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cupcakeinat0r · 4 months ago

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Your middle-aged, loser Genetics professor who has a dad bod <3

Part 8

Miguel usually starts his day off by preparing a dark cup of coffee immediately after finally peeling himself out the bed. With droopy eyes and a five o’clock shadow, his husky figure stumbles into the kitchen, thirsty for caffeine. As he waits for the machine to do its magic, he’ll maybe run his hand through his dark, peppered, slept-on hair or take a moment to clean his glasses with the fibers of his sweats. Once the cup is prepared, the fresh scent of grinded coffee beans in the air, he’ll lean against his kitchen counter, sipping happily from his world’s best brain mug. He’ll relax for a moment, thinking about the material he’s planned for the day. Once he’s done, he’ll wash his cup, and start getting ready.

He left the suit about three years ago, taking up the job as professor of genetics and biochemistry at around the same time.

He’s been happy with his life here. It’s quiet. It’s peaceful. It’s simple. Everything he wanted. All the domesticity that was missing in his life had been rediscovered once he hung the mask. It’s been the best decision he’s ever made.

He didn’t think things could get better until you came along. This gorgeous, smart, funny, sweet person that had him wrapped around their finger. And given his stature and age, he never would have thought you’d fallen, too.

So this morning looks a little different, and every morning since he’s met you, for that matter.

Miguel gets up from bed faster now, with you on his mind. Once he makes his way into the kitchen for his fix of coffee, he’s reminded of the dream, possibly a pornographic one, he had about you. He’s like a horny teenager all over again, with an ache between his legs that, now, only you can inflict on him, and it’s there every morning.

Miguel now uses the time that it takes for the coffee to drip to shoot you a good morning text, accompanied by multiple heart emojis. And of course, he takes a little longer to get ready in the mornings just because he wants to make sure he looks his absolute best for you.

Today, while sipping on his café, he remembers the conversation you two had. It was when you two had gone to his office after the library. And then he remembered the things he shared with you about his past life; how amazingly you took the dump of lore. Only a higher power would know what anyone else would’ve done or said after hearing things like that. He smiles to himself as he thinks about your one and only question/response to it all:

“Are you happy?”

The response itself was all that he needed to see if his feelings for you were valid, and these feelings have become the strongest thus far. Miguel doesn’t want to jinx it, but he thinks what he’s feeling is something a tad bit more serious than a simple crush, and that both excites and terrifies him.

While he gets ready for the day, he then thinks about the conversation prior to that. He meant everything he said last night about not having sex, but at the same time, he would want nothing more than to show you how much of a good man he can be to you, both in daily life and in bed. Even though he’s hard at the very thought of you, he also wants you to feel safe more than anything. Being with you is far more important than the needs of his dick.

The fact that you’re his student also sort of weighs in as well. Getting caught in a professor/student scandal on the last week of classes before you receive your masters would be disastrous. Thankfully (and surprisingly), no one has been suspicious of y’all this semester.

Honestly, Miguel is just looking forward to Summer, because for him, that means he gets to take you out and enjoy you every chance he gets.

For the last few days of classes, you tend to your exams and Miguel busies himself with his own work. You guys haven’t really been with each other, with the exception of passing each other in the halls. It hasn’t been easy on you at all, and even more so on Miguel. Let’s just say his office door has been spending more time locked than unlocked, and not to score papers. Thankfully, the walls are thick.

The day you take Miguel’s exam is the very last day of classes, and at this point, both of you are antsy to not only see but just feel each other. The tension in the air is thick, the text messages have become spicier, and on multiple occasions have the phone calls been so close to just becoming pure phone sex, but you and Miguel had to keep your distance. Just for this week, and afterward, y’all can do anything you desired. For now, you have to settle for the small touches and occasional eye contact during the exam.

That night when he dropped you off at your place, you half joked about him giving you a perfect score purely out of bias.

“I would never. I take my exams very seriously, for your information.” He responded smugly, his hairy forearm on the door of his car where the window would be. “Besides, you’re far too smart for that.“ His voice softens toward the end of his sentence, that lovesick smile he always gawks at you with on his face.

“I’m serious, Mig. I want an accurate grade.” You match his volume, leaning down onto the car window, face to face with him.

“Mama, I promise. I’m sure you’ll get a perfect score anyways, but on the off chance that you don’t,” he leans closer to, his breath on yours, “Maybe I’ll just have to give you more private sessions during the Summer.” You chuckle against his lips once they meet yours.

“You’re such a horndog.” The words are muffled by his lips and tongue. “Only for you.” He mumbles, unable to keep his mouth off of yours. Miguel really was hot n bothered by you all the time, but honestly, you wouldn’t have it any other way. He’s your little loser after all.

The glances and “accidental” brushing of hands had definitely occurred before and during the exam. Emotionally, it kind of took y’all back to the beginning of the semester, when the feelings were first bubbling. Alas, you had to stay focused. Compared to your peers, you practically flying through it. Even though you spent half the time mingling during them (and making out), the tutoring actually helped in the end.

When it was time to submit your exam, you gave him a knowing look. All Miguel does is give you a smile, but one that was genuine and sweet. One that reassured you in the sentiment that he was going to score you accurately.

At the end of the day, you didn’t even care about what score you got, as long as Miguel nor you get in trouble. That’s all that mattered to you.

It’s later in the day, and you’re in your dorm. Tomorrow is your big day. The day you walk along the stage and take your master’s in your hand; physical proof of your knowledge and hardwork. You were also thinking about Miguel and what he’s up to, but what’s new.

You were thinking about how after your graduation, Miguel will no longer be your professor and you his student. You would just be two people who were absolutely crazy about each other, and you were looking forward to that.

You get a text from Miguel.

Missing my baby. Just thinking of you.

Aw, I miss my big teddy bear, too. What you up to?

Finished about 30% of these papers. Need to take a break, though. What if I came and picked you up?

And go where?

Home

I’m already at home, ya goof

I mean my home, but you absolutely don’t have to. We could go to the library or whatever you want.

No! I’d love to come over.

You sure?

Of course, I wanna see what other books I can steal from you

Only in this for the books, I see. Ouch.

Don’t be dramatic, you know that’s not true

Do I?

You gonna pick me up or not?

Putting my shoes on.

He had you kicking your feet. You were unsure if it was a good idea, but that didn’t stop it from being an extremely enticing one. You were just worried about someone seeing you enter his home, but otherwise, you would love to see where he lives, despite making the deal about not seeing each other until after graduation. This whole time, you’ve only gotten familiar with his office, and that’s only one small part of him. You just couldn’t wait any longer to be near him, and besides, classes are technically over.

“So you’re half spider?” You and Miguel relax in his living room. You scour his book shelves while he makes you a drink. His place is exactly how you imagined it. It’s a balance of sharp and cozy, like him.

“I know, not the most exciting of confessions.” Miguel’s sarcasm seeps through his speech and it makes you huff. Such a sass master.

“I’m being for real. I think that’s amazing and all, but I’m glad you chose to leave that life.” Your eyes are still on the spines of his books when you start to hear heavy footsteps coming your way. He’s just as excited to be near you as you are, if not, more.

“Me, too,” Miguel wraps his arms around your waist from behind, pressing a kiss on your head, “or else I would’ve never met you.”

“Aren’t you lucky?” You playfully comment, getting on your tip toes to kiss him, his pouch rumbling against your torso from his chuckling. “Definitely. Without you, I was starting to lead on a pretty lame life.” Miguel humored at himself. He knew that although going to teach classes, returning back home, and repeat was a pretty peaceful routine, he also knew it could be a boring one at times.

You lean your head back in exaggerated astonishment, “Why would you say that? You’re the coolest person I know, and not because you were spider-man,” you run your hands up and down his chest as you list off his cool factors, “You’re a genius, you’re a family man, you’re funny, you’re also an Austen man, what more could I ask for?”

Miguel looks down at you, his muse, his angel, his everything. “Thanks, mamita. I’m proud to be your choice. Making me feel like the luckiest man in the universe.” You’re enjoying this little romantic banter between you two, and Miguel loves it.

“However, that last one is a secret between us. Can’t have people knowing that their exSpider-Man enjoys classic literature.”

“Speaking of which, have you gotten to the end of pride and prejudice?” You take his hand and lead him to the couch where you both plop down and find a good cuddle position. Miguel is the perfect amount of warmth even though he wore nothing but sweats, meaning his dad build was out in all of its glory. It took everything in you not to pounce on him. Miguel wasn’t much help either. When he’s sitting down and you’re sitting in between his legs and he brings you in close to him to hug you. He’s all kissing your neck and playing with the waistband of your pants with his hand because truly he wants to eat you out so so so bad and is extremely so hard by the intimacy, but he knows tonight is not the night, and so did you.

“I’m not finished yet, but I’m close.” He mumbles against your skin. Miguel was always a master of flipping your switch, this time using the smacking of his plump lips against your supple skin, claiming your neck, shoulders, and jaw as his.

“Mm… y’know what would be a great idea?” you manage to get out.

Miguel stops what he’s doing and braces himself. “Oh God. What?”

“If you read whatever you have left of the book to me.”

“You want me to read it? Out loud?” Miguel finds this cute. You nod your head eagerly, and Miguel was absolutely cooed by the request. “Like I’ve said millions of times before, I love the sound of your voice.”

“Para ti? Claro Que si, mi vida.” And so he went and grabbed the book and his glasses, settling back into his position under you, and began reading in his soft, silky voice. You listened intently, the words falling right out of his mouth, making music to your ears. For Miguel, this was an honor. He’ll take glances down at you and see that you’re in total awe of him, latching onto every word he recites. He hadn’t done something like this since, well, Gabriella.

This is the life he wanted. The life he had been living the past three years had served him well, but Miguel felt it. He felt it was time for another chapter. He was so certain. He’s decided he wants this every night.

Miguel reads on, simultaneously rehearsing what he’ll say in his head. The themes of newfound love and romance of the book was inspiring him. It made the scene all too perfect for the both of you. He then takes a long pause on a page. You can feel his belly hitch. “Everything alright?” You ask softly. “I’m okay. More than okay.” He sounds as though he might get emotional.

Miguel looks away from the book and into your eyes, putting the novel down. You two are in his home, on his couch, cuddling with a book, and the school year has come to an end. Miguel needs to say something and feels it’s time to share it. It’s now or never.

“You,” he began, his voice barely above a whisper, eyes shining, breath steadying,

“I love you.”

The words send your heart rate to oblivion.

“W-what?”

“I love you.” Miguel says this so matter of factly, like he’s never been so sure of something in his life.

You had to make sure what you heard matched what he said and it did. You’ve wondered when he would say it. You would’ve been fine had he done so on the first date! You only have one response to this, and tears well up in your eyes before you can say it, “I love you, too.” You attack Miguel with kisses, and both of you relish in this monumental moment in your blossoming relationship. You’ve finally found the prince to your fairytale.

“I adore you”, “I worship you”, “I’m so proud of you,” and more “I love you”s fall from Miguel’s lips, making the tears well up in your eyes again and your heart swell even more.

Miguel continues to read for you, savoring the special memory you both will now share for a very long time. Sometimes, he’ll just stop mid paragraph just to say it to you again, that he loves you, and you say it back. Both of you are giddy little kids, telling each other how much you love the other, trying to one up each other like it’s a contest. At some point, you can feel yourself start to fall, and Miguel sees it, but he proceeds with the story. The mixture of his lulling voice and the soothing sensation of his rising and falling tummy was the perfect combo for sleep. Once you’re completely out, Miguel turns off the lights by voice command, and lays a blanket over you. He holds you tight against him, as if you could disappear at any moment, and plants a kiss lovingly on your forehead. He whispers ‘te amo, mi vida’ before slumber takes him over as well.

You can feel a light gently shed on your eyelids. You’re not fully conscious yet, drifting between the states of awake and asleep.

Your fingers flicker with life, and you think you feel something rough. Your eyes crack and you’re met with a blurred figure. Your vision focuses and you make out a face, your fingers lingering on the jaw. Your lips curl at this face. The closest thing in view is a pair of dark lips, parted and inspiring deep, low snores. Taking account of their breath, you feel the inhaling and exhaling of his stomach against your front side. You lift your head slightly to get a better view of the person you currently lay on top of. Tousled black hair, dark eye lashes that ornament sleeping eyes, thick brows lacking the tension creases that would otherwise be there, and some missing glasses, which now sit on a side table. The sight was sweet enough to make the coldest heart melt. You take a moment to just observe his breathing, his relaxed state, and start leaving small, ghostly caresses on his face, absorbing each line and shape of his rugged complexion. This is the most vulnerable you’ve ever seen him. You wanna stay in it forever. The outside world finally makes its presence known with a few chirps of birds, and your attention goes to a window and that’s when it hits you: you’re still in Miguel’s place, and you both had fallen asleep on his couch. At last, you gain enough consciousness to realize that, for the entirety of the night, you had been held the same way a child holds their most beloved teddy bear by your exprofessor, now lover.

No, you two didn’t have sex, just like how it had been discussed a few days ago. You were both still clothed, yet, somehow, this feels even more intimate than when y’all eat each other’s faces.

Your attention is stolen back by the snores of the man below you, which makes you stifle laughter. You could honestly lay there watching him for hours. Your eyes glazed over every inch to ingrain the perfect mental image of this soft moment.

A few more seconds pass by before his snoring pattern comes to an abrupt halt and his eyes flutter open, landing on you. His watch goes off in a small, irritable beep. His tired eyes lift as he smiles at the view, despite the noise. This was something that he’s dreamt of waking up to every day.

“G’morning, sleeping beauty,” you softly speak, leaning down for a kiss on his forehead, “You sleep good?” Your voice is sweet, the moment seconds before leaving it honey-like.

“Morning,” his hands that wrapped around your waist unravel and rub your back, “Mhm. like a baby. Don’t think I’ve slept like that in… well, ever.” An early raspiness spills from his lips and its deep enough to make your insides flutter. “Me too.” You reply, gazing into each other’s eyes before sharing one or two good morning kisses on the lips, the second one lingering a couple seconds longer.

“Can you confirm something for me?” You continue, and Miguel raises an eyebrow.

“Was I dreaming or did you say the L-word to me last night?” A giggle leaves Miguel’s mouth. “Yeah, I did, and I’ll say it again.” He says in his low voice. You grin ear to ear, bodies glued together as if they were merging into one. His hands come up to your face tenderly, and with pride, he confesses again,

“I love you.”

A/n: I’m back girlies, did u miss me?

<3Taggies<3

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@mintssanctuary @ghost-lantern @snails-doodles22 @tinythebunni

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netherfeildren · 8 months ago

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How to Endure Ardor:

Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader

Summary: Joel teaches you how to love him.

Rating: Explicit 18+

Content Warnings: Post outbreak; QZ Joel Miller; I'm saying this, but the setting is sort of ambiguous anyways, Stream of consciousness, Character Study, Alternating POVs; PIV sex; The troubles and toils of breaking up and then making up with a fucked up old man; Uncaring Joel; Mentions of painful sex; Toxic relationships or situationships or whatever you want to call it; I think I'm addicted to the idea of a Joel who'll never love you and I should probably see a doctor about it

A/N: she remembers how to write, who'd of thought!

Word Count: 1.3K

Read on AO3

This is a lesson:

“Tell me again,” she says, and it’s a begging.

A begging like what? Something that carries shame and smallness in the shape of it. Stay a little longer. It humiliates him for the wretchedness it pulls from him. Joel, please. Seeping blood the color of her supplication. Please, she says, please. And who else says please to him anymore? Who asks him for anything anymore but her? The only ones who ever had are long past and gone, and he can’t even barely remember they were ever really there to ask anything of him to begin with—can’t remember what it feels like to owe someone something and want to give it to them in a way that will actually make him.

Tell me what again? That I want you? That I’ll stay? That I love you? I’ll come back, he says instead, the only thing he can promise and keep. And he wonders if it humiliates her too, the way he lies, the way he runs, the way he swears, the way he always comes back and comes back but never returns with the things she needs. A humiliation just like it is a begging.

The thing they have: it’s strange, fickle, honest in its lies, very, very ugly. An ugliness that is shocking in a world gone to rot already. The sky doesn’t shine anymore and they bask in it.

But also, and, the thing they have: it’s physical, saving.

This is obvious too, even if only to them.

He slides inside and you’re what? Hot and wet and slick, and—yes, a thing like a dream, but still only a thing. Something to have, something close to desire, but not quite, more like biological want. Woman turned possession. In his mind this is an excuse, a reason, a begetting. Like, what—like what? Like when you want a thing very badly but it is very bad for you, and you need to make up any excuse to have it, lie and lie and lie—to your mother, your best friend, the mirror—a begetting like that. Easy to understand only if you’ve been there.

It started simple, it started like nothing, it started like the first time you meet someone and you know they’ll matter, you know they’ll mean something. So it started like what? Like a lie.

Shifts at the QZ, long and toiling and reminders of the sort of life that died in an outbreak of monsters, only if for how unlike that past it was. Humans or fungus or—

—men who hurt—you, men who refuse your love, Joel Miller.

The crutch of your age, of you being weaker or smaller or in need, him being easily felled, wooed, easily conquered by something young and given without a try because there was never the opportunity for trying before.

Now, it is like this: you take my cock and you take my come and you take my nothing, and I give so little and yet you still find a way to take and take and take, leech of a girl, dream of a girl, hungry. And with the excuse that it’s only in a way you contrive for your own self. But in the end, what does that make you? What do I make you into?

These are the things he asks himself.

Perhaps she goes away for a time, tries the route of escape, of variety. But when she inevitably comes back because addiction is riddled always in the same sorts of ways: did you try different bodies? Did you try different flavors and sounds? Did you look for me in all of them?

The answer is usually yes.

At reunion’s turn: he rolls her over to face her, Joel, damp and panting and trying to be something—perhaps better, more honest—after a season of variety and honest attempts and shut eyes. He’s so hard for her, always is.

Again: he slides inside and you’re what? His, undeniably. Not yours. Something to want but not desire because it’s too romantic a notion, and yes, there’s a difference even if he can’t put into words what that difference specifically is. Body and heart, perhaps, definitions that differ between disparate anatomical parts or levels of deniability.

Nothing either of you have ever been able to put into words when lust and love aren’t things you can even say out loud for the shame of them, even if they exist within said same anatomy.

You come together, the season passed, the separation passed but still kept at hand for the next time the closeness becomes too much.

“Tell me again,” she says, and this time he remembers what she’s asking for.

“I fucking missed you, baby. Missed this pussy.” Because he can’t say it’s her heart he missed. Because Joel Miller does not have honesty in his arsenal.

He spreads you wide, knee to shoulder so it hurts and pulls, so it’ll be sore and reminding tomorrow. The slap of his pelvis against the back of your thighs is obscene, wet and lewd, a string of girl cum keeping you connected, such togetherness, curve of your ass to the root of his cock—the two of you are together again.

You know what I thought, when I tried to go away, you say. He doesn’t want to know, but he doesn't tell you so either, only slides in again, the mouth of your womb right there, threatening. I’m never going to feel like this again, and I hate how certainly I know that. He wonders if the unsaid part is that he’s the recipient of that feeling, the hate.

He wonders if the pinch inside him is hurt. He wonders if the throb is love.

All he says because he can’t say the rest is, I missed you, I missed you, and if he could look himself in the mirror—something that’s twenty years past lost—he’d ask: are you alright? Just tell me you’re okay. And it sounds in your own voice and with your own care and the feel of your own warmth. Is there anything I can do?

Other times, he sees himself through your own eyes, and then he knows for certain that the throb is love

So he makes up for lost time, hard—and if it was a thing he knew how to be— loving. Mouth to cunt first, primed and soft and begging, making you come again and then another once more, then inside of you. Slow, splitting you open, red cunt like a wound, balls slapping wet, pulling out to watch the gape of the space he’s carved for himself. His cock is so hard and missing you something desperate. And he’s reminded of what it is to really miss something in a way he hadn’t been in twenty years of apocalypse, he’s forced to realized that it’s been so long since he’d had something to love that he’d not realized the feeling of missing that long past someone had gone away, only faint memory remained.

Violent, is what this makes him after that realization—thrusts turning hard and punishing. How dare you give yourself to me? How dare you then take yourself away? You come around him again, the gift of your orgasm. How dare you not be able to accept the little I’m able to give when I’m trying so desperately fucking hard to give you even just this?

He fucks you mean, he fucks you in the way of a man who doesnt know how to say the things he needs to say, in a way that’s confusing, that could make a less discerning woman feel only the hurt.

But then again, you know him.

Fucks you in a way that is a little bit like love.

And so, amidst all of it, there is an honesty amongst the lies. A truth unspoken that they both know—I’ll come back because I need you, because you’re the only one who can give me the things I'm not strong enough to ask for out loud.

You’re not sure which of the two of you is the one saying it.

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#vic fic #joel miller #joel miller fic #joel miller x you #joel miller x reader

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nakedbibi333 · 1 year ago

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If you’re stuck in the pattern of feeling like you have to do something or take some sort of action in order to get what you desire…

When I get stuck in this mindset, which is easy to fall into, since it’s what is drilled into our minds from the moment we are born, I create a sort of “method” for myself. For me personally, methods are just physical actions that aid me in my path to knowing that what I desire is already mine. What does this mean? It means that the specifics of what I do isn’t important. The method has no power on its own. The source is me, so as long as I assume that doing something—anything—means what I’m manifesting is already mine, then it will “work” (for lack of a better word).

You don’t need methods, and you don’t need to take any kind of outward action to manifest anything (and I mean anything), but I do find that it’s easier for me to expect some sort of “effect” from my own personal “cause” that I make for myself when I’m struggling to incorporate a new belief.

The cause can be as simple as clicking a special pen, or as complex as mixing a bunch of kitchen herbs together in a jar. It doesn’t matter what you do, it’s the intention, the purpose, of getting yourself to believe that it is done. There is nothing else for you to do, because it is done. What you desire is yours and all you need to do is persist in that assumption until you see it in your outer world.

#loa #manifestation #law of assumption #neville goddard #loassumption #edward art #queue #nakedbibi333 posts

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hauntedjellyfishwitch-blog · 2 months ago

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First off your writing is incredible. I was in literal tears reading your Daryl fic.

But I thought I'd send in a request, a jealous Daryl. Doesnt have to be established reader, pretty easy. I just like it when he's all riled up. 😂 Please and thank you

Jealousy

Summary: He could have just told her, couldn’t he? That would have been simple. He’d had to yell at her instead though, because Daryl can never do things the usual way round. Hand down her skirt and about to run away for the second time really was more his style.

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Reader (No use of Y/N)

TW: Nervous!Daryl. Angst. Fluff. Friends to lovers. Alexandria era. Vague, very short smut.

A/N: Thank you for this request and the beautiful compliment! I may have rushed the editing a little so if you notice any errors please tell me!

It’s not that she’s been avoiding him, it’s the complete opposite, she’s absolutely, inarguably, infuriatingly normal. He’s clawing at the walls of his own brain and she’s acting as if everything is fine. Maybe it is, he thinks, maybe she’s over it, maybe she’s been over it since the second he screwed it up and he’s the only one still hanging on to whatever it was in the first place. He can’t even claim he’s hanging on to much, they’d barely even kissed and it was months ago, but he hadn’t exactly been good at this kind of thing before the world threw a damn apocalypse into the mix.

He’d loved her since the moment he’d heard her laugh. He’d found her in a cabin in the woods on a run, just after Woodbury had fallen, back when the prison was still strong. He didn’t want to bring her back, one more mouth to feed, one more person to keep an eye on, but she’d saved him from a rogue walker he hadn’t seen coming, shrugged like it was nothing, like she’d have done it for anyone. She’d offered him food and water, a rundown but relatively safe place to lay low for a few hours, she was kind. The words were tumbling from his lips before he’d really thought about them.

He’d avoided her for a good while, despite her efforts to befriend him, he’d lost so much already he didn’t want to let her in. But then he’d said something sarcastic, something snappy and prissy and she’d laughed; an honest to goodness belly laugh that had her head throwing back and him smiling from the side of his mouth despite himself and something deep in his chest felt warm.

So he’d loved her, quietly and from a distance. Safe. Until she’d kissed him.

He watches as she laughs, the same laugh, big and warm and real. It’s not aimed at him, and he hates it. After he’d run away from her, he worried he wouldn’t hear it again, but he’d been wrong, and this was worse. He taps his fingers against his thigh, trying to keep a scowl from his face. Failing. He thinks steam would come out of his ears if it were within the realm of possibility.

He’s always too late. Always takes too long to get comfortable. Always spends so long waiting that he misses out on the thing he wanted, and she’s not a thing but his blood is fucking boiling. At the man she’s talking to, at himself, at her too if he’s a little honest.

The man, who’s name he doesn’t know and now never wants to, is handsome. If you’re into that suburban, well groomed, boring kind of thing. He has a punchable face. Daryl is not allowed to punch people unless its necessary anymore, Rick has told him that explicitly but surely flirting with his…flirting with the woman he’s in lo…flirting with her makes it necessary.

He can’t stand the thought that he might not be the last person to kiss her lips. He can’t stand looking any longer, but he doesn’t mean for his knife to clatter loudly on the floor as he tries to flee. He doesn’t dare turn around, but he’d be able to tell she was looking at him even in pitch black. Knows she’s watching the solid, tense set of his shoulders as he retreats.

She startles at the sight of him sitting on her porch, quickly schooling her face into the nonchalance she’s been practicing around him since they arrived. It was easy enough, on the road, to pretend he hadn’t hurt her. They were so busy trying to survive, so busy being busy that she could avoid an inevitable conversation where she’d had to apologise for getting their wires crossed.

But since they’ve been behind the walls of Alexandria? She can’t stop herself from searching him out, finding excuses to be near him, trying to act like they were back at the prison. Friends. She can do friends. She has been absolutely nailing being just friends, as long as she can ignore the tightness in her chest and the way she feels like she’s going to cry every time she walks away. Friends.

She flips the knife in her hand with ease, shielding his hand from the blade as she passes it back to him. He nods his thanks as he squints up at her.

“What crawled up your ass tonight?” She asks, but there’s a teasing smile on her face as leans against the railing to her house. The porch light is dim, warm golden yellow illuminating them. Daryl hasn’t been one for a lot of words in a long time, but he intends to bat the question away, distract her with something funny, something acerbic but good natured. Friendly, he can do friendly. He can’t, could barely do it on the road after everything happened. Now though, when she’s showered and brushed her hair and dressed up, lit up by a damn porch light? He doesn’t stand a chance.

“Dun’ kiss him”

“What the fuck?”

Fists clenching to calm himself down, unfurling them when he feels more grounded, he looks up at her again, daring to lock his eyes onto hers.

“Ya like him…tha’ guy?” He tries to keep his voice steady, hopes she doesn’t understand he’s begging her to say no, begging for her to give him a chance, but how many can one man have?

“Why are you asking me this?”

“Dun’ kiss him, please” He asks again, with a shake of his head, knocking his hair in front of his eyes as the ground in front of him becomes the most interesting thing he’s ever seen. She sighs quietly, but the sound reverberates in his brain, he can hear the disappointment that weighs it down, the disappointment he’d hoped to avoid by avoiding talking about this thing between them entirely.

“I’m not having this conversation with you on the porch” She pushes herself off the railing, turning to open the front floor. She means for him to leave but he follows her inside, tapping his fingers nervously against his thigh as he closes the door behind him. Every part of his body is telling him to run.

“I know I ain’t got no right t’ ask”

“No, you don’t. Why are you asking?”

“‘cause I can’t stand it”

“Why do you care?”

“’cause ya shouldn’t be wit’ him!”

“Who should I be with then, Daryl? Huh?” He doesn’t respond, not that she expects him to, head hanging low toward the ground “You have no answer, because it’s not you, is it? You didn’t want me!”

“I didn’t-what?”

He’d tried to make it obvious, had given her extra food, had nudged her shoulder with his, had talked to her more than anyone else. But she’d tried to kiss him and he’d fled, had retreated safely back into the comfort of his walls. Then he’d come back. He’d kissed her and again he’d fled. Daryl Dixon is the human embodiment of emotional whiplash. He knows he’s not easy, but he thought at least he’d been clear, he can’t imagine the way he looks at her has ever been subtle.

“I did want ya”

Her mind thinks over the weeks he’s been standoffish, the time he’s spent avoiding her touches, thinks back the first week they’d arrived here and he’s barely spoken a word, all the while watching her with an intensity that would have been uncomfortable if she hadn’t wanted his attention.

“I can’t do this, you can’t play with my head because you’re jealous all of a sudden”

“Ain’t jealous” He argues, knowing they both know he’s lying, but he still, even now, won’t let himself be vulnerable. “I know I fucked up, ‘kay? I know, but I’m ‘ere now!”

He snarls, frustrated and bordering on vicious, practically diving towards her as his hands grip her hips tight enough to bruise. He smashes his lips against hers, unpractised and clumsily before his brain catches up and he goes to pull away. Her response is so fast he doesn’t get a chance, dragging him back in as his brain shuts down.

The kiss is hard, angry and fast, all hip bones pressing into hip bones and teeth clacking against teeth. It’s not the romantic, affectionate start she was hoping for. It’s not the gentle steady and slow he was. She’s angry, he is too she can feel it in his body as he presses it against her.

The room spins, air thick and foggy with months’ worth of frustration, tension so thick it could be cut, it’s only when he swallows a heady, deep moan from her that he realises he needs more. Tongue sweeping into her mouth he grips the fabric of her skirt in his hand, bunching it up until he can reach an insistent, rough calloused hand inside her underwear, ripping his lips away from hers to heave a breath in. She’s soaked, dripping around his fingers and he’ll have time to be absolutely fucking floored by that when he recounts this later. His forehead sticks to hers as she moans.

It’s not that he hasn’t had trysts before, it’s just that they were short and unimportant, he’s barely been confident enough to use his hands. He wants to touch her in the right way, wants to know what he’s doing but she’s snaking a hand into his trousers and wrapping her fingers around his cock so thinking isn’t the top of his priorities right now.

It feels incredible, and in the vague recess of his brain he thinks he should have done this at a pace he'd be more comfortable with but he hasn’t done this in years, and barely successfully then so its not long before he comes all over her hand, whining as his head dips down to pant heavily against her collarbone. His fingers still, embarrassed and suddenly full of crippling self-doubt. She knows he’s going to remove them about a second before he does.

A thud echoes through the suddenly too big room as she tips her head back to hit the wall behind her.

“You leaving?” She lets out an incredulous laugh, hurt, betrayed, surprisingly unsurprised. The zip on his trousers seems louder than anything she’d yelled at him less than an hour before. It feels like an eternity before she lowers her head to look at him, doesn’t bother to mask the absolute disappointment on her features.

“I-uh-yeah-I”

She can practically see the walls slamming back up around him, the walls she’s been watching for weeks. A tear rolls down her cheek as he turns away from her, heading towards the front door.

“You don’t get another chance with me, Daryl” the finality in her voice makes him pause, hand on the doorknob. She sighs, hating that she’s about to give him the grace she is “You need to make up your mind, because I’m not waiting for you, not again. If you’re not certain by tomorrow you need to leave me alone”

The shaky nod from him is so small its almost imperceptible.

She’s not expecting the knock on her door as soon as the sun is up, really she isn’t. The whole night has been sleepless and filled to the brim with dread, knowing for sure that he wants her but fully believing he will never be able to let himself have her. She isn’t unaware of Daryl’s tendency to self-destruct. Maybe this is it, she thinks, maybe he values her enough as a friend if nothing else, to tell her face to face, but he’d never been able to before and the tiniest hint of hope lights her up as she treads carefully down the stairs.

Daryl stands there with a small, nervous but hopeful smile on his face. The hope hasn’t missed him, either. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, so out of his depth he might as well be drowning, but the knowledge that she wants this too means he’d rather fumble his way through this with her than do well without her.

“I’m a’ idiot”

“Yes you are” She laughs, setting him alight on the inside. The laugh that started al of this, almost. Doubt underneath her voice is the thing that finally settles it for him, makes him pull her towards him, gentle this time, the way he’d wanted. He’ll never let her doubt his feelings even when he doubts himself.

“I always wanted ya” he murmurs against her lips before closing the distance.

“You’re not going to run away again?”

“Ain’t runnin’, ain’t ever runnin’ again”

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wip · 9 months ago

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Please make it possible to hide users' posts without blocking them. Like, in cases where a person hasn't done anything wrong to be blocked, but you just don't like their posts.

Answer: Hello, @deithwen!

As it turns out, we’ve received this feature request a lot over the years. Usually, it comes in as wanting the ability to “mute” other blogs on Tumblr. While we would love to build it, we’ve balked at it a bit because of its technical and product complexity. Let us explain what that means:

In terms of technical complexity, our current blocking feature is closest to how “muting” would work. Our current blocking feature may seem simple, but it’s very complex because of how big Tumblr is. Every time we fetch a list of blogs for you or anyone on Tumblr, we have to also fetch the list of who you’re blocking, and who’s blocking you, and filter out anyone with that block relationship. This mapping of who’s-blocking-who is stored in a directional way right now, so the “cost” of loading that list gets higher the more people you’re blocking and the more people who are blocking you. If you’re blocking 1,000 blogs, we have to check that list a lot. If you’re being blocked by 1,000 blogs, that’s another big list to check against.

In technical terms, this is a “many-to-many” relationship, which is almost always incredibly difficult to manage while not degrading the experience of using a platform like Tumblr. The more people who are blocking, the harder it is to store those lists in a way that’s easy to check, but we’re working on making it smoother. The vast majority of people don’t block many others, if at all, so it’s never been a huge problem. But the outliers who block thousands of others (or are blocked by thousands of others) can degrade performance for everyone over enough time.

Adding muting would throw on top of that yet another list of blogs to check, increasing the complexity of something that’s already pretty complex. It helps that muting would be one-directional and not bi-directional (as in, it doesn’t matter who’s muting you), but, as that list of muted blogs grows, your experience may degrade further. So we’d need to solve for that, which is definitely doable. It would just take time—and lots of it.

And, as a product, Tumblr is already pretty confusing to people trying to figure out what “blocking” means already, as well as our other filtering options. Up until fairly recently, blocking was almost entirely one-directional, the opposite way you’d expect: blocking made it so the blocked person couldn’t see you, not that you couldn’t see them. We’ve been updating blocking to work both ways instead, which is more common on social media these days. Similarly, the options to filter tags versus content cause a lot of confusion because they don’t work the same way as each other.

So if we wanted to add another filtering option to that mix, “muting” blogs, we’d need to be conscious of how all of those options work together—and are confusing in context with each other. We should really clean up that experience to be more streamlined and simple, not more complex. And I didn’t even mention the oddity of how different settings apply to your primary blog versus your sideblogs if you have more than one blog!

Taken together, it is a great idea for us to clean all of this up, improve our existing options here, and add “muting” for even more control and granularity. Sadly, however, it just isn’t high enough on our list of priorities to tackle anytime soon. We don’t want to simply tack on muting for the sake of doing it—we want to do a better job than that. I hope that makes sense!

Thanks for your question. It was an important one to address. If anything should change here, you will get news through the usual channels: here at WIP, or at @changes.

#feature #dashboard #muting #blocking #account #security #backend #your suggestions

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waterinz · 8 months ago

Text

⊹ ࣪ ˖🍰₊˚⊹♡ ⊹ ࣪ ˖🍰₊˚⊹♡ ⊹ ࣪ ˖🍰₊˚⊹♡ ⊹ ࣪ ˖🍰₊˚⊹♡

Jjk men and their fav position

parings: s. gojo, s. geto, k. nanami, k. choso, f. toji, r sukuna.

warnings: smut, named positions, choking (sukuna), dacryphilia (toji and sukuna), pet names, praising (nanami, geto, gojo choso).

A/N: someone request something, PLEASE 🙏🙏

⊹ ࣪ ˖🍰₊˚⊹♡ ⊹ ࣪ ˖🍰₊˚⊹♡ ⊹ ࣪ ˖🍰₊˚⊹♡ ⊹ ࣪ ˖🍰₊˚⊹♡

Satoru Gojo: 100% mating press

His sinister grin was the only thing apart of your blurred vision, the position, the friction, the pace, it would’ve been damn near impossible to not fall in love with the way he fucked you, if y’all hadn’t already been dating. The amount of will he has over your body is crazy in that position, him being vocal as hell doesn’t help but god… it’s hot as fuck, him moaning whimpering or saying some vile shit in your ears like “fuck-.. if she doesn’t stop sucking me in like this, i might come a-already.”, “such a good girl” and other dirty things…

Suguru Geto: Spooning

As someone that’s always tired, this is perfect for him. Just being able to slide it in as y’all are laying down is the most ideal thing for him. Geto is a simple man that takes sex as a way to relax, relieve stress and relax the tension in your muscles.. but even with all those benefits and a girlfriend that he nicknamed “Jack-rabbit” simply because she couldn’t go a week without some kind of fucking. But one day he wanted to try something different. He laid on his side, you infront of him, grinding on you. This position gave him free access of your ass, tits, neck, and pretty much the rest of your body too.

Kento Nanami: Cowgirl/ Reverse Cowgirl

Now we know this old man is OLD fashioned as hell, probably alive during the BC and CE era, but one thing about him was.. he loved to fuck aswell. He loved the sight of his dick sliding in and out of that cunt while also seeing that white ring of cum being formed.

Kamo Choso: 69

He def seems like the type to not want to take control or advantage of you but still wanting a way to please you, so if there’s a way he can be pleased, AND please you? He’s down for it. Choso is probably really skilled at eating the box :3. Kissin it, small soft bites, licking anything that leaks out. :3

Toji Fushiguro: Full Nelson (especially infront of a mirror.)

Toji seems like the type to manhandle you. Folding and contorting your body past it’s limits, fucking you in unspeakable positions you can hardly manage. That shit eating grin, visibly displayed in the mirror. Choking you too, I mean it’s easy access. He manhandles you to your wits end and at this point, its painful as fuck, but hot ad fuck too. And your tears visible in the mirror too makes it so much better, well atleast to him…

Sukuna Ryomen: Missonary

Now sukuna doesn’t have a favorite position, he thinks every position that allows him to restrain you is perfect. But if he had to pick just ONE, it’d be missionary. Just being able to watch your face contort into expressions is literally heaven to him, and do not get me starteddddd on if he was in the big boy form. Easy access kissing, being able to fully restrain you under his touch and weight. His smirk that is displayed on his face could make you tremble just at the sight. And your tears visible? Yeah he would go all outttt…

⊹ ࣪ ˖🍰₊˚⊹♡ ⊹ ࣪ ˖🍰₊˚⊹♡ ⊹ ࣪ ˖🍰₊˚⊹♡ ⊹ ࣪ ˖🍰₊˚⊹♡

#waterinzwork🦈#geto smut #jujutsu kaisen smut #toji smut #jjk smut #gojo satoru #gojo smut #geto suguru #nanami kento #nanami smut #choso kamo #choso smut #toji fushiguro #ryomen sukuna #sukuna smut #kamo ch

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moonshynecybin · 5 months ago

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Hey! Just wanted to say I’m in awe of how your writing it’s just so GOOD and FUN and TORUROUS. It’s rly hard to nail the voices and dialogue of characters (especially when writing them speaking in english!) but you always make it so believable. Ur Vale especially is sooo charismatic which like hats off bc a more mercurial man has not been made.

Re ur charged-airport-conversation fic, I’m intrigued to find out how Marc will handle his sexuality crisis. Will he be in denial? does he very seriously study gay culture like telemetry data? is he getting Grindr? is he seeing it as something to incorporate into his PT routine & somehow translate this to a competitive edge? how did he feel about the pope saying frociaggine????

Also I loved the goofy brother shenanigans, Alex strongest most patient and silliest man alive truly. Extremely funny to think of Alex “please get a girlfriend you’re 30 and annoying me” Marquez having to cope with Marc coming back like “I found one! :3” holding hands with Cervera’s enemy #1 undisputed champ 2015-2024

Anyways, would love to hear any thoughts u had but no pressure! I just wanted to thank u for ur brilliant mind & forget about whatever fresh hell that sprint was

this one. is one that i plan to maybe actually and fr write out so i shant answer in full because i hope that you'll find out eventually. um. i CAN give you chapter two! of THIS fic where Marc and Vale get stuck in an airport and have a somewhat fraught little bonding session. i have not proofread this OR reread the original so if there's inconsistencies just chill out. theres also a lot of liberties taken with the amount of privacy these guys have on a given race weekend again just chill out. please. they live in different countries and are bitter rivals its hard to get them alone into fictional scenarios. its about 1.4k.

(Part ONE !)

The next time he sees Vale is in the paddock.

It's not unusual to see him— the paddock is small and Vale is always a presence, felt even when he’s gone, indelible—but it’s on the television more often than not these days. Maybe a glimpse of him zooming around on his scooter, ignoring the swing of the camera phones tracking him in his wake. But it’s not like this, never this close up. Vale maintains distance, and Marc has adapted to take his cues from that same distance. He’s not going to be the first to engage, not anymore.

All that being said, Marc is trying to grab some alone time in between sessions, communing with his lunch and contemplating ways to improve his breaking into Turn 11. He’s tucked into a shady place out of the way, generally out of the range of any stray cameras, when Vale catches him, sliding next to him on the table and leaning forwards on his elbows.

He starts picking at Marc’s food.

Marc reacts reflexively, not even processing that it's Vale who’s at his elbow who is reaching over to snag a bit of his chicken. He lifts his bowl out of reach like he would with Alex. “Hey— that's mine,”

Vale’s game, apparently, shooting him one of those dangerous grins, eyes crinkling at the sides towards Marc like he hasn’t seen in years. He’s brimming with the confidence of someone used to getting away with breaking rules. Marc puts down his food. Lifts a hand, adjusts the cap at the top of his head, and tucks his hair behind his ear.

This means something. He doesn’t know what.

“Allora, you were not eating it.”

And Marc has always been easy for it—the simple skill he has in spinning a situation into the brightest version of itself, mood turning on a dime. Even when he was destroying Marc, he would do it with a smile.

It’s that same silverbright thread that makes Marc laugh, disbelieving, a shock of delight. He shoves at the edge of Vale’s arm, jockeying with his elbow. He bites his lip, shakes his head. Would you look at that?

“Presumptuous,” Marc scolds, and tucks back into his lunch, forking another bite into his mouth. Vale grins and leans closer, conspiratorial. That same hot, embarrassed feeling from the airport rears its head, giddy. Marc glances around. There’s no one here. He feels like there is. LIke there’s eyes on them, even though he’d chosen a place where there shouldn't be.

It feels like crossing a line, teetering on the edge of some cliff, one toe over the edge. Hot and anticipatory in the pit of his stomach. There’s a breeze going, and he shivers. Vale leans closer.

He likes it.

He also knows that he shouldn't like it. He’s gone through this song and dance before. This feeling, this hero worship that he has with Vale never leads him down any good road. He thought– six premier class titles and nearly ten years of vitriol had been an effective cure. Not so, he’s finding out.

Vale corrects, “I see what I see. This I cannot help.”

“Oh yeah? You’ve been watching me?

Vale shrugs, steals another bite. “You do manage to put on a good, ah, show.” He finds the words in Spanish. Marc can’t remember the last time they spoke in Spanish.

Marc takes a breath in. Settles himself. He doesn’t know what the end goal is here. Curiosity wins out— it’s better than wondering why Vale’s here in the first place. What game he’s trying to play. What he thinks he’ll get out of being nice to Marc, aside from that shivery feeling clawing its way up the base of his spine. He should really at least find out if he’s doing this because he plans on not being nice to Marc.

“How did you find me?” Is what he goes with. Neutral enough.

“You are not hard to find.” The answer is vague, but frank. Vale loves to speak around things.

Marc raises an eyebrow, decides to just keep looking at him. They both know he’s bullshitting. Vale breaks, and makes a face, shrugging.

“I have been racing here longer than you. I know the hiding spots.”

Marc gives him a minute roll of the eyes. It's still not an answer. “You know, they remodeled not too long ago. The entire layout changed.” Vale would’ve had to work to find him.

“Not too much!” Vale spreads his palms cheerfully, seizing on a diversion. “The bones are still the same. The stands are over there,” he juts a thumb, “The pits are here. The bathrooms change, but bah. It’s a facelift.”

Marc wrangles down a smile. Vale’s not being serious— he’s being fun. Maybe he’s trying to get him comfortable for some reason. “A lot changes, I think.” He says frankly, and he means it.

Vale’s eyes flash. He sees Marc’s conviction, catches the double meaning. Another one of their conversations centering around two different issues on the surface, but coming back to their history all the same. The elephant in the room butting into other topics. History, division, and rivalry, all sneaking its way into the cracks in their words.

Vale keeps going, the lead in their little play.

“Maybe. But it’s not— like, aerodynamics, new regulations, new tires— all that changes. Small stuff. Opinions, riders. But it is still a paddock. I’ve been in paddocks my entire life. You can’t change much.”

Things change a lot, in Marc’s experience. People. Teams. Bodies.

Friendships.

And Marc is brave usually, has made a career out of it, so he feels like he has to ask. No use avoiding it and feeling half out of his skin for the rest of the day. Vale’s knee bumps into his own and he closes his eyes briefly. When he opens them Vale is already looking at him

“Why are you here?” He levels.

Vale throws him a soft smile. It comforts exactly no part of Marc.

“Maybe I was looking for a hiding place.”

Marc hesitates, choosing his words carefully. It’s always a spar with Valentino; even when they were friendly, they were still competing.

“Am I the hiding place?”

“Well, I am still more famous than you, is true. Less photographers on you than me. It’s peaceful.”

“What do you want from me?”

“Now there’s a good question.” Vale says, stealing something else off of Marc’s plate. “Today? I was hungry. I thought I’d stop by and eat with an old friend.” The words jolt through Marc like a highside. He’s in the air— lost, flying, falling.

Vale stands, towering. He claps Marc on the shoulder. It burns white hot. Marc keeps his eyes on him, trying to catch a hint, a clue as to how this all happened.

An old friend.

“Is that what we are?” He asks, more earnest than he should be. Vale can be such a bastard.

“Well, what would you call it?” He responds, turning the question on Marc, voice quiet. Serious, like he knows whatever hangs between them is as thin as a spiderweb. Marc swallows.

“I don’t know,” Marc answers. still too honest, even now. Something flickers on Vale’s face, too quick and complex for him to read.

“Think about it.” Vale prompts, and walks away.

Marc finds out that they weren’t alone, in that section of the paddock the next day. The pictures hit the news after the race, headlines rolling in thankfully after Marc has left for home. Valentino Rossi and Marc Marquez sharing lunch, alone on a race weekend ten years after their falling out. What could it mean?

But Marc’s eyes look at the photo and just catch on Vale’s shoulders, leaning towards Marc, the palm of his hand, arcing through the air as he gestures, frozen on the screen of his phone, and himself, eyes crinkled at the corners. He was wrong. He didn’t manage to reign in that smile after all.

FRIENDS AGAIN?, the headline asks, and Marc wonders.

#to answer your quastion. a little bit.#marc thinks its adolescent hero worship. which is good excuse until youre thirty and supposed to hate someone #and then youre maybe friends again and you STILL feel the same and also are having sex dreams at ur big age.#motogp #callie speaks #asks #rosquez #my fic #airport au

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lvrgirlrey · 2 months ago

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requests....open yippie !!

my request is, the reader (im enby but, mind using she/her prns for the reader? :3) is crying, because she feels like her feelings dont matter, and the bsd men (jouno, tetchou, dazai and ranpo) try to comfort them, wanna try this prompt? :D

no pressure <<333

-K.

𝕒𝕦𝕥𝕙𝕠𝕣’𝕤 𝕟𝕠𝕥𝕖: hi!! idk why but i love the way u typed this out, it just sounds so energetic, its so cute! you didnt specify if you wanted little stories or hcs so i just did the former >_< hope you enjoy!

𝕔𝕠𝕟𝕥𝕖𝕟𝕥 𝕨𝕒𝕣𝕟𝕚𝕟𝕘𝕤: none this is just some angst and fluff

𝕛𝕠𝕦𝕟𝕠

you sat in the corner of your room, knees pulled up to your chest, trying your best to hold back the tears, but they slipped out anyway. it was like no matter how hard you tried, nothing you said ever got through to people. it felt like your words, your feelings, just floated away, unnoticed and unimportant. you wiped at your eyes, frustrated with yourself for crying, but the tears kept coming.

you didn’t even hear jouno come in. he was quiet as ever, his footsteps barely making a sound. he stood at the doorway for a moment, listening. he could hear the way your breath was unsteady, the way your heart raced. it wasn’t hard for him to figure out that something was wrong.

“why are you crying?” his voice was calm, though there was a slight edge of curiosity in it. he wasn’t the type to get emotional, but that didn’t mean he was completely heartless.

you quickly wiped at your face again, trying to hide the fact that you’d been crying. “it’s nothing,” you mumbled, not wanting to drag him into it. “just ignore me.”

jouno frowned slightly, his sharp senses picking up on the sadness in your voice. he stepped further into the room, his presence suddenly more noticeable to you. “if it was nothing, you wouldn’t be crying,” he said plainly, but not unkindly.

you shook your head, feeling embarrassed and small under his gaze. “i don’t want to talk about it. it’s stupid.”

he knelt down beside you, though he didn’t reach out to touch you just yet. “you say that, but it’s clearly bothering you,” he pointed out. “i might not be the best with these things, but i can tell something’s weighing on you.”

you hesitated, biting your lip. jouno wasn’t exactly the warmest person, and you weren’t sure how he’d react if you opened up. but something about the way he was sitting there, not pushing you but still staying close, made you feel like it was okay to talk.

“i just feel like… no one cares,” you admitted in a small voice. “like my feelings don’t matter. i try to explain things, but it’s like people don’t really listen. it’s like i don’t even exist sometimes.”

jouno was quiet for a moment, thinking over your words. then, slowly, he reached out and placed a hand on your shoulder, his touch surprisingly gentle. “your feelings do matter,” he said, his tone serious. “just because some people don’t listen doesn’t mean what you feel is meaningless. i might not be able to see your face, but i can hear your voice. and i’m listening.”

his words were simple, but they eased some of the tightness in your chest. you looked up at him, your tears slowing down. “really?” you asked, your voice still a little shaky. he nodded. “really. you’re not invisible to me.”

the reassurance in his voice brought you some comfort, and for the first time that night, you felt like maybe your feelings did matter to someone. jouno wasn’t always easy to read, but you could tell he meant what he said. it wasn’t much, but it was enough to make you feel a little less alone.

𝕥𝕖𝕥𝕔𝕙𝕠𝕦

you sat on the floor, your back against the wall, trying your best to keep quiet, but the tears wouldn’t stop. your chest felt heavy, weighed down by the growing feeling that your thoughts and emotions didn’t seem to matter to anyone. no matter how many times you tried to speak up, it felt like your words just went unheard, like they disappeared into thin air. you wiped at your face, hoping to pull yourself together, but it was hard.

the door creaked open, and tetchou stepped inside. he noticed you right away, his sharp eyes taking in the scene. you didn’t bother to look up; you didn’t want him to see you like this. but tetchou wasn’t the type to walk away when something was wrong.

he crossed the room, kneeling down beside you, his movements careful and deliberate. he didn’t say anything at first, but you could feel his presence next to you, solid and steady. “are you crying?” his voice was low, not pressing, but full of concern.

you shook your head, even though it was clear you were. “i’m fine,” you mumbled, trying to wipe away the tears with the sleeve of your shirt. “just… don’t worry about it.”

tetchou frowned slightly. he wasn’t the most expressive person, but he could tell when something was wrong, and he could feel that you weren’t okay. “you’re clearly not fine,” he said softly. “something’s bothering you.”

you swallowed hard, still avoiding his gaze. “it’s just… i don’t know. i feel like no one cares about what i’m feeling. like i’m just talking to myself sometimes. it doesn’t matter what i say, it’s like no one really listens.”

tetchou stayed silent for a moment, processing your words. he wasn’t great with emotions—he’d be the first to admit that. but he wasn’t going to leave you alone in this.

slowly, he reached out, his hand resting gently on your shoulder. his touch was warm, grounding. “i’m listening,” he said simply, but there was a seriousness to his voice that told you he meant it. “your feelings do matter. i care.”

his words made your chest tighten again, but this time, it was for a different reason. you weren’t used to someone being so direct, but also so kind in their honesty. you glanced up at him through your tears, surprised by the sincerity in his face.

“you care?” you asked, your voice soft, almost afraid to believe it.

tetchou nodded firmly. “of course i do. you’re important to me.” his grip on your shoulder tightened slightly, like he was making sure you understood. “your feelings are important. if something’s hurting you, i want to know.”

his words, while simple, brought a strange sense of calm over you. the tears slowed, and you felt a little lighter, as if the weight pressing down on you had lessened just a bit. you wiped your eyes again, this time feeling a little more in control of yourself.

“thank you,” you whispered, your voice shaky but sincere. “i guess i just needed to hear that.”

tetchou didn’t say anything else, but he stayed close, his hand never leaving your shoulder. and even though the silence filled the room, it wasn’t uncomfortable. it was a silence that told you that you weren’t alone, that even when you felt invisible, someone was there, ready to listen.

𝕣𝕒𝕟𝕡𝕠

you sat curled up on the couch, trying your best to hold back the tears, but they kept falling anyway. it was hard to explain exactly why you felt this way, but deep down, it came from the fact that no matter what you said or how hard you tried, your feelings seemed to go unnoticed by everyone around you. it was like no one really listened. you felt invisible, like you didn’t matter, and that thought weighed heavy on your chest.

as you sat there, lost in your sadness, you didn’t notice ranpo until he was standing right in front of you. he wasn’t one to miss details, and he could tell something was wrong right away. he might have been a bit careless with emotions sometimes, but this was different. he frowned, tilting his head slightly as he watched you wipe your tears away. “hey,” ranpo said softly, sitting down next to you. “why are you crying?”

you didn’t want to answer him. after all, it wasn’t like he could change anything. you just shrugged, trying to brush it off, but your voice cracked as you said, “it’s nothing.”

ranpo didn’t buy that for a second. he leaned back a little, crossing his arms as he watched you, his eyes sharp and observant, as usual. “it’s not nothing if you’re crying. so, what’s going on?”

you sighed, not really sure how to explain it. “i just feel like… no one listens. like, i try to talk about how i feel, but it’s like it doesn’t matter. i keep talking, but no one really hears me.”

ranpo was quiet for a moment, processing your words. then, with a small sigh of his own, he shifted closer to you. “i hear you,” he said softly, his tone much gentler than usual. “your feelings do matter, you know.”

you looked at him, surprised. ranpo wasn’t exactly the most emotional person, and hearing him speak so seriously was unexpected. you blinked away a few more tears, sniffling slightly. “you do?”

ranpo nodded, his usual confident smile returning a little. “of course i do. you’re important to me, and if something’s bothering you, then i want to know. you’re not invisible, even if it feels like that sometimes.”

his words made your chest feel a little lighter. it was strange, but comforting in its own way. you hadn’t expected ranpo to be the one to say something like that, but it meant more than you realized.

“thank you,” you whispered, wiping at your face again. he shrugged, giving you a small grin. “don’t mention it. just remember, if you need someone to listen, i’m here. even if i’m a genius, i still care.”

you smiled at his words, feeling a little better knowing that someone, especially ranpo, had noticed. even in his own way, he made sure you knew you weren’t alone.

𝕕𝕒𝕫𝕒𝕚

you sat on the edge of your bed, staring out the window as the rain fell softly against the glass. the world outside seemed so distant, and the tears rolling down your cheeks made it even harder to focus. it felt like everything was closing in on you. no matter how much you tried to talk about your feelings, it felt like no one truly listened. it was as if your thoughts and emotions just floated away, leaving you feeling empty and alone.

the door creaked open, and you turned to see dazai leaning against the frame, his usual playful grin fading when he saw your tear-streaked face. he stepped into the room, his eyes narrowing slightly with concern. “what’s wrong?” he asked, his voice soft and gentle, a tone you didn’t often hear from him.

you quickly wiped your face with your sleeve, not wanting to show him how upset you were. “it’s nothing, really,” you lied, trying to muster a smile. “i’m fine.”

dazai raised an eyebrow, clearly not believing you. he walked over and sat down next to you on the bed, the playful demeanor replaced by a more serious look. “you don’t look fine. come on, you can tell me.”

you hesitated, feeling a lump in your throat. “it’s just… i feel like my feelings don’t matter. like, no matter how hard i try to talk, it’s like no one hears me. it’s frustrating.”

he listened quietly, letting you pour out your thoughts. with each word, you felt a little lighter, but the tears kept coming. “i just want to be heard,” you said, your voice shaking. “i want to know that what i feel matters.”

dazai leaned closer, his expression softening. “you matter to me,” he said firmly. “your feelings are important. i may joke around a lot, but that doesn’t mean i don’t take you seriously.”

you looked at him, surprised by the sincerity in his eyes. “you really think so?”

“of course,” he replied, a gentle smile breaking through. “everyone has feelings. even if it seems like no one cares, that doesn’t mean they aren’t real. you are real. your feelings matter to me.”

he reached out, brushing a tear away from your cheek with his thumb. the touch was surprisingly comforting, and you felt your heart swell a little. “it’s okay to cry. it’s okay to feel sad. just know you don’t have to go through this alone.”

you nodded, the warmth of his words wrapping around you like a blanket. “thank you, dazai,” you whispered, your voice still shaky but a little stronger now. “it really helps to hear you say that.”

dazai grinned again, his usual charm returning. “anytime. just remember, if you ever feel down, you can always count on me. besides, someone has to keep you from getting too serious all the time.”

with that, you couldn’t help but chuckle through your tears. you realized that even in your darkest moments, dazai had a way of shining a little light, reminding you that you weren’t alone.

#anime #anime and manga #manga #bsd #bungou stray dogs #dazai osamu #dazai #dazai x reader #ranpo edogawa x reader #ranpo #ranpo x reader #jouno saigiku #jouno x reader #jouno #tetchou suehiro #tetchou x reader #tetchou

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eowynstwin · 2 years ago

Text

gravity / neighbors

On a cold winter's day in the early morning hours, you knock on your neighbor Captain John Price's door to make a noise complaint. - “Where did you learn to drink like that?” he asks, and there is a new tone in his voice that you’ve never heard before. - ao3

It’s a cold and windy morning that, as you hover just a little closer to his warmth, you ask him about decent places to eat nearby.

“Fancy pub food?” he asks in response, and it takes you a moment to process what he’s said. Today he’s in a thick, soft-looking knit sweater, which makes it infinitely difficult not to imagine huddling up against him.

You think he’d let you. You’re not sure how you know this. Maybe it’s the way he positions himself next to you, standing at an angle toward you just slight enough to be casual, but open enough to be purposeful. Maybe it’s the way he looks at you, like he’s trying to warm you up with his eyes alone—he asked you once why you always bundled up to be outside, and you told him you were just sensitive to the cold.

Since then, you’ve often caught him checking on you, surreptitiously. Simple once-overs that you think are searching for evidence of discomfort.

What would he do, you wonder, if he found any? Would he send you inside, as he had the first morning?

Part of you thinks that would be better. It would give you an out, open up a path diverting away from whatever this thing is that hangs in the air between you and John Price, this thing that you pass back and forth between the pages of borrowed books.

It’s a thing that breathes with the both of you into the early morning, and you don’t know how to look at it. You don’t understand its shape. It’s a thing you wish you wanted to walk away from.

“Who doesn’t?” you reply, sipping at the cold dregs in your cup.

“How ‘bout tonight, then?” John says, and you swallow a little too quickly.

“W-what about tonight?”

He smiles at you, as if he’s thrown you off on purpose. “Dinner, on me.”

You blink several times. “You—I—I mean—really?”

He shrugs, easy and casual as you wish you could be. “Could show you what’s best on the menu. And I wouldn’t mind having dinner with someone besides m’self.”

You hesitate, because your gut reaction is to say yes, John, I’d like nothing more, and that is not a reaction you want to satisfy. These past several mornings have been nice—nicer than you could have expected. You’ve stopped interrogating yourself as to why you keep bothering, because each time his smile greets you as you step outside is answer enough. The routine has been easy to settle into, even comforting.

You need to protect that comfort, you know, even from the allure of something more.

John does not press for an answer, seeming content to savor the last few inhales of his cigar. You wonder if he’s guessed at your inner conflict, wonder if the quiet he’s giving you is an intentional moment to sort yourself out.

He never presses for anything, ever.

“I suppose I could meet you after work,” you finally say.

The smile that breaks across his face nearly knocks you off your feet. You’re relieved when he says, “Sounds good to me,” because if he’d said it’s a date you think you might have dissolved on the spot.

John texts you the pub’s address, and it’s close enough to walk to. You arrive that evening, in your usual two coats plus a knitted hat, to find that the place exceeds a set of expectations you didn’t know you had. The patio seating is closed in with a white picket fence and hung with strings of fairy lights, and it flanks a red brick building with a large, friendly lantern hanging over the door.

You might have expected something a little grubbier, if you’d given the place any more thought beyond this is John’s pub and he’s having me for dinner here.

Warm air envelops you as you step inside, and your gaze is drawn as if by a magnet to a table further in—John has already seen you, and beckons you over with a wave.

He’s still in the knit sweater, and his fleece jacket is hanging on the back of the seat across from him. He stands as you approach, rounds the table, and pulls that chair out for you when you join him.

You don’t know why the chivalry makes you falter, makes you want to turn and sprint all the way back home. All you know, as you sit down, is that you can practically feel the aura of his presence behind you as he helps push your chair in, can feel it move as he leaves your side to return to his seat. You feel yourself gravitate into it, leaning a little over the table as if trying to keep it close.

“This place is tidy,” you say earnestly, trying for that morning normalcy, as you begin to shuck your layers.

“It’s alright,” he agrees. He’s smiling gently, the cool blue of his eyes vivid in the contrast of warm lamplight.

“Do you—” and then you can’t help but giggle, because it’s such a cliche question “—do you come here often?”

He grins, huffs that little laugh. “Too often,” he says as he sits back in his chair, putting a hand on his stomach. “It’ll start showing soon, probably.”

You look at the flat of his stomach, the broad paw of his hand. Remember the trim waist of that very first morning. “You know, somehow I doubt that.”

He meets you eyes, laughs again, and it warms you to the bone.

Seeing him like this, at night, is an unknown quantity. The John you know how to interact with exists on his front doorstep, painted in the cool palette of sunrise, cold air, cigar smoke. This tableau, composed upon the table between you, might as well turn him into another man entirely. Who is this John, awash in warm light, nearly twelve hours older than the man you spoke to this morning? Who are you, now, seeing him after work and before the end of the night?

You feel a little untethered. Your feet still itch for the door, for the measured, predictable floorboards of your own home.

Maybe John notices, because he takes a menu from the stack of two at the end of the table and offers it to you with a reassuring lift of his brows. “Hungry?”

That question, at least, has an easy answer. You smile a little. “Starving.”

His advice turns out to be necessary—everything looks good, and you both end up ordering too much food. Over a spread of fresh, hot chips, halloumi kebabs, and katsu chicken served liberally with curry sauce, John also has a bottle of scotch brought to the table.

“No, that’s too much!” you protest as the waitress sets the decanter down with two clean glasses. “John, really.”

He sets to pouring, his expression pleased, though you’re not sure what about. “Humor me, love. I don’t get to share very often.”

He hands you a glass, and lifts his own above the food. You acquiesce, and clink the rims.

“Do I take a shot or a sip?” you ask, bringing the glass up to your mouth.

“A sip,” says John, and his expression is genuinely distressed. “Please, don’t ever suggest shooting scotch again. That hurt to hear.”

You smirk, and take a slow drink. It hits your tongue with the prologue to a burn, rolling across your taste buds as the twinge fades and you close your eyes. The flavor opens like smoke exhaled into still air; you purse your lips a little and swirl it in your mouth; nutmeg, vanilla, and even a little apple expand across your palate. When it hits the back of your tongue, a short floral burst surprises you, and you swallow it down eagerly.

You find John watching you when you open your eyes.

“Where did you learn to drink like that?” he asks, and there is a new tone in his voice that you’ve never heard before.

It’s low. Resonant. Almost—purring. The look in his eyes, too, is different, the pale blue sharper somehow. Focused keenly, and with some unknown, honed intent, on you.

It pins you where you sit. John is looking at you. John is seeing you.

“Doesn’t everyone learn to drink at uni?” you reply, trying for airy and light. It doesn’t work. Your voice trembles, just a bit.

He’s still watching you, and you think he sees that. Recognizes, perhaps, a change in your expression, some telltale sign that he has shaken you. He looks away from you, takes a drink of his own scotch, and when his gaze returns the keen edge of it has softened. You breathe, and realize you hadn’t been.

You seek something comfortable, something you can measure and control. “How is Actium treating you, then?”

He smiles, and it’s a little rueful. “Octavian’s being a cunt.”

As talk of the most recent book he’s borrowed carries you into more comfortable territory, the two of you make your way through dinner, which is every bit as delicious as John had promised. The food is hearty, greasy in a way that isn’t too heavy, and pairs perfectly with John’s scotch, which you indulge in liberally.

When the alcohol has outpaced the food that is meant to offset it, you think back to what he’d said earlier, about not often getting to share.

“So am I the first person you’ve brought here?” you ask. “Or do you take every neighbor out to dinner?”

John lifts one dark brow, leans in with a tilt of his head. “Only the pretty ones.”

You give an unladylike snort and swirl a cut of chicken around in curry sauce. “You’re incorrigible, John, really.”

The smile he gives crinkles the laugh lines around his eyes, and you feel yourself want to melt at the sight. It is unfair how handsome he is, in that warm sweater, in that golden light, haloed softly in the haze of your verging intoxication.

“When will you believe me when I compliment you, hmm?” he asks, low and resonant in the depths of his chest.

You shoot the rest of your scotch in answer, stuff the chicken into your mouth, and proffer the empty glass.

John squints at your heresy, but obediently pours.

“I suppose your line of work isn’t really great for your social life, then,” you comment. “Always coming and going.”

“My calendar’s certainly empty,” John agrees. “Honestly, it’s been a while since I’ve sat down with someone like this. I suppose I’m out of practice.”

“You’re eating with a fork and knife and not your hands.” You grin. “I’d say that’s pretty good already.”

He smiles back. “Would that chase you off?”

You sip your scotch. “Not if you keep pouring.”

“And she complained when the bottle came out. What about you, then?”

“What ‘bout me?”

“How many blokes have you been to dinner with, lately?”

You scoff at that and wash your food down with a sip. “None. As if they’re throwin’ ‘emselves at me.”

John’s expression changes, and it’s slow grin that spreads across his face, a smile you have never seen on him before. It isn’t the sad smile he’s given you at times, melancholy and resigned; nor is it the one he gives when he sees you in the morning, warm and soft and friendly.

No, this one is—energized. Invigorated. As if someone has given him good news he hadn’t been expecting.

“They’ve got to be,” he says, and his tone is humorous. “You must have your pick of the lot. And none of them have struck your fancy?”

You press your hands to your too-warm face. “John, don’t tease me.”

“Seems I’ve got to count myself lucky tonight, then,” he continues, leaning his elbows on the table. “If you’re as choosy as all that.”

You give him a droll look, and swirl your drink around in your glass. “If you must know, I got out of a relationship not long ago.”

John’s brows lift, and you want to smack yourself for letting that little detail escape you. “Is that so?”

You drink. “That is so.”

“What kind of idiot would let you get away?”

“My head is already spinning, and you’re abusing that,” you protest.

“Sorry, love,” he says, clearly not sorry. “But now you’ve got me curious.”

You sit back in your chair, staring at your plate to avoid his gaze. “I’m afraid it’s not all that dramatic. It just…didn’t feel right. I guess he liked me more than I liked him. We would go out, and I would think, ‘I want to leave him and go home.’”

And you still felt guilty about it. You hadn’t liked him that much in the first place, when he’d asked you out—you’d just said yes, because it seemed like the right moment in your life for something like that to happen. When you’d ended it, your extended social network had scratched its collective head, because there truly hadn’t been any good reason.

You just weren’t happy.

“Suppose I didn’t give it enough of a chance,” you say, downing the last of your glass.

“Hey,” John says, soft and gentle. You look up to meet his eyes—the expression on his face is a mixture of sympathy and resolution. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Sure, John.”

“Love.” His brow creases, insistent. “You deserve something you want.”

You press your lips together tightly, and suddenly you’re struck again with that sensation from earlier, that feeling that John’s presence is a tangible aura, something that rolls and settles across your awareness like a physical touch. You realize you’ve been leaning into it again, drawn toward him like a comet into the snag of a planet’s gravity.

“I’m definitely drunk now,” you say, because the only other words that want to come out are an emphatic I want you.

John smiles. He doesn’t press the issue. “Will I be carrying you home, then?”

“Oh, John, really!” You give a scoff, surprised at the sudden humor. “You couldn’t carry me all that way.”

One dark brow lifts.

“No,” you say. “You’ll have to put me down. I’m not light.”

The smile remains.

You hold his gaze, suspicious, and finish the last of your glass. It does not take long to polish off the last of dinner, and when the two of you agree that the last chips have finally gotten too cold to eat, John pushes his seat back and stands.

“Done, then? I’ll settle the tab. Love, put that away.”

You sheepishly lower your half-lifted wallet back into your purse.

Accounts settled, you make it outside the pub, and then you have to lean against a wall as John watches you, amused. The world is swaying, its pendulum arcing near-horizontal at the amplitude of each swing.

“I just need a minute,” you whisper.

John does the worst thing he could possibly do—he gives you his back and kneels down, arms a little open. “Come on.”

“Come on? Come off it, John, really, you’ll drop me!” you exclaim.

He looks over his shoulder at you. “I won’t.”

You don’t know what convinces you to do it. Tomorrow, you’ll blame the many glasses of expensive scotch, but in the moment you know it’s the way the hanging lights limn his silhouette in gold. You know it’s the soft expression on his face that you are already too fond of. You know it’s the quiet confidence in his reassurance, and above all those things it’s the familiar comfort of his kind blue eyes.

“All right, John,” you say.

As you wrap your arms around his shoulders, John scoops your knees up into the bend of his arms, and you can add now the feeling of his strength to your mental registry of his body. He is broad against you, the width of him obliging your thighs to part farther than they have in a long, long time.

It brings a heat to your face that dwarfs the low simmer of your inebriation. When he lifts you, straightens up and hoists you a little on his back, like you weigh almost nothing, you are unable now to shove back and contain what he has inspired since that first morning.

“This feels nice,” you murmur, tucking your chin on his shoulder. The scotch has the reins of your tongue now. There is no stopping the words that come out. “I wondered if it would. This morning.”

John’s reply is low, humming in his throat as he begins the trek home. “This morning?”

You breathe. “You always look warm and soft. You’re so handsome every morning. Even the first. I wanted to touch you back then. I wanted you to hold me.”

He doesn’t say anything. Maybe he’s trying to focus on the walk back and not dropping you in the middle of it. He hoists you a little, cupping his hands beneath your knees, squeezing.

His silence prompts more of your honesty. “I don’t want to go to dinner with anyone else, John. Even if someone did ask. You’re the only one.”

“You’re drunk, love,” John says. You don’t recognize the tone of his voice, why it sounds…pleading.

Your face is very close to his, your chin pillowed in the fleece lining of his collar. You resolve fully to blame what you do next on the scotch, and touch the tips of your fingers to the coarse umber on his cheek.

His thumbs press into the divots beneath your kneecaps. John says your name, low and breathy. It must be the strain of carrying you that shows in his voice.

You lean in. You press your cheek against the bristles of his beard, inhale, take in the ever-present Maduro that saturates his skin. The friction is a million little pinpricks of sensation, and you think in that moment that if his beard doesn’t leave hot, welted scratches on your face, you might fall asleep crying.

“Oh,” you murmur, not recognizing the languorous, almost wanton sound of your own voice. “Feels good, John.”

“That’s,” he huffs, and audibly swallows. “That’s good. We’re—ah—we’re almost there.”

“Okay,” you say, sighing against him, settling fully into the expanse of his back.

You doze, unburdened now by what you’ve admitted. He does not waver once on the walk, makes no complaint of your weight as street lights pass and the night moves slowly by. He is as steady, when he makes it to your front door, as he was when he first picked you up.

“Where’s your key, love?” he asks.

“Oh,” you murmur blearily, “um. Let me down.”

Even after your feet are back on the ground, his steadying hand does not leave you, ballasting your elbow as you dig around in your purse. It seems like an embarrassingly long time before you find your keychain, and when you try to unlock your door you miss the slot twice.

John’s big hand wraps around yours then, engulfing it with long fingers and broad palm, and guides the key steadily into the lock. The slide of the deadbolt is loud in the quiet night. You have to lean against the door, suddenly devoid of the strength to turn the knob as you look up at John’s concerned face.

“Let me help you in, love,” he says, brow creased. “Please. I’m worried you’ll fall and hit your head.”

Your entire body feels like it’s sinking into a glass of champagne, his words caressing you like rising bubbles, little pearls of air tickling your face as they touch you. You openly stare at him, watch his throat work as he swallows again, rest your eyes along the broad tendon that flexes as he tilts his head.

“Sure,” you whisper, too out of breath to speak aloud. “If that’s what you want.”

So John turns the knob, loops your arm around his shoulders, and walks you inside.

It is very hard to focus now, as John sits you down on your couch. There isn’t much you can hold in your mind besides the moment his hands leave you, and you inexplicably want to cry at their loss. You don’t see where he goes, vision going dark and blurry around the edges—you think he might have left until he comes back with one of your glasses, filled with clear, cool water.

He kneels in front of you and proffers it, doesn’t let go of the glass until both your hands are wrapped around it. He watches you as you take a sip.

“Drink all of that, alright?” he says. “You had a lot.”

You hold the glass back out to him. “You did too.”

His brows lift, lips parting. Have you surprised him? He pulls the glass closer with a little tug, puts his lips to the rim and tilts it from the bottom as you hold it. His eyes do not leave yours as he drinks, as he takes only a little, and then he pulls away and gently pushes the glass back toward you. Your gaze falls from his eyes, down to the little droplets of water clinging to his mustache, down again to the steady line of his mouth.

You bring the glass back up and take a deep gulp.

“Good girl,” he says, low and rumbling, and heat floods your body.

You realize then that his other hand is on your knee, the weight of his palm heavy and broad, his thumb rubbing a comforting circle into the edge of the cap. You are washed in the blend of his warm comfort and the sudden, almost violent sear of your own desire.

When the glass is empty, he eases it from your hands and sets it aside on your coffee table. When he turns back to you, your hand comes up, unbidden, to curve itself along the angle of his jaw. Umber bristles are coarse beneath the sweep of your thumb.

“Not soft, is it?” John murmurs, and there is something stormy and intense in his gaze.

You take a deep breath. “Maybe I’m okay with that.”

His hand grips your knee suddenly, vicelike, and you know this is pushing too far. He does not lean in to you, makes no move toward you, but his entire body is a bank of energy that he is holding, holding, holding back. His chest rises and falls rapidly. His eyes pin you to the couch as he works the muscles in his jaw.

“You’re drunk, love,” he says. It is not the pleading assertion he’d given earlier. It is a conclusion—fond, but resigned.

The room has begun to gently spin, with John at its axis. “I’m drunk,” you agree, whispering and fragile.

It breaks whatever has been building since you’d left the pub. John draws back. Nods. Gives you a smile—that smile. The one that had taken hold of you the first time you saw it. Trying, with every scrap of willpower it had, to be happy, to be alright with what little it had. Failing to do so.

Unable to hide how much it wanted.

“You got a spare key?” he asks. “I can lock you in.”

“Key hook,” you say.

His hand drags down from your knee to stroke along your shin, and then he’s rocking back on his heels, standing to his full height. He looks at you for a moment longer.

“Get some sleep,” he says.

When you blink, he’s gone, and the deadbolt is sliding home.

1K notes · View notes

recreationalfanfics · 2 years ago

Note

Hello! May I request some headcanons with Loki or Buddha with a deity!s/o who known for their protection over the forests but doesn’t blame humanity entirely for the loss of them? They don’t pin each forest fire on the humans when a drought or another cause is usually the culprit.

Loki:

- Honestly, it baffles Loki that you don't hold a grudge against humans because sometimes, they are just horrid little parasites.

- However you remind him the only reason why they do stuff like that is because of the punishment that the gods gave the humans.

- "It's quite simple, Loki. Gods destroy their homes. The humans cut down the wood to rebuild. And then their homes are destroyed again because of the gods. It's just how it is."

- He can tell that it hurts you, though. Many times he's found you sulk at the once grand and tall patches of forest and trees now being replaced with cement jungles and roads. The unspoken rage as you hold a bird whose wing was injured in the deforestation process of greedy humans, listening to its sad tweets and petting it as an attempt to comfort it.

- He may interfere with any God or human's plan that may hurt your forests. For example, if a drought where to occur because the gods believe the humans deserved it, Loki would casually incur Thor's wrath on purpose just so he made it rain. Yes, he'd sadly be helping those horrid humans live longer but at least your beloved nature would be saved.

- And he gets to set up Thor for the entire thing too!

- As for the more pathetic humans, the ones who wipe out dozens of forests to create more unnecessary cities and suburbs, Loki will bend the rules a bit and mess with their machines and mechanics.

- He'll proudly let you know what he's done with a smile on his face and want a little kiss on his cheek as a reward.

- He tries to play it off like he doesn't care about you, that he's just doing this in exchange of romantic favors, but it's kinda easy to see the only one he's convincing of that fact is himself.

- Sometimes natural disasters occur, things that can not be stopped, but that doesn't mean that you aren't any less sad.

- He never gets the hint and will try to tease you and annoy you a bit, thinking he's doing you a favor by trying to get it off your mind but then he just huffs and walks off. Giving up and leaving you alone, since you want to be boring and wallow.

- Just kidding! He just doesn't know how to comfort you, is all, but when he figures out a way; he will return. The chances of him verbally apologizing for pestering you are slim but he will show his remorse in other ways.

- Threatening any minor gods who cause any destruction to your forests because of their temper tantrums towards the mortals to regrow your trees. He doesn't care if their powers don't let them do that, he will literally give them a gardening book and with a creepy smile, say: "Then I'd start learning how to grow them! Or else..."

- Then he'll take all the credit as he shows you the semi-restored forest, yes it may be smaller than it used to be but it still warms your heart that he'd go to such lengths...Even though he technically didn't do it but you don't need to know that.

- Overall, Loki can understand being protective of something since he is a very possessive person, but he will secrely punish SOMEONE behind your back depending on the god and the context of the humans.

- However, if you find that he's wrongfully punished humans and get upset with him, he'll be upset with you and not speak to you until you realize he was just trying to help you protect your precious forests!

- Then he'll come crawling back, a pout on his face as he admits that he made it up to the stupid mortals who were innocent, only for it to be replaced by a smile as you kiss him and thank him for apologizing.

Buddha:

- OKAY BUT CONSIDERING HE FOUND ENLIGHTENMENT UNDER A BODHI TREE, he totally had a certain respect for you already and your dedication to protecting the forests.

- And that respect honestly went up even more when he learned that you don't simply blame humans each time their is a tragic destruction, after all, even before them: forest fires and other unforseen circumstances of nature would occur unfortunately.

- Likes to go on walks through forests with you, always being careful to make sure whatever wrappings he has on him from his snacks don't fall to the ground and always silently picking them up.

- He honestly loves the forests just as much as you do, not gonna lie. But if there's a specific forest that you like or call home, you can expect to find him there most of the time.

- Like you come back after having to defend and heal some of the surviving trees from another tragedy recover but once you see him softly snoring under a tree you both considered your favorite, you smile lovingly and join him, causing him to stir a little and wrap an arm around your shoulder.

- But yeah, he honestly applauds you for being so understanding and not blaming the humans all willy nilly, it's sad that the rest of the gods couldn't be as understand towards the humans as you are when it comes to these things but he's glad at the very least that you are.

- He also may be chill but like, if there are humans who end up destroying your forests for their own selfish gain then he wouldn't tell anyone if you decided to, like, pay them back just a little bit.

- If another God were responsible for the destruction of your trees, he will make sure that you receive proper apologies and that there will be repercussions.

- And if anyone has a problem with that, they can take that up with him.

- Honestly loves to help you take care of your forests if you'd let him, he'll need a bit of direction but he enjoys being around nature and he enjoys being around you.

- He may need a bit of direction, he may even make a few little mistakes just so you could come over and correct him and have an excuse to be close to you.

- Like, he'll accidentally be all: "Uh, how do you trim their branches?" and you smile and walk over to him as you come from behind him and put your arms around his, helping him navigate the scissors with your hands.

- Yeah, it may sound a bit childish but at the end of the day, he isn't ashamed with it as he's all: "It's gonna take me a while to learn this, (Y/n). You might need to teach me a few more times."

- You simply roll your eyes, recognizing his tone being a playfull one but kissing his cheek and smiling: "Then I will teach you for as long as it takes♡"

- HE WILL COMFORT YOU WHEN YOU GET UPSET, HONESTLY. Like you suffered a devastating lost because of a horrible natural accident that was no one's fault, but yet you blamed yourself. He will hold your face and tell you straight up you've done all you could do.

#SORRY IF THESE ARE KINDA OOC #BHT THANK YOU FKR UR REQUEST THESE TWL ARE JUST STUCK IN MY MIND NGL-#ror loki x reader #ror buddha x reader #snv buddha x reader #buddha x reader snv #buddha #snv loki x reader #snv loki #ror loki #loki #loki x mobius #buddha x reader #buddha x you #ror x reader #snv x reader #record of ragnarok x reader #shuumatsu no valkyrie x reader

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missgeniality · 2 years ago

Text

Strip Lawyer (m)

“Rules are for children.” - Joe Abercrombie

➺ Banner: The supremely talented @dnrequests 💛

➺ Pairing: Jungkook x Female Reader

➺ Trope: Tutor!AU, Lawyer!AU

➺ Genre: Smut

➺ Rating: +18

➺ Word Count: 8.4k

➺ Summary: Years ago, as Jungkook’s tutor, you played a game – but not to completion. Today, he does the teaching. And he’s intent on reaching the finale.

➺ Warnings: dom!reader x sub!jk then dom!jk x sub!reader, strip poker but education, implied consent, little power imbalance, seggsual tension, restraints, oral sex (m&f receiving), grinding, jungkook is a tease as always, dirty talk, kissing, alcohol, boob play ehehe, fingering (f receiving), pussy slap, spitting, tearing clothes, biting, degradation, unprotected sex, jk cums on her ass, cum eating (kind of)

➺ Cross Posted: AO3

➺ Author’s Note: This was supposed to be @taegularities‘s birthday gift because she asked for Lawyer!AU - but in true Siya fashion, it went out of control. So... here you go LOL happy buttday to youuu, hope you enjoy ittt 💛💛 The biggest thanks to @jimilter because she is the reason I did not delete the draft, thank you so much for all your help in fixing this mess, love you so muuucchh 💛 Also huge huge huge thanks to @alpacaseoks for helping me with the flow and giving me pointers in a big chunk of the fic, I appreciate it so much! 💛 Disclaimer: I am not a law student in any way so please don’t expect any accuracy. Just enjoy the sex, I’m begging. Let me know what y’all think, and as always, thank you for being here!

ɴᴀᴠɪɢᴀᴛɪᴏɴ | ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ

“You’re not serious.”

If only he knew.

“So. Serious.” You emphasise your words with a slap on his shoulder, “I won’t have it on my honour that a student under my tutelage has been failing the same subject for two years.” You raise an eyebrow at the hunched figure ahead, and knock on the table to bring his attention up to you.

“So you’ll just… Strip? Everytime I answer correctly?”

“That’s right,” you confirm, “and for every wrong answer, you strip for me. Simple.” You give Jungkook the widest grin you ever have, possibly too wide, because he only hunches further into his seat.

And it finally bursts your bubble.

“I mean… I’m just–you don’t have to do this, okay?” You scramble up from your seat, opening the distance between you two – placing yourself a good few feet away from the boy. “I was just… having fun with the idea—” With stumbling haste you continue to comfort him, “I jus–isn’t this like classic nerd porn that you’d watch?”

And you remember that comforting a fellow human being isn’t really your forte. You’re ready to gather all your belongings that are spread across the table, run away, change your name and hope like hell he doesn’t file you up for harassment.

Thankfully, your shabby attempt at damage control does ease Jungkook, and his back straightens a little bit as he brings himself to look at you.

“Not wrong,” he gives you a grin, “I–I really like that, umm, idea. Yes, let’s do it.”

He trails off, but not without a smile of burgeoning confidence – apparently not enough to finish that sentence with, but enough to give you one strong nod – and you have the affirmation you need. More affirmation is given by his not-so-subtle shift in his seat, that shows you something was making its presence known in the confines of his pants.

“All right, let’s start this. International Law and Relations is pretty easy, and actually has very interesting sub-topics – you can take subjects on this topic when you move to the next semester,” you pause flipping through the textbook and give your tutee, “if you move to the next semester. Thankfully, this year you have multiple choice questions, so… You better fucking pass, you hear me?!”

Jungkook only gives you a sheepish grin, his hands fiddling with each other.

“Okay, we’ll go through chapters randomly. Your first one – what is a country’s exclusive economic zone?”

On completing the question, you look up and await an answer – but the doe eyes that greet you back showcase that behind them, there is a lot of emptiness. Jungkook’s eyebrows are raised as he tries his best to push out any answer, any words, just anything from his brain. Alas, after two minutes, you give up.

“Okay, you’re going first then,” your voice breaks his intense thought process, and he flashes you a wide grin.

“Socks count right?” He pulls off the socks on both his feet, and wiggles his toes against the fresh air.

“Why you wear socks in this weather, it’s beyond me,” you huff an exasperated sigh, “but okay. One down. Exclusive economic zones are the sea-areas where coastal states have the right to exploit resources for economic gains. Think fisheries, mining, construction, artificial islands, and other endeavours. Capisce?”

“Got it. Next!”

“Love the enthusiasm,” you grin at his eager look, and open the textbook to a random page again, “okay, same chapter, what are the three international air laws?”

“Oh, I know this! I read thi–uhh, Public International Law, Private International Law…”

“Yesss? And?”

“Why is my brain saying Supernatural Law?”

One look at his bamboozled face and you burst out laughing. “Supranational Law! Not Superna—” Your persistent giggles have you dropping the book onto your lap, hands rushing to wipe a tear that makes its way down your cheek. You can see a bleary Jungkook, following suit in your snickers, his shoulders rising up – it’s a very cute view.

No, Jungkook is not your type of guy – and you will not make him.

You’re actually supposed to wrap up this session with Jungkook earlier than usual – because a party doesn’t wait for anyone – and last night Baekhyun told you he’d pick you up. When you asked him whether the party was, he only sent you a smirking emoji as a response.

Rude boys are your standard, and Baekhyun fits it to the tee. Jungkook, not so much.

But now you’ve started something that can’t possibly end soon.

“Okay, next item!” You aim to be loud, to quell that finagling thought in your mind.

“But—” Jungkook sputters out, “but I got that right?! Come on, it was close enough!”

You shake your head. “A hundred, or nothing. Chop chop,” you wave a gratuitous hand at his torso – and he obliges with a sigh.

God damn.

The gamer nerd, who probably doesn’t see the light of day – his body is way too beautiful for his character arc. You scan his whole chest with your glaring beam, pecs ogling back at you – totally unaware of how Jungkook is doing the same to you – it takes considerable effort for you to rip your eyeballs out and get them to focus back on his face.

You take a large, audible gulp to facilitate speech, “Okay, didn’t know that’s what would greet me – moving on—”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean absolutely nothing, you closeted hottie,” you attempt to close that argument with that sole compliment – after all, you do have a tutoring responsibility – but Jungkook’s singular raised eyebrow makes you wonder if that party is really worth it.

Oh no, you need to make him pass this.

“Let’s move on now, or else you won’t ever move on from college,” you deflate whatever ego-ballooning Jungkook has – his bare shoulders slumping back to his hunched posture – and you internally grin.

Picking up the thick textbook, you flip through to find a new page laced with information. “Name three international hybrid tribunals, and their subject matter.”

“Okay okay, I just did this,” Jungkook starts off with confident, “the Special Tribunal for Lebanon, which is for the the prosecution of the people responsible for the assassination of the Lebanese Prime Minister, Special Court for Sierra Leone—” he pauses to take a deep breath and you watch his chest heave with an intent gaze, “which was for the Sierra Leone civil war, and finally… What was the–uhh– for the Kosovo War… Yes! Yes! Kosovo Specialist Chambers! The Kosovo Liberation army was put on trial,” he ends with a gleeful smile.

“There you gooo! See, you can totally do this,” you give him an encouraging nod, “what do you want me to take off?”

“O-oh, umm, your top?”

“Sure,” setting the book on the table, you slip out of your camisole, shaking your head to send your hair back to their place, “shall we move on?”

But moving on gets tougher when he eyes you like that. The air gets denser within your space, the room feeling too small to escape the tension, and too big to act upon it. You remind yourself multiple times – this chocolate boy isn’t going to be the end of your night – your night ends on Baekhyun’s unspoken promise – but the eclipsing eyes that follow your neon bralette are pushing your brain to reconsider how you write this evening.

“You–uh–you are really hot,” Jungkook’s fumbling words finally reach you.

You chuckle, stifling the urge to egg him on. “Thank you,” is your quiet response, and you both do well to stifle the snowballing tension.

“Okay, now I’m way more motivated to get my answers right,” he exclaims with vigour, and the two of you trudge forward, keeping up this charade of studies.

Many questions down, and you’re at quite the standstill.

Jungkook sits on his chair, not an inch of clothing on his body, stark naked – and you are about to lose your bra.

Apparently he can apply himself real well when there are lewd incentives at the end of the rainbow. You circumvented the inevitable, counting riddance of jewellery and accessories as stripping – but now you’re out of options. Jungkook’s lips – pulled into a tender smirk that isn't racy – don’t threaten to sweep you off your feet – but fuck, they still get to you. Supple, with the slightest hint of moisture making his waterline glisten… you ache to taste them, to run your fingers over them, to drip honey all over them and watch them turn sweeter than ever.

You need to get on Baekhyun’s dick. ASAP.

“Go on, I know that was right!”

Breaking out of your reverie with a demure huff, you smile your way out of your bra, and you can fully hear the deep inhale that your tutee has to take to this new view. With a brazen look of gloating, you cross your arms, letting your eyes and your cleavage do all the teasing – lest your tongue stumbles over the words and lands in his mouth.

“Shi–yo–you’re—” Jungkook’s words falter as well, giving you an extra boost of pride. “Fuck, you’re so goddamn hot – I’m sorry, is this the fifth time I’m saying this?”

You laugh with him. “Yeah, probably. Could use a thesaurus.”

“I don’t think my brain will process anything on it. This keeps coming out because I got practice. Said it about a hundred times in my head.”

With your head thrown back, your whole body jiggles in laughter, filling the room with mirth and joy to replace the leaden lust in the air. You bend forward to flick his forehead, knowing full well that the movement just makes your breasts look more enticing; if that was even a possibility. His cock is stiff as iron, and you can fill a drying lake with your current rate of salivation. Both of you clearly recognize that words are flowing slower than before, movements are more calculated than before, and most importantly, eye contact lasts way too long for either of you to ignore.

“Okay, umm, last question, then I need to be off.” You attempt to bring a close to this increasing strain in your throat, no matter how badly your body wants to delay your departure. “What years did the Hague Conventions take place?”

“I hate these questions,” murmurs Jungkook, “I remember the subject matters of it – it’s not like knowing the exact dates and times will help me avert war.” His pout makes you falter, like there isn’t a fully grown naked man in front of you, like he isn’t testing your limits right now.

“So… No answer?”

Jungkook shakes his hung head, having given up on finding an answer. “What now, I can’t peel my skin or something,” he starts, a very innocent tone for this ambiance.

“Yeah, I mean, I gotta g—”

“And I’m out of jewellery, too, so—”

“Yeah, it’s cool, I’m gonna head out anyw—”

“You wanna tie me up or something?”

Silence.

Too long of a silence.

“I mea—”

“Jeon. Jung. Kook.” Your staccato of words work as a beat, your legs moving in its sync. You bend down for a brief moment to pick up his discarded t-shirt, but the rest of your movement wastes no time in finding a seat on his lap.

His dick presses against your clothed core, imbuing the ache that he currently feels, and goody – you both are in serious pain. And when you lean ahead to gather his hands into a knot on his back, he takes a sharp inhale – your breasts doing everything his dick-led-brain has been wanting for the whole session – pressing against his chest to feel every throb that races through your body.

“You have no filter,” you whisper into his ear, making sure he feels your damp lips move, “do you?”

“N–N–I, me–nngghh,” Jungkook labours through this ordeal, his hips going the extra mile to close the gap between you two.

When you feel his hardness work against your pulsing clit, it only eggs you further, and the rudderless ship of your resolve yaws out of its lane, finding its anchor in the parted lips in your view.

If your surroundings could combust at the spark that you set off with the kiss, you’d be sitting in a castle of embers, licks of flames being innocent bystanders to the heat that your kiss generates. Your fingertips dig into the nape of his neck, and you swallow his groan with an eager tongue. Without a break, the kiss turns feral.

You push into his mouth. He returns in kind – although there’s nothing kind about the way he digs his teeth into your lip. The hiss you attempt to release never makes it out to the world – Jungkook is intent on ending this kiss only when the last breaths in your bodies threaten to leave, carrying along with them your consciousness.

And when that point comes, you part – your head is thrown back, and your hand carded in his hair pulls his back as well. Brisk, shallow breathing is the tune to which you gather your bearings. Your thighs burn for relief, the ache of holding your body in place settling in as the dopamine dies. From your awkward position, you flit an eye towards your partner in crime – and any dopamine that was dying, comes rushing back.

Your hands are still in the lush strands of his hair, and his lidded eyes are bouncing between many areas of view. Your libidinous eyes, your wet lips, your heaving breasts, or the junction of your thighs that give his hardness teasing touches. Maintaining this position, you dig into his cock, your flimsy underwear allowing your arousal to caress against his hot and awaiting length. He groans – it’s animalistic, it’s uninhibited, it’s none of the shy gamer nerd who cowered under the weight of your knowledge. His eyes, fervid, shuttle between all of your exposed skin, finding an anchor, but failing to stop.

“Look at you, is this what you really wanted?” It shocks you how far your voice shakes – what caused it – the kissing, the breathing, or the rock hard cock currently against your throbbing pussy? Who knows.

“I mean… We wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want this,” Jungkook bites out an answer with great difficulty, “I—I definitely wan—ungh!”

You just can’t resist. His neck. His clavicles. His bobbing Adam’s apple. His chest. His restrained arms making a tireless effort to feel you. You leech onto his sparkling skin, and drag your tongue in the confines – Jungkook’s words transform into unintelligent warble, just the way you like.

Sliding downward, and acknowledging the slight ‘fuck’ that Jungkook exhales with a smirk, you lodge yourself directly in front of his broad, heaving chest. The position is awkward — a lot of your body weight lays on your hands that balance you on the chair’s seat – but your current view makes any pain go away.

“Could this be the reason,” you land a soft peck in the middle of his chest, “why your grades are like this,” trailing your path with your nose, you move left, “we could have just gotten this over with,” you end the sentence with a swirl of your tongue around his already pebbling nipple.

He hisses a string of unintelligible curses, arching into your ministrations, “Yo–you’d have d–done tha—” His train of thought ends with an audible gasp when you engulf the nipple in your mouth.

“For my tutee,” you release his nipple with a pop and look back up at his eager-to-please-face, cupping a cheek, “anything.”

“Can y—can you get rid of thi–this?” He shakes his bound hands from behind, his shoulder muscles bulging in the movement.

You simply shoot him an innocent look. “But you asked for it, didn’t you?”

“I thought that was the best thing that could happen to me,” Jungkook huffs with a light pout, “right now, I’m regretting it so hard.” As he speaks, you move to trail a soft line of kisses across his chest, reaching his other, neglected nipple. With your eyes locked in with his, you lick around the nub again, enjoying his restrained groans from your vantage.

“You don’t like it? What would you do if you… could touch me?”

“Fuck, I would—I wo—God, I would wrap myself around you… take a big piece of that ass, tear off your fuckin’ underwear… Grab your tits and dig my face into them till it’s time to execute my will—”

You chortle, still busy teasing his chest and making it hard for him to make his words flow. “You don’t need your hands for the last one baby.”

Your skin rumbles against the loud groans of pleasure that come out of Jungkook when you press his face into your chest, and you feel him frantically lick and suck at your skin, tongue lolling at whatever it could catch a taste of.

“Ahh, this is—making me want some very bad things,” you chuckle at the throes of pleasure he is pushing you under, but are surprised at yourself how much your voice quivers as well. Jungkook makes a show of fighting his restraints; you very well know that you don’t have a sailor’s knot guide on you, and the fight he’s putting up is not more than the fight you had been putting up throughout this evening.

“Bad things?” Jungkook’s breathy whisper brings you back to his lips, and you drop back on his lap, grinding yourself just enough to let your wetness cover his twitching length. “You’re my tutor, I��I’m sure you only want the best for me.”

With your show of repress finally curtained, you drop to your knees, arching your back until you’re face-to-face with his member – tip leaking copious amounts of precum, owing to the hours of tension that you put him through. Jungkook’s thighs tighten under your enrapt gaze, and his staccato breathing is music to your ears.

“Well, since I am your tutor,” you preen before you drag your tongue around the base of his dick, “and since I want only the best for you,�� you drag your tongue up his muscle in one long stroke, “let me give you the best that I have.”

You wrap your lips around him thinking about how sweet he looks. You draw figures with your tongue thinking about how he's absolutely not your type. You suck more of his length into you thinking about how his moans differ from your average partner. So sweet. So pure. So untainted.

So, so not for you.

Perhaps sweet is what you nee—

“I’m gonna cu—”

The shrill ring of your phone pierces through Jungkook’s uncontained moans as he empties into your mouth recklessly. With your eyes closed, you try your best to savour the crisp, salty taste, letting your tongue cheekily lap at his member until you feel him shudder under your stimulation. Satiated, you get to your feet, looking eye to eye with the doe-eyed monster – who has the gall to look so pure even now, hands tied, balls empty.

“I should… Get that.”

Unsurprisingly, Baekhyun is pissed that you kept his premium cock waiting at your doorstep, and you appease his injured ego while finding your clothes and bearings. Jungkook relieves himself of the ‘restraints’, eyes following your disrobed body as it finds its modesty back, piece by piece.

“Okay… my phone, my book, my jewellery… I think I got everything,” you announce to the small, overheated room. “Jungkook. Good luck, this is the one thing you gotta pass, make sure you reread chapters 8 to 11, don’t blindly mark something because it sounds reasonable because nothing in this world is, make sure you have eno—”

“But! Listen—” His voice, still so sweet, not a hint of demanding assertion in his tone, just plain and beautiful pleading. “Wh–when can we… Umm when can we m–meet again?”

Ugh, your heart.

“Listen, I’m going away on vacation, my exams are over,” with a mildly heavy heart you try to explain to him without rushing, “that’s why this was our last class. And after that, I’ll be moving away. But!” With a spring in your step you open his door to let yourself out. “Keep in touch! Keep texting me, okay?” With your second shoe on, you stand at the stairs leading you out of his apartment, and look at him for one last word.

And you see his beautiful body and almost crumble back into his apartment.

“Yeah… Will do, bye!” He pulls himself together and grants you a bright, guilt-free smile.

So sweet, even when you’re blowing him off. So, so sweet.

But you don’t do sweet. So accepting his goodbye, you run like a deer being chased by the hungriest predator, towards the spice that awaits at your door.

Damned professional attires. Why can’t they look good without having to be tended to every fucking day?

You curse yourself for the cup ramen breakfast that ruined your only good shirt, owing to which you have this stainless but wrinkled shirt on you. It is very out of place, the lush lobby walls making you feel like every crease on you is magnified by a thousand.

It’s obviously not the shirt that is making your stomach gurgle. It is the upcoming meeting that is creating turmoil in your insides, part dread and part excitement.

“He will see you now.”

This guy has a receptionist and an assistant. Why is he so boujee? One look at his office door and you already know – this meeting will not go as per plan.

And when you push the heavy-set mahogany door, and take the man sitting at the baroque desk, silhouette highlighted by the clear night sky behind him – you’re certain this night was made for trouble.

“Ah, look who it is.”

That voice. So different from the last time you spoke. Gone is the tender, dulcet voice of his, gone are his soft, vulnerable eyes, and gone is the benevolent disposition that he carried around with pride.

As he takes a good, slow look at you, assessing you from top to bottom, gleaming with mischievous confidence, you shuffle in discomfort at all this directed display of interest. The million twinkles in eyes have coagulated to turn into a ball of inferno. With that blaze, he drags his eyes all over you, tracing your contours with the pens of his gaze, making you feel nails and needles through your spine. Unabashed. Doesn’t care that you’re waiting to take a seat, doesn’t care about your obvious discomfiture, just holding you at your place like a puppet to his watchful leer. The black-on-black suit fits his body like a dream, and the things you want to do to him are straight out of a nightmare.

“Please, why are you still standing?” His assessment complete, he waves an arm to the plush leather seats at your disposal. “Have a seat.”

Moments of uncomfortable silence pass by you, but only you seem bothered by it. You hate how fidgety you are right now, showing your cards so plainly. But truth be told, you have no cards to show. You’re here for his help, and there’s no game to be played with him.

“You’ve done well for yourself,” you offer, making a general gesture to show his entire office space. You could fit nineteen of your cubicles in here, and still have space to waltz around. Your incessant jumping from one firm to another, attempts at finding footing wherever you land but ultimate dissatisfaction with whatever was presented to you led to a not-so-stellar career, and tonight, to this office.

“Thanks.” He offers nothing more. And his lack of words definitely stings.

How did someone who breezed through law school end up like this?

More importantly, how did someone who was barely passing subjects under you end up in a position of such power?

And most important of them all, how did you end up being at his mercy?

"So tell me,” he begins once again, bursting your bubble of self-detestation, “how can I help you?"

You take a deep, rich breath and start. "I'm assuming you read my email, so I just nee—"

"You're gonna have to pause right there. I didn't." A simple response, with a simple smile, and you simply want to crawl into a hole and never see sunlight ever again. Jungkook doesn’t even try to explain himself out of this – no excuse or reasons given as to why the email remains unread. And as happenstance would have it, you are in no position to ask him why.

"Very well." You tap the file ahead, taking a deep breath and starting again, "This file should have it all. It’s better if you read through it, I might miss details."

Jungkook’s extended, bejewelled hand accepts the file, and leafs through the bundle of papers you’ve prepared for him. But that is not what you’re internalising. You're too busy furtively eyeing his bedecked office, the wooden panels offering a private divide between the office space and a separate seating area. The ritzy furniture establishing the space, the lavish lighting giving more depth to the space, the skyline flaunting its glory above it all – you're fraught with uncontrollable envy.

A call to your name jolts you, moving your eyes to him.

“So do you need me as co-counsel? I hardly think you need the help.”

“Please, don’t patronise me,” you chide him, the repressed irritation showing its face. “I know I’ve not had the best set of years in this field. And I know I fucked up on this one, pardon my French.”

“Well,” he pays no heed to your agitated tone, pushing the file back to you – just enough, so you are forced to get up to reach, “you’re right about that. You fucked up. I can definitely look into this, but I have a heavy workload as it is.” He simply shrugs, a mock-saintly frown on his lips.

What happened to your sugar-cookie boy who would do anything to make you proud?

Who is this man?

“I know, but I’m—” You swallow everything in you that stops the words, “I’m desperate. This meeting was clearly out of desperation. I know you knew what this was about. Why would you accept an appointment this late if you weren’t going to take on the job?”

“Maybe I just wanted to see you. Maybe I was curious what my tutor was doing, after leaving me high and dry that fateful night.”

He says it with such a harmless smile, like he just announced what he had for dinner. If you weren’t shaken yet, you now are.

“If I remember correctly, that was not the case. But for now, I’m asking for your help. That’s how I’m doing.”

“Yeah well,” with a smooth move, he gets out of his charcoal seat, and glides towards the tasteful couches placed on the other end of this palatial office, your heartbeat picking up pace from a gentle jog to a frantic pace, “I think I’m entitled to something in return.”

You follow him to the couch across the room, seating yourself on it – and taking a second to enjoy how comfortable it feels. “I literally swallowed your load that night. If anything, I’m the one entitled to this.”

“I’m sure your boy-toy that night gave you everything you needed, didn’t he?”

Deep breath. He remembers the night very well. Too well.

Did you expect that? No.

Did you want to find out?

Well, why else did you choose his name from a catalogue of high-end lawyers who could have saved your ass in this case?

What’s that saying… Curiosity kills your pus—

“Listen,” you interrupt your own reverie, “you will receive remuneration for your work, my boss is ready to—”

“Nuh–uh,” he tuts, “come on now, we really don’t need to play this cat and mouse game, do we?”

A deep exhale calms your nerves against this burgeoning yet desired situation, and you leave your seat to accept the glass of whiskey he’s offering you. After returning to the couch and gulping the hootch, you meet his accursed, biting gaze. “What can we even wager on like that night? It’s not like I have test questions to ask you anymore,” you throw the ball back into his court, desperately hoping he finds a good enough solution.

“Oh, no, no, no,” he teases you, sliding into the seat – it’s unbearable how good he looks with this confidence. He gets in your space, still holding his undrunk glass of whiskey, peering into your eyes as he makes his proposal. “I think a bit of role reversal will do us good,” he smiles back at you. “Do you good.”

“My definition of good, or yours?”

He smiles at your attempt at feigning confidence. “I don’t think they differ by much.”

In this quietude, the frenetic beating of your heart rings all the way up in your ears. It is a testament to how agog this transformed man leaves you; by the way he speaks, the way he looks, the way he commands your entire being. Words fail you, so you whisper a small ‘yeah’ and nod – you definitely knew where this night was going the moment you called his office, even if your ego strives hard to say otherwise.

“Let’s start simple,” he begins with a slap to his thigh, seating himself comfortably, “where did you go that night?”

What tactic is this? You’re baffled that this man – looking like a Michelin-star-seven-course-meal – cares about that one immaterial night.

Was it really immaterial, though?

Youngling Jungkook was probably offended, you posit to yourself, by the way you left things hanging (pun very much intended).

“How would you know if I lie?”

“I’ll decide that.” His eyes add “and you’ll follow.” No room for discussion is provided.

“Right.” You sip on your refilled glass, clearing your throat before you answer, “I don’t know if you know him, Byun Baekhyun.” You look in his eyes for recognition, but you can’t read anything, anything at all. “I had to meet him.”

“To fuck?”

“Well, yes. Drinks and then that.”

“Okay, I’ll take that.”

And you’ve passed question one – all your clothing fully intact.

“Next question,” his eyes filled with sensual mirth, “was he any good?”

“Oh my God,” you throw your hands up, ready to leave the seat in a show of exasperation, “are you—is this insecurity? After all these years?”

“Well, I’m asking the questions, so I don’t owe you an explanation,” Jungkook leans into the cushions, his confident manner growing with each passing second, “but you might say, I’m curious.”

A moment of silence passes.

“Yes.”

“Ahh…” He tuts at you, inching closer until you feel the microfibres of his coat against you, “Wrong answer.”

Of course it’s the wrong answer.

Byun Baekhyun might have been one of the best fucks of the campus, and you might’ve had a lot of fun with him on erstwhile rendezvouses, but that night wasn’t either of your nights, with him being pissed of at you for making his dick wait, and you having your mind glued on a totally different dick to his. The lie might have been obvious, but the fact that you’re having to accept it right now is making your ears heat up.

You don’t really need to do this.

Oh, but you do.

“Go on,” Jungkook coaxes you with his honey-dripping voice, lidded eyes tormenting you, “you know the rules.”

In the tense air, you take off a bracelet, the fake diamonds leaving a chill on your wrist. After dangling it in his face, you drop it onto the couch seat.

“Good…” Jungkook teases, wondering which deviation of his brain to follow next. “Next. Did you think about me while getting your mediocre pounding from Baekhyun?”

“Oh my God, no!” Your rude tone is extra sharp, like you didn’t even want to entertain the thought that Jungkook would think – Jungkook would know – that that’s what happened.

To this date, you do not remember anything of Baekhyun – your memories of that day have been painted with Jungkook and Jungkook alone.

“Come on now,” his smug visage turns ungodly, eyebrow cocked up, “a white lie. Off,” is all he says.

You bend down to reach for the buckle of your shoe. Owing to Jungkook sitting fairly close, your line of sight is delicious – his taut suit pants defining the thighs that he’s clearly worked for; basically ogling at his thighs and crotch in close proximity. With shaky hands, your shoes finally come off – no thanks to the burst of anticipation flooding your veins.

“Have you ever thought about us on lonely nights?” The closer he moves, with each syllable of utterance, the farther you feel from a sense of control.

“No…” Your words stammer, and you mentally give the point to Jungkook. Looking up, you find him smirking at your shrinking stature.

“Ahh… You make it too easy,” he just chides you, and you start slipping out your rings.You’re well aware that you are the one dragging this out – but the “yes” just does not want to grace your lips.

Maybe because you actually like this game.

Maybe you’re enjoying this end of the show.

And maybe, you finally want to see this game to completion.

“Just so you know,” Jungkook purrs into the shell of your ear, leaving you wondering when he moved so close, “I think about your slick on my cock a lot.”

The desperation in your countenance is so visible, it’s pathetic. You wait in silence for the next question, eager to jump to the finale, but the path to the end is far too enjoyable to skip.

“Do you want to continue where we left off?”

“No.” Your answer is straight, to the point, no embellishments.

Instead, you let your hands do the talking.

In one smooth action, you unzip your skirt and pull it down, without a prompt from the dastard ogling at you. Every move you make, you feel his stare burn into your skin, countering the chilly air filling the room. You sit back with your legs tightly closed – not out of any false sense of modesty, that has never been your strong suit – but the unceasing throbbing of your clit needs temporary relief or else it will jump out and land into his mouth.

The distance between you two has steeply decreased, and you can’t tell who’s at fault anymore. In any case, this proximity is most welcome, as per the anticipatory goosebumps that decorate your skin. Swirling his yet-unfinished drink in his hand, ice cubes clattering against each other, Jungkook takes your exposed legs in that are only barricaded by your pantyhose. It’s not the best material – you’ve been wearing the same one for a week now, displaying many scratches and tears – but Jungkook’s eyes don’t even seem to register it.

But what is with this speed? He is fully intent on making every second of your horny existence miserable. In a desperate attempt to get a fraction of his touch, you bring your leg up – making the move as slow and deliberate as possible – landing it on his thigh. The best begging you can do without actually voicing it out.

Jungkook, however, is a man of many talents – ignoring your direct needs being a prime one. After a light sip, he brings his glass down to your leg, the bottom rim touching under your toe – and you hiss at the ice-cold feeling that spreads across your foot, as the condensate spreads its influence.

“I have so many questions for you…” Jungkook whispers to you, watching you twitch, “but I’m having too much fun right now.”

Just when you begin to ask whether his dictionary reads ‘fun’ differently, he drags his cold glass upward, painfully slow, traversing your foot, then along your shin bone, letting the precipitate draw a path of icy chill on the map of your body. Meeting your eyes to just plant a cheeky wink into your brain, he continues forging ahead – until he can reach mid-thigh. He stops there long enough to hear you hiss – only then do you feel the glass move away.

If you weren’t already panting, you are now. Very audibly so. It is all you can hear in the room, in fact.

That is, of course, until Jungkook assaults all your senses by dragging you awfully close to him, extracting a gasp from you – his grip on your thigh is tighter than the band in your stomach begging for a release, and you relish the feeling.

“Do you, want me,” he says into the miniscule space that’s left between your lips, “to kiss you right now?”

You can’t decide what demands your spotlight; is it his gaze boring holes into your skin, or his lips that are now glistening deliciously?

“No.”

“Hmmn,” Jungkook turns away from you, and you almost rise in alarm – until you register his next actions, “thought so.”

One second to completely sip all of his whiskey. Another second for his lips to land on yours.

Finally.

The fantasies of this night blend into reality, and instead of doing the rational thing – thinking why you ended up like this – you give into the kiss.

Not only does he kiss you hard, like the future of his world depends on it, he also pushes in his undrunk whiskey into your eager mouth. The liquid swirls between the colliding tongues, some leaking out of the corners of your mouth – the rest coating the insides of your cheeks with a lush, rich and robust flavour – flavours that didn’t pop when you drank it from your own damn glass.

You kiss until the whiskey gets drunk – by whom, is a mystery – and before you can tend to the stray drops down your face, Jungkook’s hand grabs your chin to keep you still.

God, your last kiss was nothing like this. The blood buzzing in your ears is thunderous, reacting to the contradiction between the soft, tender kisses exchanged all those years ago, and the jagged, raw conquering of your lips happening right now. Your roughened lips burn under the remnants of alcohol, but it’s nothing compared to the searing you feel when Jungkook lets his tongue languidly glide against your gnawed skin.

“Now, since it was the wrong answer…” He husks, his fingers moving inward, closer and closer until they land just below your collar, “I have no choice but to—”

One mighty sharp tug – and all the buttons of your shirt have popped, flying all around the two of you. His hands, still clutching the buttonless seams of your shirt, harshly pull you back into him. Lips firmly sealed back onto yours, he sends his hand roaming.

“This is what you needed that night, eh?” With one hand back to digging in your jaw, he mouths the words into your cleavage, teeth digging deep into whatever they can grab, “Sweet boys just don’t cut it for you.” He moves up to the nook of your neck, his other hand slotting between your thighs, “For all the attitude you had back then, all you want then is to be treated like a street slut. And you’re still the same. Whores don’t change.”

Rude boys are still your standard, and Jungkook has become just that.

“Ow—fuck, don’t leave mar–marks, man,” you attempt an angrier voice while avoiding his truth bomb – because yes, aren’t you knocked out, over the moon right now? The voice that emanates is feeble, with no brawn to be found.

He too, doesn’t pay you any heed – teeth tugging the flesh in his clamp until he can hear you hiss, then letting it go, letting his tongue soothe the sting.

“You can pretend to hate it,” he sneers at you, his low tone whisper sending shivers like a snowy night, “your lips can lie, but your body? From the moment you walked in, I know your pussy’s been screaming to be filled. Just thank your stars I’m generous, huh?”

You’re drunk. On just two fingers of whiskey? That can’t be it. Definitely, it’s the heady concoction of the alcohol and Jungkook’s very able hands – one of which is enjoying the feel of your perking nipple.

While one hand goes back up to roughly dig into your neck, the confines of your throat feeling the heat of his lust, his other arm wraps holds your back, making sure you don’t lean too back and lose your balance. It’s sweet.

What’s not sweet, however, is how long this is taking.

He pushes you until you’re balancing your head on the armrest, with one knee digging into the cushion beside you, the other firmly planted on the carpeted floor. Within a wink of an eye, he’s moved down – and you feel his tongue play over your bra, teasing your nipples, reminding you of a forgotten (but not really) past – a harsh suckle under your boob releases the trapped moan, but it sounds battered; perfectly showcasing your state of mind.

“How about this,” he whispers, looking up from his actions, “you think I can get you to come without taking anything else off?”

Do you have the mental fortitude to deal with the consequences of your bratty answer?

“No.”

The fingers fiddling with your bra hooks halt – instead, he descends onto your clothed breast, biting over the fabric, fully knowing that your sensitivity was through the roof. You cuss and moan, growing frustration urging for more, but you do not beg.

“Funny how life changes,” he coos, shifting attention from one boob to the other, “today you’re the one tied down. And lucky for you,” with not a hint of weariness in his voice, “I don’t have to be anywhere, anytime soon.”

No ties, no ropes, no chains – hell, not even that overworn, oversized tee of his – and he’s still so right about it. Not a part of you wishes to move away, your pathetic self just wrapped around his agile fingers.

Said fingers now hold your cheeks, squeezing until your quivering lips give an opening – and he drops a ball of spit right over. You lay there, entranced, taking what he has to give, your writhing less prominent now. Anything that falls outside the outline of your lips is gathered by his thumb, massaged over your mouth, then inserted for you to suck to your heart’s content. Which you do.

“You’ve shanghed sho mush,” you speak past his thumb; he definitely doesn’t try to make it easier on you, pushing his digit further inside, putting your tongue through a test of endurance.

“So have you,” is his simple response, dragging his wettened thumb across your cheek.

“Not as much as you, for sure.”

“I don’t think the mouthy bitch years ago would suck spit off of my thumb.”

“You don’t know that.” With his eyes widening ever so slightly, you continue, “But surely, the geek from years ago wouldn’t have spit in my mouth in the first place.”

“You don’t know that either.”

Just when you think you’re done seeing stars with the roof on, Jungkook hooks the band of your bra in his teeth – like the primitive animal that he is – and pulls at it, just to let it snap back at your skin. The unannounced action makes you squeal, even though it didn’t really hurt – he’s got your body so alive, a feather could hurt you if he wielded it.

With the odd, oafish position of yours; one leg on the couch, the other hanging off loose, head balanced precariously on the armrest with your arms dutifully out of his way – you try to get him where you need him, knee nudging his thigh while your hips wriggle under an invisible spell. Finally, he acquiesces, settling down at the couch with your legs unwrapped on either side for his viewing pleasure. His palms squeeze the flesh of your thighs, a small tsk falling off his lips at the touch of your pantyhose.

“Tearing doesn’t count as taking off, right?”

“What?”

You don’t get a response – not in words, atleast. The loud rip that follows is the only answer he graces you with, your worn down pantyhose having its last wear forever. But his easy access only brings you gratitude when two fingers enter the tear in a split second, pushing your underwear inside your sopping core.

“Mmmhh—Fuck!”

Jungkook just laughs at your helpless body writhing beyond control as he explores everything he didn’t have a chance to before. Fingers travelling down, then up, inside, then outside, around and about – everything, only egging you further on.

“After all these years…” Jungkook purrs, not directly to you, eyes only connected to the juncture of your thighs, “you deserve a good fucking. What should I do, huh? Should I make you come, then drop off the face of the earth?” His tongue swipes the length of your crevice, sending shudders down your thighs. “Or should I spend this whole night doing all the things I’ve been meaning to? Cover you in my jizz and parade you across the office? Show everyone what an excellent tutor you were, and your very innovative teaching methods.”

Your brain has no filter when exposed to the horny, and his last words made it do just that – you latch onto whatever words best serve your purpose.

“You–you’ve been meaning… To?”

“Meaning to fuck you against every possible surface of this room,” is what Jungkook says, but with his fingers entering your cunt and exploring about, you don’t register anything. “As a thank you, you know? Meaning to see you fall apart on my fingers, just like this—” He pushes in hard, your pussy throbbing around his digits. “Meaning to cum inside you, over and over again, and have you crawl around this space, dripping everywhere while I sit and watch your sullied body prepare itself to take more.”

Well, the last one is oddly specific. Even more odd is how much more aroused the thought makes you.

“Wow, umm—w–well—” Swallowing the wad of spit accumulating in your throat, you offer, “Since you clearl–ooh, clearly, know how to make me come,” you look him in the eye, tears of desire pooling in the corners of your eyes, “so fucking do it. S–Stop playing around.”

“But with a plaything as sweet as you,” he moves to kiss your clothed pussy, his fingers still playing imaginary music inside your walls, “with a toy as slutty as you,” another kiss, so delicate it hurts you, “hard to not play around.”

Hands unfettered from the mental shackles that Jungkook put on you, you pull him back up to you, lips smushing together once again – your other hand wraps around his wrist, grinding onto whatever surface his palm offers, using him like a glorified sex toy. He grunts hard into you, a vague attempt made at bringing you back under control, but your tongue is beguiling, and he stays under your hold.

Until he isn’t.

“A—w—fuck!”

Jungkook’s sadistic streak continues when he frees his wrist from your clutches, and smacks your clit once, twice, thrice – in quick succession. Your nub would buzz if it could, and a string of expletives release from you when he does it again – this time, with a greater backswing.

With a sharp tug to his still-on blazer, you pull him up. “Fucker,” you sputter, making your first and last request of the night, in a desperate attempt to get the ball rolling, “let me suck your dick.” Your hands already flounder around his crotch, until he pulls them away, back to their previous confinement. In the background, you can hear his belt jingle; but all you can see is his arresting face.

A deep-throated laugh emerges from him, “Wasn’t last time enough?” He coos at your cock-hungry plea, pushing you back down and fiddling with your legs. “Next time, okay?”

“Next ti—uungghh!”

Barely able to complete your showcase of surprise, because this is the way he announces his acceptance – he pushes into your core, without warning, but he receives a warm welcome in the walls of your pussy.

“We have a lot,” he emphasises with a thrust, “a lot of work to do, don’t we?” He pulls out just enough to leave you whining, then pushes back in with a grunt of satisfaction; his moves are calculated enough to leave you wanting while maverick enough to leave your spine tingling. “And a lot of catching up as well.” He hovers over you after positioning you better, both of your bodies lying along the length of the couch, before getting right back into your gushing entrance.

One particular thrust has you arching up, the shock of pleasure stagnating in your body for a hot second, making your head lag and voice wane. Jungkook sheaths himself completely, before slotting his face in the nook of your neck, heavy breaths licking at your heated skin. Not one to miss an opportunity, you take the lobe of his ear between your lips, letting your teeth graze over the skin.

“Mmmh, yes,” he keens, tilting into your touch, “make it hurt, baby.”

Whether it is the words he uttered, or the way his whisper travels down to your cunt, you dig your teeth into the flesh, immediately rewarded with a mouthwatering flurry of cusses stuttered into your neck.

“It’s,” Jungkook pulls out of you in an instant, turning you around by your waist, “not,” he pushes your head back onto the headrest, your cheek bulging as you try to get a look at him, “enough.”

And the way he slams back into you, you feel your soul fight your body to escape. You mewl into the deathly quiet, his dogged jackhammering hurtling you towards your most awaited high of the day – hell, the most awaited all these years. He pistons into you, covering every inch of your skin in a sea of flames. Your orgasm finds you like a river in spate, gushing through its path, fighting boulders in its wake, carving its way through your entire body.

Sounds of the room start feeling like echoes, slapping balls, grunty exhales, a weirdly long cloth rip that does not belong – but your ears are ringing, your mouth is drooling, and your brain is ready to shut down. Being jostled like a muppet feels like home, and you only start waking up when spurts of liquid coat all of your ass, thighs, and slit.

In true asshole fashion, Jungkook tore all of your pantyhose, fabric loosely hanging on the sides, seams split until all of your ass and thighs were open for his pleasure.

In truer asshole fashion, Jungkook left you a mess, cum trickling down your glutes, pooling at the bend of your knee.

And in truest asshole fashion, he is wiping his unsullied fingers clean, without a second thought about your current dishevelled disposition.

Ugh. You love to put yourself in a position you can’t get out of.

How the fuck will you get home? This jerk won’t give you a ride.

Also, none of your bones work.

You lay your head on the armrest, finding feasible ways out of this situation. It's going to be nice riding the bus with dried cum itching your ass. There must be a washroom in this boujee office, of course. You finally gather the strength to raise your head and look for one – but interception comes sharp and swift.

“Already done, huh?” Jungkook’s fingers press into the nape of your neck, pushing you back down, your tendons feeling the pressure of his stronghold.

“I—” You stutter and stumble again, just like the start of the night, “I thought we—”

“Don’t you remember?”

“What?”

“Hmmmn,” he sponges kisses over your clothed back, making his way downward, “stupid girl said I couldn’t make her come without taking anything off.”

Ah.

Stupid girl did say that.

Stupid girl also has her speaking right revoked right now, because Jungkook is collecting the half-dried cum on your ass with his tongue, awakening your dying senses once again. His final move is a start to the next chapter of your night, as he pushes his tongue into your velvet heat, depositing the cum where it belongs.

“Guess we keep playing, huh?”

Thank you for making it to the end! For more of my writing, find my masterlist here. As always, thoughts and feedbacks are greatly appreciated!

#bts #bts fanfic #networkbangtan #bts fanfiction #bts smut #jjk smut #jungkook smut #jeon jungkook smut #jungkook fanfic #btshoneyhive #btscarnivalnet #thebtswritersclub #jungkook x reader #jeongguk smut #bts imagines #bts fic #jeongguk fanfic #jungkook #jeon jungkook

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fazedlight · 1 year ago

Text

Control (angst/hopeful ending)

Lena could hear Kara as the kryptonian destroyed the Mt. Norquay cannons, as she broke her way into the bunker - but Lena never flinched. Why would she? Her duty was to keep Myriad functional until her dying breath. The device combined with Non Nocere programming would make everyone good, and kind, and honest.

Everyone… except Kara. But Kara was irrelevant now, because Lena had a duty. The greatest good was to fix humanity - to save the world - and she was bound to it.

Now that Myriad was on, she couldn’t choose otherwise.

She hadn’t expected Myriad to be so… quiet. She had expected to feel peaceful, or triumphant, or the continued righteous rage. But instead she felt… listless. She would go through the motions, because she knew it was the right thing to do. But it didn’t bring her the joy she expected. She supposed she should’ve expected it - shutting down one’s amygdala would tone down emotions - but she would’ve been more surprised, if she still had the capacity to feel surprise.

But her choices or her feelings didn’t matter. She knew she had failed when she saw the warnings flicker across her screen as the cannons crumbled, she knew she had failed when she heard a final wall collapse inwards, when she heard the steps of familiar boots. “Turn it off, Lena,” Kara said, approaching her and the device.

“If you want to stop Myriad, you can do it yourself,” Lena said, tired more than angry. She wasn’t making a request - she was simply stating the obvious. Kara wasn’t under Myriad control, and the kryptonian was more than strong enough to overpower a mere human.

“I’d rather you turn it off,” Kara said. “I know you’re hurt, Lena. But this isn’t the way. You can’t control everyone.”

“All I’ve done is remove the option to react harmfully. Why should I stop?”

“I don’t think it’s that easy, Lena,” Kara said, her voice going quiet. “Harm isn’t that easy to define.”

“No one will ever lie again,” Lena replied sharply. “No one will ever purposefully put anyone in physical danger. If you leave me alone, the world will be a safer place. Isn’t that what you want?”

Kara laughed bitterly, staring at her feet, as Lena’s mind raced with questions. She won, what is she waiting for?, Lena thought. “Myriad doesn’t work on you. If you think I’m so wrong, why aren’t you getting this over with,” Lena said, her voice broken.

She watched as Kara’s jaw flexed, realizing that the kryptonian was hiding something. But there was always something the blonde reporter-super was hiding, wasn’t there? Kara could end this whole ordeal instantly, and yet she was waiting…

Last time, Kara had defeated Myriad with a simple hope speech. But that wasn’t an option this time - hope had died in Lena long before she flipped the switch in front of her.

But what Kara said surprised her. “I wish Myriad did work on me,” Kara whispered.

Lena’s brows furrowed, turning to Kara in surprise. “Why?”

“Because if it did…” Kara’s voice drifted off, as she took a steadying breath. “If it did, you’d believe me when I tell you the truth.”

“And what is the truth?”

“Our friendship was real.”

Lena scoffed, turning back to Myriad, watching as its lights flickered, as the device continued to spread q-waves through the bunker equipment across the globe.

“You’re right to hate me,” Kara said, stepping forward. “I’m not saying I deserve your forgiveness. I just wish it worked on me so you could believe me. So you could believe how much you mean to me.”

Lena stared ahead at the dancing lights, tears threatening the edges of her eyes as she watched. I wish it were true, Lena thought. “I wish it worked on me too,” Lena said, words falling from her lips before she realized she said them. The curse of being forced to honesty, she thought, wincing.

“What do you mean?” Kara asked, confused. “I thought Myriad did work on you.”

“It’s forcing me to be honest. To do what I think is right for the world,” she said, feeling a wave of regret when she knew she couldn’t stop the words that were coming next. “It can’t force me to stop loving you.”

Kara gasped.

“It can’t get rid of the hurt,” Lena said. “It does dull the pain. I guess it dulls everything.”

“You love me-” Kara said, before stopping, staring down at the ground. Lena couldn’t bear to look at her. She was here, exposed, delivering every dark truth to anyone that might ask. At least Kara had the decency to stop using it to her advantage.

Silence fell between them, moments passing as Lena stared back at the monitors. Why isn’t she stopping me? Lena kept wondering. “I know how foolish that is now, loving you.”

“I love you too,” Kara said quietly.

“You’re lying,” Lena said, her head jerking up as she felt a sudden surge of emotion - a sharp and twisting feeling that roared through Myriad’s quiet.

“I love you,” Kara said, her voice rising from the previous whisper to something more emphatic and desperate. “I lied to you because I loved you. Because I was afraid of losing you. Because I couldn’t face that I had lied to you-”

“You’re lying-”

“I’d commit crimes just to bring you comfort,” Kara said, her voice heavy. “I’d poison a city for you-”

“You can’t do this-”

“For a friend like you, there are no boundaries,” Kara said, and Lena realized the super was choking back a sob. “I hurt you. I betrayed you. I can never hope for your forgiveness, I know I threw away everything we could’ve been. But I need you to hope that I’m not lying to you. Not now. I need you to hope that my love for you is real, because it’s all I have.”

Lena cursed to herself, feeling the trickle of anguish in her veins. It was inseparable, these feelings of falling in love and the fury of betrayal and incessant hope. Lena tried to control her panicked breathing, waiting for the damn emotions to subside so she’d be pulled under Myriad’s wave again.

But still, the question remained. Why was Kara here? Why hasn’t she done anything yet?

“Is this what you want?” Kara asked. “Everyone brutally exposed to the people they hate most? Without a choice?”

“People will be forced to be good-”

“Maybe you’re doing what you think is right, Lena. But you’re just hurting yourself.”

Lena gripped at the console, trying to push out Kara’s words, willing herself to stop feeling.

“There’s no such thing as a world without hurt,” Kara said quietly. “All you’re doing is making the world numb.”

“Why aren’t you doing this? Why aren’t you shutting it off?” Lena begged, “You’re stronger than me. You’re not under its control. You can take it away. You can fix it yourself.”

“I’m not under Myriad’s control, Lena,” Kara said, finally losing her internal battle as a tear began to make its way down her cheek. “I’m not acting selflessly. I don’t want to save the world. I’m trying to save you.”

Lena swallowed harshly, noting with surprise that she could feel tears rolling down her own cheeks. And she stared at Kara, and stared, watching as the blonde’s shoulders shook in an effort to hold back her own tears. The trickle of anguish and hope in Lena’s veins simply wouldn’t cease. There’s no such thing as a world without hurt…

One last moment passed, before Lena reached up to the switch controlling Myriad, and shut it off.

#supercorp #supercorp ficlet #supercorptober #supercorptober2023 #mel writes ficlets #control #fazedlight #fazedlightgif

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sscieloz · 10 months ago

Text

Alcohol teacher

Kim Minjeong x Yoo Jimin

Synopsis: “My face immediately turned red, but I wasn’t drunk, though. I also had my first soju with Jimin unnie, my alcohol teacher.” — Kim Minjeong.

Warnings: dom!karina x sub!winter. you know the deal babes, lots of plot with a little smut in it. drinking, nsfw, drunk (public?) sex.

Word count: 2k

Notes: I’ve never had soju in my life. enjoy ˆˆ n gimme feedback we barely talk anymore :(

“You look too skilled doing this.” Minjeong says, watching quietly as Karina pours a small amount of liquid into two shot glasses. It doesn’t seem like much, which leaves Minjeong annoyed. She doesn’t want Karina going easy on her, even if it is indeed her first time drinking.

Her judgmental look is no strange thing to Jimin, who merely shrugs and continues her task. She smiles at Minjeong once she’s done, nose scrunching with how much she’s enjoying the situation. When Winter had gone to her and mentioned she wanted to have a night out for drinks, so she’d try them out for the first time, Karina felt like she was in heaven. The first thing she did once she woke up was to book reservations, so the whole bar would be left alone for them— this way, Minjeong would be the most comfortable to experience the drinks, and no crazy fan would bash them for being grown women drinking.

“So,” She begins her explanation, ignoring the younger girl’s irritated tone. “We’ll start simple. Here, there’s vodka. We’ll drink it all at once: it’s as easy as that.” Bringing her cup near her mouth, Karina gestures for Minjeong to do the same. Which she does, after eyeing the raven-haired girl suspiciously. “On three, ok? One, two…”

Karina’s hands gently hover over Minjeong’s chin, turning the cup upwards so the liquid flows over Winter’s throat. Karina’s fingers linger even after the cup is left empty, her touch igniting the younger girl’s skin.

Vodka burns— it tastes like fire, washing through your cells until it hits your esophagus and threatens to back its way back, clearly not welcomed. It’s an unpleasant sensation, to say the least.

Yet, the only feeling Minjeong’s brain acknowledges are Karina’s delicate hands, now tracing her collarbone. She decides, then, that her bandmate’s touches are worse than a thousand vodka doses.

“So? What’d you think?” Karina asks, eager to know Minjeong’s opinion. She bounces like a puppy, moving as much as the booth they’re seated at allows her to.

Minjeong nods, running her hands through her face to spread the flush that lingers stubbornly on her cheeks. She feels on fire; distracted, which is unlike herself. When asking Karina for guidance on learning how to drink, her intentions were nothing but serious. She has never not been the best at something, so she fully intended to be a great drinker. By that, she intended on inspecting each liquor religiously, taking mental notes and rankings over each one, so she’d know exactly which ones to make conversations about or to order at award-shows and after parties.

Her plan, now, was ruined by a tall, black-haired girl with smokey eyes and bubbly lips.

“It was ok.” Minjeong answers, smiling a little at Jimin. Despite her internal irritation, Jimin was the one to pull her back to reality, making sure she didn’t overwork herself—or just reminding Minjeong to not take things too seriously, overall. She was not entitled to be bratty and corrupt the bubbly girl. She wouldn’t.

“You’re a tough one, Minjeong-ah.” Karina says, placing two soju bottles in front of her, then. “Luckily, that was only our warm-up. The real fun starts now!”

Minjeong stares at the Blueberry and Mango Soju bottles with an uncertain gaze. Karina had let her choose, even though Minjeong could sense her getting impatient every passing second. And, because she loved to tease Karina as much as the girl enjoyed to tease her back, Minjeong picked the blueberry-flavored bottle right before Karina’s quick fingers could reach out for them.

“You’re so mean, Minjeongie.” Karina whines, resting her back in the padded seat. The younger one laughs, then, pleased to have gotten into Karina’s nerves.

“Should we eat?” Minjeong asks, as the food is placed in front of them. Karina only nods, biased as she is, opening both bottles before setting up portions for her and Minjeong.

So they drink, eat, and laugh, talking about idol life and all the gossip they hear or notice around. In a blink, their plates are empty, the soju bottles are nearly dry and their throats, raw from rambling too much. Karina orders more food, and opens new bottles— Minjeong is a strong drinker, she commented. A professional, even though it’s her first time, as it goes with everything the auburn haired girl proposes herself to do.

Minjeong has never felt better in her life. It’s as though she’s walking through clouds, lightheaded and unable to hide her loud, careless laughter. Needles prickle her skin, which makes herself grow restless. It’s the reason she stands, after a while, simply unable to keep in place.

“Minjeong-ah? What are you doing?” Karina asks, confused to see the girl walking the short way towards her seat. Her balance is not at all the resemblance of the Minjeong she usually knows; calm, collected, sweet Minjeong. No, Karina doesn’t know this daring, careless girl who is struggling to walk a straight line and launches herself into the older girl’s lap, red curls tingling in her neck.

She loves it, though.

“I don’t want that seat anymore.” She pouts. Minjeong’s eyes are stargazed, but Karina is surprised to not find them glassy or unfocused, as she stares right into the girl’s dark orbs. If anything, they’re attentive — hungry, even though they had just eaten. “Yours is much more comfortable and cozy… Change seats with me, Jimin unnie.”

Karina’s arms wrap around Minjeong’s petite frame instinctively. Her finger’s tease her collarbone once again, while her other hand scratches the skin showing between the younger girl’s crop top and skirt.

Karina laughs. “You need to get up, then, Minjeongie.”

The girl bluntly ignores her, too deep in her thoughts to listen to her unnie.

“You’re so beautiful, unnie…” Minjeong’s whisper is followed by her hands, both gripping Karina’s face rather delicately. Her touch is tender, much different from the way she squirms, pressing herself against the oldest’s thighs. “I’ve always wondered what your lips tasted like…”

Without a warning, Minjeong presses her lips against Karina’s, not a clear thought going through her head. She’s met with a closed mouth, at first — Karina’s too surprised, frozen in position to do anything, but slowly, the oldest finds herself relaxing against Minjeong’s warmth, pulling her in. Their kiss, ever so sweet, suddenly gets impatient, as they lose themselves in savoring each other.

Minjeong already feels as if she’s going to explode: her insides burn and she feels so needy it hurts. She’s aching, humping Karina’s lap like a dumb puppy. Not only the alcohol, she’s drunk with desire, too, she quickly realizes. Drunk with Karina’s sweet taste, and now so empty— without Karina touching her where she needs it the most.

She’s aching, all hot, bothered, and so impatient. It’s the reason she is so loud— or so she likes to tell herself, as an excuse, allowing Karina to grab her neck and guide her head upwards, sucking and nibbling Minjeong’s skin with her teeth as she pleases.

“You’re such a doll, Minjeongie.” Karina praises, but her words do nothing to please the girl. They only make her even more annoyed, borderline desperate.

“Unnie,” She whines, eyes half closed as her body intensifies every sensation possible, focused on driving her to madness. “Give me, now.”

Karina stops herself, too delighted to have Minjeong so desperate and pliable in her arms. How many times had she gotten herself off with the thought of Minjeong’s moans, and now she had them all for herself? It was a dream come true, and she’d enjoy every moment of it. Her fingers stop toying with the hem of the younger girls’ skirt, now far away from her thighs. It makes Minjeong scoff, annoyed.

“Give you what, Minjeongie?” Karina asks, her tone as innocent as she manages it to be, lying on her seat once again.

Minjeong pouts, now having her movements guided by Karina’s hands, gripping her hips and forcing her to a faster pace.

“W-whatever you want.” She manages to say, breathless, as she humps Karina’s thigh. “Just do it now, please.”

“Well, since you asked so nicely.” Karina’s eyes never leave Minjeong’s face, with the intent of memorizing the moment forever.

The older girl’s mouth lowers, tracing wet kisses until she reaches for the hems of Minjeong’s top, watching them fall freely until the girl’s pink, rosy nipples are exposed to Jimin. Minjeong recoils, shivering due to the sudden decline of temperature. Before she can cover herself, Jimin’s mouth is on her nipple, suckling and nibbling as she gropes the other one, pinching and twisting. Her tongue traces circles around Minjeong’s skin, and she’s absolutely delighted about how responsive the girl is, squirming and trying to run from Karina’s warm, wet mouth. It makes her leave a trail of saliva down her chest, making a mess of the so-collected Kim Minjeong.

She feels Karina everywhere: from her mouth, so inviting, sure of what she’s doing and aware of how desperate she’s making Minjeong be, to her hands, now pulling Minjeong’s panties aside, so her fingers can finally meet her folds. Minjeong is drenched, Karina feels it as two of her fingers enter her folds, no warnings needed. In response, a loud, needy moan can be heard, and Minjeong lets her head fall back, mouth open and a strong grip on her bandmate’s shoulders. She’s finally full, no longer aching with emptiness or desire. Instead, Minjeong is knocked by the pleasant pleasure building up in her stomach, as Karina keeps fingering her pussy hard.

Satisfied, she stays like that: filling the empty bar with her pornographic moans as she keeps riding Karina’s thigh, thinking about nothing else but the way the friction against the leader’s pants is just perfect, aligned with the stretch on her walls, and the mouth on her breasts. It’s almost too much, but she’s unable to ask for Karina to stop, or to gown any slower. No, Minjeong’s head is filled with the urge to let go and come, nothing else. So she lets herself enjoy whatever Karina is willing to give, mind submissive and pliable.

“Does Minjeongie want to cum? Do you, doll?” Karina asks, tone innocent, even though she’s far from being so. Winter’s cunt throbs, making her gulp. Even though there are a few words being formed in her mind, she’s blank, unable to speak in any coherent sentences.

Minjeong nods, a mess of moans and whimpers, clinging onto Karina as if her life depended on it. Karina’s pace deepens, a third finger adding to the stretch of her pussy.

“Yes, p-please!” She chants, just as Karina’s thumb presses onto her clit, making her nearly cry. She feels her peak approaching her form, the combo of sensations building up to her pleasure.

Karina’s hands clutch on Minjeong’s waist so hard she’s sure it’ll bruise the girl’s skin, but she doesn't seem to care. She makes Minjeong’s pace on her thighs faster, dragging the orgasm out of her. “Do it, baby. Come on my fingers.”

Minjeong lets out a high-pitched moan at the command, feeling her body shaking as the orgasm finally has her spilling her juices in Karina’s hand. She’s breathless, hair disheveled and so sensitive— as Karina doesn’t let her stop her movement’s on the leader’s thigh. She whines, but keeps going, though. Like a doll.

“My little doll.” Karina voices her thoughts out loud, dropping wet kisses on Minjeong’s bare shoulders, waiting for the younger girl to settle down.

After a few minutes, she does, leaving Karina’s lap to sit beside her, inhaling deeply.

It’s Karina, Minjeong realizes, then. Karina is better than Soju, better than Rum, and much better than vodka. Karina is what sets her on fire, what gets her dizzy, drunk with desire. Minjeong wants to drink in all of her.

So she kisses her again, just as hungry as their first time, knowing their night had just started.

#s.writes #kpop x reader #kpop smut #aespa smut #aespa imagines #karina aespa #aespa winter #yoo jimin smut #kim minjeong smut #yoo jimin x kim minjeong #jiminjeong #jiminjeong smut #winter smut #karina smut #karina aespa smut

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