#like people hit the limit barely days into the game

[twinklefantasia]

im surprised that im not even at 3k items yet, like im creeping up but it feels like ive liked and made so much....

[stop-breaking-my-heart-telltale]

if dorian didn't show up, do you think louis would have shot minnie?

I do. I know some people think either he wouldn't have or he would've missed so that's why the writers had him shoot Dorian instead, but mmmmmm no, I don't personally think so. I like to think that if he had taken the shot, his shaky hands would've caused him to shoot her fatally.

Mostly because I'm already so normal about the fact that of the Ericson crew, Marlon and Louis are the only ones with a body count. Well, that we know of, but shown to us in the game, at least. Plus, we know it's Louis' first kill.

Like yeah, Clementine and AJ become part of the crew and they have bigger body counts, and if we're counting indirect kills caused by actions, then Tenn has a count... and I guess everyone has blood on their hands for blowing up the boat... but I'm talking about killed directly with a weapon like....... I lied, I'm not normal about that at all, Louis and Marlon are the ones who have killed someone in Louis' route. I'm also not normal about the fact that Louis kills Dorian and then even as he's clearly in shock, he tries to go with Clementine to get AJ, and then later on when they talk about it, he says it feels like bile but not quite and he's glad he has it in him to do it.... listen, listen, listen... I'm obsessed with that.

Anyway, so if Louis shot Minerva, I think he would've accidentally killed her and can you imagine? He's already enough of a mess after killing the woman who pinned him down and tried to cut his finger off [or succeeded] but he knew Minerva, they were friends before the twins were taken. Even Violet couldn't kill her even though that would've been the smarter thing to do, and we know thanks to meta knowledge that killing her would've saved lives, but Violet couldn't, and I don't think Louis would intentionally either.

Speaking of Violet, if Louis killed Minerva, I hate to think about what that would've done to Vi. I think she might've actually left at that point, like what was planned before it got changed to her being burned. I don't think she would've attacked Louis over it, though, like yeah she attacked Clementine in the cell but Louis? I don't know, but I don't think so just because it's Louis and he'd be a mess about it anyway.

Though if he did kill her, it would be a neat parallel to draw... y'know, because Louis forgave AJ for killing Marlon even though he was pissed and heartbroken, and Violet was annoyed with him the entire time... but could she ever forgive Louis for killing Minerva? Y'know? We already have a similar parallel with AJ shooting Tenn, but still.

If Clementine killed Minerva in that moment, though, then I could see Violet attacking her since in her eyes, Clem proved her right.

So yeah, I get why they added the Dorian kill to his route. It adds another compelling element to Louis as a character, but we also need Minerva alive for episode 4; Louis can't kill her, he can't miss, and he's not going to stay with her because we need Violet to stay on the boat and him to be on shore for all routes.

[jaylaxies]

HARD THOUGHT !

pairing: sunghoon x fem!reader

cw: smut, unprotected sex, usage of nicknames.

warning: 18+ content, minors dni

Best friend!Sunghoon had easily convinced you to move in with him. His reasoning sat well with you—low cost and splitting of the rent. As a university student, you would do anything to save up some extra cash and this deal was spot on as it saved you half the amount of your usual living expenses.

However, the provided reason wasn’t even close to what Sunghoon had actually wanted. He knew you had a crush on him, yet you never acted upon it due to your experiences regarding sex and love were limited, which made him want to ruin you beyond words. He was more on the possessive side of the spectrum, which was also laced with jealousy as he hated the idea of anyone else touching his little angel, his kitten.

So he took the matter in his own hands, pulling you even closer to him now that you shared an apartment with each other. He stared at you a little longer, walked around shirtless, his touch on your bare skin lingered for a second too long and you loved it. Your body always reacted to him in such a manner which made him lose his patience each fucking day, until he finally decided to cage you between him and the wall when you had freshly came out of the shower, clad in just your tiny towel.

“You like showing your pretty little body, don’t you, kitten?” He’d whisper in a deep tone, eyes dark as he stared right in your eyes. He could see you biting your lip, your thighs pressing close to each other as you tried to formulate a reply. “What are you talking about Hoonie—” you were shushed with his slender finger, which was now pressed against your lips. “I know you want me, baby. You just have to say it, yeah?” He assured you slow but serious.

You couldn’t wait any longer, not when you dreamed the filthiest of your fantasies with him, not when you touched yourself desperately hoping that it was him instead, even more so when he simply sat in the room next door. You nodded fervently, “want you so much, Hoonie,” you almost whimpered, feeling smaller than ever under his intense gaze.

“Oh baby, I’ll ruin your cunt and fuck you in every corner of this goddamn apartment,” he growled.

He was gentle with you for your very first time, he knew exactly how you’d like it, he was your best friend after all. But you didn’t bother thinking that he’d actually fuck you everywhere. It started from your bedroom, where he took care of your all night, trying his best not to go overboard with you. The next time, he took you to his bedroom. The task was simple, you’ll have to suck his dick and he’d make a mess on your pretty face.

It then progressed to you crying out his name in pleasure as he fucks you from behind on your couch which barely fit two people. He didn’t even leave the kitchen out of the deal as he fucked you on the marble counter, his cock hitting just the right spots as you dug your nails into his shoulders for support. Then he proceeded to take you to the bathroom, the reason was simple again—to save the water.

It didn’t matter if it was your study table or the wall next to the front door, it never mattered if you were on the carpet or his gaming chair, he had to fuck you. As for you, you loved every second of it, he made sure to get your wildest fantasies out of you, only to make them come true.

When you finally crawled up to him, giving him your sweetest smile as you asked him to fuck you, he knew he had won in life.

He had ruined you.

© jaylaxies | tumblr

[onsomenewsht]

I just wanna feel something, tell me where to go

About when she wants to win gold and you talk too much but don’t answer her questions

《 read part 2, 'cause everybody knows something I don't wanna know

》 Alexia Putellas x fencer!Reader

》 words count: + 1.7k

》 the mountain’s call [way of saying]: the irresistible pull or urge to pursue a challenging goal or adventure

“You look like someone who needs to see the best place in the entire Village”

Alexia looks up from the pass’ lanyard she’s fidgeting with, finding your open smile even before spotting your outstretched hand. Her eyebrow rises on its own accord, always sceptical around strangers.

The Olympic Village is big enough to welcome the egos of some of the best athletes in the world, but not big enough to avoid their clashing. It’s actually encouraged.

Within a certain limit, obviously.

The footballer sees you in passing almost every day, given that the Spanish Team rooms are basically neighbours with the Italian Team ones. Your outgoing attitude and friendly nature make you pretty popular around the village. The fact you’re easy on the eyes and quite the talk among the players isn’t lost on Alexia either – she likes good gossip like anybody else.

“Come on, Reina, don’t let me stand here like an idiot”, your teasing words take her back from her overthinking one more time.

“Shouldn’t you be somewhere celebrating that?”, she points to the medal hanging around your neck.

A genuine smile rises on both your faces as you mindlessly hold the piece of gold to look at it one more time, feeling like this is some kind of dream.

Your gaze falls on Alexia, still sitting in a corner of a communal break room when her teammates are cheering all around for one more victory in their Olympic journey.

“I’m gonna celebrate for the next four years, I can spare some time for you”

“Congratulations, by the way, I heard it’s not the first one”, she takes your hand as you burst out laughing, helping her on her feet.

You may have hosted the closest thing to a party you can do in the Village when, just earlier this week, you won your first gold medal.

It’s not your first Olympics, it’s not even your first Olympic medal. But finally being a gold medalist? An Olympic Champion? You sure could not let it pass over in silence.

The short walk is filled with small talks and giggles, you do most of the talking but Alexia’s grin stays firmly on her face the entire time. You notice her rosy cheeks and more relaxed stance, holding yourself high with pride to finally see the blonde so carefree around you.

“How did you even find this place?”

The night lights of Paris really turn the city into some sort of fantastic dream, the view is easily able to take the breath away from the little balcony you open for her. You’re on top of the biggest complex in the Village, the usual chaos that fills the French capital is somehow just background noise.

“Fencing is an ancient discipline”, you start, barely avoiding Alexia’s playful hit on your arm at your documentary-like approach.

“Jokes aside, the Italian school basically created fencing, but then the French school redefined the system to what it’s like today and they will not shut up about it. It’s a long lasting rivalry between two countries that, sportwise, hate each other”

“Everyone hates the French, sportwise”, the Spain captain agrees, mimicking your move as you sit on the floor of the balcony.

“Fencing into the Grand Palais in fucking Paris is like playing every single game as a World Cup final against the host country in a stadium filled with their fans and colours”

“Dramatic”

“Of course! You’re putting Italian and French people in the same place, asking them to fight with swords, literally. It’s gonna be dramatic”, you let your gaze wander around as the blonde’s one tries to find something inside you.

Alexia waits for you, understanding just now how your cheerful and playful behaviour hides something more complex.

She has turned on your Team Final on her way back from the stadium, curious about it – about you – after the little party you put on for the entire Village following your Individual Final victory.

She got nothing about what was happening, not understanding how some hits were good and others were given away or not counted. She prides herself on being able to recognise good athleticism and quick leg ability though. The way you move on the piste, quickly but precisely in every single gesture, is mesmerising. The way your mind acts even faster than your body is even more captivating.

What surprised her the most is the way you hold back.

While your opponents celebrate any conceded hits and your teammates celebrate loudly all the successful points, you stay stoic and firm the entire time.

It’s something she doesn’t expected from you, usually so excited about everything.

That’s probably one of the reasons that brings her here with you in the first place.

“You don’t look dramatic when you fence”

“Oh, you watched me?”

“It was the bare minimum after your detailed commentary after our last game”

“I’m Italian, I’m a football fan from birth”, you say, rolling your eyes humorously, not ready to reveal that the Spanish team is the only one you care about keeping up with during this Olympic tournament.

Alexia Putellas just admitted she turned on your Final to see you win a gold medal.

“Wait, let’s just go back to you watching me fence”

She smile at your weak attempt to avoid her question, genuinely amused about you but pretty sure you’re gonna tell her everything she asks – eventually.

A comfortable silence between the two of you fills the air for some minutes, somehow guiding your bodies closer.

“How did you find this place?”, the Catalan winks when you turn to look at her.

“I hate fencing with the French”, you start to explain after a bit with a serious note underneath your voice, “I lost my last Olympic Individual Final against a reckless fencer with the most annoying Parisian accent ever”

Another moment passes, Alexia doesn’t pressure you but can feel you relax when she places her hand on your knee.

“Last time I was in Paris, I injured myself. I was out for nine months and lost two major tournaments. This Olympics being hosted here as I was supposed to redeem myself and prove to be good enough at the same time? Really took a turn on me at first”, you avoid her gaze as you sum up one of your biggest fears to a stranger on a balcony viewing Paris’ landscape.

“I needed a place to escape without running away”

“And here we are, facing Paris from a hiding spot”

How the footballer manages to understand you so well in such a short amount of time, in such an unusual setting, is really something that surprises you. Your eyes meet and you can distinctly feel your heart skip a bit.

“I befriended a handyman, this floor is for staff only as some sort of control room”

“This explains the private balcony”

“I should have started with this and not the unasked story of my life”

You can still feel Alexia’s hand on you, mindlessly caressing your leg as you try not to implode and hide the redness of your face. She smirks.

“We’ll play France in the semifinal”, she says with a hint of disbelief and irony.

“Fuck the French”, you state solemnly, “It’s basically a wanna-be repeat of the Champions League’s final, you’re going to be fine”

“If you just jinxed it–”

“I did not, I know an Olympic Champion when I see one”

The burst of confidence and the firmness in your voice, despite the easy way you’re both talking about Spain’s next game, are enough to subside the noises inside Alexia’s head – your voice is a good distraction and your presence is a welcoming discovery.

“How is it?”

“What?”

The blonde’s finger points at the piece of gold still hanging on your neck, you’re just glad it’s her other hand as you look back and forth between her and the medal.

“You won enough to know how it is”

“It’s my first Olympics”

“In Italian there’s a word, I don’t know if you have the same difference in Spanish. It’s olimpionico and it’s not like olimpico – olympic”

“You never go for the straight answer, do you?”, she interrupts you with a teasing smile.

“No, never done anything the straight way my entire life, now let me go on with my wise and deep talk”, you graciously – and quite bravely on your part, if you must say so yourself – drop your arm around her shoulder, releasing a breath as she smoothly adjusts her body closer.

“Olimpionico is formed from the Greek ᾿Ολύμπια, which means ‘competitions of Olympia’ so our Olympic Games, and the root of νικάω, that I don’t know to explain how but can be translated with ‘victory’ or ‘winner’ and you have to trust me on this one”, you’ve never been happier with your strict education and the Italian questionable school system.

“I’m still waiting for the point”

“I mean to say we have a specific word for an Olympic athlete who doesn’t just compete in the Olympic Games but actually wins”

“You won enough Olympic medals to know how it is”

“The last time we won bronze as a team and I lost the gold against the obnoxious Frenchwoman, Alexia, keep up”, you’re perfectly aware of her hand on your thigh and her eyes burning on your face – she definitely noticed your red cheeks and the cracks on your walls.

“It’s my first Individual gold and this is my first Team gold, it’s– I don’t know how to explain, but it’s–”

“It’s olimpionico?”, she indulges you, her accent around the Italian word is way more charming than the French one.

“You get it”

“Olympic Champion sounds so uncool now”

As the night turns into a darker shade of black and the Paris lights really do the city’s name justice, you feel like there’s something profound linking you with the athlete curled on your side.

It’s a shared desire to prove yourself to everyone, while wanting to make just a few close people proud. It’s a shared hunger to be the best among some of the greatest, but to make sure the ones around you shine as much.

It’s a shared feeling, deep inside, telling you’re right where you’re supposed to be.

[tianshanb]

A head canon of mine that baby damian was ALLOWED to be a baby. Just with extra assassin trianing.

Like you know those parents that start their kids on sports, or languages, or instruments as babies etc. Talia just started him on assassin training early. But he's just a baby

Cue dmaian walking into training with a pacifier and clutching a blanket.

Just imagine damian with a tiny wooden sword copying the moves of his instructor. Once it's break time, he toddles to the other corner of the room where he plops down on a bunch of pillows and blankets waiting for him, and most importantly, his bottle. Training is tiring he needs a drink 😤

He may also take a nap mid lesson cz he's just a babyyyyy. He brings his favorite plushie to "watch him" when he train. Instead of playing house he plays secret assassin mission with the toys.

As he grows older. 4 to 6 years old. The pacifier is gone by then, and he no longer brings his toys. The new instructor seeing this mature soul in a child body confidently walking up to you with their nose turned up... the illusion is shattered when they open their mouth and half their teeth are missing. Then, mid trianing damian take a drink from their sippy cup thats batman themed (it was a gift from his mama from her latest mission).

Yep just a child.

7 years old is when his training gets super hard. That's the age where your viewed as starting to mature.

I imagine at this age where Ra's is like finally he's old enough to start his real trianing, and Talia is no longer the one responsible for him. This continues to increase in difficulty until he's 9. And shaped off to batfam.

But hoenstly:

Sword trianing?? Imagine this aggressive toddler swinging this sword around. A thing about babies is they LOVEEE swinging shit around, hitting things, throwing things. So training would BE fun.

Eventually he'd had to learn how to break his fall, how to get tackled, etc. Dmaian just sees it as a game and it makes him giggled. KIDS enjoy being tossed around. Like roughhousing is a thing for a reason, the same reason why people throw babies in the air when they play with them.

When he goes to the batfamily. He's just a random 9 year old. One thing about why I can never take the little guy seriously is no matter how intimidating and scary you wbat to seem... your voice will still be that of a child. Another hc is when he's angry he gets on his tippy toes cz he's soo tinyyy. I imagine an argument geting super heated and finally dmaian doing on his toes and suddenly whoever he's arguing with can't take his seriously cz he smol, like this big 👌, and missing some teeth. He has a bed time and can't watch horror movies, like seriously are u arguing with him?

Another thing is Talia had limited screen time and access to devices and technology. She also had parent control on every device. Bruce just does not have that. Dmaian is going to Bruce, and being excited, he's old enough to use a device without parental supervision, or the parent app is so excited that he's seen as a grown-up! (In reality, Bruce just firgot. He never had kids this young with smartphones existing). He's bragging to tim about it one day when bruce overheard, and he's like, hold up a minute.

Extra:

This idea came to me once my friend told me about a student she has. Me and her are tutors and she tutors math. At her centre, there is no specific grade, everyone just advances through the levels as long as they pass the previous level.

In her group, there is this 2 year old toddler who's parents put in tutoring since he was 18 months old. This baby is dropped of by his parents, walking in with a pacifier in his mouth with the clip on to shirt thing. Sometimes in his pj's and sometimes clutching his 'blankie'.

This little dude does advanced algebra. That's right HIGHCHOOL LEVEL ALGEBRA.

He's barely toilet trained 😭 and he asked for help to go to the bathroom, his grip on the pencil is shaky, he still baby talks... but I bet he's better than u at maths.

[totaly-obsessed]

Chaos and dressing rooms

Alessia Russo x reader fic

-> Chaotic reader doesn't know how to do her hair, Alessia helps her out

➳ Masterlist

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

The Arsenal dressing room was always a vibe, even if it was just for practice sessions. Usually, Leah Williamson would be blasting music, but with her being out with a torn ACL, Katie and Steph took over, making for a wild mix.

This would be your second season at the club and even with the new additions, you were one of the younger ones, forever in awe watching the likes of Kim Little and Beth Mead play. But you fit in well, making fast friends with Lotte and Laura who always laughed at your half jokes-half stupidity. In the beginning, Katie tried to recruit you for her pranks, but in the end, it was Jen who would take on the role of your ‘mentor’ for getting around and meeting people.

Now in your second season, four new girls were joining the team – Laia, Amanda, Cloe, and of course Alessia. Meeting them was easy enough, especially the English striker, as you had played her last season – but the other girls were nice as well. You not having competed in the World Cup, as you hadn’t managed the jump up to the senior Lionesses just yet, made it easier to meet Laia, who was joking with you as well as she could with her limited English.

Your dressing room cubby was situated between Steph and Beth who constantly were teasing you for taking forever to get ready – always the last one out on the pitch. Nobody thought anything of it, the girls just thought that you liked to take your time, or that you weren’t organized well enough, and while that was true, the real reason was you struggled to do your hair.

Every single day it was a battle – buns were insecure and fell out easily, tight pony-tails gave you a headache and the swishing hairs annoyed you to no end. Not being able to braid your own hair was incredibly annoying.

It's not like you didn’t try.

You did.

Every single practice session and game, at home before going out, and just when you were bored – nothing worked. After a while your arms started to hurt and tears threatened to fall due to frustration. That’s why you were the last one out, giving your hair just one last attempt before giving up and throwing it in a nice and easy low bun.

And today was no different. It was the third training session since the girls got back from the World Cup, and the new players joined them. Everyone was hyping themselves and each other up before they left the room.

“Has anyone seen my Jersey?”

Jen rolled her eyes, “In the bathroom.” With quick steps you retrieved your jersey, no clue how it got there.

On the way back you tripped over Laia’s shoes – the Spaniard barely catching your arms and keeping you from hitting the ground.

“Where are my shorts?”

“In my bag, you left them yesterday, I washed them.” Katie threw them to you, your forgetfulness and clumsiness highly amusing her.

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

Slowly everyone left but you. When you didn’t see anybody you tried again, desperately trying to braid your hair in front of the quite high mirror.

“Why isn’t this shit working?” With a loud clattering, your brush fell to the floor.

“God damn it! Why can’t I do this? Why am I so stupid?” Alessia, who was still in the bathroom listened with a little smirk on her face until she heard your voice wavering. You were always so fun to be around, so hearing you this frustrated with yourself and being so mean to yourself was new and terrifying for the striker.

“Fuck this.” You had given up, resulting in a low bun. Alessia heard you throw your brush into some corner, frustration getting the better of you.

Not wanting you to be embarrassed, she waited until she was sure you were gone before entering the changing room. The brush she picked up was littered with cute little stickers, and covered in hair - obviously yours.

The tall blonde could just imagine you roughly brushing your hair in anger, feeling sorry for your scalp.

Carefully she put it down in your cubby, and before she left Alessia collected your things that were all over the room and folded them neatly for you.

The rest of the team and training staff were already standing in a circle when Alessia joined them.

“Looks like we have a new late-commer!” Jonas was laughing at the striker, not mad at all. When Alessia's eyes met yours, she could see the realization dawn upon you – She had been there when you were so harsh to your mirror image.

During the whole training session, you were much quieter than usual, embarrassed that you had been caught – by Alessia at that. Alessia who was new, and who you admired so much.

Katie, your traings-buddy tried to get information, on why you were so strange, but you deflected, making her talk about Lauryn’s game instead. While the Irish woman obviously knew what you were doing, she was more than happy to talk about her little sister to someone genuinely interested – even if it was just to distract you.

Alessia tried to get close to you, but somehow you were always gone before she got there. At the end of training, you just packed your bag, not even changing, and stormed out the door.

You took notice of your thing being neatly folded on your cubby and you briefly glanced at the tall blonde who was already looking at you.

“She was weird today, right?” Kim, who liked to title herself as your big sister asked into the silence that you left behind.

“Yeah. Yeah, she was.”

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

The next day your chaos started all over again, and the older girls were relieved that you seemed to be back to normal again. Alessia was surprised that you even talked to her, she thought you were mad at her when you really just needed to get over your embarrassment.

After everyone else left, it was just the two of you left.

“I’m sorry that you had to witness that. Yesterday, I mean.” The striker knew what you meant and sat down next to you, one of her big hands stroking your back, trying to get you comfortable.

“Don’t worry about it.” It was silent for another second, your cheeks felt like they were on fire from blushing so hard.

“You’re not stupid.” Her hand stilled and she gently grabbed your chin, turning your face to her. Your brain just blanked, and she saw, “You were really mean to yourself yesterday – You are not stupid.”

Upon your attempt to turn your flushed face away from her, she held it more firmly. “Do you understand amore?”

A weak nod earned you a raised eyebrow. “I’m not stupid…” The blonde smirked satisfied and turned your face to press a kiss to your cheek.

“Come now, I’ll braid your hair. No need to make your scalp bleed anymore.” With gentle hands she pulled you in front of the mirror, braiding your hair with quick fingers before squeezing your shoulders when she was done.

Katie and Beth wiggled their eyebrows at the two of you when they saw Alessia enter the pitch with you at her side – your face so flushed no one could miss it.

And from that day on, Alessia did your hair in the dressing room. But it wasn’t kept a secret for long, so with her help, you managed to get ready on time. Alessia, your own little assistant, who would never complain about your jitteriness, clumsiness, or forgetfulness. An angel sent from heaven – or hell when you looked at Manchester United.

[neocrias]

The Ultimate Test

Synopsis: In which you hear that Mark Lee - a cocky classmate from college - is a bad kisser, so he personally offers to prove you wrong.

wc: 3,3k genre: party! au; university! au; slightly suggestive

You didn't used to come to parties like this. Well, at least not on weekdays. Definitely not when you had a Calculus 3 exam in a couple of days to worry about. However, the pleading eyes of your three best friends who couldn't bear to see you go through the whole grueling college experience without going through the whole drinking-and-partying stereotypical uni thing managed to convince you this time.

And you were thankful to have a little black strapless dress tucked away in the back of your closet for specific situations like this. And you were also grateful when your friends offered to pay for your Uber - after all, being an university student also brought with it the unhappiness of lack of money and the small joy of when you get something for free.

You just weren't very grateful when you realized that you barely spoke to those people at the party and your friends had "very important" things to do, which included kissing and boys, and didn't include you staring at them while all of this was going on. Of course, this was expected, and you didn't want to be a party-pooper, so you just started walking around and drinking a few shots of beverages you weren't exactly interested in knowing what were. Again, it was for free.

Your slight shyness wasn't limiting or controlling, but it was certainly a bit inconvenient. More than once a few good-looking guys came up to talk to you, but your clumsiness simply drove them away within a few minutes. Damn.

And now here you were: listening to incredibly loud music in a modern mid-century house that you didn't know who it belonged to - or even if it was a fraternity, or anything like that - with a plastic cup of a drink that you didn't know what it was, eyeliner that you could swear would melt at any moment with the human warmth around you, a little black dress that had already gone out of fashion and an uncontrollable urge to do something outrageous, just so you could distract yourself from the fact that normally at that time you would either be sleeping or freaking out about the imminent calculus exam. "Damn that motherfucking calculus," you thought, "I'm at a party."

On the other side of the large, high-ceiling living room, a group of recognizably annoying boys were playing beer pong while dozens of girls surrounded them. All of them were engineering students, except for their leader, Mark Lee, who was the most disturbing of the seven and was a literature major (which in some way that was incomprehensible to you, attracted a lot of girls) and he obviosuly took advantage of this, which was visible by the girl leaning loosely on his waist at this very moment.

— YES! — Haechan, one of them, shouted over the loud music as he hit the ping-pong ball into a glass of beer. Mark cracked his neck twice before picking up the glass and drinking until the very last drop, defeated.

You stared at him as he shrugged and grimaced before returning the glass to the table and flashing a smile at everyone in the game, preparing for his turn to throw the ball.

It wasn't that he wasn't handsome, or attractive. Yes, he was. And he didn't fall short on either count. You could understand why he was so chasen after by the girls on campus. It's just that you'd had the opportunity to have a few dialogues with Mark Lee, and they were all pretty unpleasant. There was something about his manner, his attitude, that you just couldn't endure. He was irritating. Smug. Sloppy. And you don't have time or patience for that.

He then flexed his arm, his biceps visible thanks to his tank top, and threw the ping-pong ball, but someone blocked your view just in time to watch him hit the cup.

— You won't believe what I've just found out! — Jennie, one of your three cheeky friends, appears smiling and clearly drunk. — Mark Lee is a total soft kisser!

— What? — You almost scream, startled by the sudden mention of the boy you've been shamelessly watching for the past few moments. And even worse: worried about how your friend had acquired this information.

— I'm serious! — She laughed out loud, bending her body forward and knocking some of what looked like a fruit cocktail out of the glass in her hand. You sidestep cautiously, but some of the pink liquid still splashes on your legs. — Lin said they kissed earlier in the evening, and he barely even moved! Can you believe that?

You laugh at the irony of the facts. That was valid information to share. You feel a bit bad for Lin, your classmate, but honestly? You wouldn't trade knowing that for anything. Of course, Mark, the most conceited person who ever lived, would be the type to talk a lot and do nothing. Was there anything more coherent than that? Absolutely not!

Your laughter joins Jennie's, and you both enjoy the gossip for a while. Suddenly, Rihanna's "You Da One" starts playing through the dozens of speakers scattered around the house and you and your friend stare at each other, wide-eyed, as your laughter stops.

— THAT'S OUR SONG! — You shout at the same time. Jennie pulls you by the arm to the most spacious part of the room, where everyone was dancing, and you let yourself go for the first time all night.

The lively melody and beat combine with the rhythm of your heart, and not much later you can hardly feel the world around you. Tests, lack of money, shyness or cocky boys, none of it mattered. The few drinks you've consumed so far finally seem to take effect, and with every song that plays, your body feels looser and your mind feels further away.

Not long after that, a tall, muscular guy starts to whisper something to Jennie, who smiles back shyly. You realize that maybe this is your cue to take a break from the dance floor to grab another drink and finally quench your thirst caused by the sudden exercise.

You see the familiar counter full of disposable cups and bottles of all kinds on the other side of the hall, in what appears to be a dining room combined with a kitchen that is now full of young people and very messy. It's easy to let yourself imagine what that environment would look like if it weren't in its most chaotic state: perhaps a cozy place or a shared-house of intelligent students. But right now, that was just the alcohol talking.

As soon as you reach the counter, you grab a plastic cup and fill it with what looks like clear alcohol - perhaps a vodka, or gin - topped off with a generic soft drink from the other side of the counter. That mix will be enough at the moment to keep you from passing out, but it won't let the dance sober you up again either.

The first sip brings the sweetness of soda and the bitterness of strong alcohol down your throat.

— Vodka. That's for sure. — You conclude to yourself, looking at the cup in your hands.

— I thought you were some kind of female-hermit or something. — A voice pulls you out of your little dialog with the inanimate object in your hands, and you look up to see the person on the other side of the bar, only to roll your eyes deeply.

— That' not even a thing.

But Mark Lee just shrugs, filling his own cup with what looked like a brownish liquor.

— You get the idea. — He smiles and tilts his head, stopping to watch you. His eyes scan along your little black dress and you suddenly feel embarrassed by all the attention you're getting. He just lets out a muffled laugh, probably noticing the way you flinch slightly, and walks away with his drink - not without turning around and giving you a wink, which you answered with a frown.

After the not-so-pleasant appearance of the cocky college student, you remember the funniest piece of information of the evening: "Mark Lee is a total soft kisser!". Of course! He could be as arrogant as he wanted around you or any other girl, but you knew what he really was. You knew his secret. And he may have walked out of there thinking he'd rocked it, or that he'd made you uncomfortable as usual, but it was you who had won your little dispute. After all, you're going to have the last laugh.

…🎉…

A few more drinks away and no word from your friends. The small anger you had felt towards Mark had been transformed into an important mission to tell almost every girl you knew there about the new gossip you had been entrusted with.

You were at a stage in your drinking where your conscience was no longer so affected - so you could tell that your actions were the result of a real desire to unmask the most annoying guy you knew. Of course, the drink made you bold enough to carry out the plan, but the rest was all yours.

— So… Mark Lee, do you know who that is? — You were excitedly telling Lane, a girl from your business class. Lane nodded, curious. — The rumors are that…

She then arched her eyebrows, looking past you. Unfortunately, or not, you didn't exactly notice that.

— He's a very bad kisser! — And then you started laughing for the nth time that night, thinking about how funny that was and hoping for a good reaction from your colleague.

— Oh really? And how do you know that? — A voice echoes from behind you and you feel your spine freeze. Lane stares at you and the person behind you alternately, getting a front row view of your giant screwup.

"Shit", you thought before turning to face the known voice owner.

— Mark. — It's all you can say. You try your best not to show the shame of having been caught in such a…vulnerable moment. The brown-haired guy just stared at you intensely, arms crossed in front of his chest and a deadly look in his eyes. You don't let yourself be intimidated this time, and give him an ironic look in return.

— Funny you should be saying that, hermit.

— Funny that you're a literature student and yet misuse that word.

Okay, that wasn't your best take at the moment. But it was all you could think of as a response. You wait for a laugh from Mark, or anything else that would reveal his smug spirit - or that would show that he had been shaken by your comment about the kiss.

However, he just takes a step forward, still with his arms crossed, coming dangerously close to you and tilting his head and shoulders in your direction, to look you right in the eye as he says:

— Who did you call a "bad kisser" again? — He teases, starting to crack a sly smile. — Why don't you kiss me to prove who's the bad kisser?

You swallow a lump in your throat, not knowing what to say. That's right, it seems that his idiotic manners had appeared in the worst possible way, and now it was up to you to make things right, even though you felt nervous and your stomach twisted with a feeling you didn't understand where it was coming from.

Suddenly, a flash of confidence came over you. And there, staring at your nemesis' frowning eyebrows and the nonchalant way in which he crossed his well-shaped arms, with that stupid grin on his face and a growing challenge in his gaze, you understood what was happening to you. Damn it, you want to kiss Mark.

Of course you don't want to give him a taste of being right, or yet another reason for him to think he's the man. Of course you don't want to hurt your own pride, and you'd hold on to it like your life depended on it.

But you also wanted to be able to test that gossip you'd heard earlier that evening. And you also wanted the taste of knowing that you'd totally destabilized that arrogant man. You wanted to see the look of surprise on his face when you accepted his proposal, or would he be… satisfied? Or bewildered? All the options seemed alluring in your imagination.

And you wanted to. Oh, you really did. You really wanted to kiss Mark Lee.

— Prove me wrong, then. — You boldly held the gaze of the boy who was testing your patience so much these past weeks. Your smile gradually widened as you watched his mouth slowly open in confusion. Oh, he hadn't expected that. Mark's eyebrows drew together and he seemed to search for words. His posture stretched, and the shadow of his body moved away from you.

— Wait, what did you say? — He pointed to his own ear and then to his surroundings, indicating the muffled sound of the party music. His face showed, however, that he had heard very well - he just wanted to make sure he wasn't hallucinating those words.

— Prove. me. wrong.

— What the actual f… — He practically whispered, but you could understand the words just by watching the movement of his lips. Mark's gaze in your direction was puzzled and surprised, but not in a childish way. He stared at you as if he were really trying to understand what on earth could be happening to you at that moment.

So, without letting him think too much about your sudden acceptance, you took the boy's wrist in one hand and began to lead him out of there.

— Let's find somewhere to go. — You said, with an assurance that had never come through your voice before, which Mark seemed to like. Then he took the lead himself, gently leading you through the party with the calm of someone who seemed to have done it many times before - and he probably had. You mentally thanked him, because if you had to continue to pull up your little confident act, your knees might have given out. Or your stomach would explode. Something in between.

Suddenly, Mark stopped in front of a door, already on the second story of the house. You didn't even notice how your feet made it all the way up the stairs, but they did. He opens the door, but not before turning to look at you one last time, trying to make sure that was happening.

He enters the room before you and turns on the light, making you realize that it was a rather narrow bathroom. Your heart beats rapidly before you take the final steps towards that unexpected destination. You enter and close the door behind you. Mark leans lazily against the wall opposite to the sink, facing the bathroom mirror. He takes a deep breath, looks at the floor with a sly smile and says:

— I thought you hated me… — But you don't let him finish, because you quickly stand in front of him and put both hands behind the back of the head of the boy you hated. You see Mark's eyes widen one last time as he is interrupted, before you can bring your lips together in a rushed kiss.

Your nervous fingers run through the end of Mark's hair, which seemed freshly cut and slightly spiky. You smiled into the kiss at the tickling sensation, while he barely had time to react to your approach.

Then, when he finally understands, Mark pulls you close, holding your waist with both hands and spreading his legs to fit you between them. His grip is firm but still, as if he's nervous.

You continue to enjoy the moment, moving according to the rhythm between you, but always wanting more. The air in the bathroom seems increasingly thin, but the chaos of your mind barely lets you notice. You leave Mark's lips to make a trail of kisses between his chin and neck, hearing him sigh above you. You feel the warmth of his skin, and the short traces of freshly shaved beard on his face. It's only when Mark gently pulls his face away and leans his forehead against yours, pausing to take a deep breath, that you realize he's barely had time to think.

— Okay, hasty. — He lets out a weak laugh between sighs. — Now it's my turn.

Without letting you answer - and in a classic revenge move - Mark leans over until you have to walk backwards. His steps are short, but they work until your back hits the sink counter. His exposed arms encircle you, holding you firmly on the worktop as he brings his body closer to yours until you're completely touching.

You let out an exclamation before he presses your lips together again, this time taking the lead.

Mark's lips feel like uncharted territory, as this time he takes control. His kiss is firm, but not at all restrained. Slowly, you feel one of his hands rise from the counter and run down your spine from the base to the nape of your neck, tracing it with his fingers and leaving you extremely sensitive. At the nape of your neck, Mark's hand fiddles with your hair, precisely catching the strands in a ponytail that he pulls back slightly.

His index finger makes a few deft turns through the strand, twisting it until it is completely in his grasp. He squeezes your strands with a force that doesn't hurt, but makes you grunt into the kiss - which he answers with a smile.

Still enraptured by the unexpected movements, you barely notice when Mark's two hands gather around your thighs, pushing them up until you're sitting on the sink counter and he has to tilt his head slightly to avoid breaking the kiss. The ease with which he had lifted you, and without pulling away. Oh my God.

Jennie's words about Mark seem further and further away, as if they had been in another life. They also seem, fortunately or not, untrue.

"Lin said they kissed earlier in the evening, and he barely even moved! Can you believe that? ", you hear your friend's voice in your head. Oh, no… Lin must have been completely out of her mind.

But there's barely time to think about anything outside that small bathroom. Or at least not when Mark is running his tongue lightly over your lower lip before moving on to your neck. The warm breath against your cold skin sends shivers down your spine, and you wriggle under the boy's grip - which still hasn't left your thigh.

With no time to lose, you pull back on Mark's neck to press your lips together again, and he seems to love it. For a few more moments, you exchange hurried kisses and firm squeezes, until Mark's kiss begins to slow down, becoming even more attractive. The movement of your lips, so sure and certain, gradually stops, until he leaves a few lingering kisses and rests with your faces close together.

— I think you've proved me wrong. — You say, in a whisper, then let out a muffled laugh, unable to stop smiling.

— That's a shame… — He begins, tilting his head with a sideways smile. — Because if you weren't convinced, I'd have to keep proving it to you.

You face each other directly, and you can't help but roll your eyes at his comment, and then say:

— Mark Lee, you're an incredibly bad kisser.

— That's exactly what I wanted to hear. — He mumbles and moves closer again. You can still hear him let out one last dry, drawn-out laugh before closing your eyes and surrendering to the darkness.

[querenciasturniolo]

your fics are absolutely just the best. could you potentially right about how y/n and the triplets go to a fair together and while doing one of the game stands y/n wants to win a stuff bunny or just stuff animal in general and her and matt have this competition to see who’s better at winning the game and matt ends up winning but surprises y/n by getting her the stuff bunny/animal??

water gun ⮕ m.s.

word count: 909

warnings: swearing

summary: you challenge matt to a game, and it doesn’t go as expected

a/n: this idea was so cute, ignore the fact that the ending is awful, my brain wouldn’t cooperate lmao

everything written is completely fictional. the people i write for are written with characteristics and mannerisms that i made for them, this is in no way depicting what would actually happen in real life.

When Chris caught wind of a pop up carnival being just a few blocks down from their house, he convinced all of you to go.

There were no rides, just rigged games and food stands. The four of you were walking around aimlessly, stopping at each food stand and getting something to share. You were all standing on the edge of the path, Chris pounding the fried dough and pointing at one of the booths.

“We have to win a goldfish.” He said, his mouth completely full. You looked at him and pulled a face.

“Chris, the goldfish game is rigged. Besides, the goldfish will die in like three days just because of it being jostled around for the rest of the night.” You said, Chris whining dramatically as you put a piece of dough in your mouth.

Your eyes scanned over the carnival, immediately stopping on the water gun game. You watched a few of the kids fondly, seeing how excited they got when the water hit the target and the little rocket moved up a centimeter. The prizes varied, but a single stuffed animal caught your eye.

“You guys, the water guns, we have to!” You said, looking between all three of them. Chris rolls his eyes.

“So the goldfish game is rigged, but the rocket one isn’t? I see how it is.” He grumbled, tossing the empty plate into the trash can and following you as you made your way to the game.

“What’s the time limit to get the big, purple bunny?” You asked, the carny looking up from his phone to shrug.

“Whoever’s rocket hits the bell first in under thirty seconds, gets to choose anything, regardless of size. Sixty seconds, the medium and small prizes. Ninety seconds or more, the small prizes only.” He said, his voice tired,

You nodded your head and handed him the money, looking back at the triplets with your eyebrows raised.

“You guys gonna play, or are you scared of eating my dust?” You challenged, Matt scoffing and handing the carny his money.

“Bring it on.” He said, Nick and Chris standing off to the side with surprise etched into their features. You rolled your eyes and sat in the rickety stool, Matt dropping down next to you as he shook out his arms.

You couldn’t help the snort that escaped you, Matt looking at you with a raised brow. “Do you have a problem with how I prepare to win?” He asked, provoking another laugh to leave your lips.

“Not at all, it just isn’t convincing.” You said, turning your attention back to your water gun and grinning at the shocked look on Matt’s face.

The carny put his phone in his pocket and looked up unamused. “Alright, the water will start shooting automatically when I start it. Aim towards the target, and try to keep it steady. Go.”

The water guns started, and you immediately aimed for the target. Your rocket barely moved, your eyes flickering over to see Matt’s rocket moving just a little bit more than yours.

“Fuck.” You said, reaching over with one hand to shove Matt’s shoulder, his stream of water jostling.

“That’s cheating, you dick!” He said, laughter spilling from him as he grabbed the top of your water gun and jerked it to the side, the stream hitting the target next to yours. The both of you carried on like this, trying to sabotage the other while trying to hit the bell first.

Matt’s rocket hits the bell, yours reaching the bell seconds after. You groaned, stepping off the stool and lightly shoving Matt by the shoulder.

“Lucky shot.” You said, Matt looking at you and raising his eyebrows.

“Lucky shot, my ass. You’re just mad you suck.” He teased. You rolled your eyes, fighting the smile off your face as you stepped past Matt and went to Chris and Nick.

“Not a word.” You said, Chris closing his mouth and nodding.

“Isn’t that the one you wanted?” Nick asked. You turned around, seeing the carny hand Matt the purple bunny you wanted.

You scoffed and laughed, crossing your arms over your chest as Matt walked over. “So not only do you cheat the system, but you rub my loss in my face with the only thing I wanted?” You said, Matt scoffing and shaking his head.

“Actually, I got it for you, but if you don’t want it.” He said, holding it close to him. Your face lit up, your hands immediately reaching out and ripping it out of his hand.

“Are you serious? Oh my God, I take back everything I said, you’re my favorite person.” You rambled, wrapping Matt in a hug. He laughed and wrapped his arms around you, lightly squeezing before pulling away.

“Oh yeah, I didn’t want you to feel too badly about your loss.” He said, you scoffing and holding the bunny under your arm.

You turned and started walking, Matt falling into step with you.

“Please, you just love me, and you don’t want to admit it.” You said, Matt shaking his head.

“Yeah, don’t gas yourself too much.” He teased. You glanced over at him, seeing the pink tint to his cheeks and smiling to yourself.

You would definitely bring it up at some point, but not tonight. Tonight was for teasing your friends and challenging them to different games. You’d lost each one, but it was a perfect night nonetheless.

[inevitably-johnlocked]

hey, steph! how are you, like, genuinely? not the small talk. i wanna listen

Hey Lovely 💜🖤

I want to apologize for putting this off for so long... which should be a clue as to how I am actually doing.

Honestly? Not good, but I'm trying my best. It's been... a time. Will put under a cut for those who don't want to read about the tagged items.

TL;DR – my real life is a bit chaotic, and I hide a lot from y'all because I REALLY try not to be negative here since my blog is where I come to be happy AND because I am a very private person, but I try my best to just keep going day to day as the chaos settles down slowly.

I've got some good things coming though, so I hope a week's rest next week when I'm off (and will probably take a break from here too) will reset my brain.

Work has been insane, and is most of the cause of my mental distress for the past few months. From Easter until Canada Day Weekend at my job is lovingly referred to as "Silly Season" simply because of how on-the-fly, balls-to-the-wall our workload is until summertime downtime officially begins for us. Without disclosing too much, it's basically non-stop, long hours for me until one of the 3 break weeks we get during the this long stretch happens where, incidentally because of the nature of my job and the team I work on, it actually gets BUSIER for us.

It actually ended earlier than we expected this year (yesterday) and we'll be "quieter" until the end of September now. See an opportunity, I actually took next week off between the two long weekends because my mental health has taken a severe hit and I'm having trouble just... enjoying things? I'm haven't gamed or drew in a few weeks, and blogging and writing feels like a chore. I literally just come home, file this blog, reply to one or two asks, and then go to bed, and do it all over again the next day. Day in and day out, for 3 months. On weekends I have to force myself out of my apartment because I KNOW I will sink lower if I don't leave.

On top of that, my brain has convinced me that literally everyone hates me: friends, coworkers, family, you guys, my damned plants. I just feel very alone these days and... I'll be real here, I've almost abandoned this blog a few times in the past few months. I feel like I make fic lists that no one reblogs or likes and tell me they're all shit. I post my art and I barely break 20 notes. I write something and I get maybe 2 likes. I can't really answer any thoughtful asks because my mental state's been in the shitter for months. I desperately want to reply to the few sexuality asks I have and I physically can't. Being on my computer – after working ON a computer for my day job for 12 hour days everyday – feels like too much, so I try to limit my time on the blog now too.

I just try to keep carrying on, encouraged by the once-in-a-blue-moon testimonial ask I get thanking me for still being here. I thank YOU guys for reminding me that people still like coming here.

Stressed about money and food and rent just like everyone else, and just getting frustrated at other things.

And finally, my uncle (my dad's brother and my godfather) hasn't been doing well health-wise, and he's being moved to assisted living next week. His health has been declining since Easter, so it's been a bit of worrying time for relatives.

Having my therapist helps a lot. She talks me through a lot of my complicated feelings, my sense of self and ways to cope with my anxiety and stress. I'm talking to her again next week, so no worries, gang. As I said, I just keep on keeping on.

Some positivity though:

I booked next week off to try to just... recenter myself. To forget about everything and TRY to get back to doing the things I love. I will probably take a break from this blog as well during that time to limit my social-media time. It's not ideal but I need a break from my computer, I think.

I go to the gym a lot more these days, which has helped with the seething annoyance I constantly have at work. Usually feel better after it.

And because of the gym and getting out more, I've been slowly feeling better physically, better than I have since before 2019. The break from work is for the mental health, LOL.

I'm getting my hair recoloured next week. Can't afford it, really, but I just REALLY need to feel better about myself again, and I always feel so different when I colour my hair. I was doing so good for awhile. I want that again.

Anyway, I'm sorry to bombard y'all with my complicated mess of a brain. I really do appreciate you asking, so THANK YOU. I rarely get asked in real life if I am okay because I keep very private due to past people betraying my trust. And I don't like seeing people unhappy, so I feel if I tell people about my problems, then I feel I am a burden, so I just... continue existing.

Thank you for letting me be a burden just this once.

[ruporas]

apologies if you've already been asked this but do you have any favorite trigun fics? i absolutely adore your art btw!

thank you!!! and i've answered this on insta, but i don't think i've ever shared on tumblr... i'm not good at reading fics, esp long ones, because my attention span is pretty bad, but from the ones i have bookmarked, i'll share some that i like in no particular order

hills like white elephants (meet me halfway) - adlvnam

pairing: vashwood word count: 1.1k, sfw, vague post v.10 spoilers ‘I read a story once,’ Vash says, unsure. ‘I’m kind of thinking about it right now.’

i like a lot of adlvnam's fics, i find them very unique and creative in their execution, and their writing is wonderful! this was the first fic i've read from them and it's stuck with me ever since. others that i like from them are in manus tuas (no spoilers) and vox dei (warning for post vol.10 spoilers).

stay - Anonymous

pairing: vashwood word count: 2.3k, sfw, no spoilers “Hold up,” Vash groans. He presses his free hand to Wolfwood’s mouth and shushes him. He’s probably going for a stern look, though between his poor attempts to stop grinning like the biggest idiot this side of the planet and the way he’s patting him, it’s hard to take him seriously. “Stop laughin’. Where’s the keys?” “What keys?” Wolfwood tries to ask, muffled by Vash’s hand, and his tongue is a little thick and slow in his mouth so… something comes out, but it’s probably not very wordy. Word-like. Not a sentence, probably. (or, wolfwood and vash get drunk, bicker, and then share a bed together.)

i enjoyed the mundanity and silliness of this fic and i think about it from time to time... i think fics where one of them or both drink together are pleasant to read.

Last Summer - varilien

pairing: vashwood word count: 741, sfw, no spoilers You are what you love.

tags on this one are "sunrises, morning routines, coffee, sentimental" which caught my attention. very sweet and beautiful.

Rain - Kokohamstar

pairing: none, wolfwood centric word count: 768, sfw, major spoilers - post v.10 Ever since he was a little kid listening to Bible stories, he dreamed of the day the world would be washed clean and wondered what the rain would feel like on his face.

as most wolfwood centric fics, it was a gutpunch and melancholic, but still soooo.. augh.... the last paragraph really does it for me.

water bucket blues - fathomfive

pairing: vashwood word count: 3.7k, sfw, major spoilers, post trimax Vash the Stampede goes on the record about a friend he once had. Also about card games, cats, family, and some other things. "Start with a piece of the whole, Meryl said. It doesn’t have to be the first piece. Start with a specific. That’s what they mean when they throw around the words human interest. I know the pieces. Believing they make a whole is another thing. But she’s a broadcast professional and I trust her advice. Maybe if I can figure out how to tell one piece—like the story of Wolfwood as I knew him—I can learn how to tell the others."

i love vash pov fics and i love it when it's first person and this one in particular hits because it's his pov and he speaks, honestly, openly, telling a tale that he can't really flub because it's about the people he loved. i love how grounded this fic is in the present of max, i love how vash grows within the 3.7k words, i love how he moves forward with the world he's living in. this fic makes me teary if i think too much about it... it's really wonderful.

it’s a summer day, and I want to be wanted more than anything else in the world - goldenglitz

pairing: vashwood word count: 3.9k, nsfw, no spoilers Vash has the lung capacity of a man who’s cried for 150 years. It isn't like Wolfwood takes more than he gives — but like with most things, he barely keeps up with Vash. He works his body to the limit, even as his lungs burn and his legs and arms give out under him. They fuck like they’re on borrowed time. All of this makes it so easy — so much easier than just talking. Wolfwood would sometimes rather pull new and interesting noises from Vash with just his mouth than do anything else with it. Their own dialect: moans, groans, and four words. “Yes” — “Please” — “Vash” — “Wolfwood.”

i love all of their vashwood fics, they only have 3 but they're all lovely and has a sort of characterization to both vash and wolfwood i don't see often. definitely one of my faves, especially when it comes to explicit vw fics.

i think these are all the ones i'll share for now!!

[sugar-petals]

sub!𝓒𝓱𝓪𝓷 💙𝙽𝚂𝙵𝚆 𝚊𝚕𝚙𝚑𝚊𝚋𝚎𝚝  (18+)

⇢ gentle femdom (n.) :: a variant of bdsm emphasizing affectionate play with a pliant sub rather than hard kinks, brat taming, sadism, or hierarchy.

pairing. pleaser!bangchan x femdom!reader 

WARNINGS. ⚠️ rated m, soft sub chris, light restraints, studio and car sex, mommy kink, pegging, oral sex (f receiving), fingering, frottage, shy chan, vanilla positions, lack of aftercare bc chan sleeps fast 😅, self-esteem issues, food play mention, established relationship 

★ wc. 3k

↳ [ // 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄. ] a soft hc for for valentine’s 💌 following lee know’s version, more sub!skz worldbuilding! good boy chan agenda going strong here... truth be told, it’s always interesting to write leaders showing their true face. not sure if i’ll make this a complete series due to my standard high word counts; if there’s a member u absolutely want to read about take to the replies/asks, if multiple people chime in for someone i see what i can do! as for now, sub chan enthusiasts enjoy! 💛

read it on ao3 | 💋 masterlist 💋

a = aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

Fast asleep within a mere five minutes. Like an ice statue frozen for a thousand years. If this guy puts the strain of having sex on top of his already endless to-do list, he’s gonna doze off in Guinness World record time some day. In his vocabulary, what even is aftercare? He’s like don’t worry mate, I’m fine, maybe a warm glass of water, now good nig—zzZ.

When you didn’t know each other so well yet, you planned to run him a nice bath and all, but reality hit with Chan entering the dream land after getting a spanking. So, in the end, aftercare is just handing him a pillow and toweling him down while he’s already in the twilight zone. See you tomorrow! Reducing the craziness of sex doesn’t really make him stay awake, nor do you want him to — any sleep is good sleep for Chan, anyway. If sex exhaustion is his justification for sleep rather than editing another whole damn album, why not. Play with you is his best excuse to nap.

b = body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

Chan likes his arms and wow-factor shoulders generally, but it’s not limited to them. Some days, he’s way happier with something else (proud of leg day, let’s go). On other days, he doesn’t like anything and tries to ignore that. Every mirror an enemy. The next day, he feels better about something else entirely. Stray Kids going through so many bold outfits and intricate stylings has sort of confused him about how he naturally looks sometimes. Chan is not content with his bare face, but feels better after you pepper it with kisses.

When it comes to you, he’d never say a thing about a preference. You won't be able to tell where Chan’s mind goes the most, and it generally doesn’t hyperfocus on one body part anyway. Does he like legs best, hips, hands, back, your chest? No one knows. All he says is, „I really like your figure“ — and that’s all. Of course he thinks his domme is hot as fuck, in fact, he thinks she fucking slays. He’s just a gentleman about it.

You like his eyebrows and curly bangs a lot. In your eyes, he has a really handsome and memorable face to begin with (that eyeshadow game makes it even better, holy cow). Even classically handsome, even if he doesn’t really believe it. You saying „Damn you look good!“ when he puts on a tight outfit that accentuates his body shape, it really flatters him to the core. You like his sexy face chains and accessories, chokers galore, and virtually any type of harness fitted all across his torso or legs. Chan is a wet BDSM dream come true and he doesn’t even realize it, does he.

c= cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

Actually not that into it. His own cum, I mean. Chan usually forgets to rub one out even when he feels a little twitch while working. Too focused. He ignores his libido often. Same idea extends to cumming inside you as far as vanilla is concerned. Chan knows it’s awkward to clean it all out. He’d rather wear protection and release on his own stomach, then quickly get rid of it if he’s not dozing already.

He blushes hearing you talk dirty about semen, but the real thing? Chris isn’t obsessed like some other people would be. It’s a necessary evil to him, and just another thing bodies do. His orgasms tend to underwhelm him or disappoint no matter what he does, he’s not as confident pushing himself to a maximum of pleasure by himself. He depends a lot on you to chase a high sometimes, which makes him feel deficient. You notice that he beats himself up and suggest some more gentle femdom forms of sex that focus more on sensuality and less adrenaline. Works way better for him. Besides modeling harnesses like a pro, Chan is actually a die-hard soft sub.

On the other hand… Duality. Selfless Chan is totally focused on having you completely soaked at his very creative fingertips. Cum play 5000. He’s a musician. And producer. And dancer. And singer. And rapper. Safe to say that fella has rhythm.

And: Don’t worry. He’s not the type to edge and finger you recklessly. Chan isn’t brutal, nor is he punishing. Always the exact opposite. Pleasing, pleasing, pleasing. His submissive tendencies show almost everywhere. The most daring thing he’d do is tease you with a bright smile, which probably makes you wanna bust a nut on the same spot, ain’t it so. You Chan hard stan, you. He constantly asks for feedback and wants your own hands to do it with him so he can learn: That good boy. How that tiny spot of yours can make your whole body feel so electric is quite astounding to him. Getting you off and making you laugh? His favorite downtime.

d = dirty secret (pretty self-explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Other people probably assume his ultimate kink and darkest fantasy would be something like `Chan being selfish and cruel for once´. Just doing something because he craves it. Or something like topping you for fun, large and in charge, leader mode. Little did they know that Chan’s most secret wish is you finally meeting his parents for an evening of barbecue. Ain’t he typical.

e = experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

More than you think, less than you assume. He’s a lovely Libra. The golden middle of everything is true for him. He’s not dared to directly approach any crush he had, but yes, always prompting a shy and nervous response, he’s the one who’s been approached quite a couple times. By a handful of dominants who saw right through him, too, yes. A bit of flirting over some dinner did went down, but only a dozen dates turned into some tentative, makeshift sexual activity at their place. Obviously not the dorm, he’d never do that. He’s not Hwang Hyunjin getting pegged — next to Lee Know, gaming — by every girl in a ten-mile radius.

Chan also received an Inkigayo sandwich and had a genuinely lovely time. It went on for two months until it got a bit awkward. All in good spirits, though. Because seriously. Caring as he is, and always with the other person’s well-being in mind, how could Chan ruin a breakup. If there is a split, the transition period to a new chapter will be seamless, not heartbreaking. A few tears will fall, the chest is heavy, but he’s not gonna engage in a war of roses and lose face. He does have complaints, but he’s no mean guy. Even when he has a reason to accuse an ex, he will swallow it. The shit he’s bottled up. Chan will feel burdened, down for quite some days, but focus on moving on properly when it’s possible.

f = favorite position (this goes without saying)

Undecided. Doesn’t want your head too far away nor too close. He’s afraid of accidents, hurting your face somehow, he’s a little paranoid. A bit of movement distance is good for soft missionary, it can be bridged by kissing. Chan uses his arms to prop himself up, gyrating so fucking heavenly, and you can grab his ass. All the praise you’ll shower him with. You’ll often be having sex in a back hug, that’s a good one, too. Especially seated, with Chan leaning forward a little to meet your spine with his chest. All you see is legs legs legs twitching under you, damn good view.

Girl on top, however, occupies both of your minds all the time. That’s where you feel at home. Comfortable for both of you, Chan can be more passive, you active. Your bed or couch needs lots of pillows, though, it’s too empty and scary for him otherwise. The floor is off limits, not cozy enough, you agree. You’re a cozy couple. Chan draped over a hard surface on his back, naked, is a sexy as fuck image in your head, but the reality is not snuggly and warm enough.

g = goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

Total goofball, you love the guy’s sexy time humor. His crinkly eyes ad triangle-shaped dimples (yes they’re literally like that) always alleviate the moment and bridge an awkward silence or pause. Chan has a soft spot for your outrageous jokes, too. Your every word has him almost hanging by a thread so to speak, he’s a very active listener. Dirty talk and conversation absolutely dominate your sex life, silent sexy time is a natural, mutually agreed upon no-go.

h = hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

Clean pits, clean everything. He’s pretty economical with it. Adapts to your wishes, puts lots of effort in. If it’s gotta be a hairy situation, the rules are even stricter, even if he sometimes forgets to maintain it, which makes Chan feel terribly sorry. „Won’t happen again! Oh geez.“ Uneven hairs piss him off, he’s the legend of trimming everything in place.

i = intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

Can’t stay serious and focused for two seconds. Says a cheesy thing as soon as you even blink.

j = jack off (masturbation headcanon)

Too busy with his beautiful fingers between your labia to think about himself. As always: Chan gives and gives and gives without ever taking. When you’re driving to the gym and he takes the passenger seat, prepare for masturbation galore — all while he doesn’t touch himself one bit. You reward him with a little improvised frottage with his upright dick crushed against your ass later on the backseat. Both of you in your underwear: Because it’s hotter. Chan comes pretty fast, his cock is so sensitive to being squeezed by you. Turn around while you grind on him because his surprised facial expressions are just glorious. His tight body in his sports clothing feels so damn good, you can do this all day long.

k = kink (one or more of their kinks)

Feeding each other delicious sweets and random food bits. He’s totally enamored with this. You can be silly together, carefree, he can be your cutest little one. Not entirely in an age play sense, more as a casual endearment.

l = location (favorite places to do the do)

So, besides the car and bed. His production studio chair is surprisingly not the way to go. Too narrow, moves around too much, spins at every damn movement. Studio couch is more like it. The amount of times you’ve made out on there, the members would so judge him for being thirsty. But you see the practical aspect. Increased support, decently elastic if not a little bouncy, and a comfortable surface that’s easy to clean for him. It’s not like Chan keeps typing and producing with you on his lap at the table. Come on, he focuses on you. When you sit next to him or on him casually to see what he’s working on, sure, he will go on as usual though. But it’s often him who wants to sit on your lap to get pampered, or between your legs non-sexually if he’s too heavy for you. At home, any spot will do, long as it has a pillow fort.

m = motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

Affection and courtesy. Compared to some other members, say Felix, Chan doesn’t submit to try stuff out and to chase a kinky curiosity. The principle and chivalry counts for him instead. Being a domme pleaser and body worship advocate 5000 is what keeps Chan coming back for more. Stress relief is a side effect, pun intended.

n = no (something they wouldn’t do, turn-offs)

Hard domming you. He has leader energy on stage, but privately, mercurial goofball he is, it just doesn’t suit him. Chan would never make you scream or sob, and he can’t use a whip on your ass either. That image is so strange to both of you. Although he matches the aesthetic of a hard dom when he’s dressed up like one, face chain wolf gang and all, actually doing all this stuff creeps him out. He recoils at the thought of smacking you roughly or doling out a harsh anal punishment. Raw and hateful sex is simply not his schtick. Again, he’s Hyunjin’s opposite on the submission scale: Mister Hwang is very open to being demolished in a crazy hate fuck by any dominant daring enough. That’s where smacking and violently punishing is very welcome. Chan, he prefers a forehead kiss to make him squeal.

Chan would be all shifty on his feed and be confused constantly if he had to dominate in a cold and relentless way. Being a soft dom is all he could muster, which would simply wind up him service subbing in a covert way — no one’s surprised. And the major obstacle is, Chan simply cannot switch off his charm. He just can’t. It’s in his tone of voice all the time. The only exception happens when he reprimands the members for not taking something seriously enough, but well — he doesn’t have to pull that voice on you. You know the stakes of this relationship and meet him with a logical mindset. You take topping him very seriously like a fucking pro, in fact. Chan got nothing on you, he thinks he’d look like an amateur.

If we’re going there at all: Chan can’t stand the whole kink of say, his girl age regressing to her toddler days, diapers and everything. He’d be like what… It’s too much for him, and his whole Stray Kids’ father role doesn’t have to be his entire identity. Chan appreciates a sexual slash romantic partner who is level-headed and talks to him on equal grounds. He doesn’t want someone tugging at his sleeve all the time talking in a baby voice, he prefers more mature flirting and interactions. He’s the one getting shy, his domme is the wise one. So: No infantilizing his girlfriend. They’re called Stray Kids and not Stray Adults, so he already fosters the whole group as a full-time job — back at home, he’s looking for an authority instead.

o = oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

Oh shit, here they come. Those beautiful, pinkish, big and juicy lips. They’re wonderful and shapely, just right, so puckered. It’s the ace up his sleeve! You’ll grind the chapstick off of `em at every opportunity. He’ll quickly get fantastic at giving head, the eye contact is always a stunner. The lips are usually outclassing his tongue, though you should never underestimate someone who works a mic for a living.

His consistency… I swear. Completely deprioritizes receiving. He’s clumsy with eating you out in the first month of dating, hence why he wants to improve. Although it irks him that he’s not a natural talent, your comforting words will help him. „Not everyone can be born as Hwang Hyunjin.“ — „So true, bestie. Or Felix, too.“ He embraces his beginner mindset and hey, come on: That he tries so hard is worth ten sex toys, the effort and dedication counts. Like he can suck on a dildo in no time. Not ready for the strap yet, but that’s ok. His progress tends to be astounding, he remembers his mishaps and strengths very well. Nerdy Chan writes down what he should keep in mind, that’s a hell of a man right here.

p = pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

Nothing subspace-inducing, we’re keeping it midrange speed here. Though, remember this guy is a literal sports student, athlete, multi talent. He can pull off anything you wish for, you just gotta ask. Nevertheless, he’s too sweet to go and say „let’s just fuck like rabbits, 3, 2, 1, go!“ — some other certain members are more fond of that. Lee Know, Hyunjin, Han, to name the holy trinity of dick destruction. They just wanna get wrecked. CBT and everything. Chan loves pleasure and passion more than ending up ruined, his workload does that for him.

q = quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Yep. Pretty boy likes those. Big fan. Any day. Treats the two of you with cooking afterwards.

r = risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Sexually? Not at all. Besides a little fun and games (read: flirting and pillow fights), he’s beyond mellow. Bangchan is the last person on earth to demand that you amp up your dominatrix game to do something questionable. As in, to experiment with even more extreme practices, electro play, knife play, sounding, that stuff. Or to put on specific, highly sexualized outfits. Again, that would contradict your coziness at home.

He’s not a fan of pushing his dominant to their limit, or having a stake in their appearance whatsoever. You’re not there for his appetite, because he’s the snack. As is good practice, he coordinates a sexual scene together with you, and can make cute wink-wink suggestions: But they’re literally harmless. Such as, „maybe… tie my hands with a ribbon or something?“, and it’s all in an open-ended question format just like that. It’s up to you to allow it or not.

In other words: Bangchan’s inner power bottom is what? Non-existent. Which differs wildly from some other members. Han would totally beg you to slap the shit out of him just so he can experience a shock of adrenaline. Bratty Felix would tease his domme with his ass until she tames him with pinches, clamps, and squeezing. Chan would never even consider asking to be fucking wrestled. It’s 100% you who suggests kinks that carry more danger, like heavy chains with collars, or using a Sybian on him, although that’s not risky from a pro’s perspective. He takes the backseat and will most definitely not provoke any trouble or unsafe etiquette willingly.

s = stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

He took ballet classes. All you need to know. Strength and tension and discipline are words not unfamiliar to him. His dick won’t last long, but the rest of his body will: Unless he danced like crazy that day. Which means time for spoiling and caressing him, talking him through, tucking him into bed. No hard domination please.

t = toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

Bondage rope, yes. Red lights was right, he’s a rope bunny. Other particular toys no… with some room for experimenting sometimes. But he’s not a crazy toy collector, one quality vibrating aid to get you off is worth a 100 random items that he’d buys just to buy them. So, no to that. He’s particular and looks for what really fits the two of you. Strap-on experiments are fine, he quite likes to take it on all fours until one of you cramps. You’re not powering through, but that one’s a long and prep-heavy session. Blowing his back out is probably a bad idea, going slow and steady with lots of reassurance works way better.

u = unfair (how much they like to tease)

Chan’s ‚explanation voice‘ and constant questions can drag out foreplay for half an hour. By any means: The Chansplaining needs to find it’s due end. You get down to business by just unzipping his damn pants. A call to inspect your sexy sub is the perfect shortcut, admittedly just to see his thick package. „Take your cock out, honey. Let me take a good look at it.“ — instantly flustered Chan is putty in your hands.

v = volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

„Yes, mommy!“ — that’s medium loud. Can be more silent, too, but never not super breathy. Drastic spikes in volume, not so much. It’s a constant moaning. Though, I might be understating this, the whole group has a very high benchmark for volume. 80% of Stray Kids are fucking screamers.

w = wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

Chan talks about how much he loves having sex with you all while he’s fast sleep constantly. Babbling in his dreams is not uncommon, the members seem to be on his mind a lot unsurprisingly, but this one stands out to you.

x = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

What he’s got in his sweatpants is like a Monsta X song. I don’t know what else to liken it to. Thing is, he’s not working with a whopping 10 inches. Who the hell carries that. He’s in a comfortable but aesthetically pleasing upper midrange, and really not too awkwardly long at all. It absolutely wouldn’t suit him. Girth and full balls is where it’s at. Also: Big ass alert. Your designated smack target and stress ball. You’re not surprised that Lino acts the way he does given how um cheeky the members are. Chan’s has such a nice curve, fuck.

y = yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

He’s not Felix going „Lemme suck your tiddies real quick“ at every opportunity. Chan is more like „Okay, can I…?“ And he always ends up surprised how easily he gets going. It’s nothing when compared to his awkward jack-off sessions at work. You know what he’s capable of with one glance. Chan is a sensualist. Someone so sporty knows how to get their blood pumping. And: He’s channeled a fuck ton of his sexual energy into dance and his ten thousand other physical talents. You know precisely how to train him to get the desired results.

z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterward)

You can use a damn stopwatch. He’s gone, ciao, bye, hasta luego, see you soon. In your arms, looking as angelic as ever. At the end of the day, Chan’s rapid deep sleep is pretty cute. This sub is a little innocent cherub. He’s in good hands with you.

read it on ao3

related posts: 

sub!idols m.list ♡

lee know alphabet version

sub!skz orgasm faces/bondage scenario 

sub!hyunjin oneshot | sub!felix oneshot

💕 likes, rbs, comments v much appreciated, let’s talk 💕

© 2017-2023 sugar-petals. all rights reserved. no reposts allowed. all depictions are fictional and for entertainment purposes only.

[creative-kny-fics]

While I think about how to complement my other fics, here I leave a SaneGiyuu fic for you 🥹

Ler: Sanemi Shinazugawa

Lee: Giyuu Tomioka

A normal day at Kimetsu Academy...

'YOUNG HASHIBIRA! STOP RUNNING DOWN THE HALLWAYS!'

'MWAHAHAHA CATCH ME THEN!!', yep, a chase between Sanemi and Inosuke was totally normal.

Was there any reason? Inosuke apparently continued to disobey orders not to run in the hallways, wear a boar mask, and wear his uniform incorrectly

'It seems like Shinazugawa-Kun has a problem, don't you think Tomioka-Sensei?', Tomioka sighed and nodded, saying goodbye to his friend, getting close enough to put his foot down and make the student stumble.

Inosuke was grabbed by his uniform, his mask was snatched away, and Giyuu was in charge of leaving him in his classroom as if he were a totally new boy. 'Hey Tomioka, what do you think you're doing?!'

'My job...', wasn't exactly anyone's job, but, let's give them credit for tidying up.

'Shouldn't we do something...? Shinazugawa-Kun apparently wants to hit Tomioka...'

'Mhm! Calm down Kanae! Remember that the director has prohibited fighting in this place! And I trust that Tomioka and Shinazugawa will respect that!', Rengoku was right.

Sanemi growled and pushed Tomioka hard enough just to push him away as he walked away in the opposite direction, apparently not going to waste his time waiting for Giyuu to give him any answers.

'How the hell can these students be so bad at math...?! What idiots, one of the lazy people talking so that these idiots don't pay attention!', Sanemi growled and threw the pen away. 'Be more careful where you throw your things, Shinazugawa'

'I didn't ask you to pick it up, idiot. Don't think I'll thank you for that.'

'I wasn't planning on getting them either'. It was enough for Sanemi, Giyuu had had enough of him, but what could he do if he couldn't hit him?

A memory flashed through Sanemi's mind, his mother also prohibited them from fighting between siblings, even as a game, he could use that! But... WITH GIYUU?! Would it even work?! He doesn't smile and barely talks, could he even be tickled?!

'Hey "Tomioka-Sensei", a question,' he approached him whispering, call his plan something stupid, but Sanemi had it all planned out. 'Are you ticklish?'

'N-no...Where do you get that Shinazugawa? I don't-! Hmphm!'

That was all he needed, if blowing on Giyuu's neck made him squeal, then it was true! He was ticklish!.

'Don't you dare do that, I'll throw a football in your face every time I see you'

'Mmmm... So first you ask me for something and then you threaten me, huh? Well Tomioka, I accept the risk of my actions~', he wasn't going to do it anyway.

'S-Shinahazugawa! Thihis is unprohohofessionahal! S-stop!'

'Mmmm, let me think about it... NO!', and with that, Sanemi's fingers began to move up and down from Giyuu's armpits to Giyuu's hips.

Giyuu tried to continue holding back his laughter, but to no avail...'A-AAAH!! S-SHINAHAZUGAWA!! S-STOHOP!! I-I WAHARNIHING YOHOU!!'

'Ohhhh now you threaten me? What do you think if I do this then?!'

'STOHOHOHOHOP!! LEHEHET ME GOHOHO!! I HAHATEHEHE THIHIS!!', well, it's a 50/50.

While these future boyfriends were having 'fun', Sanemi tickling Giyuu who was squirming like a worm, the rest of the teachers watched and tried to keep their conversation silent.

'Should we remind them that we are here?'

'I think they're both too busy to notice that hahaha! Let's let them have fun!'

'At least they're getting along better now, but we better stay close in case Shinazugawa doesn't stop when Tomioka is at his limit,' the other teachers looked at Kanae, then at themselves, and nodded.

They would stay to contemplate this unusual 'spectacle'

[laxmiree]

[CN] MLQC Lucien’s The Sea No Longer Distant MQ translation (Part 3/3)

⚠️ SPOILER ALERT!! ⚠️

This post contains a detailed spoiler for an MQ that has not been released in EN yet! Feel free to notify me if there are any mistakes in the translation~

[Warning]: The content of this MQ is pretty explicit and may not be suitable for individuals under the age of 18 (CN server). It is recommended that those who do not meet this age requirement refrain from proceeding beyond this point.

Translation under the cut!

Previous Part=> [Click Here]

—[Part 5]—

I don't understand Lucien’s words.

The problem that has been troubling us does not have a final solution.

Perhaps neither his stubbornness nor mine is wrong. Maybe all we need is a few days of rest, or to reap some successful rewards, and then we can move forward.

It's just... I feel like there are some very important answers that I've overlooked.

??: MC, since you're free, wanna come play beach volleyball?

Producer Xiao Cui excitedly runs over from afar, grinning at me.

Xiao Cui: We're just two players short!

MC: [unamused] "Two players short"? You haven't even found anyone to play against!

MC: [worriedly] Besides, I'm not that great at volleyball.

Xiao Cui: Hahaha, it’s fine as long as you can hit the ball over the net~ Besides, we have Professor Lucien!

Lucien hears this and just smiles, turning to look at me.

Lucien: Do you want to play?

MC: If... you're not afraid of losing badly with me on your team, I guess getting some exercise wouldn't be too bad~

Before sparring with Xiao Cui, Lucien earnestly guides me through some simple warm-up exercises.

Then, he skillfully volleys the volleyball. Despite the sea breeze, I catch it steadily.

The azure sky seems clearer and brighter than usual. The breeze sways the palm leaves and also lifts up his hair.

I don't know if it's because of the exercise or him in front of me, but my heartbeat feels faster than usual.

MC: Lucien, have you played volleyball before?

He seems to think about it seriously, then nods slightly.

At his cue, I pass the ball to him again.

Lucien: [in an unsure tone] Oh, it seems I did play a bit when I was in the States*.

He quickly glances at the ball and the court, appearing to have already calculated where the next ball will land.

Perhaps even Lucien himself doesn't realize it, but right now his lips are slightly lifted, and his eyes sparkle with pure joy and relaxation.

MC: ...You would forget something like that?

Lucien: Maybe I subconsciously felt it wasn't a memory worth keeping.

Lucien: After all, when those people hit a bottleneck, they'll want to waste time playing around with anything, no matter how irrelevant.

Lucien: They called it ‘changing their way of thinking’?

Lucien: [chuckles] Sometimes, if I was unlucky, they'd drag me along for a friendly match.

MC: [laughs] How is that unlucky?!

I laugh and accidentally miss the ball, sending it flying far away.

Lucien: They called it a friendly match, but they'd make me direct the offense, and if we lost, we'd have to review it…

Lucien: [despite his words, there's a subconscious fondness in his tone:"] It was a waste of time and very troublesome.

Lucien's voice drifts over with the sea breeze, and before I can react, Xiao Cui is already positioned across from me, eagerly raring to go.

Although it's just a casual game, everyone is playing with a competitive spirit.

As the volleyball flies over the net at high speed, he quickly shuffles into position and bends his knees slightly, mirroring the ball's trajectory.

His forearm muscles tense, sending the ball soaring perfectly towards me.

With barely a step, I leap and spike it over the net.

MC: Woah!

Even with my limited volleyball experience, I can instantly feel the precision and power of Lucien's pass.

But as the ball is hit back and forth, especially with the sand and sea breeze, he still seems to be struggling to hold on by himself.

I really want to try hard to catch the ball, but the increasingly heavy breathing and hot air make my steps feel heavier, and my arms and wrists are starting to ache.

At the same time, as we get into the rhythm, the ball's speed keeps increasing.

We seem to have entered a state of urgency, tension, and desperation, yet neither of us is willing to give up.

Even though I'm exhausted, I start running again.

A ball is spiked straight into the open front court. I almost instinctively run forward and scoop it up…

…Bumping it high into the air.

The sky is clear and vast, and everything seems to slow down. I subconsciously hold my breath and look up.

The ball continues to fly, passing through wispy clouds and seabirds, falling towards the edge of the court.

A small splash of water enters my vision, and the vast ocean shimmers with light as Lucien already stands beneath the falling ball.

He also maintains his gaze upwards, and then finally slowly turns his eyes towards me.

Lucien: ...So that's how it is.

His expression looks so gentle as he lifts the ball to a higher place as soon as it touches his fingertips.

The blinding sunlight blurs my vision, and in this moment, I finally understand.

What is your own mood, and what is that very important answer?

The ball soars high with the wind, giving me plenty of time to slowly adjust my pace and posture. I let out a breath and—

It lands steadily in my hands, as if those words that have never been spoken reach me in the silence.

Xiao Cui: ...Boss, why don't you hit it back over the net!

Panting, I watch as Lucien walks toward me.

Lucien: Let's... take a break.

✂— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

Lucien and I stroll along the beach in the sunset, shoes in hand. The gentle tide washes over our ankles, and for a moment, neither of us says anything.

After an unknown amount of time, Lucien stops.

I turn my head and see him standing a few steps away from me.

The dense evening mist falls upon the distant shore, and darkness creeps in from the edges of the horizon.

Warmth and coldness seemed to pour onto him at the same time, making Lucien look so enigmatic at this moment.

MC: [smiles softly] Lucien, I just suddenly realized something that I have always overlooked and taken for granted.

Gazing into those dark eyes, I smile at him.

MC: In my heart, Lucien is also ‘the best’.

MC: Before, I would only think that you were physically tired, but neither your mind nor your heart would ever stop.

MC: Even though that seems to be true, I seem to have forgotten to ask you…

I put away my smile and look at him with utmost seriousness.

MC: Are you... also afraid of stopping?

The surging tide echoes ceaselessly, just like a restless heart.

Most of Lucien's face is hidden in shadow, making his expression a little difficult to perceive clearly.

In that dark sea, does that ever-forward gaze hold too many struggles that I cannot fathom?

Lucien: Perhaps, in the time when I couldn't yet define it…

Lucien: I have felt fear too.

His voice is light as if it had finally descended after thousands of days and nights of contemplation.

MC: ...What are you afraid of?

Lucien: Afraid of death.

At that moment, Lucien appears a bit cold.

Lucien: Perhaps, I often feel that "stopping" is equivalent to death.

In the entirety of those urgent years, his hasty footsteps never looked back.

Truth and death are always accompanying each other, both has been beautiful and captivating enough for long time, making every moment spent in vain seem particularly wasteful.

Lucien: But... you appeared, and I hope you can slow down your growth at your own pace.

MC: I know.

Lucien: But maybe that's not the case.

A blank confusion seems to appear in his eyes, making him seem so real.

Lucien: Long before I realized it... I already needed you by my side more than I had imagined.

Lucien: I didn't have such high expectations before, because I thought you were already good enough as you were, but you always... always walked by my side.

His hoarse voice drifts through the last rays of fading light, igniting a warmth that envelops my entire body.

Lucien: You once told me that you would definitely catch up with me.**

Lucien: And I don't know when it started, but I've gotten used to it, and I took it for granted that you would definitely be here.

MC: And I will always be here.

Lucien: Yeah, so I forget.

He squeezes out an incredibly tender and loving smile, tinged with a hint of heartache, and slowly walks towards me.

Lucien: I forgot that you actually worked very, very hard... to keep yourself walking behind me.

Lucien: I thought achievement was only natural because I was arrogant and selfish, and I thought everyone should follow my steps.

Lucien: I took your presence by my side for granted, enjoyed your company, and the feeling of you dreaming with me.

Lucien: But I forgot…

Lucien: That you will get tired.

His voice is so soft, it's as if something breaks the dam with it, blending him with the dusk and merging into another sea.

Lucien: I'm a fool, aren't I?

Tiny kisses fall on my face, making the person in front of me both blurry and clear.

MC: I don't want to let down your expectations or make you wait for me, but I really want to dream with you.

Lucien: [very, very softly] I know.

MC: But I'm really tired, Lucien.

I feel Lucien's arms wrap around me in a hug, and hear his voice against my ear.

Lucien: Mm, it’s very tiring…

Lucien: And I am tired too.

It’s not only when you’re lost that you’re allowed to stop; when you’re tired, it’s okay to stop as well.

It's not about stopping for others, but also about giving others the signal that it's ‘okay to stop’.

It seems so simple, but for him, it's so difficult and unfamiliar.

No one had ever told him this, or perhaps someone had hinted at it, but he was always in too much of a hurry to ever seriously examine it.

Until there is someone in his life that he can't let go of, making him uncomfortable yet also helpless.

She had given him this feeling many years ago, and now, as the branches and leaves grow deeper into his marrow, he knows he can no longer escape.

He finally sees the lightless sea clearly, realizing that the starting point that had long disappeared is now far, far behind him, and he no longer needs to fear stagnation.

Behind him, there seem to be many ships, large and small, with unfamiliar and familiar faces, and in the instant of turning sideways, he sees her.

Lucien: My dreams already have you in them.

Tears and kisses blend together as Lucien gently lifts me as if he is holding up my entire world.

Lucien: [whispers softly] I think... you can't leave anymore.

MC: I've never considered that option.

I lower my eyes to meet his gaze, lost in that depths of the ocean tide, and devoutly kiss him.

With a contented sigh, our lips and tongues lovingly entwine, and we ardently seek to leave a mark on each other that melds into our very flesh and blood.

Our body heat and scents mingle, colors both similar and different blend beyond distinction, like water dissolving into the sea, leaving no trace of their differences.

It's just that we are both intentional, deliberately wanting to linger a little longer and stain the other person's whole body in our own colors.

The tide rises and falls as he and I entangle in a dance. But just as he wants all of me, I want all of him.

I want all his fears and brokenness, all his longing and love, until his soul is bare.

Even I am startled by this greed of mine and can't help but laugh.***

Lucien laughs as well. I don’t know why, but I always feel like he knows.

MC: Love is truly troublesome, isn't it?

Lucien: [whispers hoarsely] But it also makes me incredibly satisfied.

His hoarse voice falls to my lips, and I feel him filling my entire world, leaving no room for retreat.

Lucien: So... I'll gladly bear it all.****

— — — —FIN (but there's one bonus story + short reflection under this T/N) — — — —

[T/N:

It turns out that what she overlooked was her own expectation of him—that he could keep going as long as he didn’t feel physically tired. They see each other as the "best" and, even if they don’t mean to, they unconsciously place the ‘expectation’ on each other to always move forward and reach ever-greater heights… This date provides them the opportunity to grow through reflection:”

*: Him mentioning his time in USA! You can read more about his friends in Monochrome Scenery.

**: It's from what MC said in Fantasy Book Date! Just as this date mentions again and again, the path he walked on is a lonely one. It’s because MC has been working hard to accompany him so he doesn’t feel as lonely; and on this date, Lucien realizes that he’s been taking this for granted.

And, while before I highlighted them mirroring each other imperfection, now I want to highlight how they mirror each other desires~

***: MC’s ‘I want all his fears and brokenness, all his longing and love, until his soul is bare. Even I am startled by this greed of mine and can't help but laugh.’ this is a mirror to Lucien’s most classic line; “I am insatiable and I want your everything.” . Just as Lucien longs to ‘have’ all of her, she also longs to greedily ‘have’ all of him, whether it’s the good or the bad.

****: Lucien’s last line is a direct reference of MC’s line from Aquarium Date. This might get missed because Elex translated it differently ahah. The Chinese idiom 甘之如饴 (gān zhī rú yí) literally translates to “as sweet as syrup.” It is used to describe someone who willingly endures hardship or difficulty, often with a sense of satisfaction or joy. So, even though love is ‘troublesome’ and can cause suffering, just like her, he’s willing to endure it as if it’s a sweet thing.

✂— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

—[Memory Silhouette - Like-minded people]—

Seagulls fly low, stirring up dense foam of waves.

My colleagues and I are sitting around the beach chatting when one of the editors suddenly seems to remember something and shows us their phone calendar.

Editor: Comrades, let me tell you a horror story.

Editor: In three days, we'll be back at work. Why does vacation time always fly by so fast?!

Assistant Director: Shh, don't ruin the fun at the happiest time!

Screenwriter: ...Hey hey, the boss is right there. Is it really okay to be so openly "sick of work"?

With that comment, they all turn their gaze towards me, the "boss." I shrug helplessly in response.

MC: If I could, I wouldn't want to work either.

Editor: No way, the boss has to work. If the boss doesn't work, who's going to pay us~

Everyone bursts into laughter.

At that moment, I spot a familiar figure through the crowd and quickly raise my arm, waving enthusiastically.

MC: Lucien, over here~

Director: The boss's boyfriend is here, make room, make room.

With a whoosh, the colleagues beside me immediately scoot aside, kicking up a puff of sand in their haste.

Under everyone's gaze, Lucien smiles and sits beside me, his fingers discreetly intertwining with my pinky behind our backs.

Lucien: Hello everyone, I hope I'm not interrupting anything.

Editor: Of course not. We were just talking about how our vacation is almost over, and we're very, very reluctant to go back.

Lucien: If you're really that reluctant, the boss is right here. Why not take a few more days off while you have the chance?

MC: That’s right. As long as you have leave left in your attendance record, I’ll definitely approve it.

Editor: Seriously? I have half a year of compensatory leave! I want to take half a year off!!!

Assistant Director: **** you, just quit already!

Editor: Boss! Approve it!

MC: In your dreams!

A group of people laugh and joke heartily, but only Lucien ponders silently as if he is quietly observing something.

Lucien: As far as I know, editing is one of the more demanding jobs in the film and television industry, with working through the night being quite common.

Editor: Alas, there’s nothing I can do about it.

Editor: Sorting and organizing dozens of terabytes of footage, and syncing audio tracks—it's all very tedious work.

Editor: And if you do it long enough, lower back pain, varicose veins, and tendinitis will all come knocking. The "side effects" are pretty severe!

Lucien: Since that's the case, do you continue doing it because you really like the job?

Lucien's question makes the editor pause, then quickly straightens up and declares their loyalty to me.

Editor: Of course, boss, I still really like this job.

Editor: Editing is the soul of a film. Without an editor, even the best shots and stories can't be properly expressed.

Screenwriter: Hey hey, the screenwriter is the soul of the film.

Director: I have to disagree. The director is the core of the team!

Although they are arguing, each person's face is filled with smiles, their eyes brimming with passion and longing for their dreams.

Editor: But... how should I put it? It's a bit of a stretch to say it's purely for the dream.

Editor: You know how tiring it is. How much is a dream worth? Isn't it all for the salary and this group of people?

Editor: It's still more fun to dream together.

Everyone is stunned for a moment, and I blink my eyes.

Assistant Director: You're starting to get sentimental, huh?

Screenwriter: But it's true, I'd rather work overtime to write scripts for everyone than for those **** clients.

Watching my colleagues playfully bicker beside me, I can't help but smile, feeling an indescribable sense of gratitude.

When we get back, I'll give everyone a raise. And I'll earn even more money so we can all dream even bigger dreams together.

Dreams are built on the foundation of reality, and I'm lucky to have met partners who make them bloom even more beautifully.

Lucien: [murmurs quietly]...I see.

A soft voice falls in my ear, and I come back to reality to find Lucien murmuring something.

MC: What’s wrong?

Lucien: I just suddenly realized the meaning behind many seemingly meaningless moments in the past.

Lucien: If I had understood this sooner, I might have achieved better results with a gentler approach.

Seeming to sense my heavy gaze, he turns his head.

Lucien: Why are you looking at me like that?

MC: [smiles softly]  I actually think you should be luckier than me.

Lucien: ...Why?

MC: Because scientific research is harder than what we do. For a long and uncertain outcome, there are still many people who choose to walk with you.

MC: They are all such talented people, but they all believe in you and are willing to dream with you.

His eyes seem to be filled with a surge of complex emotions, causing him to furrow his brows involuntarily.

Lucien: I thought it was just a sort of give-and-take relationship.

For some reason, his words made me feel a sense of loneliness.

Many words surge in my mind, but in the end, I only hold his hand.

MC: Perhaps humans, as these strange creatures, are more complex and greedy than you think.

✂— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

[Lux’s Short Reflections]

And with this, the MQ translation is done! :>. Personally, this one is probably the hardest translation I’ve ever done because of how poetic and delicate the words are... But! It still has a very interesting theme and ‘problem’ that I never thought of and I enjoy translating this one~

Lucien has… always been someone who moves ahead of others, and many people admire him and want to follow in his footsteps. However, his rapid pace unintentionally creates invisible pressure for others to keep up. Lucien struggled to understand why he caused this pressure and reflected on it, trying to find an answer. Perhaps, as a genius, he finds it hard to grasp that others need to work harder to reach his level, or maybe he moves so quickly that he doesn’t have time to reflect.

After opening up his heart to her, Lucien finally realized he also needed to rest. He understood that his hurried pace wasn’t just an instinct but a fear of stopping, which he equated with death. After realizing how far he already is in the ‘sea’, he finally grasped that he doesn’t need to keep pushing himself so hard and creating pressure for himself, as he has already come a long way. He can also feel exhausted, even if it’s not physical tiredness just like in last year's Distant Similarity MQ.

So, it’s okay to take a break, not only if you no longer can move forward, but also if you feel ‘tired’. If you're still reading and feeling like you're ‘not good enough’, take a moment to look back and see how far you've come. You’re wonderful for making it this far, so don’t forget to give yourself a break as a reward~ And lastly… thank you for reading!

[bowieandqueen11]

Just Don’t / Joel Miller Imagine

Request: Could you do one of Joel patching someone up and then him admitting his feelings because of how protective he is? 🖤🖤

Ahhh I’m living for all these Joel requests, thank you @knights-of-the-moon! :)

Also I’m going to have to start asking people if they want it written for show!Joel or for game!Joel lmao

Again, if you enjoy please comment and let me know!! These take me quite a while to write so I love to know what you think

Warning: mentions of death/ mentions of fighting infected/ some strong language/ kissing/ mentions of injuries and blood!

(I do not own The Last of Us or its characters, all rights go to creators. Gif credit goes to @manny-jacinto.)

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°

Joel Miller could still feel his heart pounding and clawing its way out through his head. One more throb and he would tear it out himself and throw it at your feet, if he had to infer one more jot of indifference on your stoic face.

He had meant it to be an easy run; Bill had radioed in at dawn with Depeche Mode’s ‘Personal Jesus’, a sure fire sign that there would be new stash at their drop off zone just past the city limits. What he hadn’t expected, which he shook his head and chided himself for now - no, what he had stupidly overlooked was the number of survivors still straggling around the bombed downtown areas. People so terrified they were willing to bet their whole life away just for a shot to be smuggled into the zone he had spent most days of the last ten years running away from. People so hopeless, so tired, that they were willing to crawl under the dankest, spore filled depths of the underground just for a shot of the life Joel Miller couldn’t bare to live.

When the two of you had opened up the final hatch to drop down into the tunnel line running underneath the crumbling banks on the outer rim of the wall, he had chosen to believe that his intel had been right. That a few fellow smugglers and ignorantly curious miscreants, those still lucky enough to be left with the chance to sit around all day smoking and playing cards in the break room, had used the route earlier that night to find their own stashes. Instead, the two of you were greeted with around eight pairs of bloodshot eyes revolving towards you as soon as your feet hit the floor, like bloodhounds finally honing in on their prey. Some of the infected bodies were still clutching belongings: the handle of a suitcase ripped from its trunk, as well as half the man’s fingers. The sprouting stomach of a teddy bear in a woman’s clenched fist, standing amidst a spilled array of children’s clothes, but with no child in sight. 

Joel’s stomach churned at the sight. 

The blur of your flashlight blinded his eyes, and he raised a hand to shield himself from the memories. The blood on the woman’s hands. The blood on his hands. Her moans that sounded so similar to cries. Cries he had heard so often before; cries he heard echoing every night in his dreams. The thunderous screech of clickers that pounded down and shook dirt from the walls hardly seemed to phase him, you realised with great alarm. Even when the first footstep started pounding towards the two of you, gnashing teeth broken open only by moaning screeches, Joel’s eyes only widened.

He was too far gone, and you only had a second to act. His hand was already reaching up and round the side of his backpack for his plank of wood, a fury lining his face as quickly as a bullet shot as you realised he was preparing to fight them all of. 

Joel Miller couldn’t lose you. Lose his heart away again. He was going to take down every last one of them, if it meant protecting you. Or he was going to die trying. Either way, he was content with the outcome.

He squared one runner straight in the mouth with his fist, barely even turning his torso to latch onto the jaw of a second one swinging towards him and hurled it down to the floor. Without a second thought, you grabbed onto his wrist, wincing as you felt the cold metal of his broken watch dig into your palm. ‘Not here, not here’, you kept repeating to yourself like a mantra as you tried to drag the ox-like man back towards the light of the hatch. With some sudden burst of adrenaline, you managed to claw Joel’s bicep and hurl him towards the ladder, pushing the bottom of his ass back up. You turned to thwack the infected woman who was currently using her fingernails to try and tear off the meat of your arm, sending her flying back into a murky puddle behind her, one that threw up a newly fresh cloud of spores upon entry. Joel wasted no time. He slid back up over the plank, rolling onto his belly and immediately reaching his forearm back down into the bleak darkness to seek you out. Before your fumbling fingers could even crash further up his arm that his wrist, he had completely encircled your own with his fingers and tugged you up after him. With a final kick in the face to the runner who was trying to latch onto the bottom of your jeans, you collapsed down onto the sprouting tiles beside Joel and tried to catch your breath.

Lying there beside you, it was the first time you had ever seen Joel shake. You could tell it wasn’t just the adrenaline, and he knew it too. With his elbow resting flatly against yours, his breath shook deeply into his core, sending his whole body trembling with shockwaves. It took a few seconds for his eyes to unglaze. For him to realise the severity of what had happened. For what he had done. For what he was willing to do. 

The whole walk back to the wall, even despite the treacherous rain that pounded over his vigilant eyes, Joel looked even more miserable than usual. He could barely even look at you, barely responding in grunts anytime you tried to lighten the air with your usual banterous back and forth conversation. He just kept fiddling with the crown of his watch, or running his fingers over the strap, as if he had forgotten for so long that it was there, and now it was burning his skin to keep it on. Even though the rest of him was stark, impassive, his fingers trembled the whole way, until you pushed the bookcase back over the hole into the common room wall.

Once again, Joel Miller had made stupid choices. And once again, the person Joel Miller loved with his whole heart had nearly paid the price for it.

Damn stubborn man. He couldn’t just be forthright in his feelings for once; no, Joel Miller was going to perch himself on the windowsill, fold his arms, gaze out at the new FEDRA truck crossing the border, and brood until the cows came home. After a moment of silence, of standing in the doorway to your shared apartment with your hands on your hips and staring at the back of his head, you sigh and slam the door shut. Throwing your backpack onto the kitchen counter, you groan as you finally begin to feel the sting of the finger slices that lined your cheek. Pulling your finger away, you sigh even harder to find sprinkles of fresh blood staining your pads.

‘That was too close. That was too damn close.’

Joel uncrosses his arms, bored with the usual trundle of military past the door, and just now realising how much his bloodied fists hurt.

‘Well, as usual, we made it out in one piece.’ You squat down and reach under the sink cabinet for the dusty half-used bottle of alcohol. ‘Shame about the stash, but we can just give Bill a heads’ up tomorrow and find another way around.’ You walk over to the dining room table, peering through the littering of magazines, melted wax and empty cans to try and pick out the least mouldy piece of cloth you could. 

‘Don’t - just don’t, please. Don���t make excuses.’

You pace over to the edge of the sofa, the side closest to where Joel is currently holding his arms straight out in front of him, clenching and unclenching his fists until he could see the veins on the back of his hand pop out. 

‘It’s not an excuse if it’s pure fact. We did make it back. Again.’

When he finally turns to glance over at you with his stunningly annoyed expression, it softens just a smidge when you shake the bottle of alcohol at him.

Even in his torment, he obliges at once. Positioning yourself on the edge of the couch, Joel takes the make-shift med-kit out of your hands and begins to pour some of the liquid out onto the cloth.

‘This time. Luck. That was what we had Y/n. Pure blind dumb luck, and if we don’t watch our asses it is going to run out.’ Despite how tenderly his fingers dab at the side of your cheek, how gentle his strokes are as he swipes the lines of dripping blood away from your chin, the words seethe out from his serpentine tongue. 

‘God damn it Joel!’ You push the rag away and stare harshly into his eyes. ‘We’re doing perfectly well so far. We’re professionals Joel - professionals. Nothing has happened, and nothing is going to happen as long as we keep our wits about us.’ You slap your hand down on the cushion, your chest heaving with the weight of everything you had been bottling up since the encounter: the guilt, the fear, the annoyance that no matter what you say, no matter what words you find, they would never be enough. Never be enough to make him believe you. To console him. To take away some of the pain that had anchored in his heart long ago and had been left by the rest of the world to fester there. By god, if you couldn’t just take on some of his suffering for him. But every time you tried, he seemed to just immediately shut down, and you couldn’t take it anymore.

You had to know why he kept doing this. Why he was here. Why he stayed, if every step with you seemed to cause him pain.

‘Why can’t that be enough for you?’

He scoffs, holding his arms out by his side and taking a step back as if you had just squarely slapped him across the jaw.

‘Enough? Enough? Goddamned Y/n, every time we go across that border I spend every second of my time worrying if it’s the last time you will, and you want me to be thankful about it?’

He throws the bottle and rag down onto the coffee table and turns his back to you, the smoke pouring out of his ears and ragged breath harsh enough to send the clouds thundering. With hands on hips, he stares at the floor and tries not to notice the coppery smell of blood that litters the apartment. All the scent reminds him of is death. Not life.

‘Well why do you spend your time worrying, huh? Why do you do it?’ You storm up to stand behind him, holding your arms up and trying to meet his eye as he keeps twisting away from you furiously. ‘If I don’t come back, it’s just one more smuggler off the street. Who cares, huh - you think FEDRA-’

‘I care goddamnit!’

He swirls around to you, face a tempest of utter heartbreak and raging suffering; his eyes are wide, bleeding agony as he points his finger at you. For a moment, you’re frozen in shock; your mouth is agape in confused ache as you take a second to try and let the shock of his words overcome you. He swallows thickly, eyebrows still furrowed and chest heaving so heartily that one more inch forward and it would have knocked straight against yours with each inhale. 

‘Oh, screw this.’

The first thing you feel is the bridge of his nose squashed against your cheek. Then its the callouses on his fingertips as they spread out over the sides of your face, his surprisingly sentimental hands gently holding your head in place. Then it was the way the air seemed unable to gush its way into your lungs, met by the resistance of something wet and soft against your tongue. Then it was the fact those full, chapped lips were latched entirely onto yours, pulling every whisper of a thought out of your mind and driving you near crazy with the realisation. 

You did the only thing you could even muster to think of. You kissed him back. Heartily. 

When you finally manage to open your lips and swallow his again, the feeling of his pliancy, his caged desperation is euphoric. Your fingertips to come up to sweetly scratch against the edges of his stubble despite the circumstances, his elbows now bracketing the rest of your body in place as close to him as humanly possible before he pulls back to look down at you.

‘Please just- just don’t leave me Y/n. Just don’t leave me.’ He’s breathless, his hands running hurriedly up and down your spine as he looked at you as if the whole world was revolving in your eyes.

‘Now where did you get the damn impression that I was going to do that?’, you ask with a smirk, bumping the front of your nose against his own. He bows back, steadying the two of you against his torso. 

For the first time since before Sarah’s death, Joel now openly holds the person he loves most in the world in his arms, and he smiles.

[days-until-burnout]

hiii sorry for bothering buttt may i request maybe scar/joel arcade au where joel wins everything for scar :333

i rlly2 like ur writings theyre all so good !!

so... FIRST OF. YOU ARE NO BOTHER. YOU DONT BOTHER ME OR ANYONE EVER. YA HEAR ME?! YOU'RE FAR FROM BOTHERING. THANK YOU FOR THE REQUEST. and now, well. the original idea had more games but i got too into feelings. and... yeah. got a little angsty compared to what you asked for but that's writing for ya. hope you enjoy regardless also, thank you! i do try to write good-ish stuff despite the limited time and planning so im happy to hear you like it<3!

_____

📧 Day 22 -

Characters - Scar/Joel Words - 1,970 Time - 60 mins Content - Modern (HS/College) AU | hurt/comfort

Normally, Joel wouldn’t care about his surroundings, it was better to focus on his own thing and blend in. For as loud and imposing as he was, he rarely stuck his nose in other people’s business. But currently, the noise was getting in the way of his concentration, another missed shot. He grabbed another basketball, looked behind him to find the source of his distraction. A group of teens, all surrounding someone. He shouldn’t involve himself, way too many to handle on his own, but if he didn’t, who would stick up for whoever was at the center?

He looked around for an employee, until his attention was drawn back to the group. A panicked peace offering. Very panicked. 

“Hey, hey, hey, can’t we all get along? No need to get handsy!”

Joel frowned. The response made his skin itch. Vile words. Before he knew it, the ‘leader’ was stumbling forward, the basketball bouncing away as he approached them. Familiar faces, all of them, from the same school. His eyes flickered to the person in the center, finding Scar looking up at him with undecided fear or relief. He looked back to the ‘leader’, unamused. 

“Pick on someone your own size,” he gloated, keeping a neutral expression to their glare. He looked up when they stepped closer, anger in their eyes, a fist quick on his shirt. He glanced between his scrunched up shirt and them, giving them an out, “I dare you, tough guy.”

They glared, then shoved him back, but he planted himself firmly, barely moving. The group began to move away, going around him to not get in his way. 

He watched them all leave the arcade before turning back to Scar, who finally settled on relief. Just as Scar opened his mouth to say something, thank him probably, he walked off to find the basketball he threw, prompting walking it back to the game that had ended. With newfound peace, he threw the ball and scored though there were no points given. Scar caught up then, rolling just behind him, so he couldn’t walk away. Well, he could, but he might as well hear him out. 

“Uh– Joel, right? Thank you. You didn’t have to, I’m sorry you lost your game beca—”

“Do they pick on you?” he asked instead, not wanting to hear gratitude or apologies. After all, it wasn’t Scar’s fault, though he found it hard to let him know. 

Scar looked away then, facade breaking as he stuttered some excuses, rubbing the back of his neck and clearly lying. “I, well, no– I mean, they don’t pick on me. It’s just fun! Between friends, you know, right? Just some fun between friends, teasing and messing with each other. It’s a-okay!” Scar raised his hands and did some jazz movement, a forced smile plastered on his lips. He looked tired, which was something. Joel pinned it in the back of his mind, for later, if he still felt like dealing with all this. “And it was my fault, anyways. I wasn’t looking where I was going and I must’ve hit them with my chair accidentally. It’s all alright, trust me! I– Yeah, I can handle myself. It was all fun.”

Joel didn’t believe him. But he didn’t try to pry more either. It was whatever. 

He glanced over at another game, then back at Scar who seemed to have turmoil in his face. “You want to play?”

Scar looked up with wide eyes, almost sparkling but they quickly died, a sad smile replacing the excited o of his lips. “Oh, nonono, I couldn’t bother you with that! I was just here to watch for a bit. I have other things to do, places to be! I’m a busy person, very busy! My—”

“On a Saturday morning?”

“I, well– You never know with these things, Joel! People are busy and—”

“You owe me.”

Scar’s eyes went wide again, and Joel figured he could bully Scar into playing some games, which sounded sadistic but it was whatever. He didn’t have anywhere to be, and it was hard to ignore the guy in the wheelchair watching everyone else having fun in the arcade. His eyes flickered away as he fished out his arcade card, extending it to Scar, who looked between the piece of plastic and him. 

“Five dollars. And don’t keep me waiting.”

Hesitantly, Scar took the card and pushed himself to the counter, Joel following behind. The exchange was quick, with Scar soon turning around and extending the card. Just as he began to thank him again, Joel walked away, Scar spluttering as he followed clumsily, careful to not hit others or the machinery. Joel stopped at a water-shooting game, pointing at it as he looked at him with an expressionless face. 

“I want to play this one.”

Scar blinked seven times, opening and closing his mouth as he looked between him and the machine, timidly getting closer to tap the card on the reader. “Uh, there…”

“I wanted this one.” Joel stood on the other water-gun, and Scar reached over to tap the card. “Well, don’t waste the credit.”

“Right…” Scar placed the card on the little table, got his chair as close as he could to the seats and lifted himself on it. His hands trembled on the handles of the water-guns, staring intently at the flashing buttons in front of him before a hand reached over from his peripheral, pressing the start button. 

Joel selected the level and they began, shooting zombies in waves. It was tense, Scar constantly glancing over at Joel, who eventually caught on and stared right back, almost daring him to try again. Scar didn’t, focusing on the zombies and trying to not make a bigger fool of himself. They raked up points together, until Scar died leaving him to watch Joel’s precision aim and almost calculated movements, the quick decisions and quick thinking before dying too, which Scar noticed as Joel throwing. 

“Well… Uh, that was fun! Thank y–”

Joel got up and looked around the arcade, finding empty machines and pointing at one. “I want to play that one now.”

Joel didn’t walk away this time, and Scar wanted to give him the card, but he lifted himself back to his chair and followed over. Joel didn’t stray far. Never close enough for Scar to slip the card into the pocket of his hoodie, but still close enough that people moved out of the way. Scar felt sick, but he didn’t know if it was from the shame of Joel’s pity or… or maybe sick from happiness? If that was an option. Regardless, they arrived at another game, an aim game with clowns as their targets. 

“You… um, do you want to play together?” Scar asked, looking up at Joel who looked away from the clowns and shrugged. His heart picked up as he tapped the card on one reader, putting it down, and only exhaling when Joel stood by his side instead of going to the other machine. 

Joel showed him up at every game. And the eventual teasing began, smirks and innocent eyes. Scar found it hard to be hurt or mad or sad, found it harder and harder game after game, always aware that they spent more than the five dollars he put in. In another situation, he would’ve watched others play with a quiet jealousy, but today, he didn’t mind watching Joel killing it in games he couldn’t take part in. 

“You look good,” he blurted out randomly, mind away from how late it probably was. It was hard to tell how long they’ve spent in the arcade, much longer to tell when Joel refused to stop pointing at games and now pouting to go. 

Joel looked back over his shoulder, giving him a smirk that was more than that teasing one, not like the ones he gave him when he missed a clear shot or when he ended hundreds of points ahead, but it was a different kind of teasing. 

“On a bike, I mean. Suits you, Bad Boy and all that,” he said quickly, waving his hand about as Joel continued to drive without looking at the screen for long. It was unfair how easy Joel made all the games look, and it was even more unfair how good Joel looked while crushing said games. “You should get one.”

“I’ll think about it.”

Scar tried not to. He tried to focus on his own steering wheel with Joel beside him, he tried to not think about it on the roller coaster simulator while their shoulders pressed against each other, and he tried to not think about it as they reached the price counter. He finally stopped thinking about it when his phone rang, and he picked to hear his mom ask where he’d been without answering her for hours now. He told the truth, promised he’d be on their pick-up spot right away. 

The day was ending already? 

He didn’t want it to. 

“You want something?” Joel asked nonchalantly, prompting Scar to look up at him, staring at his profile for a moment. The lights just on the edge of his face, the rest in shadows before he turned to him, now half-half of lights and shadows. He looked at the prices, so far away and the corridor too narrow to enter. He shook his head, and Joel looked back. 

“We didn’t get enough tickets for it, anyways,” he said a chuckle, and Joel looked at him again. “And! And even if we did, five dollars don’t cover even a quarter of the tickets needed!”

“What is it?”

Scar blinked. Joel was back to earlier, all that warmth and giggles replaced with… with something. Serious? Not mean, but firm. He looked away sheepishly, “There’s that… uh, Star Wars model? But! I don’t really want it. Nope. I’d rather have a plushie or—”

“I’m getting it.”

“Wai—”

Scar didn’t chase, the path was too narrow. But he could leave. He could leave while Joel flagged an employee, he could leave while Joel made the transaction, and he could absolutely leave while Joel walked over, the model in his arm. He could. 

“Here. Hold this for me. My arms are tired.” Joel held the box between them, could very easily drop it in Scar’s lap and walk away. But he didn’t, just like how Scar didn’t leave when he could. He stood, planted in place, giving Scar the chance to reject it. Scar didn’t. “So what now? Are you leaving?”

“Uh, yeah. My mom– She will pick me up soon. Do… Um, do you need a ride home?”

Joel shook his head, ran a hand through his hair as they walked out of the arcade, headed to the lift, “Getting picked up too. Just waiting for my brother to finish work.”

Scar nodded, rolling into the lift, “So…”

“Do you come often?”

“Often? No– No, no, I don—”

“I’ve seen you around often,” Joel said as he pressed the ground floor. Joel didn’t look at him, and Scar looked at the box in his lap. “You don’t usually stay that long though. What was different today? Was it them?”

“I… No… No, I just… I was on my way to the counter to get a card…”

The wait wasn’t long. The lot was bustling with people coming in and out of the mall, everyone too busy with themselves. Before the door could open, Joel dropped the card on top of the box and took a step back. 

“Well, I’ll see you at school, I guess.” Joel glanced at his phone, turning to walk back into the mall. “Oh, and I’ll see you here next Saturday too, I guess. Bye.”

The doors closed before Scar could respond. He looked forward to it though. 

_____

is scarjoel not their ship name why dont they have posts what is up with you tumblr 🧍‍♂️ slashjay. anyhow. i... i really thought theyd be more popular but i guess not. someone should change that (i say, looking in the mirror) also. i was thinking about it, and i should probably tag the fics by universe 🤔 like: hc, life, modern, fantasy etc etc. which i will do tomorrow when i get sad for not doing much to trick my brain into thinking i was productive 👌

[jo-harrington]

so teeth? really?

Anon...yeah teeth? I'm weird, I'm here for the weirdos.

I've decided recently that I'm going to be a certain actor who shall only be named in the tags arch nemesis. If there's no one out there talking about his false teeth and his stained nails and his disgusting capitalist tendencies, it means I'm dead.

So in honor of a certain someone who'll only be named in the tags 30th birthday, please enjoy the sequel to this weird RPF.

Pairing: Disgusting 30-year old capitalist B-lister who's lucking out on his career x CorporateBadass!Fem!Reader

TW: RPF, Smut, jealousy, a little angst, a little degradation, and he's gross

Tagging @courtingchaos @deathbecomesthem @dr-aculaaa and @tomtomslongdong @bettyfrommars because you liked my games last time.

18+ WEIRDOS ENJOY! NORMIES STAY OUT.

It came in an email.

It always did.

Forwarded from your work email to your personal email, then forwarded onto his with several question marks. No phone numbers, no WhatsApp. An occasional GChat if you had trouble compromising over different time zones. But generally, your interactions were limited to a familiar face in an unfamiliar place; not casual conversation during normal, every day life.

You joked once, in an Uber on the way to the airport as you were fixing your disheveled clothes after a quickie before check-out, that you might as well sync your google calendars and that…seemed pretty appealing to him, if only someone else didn’t handle his calendar for him.

“Must be nice,” you joked. “Big important star with an assistant.”

“It’s one of my manager’s assistant,” he argued. “And you have an assistant too.”

“It’s an admin for the department. And they only book the travel. They don’t manage individual calendars. Sorry I’m a peasant dragging my cadaver up the corporate ladder.”

Regardless, he woke up to your email one morning—some remnant of your personality from a former life—at the top of his inbox with the word “London???” above an itinerary for two weeks of franchise meetings and property tours around the city he called home.

His city. No coincidences, no “accidental” run-ins at LAX or JFK that the two of you bent in your favor. You were coming for to him. During a week that he otherwise had no plans.

He acted on impulse. Perhaps a little desperately. Especially considering how little he knew you.

“If you want, you can just stay here. I have plenty of room. You’ll have your space. Pretend it’s a VRBO for the week.”

Realization hit him once he hit send. Dread.

Invite you to stay at his house, a house that he was just settling in to being a home. Where all of his things were, where he had pictures of family and friends.

His house.

Where he was someone and not no one.

He hoped that you would realize the impropriety—as improper as it could be after he’d stuck his cock in you more times than he could count at this point—and be the more level-headed of the two of you, as you usually were, and decline the offer.

It took 48 hours for you to respond. 

He thought that meant he was in the clear.

Until your reply blipped in his inbox between emails containing sides for self tapes and negotiations for his next potential public appearance.

“Great, thanks. I won’t take up too much space. I’ll barely be there.”

Followed by the airplane emoji and the sleep emoji.

He got irrationally angry for a moment.

How could you do this? How could you cross this boundary? Partial anonymity…that’s what you both agreed on and here you were…suddenly reneging on that agreement. 

Invading his space.

Only you weren’t invading, he invited you in.

Invited you to know Joe a little more than you knew Joseph.

And he could know you too. 

He missed getting to know people; he chose not to know people. He knew enough people.

Now he’d get the chance to get to know you.

You’d be here in a week.

And suddenly you were.

Not an email away. Just there.

You sent him a WhatsApp from the car—a necessity now that you’d be with him for a prolonged time—double checking his street. Then suddenly you were ringing the bell.

He went over the mental to-do list that he’d made ahead of your arrival—schedule planned so he’d be available if you wanted or needed him anything, the cleaning service came through, groceries were delivered, and he’d even got flowers for your room…just a nice little thing he thought of—and then he opened the door.

It had been awkward, the initial greeting.

It wasn’t like your typical hotel room rendezvous. It wasn’t straight to business. You both just stood there staring.

“Consider me a vampire,” you joked, slightly jet lagged and weary since you had gone to meetings straight away after you’d landed. “I need to be invited to come in.”

“Of course,” he stepped to the side to let you in. “Make yourself at home.”

You let him carry your suitcase and shoulder your backpack as he led you straight to the guest room. Then you touched his cheek fondly, thanked him…and promptly shut the door in his face so you could sleep.

Well…he at least thought he was going to get something more than that.

But he didn’t get much more than that. For almost an entire week.

At first it was fine. You were busy, and so was he.

He made (ordered) breakfast for the two of you for the first morning. You grabbed tea and a biscuit (“when in Rome…yes I know…but this was part of the Roman Empire so…No I thought it was funny Joseph ok see you later then”) and ordered an Uber to make it to your first walkthrough of the day. He had a copy of your schedule in his email, made sure to run his errands, make his appointments, and hang out with friends while you were busy so he could be there when it was time for you to return at the end of the day. Only to get another peck on the cheek and be thoroughly ignored as you trudged off to bed.

He felt a little bad. He knew those days where they just never seemed to end; come back to wherever he’d been put up only to check his phone and pass out. 

Then he’d hear you around midnight, waking up from a dead sleep and tapping away at your keyboard. Sending communication to your boss or your team or whoever else back home. He didn’t know if you knew he was awake, or if you would venture out of the guest room to find him or get a drink…something. But you never did. Didn’t roam around, didn’t even chat him on WhatsApp; you just clicked away until the clicking stopped and you passed out again.

That’s when he got annoyed.

Because he’d been patient enough; he waited. Waited for something for those first few days. Some kind of sign that you were here with him. He’d sit and watch the telly, pick something from netflix or YouTube, read a book waiting for you to say more than hello to him when he opened the door for you. Have a conversation with him. Something! Sure that wasn’t really how the two of you operated, but even when he still had a roommate and they lived a very separate schedule there was at least a “hey mate, how’d the day go” and it gnawed at his insides that you couldn’t even be bothered.

Who were you? Just some no one, playing at possibly having an executive position one day. 

And who was he? He was Joseph Quinn. Eddie fucking Munson, as much as he loathed it. He had people screaming for him, screaming his name. You even screamed his name from time to time. 

Just not now.

Was he even going to get to fuck you at the end of this torture? Probably not. You’d be off to Heathrow to catch your flight back home with a simple peck on the cheek and a pat on the head.

“Good boy Joseph, letting me stay in your guest room, thank you for the red carpet treatment.”

So after three days of radio silence, he stopped playing such a gracious host. You insisted that you weren’t even there? He would act like you weren’t.

He stopped living his life around your schedule, left you a spare key so he wouldn’t have to make a fool of himself and open the door for you. Got dinner with his friends, drinks with some people his manager wanted him to meet, all on his own time. 

He did exactly what did, he ignored you.

And that’s what got your attention, or so it seemed.

He saw you “in the wild” a bit more. You and your American lean against the bar at the pub he frequented, wine glass in hand as you chatted with someone in a suit; he decided he’d rather get a beer somewhere else that night. Came home late from a friend’s party on Friday to find you in the kitchen, with a sandwich, going over some contract. You waved at him, maybe a hello or to get him to join you, but he just walked away. Woke up late the next morning to find you actually sitting on his couch with coffee in one hand and phone in another. Your eyes brightened a little when you saw him.

“Morning! I have an appointment at 1, but…dinner?” You asked. “I’m getting so sick of cateri—“

“M’busy,” he cut you off. He didn’t like the way you just nodded, just pressed your lips together accepted it. The way his plans meant nothing. Still, you were out here. Instead of in your room…or just gone.

“Maybe tomorrow night?” He offered, a little more gently.

“Sounds good.” He smiled. “I’ll put it on my calendar.” And the smile went away again, and so did he.

You put him on your calendar like another business appointment; he shouldn’t have felt bad about it, it’s what you always did when you met up in one city or another…but he did. Because this wasn’t “make a run-in happen” this was a meal with the person whose house you were living in for two weeks.

He probably should have asked someone if he was overreacting—probably should have asked you to be honest—but who could he ask? His friends didn’t know about you; they gave him enough shit about his current situation as it was, let alone some American airport fling. Couldn’t exactly tell his manager, they’d have you in to sign an NDA or something; all of the times he planned his travel around “running into you,” he just said it was meeting up with a friend.

So let the feeling stew in his head all day. He came home late again Saturday night to avoid you, and stayed out the entire day Sunday, missing the time you’d made for him on your calendar. Good riddance.

Until he rolled in at 1am, well on his way back to sober after a night out, to find you sitting on his couch, some YouTube chef on the telly, Diet Coke in hand, and his takeaway box of leftovers from dinner the night before on the coffee table.

“That was mine,” he accused. No greeting, just fire as he walked over and looked at the remnants of his gnocchi carbonara.

“It was really tasty,” you nodded.

“I know, because it was mine.” He scoffed and crossed his arm over his chest. “You know if you were really hungry, there’s plenty of other food in the kitchen. Or you could’ve gotten a sausage roll or something. Ever heard of Uber Eats?”

“No I ate your pasta because you told me once that you don’t eat leftovers but you always felt bad that they’d just go in the garbage at the restaurant,” you explained calmly. A little too calmly. “Instead they’d just go in the garbage here. So I enjoyed your scraps, cold, like a peasant, oh King Joseph, most conceited and decadent of all. Because you forgot we had plans for dinner.”

“S’that what we had? Plans?”

“Yeah, I blocked off time for you and everything.”

“Talk about most conceited,” he grabbed the takeaway box and started walking towards the kitchen to dispose of it and this conversation, but you were hot on his heels.

“Excuse me what was that?”

“You heard me, conceited,” he threw the box in the bin and then turned back towards you. “Lemme pencil you in on my calendar, Joe. Dinner, Sunday, 8 o’clock does that work?” He mimed holding a notebook and jotting down the appointment. 

“Have you lost your mind? That’s what I need to do if I want ten minutes to myself, let alone a whole dinner. You know I didn’t even put sleep on my calendar for this trip?”

“Lemme not even say good morning because I have a call I need to get on Joe, thanks for the biscuits.”

“Did you miss the entire point of me being in London when I sent you my itinerary? Or did you think this was just me coming to fuck you for two weeks?”

“Maybe not the whole two weeks,” he sneered at you. “But even a how was your day would have been nicer than being treated like the hotel manager.”

“At least the hotel staff cleans shit up,” you scoffed at him. “You know I went out for drinks the other night, went to that pub you told me about, because we finally figured out a contract and I spilled wine on myself. Came back here to throw it in the wash only to find the machine full of dirty clothes. That was really fun to see your stained and faded tighty whiteys at the top of the load. Were you just waiting for the maid service to come back to start the wash for you? You’re so famous now that can’t even hit the damn button yourself?”

The next scathing remark stopped dead on his tongue at that, and then he felt the shame build up.

But only for a moment, because before he knew it, you were crossing the distance and smashing your mouth to his. It was a quick play for control as usual, neither of you caring that you’d just butt heads because the real winner would be whoever could succeed at your little game first; he was in such a mood, such a state, that he actually tried to put up a fight, wanting to get you to cry out for him like he’d been wanting all week. Wanting to be wanted, needed.

He pulled away to remove the bridge from his mouth, mindful of the complaint you’d made about kissing him last time you’d met up, and you did something unexpectedly delicious.

“You rich rat,” you growled at him as you tugged his shirt free of his waistband with one hand and started working his belt loose with the other. “You better be wearing clean underwear right now so help me god.”

And damn if he didn’t get hard just from your words alone. 

The aggressive snap of his belt hitting the tile floor also helped.

“They should be,” he grinned cheekily and pulled your sleep shirt over your head. “Agnetha did a load before you got here.”

“You’re pathetic.” You worked the buttons of his shirt as quickly as you could. “How much is this shirt? ’S it dry-clean only? Does she take your dry cleaning in too? Bring it back and make sure it’s folded nicely only for you to shove everything in the drawer anyway. Like the useless boy you are.”

Yeah that was doing it for him.

“She washes the sheets too.” He dropped to his knees before you now as you leant against the counter, fully intent on pleasing you right here in the kitchen. “Changed them right before you got here. Shouldn’t be any more questionable stains.”

“Useless,” you hissed at him but ran a hand softly through his curls as he kissed along your abdomen and peeled your leggings down your legs. “Utterly useless.”

The thing about you though was your self-restraint, your discipline. You didn’t like to lose; you’d deprive yourself of things to get some advantage over your adversaries—usually corporate adversaries—and come out on top. And you made that very well known in the bedroom too when this little game got started. You’d gotten him to cum easily the first time you slept together and then used him to chase your own pleasure, commanding his mouth and tongue here and fingers there. 

Just like you were doing now. No moans, just little hitches in your breathing as you steered his head and used the leg you’d thrown over his shoulder to bring him deeper into your center. 

When you got close to completion, you used the upper hand again to push him away and you both descended together. His trousers and pants shoved down to his knees with his shirt bunched up under his head so he wouldn’t be sore from smacking it against the tile when you sunk down onto him. And when he felt the delicious squeeze of your cunt, he couldn’t help himself from throwing his head back; good for you to have the foresight. 

He had the foresight too though. He knew your moves, they made him see the light of God, seductress that you were. You told him your secret once as you basked in the afterglow when you’d rendered him particularly speechless.

“Spell the word coconut.”

“C-o-c--“

“No, I spell the word coconut. As I’m on top. Read it in a magazine or something during my last layover.”

And he could feel it now, predict it. Feel the motion of your hips, around and around and up and down and squeeze.

He couldn’t tell just by looking at your face, he had to feel it; close his eyes and feel the tempestuous slide of you over him, bringing him higher.

Maybe he would win the game tonight?

He wasn’t one to lose either; he could be competitive just like you. In fact, he was excellent at manipulating a situation in his favor. School, money, life. And with you he’d won enough times to know it could be done. You’d made him feel so…meaningless over the past week—even if he’d misunderstood and overreacted—that a win would be even better than the pleasure itself.

You pried one of his hands off your hip where it was clinging for dear life and directed him to play with your clit so you didn’t have to. For a moment, he lifted his head and watched his own nicotine-stained nails and your prettily manicured ones mingle against the engorged and glistening junction of your sex, and where any other time it would have him groaning at the sight, he couldn’t help but notice how disgusting his hands looked in comparison to your own. For a moment the confidence faltered.

When had he last washed them? Maybe you were right, he was gross and pathetic…

But then you moaned, and from his point of view It looked like it even surprised you even. You stuttered in your pace and your eyes went a little wide. 

He felt all the doubt leave him. 

He would win tonight…

He took advantage, used his leverage, to turn the tables. To sit upright and guide you to take his spot; you couldn’t even protest before he pistoned into you, before his fingered took an unrelenting pace on your clit.

He could spell coconut too, and he did. He would tell you all about it after his victory. Boast over using your own tricks against you.

You watched him with unblinking eyes as your nails dug into his bicep and shoulder, as you bit your lip so hard he was sure you’d bite right through it, and you kept the little whine that emanated from your throat as soft as you possibly could. Still, he could hear it through the desperate, wet sounds of your fucking.

He closed his eyes and focused on the finish line, focused on keeping the tension of his mounting pleasure back as he could feel you grip tighter and begin to spasm around him. He needed to win, it would be glorious.

“Joe,” you moaned, and he thought it was over. But there, underneath the neediness, lay the condescension, the obvious upper hand. “Can you hurry up? I have a call at 7am”

He came, seconds before you did. Collapsed against you and spilled inside of you before you found your own release.

On his kitchen floor, spent, laughing together, basking in the ridiculous pleasure found in the presence of one another, another game came to an end.

And he might have lost, but in the end, did he really lose?

Happy Birthday asshole. I'm following you into 30 in 10 months with a vengeance.

No love lost, The better Jo(e) &lt;/3