#maybe we should take it seriously and just make that the one rule

[snekdood]

wish i could slap the apathy out of trans channers

[baronessofmischief]

Rebel Moon on Netflix is sooooooo soso bad guys 😂 like at least there’s space Charlie Hunnam with a Scottish accent and sometimes the main character has a flashback where she has a better haircut AND there’s a sibling duo who have the best costumes in the movie but the story? The script? The movie structure? Cohesiveness? Absolutely terrible. And there’s still 45 minutes left

[always-a-slut-4-ghouls]

I’ll make myself tea, drink half of it, forget it, and then be less sure what i want to do when I find it again three hours later

[oveliagirlhaditright]

-randomly sees a screenshot of jamie and lily from the city of bones movie, where they seem to embody jace and clary, and am once again sad that we didn't get a city of ashes movie-

[yameoto]

SUPERNOVA CAITLYN KIRAMMAN

kpop idol caitlyn X her insatiably horny junior

"Noona is so cool!"  You mimic, voice pitching either higher or lower, depending on which of the plethora of comments you pick, at your leisure. "Caitlyn’s a CF goddess. Her talents are seriously wasted. Wah, her visuals are really otherworldly. Unnie looks so good I’m creaming my pants—" Caitlyn fixes you with a flat, unimpressed look, at that last one. “It doesn't say that.” You grin, like the effervescent angel you are. “Yeah. That was just me.��

tw; dom/sub!caitlyn, brat!reader, idolverse, girlcock, semi-public sex, sex in dance practice rooms, mirror sex, handjobs, handjobs during vlives, voyeurism, mild age-gap, age hierarchy dynamics, use of korean honorifics. idol!caitlyn x idol!reader wc; 5.1k. ao3

notes: set in modern day runeterra. ionia encompasses the entire region of asia in league which i personally find stupid but i dont make the rules. fluff/smut/humour. derivative of korean culture (kpop idol au) + pokes a lil fun at stan culture. no prior kpop knowledge is needed (though it would likely help) the sex is filthy regardless. wrote this after finding caitlyn is only a 1/4 white like hallelujah jesus

CAITLYN looks stupidly good. Like stupid, stupidly good. Her grey sweatpants are slung low on her hips, waistband of her briefs peeking out. Sweat-slickened abs glare back at you, from the floor-to-ceiling mirror. The outline of her bulge is visible. These are all observations that you latch into like an IV-drip hooked-up to your wrist, in order to stay alive—lest you die from the fatigue. And boredom.

“Please,” You grumble, head slumped on your knee as your arm drops to the floor, phone abandoned Candy Crush side, up. “Please, please, please, can we go home?” 

“No,” Caitlyn huffs, hands on her hips, looking entirely too good as she takes a momentary (and you mean, momentary) break to swig a sip of water, before she hurls herself right back into it, sweaty and stunning.

The two of you have been trapped in the practice rooms for what feels like eternity. Or, more accurately, Caitlyn has trapped you in the practice rooms for what feels like eternity. You would rather be snuggled up and content in the comfort of your dorms; rather than slogging away in the basement, like you’re still trainees clawing your way up the company ladder inch by inch—rather than the four-time daesang winners, face of Ionia’s girl-groups’, and other innumerable accolades under your belts that seemingly mean nothing to your fearless group leader. At least, at the moment.

You’ve long slunk to the floor, sleepy eyes tracing the way sweat rolls down Caitlyn’s nape as she re-runs the movements for about the zillionth time. Her shoulder-blades flex through the thin fabric of her shirt, sweat dampening into a darkened pool in a way that should be gross, but on her, it just looks sexy. The ache in your muscles has simmered to a low burn, by now. Jeez, your eyelids are slipping. Thank God you have your sweet leader to ogle. The sight of Caitlyn’s bulge peeking through those sweatpants is practically your sole motivator in keeping your eyes open.

“You know,” After what feels like a decade, you pipe up again, because time has begun to melds together. “You’ve got it. Seriously.” The swig of water that sluices down your throat is lukewarm and unsatisfactory. Fuck, you’re thirsty. “The stage is a week away. You’ll be fine.”

Caitlyn’s eyes narrow at you through the mirror, incredulous.

“When in the world has fine ever been good enough?” 

Okay, sure. Caitlyn’s right. But she’s more than fine. Almost-perfect, actually—and come seven days—her dance moves will indubitably be heaven-sent and her ending fairy will probably trend #1 on three different social media platforms, and you will most definitely tug her ear endlessly about it, like the benevolent, supportive junior you are.

Seven days prior, however—and all you are is tired, grouchy, and maybe just a little bit horny. 

“I crave the sanctity of my blankets.” You lament, hand falling over your forehead as you languish on the floor, because the sun has probably set by now and you are seriously contemplating the possibility of dying of old age in this godforsaken practice room. (Not that that would be so bad, if Caitlyn were with you).

“You can go home, you know,” Caitlyn sighs, twisting around to face you, sneakers squeaking on the glossy wooden floors. 

“How am I supposed to sleep without my favourite member as a bolster?”  You pout, snatching on the chance to act a brat, immediately. Caitlyn just rolls her eyes, but her lips twitch upwards, so negligible that if you weren't so tuned in to all-things-Caitlyn, you might’ve missed it.

“Clingy.” She mutters, like she doesn't love it. Loves being your favourite. Not that it matters, because the glimmer of hope that flickers in your chest when Caitlyn crouches down in the direction of her bag—is immediately quashed when she only taps her screen, and the speaker rewinds all the way to the start. 

You’re really starting to hate this song.

“Are you serious? That’s not enough to rouse your cold, dead, heart?” You whine, because usually Caitlyn would've caved to your grabby-hands and doe-eyes by now (especially with the way you look; lips parted and shining with spit, water trickling down your chin down the column of your throat, from the leftover rivulets of your water-bottle.) Not that Caitlyn doesn't notice. She’s just really, really determined to get this right.

Desperate times call for desperate measures.

“You work yourself too hard.”

You stretch to a stand, elongated and cat-like before you slink over and sling yourself dramatically along Caitlyn’s back. Her expression contorts into exasperation. She attempts to turn her head, to face you—to no avail. Not when you’re pushing her up against the mirror and the pinning her down against glass with the power of aggressive spooning on your side. Her hand shoots out to brace against the mirror, as your fingers hook the hem of her sweats, and Caitlyn stiffens under your thumb, lips falling open against her will.

“Darling,” She inhales, in that addictive, throaty accent of hers. Caitlyn sounds almost pained, as she catches your wrists—though she neither takes them in or wrests them away. The both of you have full view of the rising tent in her groin.

“What?” You smirk, teeth grazing the shell of her ear, like the sneaky little bastard you are. “Don’t tell me you’re planning to practice with a boner, unnie. That must hurt.”

Caitlyn’s breath hitches, and her knees almost buckle, if it weren’t for the way your arms tighten around your waist and squeeze the growing problem at her crotch. Your fingers twine with the string of her trackpants, loosening them under slim, deft fingers.

“Honorifics? Really?” Her voice is tight. She’s screwed. You only ever whip those out when you want something, seeing as how you've been speaking informally to your technical senior  since your very first meeting, in trainee days, (an accident she so loves to recount on variety shows. “It’s not my fault you just looked so young and pretty, unnie.” You’d fumble in defense, eyes wide and doling out the extra sparkle for the cameras as they zoomed-in on your frantic apologies, laugh track sure to be edited in. “What was I supposed to think?”

“You’re lucky I was too kind to scold you,” Caitlyn sighs, and—in a dramatic show of theatricality—flips the inky-blue curtains of her hair behind her shoulder, much to the hosts delight. “I can be really mean, baby.” 

That had been a hit. Probably because of the way her drawl had lilted playfully and she’d cupped your jaw in the most egregious display of fan service you’d ever seen. Caitlyn’s always known how to wrap the media around her pretty fingers; and your stammer and ensuing blush had mercilessly crowded your feed for at least two weeks, afterwards.)

That’s in public, though. In private? 

Caitlyn is a puddle to the graze of your fingers along her hipbone, and the glide of your breath up her neck. Dark eyes meet hers, hooded and intent, reflected in the pane of metal in front of you. It’s certainly a sight to behold. The two of you are both dripping in sweat, Caitlyn’s cheeks flushed, bare-faced and glowing—hair tangled up in that loose ponytail that you've always found so much hotter on her, than any amount of hours in the styling chair could ever produce.

“I really need to..” Caitlyn’s protests sound weak even to her own ears. Especially when heat pools in hot, throbbing waves that rush straight to her dick, and she's cut off by her own gasp when you nuzzle in the nook between her shoulder-blades and your hands—beautiful, cunning hands—ghost over her crotch and squeeze. Her entire world lurches into a haze, body spasming upwards.

“Unnie,” You breathe, sweet and soft, like the devil in her ear, “please fuck me.”

Just like that, Caitlyn can’t take it any longer. A low, strangled noise rips from her throat, eyes fogging over and black eclipsing blue. Lithe hands coil around your wrists, and flips your positions entirely—thrusting you right up against the glass.

Her muscles are throbbing, hours of dance practice flaming up her bones; but she pins you down with the strength of a woman possessed, all the same. As far as Caitlyn’s concerned, she’s like a sleeper agent to your bedroom voice, and the fact could never shine with more clarity, than now (other than the time you’d done a Lola Shark impression in an interview and she’d gotten, to her horror, embarrassingly hard underneath the blanket thrown over her lap. She’d had to call in a bathroom break, to take care of it—much to your smug, haunting amusement).

In the mirror, you watch as Caitlyn’s breathing shallows into pants, tongue licking hot up the stretch of your neck to under your jaw. Neither of you miss the brief, smugly satisfied spark to your eyes and glowing hot between your thighs, even as both squeeze shut when you arch up against Caitlyn’s bulge. She grinds down against your ass, and you moan, so brazen she almost can’t believe it.

“Shit. You're so shameless,” Caitlyn mutters, breaths rushing harsh against your shoulder as she fumbles with the knot at your sweats, rutting hopelessly into the coil of your figure. The moment thread slips free, pants pooling to your ankles as you bend over, head thrown back—Caitlyn’s brand-name briefs soak with a splurge of pre so intense she almost thinks she’s come early.

“You want my fingers?” Caitlyn asks, just to be a bitch. Your eyes squint open to glare at her through blurry vision and through an even blurrier visage.

“Don’t joke,” You spit, voice hoarse with want. It's meant to sound demanding, but all it comes out is whiney, and Caitlyn’s laugh sends shivers down your nape.

There’s a millisecond in which your mind empties completely, and it's almost cruel how you can only see the reflection of Caitlyn’s cock curving upwards from her underwear rather than the real deal. 

Caitlyn’s grasp is like steel around your neck. She thrusts you forwards, your flushed cheeks smushing against the cool surface of the mirror as your stuttered breaths puff in grey clouds of condensation. A groan wrangles itself out of your throat from being manhandled like that, knees wobbling the moment you feel something hot, thick and so, so wet press insistently against the backs of your thighs. Arousal has already begun to drip down your legs, running down in rivulets and moistening the floor under your feet. Yours or Caitlyn’s—you don’t have the eyes to know.

“Unnie,” You breathe, shakily, voice raw. Your fingers are slippery against glass, and you whimper when the familiar stretch of two fingers sinks into your cunt. You slide open, just like that, and Caitlyn temporarily wrenches you back so that you can see your fogged-up reflection in all its full, filthy glory. 

“S’not enough,” You pant, back arching and ramming urgently against her digits she’s spreading you wide, with—so eye-wateringly slow. Maybe it’s the fact that you've been working yourself up, blatantly eyeing her down, for hours since your head checked out of training and your brain devolved into its most primitive urges in coping with your mind-numbing boredom. 

“Not enough?” She grins, sharp-toothed and devastating, adoring the upper-hand. “What? You need a third finger, baby?” The noise that tears out of you is almost like a wounded animal, and you'd be embarrassed if you weren't so overcome with need and prolonging this teasing sounds like torture.

So, you answer with the obvious, “Your cock.” You hiss through gritted teeth, because Caitlyn loves it when you beg for her dick and you’re too hare-brained and empty to do anything more than push back, impossibly deeper into her fingers. They sink to her knuckles of entirely your own volition, without her having to do so much as twitch. 

Caitlyn’s laugh is practically a goad in itself. The lush curtain of her lashes are lowered, irises swallowed up by the deep dilation of her pupils. Still, though, she takes her time in playing with you, just a little longer. Revels in the way you thrash around her fingers, fucking yourself back, desperate.

Herself is one thing. Her dick can only take so much, however. The ache becomes too much, too soon, and the second she runs her glossy head against the drenched, hot pulse of your hole—she can’t not shudder, knot in her throat, before her fingers slip out of your pussy and your consequent whimper is interrupted by the plunge of her cock.

“Hah, baby..” Caitlyn whimpers, eyes fluttering back as she fucks you against the mirror, nails dragging up your hips and digging into supple flesh. Never has Caitlyn felt so at home, submerged in the deep, velvet ocean of your cunt.

“Unnie—” You gasp. It’s the one word, echoing over and over, like an all-consuming siren song throughout your head—with each gasp that comes with every thrust of Caitlyn’s hips, motions growing sloppier as the exhaustion of hours of tireless exertion catches up to the both of you. She nips at your ear, then down the curve of your nape, to the unblemished skin of your upper back. Teeth grazing, pads of her fingers leaving scorching trails as she gropes up your body—your mind a jumbled, fuzzy mess. Her cock plunges in and out, still guided, though she never slips out more than mid-way; bodies sticking together like gum. Like she can’t bear to be apart from you for even a moment—even if it is to pummel your cunt until you can hardly take it anymore.

It’s only when the pumps and rolls begin to slow into simple, gentle rocks, to absolutely nothing but a twitch—that your mind clumsily clasps onto a semblance of clarity, hasty and brief, like you know it’ll slip away and out of reach, soon. “Wha..?” You rasp, half-slurred, even if what you really want to whinge is; What’s goin’ on? Why’d you stop? And, please, please, please. Don’t stop. Keep goin’. Fill me up. Please, don’t ever stop— and other half-baked nonsense that you’ll be glad your tongue was too thick and heavy in your mouth to spill.

“I can’t mark you,” Caitlyn grunts, and your eyes sharpen, just a little. Her tongue peeks out from her lips as her expression looks disproportionately distraught, like it’ll be the end of the world if she doesn’t stake some sort of physical claim on you, eyes darting downwards to your unblemished shoulders with a low growl of frustration.

Distantly, that part of you is still clinging onto reality, knows she’s right. That your comeback is in a week’s time and risking a hickey or a bite-mark or worse (because Caitlyn is stronger and sharper and rougher than her delicate figure should ever have been allowed to be), is a bad, bad idea.

But the larger part of you—the part of you that is currently being railed by her unnie’s cock and trying desperately not to squirt cum all over the practice room mirror—rasps out a reckless, ragged, “Who cares?”, and that’s all the permission Caitlyn needs.

Caitlyn pulls out, and slams herself in again, grip on your waist, bruising. Your hands go sliding, uselessly against the steamy surface of the mirror, long fogged-up under the slick tangle of your bodies. She’s mouthing slurred nonsense into your ear, the music speaker knocked over by one of your ankles and emitting distant sounds from where it's rolled, to the other side of the room. Neither of you could give a single fuck. 

Not the least, when Caitlyn’s hand is sliding up your throat and thumbing over your gaping lips. It feels as if a pink-hued fuzziness has descended the room and become a thick veil over everything, and when her fingers slip into the hot, wet gasp of your mouth—it's only right for you to take the digits in your tongue and suck. 

“Ahnngh—Cait—”  

“When did I say you could speak informally to me?” Caitlyn husks, fingers pressing deeper into the roof of your mouth. In your reflection, you can see the razor angle of Caitlyn’s jaw as she nuzzles into your ear. The obscene glisten of your spit, coating her fingers and coasting down your chin as her digits languish between your parted lips. You look every bit like her precious fuckdoll, right now.

“Unnie—”

“Ah-ah.”

“Sunbae.” 

“Mm. That’s better.”

Her free hand skims up your shirt, slipping up the taut lines of your body and flicking idly at one nipple. You whine, garbled around the gag of her hand, and Caitlyn lets out a moan of content when your pussy tightens around her shaft.

“Fuck,” She pants, teeth sinking down into your shoulder and you buck, even though the pain barely registers with how Caitlyn barrels her cock in you, deeper, and your eyes roll back into your skull. Your thighs are shaking. “M’gonna—hfgh—” 

Her hips draw upwards, and Caitlyn cums like a faucet. All of it, inside you. Outside of you. Dripping from your still-leaking cunt and droplets getting fucked out with each, desperate thrust as she moans, guttural. “Take it—fuck—” Caitlyn groans, harsh and insistent as she pounds, your pussy squelching—so wonderfully wet—as your fingers scramble against the glass, her fingers cramming deep inside your mouth.

“Ah-ah—fuck!”

The two of you go crashing down, sliding down against the mirror and onto the floor with a twinning, indecipherable slew of obscenities, a boneless, panting heap, still moving in tandem. 

You both slump, slippery and sticky. The song on the speakers re-starts, yet again, from the other side of the room, though it's the first time it's even pierced your ears in the past forty minutes. Caitlyn groans, pushing her nose into the crook of your neck, arms tightening around your waist. The mirror is splattered in both your cum.

“We’re gonna have to clean this up, aren’t we?”

“..Probably.” You sigh, still leaking around her cock as you angle your head, the two of you slotting together like missing puzzle pieces.

Twenty-four hours and countless Kleenex wipes later (and really, cleaning your own cum from floor-to-ceiling mirrors—with two half-guilty reflections staring right back at you—is an uniquely humbling experience); it was totally worth it to see Caitlyn appropriately red, after the crash of post-nut clarity.

It’s your one, blissfully empty day before comeback promotions launch you all into full-throttle. You intend to enjoy it while it lasts. 

“Your latest Lotte CF went viral,” You pop behind her, totally innocously if weren’t for that familiar, impish glint in your eyes. Caitlyn sighs, not even glancing up from the stove, completely nonplussed. Probably because Caitlyn could record herself taking a piss and it would chart #1 on Melon.

“The seonjiguk is simmering.” She ignores you. You ignore her right back.

“Look at those dimples,” You beam like a little shit as you wave the video in her face. “Maybe you should go into acting. The GP would go crazy.”

“No thanks,” Caitlyn snorts, hand lifting upwards to stifle a brief yawn, sleeves coming up all the way to her knuckles. “been there, done that.” 

“Oh, right. All your Piltovian film connections.” You hum, idly tracing the underneath of Caitlyn’s elbow as you lean over her shoulder to watch her cook. She’s markably improved from her humble beginnings of blackened, bubbling slag (what was once instant Buldak), or the scotchmarks that still hail the kitchen tiles, to this day.

“Mhm. I was almost poached. My mother wanted me to—what was that? Follow in her footsteps.”

“Well, I’m grateful that you didn't,” You hum, into her shoulder. You poke her side, grinning. “Then you wouldn't have met me, and wouldn't that be tragic?”

Caitlyn scoffs, but you feel her sink a little deeper into your embrace, eyes flitting to settle onto the top of your head, as you nudge into her. You both, really are grateful.

You’re pretty sure Ionia is grateful, too. 

Whatever the day, it always feels like Caitlyn’s name has taken up a permanent residence in the nation’s newsites. ICE PRINCESS. AI VISUALS. ATTITUDE PROBLEM. Her quarter Piltovian and subsequent accent injects an ‘attractive exoticism’ (or whatever management had stapled to your files, at the dawn of debut), that had made Caitlyn internationally explosive, too. 

The Kiramman surname certainly helped. Caitlyn’s debut was like, the biggest plot-twist in nepotism, ever. It was like if Nicole Kidman’s kid suddenly became Hatsune Miku. Not to mention the fact the Kirammans are the largest benefactor of Hextech, whose global rollout of leading-edge tech has gone unmatched. Of all careers for the Kiramman’s mysterious, devastatingly attractive daughter to take—this is the one that took the entire globe off-guard. Including the great and glamorous, Cassandra Kiramman.

Of course, the initial shock long lapsed underwater, with the constant roil of the media waves. Caitlyn’s fame, however, has not.

“Noona is so cool!”  You mimic, voice pitching either higher or lower, depending on which of the plethora of comments you pick, at your leisure. “Caitlyn’s a CF goddess. Ah, her talents are seriously wasted. Is she an angel? Her visuals are really otherworldly—”

“Get that away from me.” Caitlyn swats your phone away with a scowl, pretty pink flush glowing on her features.

“Don’t act all coy,” You prod her so-highly-lauded cheekbones as Caitlyn huffs in annoyance, though begrudgingly leans against the touch anyways. You squish. “We all know you’re preening inside.”

“I am not!”

“Ooh, sexy. I love it when your accent comes out like that.”

Caitlyn groans, because you’re impossible, and just twists so that she’s facing you, back against the kitchen counter. You reach behind her to switch off the stove.

She hooks her fingers into the hem of your pyjama shorts, thumbing over familiar cotton. She sighs outwardly, propping her head up on your shoulder and slumping forwards to rest the cold press of her nose into the crook of your shoulder. Her fingers skim up your shirt, absently rubbing circles into the plane of your stomach.

“You know I hate it when you read those.”

“About how you look like an eepy bunny when you’re sleepy? Or that you have moles in the shape of a giraffe on your nape.” You arch a brow, looking past her as you flick through the blurs of text in various degrees of capitalisation, on your phone. A subtle smirk lifts your lips. “Hey. Is that true? Let me check.”

She scowls, and then almost looks offended that you don’t know that already (You do. Caitlyn also has a darkened, heart-shaped birthmark indented in the crook of her inner thigh—but that’s just for you to know, thank you very much).

Your voice raises a pitch. “Unnie looks so good I’m creaming my pants!”

Caitlyn fixes you with a flat, unimpressed look. “It doesn't say that.”

You grin, like the effervescent angel you are. “Yeah. That was just me.”

Oh, now Caitlyn’s cheeks go red. You push valiantly past the triumphant flutter in your heart, in favour of continuing your teasing. Hey—there’s no schedule today, the dorms are all to yourselves—and you’re on a roll. 

“Look. They wanna steal your eyes and put them in a boba drink.”

Thoroughly fed-up with your antics, Caitlyn snatches the phone out of your hand, and you immediately squirm, to lunging for it. Caitlyn’s ridiculous height advantage has the one-up on you, though, and you puff out an aggrieved yelp of protest when she dangles it above your head, like a dickhead.

“Hey, what the fuck?” You complain, like your comeuppance wasn't exactly what you were hoping for. Except you were more aiming for a pin-you-against-the-fridge, fuck-the-insides-out-of-you type of comeuppance. Not a sordid reminder that you need a stool to reach the top of Caitlyn’s head. “Don’t lord your freakish Frankenstein genetics over me!”

Caitlyn laughs, eyes flickering down. “Are you on your tip-toes right now?” 

Your eyes narrow, because you do not appreciate having the tables turned on you. Your hand shoots up to cup her jaw, tilting it upwards. Caitlyn softens, putty in your hands, adorable furrow in her brow melting away along with her pride as she sinks into your palm with a soft sigh, arm falling to her side.

There we go.

“It’s not my fault you avoid socials like the plague. I’m just doing my duty to take care of my leader’s PR. Your fans are starving.”

Caitlyn grumbles, “Well, let them starve.” though it comes out pinched between smushed lips, cheeks squishing like a dumpling. So heartless, like she’s not the industry’s princess and probably makes up a total of 50% of the company’s annual income. You know exactly why, as you cradle her face in her palms and watch as she leans upwards because no matter how disgruntled Caitlyn acts, or how shockingly humble she is under that front of aloof, arrogance–she definitely preens under attention.

Just. Only yours. 

“Hey, you know what? We should go live right now.”

“What—?” Caitlyn stammers, flabbergasted by the sudden change in direction, “Don’t—“

Too late. Within seconds, you’ve swiped your phone back from her limp hands and flipped the vlive on. Recording. Like, now. Damn, you're speedy. 

“Ah..” Caitlyn’s expression smooths over to that charming, impeccably gorgeous grin of hers that shows off the sharp curves of her cheekbones and has won her the hearts of a nation. 

You pull her to the couch, and under the scrutiny of the camera—Caitlyn acquises with little more than a subtle elbow to your ribs, when the both of you go thudding into the cushions with a low oomph.

Then, you flop against her chest, and the stream of hearts that ensue are absolutely incredible, comments rolling in faster than you can read them. There’s a reason why the two of you are the most popular pairing in the group.

“Hm. Is it on?” You muse, faux confusion tugging on your pretty features. Knitted brows and a plush little pout always do the job, especially when you add a sneak of tongue. No doubt to be screenshotted and re-uploaded countless times, within the next hour. “Hello? Can you guys hear us?”

Which is, you know, the perfect time to grab Caitlyn’s dick through her pants.

A choked noise resounds beside you, and you don’t glance over, for you’re too busy fiddling with the phone and the settings and all other kinds of bullshit that is really just an excuse for you to focus your attention on snaking a hand down Caitlyn’s waistband, just out of view of the camera. “Oh! It’s working. Did you miss us?” You beam, as Caitlyn struggles not to either sock you in the stomach or throw her head back and moan.

If anybody notices Caitlyn’s pupils are suspiciously blown, it doesn’t come up. What does come up, is her ever traitorous cock that lilts immediately into your touch. Fuck. Fuck, fuck.

“Aw, little Caity’s missed me, too,” You croon, as your sneaky fucking fingers stroke idly along her girth, underneath the veil of her sweatpants and just over the thin fabric of her underwear. Caitlyn visibly bristles, because, 1. You’re jacking her off. 2. She hates that your coo instigates a flood of love-bombing so intense, that the hearts on the screen almost completely obscure the both of you. 3, and the most important one; you just gave her dick a nickname! 

“Cait.” You tease out, eyes glittering, not even bothering to conceal your amusement as Caitlyn’s hips buck upwards, her fingers pinching against your sides, lips completely shut mum, for fear she’ll let slip a moan on camera. “C’mon. Say something. You missed them too, right?”

Gods. Caitlyn hates you. She really, really hates you. Just—not enough to not shove your hand away when it starts to peel away the waistband of her underwear. If only because the feeling of precum soaking its seat, sticking to her skin, and not because she’s itching for the sweet relief of your hand around her cock.

“..Hi,” Caitlyn forces her winning, boxy grin, and the years of practice make it an admirably unstrained effort. Maybe she really should go into acting. “Mm. Long time no see, hm?” 

“Unnie’s being awkward, today.” You snark, all sly, and Caitlyn shoots you a glare. She’s rewarded by the sudden, fervent warmth of your hand wrapping around her dick, and then the harsh tug of your fist that has her knees jerking upwards and her dastard slit spurting out a shiny, hot glob of precum. She swallows back a low, strangled whine, like a dry pill. Oh, Gods. She’s supposed to say something.

“Ah, just..—we’ve—ah—”

In a rare show of mercy (because apparently, you’re not out to throw both your careers to the dogs), you swipe the phone back with the most cherubic, triumphant grin to adorn your face, literally ever. Catilyn lets slip a barely-audible hiss as your fingers coil, just a little tighter, stroking up and down—thumb running back over the swollen, gloatingly shiny cockhead.

“We just had a long time in the practice rooms for our comeback, yeah? So we’re pretty tired. Right, unnie?” 

Oh, you're really pushing it, now. 

“Mm. We’ve been—working. Really hard.” She has to lean out of the screen to release a silent, desperate gasp, nails digging into the back of the couch as she tries to rut up into your hand in a way that doesn't obviously send the sofa, trembling. You idly thumb over her slit, smearing the thick, embarrassingly copious amounts of pre down her length. It twitches in your palm, as you ramble on about schedules and the comeback and spoilers and other things that have long become white noise in Caitlyn’s ears. Her hips chase your touch, brazenly, now. She barely even realises when you’re calling it quits; early, too. Because obviously, this was all just to fuck with her.

“Caitlyn,” You sing-song—smirking (supremely unsubtly), at the camera. “Say bye-bye.”

She only just registers the comment. Barely. “Bye.” Caitlyn’s voice is a low croak, hips arching upwards off the couch just as you end the live. Just in time, too, because—

“Oh, fuck.” Caitlyn releases the longest moan of her life, cum spilling over your fist, and she collapses back into the couch. Your phone falls from your hand, and you’re practically shaking with laughter. 

(“Little Caitey,” Caitlyn grumbles, after the fact, with your head nestled between her thighs in apology, “That’s preposterous. What’s so little about her?” Nothing. But there’s no fun in that, is there? At the slow, sly smile spreading on your face, Caitlyn groans. “What?”

“You referred to her in third-person.”

“..Please just suck me off already.”)

[thyme-in-a-bubble]

stay for a fortnight

a/n: as promised, here is part three of the bodyguard!bucky story ৎ୭

summary: “yes, ground rules,” you sighed, forcing your eyes to rest on anything but him, “it’s just you and me here for two whole weeks, so we’ll need to come up with a plan.”

warnings: bodyguard!bucky barnes x reader, smut, reader’s mom is the british ambassador to france, age gap (10-15 years), tattooed!bucky (both a metal arm and tattoos as picked in a poll by you), beefy!bucky, forbidden romance, staying for two weeks at a chateau in the south of france, forced proximity, bucky is a shameless hoe and we love him for it, kissing, love confession, shower sex, dirty talk, manhandling, size kink, belly bulge, gaping, handjob, fingering, impact play, squirting, multiple orgasms, penetrative sex, unprotected sex, creampie, cumplay

word count: 3870

∼ gentle reminder that feedback, but especially reblogs are the way you support writers on here ∽

previous part | series masterlist

masterlist | join my taglist

“I’m sorry, darling. I tried to get out of it, I really did, even for just one day, but I can’t join you at the chateau this time.” 

“It’s alright, mom,” you exhaled, “I understand.”

Soothingly rubbing her palm down the length of your arm, she suggested, “well, since it won’t be as crowded down there, why don’t you stay a little longer? Maybe a proper break might cheer you up. Maybe one extra week?”

“Actually, two weeks of alone time is just what I need right now,” a faint smile managed to emerge on your lips, “thank you.”

“Great! You go and pack your things, I’ll let Barnes know to do the same,” she announced, and squashed the brief relief you felt just as soon as it had washed over you. 

It felt like ages that Bucky made you sit and wait in the car while he went around the estate to do his initial sweep, making sure it was safe and secure before you got to enter. 

The tenseness that still floated ethereally in the air between you didn’t fade away when he finally came back to crack open the door for you to exit the vehicle. 

“So,” you exhaled once the two of you had crossed the threshold of the chateau, “my room is the one upstairs and at the end of the hallway, yours is wherever the fuck you want, there are like a million bedrooms in this place.”

Your footsteps echoed against the elegantly tiled floors as you twisted to check that he even heard you. He had, seeing as his gaze was still ever glued upon you, though he didn’t offer you a reply. 

Shifting the large bag that hung from your shoulder, the luggage that you stubbornly hadn’t let him carry, you paused just before your stride began to ascend the grand staircase in the middle of the foyer.

“Also, I think we should come up with some ground rules.” 

Your bodyguard’s dark eyebrows then crinkled as he half scoffed, “ground rules?”

“Yes, ground rules,” you sighed, forcing your eyes to rest on anything but him, “it’s just you and me here for two whole weeks, so we’ll need to come up with a plan.”

Exhaling slowly, he simply stated, “whatever you say.”

Before you then began to drift up the wide steps, you cast a glance over your shoulder and said, “meet me in the kitchen in ten.”

“Alright,” you breathed, leaning against the cold marble of the kitchen island as you stared down at the small list you’d scribbled down on a stray post-it you had found in the bottom of your bag, slightly crumbled and with a doodle on the other side, “first rule I’d like to instate is an obvious one, but still needs to be set and stone in order for us to be here together. We can’t sleep together.”

When you heard a low sigh seep from Bucky’s lips, your eyes snapped up to glare at him. 

“Hey! Take this fucking seriously, okay?”

“I am,” he assured you, though his tone indicated the complete opposite of his words. 

“So, rule number two is in prolonging of the first one, which is that we can’t do anything that’ll make us want to sleep with each other,” you cast your glance back down to your messy handwriting, “two A, no swimming in the pool, two B, no nudity, two C, definitely no drinking, and two D, no staring at me,” your eyes flickered back up to catch his blue ones, “especially not like that,” you swiftly gestured to the way he gazed at you.

“Like what?” he didn’t change the manner he looked at you. 

“Like you’ve seen me naked!” 

Your shriek unfortunately only won you the glimpse of a smug smirk upon Bucky’s lips, one you swiftly tried to ignore. 

“Okay,” you blinked in an effort to redirect your attention back to the task at hand and not the butterflies that now soared in your stomach and made you slightly dizzy, “rule number three is technically also under the subsection of number two, but we can’t eat our meals together. No candle-lit dinners, not even a snack.”

Budding in, the man on the other side of the kitchen counter then said, “can I say something?”

With a soft sigh, you mustered the courage to look up at him, “shoot.”

“Do you wanna decide what I wear as well while you're at it? Maybe also when I’m allowed to breathe?”

His jest didn’t as much as conjure a twitch at the corners of your lips as your gaze simply narrowed in his direction, “are you mocking me?”

Boldly leaning his forearms down against the tabletop, he stared back at you, “so what if I am?” though when you assumed he was kidding and you let out a groan, you heard him go on, “all I’m saying is that maybe we don’t set a list of hard rules just to avoid each other. We seem to do just fine when we toss them all out the window.”

“I'm sorry, wait, what?” you blinked. 

“We’ve got two weeks here, so why don’t we make them count?” he shrugged. 

Mouth agape, you dumbfoundedly stared back at him, “you’re kidding, right?”

“Do I look like I’m kidding?” calmly, his head tilted slightly as he held your stunned gaze, “just think about it.”

The sun only barely managed to set before you felt yourself crack and give in to your bodyguard’s offer. 

Storming into his room, his dark brows only got the chance to rise slightly in astonishment before you nearly tackled him to the ground, throwing your arms around his bulky frame and crashing your lips against his before any of you could say even a single word. 

You didn’t try to hide the raw emotions that came pouring out, causing your efforts to be rough and desperate, though it didn’t take long before Bucky’s touch mirrored the feral nature of your own, leaving you dizzy as you eventually withdrew from the starved kiss, clutching onto his shirt for support as you breathlessly ordered. 

“Take off your clothes.”

Keeping your eyes closed, you tilted your head back to let the drizzle of water rinse out the shampoo from your locks. 

The door to the bathroom was wide open, so when you twisted your form to face the showerhead, you didn’t notice as your faithful protector stopped in his slow tracks right on the other side of the threshold. His eyes trailed down your glistening spine till the sight of you caused him to crumble completely and take advantage of the gift that had just fallen into his lap.  

A low purr vibrated within your chest as the warm water rained down upon you, though suddenly, it wasn’t just the hot shower embracing your form, as a pair of burly arms snaked their way around you. Leaning back into his bulky frame, you caught sight of a crumbled bundle of his clothes tossed on the other side of the fogged-up shower door. A blissful hum crackled within you like a roiling fire as you felt his lips begin to plant soft pecks along the line of your shoulders. 

Though as his touch began to bloom and wander boldly down your frame, a gentle hiss tore through your lazy smile as his fingers came into contact and brushed over your core. 

Nipping at your neck, he murmured, “oh, do you want me to stop?” not removing his metal hand, though halted the pattern he had begun to draw over your petals. 

He already knew full well just how sore and swollen you still were. It would have been impossible not to be after the vigorous activities you’d kept the past week busy with.  

Digging your digits into his forearms to keep you in his embrace, you shot back hazily over your shoulder, “don’t you dare,” before a whimper rippled out of you as Bucky once again rolled your puffy pearl beneath his steely touch. 

“How is it that we’ve already done this for a whole week, yet it only feels like a day?” his voice tickled the shell of your ear as you leaned more of your weight back into him. 

“Really? Because I don’t believe you’d be able to fuck me in a day as many times as you have this past week,” you jested through a whimper, “even for a guy with your stamina.” 

“It’s a good thing it’s just the two of us here… imagine if we hadn’t been alone, if it hadn’t been me walking by and seeing you seduce me like the wicked temptress that you are?”

“I wasn’t trying to do anything of the sort,” you chuckled airily. 

“Really?” he teased just as his touch did, “leaving the door open, that wasn’t on purpose?” 

“No, I swear,” you then tilted your head and admitted, “at least not this time…”

“You mean the time back a month ago when didn’t close the door while taking a bath,” he murmured casually, “then called out to me, asking if I could fetch you a towel, and I had to pretend not to hear you?”

Spinning around at once, your eyebrows were nearly at your hairline as you blinked, “you knew?” 

“Baby, you never had to play that hard just to torture me,” he smiled down at you, “that move was downright cruel,” before he reached for the knob and switched off the water.

A squeal bubbled out of you as Bucky then suddenly plucked you up into his arms, wasting no time before he stepped out of the shower, only pausing for a beat in the comparatively more spacious area, though only in order to manhandle you further and toss you over his shoulder before his feet began to shift once more, leaving wet prints in their wake on the cool tile as he strode towards the exit. 

Strung over his shoulder as if you were a wet piece of laundry and he was the line, you giggled, “wait!” and just managed to catch one of the fluffy towels hanging on the hook he passed. Blinking down at the floor as he crossed the threshold, you watched as droplets of water dribbled down from you both and left a trail on the herringbone flooring, “you’re dripping, you’re gonna get the whole house wet!”

Landing his wide palm in a wet smack across your ass, he chuckled, “I thought that was my line, sweetheart,” teasing about the manner your pussy drooled for him, already leaking down your thighs at this point. 

Soon, the long hallway disappeared from your periphery as Bucky entered the nearest of the many bedrooms, though you barely had time to register your new surroundings before the world fell out from under you and he plopped you down on the bed in the middle of the room. 

Standing his ground and looming above the giggle that was your horizontal form, he stole the towel from your grasp before dragging the terrycloth across your skin. As he dried off the droplets of water that clung to your body, a handful of pecks adorned your flesh as well, often shadowing the cloth. 

Gazing up at him with smile-crinkled eyes, you stretched your feet up in the air, against his torso, and rested them against his wide shoulders as he briefly paused to dry himself off as well. But as he returned to sweep the towel across the last remaining spot upon your body that still glistened from the shower, the peck he pressed to the valley between your boobs was swiftly halted as your grasp found his jaw and you guided his face up towards your own. 

As you brought his lips to your own, you swiftly felt the mattress dent and ripple as he crawled up to hover above you. 

“Ahh, fuck…” he then groaned against your lips as your hand snaked down between your bodies and began to stroke his throbbing girth. 

Tossing the towel to the side, a gasp soon tumbled out past your lips as Bucky’s palms found your tits in a gentle squeeze. Your pebbly nipples stood up to the challenge as he swept a knuckle teasingly across one of them before capturing it in a pinch and tugging slightly to summon a sinful sound deep within your body. 

As your fist slowly twisted up and down his hard length, his close proximity caused your own knuckles to brush across your clit at every heated pass. Almost unconsciously, you tilted your hips slightly and nudged the bulbous tip of him through your glistening petals, the pleasure of which caused your eyes to roll in your skull. 

But just before he could take the initiative and catch your fleeting invitation to let him inside, you caught him off guard and suddenly rolled him onto his back with your frame plastered atop of him. 

Propping yourself up slightly, you grasped his fat girth before slowly sinking down upon it, “o-oh my god,” couldn’t help but breathlessly tumble out of your lungs as a flat palm came down to brace on his broad chest and your thighs gently quivered at the sudden stretch of him. It was a few times that you had to pause on your slow journey down just in order to catch your breath, as his intimidating size caused you to question yet again how you’d ever been able to take it before. 

“Atta girl,” his grip dug into your hips when you slowly began to move, “just like that…” though you still couldn’t persuade your pelvis to sink all the way down to meet his own. 

As you found a gentle roll, one of Bucky’s palms scooped up past your waist and caught one of your tits. Your back arched slightly as he played with your boobs, his hand travelling back and forth as you rode him, though a shuttering moan rippled through your body as he landed a gentle tap down upon one of them, a shiver swiftly trickling down your spine at the spark.

But just as you thought the bodyguard beneath you was blissfully enjoying the show and letting you do all the work yourself, his hips then abruptly offered you a greedy buck.  

“Bucky!” you nearly screamed as he buried the last few inches that you had so fiercely struggled to conquer on your own, “that’s–, I–, holy fuck!” 

You hadn’t been able to take all of him on your own, so he just gave you the little nudge that you needed, even if that nudge thoroughly punched all of the oxygen out of your lungs, he still made you take every staggering inch.

“Come on, don’t stop now,” a chuckle escaped him at your reaction before his palm came down upon your ass to get you back to work, “make yourself cum on this cock.” 

Shakily, you tried to pick up your rhythm once more, dropping your hips to meet his, though he couldn’t remain still for long before he began to fuck up into your warmth. Heavy taps echoed throughout the room as his balls slapped against your slick skin at his efforts. As he met your movements halfway and drove his cock much deeper than you could muster on your own, your left hand drifted down to strum your buzzing clit. 

Already dangerously close to the edge, your hazy gaze flickered down to watch not only how your pussy magically swallowed his big dick, but your eyes also caught sight of the dull bulge that appeared in your lower abdomen, making your brain feel even more fuzzy than before. As your glance flickered back to try and catch his, you found his own stare to still be fiercely locked on the same spot where yours had just strayed from, watching intently at just how deep he went, nearly rearranging your guts just to mould you perfectly to fit his shape. 

When you finally reached your peak, your cunt nearly choked his cock as your silky walls clambered down on him, a small accompaniment of sinful gush squirted around him and drizzled to soak the sheets below. 

While you were still foggy with your eyes barely open, Bucky rolled you both over, his dick still throbbing deep within you. Welcoming the softness of the bed beneath you with a gentle sigh, he then captured your lips in a kiss and swallowed the whimpers that promptly bubbled up as he began to fuck you once more, offering you long, deep strokes that sank you so far into the mattress that you began to wonder if you might rock through it completely.  

“O-oh, so fucking d-deep,” you blubbered. A rhythmic cry forced its way out of your lungs each and every time the tip of him kissed your cervix, nearly bullying the deepest parts of you in a manner that made you feel like the wobbliest of jellies. 

“You scared I’m gonna break you, baby?” his soft lips ghosted against your cheekbone. 

“I–, maybe,” you admitted, blinking up at the way his frame eclipsed your vision, “but it feels so good, I don’t care if you do,” though your confession ended up not only exclusively being about the purely physical entanglement you currently found yourselves in. 

A deep growl rumbled in his chest as his hands scooped down beneath your bottom, before he let himself manhandle you, repeatedly dragging your hips up to grant him a better angle for him to fuck into. A bit of drool trickled out the corner of your mouth and found the pillow below your head when his cock soon throbbed within you, pumping you full of his hot load. 

When he pulled back out of your warmth, your pussy didn’t get to stay empty for long as his cool metal fingers swiftly took his dick’s place. Plugging you full, his frame shifted slightly to grant him a good view of the leaky mess he’d made of you. As he pushed his cum deeper inside of you, scooping it back in as his fingers forced it out, he increasingly added more and more digits till the amount matched the girth that had just split you apart, before he withdrew them all at once and grinned proudly at the way he made your hole gape slightly for him, before winking back to a closed as if he’d never even tickled you before. 

It didn’t take long with all of his molten motions before your pussy wept for him once more, a display he only drew out as his fingers stayed hooked inside of you while his other palm came down to offer your puffy pearl a few taps. 

A hazy giggle was bubbling out of your shaky frame as his attentive touch finally faded and his kisses fluttered back up your body till your arms wrapped around him and drew him in close. 

As you layed there in the plush bed and stared up at the ceiling, you didn’t know yet that the man sprawled out beside you was awake as well. 

You just couldn’t find rest no matter how hard you tried, for how could you as tonight was your last night in the chateau. 

Carefully, you slipped out from under the covers, grabbed your long robe from the armchair it was draped over, and tip-toed towards the wide French doors that lead out onto a balcony. Pushing the doors open, a mild gust of wind rustled the robe as you fastened the tie around your waist and crossed over the threshold. 

Though you knew that you didn’t have any other choice, the thought of returning home in the morning still broke your heart. The last thing you wanted to do was burst that dreamlike bubble that you and your bodyguard had built together and go back to a world completely desaturated of colour. 

Not only had you made the grave mistake of repeating history, but putting it under such an intense microscope didn’t help matters either, as well as your feelings, those having become terrifyingly clear over the past two weeks. 

“Hey,” you suddenly heard the doors behind you creak and you tore your hazy gaze away from the dark gardens below to spot Bucky gently leaning against the doorframe. 

“Hi,” you breathed, keeping a flat palm on the ivy-covered stone railing as you twisted your frame slightly to glance at him, “I’m sorry, did I wake you?”

“No, I was already awake,” he shrugged slightly before joining you outside in the pale moonlight, “you okay?”

“Yeah…” you sighed, casting your gaze back upon the woods blooming in the distance. 

“…well, that didn’t sound very convincing,” he chuckled gently as he settled in beside you, leaning both his forearms against the half-wall, “do you wanna talk about it?”

Sucking in a breath, your eyes flickered over to catch his own, “I just–…” you hesitantly began before admitting, “I don’t wanna go back to Paris…” 

“Why not?” though a crinkle found his brow, his expression still softened, “is there something going on with you and your mother?”

“No, it’s nothing like that,” you shook your head, “I just don’t wanna go home yet…” staring at him a moment longer, you then heard yourself confess, “…I–… I don’t want this to end yet…”

Watching closely as his lungs expanded with oxygen, for the first time you witnessed the gruff man look utterly and completely stunned, simply staring down at you with bated breath. 

Parting your lips once more, you nearly whispered, “…I don’t wanna go back to pretending that I’m not in love with you…” 

Bucky didn’t say a word, only continued to stare as he tried to comprehend the truth you’d just professed.

“I love you,” you gathered up the nerve to spit out, “I love you now… I loved you this morning… I loved you after you’d probably only worked at the embassy for a few weeks…” your vision became blurred as tears began to form in your eyes and you continued to babble, “and I don’t think those feelings are planning on changing anytime soon, so it only seemed fair for you to be aware of that for when I ask you in two seconds if you wanna keep this thing between us going, because I do, though probably for different reasons than you–, not that I don’t enjoy that part, you are an incredible lay, I just didn’t think it would be fair for you to be unaware of the feelings I've developed for you, because I don’t know how to ignore them anymore, and–, oh my god, please just say something, I feel like I arrived naked at school or something–”

But before you could ramble any further, Bucky seized your face and fiercely pressed his lips to your own. A shiver ran down your spine and nearly caused your knees to buckle as he kissed you, and when he withdrew, slowly pulling back, he found your stary gaze and uttered, “…I don’t think that’s gonna be a problem,” he then sucked in a breath before confessing, “because I–… Y/n, I love you too…” 

© 2024 thyme-in-a-bubble 

[cregansdingdong]

imagine cregan and y/n breaking the bed one night just because of his sheer strength and muscle whilst pounding her, ik the conversation with the winterfell wood crafter would be awks as hell afterwards whilst asking for it to be repaired 😇😇

IM HAVING A PROPHETIC VISION, ANON.

At this point, Cregan and his boo thang are just going to have to become familiar with the man. There is no other option, because your choices are either to have this embarrassing conversation a multitude of times with multiple woodcrafters or just one. Because if y'all think this is a one-time thing, you are terribly mistaken.

Cregan is a very passionate person in bed, regardless if he's on top or not. He wants to make sure the two of you are satiated—that does mean the bed will snap like a twig under a boot i dont make the rules i just work here. Personally, I find the actual deliverance of the bedframe to be the most mortifying. Firstly, that big ass broken bed has to be dismantled and removed, if it's not fixable, which takes manpower, and then the new one brought into the Great Keep and put together. Otherwise, the woodcrafter is going to have to make a house call and show up with his tools and planks, walking toward your marital chambers which is embarrassing too :)

ɴᴏᴛ ᴀɢᴀɪɴ. (thoughts ver.)

NSFW stuff under the cut. 18+ only. I'm not responsible for the content you choose to consume. ty.

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That familiar groan under his weight should've been the first warning sign, but Cregan was too distracted to notice. He was lapping at her pretty cunt, tongue delving as deep as he could go and as thorough as he could be without the motions being too unsteady. Alright maybe he did notice initially, but the thought was very quickly shoved to the back of his mind—especially when his pretty wife was trying to rock herself onto his nose, letting out the most quiet of whimpers muffled by their sheets. His ears were focused on her and her only.

With her pearl rubbing against his bridge and his cock feeling so strained in his trousers, no one could really blame him for forgetting about the delicate state of the bed in an instant. Last time they’d gotten particularly frantic in their lovemaking, there had been a low snap somewhere beneath the mattress, a taunt that he was probably too hefty to be moving so much. But winter was coming, a man’s gotta eat…in more ways than one.

By the time he’d recalled they should begin to take it easy on the bed, he was already balls deep behind her, hands gripping the flesh of her ass like a lifeline. He was suffocating in the best way, cock nestled inside, fogging his brain with nothing but instinct. And then she started begging. By then, well, he decided they needed a new bed anyway—six moons wasn’t too bad. Lasted longer than the previous replacement. Three harsh, unrelenting spanks bloom red on her backside as she squeezes around him, sending his blood pumping to the beat of an imaginary war drum. It would be a miracle from the Gods if she wasn’t pregnant by mid-summer. Cregan just couldn’t help himself.

Rutting against her like a man starved, the right side of the bed almost completely collapses, caving in and nearly throwing him off balance. His wife gasped, pleasure momentarily halted as she looked back at him. “Again? Seriously? I told you to write to him last time, did you?” The answer was no, no he did not. “It might have…slipped…my mind.” He murmured, trying to ignore the throbbing in his full balls. They had a silent conversation of glares and a sheepish grin. Then she concedes. “...We might as well finish then. I doubt it can get any worse.”

It could, actually. And it did. He came hard some twenty minutes later, pounding their hips together with a steady desperation. The dip of the broken side was a little annoying, but manageable. Without the support, the right beams of the canopy end up falling right down. No one was harmed, of course. It was only drapes. Cregan found it almost comical but his wife did not. It was going to be a long letter.

₊˚ ‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵୨୧ · · ♡ · · ୨୧‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵ ˚₊

[evermoreness]

moonlight and mending pt. 3 | remus lupin

pairing: remus lupin x reader

summary: remus is letting himself be taken care of, only if it's you the one taking care of him.

obs: this is the third part of a series. here's part one and part four.

masterlist

The morning sunlight was filtering softly through the high windows of the hospital wing, casting a warm golden hue over everything. It had been a couple hours since you first arrived, since you had carefully patched Remus up and watched over him as he drifted into sleep.

Now, it was time for you to leave.

You glanced at the clock. Classes would be starting soon, and though you would have gladly stayed with him longer, you knew you had to go.

Still, you wanted to check on him one last time.

Remus was sprawled out in the hospital bed, his breaths even and deep. His face, which had been tense with pain just hours before, was now relaxed. The fever had finally broken. He wasn’t shivering anymore, wasn’t wincing in his sleep every time he moved.

You let out a quiet breath of relief.

He was okay.

With a soft smile, you leaned down and gently ran your fingers through his hair, smoothing out the messy strands that had been damp with sweat hours ago.

"Much better," you murmured.

He didn’t stir. He was completely lost to sleep, exhausted beyond belief.

You hesitated for a moment, then, before you could second-guess yourself, you pressed the lightest of kisses to his cheek.

"Rest well, Remus," you whispered against his skin.

And then, with one last fond glance at him, you turned and left for class.

You stopped by your dorm, quickly changing into your uniform. You skipped breakfast since you had less than ten minutes to get into your Charms class.

You had barely made it halfway down the corridor when a familiar group of boys practically ambushed you.

"There she is!" Sirius Black announced dramatically, spreading his arms as if you were some kind of long-lost hero.

"Finally!" James Potter added, crossing his arms. "We’ve been waiting for you!"

Peter Pettigrew, standing slightly behind them, waved awkwardly. "Uh… morning!"

You raised an amused eyebrow. "Should I be worried?"

"That depends," James said, looking at you seriously. "How’s Remus?"

Sirius leaned in, eyes scanning your face like he could read the answer before you even said it. "Is he alright? Did he wake up yet? Did Pomfrey give you the scary 'No Marauders Allowed' speech again?"

You let out a soft laugh, shaking your head. "Remus is okay, I promise. He’s still sleeping, but his fever is gone, and he’s not looking half-dead anymore."

The tension in the air immediately eased. James let out a relieved sigh, running a hand through his already-messy hair. Sirius dramatically clutched his chest. "Oh, thank Merlin—I was prepared to cause a scene!"

Peter smiled, looking genuinely relieved. "That’s good… he was in bad shape last night."

Your smile softened. "Yeah. But he’s strong."

James grinned. "He is. But we still want to see him."

You gave them a knowing look. "You do remember that you lot are banned from the hospital wing, right?"

Sirius scoffed. "Banned is a strong word."

James nodded. "I prefer… restricted."

"Madam Pomfrey literally threatened to hex us out last time," Peter reminded them.

Sirius huffed. "Well, maybe she should consider that we love Remus and just want to check on him!"

You laughed, shaking your head. "I don’t make the rules, boys. And Pomfrey was already giving me looks for staying there all morning."

Sirius gave you an exaggerated gasp. "You stayed all morning?"

James waggled his eyebrows. "Oh, Moony’s gonna love that when he wakes up."

You felt warmth creep up your cheeks. "I was just taking care of him! It’s my job, remember?"

Sirius smirked. "Yeah, yeah, of course. Totally professional."

"Still," James added, his gaze unusually soft, "it means a lot. He—Remus doesn’t let people take care of him easily. You must be special."

You shrugged, suddenly feeling a little flustered. "It’s what I do."

James nudged your shoulder playfully. "Did you at least tell him how wonderful and heroic we are while he was half-conscious?"

You rolled your eyes. "Oh, absolutely. The first thing I did was sing your praises."

Sirius gasped dramatically. "You mock us!"

Peter giggled, while James just grinned. "Alright, fair enough."

You nodded. "Well, I can assure you Rem is okay. Still exhausted, though."

"Not that we don’t completely trust Madam Pomfrey," James started, rubbing the back of his neck, "but we also know she likes to keep us from seeing him after—"

"After he gets sick," Sirius finished quickly, cutting James off.

You raised an eyebrow at that.

Sick. Right.

That was the excuse they were going with.

You had long accepted that whatever happened to Remus on those nights was something none of them wanted to talk about. He had given you some vague excuse about a "chronic illness," and the Marauders never elaborated.

You opened your mouth to respond, but before you could say anything, the bell rang loudly in the distance, signaling the start of the first class.

You glanced at the clock down the hall. "Well, I have class to get to, and so do you."

Sirius groaned. "Ugh, don’t remind me."

James sighed. "Fine, fine. But you’ll let us know when Moony wakes up, yeah?"

You smiled. "Of course."

"Good," James said. "We’d love to see our dear friend—"

"—even though Madam Pomfrey doesn’t love us," Sirius added with a wink.

Peter nodded. "Just tell him we asked about him, okay?"

You nodded. "I will. I promise."

And with that, you waved them off and hurried to your first class—your heart just a little lighter knowing how loved Remus truly was.

And by lunchtime, your mind was still circling back to him.

No matter how hard you tried to focus on your classes, your quill twirling mindlessly between your fingers, your thoughts always drifted back to the way you had left him that morning—still asleep, his breathing even, looking far too pale for your liking.

And, more than anything, you couldn't shake the unease in you chest.

Because this was the second time.

And the second time was no coincidence.

You sat in the Great Hall, your plate barely touched, thoughts still tangled in worry when the Marauders slid into their usual seats near you.

"Oi, looking a bit lost in thought there, love," Sirius quipped, nudging you with his shoulder as he plopped down beside you.

You blinked, snapping out of your daze. "Just thinking."

"Thinking about a certain sickly, scarred, and ridiculously stubborn friend of ours?" James asked knowingly, raising an eyebrow as he tore into a piece of bread.

You huffed. "Maybe."

Sirius smirked. "Knew it."

You turned to face them fully, your arms crossing over your chest. "Speaking of which… what exactly happened to him?"

The boys stilled for half a second. Not enough for anyone else to notice, but you did.

James, of course, was the first to recover. "Ah, well, you know Remus. Always finding himself in a bit of trouble."

You narrowed your eyes. "Remus doesn’t get in trouble."

"Sure he does!" Sirius cut in smoothly. "He, uh, wandered too close to the Whomping Willow, didn’t he, James?"

"Yep! Whomping Willow. Terrible thing. Nearly ate him." James nodded, voice far too casual.

You gave them a deadpan stare. "The Whomping Willow?"

"Yep," Sirius confirmed.

Peter, sitting across from you, fidgeted slightly. "Not the first time either," he mumbled under his breath.

Your ears perked. "What?"

James and Sirius immediately kicked him under the table.

Peter let out a small squeak and shot them a guilty look before shoving a spoonful of mashed potatoes into his mouth as if that would help.

Your eyes narrowed further. "Not the first time?" You repeated, gaze now locked onto James and Sirius.

"Ah—what Peter meant to say," James said quickly, "is that, you know, Remus does tend to have bad luck. Falls down stairs all the time."

You scoffed. "Falls down stairs?"

"Oh, all the time," Sirius added, nodding rapidly. "Absolute menace to himself, that one."

"And yet, I’ve never seen him trip over anything in my life." You raised an eyebrow.

"He's very good at hiding it," James shot back.

You folded your arms. "And this always happens in the early morning?"

The three of them stiffened.

Peter suddenly found his soup very interesting.

James was pretending to be fascinated by a piece of lettuce.

Sirius, to his credit, managed to keep his smirk, though you could see the flicker of hesitation in his eyes. "Well, you see, mornings are dangerous. Whole castle is a death trap, really."

You let out a frustrated sigh. "Do you lot think I’m stupid?"

James, Sirius, and Peter all quickly shook their heads.

"Then why are you feeding me the most ridiculous excuses I’ve ever heard?"

James coughed. "Because they’re not excuses."

"They are," you shot back. "Remus never gets in trouble, he doesn’t just fall down the stairs or pick fights with the Whomping Willow, and this is the second time I’ve seen him like that." You leaned forward, voice softer now, but still insistent. "You’re hiding something. I know you are."

The three of them exchanged glances.

And for a moment, you thought—just maybe—they might crack.

But then Sirius leaned back, throwing an arm lazily over the back of the bench. "Listen, love, I get it. You care about him."

Your expression softened just a fraction.

"But," he continued, tone firmer now, "Remus is very good at taking care of himself. If there was something really wrong, don’t you think he’d tell you?"

You frowned. "I don’t know."

Sirius’ smirk twitched slightly. "Exactly."

You hesitated.

Because that was true, wasn’t it? If Remus wanted to tell you, wouldn’t he have done so by now?

After a long moment, you exhaled slowly, rubbing your temples.

"Fine," you muttered. "I won’t push."

James looked relieved. "That’s all we ask."

Sirius grinned. "Good girl."

You rolled your eyes but didn’t argue.

Still…

You weren't stupid.

They were hiding something.

And if they wouldn’t tell you, you would just have to figure it out yourself.

The second you had a free moment after lunch, you ran to the hospital wing.

It wasn’t that you didn’t believe the Marauders when they said Remus would be fine, but—well, actually, no, you didn’t believe them. Because how could you? They were clearly hiding something. And besides, you had left Remus in the early hours of the morning looking absolutely wrecked. Even if magic worked wonders, you needed to see for yourself that he was okay.

You burst through the doors of the hospital wing, slightly out of breath, your heart pounding in your ears.

And there he was.

Sitting up in bed, very much awake, staring horrified at a steaming bowl of something thick and greyish that Madam Pomfrey had placed in front of him. His hair was damp and he already had another set of clothes on. Which meant Madam Pomfrey made him take a shower in the hospital wing just moments before you got there.

You bit your lip to stifle a laugh.

Remus immediately perked up when he saw you. His tired amber eyes brightened just a bit, and his shoulders, which had been tense, visibly relaxed.

"You're back," he said, voice still a little hoarse but significantly better than before.

"Of course I am," you said with a small smile, walking over to his bedside. "You didn’t think I’d leave you to suffer alone, did you?"

Remus glanced pointedly at the bowl. "Clearly, you should have."

You did laugh this time. "That bad?"

He lowered his voice into a dramatic whisper. "Worse."

You peered into the bowl. "Oh."

"Oh?" Remus echoed. "That’s all you have to say? Not even mentioning how Madam Pomfrey wants to poison me?"

You raised an eyebrow. "It’s food, Remus."

He scowled. "That’s debatable."

Madam Pomfrey bustled over before you could respond. "Ah, good, you’re here," she said to you. "Make sure he eats all of it, will you?"

Remus gaped at you. "That’s cruel and unusual punishment."

Madam Pomfrey ignored him. "He needs the strength."

"Yes, Madam Pomfrey," you said obediently, though you were trying very hard not to grin.

The moment Madam Pomfrey turned her back, Remus pouted at you. Actually pouted.

"You like this, don’t you?" he accused.

You smirked. "A little."

"I thought you were supposed to be the nice one," he muttered.

"I am nice," you said sweetly. "Which is why I’m making sure you eat."

Remus groaned. "But this looks deadly..."

"You’re not going to die, Remus."

"I might," he argued.

"You won’t," you assured him. "Now, come on, open up."

He stared at you. "Are you actually going to feed me?"

You raised an eyebrow. "Would that make it better or worse?"

Remus sighed heavily, picked up the spoon, and dipped it into the soup-like substance. "I just want you to know that I’m doing this only because you’re here," he said before taking a reluctant bite.

You beamed. "Good."

Remus scrunched his face. "Merlin’s beard," he muttered, forcing himself to swallow. "That’s horrific."

You giggled. "But you’re eating it, which means it’s working."

"Debatable," he grumbled.

You sat down beside him, crossing your legs. "How are you feeling, though? Really."

Remus glanced at you.

You looked genuinely concerned, your brows slightly furrowed, your lips pressed together in worry.

And Merlin, if he didn’t already adore you before, he certainly did now.

He cleared his throat. "Better than this morning, thanks to you."

You huffed. "I knew you weren’t fine when I left."

Remus shook his head. "No, I mean it. You—you helped a lot." He hesitated. "You always do."

You softened. "Well, I like helping you."

That threw him off guard. "You do?"

"Of course." You smiled. "I like seeing you get better. I like knowing you’re okay. And besides, I think you make an excellent patient."

Remus let out a short laugh. "Liar."

"Alright, maybe you’re a bit difficult," you admitted playfully. "But still. You’re still my favorite one."

Remus paused.

Something in his chest warmed at that.

He swallowed thickly and tried not to let it show. Instead, he rolled his eyes, lifting his spoon again. "Flattery won’t make this taste better, you know."

"Just eat, Rem."

He smirked. "Yes, captain"

And as he took another begrudging bite, he thought—not for the first time—that you were the best thing that had ever happened to him.

Despite his very vocal complaints, Remus had somehow managed to eat every last bite of the meal Madam Pomfrey had given him. He looked a little put out about it, but you couldn't help feeling proud of him.

"There," you said, setting his empty bowl aside. "See? That wasn't so bad."

Remus gave her a deadpan look. "I suffered, and you enjoyed it."

You giggled. "I did not enjoy your suffering, Rem."

"Could've fooled me," he muttered, but there was a small, fond smile tugging at his lips.

You sighed and checked the time. Your heart sank a little. "I have to go."

Immediately, Remus’ expression shifted.

It was subtle—he didn't frown exactly, but the warmth in his eyes dimmed just a little, and his shoulders tensed.

"You do?" he asked, like he was hoping you would say you were joking.

"I do," you said regretfully. "I have more classes."

Remus exhaled through his nose, looking down at his hands in his lap. "Right. Of course."

He was quiet for a moment. He wasn't the type to ask for things—not affection, not attention—but the way he hesitated, the way his fingers idly picked at the blanket on his lap, the way he didn’t immediately say goodbye… It was the closest thing to asking you to stay that you had ever seen from him.

You softened.

"I’ll be back," you promised. "As soon as my last class ends, I’m coming straight here."

Remus glanced up at you, his eyes searching yours. "You will?"

You smiled. "I will."

His shoulders relaxed slightly. "...Alright."

"And," you added, "if you’re feeling better by then, I’ll personally escort you out of here. And—" you leaned in conspiratorially, "—I’ll even help you escape from Madam Pomfrey if she tries to keep you longer."

That earned her a quiet chuckle. "You’re going to help me break out?"

"Only if you're well enough," you teased. "Otherwise, I'll just keep forcing you to eat terrible food."

Remus smirked. "That's cruel."

"Mm," you hummed, standing up. "And effective."

He huffed a laugh but didn’t argue.

You swung your bag over your shoulder, getting ready to leave, when you suddenly paused. A thought popped into your mind, and you quickly rummaged through your bag.

Remus watched curiously as you searched. "What are you doing?"

"Ah-ha!" You exclaimed, pulling out a book.

Remus blinked. "You carry books around in your bag?"

"Of course I do," you said, handing it to him. "You never know when you'll have a free moment to read."

Remus took the book carefully, eyeing the cover. His eyebrows lifted in surprise. "I’ve been meaning to read this."

"I knew you’d like it," you said proudly.

"You knew?"

"Of course," you said easily. "I pay attention, you know."

Remus looked at you then—really looked at you.

You paid attention to him. You noticed what he liked, what he didn’t, what he needed before he even realized it himself. You saw him.

And Merlin, if that didn’t make his heart ache in the best way possible.

He cleared his throat, trying to keep his emotions in check. "...Thank you."

You smiled. "You're welcome."

He hesitated, then glanced at you through his lashes. "I'll, um... I'll be waiting, then."

"For me to come back?" You asked, amused.

Remus flushed slightly but nodded. "Yeah."

You grinned. "Then I’ll make sure to be back as soon as possible."

With that, you gave him one last glance—one last reassuring smile—before finally turning toward the door.

As you left, Remus stared down at the book in his hands, running his fingers along the worn edges.

He thought he couldn’t like you any more than he already did.

He was wrong.

Coming back to you.

The moment your last class ended, you all but sprinted toward the hospital wing, and you weren't alone.

"You know," Sirius drawled lazily as he strolled beside you, hands tucked into his pockets, "some might say you're a little too invested in our dear Moony’s well-being."

You scoffed, rolling your eyes. "And some might say you’re jealous because I actually care about your friend."

James gasped dramatically, clutching his chest. "Sirius, she’s onto us."

Peter snickered. "What will we do?"

Sirius huffed. "I do care about Moony, thank you very much. I just prefer to express my concern in a cooler way."

"By getting banned from the hospital wing?" You teased.

"Exactly," Sirius said, as if it were obvious.

They all laughed, and James nudged you with his elbow. "But seriously, you're always looking after him. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you like him."

You arched a brow. "Maybe I just like helping people, James."

"Mm-hmm," Sirius hummed. "And maybe you just like Remus specifically."

You didn’t dignify that with a response. Instead, you quickened your pace, eager to reach the hospital wing. The boys exchanged knowing smirks but let you go.

By the time they arrived, James, Sirius, and Peter stopped at the door.

"This is as far as we go," James sighed dramatically, leaning against the doorframe. "Oh, how cruel the world is, to keep us from our dear friend."

"You literally got banned for setting off dungbombs in here," you reminded him.

"Technicalities," Sirius said, waving a hand dismissively. "Go on, go rescue Moony."

"Tell him we say hi!" Peter added.

You rolled your eyes fondly and stepped inside.

Remus looked much better than he had that morning.

When she walked in, he was already sitting up, leaning back against his pillows, flipping through the book you had given him.

The moment he saw you, he visibly brightened, a small smile on his lips. "You’re back."

She smiled. "Of course I am. I keep my promises."

He looked relieved, and the sight of it made your heart clench. Had he actually thought you wouldn’t come back?

You made your way over, placing a gentle hand on his arm. "How are you feeling?"

Remus closed the book and stretched slightly. "Better. Not great, but better."

Your eyes drifted over him, your hand touching his forehead slightly, then tucking away a strand of his hair, the faint exhaustion still lingering in his expression. "You look better," you said softly. "Fewer shivers, better color. No fever."

He chuckled. "Been inspecting me again, have you?"

"Of course," you teased. "I take my job very seriously."

He smirked but didn’t argue.

You clapped your hands together. "Alright, Rem. Time to get you out of here."

Remus blinked. "Really?"

"Really." You grinned. "I did promise, didn’t I?"

His shoulders sagged in visible relief. "Thank Merlin."

You laughed. "Hold on, don’t celebrate yet. You still have to get dressed."

Remus groaned. "Right."

You turned to grab his neatly folded uniform from the bedside table and placed it in his lap.

He hesitated. "...You’re not going to—?"

"Help you?" You teased, smirking. "Do you want me to?"

Remus’ face flushed, and he immediately shook his head. "I can manage, thanks."

You laughed, turning around to give him some privacy.

From the hallway, you could hear Sirius whispering way too loudly.

"Do you think she’s helping him put his pants on?"

"Shut up, Sirius," James hissed, though he was clearly holding back laughter.

"Maybe we should help him," Peter added, snickering.

Remus let out a deep sigh from behind you. "I hate them."

You giggled. "They love you, really."

"Unfortunately."

When he was finally dressed, you turned back around, only to see him struggling to get his tie right.

"Here, let me," you said, stepping closer.

Remus swallowed hard as you reached up, your fingers brushing against the fabric of his collar. You expertly fixed his tie, smoothing it out when you were done.

"There," you murmured, looking up at him. "Perfect."

Remus held your gaze, and for a moment, he didn’t move.

"Thanks," he finally said, his voice a little hoarse.

You nodded, stepping back. "Ready?"

Remus took a deep breath. "As I'll ever be."

With that, you led him toward the door, where the Marauders immediately started cheering dramatically.

"Our hero returns!" Sirius declared, throwing his arms up.

James smirked. "It’s a miracle. We thought we’d lost you forever."

Peter wiped away an imaginary tear. "Such a tragedy averted."

Remus rolled his eyes, but you could see the fondness in his expression.

"Alright, alright," you said, shaking your head. "Let’s get out of here before Madam Pomfrey changes her mind."

And with that, they left the hospital wing together—Remus, finally free, and you, right by his side.

And as they walked down the hall, talking, laughing, teasing each other, Remus couldn’t stop thinking:

He was so glad to have her in his life.

They finally got into the Great Hall, it was already filled with the warm hum of conversation and the clatter of plates when they arrived. Long tables stretched across the vast room, glowing under the floating candles above. The moment they stepped inside, the Marauders beelined for their usual seats at the Gryffindor table, dragging you along with them.

Remus, still a little sore but determined to act like he was fine, slid into his seat beside you.

"Alright," Sirius declared as he dropped onto the bench across from you, grabbing a goblet. "Let me catch you up, Moony, on everything you missed during your tragic and untimely absence—"

"Tragic and untimely?" Remus repeated, a small smile on his lips.

"Absolutely," James confirmed, stealing a roll from Peter’s plate.

"You were literally gone for a day," you pointed out, amused.

"And yet, it felt like a lifetime," Sirius said dramatically, placing a hand over his heart. "But fear not! We survived. Barely."

Remus snorted. "Go on, then. Enlighten me."

Sirius smirked. "Well, first of all, we had the privilege of sitting through Binns' lecture on the Goblin Rebellions—"

"Again," James added with a groan. "He said the exact same thing he’s said every single year since first year."

"Word for word," Peter said, shaking his head.

Sirius leaned forward. "You owe me, Moony. I had to keep James awake for you."

James gave a sheepish grin. "I may have… dozed off a bit."

"A bit?" Sirius scoffed. "You face-planted into your desk."

You giggled, and James pointed at you. "See? She gets it. Binns is unbearable."

"He really is," you admitted.

Remus smirked. "I actually don’t mind him."

Sirius sighed dramatically. "Of course you don’t. You’re an old man trapped in a seventeen-year-old's body."

Remus raised an eyebrow. "Says the one who goes to bed at eight whenever it’s raining outside."

"That’s different," Sirius insisted. "Rain naps are sacred."

You chuckled, shaking your head.

The conversation naturally shifted from missed lessons to something else entirely—something much more relevant to their seventh year.

"Anyway," James said, stretching out. "The real excitement is this new stupid rule that we all have to help in the area we plan to work in after Hogwarts. Absolute nightmare."

"Not for me," Remus said. "I already do my job as a Prefect. And Defense Against the Dark Arts is hardly something to complain about."

"Of course you’d be in Defense," Sirius said. "Classic."

You turned to Remus, intrigued. "You want to be a Defense professor?"

Remus hesitated. "Maybe. If, you know… things work out."

You tilted your head, noticing the slight shift in his voice, but before she could question it, James jumped in.

"As for me," James said proudly, "I’m working in Quidditch Training."

Sirius groaned. "As if he needed an excuse to spend more time on a broom."

"Oi," James shot back, grinning. "I like Quidditch. And McGonagall practically forced me into it. Said I needed ‘structure’ or whatever."

Peter looked nervous. "I got put in Herbology Assistance, but I don’t know if I’m cut out for it."

"You’ll be fine," Remus assured him. "You’re better at Herbology than you think."

Sirius took a long sip of his pumpkin juice. "I, personally, refuse to be tied down by such nonsense."

You raised an eyebrow. "So… you’re doing nothing?"

"Absolutely nothing," Sirius confirmed proudly. "No one needs me anywhere."

Remus sighed. "Why am I not surprised?"

Sirius shrugged. "I don’t need to help out anywhere. I already know what I’m doing after Hogwarts."

James snickered. "Ah, yes. A life of crime."

You giggled. "Is that really your plan?"

Sirius smirked. "Nah. But I do plan to be wildly successful at something. No clue what yet, but I refuse to do anything boring."

"You could always be my assistant," James joked. "I'll be a professional Quidditch player, and you can be my personal hype man."

Sirius gasped. "Brilliant. I’ll stand on the sidelines with a banner that says, ‘GO, PRONGS, GO!’"

James grinned. "Now that’s friendship."

They all laughed, and for a while, you just sat there, listening to them bicker and joke, enjoying the energy they always carried.

But Remus noticed something.

You were listening, only listening. You hadn't really talked about your day.

And that didn’t sit right with him.

He nudged you gently with his knee under the table. "You’ve been quiet," he murmured.

You blinked, surprised. "Have I?"

Remus tilted his head. "Yes." His voice was softer now, more thoughtful. "How was your day?"

And just like that, your heart fluttered.

It was such a simple question, but the way he said it—the way he meant it—made your chest tighten.

He cared.

You hesitated for only a moment before smiling. "Tiring," you admitted. "Long. But... not bad."

He studied you, like he was making sure you were telling the truth. "Classes alright?"

Your eyes met, and for a moment, everything else seemed to fade.

You nodded. "Yeah. Potions was awful, as usual. Slughorn paired me with a Slytherin who exploded our cauldron."

Remus chuckled. "Again?"

You groaned. "Again."

He smirked. "You attract chaos."

"You're one to talk, Mister Hospital Regular," you shot back playfully.

He laughed—an actual, genuine laugh.

And Merlin, you loved that sound.

"Alright, lovebirds," Sirius cut in, smirking. "Wrap it up before I vomit into my pudding."

You and Remus immediately turned red, and James and Peter howled with laughter.

Remus groaned. "I hate you all."

Sirius just winked. "No, you love us."

James grinned, ruffling Remus’ hair. "Feeling better now, Moony?"

Remus sighed, glancing at you for just a second before looking back at James.

"Yeah," he murmured. "I think I am."

You kept talking about your day as Remus listened attentively, with a smile on his lips.

James and Sirius were still joking around, Peter was still stuffing his face, and the Great Hall was still buzzing with life—but for a second, it felt like it was just the two of you.

While paying attention to you, Remus was actually eating for the first time since the full moon. And that was a rare sight. Usually, after a transformation, his appetite would take a while to come back, but here he was, finishing a plate of roast chicken, mashed potatoes, and even some vegetables.

You watched, satisfied. "Eating isn't so bad, is it?"

Remus huffed. "I was going to eat anyway, you know."

Sirius scoffed. "No, you weren’t. You hate eating after full moons."

Remus shot him a look, but before he could argue, James leaned forward, smirking. "But now, suddenly, you’re finishing your whole plate? Hmm, wonder what could have possibly changed."

Sirius gasped dramatically, slamming a hand against the table. "Oh, I know! Could it be our lovely, caring, sweet friend here, who gently forced him to eat earlier?"

Peter grinned. "Definitely that."

You rolled your eyes, crossing your arms. "Oh, please. As if making him eat is some impossible miracle."

"It is," Sirius said seriously. "You have no idea how many times we’ve begged him to eat after full moons."

James nodded. "We practically have to force-feed him."

"Not true," Remus muttered, stabbing a piece of chicken with his fork.

"It is very true," Peter insisted.

"And yet," Sirius said, tilting his head dramatically. "One bat of her eyelashes, and suddenly, Moony is devouring his dinner."

Remus sighed, setting down his fork. "You lot are insufferable."

James smirked. "But we’re right, aren’t we?"

Remus didn’t answer, which only made them laugh more.

You, on the other hand, was still watching Remus, a small smile tugging at your lips. "I am proud of you for eating properly, though."

Remus glanced at you, something soft flickering in his expression. "Thanks."

James clutched his chest dramatically. "Merlin, did you hear that? That was the softest ‘thanks’ I’ve ever heard!"

Sirius gasped. "He's gone, Prongs. Completely gone."

"Absolutely pathetic," James agreed.

You turned to them, raising an eyebrow. "Are you two really the ones to talk?"

James and Sirius exchanged a look.

"Good point," Peter mumbled.

"Hey!" Sirius frowned. "What’s that supposed to mean?"

You smirked. "Just that you both turn into a pile of mush for the right person."

James turned red. "That’s—that’s—not—"

Sirius grinned. "Oh, she’s got you there, mate."

James cleared his throat. "Moving on!" He turned to Remus. "Since you’re all healed up, you’re joining us tomorrow, right?"

Remus sighed. "Depends on what ‘joining you’ actually means."

Sirius smirked. "We may have a small plan involving Filch’s office, dungbombs, and a very detailed map—"

"No," Remus said immediately.

"Moony," James groaned. "Come on."

Remus shook his head. "I just got out of the hospital wing. I am not risking detention because you two are bored."

Peter turned to her. "You should come too!"

You laughed. "Do I look like someone who would help with dungbombs?"

Sirius grinned. "No. But you do look like someone who could distract Filch while we do it."

You scoffed. "Absolutely not. I have actual responsibilities."

Remus smirked. "See? Someone reasonable."

James sighed dramatically. "You two are so boring."

Sirius leaned in, smirking at Remus. "And yet, Moony, you love being around her. Don’t think we haven’t noticed."

Remus choked on his pumpkin juice. "I—"

You raised an eyebrow at Sirius, amused. "And what exactly have you noticed?"

Sirius grinned, glancing between them. "Oh, just that our dear Moony seems much happier lately. Coincidentally, right around the time he started spending all his time in the hospital wing with you."

Remus sighed. "Merlin’s sake."

James nudged him. "Just admit it, mate. You like having her around."

Remus rolled his eyes, but he didn’t deny it.

You smirked. "And I like having him around. What of it?"

The Marauders gasped.

Sirius placed a hand on his chest. "Moony, she likes having you around. Did you hear that?"

James grinned. "What a revelation!"

Peter nodded sagely. "Truly groundbreaking."

Remus groaned. "Merlin, help me."

You laughed, nudging him gently. "Come on, Rem, admit it. You like me too."

Remus hesitated, but then he sighed, shaking his head with a small, soft smile. "...Fine. Maybe a little."

The Marauders howled with laughter.

James pounded the table. "We got him!"

Sirius leaned back, smirking. "That’s it, boys. Moony’s done for."

Peter grinned. "Absolutely pathetic."

You just smiled at Remus, amused. "That wasn’t so hard, was it?"

Remus sighed. "I regret everything."

Sirius clapped him on the back. "Too late, Moony. We all heard it."

Remus just groaned again, but despite the teasing, despite the laughter, despite everything—he still stole a glance at you, his expression softer than he probably meant for it to be.

And you noticed.

And maybe—just maybe—you liked it.

Just the two of us.

After dinner, the sounds of laughter and hurried footsteps filled the corridors as students scattered, eager to enjoy what little free time they had before curfew. James was already scheming to sneak into the girls’ dorm to see Lily, while Sirius and Peter had run off in the opposite direction, cackling about some new prank they planned to pull on Snape.

You, however, stayed behind with your own Marauder.

Remus walked beside you through the dimly lit hallways, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his pants, his pace slow and unhurried. The castle felt calmer now, quieter, and you both seemed to enjoy the peacefulness that settled between you.

It was always like this with him. Comfortable. Warm.

Remus liked listening to you talk, liked the way your voice filled the silence without demanding anything from him. You told him about your day, every little detail, even giving him a quick summary of all your classes. And though he wasn’t much of a talker himself, he liked that you never seemed to mind. You just talked to him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He wasn’t used to this—having someone care so much, someone who paid attention to him in ways that weren’t just surface-level.

His hands fidgeted slightly in his pockets. He wasn’t sure why.

“And then,” you continued, walking a little closer to him, “Professor McGonagall gave us an extra assignment—oh, and you won’t believe this, but I managed to turn my book into a cactus instead of a flower.”

Remus chuckled softly, glancing at you. “A cactus?”

“Yeah,” you said, laughing. “I have no idea how it happened. Maybe I have some subconscious aggression I need to work through.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” he teased, the corner of his mouth lifting in a small smirk.

You nudged him playfully with your shoulder, and he barely had time to react before your hand brushed against his. It was brief, accidental, but you didn’t pull away. Neither did he.

It just... happened.

Neither of you acknowledged it, but as your fingers slowly curled around his, your hands now intertwined, there was an unspoken agreement between you. Neither of you would let go.

Remus’ heart was hammering in his chest, but he did his best to keep his expression neutral. If he said something—if he even so much as looked down at your hands—he was afraid you’d let go. And he didn’t want that.

Not even a little.

“Thanks,” Remus said suddenly, his voice quieter, more thoughtful.

“For what?” You tilted your head slightly, glancing up at him.

“For... always taking care of me,” he admitted, his thumb brushing absently over the back of your hand. “Especially after... you know, when I’m not feeling great.”

“Of course,” you said softly. “I’ll always take care of you, Remus.”

His breath hitched slightly, and the blush that crept up his neck was almost immediate.

You grinned. “You’re blushing.”

“I am not,” he muttered, but the deepening color on his face betrayed him.

“You are,” you teased, squeezing his hand slightly. “It’s adorable.”

His face went completely red. “You— I— I am not adorable.”

“You so are,” you said, grinning as you looked up at him. “It’s actually kind of unfair. You’re all tall and broody, and then you go and get all flustered, and suddenly you’re just the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Remus groaned, tilting his head back slightly. “Merlin, help me.”

He huffed, shaking his head, but there was no real frustration behind it. In fact, he kind of liked it—the way you teased him, the way you looked at him like he was something special, like he was worth your attention.

You giggled, and Remus swore he felt his heart stutter.

The two of you reached a window where the moonlight streamed through, casting a soft glow across your faces. It was only a sliver of a moon tonight, nothing like the full moon that always left him battered and exhausted.

You turned to face him fully now, your hands still clasped together between you. “You know, I like this,” you said softly.

Remus swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. “Like what?”

“This.” You gestured vaguely between the two of you. “Spending time with you. Just... being with you.”

He wasn’t sure how to respond to that without making a complete fool of himself. He could feel his ears burning, and he was certain that if James or Sirius were here, they’d be relentless with their teasing.

But they weren’t here.

It was just you and him.

And he liked that.

“I, uh—” He cleared his throat, attempting to compose himself. “I like it too.”

You smiled, tilting your head slightly. “You’re nervous.”

“I am not.”

“You are.”

“I—” He sighed, closing his eyes for a brief second before opening them again. “Okay, maybe a little.”

You let out a soft laugh, your thumb brushing over the back of his hand absentmindedly. “It’s okay. I’ll try not to make fun of you... too much.”

He rolled his eyes but couldn’t help the smile tugging at his lips. “Thanks, i guess.”

There was a beat of silence, but it wasn’t awkward. It was peaceful, like the two of you could just exist in each other’s presence without the need for words.

Remus knew he should say something else, maybe tease you back or change the subject before his feelings betrayed him any further. But before he could even think of what to say, you shifted closer, leaning your head against his shoulder.

His entire body tensed for half a second before forcing himself to relax. He wasn’t used to this kind of affection, wasn’t used to the gentle intimacy of it all.

But with you?

With you, he wanted to get used to it.

His free hand hesitated before slowly resting on top of yours, his fingers barely grazing your skin.

You hummed in contentment. “See? Not so bad, right?”

Remus let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head. “No,” he admitted. “Not bad at all.”

—— 🌙 ——

A message from the author:

Hello, lovelies. I hope you loved reading this part as much as i loved writing it.

Thank you for all your love in this series, your comments always make my day! 🤍

The next part will be totally fluff, promise! No wounded and sick Moony. Our boy needs a little bit of love.

Here's to all the people that asked me to tag them (or were just waiting for the next part): @iloveremmy @jjamjamie @breakawayfromeveryday @oursweetmoony @whimsical-mistakes @froggiedragon @sophie-0012 @deathmybride @mischievousmoony

If you want to be tagged in the next ones, just let me know! 🤍

See you guys soon!

[ccl-c]

i procrastinated on this for months and it didn't even take that long to finish lol things got very bad at work this year and i just didn't have the energy but i'm really happy with how it turned out!

(edit: thank you so much to everyone enjoying this piece! i'm so happy there are more people thinking about his prosthetic leg.)

some of my favourite details and long self-indulgent ramble below the cut.

as much as i love the unicorn leg in the show i really wish they gave izzy an actual post-amputation swordfight scene, which probably would imply a more practical prosthesis because honestly that candle scene looks very painful and pretty difficult to adapt in combat. so basically i wanted him to have a prosthesis that could work.

for the poses i mostly just took basic right-handed cavalry sabre movements that would need lots of force and/or mobility from the left leg (actually all of them do otherwise he'd lose stability which is a big no but well i did not consider the basic steps nor special ones such as the balestra because they're not very clear to draw. i included a flèche though because i just really, really want to see him do flèches (no more modern rules aha!!); i doubt he'd like it since it's very risky but it would be so fucking awesome. imagine him just darting full-speed at the opponent and passing through them sliding the sabre right between their ribs. the sabre isn't a pointy weapon especially since his is quite curved which makes piercing trickier than slashing (it would be a lot easier with a rapier or an épée; i like to imagine that stede prefers the rapier and makes every opponent who believes rapiers aren't fit for combat reconsider it) but hell that would just look amazing. although looking at it again i probably drew the footwork more like a pass forward …). now thinking about it i should have included a salute because he'd absolutely do that and make everyone do it in unison at the start of training sessions and it's just a cool series of gestures (i haven't gone through the historical documents yet but the salute our historical fencing club do consists of two appels (striking the ground with the forward foot which in izzy's case is the right foot), then raising the sword to the sky, then pulling the guard of the sword near the jaw with the tip pointing upwards, then pointing the sword down forward, usually a bit to the exterior for single-handed swords. this is the short version; we did the complete version of that salute precisely once and i seriously cannot remember either the year it was formalised or how it was done exactly. i think it was somewhere near the end of the 18th century and there was half a step forward and maybe a step on the spot at the beginning. if i ever find it or we ever do it again i'll update here we did it again! the complete version from the 1877 regulation under napoleon iii for the french army, as our master remembers, includes a process of going from standing to a tierce stance in the beginning and it's like this: start from a standing position with heels kept together and the sword to the front pointing downwards, then slowly raise the sword with the arm extended until that the point is about at eye level, bend the arm to finish on the tierce or sixte hand position depending on the sword (sabre and rapier typically use the tierce while épée typically uses the sixte although tierce works too; longsword would also use the sixte unless you're doing the more dramatic guards like porta di ferro or posta della donna and then i guess that's a high seconde if you squint hard? but it's not used in the army lol imagine that. and bayonet has a whole different salute), then start folding the legs while keeping the heels together and when you can't go any lower, move the front foot forward to the en garde feet position. and then tap twice on the ground etc.). also i feel like the dagger doesn't really look right ever since i saw the daggers and little swords at the exhibition about knights in nantes … anyway.

the prosthesis is loosely based on those 16th-century moveable leg prostheses by ambroise paré (on a side note, he made hand prostheses too and i think they're good references for spanish jackie's hand), douglas bly's above-knee prosthesis in the 19th century and modern running prosthetic legs (for the need of explosive force typical in lunges) as well as historical fencing and buhurt (full-armour medieval combat) gears. although i'm horrible at physics and have forgotten what little ergonomics i learned at university so it probably won't work in reality lol.

the text is in french simply because i learned fencing in french and didn't want to make mistakes in the vocabulary. the small words from left to right top to bottom are: motion (movement?), knee (front), knee (back), ankle & foot, locked, flèche (as in fencing; the word itself means “arrow”), unlocked (middle french spelling because i like it and it's not completely anachronistic i guess), lunge, en garde position in tierce (i somehow can't find any fixed way to say this in english; it's just the basic stance with the third hand position). the text on the left is probably quite awkward honestly but i can't not put it there because it's fun lol it reads “leg and foot prosthesis designed for first mate hands, by doctor roach with the assistance of frenchie, realised (built? made? constructed? manufactured?) by black pete and wee john feeney and the entirety of the crew of the revenge under co-captains stede bonnet and edward teach, illustrated by lucius spriggs”. so yes any mistake in there is theirs and not mine lmao (no). the font is very loosely based on my memory of jean jannon's regular and italic typefaces. i adore his italics; it's the prettiest, most delicate italics i've ever seen.

i still have other drawing ideas for ofmd but i'm also into a lot of other things now … i'll probably get to them a few months later.

[angelltheninth]

Caleb Gets Jealous and Possessive Over You Hanging Out with Other Men

Pairing: Caleb x Fem!Reader

Tags: nsfw, smut, name calling, reunion sex, childhood friends, jealousy, possessive sex, angry to gentle sex, angry!Caleb

Ko-Fi | Rules | Fandoms and Characters | Commissions

A/N: Holy crap that trailer did things to me that I will never admit.

You thought you recognized the man who was fucking you against the bed

He has the same face as your childhood friend and crush but he didn't act anything like him

The Caleb you knew was sweet and gentle, he would hold your hand and comfort you when you were sad, he wasn't the one who made you cry, the one who insulted you

However this man... he fucked you like he hated you, and maybe he did

Caleb, the man he was now, was dangerous, and you should hate him for it, but you can't, your legs are still locked around him just the same as they were when he first shoved his cock into you, when he pushed you against the bed and kissed you

"Yes, yes, that's right, hold me, take me! Sow me how you've missed me. I've missed you so much, so much. And what do I see when I come back, hm? All these guys drooling over you. Drooling over what's mine!"

You had no idea how long he'd ben watching you, but you knew he loved you, the old Caleb did anyway, he wouldn't seriously hurt you

His hips slapped against yours in a merciless, relentless, savage pace

The hand around your wrists squeezed hard, only letting you arch your back enough to push your pretty, soft tits towards his wanting mouth

As he bit your nipples one after the other a shock of pain bolted through you, barely soothed by his tongue

Were you moaning, screaming, begging for more, saying how it was too much, he barely looked your way, too busy taking what he perceived as his

Soft lips pressed harsh kisses against your skin

The marks would be very hard to hide in the places he chose but that was the whole point of them

Was surprised when you kissed his neck, then realized he was smiling at it, he wanted to be yours

Beads of sweat rolled down his face, his eyes focused, all of his senses attuned only to you

His other hand slapped your clit every time you didn't clench your cunt hard or fast enough for his liking

"More, come on, I know you can be a better cocksleeve than this. Ah, there she is, mhm, that's a lot better. Knew you could do it, be my good girl. Yeah, be good and I'll reward you, I'll even forgive all those times I saw you flirting with those other guys? But I noticed... I noticed you didn't let any of them fuck you. Because deep down you know. You know that we belong to each other."

With all the time he'd been gone he changed into someone you didn't know and now he no longer shared the same feelings

Except when you did look into his eyes you still saw that spark of affection, clouded by anger and lust but still very much there

Somewhere deep down inside he was still your Caleb

You leaned forward as much as you could and kissed him, poured all your old and new feelings into the kiss that tasted of salty tears and swear and lipstick

At the same time he unlashed his hot load inside of you, taken back by the kiss, his balls pressed flush against you, pulsing as your pussy clenched and almost seemed to take him in deeper

"We belong to each other, beloved. I don't care you you had before this. They don't exist anymore. Only you and I do. I'll make sure I'm the only man on your mind from now on, the only one you will ever want to fuck, want to love."

[wonderjanga]

Kill Licenses

Stargirl was excited! Captain Marvel had just offered to let her fight crime with him in Fawcett. The man was like a big brother to everyone. That included her. He was super nice, was normally the person who first stepped up to diffuse a situation, and overall just a big teddy bear of a man. So it was a little bit a of a surprise when she saw him snap a rapist’s neck like a twig.

Marvel: *drops the body, muttering something about paperwork*

Stargirl: *gobsmacked*

Marvel: *looks over to her for a second before doing a double take* “Oh my gods I forgot you were here!” *sounds horrified*

Stargirl: “You just killed a man!”

Marvel: “I know- I know!” *leads her away from the body* “I’m so sorry you had to see that.” *sounds completely ashamed*

Stargirl: “There’s nothing to be sorry about. You killed a rapist. That’s one less evil in the world, but my question is how are you gonna get away with this?! Cap, you’re gonna go to jail!”

Marvel: “Ah… Well, no. I have a license to kill.”

Stargirl: “Wait, you can actually have one of those?”

Marvel: “Yeah, uh me, and most of the other Fawcett heroes have one. We’ve all had them since the sixties and had to get them renewed a while back. It’s not a bad thing to have for situations like this.”

Stargirl: “…Can I have one?”

Marvel: “Yes? No? I don’t know? You should in my opinion. It’s a good safety net for if you accidentally kill a villain. You just fill out some paperwork and you’ll be safe. Do you want one…?”

Stargirl: “Yes.” *immediate answer*

Marvel: “Are you sure? I mean, you’re a teenager, so you might need a parent to sign or something.”

Stargirl: “Well, I don’t have a parent right now, but I do technically have a temporary guardian at the moment.” *eyes him*

Marvel: “No… you’re not seriously suggesting…?”

And that’s how Marvel ended up taking Stargirl to a secret government base so she could get a kill license. Stargirl got a stellar recommendation from the Captain and passed with flying colors.

As they’re leaving the base…

Marvel: “Okay, so we need to lay some ground rules.”

Stargirl: “Ground rules?”

Marvel: “Yeah, ground rules. Now I know you’re not the type of kid to go around killing people all willy-nilly, but I’ll say it just in case, don’t go killing people all willy-nilly.”

Stargirl: “Well, duh, I’m not dumb.”

Marvel: “I know you aren’t. And now onto the actually important rule. Under any circumstances, do not kill around other heroes. That’s how Huntress got kicked out of the Justice League after all.”

Stargirl: “I can’t even do it around you?”

Marvel: “Well, I guess you could. And I guess you could do it around the other Fawcett heroes, but just make sure not to do it around heroes who don’t have a license, okay? I don’t wanna get in trouble, and I doubt you wanna get in trouble too.”

Stargirl: “Gotcha.”

Marvel: “Nice. Now that that’s out of the way, wanna go for victory ice cream since you got your license?”

A solid four months passed after this incident. The two forgot about it. They were chilling. Then, Courtney forgot that her stepdad didn’t know that she could legally kill a villain, fill out some paperwork, and face no repercussions.

S.T.R.I.P.E.: “YOU TOOK MY STEPDAUGHTER OUT TO GET A KILL LICENSE?! WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?!”

Marvel: “Nothing! I didn’t think it was a bad thing!”

S.T.R.I.P.E.: “She’s sixteen. She sliced a man’s head off. CLEAN. With practiced precision. She doesn’t even have a drivers license! What in hell would make you think it’s a good idea to give her a kill license?!”

Marvel: “Okay, her slicing off someone’s head isn’t my fault. I didn’t teach her that, and the guys who gave her the license didn’t either.”

S.T.R.I.P.E.: “Then who did??”

Marvel: “I don’t know! Maybe she’s just bloodthirsty?”

Stargirl: “No I’m not?” *sounds slightly offended*

Marvel: *ignores her* “Look, the point is, I’m sorry for not telling you but please, please, pretty please don’t tell Batman.”

S.T.R.I.P.E.: “Why?”

Marvel: “Oh come on. He’s super anti-kill. If you told him he’d have me removed from the Justice League almost instantly.”

S.T.R.I.P.E.: “Maybe you should be removed! You don’t just give a kid the okay to kill someone.”

Marvel: “I’m not giving her an okay to do anything. I only wanted her to have it as a safety net. I promise.”

It took a lot of convincing for Pat not to squeal to Batman, but thankfully, they got it in the end. Though, the man still ended up chewing the two out.

Inspired by @helps-the-writing-brain-go’s repost on my We Thought You Died?! post :) Thanks for the inspo!

[martiniluvr]

18+ minors dni

heyyy…how y’all doin…

back after an unexpected (long) hiatus lol hope y’all missed me…anywayz we hit 3k while I was gone so! celebratory brucie post bcus I love u all and it’s my thank u for sticking around 💞

warnings: nsfw alphabet for bruce wayne, so there’s a variety of things under the cut. please proceed with caution 🩷

★・・・★・・・★・・・★

A | Aftercare (what he’s like after sex)

I’ll die on the hill that bruce wayne is a gentleman first and foremost. he’s offering you a hot shower, a cold drink, and one of his fresh-pressed shirts to protect your modesty. and don’t worry—he’s gone in the morning (billionaire business calls), but he’s leaving you a full breakfast spread to wake up to (thanks, alfred).

B | Body part (his favorite body part of his and also his partner’s)

let’s be honest here. bruce knows he looks good. clear blue eyes, jet black hair, chiseled jaw, and a sculpted body…there’s not much about him physically that he can fault, even though he would never say that out loud. and of course, he loves everything about you; that being said, there’s something about a rounded, feminine figure that drives bruce wayne wild. hips, thighs, an ample bust—he loves himself a whole lot of woman.

C | Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

I’ll just say it: mr. wayne is giving you thick, heavy loads every time. he’s saving them for you (see J), and he’s not interested in finishing anywhere except inside you (mouth included here). maybe it’s an intimacy thing, maybe it’s a hint of a breeding kink, or maybe it’s just possessiveness; either way, it’s all for you.

D | Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of his)

billionaire vigilante bruce wayne, who could snap a grown man in half and towers over you even when you’re in six-inch heels, would secretly love to be made to pleasure you for nothing in return. having you sit on his face, using him to get off over and over again, but never once offering him release as his cock twitches against his abdomen; the thought has gotten him through many a tedious charity gala.

E | Experience (how experienced is he? does he know what he’s doing?)

how do I put this delicately? bruce is…well, kind of a whore. after all, you don’t earn billionaire playboy status for no reason. his sexual body count more than makes up for the bodies he hasn’t accumulated thanks to his no-kill rule, so he’s working with a wealth of experience here—and, yes, he knows exactly what he’s doing.

F | Favorite position (this goes without saying)

bruce loves to see you on top, where he can take in the view of your body, your face, and your cunt in one fell swoop; plus, when you start to falter as you orgasm creeps up on you, he can pull you into a bear hug against his chest and pick up the pace as you whine into his neck.

G | Goofy (is he more serious in the moment? is he humorous? etc.)

it should come as no surprise that bruce isn’t the king of levity in bed. sex for a man like him represents one of two things: purely stress relief, or deep and intimate emotional connection. either way, it’s not a laughing matter; he’s taking it—and your pleasure—seriously. and if you know about the batman mantle? you’re in soul-bonding territory with him.

H | Hair (how well groomed is he? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

bruce keeps himself very well-manicured, but you’ll find that manscaping isn’t his main priority between his philanthropy and vigilantism. still, he’s keeping things neat and practical, with a healthy sprinkling of happy trail—a balance between bruce’s polished good looks and the bat’s ruggedness.

I | Intimacy (how is he during the moment? the romantic aspect)

there are two schools of thought here: hookup bruce and relationship bruce. the former is…rather impersonal. now, the latter—the intensity with that bruce wayne is off the charts. he’s romantic in the vampiric soul-bonding sense only found in gothic literature. penetrating gaze, minimal conversation, and unwavering skin-to-skin contact the whole time, like you’ll vanish into thin air if he lets go of you for even a second.

J | Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

perhaps controversial but I don’t think bruce wastes his time with masturbation. all his discipline, training, and mental fortitude puts him above something as instinctive and banal as instant sexual gratification. he’d much rather save his energy for a fulfilling, drawn-out sexual release—and part of that is doing it with you.

K | Kink (one or more of their kinks)

this one is simple. bruce has a size kink. yes, he’s huge, he’s strong, he’s rich—but seeing how he eclipses you when he stands behind you sparks a fire in his lower abdomen unlike much else. the way his massive hands dwarf yours, or how your delicate fingers clutch at his muscular thighs as you take his length in your mouth…it strokes his ego, what can he say?

L | Location (favorite places to do the do)

though his custom-made king sized bed is more than appropriate real estate, bruce can’t get enough of fucking you in the shower. it’s sensual, erotic, and deeply intimate. plus, it gives him an easy excuse to manhandle you however he pleases—“you’re gonna slip, darling. put your legs around me.”

M | Motivation (what turns him on, gets him going)

everything about you can get bruce hard with little to no effort, but he really enjoys seeing you in your form-fitting pencil skirts and high heels for work. maybe it’s how serious and commanding they make you look, or maybe it’s that he knows he gets to peel that little outfit off your body in his office when you visit him on his late nights. whatever the case, he loves catching you on your way to work.

N | No (something he wouldn’t do, turn offs)

he’ll always aim to please, but bruce would be reluctant to inflict pain on you beyond a few pointed spanks. like, he genuinely could not bring himself to harm you in any material way. with his size, skill set, values, and experiences, he would never risk doing anything that might actually hurt or otherwise scare you. now, if you want to rough him up a little…that’s another story.

O | Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

bruce loves to pleasure you and he does it well; he’d never forgo the opportunity to have you gasping and begging for release while his face is buried between your legs. that said, there are few things in the world he thinks about more than your pretty eyes looking up at him as you slide his cock between your lips. between the pleasure and the view, receiving head is the closest someone like him is getting to heaven.

P | Pace (is he fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

bruce wants you to feel every inch of him, so he’s starting off slow—agonisingly so—and building his pace gradually. he’s also not one to rush, meaning he’ll rarely get rough and sloppy. despite appearances, he can be incredibly tender, and he wants to take his time. when he’s about to cum, though, you’ll notice his thrusts getting a little ragged, and his grip a little harsher.

Q | Quickie (his opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

this may be an unpopular opinion, but bruce is seldom going to prefer a quickie over drawn-out, sensual sex. and it’s not because he doesn’t enjoy them; frankly, they just don’t give him the opportunity to appreciate your body the way he’d prefer to. now, if you insisted, he’d be happy to oblige, but you’d almost certainly have to pick things up again later with more time for him to truly feel satisfied.

R | Risk (is he game to experiment? does he take risks? etc.)

I think it’s not far-fetched to assume bruce’s appetite for risk is healthy. you know, on account of the vigilante thing. and the billionaire thing. he’ll try almost anything you ask him to, and I can see a young bruce being very much the experimentalist, though age teaches him restraint. still, fucking you in his office is one of his biggest fantasies, despite how, well, risky it is.

S | Stamina (how many rounds can he go for? how long does he last?)

the limit does not exist. and I really mean that. bruce wayne can last for a long time, and he can go multiple rounds—it’s that goddamn training of the mind and body. the two of you can easily go into the early hours of the morning, even with generous breaks in between; he’s got a lot of pent up desire to be released.

T | Toys (does he own toys? does he use them? on a partner or himself?)

I don’t see him owning toys for himself, but bruce is more than open to buying and using them on you. you’ll never forget your first orgasm from a hitachi wand while he was buried balls-deep in you—all because you mentioned you’d never used one before and were curious to try it. he won’t forget it either; watching you get yourself off like that is an image that stirred…something in him (see D).

U | Unfair (how much he likes to tease)

he’s not going out of his way to drive you crazy—not that it would be hard—because bruce is basically incapable of denying you anything. whatever you want is yours: a handbag, a new dress, a car, an orgasm, literally anything he can give you. now, he does enjoy it when you tease him. a man like him is used to getting whatever he wants, so having a beautiful woman cause him strife…well, it turns him on.

V | Volume (how loud he is, what sounds he makes, etc.)

unsurprisingly, bruce isn’t all that vocal; it’s all gritted teeth and laboured breaths as he tries to maintain composure—after all, he’s supposedly mastered discipline—but despite his best efforts, the feeling of your soft body on his is enough to draw out the odd low, rumbling moan, especially when he’s close to climax.

W | Wild card (a random headcanon)

he couldn’t degrade you even if he tried. bruce wayne only knows how to praise you; “darling”, “princess”, “sweetheart”. when he can tear himself away from the sight of you squirming at his touch, he tells you how beautiful you are, and how incredible you feel. he’s a #tenderlover and I stand by that.

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

bruce is slightly over the 6 inch mark, but girth is where he really shines. every thrust fills you just enough to make your toes curl, and the gentle upward curve of his cock grazes your g-spot each time you rock your hips forward. the tip—a pale pink that matches his lips—is particularly sensitive to your touch.

Y | Yearning (how high is his sex drive?)

incredibly high. bruce wayne could fuck you at any given moment if you only asked. but, he won’t act on his desire arbitrarily. he’s all about self-control and mind over matter; part of his training inherently taught him to contain his base instincts, which includes his sex drive. but let the record show—he will acquiesce if you even slightly suggest you’d like your insides rearranged.

Z | Zzz (how quickly he falls asleep afterwards)

he barely sleeps on a normal day, so bruce is certainly not rolling over and going to bed after ravaging your body. he’ll have a shower—ideally with you—and wait for you to fall asleep by his side before he even considers getting some rest himself. he does sleep eventually, though, and he finds his most restful nights are spent with you draped over his body, breathing softly against his chest.

[sirfrogsworth]

Clinging to sanity

Summary of this post...

My brain is broken. My A/C is broken. My phone is broken. My computer is broken. My support system is broken. My financial stability is broken. My family is broken.

And the big finale...

Please give Froggie a Yelp review to repair his relationship with his estranged uncles.

Seriously, I need a whole bunch of you to say nice things about me in a convoluted plan to get back the money my brother stole from my dying father.

If you don't feel like reading all of my broken stuff and just want to read about giving me a good review as a person, you can skip to the bullet point list at the end.

Alright, here we go...

I sometimes get in these states where I feel like my sanity is compromised. My mental defenses are minimal and I lose the filter on my brain that tells me "this is a good idea" or "this is a bad idea."

This causes me to say embarrassing things. I overshare with strangers. I keep myself from falling asleep because I have some amazing idea. But when I wake up in the morning I can't believe I lost all of that sleep for such a ridiculous idea. I write weird posts that no one likes. Or I post about controversial subjects like A.I. and trans people and RFK Jr. that I *know* will result in contentious feedback.

And my insane brain says, "You can handle it! Besides, you are so factually correct about this, no one will dare question your meticulous research. IT'S ALL GOOD! SEND IT, YOLO!"

I have a rule. If I am not emotionally or mentally prepared to defend my point of view on a controversial subject, I should wait until I am ready to publish.

Insane Froggie Brain ignores this rule.

After I "send it" and the negative feedback starts to flow in (even though I was assured by my brain it wouldn't), I become afraid to look at messages and replies and reblogs. And a lot of times I need that sense of community. I need to talk to my cool little community so I don't feel lonely. But Insane Froggie Brain cuts me off from that. I give myself all of this anxiety that could have been avoided by just posting another time.

And because I have no emotional defenses, that anxiety is amplified. Mean comments hurt much more. I obsess over them and my OCD causes thought feedback loops where I cannot get something out of my brain. I once couldn't sleep for a weekend because someone said I was wrong about how light reflects off the moon. They were right and I was also right but they said I was "misleading." And that just lived in my brain for days. I kept trying to think of new ways to better explain my point of view. I used up energy I didn't really have to take pictures of a baseball in a dark closet.

It was silly. It didn't matter. It was just a small disagreement. But OCD doesn't do small. OCD makes everything BIG.

What I'm trying to say is...

People need their emotional defenses.

People need their filters.

It's weird because I still have full access to my logical brain. So sane thoughts get all mixed in with the less sane ones. Sometimes I am self aware and can shut down the less sane ideas. Other times I am oblivious. And I *hate* losing control of my brain in any way. It's one of the reasons I've never touched alcohol. Which is why I get very disturbed when this happens.

I remember one time I was positive I was going to move to Florida and start a pet photography business. I had an entire business plan worked out where I trained people how to take the photos so the business could run itself if I got sick. I made an entire PowerPoint presentation to show Katrina so she would be my business partner. I was looking up rent prices for office space. I was making equipment lists for camera gear. She was going on a trip so she told me I could talk to her about it when she returned. And I am so lucky she wasn't available at the time.

Maybe if I had a normal person's energy, I could make something like that work. But once I returned to sanity, I realized it was orders of magnitude more complicated than anything I was actually capable of doing. I am still planning to do pet photography, but I have to come up with a more reasonable plan that does not involve Insane Froggie Brain.

I think it is just my ambitious mind trying to escape. Chronic illness is often heartbreaking because you have to temper all of your ambitions. And it is especially devastating when you are a very ambitious person, as I am.

I want to have all of these big ideas. But I have to filter them through reality. And when that filter is broken, I just unleash big ideas on all my friends. I once even held an official video chat meeting and we took notes and made plans. And I feel so guilty I wasted 4 people's time like that. None of those ideas happened. They had no chance of happening with my energy levels. But my friends and collaborators still did the meeting and nodded along like everything was fine. I appreciate them humoring me.

I also overshare. I overshare normally, but when I get like this I OVER SHARE. You are probably going to witness it in this very post. But I tell everyone everything about what is going on. I tell strangers. I tell a dog walking by.

"Hey doggie, my testosterone is returning and I'm struggling with having a libido again. I know most people would not complain, but it is very disruptive to my day! I have other things I want to do!"

Right now I am just not confident in anything I think or do. I wrote a post about social constructs yesterday. That literally took me all day to write. I was endlessly tweaking it and I thought it was going to be viral and helpful and win the trans debate for everyone.

It currently has 49 notes.

I'm afraid I did not fix trans rights.

Sorry about that.

And my rant about Christopher Nolan using IMAX is doing pretty well. I nerded out about film grain for like 2 paragraphs and it is getting way more notes than a philosophical perspective on constructs.

I just have no idea what people are going to like and I used to be pretty good at judging that. It's like I'm throwing spaghetti at the wall to see what sticks but instead of a wall I'm throwing it into the void. The spaghetti just disappears into infinite darkness.

I'm clearly still recovering from the big house clean with Katrina. And I am more tired than normal. But I am also very stressed about losing the house. I'm trying to figure it out, but I may only have until the end of June before I have to make some scary decisions.

And also, my air conditioner is not working. It has a leaky evaporator. Last year, I had it recharged and that lasted the entire summer. If the leak is leaking at the same rate, I could just do that again. It would be expensive, but replacing the evaporator is so costly, I'd be better off getting a heat pump installed. I'm a good candidate, it could save me money in the long run, but I am nowhere near in a position to make that happen.

Also, my phone is falling apart.

Literally. The only thing keeping it together is the phone case.

And this laptop, which I love, was not meant to be my main computer. I bought it when my dad was sick and I needed something upstairs to manage his prescriptions and bills and appointments. It wasn't meant to be an image editing machine. And, to their credit, Apple has made a crazy powerful little computer. I admit it, I love an Apple product. It can handle way more than expected. But my photo restorations can sometimes end up with 5 gigabyte files. I can't even save them as PSDs. I have to use this weird "PSB" format. It stands for "Photoshop Big." When I fill up the RAM, my computer uses the main SSD. And when I fill that up, I think I can hear the laptop crying and saying, "I wasn't meant for this! Please use fewer layers!"

But I need to finish restoring these photos because I have delayed their completion by about 5 months (got sick before I could finish). And also because I need to pay for the A/C recharge.

You might be thinking, "Didn't you fundraise to get the big fancy powerful computer of your dreams a few years ago? Why don't you use that?"

My big fancy computer has been broken almost since I got it.

It was right before my mom got really sick and there is a major hardware problem. I worked with tech support for over a month and we could not figure out what the issue was. The computer is mostly unusable. Like, "can't even web browse" unusable.

It honestly has caused me so much depression. Like deep, deep, crying-myself-to-sleep-for-weeks depression. I still cry about it. I know it is just a thing, but I am genuinely heartbroken about it.

Why haven't I fixed it? I'm a good computer fixer, right?

Once I had to take care of my parents, I just did not have any extra energy to deal with it. After a month of back-and-forth emails from the manufacturer, I finally told them, "I'm sorry, my parents are sick. I will email you when I have the energy to revisit this."

If you know my story and how I took care of my parents all alone because I have a neglectful brother, then you can probably guess that energy never came.

I am good at tech support. I have been an expert in computers since I was a teenager. I have taken apart and built computers more times than I can count. I have never had a problem this frustrating before. It works fine for a few hours, and then it just progressively slows down to being unusable. I narrowed the issue to either the SSD, the CPU, or the motherboard. All things that are not easy to replace. (The SSD is behind the damn GPU.)

In the 30s, the Royal Air Force used to have issues with their planes that baffled them. This is where the term "gremlin" came from. No matter what they did, no matter how many parts they replaced, they could not get the "gremlin" out of the plane. These were professional mechanics who just could not fix something and it drove them nuts.

I have a computer gremlin. I've never experienced anything like it in all of my years of fixing computers. I was working with professional tech support people. I was on reddit forums. And the only thing left to do was start swapping out parts. I'd work on it maybe an hour each day with whatever energy I had and it eventually was too much. I just could not deal with it. They told me to send it back, but I could not take care of my parents without any access to a computer. So I just rebooted it every time I used it.

At that point, my parents were requiring 24/7 care and I was so overwhelmed that I said, "fuck it" and ordered this laptop. I figured I'd fix the computer when I had time or energy. But that time and energy never came. And I certainly didn't have the energy to haul a 60 pound computer upstairs, box it up, and then take it to UPS. So I just kept putting it off and putting it off.

And I let the warranty expire.

When I realized I did that, I cried myself to sleep for another few weeks. This material object has caused me legitimate emotional trauma.

Any part replacements are now on me. And there isn't really any way of knowing which part is faulty. I figured I'd buy a cheap SSD and start there.

I feel so fucking guilty because people donated money for me to have that machine. I feel like I let them all down by not getting it fixed. When I finish my recovery, I'm hoping I can sort it out. But that could be many months from now.

Recovery has been such a dark, lonely place. Trying to restore my health a millimeter at a time is a grueling marathon of misery. I have been struggling to keep Insane Froggie Brain at bay this entire time.

I felt like I was stuck in a hole.

And like a superhero with the power of friendship and puns, Katrina pulled me out of the giant hole I was in. My house turned into a biohazard. She flew from Florida to essentially clean and organize everything. How do you even begin to thank someone for that?

But also, she shouldn't have had to do that. I have a perfectly functional brother. But he hasn't spoken to me for nearly a year now.

I have other family in town. But I missed so many family gatherings over the years, they don't really know me. None of them have called. I'd have to rebuild those relationships if I want them to be a part of my life again.

And I haven't talked about this yet because it has been too painful.

But... my support system fell apart.

My aunt had to move away to take care of her father-in-law. A year before my mom passed she took care of my grandma as her end-of-life caregiver. And people should only have to do that once. But she has to do it again, and unfortunately, we haven't been able to speak much.

We were very good at keeping in touch in real life. But she is of an older generation and has trouble maintaining relationships on a smartphone. I mean, I get it. Some people are just better at meatspace than cyberspace. That was actually one of the things I liked about our bond. Almost all of my friendships are online. Having someone who liked to visit me and talk to me in person was special.

But, for the time being, I lost that. And it feels a bit like temporarily losing another parent.

I am struggling to even start writing the words for this next part.

I had two best friends. Katrina and I are great. Our friendship is probably better than it has ever been.

But my other best friend of nearly 15 years ghosted me without explanation.

I haven't talked about it because it has been too hard. Any time I try to think about it I get upset. My eyes are filling up with tears as I type this.

I have been pretending like it isn't happening.

Which is not working great.

I've been trying to hire a therapist.

They all have months-long waiting lists.

My friend just stopped talking to me and I don't know why.

They went from driving across the country and holding my hand at my dad's funeral to just not being a part of my life.

I'm so scared I said something terrible or did something terrible. I keep going through all of my memories trying to figure out what I could have done. But we had the kind of friendship where we'd talk about that stuff. If I screw up, they would tell me. We'd work it out.

This person who was in my life nearly every week for over a decade is just not there anymore. I keep losing people and I can't make it stop. And I am really worried that I am leaning on Katrina too much. She went from being part of a multifaceted support system to my entire support system. That isn't fair to her.

She has been very understanding. And she knows I am going to rebuild a support system as soon as I am able. But I don't want to overwhelm her and lose her too.

Weaning off this medication and living with no testosterone has been so miserable and she has been the only one helping me through it.

I'm doing so well with my recovery. I think I can be off the meds in 3 months and hopefully my testosterone will be fully back in range. I'm already more productive than I have been in nearly 8 months.

But I have 1 month of financial runway left and I am not going to get well enough before then.

Everything happens all at once. Every single time. And usually terrible things happen in my life at the same time terrible things happen in Katrina's life. She had terrible mold that destroyed her health for months. Thankfully it did not turn her transphobic, but it sure fucked her health for a while. She made all of this progress getting fit and healthy and BAM, the universe says, "You are doing too well, you need a challenge!"

So, what is my plan?

I am a problem solver and I have some doozies to solve.

Right now I am going to appeal to the family patriarchs on my dad's side. On his literal deathbed, my dad asked his brothers to "take care of me" and I am going to attempt to call in that favor.

I am going to ask them to talk to my brother and hopefully mediate a solution regarding the stolen inheritance. I want them to convince my brother to do the right thing and return the money he took from my dad.

Sorry, the money he "legally inherited" due to his wife "reinterpreting my dad's wishes" in the will.

Before you ask, I have no options to fight this in court. A verbal promise is not enough to overturn a written will. And the cost of fighting would be more than the inheritance. Please don't suggest any legal advice. I've talked to good lawyers. And unless I want to sue for emotional distress, there aren't any legal options available.

The best option is to appeal to my brother personally and ask him to keep his promise to my dad.

The only reason I am in this mess is because my brother repeatedly promised to give me the money. He said he didn't want it on multiple occasions. So all of my plans involved the expectation of this money. I was going to fix up the basement apartment and seek a roommate.

But it took over a year to just get it out of probate. A year I could have used to come up with other solutions. But he waited until the last minute and made his lawyer tell me he was screwing me.

I'm sure my brother will argue my dad knew what he was signing. But I know that is impossible. Before my dad passed, we were in the hospital and I saw the will for the first time. I asked him if it reflected his wishes. And I asked him if he meant to include my brother's wife in the will.

His response was, "Are you fucking kidding me???"

Readers, does that sound like a man that knew what was in his will?

Dad was so upset that he was about to have them cut off his leg just so he could live a few more weeks and fix the will.

You have to give my dad credit, he goes pretty hardcore when it comes to protecting his family.

I couldn't let him go through an amputation to protect me from my brother's shenanigans.

But I am pretty screwed now.

That said, my uncles are pretty hardcore too. One is *very* intimidating. So I feel like my uncles talking to my brother might carry some weight.

But I have one problem...

I mean, aside from the myriad problems already described.

How about... I have one additional problem...

My uncles don't like me very much.

They think I am a basement-dwelling loser who is faking his illness and was taking advantage of his parents for two decades.

One uncle even accused me of stealing from my dad.

They are protective of their brother. They loved my dad. Which is a good thing! As long as I can convince them that their assumptions about me are invalid, I think their love for my dad will compel them to help me.

They just don't have the context. They don't know me. They live in far-off lands. And due to some unfortunate timing, one uncle saw me at one of the lowest points of my life. This was maybe 8 years ago? He didn't realize I was thrown into the deep end and very recently took on the role as full-time caregiver for two very sick people.

My awful strategy at the time was "if I don't take care of myself, I'll have more energy to take care of my parents." If you are a caregiver, this is a bad strategy. It seems obvious you have to do some self care to give care to others, but when you are just starting out, that seems impossible.

My uncle showed up unannounced and I wasn't showered, I hadn't brushed my teeth in a week, and my room had a fun layer of trash on the floor. The trash can was overflowing and I literally did not have the spare energy to change the bag.

To make matters worse, my mom's medications and constant pain had broken the filter in her brain that prevents her from saying mean things. She was on this crazy chemo-like infusion that was basically using poison to fight her psoriatic arthritis. Her aggressive, blunt remarks were not her fault. That wasn't who she was. But she could not stop herself from saying hurtful things.

The kindest woman alive was suddenly Don Rickles without the "just kidding" subtext. And my uncle didn't know this and I got into an argument with my mom.

I probably looked like a pampered brat loser who just lies in bed and plays video games all day while arguing with his saint of a mother.

I don't blame him. Without context, that's exactly what it looked like.

So I am writing my uncles a letter.

It is essentially a memoir of the caregiving I gave to my parents. I hope to publish it publicly at some point, but right now it is just a letter to them. If it were a typical hardcover book, it would be about 70 pages long.

I am telling them everything.

If nothing else, I just need them to know my dad's story. I need them to know he was well taken care of. That I did everything humanly possible to make his last year as comfortable as I could. I need them to know he was *never* alone.

Sadly, because they probably think I am an unreliable narrator, I am my own worst witness. So I am asking 3 people in my current support system to write testimony to verify everything in my memoir is accurate. I even have a doctor's note!

It is probably insane to put this much effort into convincing my uncles to like me. But I'm pretty sure Sane Froggie Brain is behind the wheel of this endeavor. Sometimes the craziest, most desperate idea is the only option left.

Basically I am using my writing skills to try and save my Froggie butt.

I don't mean to be braggadocious, but people perusing my prose persistently pontificate that I am proficient at penning pleasing passages.

People say I write good sometimes.

And I think this memoir letter thingie is the best thing I've ever written. So I am hopeful I will deflate these dubious assumptions and tug on my uncles' heartstrings.

But there is something you all can do to help me.

A friend on tumblr is helping me edit this memoir monstrosity. And she gave me her testimonial to add to my 3 witnesses.

"I have been following The Frogman for well over a decade on his website. It was years before I learned his name was Benjamin! We all just call him Froggy. He was (and still is) one of the funniest internet guys out there. He is incredibly skilled at putting together humorous GIFs and photo sets, and his comedic writing is second to none. He regularly goes viral. Along with that, he was open and vulnerable about the toll CFS takes on him. I can attest to many folks over the years telling him that he has helped them as they dealt with their own health issues. He is so knowledgeable about so much--his posts are famous for being long, detailed, and wildly informative. And most of all, entertaining. They are a joy to read. We also followed along on his heartbreaking journey with his parents. He shared so much of them with us over the years that they felt like people we knew. It was so clear, from his long absences, how much he was doing for them. Our hearts broke when he told us his parents were no longer with us. Froggy has fans, and so did his parents. Otis, too. We love and support him and will always wish him the best."

It made me cry.

But it also felt like getting a Yelp review on... my entire deal.

And it gave me an idea.

What if I had a bunch of these as optional testimony for my uncles?

I'm not going to force them to read what a bunch of internet strangers have to say. But it could be a compelling way to prove my website antics were a serious attempt to build a livelihood for myself. My uncles were successful businessmen and respect a strong work ethic and trying to make your own way.

I was too early for monetization options like Patreon, TikTok, YouTube, and Twitch, but I ran a very successful comedy blog. If I had my 2013 success in the 2020s, I probably would've been able to retire and live off that for the rest of my life. I have several original GIFs that were downloaded tens of millions of times. Google said one of them was searched for over 100,000,000 times.

My blog was silly, but I took it seriously and I had sponsors and merch and an Otis plush.

They think what I did was like when you are at the family Christmas gathering and you ask your weird cousin what he's been up to and he says, "I run a blog about corgis from my parents' basement."

How do I relate the impact I had? They don't know what "Know Your Meme" is. They don't know what being on the front page of Reddit means. They don't know the amazing community I built. They don't know that I created one of the largest and most generous online support systems one could possibly have. I'm still alive and trying to make a life for myself because all of you continue to love and support me.

I was successful and I worked hard despite my disability.

I just had bad timing with the financial aspect of that success.

So, if you want to leave a Yelp review of The Frogman for my uncles, I'd appreciate it.

I came up with a list of things I need to prove to them. I'm just going to copy/paste the entire thing here. I'll strikethrough the ones you all probably can't speak to.

I am not a basement dwelling loser.

My website was more than a silly hobby.

I did not mooch off my parents for 20+ years.

I did not steal from my parents.

I am not the crazed, awkward mess [my uncle] witnessed.

I am disabled.

I cannot get a job.

I am a good person.

I am a likable person.

I was a good son.

I took good care of my parents.

My parents would not have been better off in a nursing home.

My parents would not have been better off moving closer to my brother.

My brother and his wife neglected and emotionally abused Mom & Dad.

My brother and his wife changed the will to benefit them against my mom & dad’s wishes.

My brother promised repeatedly the will was a mistake and I would receive the full amount.

I did not take care of my parents to “retain the house” or get money.

So, if you want to attempt to convince two elderly conservative Catholic men that my cat memes were lit, I would appreciate the help.

If you’ve been part of this community, and you’ve ever felt like I made you laugh, cry, or feel understood, a short 'review' of me as a person could mean the world.

Just remember your audience is...

Uncle #1: A stoic, but brilliant 80 year old who writes text messages like they are business emails. Complete with "Dear Ben" and "Regards, Your Uncle". He is still very sharp-minded and lucid. He thinks success is a high paying job, a house, and a family (my brother). He does not like weakness and consistently thought I should "be an adult and get a job." He is very loyal and respected my dad very much.

Uncle #2: A 60-something retired grandpa who thinks his constant dad jokes are genuinely funny. He is empathetic, but secretly judgmental. He will act like your best friend even if he doesn't care for you. He is an amazing grandpa. Very involved with his kids and their kids. He keeps every video of them getting a goal in sportsball on his phone. He will help you if you think you deserve to be helped. He is very close with Uncle #1.

So... kinda running the gamut there.

You can reblog this post or leave a reply or send a private message or email me at frogman54@gmail.com

I will be anonymizing your names for obvious reasons.

I fear my uncles might not understand why Tumblr user "PokemonAssBlaster69" is saying nice things about me.

Explaining "The Frogman" is hard enough.

Anyway, thank you in advance.

[cheolism-archive]

OH, AGONY

✰ — teaching assistant & boyfriend!lee jihoon x f!reader ✷ — summary: when you both find out that your boyfriend, lee jihoon, will be the ta for your classic literature class, it is agreed your relationship will take a temporary pause . no public dates, no pda; and, most tragically, no sex. nothing that can give away the truth to your relationship. only, it really is easier said than done. or: four times you and jihoon totally didn't have sex plus one time you did. ✰ — wc is approx. 14.5k ✷ — genre: TA au, secret relationship au, forbidden relationship au, smut ✰ — warnings: spanking, pussy spanking. derogatory language (f receiving), pet names (baby (f receiving), hoonie). rough sex, unprotected sex. masturbation (f&m) and sex toys. penetrative sex. extreme levels of delusion as to what "qualifies" as sex or not; jihoon and reader bully one another. talk pertaining to the greek tragedy oedipus rex (self-blinding is mentioned as it pertains to oedpius but not discussed in detail). ✷ — rating: 18+ ✰ — note: this fic represents two delusional adults. they are both consenting to what is going on. this fic is not an accurate representation of what is and not considered sex. also the word count may be scary, but i promise it is pretty much all smut. this fic is part of @camandemstudios first ever collab, back to school with seventeen. please make sure to give the other works lots of love!

“we have to set up rules,” jihoon announced a week before classes were to start. he closed the zoom tab, which he had preciously been using to talk to the classics professor he was ta-ing for this semester, kicking back from his desk. 

“rules,” you said, peeking over the top of your book. it was hotter than hell outside, the sort of heat that suffocated and made you feel as if you were being wrung like a wet towel. inside, however, you had a blanket tucked around your body and socks pulled up to your calves. 

jihoon wandered over to the thermostat. he frowned, reaching and dialing it down once again. if he was going to pay for air conditioning, he believed, he was going to be cold in the comfort of his own apartment. 

“it’s not fair to other students that you’re dating your ta,” he said. 

“if this is literally you breaking up with me –”

“don’t be dramatic,” jihoon chided, crossing the room to you. he picked up the edge of the blanket, slipping under and pressing his toes against your feet. “i didn’t say that. i just mean that we shouldn’t advertise our relationship to everyone.”

you closed your book, keeping your forefinger inside to mark your place. “just keep it a secret then. can’t be hard.”

“we can’t let anyone know,” he enunciated. “for real. the professor doesn’t even know. if he did, he’d reassign me.”

“then we just don’t say anything.”

“you shouldn’t stay the night.” jihoon laid his arm over the back of the couch, inviting you to cuddle into his side without him verbally giving invitation. you abided, shifting to rest your head on his thick bicep. “and no dates.”

you huffed. “jihoon, i don’t know if it’s really that serious.”

he scoffed back at you. black bangs hid his eyes. “they could accuse me of favoritism, accuse you of academic dishonesty. we need to treat this seriously.”

“maybe i should just request to change to a different section.”

“too much work.”

“oh,” you laughed, reaching over and pinching at his side. jihoon flinched, instinctively slapping at your hand. “and pretending we aren’t dating isn’t.”

“that’s why we need rules.” you kicked out the blanket, pulling it from jihoon; he grumbled, snatching it back. “don’t be a hog. anyways. we need rules so we can stick to a strict routine. that way we don’t lapse in judgment or anything.”

“so no sleepovers,” you recited, “no dates. what else? no walking to class? no kissing?”

jihoon leaned his head back against the couch, exposing the length of his pale neck. you let your eyes linger. “sleepovers, dates. no meeting in public unless in a group setting.” 

you let out a great sigh, pushing the blanket from you. snatching your bookmark, you stuffed it into the novel you had been reading. “so we’re strangers.”

“yes,” jihoon confirmed. “easy enough.”

you gasped, mouth dropping open. “easy!”

jihoon bit at his lip, and you could tell that he was already regretting his choice of words. but he wouldn’t back down – that wasn’t in his nature. “easy,” he said. 

“fine,” you hissed. you left the couch, retrieving your backpack. you brought out your notepad and pen pouch. “no sex, either.”

“what –”

“if it’s so easy,” you retorted sharply, walking back to the couch while ripping out an empty page of your notebook, “then no sex won’t be a problem for you, mr. lee. i mean – it needs to be believable, right? no getting caught.”

jihoon grimaced, moving to a sitting position on the couch. “yeah. believable.”

“we write it down,” you said, taking back your spot next to jihoon. you opened your pen pouch, letting the pens and markers spill out onto the coffee table. “we write it down and shake on it. it’s a contract.”

jihoon hesitated. “this is a little severe, don’t you think?”

you shook your head. “nope. can’t let anyone know, yeah? otherwise i’d be academically dishonest, wouldn’t i?”

jihoon grabbed your paper, creating a bullet point. “i really don’t think this is necessary.”

“but you do,” you shot back. “i mean. you were the one to bring it up all serious-like. no kissing, no sleepovers, no sex. the whole five yards, lee jihoon.”

“but a contract –”

“oh? so you’re wrong?”

jihoon huffed, pressing his lips into a firm line. “fine. no dates, no marks, no pda.”

“and no sex.”

“and no sex.”

W E E K  O N E

your eyes immediately catch onto jihoon as soon as you walk into the classroom, and while you really should’ve guessed that he was going to play dirty – because as hard as he tries to maintain an indifferent air, jihoon is just as weak of a many as any – you didn’t realize he would be playing this dirty. 

he’s wearing black trousers that fit to his thighs and ass, cinched tightly at his waist by a thin leather belt. his white dress shirt is loose around his neck, the first button undone. your eyes, unwillingly, smooth over the silver chain that winks out from underneath his shirt, alongside the harsh lines of the white tank-top he wears underneath the dress shirt and you feel, horribly, a strike of want hitting you. 

jihoon turns to you. “hello,” he says, voice perfectly neutral. his eyes don’t stray from your face despite the fact you’ve worn his favorite jeans, the ones that cling at your own ass and show off flashes of skin underneath rips strategically placed; rips jihoon has made worse over the months of being together, slipping his fingers underneath the loose threads to touch your skin. 

“go ahead and take a seat,” jihoon instructs, gesturing about the room. the desks are all modern despite the discussion taking place in the historic – well – history buildings. the desk shifts underneath you as you try to slide in, bottom of your water bottle clanging against the hard surface, and wheels carting across the marble floor. 

you stretch out your legs, staring at jihoon unabashedly. it isn’t a sin for you, the student, to be attracted to the teaching assistant. and so you look him over, watching as he turns this way and that way, trousers showing off the plush of his ass and shirt showing the wide line of his shoulders. 

you are jerked from your admiration of your boyfriend-turned-teaching assistant by a large man hurrying to the desk next to you. he’s jihoon’s opposite in almost every way: he’s easily a foot taller, and his skin is a gorgeous dark bronze that seems to draw emphasize to the bulge of his muscles. 

the man slides into the desk. it’s comically small for him, his knees hitting the underside of the desk. the desk moves as he situates himself, prompting his backpack to fall over from where he had propped it. 

“shit,” he mumbles, reaching down with one long arm, biceps bulging rather nicely, to righten the backpack. “stay up, please.”

rather endearingly, to top it all off, he has a lisp. 

he glances at you, eyes apologetic beneath his curly bangs. “sorry. not my day today.”

you huff a laugh. “i don’t know if it’s anyone’s day, let alone week.”

“true,” the man says, grinning. his teeth are white, his canines more pronounced than most people’s. “hey. i’m mingyu.”

you introduce yourself. “are you a classics major, then?”

mingyu wrinkles his nose. “no offense to classics, but i’m doing something interesting.”

“yeah?”

“business.”

you let out a loud laugh, startling not only yourself but the people around you. mingyu grins triumphantly, tongue flicking out to run alongside his teeth. you hide your smile behind your hand, trying to quiet your laughter. jihoon, you notice, is frowning at the two of you. 

“so interesting!” you say. “definitely a major filled with the best.”

“the very best,” mingyu agrees. 

the two of you continue chatting, conversation flowing naturally. he’s charming, you think, charisma practically radiating off of him.  you don’t miss how your boyfriend watches the two of you more often than not, not engaging in conversation with any of the entering students who greet him so he could keep an ear open on your conversation. 

jihoon starts class as soon as the electronic clock on the classroom computer switches to three on the dot, the projection cast onto the board. 

“first thing’s first,” he says. he leans a hand against the table set at the front of the room, though it, too, is on wheels and skirts a little as he puts weight against it. “my syllabus, you’ll find, is stricter than professor burns’s. if you come in after the clock hits three, you’re tardy; you’ll contribute to all discussions in this class, and if you don’t you’ll forgo any participation points; if you miss three classes in a row, which translates to nearly a month of absences, your grade will automatically fall to a fail and you will have to take not only this discussion over, but professor’s burns’s lecture as well. 

“if,” jihoon continues to say, voice a rasp, “you find any of this in contradiction with professor burns’s syllabus, you are more than welcome to email the both of us and address it.”

the class is silent as jihoon grabs a piece of white chalk. naturally, despite the gleaming projectors and furniture on wheels in the building, nearly every classroom is a remnant of the late 19th century: chalkboards; coat hooks; door and window frames made of real wood. 

“remember to use proper emailing etiquette when contacting anyone in the college,” jihoon announces. he begins to write on the board, chalk tapping against the black surface as he decorates it with his chicken scratch. “and to address me as mr. lee. there is a pdf uploaded to our discussion course detailing how to address certain faculty members within the college for you to browse and keep.”

jihoon steps back from the blackboard. there he’s written the title of the course, ancient grecian dramas. 

he runs a hand through his black hair, pushing back strands. “we’ll begin properly next week, once professor burns assigns the first drama for reading. i recommend printing out the reading and annotating, practicing close reading. that way when you come to discussion we can go over your notes as a group and analyze the text further.

“now. we’ll begin today by doing a writing exercise. i want you to tell me what you think of when you think of ancient greek dramas. this will also be how i take attendance – so make sure to do it.”

you rifle through your bag, pulling out your notebook. next is your pen pouch, though the surface area of the desk is hardly large enough to fit your notebook. pouch, and water bottle. 

“you can email it,” jihoon clarifies after a moment of silence. “make sure you label it accordingly.”

hurriedly you pull out your laptop, pushing your pen pouch aside and setting it on top of your notebook. you shift in your seat as your laptop boots back up, and you can’t help but glance up at your teacher’s assistant.

jihoon, being a classics major and your boyfriend, has introduced you to ancient greek plays before. it’s not like you’re completely foreign to the subject; he’s dragged you to more than one play in order to get some assignment credit, notebook on his thigh as he jotted down notes in the dark of the theater. 

sometimes he takes to reading to you different passages – especially those that move him or he thinks are particularly ridiculous. he pours over the text religiously, like a priest would the gospel; analyzing every line, drawing meaning from the colors of robes to what isn’t being said at all. he looks at these little black words on white pages, words written thousands of years ago, and is simply transported into another lifetime. 

it’s endearing; it’s special. 

the first time you had noticed him, jihoon had been surrounded by pages of a poem. later you’d learn it was by some jeffrey guy from the medieval period and was about a group traveling for worship. whatever it was, didn’t matter. 

what had mattered was him. 

he was disheveled. the white printed-out pages of the poem were scattered along the table in the university library, the uniform black-and-white pages interrupted by annotations written in colors of the rainbow. the highlighters and pens were scattered themselves, abandoned by post-it notes stuck to every page. 

he had three empty energy drinks in front of him. the hood of his hoodie was pulled up over his hair, the black fabric matching the dark circles under his eyes that told you he had been at this for far too long. 

you had gone and got him a water; brought it back to him. listened to his theories about color, about how he thought it meant something; how this poet had chosen every word so carefully there’s no way that color didn’t mean something. 

you, a distinctly not literary fanatic, had not understood; you still don’t. 

but his eyes always light up and his voice begins to carry this urgency that betrays his adoration for the art, and you just can’t help but let yourself get caught in his orbit. 

so you open up an email and begin to write.

Mr. Lee, 

My boyfriend is a Classics Major, so when I think of Ancient Greek Dramas I think of him. He’s shown me quite a few, and we’ve attended more than a handful plays

you shift in your seat, thinking. as you move, however, your arm knocks against your pen pouch and sends it to the floor. 

the noise as it hits the floor isn’t as thunderous as it would have been if your water bottle had struck it, but it’s still loud enough for you to wince. it breaks the still of the room, your classmates shifting in their seats and throwing glances at you. 

before you could move from your seat, mingyu is. he’s quick to grab your pouch, smiling gently at you as he offers it. his hands are so big they span the length of the pouch, a beautiful golden tan that only seems to boost his natural beauty. 

“think you dropped this,” he says in a harsh whisper. 

you bite back a laugh, teeth digging into your lower lip as you smile. grabbing the pouch from mingyu, you whisper back a quick thanks. 

you glance up towards the front of the room as you settle back into your seat. jihoon is looking right at you, frowning, arms crossed over his chest. his white shirt isn’t fitted, and it struggles against his bulging biceps as he crosses his arms. 

for a moment you just look at him, taking in your boyfriend’s form; how the shirt clings to his arms, trousers to his thighs. 

there’s a dinging noise of an email landing in an inbox, and then jihoon is moving from the front of the room and around the table to his laptop. 

you return to your email. 

Mr. Lee, 

My boyfriend is a Classics Major, so when I think of Ancient Greek Dramas I think of him. He’s shown me quite a few, and we’ve attended more than a handful plays. A lot of them are different than what I’ve expected. Some of them seem like they came right from Ancient Greece; others are more modern. I have noticed Ancient Greek plays seem to be more twisted than what a modern author may come up with. 

Sometimes I don’t understand really what a play is about. It gets all muddled, especially when they don’t change the words for a modern audience. Still, my boyfriend is super sweet and helps me along. 

you hesitate for a moment, and then you sign your name. opening a new tab, you pull up a bookmark and add one last finishing touch beside your name. 

– °˖✧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚✧˖°

you are more exhausted than usual. 

it’s as if all of the good vibes and rest you had managed to scrape together over the summer break were eradicated in one day. as soon as you managed to get to jihoon’s apartment you were discarding everything; shoes at the door; backpack next to the couch; bra onto the floor. 

his bed was perhaps the most comforting place you knew besides his arms, and so you slunk towards it. you made quick work of your pants, one knee pressing against the mattress as you shook your other leg, jeans flopping to the floor dramatically. 

you followed suit on jihoon’s bed. 

burrowing into his sheets, you couldn’t help but breathe him in. he was a hot sleeper, and so more likely to sweat during the night. his sheets smell like his sweat, though not the stinky sort he gains from his daily workout. instead, it's the natural musk of him that permeates your nose, deep and distinctly lee jihoon. 

you allow yourself to drift. nothing exists besides jihoon’s bed and you. 

then the door to his apartment is opening and closing, a voice with a slight rasp calling out to you. 

“here!” you call back, voice slightly muffled by the sheets. you press your face against them again, eyes fluttering shut. 

jihoon slowly makes his way across the apartment. he mutters something about your discarded clothes and backpack, but you pay it no mind. jihoon pauses when he enters his room, and you can practically feel his eyes on you; roaming the bare expanse of your back, the supple flesh of your thighs. 

“good day?” you kick out a leg, wiggling your toes. 

he makes a humming noise, and then he’s stepping further into the room. 

“long one,” he says. “forgot how fucking awkward everyone is on the first day.”

you shift, moving your face so you could watch him. jihoon crosses to his dresser, fingers messing with the cuffs of his white dress shirt. you can see the moment he gets the button, the fabric sagging around his wrists. 

oh. 

sitting up on the bed, you watch as he begins to work on his other cuff. he peers out the window, chatting as he does. 

“professor burns is the usual,” jihoon announces. “hasn’t changed in the – what? five years i’ve been here? i swear she rambles like no one’s business. if it wasn’t my job to babysit the students and not her, i’d say something – but fuck, you know?”

once he’s undone the buttons on the cuffs of both of his sleeves, jihoon begins to work on the buttons falling down the middle of the shirt. his fingers are deft and quick as he presses them through their holes. 

you can’t help but think of his fingers on you. how nimble and skillful they are against your skin; how he dances them up and down your flesh as he presses kisses against your skin; how they seem to know just where to go and just what to do against your body, rubbing at your nipples and pinching at the undersides of your tits to get reactions from you. 

because fuck, jihoon’s fingers –

sometimes even watching him write you can’t help but get horny. how his fingers grip his pen, how he spins it around his fingers absentmindedly. how they alleviate pressure on the pen as he writes and stops. watching him write, sometimes you can’t help but think about his fingers at your clip, a harsh presence as they rub down on you once moment and gentle the next, fingers skimming your clit as they massage the gummy area around it. 

watching his clever fingers as they make quick work of the buttons on his shirt, you can’t help but yearn. your eyes see nothing but his fingers; ears hear nothing of his conversation. it’s just you and jihoon’s hands and the way your cunt clenches, pussy leaking into your panties. 

then jihoon’s pulling off his dress shirt, and he’s wearing a tank top underneath. 

you want to scream. 

not to say jihoon doesn’t look good in a tank top. because he does. fuck, he does. you always find yourself admiring jihoon’s shoulders and arms when he’s in a tank top no matter what sort of mood you’re in. 

(one instance in particular you had been full of energy, ranting about a coworker who didn’t know what she was doing and had been kept around for far too long. and then you had looked up at jihoon and let your eyes selfishly roam over the broadness of his back, the curves of his bulging arms as he cut up meat. all sense had abandoned you in that moment, and before you knew it you were grabbing at his shirt and pulling him to you, tongue running along his skin.

not exactly your proudest moment, but.)

maybe the combination of his trousers and tank top shouldn’t be as sexy as they are, you think hysterically. his tank top his tucked into his pants, and, torturously, his fingers reach down to pull the hem free. the hem of his tank top settles around his hips, showing off just a sliver of skin. 

jihoon raises a hand, running his fingers through his black hair as he continues to talk about something-or-other. 

and his white tank top rises up his stomach. 

you can see the hairs that lead from his belly button down, down, down. you can see the pale expanse of skin that you know is soft and smooth to the touch. you can imagine your hands pressing against his skin and sliding underneath his trousers; can imagine the restrictiveness of his trousers as you tuck your hands into his underwear, fingertips skimming alongside the base of his cock. 

you’ve never pretended to innocent when it came to lee jihoon; never pretended your mind didn’t run wild with salacious thoughts. 

and you weren’t going to pretend now, because – 

because in your mind your hands were rubbing at the base of his cock, mouth at his collar and licking along his collarbones. he was moaning in you ear, soft and breathy, and you were moving down onto your knees, your own fingers unbuttoning his trousers. 

jihoon reaches down, fingers swiftly pushing off his socks. “hey, by the way, i sent you an email response to your attendance discussion for today.”

you don’t speak, eyes roaming over the expanse of his back, still covered by fabric, like a starving man before a feast. 

jihoon peeks at you. “it was sweet.”

“yeah?” 

he doesn’t say anything else. jihoon’s eyebrows raise, silently prompting you. 

you let out a loud, horrible groan that tears at your throat. the insides of your thighs are warm as you move across the bed to grab your discarded phone, the wet fabric of your panties catching against your skin, cold and shocking. 

jihoon begins to chatter once more as you swipe on the email notification. he’s quiet in public but you can’t help but treasure how talkative he becomes afterwards; how all the little snide comments he’s kept to himself are let loose. 

you look at the email. 

you furrow your brows. you look over it again. 

I am glad to see at least one of the students in our discussion section will not be a complete novice to Greek theater. I hope after this semester you will be able to engage with your boyfriend in a more informed matter when it comes to his passions. 

However, despite how sweet your email was, I do have to remind you to please stick to proper email etiquette. Your use of – °˖✧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚✧˖° is highly unprofessional, and I urge you to not include such things when emailing any staff or faculty or teaching assistants. For this misconduct, you will be deducted a point from your discussion grade for today. Please keep this in mind for the future. 

Well wishes, 

Mr. Lee

your jaw drops open. 

“you fucking deducted me for my emoticon?!” 

“we agreed to be strangers,” jihoon reminds you. he removes his pants. you can’t even find it within yourself to be horny. the warmth of your cunt is overtaken by the red-hot anger that licks through your veins. “and it’s inappropriate to send your ta heart and sparkle emoticons.”

“it’s a fucking – oh my god,” you reach towards the top of the bed, fingers grabbing the corner of his pillow. you tug it to you. “it’s not that serious.”

jihoon steps out of his pants. his thighs are thick and pale, and when he turns towards his closest you can see how snug his black underwear is against the supple curve of his ass. fleetingly, because you are angry at his audacity, you allow your eyes to follow the curve of his asschecks and how the band of his underwear rests low on his hips. 

“teaching assistants and students aren’t to have any sexual relations,” jihoon recites. “it’s contract. if something happens, your little not-that-serious emoticon is evidence.”

you grab the pillow fully, swinging it around your body and at jihoon. it hits him in the middle. he lets out a soft noise of surprise. “you’re such an ass.”

jihoon shrugs. “we signed a contract, baby.” 

he tucks his thumbs underneath the waistband of his underwear, and then he’s pulling them down his legs. you don’t even have it in you to look away. you marvel at his naked lower half. his cock, thick and flaccid, hanging between his thighs. the dusky color of it; the dark hairs that travel from underneath the hem of his tank top to the base of his cock. 

jihoon pulls on a pair of grey joggers, concealing his cock and thighs from your eyes. “listen. i don’t want to be the bad guy. but we really can’t be risking anything.”

his cock is covered and he’s talking about something entirely different, but you’re still thinking about his dick. you’re still thinking about his dick as he walks from the bedroom, bare feet softly hitting the hardwood floors. 

you trail two of your fingers along your bare thigh. his dick, flaccid and thick in your hands. it feels like it’s been forever since you’ve had your hands or mouth or fucking cunt around his dick; forever since you last pressed your thumb against the slit of his cockhead, since his raspy, gentle groans were being pressed into your skin. 

you skim your nails along the soft insides of your thighs. 

it’s not like you’re sexually depraved. you and jihoon just had sex the other day. but there’s something about this, the situation, being strangers, that makes you feel as if you’re starving. 

your fingers move to your panties. you let your nails delicately linger alongside the lips of your cunt through the fabric, little sparks – little pieces of glitter, almost – making your toes curl. 

fuck lee jihoon, you think, and then you’re sliding your forefinger down between your pussy lips. you don’t move the fabric of your panties. leaning back against his bed, you let your finger drag down and push up, your wetness soaking your panties. 

his bed envelopes you as you lean back. tilting your hips up and bracing your feet against the mattress, you add another finger to the stimulation of your pussy. you let your fingers grow rougher, let them dig in slightly to the sensitive area around your clit. 

your fingers find your hole, stretching the fabric of your panties to reach in. 

“fuck.” 

your eyes flutter open – when did they shut? jihoon is standing at the entrance to his room. his long hair is pushed back from his face by a black headband. in one hand he holds a metal water bottle. 

his eyes are wide, his sweet lips parted as he stares at that spot between your thighs. 

jihoon shuffles further into the room, placing his water bottle on top of his set of drawers. you’ve begun absentmindedly petting your pussy, once again dragging your fingers over your clit lazily. 

jihoon presses his knees against the foot of his mattress. 

you hum, twisting your wrist. you press your thumb against the side of your clit, your fingers dipping once more to your hole. this morning you had chosen to wear a pair of pink panties. you don’t regret it now. you’re so soaking wet that you know jihoon can see the shape of your cunt through the fabric. 

your fingers begin to contract. you massage your pussy through the fabric leisurely, rhythmically. you drag your thumb down from your clit to meet your fingers, press your fingers down to barely sink into your hole. 

jihoon lets out a deep noise. he braces his hands against the mattress, makes a motion to crawl towards you. 

“no,” you say, words slightly slurred. “no. one point, remember?”

jihoon’s brow furrows. 

you reach down with your other hand, legs spreading wider. with your other hand you pull at the flesh of your pussy lips, offering your fingers more space to work with. you shift your hand, making sure to keep one lip in place. your other hand – the one with soaking fingertips – strokes up and down, up and down, up and down. 

jihoon’s hand settles on your ankle. you kick out. “no sex, yeah?”

jihoon lets out a strangled noise you’ve never heard from him. 

you let your eyes fall shut. you can feel the weight of his gaze on you. letting out a soft breath, your fingers begin to glide up and down your cunt more quickly. 

you begin to focus on your clit more. your hand that was holding your cunt lips moves up, focusing on baring the area around your clit. with your other hand you begin to stimulate the direct areas on either side of your clit. you are still working through your panties, but you’re so wet that the friction is almost nonexistent; your fingers just slide, massaging into the flesh. 

you begin to set a rhythm. you rock your forefinger and middle finger against the sensitive area around your clit. you rock once; twice; then you’re dipping your fingers down the length of your cunt, down to your hole; you drag them back up, and begin your elaborate play once more. 

it’s somewhat treacherous. it would be easier if it was jihoon. you would be able to fully relax back into the bed, just have to lay there and take it. 

but: no sex. 

so you slowly build up a climax, toes curling and chest arching up. it’s not sudden, not unexpected. it’s a slow climax that has your cunt tingling, head dropping back against the pillow. 

you continue to slip your fingers against your clit, dragging out your climax, continuing through it. 

eventually you come back to yourself. 

your wrist hurts; your fingers are cramping. discomfort takes over you more than lust, and so you relax your body back into the bed, hands moving from your pussy. 

and you look at jihoon. 

your boyfriend drags his gaze up from your pussy to your face. one of his hands is wrapped around his cock. he hasn’t taken it out of his joggers, just as you hadn’t taken off your drenched panties. you can see the thick outline of it through the grey fabric. the dusky head of it rises from the waistband of his pants. 

his hand disappears into his pants. you can see his knuckles as he drags his hand down the length of his cock. you pay special attention as his hand reappears, thumb bullying the fat head of his dick. 

you hum, stretching your arms above your head. you extend one of your legs, the other leisurely arching against the mattress. 

you let your hands wander along your chest. you aren’t doing it to stimulate yourself but to draw jihoon’s attention. to help him along, you suppose. 

his eyes follow the trailing of your fingers. one of your hands cradles a tit, the thumb of your other pinching a nipple against your forefinger. 

eventually jihoon lets out a groan, dropping his head. short spurts of cum pulses from his cock, soaking his hand. jihoon continues to fuck his fist through it, hissing and letting out breath moans. 

you feel sedated; satisfied. so does he. jihoon crawls up the length of the bed to plop next to you. he doesn’t cuddle against you. he just lays his body next to you, thick muscle of his arm against yours. 

“no sex,” he breathes out. 

“no sex.”

W E E K  F I V E  

you are going to murder your teaching assistant. 

the halls of the history building are nearly vacant save for the lone straggler. lee jihoon has his office hours late enough in the day to where most classes are over. most everyone’s day is over. 

but you are far from being done. 

the ta offices are tucked back with the professor offices, closed off behind a heavy wood door that matches the old style of the rest of the building. you get to the door a few minutes before his office hours officially start, glaring down at the screenshot on your phone. 

While your writing response over Medea is sufficient, I am loath to remind you to use proper citations in the responses. Otherwise it will be considered plagiarism. As a warning, your letter grade for this assignment will fall a whole grade. 

again: you were going to murder him. 

why couldn’t he just let you off with a warning? why did he immediately jump to taking your grade for the assignment down? he was being completely unfair and you weren’t going to stand for it. 

the clock on your phone switched to a minute closer to his office hours. 

still five minutes away. 

whatever. 

you reach out for the door knob, twisting the cold metal in your hand. the door is heavy to open, but you jam your shoulder against it and swing it open. 

the teaching assistant office is a room with three desks pressed against the wall on each side. there’s hard, uncomfortable chairs; two sockets in the entire room. 

and lee jihoon, sitting in one of the chairs with his cock in his hand. 

immediately your boyfriend flinches, eyes wide as he looks towards you. once jihoon sees it is, in fact, you and not some poor student walking in to request help. 

then, like you weren’t even there, jihoon turns away and begins fucking into his hand once more. 

you hurry through the door, shoving it shut behind you and pushing in the lock. 

all the while you don’t look away from jihoon. 

his teeth sink into his lower lip, and his head tips back to reveal the long column of his pale throat. his black bangs fall around his face, not obscuring a single centimeter. 

jihoon’s hand works quickly, furiously, over his dick. precum drenches the head. when he drags his hand down he hisses, face wincing. 

you move across the room, shrugging your backpack onto the ground. 

the assignment and grade having left your mind entirely, you kneel before jihoon. he peers down at you, eyebrows raised wearily. “no sex,” he reminds you. 

“no sex,” you agree. 

you raise your hand to your face. it’s the easiest thing to spit into your palm, to replace jihoon’s hand with your own. as soon as you squeeze around his dick jihoon lets out a low, raspy noise. 

his cock is thick and perfect in your hand, the heavy weight of it tempting. you want it in your mouth; want him to be fucking his cock down your throat. 

instead you let him fuck your hand. you move your hand down. the slide is slightly rough, your spit and his precum not quite enough. jihoon likes it, though; you know he does. his breath is harsh and labored, his eyes squeezed shut. 

you twist your wrist as you move your hand towards the head of his cock. you press your thumb into the slit of his dock. 

“gonna cum,” he warns you. 

then you think back to your letter grade. 

meanly, perhaps even cruelly, you drop your hand to the base of his cock and squeeze, cutting off his orgasm. jihoon lets out a startled, irritated noise. 

“my assignment.”

“fuck,” he grumbles, one of his hands raising to push back his bangs. “are you serious?”

“let me off with a warning,” you say. you keep one hand around the base of his dick, tight and trapping. your other hand goes to his balls. you hold them, thumb gently swiping over the flesh. 

jihoon’s breath shutters in his throat. 

“a warning,” you demand. 

“fuck,” he says again. “fine. a warning.”

triumphant, you let a large smile take over your face. you begin to move your hand once again. 

W E E K  N I N E 

“now that you’ve finished properly with oedipus rex,” jihoon begins, rounding the table at the front of the classroom, “let’s get some opinions. raise your hand if you enjoyed the play.”

more hands than not raise around the room, including mingyu’s. you shoot him a betrayed look. the past nine class weeks the two of you had been close, sitting next to one another during lecture and discussion. you traded conversation and thoughts more often than not, using one another to bounce ideas and theories. 

and for him to have enjoyed the play? 

jihoon moves to lean against the desk. he crosses his arms over his chest. this time he’s wearing all black. it seems to lengthen his figure, stretch him out, as well as broaden the line of his shoulders. 

he looks good. 

“let’s get some opinions on people who didn’t like the play.” immediately his eyes are on you, calling out your name. “you didn’t enjoy the play.”

traitor. 

you shift in your seat. “uh. no, not really.”

“why?”

you were going to suffocate him in his sleep. 

“it’s rather –” you break off, searching for words. you weren’t the literary student; he was. “i don’t understand him, i guess.”

jihoon tilts his head. “him? sophocles? or oedipus?”

“oedipus,” you clarify. 

“can you explain a little further? what exactly don’t you understand?”

you bite down on your tongue for a moment, trying to gather yourself. the classroom is silent as you wait, unintentionally putting pressure on your shoulders as you realize they were all waiting for you to speak up. 

“he – oedipus – he’s sort of stupid, isn’t he?” someone chokes behind you. you ignore them, looking at jihoon. despite him putting you on the spot like an asshole, he’s still your boyfriend. his face isn’t harsh, isn’t judging as he watches you struggle for words. for a moment he isn’t your ta – he’s your boyfriend. he’s your boyfriend and you’re having a plain, casual discussion. “i mean. he knows the prophecy. but he just does whatever he wants anyways? he’s just – he’s got no common sense.”

jihoon hums, tapping his fingers along his forearms. “so his arrogance has made him entirely unlikable to you. are there any redeeming treats, do you think?”

you shake your head. “it makes him deserve his ending, i think. he thought he was above it all.”

jihoon nods. “i see. remember that argument for your paper. that’s a big question that needs answered: does oedipus deserve his ending? you could analyze that further and get a pretty solid base for your essay.”

he begins to question other students about whether they liked the story or not, leaving you alone. the remainder of class flows as such, ending with jihoon gently urging everyone to write down their thoughts to revisit for the essay. 

you gather your things and put them into your backpack. mingyu loiters next to you, hands stuffed into the pockets of his dark jeans. 

“what’re you doing after this?” he reaches down and grabs your backpack after you’ve zipped it up, slinging it onto his shoulder. “wanna hit the library? we could bounce some more ideas around.”

smiling, you begin to agree. 

jihoon calls your name, having gathered his own things and lodging his foot in the heavy wooden door, keeping it ajar. “do you mind coming with me to the office for a minute or two? i want to talk about what you’ve said during class.”

you swallow back a sigh, throwing jihoon a firm-lipped smile. mingyu swings your backpack back off his shoulder, handing it to you. “good luck.”

you make a face at him. mingyu doesn’t know the true nature of the relationship between you and jihoon, but he does know that you’ve visited jihoon during office hours more than once. not a week has gone by without you setting foot into the little ta office, setting your printed-out versions of whatever classic the class was working on. 

“print every story out,” jihoon had advised, voice carrying that air of superiority he always seemed to gain when the two of you were sat in the dark office. “mark it up. it’ll help you pay close attention to every line.”

jihoon leads you to the ta office, weaving through the throngs of students making their way through the marble halls. you sort of want to reach out and grab onto his shirt, just to ensure he stays visible. but you don’t. 

another ta is in the office, steadily working away at their own homework. she throws a smile at the two of you as you enter. “hey, jihoon.”

“hey.” he crosses into the room, setting his laptop in front of the chair that he had, only a few weeks ago, received a rather satisfactory hand-job from you in. “your office hours are over, aren’t they?”

the other ta nods. “yep. just working now. never seems to end.”

jihoon settles into the wooden chair, flipping up the screen to his laptop. he had to change it from the selfie the two of you had taken during a hike, matching dandelion flowers tucked into your ears. now a mountain range greets him. “we’re gonna be discussing oedipus rex.”

“won’t be a bother to me!”

you push over a chair close to jihoon, the feet of it scraping against the floor. 

“pull out your notes,” jihoon says. he pulls up his own version of the play on his computer; they’re scans of his own copy, scribbles and highlighted passages littering every single page. “we’ll go over what exactly prompted you to think this way about oedipus. it’ll help you get a real solid foundation for the essay.

“so,” he says once you have your notes spread out. “oedipus is a flawed character. there’s no doubt about it. the stage directions themselves reveal as much.”

as he talks, raspy voice droning on and words blending together in your mind, jihoon’s foot begins to slide across the floor. you can’t help but look at it, watch it. his black leather shoe moves from in front of him, slowly, silently, gliding across the floor to nudge against your own shoe. 

“he does whatever he wants, that’s what you said?”

you nod. 

“during discussion you mentioned that he knew the prophecy and ignored it,” jihoon says. his foot now fully rests against yours. it’s just one point of contact, and yet it seems to electrify you; warm you up. you can’t help but focus on it, like a cat watching a bird through the window. 

“but he doesn’t,” jihoon says. “he thoroughly believes his parents to be the king and queen of corinth. according to oedipus, and forgetting the context we ourselves know, he has escaped his fate.”

his words fade out. jihoon’s hands settle on his keyboard, a single finger absentmindedly tapping at a key. it’s not hard enough to do anything. it’s just a simple tap, a fumbling gesture. 

his shoe shifts. he presses his foot against yours from toe to heel. 

the other ta in the room begins to collect her things. you listen to her as she moves about, closing her laptop and shuffling papers. 

jihoon shifts in his chair. his knees spread out. his trousers strain, just slightly, against his thick thighs. the barest sliver of pale ankle slips out from beneath his trousers, his black socks hidden beneath the leather lip of his shoes. 

the ta opens the door; closes it behind her. 

“his character is one the citizens of greece would have identified with – at least the ones in athens,” jihoon says, and then he’s turning his face towards you. feeling rather caught, you meet his eyes. “so why do you think he deserves his ending?”

you furrow your brows. you’ve gone over this. “because he actively chooses it through his arrogance. he ignores the prophecy.”

jihoon sighs, lips pursing together. “you haven’t paid attention to a single word i’ve said.”

your mouth falls open a little. “i have!”

“haven’t,” he corrects. 

jihoon stands from the chair. you miss being able to see the skin of his ankle. he crosses the room, hand falling to the door knob. he locks it. “i think we need to work on your attention span, don’t you?”

your mouth goes dry. he begins to unbutton the cuffs of his black shirt as he moves back across the room. he pushes up his sleeves, shoving off his thick forearms. “jihoon?”

jihoon sits back in his wooden chair, legs automatically spreading out. one of his hands rests on the armrest of the chair, while he set his elbow on the other, using it to prop up his head. jihoon raises his brows at you. “well?”

“what?”

he sighs, as if burdened. “take off your pants and underwear.”

you snap your head towards the door. after verifying no one had magically walked through, you look back at jihoon, hissing his name. “what are you going on about?”

“we need to work on your memory,” he explains matter-of-factly, voice taking on that arrogant lilt he so often gets when in this room. jihoon likes this, you think; likes being in a position of power over you. likes being able to boss you around; able to tell you what to do. 

with one last glance at the door, you stand from your wooden chair. jihoon watches unabashedly as you work your pants down over your ass. you leave both your jeans and underwear on the hard floor of the office. 

jihoon pats his thigh wordlessly. 

you feel heat rush towards your cheeks. you’ve sat on his thighs before, have ridden them before. but it felt so fucking different to be lowering yourself onto the thick muscle in a university office, your hands on his shoulders to steady yourself, the backs of your hands lightly brushing against the wood of his chair. 

you don’t do anything for a moment other than just sit on his thigh. the fabric of his pants is like silk against your skin, and you can’t help but slowly, hesitantly, rock your hips down onto him. 

jihoon’s hands go to your hips. he tilts his head back, the curls framing his temples brushing against the corners of his eyes. 

“now,” he says, “you think oedipus ignores his prophecy.”

you look down at your boyfriend, pouting at him. “you’re punishing me because i have a different opinion than you? about some old play?”

jihoon presses his lips together. then his hand is coming down sharply on your outer thigh, the sound acutely piercing your ears and reverberating in your head. he rubs roughly at the skin after, thumb swiping against the patch of skin as it turns violent with anger from his slap. 

“because you’re ignoring the text,” jihoon says. his hand slides from your thigh around to your ass. his fingers dig into your asscheek, contemplating the weight of it. “it’d be one thing if you had actual evidence that wasn’t in conflict with what sophocles was telling us.”

“if you’re trying to get me wet,” you say, thumbs tapping against his shoulders, “i’m not sure this is the way to go.”

jihoon moves the hand that was on your ass back to your hips. he squeezes the flesh beneath his hands, and then he’s slowly leading you into a rocking motion. it’s not much, but there’s enough connection between your cunt and his thigh to have a gentle swell of lust licking at your pussy. 

“don’t be smart,” he says. 

“you act smart all the time,” you snap back. you keep rocking your hips. “why can’t i?”

he scoffs a little, nails slightly digging into your skin. instead of any pain, they send a little spark of heat through you. “i’ve got degrees in this,” he explains. “i’m literally allowed to talk about this.”

“now,” he says, “oedipus never ignores his fate. he says as much. he believes polybus and merope to be his parents. when he becomes doubtful, he confronts them: ‘. . . i went to mother and father, questioned them closely . . . so as for my parents i was satisfied . . .’”

for a moment you’re speechless. and then you let out a loud laugh despite yourself. “you little fucking nerd, reciting oedipus rex to your girlfriend while she’s rubbing herself on her thigh.”

jihoon’s jaw tightens. he moves, hands on your hips pushing you up and off of him. once you’re standing, he joins you. as soon as jihoon is on his feet he’s pushing you around, moving so your bare ass is against his front. then he pushes further, pressing your body against the table in front of you. the edge of your table reaches your upper thigh, and so it’s easy for jihoon to place his hand against the middle of your back and press you until your front is firmly against the surface of the table. 

as soon as your chin is touching the cold table, jihoon is bringing his hand down sharply against your ass. you can’t help but let out a startled shout, body jerking from underneath him. 

“be good,” he murmurs, hand now gentle as he rubs at your skin in apology. “listen to your ta. trying to help, baby.”

“you’re being mean,” you say, toes curling against the frigid office floor as his hand travels to rest against the curve of your ass. 

“wouldn’t have to be if you’d be good,” he says. jihoon moves his hand down, the tip of his forefinger gliding against the area where your ass and thigh meet. “you gonna be good for me?”

you shift, moving one of your arms so you can rest your face against it. forehead pressing against your forearm, you nod. 

“good. now oedipus believed polybus and merope to be his true parents. he was still desperate to avoid the prophecy, so he abandoned his princely title and corinth. he wanted to be free of it, baby.”

his fingers tip inwards. your entire body tenses as his fingertips press alongside your folds. he doesn’t do anything further; doesn’t insert them. instead he just keeps them there, absentmindedly shifting his hand. 

“he is arrogant,” jihoon absconds, allowing you a single point. “we see that in the beginning. ‘. . . the world knows my fame: i am oedipus.’”

jihoon waits for a moment after quoting the play. when you don’t do anything other than let out a shaky breath, he rewards you. jihoon slowly moves his fingers against your cunt. he trails his fingers up and down your length. he maps out the full expanse of your pussy. his fingers slide up over your hole, which was now leaking and clenching properly. he brushes his digits over your clit almost clinically, giving it no more attention than the rest of you. 

“but he doesn’t ignore the prophecy. he believes he’s foiled it until he forces the shepherd to tell his story. he refuses to stop; refuses to listen to reason. he’s arrogant, yes, and hurtles straight towards the horrid truth of his parentage and marriage without a second thought.”

jihoon slowly, tortuously, slips a single finger into your cunt. his finger isn’t so thick to cause any discomfort. instead your pussy welcomes it, clenching around the digit. you can’t help but bare down on his finger, hips searching for more.

later you’ll remember to be mortified by the fact your boyfriend got you wet while talking about sophocles. 

but now you press your eyes shut, fingers lightly scraping against the surface of the desk. 

jihoon pushes his finger all the way inside of your pussy. you can feel it when it’s fully in, his knuckles scraping against your flesh. 

you cart your hips back, trying to get his finger to graze that special spongey place. 

“be good,” jihoon says, and then he’s retracting his finger from your cunt entirely. 

you let out a small gasp, brow furrowing. you turn your head to peer back at him. “hoonie….”

jihoon laughs at you, and then he’s lowering himself to press his chest along the line of your back. jihoon presses a kiss to the corner of your lips, one of his hands still holding tight to your hips. “you’re so cute when i’m fucking you,” he says, mouth moving against your cheek as he speaks. “you always get so cute. what is this?”

you pout at him. jihoon presses another kiss to your cheek, and then he’s standing. 

this time jihoon slides in two fingers. you frown, insistently pressing your forehead against your forearm as the stretch of his fingers slightly burns. it’s not unpleasant, of course. just a gentle burn that signals the walls of your pussy stretching to accommodate him. 

“there,” he says, satisfied. “now. where was i?”

he’s silent. you realize he’s waiting for you to speak, to prove you were listening. 

you let out a strangled groan, trying to think back. he had a single finger inside of you and it wasn’t enough. you try to think. you try to think of a single word to say that isn’t fuck or more; try to think despite the way jihoon is slowly angling his fingers towards your front, pressing them up. 

you can’t help but press your thighs together in anticipation. 

jihoon clicks his tongue, and then he’s pulling his fingers out. you let out a whine, trying to push yourself away from the desk. 

both of his hands go to your shoulders, keeping you firmly against the surface. “stay still,” he warns you. “i know you have a listening problem but i didn’t think it was this bad.”

there’s a rustle of clothing behind you. “don’t look,” jihoon says. “keep your face against the table.”

you can’t think of a reply, can’t think of anything to do other than what he says. you wonder if you should feel ashamed of how easily you become compliant for him. 

“oedipus doesn’t ignore the prophecy,” jihoon restates, and then he’s pressing his front against your ass. he’s taken off his pants and is just in his underwear. you can feel the shape of his thick cock against your ass, can feel it’s hard length along you. “he just believes polybus and merope when they say they are his true parents. there’s no harm in that. anyone would want to believe it when the people who raise them say they are their true parents.”

jihoon rocks his hips against you. his hands are holding your hips still as he, essentially, humps against your ass. 

“so in that regard your argument has a fallacy,” jihoon announces. 

a fallacy? 

you want to say something biting about how he’s able to even think about fallacies and arguments when he’s humping your ass, but then jihoon is returning two of his fingers to your pussy and you elect to keep silent. 

“he is arrogant, though,” jihoon says. he pushes two of his fingertips into your hole. you clench hungrily around them as if your pussy was trying to suck them in. you wonder if you’ve always been so – so whorish for him, or if it was a recent development from not having been properly fucked in nine weeks. 

“his pride is something that transcends time,” jihoon carries on. he doesn’t press his fingers any deeper inside of you. he rests the tip of his ring finger just barely against your clit. he doesn’t move it either; just rests it there, taunting. 

“everyone can think of a political leader who is too arrogant for their own good,” jihoon says. “it’s a tale as old as time. sophocles set the precedent with this story. a king on top of the world who listens to no one, only to be brought down to his knees by fate.”

jihoon begins to slide his fingers in. he does it leisurely, slowly, as if he has all the time in the world. 

“the evolution of his character is a fascinating one,” jihoon says, his ring finger leaving its place to instead rest against your hole. he doesn’t slide it in. you want to buck your hips back and force it inside. “arrogance to being humbled in every sense of the word. he is only wise until he can no longer see; only sees the truth once he is blinded

“do you remember,” jihoon says, “what he says after he blinds himself?”

you shake your head against your arm. his two fingers are nearly settled entirely inside of your pussy. you want them so deep inside of you that you can feel them in your throat. 

involuntarily you clench around his digits. 

jihoon clicks his tongue. his fingers stop moving in you. “what did i say? be good. none of this shit.”

you let out a little whine, your free hand curling into a fist. “sorry,” you say, unable to keep your voice from pitching up in desperation. “i’m sorry, hoonie.”

“say you won’t move,” jihoon instructs, voice seemingly detached. “say you’ll be a good girl for me and won’t move.”

your lower lip wobbles. you feel somewhat humiliated like this: your front pressing against the surface of a ta desk, shirt rucked up along your stomach and bare toes curling against the marble floors of the university history building. your boyfriend pressing all up against you, fingers stuffed into your cunt, telling you what to do as if you were some pathetic whore, desperate for a cock inside. 

but, because you are exactly that, you repeat his words, feeling wetness trickle from your pussy. “i’ll be good,” you whimper out. “i won’t move. i’ll be a good girl.”

jihoon lets out a quiet, nearly-silent huff of laughter. he retracts his fingers from your pussy, and immediately you’re feeling panic strike you. 

“be patient,” he chides you as you begin to press back against him. three of jihoon’s press against your hole. “be a good girl.”

jihoon pushes his three fingers into your pussy. you let out a high keening noise like a wounded animal, eyes squeezing shut and cunt eagerly drinking his fingers up. they’re nothing like his dick, aren’t as thick or delicious, but they’re something. 

the stretch burns and you wiggle absentmindedly, relishing in it. the burn is acute and hot and you yearn to press into it, to take more and more and more. 

“good,” he says once all three of his fingers are stuffed inside of you. “you look pretty like this, baby. you know that?”

you whine. you don’t move. 

jihoon’s three fingers press up, and when they bump against your bundle of nerves you can’t help but wiggle back, searching. 

“do you remember?” he repeats. “what’s the first thing oedipus says after he’s blinded?”

you shake your head. you don’t know how he expects you to think about anything. you feel as if you’ve been strung along, as if he’s been tugging at a chain and you’ve been stumbling behind him. 

“‘oh,” jihoon quotes, and then he’s lowering himself to press against you. his mouth it against your ear, his fingers shifting within your pussy due to his change of position. when he speaks again you can hear his voice as clear as day despite how he murmurs, and it’s as if he’s wrapped entirely around you; as if he’s consumed you. “‘oh, the agony! i am agony.’”

jihoon presses his fingers back into you so the tips of them were pressing against your pleasure spot once more. 

“he’s felt true agony now,” jihoon explains. he keeps his fingers still now. “he’s an icarus fallen to the earth. his wings of wax have melted. he’s a king with his word left in crumbles; with his queen dead and children made of sin. he’s nothing.”

jihoon’s nose presses against the shell of your ear. “his arrogance was his destruction. can you tell me more about it?”

you open your mouth to speak. you can’t. and even if you could, it isn’t as if your brain is working. there’s nothing inside of your mind. the lust, the desire, that takes over your body is so big it swallows up everything else and renders you dumb. 

jihoon huffs out a laugh, mean. “fine. at least do this to prove you’ve listened to me: tell me the first thing oedipus says after becoming blind.”

you feel as if he’s surrounding you. you can feel jihoon’s weight along your back, can feel his fingers inside of your cunt, stretching you out. you feel so keyed up, so ready for something. not something – him. you want jihoon. you want him carnally. you want his dick stuffed inside of your pussy. you want his mouth on your neck; want his hands on your tits. you want him pressing your face into the desk and drilling into your pussy. 

you open your mouth. an embarrassing noise comes out. 

“come on,” jihoon says. “you can do it.”

“‘oh,’” you breathe out, trying to remember the exact words. “oh, agony! i’m — i’m agony!”

jihoon must judge your vague quotation as good enough. he moves off of your back, and you can’t help but whine, wanting his weight settled against you once more. 

his hand shifts inside of you. 

he slides his fingers out. you can feel your cunt resisting the slide, pussy clenching down on his fingers. 

“hoonie,” you beg. 

“be good,” he chides you. “remember. no sex.”

and then jihoon is thrusting his fingers so forcefully into your pussy that you can feel the sting as his knuckles hit your ass. the sharp noise of skin hitting skin rings out. you can barely process it before he’s withdrawing his fingers and fucking them back in just as quickly. 

jihoon finger-fucks you harshly, as if it were his dick he was shoving inside. your ass jiggles with each thrust back in. you whine and cry, and you can feel your ass begin to smarten from the sting. but you still arch back and meet each thrust of his fingers eagerly, craving the pleasure-pain. 

it’s rough and you can feel the orgasm, that string he had been messing with for what seems to be hours, begin to tighten. 

“want,” you pant out, fingernails scraping against the desk. “want you, hoonie. please, please, please.”

“beg, baby.”

you let out a cry. there’s tears at the corners of your eyes. “please, hoonie. i want you. want you, want you. i want you, hoonie.”

your voice breaks off, tight with emotion. 

jihoon lets out a curse, and then he’s dropping behind you. jihoon shoves your leg up, and you follow suit, placing your knee on the able and giving him access to your pussy. jihoon shoves a hand against your thigh, keeping it in place on the table. 

his mouth licks a stripe from where his fingers plunge into your pussy to your clit, taking that aching muscle between his lips and suckling. 

when you orgasm it’s harsh and loud, fluids gushing from your pussy and soaking jihoon’s face. he takes you into his arms, pulling you to the floor with him and pressing kisses to your face. 

“good girl,” he murmurs, voice raspy and comforting. the office is drenched in the smell of pussy – of your pussy – and his nose shines with your release. he ignores it, his clean hand pushing back stray strands of hair from your face so he can press a sweet kiss to your nose. “good girl.”

W E E K  T H I R T E E N

you think, fleetingly, that you’re not being fair. 

but then you remember that girl – girl, because she can’t be any older than eighteen, fresh out of high school and far too young to be sniffing around your boyfriend – and how she pressed close to jihoon as she showed him something on her computer, and you can’t help but think you’re not being harsh enough. 

with that in the forefront of your mind, you ease the hot pink dildo in your aching cunt. you can feel fluid gush from your pussy, a slick combination of your own desire and the generous amount of lube you had massaged onto the dildo. 

the stretch burns, stretching the walls of your pussy. it’s a stark, acute contrast to the three fingers you used to stretch yourself, and you couldn’t help but arch your back up off of jihoon’s couch, toes curling and mouth dropping open. 

you can feel the fluids leak down your pussy, sliding along the curve of your ass. 

good, you think. sink into the fabric of the couch so from now on, whenever he sits here, he has to smell your cunt. 

your hand stills once the base of the dildo is flush against your ass. you shift, hips tilting as you try to relieve some of the sting. 

you stretch out for your phone, glancing at the time. the dildo is pushed from your pussy by the movement. 

jihoon will be home any minute. your hand returns to the dildo, pushing it back into your pussy. your cunt sucks it in, eager and greedy. 

clenching down on the dildo, you can’t help the thrill of satisfaction that shoots through you. you feel so delightfully full, as if some part of you was a gaping hole that needed to be filled. 

well – 

you suppose that line of thought isn’t too wrong. 

you grab the dildo, fingernails digging slightly into the jelly-like texture. you slide the dildo from your cunt. despite how much lube you used, despite how wet your cunt is, the dildo still is slow to slide out, your pussy clamping down to try and keep it in place. 

you pull it out until just the tip of the dildo is pressed against your hole. your juices glint evilly on the dildo, a long, thick string along the side of it. 

slowly you ease it back inside. you tip your head back, foot pressing down on the cushion of the couch in an attempt to mentally steady yourself. it’s a dragging sensation that has impatience licking at your brain, trying to push its way to the forefront. 

you pump the dildo in and out, in and out, until you are satisfied that the burn from your pussy stretching to accommodate it is no more. 

you draw it out. 

and then you force it back in, sharp enough for the gelatin balls to slap against your ass in a poor mimicry of the real thing. 

your free hand goes to your tit, framing a pebbled nipple between two of your fingers. you massage it, pull it, as you harshly fuck the dildo in, soft pants escaping your mouth as your body begins to ignite with pleasure and the wanton desire for more. 

you can’t help but want. it’s as if the desire is written into your dna, lining the fabric of your entire being. you want to be fucked, want to be thrown onto your front and taken from behind; want jihoon fucking his fat cock into your pussy in one swift motion, forcing your pussy to stretch around him. 

you want jihoon. 

you could devour him, you think as you crook the dildo up towards the front of your body, searching for your g-spot. you would devour him whole. you would take and take from him until he’s entirely yours, body and soul. 

the lock to the door clicks. you hurriedly bring the fingers messing with your nipple up to your mouth, licking at them before taking the nub between them and rolling. 

the front door to jihoon’s apartment swings open, your boyfriend stepping through. his eyes immediately catch on you, naked and wanton. 

“what – fuck –” he shoves the door shut behind him, loud and firm. “what the fuck are you doing?!”

you slide the dildo from your pussy, slow and torturous, ensuring he’s watching. jihoon’s eyes, naturally, flick down to your pussy. the dildo is still slick with fluid, and you can where the more dense of your fluids stain the pink of the dick. 

“what are you doing,” he repeats, dropping his leather bag to the floor. 

“taking matters – ah,” you moan out, massaging your gummy g-spot with the head of the dick. “taking matters into my own hands, jihoon; what else?”

his hands go to his shirt. jihoon hurriedly pushes at the buttons of his white dress shirt, letting it fall to the floor after he’s done. his trousers follow suit, and he leaves them behind with his shoes and socks. 

“what are you doing?” you grin at jihoon toothily, echoing his words. “no sex, remember?”

jihoon moves towards you regardless. he had done his hair that morning, gelling it back. now a few stray strands frame his temples, giving him a perfectly disheveled look. his tank top does nothing to conceal his collar bones, the line of his shoulders proud and wide. 

his hands find your thighs. he separates your legs, baring your pussy entirely. 

you still your hand, just keeping the dildo snug inside of you, refusing to move it further. “what are you doing, jihoon?”

“looking,” he retorts, eyes dancing around your body as he takes you in. you think you look like some perverted creature, carnal desire and desperation written onto every centimeter of skin. 

“don’t touch,” you chide him, moving an leg from his grasp. jihoon tightens his hold on the other as you press your foot against his chest, lightly pressing in a piss-poor attempt to push him back. 

jihoon rolls his eyes at you, nose crinkling and mouth twisting into a sneer. 

“oh,” you breathe out, sheathing the dildo fully inside once more. his eyes meet yours. you let a grin take over, unable to help but tease him. “‘oh, the agony! i am agony!’ isn’t that right, hoonie?”

for a split second you can see shock take over jihoon’s features, catlike eyes widening. a strike of triumph hits you, feeling as if you are the cat that got the canary. 

but then jihoon is grabbing the dildo from your hand. he pulls it out, the slide making your mouth drop in a gasp and body arch up off of the couch. 

“h – hoonie –!”

“agony,” he hisses, and then jihoon is shoving his boxers down to his knees. 

his cock bounces from his underwear, slapping against the fabric of his tank-top. it’s thick and angry, and when he runs his hand along it, rubbing at the head, a thick marble of precum leaks from it. 

“no – no sex,” you say, voice hoarse as you subconsciously keep your eyes on his cock. you’ve been starving for jihoon’s dick for so long, and here it is, thick and pulsing in front of you. 

and like a starving woman in front of a table overflowing with food, you eagerly welcome jihoon’s dick when he presses the tip against your hole. you spread your legs, knees knocking against his hips as he presses against you. 

jihoon keeps his dick in hand, not entering you. he rubs his dick up between your folds, a soft curse escaping his lips at how wet you are. once he’s at your clit he stops, rubbing the head of his dick against you. 

“fuck –” your voice is taking on a whining tone, and you can’t help but fleetingly wonder what happened to you showing jihoon who’s boss, making him witness just what he’s missing. but that thought is gone from your mind as soon as it enters, and instead you’/re pleading with jihoon. “please, hoonie – please fuck me, please.”

he sighs, the tip of his cock pressing against your hole. still, he doesn’t enter you. “i thought we agreed on no sex,” he says. “no sex until the semester is over.”

you cry out, hips trying to shift upwards and force his dick inside. jihoon pulls back. “please – put it in. it won’t count – won’t count if you don’t cum in me, yeah? won’t count if i don’t cum around your dick.”

jihoon lets out a loud, shivering groan that seems to release from the depths of his soul. 

jihoon presses his dick into your cunt. the head pops past your entrance, and then he’s sliding home. 

your pussy takes jihoon eagerly, sufficiently prepared by your fingers and the dildo. his dick is just slightly thicker than the dildo, and so there is a pleasurable sting that burns at your core. it’s not horrible, and you let out a moan as you cant your hips up. 

jihoon doesn’t stop pressing into you until his balls are against your ass. his hands are on either of your legs, keeping you spread for him. jihoon uses his grip on you to push himself back, bringing his cock out of your cunt slowly. the drag of his dick is delicious, is everything you’ve been missing for months. 

you’re not sure if this is just because you haven’t been fucked appropriately since august and it’s in the middle of november, but you feel completely overwhelmed by jihoon. 

his cock feels so good inside of you. it’s thick and warm, and when he shifts his dick presses up towards your core. his blunt head presses against your g-spot, and you can’t help the little mewl of approval that escapes you. 

“feels good,” he breathes out. his eyes flutter, nails digging into your skin. “you feel so fucking good.”

jihoon pulls his hips back, leaving your pussy save for the tip of his dick. he lingers, the fat head of his dick keeping you plugged. 

when jihoon thrusts in, it’s rough and well-aimed for your g-spot. you let out a shrill noise, eyes rolling back. you don’t know if sex has ever felt like this before – if you’ve ever felt so overwhelmed just by a single thrust. 

your hands scramble, grabbing at the couch. “hoonie!”

he slides out; fucks back in. 

jihoon’s pace is rough, as if he’s making up for lost time. as if he’s determined to mold your pussy back into the shape of his dick. he uses your pussy, uses you. he uses your cunt in an almost detached way, as if you were some random fuck and not his treasured girlfriend. 

eventually jihoon is pulling from your cunt with a strangled moan. his dick is drenched with your fluids, thick strings decorating it like lewd jewelry. jihoon palms his dick, and then he’s thrusting into his hand once, twice, thrice before he cums onto your stomach. 

he lets out a moan, a gasp of your own joining. his cum is thick and hot. you want to shove it into your pussy. 

jihoon’s hands go back to your thighs, and then he’s dropping to his knees. 

“can’t wait to fuck you,” he groans, “can’t wait to fill you up. as soon as finals are over, you’re mine. got it? you’re mine.”

then his tongue is licking a stripe up from your cunt to your clit, and all other thoughts leave you. 

W E E K  S I X T E E N

the lecture hall, just like most of the rest of campus, is nearly deserted. 

you had left your apartment as soon as the email about your final grade dinged your phone, delight and want immediately turning at your stomach. you had been looking forward to this day for months: the day you and jihoon were finally free to fuck (and publicly be in a relationship, but that wasn’t the most pressing matter at the moment). 

jihoon was at the front of the large room, talking to the last stragglers of the exam he had to oversee. you rush down the steps, unable to help the broad smile on your face. 

your boyfriend looks up as you thunder down the auditorium, and you catch the moment his own face breaks out into a wide grin. 

he calls out your name as you step off of the last step. 

the student he’s talking to waves goodbye, and you take the spot where he had been standing. 

“hey,” you say, unable to keep your smile tamed. “how’s it going?”

jihoon rolls his eyes at you, folding his arms over his chest. this close to him you could smell his cologne, the sharp smells of amber and vanilla. he was wearing his white dress shirt again, though this time it was dressed up with a simple black tie. 

“glad it’s over,” jihoon murmurs. 

you glance around the room. there’s two girls at the back, talking excitedly as one of them packs up their things. 

“took you forever to grade the exams.”

jihoon scoffs. “as if. you turned it in last night at midnight.”

you shrug. the girls begin to make their way out of the room, calling out good-byes to jihoon. 

“all things considered,” he says, raising a hand in acknowledgement towards the girls, “this semester wasn’t so bad.”

you laugh at him. “it’s been agony to me,” you say, knowing how loaded the word is for the both of you. 

the heavy wooden doors shut solemnly behind the girls. it’s as if a switch flicks off in jihoon’s mind. his eyes visibly soften before you, his smile taking on a gentler shape. 

“i missed you,” he says. he doesn’t say anything else; that isn’t jihoon’s way. he’d write a thousand poems for you and keep them locked away. he’ll say three words, i missed you, and his meaning will include a hundred other things: i love you; i adore you; i want you close to me always; you bewitch me. 

“i missed you, too,” you echo, hoping he feels the weight of your simple response. 

jihoon keeps his face passive as he opens his arms, and you go easily into his embrace. you burrow your face into his neck, breathing him in. he wraps his thick arms around you, pressing you close to his body. 

for a moment the two of you just exist in this little universe. 

jihoon is the first to pull away, though he doesn’t go far. as if magnetic, you tilt your lips towards him, meeting his mouth halfway. 

the kiss begins gentle and solemn. it’s the end of a sentence, finishing the semester, which had been filled with tension and desperation, with a sweet embrace and soft lips. 

you separate your mouth from his. you skim your lips along his chin, following the edge of his jaw. you trace the edges of his face with your mouth, trying to memorize the shape of him. 

“i missed you,” you say again. 

jihoon is silent. he sinks a hand into your hair, cradling the back of your head. he guides your face back to his, his lips pressing a long kiss to yours. 

this time when jihoon kisses you it’s firm. his mouth is insistent against yours, devouring you in a way that leaves you breathless. he presses you back, his tongue sliding past your lips. 

jihoon walks you backwards until your thighs are bumping against the table. he keeps your head still, tongue licking into your mouth and exploring. 

his free hand slides beneath your shirt, grabbing at the flesh of your hip. 

“hoonie,” you say, pulling back from his mouth. jihoon hums, pressing kisses to the corner of your mouth. “want you.”

“got me,” he returns. 

despite his gentle words, jihoon’s hands move quickly against you. he tosses your shirt and bra aside, mouth attaching to your neck as soon as you are bare. his hand slides down to the waistband of your pants, fingers dipping past it. jihoon presses open-mouthed kisses to your skin, eager to reefamiliarize himself with your body entirely. his nips at the curve of your tit, and then his mouth is suckling at a pebbled nippple. 

you whine against him. you run your hands overh im. you feel the curve of his own pecs, feel the flat plane of his stomach, still hidden by his shirt. you tug at his tie, and then you’re molding your hand against his straining erection. 

jihoon groans against you. “careful,” he says. 

“we shouldn’t get too carried away,” you return. your fingers find the button of his trousers nonetheless. it’s the easiest thing to pop it through the hole, loosening his pants. “we should go home. anyone could walk in.”

“‘oh, the agony,’” jihoon says, and then he’s turning you around and pressing you against the table. 

he’s quick to pull your pants and underwear to your ankles. jihoon helps you step out of them, leaving them in a discarded mess by the leg of the table. 

he smooths his hands over your legs and thighs as he stands, his tough heavy and warm. jihoon positions you; slides his hand along your leg and pushes it up onto the table, foot dangling over the edge. 

he slides two of his fingers inside of your pussy. you clench down on the intrusion, biting down on your lip. 

“don’t –” you sigh out, turning over your shoulder to look at him. “i’m ready.”

jihoon blinks at you for a moment, and then he’s cursing. “slut,” he says, though his lips twitch up into a grin. 

he doesn’t bother undressing all the way. you can feel the fabric of his pants bunch against your ass when his cock is buried deep inside. his cock stretches you so delightfully. you feel as if you’re finally whole after an eternity of missing something. 

maybe you really are a slut. 

jihoon slides his dick out slowly, making you feel every centimeter of his cock. the glide is nearly on the side of too-dry, but your eyes roll back nonetheless, nails scraping against the wood of the table. 

“fuck,” he breathes out, and then he’s punching his dick back into your pussy. 

you rock forward on the table, the edge of it digging into you. you don’t mind it. instead you push back, meeting his thrust. 

“missed you,” jihoon says. you wonder if he’s talking about your pussy. you wouldn’t blame him if he was: you missed his cock, afterall. 

you missed out his dick feels within you, heavy and stretching you out. you missed how he fucks into you, how his hips slap against your ass. you missed the sting of him fucking you, the sting of skin against skin coupled with the electric sparks of pleasure that shoot through you when the blunt head of his cock hits your g-spot. 

jihoon fucks you as if you were reuniting. which, you suppose, you are. he fucks you as if he’s treasuring each thrust, as if he’s making sure each rock of his hips is perfect to make up for lost time. 

you can feel the fabric of his shirt when jihoon presses his front against your back. his black tie dangles beside your face. he uses his weight to keep you against the table, his hips picking up pace. 

he practically jackrabbits into your pussy, hips frantic. 

“missed you,” he says, and then he’s grabbing your face to press another open-mouthed kiss to your lips. there’s no finesse: it’s just as messy as the way he fucks you. spit slides from mouth to mouth, tongues meeting and tangling. 

he’s devouring you, you realize. he’s gobbling you up, owning you inside and out. 

jihoon reaches down, his fingers finding your clit easily. he slips his fingers against your clit, the wetness of your pussy making the glide easy. his fingers against your clit are just as frantic as his hips fucking into you, and the combined sensation brings your orgasm crashing down around you more quickly than you would like. 

he slows his hips to a stop as you cum around his cock, whining high at the back of your throat. it’s overwhelming. you haven’t cum around his dick in months. his cock stretches you still, and every minute shift of your hips back against him has his dick pressing against all the sensitive places. 

“good?” his voice is raspy against your hair. 

you nod. 

jihoon pulls back, and you hiss at the feeling of his dick leaving your pussy. 

he doesn’t stay gone for long. jihoon maneuvers you onto your back. he grabs each of your thighs, holding them up and baring you to him. you can feel the juices of your release as they slide down your cunt. 

he thrusts back in. immediately you’re tossing your head back against the table, eyes rolling back. your toes curl. 

jihoon hooks your legs over the crook of each of his arms, and then he’s setting a harsh pace once again. his grunts are loud againsts the quiet of the room, the slapping of skin against skin sending heat rushing up towards your face. you feel too high strung, feel as if your neurons and electrons are buzzing around underneath your skin. you want to move away from his cock and how it tortures you, pressing against your g-spot as sensitivity rears its ugly head; you want to fuck down onto his dick until you’re unable to walk. 

when jihoon cums, it’s copious. it’s too much. you feel his dick throb within you as he spills, filling you with hot seed. it’s so much; you want more. 

jihoon pulls his dick from your pussy only once he’s finished. he isn’t done with you, though. 

he slaps his palm against your cunt, the sensation acute and electric. 

you want to cry. you don’t want him to ever stop. 

jihoon slaps your cunt again, and then he’s hooking three of his fingers inside of your pussy. he thrusts him inside in the same fashion he did his cock: harshly, roughly. the sting of his knuckles against your flesh isn’t unlike the sting of his hips. 

when you cum, it’s with a loud sob. he presses the fingers of his free hand against your clit, rubbing it once more while his fingers keep pressing up against your g-spot, relentless in his mission of wringing you dry. 

after it’s over, you hold out your arms. 

jihoon gathers you into his embrace easily, pressing a kiss to your forehead. you know you should hurry and dress, know that it’ll be a matter of time before someone wanders into the room. 

you don’t care. 

instead you just bask in the attention of your boyfriend, forehead pressing to his shoulder. 

[ivyues]

June Rain ⋅ Seungmin

You didn’t expect the soft summer rain to complement your first vacation as a couple. (A/N: you surely know those -> X)

The engine hummed softly beneath your fingertips, the highway unfurling ahead of you like a silver ribbon winding through the quiet countryside. You stole a glance at Seungmin, seated in the passenger seat, hood pulled up and a hand curled under his chin as he looked out the window. His eyes were calm and thoughtful, following the blur of green and low, cloudy skies.

It was your first holiday together – just the two of you. A small cabin, tucked away about four hours from Seoul, rented off a cute Airbnb listing that Seungmin had found and sent to you with a message that just said: 

“Too cheesy? Or just cheesy enough?”

You’d replied with a heart emoji and booked it before either of you could change your mind.

Seungmin shifted in his seat, glancing at you. “You sure you don’t want to switch soon?”

You shook your head with a small smile. “I like driving. And you’d just fall asleep behind the wheel.”

“I would not,” he said, but his grin betrayed him. “Okay, maybe I would. But I’m great company.”

“You’ve been silent for 40 minutes.”

“I’m providing comforting presence,” he countered, sitting up straighter and stretching. “But seriously, this is nice.”

It was. The air was easy between you – occasional conversation, music low in the background, and the unspoken comfort of being together with nowhere urgent to be.

By the time you arrived, the sun was playing peekaboo through the clouds, casting soft light over the wooden cabin. Nestled between gentle green hills, it looked like something out of a Ghibli movie – wooden beams, a little porch, surrounded by early summer flowers.

You stepped out of the car and stretched, breathing in the mossy air. The quiet was heavier here, soft in a way that made your shoulders drop a little. Seungmin opened the trunk but paused to take it in too, his eyes following the lazy sway of tall grasses on the hill.

A couple of hours in, the rain began. Not a storm, not a dramatic downpour – just that soft, steady June kind of pattering against the roof and windows. The kind that makes the world feel wrapped in cotton, damp and close but not unpleasant. You both stood at the window for a moment, watching it wash over the trees and the little patio outside.

“Well, so much for our hike,” Seungmin said, holding two mugs of hot coffee and handing one to you.

You shrugged and smiled over the rim of your mug, the steam warming your face as you watched a waterdrop slide down the glas. “It’s kind of nice, though.”

Later, you played music from a speaker, low and lazy, a half-read book in your lap and a small stack of board games pulled from the cabin’s shelf on the coffee table. Seungmin insisted on playing a game that he swore he remembered how to play. It turned out he didn’t. Instead, he made up the rules halfway through, and you called him out for it, but he just grinned like he knew you’d let him win anyway.

When the rain slowed to a mist, early in the afternoon, you both ventured outside. The world was painted in deeper greens, the leaves still dripping, the sky a pale gray above. The air smelled of petrichor and damp earth, with that strange, clean scent that only comes after summer rain.

You stepped carefully over a puddle to not dreanch your sneakers, holding Seungmin’s hand. “On the bright side, at least my allergies are taking the day off. Thank you, rain.”

He chuckled, feeling the pull as you stepped over the puddle. “You’re glowing with less congestion. It’s very attractive.”

“Wow. You really know how to sweep a girl off her feet.”

“I try.”

Seungmin chuckled as he followed you. As you walked beneath a low-hanging branch, a single droplet slipped from a leaf and landed squarely on Seungmin’s head. He blinked in surprise, water trickling down his forehead. “Maybe we should have actually taken the umbrella with us."

“Ah, city boy can’t handle a little rain, huh?” you teased with a smirk, reaching over to shake the clear drop off his hair.

He just smiled, looking at you a little longer than necessary. There was something in the way your cheeks flushed in the cool air, in the way you skipped over puddles and the fact that your hair slightly curled because of the damp air.

He liked this version of you – freer, softer. A little wild in the rain-damp woods.

You walked in silence for a while after that, just the two of you and the quiet hush of the world post-rain. The occasional bird call and the distant sound of water dripping from leaves.

masterlist

[sneakyxthexclown]

How Blitz Saved Stolas in Mastermind

Something I've been wanting to do for a WHILE is talk about a very, very specific scene in Mastermind. Seriously, it's, like, two sentences long, but it really stuck out to me, and I've been thinking about it since November. (Apologies if other people have talked about this before!)

Let me preface by saying, I LOVE English and writing. I minored in English with a writing concentration in undergrad, and I used to work in my college's writing center. When I didn't have appointments, I would study grammar rules and shit like that. While English is, in fact, a very stupid language, it is still quite fascinating.

The thing that really stuck out to me in Mastermind is Blitz's use of something called "passive voice" during the trial.

For those who may not know, passive voice is a way of constructing your sentences. It makes it so that the object of the sentence comes before the verb, and, in a sense, it can "hide" the subject. This is different from active voice, where the subject clearly does the verb to the object. For example:

Active voice: I (subject) kicked (verb) the ball (object).

Passive voice: The ball (object) was kicked (verb) by me (subject).

I've had MANY teachers tell me that using passive voice at all is a big no-no, and that's due to a couple of reasons. First, passive voice tends to create a more complex sentence, which can be harder for readers to interpret. And second, some people consider it too informal or "not proper" for writing because it's not as clear or concise as active voice.

HOWEVER

Passive voice is often still accepted when a person wants to remove blame or hide responsibility. For example:

The lamp was broken. The car was wrecked. The bank was robbed.

See how you still know what happened in all of those instances, but you don't know who did it?

That is exactly what Blitz does during the Mastermind trial.

After he admits to stealing the book (or "attempting" to steal the book as he says), he then states,

"Point is! It was given to me, okay? I was allowed to use it."

Instead of:

"Point is! Stolas gave it to me, okay? Stolas allowed me to use it."

Passive voice. Why?

To keep Stolas out of it. To protect him.

I believe that if Blitz had mentioned Stolas's name earlier, it would've been a surefire way to not only save Millie, Moxxie, and Loona but also his own life. I mean, look at how fast Satan was willing to change his tune once Stolas "confessed." Couldn't Blitz have just said, "hey, dude. Uh, actually, the royal who owns this book let me do all this, soooo, isn't he the one who should be in trouble here?" (Now, maybe Satan wouldn't have bought this since he wasn't willing to listen to most of what Blitz was trying to say that day, but that is an entirely different conversation.) He could've done that by using active voice.

But he didn't. He intentionally kept Stolas out of that entire conversation. In fact, Blitz never even mentions Stolas's name until Andrealphus already brought him up, until Blitz admits that he could've killed Stolas himself. But that still doesn't put any blame on Stolas. If anything, it just makes Blitz look more guilty.

I think we can all agree that Blitz isn't the type to throw his friends under the bus. Obviously, if Blitz and Stolas were on good terms, he would do anything to protect him. But they weren't on good terms.

This all takes place after the Full Moon, after Apology Tour, after all the screaming and the raging and the storming off in tears. Prior to the trial, the last time Blitz and Stolas saw each other, Blitz left still under the impression that Stolas was mad at him, that Stolas wanted nothing to do with him.

And even still, he didn't acknowledge the fact that Stolas did allow Blitz to use it (despite him stealing it first). Even though they weren't even close to speaking terms, Blitz still protected Stolas that day.

He could've tried to save his own ass. He could've been petty about the deal and said, "here, Stolas, this is what you get." But he didn't. Because even though Blitz has his own valid reasons for being mad at Stolas, he still loves him. And he'd still do anything to keep him out of danger.

Blitz tends to prefer actions over words (e.g., that's why Blitz gets upset when Stolas gives him the crystal. He interprets Stolas's actions as "you're throwing me away.") Stolas tends to prefer words over actions (e.g., that's why Stolas gets upset when Blitz roleplays with "I love you/I'll stay with you." He interprets Blitz's words as "this is a joke to me.")

But that day? They both chose the opposite.

Stolas's actions saved Blitz. And Blitz's words saved Stolas.

Isn't that neat?