heal faster that way.”

“A nap does sound nice…” Polnareff said, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Joseph opened his wallet and pulled out a few bills. “This should cover it. Get your sleep and then meet us at the fountain in an hour or so.”

As Polnareff limped away, Holly turned to Joseph and Jotaro. “I’m gonna go buy stuff for dinner, do either of you want to come?”

Jotaro grabbed his hat. “Go ahead.” Before anyone could speak he turned and walked away, shoving his hands in his pockets.

Joseph blinked. “What’s got him in a bad mood?” He said to Holly.

She frowned. “I’m not sure. He probably need his space after that fight, though. It seemed like it was hard on him.”

Holly led Joseph down the sidewalk a ways, then realized something. “Where’s Iggy?”

Her dad shrugged. “I’m not sure, but it’s probably best to leave him be. He’ll probably follow Polnareff to the hotel so he can ruin his hair again.”

Holly cringed, recalling how many times Iggy had attacked Polnareff on the ride here. “Will we ever be able to clean up all the hair in the car? It’s everywhere.” She sighed and continued walking.

“Doubtful. How does Polnareff even have that much hair? Iggy’s been ripping it out in chunks and his goofy flat top is still untouched,” Joseph said, shaking his head.

Holly laughed. “Are you jealous, papa?”

Joseph stuck his chin up. “No! I still have a full head of hair, so there’s nothing for me to be jealous of.”

At the store, Holly pulled a list out of her pocket and studied it. The writing was tiny and covered the whole page. She took out her pen and crossed out a few items.

Joseph laughed. “You had that ready ahead of time?”

“Of course. What else was I supposed to do on that long car ride?” Holly smiled. “I was looking forward to making dinner for everyone, so I wrote down several ideas. We’ll buy whatever they have.”

“What did you cross out?” Joseph said curiously.

“Those were meals that Jotaro is neutral about. Now the only ones left are ones he likes. I’ll make one of his favorites so he’ll feel better.” She smiled, then her face immediately dropped. “Wait. Papa, does anyone have a food allergy? I didn’t even consider that!” She started to scribble more notes on the other side of the list.

“No, no! We’re all good. None that I know of. We’ve eaten tons of stuff.” Joseph waved his hands in a negative gesture.

Holly nodded. “Great!”

As Holly shopped, Joseph fidgeted. He felt antsy. It was a good thing to rest in Aswan for a few days, but whenever they were still he started to worry. The last time he’d felt like this consistently was back in his youth while training to fight the Pillar Men. He could barely even get a wink of sleep back then—the stress had been relentless. He hoped Jotaro wasn’t that way, the boy needed his rest.

One thing he’d always loved about Suzi was that she never fell for his tricks. She knew he was upset back then and was very gracious to him. He probably wouldn’t have made it if it weren’t for her constant support in combination with being pushed to the brink by his competitiveness against Caesar. He missed her. He’d call her as soon as he had time at the hotel.

“Okay,” Holly said, placing an item into her basket. “That’s the main course.” She crossed out a few more words on her list. She hoped everyone would like the dinner she chose, but there was always next time if she messed up.

After a small silence, Holly decided to ask Joseph something that had been bothering her for a long time. “Papa, do you have nightmares?” She said quietly, touching her necklace. The calming effect worked momentarily, but quickly dissipated as her anxiety grew.

“Sometimes, yeah…why do you ask? Have you been getting them?” His brows furrowed in concern.

“Pretty often, ever since I woke up. I’m wondering if it’s because I have a Stand now. I’m directly connected to Jonathan’s body, or just DIO at this point.” She pursed her lips.

“Wait, you’re having specific nightmares?” His eyes widened.

She paused, collecting herself so she wouldn’t cry. “I usually see DIO…and I see Jotaro as well. He’s always injured or worse.” Her voice caught. “It’s horrible…”

Joseph quickly hugged her. “I’m so sorry, sweetie. Have you been getting all the rest you need?”

“I think so…I’m not tired. I’m just…drained. I was so worried about Jotaro…”

“He’s fine, and he’ll be fine in the future. I promise you he’ll make it. He’s stronger than any of us could ever hope to be, and smarter too. Have faith in your son, Holly…he won’t die on you.” Joseph paused. “I know that won’t help the dreams, but I promise you they won’t come true.”

She nodded, her lip quivering. She held back her tears. She wasn’t about to cry in a public market. “Thank you, papa.” she touched her necklace again.

“Take it easy if you can…And tell me if your dreams ever change. I’m wondering if it’s an offshoot of my spirit photography.”

“If it’s that, doesn’t it mean the dreams will come true?” Holly said.

“Spirit photography can be misleading at times, and DIO has previously interfered with Hermit Purple. It’s very possible he’s doing something to you to try and break down your will. Don’t let him get to you, okay?” Joseph put a hand on her shoulder. She still felt like a little girl whenever he did that—his hands were so heavy, even the non-metal one.

“Okay,” Holly said, taking a breath to calm down. She wanted to believe him more than anything, but something about her dreams made her think they were real. She didn’t know when the time would come, but eventually she would need to save Jotaro’s life, and she had no idea if she’d be able to pull it off.

Holly trotted down the street. She was a touch late after dropping the groceries off at the hotel and making treats for Kakyoin and Avdol. Joseph had left early, saying something about going to a coffee shop with Polnareff and Jotaro. Holly was initially sad she didn’t have time to go, but on further reflection realized she didn’t really want coffee. She clutched the box of homemade sweets to her chest, putting on speed so she wouldn’t be any more late.

The buggy was parked to the side of the road, and three people stood around it. Joseph, Polnareff and…someone else. He was around Jotaro’s height, but it wasn’t him at all. The others were talking to him like they knew him. Holly assumed it was a friend they’d previously met while traveling and happened to run into again.

As she got closer, she caught a glimpse of the newcomer’s face. Her heart skipped a beat. This strange man’s face looked like Jotaro, but…wrong. Holly couldn’t quite place it, but this wasn’t her son. It was like someone had make one of those hyper-realistic wax figures of him. It was a perfect likeness, but definitely still wrong.

She didn’t know what to do. Joseph and Polnareff weren’t attacking him for now. They were probably going to try and catch him off guard and interrogate him about DIO. At the moment it meant playing along, she thought.

“Bonjour, Holly,” Polnareff said with a smile. “We were just about to leave, you’re just in time.”

“Everyone get in,” Joseph said, sliding into the driver’s seat.

“Oh, I’d rather walk,” not-Jotaro said, starting to sweat. That immediately raised Holly’s suspicions. If the enemy didn’t want to be in the car, that likely meant he’d tampered with it.

Holly decided to put some pressure on him. she grabbed his hand. “C’mon, sit with me!” The impostor’s hands were cold and clammy, unlike Jotaro’s, which were always warm from being in his pockets. Not-Jotaro also had none of the abrasions Jotaro had picked up yesterday, although he did have old scars from earlier in the journey. Holly was somewhat impressed.

“Oh, no…I’m okay…Holly…” not-Jotaro didn’t seem to realize he was supposed to be her son. She was a bit flattered he hadn’t noticed her age, but unsure what he’d thought of instead.

“Hey, don’t disrespect your mother like that!” Joseph snapped. “At least you didn’t call her a bitch, but calling her Holly is rude. You’re old enough to know better.”

“It’s okay,” Holly said cheerfully. “I don’t mind!” She smiled at him. If it was the real Jotaro, he would have looked away, but this person just stared at her like a deer in headlights.

Holly looked at Joseph, slightly panicked. She didn’t know what to do about the impostor. He winked at her. Oh, so he had a plan. She decided to mess with the impostor until Joseph dealt with him according to whatever he was plotting. He had to go along with whatever she said, right?

“Anyways, we don’t have time for you to walk. Get in the car, it’ll be easier.” Polnareff shoved not-Jotaro into the backseat.

Holly got in next to him as Polnareff sat in the front passenger seat. She noticed an orange on the seat that had escaped the bag of them on the floor. She went to pick it up, but not-Jotaro snatched it before she could.

He quickly tossed the orange out the window, pretending he’d dropped it.

Holly masked her suspicion with a laugh. “Jotaro, you butterfingers!” She said. The orange was probably significant in some way, she thought. She didn’t know how. She needed more time to observe.

Not-Jotaro gave a strained laugh. “Yeah…”

He could have at least tried with the laugh, Holly thought. Jotaro’s laugh was nothing like that, not that this person would have any way of knowing. It was almost offensive for her to see such a sloppy rendition of her beloved son.

Holly leaned back in her seat. She was just getting irritated now. She hoped the real Jotaro was safe, but on second thought, an enemy this clueless would never be able to get one over on him. She took a breath to stay calm. The best way to defeat this enemy is to wait him out, she thought.

Polnareff suddenly spotted something in the rear-view mirror. “Hey, Mr. Joestar…it’s Iggy! He’s trying to catch up to us.” He leaned towards the mirror so he could see better. “He’s got an orange in his mouth. Did he steal that?”

So Holly was right about the orange…unless Iggy was just feeling generous, which she highly doubted. Iggy probably knew something she didn’t. She had no idea what.

A moment later, the dog jumped up and squirmed in through the open window, dropping the stray orange right onto not-Jotaro’s lap before sitting down next to Holly.

“NO!” Not-Jotaro shouted.

Polnareff snatched the orange. “Jotaro, where’s your cool exterior? It’s not like you to scream that way.” He paused. “Or is it, Holly? I could be wrong.”

“Oh, it certainly isn’t…” Holly said. She grabbed not-Jotaro’s hand. “What’s got you worked up, pumpkin?”

He stared at her. “Uhh, I meant…did you no-tice that cow over there?” He pointed.

She turned and looked. “Oh, so cute! I love cows, thanks for pointing her out!” She smiled. Internally, though, her thoughts raced.

Firstly, Jotaro would have been annoyed if she called him “pumpkin.” That was irrelevant, however, compared to the orange mystery…not-Jotaro seemed to want nothing to do with that one specific orange. It wasn’t like he had a phobia…a bag of them was sitting right at his feet. It had certainly been tampered with. But in what way? It couldn’t have been poison or he wouldn’t be scared of its presence, only of eating it. Unless it was a poison that could kill by touch or smell? No, that didn’t work either. If it was a strong poison like that, Iggy and Polnareff would probably be dead, as well as the impostor since he was the one who planted it here.

“You’re acting peculiar today, Mon ami. Could it be…” Polnareff said, looking back at not-Jotaro over his seat. “…that you’re a fake?”

Not-Jotaro visibly stiffened. Holly wasn’t sure what Polnareff’s game was, but she was curious how it would unfold. Holly wouldn’t have thought to just directly confront him, or was it more of a mind game?

“Uhh, good grief.” Not-Jotaro grabbed the brim of his hat. “What’re you even talking about?”

Holly laughed. This one was actually genuine, mainly because of how bad the impression was. “He’s just kidding around, silly!” She was slightly nervous about the group’s safety if they were to let on that they saw through his disguise. She hated to interfere with whatever Polnareff was planning, but the more she thought about it, the more she wanted to play it safe.

Polnareff paused. “Ugh, I’m bored.” He lit up a cigarette and held out the box to not-Jotaro. “Do that trick you showed me, would you?”

“Trick?” The impostor said. He was sweating heavily at this point.

Polnareff pointed to his mouth as he flipped the cigarette backwards, catching it and holding it with the lit side in the back of his mouth. He puffed smoke out of his nose and grinned.

Joseph chuckled. “Hey, you’ve gotten way better! Good work.”

Polnareff successfully turned the cigarette back, snickering. Not-Jotaro cut in. “Yeah, I can do that. It’s easy.”

Holly raised an eyebrow. She remembered Lisa Lisa teaching her that trick as a child, back when Holly still thought of her as Grandma. Lisa Lisa said it came from her husband’s family.

Except, of course, Holly was taught using candy instead of cigarettes.

It had apparently become a Joestar heirloom…Joseph must have passed it down to Jotaro without Holly knowing. She had no idea how far back in the Joestar line the trick went. The thought of her ancestor Jonathan, who she’d only ever heard the highest praise of, doing such a funny thing…She couldn’t help but smile.

Although she did wish Jotaro didn’t feel the need to smoke. She couldn’t exactly blame him for that, however, with how stressful this journey had become.

“Great. Do the one with five cigarettes, then,” Polnareff said, pulling out a handful of cigarettes from the box and thrusting them into not-Jotaro’s hands.

It would be pretty funny to watch him struggle and maybe even bump into him so he’d burn himself, she thought…but she had a better idea.

Holly grabbed the cigarettes. “You shouldn’t smoke…it’s bad for you. You should know better, sweetie!”

Polnareff shrugged, sheepish. “I suppose he is a bit young to be smoking…my apologies, Holly.”

“It’s alright…it just makes me so sad as a mother!” Holly said. She pinched herself to bring tears to her eyes. “Oh, I’m sorry for getting emotional…” she faked a sob, burying her face in her hands.

Joseph glared at Polnareff, then not-Jotaro in the rearview mirror. “Apologize right now, both of you. No one makes my daughter cry and gets away with it,” he growled.

Holly rarely saw him this serious. That steely gaze was reserved for only the worst of offenses, and had only once been placed on Holly herself. She shuddered, recalling her teenage antics.

“I’m really sorry, Holly,” Polnareff said. “I wasn’t even thinking.” He put out his own cigarette. Holly felt bad. She had nothing against Polnareff…she hoped he realized she was only toying with the enemy and not actually upset with him. She’d make sure to mention it later.

Joseph shot a look at not-Jotaro that could have shredded him on the spot, or maybe melted him. “And what about you?”

The impostor froze for a moment, then turned to Holly, frantically rearranging his uncanny mannequin face into something vaguely apologetic. “I’m sorry…uh, mommy…” as soon as the last word escaped his mouth he realized his mistake.

Holly snorted, caught completely off guard. She held back a laugh, feigning more sobs. “Oh, it’s okay…I knew my little boy would understand…” she put her hands down. “I’m so proud of you…”

Not-Jotaro audibly sighed in relief when he received a positive reaction. Holly might cry from trying not to laugh. The real Jotaro would probably sell his soul before calling Holly “mommy,” especially in front of others. She could count on one hand the amount of times that happened once he was over the age of 10. She was shocked at the ignorance of this enemy. He might have had a chance of fooling her if he’d bothered to study Jotaro’s mannerisms and personality.

Polnareff slowly turned, exhaling from his nose. “Did I just hear you correctly?” He laughed. “‘Mommy?’” He laughed harder. “Are you buttering her up or what?”

“No,” not-Jotaro spat. “What’s your problem?”

“You really aren’t feeling well today, huh?” Polnareff said through a cackle. “You’re nearly 18, right? What 18-year-old still says ‘mommy?’”

“My 18-year-old!” Holly said dramatically, grabbing onto not-Jotaro’s arm. She was committed to making the most uncomfortable social situation possible. She snuggled against him. “Oh, I was so so worried you’d hate me after what happened between us…”

Not-Jotaro panicked again, as well as appearing to be very weirded out by her. “Oh, that? It was nothing…” he said uncertainly, trying to subtly shift and get out of her embrace. She didn’t want to be hugging this stranger, but it made her ruse funnier, so she’d commit. She tightened her arms.

By dismissing the intentionally ambiguous falling-out, he’d fallen right into her trap.

“Even though I got in a fight with your girlfriend back home and stabbed her with a kitchen knife?” Holly said the most outlandish thing that popped into her head, batting her eyelashes. “You finally forgive me? When we visited her grave you said you never wanted to see my face again!”

Not-Jotaro swallowed hard, probably starting to connect the dots in his head. She’d been trying to build up to him thinking she was completely overbearing and strange. “Uh…” he leaned further away from her.

“You really do?” She said, feigning a hopeful look. She hated to admit it, but she was having a lot of fun with this. She’d always wanted to be an actress when she was younger. Up front, Joseph and Polnareff shared a look, baffled.

Before the impostor could dig his own grave any deeper, Polnareff cut in. “Hey, Jotaro, how about we have an orange eating contest? Much safer than cigarettes.”

“I can allow that,” Holly said, sniffing theatrically and wiping a fake tear. “I’m so relieved you have such good friends, sweetie pie!” Yet another nickname Jotaro would hate.

Polnareff grabbed the orange Iggy brought back, tossing it upwards and snatching it out of the air. “Ugh, I hate peeling these…”

The blood drained from Not-Jotaro’s face and his mouth fell open. “Not that one!” He shouted frantically.

Holly racked her brain. What could he have possibly done to that orange to make him so scared of it? Why would he willingly be in the same car as it, in that case? Holly wasn’t familiar with the situation before she arrived, but something must have happened that he wasn’t planning on. Were they in immediate danger? She didn’t know whether to get serious.

What was Joseph planning?

“What now, Jotaro? What’s wrong with it?” Polnareff asked, arching an eyebrow.

“Uh, Iggy brought it back, right? Who knows where he found it?” Not-Jotaro gestured to the dog, who was politely sleeping on Holly’s lap.

Iggy probably brought it back because he realized he’d been tampered with. He was able to smell Geb, which meant that whatever this new enemy was up to was likely not going to escape his keen nose. Holly scratched his ears.

“It looks clean, but if it bothers you I’ll eat it. Grab another one from the bag,” Polnareff said.

Not-Jotaro froze for a split-second, paralyzed by panic. He suddenly howled in pain, clutching his stomach. “Stop the car! My stomach hurts!”

Holly’s suspicions were immediately raised. What was he getting at? “You have a tummy ache? Why didn’t you just say so?”

He folded in his seat, groaning loudly. “Ughh, I need to go now!” He fumbled with the door.

“We’re almost at the hospital, Jotaro…can’t you wait?” Joseph said.

“NO!” Not-Jotaro blurted. “No, it’s really bad! I’ll catch up later, I mean it!” He dove out of the car and stumbled to his feet.

“Hey, wait a sec!” Polnareff said, rummaging through the glovebox. “Take some toilet paper so you don’t ruin your underwear. At least be civilized.”

Not-Jotaro snatched the roll and took off running, barely remembering to thank him.

In the pause a moment ago, Holly had snuck the suspicious orange into the enemy’s pocket. She wondered what would become of him, but whatever happened, she couldn’t allow her friends to be harmed.

Holly watched him go, disappearing behind a rock in a cloud of dust. It was like something out of a cartoon.

Once he was out of earshot, Holly burst out laughing. She clutched at her sides, doubling over and wiping tears from her eyes.

Polnareff and Joseph glanced at each other as the old man parked the buggy in the hospital lot. “What’s so funny, Holly?” Joseph said.

“That was awful,” she said, barely able to speak from laughing so hard. She put a hand to her chest.

Suddenly, there was a loud blast that echoed across the horizon. It was shockingly close, and came from the same direction not-Jotaro had gone.

No way. She looked at Iggy. The orange…was it a bomb? She raised her eyebrows and the dog nodded, or at least he moved his head in a manner that could be interpreted as a nod. She didn’t know how to feel about this. On one hand she hoped the enemy wasn’t dead, but on the other hand he’d had every intention to kill them, so it was probably for the best.

“Are they doing construction over there?” Polnareff said, shading his eyes against the sun and leaning forward on his toes to try and see better.

Holly raised her eyebrows and opened her mouth to speak, but Joseph cut her off.

“Jotaro!” He called, grinning and waving at the boy, who was sauntering towards them on the sidewalk.

Holly whirled around. She was absolutely delighted to see the real Jotaro. He looked as annoyed as ever, his eyes half-lidded as he regarded them with a touch of confusion.

“Where’d you come from? Weren’t you just…?” Polnareff said, scratching his head. “Did you get over your sickness that fast?

“Good grief, what are you talking about?” Jotaro grumbled.

Holly laughed. “Hey, he doesn’t know what happened…at least explain before you joke about it.”

“Huh?” Joseph said. “Are you feeling bad again, sweetie?” He placed his prosthetic hand on her forehead absentmindedly, then realized what he was doing and switched. “You feel okay…”

“Do you have some sort of super speed ability you never told us about? I don’t know how you got from the spot we dropped you off to all the way over here in such a short time,” Polnareff said to Jotaro, raising an eyebrow.

Holly blinked. “Wait, you’re not joking?” She paused. He had fallen for the enemy’s disguise? She supposed that was understandable, he hadn’t known Jotaro for as long as Holly.

“Well, yeah…it’s a reasonable question,” Joseph said. “I have to admit I’m curious as well.”

Holly stiffened, turning to face him. “What? You too? You both thought that was actually Jotaro in the car with us?” She grabbed his shoulders. “You’re being 100% serious and not pulling my leg?”

They stared at her. “…yeah?” Polnareff said. “Who else would it be?”

Holly pursed her lips. “Jotaro, were you in the car with us just now?”

“No,” Jotaro said. He was bent over fishing an orange out of the bag in the buggy. “I walked here. No clue what any of you are on about.”

“Oh my god!” Joseph said. “Was it an impostor?”

“Yes!” Holly practically shouted. “I thought you knew…why did you wink at me?” She put her hands to her head.

“Oh, I meant it to show you I was kidding around…” Joseph swallowed. “I, uh…didn’t realize the guy in the car was a fake.”

“So, Holly, you’re saying everything you did in the car was an act?” Polnareff asked.

She gaped. “You thought it was real? I was messing with him because I thought Papa had a plan!”

“I wasn’t sure what to think!” Polnareff put his hands up defensively.

“Neither I nor Jotaro would ever do anything that just happened,” Holly said, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I don’t think we need to worry about the enemy, either. That explosion a second ago was the orange he was scared of.”

“It was a bomb?” Joseph exclaimed. “He was trying to blow us up…that’s…”

Holly sighed. She shook her head to try and get her thoughts together. She didn’t know whether to be mortified, angry, or just laugh until her lungs gave out.

Jotaro was leaning against the buggy eating an orange. Holly could tell he was enjoying watching Joseph and Polnareff make fools of themselves. “If the enemy’s out of commission there’s not a problem. Let’s go see how Avdol and Kakyoin are doing,” he said, pushing off the car and walking towards the hospital entrance.

Holly fell into step next to him. “Sorry about that. I guess I shouldn’t have betted on Papa. Polnareff I can understand, but Papa?”

“Doesn’t surprise me…They can be pretty dense,” Jotaro said. He was smiling ever-so-slightly. He offered her a portion of his orange and she quickly accepted.

“Yeah,” Holly said with a small laugh. As she opened the door, she heard a siren blaring in the distance. Turning, she noticed an ambulance racing down the road towards the ER.

As the paramedics unloaded the patient, Holly’s jaw dropped. It was the fake Jotaro as well as another small person. They were both mangled and bleeding, with some areas in temporary dressings. The two were rushed away on gurneys.

“H-his outfit—“ Holly said, completely in disbelief.

“It’s ugly as hell.” Jotaro crossed his arms, looking away disdainfully.

Holly cackled victoriously. “I knew it! That was the guy pretending to be you.”

Jotaro’s eyebrows shot up. “And they bought it?” He seemed to realize the extent of how bad the impostor’s disguise was. He looked embarrassed.

“And his acting was terrible on top of that,” Holly said. “It was a train wreck!”

Kakyoin perked up as he heard the door open, his pinkish hair swishing as he looked over. “Is someone there?”

“Yes!” Holly said, trotting over to the side of his bed. “We came to see you! How are you feeling?”

The boy beamed. “I’m doing a little better. Thank you for thinking of me.” He folded his hands on his lap, clearly trying not to touch the bandages over his eyes. “Did anyone else come with you, Miss Holly?”

“Yep, everyone’s here! Even Avdol. We brought him along since he was feeling up to a walk.” Holly grinned as the man carefully shuffled in, sitting down in a chair off to the side. He was fairly well recovered, in fact the doctors said he just needed a day or so.

“I’m glad to hear that.” Kakyoin said.

“I made you two some cookies,” Holly said, setting down the box. “They’re chocolate chip, would you like one?”

“Yes! Uh, I mean, if it’s not too much trouble…”

“Of course it isn’t! I made these just for you.” She fished out a cookie and gave it to him, lightly patting the top of his head. He stiffened at the touch. “Oh, sorry, I wasn’t thinking,” Holly said sheepishly.

“No, it’s okay…that just reminded me of my mom, is all…”

Holly turned around from giving Avdol a cookie, feeling a pang of sadness. “Aw, sweetie…” she put her hand on Kakyoin’s shoulder. “You’ll be back home before you know it. I promise.”

Holly frowned. She couldn’t imagine what the poor boy was going through. He probably hadn’t seen his parents properly in months. She doubted he’d gone back to them while under DIO’s control. Kakyoin’s resilience inspired her.

“Thank you. I hadn’t realized how homesick I was until now.” He took a bite of the cookie and chewed for a moment before completely freezing. He quickly swallowed. “Miss Holly, these are delicious!”

“Agreed!” Avdol chimed in.

Holly smiled. “I’m so happy you all like them. I wasn’t sure what to make, so I went with a classic.” She remembered something, and reached into her bag. “I brought cards. I thought we could play some games together. We’ll take turns being your eyes, Kakyoin, how about that?”

“That sounds fun,” he said. “I’d love to.”

“Perfect! How about we play Go Fish?” Holly suggested. “Uh, unless you’re too old for it,” she added sheepishly.

“No, let’s do it,” Polnareff said, sitting down next to Kakyoin on the edge of the bed. “I’m great at Go Fish. We’ll win for sure.”

Kakyoin chuckled. “I’m fairly certain it isn’t skill-based…”

“Then you haven’t seen a real expert play.” Polnareff cracked his knuckles as the rest of the group pulled up chairs around Kakyoin’s side table and Joseph dealt out cards.

After a few turns, Kakyoin spoke. “Did anything interesting happen to you guys today?”

Holly grinned deviously. “I’m so glad you asked. In fact, we encountered a Stand user.”

Joseph and Polnareff groaned in unison. Jotaro put down a pair of cards after receiving one from Avdol.

Kakyoin laughed. “What happened?”

“His ability was to shapeshift—oh, got any 6’s?—and he turned into Jotaro.”

“Go fish,” Joseph said, cringing from embarrassment as she spoke.

Holly drew a card. “His disguise was realistic but…off. I knew something was wrong right away, but I might have fallen for it if his impersonation wasn’t garbage.”

“In what way?” Avdol said, curious.

“In every way!” Holly said, smacking down a pair of cards for emphasis. “It was honestly ridiculous.”

She continued to tell Kakyoin and Avdol all about it, sparing no details. She was getting lots of laughs and embellishing the story in areas. Eventually, one round of Go Fish stretched into many, and the afternoon stretched into evening.

“I’m sorry to cut the party short, but we’ve gotta get back to the hotel, and you two need to rest,” Joseph said as he gathered up the cards after a round.

Kakyoin nodded. “I understand. Thank you again for coming.”

“See you,” Jotaro said, touching the brim of his hat as he left the room.

Joseph tipped his own hat. “Bye-bye!”

As Avdol left and Holly was about to say her own goodbyes, she looked at Kakyoin and noticed wet stains on his bandages. “Are you alright, Noriaki?”

“Yeah, I’m alright…” he said with a sniff. “Sometimes my wounds, uh…leak.”

“Oh, that’s unfortunate.” She crossed back to him and gently took his head in her hands, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “We’ll be back first thing tomorrow.”

Kakyoin sniffed again, looking away. “Thank you, Miss Holly.”

“Of course, sweetie.” She smiled softly. She thought of the boy as another son and was glad she could be here to comfort him. She hoped to be able to get him back to his real mother unharmed, but for now she was happy to be a stand-in.

She patted his head again, and turned to leave.

Holly gently closed the door, and as she walked down the hall she heard him cry in earnest. She closed her eyes, suddenly noticing the wetness on her own cheeks.

Thank you for reading!

[pyrosomatic-metamorphosis]

genuine question but is there any fandom where a character is well written by the majority. im thinking about fandom culture and the spread of frustration when people dont write characters well but. honestly in all the fandoms ive been in there's only like, a Select number of authors who i trust to write Well, let alone write Well AND In Character. character analysis and writing and getting inside characters' heads are all separate skills (all of which are trained by roleplaying fyi can CONFIRM playing pretend with your friends is good for you). there's been more than once where I've disagreed with an interpretation that others agreed with, and then I turned out wrong. or i turned out right. like it doesnt matter WHO is right it just matters that differences in character analysis exist, so even if you DO write well AND write in character, your in character is still going to be someone else's out of character

there's this sort of. vibe. that to play in the sandbox you Need to be able to make a castle, and if you can't make a castle then you shouldn't bother, and it completely dismisses the idea that youre in that sandbox to PLAY in the first place. there's this Weight of disappointing someone if you can't build something that they like, but that forgets that you aren't there to build them a castle. like, be KIND. if you disagree with someone then please make an effort to do so kindly. i dont give a shit about fandom discourse but there is a reason kids get removed from sandboxes if they keep throwing sand in people's eyes. but if they don't like your misshapen sand pile, then youre not obligated to change it. even if you yourself end up hating that same sand pile later- youre not building a legacy. youre playing. and sometimes the result of that play is out of character drivel. theres a reason there are so many authors and so few who i like to consistently read and thats because everyone is Fucking Around in their hobby space. hash tag brag or whatever but i can build castles. ive built several that im v proud of. ive also dug holes in the sand for fun and then tripped on them when trying to get up. I often dug a hole and then got up and fucking- whoops, its a castle now, and i didn't realize i'd made something to be proud of until after the fact. the whole time while creating shit i was Convinced it was bullshit that didn't make sense. and then other times i was Convinced it was bullshit and then i was Right and i can look back and go. huh. ew. but it doesn't matter what the end result was, because i had fun playing in the sandbox

this wasn't meant to turn into a ramble but i have Feelings about bad art and art that's badly perceived and how public perception can screw with your head and how making art youre proud of is fucking. it's so difficult!!! it's hard!! it's really fun, which is why i try to make it, but i promise you it is Okay to not tryhard creativity. even if you CAN, it's okay not to do it all the time. or ever, even. fuck around find out have fun etc

[pyrriax]

6, 12, 30 for the writing asks ^_^

6. What’s the last line you wrote?

Shaking its head in what seems like disbelief before meeting his eyes again, almost like it wants to say something before it makes a noise like a growl, "oh, you're one of those seraphs, aren't you. A star-eater. No wonder you act like you've lost your mind."

(ignore that that's a couple sentences, the Thought is important)

12. Do you outline your fics?  If yes, how detailed are your outlines?  How far do you stray from them?

Oh yes! I outline my fics thoroughly. Though, I do allowed myself to deviate as much from the outline as I feel like when things go off the rails. Some snippets of planning from a couple fics & concepts:

My outlines are very... One for one. With some exceptions. I tend to basically write a very brief version of the fic and try to get the feelings and words right before I actually write it. This is... Also why it can and will take me a month to write a oneshot. I try to get things Right.

30. How much do you edit your fics?  Do you edit as you write or wait until you finish the first draft?

So! I edit them a bit? I edit while I work, but often I don't really touch anything I've already written unless it's something longer that might be taking a few months to get through. I think the fic I've edited the most is the prologue of Artificial Stars, which was originally a quickly written 2k oneshot into about 5k of actually decent fic.

Usually I don't edit to make something shorter/more concise, since I tend to only come up with more ways to bridge concepts when I go back to it. Also to be fair... There's usually no difference between first draft and final product. I cannot be asked to edit my fics after I write them, I just release them to the birds and pray for the best. (Unless I actually decide to show it to my beta reader in full instead of just sharing snippets as I... usually do.)

Conclusion: Rarely, those thangs are being given to the world as-is unless something is horrifically wrong with them

[anonyanonymouse]

🙈

[novelconcepts]

i don't make resolutions, but if i did

it would be to finish this fic

(and to be kind to myself for however long it takes to actually do so)

[philsmeatylegss]

*Types into search bar*

“How to still be an active fan of a creator when previously being an obsessive fan for most of your teens because they were one of the few good things keeping you from killing yourself in middle school so now trying to become a more casual fan feels like a betrayal and I cannot get into new fandoms because the high I got in middle school from the extreme emotion switch cannot be replicated both because I’m literally twenty and I’m far from suicidal so now and I love these creators with my whole heart and still engage with all of their new content but I want to move on while also still being a fan but I just can’t?”

[my-thoughts-and-junk]

my new thing is obsessing over a funny little guy for a few months before moving onto another funny little guy