#nearly smut?

[iz-nomewrites]

Goodness gracious! The boys are fighting *squints* wait... no… It appears I was mistaken they’re… oh gosh… oh my

To and for @brainrotwriter @brainrotgoverner , take your gay cowboys with you. Oh, farmer Chase and warlock Buddy 😂 damn, thats hot

A fic I would’ve posted if I still had ao3 🥲.

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The cool midnight breeze passes between them two as they rested on a stack of hay tucked into the corner of the barn. Chase was busy, playing a slow, gentle tune on the banjo, humming to himself, and Buddy drinks from the single flask of whiskey the boy had brought a while ago.

He was a runaway, and he had just managed to escape from the clutches of Ex Libris, Chase helping him with the aid of his trusty noble steed. And now he was in hiding, unbeknownst to Chase’s grandpa as he lived right under his nose with all his other livestock.

Chase was supposed to tell the senior, but Buddy had pleaded him not to yet, in fear of being shunned by the old man. Chase tried to convince him that his grandpa wouldn’t, but seeing the look of Buddy’s face as he begged in a quiet whisper, he agreed that in the meantime, it would be their little secret.

The moonlight bleeds through the wooden planks that haven’t quite covered up the hole in the roof, illuminating the handsome features of the blonde, the smooth curvature of his nose, the slight prominence of his cheekbones, and his soft golden bangs that hang above chestnut brown eyes which shined like a million stars.

His gaze was steady as he plucked the strings with the precision of a beginning apprentice on the lute, but his focus was like that of a trained musician as his fingers moved from fret to fret.

It was intoxicating.

He takes another swig from the flask, savoring the liquor from the rim of the bottle where Chase also drank from a while ago with an agonizing slowness. He runs his tongue over his lips, wiping the corner of his mouth with his thumb.

How he wished it was his lips on his rather than the cold steel of the whiskey flask.

…But then again… he doesn’t really have to wish does he?

He leans forward on one arm where he sat on the haystack, taking the boy’s chin with his other hand, turning it to face him. Chase’s eyes widened as his chestnut eyes met his own piercing icy blues. An adorable blush made its way onto the blonde’s cheeks, dusting his sun kissed skin a pale pink.

“Uh.. Buddy—”

”Shh,” he hushes him, resting his palm on the boy’s cheek, cradling his jaw. “I never gave you that reward for whisking me away didn’t I?” he says in a low and sultry tone, shortening the distance between them with the slick ease of a cat, but before he could connect their lips together, he whispers, breath hot, fanning over his lips and he could smell the whiskey clogging through his nose. “So what will it be lover boy?”

Whether it was in the heat of the moment or inebriation, Buddy doesn’t know, but Chase manages to close the gap between them, mouth slotting easily into his and when he closes his eyes, he can still taste the whiskey in the boy’s mouth, and it’s sweeter than he remembers it was before.

[loveshotzz]

18+

Thinking about Steve flirting with you at a party by comparing hand sizes.

You’d be sitting a little nervous in the corner picking at the label on your beer bottle, trying not to stare when he slides easily into the empty seat next to you on the couch like you were saving it just for him.

He’d run one of his big hands through his hair before giving you the kind of smile that makes you bite your bottom lip and duck your head to hide how flustered you are. The loud music is the perfect excuse for him to have to dip his head down, full lips brushing against the shell of your ear every time he talks.

The empty space between you gets smaller, eventually turning into your legs draped across his lap making the bottom hem of your dress rise. Tucked into his side, the warmth of his palm would find a new home on the soft skin of your thigh.

Giggling at jokes that aren’t nearly as funny as he is handsome, your fingers reach for his absentmindedly. Playing with the the gold band that wraps around his middle finger, you can’t help but realize just how big his hands actually are.

He waits until your fingertips trace to the tops of his before he intertwines them. Foreheads pressed together, your noses brush when you look up to smile all giddy when he flattens his palm against yours lifting your hands so you can see the difference.

It makes you squirm in his lap seeing them compared like this, and it makes you think about how they’d grab at your curves. How his long fingers would feel splitting you open after pushing your panties to the side. He lets them slide between the empty space of yours closing your hand in his grasp, watching it completely disappear in his hold and god you just want him to kiss you already.

[becca-e-barnes]

all i can think about is bucky literally BEGGING to eat your pussy. just on his knees, calling himself a needy slut, just looking up at you with puppy dog eyes while he just begs for your pussy on his mouth. ugh.

Men who are this into eating pussy have a special place reserved for them in Heaven. Hearing someone beg to go down on you is life changing when they know what they're doing 🙈

But you're so right, Bucky would be so willing to degrade himself like that just to be allowed to go down on you. He'd be on his knees, trying to ignore how full his balls feel, begging for you.

"P-please." His voice is so quiet you almost start to question if he said it intentionally. "I need to taste you. I can't think about anything else."

His cock twitches despite how heavy it looks, flushed and angry against the pale skin of his thighs.

"Really?" You tease, tilting his chin up with two fingers so he's looking at your face, rather than your body. "Tell me exactly what you're thinking. Describe it to me"

He doesn't miss a beat. "I'm thinking about how soft you are, how warm and silky your cunt feels under my tongue. I'm thinking about burying my tongue as deep inside you as I can reach and still wishing I could get deeper. I want to feel how wet you are but more than anything, I want to taste how wet you are. I want to dream about it for the rest of the week. Every time I stroke my cock I want to be able to remember how you taste."

Precum drips from his tip and you're not sure you can deny him much longer. Not when he's making it sound so appealing.

"Do you even hear yourself?" You do your very best to act like you don't love the sound of every word that has just come out of his mouth.

"I do. I sound like a shameless, filthy, desperate slut. The type of slut who wants to kiss and lick and worship your sweet pussy until you're so sensitive you have to force me to stop." His hand wanders between his own legs, tugging his stiff length to the mere thought.

He's not above begging and you know that. He'll draw this out as long as he needs to until he gets his way but there's very little sense in that when you want this just as much as he does.

"Lie on the bed." You give him time to make his way over before following, lining yourself up just above his face.

You take a second to smooth his hair, enjoying the feeling of his freshly shaved face against the sensitive insides of your thighs.

He's looking up at you, your eyes meeting his. "Thank you." The relief in his voice is clear right before he grasps your hips and pulls you down onto his mouth.

Fuck, he's incredible. This is the mouth you dream about when you're alone. His tongue massages your clit, stroking back and forth before dipping into your fluttering entrance. You swear he must feel what he's doing to you. You feel your cunt clenching and rippling, your muscles contracting in response to the pleasure and for a second you wonder if he can tell.

He's hungry for this; he has been for hours. He's moaning and slurping obscenely, his tongue buried in your cunt. You don't even need to look over your shoulder to know that he's alternating between fucking his own fist and gripping the base of his shaft tight enough to stop him from spilling his release all over himself too soon.

It's very hard to tell which of you enjoys this more.

[ravengards-rogue]

the evening stretch | warm-up series.

ft. the prompts, nsfw / "dinner" / arthur morgan.

✧ tags : afab!reader + fem!reader outdoors sex, oral (f!recieving), reader is an outlaw, established relationship, desperate arthur morgan, 18+

✧ wc : 2.7k

✧ a/n : hello! this is part of a little warm-up series i do on my other blog where i pick three prompts and try to come up with something. i normally do them in a rut. im working on a commission and im super stuck so.

this actually landed on javier four times in a row but im being kind and sparing a friend so. here's mr. morgan.

✧ synopsis : arthur thinks the place between your legs would suit him quite nicely.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖˚☽˚｡⋆

Honest to God, Arthur's never been like this before.

He ain't all that pious to start, so perhaps the sentiment doesn't stretch as far as he would like it too. But it's true, all the same - that in all the lives he's lived, he's never experienced this much bone-deep desire for another human being.

Which is outright ridiculous, since right now you're just making supper. Dinner, you always clarify with that yankee accent. You're going to have dinner together, 'cause Arthur needs to eat. He works hard, according to you.

It's not much, but you're a better cook than Pearson. Even if that's not saying a whole lot. And you're insistent on making the man eat, always on his case about how it's hardly enough for a man his size.

Arthur can chalk it up to being that you love him, as you have told him foolishly many times. He's sure you're not gonna be happy with him in a minute since again - all you're doing is making dinner.

It's just... something. Something about you today. Dammit, he doesn't understand it neither. You've got a job together, and you and Arthur play convincing husband and wife since you practically are anyway. Arthur's been watching you today closely. You lie pretty. Smile with all your teeth, clever with a careful finesse and an honest knack for debauchery and indecency.

You love calling yourself an awful woman. Joking about dying an unweddable spinster given your crudity.

But Arthur likes it in you. Of you. Likes it so much he's done nothing but readjust his pants watching you squirm your way out of every difficult situation and sling the revolver on your hip like a tried-and-true gunslinger.

You're a fine woman to him. A fine one.

The fire crackles as you place a pot over the little flame of the faux stove. You've made a real dinner somehow - with some vegetables and creeping thyme and carefully butchery of meat. It smells good and you seem proud of it, stirring the thing with the sharp end of your knife. Careful not to scrape the pot.

Arthur watches the light glow orange on your face, carefully observing the way it shines on you. You don't look up at all when you speak.

"Gonna stare a hole into me, Morgan."

He feels something warm crawl up his cheeks. He scratches his beard instinctively, tucking his hat over his eyes.

"'m sorry," He says, unsure of how to cover for himself. "Been thinking about some things."

"Don't hurt yourself," You reply, sardonic and dry. Arthur adores you. He laughs to himself and feels warmed by the pleasant smile that seems to give you.

"I'll try. Ain't much used to thinking,"

"Penny for your thoughts, then Mr. Morgan." You reply, carefully moving the pot around so nothing burns. "Might help you clear your mind if you get some of it off your chest."

He's backed himself into a wall. Goddamn him and his big mouth. He hesitates, taking it off this time. Fidgety.

"Yanno, there ain't a lot women like you. Not that I've met at least."

You give him a look. Your lips pressed into a flat line, unimpressed by him.

"Is that so?"

He laughs to himself. "It is indeed. You're a real piece of work. 'Specially going around batting your lashes, making yourself out to be a housewife."

"Aw what, did you like seeing me all doe eyed?" You smile to yourself, teasing but not entirely insincere. "If it helps, since you're the fake husband, I'm only half-acting."

That makes him grin. Though you say it with confidence, the sincerity it makes you flush.

"It ain't that," Arthur says again, looking at your face for the second time in a few minutes. "Just that you're a fine woman to be around. What do they call it...resourceful. That's what I'm thinking of."

"Who taught you such a big word, Morgan?"

"Trelawny, I'd guess."

You laugh, loud and beautiful and Arthur smiles. You look at him from across the fire. "Well, I'm glad you like my company, Mr. Morgan."

"I do more than like it," He hums, offering a reprieve. He nods at you carefully, head tilted. "Come 'ere,"

Your eyes widen at him, but you don't deny him of what he's asking. For that he is awfully grateful. You're more than capable and much less than needy. There's victory in your deliberate desire for him, Arthur thinks. You want him enough to let him chase you.

You come sit by Arthur. You're a little awkward with him still but he don't mind. It adds to whatever he feels for you, sugar-sweet affection and all. You sit on your knees and Arthur turns his head looking at you.

Beautiful. Beautiful thing you are, really. He has a hard time finding the words to tell you.

He reaches up, hand cupping your face. You lean into the touch, palm resting on calloused hand. He adores you.

"And quit with the Mister Morgan nonsense. Drives me crazy."

"Arthur," You say, slow and deliberate. "You know you're looking at me like you wanna eat me."

'"Read my mind, then."

"Arthur," You repeat, scandalized. He would smile if he wasn't so serious. "We're supposed to be eatin' dinner. You got into a whole spat with them Leymone Riders just today. You need to recover,"

His smile widens.

"Lettin' me go down on ya will heal me just fine,"

You look at him exasperated. Arthur leans into your neck, placing chaste kisses down the line of your jaw. He kisses you just there - underneath your earlobe, knows it drives you crazy.

"Lay down, sugar. Help a poor, injured man heal."

You pull away from him with faux exasperation, fond smiling breaking your face.

"You can be such a dog some times, do you know that?"

"I'm afraid I do,"

You give him another unimpressed look, but you listen anyways. Arthur moves so you can lay down on the bedroll - his bedroll. He takes off his coat just before you lay your head, playing it underneath you to get you more comfortable.

"Dinner's gonna burn," You tell him, almost reflexively. He laughs as he looks at you, your hands folded over your stomach and flat. He laughs at you.

"Burn? You feeling warm?"

"Arthur!"

And he laughs again, catching your boot in his hand as you go to kick his chest lightly. He sets it back down as he stares at you. You're quite the sight. Adoration bubbles up into his throat, blooms out into a hum. The sound of crickets and owls and all sorts of night wanderers sound - but none are distracting enough to pry his gaze away.

"You're looking too much," You say, your voice a half tremble. He nods.

"Got too," Arthur hums, leaning forward into your space. You always smell good to him, some cross between soft earth, and sweet liquor and clothes left in the sun. Skin and salt and sweet. "Who knows how long I'll be around."

He presses his lips to yours gentle and you kiss him - but only once before pulling away. Your eyes suddenly serious, warm palm on his cheek.

"Don't say something so morbid. If you go, I go,"

"Sweetheart—"

"No buts." You affirm, pressing your thumb to his lip all serious. Your eyes meet and for a moment - just one minute, all he wants to do is stop time from moving. From stealing him from you in life at all. Even a few seconds, intolerable. "Don't feel to good to hear, does it? So don't say it."

"Alright, alright," He huffs, laughing against your neck. He kisses it again, right against your pulse - quickening under his teeth as he bites and scrapes. He mulls over how much he wants you, and how little time there is to do everything. "Jus' lemme...I dunno."

Now you're cheeky, smiling up at him. Lord above, you do something so terrible to him. "Now that's just not true, baby."

He laughs deep and raspy. It's not true, because he knows exactly what he's after.

Arthur lets his hands plane over your clothed body. He doesn't bother with the ritual of undressing you entirely - since the act doesn't deserve the intimacy. You do, maybe - but Arthur's head feels too foggy to do anything civilized. He has to settle for letting his hands grip the fabric of your skirt and push it until it bunches around your waist.

There's no real delicacy in it, save for the way your breath hitches as Arthur gives himself better access. He moves to lay on his stomach between your thighs. He wishes it were brighter to give him better view. He's seen it plenty but looking at your pretty pussy alone gets him harder than steel.

His hands go underneath every layer of fabric to undo the little tie of your undergarments. You squirm when Arthur takes them off, but you don't pull away.

It's pretty. Even with the dim light of just the moon and fire to let Arthur see it. What entices him mostly though is the scent, after a long day of riding out alone - there's something about the way you smell - sweat and all that makes the back of his mouth ache with want. Makes his teeth hurt just dreaming about it.

He doesn't let his animalistic urges take him yet. He knows you need the build up. His hand is soft as he grips onto your waist. He pulls your legs further apart and lets his lips brush the inside of your thigh. Starts at your knee and works his way up, his mouth burning hot - open kisses. You giggle at the sensation of his beard, but it's tamped down with lust Arthur knows like the back of his hand.

Slow, deliberate, sinful. He knows the way you liked to be touched so exactly, but the pace is set more by his desperation. It grows ten sizes listening to you sigh and huff, feeling your hands come down to touch his hair and play with it.

"Arthur," Your voice calls. Pleading. Wanting him. You're so good at making Arthur loose his composure with so little. It's hard to tease you as your voice clips off into a whine. "Arthur,"

"I've got you," He says, assured. He means it as much as he means anything he's ever said. He ain't a decent man, but this much he can say full ways. "I've got you, sugar. Ease up. Let me take care of you,"

And so you again, breathless - boneless and eager. You let Arthur into your space, and something about that. Something about you. His heart races, blood pumping through his body. It pulses in his ears, head swimming with nothing but praise for you.

You're a fine woman. You're a good girl. The best he knows.

Arthur can feel the way your clit pulses with want before he ever puts his mouth on you. Makes him chuckle, gloved hand resting on your navel. He uses his thumb to pull it back, before using both hands to spread you open. Then, in an act less then gentlemanly, spits on it hard. He watches it land, lewd as it drips between your fold. He laughs to himself.

Another pitchy call of his name and Arthur decides he's had enough fun to get him through the evening.

He kisses your clit first, thinks it's only gentlemanly. When your hips buck up trying to chase the feeling of his mouth - he laughs. His hands dig into your hips. You're soft, skin dimpling from just how tight he holds onto you.

When he finally gets what he wants, his own body lurches forward from want. He nearly slumps into the ground - half-way between relieved and utterly addicted. It's a sense of euphoria unmatched by the finest liquor or cigars money can be.

The taste of you fills his mouth as Arthur eats.

Arthur is not used to playing predator. Not interested in the act of devouring. You often compare him to some sort of herbivore. But there's something too hungry, too visceral, too primal for him to be anything but a coyote. A teethed thing, all screwed up from hunger.

He lets his tongue slip against the seam of your cunt, all the arousal collecting in his mouth. His senses flood with something heady, sweet but bitter and he groans shamelessly as a result. Spoiled by the taste and utterly debauched.

"Oh, god - Arthur, you're—"

Arthur is pleased by the way your words are cut off by your own moan. He slides his tongue back up, wet muscle firm as it lays flat against your clit. There's a slight twitch like it's asking for more attention.

Arthur is all to eager vtoo provide, closing his lips around the twitching bundle of nerves. He knows what you like. Learned over time just the amount of pressure he needs to suck with and the speed he needs to draw his tongue over your clit to get you right at the very edge of your orgasm.

He teases you to that pace. Slow increases in either or, until it's just at that perfect medium. Once he hits that spot, you always moan so pretty.

You shudder, your body lurching up as your hands get tighter in his hair. "Aah, fuck. Ngh, Arthur. Don't do this t'me."

You begging him not too makes him want to do it more. If Arthur were any less aroused, he would. But his brain can barely think up enough to stamina to do that. His own cock is strained against his work pants - hips instinctively rutting into the bedroll just beneath him. Silently seeking friction all while hoping he doesn't get enough to distract him.

It'd be a damn shame, he thinks - letting anything pull him from the taste of your pussy. From the smell of it, from the sight of it, from the feeling of you. Sticky, pulsing strings of arousal coating his tongue and turning all his thoughts to dust.

His cock throbs again as you rut against his mouth. Arthur pins you in place.

"Please," You say. A magic word he ain't much stronger than. "Please make me cum,"

You really are a good girl, the way you know exactly what makes him tick. Arthur moans into your cunt as he sucks and licks and eats. He'd die over it, and he does not mean it lightly. It's the only thing in the world he wants to do in the moment. He laser focuses on finding that sweet spot again.

And he knows he does when you start whimpering. Squirming and holding onto his soft brown locks and pleading for something you don't know about. He can feel how wet your getting - dripping along down his beard and face. Thick strings of your arousal stick and slide down his neck.

He's never been a messy eater, but you've been disproving many of his prior understandings of himself. He supposes it's only natural.

"Oh, baby," You say, not even his name. Arthur knows it's a warning that you're gonna cum. All he can do is encourage you. He hums into your soft, wet cunt and you groan again. "Fuck, Arthur. I'm gonna cum."

Arthur knows better. He doesn't do a thing but keep going. Lets you move and thrash and pull away but keeps you firm in his place and eats your pussy until you can barely think.

He knows the knot is untying before you do because of how much you squirm. When you cum, you cum hard. Your back arches up into a picture perfect curve, toes curling and hands tugging at his roots for purchase.

He can feel every pulse of desire as you finally do let go. You cry out, loud enough to startle any nearby critters. Your fingers grip tight at the base of his hair as the orgasm washes over you. It's just as magnetic as it was the first time.

He's sure that will always be true.

When Arthur pulls away from your pulsing, wet core - he can feel just how much of his lower face is sticky. He's sure you also know, if the way you laugh is anything to go by.

And he's not long to follow after. Not even a few seconds and he can feel something in pants tighten - a mess of white staining the front of the denim in an onset of lust damn near shameful. Is he a teenager again? Lord above.

Breathlessly, you look down at him after you've ridden your high out.

Pulling up Arthur by the collar, you look at him slowly and frown. You look impassioned and a little frustrated.

You kiss him tender after you've come too. Once, then twice, then a another time with your hand still drawn into a fist. Arthur grabs it closed, opening your palms before kissing the palm of your hands until you're no longer mad.

"Hate how good you are at that," You admit, a little drunk of the euphoria of all of it. "Make me feel so crazy."

Arthur beams at you unapologetic.

"It's good to be that with me, sweetheart." Arthur says, kissing the corner of your mouth. "Now how about you go and give me one more?"

You laugh breathlessly but don't go to stop him at all.

"Insatiable man."

"Only for you, my girl."

.𖥔 ݁ ˖˚☽˚｡⋆

[meowkunas]

Sukuna likes to make you cry.

He's got you pinned underneath him with one hand clasping both of your wrists together. But you barely feel that. All you can really feel is him, filling you relentlessly.

"You're drooling." He sneers. "This is the only way to shut you up, huh?"

You think you whine something about how mean he's being in response, but it gets lost amidst other things. What started out as gentle affection from you has turned into this. It's not that you were being overly clingy today either, and you open your mouth to tell him so.

One of his hands slides down from your bare waist to your clit, brushing against it. It's the soft touch standing out against everything else that sends you spiralling through your first orgasm of the night. You're shaking, unable to catch you breath. And he's still going. It feels like he's touching you everywhere that's sensitive all at once, and sometimes he squeezes and sometimes he caresses your skin and—

"Wait—" You pant out.

"You're not overstimulated already, are you?"

He's asking a question that he already knows the answer to. Tears prickle at the corner of your eyes as you try to decide whether it's too much or whether it's still not enough. All that talk earlier about wanting to satisfy Sukuna when it's always been you that's the insatiable one in this equation. He cups your cheek so you open your eyes to look at him. You can feel his finger wiping away a tear with his thumb, grinning down at you.

You don't even feel that he's flipped you over so that you're on top at first, too busy grinding your hips down to chase that feeling of pleasure again.

"There you are." He mumbles, gripping onto your thighs so hard that you know you'll still feel all of this tomorrow. "Come on, try harder."

[ginevrapng]

you write fwb!james letters. you don't see each other in most classes and thanks to james don't pass each other in the hallways either because of that you slip him letters other ways. when you are in the same class you go past his desk and slip a note under his unopened textbook. you'll transfigure your notes into different things, over time james has gotten use to having things turn up in his bag that he swears he doesn't own before he realises it's you transfiguring different things and he swears every time you make it your mission to transfigure it into weirder and weirder things, he won't know how to explain it if someone ever saw a muggle garden gnome in his bag.

every time he reads your notes he has to make sure he's alone and no one will come in and interrupt him, not just because they're notes from you but also because said notes make his trousers tighten and his cheeks red, thinking about all the things you wrote to him and imagining what he'd do if you were there with him.

"i saw you in charms today and you looked pretty, i wanted to drag you out of the classroom and kiss you until our lips looked swollen and we have to separate to breathe." james thought you looked pretty that day too.

"i went to see your quidditch game. you're actually pretty good. your hair was even more messy than normal though." when james read that he flung himself on his bed, holding the back of his hand to his forehead, grinning. you don't like quidditch. you came anyway.

"when do you think we'll see each other next?" soon, he hopes.

"i think i'm starting my period, my breasts are tender :( you're always good with your hands." the implications makes his head fuzzy. he'd absolutely look after you, he'd touch you gently and make you feel better. he'd hug you softly if you'd let him and do anything that'll help you feel a bit better.

"can you touch me in history of magic again?"

"some information that you might want to know: i'm on birth control."

"next time i see you i want to give you a blowjob. you didn't take your shirt off last time but you have to next time, it's not fair."

james mumbles, "you're killing me" under his breath.

he can't bring himself to ever throw the letters away, they're from you. he sometimes reread the letters late at night while jerking off and thinking of you and the things he'll do the next time he'll see you. he doesn't regret keeping the letters... he doesn't... that is until sirius found them at least.

opening up one james' drawers next to his bedside table he finds your letters to him, curiously sirius glances at the first note and a cocky smirk appears on his face. sirius picks up the whole pile of letters and waves it in the air. "prongs," he says in a singsong voice, "what's this?"

james looks up and sees his friend holding up the notes you've sent to him. he panics but he hides it well, looking away back at the marauders map where he was previously spying on filch.

"i've been fucking with snivellus. i've been sending him love letters." he keeps his tone as even as he can, sirius can't know they're from you.

"this isn't your handwriting james," he replies still smirking.

"anybody can change their handwriting sirius." james says still looking down but he hasn't been paying attention to the map as soon as sirius found the letters.

he doesn't say anything for a second until, "fair enough." sirius plops down on the bed next to james looking over his shoulder at the map. "why didn't you tell the rest of us though?" sirius questions suddenly as he just thought about it.

"didn't think it was that important." james doesn't know if sirius will believe him so before sirius can think it through james starts talking about their quidditch game coming up.

sirius has no reason to doubt james in the end and even gives him ideas in the following weeks to write to snape. he'll have to be more careful next time with hiding your notes, he still won't throw them away though.

[heavenbarnes]

Older bf simon having good manners, yes, but also if you had good manners.. or rather he made you have good manners before givig you what you want kakajakajja 😭

when older bf!simon has you on your knees and you’re begging him to let you suck him off

“ah ah- whaddya’ say?”

“please, simon”

“hmm, there y’go- there’s a good pet”

and when you’ve sucked him within an inch of his life and he’s pulling you up into his lap

“whaddya’ say?”

“thank you, simon”

“y’welcome, sweet’art- y’can have it whenever y’want, long as y’use y’manners”

[miraclewoozi]

DON'T SWEAT IT. - l.jh

Today — the first time in a small forever that he forgot to check the battery on his earphones (and subsequently had them die on him mid-workout) — Jihoon is forced to notice you.

pairing; lee jihoon x fem!reader.  content; fluff / gym crush au / strangers to lovers / kinda idiots to lovers / smut towards the end (MINORS DNI). w/c; just a breezy 18k- and some change? warnings; swearing, this is only proof read once because if i read it again i was going to lose my mind. please let me know if i've forgotten any. smut tags under the cut ( not sure that this counts as a warning but a heads up: the gym weight units, whenever mentioned, are in kilograms not lbs because i’m british and the metric system, am i right? sorry if there are any other british-isms, i try really hard to avoid them/catch them on a proofread but there are inevitably some that have slipped through the net.  )

note; gym-selfie jihoon, you will never not own my ass. ( screaming internally this is the first fic i've written since my dan + phil youtube era. i don't know what i'm doing. this has been in my wips for about two months. it's a bit all over the place. that's. literally just me. bon appetite. <3 )

smut warnings: making out, grinding, fingering (f rec), oral (f rec), blowjob started/implied (at the end), protected sex (be safe out there gang), little bit of biting, no huge power dynamics? reader & jihoon are both switches (and simps), some use of pet-names (good girl/baby).

—————

He first sees you around lunchtime on an otherwise unassuming Sunday. 

As you walk in, the gym is wonderfully quiet. A handful of regulars mill about, making full use of the rare freedom of the machinery. One of the club’s personal trainers is marching an impossibly steep incline on a treadmill. It could just be any other weekend session in this criminally over-equipped and under-used gym: the town’s worst kept secret. But when the door slams shut behind you, his head jerks up; it, in this moment, is the loudest sound in the room. It’s sort of the only one he hears at all.

Today — the first time in a small forever that he forgot to check the battery on his earphones (and subsequently had them die on him mid-workout) — Jihoon is forced to notice you as he sits with dumbbells rested against his thighs. He catches his breath as he wonders who you are, if you’ve ever been to this gym before, why he doesn’t recognise you. Are you a new potential regular, maybe? Or just visiting the area and making good use of the cheap pay-as-you-go rates? Maybe, he considers, lips turning downwards in thought… maybe you’ve been coming here for a long time and he’s somehow just always been so in his own head that he’s never noticed.

The last, he thinks, is sort of unlikely. No. He would definitely remember a face like yours.

His heart rate slows more than he usually lets it as he finds himself watching you fill up your water bottle at the fountain, taking a long sip on your way over to one of the stairmasters. His brain blanks out when he realises that he’s not just looking anymore, he’s sort of staring, and swallows the saliva on his tongue hard, looking back at the mirror. He doesn’t want to be that guy. He isn’t that guy – he just got distracted by the loud noise, and this is exactly why he checks the damn battery on his headphones before he leaves the house. 

The only problem is that now, he can’t remember how many sets he’s done. He lies back and stares straight into a slightly sketchy light-fixture, neglecting to pick up the dumbbells that he put aside for his next set of pushes. Jihoon adjusts the position of his shoulders against the bench, arches his back off it slightly, digs his heels into the spongy floor beneath them and pushes the ones still in his hands until failure. 

Today, he finishes his routine and leaves the gym without allowing himself so much as another glance your way.

He neglects to notice that your eyes are avoiding him right back. 

—————

You smile at him for the first time on a Tuesday. Not the following one – a week and a bit later.

Seungcheol is with him tonight. Jihoon prefers to train alone nine times out of ten: this is a truth widely acknowledged, accepted and respected among his friends. Gym time is his down time, his equivalent of movie marathons and comfort food, of face masks and glasses of wine. But it’s not a hard rule: occasionally, someone will ask to tag along and use one of his guest passes, and Jihoon very rarely says no. There are two reasons. One, he isn’t actually rude, contrary to approximately eighteen running jokes in the group-chat. But also, it adds a little bit of variety to his otherwise very set-in-stone regimen, and mixing it up doesn’t hurt. Like tonight, for example. Seungcheol is pulling him into the studio off the main gym floor, his own gym bag packed with boxing pads and gloves for them to play with.

Variety.

Jihoon grumbles a little at the idea, at first. He has a very love-hate relationship with cardio, favouring a simple steady-state run over everything else, and it just feels a bit against his moral code to use gym time for something like this. However, he comes to discover very quickly that smacking Seungcheol’s hands is very therapeutic; Jihoon knows he’s maybe getting a little too into it when his friend asks if they can switch around, grimacing and shaking out his wrist after a particularly beefy punch. 

He agrees, albeit reluctantly, tugging off the gloves he’s wearing and pulling on the pads instead.

This half of the activity is considerably less enjoyable for Jihoon; he starts to cool down and loses his flow almost straight away and after about thirty seconds, his breathing is back to normal and he feels ready to go again. Even so, he does what he needs to do to be a good workout partner, and goes one step further into ‘good friend’ territory as he allows Seungcheol to vent about the bad day he had at work in-between hits, offering murmurs and looks of disgust when it feels appropriate. Suddenly, the impromptu request to come to the gym tonight makes much more sense, as does the slightly bizarre choice of activity, but Jihoon tries not to ask about it in too much detail.

They swing at each other for a few more rounds apiece, working up a healthy sweat and getting out a few frustrations as the hour wears on. On the last set, Jihoon switches out Seungcheol’s hands for a punching bag, putting a lot more of his weight behind every hit and really tiring himself out. By the end, his hair sticks to his forehead and his cheeks have flushed bright red; he only stops when he gets that weird, metallic taste in the back of his mouth that says he’s probably overdone it. Again.

“Hit the shower?” Seungcheol asks breathlessly as he finishes his last set of Russian twists and lies down flat on the floor, equally sticky and flushed all over. 

Jihoon pats his face dry with his towel, shaking his head. “You go ahead. I’ll have one at home.” 

He doesn’t give Seungcheol much of a chance to respond, already cleaning down anything he’s touched or managed to sweat on and riding out the high of the endorphins flooding his veins. Secretly, he hasn’t had a cardio session this high energy or this satisfying in a long time. He isn’t going to readily admit to that though.

“Nah, I’ll do the same,” Seungcheol agrees. He starts packing the gear he brought with him into his bag and they leave together after, heading towards the exit. 

That’s when he sees you again. 

He doesn’t notice at first; you’re stowing your things into one of the higher lockers, and you have your headphones slung around your neck as he walks past. It’s the sound of a song he vaguely recognises through your speakers that makes his head snap over from the conversation he’s in the middle of. They walk past at the moment you drop down from your tiptoes, and you flash a small (but insanely pretty) smile at Jihoon.

By the time he manages to process this fact, he’s already walked past you and you’re headed over into the main gym area, so even though he turns around to try and catch your eye, all he sees is your retreating figure. He stumbles over his own feet, not looking where he’s going, and just barely catches himself on Seungcheol’s upper arm before he actually does fall over. His older friend glances down at his bicep before he adopts a look that Jihoon has seen many, many times before: just never directed at him. His cheeks heat up further and he looks away.

“What was that?” Seungcheol asks, one eyebrow so far up his forehead that it’s disappeared almost entirely under his soggy hair. He looks so smug, so incredibly entertained. Jihoon wants to smack that expression off his face, immediately.

“Nothing,” Jihoon rushes, managing not to act on the violent thought even though he wants to. He clears his throat. “No-one. I-... they’re new, I think. I don’t know.”

Seungcheol lets out a soft laugh, pushing the door open for them both to leave through. “Yeah,” he scoffs, eyes glimmering with something Jihoon doesn’t think he likes the look of. “Nothing, my ass.”

—————

Three days later, he hears you speak for the first time.

Granted, you aren’t speaking to him – at least, not at first. But that’s not really what matters.

It’s late, and it’s a Friday night. Fridays are usually Jihoon’s days rest days, but sitting around his apartment had him feeling impossibly twitchy, with far too much energy to burn and no way to do so without leaving the house. And he knows that he needs to take days off, now and again. He knows that they’re good for recovery and that it’s healthy to take time to himself that involves not lifting weights. But what he also knows is that if he doesn’t manage to shake the weird buzzing feeling in his muscles, in his joints, in his veins, he’s never going to get to sleep. So, here he finds himself at almost 10PM, walking down the street to get to the gym.

To begin with, he doesn’t know (or really care) who it is that’s coming up behind him. He can hear quite clearly that the mystery person is on the phone, and that they’re in the middle of what seems to be a rather heated argument: his brain latches onto occasional words, phrases, curses. Every now and again, their voice drops to a deep, frustrated mutter and he cringes slightly, making a point to keep his eyes forward and down so as not to draw attention to the fact that this presumably private conversation has become everything but.

He touches his entry fob to the sensor on the door as he arrives and pushes it open. Jihoon uses the opportunity to stand still, to glance back at whoever it is that’s walked behind him for the past four and a half minutes, and his eyes come to land on you. He falters, noting how your eyes are a bit glassy and your cheeks are stained with what he can safely assume are tear-tracks. In this moment, he wants to run; he doesn’t want anything to do with that, and he certainly doesn’t want to hear any more of your call. It’s none of his business, and he feels plenty weird enough already with what he has overheard. But, for some unknown reason, he stays in place.

“No – no, you don’t get to-...” you hiss into your phone. “It was our fucking anniversary, you asshole.” Jihoon’s face tightens at that, lips drawn between his teeth and his eyes blowing slightly wide. You pass through the door in front of him, flashing a small smile as you go. Another smile, he thinks to himself, but he’d be an idiot to compare them in any way; this one is so dramatically dissimilar to the first, he thinks it could almost have come from a totally different person. 

Unfortunately, there’s nothing ‘insanely pretty’ about it this time. Your smile is tight-lipped and exhausted, slightly apologetic. Maybe even forced. He does try to return a warmer one to you, but he doesn’t know if you notice. 

“Look, I’m at the gym – we’re not doing this right now. I’ll call you later.” You hang up the phone with the kind of sigh that groans in the back of your throat.

A small part of him wants to take this moment and use it to ask if you’re all right, but an even larger part of him doesn’t. It isn’t because he doesn’t care. In a weird way, considering this is only the first time he’s clearly heard your voice and he knows absolutely nothing about you, he does care. But there are a few things that stop him. Not only are you a near-complete stranger, not only would he have no idea what to say to you if the answer happened to come out as a ‘no’, not only is he already coming over a little bit clammy at the thought of having a conversation with you… Jihoon isn’t stupid. He knows from the sound of your voice and the way you’re rather aggressively typing a message into your phone that it’s a ridiculous question.

You’re walking into the gym at 10 o’clock on a Friday night, your eyes literally brimming with tears. Of course you’re not all right.

He’s still standing in the open doorway mulling all this over, but Jihoon only realises when a gust of wind slaps over his calves and sends a draught not only through the reception area, but up the length of his spine. He comes inside fully as you close the locker you’re using – he notices, but he isn’t sure why, that it’s the same one as last time – and throws his things into the one he always uses. Two below and one to the left of yours.

It’s quiet tonight: just the pair of you and one middle-aged guy. Jihoon recognises him as the friendly man who seemingly knows everyone who comes in here – including you, apparently, judging by the way he strikes up a short but energetic conversation. When the other guy walks away, you clamp your headphones back over your ears and return to what you were doing before, occasionally bobbing your head or moving your lips in time with whatever it is that you’re listening to. Jihoon steals little glances at you now and again when you’re in-between sets, watching how you breathe deeper, how your skin glows with sweat as you tap your fingertips against your thighs.

He almost drops the bar he’s holding when you catch his eyes in the long line of mirrors. He turns away, swallowing hard, completely missing how your own gaze lingers.

Jihoon becomes so obsessed with not being caught looking at you again that he doesn’t even notice when you disappear off the gym floor completely. It’s only when he pulls his headphones off at the end of his session and glances around that he registers your absence: your third companion is long gone, and he assumes you must have snuck out without him noticing too. He settles the speakers back over his ears before pulling on an old zip-up, flicking the hood over his head to shelter him a little better once he gets outside. But he’s in no rush to get home so he takes his time, resting his bag between his abdomen and the lockers, replying to a few messages and clicking his tongue at some of the nonsense being spewed into the group-chat. 

He isn’t sure exactly how long he’s standing there for, but he does know precisely what pulls him back to the world outside of the device in his hands.

To begin with, he doesn’t notice you approach, lost completely in his screen. He doesn’t hear your footsteps, or the way you politely clear your throat to announce your presence so he can move out of the way. He misses your moment of realisation that he’s listening to music and has no idea that you’re standing three feet behind him. He doesn’t even see you walk up next to him, your hair still damp from your shower and sitting loose over your shoulders.

It’s only when you try to reach over him to grab the last of your things that he snaps out of his trance. The fragrance of your body wash hits him first, and oh boy, does it hit him. Sweet, and delicate. Then, he gets something beautifully fruity: it’s not a perfume (it doesn’t smell like a perfume), but it’s you. Your shampoo, maybe? A conditioner? He can’t tell. Whatever it is, the combination of fragrances has him feeling like he’s been slammed into by a damn freight train. He drops his bag to the floor, freezing for a second, and then finally moves away just as the little door swings open. 

“I’m so sorry,” he says hurriedly, tugging his hood down and pulling his headphones off completely. “I didn’t even think you were still here.” He can’t shake the smell of you, nor the feeling of your warm frame leaning so close to his own. God, why is his heart pounding like he’s just finished a round of sprints? Why can’t he breathe?

“No – hey, no, don’t be,” you rush, shaking your head. You finally succeed in pulling your coat free and start trying to get it on; Jihoon wonders if you often struggle to find your sleeves like this, if you’re always chasing them around like a puppy after its own tail. He does it too, sometimes. He gets it. It’s cute. “It’s okay. I was trying not to disturb-... I’m sorry.”

“You’re fine,” he tells you. For the first time, he’s able to smile back at you properly. 

Why is it so hot in here, all of a sudden? Do they shut off the air conditioning after hours or something? He’s breaking out in a sweat.

“Call it even?” you suggest shyly, extending out a hand now you’ve managed to get both arms through your sleeves. He looks down at your fingers for a second before reaching to shake your hand once, a semi-firm grip securing the ‘deal’. (He feels a bit like he’s been electrocuted after, but he tries not to make that too obvious).

It goes awkwardly quiet for a moment then, and Jihoon wishes deeply that he had it in him to say something. Anything. But his brain has gone completely empty and apparently, all he knows how to do is stand completely still like a fucking statue. He shifts his gaze from you, to the wall behind you, to the carpet beneath his shoes, all the while tugging at the collar of his sweatshirt as if it might bring him a tiny breath of fresh air. The gentle sound of you clearing your throat has him looking back at your face again though; he assumes for a second that this is maybe you about to announce taking your leave. All the while, he’s cursing himself out in his own head for being totally inept, and he’s not entirely sure that it isn’t written all over his face.

“Alone, today?” you ask, idly fiddling with your zipper and succeeding in taking him by surprise. He really didn’t think you were going to continue this. And yet…

“Hm?” he questions. 

You swallow before answering. “You… the last time, you were with a friend?” you explain, and now it’s your turn to look away. He wonders if you’re a little warm too, if he’s right in what he was thinking about the air-conditioning. 

“Oh. Right.” 

He nods. An annoying train of doubt in his mind wants to know why you’re asking about Seungcheol; if maybe it was him that you smiled at the other night, even though he knows your eyes weren’t looking up at the man he brought with him. He thinks maybe he should be used to these turns in conversation by now – you certainly wouldn’t be the first person to ask if one of his friends is available, after all – but somehow, he isn’t, and he has a slightly bitter taste in the back of his mouth as he goes on.

He really didn’t have ‘you being interested in one of his best friends’ on his bingo card for tonight, that’s for sure. 

“Yeah. I think he’s with his partner, or… I don’t know. I don’t really bring other people, often. That was a one-off.”

You nod silently and Jihoon can’t quite get a read on what that means. He wonders if you’re upset at the revelation of Seungcheol’s partner, or maybe that he doesn’t tag along to every session. Or maybe, maybe, you were just being polite, and you don’t really care what his friend is up to that means he isn’t here. But whatever it is that you’re feeling, you do far too good a job at hiding it; he’s suddenly very overcome with the desire to run, again, except this time he might just bury his head in the sand too for good measure.

“How much were you deadlifting, just then?” you ask in the lull, just as he thinks he might have perfected the best way to say goodbye that doesn’t make him come across as even more of a tool than he probably already has. It throws him off kilter, but somehow, he manages to answer you in reasonable time.

“Oh, God… uh, one… 160?” He says uncertainly. “That’s not… I can do heavier-...” In his mind, he slaps his forehead. “Wait, no, that’s-... I mean, it’s true, but I didn’t mean-...”

You bite back your smile as he talks himself in a circle but Jihoon is too flustered to notice, convinced that he now sounds like every arrogant gym rat on the planet. God, he’s given himself the ick.

“I guessed you could,” you say. 

Oh boy, this freezes him. Mid-thought, mid blink, mid-breath: he’s completely stuck. What does that mean? What does that mean? He only just manages to unstick his now suddenly dry tongue from the roof of his mouth, looking at you with surprised, confused eyes and parted lips. There aren’t any words on them, though. Like a deer in headlights, he just… stares.

“I mean, okay. Come on.” Your eyes visibly drop as you look him over, gaze lingering at his shoulders, his biceps, his waist. “You can get another twenty on that at least, right?”

He doesn’t know how to explain what’s happening to him, but if he thought he was burning up before? It was nothing compared to this, now. And there’s no way you haven’t noticed how everything from the base of his neck to the tips of his ears has suddenly started staining scarlet. He bows his head and pinches his lips tight, wrestling away the train of thought that appears as you drag your bottom lip between your teeth momentarily, still eyeing his arms. God, he’s never felt so overwhelmed in his life. 

“Something like that, yeah,” he strains. He’s trying so hard to be nonchalant, even though he knows all of his personal bests by heart. Deadlift, 195kg. He hit it a few weeks ago: a couple of days before he first saw you.

“Mm. You can tell.”

Jihoon tries to shake off the compliment, but he fails. In equal measure he wishes you’d stop (he doesn’t know how much more blood can rush to his cheeks before he keels over) and never wants you to stop talking. It’s all going straight to his stomach, though, and he doesn’t remember having felt this specific brand of nervous and excited and stupidly shy since he was in high school.

He can hardly keep up. This is the danger zone.

Maybe it’s a bad idea that he says the next thing that comes into his head in a desperate attempt to change the conversation away from how much he can pull. But somehow, his voice doesn’t break when he asks, “are you parked far away?”

What? It’s dark outside, and this part of town isn’t exactly known for its upstanding citizens and pretty flowerbeds.

“Oh,” you say, eyes a little wide. “I’m-... just staying close-by. I walked here.” The space between his eyebrows must crease a little too quickly because you immediately hurry to speak again. “Really. It’s like… not even ten minutes. All main streets. It’s nothing.”

“Ten minutes longer than I’d walk around here at night on my own,” he says lightheartedly. In tone, at least. He’s actually completely serious.

You laugh at that; he lets out a chuckle, too. Now, Jihoon doesn’t believe in fairies but he thinks that if they were real, they’d giggle just like you do. 

With a smile still on your face, you say, “what? A strong guy like you? Come on, now.”

Do you have to keep doing that? Fuck, he’s absolutely done for.

He tilts his head forwards, eyes closed, trying so hard to stop the muscles in his cheeks from lifting in a grin that it becomes a workout in and of itself.

“I mean it,” he says, taking what he hopes is a subtle breath to settle the fluttering in his chest. The next thing he knows, he’s leaning one shoulder against the lockers, a little reminiscent of every douchebag in every teen movie ever made. If he doesn’t think about it too much, he won’t cringe into oblivion until he gets home and replays this interaction over and over in his head instead of going to sleep. “Maybe I’ve just lived here too long. I might be jaded, but it’s still true.”

“How long is too long?” you ask.

“All my life,” he tells you.

“No way?”

“Mm.” A beat. “What about you?”

“I’m just staying with a friend, right now.”

“Oh, right.” He falls quiet again as he remembers the first time he saw you, remembers making the list in his head of all the possible reasons he hadn’t seen you before. The second was true, then.

Why does that feel like the worst possible scenario? He decides not to unpack that here.

“Maybe-...” you start, glancing down at your hands, which have been twisting in front of you for a few seconds now. Your chest inflates, filled with the words you’re about to speak, but only a breath comes out when you shake your head instead of saying them. “No, don’t worry. Scratch that.”

“Are you sure?” he asks, because he thinks that whatever you were about to suggest, there’s not much he would have said no to. He feels like it’s only fair to give you another chance to say it.

But you don’t.

“Yeah, it’s nothing.” You pause. “I… should probably get going.” He glances over your shoulder at the clock mounted on the far wall, squinting to see the time. 11:45.

“Shit. Yeah, me too,” Jihoon agrees. He didn’t realise it had gotten so late, so fast: he’s hardly ever out at this time. Lord, he already knows it’s going to be an open inquisition when he gets back to his apartment. His neighbours, Soonyoung and Seokmin, are about to have a fucking field day. 

But it’s already long past the time he usually goes to bed, so he asks his next question anyway. He still can’t shake the thought of you walking back on your own at this hour. “Do-… you need a ride?” 

He’s not sure if you actually consider it, or just wait a moment before you answer just to be polite. Either way, you end up shaking your head.

“It’s okay. I’ve-… got a call to make, so.” Your voice is a little quieter, lips tweaking up into a regretful half-smile, and Jihoon curses in his own head. How had he forgotten about that? “Thank you, though. Really.”

“Don’t mention it,” he says. “Just… get back safe.”

You smile and nod, taking a step towards the door and Jihoon does the same. He reaches the exit first and holds it open for you; when you’re both out in the street, he suppresses a shiver and looks in the direction of where he left his car earlier. Feeling the full force of the cold, it crosses his mind to ask again if you’re sure about walking home, but you’re already pulling a beanie down over your still damp hair and tapping something into your phone, so he doesn’t say anything.

“I’ll see you around, uh-…” you start to say, only looking back up when you falter, realising that this is the first time you’re about to use his name and it occurs to you both, at the same time, that you haven’t done this part, yet.

“Jihoon,” he introduces himself, lips quirking into a side-smile. His gaze is expectant and you respond to it perfectly. 

“Y/n,” you introduce yourself. 

“See you around, y/n.”

You split off in the opposite direction to where he’s heading. Before he clamps his headphones over his ears for the short walk up to his car, the last thing he hears is the retreating sound of a dial-tone. 

—————

He doesn’t see you then for two whole weeks. 

For the first couple of days, he only idly notices; it’s not a big deal — it’s not like you’re always there when he is, and he’s sure it’s the same vice versa. But he notices your absence, nonetheless. By the end of the first week, he casually wonders if you’ve had a change in schedule. Maybe you’re on a different working pattern, something that means you can’t be there on Monday and Thursday evenings and at 11:45am on Sundays. 

It’s not weird. He only knows this because prior to that first conversation, acknowledging you as you crossed paths by the free-weights became part of his routine. It’s fine that he sort of misses those little interactions, isn’t it?

Maybe you’ve decided to start training ridiculously early in the morning instead? He tried that once. Never again. It then occurs to him, in the middle of a self-enforced rest day as he sits in the dark nursing a headache, that perhaps you’re not well. He sort of wishes he’d had the guts to ask for your number the last time he saw you, now: he thinks he’d check in, see if you were okay, ask how work was going or something. 

Deep down he knows he’d probably actually just be staring at a blank text thread with a ‘casual’ message typed, tweaked a few hundred times, and ultimately unsent. But that’s fine. It’s the thought that counts. 

The next time he sees you isn’t even in the gym, at all. It’s a Sunday afternoon — he finished his morning session, went home, showered, and headed back out into town after some lunch with a few errands to run. He finds himself spoiled with the luxury of a spare few hours to kill and dips into his favourite coffee place, thrilled beyond belief to find that it’s not obnoxiously busy and that there’s only one other person in the queue waiting to be served. 

Oh, he thinks when he looks up from his phone and sees a vaguely familiar set of headphones sitting on top of a definitely familiar mane of hair, standing right in front of him. Oh, shit. It’s you.

Jihoon goes back and forth with himself over it but ultimately decides he probably doesn’t know you well enough to just say hello out in the wild like this, so even though the urge to do so strikes, he holds himself back. It’s agonising, though. He really wants to. 

You step forward to order and he’s typing out a reply to a message in his, Seokmin and Soonyoung’s three-way group chat, in which he’s literally been fighting for his life as of late. He made the mistake of mentioning you in passing a few days ago and ever since, he’s had to vehemently deny that he has developed his first gym crush, insisting that actually, he’s just made a friend. They don’t believe him, because of course they don’t. That would be far too reasonable. Seokmin says that Jihoon wouldn’t be blushing just from saying your name if you were really ‘just a friend’. Soonyoung argues Jihoon wouldn’t have mentioned you at all.

“I’m so sorry — bear with me, just-…” your voice is quiet but Jihoon hears you apologising to the cashier in front of you, and it snaps him clean away from the tiff he’s having with the men who live in his building. He glances up and you’re elbow-deep in the bag over your shoulder, red in the face with your bottom lip pulled between your teeth. He turns his head slightly and sees the small hand-written sign that says the card machine isn’t working, and they’re cash only, today. 

He can hazard a guess at your predicament. 

After another few seconds of you trying to find whatever it is you’re looking for in your bag, he starts feeling bad for you. This, right here, is his own worst nightmare. Should the roles be reversed, he thinks he would’ve just turned around and walked out. It’s exactly why he doesn’t bother with backpacks and satchels day-to-day: if it doesn’t fit in his pockets, he doesn’t take it out with him. The system isn’t perfect but it has saved Jihoon a decent amount of public distress. 

But the roles aren’t reversed, and he has his wallet already in his hand, so… he only gives himself a few seconds to wonder if it’s appropriate before he does the stupid thing anyway.

“Don’t worry — I’ve got it,” he says, stepping around you, pulling out the cash to pay for your order. You’re dumbstruck when you look  at him, head tilted to the side. The person stood behind the counter glances at you, then at him, and back at you; you don’t see this, however, because your eyes haven’t left Jihoon’s face since he appeared — as far as you’re concerned — out of thin air.

“I can’t ask you to…” you start to protest, but your hands have stopped fishing around and he’s moving the cash further towards the barista, who hesitates just a second longer. 

“You’re not asking. I’m offering. I’ve got you.” He says this with such finality that you quite literally can’t argue with him. The lady behind the counter accepts the cash and you nod, shyly, mouthing a thank you. He orders his own drink — an Americano, nothing exciting — and you both go to stand at the other end of the counter while you wait.

“Hi,” you finally say, and Jihoon can’t help but give a small chuckle. 

He doesn’t have anything hugely witty or creative in his arsenal, though, so he comes back with a matching, “hey.”

“How… have you been?” you ask. 

“Can’t complain, really,” he says. “Are you okay? I haven’t seen you around for a few weeks.” Oh, God — the second the words are out of his mouth, he wishes he could take them back. Why did he have to add that last part? Why didn’t he just leave it at the question? 

“Yeah — about that,” you breathe, ducking your head to conceal the heat that’s spreading over your cheeks. “You know how I said I was staying with that friend?” He nods, and you continue. “I was waiting for some stuff to get sorted out with an apartment and it all finally got resolved, so… I’ve been moving my stuff over to a new place.”

Jihoon feels his heart sink for a moment, but he keeps his expression pleasant and engaged. His fingers threaten to give him away as they fiddle with the aglet on the drawstring of his sweatpants. 

“Sounds tiring,” he says lightly, and you laugh again, nodding. It’s odd, having his heart taking residence low in his stomach and somehow also in his throat, all while hammering away at a mile a minute. All the caffeine in the world couldn’t have this effect on him. “Is it going okay so far?”

“Yeah.” You nod. “It’s a process, but… it’ll be worth it.”

The barista behind the counter announces herself by clearing her throat and slides your drinks across the marble surface with a little glimmer in her eye. Jihoon picks them both up, extending yours out to you. There’s a pause (in which he swallows a large helping of self-doubt) as he glances to the door, working through several combinations of his next words in his mind before he looks back at you. 

“Do you… maybe have ten minutes to sit with these?” He asks. You light up immediately, not even checking the time on any of your devices, nor the wall clock behind your head. He doesn’t let himself think about why it makes him giddy that you’re accepting the offer, just like that.

“Yeah — yeah, sure.” You smile, walking through the lines of tables and sliding into one of the big, comfy chairs by the window. He unzips his jacket and slings it over the arm of the other chair before settling in himself, his long fingers wrapping around the to-go cup. The drink warms his perpetually cold palms and he sighs sweetly.

“You must be excited to get into the new place, then?” he asks after taking a sip, letting it heat him up from the inside. It could be argued that this job is already being taken care of, but Jihoon is not about to go there.

“Oh, God yes.” You nod, relaxing back in the seat with your own cup. Jihoon subconsciously leans a little forward in tandem. “It’s been fun staying with my friend, but…” You pause, lips slightly parted, before going on. “Okay, a warning: I’m a terrible person for this, I know. She’s done me a huge favour, letting me stay there — but I can’t deal with how untidy she is. It’s driving me nuts.”

A chuckle bubbles in Jihoon’s chest, cheeks starting to ache as his smile grows and grows. It hasn’t fallen since he sat down opposite you, and doesn’t seem to be going anywhere, any time soon. “That bad?” he asks.

“You have no idea,” you groan, covering your face with one hand. He wishes you hadn’t — he thinks you look quite lovely when you’re all lit up like this. “She doesn’t clean her dishes after she eats — she piles them up in the sink for like, three days. I don’t think she’s used the vacuum the entire time I’ve been there. I keep finding wrappers and packets and mismatched socks everywhere —” 

His snort of laughter rolls off the back of his throat rather ungraciously and he settles back into his chair. You gently bump his ankle under the table with your foot, beaming at him. “I’m serious! I can’t live like this, Jihoon. I can’t!”

The more you speak, the less he can control the fits he’s descended into, and his abs start to ache after a while; there’s desperation in your voice but it’s just wrapped up so cutely in your lighthearted frustration and decoratively tied together with your sunshine smile… he can’t help it — he’s in pieces. It’s okay though, because you’re laughing too: it makes him think of fairies again, and he can picture you with dainty, intricately patterned wings under the soft lighting in the café. He wipes the corner of his eye with the heel of his hand as he starts to calm down, taking a few deep breaths all the way into his stomach.

“You’re so much stronger than I am,” he says.. “I couldn’t deal with that.”

“You know, I had a feeling you’d be a clean person, too,” you say, sipping at your coffee again. “I mean… I’ve never seen you use the gym showers, so I wasn’t sure, but…”

“Hey,” he says, mock-defensively. “I don’t trust the locks, okay? I shower at home!”

Your cup is lifted to your mouth and he can only see you from the nose upwards, but by the creases at the corners of your eyes, he knows you’re concealing a smile behind it as you nod back at him.

Ten minutes turns to twenty and then somehow becomes thirty — Jihoon starts feeling like you’re someone he’s known for years, and not just the person he accidentally ended up paying attention to in the gym just a couple of weeks ago. He bounces off you and you bounce off him. Both of you have long-since finished your drinks, too: there’s no real reason for either of you to still be here.

Except the obvious. 

“So, the apartment,” Jihoon says, leaning forwards again with his elbows resting on his knees. “Is it…?” He makes a few circular gestures with his hands with which he tries to imply something to the effect of ‘local’, or ‘nearby’, but he can’t quite bring himself to say that out loud. You seem to catch on though. Somehow.

Then again, you did say — a few subject changes ago — that Jihoon is on your wavelength. Maybe that’s it.

“About… a fifteen minute walk from here? Give or take,” you say, and his eyebrows shoot up his forehead so fast it’s like they’re on strings, being controlled by someone else. He doesn’t realise for a few seconds, by which point he isn’t even sure how to relax them. 

“No way?” he says, trying to feign nothing more than an idle interest. Obviously, he’s soaring. 

“Yeah. I’ll want to get back training soon, too, so there’s some incentive to get this done quickly. I miss it,” you tell him.

Jihoon comes out with what he says next without thinking. His mouth is moving before fully engaging his brain. It’s the coffee jitters. Apparently.

“Well, if you need any help with anything, I’ve got a car.”

“You’re too sweet,” you say. “I really couldn’t put you out like that, but…”

“You wouldn’t be,” he assures you with a shrug. “If I’m not working or in the gym… I’m never really that busy. It’s up to you, but-… I’d be happy to.”

You bite the inside of your lip for a moment, apparently mulling this over, before wiggling in your seat to pull your phone out of the front pocket of your jeans. You unlock the device and hand it over on a ‘new contact’ screen. 

Jihoon goes completely stupid: he thinks his brain stops functioning as he takes it to put his number in — for a moment, he’s staring dumbstruck, struggling to even remember the order of the digits now he’s under pressure, but it comes back to him eventually. His thumbs dart across the screen and he checks, double checks and triple checks that he’s typed it right before placing it back in your waiting palm. 

His fingertips brush against yours and it tickles, sending small shockwaves up his arms and straight into his chest. You smile down at your phone before glancing up at him.

“You need an emoji,” you tell him, and he raises an eyebrow at you.

“Huh?”

“Everyone in my contacts has one — I’ve been doing this since I was in high-school. You need to pick one, too.”

“Oh, uh-…” Jihoon swallows, and for some reason he’s completely forgotten every single little emoticon option there is. He draws a blank. “I can’t — you pick one for me. I don’t know.”

You narrow your eyes at him for a second, pouting your lips as you seem to scroll through the endless options. Now and again, you look up at him, as if trying to see what best fits him before you continue your search. He waits. And waits. And waits. He’s about to throw in an admittedly useless suggestion of some sort of boring animal when you turn your phone around to show him what you’ve chosen.

Jihoon, the contact name reads. And there’s the little angel face next to it.

“Oh, come on,” he says, blushing deeply. “You can’t be serious.”

“I totally am,” you say proudly, turning it back and pressing to save it. He hides his face in his hands. “If you won’t pick your own, you get what you’re given. You did this to yourself.”

“Wow,” he chuckles weakly, sliding his hands up into his hair and raking it back off his face. Your eyes move quickly across every inch and boy, does he notice. You shrug in response and test it, sending the same little emoticon to him. He blushes harder when it comes through and he saves your number into his own phone before placing it face-down on the table. 

More than an hour after buying your coffee, Jihoon stretches his arms above his head and checks the time on his watch. He frowns slightly, not sure how the afternoon got away from him so fast, and lets out a sigh.

“I think I need to get going,” he says reluctantly. Leaving you is absolutely the opposite of what he wants to do, actually. Alas, “I have some friends coming over tonight.”

“Yeah — yeah, of course,” you smile, leaning to one side to pick your bag up off the floor. “No worries.”

You both move to stand up and he throws his coat over his arm, leading the way out. He holds open the door for you to leave first, then follows you outside into the afternoon sun. 

“It was really nice to see you,” you say, turning to face him. 

“You too,” he agrees. “Text me if you need anything, okay? But actually do. Don’t just say you will?”

You laugh sweetly. Fairies. His ears might have actually caught fire this time. “Okay, okay. I promise. I’ll text you — thank you.” There’s a pause, but only a tiny one. “And for the coffee, too.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he insists, waving it off. You shake your head. He thinks your hands are twitching when you stuff them into your pockets but he can’t be sure. Your breath definitely stutters, though. 

“No, really. Um… next one’s on me?” 

He blinks, and blinks again. Next one? The next one? He feels like he’s malfunctioned and been forcibly rebooted. The next one? 

“I-…” he starts, his throat dry. “Yeah, okay. If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure.” You nod, smiling with — what he doesn’t realise is — relief. “I’ll see you around, okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah — I’ll see you, y/n.”

—————

Jihoon has no choice but to admit defeat to the group chat that night when Seungcheol and Jeonghan come over for a takeout.

Within minutes, his oldest friend is asking about the girl from the gym — he’s been just as relentless as Seokmin and Soonyoung in quizzing Jihoon, except it’s slightly harder to deny to Seungcheol because he did witness, first-hand, the way you had his friend tripping over his own feet with a single smile. At first, Jihoon tries to shrug it off. Play it down. Change the subject. He doesn’t mention that he’s actually spoken to you since he and Cheol trained together, or that he accidentally bumped into you and paid for your coffee, or that you stayed talking with him for as long as you did. He definitely doesn’t say that you exchanged phone numbers. 

He absolutely won’t confess to being smitten. 

All Jihoon willingly admits to is that from what he’s seen of you around, you seem nice, and with a roll of his eyes he does agree that he thinks you’re attractive. He gets a bit of a glare later in the evening when  Jeonghan asks if he’s thought about where he wants to take you on your first date, and Jihoon tells him to stop asking stupid questions and eat his chicken before he eats it for him. But all in all he thinks he evades the worst of it pretty well. For now, anyway — he knows their pestering isn’t going away any time soon. 

Especially not when, on their way out, Seungcheol leans close and whispers that whatever is going on with his gym crush, it suits him. Jihoon jabs him on the arm and the two men leave, laughing brightly.

It’s about an hour after his friends have gone home, having washed the dishes and cleaned up his apartment that Jihoon is sitting on his living room floor doing a few lower body stretches before he turns in for the night. He finds himself tapping into your text thread — not for the first time this evening — and skimming over the short conversation you had earlier. You messaged him when you got back to your friend’s place to thank him for the third time, and Jihoon replied back telling you that if you didn’t stop being silly, he was never going to respond to you again. Your reply came in the form of a “:(“ and his was a simple “:)”. That was it, but he’s been thinking about the exchange ever since. 

He’s not sure why. Nor is he certain what about that has him looking down at the messages and grinning like a fool in his apartment, alone, at 10:30pm on a Sunday night. He could probably take a stab in the dark at what it means, though. He rubs at the back of his neck with one hand as he changes conversations and types out a short message with the other. 

jihoon: fine. you’re right. 

seokmin: ?

soonyoung: probs true, does need context

jihoon: about the gym girl. you’re right. 

soonyoung: OH

seokmin: Hahahahahaha

seokmin: Yeah, you’re definitely the last to know, dude

soonyoung: fr even chan and hansol know atp lmao 

jihoon: they what?

jihoon: how do they know?

jihoon: they don’t go to my gym! i haven’t seen them in weeks!

soonyoung: because we told them????? 

seokmin: So, we might have told everyone

jihoon: blocking both of your numbers immediately.

seokmin: Hey! We’re just glad you’ve accepted it

seokmin: When do we get to meet her?

jihoon: blocked.

Well, great, Jihoon thinks as he fights the urge to lay face down on the floor and let the laminate cool his searingly hot cheeks. 

At least he’s admitted it now. 

He’s vaguely confirmed in writing that maybe he has a bit of a thing for you — it’s out in the open and at minimum, two of his friends know that it’s real. Straight from the horse’s mouth. Fingers. Whatever. No doubt by morning, all of his friends will have found out. The point stands that he hasn’t confessed to something like this since he was approximately sixteen years old, so whatever you’re doing to him, whatever this… is, it matters. 

So, he asks himself, standing up off the hardwood floor and stretching his spine, arms locked behind him and pushed back as far as they can go. He turns off all the lights, checks the front door, goes through the motions to get himself ready for bed. So… what the fuck am I supposed to do now?

—————

Come Monday evening, he’s about ready to hit the roof.

As far as bad days go, Jihoon thinks he’s in the running for one of the worst ever. He slept awfully, tossing and turning through the night despite the usual winning combination of freshly washed bed sheets and his white noise machine drowning out the occasional disturbance from the street below. He wakes up two minutes before his alarm is due to go off, only to discover he fell asleep before plugging his phone in to charge overnight, and it’s sitting at a very risky 13%. The gel he uses to keep his hair off his face at work has gone weird and only does half a job, strands tumbling back in front of his eyes the second he goes to leave his apartment, very nearly forgetting his keys. Then, to really put the cherry on top, he sees that — at some point between getting home yesterday and now — someone has scraped his car while parking up next to him. There’s a large scratch right down the passenger side, with no note nor reliable CCTV in his apartment’s parking lot to confirm who it was, and of course, the space is currently empty. 

All this before he even gets to work.

He fundamentally knows that starting the week off with a bad attitude will only lead to a really shitty remainder, but when Vernon sends his routine ‘Monday Motivation’ booster message — “you’re going to have a great day, today!” — into the group chat, Jihoon responds with a crude photo of his middle finger, right in front of the massive scuff on the bodywork of his Hyundai. Jeonghan replies with an ‘oof’, Wonwoo with a ‘yikes’, and Joshua, ever the comedian, sends a picture of Garfield lying face-down captioned ‘Mondays’ that nobody replies to. All responses feel kind of appropriate. But he pockets his phone without sending anything else, sighing again; he locks the car and checks the handle just in case before he finally heads into the building.

It’s going to be a long day. He just has to get through it.

Things don’t necessarily improve. He ends up in and out of meetings all day, so when 5 o’clock rolls around and he’s on his way out the door, he’s feeling a bit like he’s done nothing of actual value. Just, for some reason, thinking about you and tapping out a catchy beat on the top of his desk as he pretends to pay attention to useless presentation after useless presentation. But it’s still somehow been exhausting on his brain and on the drive back to his apartment, Jihoon feels so drained that he contemplates skipping the gym altogether and going straight to bed. This internal argument takes up most of his journey, but it does keep him occupied during the rush-hour traffic if it does nothing else. 

Nothing has ever been fixed by ruining a perfectly good routine, however — so no sooner than he’s back in his apartment, he changes out of his button-down and trousers and into his regular gym gear. His protein shaker is ready on the counter for when he’s home again, the lights are off, his bag is on his shoulder and the door is locked. He pushes against it a few times, checking out of habit, despite the fact that his only neighbours on this floor are Soonyoung, Seokmin and an elderly couple with a cat they’re not technically supposed to have. Nobody tells, though, because Boots has become everyone’s emotional support animal. The only actual security threat is Seokmin maybe stealing something from his fridge, but he’s only ever satisfied after the third test anyway. 

A quick warmup and a few easy stretches later, Jihoon sets about his business. Mondays are for training legs (and often, as a result, incapacitating himself for the rest of the week), and these workouts are always some of his most intense.

So intense, in fact, that he’s sweating buckets and cherry red when he steps away from the squat rack, tugging up the hem of his t-shirt to dry his face, a brief flash of his toned abdomen on full view. He’s just about catching his breath when he glances in the mirror, and his knees nearly give out when he sees you walking in. You lock eyes and smile at him in the reflection as you start to walk towards him.

It’s not just any smile, but he’s way too flustered to notice.

He spins around to face you, mortally embarrassed that you definitely just saw that, but in a weird way… kind of elated? You drop your headphones to sit around the back of your neck to greet him as you get closer. He pushes his hair back off his forehead and tries to act as cool as he can, but Jihoon suddenly becomes incredibly aware of everything about himself in this moment: his posture, how his arms hang by his sides, the exact positioning of his feet. The fact that he’s breathing pretty deeply, that his pulse is so loud in his ears that he can see your lips moving but can’t quite hear what you’re saying.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit — you’re talking. Focus. He needs to focus. 

“Sorry — what was that?” he asks, eliciting a soft laugh from you.

“I like your shirt,” you repeat, a fraction clearer. Jihoon glances down at himself, at the same sweatpants and tight black workout top he wears in here several times a week, and looks back at you with a raised eyebrow. God, he lets himself think for half a second, entertaining his own stupidity with the idea that you’re finding this as hard as he is, too. Maybe I’m not alone in this. 

“Oh?” he says. “Um — thank you?”

“How’d it go with your friends last night?” you ask, hardly skipping a beat, and he’s a little thankful that you skim over his poor attempt at gratitude for a compliment he isn’t sure he deserves. Instead, his confusion wraps itself around the fact that you actually remembered what he was doing last night. Hell, even he’d forgotten in the heat of the day he’d had, but you remembered. He’s sweating over it a little and briefly wonders what the chances are of the gym floor opening up and swallowing him whole.

Slim, he decides. But not zero. 

There’s hope.

“Yeah — yeah, it was nice,” he says, internally kicking himself for overthinking this so much that he’s apparently lost his ability to speak. In the space of 24 hours, he’s gone from giggling over coffee with you to completely weak just at the sound of your voice. It should be easier here, if anything — this is home turf for him. His comfort space. He supposes the tight fit of your gym clothes accentuating your hips and thighs isn’t helping matters, and neither is the wide neckline of your own t-shirt exposing your throat and a collarbone. But still. He’s not a teenager. He should be able to handle a little bit of skin. 

He clears his throat, rolling his head side-to-side. Focus. “Sorry — I’m-… I just didn’t expect to see you back here so soon.”

“Yeah,” you chuckle. “I-… couldn’t stay away. Missed it a little too much.”

“I get that,” he concurs, willing his eyes not to drop down your frame to a newly exposed area of skin just around your waist, your t-shirt riding up as you adjust your bag on your shoulder. “It’s good to-… have you back, anyway.”

“Good to be back,” you agree. “Hey — can you leave that set up for me, when you’re done? I’m on legs today, too.”

Jihoon doesn’t want to say that he knows Mondays are your leg days, as well, so he doesn’t. Even if it is true. He wonders if you would find it odd that he’s remembered. “Sure,” he says with a small smile, which you return. Just as you’re about to walk off to drop your things into a locker, he pipes up again. “I mean — hey, if you wanted a spot, or to-… do, you know… anything…”

“Are you asking me to train with you?” you ask, eyes bright and smile wider than he thinks he’s ever seen it. This is torture. He’s not even lifting anything and his heart is about to burst out of his fucking chest — God, maybe this was a bad suggestion.

“I-…” he starts, but he lets the breath out of his lungs and shrugs his shoulders. “Yeah. I am.”

“Give me two minutes,” you agree, hurrying off to put your stuff away and fill up your bottle.

He manages to squeeze another set of squats in before you get back, which is sort of a miracle seeing as how his knees have gone completely weak ever since you arrived. He’s scrolling through his playlist as you cross the gym floor on your way back to him, but he looks up and smiles as you approach. 

“You go ahead — I’ve just finished.”

He knows he’s really fucking done for when, after the first round, you add plates onto the bar to out-lift him. All before he’s even positioned himself behind you to be a good spotter.

Jihoon doesn’t go down without a fight though, and things get a little competitive from there. Both of you throw some of your favourite (see: most agonising) exercises into the mix over the course of the hour, taking it in turns on the equipment and creating a session that just about has him able to move by the time you’re finished. You talk to each other when you’ve got the breath to do so, otherwise focussing on your workout with more intensity than either of you remember training with for a long time. 

And so what if he has to turn away from you once or twice to compose himself when breathless whines spill from between your lips on your last few reps, the sheer effort of the movements pushing your muscles to their absolute limit? So what if he feels his entire body run a thousand degrees every time you sweetly encourage him to manage just one more? So what if his palm stays tingling for fifteen seconds every time you high-five him for a set well done?

You slide out of the hamstring curl machine with a deep breath and legs like two sticks of jelly at the end of the session, and he holds a hand out to steady you as you regain your ability to weight-bear.

“You okay?” he asks, and you nod, patting what’s exposed of your chest and neck with your towel. 

“Yeah. Yeah — just… fuck.” You laugh, laying your hand over the top of his and squeezing. Only for a second — not even, only for a breath — and really just to let him know that you’re okay to stand on your own, but Jihoon feels a bit like he’s been electrocuted straight up his arm all the same. “You don’t come to play, do you?”

“Says you,” he scoffs, only now moving his hand from your upper arm. “I was wrong about you — you’re insane. Clinically insane.” 

Using the paper towels he went to gather while you were finishing up, he wipes the machine clean as you stretch out your now slightly exercise-swollen thighs. 

“I was just gonna finish up on one of the stairmasters,” you tell him, taking a long sip of your water. His eyes widen to the point of comedy, eyebrows high on his forehead. You snicker at his horror, the rim of your bottle hovering tantalisingly over your bottom lip. “What?”

“That’s-… got to be a form of masochism,” he says, exhausted just at the idea of marching up the never ending staircase even for a minute. You almost choke on your mouthful of water, only just swallowing it in time before a sudden, uncontrollable laugh erupts from your chest. 

“How?!” you ask, covering your mouth with your hand. Just like yesterday, the urge to pull your arm away, to reveal your hidden smile strikes him. He doesn’t act on it, but he wants to.

“What do you mean, how? Why would you put yourself through that after what you’ve just done?” It’s completely lighthearted, and the rush of heat on your cheeks intensifies at the cocktail of shock and awe in his gaze.

You shrug your shoulders once. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m just better than you.” The way the tip of your tongue teasingly sits between your teeth as you grin at him sends bullets of adrenaline through his veins and Jihoon runs his hand over his face.

For about three seconds, he tells himself he isn’t going to take the bait. He’ll lose, he’ll admit it — he’ll put his hands up and say you’re absolutely, definitely better than he is, if it means he doesn’t have to push through a round of cardio after surpassing every single one of his physical limits. But God, he thinks you look completely irresistible standing there challenging him like this, your hands on your hips. His eyes don’t leave yours and yours don’t leave his; both of your chests stutter, just a little bit, and he can see your smile grow in his periphery.

How the fuck is he supposed to walk away?

“Ten minutes,” he concedes, matching your footsteps as you start to walk backwards towards his least favourite line of equipment in any gym, ever. “And you’re definitely getting the next coffee, now.”

——————

That Friday, you finally text him again.

His muscles have just about returned to a working state and Jihoon is quite proud to say that he has regained the ability to sit down without needing something to hold onto. He got home from work, showered the day away and has just settled down into the sofa to start on the book Wonwoo has been on his ass about reading when his phone vibrates on the side table. He reaches over for it, trying to figure out which of his friends might be trying to get hold of him early evening on a Friday, and already going over excuses in his head as to why he can’t go out to do whatever they’re inviting him to. But when your contact name flashes up on the screen, every single thought disappears from his brain.

y/n: hey :)

y/n: just out of interest, how good are you at assembling furniture?

He furrows his brows at this. There’s a very obvious answer, which is that he’s not. He doesn’t want to reply saying so, though, so he goes for what he thinks is the next best thing.

jh: well…

jh: what are you trying to put together?

y/n: a bed :(

y/n: today’s your rest day, right?

y/n: can i bribe you with dinner after? :)

Oh? His brain stalls, fingers hovering over the keypad. He can literally see your face forming a little pout before growing into a hopeful grin in his mind’s eye. He doesn’t see how he could ever say no. 

jh: apparently yes, you can.

jh: text me the address? i’ll leave in 5.

He changes out of his basketball shorts and hoodie in record time, abandoning Wonwoo’s book on his couch in favour of attempting to look at least somewhat presentable for you. He tugs on a pair of jeans that he hasn’t touched in about 6 months and one of his nicer t-shirts instead, even going as far as to spritz aftershave on the column of his throat. You’ve sent him your address and he makes to leave, doing his regular essential item pat-down on his way out the door. He puts your new apartment into his phone as he crosses the parking lot, stupidly delighted to discover it’s only 7 and a half minutes away from where he lives, and settles into his car with a series of deep exhales.

The breathing exercises don’t achieve much. His head is still spinning when he parks up in the street by your new place and lingers just outside the building. He sends you a text to say he’s arrived and you reply saying you’re on your way down. You appear in the lobby just a few minutes later.

“Hey,” you greet him warmly, crossing the space and putting your arms around him in a hug. He goes limp for a fraction of a second before his arms slide around you, too. God, he hopes you can’t feel his heartbeat right now. He thinks that the effect you have on him should be considered dangerous. But whether you can or not, you tighten your arms to squeeze him once before you unwind them from around his neck and step away. 

“Hi,” he says, feverish from the tops of his ears all the way down to his toes. His hands find his pockets as you take a few more polite steps back.

“Thank you so much for this.” Your bottom lip finds temporary home between your teeth before you’re nodding back towards the stairwell. “I’m on the third floor. Follow me.”

He does. He walks up the stairs behind you as you ask about his day at work, and he tells you that he thinks today has probably been one of the best he’s had in about 2 months. When he asks how your day went, you turn your head back to look at him and stumble on the next step, gently laughing and saying that you think you’re at your tether’s end with D.I.Y, but it’s been pretty good otherwise. By the time you reach your floor, his thighs are aching, a bit of residual fatigue from your session earlier in the week making it a little harder than it ought to be. He can’t imagine how you’ve coped every day since then; if his own building didn’t have an elevator, Jihoon thinks he’d have been sleeping in his car.

You give him a little tour of the apartment, and he stands next to you at the window as you point out where you were staying with your friend a few blocks away. He thinks the view is seriously pretty in the evening light, enchanted by how he can see the tops of the slightly lower buildings and the street below, lined with neon storefronts and currently alive with shoppers and bar-goers, but… He cringes at himself for thinking it, but the view through the glass is nothing compared to the one he has inside. 

You’ve started to put up a few decorations and knick-knacks around the place too. He doesn’t know you very well, but he still thinks it’s very you — all of it, and he likes them. Even with the room full of boxes and half-unpacked cases, there’s so much personality in it already. Charm. He brushes off your attempts to apologise for the ‘mess’, as you called it, despite everything being neatly pushed out of the way of the main space. It’s easily tidier than any other mid-move apartment he’s ever been in. 

“Did you want a drink?” you ask him, walking over to the refrigerator and resting a hand on the door. “I’ve got wine, or-… anything, really.” 

“Just some water would be great,” he says appreciatively, and a few seconds later you’re handing him a bottle, turning another one over in your hand. “I really wouldn’t be much help after a couple of glasses, trust me.”

“Does this mean you are good at it, then? Before a drink?” you ask him. Is it hope in your voice? Or do you somehow know how hopeless he is, and are you teasing? He can’t tell. Regardless, clearly his evasion earlier wasn’t quite as successful as he hoped it would be.

“About that…” He chuckles, taking a sip from the bottle and glancing sideways at you. “I’m sure between the two of us, we’ll figure it out.”

“My knight in shining armour,” you say with a laugh, closing your fingers around his wrist and leading him through the door to your bedroom. You’ve managed to separate all of the individual pieces, but you haven’t made any real progress otherwise. He settles himself down on the floor and reaches for the assembly manual, pursing his lips as he looks at the little baggies of screws and bolts and various other things he doesn’t know the names of.

“Okay.” He frowns, looking back up at you where you’ve kneeled down a couple of feet away. You’re grinning innocently back at him, but Jihoon’s lips are more aligned with a pout. “You maybe should have mentioned that the instructions are in Swedish.”

——-

Ignoring the fact that you can’t understand the directions printed on the flimsy little pieces of paper, you get to work. It’s… an interesting process, but somehow between the pair of you, you successfully manage to assemble the bed in just under two hours by mostly following the diagrams (and having to backtrack several times because Jihoon managed to miss a few steps). At three minutes to nine, you’re both finally standing up off the floor, stretching out stiff joints and tight muscles; the bed is fully assembled and made up with your sheets in the centre of the room, headboard against the back wall, the lamp you set on the dresser casting a pleasant orangey glow on every surface.

“We did it,” you say, a little in shock, a lot exhausted, and absolutely starving. At least, that’s what he assumes you’re feeling, because it’s what he is. “We actually did it.”

“I mean, you did most of it,” Jihoon says. It’s true; at a point, he was just handing you the pieces you asked him for and holding parts steady so that you could fit them together. But if you want to call it a joint effort, he isn’t going to stop you, and the roll of your eyes tells him that you do want to call it that. 

“Shh. You helped,” you scold him, bumping his upper arm with your elbow. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“If you say so,” he chuckles, taking another sip of his water. Jihoon isn’t sure he believes you, but the way you’re challenging him to argue further with your tongue pressed against the inside of your cheek scrambles his brain. Any remaining argument dies on his lips. “We make a good team.”

“We do,” you agree, expression shifting into a shy smile, bumping his arm again, your elbow lingering against him for a second longer. “Come on, I think I promised to feed you, too. What are you in the mood for?”

A movie has been playing in the background for about an hour by the time your food arrives and you’ve eaten everything. Jihoon relaxes back against the cushions of the couch and you’re settled comfortably next to him: there’s plenty of space on either side of you both, so there isn’t really any need for you to have your upper arm basically pressing against his, but Jihoon is too comfortable to say anything and you certainly aren’t making any attempts to move away. You shift your legs after about ninety minutes, bringing them up underneath you so your thigh is pressed against his now, as well, and you’re twisted slightly so you’re physically facing him but your head is still turned towards the TV.

Everywhere your clothed body touches him is scorching, and he wonders if maybe he should’ve worn a thinner t-shirt, or at the very least something a little less heavy on his legs. His jeans, slightly tighter around the thighs than perhaps would be their peak level of comfort, are clinging to him everywhere and he’s so aware of himself, so aware of you, of your sweet body wash, your fruity shampoo, every single one of your breaths… He’s cursed people out for breathing too loudly around him before, but he thinks he could replace his white noise machine with an eight hour track of just this and he would sleep like a fucking baby.

One of your elbows is propped against the top of the cushions behind you and you’re resting your head in your palm, and (not for the first time this evening) he glances sideways to look at you. They’ve been fleeting glances thus far, only stealing fractions of a moment before he turns his attention back to the TV. But this? This is the wrong moment. Entirely the wrong fucking moment because as his head turns, so does yours, and you catch him in the act. Fuck, if he thought he was burning up, before? He’s pretty sure he’s somehow just descended straight to the second circle of hell, greeting all the other lusty sinners like old friends. Several of his thoughts tonight have been considerably impure, and in this half second of blistering eye contact, they all come rushing back.

The universe is really testing him this evening, and Jihoon is stumbling. It feels like any minute now, he’s going to explode.

He straightens his spine and looks back at the TV, trying to force his eyes to focus even though he’s completely swallowed by the feeling of your arm straightening across the back of the couch, your fingertips grazing over the skin at the bottom of his hairline. He can feel your eyes still on him, your gaze burning into his cheek, no doubt following as his tongue darts out subconsciously over his lips. But he can’t quite help himself, can’t get the image of how sweet you looked out of his head; he clears his throat quietly and looks over at you again, coming over almost completely blank the second he notices the glimmer your eyes hold when they’re trained on him. 

Any. Fucking. Minute. 

“Jihoon, I-…” you start to say, and he turns himself a little bit so that he’s facing you better, completely forgetting about the movie now. That’s not a great loss: he couldn’t explain the plot even if he tried. “I don’t know if-… you can tell me if I’ve read you wrong…”

“You haven’t,” he hurries. Relief starts to ease the tension between your brows, before you scrunch them again and cock your head to the side. “I’m sure you haven’t, I mean.”

In this new position, one of his legs is bent and sitting up on the couch beneath him and you’ve adjusted your own posture to accommodate. Your knee sits just over the top of his, more of your impossible body heat radiating through his clothes, and he glances down at the site of contact before he looks back at you. 

“I just-... I don’t know, I think I knew I was interested in you from the first time I saw you, but the last few weeks especially…” You’ve been rehearsing this. He can feel it. It’s written in your eyes, holding the weight of the words you’re struggling to say, and behind them he can see cogs turning as you try to get the words in the right order. (He knows how that goes, because he’s been trying to figure out how to tell you, too.) He nods, urging you to keep going.

“I can’t get you out of my head. I really like you.”

He short-circuits, then. Even though part of him knew what you were going to say, hearing it out loud flips a switch inside him and he stops functioning. Blinking at you slowly, lips parted, heart racing – he feels as if his brain has been sucked clean out of his ears and is floating somewhere way above his head. Way outside of a contactable range, way beyond any level of rational decision-making. Jihoon knows what he wants to say, of course – he knows that he wants to say that he likes you, and that he has for a while, and that maybe you should let him take you out on a date or something, but all of that sits just behind the barrier of his teeth, so…

He leans forward and kisses you, instead.

He almost can’t believe that he’s only wanted this for as short of a time as he has; it feels like it’s been building inside him for so much longer. Relief floods through his veins, the emotional dam finally breaching. It only lasts a few seconds, but with his lips pressed to yours and yours pressing back, the static in his brain goes quiet, the movie falls silent: everything stops, except you. He thinks you could’ve been carved from stone around each other — he thinks something just feels so inexplicably right. Your hand tightens in his hair and he gasps softly as he pulls an inch back, eyes heavily lidded and looking straight at you through his lashes. You move forward, leaning your forehead against his, and the feather-light hold he has on your chin slides up to your cheek instead. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know how to-…” he says after a long, long moment of remembering how to breathe, how to blink, how to exist in your space without combusting on the spot. He still isn’t sure he knows how to do any of those things, especially not now he can see every single line of your face this close. He’s trying, though. “But — shit, I’m crazy about you.”

You kiss him, then, harder than before, colliding in a mess of half-finished breaths and bumped, stinging noses. His other hand comes up to sit against your rib cage, yours pressing into the material of his t-shirt over his chest. He smiles and parts his lips as yours move against them, your tongue gently sweeping into his mouth, finding his own; a soft, low moan tickles the back of his throat, his fingertips curling slightly to tighten his hold. 

Jihoon isn’t sure how you end up on your knees, straddled astride his legs with one of his hands tucked between your thigh and calf, the other on the curve of your ass — he just knows that he doesn’t mind one bit. You’re warm and comfortable, the arch of your back pressing you into him deliciously. He’s kissing you like his life depends on it (he really fears that it might), and you’re doing the same back, licking against his tongue and rocking slightly with every separation and reconnection of your lips. He feels your fingers brush at the hem of his t-shirt and slip just underneath at the same moment as you pull away from him, and he’s so dazed, so fuzzy, so lost in you that he can only tilt his head back to stare up at your face. In your current position, you’re towering over him. It’s easily the best view he’s ever had.

“Can I-…?” you ask breathlessly. The new roughness to your voice goes straight to his cock and he has to restrain himself from bucking his hips upwards.

“Yeah,” he says, leaning forward slightly to try and aid you. Your hands tug at the bottom of his shirt and peel it up over his chest: he raises his arms slightly and soon, you can toss it to the unoccupied side of the couch. He shivers slightly as he relaxes back, both at the chill in your unheated apartment and upon noticing the way you’re staring down at him. It’s addictive. 

“Oh my God,” you whisper, jaw a little slack, smoothing your hands over his shoulders to feel every ridge of hard-earned muscle. You travel down his arms, over to his chest, down his stomach… Jihoon sucks in a breath, your warm hands absolutely searing against his skin, and his abdominals tighten beneath them. Tilting your head, you press a line of kisses down the side of his neck, your lips brushing against one almost unbearably sensitive spot when you continue. “Fuck, you’re so hot.”

He smiles bashfully, rolling his head to the side and giving you all the access you want. Your lips tickle euphorically against him as he tugs you flush against his chest, both his hands now tightly pressing against your ass, fingers kneading the muscle concealed by your pants. You’re sitting right over his clothed cock and he’s reasonably sure he can feel your pulse between your thighs, letting out a soft grunt when you roll your hips deliberately down into his own. Your kisses travel to the swell at the curve of his shoulder before moving back up to his lips, where he meets you with a fire that he’s never kissed anyone with, before.

“Says you,” he murmurs into your mouth, your teeth clashing, his hips pushing slightly up off the couch. Just enough to make you sit back from him, just enough for Jihoon to open his eyes and look at you. His hair, thoroughly scrunched up and pulled around by your desperately gripping fingers, fans out at all sorts of angles and his chest has taken on a rosy hue since you last looked at it. With swollen, shiny lips, glossy eyes, breathing deep, he looks completely blissed out, like a man who could unravel beneath you if you moved just right. All from a little tongue action. He’d usually feel embarrassed, but it’s hard to when you’re the person on top of him; to be honest, neither of you would mind much if he did.

You’re pushing yourself up and off him before he can really get his bearings and an audible whine of despair parts his lips at the loss of your weight against his cock. Fuck, these jeans were a bad idea: he’s straining against the denim so much that it hurts, and there’s a near perfect outline of his hard-on. He stops pouting the second you take hold of his hand and tug him upright, though, your eyes dark and determined and intense. He thinks he might faint, actually: from standing too fast and feeling as though all the blood in his body is pulsing through his aching dick, he has to take a moment to stop the edges of his vision going dark before you’re pulling him through to your bedroom.

Something flips inside him the second you have him there. Jihoon, who was more than happy to sit beneath you and let you take all the control in the living room, is pushing you back onto the mattress by your shoulder and slotting himself between your parted thighs the moment the door is closed behind him. He’s past the point of wanting you, now: he needs you, and he needs you to need him, too. 

And God, do you. You prop yourself up on one elbow, staring at where he’s now leaning over you with wide eyes and your bottom lip drawn between your teeth. He bends down and kisses along your jawline in response, nipping gently just below your ear. Your back arches up and in a flash, one of his hands is beneath you, snapping open the clasp on your bra with a few slides of his fingers.

“Wh-…” you start, giggling and panting at the same time. He smirks against your pulse point. 

He flattens his tongue against you and licks a salty bead of sweat off your skin. “What?”

“Had no idea you could-…” You’re cut off by a gasp as one of his hands slides under your sweater, slipping beneath the garment he just unfastened. His fingertips graze over your breast and a pleading sob escapes you. His smile grows even wider. “You were so…”

“So what?” he prompts, pinching your nipple between his thumb and forefinger. Another one of those beautiful sounds breaks the air above you. He does it again, massaging your breast with the palm of his hand. “Come on… talk to me.”

“So good,” you gasp, lying down flat and tilting your head back against the pillows. He rocks forwards to press his cock against you again and your thighs tighten around his hips, one leg hooking around his to keep him there. “So-… fucking good.”

You’re so impossibly irresistible to him, especially like this, and he sits up, settling on his knees to look down at you. Jihoon doesn’t even get the chance to move his hands towards the hem of your sweater to tug it off you though: you’re already grabbing it yourself, crossing your arms to pull it over the top of your head. He can see your bra now, and hell, it’s pretty even if it is just hanging off you. Baby pink and lacy. He thumbs over the material as he helps you pull it down your arms, briefly letting himself wonder if-…

“If only you’d been patient enough to see the set together.”

Oh, so you can read his mind now, too? 

You glance down to the small space between your bodies and his eyes follow, lips slightly parted, a heavy sigh on his breath. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck — he wishes he had. Even imagining it, he’s throbbing.

“You wear all this for me?” he asks, hands creeping up the insides of your thighs. You nod up at him and he smiles down at you. “Fuck. I bet you didn’t even need my help tonight at all, did you?”

You’re bucking your hips now as his thumb brushes, agonisingly slowly, over your clothed cunt. One arm has come up to cover your face: for the first time, he acts on his impulsive need to see you shy, see you needy, and leans over you to gently pull it away and pins your wrist down against the mattress. He kisses you, his fingers on the other hand pressing slightly more firmly to where he’s pretty sure your clit is.

“Y/n, you’re so pretty. Let me see you.”

“I didn’t,” you admit, voice wobbling as he works you up so much you’re actually soaking through not just your pretty underwear, but the leggings you’ve had on all night, too. He can feel it against the pad of his thumb and he raises his eyebrows for you to continue. “Just… really wanted you to come over…”

“Mhm. I know,” he soothes, bending low again and kissing down towards your chest. His lips purse over one of your nipples and he sucks it up into his mouth, flicking his tongue over the bud. He releases your wrist with the hand currently taking most of his weight and leans on his elbow, teasing your other tit with his fingers. The weight of it in his palm has him murmuring soft praises against your skin, telling you over and over how good you feel. You push up onto your elbows to try and press him closer — when his teeth tug just slightly, you’re about ready to beg.

“Jihoon, please,” you murmur. He short-circuits, again. Goes blank. His name has always sounded so much sweeter on your tongue, but this? This? Oh, he doesn’t know if he’s ever going to recover. That sound is going to stick in his head for days, months, forever, if he has anything to say about it. But even if his brain isn’t working, his body moves on autopilot: he sits up and hooks his fingers under your waistband, pulling your pants down your legs and discarding them onto the floor. 

He’s staring between your thighs with zero functioning brain cells and literal galaxies in his eyes, trying to figure out what cosmic miracle brought someone like you into his life, how on Earth he’s ended up between your thighs. The question is so overwhelming in his mind that he barely notices that you’re moving, at first. Jihoon doesn’t know what causes you to try and bring your thighs together — if it’s shyness or arousal, desperation, a search for friction? — but he stops you as soon as he realises, laying a hand on each of your legs, pinning your knees down now, instead.

“Keep your legs wide for me?” he asks, to which you punctuate a nod with an assenting hum. “Good girl.” 

You’re so wet that when he strokes two fingers over your covered pussy, pressing the fabric of your panties into your heat, they come away thinly coated in the arousal that’s seeped through them. He brings his fingers to his lips then, eyes fluttering as he licks your slick off them. You taste otherworldly and he doesn’t hesitate to tell you so with a groan.

“God,” he murmurs, tugging at the waistband of your panties with his other hand. His eyes ask if you’re ready — if you’re sure, and when you nod down at him, he pulls them off completely too. His middle finger slips between your folds, collecting the wetness dribbling out of you, and he drags it slowly upwards towards your clit. He repositions himself again, leaning down over you with his head at your neck, the heel of his hand resting against your lower abdomen. He draws small circles over the bud, laying open-mouthed kisses at your collarbone and listening to the gorgeous sounds you make, learning what you like, following each gasp and moan and chasing as many of them as he can draw out of you.   

At the same time as you start rocking your hips up to meet his hand, your nails scratching gently against his scalp again, Jihoon slips his finger down from your swollen clit to press it inside you. You gasp, high-pitched and needy, your cunt spasming around his finger and pulling it in deeper. He’s only in up to his second knuckle but the way you keen for him has him pushing further until it’s buried inside your pussy completely. 

“S’this okay?” he asks, but he knows your answer thanks to your vocal responses to him already slowly easing his finger in and out, in and out. You nod your head almost aggressively as he glances up at your face, your eyes squeezed tightly shut, jaw tense, throat bobbing as you swallow hard. 

“More — please,” you say not long after. A breath hitches in your throat when he does exactly what you ask, pressing the heel of his hand against your clit and positioning another finger at your entrance. He flexes his wrist slightly to get comfortable, pumping both fingers into you now, and he curls them upwards at just the right time to make your back arch off the bed. “Fuck — mhm, just like that—…”

He moves down your body slightly, reattaching his lips to one of your nipples as he fingers you deep and slow. He’s in no rush: Jihoon thinks he could do this all day and just deal with the RSI later on. You look so unbelievably hot with your face scrunched in pleasure, your thighs quivering as you fight to keep them apart like he asked you to, with your hips twisting down against his hand to try and get his fingers deeper and faster. When he lowers himself all the way down, settling completely between your thighs, he flicks his tongue out over your clit and your back arches up off the bed with a gasp.

“Don’t stop,” you whine, all high-pitched and rushed, both syllables merging into one hurried sound. “Fuck, fuck — please, don’t stop.”

“I’m not going to,” he murmurs, keeping pace and rhythm as he works you towards your high. God, he thinks there couldn’t possibly be anything in the world more sexy than watching you come undone from this angle. Your chest rising and falling in stuttered breaths, your hips rocking down against his hand, your pussy right on his mouth. Just the thought of it has his cock jumping in his boxers. “You gonna come for me, huh?”

“I-…” you start, releasing your death-grip on the bedsheets to bring a hand to cover your face. He clears his throat deliberately — perhaps it’s sort of closer to a growl than a cough — and he thinks maybe you really can read his mind, or maybe you’re learning that he wants to see every inch of you (especially like this), because a second later, it’s tangled up in his hair and holding him in place. “Y-yeah, fuck, I…”

“Good girl,” he coos again, and that breaks you. Your pussy tightens around his fingers and you feel yourself convulse, muscles clenching and releasing as you go over the edge with a cry. He eases you through your climax, tongue laving over your clit, fingers slowing but not stopping inside your cunt until your thighs close around his head in your oversensitivity. He takes the hint, then, and he slowly pulls away, sucking his fingers clean of your arousal while you take a few breaths to recover.

“Oh, my God,” you sigh as he moves back up and starts pressing small pecks over your chest and collarbones, your fingers lacing through his hair again to pull him up to kiss you. You groan softly at the taste of yourself on his lips, and can’t blame you. He still isn’t over it, either.

“You’re so gorgeous,” he tells you in-between kisses, one hand supporting the back of your neck to keep you close. “So pretty. So sweet. So good.”

“Shh,” you giggle, but he doesn’t. Just about every adoring adjective Jihoon has in his arsenal is murmured against your lips until you’ve gathered enough strength to get up on your knees and push him back onto the mattress, fumbling with the button of his jeans. 

He groans at the relief as you tug them down over his hips and thighs. “We don’t have to do anything else if you’re—”

“Shh.” This one’s a little more insistent, and he makes a show of clamping his lips back together. “You wore the tightest jeans on the planet, had your cock on-fucking-display for me all evening, and you think I wanna stop now?”

His jaw falls slack at the words that come out of your mouth. The incredulous way with which you say them has him involuntarily bucking up into nothing. Your expression matches his when you finally get his jeans all the way off and his thin, black boxer-briefs are the only barrier between you. The outline of his cock strains against them, tenting the fabric: Jihoon doesn’t miss the way you lick over your lips before glancing up at him through your eyelashes. It’s your turn to give him the look, now, asking that this last part is okay, with your fingertips hooked underneath the elastic waistband. He nods feverishly up at your heavy gaze.

“Please,” he groans, lifting his hips so you can pull them off. His length springs free the moment they’re pulled low enough, slapping back against his abdomen, sitting pretty against his toned muscles, thick and veiny and red-tipped. Desperate. His underwear joins the pile of clothes down the side of the bed as you throw one leg over him; sitting across his thighs, you take his cock into your hand, giving it a few gentle strokes. He fucks up into your palm when you squeeze your fingers around it.

“I need you so fucking bad,” you murmur, head spinning, and Jihoon isn’t in much of a better state himself; he’s fighting to keep his eyes open, fighting to keep his breaths coming. He sits upright, one arm behind him for support, and kisses you hard as you continue to tug at his length. 

“Need you, too,” he breathes, shifting so he has both arms around you. In a swift movement, muscles rippling, he lifts you off him and turns you over so he has you sitting on your now impossibly scrunched comforter.

He finds home back between your legs as you reach over into the drawer at your bedside and fumble around for a few seconds. He hears a little clatter and a rustling and when your hand resurfaces, you’ve pulled free a small foil square. You don’t even give him a chance to lean forward and take it; you’re ripping it open and looking up at him with the biggest doe-eyed stare he thinks he’s ever seen. He nods at the silent question, a grunt tumbling free as you roll the condom down his length. This is the most pathetic little bit of contact and he’s fighting demons.

“Okay?” he asks, shuffling back a little and giving you space to lie down flat on your back. You nod up at him, already wrapping your arms around his shoulders. 

“Mhm, just-... take it slow?” you ask him, anticipation rendering you already a little breathless. “S’been a while.” 

A grin blooms all the way from his lips to his eyes and he leans down to kiss you again, positioning his tip at your hole and pressing forward just enough to tease.

Your thighs tighten around his hips and he pushes himself further inside you with a stuttered groan, agonisingly slowly, inch by inch. He stills every few seconds, both to give you the time to adjust and so that he can take a steadying few breaths and not collapse at how good you feel wrapped around him; he stops pressing his hips forward before he’s fully sheathed inside your pussy and you let a whine slip, the stretch slowly easing. 

“You can move,” you tell him, laying a kiss to his chest. “I’m okay.” 

Jihoon gives a soft laugh. Oh, he wishes this was just to be polite, but no. He’s in real danger of losing control any second. “Yeah, this isn’t for you, baby.”

“Oh?” you ask. You clamp around him and he gasps at the tightness, hips jerking forward until he’s buried up to the hilt. Fuck, there’s a bruised cervix if you’ve ever had one; a high-pitched whine erupts out of your lips and he ducks his head down to your ear.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “You just-... fuck, you feel so good.”

“Mm, says you.” 

It’s another moment before he thrusts with intent, though. But when he does? When he pulls out halfway before sliding all the way back inside you, losing and regaining the feeling of your heat enveloping him entirely, hearing your gasps against his collarbone? The invisible reigns holding him back unravel and he settles into a slow but intensely deep rhythm, guiding your legs around his waist. You hook your ankles behind his back and somehow, you suck him in deeper still, your bodies touching everywhere they possibly can, so impossibly close.

The arm not holding his weight slides beneath your hips and raises them just a little. Now, at this angle, every time he rolls into you he grazes against your sweet-spot and you’re reduced to an incoherent mess within a few minutes. Good, he thinks, because he’s not doing much better, himself.

You hug him tighter after one particularly well-angled thrust, sinking your teeth into the muscle of his shoulder. He hisses at the sting, and your lips part as if you’re about to apologise but he doesn’t give you the chance to; he bumps your nose with his own to ask you to lift your head slightly, before he bends down and kisses you hard.

“Do that again,” he gasps, almost all of his weight against you as the hand not around your hips comes up to rest on your cheek. When your brows tighten, he swipes his thumb over your spit-covered, swollen lips. “Please. ”

So, you do.

Maybe not as harshly as the first time, but your teeth find his collarbone and you suck a bruise into his skin, drawing from him the highest pitched sound you think he could possibly make. He squares his jaw, ducking his head back down, biting on his bottom lip before he has no choice but to speak.

“I’m close, y/n,” he confesses, fucking into you slower, trying to stave it off for a few more seconds, his hips stuttering. “Can-... can you give me one more…?”

You nod, the knot in your stomach already growing tighter and tighter with every movement he makes, and when one of your hands unwinds from around his back to slide between your sweat-slicked bodies, he moves slightly away, letting you reach down.

It’s the sight of two of your fingers finding your clit and rubbing your favourite movements out on yourself that takes him past the point of no return, his cock sliding in and out of you messily, desperately, chasing the high that he’s right on the brink of. He kisses and nips just below your ear, breathy groans tickling your neck, and your high-pitched whine tells him you’ve hit your orgasm just as he starts to spill his into the condom, gushing around him, your walls fluttering and milking him for all he’s worth. 

—

You offer for him to shower first – an offer he gratefully accepts. While you’re taking your turn afterwards, Jihoon hunts down a fresh duvet cover in your room; he changes it, grabs you a glass of water for when you’re done, and sits on the edge of his bed with just the towel wrapped around his waist, scrolling through his phone. He looks up with a bright grin as the door opens and you emerge through it in your pyjamas, glowing from the light behind you, stray droplets of water clinging to your arms. 

You pause gently rubbing your hair dry with the towel, eyes brightening when you see him. “You didn’t have to do all this,” you say, and he pushes a hand through his own still damp hair with a laugh.

“It was the least I could do,” he counters. You raise your eyebrows at him, crossing the room to sit opposite him. He drops his phone down onto the mattress. “I couldn’t leave and make you change them yourself.”

“Leave?” you ask, picking up one of his hands and playing idly with his fingers. 

“I mean, it’s getting pretty late, so…” he says. “I probably need to get going at some point.”

“Or…” you say, tongue darting out over your lips. “Maybe you don’t.”

Jihoon looks down at your hands, then back up at you. Are you suggesting what he thinks you are, or has he still not quite come back to himself from earlier? It’s hard to say if the look on your face is hope, or something else.

“Are you… asking me to stay?” he asks. 

“Only if you want to,” you tell him. He lifts your hands up, pressing a kiss to one of your knuckles, then using it to tug you closer to him until he can plant one on your own lips. “I’ve probably got an old t-shirt you could sleep in.”

“Of course I want to.”

So you slip away from him to go rummaging through your drawers, trying to find the promised article of clothing. The whole time, he’s awestruck. Jihoon can’t take his eyes off you.

——————

He wakes up next to you for the first time on a Saturday morning. His sleep-fogged brain registers lying on an unfamiliar mattress, tucked beneath new bedsheets, eyes fluttering open to take in a room he doesn’t quite recognise at first. Part of him wonders if he’s still dreaming. When he rolls over onto his side, and his eyes land on the curve of your shoulders, the fall of your hair down your back, he has to ask himself the same thing again. 

All of last night must’ve been a dream, he muses, smiling shyly to himself and watching your frame rise and fall with every slow breath you take. There’s no way you really told him you liked him, too. There’s no way any of it could have really happened.

“Y/n?” He asks in the gentlest of whispers, only wanting to stir you if you’re awake already. When there’s no response, he moves a tiny bit closer to you, hesitating before he slips his arm around your waist and settles with his chest pressed against your back. A wildly insecure part of his brain tries to argue that just because you wanted what happened last night, that doesn’t mean you want all of this now. Maybe you only wanted to sleep with him, or maybe you’ll have changed your mind somehow now the sun’s come up. He considers moving away again, lying on his back and staring at the ceiling until you wake up and he can have a real conversation about where both of your heads are at with everything, but he barely gets a chance.

Those thoughts are silenced almost immediately, his brain falling quiet the second you roll over in his arms. You bury your head in the valley between his pectorals, tucked away from the world beneath his chin. His arms tighten around your sleep-warmed body.

“What time is it?” You ask. He contains a shiver at the softness of your voice, bliss running the length of his spine. Jihoon thinks that he could get used to this.

“I don’t know. Early, I think,” he murmurs, and you whine softly, burrowing deeper against his chest. “Go back to sleep.”

“Not if you’re awake,” you say. He’s not entirely convinced you can stick to that promise, though, with the way you yawn and he feels your eyelashes fluttering. 

“Don’t worry about me,” he tells you, the tips of his fingers ticking against your side. He ducks his head, pressing a kiss to your hair. A soft hum rumbles in your throat and he can’t hold back the smile that spreads over his lips. “It’s okay. I don’t mind.”

True enough, you fall back asleep curled up against him and Jihoon, to the sounds of your slowing breaths, drifts off too. A few hours later, at a far more reasonable time, you wake him up with a press of your lips to the tip of his nose.

Innocent, exploratory kisses grow heated in the warmth of the sun that streams through your blinds. Hands start to travel, sleep clothes get discarded, and you have him lying on his back, pressing kisses down his chiselled stomach when his phone starts to vibrate on the floor next to the bed.

He groans at the distraction, again as you shuffle up to sit on your knees and look at him expectantly. 

“Are you gonna answer that?” you ask, the tips of your fingers grazing his thighs. He shakes his head, no. “Come on, Jihoon. It might be important.”

“Not important enough,” he sighs. 

“At least see who it is,” you laugh. Despite a huffed protest, he props himself up on one elbow, leaning over the side of the bed and glancing down at his phone screen.

Seungcheol.

The arrangement to go for a run this morning comes rushing back to Jihoon, who slaps a hand to his forehead and reaches down to grab his phone off the floor, looking at you apologetically.

“Give me two seconds,” he says, and you grin wickedly up at him, ducking low to press a kiss to one of the lines that disappears down into his boxers. 

“Take all the time you need.”

He answers the call frowning, flopping his head back against the pillows. 

“Hey, look – I’m really sorry,” he starts to say, but Seungcheol’s voice cuts him off almost straight away.

“Jihoon, where the hell are you? I got to your apartment and your car wasn’t here, and Seokmin said he didn’t hear you come home last night. We all thought you’d died,” he hurries. Jihoon can picture the expression on the other man’s face perfectly, which is pretty unfortunate seeing as how you’ve moved to start palming his hardening cock through his briefs.

“I stayed out,” Jihoon says, a little wobbly. “I can’t make the run, someth-... shit.” You press an open-mouthed kiss to the outline of his length, the heat of your breath through the fabric sending him into overdrive. “Something came up-...”

The line goes silent for a second, and his breath stutters as you do the same thing again. Each press of your lips is euphoric agony, and he’s really not hiding this as well as he wishes he could. One look down at you tells him that you’re very proud of that.

“Dude,” Seungcheol gasps, snickering suddenly. “Tell me you’re not with a girl right now.”

“Shut up. Go away,” Jihoon grunts. “I’ll call you later.”

“Oh my God, is it gym girl? Did you finally-...”

“Bye, Cheol,” he hurries, hanging up before his friend can say anything else. He drops his phone onto the mattress, fake-glaring down at you and shaking his head. “You’re the worst, you know that?”

“Yeah?” you ask, pulling at the waistband of his briefs to tug them down his legs. “Let me make it up to you, huh?”

[ghost-proofbaby]

SO SCARLET (IT WAS MAROON)

two years ago, eddie munson got everything he’d ever wanted - except you. when fate brings the two of you back together, can he get the answers to all the questions you left him with?

☆ tropes: second chance romance, exes to lovers, modern au

☆ warnings: strong language, angst, alcohol/drug consumption, eventual smut, minors dni

☆ pairings: rockstar!eddie munson x fem!reader

spotify playlist

ao3

MASTERLIST:

PROLOGUE (the original 'one shot')*

CHAPTER ONE: CLOSURE

CHAPTER TWO: DON’T YOU

CHAPTER THREE: ALL TOO WELL

CHAPTER FOUR: CASTLES CRUMBLING

CHAPTER FIVE: HOLY GROUND

CHAPTER SIX: IS IT OVER NOW?

CHAPTER SEVEN: QUESTION...?

CHAPTER EIGHT: LOML*

CHAPTER NINE: BACK TO DECEMBER

CHAPTER TEN: RIGHT WHERE YOU LEFT ME

CHAPTER ELEVEN: LET'S GO (BATTLE)

CHAPTER TWELVE: OUT OF THE WOODS

CHAPTER THIRTEEN: THE SMALLEST (WO)MAN WHO EVER LIVED

more coming soon!

chapters with smut/sexual themes marked with *

[alluringlight]

Seth Lowell x (GN) Reader

NSFW, 18+ only

Warnings: rut themes/rut cycles, feral/rough sex, biting/mentions of blood, dom!Seth, sub!Reader, pre-established relationship, knotting-adjacent shenanigans as in it isn't knotting but thanks to his biology you get stuck together, mentions of overstimulation, slight praise, there's like one mention of breeding, no usage of [Y/N] or [Name] just 'you'

Word Count: 2941

Seth had been avoiding you recently. You hadn’t noticed at first, with how busy you both are, but when you actually thought about the last time you’d seen your boyfriend it had been almost a week. Albeit not that long of a time, but you lived together. 

You assumed it’d just been his work, the life of a Pub Sec officer could be pretty time consuming, and there have been stretches of time where you didn’t see each other much with him going in early or staying late enough he’d have to sleep at the precinct dorms, not to mention your own work keeping you busy. But this seemed more deliberate, he’d been sleeping at the dorms the past few days without returning home, which he normally would talk to you about if he had to sleep there for more than a night or two. 

The sound of your phone startled you, but you quickly checked the notification, hoping to see something from Seth. Instead, you have a message from Captain Zhu Yuan, asking you to pick Seth up from the office immediately. 

Anxiety swelled in your gut, as you messaged her back saying you were on your way. You knew Zhu Yuan would probably not want to tell you if he was injured over messaging, and you wanted to get to him as soon as possible if it was so serious that she messaged you herself. 

You tried to stop your spiraling thoughts (he must be unconscious if he couldn’t message himself), and instead focused on driving over without going over the speed limit (he’d feel awful if you got a ticket because you were worried about him). 

Walking into the precinct, upon seeing her you immediately ran to Qingyi. “Is Seth okay?” You asked, breath stuttering as you tried to calm yourself. 

She sighed, “He’s fine. I’d diagnose him as an idiot, but he’s fine.” 

“H-huh? I thought something happened, it sounded urgent.” 

She nodded in the direction of the employee break room. “Just go in there and you’ll see what I mean.” 

As you opened the door, you could hear Zhu Yuan scolding someone. “Doing things like this is detrimental to everyone here. You should have requested leave. You know better than this, honestly Seth.” 

Fully stepping into the room, you could see Seth sat at a couch, Zhu Yuan standing over him, her arms crossed. He looked haggard but unhurt, maybe he had a fever? His skin was red, and sweat dripped down his forehead. He seemed uncomfortable, shifting every few seconds or pulling at his vest and collar. 

“Um? Is everything okay?” You asked, causing both of them to snap towards you. 

“Please take him home. He has the next week off. While he’s on leave, please talk some sense into him.” Zhu Yuan said, shooting one last glance towards Seth before she made her way to the door. She squeezed your shoulder. “It’s nice to see you.” 

Once she shut the door behind her, you took a step towards him. A growl rumbled through him, surprising you, and him it seemed. His hand shot to his throat as he gasped. “Ah, sorry. I’m sorry.” 

Cautiously, you continued your pursuit, until you were right next to him. “Are you okay?” You had an inkling of what was happening, but you felt it’d be best to make sure. 

“Y-yeah.” Seth’s voice cracked, and he avoided your gaze. “I- sorry. I’m sorry.” His arms wrapped around your waist, and he buried his face into your stomach. One of your hands grasped onto the back of his head, running your fingers softly through his hair. You could hear his ragged breaths, and he seemed intent on sniffing you so you let him be until he felt like speaking. “I didn’t know how to bring it up, so I hid at work.” He started rambling, voice muffled as his face was still pressed into your stomach. “Which just made it worse, ‘cause then my rut started at work today. And I feel sick, but all I can think about right now is-” He cut himself off, immediately letting you go and standing up, brushing past you towards the door. “Sorry. We can, um, we can go home now.” 

“You started your rut today?” You asked, hand reaching out to grasp his arm. “Hey, it’s okay, look at me, love.” 

He turned to face you, and you could see his eyes watering. “I know it’s weird, but I didn’t know what to do I thought I had more time to figure something out, but the stress probably made it start early-” 

You cut him off with a kiss, pressing your lips to his for a chaste moment, before pulling him into a hug, tugging him down so his face rested in the crook of your neck. “It’s not weird, okay? Let’s get home first and we can talk about what you want to do.” His arms wrapped around you, squeezing you for a long moment before he pulled away, his hands lingering a moment longer than normal. 

The drive home was silent, the only sound the puffs of breath Seth was letting out, as he seemed to settle into the rut further. 

When you got into the house, he pulled you into him before pressing you against the front door. You could feel his breath as he smelled the back of your neck, and you shuddered as you felt his tongue lap at the flesh. 

“You smell so good,” he mumbled. He pushed further into you, until you could feel his erection, hard and heavy against you. After a long few moments, in which you could feel your own mind starting to cloud over with arousal just from him pressing into you, whatever daze he was in broke as he pulled away from you lightning quick. “Ah! Sorry!” His hands pressed together in an apologetic gesture as he squeezed his eyes closed, his ears pressed flat to his head. 

“Seth, it’s okay,” you said. His eyes opened, his hands falling to his sides as his head tilted in confusion, one of his ears twitching. “I’m not mad at you or anything. I wished you’d told me earlier, but it’s okay I get it. Do you want help?” 

Red crawled down his neck as he became embarrassed. “I-I mean yes, but I’m also scared.” 

“Of?” you prompted. 

He sighed, “Of hurting you. I don’t have good control when in this, um, state.” His eyes flickered away, and you could tell he felt flustered talking about the subject so blatantly. “And with my…unique anatomy,” His face flamed as he carefully chose his words, and you had to suppress a laugh. He looked so cute when he was feeling a little shy or embarrassed. He was just so stupidly earnest it drove you a little crazy. “I could easily hurt you.” He finally looked you in the eyes again, grasping your hands in his. “And I don’t want that. I don’t want to hurt you, especially not because of some stupid biological problem.” 

You squeezed his hands, giving him a bright smile. “Seth, I love you and I want to help. If you don’t want me to, or you aren’t ready to spend a rut with someone I can pack a bag and stay with a friend. But I do want to help, if you’d want the same.” 

“Then, thank you.” 

The two of you made it to the bedroom, and made quick work of stripping off your clothes. Seth settled between your legs, intent on preparing you before he lost his rationality to the next wave of rut. 

You gasped as he lapped at your hole, everytime you did this you’d be caught off guard by how rough his tongue is. He hummed, pushing his tongue into you immediately and buried himself into your sex. 

He prodded at your hole, mindful to keep his claws retracted as he began scissoring you open. As he added another finger, his face pulled away as he mouthed at your thigh, pressing kisses into it softly. “You smell divine,” he mumbled into the skin. “Makes it harder to focus…I want you to smell like me.” He pressed another kiss into your thigh, before biting down. You yelped, mostly from the shock as the bite wasn’t that deep. Seth began purring as he lapped at the bite mark, licking away the small pinpricks of blood. You knew the mark would surely bruise. You bit your lip, holding in a whine as his fingers targeted a sensitive spot. 

You whimpered as you felt him bite down on the tender flesh of your thigh again. “That’s no good. Don’t hold in anything, wanna hear it all okay?” You nodded in assent, and he licked at the new bite mark. “Good. Sweet little thing.” You whined at the combination of his nimble fingers inside you and the praise. It made you a little weak in the knees, and had you close to cumming already with how he was abusing your weak points. 

The last push was when he pressed his tongue into you again, the muscle lapping at you, his saliva making  everything messier as you came on his fingers. He coaxed you through it, fingers curling into you, tongue still laving at you until you pushed him away as you became overly sensitive. 

He pulled himself up, slotting himself between your thighs, holding them over his hips as he stared down at you. His breathing was heavy, short puffs of air escaping his lips, and his face was pink from the heat he felt. His eyes were hazy as he looked at you, hands gripping your hips as he pushed himself closer to you. His cock was a deep red, slightly more pointed than a normal human’s, and the head had these little bump-like structures, that you knew in actuality were small barbs that would catch when he came. Seth’s cock bumped against you and he whined, lining himself up with your hole before he caught himself. “Can I?” He asked, voice strained as he waited for your approval. 

You nodded, slinging your arms around his neck to pull him closer as his cock split you open. You gasped, accidentally clenching down on him, causing him to let out a hiss before bucking his hips and sheathing himself in you in one fluid stroke. You let out a whine at the sudden stretch, and he remained still, trying to let you acclimate to his size. You could feel his hot breath on your neck as he panted, his muscles taut and tense as he waited, the last string of his rationality frayed but not yet snapped. 

“Seth, it’s okay,” you murmured, pressing a kiss to his ear. “Take what you need, baby.” 

At your words he growled, you could feel the deep vibration emanating from his chest, before he quickly snapped his hips, his cock nearly leaving you empty before he fucked himself back into you in the next moment. Your breath left you as he quickly pistoned himself in and out, focused on the heat of you around him and nothing else. 

When you finally regained the ability to take a breath in, it was quickly leaving you in short gasps, or small whimpering moans. The noises you made only served to spur Seth on further, pressing himself further into you, faster, faster, faster, until your nails were clawing into his back in an attempt to hold onto your sanity. The bite of pain caused him to let out a moan as he clawed into your waist, leaving small pinpricks of blood in the wake of his claws. 

His hands moved upwards, pawing at your chest as he slowed down enough to latch himself to your nipple. He purred as he licked and sucked, nipping it occasionally, as his other hand kneaded your other nipple. He locked eyes with you, his pupils slit as he indulged in you. One of his ears twitched, his eyes half lidded as the volume of his purring increased. He could feel you tensing around him, the onslaught of pleasure had you close to cumming once again. 

Seth pulled away from your chest, bracing a hand on the bed while the other grabbed at your hip, before he rammed into you again and again and again, faster and faster and faster, until finally, you came around him, a loud moan leaving you as you dug your nails into his back deeper. 

“Good, sweet little mate, so sensitive,” he babbled. “Need to, h-hah,” He pulled out of you, coaxing you to flip over, and put a pillow below your hips so your ass was raised up, your sex displayed before him. He shoved back in, no care for your oversensitivity that had tears pricking at your eyes. He caged you in below him, laying his weight over you, one of his arms snaking under your arm, his hand grasping the top of your shoulder so you couldn’t move away from him. “Need to breed you. Have to, you have to take it,” he said, his voice vibrating with a growl as he began to fuck into you with earnest once again. 

With the new position, you could feel him deeper than before, causing you to let out whimpering moans as he fucked you through your oversensitivity, his cock deep enough you felt like you could practically feel it in your throat as he thrust into you. His hand reached down to grab at your hip, before it settled on your ass, pulling you further into, forcing you to arch against him with nowhere to go as his body remained settled over top of you. 

You could feel his shaky breath on the back of your neck, the hot puffs of air causing the hair on the back of your neck to stand on end. You could feel his cock twitch within you, the small barbs on the head of his cock beginning to swell, each desperate thrust into you causing them to poke and prod at every sensitive spot within you. 

Despite having just cum, you could feel yourself building back up to that precipice. You could feel his claws digging into you, into your shoulder and into your ass, as his other hand had you tightly in his grasp, keeping your sex spread open for him as he thrust into you. 

Seth pressed a kiss to the back of your neck, before his rough tongue began licking at your flesh. He nipped at the skin, pressing one last kiss to the sensitive area before he growled, his jaws opening wide as he dug his fangs deep into your neck. 

You cried out, bucking against him in shocked surprise, adrenaline kickstarting your pulse, your heart thumping in your chest like a jittery rabbit. He kept his fangs locked onto your neck, growling when you jerked in his hold, clamping down onto you, his prey, making sure you knew you weren’t going anywhere. 

The sensation of blood trickling down your neck became apparent, the hot liquid trailing down until it stained the sheets beneath you. He grasped onto you tighter, his thrusts becoming impossibly more powerful, until you felt like you could feel him everywhere. You couldn’t focus on anything but his cock bucking into you, his fangs in your neck, and his claws digging painfully into your skin. 

You felt yourself reach your peak once more, clenching down and cumming on his cock. You could feel a growl building in his throat, before he shoved himself in deep, cum spurting out of him and into you. He half thrusted, trying to shove his cum as deep within you as he could, before the barbs on the head of his cock caught onto you, leaving him completely in you and unable to pull out as he kept cumming within you, the amount a little uncomfortable as it filled you up so completely. 

He finally pulled his teeth out your neck, purrs rumbling in his chest as he began licking at the wound, lapping at the blood before it began to coagulate. He kept you pinned to the bed, and you began to feel drowsy, tired after the exertion. 

Seth pushed his face into your neck, his arms wrapping around your waist as he rolled the two of you onto your sides, careful not to dislodge you and accidentally rip himself out. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt you any further. 

He pulled you flush against him, his breath returning to normal as he looked you over. “Are you okay?” he asked, voice shaky, tinged with worry as he eyed up the small wounds he’d given you. 

“Mm,” you hummed, reaching a hand back to pat at his hair, briefly rubbing his ears before pulling it back to wrap around his hands at your waist. “I’m okay, don’t worry.” 

“Are you sure?” 

You let out a tired laugh. “I’m sure. Feel full,” Between the inhuman amount of cum he let out, and his cock still snug within you, that was a bit of an understatement. “But I feel good, just tired, promise.” 

He let out a shuddery breath. “Okay. Try to rest, I’m not sure when I’ll, uh, feel the next wave, but, um, when I’m able to dislodge, I’ll clean you up.” 

“Sounds good,” you replied. You took one of his hands and raised it to your lips, kissing his knuckles, before you tucked it back around your waist. He squeezed you in response, the rumbling of his purring lulling you to sleep.

[kibblz-n-bitz]

Unabashed

Summary: Luffy wants you. He isn't afraid to tell you, either.

Warnings: Needy Luffy, rough sex, biting, breeding, I'm just really horny for this guy ok i'm practically writing this half asleep, NOT beta read

"I want you."

The statement made you choke on the drink you had lifted to your mouth. You coughed and sputtered as Luffy stared at you. There was no embarrassment or shame laced into his features. He'd said it so casually, as if complimenting the weather or Sanji's cooking.

The two of you had been helping Franky move some supplies into the storage room. You'd just finished moving the last set of boxes and were sitting in the room, relaxing with your captain with a drink Sanji had bought you. He ignored Luffy's pleas for one, so the two of you were sharing the fizzy beverage.

You were giggling at some joke Luffy had made before he paused and stared at you. He had tilted his head, almost as if he was confused, before confessing to you. Without missing a beat, Luffy leaned down to wrap his lips around the straw from the cup that was still in your hand. You blinked, dumbfounded.

"L-Luffy, what do you mean?"

"I feel all funny whenever I'm around ya. Down here." He took your other hand, bringing it to his lower abdomen. You could feel his muscles twitch underneath your palm. He was warm. "And it means that I want ya."

Heat rushed to your cheeks. How your captain was able to say something so bold without batting an eye, you'd never know. But this is Luffy you were talking about. It's not much of a surprise, either. You looked down to where your hand rested on Luffy's stomach. You bit your lip, thinking for a moment.

"Lets... take this somewhere else."

With that, you grabbed his hand and led him to the girls cabin. It was the middle of the day, so luckily Nami and Robin were out on the ship. Luffy giggled as you dragged him into the room, before slamming the door and locking it. The moment you had him in the room, you pushed him up against the door.

"Are you sure?" Your lips were inches away from his. But you needed to hear it. Luffy snorted.

"'Course I am."

You surged forward, planting your lips on his. Luffy grunted into your mouth as you brought a hand to tangle in his hair. It was surprisingly soft. His hands landed on your hips, squeezing ever so slightly. You sighed into his mouth as he led you backward. The back of your knees hit your bed. You pulled away from your captain, placing a gentle hand on his chest.

"W-wait." You pushed him backward, much to Luffy's dismay. He pouted at you and you giggled. "Just lemme get undressed, okay?"

Realization dawned on your captain. He nodded and went to remove his own clothes too, placing his straw hat on your night table. His top was easy to remove (since his shirt was open all the time), but his leg got caught in his denim shorts, causing him to stumble a bit. He finally righted himself with an aha! By the time he looked up, you were already naked, blinking up at him.

"Take what you need from me, Captain."

Luffy grinned like a madman, jumping into bed with you unceremoniously. You laughed as his actions caused the bed to sway and you both ended up in a tangle of limbs. It was silly and so Luffy, you had known getting into bed with a man like him would be fun. You had liked him the moment you'd joined the crew. This felt like a dream come true, in the arms of the man you'd been thirsting over for so long.

With a giggle your hands grabbed Luffy's face, bringing his lips to yours once more. He groaned, rutting his hips into you. He needed to be inside of you so badly. You giggled, taking one of his hands from where it was clenched in the pillow beside your head. You brought it down between your legs.

"Gotta warm me up first, captain."

You weren't sure how experienced your captain was. The man hardly ever showed interest in people, at least not in a sexual way. You'd heard of beautiful women courting him, only to be turned down with a smile and nonchalant, "no thanks!" But regardless, he seemed to get the picture. His eyes lit up and he kissed you, before nuzzling into your face and neck. His index finger swiped through your folds.

"You're so wet, Y/N." Luffy breathed, licking and sucking at your neck. His finger circled you clit a few times, and he giggled as you squirmed. His tongue traced your collarbone as he plunged his finger inside you.

You whined, gripping his hair. He pumped in and out of you for a few moments, curling ever so often. You could tell he was being careful, it was like he would try a different angle and listen for your reaction before continuing. When he added a second finger you let out a whimper.

"M-more, Luffy. please."

Without skipping a beat a mouth sealed over your nipple at the same time his finger curled inside of you. You moaned, squirming against the boy. His fingers fucked you deeper, harder. His other hand came to play with your other nipple. Your head rolled against the pillow and Luffy bit and sucked your chest. God, you couldn't even imagine the way you'd look in the mirror tomorrow. It was too much, and not enough at the same time. You needed more.

"Fuck! Luffy," You panted and tugged his head off of your chest. He had been humping against your leg and drooling all over your chest. You didn't want him losing himself before he had the chance to fuck you.

"C-can I put it inside ya now? Please?" Luffy whined, nuzzling against your face and rutting himself in between your folds. You kissed him, biting his lip and reveling in the whimper he let out.

"Yes captain. Fuck me, please." You sighed against his lips. Luffy groaned and pushed forward, pushing his cock into you. Your moans bounced off the walls of the cabin. Huffing, Luffy withdrew his hips before pushing back into you. His movements were a little stiff, too calculated, like he was trying to gauge your reaction first. He was fighting the urge to bury himself into you over and over, so as to not hurt you.

"I-is this okay, Y/N?"

You smiled, wrapping your legs around the boy hovering over you. You kissed the scar underneath his left eye and took his face in your hands.

"Let go, Luffy. It's okay. I can handle it, I promise" You peppered reassuring kisses to his face, causing him to giggle. He nodded and wrapped his arms around you, angling your hips a little higher. His face buried into your neck as his hips moved faster, deeper, fucking into you like his life depended on it.

You moaned and held onto your captain's shoulders. You were certain that any one of your crewmates walking past the door could tell what was going on inside the cabin by now. Luffy moaned and whined, drooling all over your neck and shoulder. He was moving purely on instinct, length pushing against your cervix with every thrust.

"Ya feel so good Y/N," Luffy had huffed after a particularly harsh thrust. "So- ngh haa- so warm n' wet."

His words made you clench down on him, earning a moan from the both of you. He rutted against you wildly, moving purely on instinct. He would grind against the deepest parts of your body before thrusting, shallow, like he couldn't stand to be outside of you for more than a few seconds.

"C-close- Luffy!" You gasped, writhing in his arms. He whined as you tightened and fluttered around his length. His hand snuck down to rub at your clit, trying so desperately to feel you tighten around him again. You cried out, hands scrabbling at your captain's back and back arching off of the mattress. Your orgasm spurred Luffy into his own, as his thrusts seem to trip and stumble after pressing himself as deep as he possibly could inside of you.

You both gasped for air as you cam down from your highs. Luffy sighed and kissed you again, bringing you back from your daze. It was good. He was definitely slobbery, but you didn't mind. Luffy was passionate and wild and you loved him. So when he rolled off of you to lay beside you, you smiled at him before pressing your body against his. He accepted you happily, wrapping his body around you immediately.

"So, how was it?" You giggled against his lips.

"It felt amazing, Y/N! Can we do it again?" He beamed at you. You smiled.

"Later, Luffy. Right now I just want to hold you."

"OK!"

A few seconds went by in a comfortable silence before you looked up at Luffy to find him looking down at you, a lazy smile spread across his face. You sighed, rolling your eyes. You tried to fight the smile wiggling onto your face as you hooked a leg over your captain before rolling on top of him. Luffy burst out laughing. Once again you rolled your eyes before pressing a kiss to his giggling lips.

"I spoil you too much, y'know that?"

[darby-rowe]

cw/tags. STEPCEST, suggestive

inspired by @spideyhexx ‘s stepbro!coryo posts 🫶

when you noticed that you accidentally pavlov’d yourself into getting weak in the knees every time your stepbrother walked within proximity of you, your stomach churned. and suddenly, the minty toothpaste coating your teeth tasted like bile.

you spat messily into your shiny, porcelain sink and quickly rinsed away the foamy, sudsy paste down the drain. the sounds of the birds singing their morning song are muffled outside your bathroom window, and for a moment, that’s all you had the energy to focus on as you stared at yourself in the mirror. you wipe away a rogue toothpaste stain on your oversized t-shirt.

“safety pin?”

coriolanus’s voice brings you back down to earth as you deeply inhale through your nose. “what?” you ask, tiredly rubbing at your eyes with the back of your hands. “safety pin? for what?”

“for my shirt. it looks too large on my body,” coriolanus answers, and for the first time that morning you two make eye contact.

something about the look on coriolanus’s face makes you wonder if he’s hoping you’d turn your back to him so he can sneak a peek at your body.

“you have your own bathroom,” you tell him, leaning against the doorway and crossing your arms. “or call your cousin tigris. i’m sure she has a shit-ton of safety pins that she’d be more than happy to let you use,”

“or i could come and ask you since you’re right here,”

you press your lips together tightly, feeling your cheeks burn deeply as your eyes wander coriolanus’s disheveled form of being halfway dressed: untucked shirt, dress pants with no belt…

you hug your arms closer to your body as coriolanus’s eyes also wandered your body.

“i don’t have any safety pins, coryo,” you say, trying to act nonchalant as you force yourself to look away. “sorry. wish i could be of better assistance this morning, but it appears that i am useless,”

coriolanus’s eyes squint at your odd humor, and you can’t bring yourself to look back at him. not even when he squeezes past you to enter your bathroom. and before you could protest, he’s searching through the medicine cabinet and pulling out a lone safety pin.

the feeling of his hand on the small of your back as he exits nearly makes you faint.

“guess you aren’t as useless as you make yourself out to be,” he says as he finally walks away. you feel the sound of his shoes on the hardwood floor deep your chest.

you wonder if coriolanus also gets weak in the knees when you enter the room.

[pricegouge]

Alone, Together

alone x reader | on AO3

cw: male reader. dubcon/noncon/coercion. pseudo-tentacles, ghost has two (or more, depending on how you count 'em) dicks. ass eating, oral, overstimulation, anal sex, frotting/handjobs, a small smackeral of cbt, slapping, degradation, exhibitionism, breathplay. implied character death. MDNI

if you need a good visual aid for what i have in mind for the cocks situation, see my ramble here

divider by @/cafekitsune

Taglist @pricegouged

You're helping them. You have to remember you're helping them.

There's some method to it, some reason. Pseudoscience and technobabble bullshit that went far over your head even as Reynolds yammered on over the coms. It didn't matter, not really. Not when your entire team is - 

Compromised.

"And how will this help?"

Reynold's voice is croaky in your ear - probably burnt out the long string of five syllable words he'd just thrown at you. It's a struggle to hear him over all the commotion in the room next door, the deep groans of pain and frustration. Confusion. "They way he - it -."

They, you decide, trying to remember that's your team in there, somehow.

"- absorbs people… I think it's a defense mechanism. So you gotta make yourself as inoffensive as possible."

A hard feat, carrying forty kilos of weaponry and tac gear. Removing the most egregious pieces had seemed logical enough when Reynolds suggested it, plates and straps falling away with an odd sense of relief and dread. No one ever relished keeping a full kit on another minute, but to take it off when you knew the next room held a potential hostile went against everything you'd learned since your very first days in basic. Taking it off when you knew the thing in the next room was fuck off big, fuck off angry, and had access to the weaponry of four S.A.S. officers, if not also the capabilities, was downright untenable.

Still, when your boots crunch over the broken glass of the window which separates you from your target, your tread is that much lighter. And when they turn, they do not find you armed to the teeth as they had with all the people who went in before you. It's hard to tell if this pleases them, the whole team having been dressed for a ghost mission meant each head now wore an obfuscating mask. Further, the cold eyes that stare back at you are decidedly not the varied eyes of the men you'd expected to see, each head somehow having adopted Soap's pale gaze. It lends a sense of lifelessness to them, each eye matching the cataract-cloudy irises of the head on the end. They each look like corpses, but the animated way they move toward you reminds you they are something much worse.

They - Simon. The heads - cannot move independently, which renders their necks a bit obsolete. When they turn toward you, their whole, immense chest follows suit. One of the arms toward the back dangles limply, perhaps genuinely dead. You try to clock the equipment which adorns it, hoping against hope it doesn't mean one of them is dead in there. 

"Easy," you try as it barrels closer, stumbling backwards before you can even think it through. 

"Steady," Reynolds warns - must have a good view through the lab cameras - and you cringe when you see he has the right of it, your falter acting as blood in the water. 

Their steps come heavy and hard. Quicker than you'd expect them to move. The rhythm of their steps strike you as odd and when you glance down, you're shocked to find one leg is nearly double the size of the other, an extra shin and foot spliced into the side of their right leg. The boot there has movement, but doesn't quite reach the ground beside the odd tap of thick tread off the tile. Whoever's that was - is -, they're not quite as tall as Simon, it seems.

Despite your backpedaling, it doesn't take long for them to overtake you. Gloved fingers wrap around your wrist, yanking you closer and you can't help the yelp that escapes you, rubbery black tendrils which burst through the seams of your captain's glove brushing against the hair of your forearm unexpectedly. It's sticky, almost, and you can't help but think of this being the end; you've seen how quickly the stuff grows, drags bigger men than you into its collection. If they wanted you, this brief contact would likely be enough and suddenly it doesn't matter that you promised Reynolds you'd be as friendly and approachable as you could manage because this thing has you, and you're going to be taken in, lost amongst them, just another set of useless arms it can hang from its armpits like trophies -

And then the touch is gone, the tendrils with it. You inspect your skin for damage, feel premature relief flood you when you find none. It's not a guarantee that you're safe, ofcourse, but it's further than the others made. 

"Holy shit, it's working," Reynolds breathes, and then his voice is ripped unceremoniously from your ear when another gloved hand lashes out like a viper and yanks the cord that runs up your neck right out.

"Okay! Okay, sorry," you stammer, hands coming up in that oddly placating gesture you know would never work on any of them, least of all from you. "Just you and me, yeah? Is that what you want?"

You're not sure why you don't expect an answer. Perhaps it's the way the visible jaw of the middle head bleeds ominously, lined with more black growth than proper gum tissue at this point. Maybe it's because the one on the left has been eaten away to bone, hanging precariously. Or perhaps it's because the one on the right - somehow the most human of them despite the eye currently trying to escape the confines of its face - looks so twisted in pain and anguish you don't imagine it's capable of thought, much less speech. But they do speak, a low growl which sounds like none of and all of them at once, and the dread you feel when they bend to tilt toward you, talk down at you like your captain was wont to do is a cold, physical thing. 

"No," they drawl, their voice echoing in their own throat like layered vocal tracks, "just want you and us."

***

The jump from one life altering event to the next moves quickly, the way things often do in the field. You'd long ago stopped measuring events in time stamps, the markers ultimately meaningless when they flow like a river, here white water and rapid, there a slow meander. It's usually much more meaningful to chronicle missions by snap decisions - which choices led where, when things started to go pear shaped. When you decided to help your team, and when they decided what that help would look like.

It's all very concise on paper, when viewed as such. They say they need help and you say that's why you're there, sent to take them back to base where a specialized team can start the process of reversing the damage. They scoff, say you all know there will be no recovery. When they say you can help them in another way, you balk. They say they can just absorb you if you refuse and you concede, rationalizing that you are still helping them, in a way. They've already stopped screaming in pain, at least.

So it's not a very wide web of possible outcomes, all told. A concise, logical statement of events you'd feel no shame in returning to your superior at time of debrief. Even if it's landed you here, grinding your ass back onto the skeletal remains of one head's jaw while they work you open with the long, surprisingly prehensile black growth which you had originally mistaken for a vein of sorts running down their thickly corded neck. It seeped through their skin at their jaw, twined and morphed their tongue into something much longer, harder. It still leaked spit like that was its job, soaking your thoroughly in drool as it wedged itself ever deeper.

They had requested comfort, something to take their mind off the pain, but so far you're the only one being touched. Not that you're complaining. As good as the slimy appendage feels inside you, you're not exactly eager to touch them - so much melty, dead-looking flesh triggering the base parts of your lizard brain which still feared things like communicable, flesh eating diseases on a cellular level. There may be some selfish, brazen part of you that wants more of them, but it's the same part of you that can't look away from a car crash or a fallen soldier - a part that revels in the fear and revulsion, mistakes the stomach churn for an excitable swoop. It's not an instinct you want to be listening to now, considering you're riding a razor's edge of being merged forever with this thing but there's no ignoring it, and there's no stopping yourself from thrusting forward into the wet heat of the middle mouth when prompted, your own hardness surprising you when they note it, encouraging you forward with a twined hand at your back. And there's no stopping the whine of frustration when they slacken their tongue, let the base curl back into their mouth to keep you rocking on just the tip. It's no use correcting your movements to compensate, much as you try. The angle's all wrong, your thighs planted above their heads on one side and positioned firmly on their sturdy chest on the other. With your legs spread so wide, you cannot gain enough leverage to thrust properly and even when you do, the black growth moves nimbly with you, never letting you take it any deeper than a few frustrating inches. 

The far head, the only mouth unoccupied, laughs when you groan impatiently. They tell you to beg but you're not far enough gone yet to oblige so instead, a thick arm is propped up behind you, Price's gloved hand sliding up your front to palm your belly. They take over your pace, rocking you back and forth with more speed than you'd been able to manage on your own. But they keep you raised too high above them, your cock barely reaching their tongue no, and when they keep you like that, just there, it would be understimulating enough to let you flag considering the circumstances and the feeling of raw mandible rubbing up against your balls, if not for the free mouth which suddenly won't shut up, prattling on about how good you taste on their tongue, how hot and tight your hole is for them. How much they want you to take their entire length, want you to swallow them whole while they do the same to you.

You tell yourself you're being demanding when you ask why they don't, know you land somewhere closer to whiney. They don't entertain you either way.

"Told you to beg."

And so you do, quiet and shameful, until they stop altogether and suddenly you're calling for them - for their mouth, their strange hot tongue, their fingers, anything. You even beg for their cock when they order you to, a desperate little whore for the hot, wet tendril they slide back into you, so far you nearly convince yourself you can feel it in your diaphragm. This time when they tilt you forward and take you into their mouth all the way to the root, the appendage stays put, rooted deep. And when it begins to pulsate, sliding a knobby bend of itself which may have once been a hyoid bone back and forth against your prostate with a rhythmic series of contractions, the shudder that wracks you nearly knocks their hands from you. 

"Fuck," you hiss, somehow shimmying your hips even lower, reveling in the tight heat which which engulfs you. The unused mouth hums in agreement between gasps for air. When you realize it's probably breathing for all of them in that moment, you lean forward to plant your hands on the ground and fuck into the middle mouth for all you're able, aided by a hand on your hip when your legs go shaky and weak with the work the tendril is putting on you. 

And when they tell you they can feel your pulse in their throat, you cum so hard your vision whites out. They're relentless, the grip on your hip turning iron strong when you try to flinch away from them, the tongue in your hole never once stopping until you're wrung out and crying, too overstimulated to care about the noises you're making other than to worry you're being understood. Small miracle perhaps, given you're too fucked out to grasp the names they call you, or how they tease you for getting off to an abomination like them. If you were present enough to comprehend them, the shame would have overwhelmed you. Good thing your ears are still ringing too hard for that. You're still floaty when they jostle you into position, get you straddling their considerable hips. Two hands hold you high above them while the other works their belt and fly, and you come back to yourself with a cold jolt when their cock springs free, an incomprehensible meld of two genitals which makes you cringe in pain just to behold. 

At the center, Gaz's cock stands high and proud, relatively normal looking all things considered. But around it, split up the center like some kind of perverse flower, a thicker, shorter dicck wraps itself in two branches around the inner stamen, leaking trace amounts of precum from the seams where it clings. 

It makes your stomach roll.

It makes your mouth water.

"Just as ugly as the rest of us, is it?" the middle head growls. They do their best to coordinate a peak down, but the head on the right seems cemented too stiffly to account for the movement. You don't think they can see it at all, though you wonder if that's for the better. You suppose if you saw your cock split up the middle one day, you'd never be able to get it hard again.

For the better? 

"Worse." 

You're surprised when they laugh, though you suppose you shouldn't be. You know the men trapped in there, even if they don't seem very familiar anymore. But then, as if to prove you wrong, an alien hand grips your ass cheek hard while another set of fingers prod your hole to make sure you are indeed stretched enough for them. And then, when they lower you on to their cock, any sense of familiarity leaves you.

The stretch is not unmanageable at first, Kyle's pretty head notching deliciously within you. But the further you sink onto him, the more that second head prods at your hole and you hiss in warning, not trusting the quick preparation you'd received. They tell you to relax, rock you shallowly on the tip until the second head grows wet with precum and when you reach below yourself to spread it over the shaft, you're surprised to find it already slicked. 

They don't stop you when you pull back enough to get a proper look at them, inspecting the shaft and your own hand to find it covered in pre. Curiosity takes over and you drag your fingers along the shaft, ignoring their shiver in favor of tracing the slick back to its source, the seam where the two cocks splice together. The more your fingers explore, the twitchier they get beneath you until you can't help but tease them, ignoring your baseline revulsion in favor of running your thumb over the split head. "Hurt?" you ask, tone indicating you know full well it doesn't.

"Fuckin' -!" This time when they pull you onto them, they do not heed your protests.

You know tensing up will only make it worse but it's an instinct you can't fight, shrieking when they bully their way inside, the flare of the second head becoming soaked when you squeeze against the intrusion. They gasp, throats working around thick swallows while they keep you anchored to them, aborted little thrusts jostling you just enough to keep you  off balance. Keep you from adjusting properly. It fucking hurts, but the surprising amount of pre and spit helps to ease your grip on them eventually, especially when their weak little grinds begin to work the slick into you, their movements coming deeper and quicker the more you let them in.

They know when they've found your sweet spot by the embarrassingly garbled mewl you emit. 

"That's it," one of them growls, the hand on your left hip squeezing impossibly tighter. On the other side, the one in the balaklava calls you a sweetheart, tells you you're taking them so well.

You can't manage much beyond a bobble headed nod in response, but they don't seem to require one, three arms now working to keep you bouncing on their cock at a quick, deep pace which has your breath catching in your throat, embarrassing little punched out sounds bubbling up each time they bottom out. So overwhelmed, you don't even notice your cock stirring back to life until it begins bobbing uselessly, slapping against their marbled belly and leaving pathetic little dribbles of cum to catch in the thatch of hair there. Even the brief touch makes you whine, makes you grab yourself by the base to keep your twitchy length from grinding too hard against the coarse pelt. Except they don't like that, one hand from the seeming never ending supply snaking up to grab your wrist, holding  it behind your back. 

"Useless little thing, ain't you? Can't even properly take us without crying about it."

You don't think that's fair, but you suppose they don't want to hear how this wasn't what you had signed up for, nor would they likely wish to know that no human could probably take them anymore.

But they seem to realize that anyway. "Maybe we should eat you up? Take you in and make you part of something strong for once? They can't expect us to find any real satisfaction in you, can they?"

And something about the way they say it cuts through your addled thoughts, makes your blood run cold. "Reynolds. He said -?"

"Peace offering," middle head clarifies. 

"Not a very good one," righty adds.

The mix of emotions their words bring is concerning, not least because the pre-existing shame you'd felt for even being in this situation now combines with a deeply confusing feeling of being not good enough and the deep seated need to prove yourself to your superiors rears its ugly head. This time, when you work yourself back down onto them, they let you take the lead, dead eyes adopting as near an expression of smugness as they can manage. 

"Better do a good job, sweetheart. Hate to have to merge you with that backstabbing Reynolds just to get a decent play thing."

"Oh, fuck you," you hiss, wires crossing now as you try to figure out if you want their approval or their apology.

You get neither. "That's the plan."

Maybe it's a bad idea. Probably, you'll get your fingers bit off and then you'll sink so far into their chest you'll come out the other side and they'll wear you like a backpack until your cells all melt into an unrecognizable puddle. They'll call you Six despite the fact you'll never watch it for them, just waiting to die every minute.

None of it stops you from sticking your fingers into the offending mouth. "Shut the fuck up."

Your stunt earns you peace for all of three seconds before you remember which mouth you've chosen to take your frustration out on when that same dark, prehensile tongue wraps itself around your wrist, drawing your fingers down its throat eagerly. The shudder it earns isn't entirely disgusted and the other heads laugh at you, insultingly amused. 

You'd almost rather be Six. Especially when the slimy drool begins to coat your wrist, the weird tendril working itself across your skin as if it could wring more pleasure from the appendage while they groan in apparent pleasure, breaths coming slightly quicker.

"Feels so good," one of them confesses, their hips beginning to piston up into you. Sensitive, must be. Fresh new tissue despite its leathery texture. It would explain the way they stroke the skin of your hairy forearm at least. Your frustration grows when you realize that not only have you failed to shut them up, but you've also managed to give them even more satisfaction, somehow. 

Well, maybe they won't kill you at least.

But the hope dies in your chest when they grab your cock in their meaty fist, squeezing until you flinch and cry out in pain. They tut at you condescendingly, continue to work your length with far too much aggression. You're prevented from curling in on yourself by the broad hands at your waist and the hand currently being held hostage by a concerningly strong tongue. All the while they rumble about how useless you are to them, how they'll have to make you into something that suits their needs if you can't please them. It's a bad enough threat, as is, but when they start talking about alpha team like just more meat for the grinder, more limbs with which to combine you, the sob that wracks you isn't solely rooted in pain and overstimulation.

Somewhere, in some base part of your brain which still craves the approval of the men beneath you, you spare a thought for how badly you will have failed your mission if the amalgamation you'd been sent to wrangle, in an attempt to split them back up, ended with you earning the merge of your entire team. Probably, you shouldn't be worried about it right now, but the way they ramble about you being a disappointment to them has already turned you into a needy little thing, so you've just been set up for failure, really. So when they tell you you'll have to do better, you try; and when they prompt you to shove your fingers further down their throat, you do. And when they say you're much too pathetic to please them if you can't even take their smallest cock without crying, you falter, apprehensive.

"Smaller?"

They're mean, your open fear making them shutter beneath you. Their cum is so hot it nearly burns, leaking from you in a frothy ring as they continue to pump into you for a minute longer, working themselves back from the edge before pulling you off their length, Gaz's cock still hard at the center despite the way the split cock still dribbles weakly. They keep you raised high enough you can see when they reach down, one set of thick fingers working their fly looser. In retrospect, you're not entirely certain how you never felt it beneath you. Likely just assumed it was another strange black growth, like the kind that corded him all over, pulsing strangely with angry-looking veins. What he pulls out of his pants next isn't too dissimilar, a thick, angry-looking shaft which splits toward the tip, the pulsing blue vein which runs along the bottom branching into two merged heads, each of which look plenty formidable on its own. The end result is a frankly terrifying behemoth, its head the thickest part except perhaps its belly which looks swollen with whatever that blue vein carries. It leaks in some places, the familiar pearl of precum collecting at its heads and a darker, thinner substance which seems to ooze from the strange veins. It's… pretty, in its own way. At the very least, far more human than the one which now rests against their belly, too heavy to stand tall now that the outer cock is no longer hard. Still…

"That's not gonna fit."

Their laugh is slightly breathless, chest still heaving from their sudden orgasm. "You'd best make it. Told you what would happen if you couldn't please us."

For a moment, you think to call their bluff, your self-preservation instinct finally outweighing your loyalty. Your team isn't here, surely it wouldn't be as easy as they say to turn everyone? But ultimately, they do not need the rest of the team to turn you into something you do not want to be and you decide not to try your luck.

There's no easy way to take the heads all at once so you reach back to stretch yourself on your fingers, surprised at how easily three slip in among the spit and cum. A tendril of shame winds up your spine, the way you've so easily accepted them settling uneasily. Your expression must be telling because they laugh at you, swat your hand away so they can properly assess your stretch. 

"Christ, what a slag. Already dripping with it and wanting more?" The hand they're using is ungloved, but the texture of the skin is all wrong anyway, and the way it twitches and shakes makes it hard to close your eyes and just forget what's working you open on thick, probing fingers, much as you try. It's bad, uncomfortable, makes your skin crawl. Worse even than that, however, is knowing that they're right.

Slick with spend, the noise their fingers make within you is inescapable, a lewd sound you've been conditioned to appreciate since you even knew what getting your dick wet entailed. Despite yourself, it's not long before you're rocking back onto the alien fingers, your head thrown back as they tear breathy little gasps and curses from you. A proper moan when they hook the forefinger of another hand in against your rim and pull.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," you pant, unable to get away from the middle finger which slides in against this new intrusion with little preamble due to the way the remaining arms hold you in place. 

"Shut up and take it," they order, fingers now holding you open like a pair of forceps as they wrangle you into position above their second cock. "Should be thankful we even bothered stretching you out."

But despite their words, sliding down onto the double heads makes it feel like they haven't bothered to at all. Their fingers keep you spread until you're notched over the flare, the stretch of their fingers and their cock bringing tears to your eyes which they quickly wipe away with that long prehensile tongue. You hadn't even noticed when your fingers had slid from their mouth, both hands now braced against their chest as you try to keep yourself from sliding down their length before you've had time to adjust. It's a worthless attempt of course, all hands now gripping your waist, hips, thighs, shoulders, and dragging you down centimeter by relentless centimeter. They chatter all the while, degrading words somehow keeping you grounded if only because it gives you something to focus on other than the unpleasant stretch of your ass.

"Ungrateful, that's what you are. Worked you open on fingers and tongue. Slicked that hole right up when we came in you, didn't we? And all you do is whine -."

The slap to your ass isn't too surprising, but the gloved hand striking hard against your cheek with the strength of the two combined arms that wield it, is.

Barely audible over the ringing in your ears, you hear them demand you thank them and you do so, stuttering. "Th-thank you!"

You're not sure if it's your cry that gets them, or their patience finally snapping. You see the cords of their neck flex beneath a ridden-up balaklava when they groan and then their hips are working up beneath you, burying themselves to the root within you. They lay there panting for a moment, collecting themselves. You take advantage of it as best you can as well, wriggling your hips against theirs in an attempt to adjust, feeling the slick leaking from your hole as you do so. 

Overflowing. Fucking slag, indeed.

They want you to ride them again but you can't, legs too far spread and sore to be much use. They roll you over with minimal complaint after a few failed attempts, their grumbling getting lost in the rush of your ears when they pin one leg to your chest and lean heavily against it. Gravity lets their first cock flop onto yours, hot length sliding against your flagging erection while you try to ignore their comments about how tiny you are beneath them.

It doesn't work, and the fact it only makes you harder makes your shame burn hotter.

"Pretty little thing, though," they mutter, one heavy hand cradling your jaw to keep you looking at them. They're the stuff of nightmares, looming over you as they are, but your cock twitches anyway because you've always been so desperate for their approval.

Another fist finds yours, wraps your hands around your frotting cocks as best it can. Combined like this, your fingers are barely able to encase even half of it, your grip not nearly tight enough to do either of you any good despite the way he tells you to give him something to fuck. He hisses in frustration when you're unable, one hand slapping the back of your thigh as he bullies it off to the side, his own hand twining with yours and squeezing much too hard as he begins to fuck up into you, his slick cock moving against yours as the other notches against your prostate when he withdraws, earning a ragged moan from you.

"There?" he asks, pistoning hard enough into you you'd go shuttling across the ground if not for the grip he still has on your hip, or the immense weight he leans on to you. You nod, throat and tongue working uselessly. One hand remains locked in his grasp but the other scrabbles up his chest, catching on some PALS webbing and holding on for dear life. 

"Fuck yeah, squeeze me just like that, love," he pants. You're unsure if he means the way your walls clamp down around him or your fist, currently gripping too tight to be comfortable. You remain tense in both anyway, suddenly desperate to hear more of his labored breaths. It's an instinct you do not want to analyze. Can't, given how suddenly your every thought is occupied by the way the heads of his cock scrapes against your sweet spot, has your mouth hanging open uselessly. 

The grip on your jaw shifts, palm laying heavy and flat against the column of your throat. They don't squeeze, waiting until you whine in want to duck closer, long tongue sliding against your lips as drool drips down on to you. The middle head hums, pale eyes heavy on your pathetic display. "Still need more, honey? Is that it? Need something to suck on too?"

"Knew 'e was a fuckin' slag," the last head mutters, and the tongue slips into your mouth before you can respond - not that you could've, brain sent skipping by the relentless pace he's set. The tendril in your mouth swells, fills the area between your teeth until your jaw aches with the stretch. It thins out some as it creeps down your throat, the very tip of it a thin little column which it eases past your gag reflex. You'd think they were trying to be nice if not for the way it immediately swelled again, your breaths coming hard through your nose as it continued, threatening to cut off your air from within. 

"Needy," the head on the end gripes, but the one in the middle is nicer. "Deep breath, sweetheart."

But nice as the sentiment is, the tongue in your throat doesn't actually give you enough time to abide, forcing its way deeper as the middle head does nothing more than tut disapprovingly. The hand around your throat flexes, all three heads groaning in unison as you tense up tighter on reflex, panic beginning to climb up your throat - only made worse by the knowledge you can't express it for the intrusion blocking your airways.

Within you, the tendril pulses once. The hand around your throat flexes with it, a pressure from within and without which feels like it might tear your delicate skin apart - and then they both relent, pulling away from you altogether until only their thick heads remain notched within you. They watch you splutter and cough, vaguely sympathetic noises cooing down at you while heavy hands trace over your body, too rough to be soothing. After a moment, one of them asks if you're ready, but again they do not wait for a response before filling you completely, hips bucking into you as they make you gag on their tongue. They stay there longer this time, cock twitching against yours when your throat works around the intrusion. 

"Again," they hiss, but you gag and cough, eyes growing swollen and leaky in your panic and they relent, panting nearly as much as you as they wait for you to collect yourself.

They don't even bother to ask if you're ready this time, their hips fucking up into yours the only warning you get before the hand around your throat tilts your face just so, the slimy tendril slipping down your raw throat nearly familiar. "Breathe," they warn, and this time they give you enough time to comply before slipping past your reflex, their fingers drumming off the column of your neck as they sigh into it, curling around you as their hips keep working. You whimper when their grip tightens around your cocks, but it just comes out as a snotty sound.

"Swallow, sweetheart," the far head whispers, breath hot against your ear even as it's filtered through the mask. You blink a few times, confused as to how you can manage that, and then the tongue in your throat pulses and it's automatic, reflex, the mouth at your ear groaning as the hand against your throat tightens. 

"Can feel ourselves," the middle head admits, flexing their grip again. "Here."

This time, when they grip your throat, their fingers dig into your pulse points and your vision tunnels, sensory input narrowing down to each place they touch you - the way they occupy your throat, control your breathing, your very pulse, the way their cock slides hot and wet against your own, grip so tight it would be painful if not for the way their twin heads keep notching against and framing that spot deep within you on each pass.

They only make it worse when you cum, tongue thickening in your throat as their grip tightens. They relent when you gag, the relief of your first breath only heightening your release until your back arches and you're cumming up to your chin. They hiss at the way you clench around them but their hips work even harder, balls slapping against your ass as they bury themselves into you until they're cumming so deep you think you can feel them in your stomach. 

Panting, you feel them pull out and the flood of cum that follows. You grimace, your leg lowering as you try to regain some semblance of pride. You have no clue how you're ever going to look any of them in the eye again, if they're ever successfully split. Despite your lethargy, your body spent after two rounds with a literal monster, your brain is finally coming back online, conveniently choosing now to remind you that Reynolds definitely saw all that from his end of the security feed. You roll onto your stomach when they pull away from you, desperate to bury your head in the ground while you collect yourself -.

But then a firm grip around each ankle makes your blood run cold, and you yelp when they pull you close again, leaning forward until they hover over you ominously, the length they slide into you slipping past your rim with ease.

The first cock. Gaz's. He still hasn't finished.

"Not going anywhere, are ya luv? Thought you could handle all of us?"

[fbfh]

I want to fuck Daryl Dixon so fucking bad. y'all don't even understand the primal need I have to milk him dry, suck his soul out through his heavy uncut dick. and I KNOW the feeling is mutual because we all know Daryl's the typ to suppress and ignore his emotions, right???? which means OBVIOUSLY he'll be too focused on staying alive and keeping the group safe to even think about sex, too exhausted from fighting walkers and scavanging supplies, just making it through the day to even whack one out. and all of that sexual frustration just builds and builds and builds deep in his subconsious until one day he's out hunting and comes across you. he doesn't expect to see someone alone and without a group, especially not such a hot piece of ass like you. he's older, you know there's an age gap between you, but you are both adults, and only meeting for the first time now. you justify this to yourself, mentally trying to figure out if anything between you would be legally or ethically yucky. you decide that it's fine - especially given the state of the world - to indulge your feelings.

Daryl brushes it off for as long as he can. He ignores the way you look at him, and all the dreams of you sneaking into his tent and riding him until you squirt, he ignores the stray thoughts that leave him a little bricked up happening more and more. He ignores it until one night, you actually do sneak into his tent. He thinks he's dreaming at first, seeming as gruff and chilly as ever, but you don't care. You just crouch next to him and hug him, hiding your face in his bare chest.

"I... I had a bad dream." your words are simple, but they really speak volumes. He knows first hand how bad the nightmares can get, and your skin feels so nice on his. he's so touch starved that he doesn't even realize why he's pulling you into his lap, holding you close and rubbing your back, he just knows it feels... really good. like, really really good. so he tries to calm you down and help you settle back down for sleep, laying you down next to him. you cuddle up to him so painfully close that he doesn't know what to do. You wrap both your legs around one of his thighs, squirming a little as you settle down.

"'m sorry for keeping you up so late," you say, pouting up at him and he is SO close to folding. he has maybe one or two scraps of self control that are fully stripped away when you squirm some more, rocking your core against his thigh, and he feels it. He feels the slimy, slippery wet patch growing wetter and wetter as you "get comfortable".

"Do you think there's something that could... y'know... tire me out a little?"

and he folds. of COURSE he folds, anyone would with you being all cute and sweet to them, ESPECIALLY someone whose heavy, full balls are bluer than the lonliness and pain in his heart. he uses his last ounce of self control to say your name like a warning, but it only serves to make your pussy throb against his leg - something he definitely does not miss.

"You're playing a dangerous game here, kid..." he warns. You inch closer and closer to him, batting your eyes up with a cute little pout.

"'m not a kid," you protest. your eyes flick between his eyes and his lips, and you can't stop your hips from grinding down onto his thigh. "...you want me to prove it?"

but with how fast he flips you over and pins you down and folds you in half, you really don't have time to prove anything.

[rose-tinted-kalopsia]

Alright so, hear me out.

Xavier definitely has a thing for dry humping. Listen, listen.

On days when he’s too tired to fuck you or wants to tease you, he’ll definitely grab you by the hips or ass and just start rutting into you. He prefers to do it sitting on the couch more than standing because it’s easier (obviously) and the gravity adds to more direct pressure on your clit. He for sure uses this to his advantage as he gets to see you cum for him up close and personal, while you’re trying to bury your face in his neck to shy away, he’s watching as you fall apart in his hands and become putty. And the little shit smiles to himself as he feels the dampness on his pants as he bucks his hips into yours, cumming in his pants too. He’s such a fucking tease. He knows it and while you’re there catching your breath, he has enough stamina to carry you into the bedroom and go for a few more rounds.

(Long story short, he’s doing that more often from now on.🤭)

HOOLLLYYYYY SHIT EMI IS IT GETTING HOT IN HERE?!!!! EMI BRAINROT IN MY ASKS I'M SO HONORED OMG 🥰🥰🥰🥰 but no bc facts?? i think about dry humping with xavier all the damn TIME and you. YOUUUU have captured all of my thoughts so perfectly!!!!!

something about xavier just screams unconventional when it comes to sex, and it definitely lines up with the whole "innocent guise" he has going for him hfjsjfj he just wants to render you a complete and utter mess for him and what? no he's not going to wait to get your clothes off for it? no he's not going to drag you to the bedroom right from the get-go? he needs you!! he needs you here and now and to see your pretty little face up close as you realize he's barely even doing anything and yet you're so <3 damn <3 helplessly <3 surrendering <3 to the pleasure <3 despite the neediness and the desperation in the way he'd rut into you, you BET he'll be a little shit about it 😭 that damn smile 😭 he knows what he's doing, yet he'd dare act like he doesn't 😭 "mmh,, didn't know you liked this, angel..." BYE EMI THE BRAINROT WAS TRIGGERED

[ghostaholics]

𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐒𝐈𝐌𝐎𝐍 '𝐆𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐓' 𝐑𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐘 𝐍𝐒𝐅𝐖 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍𝐒

➸ PAIRING: Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x fem!Reader; 18+ only ➸ BANNER CREDIT: cafekitsune ➸ OTHER GHOST NSFW HEADCANONS: here & here

➸ BLINDFOLDING: obligatory, a deal-breaker especially early on in the relationship; lots of things he has planned for you that involves his mouth, and while he could pull up his mask as far as he needs to, just have the hem of it resting on the bridge of his nose, sometimes he prefers to do away with it all so as not to become an obstacle that's impeding on his fun – hence, a blindfold (maybe a spare military scarf that he's got lying around or any other scrap of fabric that'll suffice) to block out the visual of his face – the temporary deprivation of sight has your other senses heightened, with tactile being the most obvious as you become extremely responsive to his touch when you’re not sure what to anticipate next (❝ Should tie you up too, tease you 'til you can’t stand it anymore. How’s that sound, sweetheart? ❞)

➸ RECEIVING HEAD: likes it almost as much as giving; will never turn it down when the opportunity presents itself

(1) deepthroating - you need the practice since you couldn't get it all the first time he fed you his cock, couldn't quite accommodate the girth of him no matter how hard you tried that night; so, you've been working up to it, finally able to get your mouth full, throat fucked, just your wet heat encasing him and he can't help but apply light pressure, palming the back of your head to push you down on his dick and letting out a guttural groan whenever you occasionally gag while taking him down to the base (❝ Breathe through your nose, love. Choking on my cock like this... fuckin' hell. Don't go hurtin' yourself now.❞)

(2) when he's sitting with his legs spread wide, you kneeling in between them and looking up at him through your lashes - doesn't rush you, tells you to slow down in fact, so he can enjoy the sight of your lips wrapped around his dick for longer, how you're so enthusiastic about making him feel good - about cock-worshipping - practically drunk alone on the pleasure of sucking him off as if this might be more for your benefit than it is for his; you start working him with your mouth - gently licking at the seam of the sensitive head and lapping up the prespend there because you're a good girl for cleaning up the clear and sticky mess gathering around his slit before pressing a kiss to the blunt tip, or when your tongue runs wet along the length of him before trying to swallow him down your throat (❝ So good to me... love this almost more than that pretty pussy of yours. C'mere, sweetheart. Gonna return the favor and spoil that li’l cunt with my mouth. ❞)

➸ PARTIALLY-CLOTHED SEX: can be impatient when he’s in a rush, certainly has little to no tolerance for undressing you or himself for a shag somewhere inconvenient (it’s called a quickie for a reason but he’s only interested when there’s a high probability that you’re already wet before he’s even laid a finger on you, e.g. eye-fucking him across the room for the last hour while lightly chewing on the tip of your pen and dragging it across your bottom lip before pausing at the corner of your mouth, or verbal foreplay throughout the day where you’ve been dropping dirty comments about how you much you’ve been thinking about him just slowly rubbing at the entrance of your cunt, having him fill you up with his fingers or his cock); honestly doesn’t want to waste time sliding into you after all of that – the most he’ll otherwise do is ruck your shirt over your chest to paw at your tits, knead at the flesh and pinch/roll your nipples between his fingers while pounding into you from behind (❝ Move these panties to the side before I rip ‘em off you. Really don’t think you should’ve been bloody wearin’ any in the first place. ❞)

➸ SQUIRTING: riding him, leaning back slightly with one of your hands grasping at his muscular thigh to stay upright – and the view drives him crazy, how you’re bouncing, fucking yourself down on him over and over, along with these desperate little rolls of your hips; you’re doing so good for him that he makes the executive decision to assume control now, thrusts up into your aching hole, bruising – almost punishing, but he can’t stop when he’s got you moaning even louder now and gasps spill from your mouth when you take him to the root – cockhead brushing against the front of your cunt at this angle every time he drives inside you (❝ Right there, huh? That the spot? Fuckin' know from how goddamn wet you're gettin' me— ❞) and he keeps going until you start coming hard then, soaking his cock so bad that the fresh rush of slick pools across his thighs, leaks down his balls (❝ Christ, got you gushin’ all over me. Let's see it again, c’mon. ❞)

➸ DEGRADATION KINK: light on the insults, doesn’t necessarily mean it in a literal sense but knows that they have their time and place during sex; he equates them to something affectionate – prefers to use the ones that possess a more positive connotation in lieu of/alongside praise based on the situation and really enjoys how your cunt involuntarily clenches upon hearing that sort of stuff

❝ Yeah, can feel this cunt pulsin’ around my cock. Such a cute li’l fucktoy – jus’ can’t help it, can you? Need you to stay still for me, though. ❞ (e.g. cock warming)

❝ Taking me so well… being so good, aren't you? Careful love, don’t want ‘em hearing how loud you are; they might get the wrong idea about you, moanin’ like a whore and all that. ❞

❝ Where’s my dirty girl want me to finish? Inside, is that it? Fuckin’ Christ you’re a naughty one, sweetheart, lettin’ me fill up this cunt. Greedy for it, like a bitch in heat— ❞

❝ I know you’re more than a cumslut, love. But you beg me to fuck you stupid, damn near let me abuse every single one of these holes of yours, and—c'mon, you see why I might have a hard time believin’ myself, right?”

➸ HAIR-PULLING: if he finds out you're into it, then he’s very much in favor of grabbing a handful of your hair, fingers spanning over your scalp and slightly tugging so that he tips your chin up – not enough to hurt; usually only does it when he’s trying to get you to look at something (bent over the sink, and you need to look at your reflection, don’t want to miss that, of course) or he just wants something to grab onto (when you’re on your knees while he’s face-fucking you, gotta make sure you maintain eye contact); accidentally discovers you share this kink when his intention is to give you a low warning for teasing him, bringing your ear close so you can hear him properly without him having to raise his voice but you just end up letting out a soft moan in response

(1) if your hair's long enough - he likes wrapping a ponytail around his hand, and will appreciate a nice plait, but he's not choosy