#nyu!au

[maxybabyy]

The power has been out for an hour when he finds the kid looming around in the hallway.

He’s in the same old NYU shirt that Daniel always sees him in. The shoulder seams hang loose from his frame, and there’s a giant hole in the sleeve, big enough to fit a thumb through if you tried. Max must have done that before, he thinks, chewing away at the strings. The silly plastic thing is gone too, leaving nothing but the frayed tips.

“I reckon it’s gonna be out for a while,” he says when Max just keeps staring at the emergency light flicker. The one fucking thing this shitty building actually has. Maintenance is shit, and he’s pretty sure there’s a new species of black mould growing in the hallway window. But at least their little void on the seventh floor follows the safety guidelines.

He taps his socked foot against Max’s scruffy sneakers, watches him turn around with a frown.

“I was playing with my friends, and then the electricity went out. I thought it was for me only, so I checked the fuses,” Max tells him with his hands high in the air, his fingers flicking along with his words. Daniel doesn’t even know where he would look for the fuse box in his shithole of a studio. “But it is of course the entire building. I think maybe it is the lightning,” he adds.

“Nah, the building is just shit,” Daniel tells him. “If it’s not a water leak or a fucking rat problem, it’s the power. Same old shit and they won’t fix it. Just wait until winter when the heating will go away too.”

Daniel has learned to keep himself busy when the snow starts falling. LA, in particular, is great around Christmas when New York becomes too unbearable.

“I was here in the winter also,” Max says, gestures to door where he lives like Daniel doesn’t already know. “It was so nice of you, giving me a Christmas present. I of course had not bought you anything, but you said –“

Blake had dropped off the newest batch of merch samples right around New Year’s, and they had all been shit. The design was wrong, and the colour palette was completely off. They still haven’t gotten the peach the right colour, but the other shit looks fine now. Back then Max had – he would walk around in the same fucking shirt he’s wearing now. Skinny jeans frayed at the hem in a way they aren’t supposed to be, a rolodex of white tee shirts from Target, and a thin, barely-there windbreaker to fend off the cold.

Daniel had given him the leftover merch, he had to. There was no fucking way he couldn’t do it.

He taps Max’s shoe again, watches him crack a grin before he nods his head towards his apartment. “Do you wanna come in? I just have like, a candle and shit, but we can chill until the power comes back.”

Max nods and follows him inside.

Daniel doesn’t offer him a beer, sips at the can while they both watch the flicker of the wick. He doesn’t have another candle, so this one will have to last, the whispers of sea breeze faint between them.

He’s telling Max about his latest gig – some dive bar with a shitty ironic name like Cheers or Sam’s, or shit like that – when Max reaches out to poke at the candle. His skin looks glowing in the candlelight, a warm contrast to Max’s usual pale skin. His fingers look long, elegant as they curl around the candle, his thumb stroking over the dripping wax like it was –

“Daniel?” Max prompts, eyes flickering from the wick to his face and back again, “The drummer is of course an idiot, but it went alright, you said?”

Daniel jerks back into the couch. He swallows loudly. Tries and fails to convince himself he hadn’t been zoning out on the kid’s hands like a fucking weirdo. Safety first, he thinks faintly, can’t have a fucking fire during a power outage.

Max keeps playing with the candle wax, making it drip down onto Daniel’s shitty white wood Ikea table he had carried home in the subway. But every time he touches it, Max sucks in a sharp breath between his teeth, presses down to make it run faster, and Daniel cannot find it in himself to stop him.

Max’s in the middle of a story about his family dog back in the Netherlands, when he accidentally touches the flame. He’s quick to pull back, hissing loudly as he sucks his pointer and middle finger into his mouth with a muddled, “Fuck!”

“Careful!” Daniel scolds. He’s already halfway across the couch reaching for him like a fucking mother hen. But instead of his hand, Daniel grabs onto Max’s thigh in his panic, the muscle firm in his grip. Max watches him back, flexes his thigh as he sucks the fingers deeper into his obnoxiously big, oddly fitting mouth, and Daniel cannot keep – has to look away.

Stares at Max’s knees instead, awkward and protruding and littered with odd bruises.

Daniel wonders how he got them, forces himself to think of less nefarious reasons for how they could appear. Once, Daniel had gotten so drunk that Scotty couldn’t get him to come down from the bar, dancing away until he felt dizzy with exhaustion and drink.

Back then, when his body had been young and spry, he had slammed to his knees before swinging his legs to the side to get off the bar. They had been black and blue for a week before his knees had recovered.

But Max doesn’t let him ponder for long, slides to the floor in a move impossibly fluid for someone to not have done it a hundred times over. He’s quick to reach for Daniel's jeans, one hand still spit-slick as he pulls at the zipper, and Daniel has to – cannot let him do this.

“Hey, mate,” he says, laughs nervously. “Aren’t you like sixteen or something?”

Once, he had tried to give the kid a twenty so he could buy himself some food for the night. Gaunt cheeks and lanky body a cruel reminder of his own teens. Refusing money from Grace and Joe to prove he hadn’t screwed up by running away to America to make it big.

But the kid didn’t take the money and had instead stared at him, brows drawn together much like he is now. “I’m nineteen,” he says.

“In a year or two, maybe.” Daniel scoffs. But still, he doesn’t move. Max’s hand stays on his dick, heavy and warm despite the temperature of the apartment. “Be real, man. I’m fine with you sticking around but –“

Max snarls. He stays on his knees, but Daniel cannot meet his eyes, stares himself blind where his jeans have become undone. “Always you do this. You are so kind to me, flirting with me, but then you run away when I respond!

“Now you ask me to come to your apartment, with the mood lighting also, and again you will not touch me. This is not fair, Daniel.” Max says and digs his nails into his thighs, forces Daniel to look at him – at the furious glare and the too-red lips.

It’s unfair how good he looks sitting between Daniel’s spread thighs. There’s a dusting of pale, blonde hair at the top of his thighs where his shorts have crawled up, and his entire face is flushed with emotion. It’s all Daniel can do to not put a better name to it – the death of creativity for once not a foe. His cheekbones sit high and sharp on his face, a mole on his lip revealed only when Max doesn’t bite into it, looking so fucking pretty.

Maybe that’s why he’s here of all places. Scouted off the fucking streets and put in a shitty apartment in some mirror nightmare of Daniel’s, waiting impatiently for Vogue to call.

Max is still staring at him, and Daniel doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do. He’s not going to fucking card Max in his own apartment, that’s a cunt move. Max would probably throw the card in his face, if he asked, indignant little glare before he would lean in and –

“Yeah, alright,” he whispers but it’s enough. Max hears him, and he does lean in to pull his jeans the rest of the way off.

Max takes him into his mouth, lips stretched around the head almost obscenely, and suddenly Daniel has to force himself to close his eyes shut. It’s too much already, watching Max take him even deeper into his mouth as his head thumps back against the couch. He clearly knows what he’s doing, relaxing his throat as he goes. His hands are firm on Daniel’s hips, keeping a steady pressure until Daniel gets with the programme and fucks into his mouth.

He barely has the time to let Max know before he’s coming. But Max doesn’t move, keeps him on his tongue until his mouth is full and Max has to swallow.

“Shit, Maxy,” he moans, thighs still shaking as Max climbs to his feet. “You’re not. You don’t have to –“ But Max doesn’t leave, drops into Daniel’s lap with his shorts abandoned on the floor.

Max jerks himself off with one hand balanced on Daniel’s shoulder. It’s closer than Daniel’s been to someone else’s dick in years, since Scotty got down on one knee and fucked everything up. A cock is a cock is a cock, but Max’s dick looks almost pretty held in his own fist.

It makes him think of the fucking candle from before, how the wax had dripped between his fingers, and how quick he had been to suck them into his mouth, like he had just done to Daniel, to his dick.

“Daniel,” Max begs, watches Daniel watch him fuck into his own hand desperately. “Please.”  

“Okay, yeah. I got you, Maxy.” He says and slips his fingers into Max’s mouth. It’s only the first two, but his dick still jerks at the reminder of the warm heat of Max’s mouth, the tight pressure and how his tongue cannot keep still. Max whines when he pulls them out, shoots him another furious look that is quickly replaced with a shout when Daniel brushes over his hole. “Like that, yeah?”

Max nods, eyes wide for another moment before they screw themselves shut as he comes with another sound. It’s another few minutes before Max speaks again, the words muffled against Daniel’s chest where he still hasn’t moved. “What’s that?”

Max huffs and sits upright, rubs at the spot on Daniel’s shirt where his dick has left a smear. “I said, the lights are back.” He says, gestures to the room now bathed in light.

“Oh.” Daniel couldn’t tell you when that happened, if it was before Max went to his knees or after. The candle still flickers behind them, pools of wax already hardened on the wood. “I guess they are, yeah.”

[hatterhare]

redraw mania!!!!

og panel:

[jonathanbyersphd]

Tumblr is now giving me ads for NYU all because of this guy

[pretty-emo-dad]

Jonathan left him a year ago and is standing here.

Or Rather, Jonathan went to college and didn’t visit, call, or write and is standing in front of him. The distinction is important, because leaving implies an unplanned withdrawal. What Jonathan did was more methodical, more heart breaking— telling Steve to his face when and where he was going. Promising to call, to send pictures he takes, to send stories with them. And then not following through. It’s bigger than just leaving, worse somehow.

Now he’s here, not visiting Steve, but found by Steve. He’s different, he’s being observed heavily. Just existing, proof of time passing, proof of change.

It makes Steve nauseous.

OR: Steve stayed in Hawkins and Jonathan left, it goes about as well as anything in their lives.

[jaeclerc]

dear washington daughter ; 2.4k ; charles/unnamed

teaser

cw: allusions to body image issues/dysphoria/anxiety, mentions of max/lando/charles

please ignore the formatting, i’m just working this out. but this is literally my HEARTS work and i hope that anyone who comes across this finds something that they like!

The ceiling of charles’ student apartment had a crack, long and arcing across the ceiling. he paid an excessive price for this apartment and yet, his ceiling was still cracked, exposing millimeters of the foundation underneath. he wasn’t too bothered about that, but he should’ve been, he supposes. it was too exhausting to care about those things when he rarely had enough energy to care about most things going on in life.

he’s been in new york for only a week and that feeling had been creeping on him, already. he thought when he left washington it would go away, but he’s brought the same charles to new york. to the city of his dreams or whatever bullshit that they tried to tell him on his college tour. he wanted to get away from eastern washington and the years of repressed heartbreak he experienced in that god forsaken town.

charles turned his head to look out his tiny window. it was raining in new york, it had been since he arrived, which felt like a sign from god or whoever. a sign for what? he didn’t know, but it felt significant to note. maybe even new york didn’t want him and this was the silent rebellion against him. he hated being wet and soggy, it always made him feel too aware of his own body. violently shocked back into awareness of each muscle and limb’s positioning. it felt like the city took on a mind of its own and knew that the moment he stepped foot in it.

he spends most days attempting to be unaware of where his body is and what his body looks like so in those moments where he is ripped from that and into the knowledge of every single rain soaked bit of himself, he feels sick. it only adds to the growing pit in his stomach, the knot of tension and worry that he has been spinning for himself since he was 15 years old and everything started feeling so wrong within himself. he started to feel inadequate and uncomfortable within the body he had. looking back, he thinks these feelings had always plagued him in the depths of his mind, but turning 15 and losing his virginity had brought those feelings to the forefront of his mind.

he had enjoyed the experience overall, but the feeling of her hands on his body felt wrong and he assured himself that he was gay, afterall. until he slept with max and he still felt wrong, every single inch of his body feeling off, like there were parts of him that needed to be there to enjoy the experience that he fundamentally lacked. he felt so far removed from each experience, every single time he attempted to sleep with someone just made him feel more and more vile, his stomach turning whenever their hands brushed his skin.

he brushed his hands over his own stomach, pressing his lips together as he stared out the window, his bitten finger tips sliding further down his body, reaching into his sweats to feel himself. he was soft, he very rarely was able to get hard on his own. whenever he did this, he needed to think that he was someone else. he usually pretended he was touching max or lando. he liked making them feel good, as long as they didn’t touch him on his stomach or chest. only on his waist and hips. he liked when they grabbed his waist. he liked when they called him pretty, when they praised his eyes and dimples.

he could feel himself filling out when he thought of those things, of being pretty and making the people he loves feel good. he wrapped a hand around himself, stroking like how he knew max liked it, the pleasure secondary in his mind. his spine tingled with how off it always felt. he always felt a little detached when he touched himself, but he wanted the relief, the endorphins that always managed to make him feel at least a little bit better.

charles gasped, his hips stuttering as he sped up, hand unconsciously clenching around himself and he was ripped from it. from the carefully constructed fantasy he made for himself so he could touch himself. he opened his eyes, looking directly at the window where it was still pouring rain. his stomach ached as he looked down, and saw he was still half hard. he tucked himself back into his pants and he laid back to continue to watch the rain race down his window, his arms wrapped around himself. he ignored his ringing phone where it vibrated against his bare back. he couldn’t stand being on it, max and lando posting their happiness and rubbing it in his face. he knew that wasn’t what they were trying to do, but it still hurt to see. to see them both happy with their boyfriends, while charles was still alone.

he couldn’t fault them, daniel and max were always destined to be with each other. so were lando and lando’s max. childhood best friends who would have moved mountains for charles’ two loves. charles knew the ending before he started sleeping with either of them, but it was still bittersweet. to fall halfway in love with the only two people who saw him and know that he was merely a bed warmer for the ones they truly loved. and now that he was in new york while they were all in washington, he was even lonelier and far removed from the entire group.

he was hoping maybe that they would take the hint and stop talking to him after he moved. instead, they were even more resolved to talk to him and make him feel included despite him being so far away. lando called him every day that he had been there, and charles ignored most of them and feigned being busy for the ones he had picked up. he would worry about it when max called him. max only called him when it was dire and lando was freaking out over him. but for now he was going to ignore lando’s calls and put it out of his mind just how sad and miserable he was away from them

-

turns out, all it took was charles ignoring that one phone call because lando not only roped max into calling but also charles’ ultimate weakness: daniel. daniel might have been a pain in his side but daniel was also charles’ oldest friend and he knew exactly what to say to charles when he needed it. even if charles did not think he needed it.

“charlie.” was the first thing out of daniel’s mouth when charles picked up his facetime call. “why aren’t you talking to lando? he’s in my phone right now freaking out and about to shit himself because he thinks something happened.” charles sighed and rolled his eyes at how dramatic lando was being, even though he felt a little bit better that he still cared.

“i’m fine, daniel. just busy.” daniel gave him a deadpan as he looked to the background of charles’ room.

“i dunno it looks like you’re sitting shirtless in your dorm. plenty not busy, actually. max even looked to see when your classes start so you don’t have any excuses. no bullshit: what is wrong?” charles sighs, laying down and resting his head on his pillow as he stares up at the crack in his ceiling.

“i don’t fucking know daniel.” he replied in italian, knowing max was most likely there as well and this wasn’t for him, only them. “i’m exhausted. these feelings have been following me for years and they followed me here. i don’t want to talk and see everyone so happy all the time when i’m so far away and feel so left out.”

daniel was quiet and charles looked over to see him chewing on his thumb nail as he obviously thought things through, his eyes big.

“carlo, we love you so much. you know that. you know max loves you, you know i love you, i mean shit, man. lando is about to fly to new york to hunt you down because he worries so much about you. so things are different and we’re in different places but we will always be here and always love you.”

charles closed his eyes and sighed.

“i love you guys, i’m just trying to figure things out so far away. i need some space to adjust and that includes quiet time. i’m sorry i’m not picking up i just don’t have the energy right now.” he was lying, he didn’t really want to speak to them, but he wasn’t going to tell daniel that.

charles picked up the phone to give an excuse to hang up but max wrenched the phone out of daniel’s hand, tilting it to look at charles and giving charles a good view of his forehead.

“charles.” max said in that tone that indicated that he wasn’t going to take no for an answer. “last year, you had to whip me into shape. so i am going to do the same. we will never say no if you need us, but you need to tell us when you need us. you think all these things like i do not see you. i see you.”

charles walked out of his room and into his kitchen, still on the phone with max, chatting about mundane things as charles made himself a TV dinner. he smiled sweetly at his phone as max told him a story about his cat, leaning against the counter as his dinner cooked.

charles’ roommate took that as his que to come out and loudly snicker, muttering under his breath that of course he got roomed with the gay boy. charles sighed, curling his body in on itself. max stopped what he was saying and demanded, quite loudly, to know why charles was acting shy and upset all of a sudden.

“it’s nothing, cheri.” he muttered and max’s face wrinkled, he could see the demands about to roll off his tongue.

“can you facetime your boyfriend somewhere else?” his roommate chimed, a fairly ugly (in charles’ opinion) guy from rhode island that he got randomly paired with because he knew nobody and didn’t make the effort to actually meet anyone.

“i’m just cooking dinner and talking to a friend.” charles replied defensively, his shoulders curled up as if he was about bolt. he grasped his phone in his hand going to mute himself so max and daniel didn’t hear, but daniel wrenched the phone from max’s hand.

“do not mute this, charles.” his voice was serious as he looked at charles through the screen.

lucas huffed and crossed arms, trying to defend himself “i’m saying, i don’t care that you are gay or whatever! but if you want to talk to your boyfriend or boyfriends, i don’t want to hear that!”

daniel was about to start in on him but the microwave beeped and charles just sighed. “yeah, whatever.” he mocked the other, grabbing the hot tray and stomping to his bedroom, shutting the door.

“i love you guys, i’m going to hang up and eat. i need some time right now.” he pressed the red button and muted his phone, setting it down on his tiny desk face down. he had no urge to deal with any of that in the current moment, just wanting to curl up on his crappy twin bed and sleep. he felt pathetic, he couldn’t even stand up for himself when his roommate was being horrible to him in front of his friends.

charles ate his dinner in disgust, barely getting halfway through before he felt his stomach turn and he threw his dinner in his bin, curling up on his bed and closing his eyes as he played a random youtube video from his phone. he drifted off to a critical analysis of the formula 1 system, curled around himself.

—

The crack is still there when Charles looks up at the top of his ceiling. The cracks are still there in his stomach when he rolls over and sees himself in the full length mirror, his eyes bloodshot and watery as he looks and sees a thin man, baby faced and exhausted. His face looks gaunt and his hair is growing out, his hair long enough to show his waves. Charles can barely stand to look down from his face because he knows what he will see and he knows his stomach will turn inside out.

He still looks down, sees everything flat flat flat and broad. Shoulders too wide, hips too narrow, even his waist makes him feel awful. And when he slides his hands down to feel the way his collar bones lead into his delts, he sees that even his hands are too much for him. Too much of what; he doesn’t know, but his mind is screaming a symphony of “wrong wrong wrong” and he can’t take it. Charles looks away and back at the crack, craning his neck to see if he could spot the wooden foundation underneath the plaster.

His phone alarm goes off, indicating that he needed to get up for the stupid orientation they were forcing all first years to go to as a part of the introduction week. Charles did not want to get up but he had no choice, it was required. He rolled out of bed, stretching and popping his back, the thin mattress doing no favors for his body aches.

A glance out the window told him it was still raining, which made the frustration in his stomach raise to a broil. This fucking city was getting under his skin and making him feel out of his mind. He sorted through his messy closet, pulling out his baggiest pair of jeans, a random hoodie, and his raincoat. He felt like hiding from the world, shielding every part of himself.

Charles glanced at himself in the mirror, feeling slight relief that he was covered fully. He put a beanie on for maximum coverage, wishing he could wear his glasses without getting rain all over them.

He attempted to sneak into the shared bathroom but Lucas was already in there, hogging it. Charles huffed, taking his toothbrush and contacts to the kitchen sink, brushing his teeth and slipping his contacts in, preparing himself for the day ahead. He put everything back and applied deodorant, grabbing his shoes and bag on the way out, sliding his earbuds in before he made his way down to the lobby, looking down at his feet to avoid eye contact.

He needed time to prepare for talking and being around so many people, and he wasn’t fully prepared.

[xnxthinglastsfxrever]

College AU

@scinglives 

It’s been a whirlwind for the past couples of months, getting into NYU was hard as it is but getting a dorm with a reasonable roommate was difficult. It took the redhead eight times with the dean and the dorm department to get a different roommate and finally, she got a place to herself. A full ride to the university, she had to focus on all her classes because one bad grade, she was out of the scholarship and will be paying out of pockets.

It was one fall day, the leaves on the trees on campus were changing colors and falling off the branches, the weather had been chilly and classes were almost over. Just a couple of more weeks until winter break and that means one thing: FINALS WEEK. Natasha was in her economic class where the professor was going over the chapter that will be in the final and she was over here passing a note to her friend that was down a couple of rows. On the note it reads: Kind of a pretty boy, isn’t he? and her friend, Ashely knew who she was talking about. Almost every girl on this campus knew. Because he was the kind of boy that was invited to parties, study dates and if you need a good fuck. The last part, Natasha wasn’t sure it was true or not, she only saw him at one of the parties last weekend and never got him off her mind but her friend Ashely and along with the girls along the campus had been stating that he’s definitely a fuck boy.

But everything took a turn when the notes she was trying to pass over to her friend went the wrong direction and onto her crush desk. Her emerald eyes WIDEN, her breathing changed into more rapid breathing now, PANIC as her eyes pan over to her friend and she shrugged because she couldn’t do anything since the note now was four rows down away from Ashley. FUCK. FUCK. FUCK. The redhead said to herself as she turn to look if the professor saw what happened but his back was facing the students, still going on about the lecture. The Russian would scan across the room, trying NOT to make eye contact with her crush but fail. Now sliding in her seat, her face was red as a tomato.

[celestie0]

gojo satoru x reader | oneshot smut [18+]

title. around the clock

Hooking up with your little brother’s babysitter? That sounds more like a bad porno than a sensible decision.

ᰔ pairing. babysitter/boxing au - underground boxer & babysitter!gojo x college student!reader (f)

ᰔ summary. when underground boxer gojo satoru becomes a little strapped for cash, he gets a day job as a babysitter for a five-year-old kid named yuuji who most definitely has adhd (but that’s besides the point). the kid’s mom gave gojo two rules, and two rules only: don’t accidentally kill my son, and do not flirt with my daughter. he’s pretty sure he’s got a good hold on the former, but he’s got no self control over the latter.

ᰔ warnings/tags. 18+, fem!reader, smut, casual sex, lil bit of fluff, lil bit of crack, slight age gap (reader’s 22 & gojo’s 27), cum play, creampie, unprotected sex, praise kink, slight degradation, gojo is a sleazebag that cares?, sort of porn-coded smut except there’s a lil bit of lore so it’s kinda porn w plot, uhh having sex with risk of getting caught, gojo beats people up at night & then plays father figure to a 5 y/o during the day, mentions of violence/alcohol/drugs/blood/cigarettes

ᰔ word count. 12.6k

a/n. hiiii friends jeez it feels like FOREVER since i've posted some good ol' smut (still has plot tho xd)...hopefully you enjoy n see ya at the bottom! lmk if i missed any warnings! if you asked to be tagged but didn’t get tagged it’s bc you have your tags off aaa :( even when some ppl tried to fix it i still couldn’t tag them i’m sorry!!

alsoooooo so very much love to @starmapz for beta reading this for me :”) really helped me w my posting nerves haha. she is also a wonderful jjk author pls go check out her works!! 💕 ART CREDITS: @/3-aem

➸ masterlist

2:34 pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): heyy um i’m sorry if this comes off kinda rude i just am kinda bad with this but i was wondering if you could text my mom for questions about yuuji’s care instead of me?

2:46pm Gojo Satoru: Oh 2:46pm Gojo Satoru: Yeah, sure

2:34 pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): sorry i know my mom doesn’t know much ab how to take care of him bc i was the one that took care of him for a while but i just really want to separate myself from that guardian role now that i’ve transferred to NYU yknow? :/ i think it’s not my place anymore. i just wanna be big sis now haha

2:46pm Gojo Satoru: I get it. Sorry if I was making you uncomfortable with my texts

2:48pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): no no not uncomfy by it, thanks for looking after him. it’s just i’m kind of busy n stuff so it can be distracting 

2:49pm Gojo Satoru: Ok, got it

2:52pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): and it was kind of an issue with his last babysitter

2:53pm Gojo Satoru: Oh?

2:55pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): yeahhh like he would keep textinf me n stuff uhh kinda weird things… i told my mom about it and she was super pissed so she fired him

2:55pm Gojo Satoru: Weird things?

2:56pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): yeah he was always “accidentally sexting me” n like he sent me a dick pic once sooooo yeah

2:56pm Gojo Satoru: Who tf 2:56pm Gojo Satoru: I’ll go beat him up

2:57pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): oh no no its fine lol 2:57pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): please dont beat anyone up 2:58pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): i’m not saying you’re like him tho i just think maybe less texting unless its an emergency okay?

3:00pm Gojo Satoru: Are you sure because I will totally go beat him up for you

3:01pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): NO I DONT WANT YOU TO BEAT ANYONE UP FOR ME 3:01pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): also no offense but you dont look like you could beat someone up

3:01pm Gojo Satoru: WHAT 3:02pm Gojo Satoru: Tf you mean “no offense” that’s literally the most offensive thing you could say to a guy

3:04pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): yeaa i mean you have muscles ofc but in the ‘ohhh i wanna look good for instagram’ way and not like real man muscles yknow

3:06pm Gojo Satoru: Ok princess next time you visit home and go on one of your stupidly large grocery hauls I’ll make sure you carry all those groceries in by yourself 

3:06pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): NO 3:07pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): I WAS JUST JOKING 3:07pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): YOURE SO STRONG TY FOR ALWAYS CARRYING THE GROCERIES INSIDE 3:08pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): PLEASE KEEP CARRYING MY GROCERIES INSIDE

3:09pm Gojo Satoru: Nah 3:09pm Gojo Satoru: Should we be texting right now? I’m not sensing any emergencies here

3:11pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): pls. my groceries :(

3:16pm Gojo Satoru: I’ll let the kiddo know you say hi 👋�� 

The irony of it all was that, if Gojo really wanted to, he absolutely could beat the shit out of someone. And he has, hundreds of times, pseudo professionally. Although that isn’t something he’d admit to you, out of fear that you might relay that info back to your mom who would then become mortified that she’s entrusted her five-year-old son’s life to the hands of an underground boxer. 

But he needed the money. A night-time job didn’t really make daytime money, not when they could easily replace him with the next dude the second he gets knocked out of the ring more than twice, let alone if he let it happen once. And although he sometimes made large sums, it wasn’t stable income. He needed a back-up plan, and so babysitting it was. 

The babysitter working nights at unsanctioned dojos and gyms located in the back of cartel blocks, knocking teeth out of men twice his size, would put any decent mother into a coma or induce some episode of syncope, hence why it wasn’t something he put on his resume before he got hired. Not that he even needed to provide a resume; your mom seemed desperate to cover the position as fast as possible, that promotion at work was moving faster than she wanted to, and Gojo’s beneficial attribute that he possessed as a candidate to look after her son, compared to all the other potential hires, was that he had a penis.

He likes the kid. Yuuji. He’s got kind of a short attention span, and makes Gojo weary of his age. Hold up, that makes him sound like he’s geriatric, he’s really only the ripe old age of twenty-seven, but the immortality and infinite stamina that a five-year-old boy has on him is enough to have him huffing and puffing at the end of every single evening shift he takes on with the rascal. 

Fighting is all sprint, and no stamina. Sure, there might be some more seasoned boxers that might disagree with him, but for someone as young as him in the field, it’s the tactic he’s been forced to gain. If he draws a fight on for too long, he'll get killed by a forty-two year old man with steroids clogging up his adipose tissue and enough  testosterone to grow a full-body beard by the time the sun starts to set. No, his strategy is to knock them out within the first fifteen seconds. Use their weight against them, and whatnot. A tactic he’s found has worked, since he’s been undefeated thus far. 

He can never wrap his head around it. The drug lords that run the rings who’ve gained millions the night before from selling crystal meth only to lose it all the night following in the second Gojo hooklines a solid punch to their betting boxer’s chin, making them see God & their Momma before they tap out (if they’re even able).

He doesn’t pocket much money from it, not anything compared to what the men who bet on him end up making at least, but it’s a decently solid sum. How lucrative it really is depends solely on what he thinks the value of his life is.

It’s not unheard of, boxers dying in the ring. Turns out, rich drug dealers care very little about the sheep they’ve captured to perform their entertaining little stunts. But Gojo wasn’t doing all of this to feel some sense of work-life pride, no, it was just sustenance. When basic needs are not met, humans resort to the most animalistic of all behaviors, and while he’s not proud of what he does, he can’t deny the fact that it’s turned him into an adrenaline junkie that gets a rush in his veins every time he knocks a jaw loose.

But balance was key. And hence why he’s a boxer by night, babysitter by day. For at least four days a week, he gets to pretend he’s the king’s most trusted appointed knight, or he’s the radioactive tyrannosaurus rex that wants to tyrannize all the other dinosaurs, or maybe he’s the evil power ranger (he always forgets which color that one was) that is determined to make the world a living hell by smashing mr. potatohead against the bunk bed post a billion times for all the other toys to see. Or whatever other imaginative hyperfixations Yuuji imposes on him in the later afternoon once he’s had his bowl of spaghetti-O’s and is ready to play. Lately, the kid’s been really into space. They’ve got all sorts of space toys these days. Back in Gojo’s day, he just had a good ol’ Buzz Lightyear.

“One rule, that’s it: don’t accidentally kill my son. Actually, one more rule. Don’t flirt with my daughter.” 

There’s a part of Gojo that believes your mom kind of knows he’s up to shady shit at night, otherwise why else would she clause for him to not flirt with you if she didn’t read the slight swell to his eye and the healing gash across his cheek as anything other than this boy is trouble and I want him nowhere near my too-good-for-him daughter of reproductive capacity since that’s the exact tale of how I became a single mother in the first place. Or maybe he inherently looks like he’s up to no good? He’s not sure which angle is more offensive, and which one was more flattering. Well in any case, she entrusted Yuuji’s life to him, despite acknowledging the plausibility of harm, and that means she overall thinks positively of him, right? ……right?

The first night he met you, it was awkward to say the least. Gojo spends most of his nights performing deadly stunts for middle aged men with potbellies, and most of his days hanging out with a five-year-old (one who he’d argue is his only friend at this point). Sure, he’s got some people he sees occasionally back in his high school hometown when he can brave hearing about how everyone’s in college now or doing a masters or they’re working respectable nine-to-five day jobs meanwhile he has to lie to his Pops that he’s been working in insurance for the past two years. Listen, in fairness, he probably makes the same amount of money as an insurance broker would anyways, but he can’t exactly own up to the identity of his craft. 

Anyways, the point is, he’s not used to seeing other people his age anymore. There’s the occasional hook-up with girls he hasn’t seen since Mrs. Tracy’s homeroom period back in sweet two-thousand-sixteen, or his twice-a-year hangout with Suguru where he only learns the day of where he's visiting from since the guy moves around more than Gojo can keep up with. But save for that, he mostly just sees your mom and then Yuuji. 

So seeing you standing in the kitchen for the first time when he went to put Yuuji’s half-finished GoGurt back in the fridge was startling to say the least. When the sight of a woman startled him, he knew he needed to start getting out again.

You were on your tiptoes, reaching up to grab at something over the fridge, and wearing these ridiculously short shorts to where he could see the curve of your ass, his line of sight trailing down the skin of your bare legs. He couldn’t see anything of your form above your shorts, given you were wearing an extremely baggy t-shirt with NYU on it in big bolded university letters. As far as he knew, you were a senior at NYU, studying psychology, made dean’s list consecutively for the past three years given the way your mother posted all your stellar transcripts up on the fridge (he gets that she’s proud of her daughter, but doesn’t that kind of stuff usually end in grade school?) But other than that, it was all the information he had on you.

“Here,” he said, pressing his front to your back, maybe just to get a feel, as he reached over to you to finally grab the box of cereal you were swatting for, the one that he purposefully placed at the back because Yuuji learned how to climb counters recently. “Is this what you want?”

He had heard you gasp, spinning around on your heel fast, staring up at him with wide eyes like you weren’t expecting some random man to be in the house right now, and your first instinct ended up being to grab the knife out of the kitchen knife block and lunge it straight at his torso.

If it wasn’t for his boxer reflexes, he’d have ended up at the ER that evening. Or dead. All depending on the strength you could pack into a stab. But instead, he deflected it, though not without a gash to his torso through the fabric of his shirt, one that you spent the rest of the evening profusely apologizing for and eventually mending to with cotton balls and neosporin. 

“I didn’t know you were my little brother’s babysitter,” you mumbled with a small wince on your face as you dabbed ointment on the wound while he pulled the hem of his shirt up to his shoulder. He’s never had an injury tended to before. It was nice.

“It’s fine, I get it, totally acceptable response to seeing a random dude in your house.”

He remembers the curl of your eyelashes while you stared down at his bare upper half, something he imprinted on his memory rather than the concern in your face as your fingertips traced the scars across his chest. He hoped they made you feel better about the one you just slashed into him, because after all, what was one more? 

He knows he shouldn’t have, but he kissed you that night. Two minutes before your mom came home, and right after you bid him goodnight with one more apology, he backed you up against the door of your bedroom, his hands on your hips pulling you towards him, and his lips pressed against yours. Something seamless, from candid conversation that was heading towards an end, to full fledged making out against white-painted wood, his teeth nipping at your lip and he wondered just how touch-starved those university boys were leaving you given the desperate way you’d clinged to his shirt for dear life as he deepened the kiss.

The moment only lasted one minute and fifty-seven seconds, and in the remaining three, your mother’s key pushed into the front door and he had to pull away. Always, on the dot, 10PM, she was home. It was how he knew he had two minutes left to make a move in the first place.

So much for no flirting.

6:57pm Gojo Satoru: Bahahah I accidentally forgot where yuuji’s epipen is 6:58pm Gojo Satoru: [sent a photo] 6:59pm Gojo Satoru: Turns out this can-o-soup was just covering it in the cabinet

7:01pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): ??? why did you need to find his epipen

7:08pm Gojo Satoru: Oh he accidentally took a bite of my pad thai 7:09pm Gojo Satoru: I freaked cuz I thought it had peanuts in it but I remember I asked for it without any  7:09pm Gojo Satoru: shit’s crazy

7:10pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): WHY THE FUCK DIDNT YOU TEXT ME????????

7:12pm Gojo Satoru: YOU SAID YOU DIDNT WANT ME TEXTING YOU UNLESS IT WAS AN EMERGENCY ?

7:13pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): SATORU YOU THOGHT HE ATE SOMETHING W PEANUTS IN IT AND YOU FORGOT WHERE HIS EPIPEN WAS THATSS A FUCKIGN EMERGENCY

7:15pm Gojo Satoru: THE KID IS DOING FINE HES ALIVE JESUS LEAVE ME ALONE 7:16pm Gojo Satoru: [sent a photo] 7:16pm Gojo Satoru: See. he’s chill 7:17pm Gojo Satoru: with intact airways might I add 7:18pm Gojo Satoru: Also isn’t he a little too old to still be watching baby sensory videos?

7:20pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): yeah my mom thinks he has adhd :(

7:22pm Gojo Satoru: oh

He tried to keep his word though (although he doesn’t recall ever giving it) out of the respect he had for your mom. She was a hard-working lady, single mom of two who went from working three jobs to now being a major administrator at a big law firm near the outskirts of town. It was an underdog story if he’d ever heard one, and he loved an underdog story. 

But a little texting here and there wouldn’t hurt, right? Or so he thought, until you told him to cut it out with the contact. Maybe you were just trying to be the good one in this situation. After all, hooking up with your little brother’s babysitter? That sounds more like a bad porno than a sensible decision. Still, he’ll eventually get your replies to his which shirt should Yuuji wear to the park? and look, the toothfairy gave him the butt of a joint and a couple thumbtacks for his front tooth. he’s ecstatic texts, although in a less timely manner than before when you weren’t trying to preserve propriety. And when you’d occasionally visit every other weekend, he’d do his best to keep his hands in his pockets, and you’d fill up your nights with hangouts with your hometown friends to avoid spending too much time with him at the house. A silent agreement to not fuck each other, it was. 

4:55pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): send pic of yuuji pls i miss him :(

5:04pm Gojo Satoru: [sent a photo]

5:08pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): IS THAT BLOOD?!?!?!?!

5:09pm Gojo Satoru: chillllllll it’s fake. We’re working on his halloween costume

5:09pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): WHY DOES IT HAVE BLOOD?!?!?!?!?!?

5:10pm Gojo Satoru: He wants to be a baby xenomorph and I'm his parasitic host. You know that iconic chestburster scene from the old school alien movies? yeah

5:12pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): satoru please for the love of god just dress him up as a dinosaur or something

5:13pm Gojo Satoru: I’m not the one that came up with the idea, okay? It was him

5:14pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): because you let him watch adult swim with you before putting him to bed. you’ve deranged his brain.

5:14pm Gojo Satoru: He needs it. Builds character.

Gojo was living a double life, and if someone asked him, he’d say it was less of a Clark Kent way and more of a Bruce Wayne way, although in reality, he knows it’s close to neither. He’s no superhero with a concealed identity fighting crime, he’s a con artist that’s tricked a hard-working woman into hiring him just because he’s trying to save up enough money to get the fuck out of this godforsaken town, given he’s not knocked dead before then for the crime’s amusement.

But Yuuji looks up to him now. And Gojo’s grown attached to him too. He taught the kid how to tie his own shoes and piss inside the actual toilet like a real man. And that kid’s the only thing that’s made him question any of this. Maybe that’s what dads feel, suddenly held to all this impossible responsibility and the pressure to stop doing stupid shit so that you’ll stick around to see your kids get older. The thought that there are eyes on you now, eyes that are innocent and hopeful and learning, and because they know nothing at all, you feel the responsibility to protect them from everything. For fucks sake, remind him to never become a dad. 

“Do you like my sister?” Yuuji had asked him out of nowhere one afternoon after he just got home from preschool, stacking a blue cube over a yellow one at the dining table.

“Uhh,” Gojo starts. He wondered if your mom had put a wire on the kid, so his answer was as diplomatic as he could manage. “Yeah, she’s cool. You’ve got a cool sister.”

“But. But.” Yuuji stutters, trying to find his big boy words. He stretches up higher to reach the top of his stack of blocks, but he only has so much arm real estate at the age of five. “Do you like her like you wanna kiss her?”

Gojo grabs the block from the kid’s hand, for a moment questioning Yuuji’s decision to want to put a blue block over another blue block, but he figures aesthetics are the least of a kid’s concern, and so he places the block where Yuuji wanted it. 

Why does the kid know what kissing is anyway? Do kids know that kind of stuff at that age? Isn’t a kiss to a five-year-old just something their mom gives to them before they head off to preschool for the day? And not something that happens between adult men and women? Maybe he should stop watching that adult swim in front of him.

“No. I don’t want to kiss your sister,” he says, again, because he is suspicious of a wire. It was a lie and then some, because he wants to do a lot more than just kiss you.

Gojo lifts the RedBull he was nursing up to his lips and watches Yuuji in the corner of his eye as the kid stares at his growing stack of blocks with a concentrated expression on his face, his chubby fingers squeezing tightly into little round dimpled balls, like he’s putting together all his tiny brain cells together to form another coherent thought before turning to face Gojo on the chair.

“It’s ok. You can kiss her if you wan’ed to. You can marry her too,” Yuuji says.

Gojo almost spits out his RedBull. He barely manages to swallow it, a broken cough immediately leaving his throat when some of the liquid goes down the wrong pipe and he’s smacking a fist against his chest to knock the sanity back into himself.

“Where the fu—…where the flip did that come from?” he asks, blinking back tears from the rasp in his throat.

Yuuji’s small shoulders sulk as he sits back on his heels. “I want a papa.”

Oh fuck that hurt. Jesus christ, there was nothing more sad than that. Yuuji has literally never known what it’s like to have a dad, since his had left before he was even born. Gojo’s not really close to his old man by any means, but he had still been a fatherly figure in some pivotal moments when he had needed it growing up. Kids need their dads. And he’s seen enough people lose their way without one to know that the value of them is really underestimated.

He’s also kind of shocked that Yuuji really did think of you as his motherly figure. Maybe since it had always just been him and his dad, Gojo learned how to self sustain from a young age, and he and his dad became accustomed to just looking after their own interests to avoid the headache of tending to one another. My land is my land, and your land is yours, and there was the occasional Saturday night spent together with his dad’s millions of beer bottles emptied dry on the carpet in front of the 1992 box TV as the two shared a greasy pizza from the place down the street. That was the extent of family solidarity that he knew.

But he can’t imagine being barely eighteen and having to take care of your little brother all by yourself because your mom was too busy trying to put food on the table and was too poor to hire a babysitter. Your mom tried so damn hard to keep you away from the single teenage mother life, but somehow ended up giving it to you by proxy in the end anyway. It was no wonder you wanted space now that Yuuji’s a little older and your mom can afford a babysitter. No matter how much you might love your sibling, being their effective guardian out of pure necessity had to have taken a toll.

Gojo clears his throat before he speaks. “Buddy. If I married your sister, we’d be brothers. I wouldn’t be your dad.” 

Yuuji’s eyes light up at the word brother. “Brothers? Me and you?”

“Yeah. Bros.”

The kid giggles, all bubbly with cheeks rounding fully and eyes sparkling. Gojo reaches out to ruffle at his hair before Yuuji gets down onto one stubby leg at a time from the chair then bolts towards the kitchen.

“Juice!!” he yells somewhere around the corner out of sight.

Gojo sighs, staring at all the toys he pulled out for Yuuji to play with, all left in a scattered mess across the table. He gets up out of his chair and heads towards the fridge. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll get you your juice, you little demon.”

The conclusion he comes to, and it might read like an obvious one, is that kids don’t really know the reality of life, hence why adults hide so much from them. 

This is what he thinks of tonight when he wraps his worn out boxing tape around his hands and his wrist, tightening it with his teeth, and he can smell the sweat and grime from them. The back of the underground gym had an old dated locker room, and as Gojo stretches his neck side to side while sitting on the stiff metal bench, he eyes the peeling red paint of the locker in front of him, blurring vision making it look like spilt blood. 

His phone pings with a text. He shuffles inside his duffle bag to look for it while his other hand scratches at his bare chest.

1:07am yuuji’s sis (no flirting): hhhhhhhhhiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii 1:07am yuuji’s sis (no flirting): omgomgomg sor y i’m 

He blinks at the screen, confusion flashing across his face. He types one letter, but then he sees three dots and a speech text bubble in the bottom left, so he waits for you.

1:09am yuuji’s sis (no flirting): i drunk :(

The corner of his mouth ticks up slightly. 

1:09am Gojo Satoru: Yeah I can tell

1:10am yuuji’s sis (no flirting): at a apartyyyy

His eyebrows raise slightly, the thought of you tipsy on some frat party couch flashing through his mind, yet of all things you could be doing at that frat party, you’re texting him? Must be a really boring party.

1:11am yuuji’s sis (no flirting): whyyy are you aawake?

1:12am Gojo Satoru: Couldn’t sleep 1:12am Gojo Satoru: Don’t you have a midterm in the morning?

1:14am yuuji’s sis (no flirting): wtf hwo do you knwo that

1:15am Gojo Satoru: Your mom keeps your schedule posted on the fridge

1:15am yuuji’s sister (no flirting): im so fucked;’;(((

He snorts. He’s got a bit more life experience than you, five-ish years to be exact, more than enough time to master the no-hangover hangout, but just before he can offer you some advice, he sees another text from you. 

1:16am yuuji’s sister (no flirting): can i tell u smething 

His gaze flits up to the ceiling briefly, and he hears commotion outside the thick walls of the locker room. The previous fight was over, and fast. The guy must’ve been knocked out in under twenty seconds tops, which means that Gojo was next up against whatever superbeast just beat him up. 

1:17am Gojo Satoru: Sure

He stands up, placing his phone down on the bench before he flexes the muscles in his arms a couple times to get the blood flowing into them. And there’s the noise of another ping. Actually, four.

1:14am yuuji’s sis (no flirting): sonetimes 1:14am yuuji’s sis (no flirting): i thikn of  1:14am yuuji’s sis (no flirting): when u kisse me 1:14am yuuji’s sis (no flirting): *kissed me

His eyes widen slightly, irises dry to the ashy cigarette smoke from outside lingering in the air, and his heart rate picks up a bit. An adrenaline junkie with close to no fear in his veins due to the way his amygdala’s been fried to a crisp from years of boxing, yet he’s got his breath hitched from the memory of your soft lips against his. It makes the blood rushing through the muscles of his arms rush somewhere down south instead.

Loud banging on the door of the locker room jolts him out of his trance, and he’s stiff around the edges once more.

“Satoru! You’re up, man,” he hears Danny, the fight coordinator, yell at him from the other side of the heavy & poorly-installed steel door.

Gojo sighs, glancing down at the texts on his phone. To respond, or not to respond. You’re off your face, clearly chatty from the alcohol, and he knows for certain you’ll regret every life decision you’ve ever made once you wake up in the morning and see the self sabotaging behaviors you’ve engaged in tonight. He knows that responding to you might put you at ease rather than straight up ignoring you, but the feeling will pass, and he has a match to win with no more room left to stall.

He makes his way out the locker room, pushing past the crowded halls of people underneath dim flashing club lighting, some dudes angrily jerking to face him when he pushes past them with a stiff shoulder, only for their eyes to widen when they see just exactly who pushed them. 

There’s strippers in the ring, doing some routine for pre-match, and Gojo narrows his eyes at the man he sees laying back over the rubber boundary rope, head tipped back up to the ceiling with a wicked grin on his face. So that was his opponent? He’s never seen the guy before. Was he from a different district? Different district talent was tough, you had no background info on them, while they’ve been preparing to be here for weeks. Hence why boxers tend to do better when they visit a different district than they do in their own. There have been rules made to limit these types of fights, mostly over outrage that it was unfair to bid on them, but they were also usually more entertaining to watch. Gojo’s got a sick feeling to his stomach as the strippers clear the ring.

“Hey,” Gojo calls out, grabbing Danny by the back of his collar and dragging him towards him and away from the girls stepping down onto the floor, “what’s in for this fight?”

Danny glances up at the ceiling. “Tarp’s bettin’ tonight, so it can’t be anything less than ten grand for you. I’d say tops fifteen?”

Gojo narrows his eyes further, then glances off into the ring again. The man stands up, and Gojo gets a better look on his face. He’s got short hair, neon green in color with a dark fade underneath and tattoos all over his face. But those eyes. They were freakishingly red, and it made him uneasy. He knows the type. The type of boxers that do this to genuinely hurt people for thrill. Make no mistake, Gojo understands he’s made himself out to be like that too, gaining some kind of rush out of this profession, but this type of fighter was different. The type to literally continue smashing a dude’s face into the floor until they’re a bloody mess even minutes after the winning call, and no referee to stop it because that’s the kind of action the spectators wanted.

Danny reads his line of sight. “That’s Gale. Newton’s new boxing toy. Came outta nowhere about a month ago. He’s undefeated so far in his district, and Newton specifically wanted to see you up against him tonight,” Danny tells Gojo, resting his elbow up on his bare shoulder. “Chances are he’ll compete with Tarp for final bid if you win this one. I’m talking twenty-five grand in the next if you can knock him out in this.”

“Uh-huh,” Gojo acknowledges, rolling his shoulder so Danny’s elbow falls from it. Forget the money, he just wants to make it out of this alive.

He sets his foot up on the square, ducking through the dividing boundary straps and the tacky caution construction tape that the gym thinks creates an exciting ambience. He hears the static of the speakers as the announcers call out Gojo’s name, then this other guy, loud bass club music booming through Gojo’s chest as he tries to take a few deep breaths through the thick air of this low-ceiling arena. 

The dim overhead lights flickered, casting shadows over the makeshift ring, and the crowd pressed tight around at every perimeter area, yelling and pushing, one even tosses a beer bottle on the square and it shatters, spreading glass all across, a few shards reaching Gojo’s feet and he looks down at them with a shudder. A fight immediately breaks out in the crowd over something related or possibly entirely unrelated, and he’d have no way of knowing as he swipes the shards away with his heel.

The influential men always sat up on higher seating, off towards the back in their own VIP section where they suck in the smoke of fat cigarettes and peer through 100% tinted sunglasses to assess the boxers they’ve bid thousands on. The light reflects off the golden grills of their teeth with every snarl at any passerby that gets too close, like a lion in its den. That’s what the sanction was called. Lion’s den.

Gojo sighed, eyeing the twisted grin of this Gale guy across from him. Was that his real name? Usually, foreign district guys get nicknames. Gojo’s always thought the nicknames were tacky, and he’s accumulated some of his own over the years, but to his ears, none of them ever really landed, although The White Fox admittedly was kinda nice. Reminded him of throwback shooting games. 

He sucked a breath in through his teeth, holding his hands up in front of his chest in weak fists, storing energy in them in the form of pure anticipation alone, and then the bell rang.

His opponent lunged towards him immediately, fists flying in a barrage of reckless strikes, and Gojo’s eyes momentarily widened in the briefest moments of hesitation he had been allowed before ducking and dodging every one of this guy's shots, then jumping a step back to create distance.

Fuck. He was fast. Not just boxer fast, athlete fast. There was a difference. And it wasn’t a good one to be up against.

Gojo picked up light on his feet. He couldn’t win this one fast, that much was certain. One single careless or reckless move, and he’ll get tackled. He knows that by the malicious look he sees on that guy’s face, grin wide like he’s some cannibalistic beast. 

Stepping back towards the center, Gojo purposefully set himself up for Gale to swipe a vicious hook towards his head, before Gojo last minute ducked down, crouched to the floor, and swung his leg out to knock the guy off balance by his ankles, and he falls onto his back with a loud thud!

There’s a moment of momentary silence from the crowd, right before Gojo put the man in a torso-lock, twisting him in a way a human body should absolutely not be twisted, hearing the grunts of pain and the crack of spine even through the shouts of the crowd.

He can hear it. Kill him! Knock his fucking teeth out! Snap his neck like a goose, man! FIN-ISH HIM! FIN-ISH HIM! FIN-ISH HIM!

He feels like throwing up. 

Gojo looks up at the referee, who wasn’t really a referee, just there to run the clock when there was action and only barely stop it before near death. “This is enough, right?” he asks.

The referee nods. “1-0, next round.”

Gojo lets go of his opponent, leaving him there to heave for a moment before he gets up onto his feet again. Just needs one more, and he’s a winner. Ten grand in his pocket, and he won’t have to come back here for a couple weeks.

Gale gets up, swiping at the spit that had trickled out the corner of his mouth down to his chin, and he had an enraged look on his face. The second the bell rang for the second round, he exploded forward towards Gojo with even more fervor than before, gritted expression with a thirst for violence fueling the storm of punches he was throwing towards Gojo but he tried to remain calm, light on his feet, swiftly duck and avoid before he can find another opportunity to clear a sharp, clean jab right to the ribs—

sometimes, i think of when you kissed me

Gojo misses his strike, leaving his guard wide open, and Gale takes the opportunity to land a solid punch straight to his jaw, sending his mouth guard flying straight out of his mouth into the air, and knocking him backwards onto the ground with a thud and then he finds himself staring up at the rusting metal ceiling and a ringing in his ears that almost matches the roar of the crowd.

His head is in a haze, dizzy like where one second could feel like a millennia. He feels a soreness underneath his chin, a pain that radiates to his mouth, and he briefly swipes his tongue over his front teeth to make sure he still has all of them. 

What the fuck was that? That intrusive thought. There’s no intrusive thoughts allowed in life or death situations, not when he was always just one smash to the head away from a permanent concussion. But, fuck, he can’t help it. Can’t help thinking of you. Even when his vision has gone blurry and he should really be weary about what happens next in this ring, his mind’s just thinking about you, at some frat party, tipping back shots of tequila and waiting for a text-back in response to your tipsy ones. Were you even waiting up on him? Have you already passed out on the couch, or were your friends dragging you back to your dorm? Or are you fucking some other dude right now? Has he got his hand up your top, squeezing at you, sleazily feeling you up before spilling beer all down your shirt, and are you kissing him back with the same enthusiasm, your phone now somewhere long slipped between the cushions of the couch and out of sight?

Even though it’s still sore, he tenses his jaw. Grinds his teeth, even. Tasting blood somewhere along the line of his gums, he realizes his lip is split. He licks at it, the flavor of copper more rich on his tongue, and he clenches his fists tightly. Why’s he thinking of that right now? It just pisses him off, the thought of you with some other dude. Maybe that’s what he needs to win this fight. Spite. Although he’s not sure why the guy across from him at the ring has to pay for it.

He lifts his head up off the ground, and while it felt like years he had been down, a glance at the timer tells him it’s only been a solid four seconds. A solid four seconds that his opponent had to fully charge a lunge towards him with the look of death in his face, raising his elbow up into the air in time with his leap, ready to come straight down, and Gojo’s eyes widen at the sight above him from where he’s still lying on the wood.

“Shit—” he cusses, rolling his body over to the side so that the dude falls straight down onto the floor rather than elbow Gojo in the fucking ribs, and then he gets back up on his feet. 

Stakes were high, he has to end this, he has to end this now, and he flexes the muscle in his right bicep, channeling everything he has into this one blow, and before Gale even really has a chance to turn around and face him again, Gojo’s already three-fourths set up a knockout undercut that he drives straight up the guy’s chin, with so much force it has him lifting up off the floor, a vertebrate stretch to his spine before he’s sent flying backwards and slammed against the tight rubber lining of the ring to where he was half hanging over it.

The room fell silent for a split second, then erupted in a roar as the referee fell to one knee beside Gale, checking him for any semblance of consciousness, and when he found none, he waves the match off. 

Gojo’s eyes flit up towards the lion’s den, the only opinions that he really needed to care about were sitting in those mahogany chairs with glasses of scotch swirling around in their hands, and he sees some of them looking straight at Gojo before leaning towards one another and discretely talking about something he can’t make out because he doesn’t know how to read lips.

He feels someone tug at his arms from behind, pulling him to crouch down and he balances back on the balls of his feet. He glances down through the ring at the floor. Danny was leaning against the wooden surface of it. “Dude. Go.” He jerks his head towards Gale, who still laid there sprawled across the now stretched out rubber perimeter bands. “Go fuck him up. Knock a few more teeth out, I don’t know, get some more blood out of him.”

“What?” Gojo huffs, yanking his arm away from Danny’s grip. “The fuck are you saying?”

“I told you, man, Newton’s here and he’s got his eye on you. Go give him a show,” Danny says, “do it.” And when he sees clear frustration on Gojo’s face he sighs. “Twenty-five grand, consider that, will you?”

Gojo sneers at the man, an awful taste in his mouth as he spits blood towards Danny’s feet. “Go fuck yourself on his cock if he wants a show that bad.” And then he ducks underneath the bands and hops back down onto the floor, pushing past people who were trying to grab at him and pull at him and lift him up and even throw him down until he made it through flashing hallways and back to the locker room.

He shuts the door behind him, sliding the bolt lock into the frame so no one can follow him inside, and then he leans his weight back against the chilling steel before tipping his head back until it hits the surface too.

He lets out of a few deep breaths, then stares down at the sting he finds over his knuckles. Red and blistering from the last punch he delivered, and he’s almost certain he broke a bone in his hand. Fuck. It was bleeding across the cuts, too. He had to figure out a way to get it all healed by tomorrow, as if that was humanly possible, just because he doesn’t want Yuuji questioning him about it.

Yuuji. For fucks sake, when has he ever thought about the kid this much? When has he ever thought about much of anything when he’s out here or in the ring? He’s a babysitter by day. He’s a “part” of your family when the sun is up and normal functioning society is breathing their lives into the clean air. That’s it. He’s no five-year-old’s caretaker in front of all these primetime drug lords, and he certainly shouldn’t be thinking of you when facing big, burly men he’s aiming to rough up, all within the dead hours of night. So then how come these thoughts are on his mind at all times, twenty-four-seven, around the clock?

He heads further into the locker room, glancing down at the bench where he’d left his phone, then picks it up, neck craned all the way down to glance at the screen as he holds his phone by his hip because he doesn’t have any energy to pick it up any further towards his eyesight. 

He sees your messages. You never sent any follow-up ones, just your horrendously typed out sonetimes, i thikn of when u kisse me *kissed me across the span of four texts, and Gojo runs a tired hand down his face.

He tips his head back to groan at the ceiling, guttural with no basis other than a release of all the pent up frustration of every sort, then he types in a couple messages to you,

3:23am Gojo Satoru: That’s nice 3:24am Gojo Satoru: I think about fucking you all the time 

—and then tosses his phone into his duffel bag to call it a night.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

You’re awoken to your alarm blaring heavily, and you whack your arm across your nightstand table beside your tiny twin-size bed to hit the snooze button, then rub your eye with a loose fist while smacking at the residual taste of alcohol you have on your tongue. 

“Mm…” you mumble to yourself. And then the thirst hits you. The overwhelming, intense, unquenchable thirst that leaves your mouth feeling like the Sahara desert before you grab your twice-dented Hydroflask from the nightstand, twist the cap off and chug about twenty ounces of water in one breath. 

You let out a deep exhale and fall back into bed, your hand resting on top of your water-filled tummy, and you stare up at the ceiling of your dorm. 

Last night was horrible. You knew you shouldn’t have gone to that frat party, especially given you have an exam in—you checked the time on your phone—about an hour, and an hour was not enough time to recover from the raging hangover headache that’s pounding through your head. But your roommates insisted you went, and so go you did. You never knew what to expect, always torn between shaving your pussy before you go or throwing on a stained pair of sweatpants to keep the guys away instead. Sometimes, it was a combination of both. But last night, you ended up drinking more than you usually do, and that always led to poor, poor, poor decisions, in which all the sense of pride you had in yourself was washed down with the puke that you hurled into the upstairs toilet. 

You grab at your phone again, briefly seeing that your friends had sent you some photos from the night. You immediately swiped off to the side to dismiss the notifications, because as far as you were concerned, you never wanted to see those photos in your life.

And then, in the briefest of moments, you saw a familiar name in your notifications that made you heart skip a beat.

Gojo Satoru (yuuji’s babysitter)

With an immediate gasp, you pulled your phone to your chest and held it there, blinking up at the pale yellow ceiling, your heart picking up in rhythm.

Oh fuck.

That was right.

You drunk texted him last night.

You drunk texted your little brother’s hot babysitter.

Fuck.

Mortified was an understatement, possibly because you don’t even remember what you said, and so you don’t even want to see what he replied with.

You groan, rubbing both your hands across your face then kick your sheets back with your feet like a child having a temper tantrum because you were so embarrassed you had even texted him at all last night. I mean, he was hot. A little older than you, really gorgeous eyes, tall, and, yeah, you gave him shit for the Instagram muscles thing, but that’s only because you thought he’d find it cheeky that you were trying to humble him despite the fact that he’s more toned and ruggedly sculpted than any other man you’ve ever met. You didn’t want to have a flustered schoolgirl attitude because it would just seep through to his ego.

In any case, he was hot, there was no denying it, so can you really blame yourself? But still. There was collateral with this. You had to see him every other weekend. He knows your family, even your extended since they invited him to Thanksgiving dinner a couple weeks ago. A high-risque drunk text recipient if he ever was one (of course he has been, look at that face). Why couldn’t you have just drunk texted ECON160 guy from last semester who Clit DJ’d you underneath your desk at the back of the lecture hall instead?

The thing that made you nervous about Gojo Satoru was that he was just so…confident? Like, in that I was raised to be this way confident and not that I fought inner demons my whole life to barely end up this way confident, y’know? Never had to fake it ‘til he made it, he just was. At least that was the kind of energy you got from him, and unfortunately for you, it was nerve wracking but enticing all at the same time.

You sigh. “Stupid. Stupid. Stuuuuuupiiiiidddddddddddd. You. Are. So. Stuuuuuupiiiiddddddd,” you sigh, running your hands through your hair to grip at the strands.

You pull your phone away from your chest, and finally brave yourself to read the texts from your notifications screen, but not without blurring your vision a little to further stall. And then you finally refocus it to read them. The first one you see has you gasping—

3:24am Gojo Satoru (yuuji’s babysitter): I think about fucking you all the time 

It has heat spreading across your cheeks, and you blink at your screen, then quickly swipe up to read the previous messages with rushed glides of your index finger on the screen to see that he had sent it to you in response to your barely coherent texts about how you still so often think about that time he randomly pressed you up against the door of your bedroom to kiss you that night you first met him.

I think about fucking you all the time

At 3 in the morning? He decided to send that text at 3 in the fucking morning? That was the devil’s hour. What’s he trying to tell you? 

Oh come on, you’re not stupid. And you know he isn’t either. The sexual tension was palpable, it was there since the day you two met and you almost stabbed him, and also everytime you were visiting the house, and his shoulder brushes against yours when he’s trying to get past you in the kitchen, or when you’ve got Yuuji in your arms and the kid is clinging to Gojo’s sleeve because he wants him near him at all times. There’s even sexual tension over the phone, in those stupid texts he sends you all the time about meaningless child care stuff, and honestly, those little updates made your day.

But… you don’t know much about him, and your mom would kill you if she ever found out you wanted him. And she’d probably pulverize him if she found out he ever made a move on you. Cremated without leaving a trace behind would be an understatement. She thinks he’s no good and she thinks you’re too good. You know she’s warned him before to not get close to you, as if she was pre-emptively expecting him to try to get in your pants like it was some canon force of the universe, hence why he’s probably so fucking awkward around you whenever she’s there too. Like if he accidentally got caught staring at your ankles, your mom would light him on fire, so he’d rather not risk it by just avoiding looking at you at all.

Your mom has always been protective of you. Your father was a deadbeat, one she thought she loved, only to watch him leave. And she had to raise a baby all by herself. He re-entered your lives right before you graduated high school, knocked up your mom again with Yuuji, and guess what? Left again without a trace. To be doubly humiliated by a man is a fate you wouldn’t wish on any woman, but that’s exactly what your mom went through. It was a wake-up call for her, though. No more living paycheck to paycheck like you had been your whole lives up until Yuuji was born. The kid doesn’t even know how lucky he is with everything he has right now. Your mom worked her way up the corporate ladder and made something of herself and now you guys were comfortable, so it was safe to say she had some sort of right to look after her daughter, of whom she simply doesn’t want to follow in the same naive footsteps of her youth.

You get it. She wants to break the generational cycle. But it made being with men tough on all fronts, let alone dating. You could never bring a guy home because he’d never be enough, even if he cured cancer or could make you orgasm while doing a sixty-nine handstand. And while her overbearing paranoia over what you do or where you are or who you’re with has since dimmed slightly since you officially moved out to finish your last year of higher education at NYU, you can still feel her disappointment from a hundred miles away when you’re making out with some random frat guy on his beer-stained couch at eleven AM on a Tuesday.

But you got to college. You’ve already made it this far. You’re on dean’s list. You graduated high school as salutatorian. You’re the most highly decorated cello player in the state. You won Miss County pageant when you were sixteen for your philanthropic efforts towards feline leukemia. You did online community college for three years so you could stick back after high school and help your mom raise Yuuji, which meant that you had to forfeit your scholarship to Cornell. You’ve spent your whole life being good, you just wanna be bad for a little bit.

And if bad meant fucking the hot and mysterious babysitter, then so be it. 

You pick your phone up, begin blasting what the hell by Avril Lavigne on your dorm room bluetooth speaker, then type a message to him that says—

10:34am you: do it then

—then shove your phone under the sheets and belt out the lyrics aaaall my life i’ve been good, but now, ahhhh i’m thinkin’ what the hell!!! while kicking your feet and clutching your pillow.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

Gojo has no clue what divine entity has overcast their gratuitous spirit over him on this blessed Monday afternoon, but he’ll thank them for it later once his balls are empty. 

He’s got you on your back, sprawled across the couch in the living room, the first fuck being a rushed one that you offered him with before he has to go pick Yuuji up from circle time at preschool, which wasn’t ideal, but he’s delirious at the sight of you underneath him right now. Your little NYU shirt, a tighter one this time, bunched up over your bare breasts, otherwise entirely naked other than the flimsy panties dangling at your ankle, and the view of the tip of his cock looking hot and heavy against the velvet of your cunt, slowly pushing in, feeling the warmth of your walls squeeze around him paired with the sweet moan that leaves your lips, makes him fall forward with a bracing hand dug into the cushion by the side of your head because the sensation feels so fucking good he can hardly keep himself upright.

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he grunts, pushing himself in further to try and bottom out but he’s still got a couple inches he needs you to take, and so you curl your hips upwards towards the cieling to make more room for him, practically putting yourself into a mating press and soon enough he’s balls deep, “you on any birth control?”

“Uh-huh,” you moan, eyes closed and head tipped back with one hand squeezing your own tit.

“I can cum inside then, yeah?” he asks you, pushing your knees to your chest, slowly drawing his hips back and you squirm underneath him.

“Let’s get there first, and then we’ll discuss,” you breathe out.

“I’ve been there for the past ten minutes, baby. I could cum at any second with the way you look and feel,” he informs you flatly, because it was just the truth and you had to know it, then he feels himself twitch inside, slowly working up to a languid rhythm, almost fearfully like your mom’s going to pop out somewhere around the corner with a camera crew ready like one of those retro TV shows just to humiliate him on national television for not keeping it in his pants like she’d told him to. 

“Harder,” he hears you whisper, and he rolls his eyes shut to just focus on the feeling. The feeling of your nails grazing down the skin of his chest and his abs, tracing the scars he’s collected over the years, and he feels you tightening around him. He leans down to kiss you, fucking you properly now with the squeak of the couch springs echoing across the room, your hums of moans seeping through his lips until he’s fully taking them on with an open-mouthed kiss of sloppy tongue. 

The fact that it was wrong felt right to him, and he realizes in this moment he’s lost all sense of control. He wasn’t just an adrenaline junkie that liked to rough up dudes, he was an adrenaline junkie that wanted to fuck you against all better judgement or moral compass. The way your tits were bouncing, the slap of skin on skin, his balls slapping against your ass while you wrap your legs around him tighter, all convincing him that any consequence made it worth it.

“Good,” he groans the praise, pinning your hands above your head as he rams his hips against yours, your cute moans and squeals sounding like literal music to his ears and he feels heat spread all the way up his neck, “goooood, keep squeezin’ me like that, fuck.” He slows down momentarily, just to take a moment and watch, really look and see the way his length disappears inside of your pretty self with every push forward, and then he works back up to a relentless pace that has you tipping your head back with a slack jaw and eyes closed tightly shut, sprained expression of pleasure spread across.

“Oh, oh my god, Satoru—” you mewled and he felt dizzy from the sound of his name from your softly parted lips.

“Fuck, I’m gonna—” His hand finds it’s way between your legs, calloused pads of his fingers brushing against your clit and you jolt underneath him, gasping as your hand shoots out to dig your nails into his bicep for purchase. “I’m gonna cum, better tell me where you want it.”

“In me,” you moan, “nowhere else.”

He presses his mouth against your cheek in a lazy smile, “Atta girl,” he drawls before pushing your ankles down as far as they’d go near your ears, folding you in half and then reigns all hell into your cunt. He should really care a bit more about your pleasure, but testing your flexibility like this with both his hands holding you down was doing sinful things to his brain, and besides, you had yourself covered with the messy circles you were rubbing over your clit. It was hot to see that too, your nimble pretty fingers so close to the place where he was pounding into you. 

“Oh shit, shit, shit—” he grunts when starts to see blistering white in his vision, balls straining with a pleasure that was almost painful. The moment he finishes feels like hot flashes in his brain, a heat like the cum he begins to paint inside your walls in time with your release, thrusting over and over and over, each one more staggered as he lets off a long, drawn out groan that comes from deep within his chest with the feeling of you milking him dry and the sound of you enjoying every second of it. He can’t remember the last time he came this much or this hard and even after coming down from the high, he feels the remnant pulse of your orgasm around his now half-flaccid dick.

He leisurely pulls out, hearing you let out a soft whimper as he marvels at the sight of his cum slowly dripping out of you and down towards the couch, before he scoops it up with a couple fingers and pushes it back inside. You grip his wrist tightly, but you weren’t stopping it, that motion of him plunging it all back into you.

“Want a taste?” he asks, casually.

“Mhm,” you nod, face looking flush.

He pulls his fingers out of you, coated with sex, then plugs your pussy with the fingers of his other hand because he kinda likes the idea of you walking around all day with him inside of you, so he doesn’t want it getting out. He’s then pushing his other fingers past your lips, pleased to find he’s met with not even so much as a grazing of teeth, and he grins, “bet you take a dick in your mouth as good as you take it down here.”

Your furrow your brows at him, the pout of your lips seen in the way they were puckered to lick his fingers off clean, and when you release the suction with a smack of your tongue and his fingers were wet from your saliva now, his eyes narrow with desire. You push his face away with the heel of your palm to his forehead. “Flattery won’t make me suck your dick.”

“Alright. So? How is it?” he jerks his chin towards your face, pushing against your hand with his forehead until he’s hovering over you again, “taste good?”

“It’s cum, Satoru.”

He shrugs. “Bad?”

“No,” you say, and you can’t make eye contact, “good.” You sigh. “Hot. I don’t know. Salty, sweet. I’m the sweet. You’re the salty. And this conversation is obscene.”

He kisses you, capturing your lips softly, tongue darting out to taste what’s on yours. “I like it that way. Dirty. Nasty. Obscene, whatever.”

There’s the slam of a car door heard from the driveway, and the two of you instantly make eye contact with round eyes.

“Sa—” you stutter, “Satoru.”

He gets up off the couch in a panic, and heads to the window of the living room fully butt-ass naked, then peers through the blinds to see—

Your mom was making it up towards the front door, rustling with her keys in her purse. And the last thing he sees before he turns around to face you is her pushing the keys through the lock.

“Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit,” he cusses, finding his boxers off of the floor, hopping on one foot with his cum & slick coated dick flapping around and slapping against his thighs unceremoniously as he tries to get one leg in through them and then the other. You’re trembling as you hook your panties back into place, pull your shirt back down your torso, and even in his extremely panicked state, he’s still sad he can’t freely stare at your tits anymore. You’re rummaging for your skirt in a haste, looking everywhere for it, and he finds it underneath the coffee table before tossing it to you and then he side-to-side hops towards the coat closet while he pulls his sweatpants up over his ass, in time for you to quickly run and shut the door of the closet closed just before the front door of the house swings open.

The inside of the coat closet is dark, barely enough space in there for a six-foot-four two-hundred-and-twenty pound man, but it’s better than being balls deep inside his boss’s daughter on the couch when said boss just came home from work.

He hears conversation on the other side of the door, albeit muffled, and he presses his ear to it to hear better while he tucks his dick into his boxers from where it was hanging over the waistline.

“Mom! You…you’re home so early,” he hears you squeak out.

“Yes,” your mom says, “The rest of my meetings today are online, so I figured I’d come home when there’s less traffic.”

Gojo feels you lean against the coat closet door.

“I see, I see, how was your day at work?” you ask with a tremble in your voice.

“Fine.” And then nothing. The silence could mean that was all she had to say, since your mom wasn’t really a woman of many words, or it could be a silence that means she’s suspicious about something. “Darling, why is your skirt flipped up and tucked into your panties? Your whole butt is showing.”

Through the wood of the door, he hears you softly gasp. “Oh, um, I just went to pee. Must’ve—…must’ve got caught when I pulled it back up.” 

“I see,” your mother says, and Gojo can hear her dropping her heels down near the shoe rack at the entrance. “You know, I really don’t like those short skirts you wear often. Maybe it’s just your generation, but I think it looks tacky and cheap.”

“Mom,” you say, in as stern of a voice as you can manage without sounding embarrassed.

Your mother sighs. “In any case, where is Satoru? I still would like him to go pick up Yuuji. I don’t have the patience to sit in preschool & daycare traffic right now.”

“Oh gosh, I don’t know,” you chirp, and then he hears you let out a small oh no before you lean even more weight against the door, this time somewhere lower, and he realizes you’re pressing your ass against it. His eyes narrow with a small frown, and then he realizes— his cum must still be trickling down your thighs. You couldn’t put your panties on fast enough. 

Shit. That’s hot. A little fucked up, but hot. He feels his dick harden against the fabric of his boxers, and he rests his forehead against the door, fringe stuck to his forehead with sweat as he slips his hands down his sweatpants and then gives his cock a firm squeeze. The thought of you discretely swiping his cum up your inner thigh and smearing it against your thin panties so your mom doesn’t catch sight of it dripping down your legs has him slowly working up to a rock-solid erection, and he almost lets out a broken grunt from the feeling.

“What?” your mother says, “what do you mean you don’t know?”

“I’ve just been watching TV this whole time,” you say, “last time I saw him…he was…um, in the backyard pulling weeds?”

He lets out a small scoff through his nose at your cover-up. Cute. And not bad. 

Your mother sighs loudly, and he glances down at the strained veins on his dick as he tugs it through his hand, the tip rearing and appearing flushed and dripping with precum. God, you were just on the other side of this door. Less than a few inches away, and he’d be inside of you. 

“I’m going to take a shower. Go find him and tell him to pick up Yuuji soon. But before then, change into something less revealing,” your mother says in a more or less detached tone, and he can hear the stomps of her footsteps up the stairs from above him in the coat closet.

The two of you wait at least a solid minute, and just when the coast is clear, he hears you turn the knob of the coat closet and slowly crack it open.

“Okay, I think she’s in the shower, I hear the water running,” you whisper at him, “you can go now—” You glance down towards his groin, your jaw dropping. “What—…Satoru, why the fuck is your dick staring at me right now?!” you whisper-hiss at him.

He pulls you into the coat closet, pushing your front against the door to where it clicks shut, and you gasp when his hands pin your wrists crossed behind your back and his dick presses into the plush of your ass.

“You talkin’ to your mom while your pussy’s stuffed full of my cum was the single hottest thing that’s ever grazed my lizard brain,” he tells you, flipping your skirt up and hooking your panties to the side, his index finger briefly brushing against your entrance to find it still leaking from the way your walls were pulsating from his words. And then he aligns his tip to your entrance. “Now keep quiet while I do this, ‘kay?”

“Oh—” you gasp, your cheek pressed against the door as you arch your back and push your ass out for him, “okay—” you say, barely vocalizing the first syllable before he’s already stuffing himself inside of you with one solid glide of a push, making you yelp loudly and he has to instantly cup a hand over your mouth.

“Shhhhhh,” he hisses at you, immediately starting to pound you from behind, “told you to— fuuuck,” he catches sight of his length covered with a mix of your glassy arousal and his white cum, now starting to cream at the base of his cock, “jesus christ—” he breathes out, squeezing the flesh of your ass harshly with his other hand and you let out another yelp, “I told you to fuckin’ keep quiet.”

“I’m—mff,” you muffle against his palm, “I’m trying but,” your hips move back in time with his, “feels good, feels too good,” you mewl, and his hand desperately yanks up the fabric of your shirt so he can squeeze at your breast.

“Yeah?” he grunts, hypocritical for telling you to keep it down when he was slamming his hips against your ass with so much fervor he wouldn’t be surprised if the sound was reverberating across the entire house, “you like it when I fuck you while your mom’s all clueless just up the stairs?” His rhythm falters, feeling his release building, and his hand reaches in front of you to rub your clit, making you drop your head against the door with tightly closed eyes. “Gets— you—wet, doesn’t it?” he torments you, his lips near your ear as he slams his hips against you harshly with every enunciated syllable. 

“Mhm, mhm,” you easily agree, or maybe that’s because it’s all you can really articulate, and he angles his hips up so his balls slap more fervently against your clit, making you scream into his palm while he picks up the pace of the circles he draws on your clit and in one, two, three— beats of his pounding heart, he feels you come undone around his cock, gushing wetness leaking out of you, he can feel the mess of fluids splattering on the skin of his thighs due to each of his heaving thrusts as he cusses out a fuuuuuuckkk before spilling his cum inside of you, a short-lived and thicker release this time that has you mewling from overstimulation, and in a few following thrusts, he’s given you everything he had to give.

His eyes open, he wasn’t even aware he had shut them in the first place, and he glances down at where the two of you were joined. Rings of arousal coat the length of his half-pulled-out dick, and the second he retreats all of it, a bulging push of his cum seeps out of you, dripping and pooling all over the hardwood floors.

“Holy shit, I wish I could take a picture of this,” he says, taking a step away to commit the sight to memory, your legs trembling and still slightly spread, ass pushed out and when you wiggle it a little, he lets out a huff of an exhale because he just can’t believe how sexy you are. Are all college girls like this? He’s never been to college, his old man’s been trying to get him to go for years, but maybe this is what finally convinces him.

“No pics,” you breathe out once you catch your breath, standing up straight slowly, “that’s my one sex rule.”

He takes a step closer to you, flipping your skirt back over your ass while you shimmy your shirt down to cover your chest. “That’s the only rule you have? Anything else goes?” he asks.

You spin around to face him, his eyes briefly flitting down to the still exposed skin of your midriff. “I have a feeling I’d be making up more specific rules if it was with you.”

He smiles, his hands grabbing your hips before pressing you up against the door again. “I also had a rule. It was to not fuck you. Wait, no, to not flirt with you. Which, technically, I didn’t do.”

You blink your eyes at him. “You’re kidding, right?”

“What?” he asks, genuinely confused, “I didn’t.”

“Huh—” you scoff, “how do you think we got into this situation in the first place?? You didn’t just say wanna fuck? You were insufferably flirty with me.”

“Nahhh nah nah nah nah, baby, that’s not flirting,” he tells you, thumb running circles over your hips, “that’s, like—…I don’t even fuckin’ know how it worked on you to be honest, I was just being stupid.”

“Oh okay so I’m stupid.”

“I never said you were stupid?”

“Well you said you were being stupid so me falling for it must mean I’m stupid.”

“Pshhh. You’re cute. Pulling weeds, by the way? Adorable.”

Your hand slowly roams up the front of his shirt, the fabric bunching at your wrists until you uncovered up to his collar bone, and you stare at his skin. He tries to not let the way his heart’s beating faster show through the heave of his chest. 

“Why do you have all these scars, anyway?” you whisper to him.   

“Too many girls tryna stab me,” he tells you.

You roll your eyes. “Seriously.” Your thumb traces the one you had left on him. 

“I—” He stops himself.

Does he tell you? Should he tell you? What, just because he’s seen you naked and you took his dick like a queen he’s supposed to open up to you about these things now? He doesn’t know. Maybe he could? Maybe you already suspect what he does at night. And if not, at the very least, I’m an underground boxer might make you think he’s hot? At the very worst, you’ll report him to the cops and he’d get fired as your little brother’s babysitter then thrown into jail, but not before the busted cartel gets him first.

“Maybe I’ll tell you some other time,” he says, his hand wrapping around your wrist and pulling it from his chest, “no hyper personal details until you’ve had my dick in your mouth at least once or twice. That’s my one rule.”

You snort. “I could’ve guessed that rule from a mile away.”

He hums. And then there’s the sound of steps creaking down the stairs above the two of you.

You both make eye contact, eyes widening, internally yelling at each other: how the fuck did we get into this situation twice?!

This time, Gojo opens the door and stumbles out of the closet, leaving you inside of it, just in time for your mom to come down the stairs.

“Satoru. I was looking for you,” she says as she rounds the post. “Have you picked up Yuuji? He has to go for his swimming lessons soon.”

“Ah, nope, was just about to head out,” he says, letting out a cough to diffuse tension, “sorry, I was—” he points his thumb over his shoulder to behind him, “…pulling out some gnarly weeds.”

She narrows her eyes at him. “I see. Well, thanks. If you want, I can add a gardening stipend to your paycheck. Let me know.” And he’s not sure how to respond because he’s not sure if she’s joking. 

He heads out the door, the keys to your mom’s minivan in his palm as he throws them up into the air and catches them a couple times. And just before he gets inside the car, he turns on his heel to face the house and pulls his phone out of his pocket to type in a message for you.

3:22pm Gojo Satoru: Send over those me-specific sex rules soon

.

.

.

[the end]

a/n. hope u enjoyed im shitting bricks posting this bc i haven't posted a oneshot smut since february but thanks so much for reading i appreciate u!! i got way too invested in the whole underground boxer thing 😂😂 but the fact i managed to keep everything under 12k is an accomplishment to me bc if u read my other fics you know i’m a yapper LOL i have another kind of a similarly written smut oneshot n it’s a lil angsty (totally different au tho) i’ll probs post that one next but yea i really like, hmm, i really like exploring entire characters within a short amount of time i enjoy writing the obscure lore drops xd it’s been kinda fun so far anywho much loveee hope to see u around! <3

➸ masterlist

taglist:

@joemama-2 @erencvlt @pickuptruck01 @hanakotateyama @nuronhe

@beabadobeee @air3922 @timetoletmyimaginationfly @chiyokoemilia @jotarohat

@sirencholia @sorcerersseestars @horisdope @to-dabi @staoru

@aliidarling @ninjaturtletoes @lavender-hvze @lanadelreylover11 @chckn-pi

@satoryaa @gojodickbig @v4mpieres @reinam00n @sleepyyammy

@haikomaiko @tbzzluvr @myahfig4 @arabelluhhh4200 @bloopsstuff

@nat-the-gayass-down-bad-mf @badbclub @blackunecorn @geniejunn @n0tviv

@verystrawberryhottub @iheartshopping @peonysfordayz @dreamsxmerci @aishies-stuff

@milkm4nz @athinasaurus @sashisuslover @welldamnsatoru @aeriiixhh

@crystalymin @dcvilxswish @miakxn @satxoru

[pshbites]

MISS MOVING ON

synopsis › lee heeseung was tormenting your life even post break up, in interacting with you on twittter or his irritating friends on your ass but have you really moved on? OR in which heeseung thinks his ex is over him but really you arent.

pairing › heeseung x fem!reader

starring › enha hyung line, ningning and giselle of aespa, and chaewon of lsfm (side characters): beomgyu and yeonjun of txt, yeji of itzy, enha maknae line, natty of kiof.

genre › smau (social media au), fluff, crack, angst (if u squint), emotional cheating?, drinking, mentions of weed, exes to lovers, partying, mental health issues, slighty suggestive, cursing, and more.

status › ongoing (11/03/2024 - ??)

playlist › miss movin on - fifth harmony. everytime - ariana grande. talk talk - charli xcx. get him back! - olivia rodrigo. boyfriend - ariana grande. bloodline - ariana grande.

taglist 1 › @leeechin @00kittenz @hmusunoo.. and more. 50/50 CLOSED!!

taglist 2 › 12/50 OPEN!!

to join my perma taglist for ALL my works click here, to join this taglist send an ask or reply here.

a/n › HAII pshbites is back with another smau MUAHA not much else to say except just enjoy!

"think i should text my ex" - roses by jaehyun

yn fanclub & most annoying & nyu npcs

1) violation of bro code section 420.69

2) starts with h ends with g?

3)

4)

5)

and more tba..

© all rights to pshbites 2024

[heyarei]

MAGNETIC - park wonbin

SYNOPSIS 𓂃 ࣪˖  it’s not easy having a crush on the most popular guy in school. For starters, almost everyone had a crush on wonbin and you’ve already established the fact that you'll never get a chance with him, as you were no special from the others in your school... or at least that’s what you believed

PAIRING 𓂃 ࣪˖ popular!wonbin x fem!reader

GENRE 𓂃 ࣪˖ social media au + school au, reader is delusional, wonbin is in denial (in the beginning)  she fell first, he fell harder(?), crack

CAST 𓂃 ࣪˖ winter of aespa as y/n, gaeul of ive, haewon of nmixx, eunseok + seunghan of riize, beomgyu of txt, gyuvin of zb1, etc

WARNING(s) 𓂃 ࣪˖ profanities and some insensitive (ex. kys/kms) jokes

STATUS 𓂃 ࣪˖ ongoing

START: 3/31/2024 ➜ END: ________

PROFILES ᶻ 𝘇 𐰁 LEMONHEADS・BORN TO BE LOSERS

001・OMG.. WHO IS SHE?

002・I GUESS IM STUCK FOREVER BY THE GLUE

003・YOU'VE BEEN PROMOTED!

004・HE LOOKS SO CUTE WRAPPED AROUND MY FINGER

005・BUT I DON'T WANNA WIFE WIFE WIFE WIFE

006・LOVE IS A WASTE OF TIME

007・YOU'LL GET OVER IT

008・I COULD BE A BETTER BOYFRIEND THAN HIM

009・TIRAMISU CAKE TIRAMISU CAKE

010・SHE 10/10 LOOK GOOD FROM FRONT AND BACK

MORE TO COME !!!

TAGLIST 𓂃 ࣪˖ @starwonb1n @lecheugo @sseastar-main @scarfac3

@kyusqult @syupakingcowbaby @llearlert @artseah @wonychu @outrologist

@saranghoeforanton @seunghancore @4yyu @chiiyuuvv @snowysung

@bunni @istphanie @ahnneyong @addorations @brachioswrld

@fleurlia @the-second-sage @tywaa @ilovejungwonandhaechan

@jazminethecreator @renjuneoo @kcharlyy @20cubee

@haechansbbg @palchokitty @haechyuan @syzavxy @marlilovesyou

@nctsshoes2 @alwayswook @enhacolor @ujisworld @nakam00t @chuutaroo

@nyu-topia @planethyuka @lipsbyive @nishimuraii @riksaes @jiaant11

@ilamara @b-riize @dutifullyannoyingfox @dinosluver @111ada

@bbinababy @revehosh @forrds @notrosemary @coycoi

@nosungluv @tomo-tofu @whippedforbeomgyu @chweverni

@potatosoulp1h

<CLOSED, SORRY :( >

[jetblack4realz]

the sweetest of loves - jacaerys velaryon x reader

i'm living for fluffy modern jace rn honestly you're gonna love me for this

low key same au as my last one, just a few years later - more will come of this as well, i'm loving it haha

word count: 5.2k

______________________________________________________________

when you talked with jace about transferring to the essos school of literature instead of attending king's landing university with him again he was entirely supportive.

"you have to do it," he insisted, glancing between you and the 'accept' button at the bottom of the email. his smile was wide as he nodded at you, hand covering yours on the table. "you have to. you've been dreaming about going here for years."

"but, i already have a life here, jace, with you," you objected, brows furrowed as you leaned back in your chair. "i have friends and i like what i'm studying. i've only got two years left."

"it's just a study abroad year," he told you with a light smile. "you'll still graduate from KLU, you'll just have all this new experience to go along with it. it'll be okay."

"are you sure?" you asked.

"positive. you'll never forgive yourself if you don't go," he said, squeezing your hand comfortingly. "i think you should go."

and so you'd clicked that 'accept' button and shipped off to northern italy a month later.

you sent pictures of everything when you arrived, and a video of you and your roommate lisy who was studying in america at nyu originally. she was the most bubbly person you'd ever met and you loved her instantly.

jace responded in kind with his own pictures; the boys on the football pitch, 0.5's of cregan and aegon and benji, pouting selfies of him in the kitchen pointing at a burnt plate of who know's what? you got a voice memo each morning of him mumbling "i love you, have a great day," which you answered with a wide smile.

lisy teased you relentlessly, wondering after each picture, "is that going to the boy?" which you always had to reply honestly and say it was. she met him over facetime several times and he told you he was glad that you had her in italy, even though he wished he was there instead.

"she seems excitable," he laughed once she left your bedroom. you giggled, falling on your bed with the phone to your face.

"the most excitable," you told him. "i love her. she's made the transition a lot easier. but, i still miss you like hell."

"i miss you too," he hummed with a half smile. "even cregan misses you. we don't eat nearly as well with you gone."

"well be sure to stock up before i come home and i'll make you something," you told him, smiling at the compliment of your cooking.

"deal," he said with a grin. the screen shook as he moved on his bed, a yawn escaping his lips.

"when do you have class tomorrow?" you asked.

"eight," he sighed.

you gasped. "jace! you need to go to bed, it's like one in the morning."

"i'm fine, love. i'd rather talk to you," he said, but the daze in his eyes as he resisted another yawn said something else.

"go to bed, jacaerys," you told him sternly, smiling at the boy.

"it's like two in the morning over there, why aren't you going to bed?" he asked lazily.

"me and lisy are going sightseeing tomorrow and we don't have a wake up time," you said, a smirk on your lips as his eyes widened. he groaned dramatically.

"that's so not fair. i have to go to class and you're touring italy," he whined.

"should've come with me," you hummed.

"we both know i never would've gotten in. i'm terrible in english, i'll stick to history," he answered.

"then go to bed," you said, a smile still on your lips as he sighed heavily.

"fine," he droned. he looked more intently at the screen to you, smiling softly. "i love you."

"i love you too, j," you said, reciprocating his sweet smile. "sweet dreams, love."

"you too. goodnight."

"goodnight."

"i've never seen a place like this before," lisy gasped, looking all around the sweet little market you'd found yourself in. you giggled, beginning to file through a few of the notecards sitting on an antique table.

"jace's mom used to take me places like this all the time," you told her. "she doesn't have a daughter and is a serious shopaholic, so i got dragged to all sorts of places."

"ugh, i would've loved that!" she said.

"i did," you answered, following her to the home decor section. "i reckon as soon as i go home for the holidays she'll have all sorts of markets and boutiques for us to go to. are you going home? maybe you could come with!"

"i can afford the fare to america to just spend a week home," she answered. "but, i guess england's only a few hours from here, huh?"

"you should come! if we buy the tickets now they'll be cheap," you said eagerly. "i have an apartment back home that i'm sharing with my two best friends, though one of them moved into my room. you could stay with us! you'd love them, we'd have loads of fun."

"okay," she agreed with a smile. "it's a plan. now, can we please buy these pillows?"

she held up two blue and cream pillows with little floral designs on them. you reached for the tag hanging off one corner and flipped it over, gasping when you spotted the number printed on it.

"forty euros!"

"that's not that bad," she said, waving you away.

"each!" you reemphasized, but she shrugged, carrying them with her as she continued to the baking section.

"worth it!" she called over her shoulder, earning a laugh from you as you followed her.

you had jace on speaker as you worked your way around the kitchen.

"i mean, if he'd just get a grip he'd realize that she likes him too," you said louder than normal for it to reach the phone. you heard jace sigh dramatically as you began mixing the cream cheese icing you were going to put on the cinnamon rolls as soon as they came out of the oven.

"that's what i've been saying!" he said. "but luke is so stuck in his own head. i mean, he's a weird bloke, sure, but she's into that apparently."

"luke is a cute kid, don't say that," you told him.

"well, he does look like me, he is my brother."

"oh, shut up jace," you laughed.

"oh, you're talking to jace?" lisy asked as she entered the kitchen, sticking a finger into your icing to lick off as she turned back to where your phone was charging. "HELLO JACAERYS!"

"wow, hello to you too lisy!" he chuckled. "nearly broke my ear there."

"i try," she said with a shrug, eyes on your phone. "you've been on the phone for three hours?"

"don't judge," you told her. "it's boring baking by myself."

"it took you three hours to make your cinnamon rolls?" she asked.

"and cake pops," you answered.

"ooh, where?" she asked with an eager smile.

"setting in the fridge, don't touch them yet," you laughed. she looked back at your phone as jace apparently moved his, the sound crunching through your speakers.

suddenly, her eyes widened and her face paled. she clicked your phone as jace started talking again.

"gods, do i miss cake pops. what flavor, love? strawberry?"

"uh, yeah," you said slowly, crossing the small kitchen to grab your phone from your roommate, brows knitted in a silent question. she flashed your phone screen at you, brows raised high as she pointed at a little green text.

what r u doing tonight?

"who the hell is that?" she whispered.

"who is who?"

"nothing, jace. just some guy in my creative writing class who's asking me what i'm doing tonight," you said. you grabbed your phone, beginning to type out a response.

"and what are you doing tonight?" jace asked slowly.

"certainly nothing to do with him," you laughed. "probably watch a movie or something. maybe we can do the group watch thing on disney plus and watch the princess bride."

"i'm always down to watch princess bride with my future princess bride." you could hear the laugh on his tongue as he teased you and you giggled, lisy making a face of disgust.

"you two are gross," she said. "anyways, is the guy cute? i'm not doing anything tonight."

"his name is liam and he's kind of a jerk," you told her, scrunching your nose. "kept interrupting class with his stupid, slightly offensive jokes about our professor's teaching methods and then when we had to write a short narrative as a group he did no work."

"you didn't answer my question; is he cute?" she emphasized, a grin on her lips.

"i think you'd think he was cute," you finally told her, your grimace still on your lips. "i can tell him you'll go if you want."

"yes please," she said dramatically. "i'll go get ready."

"you don't even know what you're doing!" you called as she sprinted to her room.

"whatever!"

"she is a hoot," jace laughed through the phone.

"yes, yes she is," you answered with a giggle. you returned to your device, quickly telling the boy that your roommate was interested and copying her number. but, you hadn't sent it when he answered.

-i want to go with you. are you busy?

"the fuck?" you muttered, narrowing your brows.

"what?" jace asked quickly.

"this is just weird. he's being weird," you mumbled.

i'm hanging out with my boyfriend.

like i said, my roommate is free. this is her number if you want to text her about it

you waited for a response, getting increasingly annoyed that his texts were green and you couldn't watch him type.

"what'd he say?"

"that he wants to go with me. but, i said i was hanging out with my boyfriend and gave him her number, so hopefully he'll bugger off," you answered.

-do you and your boy wanna come?

you sighed. "guess not. he asked if we wanna go, and i really don't want to say that you don't exactly live in italy."

"then don't, just say no," jacaerys told you.

"alright," you mumbled.

can't sorry.

-next time for sure

you didn't answer that, instead returning to your icing. "i'm about done with my rolls if you want to send me the disney request."

"on it, love."

"who did you tell that my boyfriend doesn't live here?" you asked lisy quickly, brows raised. "liam will not leave me alone."

"what's he saying?" the girl asked with knitted brows.

"that jace doesn't need to know," you said before widening your eyes and throwing your hands in the air dramatically. "he's asking me to hook up!"

she gasped. "no way."

"yes way!" you groaned, falling on the couch.

"have you told jace?" she asked, sitting next to you.

"well, sure," you said. "he was on the phone when i got the text. and then when he started passing me notes in class i sent pictures to him."

"what'd he say?"

"that he'd fly down to punch him in the mouth if he tried anything," you answered with a sigh. "i can't wait to go home in a few days. i miss him."

"you've missed him since you got here," she laughed.

"i know," you laughed with her. "it sucks."

a knock on your door caught both your attentions.

"did you invite anyone over?" lisy asked you, brows furrowed.

"no. you didn't?"

"nope."

you stared at each other for a few moments before lisy shrieked, "nose goes!" and pressed her pointer finger to her nose before you even had the chance to do the same.

"cheater!" you cried.

"you have to get it!" she yelled with a laugh.

"shh," you said, holding a finger up as you stood and approached the door.

your face fell when you opened it and saw who it was. "liam."

"hi," the boy said with a cocky grin, hands tucked in the pockets of his hoodie jacket. "how are you?"

"fine..." you said slowly, brows scrunching in confusion. "how did you get my address?"

"oh, don't worry about it," he said, shrugging casually. "do you want to go get some food?"

"i have a boyfriend, you know this," you said strictly.

"doesn't mean you can't have a little fun," he said with a gross smile. "who knows what he's getting up to while you're gone? don't you think you should be able to do the same?"

"i know what he's doing while i'm gone and it's nothing close to this. no thank you, liam," you told him, hand on the door as you went to push it closed. he caught it, eyes softening as he peered at you.

"please? i promise not to do anything," he tried. you furrowed your brows.

"no," you said, your response the most obvious thing to both you and lisy who was watching behind you protectively. "i still don't trust you and i still have a boyfriend. go home."

"oh come on-"

"go home!" lisy yelled, pushing the door shut. you locked it before turning to her gratefully. she settled back on one foot, brows furrowed as she stared at the door for a few moments. "he really wasn't that cute."

you laughed lightly before walking towards your room.

"where are you going?"

"i have to tell jace, he'll never believe this!"

jacaerys didn't know you were coming home for the holidays. you'd told him some ridiculous lie about having finals too close to christmas and that there was a big new years party that you didn't want to miss and he believed you. he said he wasn't mad, that you should live up your life in italy.

little did he know you were absolutely tired of italy and more than ready to jump back in his arms.

baela and alysanne picked you up from the airport with excited screams, hugging you tightly as you laughed joyously.

"my girls!" you cheered. "how are you?!"

"fantastic now that you're here," alys said with a smile. she scrunched her brows. "where's your friend?"

"she decided she did have enough money to go home," you answered with a shrug and a smile. "it's all the same - i get to be home with you guys!"

"ugh, i'm so glad you're back," baela said. "so much has happened."

"since i talked to you last week?"

"oh, you don't know the half of it," she sighed dramatically, grabbing your arm as she and alysanne dragged you out to your car. "so addam..."

you saw rhaenyra before you saw jace, the woman capturing you in a warm, tight hug as soon as she laid eyes on you. baela slipped in behind you with a laugh and made her way upstairs to her room.

"look at you!" rhaenyra said with a gasp. "you look so beautiful! i'm so glad you're here."

"me too," you said with a laugh light on your breath. "thank you for letting me over."

"anytime, my dear, anytime," she insisted, smiling widely as she led you further into the house. she left your side to begin pulling chicken from the fridge, allowing space for her children to spot you.

soon enough, you had viserys and aegon clinging to your sides and joffrey patiently waiting his turn at the entrance to the kitchen. you laughed, kneeling down to hug them all properly, waving joff over once you finished with aegon.

"how are you all?" you asked excitedly.

"good!" the three cheered.

"i made a gingerbread house out of graham crackers," joffrey said proudly. "do you want to see it?"

"of course i do," you told him, your smile widening. "but, i think i have to go see jace first. do you know where he is?"

as the littles shook their heads, rhaenyra said, "he just left to his room."

"awesome," you said, standing and taking a step towards the staircase. you pointed at joffrey. "me and jace will be down in a few minutes to see your gingerbread house, okay?"

"okay!" he said happily.

you turned and quickly made your way up the carpeted steps, heaidng down the hallway you knew like the back of you hand. you approached his door slowly, hand resting on the handle as you raised your knuckles to rap gently on the wood.

"come in," he called from inside, causing your heart to jump and a smile to pull at your lips. you pushed the door open, seeing him seated at his desk with a notebook in front of him, though his attention was on his phone.

"hey," you said gently.

he looked up quickly, his eyes widening as he abandoned his phone and flew from his seat. he wrapped his arms around your torso, you barely managing to get your arms out to wrap around his neck before he squeezed you tightly, his momentum sending you both into the wall. you laughed loudly, hugging him back joyously, one hand raking through his curls as he nuzzled into your neck, pressing a few kisses there before he mumbled into your skin.

"what are you doing here? why didn't you tell me?"

"i wanted to surprise you," you told him, pulling him back enough to see his beautiful coffee brown eyes. his smile was the widest you'd seen it as he leaned in and captured you for a quick, but deep kiss. he pulled away, hugging you tightly to him once more, kissing your cheek, jaw, and neck in quick little pecks, his energy vivid and sporadic as he held you close.

"this is the best surprise, love," he told you, pulling away to kiss you again. "i love you so much. i missed you so much." he kissed you again, not giving you a chance to respond as you giggled lightly. he pulled back, eyes raking over your face and then your form, drinking you in for only a few seconds before he muttered, "gods, you're beautiful." his mouth returned to your own when you heard a door open.

you pulled back, tucking yourself in jace's side as you turned to see luke standing in his doorway with an unimpressed quirk of his brow and baela standing in hers with her phone up.

"really? i don't even get a hello before i'm subjected to you making out?" he asked. you laughed, slipping from jace's grasp to give his little brother a hug.

"hi luke," you told him.

"hello y/n," he hummed, laughing lightly when you pulled back and rolled your eyes. you turned your attention to baela, who's phone was still pointed at you.

"i got that whole thing on camera," she said with a giggle. "super cute, it's gonna go viral."

"you can't post it!" you cried, laughing as you reached for the device. she pulled it out of your reach, stepping back into her room and beginning to push the door closed.

"it's my video!" she laughed. "go back to your boyfriend!"

when her door shut and lucerys snuck between you two to descend the stairs, you did go back to your boyfriend. you snuggled into his grasp, sighing contentedly as he pressed a kiss to the top of your head.

"i missed you."

"i missed you too."

"let's go out tonight," he suggested, his chin settling comfortable on the top of you head as you leaned into him.

"where are you thinking?"

"just some food and a drive. i'll drive if we can take your car." you could hear the smile and you sighed, grinning yourself.

"i guess..."

"alright, where should we go?"

"italy doesn't have nando's."

"well, then we have to get you some nando's."

by the time that you'd escaped his house - having to stop for joffrey's graham cracker gingerbread house, a brief coaching session with luke on how to flirt with the girl he likes over text, and to attempt to convince daemon that the italians did in fact think you had a good accent when you spoke italian even though he thought otherwise - it was well past dark.

you giggled as jace held your door open and shut it after you, crossing to the other side to slip into the driver's side. he started up the crappy old ford with a wide grin, handing you the aux cable immediately.

"we need to get you a bluetooth adapter," he hummed as he pulled out of the neighborhood. "my phone doesn't even plug into that one anymore."

"you got a new phone?" you asked, clicking on the same album you always played when you were with jace. you listened to it a lot when you were alone in italy, lights out and lisy off with friends, just missing your boy.

"yeah. i'm still on mum's family plan and everyone got an upgrade for some promotional. i don't know if i like it yet," he admitted with a shrug. "it did make facetiming you easier. my battery didn't die as fast, and for that i love it."

"that's nice. i was always plugged in while talking to you," you told him with a laugh. he grabbed your hand over the middle console, shooting you a smile. "it was worth it, though."

"i'm just so glad you're actually here now. i was certain this was going to be the worst holiday i've had yet, but now you're here with me, so it'll be the best," he said. "are you coming over for christmas or will you be with your family?"

"no, dad's off with his witch girl and my siblings are at my grandparents'. your mum offered for me to stay here with you guys for the whole holiday," you answered. he grinned, squeezing your hand.

"are you going to? or do you want to be with alysanne?" he asked.

"i mean, if you don't mind seeing me literally 24/7 i would actually love to stay with you guys," you replied with a small smile. "i love your family."

"and they love you," he said. "stay. i'm pretty sure everyone would be ecstatic if you did."

"alright, i will," you agreed, your heart fluttering a bit at the thought of it. you were always welcomed at the targaryen household, but to be spending christmas with them? that was a new level of love.

after he parked, he leaned over the console to kiss you again, earning a slight giggle as you kissed him back. he pulled back just enough to grin at you before kissing you again, his free hand brushing over your cheek gently. you pulled away finally, staring at him with an incredulous sort of love.

"let's get food," you insisted, turning to get out. he pulled on your hand, making you to turn back to him. he shook his head and quickly exited the vehicle, coming to your side in a moment and opening your door. you hopped out with a wide smile, accepting his hand again when you came chest to chest with the boy. "you're the perfect gentleman."

"only for you," he said, wiggling his brows as he shut the door and pulled you towards nando's.

as you stood in line, talking about how aemond started posting the same girl on his stories recently, you people watched. you always liked to see who was out to get chicken at nine o'clock at night. nando's seemed to have the wildest people, from a man wearing a tshirt that read 'danny dorito' with danny davito's face on a dorito, to a chick waiting by the doors with a chihuahua in a stroller. and then there was the weirdest one -

liam.

"shit, what?" you said quickly, brows furrowing as you stepped behind jace. he looked up from your phone where you'd previously been viewing aemond's story highlights, immediately scanning the room for what could've incited such a reaction from you.

"what is it?" he asked, his hold on your hand tightening. the line moved up and you stayed behind him, the man understanding your attempts and keeping you out of sight of whatever it was you were nervous about. "love, what is it?"

"remember that liam guy i kept telling you about? that came to my house and kept hitting on me in class? he's here," you told him, peeking around his arm to see if he was still sat with the three boys you saw him with.

"what the hell?" he muttered, eyes narrowing on the kid. "we'll just get our food to go. i'd rather not risk meeting him."

"i thought you said you'd beat him up for me?" you asked with a light giggle.

"if he comes us and starts something then of course. but, i don't start fights, darling, i finish them," he told you. you grinned as you pulled him further up the line, ordering once you reached the register.

as jace began paying, you glanced back at where liam had been, your curiosity getting the bets of you. your brows furrowed when you didn't spot the boy - he'd just been there a moment before.

"thank you," jacaerys told the cashier with a charming smile before stepping back next to you, hand grabbing yours as he pulled you to fill your drinks. the nando's workers were speedy tonight, holding your bag out as jace rushed by, the boy grabbing it with a thanks. he eyed you carefully. "what's wrong?"

"nothing, i just-"

"y/n!"

you both turned quickly, brows knitted tightly at the call of your name. of course it was liam.

"liam," you said slowly, nodding as you eyed him. "hi."

liam approached with a wide grin, a strange swagger in his step. you pursed your lips as you watched him. jace pulled you closer to him, his grip tightening slightly.

"crazy to see you here," liam drawled, his grin making your skin crawl. his eyes flashed to jacaerys. "is this the boyfriend you've been talking about?"

"yes. this is jacaerys," you said shortly, not bothering to introduce your classmate.

"pleasure to meet you jacaerys," liam hummed, holding a hand out to him. jace clasped it securely, a straight look on his face as he eyed him with a steel gaze. "i'm liam."

"alright," jace said.

"me and y/n go to school in italy together," he continued.

"alright," jace repeated, releasing his hand with a slight shove. "good to meet you, mate. if you'll excuse us, we've got to get going."

"why don't you join me and my friend bobby? we're heading to a party later tonight with some college friends, you should come," liam offered.

"no thanks," you said quickly, glancing at jace with an unintelligible look in your eyes. "we've got plans."

"you've always got plans, don't you sweetheart," liam sighed, turning your attention back to him. your furrowed your brows again.

"sorry?"

"every time i invite you out, you refuse. i'm just being friendly."

"and i'm perfectly friendly when i say no. it's alright for you to accept that i don't want to hang out with you, liam."

"ouch," he said, a grin still slipping off the side of his lips as he held a hand to his heart. "you don't want to hang out with me?"

"i think she's made that clear," jace told him, stepping towards him. "now, like i said before; we've got to get going."

he didn't wait for a response before dragging you away to the drinks station, filling both your cups quickly, and pulling you back to the car. "i see what you mean," he muttered as he helped you in your side.

"he's kinda pushy," you answered, accepting the bag of steaming food before he shut your door and crossed to his side. he sat down with a sigh, starting the car up.

"just a bit."

"let's get out of here."

you sung along to the playlist you were used to, the one you'd curated with jace when you first started dating and began these drives, and the one you listened to the most while in italy and missing him desperately. a mix between enthusiastic songs you weren't afraid to belt out and slow, sweet songs that varied from taylor swift and old american country artists, your playlist had everything.

eventually, he pulled off to the side of the peak of the Rim, a mountain range not too far out from his parents' house and one you frequented over the last almost two years of dating. he pulled you out of the old ford and onto the roof, the bag of nando's in your hand.

you chatted while you ate, random nonsense and updates of luke's love life that he'd failed to mention in your regular facetimes.

"joffrey's even got a girlfriend now," he hummed with a cheeky grin, laughing as you gasped and pushed his shoulder.

"he does not!" you cried, eyes wide. "but, he's so little!"

"he's twelve," jace shrugged. "we all had girlfriends and boyfriends at that age. you 'go out' for a day or two and be done with it."

"and is he done with it?" you asked.

"no," he admitted, laughing loudly before he continued. "he bought her a peppermint teddy for christmas. she told him she was jewish and he was mortified, but she said she'd take it for hanukkah. he spent all week trying to convince mum and daemon to let him buy her six more presents to go along."

"i thought there were eight?" you asked.

"either way," he said with a shrug. "mum said no. he'd already spent his whole allowance on the teddy and we still had to draw for family secret santa."

"who'd you get?" you asked with a soft smile.

"actually, i was hoping for your help on that. i got baela."

"oh, i can definitely help with that," you said, a giggle following your words.

you sat in contented silence for another few moments, finishing the rest of your meals before jace spoke again.

"i didn't like the way he was looking at you."

you looked at him quickly, eyes softening in realization of what he meant. you leaned into his side, holding his arm gently. "me neither. but, i doubt it'll happen again - i think you intimidated him."

"it won't happen again," he said, the words so sure, so definite that it made you furrow your brows.

"i'm sure," you agreed, determining to say nothing more on the matter.

another silence passed over you as jace considered his words, looking down on you with a soft smile and a certain resolve.

"i'm studying with you next semester."

"what?" you asked quickly, pulling away to look at him with a wide smile. "you are? you're coming to italy?"

"well, now that the football season is over i can. i spoke with admissions and they agreed it'd be a good experience. i start next term with you," he said, smiling at you so sweetly. "and well, i couldn't leave you with the likes of liam for another semester. i don't think i could handle that."

"thank you," you sighed, tucking into his side with a neverending smile. "i love you."

"i love you too."

[ywnzn]

hydrangea love | park wonbin smau (on hold)

☆ ex!park wonbin x fem!reader x jung sungchan

☆ synopsis. yn, model & owner of a well-known perfume brand, releases a new series inspired by a heartbreak she went through. completely unaware that the new rising model who was chosen to promote the series is the same person who caused the heartbreak itself, park wonbin.

☆ genre.  smau + mayb written chapters, exes to lovers!au, love triangle trope, fluff, angst ?, romance, slow burn kinda, bad humor, stupid mcs !

☆ notes. random pictures will be used to visualise concepts, outfits & photo style for mc. do not hesitate to leave an ask if you have any suggestions! this is a remake of a soobin smau i discontinued last year ^

☆ features. rest of riize, illit’s minju, kiof’s julie, txt's taehyun, bonedo's taesan, zb1's gyuvin, ive's rei & more

☆ taglist. closed send an ask/comment to be added. @eternalgyu @drinktaro @toniiswrld @lipsbyive @hwadejectedyoung @seunghancore @teddywook @jinanangel @wonbinsvlle @totheseok @starwonb1n @miyawakiblossoms @snoopyana @nishimuraii @nujeskz @miyawwn @saranghoeforanton @ahnneyong @lecheugo @snowyseungs @antonsgirlfriend @ilovejungwonandhaechan @haecnh @chxrlvspp @revehosh @junstulip @emohoon @kyusqult @pinxeajin @rksbae @wonychu @secretnocluesworld @daegale @moamidzyism @nyu-topia @kkumistars @syzavxy @blossominghunnie @tocupid @lostinneocity @rllymark @valyjws @meowbini @mindalz @hildafuracao @eternallyhyucks @secretiny @conwunder @binoyu @esther-kpopstan @injunnie-lemon @jaehyunzm @endtostartbreathin @fae-renjun @bunni @bebubilu @syzavxy @enhacolor @soobiverse @sngj08 @xcosmi

☆ profiles. powerpuff girls | RIIZE | lavies

☆ chapters.

01. [REDACTED]

02. girl idk

03. whatever u say

04. asking for a friend

05. is he not?

06. everyone knows

07. just a chemist written + smau

08. it's called x

09. damage control

10. joe king written + smau

11. ttoribini live

12. boyf material

13. double dates

14. petty? pretty.

15. picking fights

16. falls over & dies

17. overreacting

18. start over written + smau

19. dating game

20. me and who

21. lego blisters

22. no ew

23. sabotage

24.

ywnzn © 2024 ▸ this smau is merely based on fictional events and is not meant to represent any of the idols mentioned accurately in any way, either it's personality or shipping characters wise.

[hier--soir]

a lover's pinch | four

joel miller x f!reader

pairing: professor!joel miller x f!reader rating: explicit, 18+ minors dni summary: after a conference in new york, you and j miller phd take things a step further. warnings/tags: au, university professor joel, age gap [20 something years diff], ethically dubious relationship due to inherent power imbalance, i think i describe reader as having sweaty palms about 1500 times so it deserves a warning, alcohol consumption, the plight of being a woman in academia, oral [f receiving], unprotected piv sex [IN A BED ??? GASP] for you filthy animals, prone bone, a little roughness and then not much at all, uhhh pet names during sex.... uhhmm intimacy errrrrr.... soft!joel... feelings... okay bye word count: 9.3k series masterlist | main masterlist a lover's pinch playlist a/n: hey folks, thank you so much for all your patience as i took my sweet sweet time writing this. we get to know our prof a little better in this one so a fair amount of dialogue for you but yeah anyways i hope you enjoy it, and i'd love to hear what you think! [and if i Fell Off because of the depression, don't tell me lol] A WORD ABOUT THE TAG LIST: i will continue the taglist for this part and for part five, and after that i will rely solely on my notifications account @hier--soirupdates so pls follow that and turn on notifs to be told when i post writing x this is part four of ALP. you can read the previous parts here: one, two, three.

Saturday.

The conference centre is vast.

A large space that protects you from the threatening clouds that loom over New York City, and exposes you to countless dense conversations.

An NYU teacher’s assistant is glued to your hip, parading you through the centre with a wayward index finger that points out the bar, the room where the keynote speech will be given [large, with an imposing stage], and the room where you will give your presentation [less large, with a far less imposing stage].

Your presentation.  

You fight the urge to pull up the email for the thousandth time while she explains how there will be fifteen minutes to set up beforehand, and advises on when the doors will open for guests, and reminds you that you have a strict allotted time of 20-minutes, do you understand?

But the email is branded on the inside of your eyelids after this morning’s flight was spent reading and rereading and rereading the words. So you nod and smile and placate her on the tour of the centre, as you run through it in your mind.

We look forward to welcoming you to NYU’s Annual Classics and Ancient History Conference. Our team was intrigued by the presentation devised around your translation study in Athens…

“Did you hear me?”

You wish she wasn’t dressed so casually.

Loose balls of lint are collected on the back of her cardigan like trinkets, weighty and threatening to fall off in a sort of bread crumb trail behind her every movement. It makes your dress feel all the more serious, all the more formal. Navy blue and a little tight, with sleeves that slant across the middle of your bicep and a hem that cuts modestly across your lower thigh. Professional, smart, sexy, but not too sexy. You and Nora spent two hours at the mall picking it out last weekend. And you can see people in suits, in blazers, in dresses, everywhere you turn, but your eyes keep returning to the TA’s cardigan. Little pills, sad morsels of broken fabric.

She says your name sharply.

“Yes,” you snap to attention, and clock her poor attempt not to roll her eyes. “You were saying?”

“It’s an open bar,” she continues from a few steps ahead, slowly back away while raising her voice to be heard over the countless others sprouting across the room. “And food is served after the Keynote.”

Finally free of her and her cardigan, you scale the edge of the hall, curious eyes glancing across faces familiar and not. You notice some other postgrads from UNE, and some professors from your alma mater. But it isn’t until three hours into the conference that you notice him.

You’re in a painfully long conversation with Professor Carmichael, an ancient history department head from Boston, when you notice them.

“Well you see,” he’s saying, slowly. “The First Roman Triumvirate was very unique. Surely you agree with me there, my dear?”

“Of course,” you nod amiably. A waiter floats past you holding a tray of glasses. You grasp one with a grateful smile, and turn back to face him with a sip of cold white wine moving down your throat. “The Big Three, it’s all very interesting. Although I must say, I am personally more interested in the second triumvirat—”

“Oh they all say that,” he waves his hand. “Everyone is so taken by Antony and Octavian that they forget about Crassus! So tragic.”

“A very tragic death,” you offer an exaggerated frown. “I agree.”

Carmichael hums, eyes narrowing as if you’ve said something wrong. Sipping your wine, your eyes float over his shoulder, determinedly trying to spot any sign of food, gaze spilling across countless faces and tables and waiters and professors until one set of people makes you pause.  Wild dark hair atop a floral dress floats in your vision, her pale hand hovering over the sleeve of a tall man in a suit. You watch the backs of their heads; the way the woman tilts her chin upward to speak to the man and laughs at what he says in return. That laugh. You frown, and feel yourself take a step forward, a step in their direction.

“Is something the matter?” Carmichael asks and you halt, flash him a sweet smile and shake your head.

“No,” you rush, practically tasting the opportunity to escape the conversation. “I’m sorry, Professor, I thought I saw someone waving me over. If you don’t min—”

“Always so many people to talk to at these things,” he says in a sing-song tone of voice, smiling obliviously. “All in due course, dear. You’ll find them later I’m sure.”

It’s not until fifteen minutes later that the tap comes on your shoulder. You turn and feel relief wash over you as you come face to face with Rachel, with her tangle of curls and bright orange dress. But then a jolt shudders through your frame, for you spot the man accompanying her; the man you watched her traipse around the room with, the man in the sleek black suit—Joel, hovering a step behind her.

“Rachel,” you blink. “Joel. Hi—”

“I didn’t know you’d be here!” Rachel says. Her eyes are wide, lips pulled back into a crooked grin that immediately sets you at ease. Joel, on the other hand, looks uncomfortable to say the least. You watch him tuck his hands in his pockets and then take them out again quickly, lips pursed together in a tight line as he glances between you and Professor Carmichael.

“Joel,” she grips the sleeve of his blazer and tugs him forward to stand beside her. You watch where her hand grazes him - the ease with which she jostles him around. “Did you know?”

“No.” He stares for a moment, lips parted and eyes darting across your face, shaking his head. “No, I didn’t know.”

“I’m giving a presentation,” you explain quickly, eyes darting between the two of them, fingers tightening around your glass every time your eyes settle on him. He trimmed his beard again; the hairs are shorter, neater—almost too short and too neat for your liking. His shirt is pressed and crisp, shock white beneath the midnight black of his jacket. He’s wearing different glasses. Tortoise shell glasses. Someone clears their throat to your right, snapping you out of your reverie. You apologise quickly, “This is Professor Carmichael.”

“Of course,” Joel nods, stepping forward to grip the older man’s hand. “Good to see you again, Professor.”

“And you, Professor Miller,” Carmichael chuckles, patting a shaky hand against Joel’s shoulder. “When was the last time we crossed paths? A year ago?”

“Must’ve been a year,” Joel smiles easily. His eyes slip to look at you every few seconds. “The conference in Ottawa.”

“The conference in Ottawa!” Carmichael cheers, nodding away. A weight sinks in your stomach like a cinder block as you watch the Professor gear up to wrangle Joel and Rachel into another conversation about Crassus’ untimely demise. But then Rachel slips away, called out to by someone across the room. And before Carmichael can open his mouth, Joel is speaking again, that honeyed drawl like music to your ears.

“Excuse me, Professor Carmichael,” he smiles again. Two of his fingers grip your elbow, tugging you a step backward. “Do you mind if I steal my star student for a few moments?”

Joel tilts your body to the left, and then the two of you are veering off into the crowd, wandering through throngs of people, his warm fingers pressed against the soft flesh above your elbow.

“Didn’t know you’d be here,” you say under your breath, glancing around warily, trying to spy any curious eyes that might notice the two of you.   

“Could say the same thing,” he murmurs, dragging you to a stop at the edge of the hall with his eyebrows raised. “When’s your talk?”

“At one. Overlaps with the Keynote, which I’m a little relieved about,” you smile, a pinched, tense thing. “Hopefully everyone will go to that, and I’ll have a smaller crowd.”

Joel’s eyebrows raise. You think you notice his shoulders stiffen. “S’that right?”

A persistent pang of hunger stabs through your stomach, you rub a hand over the front of your dress and nod. Curious brown eyes follow the movement.

“Here,” Joel reaches into his pocket and pulls something out. His fingers graze your skin as he tucks the shiny rectangle of foil into your palm. “They don’t put out any food until after the Keynote.”

It’s a granola bar. Peanut butter and banana. You stare at it for a moment, almost dumbfounded by the kindness of the gesture. By how attentive he is; how much he notices without you even having to speak.

“Thanks,” you say. Nestle it into your purse and give him an appreciative smile.

“Sure,” he nods jerkily. Adjusts the glasses on his nose. “I’m disappointed to miss it.”

“Oh?” you blink. Your eyes focus then, flitting downward to focus on the badge hanging from his lanyard.

Joel Miller, Ph.D.

University of New England.

Keynote Speaker.

“Oh, shit.”

“Mhm,” Joel squints at you. “Sorry if I don’t share the sentiment that everyone comes to watch me instead of you.”   

“Why didn’t you…” you gape. “You didn’t say you were giving a talk?” 

“You didn’t ask.”

“The Keynote speech is a big deal,” you say, as if he wouldn’t know.

“I was their third choice,” he shrugs you off with practiced ease. “First two weren’t interested.”

“Third time lucky then,” you smile, and he chuckles. Someone calls Joel’s name then, and you both spin to see Rachel across the room with a group of people, all eagerly waving him over. Something nasty curls in your chest – something bitter and unwarranted and cruel. You smother it with a mouthful of wine and a soft smile of farewell to him as he turns and walks in her direction.

A hand clasps down on your shoulder and you flinch, turning to see Professor Carmichael beaming.

“Where were we then, my dear?”

You eat Joel’s granola bar at the back of the hall five minutes before your talk and walk onstage with the taste of peanut and banana on your lips, brushing crumbs of dried oats off your fingers.

Fifteen people attend, spotted miscellaneously across the amassed rows of chairs. The slide clicker is damp in your palm, and your thumb hovers trembling over the button, awaiting each moment you need to press down.

“Working alongside some fantastic translators,” you tell them. “We focused on studying the disparities between how Greek texts are translated by men and women. Particularly, we aimed to delve into the way emotive language has been downgraded or elevated depending on the lens through which a text is being viewed.”

Professor Carmichael sits in the front row, those sun-spot covered hands clasped in his lap, offering an encouraging smile as you shift upon the stage. Rachel is a few rows back, and she nods intently whenever you glance in her direction.

“One of our main points of focus,” you continue. “Was to understand points of difficulty in translating while accounting for cultural nuances, and how the context of differing authors can impact upon this. In my next slide—”

It’s as you turn to glance at the display that you notice them for the first time. Three rows from the front, where a group of men sit. Two of them young, maybe around your age. You change your slide and watch them whisper in each other’s ears. One of them points at you. Or not you, rather—your legs.

And you yearn for it to be meaningless. A meaningless gesture between colleagues. Meaningless legs, meaningless dress, meaningless curves and slopes and dips and spins. But as you continue, you know it can’t be. The way they talk through your presentation, as if they aren’t bothered to be heard. The way they leer at you over Carmichael’s shoulder, grinning to each other. Your words in one ear and out the other—simply a talking point for them, a blue dress, something to stare at. Your dress feels hot, tight, and your chest feels hotter, tighter under the lights as those eyes glaze over you. You glance back towards Rachel. She gives you a thumbs up that doesn’t serve to cool your nerves.

“When translating word for word in our field, it’s uncommon,” you stutter to a stop, eyes flashing warily. “Sorry, it is not uncommon to find that narratological creativity dwindles.”

You hear a chuckle to your right and swallow down the urge to shoot daggers in the direction of the sound. “Translators struggle to maintain the in-depth imaginative expression that the original Greek text inspires. But through my discussions with Professor Samaras, we found that…”

It’s in the final minutes that you notice him. Tucked away in a back row of the room, arms folded across his chest. You pause for a moment, words caught in your throat. But Joel merely gives you a short nod. The faintest hint of a smile, of the corner of his eyes slanting upward, and it’s as if a cool breeze washes over you. Hands steady, knees lock, and you push through. You don’t look at any of their faces until it’s over.

And when it is, and scattered applause decorates the air, you can’t help but cast a smile in Joel’s direction. A smile that slips and wavers when you spot the broad expanse of his back, that sharp black blazer, as he slips out the doors without wasting a second.

The rest of your audience follows suit, a slim line that wanders out the doors without a second glance—spare Carmichael, who tells you he was quite taken with how you presented yourself, my dear.

You hear your own name and turn to see Rachel approaching, a burst of floral frock and swinging earrings. Her smile is wide and crooked, and you can’t help but smile back.

“That was wonderful,” she cheers, squeezing your shoulder. “I was so taken by how you spoke about the importance of linguistic quality assurance when translating emotive texts. Brilliant!”

Your face warms. “Thank you,” you shake your head quickly. “It was… thank you. That’s very kind.”

You glance over her shoulder, wondering if he’ll reappear – perhaps share her sentiments, maybe shower you with praise. He doesn’t.

She catches you looking. “Joel was in a rush,” she offers easily. “Lots of people wanting to talk to the man of the evening.”

“Of course,” you swallow thickly. Another smile.

Rachel stares at you curiously. “He’s very impressed by you, you know.” Her voice is warm, gentle—soft spoken like a mother who can sense the slightest flash of insecurity. You cringe immediately, feel your arms cross protectively across your chest. Don’t give the game away now. “Honestly, I think he read your comparative paper on the katabasis three times. Practically raved about it when I asked what it was.”

“Oh,” you blink, shifting uneasily under her gaze. “That’s… wow, I’m flattered.”

“He sees a lot of potential in you,” she says.

“Right,” you nod. “Well, he’s a grea—you’re both great teachers. I’m very lucky to be learning from the two of you.”

She doesn’t speak for a moment, and you fear your face grows warmer in the silence. Can feel the slick on your palms returning, the flash of heat in your chest, the longer you sit in it. You make a quick and tumbling excuse to flee the scene, spitting a mess of thank you so much and just need some fresh air, before you’re stumbling out of the hall and wandering outside on newborn deer legs. You snag a flute of something bubbly off the bar on your way, and find yourself on a secluded bench in the breezeway behind the conference centre.

You sit there alone and watch the grass, the way the light from inside shines out across the green. Feel the chill of the wind slip past you, rustling your hair and raising goosebumps on your bare legs. Sip dry Cava and contemplate how many more of these things you can feasibly imagine attending in your career. There’s a single text from Nora on your phone, asking how the presentation went. You tuck it into your purse, leaving the message unanswered.

By the time you hear the door hinges creak, the glass is near empty. You spy a shadowy form snaking its way down the path, headed in your direction.

“Mr Keynote Speaker,” you hum. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”

“Funny,” Joel mutters dryly, knees cracking as he falls onto the bench beside you. A heavy sigh slips from between his lips, fingers lacing together in his lap as he gazes across the breezeway. You down the last of your drink and place it on the concrete by your feet. “Needed some god damn peace and quiet. All that chit chat drives me insane.”

You murmur in agreement and stare at the side of his face – the neatened beard, the thick frame of his glasses. Purposeful or not, the side of his body is pressed against yours. Thigh to thigh, shoulder to shoulder – he’s sat directly in the centre of the bench. Heat radiates off his body and it’s almost too warm, and yet you find yourself relaxing against him.

“First time at one of these?” Joel asks gruffly. He’s still not looking at you, his eyes trained on a pigeon pecking at a discarded foil wrapper on the grass.

“Is it that obvious?” you grimace.

“Only because I’ve been to twenty of the damn things,” he says. “Y’learn how to smell the nervous energy comin’ off the first timers.”

“Twenty?” you mutter. Feel your stomach curl and twist at the idea of doing this day nineteen more times.

“Somethin’ like that.” Joel glances at you from the corner of his eye. “Went to a lot during my second degree. Had to get good at talkin’, fast.”

“Ahh,” you say. “So, you weren’t always such a sweet talker then?”

He lets out a low chuckle, as if amused by the thought. “Sweet talker, huh? That what I am?”

You shrug, suddenly emboldened by him following you outside, by how close he is, by how open he seems.

“I suppose,” you say slowly.

“And what gave you that idea?”

“You here alone?” you offer a poor imitation of him, voice low and breathy with your awful take on a Southern twang. “Meet me in the bathroom.” You wink, quietly delighted by the way his lips have tightened into a flat line.

“Funny,” he says again, entirely unamused now.

Something warm shifts in your lower stomach. Something wet—a vivid memory of him on the ground behind you in the bathroom of a bar, of hands spreading you open, of his tongue pressing inside you, of The Eagles playing faintly in the background.

“You do that kind of thing often?” you ask.  

“Do what?”

“Approach young women at bars,” you wiggle your eyebrows, smirking. “Rob them of their virtue in the bathroom and then hope you never see them again.”

“You? Virtuous?” Joel rolls his eyes. You can see the corner of his lip curling upward. “Must be gettin’ yourself confused with somebody else.”  

“Maybe,” you smile.

“Sometimes,” he casts you a look, after a moment. “Not… often. And not young.”

“Younger,” you counter quickly.

“I didn’t expect you to be…” he trails off and shakes his head. “It’s not a thing I do, alright?”

“Of course not.”

“It’s not.”

“You don’t date then?”

He tilts his head at you curiously, eyes planted firmly on your face now. “Not for a long time.”

“Why not?”

“Been busy,” he grunts, clearly growing impatient by the line of questioning.  “Spent a lot of time studying. Working.”

“Where did you study?” you press.

“This twenty fuckin’ questions?” he snaps, reaching up to rub the back of his neck. “Came out here for—”

“You came out here,” you interrupt. “Because I came out here.”

He glowers at you, but doesn’t try to deny it.

“Night classes at Texas A&M for my undergrad,” he grits out. You smile sickly sweet, pleased. “Did my postgrads part time at UT Austin,” Joel says.

Your eyebrows kick up again, the teasing pretence all but forgotten. “Sounds… unconventional?” you offer softly.

“That’s one word for it,” he agrees vaguely. “Spent the better half of a decade at school just to end up teaching at one. Ain’t that somethin’.”

“And before that?” you press.  

“Before that,” he continues with a wry grin, one full of distaste and frustration and resentment. “Was a contractor for a long time. Houses, buildings.” He rests a hand against his shoulder, fingers pressing against the muscle there, as if working out a decade old knot.

And for a moment you can see it. Can almost taste it. Collared shirts and glasses replaced with hard hats and hammers and dirt in the lines of his palms. Joel carrying a plank of wood on his shoulder, wearing a toolbelt. Joel on his knees, sweat shining on his forehead while he wields an electric drill.

Your dress feels too tight suddenly. Too warm.

“A contractor,” you say distractedly, and hope he doesn’t notice how your thighs press together.

“Mhm,” Joel nods. “With my brother.”

“You have a brother?”

He ignores that. “Where did you study?”

“San Diego State,” you flash him a grin. “Go Aztecs.”

“Good school,” he hums. “You’re a long way from California.”

Only a little further than Texas, you think.

“You did good up there,” Joel adds.  

Your smile dips and wanes into a scowl, uninterested in the change of subject.

“What?”

“It was…” you shake your head slowly, face warming as you glance down to your lap.

“What?”

“It just wasn’t what I expected.” You pick at a loose thread on the hem of your dress. “That’s all.”

“And what did you expect?”

“To be listened to,” you grunt. “Not gawked at by some ancient jerkoffs that were only there to stare at my ass when I turned to change a slide.”

Joel nods, quiet.

“I wanted it to matter,” you mutter. “Wanted to… fuck, I wanted to impress them.”

“I was impressed.”

“Oh yeah?” you snort, finally looking up. “You hightailed it out of there pretty quickly.”

Joel shakes his head and stares back at you, gaze heavy. His hands tighten into fists against his thighs, knuckles lightening to white as he squeezes. You shuffle on the seat—ignore the flare of heat that erupts where your shoulder nudges firmer against his. 

“I guess you could say,” he speaks slowly. “I’m tryin’ to keep my distance.”

You arch an eyebrow and attempt to swallow the laugh bubbling up your throat.

“Well, you’re doing a great job,” you smirk.

Joel laughs and your smile falters, mouth going slack at the sound. How rare it is, and how much rarer to have it all to yourself like this. For all of his sharp angles, his sweet talking, his harsh words, and harsher touch—that laugh is the cruellest part.  

He jostles his shoulder against yours a little. An acknowledgement; perhaps a glimpse inside. Something that says, I know, I see it, I feel it, I can’t stop either.

“You make it hard,” he says then, and his voice is soft—almost a whisper.

“How’s that?” You match his tone, as if you’re two little kids who’ve snuck outside to share secrets where no one else can hear them.

“You bein’ here,” he murmurs, eyes searching. “Startin’ to feel like you’re everywhere I turn.”

A breeze swims past and you shiver, locks of hair floating in a mess around your face until you pat them down. Joel moves almost imperceptibly, curling his side tighter against yours to shield you from the onslaught.

“I know the feeling,” you admit.

The muscle in his jaw ticks and he clears his throat, looking out across the green again. For a moment the pair of you sit in silence. Not as professor and student, but simply a man and a woman on a bench. Breathing the same air, soaking in a shared silence that only the two of you could understand. And there are so many more questions you want to ask him, so much more you feel compelled to know, but instead you settle for this—sitting on a bench together, shoulders and thighs and chests pressed side to side, two frames moulded around the welcoming shape of one another. For now.

“It gets easier,” Joel says then, jaw tense as he spares a glance back in your direction. “This stuff, these people, all the talkin’.”

You acknowledge him with a small smile, just the slightest twitch of your lip. Don’t bother saying, maybe for you. Maybe for a man.

“You know,” you suck in a breath and give him a lazy smile instead. “I think this might be the longest conversation we’ve had without ripping each other’s clothes off.”

“Mm.” He leans his head back to rest on the wall, eyes focusing up towards the sky.

“I like it,” you say quietly. Hear how vulnerability chimes in your voice – a wobble that begs to be ignored and understood all at once. “It’s nice… talking like this.”

Joel’s head tilts towards you, dark eyes locked on yours. He doesn’t say anything, but you can see that wariness in his eyes. The same wariness that poured out in flecks of brown and amber and gold in the light of your bedroom a week ago, when he told you he was fifty. A hesitant curiosity, an incessant suspicion, a bark of disbelief. You feel the desire to pluck the feeling out of him and swallow it whole. To lock it safely inside yourself and make it so he never has to feel it again.

So you lean in a press your lips against his. Painfully soft, just a whisper of two mouths slotting together. Chapped and dry from the wind, he tastes like bitter sparkling wine. You sigh into him, uncaring. Hook your ankle around his, place your hand on his thigh, and sink closer, deeper.

He pulls back an inch, mouth still hovering over yours, the tip of his nose pressed into your cheek.

“Shouldn’t do this here,” he warns quietly, eyes still closed. His breath is hot against your face, and you inhale the taste of mint and Cava and Joel.

“I know.” You grip the lapel of his blazer and kiss him again. Firmer this time, grazing your tongue along the seam of his lips until he welcomes you inside to taste behind his teeth. The frame of his glasses presses into your nose, your cheeks, and you smile into his mouth. Rough palms and lazy fingertips graze the skin of your bicep, your neck, until they find a home at the nape of your neck. His thumb presses against the hinge of your jaw, hot wet tongue working your mouth open until you’re whining, teeth nipping at his bottom lip and fingernails digging into the meat of his thigh.

Only when you move to press a hand beneath the collar of his shirt does Joel pull back again, this time to stand and take a step away from the bench. A tinge of scarlet creeps its way from the hollow of his throat to the apple of his cheeks. He clears his throat and glances over his shoulder, towards the door. When he looks back, there’s something new there. Some dangerous that flashes in his eyes and lingers when his gaze dances down the curve of your body against the seat.

“Where are you staying?” you ask, breathless.

For a minute he doesn’t answer. Simply stares, contemplating, broad chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. The lenses of his glasses are fogged, and you watch them slowly clear.  

Then— “The Pendry.”

Joel reaches into his pocket and retrieves something small and laminated. You take it from his outstretched palm carefully. “Fifth floor.”

You stare at it for a moment. Turn it over in your palm once, twice. Read the room number printed on the key card before tucking it safely into your purse. When you look up again, Joel is already walking back inside.

It’s nearing midnight by the time you arrive at the Pendry – a high rise in Manhattan West, the kind with a fancy lobby and a doorman in a neat black suit. The polar opposite of the hotel where your suitcase lies unopened across the city. You feel out of place in an instant, but you’re still in your dress, and the staff don’t bat an eye at your presence. The key card he gave you is hot where your fingers curl around it, plastic damp and foggy with the sweat from your palms. By the time you reach his door you have to wipe it on your dress before the sensor will recognise it.

A hollow beep echoes through the hall, and his door presses open with a soft hiss.

The room is enveloped in darkness. Moonlight shines in through a slim gap in the curtains, highlighting vague edges of the space. A desk against the wall, a large bed on the left of the room. For a moment you consider that he isn’t here—that he got caught up at the conference, sweet talking into the midnight hour with other professors and alums. You can hear sounds from the street, music and car horns blaring, even from the fifth floor. But nothing else. No Joel.

Tentatively, you take a step inside the room. And then another. Kick your heels off and feel rough carpet hairs sift between your toes. Holding your hands out into the darkness, fingertips ghosting the wall for support, you venture further into the room, only pausing when your shin thumps against the corner of something sharp and sturdy.

You spit a surprised curse and stumble into the wall, hands falling to grip your leg where it throbs and smarts.

“Jesus fuck,” you hiss, smoothing your fingers against the already forming lump.

A lamp flicks on, and the room lurches into view, tinged in a soft yellow light. You jump, eyes squinting against the sudden brightness. Bed sheets rumple and shift, and Joel is frowning at you from his place amongst the pillows, a hand raising to drowsily scratch his chin.  

“The hell are you doin’?” he rasps.

Heat flares in your face as you straighten up, mirroring his frown. He moves slow, a sluggish stretch out of bed, wearing nothing but a pair of boxers and a t-shirt, and he looks almost concerned. It gives you pause for a moment, eyes unsure of where to settle, as you note just how much of his body you’ve never seen before. The soft muscles in his legs, the dark hair over tan skin. You can see the slight round of his stomach through the thin fabric of the shirt.

“Were you asleep?” you accuse.

“Thought you weren’t coming,” Joel mutters, and the sound is a fractured medley of words and yawns. You feel a dull pang of disappointment in your chest as you watch him rub sleep from the corner of his left eye.

“Were you hoping I wouldn’t?”

He doesn’t respond.

“You gave me a key.”   

“I know,” he sighs.

“Of course I was going to come.”

He nods. Yawns again, hand snaking upward to cover his open mouth.

You turn your back on him slowly. Take a glass from the little kitchenette and let the faucet run a cool burst of water into it. Little specks of water splash up, dotting against your hand. Your feet ache from wearing those damn heels all day, but you wilfully ignore the pain, gulping down half the glass while staring at your reflection in the splashback. Blue dress, hair tucked behind your ears, charcoal smudged around the curve of your eyes.

Joel’s fingers wind around yours, peeling the glass from your clutch so he can steal the final few sips. He discards it on the counter and leans against it. You try to make out his expression in the shadowy light, wiping your water-dotted arm against your side.

“S’a good dress.” He looks more alert suddenly, eyes sharp and focused, wide shoulders squared.

“Yeah?”

“Mm.”

“Didn’t say anything about it earlier.”

“Was tryin’ not to think about it,” he says plainly. “And how badly I wanted to take it off.”

Your hand stills. That misplaced disappointment slips out of the room, an unwelcome third party, and you grin at him. A sleazy, sleepy smile, and walk backwards in the direction of the bed without taking your eyes off of him.

“So take it off,” you challenge.

Your heartbeat is a steady thrum against your breastbone as he crosses the room. Badoom, badoom, no less than three strides and he’s there, gripping your waist to turn you so his chest is against your back.

Your zip is a low whir in the air, spinning downward slowly, slowly, from the nape of your neck to the sloping base of your spine. Deft hands trace skin, grazing every mark, every freckle as they are revealed to him, until the material of your dress is a gaping smile across your back. You shiver as the air rushes to meet your bare flesh, and then careful—cautious—you feel a pair of lips press against the top of your spine, soft pink against steely vertebrae. You say his name, low and surprised, and he doesn’t say anything. Those hands push the dress down your arms, and you watch it tremble and fall, a mess of blue at your feet.

You can hear his breathing; the way it stutters and jumps as he traces the clasp of your bra, the arch of your spine beneath it.

“Take it off,” you say again, and feel a sharp scratch of desperation that perhaps this time he won’t deny you this. This something that you’ve not experienced even once, and yet you find yourself missing.

The idea of his skin against yours is something prophetic, something inevitable, something divine—something determined far before the two of you met in that bar. It’s out of your control or his, irrevocable—a beast bred from desire that claws and snaps at the bars of its cage, calling you kicking and screaming into each other’s arms.

His fingers pluck at the clasp, and you smile. Sigh in relief as your bra hits the floor and the weight of your breasts are borne to the increasingly warm air. Joel is still behind you, still not seeing you. But broad palms splay across your back, massaging and flexing into your skin as they roam your sides, your stomach, up your front to cup your breasts. You gasp, eyelids fluttering as he squeezes softly, palms warm and solid against the stiff peaks of your nipples.

“Fuck.” Joel’s nose buries itself in your hair, his forehead against the back of your head. Your legs shake, and you lean back into his chest, your body a soft and tremulous thing that would surely float away if he weren’t here to hold you up.  

His hands are on your breasts, sweet and tender and finally, and you wonder how long this wanting will feel like burning. Like nicks of flame that gloss over you and spit embers at anyone who dares to get too close—at him, sparking and sputtering as they collide in a spitfire symphony. This man who lives set ablaze in his own right. This man who welcomes your flame every time—swallows it whole, and lays kisses against the back of your neck with lips still warm.

Calloused fingers roll and circle your nipples, playing gently, listening for every gasp, every sigh, before diligently repeating whatever it was that called the sound forward. Your underwear is all but ruined, already damp and clinging to the slick skin between your thighs. And you can feel him against your lower back, albeit unmoving—not grinding against you, not pushing you down onto the bed, but waiting – for what, you can’t be sure.

You turn around faster than he can stop you. Hook fingers into the band of your panties and drag them down in a swift movement before straightening, holding his gaze all the while. And Joel—

He looks in pain. Dark eyes lock onto on your face and don’t stray. Don’t dip downward, don’t glance around the room. His hands hang by his sides, palms facing upward in a dejected fashion, jaw slack as he just—waits.

“Why won’t you look at me?” you whisper.

“You don’t….” he shakes his head. “If I look, I won’t be able to forget. And I—I can’t—”

There’s a flash of that memory again. Sweating in the dark bathroom of a bar in Portland. Joel wiping stained lipstick from your chin. The words I’m gonna remember this dripping from his swollen lips.

You take a step forward. Feel your nipples graze the soft material of his shirt. “And what if I don’t want you to forget?”

He says your name quietly, shoulders tense. But when you grip the hem of his shirt, he doesn’t stop you. Rather, he lifts his arms and lets you drag the fabric over his head. You marvel at the bare skin, eyes dancing across jutting collarbones and the soft swell of his stomach. Watch the way his chest rises and falls as stilted breaths flurry inside him before spilling into the air between you. Admire the trail of dark hair that rests between his bellybutton and the soft band of his underwear. His eyes don’t leave your face as you push the boxers down his legs.

“So handsome,” you say and Joel exhales, hands hovering a hairsbreadth from your waist. The weight of the moment hangs heavy between you. This moment of more. To be with him like this feels like more. To be naked feels like more.

You grip his hand and raise it to your breast again. Squeeze your fingers over his. His thumb flicks across your nipple and you gasp. His eyes darken, nostrils flaring as he fights to restrain himself.  

“Joel,” you whisper. “Look at me.”

Finally, he does. Those brown eyes flickering downward to rake in the sight of your body.

He’s on you in a second, mouth slanting desperately against yours while his hands drift aimlessly across skin, untethered in their access. Fingers pinching and grabbing and squeezing, teeth searing at your lips, and you gasp as his cock presses against your stomach. The long, thick weight of him, drooling and needy. Your fingers slip around him, rub softly over the underside of his head, the vein on the underside of him. Joel grips your wrist and pushes you backward a step, his lips leaving yours with a wet smack.

“Sit on the bed,” he orders firmly.

You wander backward, stumbling onto the edge of the bed when your calves collide with the heavy wooden base. He watches you, hand drifting to wrap around the base of his cock. He strokes himself gently, black eyes tracing vigilantly over every inch of your body. And you expect him to push you down, to crawl on top of you. Instead, you watch with bated breath as Joel drops to his knees in front of you. His knees crack as they bend but he ignores it, nudging your thighs apart so his broad frame can fit between them. Hooded eyes gaze between your thighs, roaming across all of the bare skin on show. Slowly, he lifts a hand and rests it gently on your mound. Calloused fingers stroke over the dark hair there, stroking through the short curls. You sigh and cant your hips up, but Joel only grunts, his free hand squeezing your thigh to hold you against the mattress.

Before you can process it, he’s leaning forward, nose nestling in your hair as his warm tongue parts your folds. You groan in unison, your fingers carding through his curls to hold him against you. He murmurs something that you don’t quite catch over the roaring in your ears, but you don’t care. Too caught up in a smooth slide of his mouth slotting against you. The flat of his tongue glides up and down your sex, smearing a mess of slick and saliva in his wake. You gasp as it flicks sharply across your clit, your jaw tensing at the harsh sensation. Joel notices—pulls back.

“Tell me,” he urges.    

“Slower,” you say quickly, voice feeble and desperate.

“Slower,” Joel repeats with a nod, and he massages your thighs as he licks into you, fingernails scraping your skin as his grip tightens and loosens and tightens and loosens. He traces slow circles around your clit with the flat of his tongue that have you gasping and bucking against his face. And when his tongue presses inside of you, you moan, fingers twisting in his hair and tugging.

“Fuck,” he growls into you, and he likes that. You do it again and his eyes flick open, pupils blown, gaze darting wildly across your stomach, your arms, your breasts, your face – watching, admiring, taking in every detail of the offering that you’ve laid so generously at his altar. The tip of a finger curls inside you and he grins when your thighs tense around him. He rears his head back to watch how you welcome him inside, eyes locked on the way your weeping cunt clenches and drips around one of his fingers, and then another.

“Yeah,” you sigh, nose scrunching at the slight stretch. “Yeah, like that, fuck.” 

“Look at you,” he mutters. “Christ.” And then the cut of his wet red mouth is back on you, lips parting to suck against your clit until you’re crying out, voice a hoarse shout as you speed rapidly towards your end.

“Shit, Joel,” you gasp. One of your legs kicks out straight and his hand drops from your thigh, one set of fingers working you open while the other comes up to part your lips, giving himself more access. As he lathes wet kisses against you, the coarse hairs of his beard scraping your inner thighs, you can feel it. That liquid heat that coils and stirs in the base of your stomach.

“Joel, I—ohh—I think I’m gonna come,” you whimper, hand shooting out to grip his shoulder. Your nails dig into the tense muscle there, using the leverage to rut your hips against his face.

He groans into your sex, fingers moving faster, unforgiving against that spongy spot deep inside that sets you alight. His teeth graze against your clit, the lightest brush, and your stomach is tensing, every muscle in your body locking up.

“Give it t’me,” he says gruffly. “That’s it, come on, baby.”

A choked gasp falls from your lips and then you’re coming, twitching against his face, pussy bearing down on thick fingers that stoke you through the high. Your hand leaves his shoulder to grip the back of his neck, holding his face against where you’re aching for him still. Joel moans, a low sound from deep in his chest, dragging his fingers away so he can drink down every heady drop of your orgasm.

Baby.

The word rings in your head, bouncing inside your skull, a fierce ricochet. Baby.

Trembling fingers feather across the cowlick at the crown of his head, twisting and petting soft wayward curls as his mouth pulls back, a wet drag across the skin of your hip. You catch a glimpse of his cock, heavy and throbbing between his thighs.

Joel’s teeth nip at the sensitive skin of your thigh, a sharp pinch that makes you flinch. Tired muscles tensing, face twisting up as he sucks and licks, hot tongue soothing over the stinging red mark. He breathes your name, mouthing the sound into your flesh once, twice.

“I’ve been tryna remember this,” he murmurs. “Only ever had it for a second.”

You whimper as he licks into you again, slowly. And you’re so sensitive, and maybe—maybe—it’s too much, too soon, but he doesn’t care. He grips your calf and tucks it over his shoulder. Holds it there in a vice grip.

“Wasn’t enough,” he says. Dark eyes look up and you’re rapt in them—bound and boneless simply from having those eyes on you you you nothing but you all he sees is you and he loves it, you can tell. Thrives on the way you melt beneath his rough fingertips, the wet drag of his tongue. “Remember that first day in my office?

Remember, remember, remember, how could you forget? I’m gonna remember this this this.

“Yes.” Your leg trembles against the side of face, the coarse hairs of his beard scratching your skin. The tip of his tongue lathes slow circles around your clit. A cruel, leisurely slip of flesh on flesh that has you gasping and twitching beneath his hands.

“I wanted this that day,” Joel rasps. “Needed it. But you were gone so soon, ‘n’ I couldn’t help myself.”

“What—oh fuck—” He flicks his tongue faster, hot swipes from side to side that have your thigh clamping down against the muscles in his neck. Your mind is a blur, eyebrows furrowed as you try to make sense of his words.

“Fucked my fist the second you left,” he growls. “My fingers in my mouth, the taste of you—Christ, couldn’t stop thinkin’ ‘bout it.”

“Joel,” you gasp, impatient. “I—get up here. Please, just—”

Strong hands push you up, push you back, further onto the bed until your head hits the pillows. His hair is a wild fray around his head, knotted and mussed from your fingers raking through it.

“I don’t have anything,” he says.

“I don’t care,” you say.

His knees press onto the mattress on either side of you and his eyes glance down your chest before he grips your waist and he’s turning you. Your stomach meets the sheets and you move to arch your back, to tilt your hips up towards him, but a firm hand rests on the small of your back, and keeps you down.

“Like this,” you hear him say. “Trust me.”

His chest is flush to your back, and you can feel him there, knuckles brushing the flesh of your ass, spreading you apart so his cock can press inside. The pillow swallows your wet gasp, and your eyes pinch shut against the stretch as he sinks deeper and deeper. Every delicious inch splits you open wider, further, carving out that space that’s just for him, and it’s more. Your vision blurs and you clutch at the sheets, fingers tangling in linen as Joel’s breathy groans fill the air.

“God,” he grunts. “Always so fuckin’—tight.”

You cry out as he begins to move, pressing you further into the mattress. The stretch of him is so broad—so deep—it has hot tears pricking in your eyes. Your legs are straight, almost clamped together, leaving the smallest gap for him to break through. His chest melts against your back, sweet sweat sliding from skin to skin. And his stomach is soft against the base of your spine, but his teeth are sharp where they nip and smart against the skin of your shoulder, your neck. He sets a pace that has you biting down into the pillow to muffle your groans. It’s almost overbearing how good it feels, how he surrounds you. Flat against the mattress, there’s nowhere to hide from the pleasure, no way to twist or curl your body away from how good it feels. A choked moan is muffled by the pillow.

And then his fingers are in your hair, dragging your head up.

“What are you fuckin’ doin’?” he grunts. You gasp, eyebrows furrowed and mouth ajar as you take take take. He pulls your hair harder when you don’t respond, presses his chin against your shoulder, lips curling against the skin of your neck as he speaks. “Don’t do that, not here. No more hidin’, I wanna fuckin’ hear it.”

He grips your hips and drags you upward so you’re on your knees, bracing against your forearms, and then his hand snakes around the front of your body, fingers dragging between your thighs as he begins moving again.

“Oh fuck,” your eyes widen in surprise, jaw hanging slack as he rolls his finger in expert circles over your clit. “Fuck, fuck.”

“Yeah?” he gasps.

“Fuck,” you repeat, mewling every time one of his thrusts sends your face forward into the pillows. “Yes, oh god.”

“Yeah, you fuckin’ like that.” Each word is punctuated by a thrust of his hips. “That’s it, lemme hear it.”

“Joel,” you cry out, voice cracked and broken. “So good.”

“I know, baby,” he grunts. “I know.”

“You’re so—deep,” you gasp.

“I know,” he soothes.

“I missed this,” you babble, mouth moving faster than your mind. “Missed you.”

“Christ,” he spits, pulling you up until you’re leaning against his chest. His fingers are a blur against your clit, cock a fast wet shift in and out in and out.

You tilt your head back against his shoulder, mouth hanging open as you press your ass back into him.

“Missed me?” Joel says, and his cheek is warm against yours. Wet. Your face is wet. “Gonna show me how much?”

“Yes,” you moan. His free hand grips your breast, squeezing and pinching.

“Need to get my fuckin’ mouth on you,” he growls.

“No,” you beg. “Joel, don’t—fuuuck, fuck, don’t stop.”

“Wanted to,” his hips stutter against you, losing momentum for a second. “Jesus, wanted to take my fuckin’ time.” You snake a hand behind his head to grip his hair again, to press his face into your neck. His mouth latches onto your skin, spit mixing with sweat where his teeth and tongue trace your roaring pulse. Your thighs are trembling, knees weak and wobbling against the mattress as he pistons into you, unrelenting, unforgiving.

“I’m—” your eyes start to roll back. You can feel your back arch and twist against him, toes curling into the sheets. “Oh my God.”

He says your name in a panicked hiss and pulls out.

You gasp at the loss, eyes flying open in alarm. He moves your body, not wasting a second as he lowers you down onto your back presses inside again, hands gripping the underside of your knees, holding them against your chest. Practically bent in half, you tremble in his grasp, eyes blurred and wet as you sob his name.

“Lemme have it,” he goads you, voice a dull vibration against your chest. “Bein’ so fuckin’ good for me, yeah, just like that.”

And it feels like something splinters within you as heat floods your senses, vision whiting out until all you can see is the soft edges of his curls against your chest, the wet smear of his tongue over your nipple. All you can hear is the words he speaks against your skin.

I’m close, he warns, and you say yes, say please, say I want it, because you do.

“Where?” You call the shots.

And you say, Inside, say, I want it, because you do.

Because you want everything. Everything he has and whatever dark matter is left after that. And everything is a naked thought, a stark realisation, a frighteningly bare streak of madness that zips down your spine and melts in your belly, and you can feel yourself tightening around him with the enormity of it. Can feel your body squeezing and sucking and holding it holding it holding it and with black eyes, spheres of a night sky’s pitch, he stares at you. Unruly eyebrows pinched tight. Mouth slick and swollen and snarling, white teeth grit like prison bars, keeping everything contained inside himself, just out of your reach.  

“Fuck,” Joel spits, pleading, desperate. “Don’t—”

But his hips are bruising against yours and you relish in the ache. The jut of bone amidst the softness of his skin, a reminder of the coldness in him, the determination, the impatience. And you know that you can only have so much softness until there is stone. But you cannot understand don’t, you never have with him, so you grind upward. Meet him thrust for thrust, and shiver in delight as a tortured expression passes over his face. And when you come again he curses, broad palms bearing down on you, holding your frame into the mattress as he pushes you through it, prolonging that naked thought, that fearsome idea. You only hope that he cannot see how your own everything spills. How it cools and congeals around him with its palms spread open, longing to receive as much in return.

Joel comes with a shout, hips dragging backwards so his spend can spill across your stomach and the puffy lips of your sex. He grips his cock, milking himself for all he’s worth until wet ropes of his come are smeared across your thighs too. You gasp and writhe against the bed, trying in vain to keep your heavy eyelids open, not wanting to miss a second. The shine of your slick on his thighs and lower stomach is clear in the dim lighting, and you smile at the sight of it – your claim on him. Chest heaving, he follows your gaze, fingers swiping across his skin before sinking into his mouth. He groans around his fingers and you stomach lurches as he lowers his chest to the bed, mouth drifting between your splayed thighs.

You cup his jaw and hold him still.  

“I can’t,” you murmur, and your voice is cracked and broken. “S’too much.”

And he agrees, tracing the marks on the inside of your thighs with his mouth until your eyes drift closed.

Time passes slowly after that. You don’t open your eyes for a while. Too fucked out, too tired, too tender.

There’s a warm glide of something soft and wet over your stomach, your thighs, between your legs—Joel cleaning up his mess. You almost wish he wouldn’t.

“Sorry,” you mumble a few minutes later. “I’ll go in a second.” But your eyes are closed, and the sheets smell like him.

You feel the mattress dip beside you. Hear a soft click as he turns off the lamp, and darkness swells around you once more.

“S’okay,” he says, and his voice is so close, as if he were whispering against the shell of your ear, breathing the words into you. “Don’t have to go.”

And it makes sense not to go. To stay, to stay, to stay. To sink deeper into the hotel mattress, and let the sounds of his heavy exhales lull you further to sleep. He doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t come any closer. But you can smell him. Can feel his warmth, a radiating sun that shines across the side of your body closest, and you sink deeper still.

You think of the katabasis - the hero’s journey spiralling down into the underworld. Of Orpheus seeking the safe return of Eurydice, his love lost too soon. Of Odysseus, guided by Circe to discover Teiresias on his quest for homecoming. Of Aeneid, venturing downward to meet his father and hear his true destiny. This descent into the afterlife, into the realm of the dead, wherein upon return our hero is irrevocably changed. But to stay, to stay, to stay. So warm it is here, you think, so lovely and warm to descend wholly into this wanting, this burning, this everything.   

“Is this a good idea?” you murmur, voice a drowsy call into the darkness. “For me to stay?”

Joel doesn’t respond.

tags: @lovely-ateez @nana90azevedo @stevie75 @evyiione @dameron-grant-spector @brittmb115 @ashhlsstuff @casa-boiardi @bbyanarchist @hopplessilse @joeldjarin @anoverwhelmingdin @bluevxnus @kelp-dreaming @prettyinpunk85 @spacelatinos4life @iluvurfather @mrsquill @sarap-77 @sunnywithachanceofjavi @alleyy-katt @zeida @mendessi @love-the-abyss @myrealmofchaos @a-roving-woman @punkshort @gracie7209 @whichwitchwanda @fellinfromthetop @bitchwitch1981 @suzmagine @@lmariephoto37 @harriedandharassed @cumberpegg @tonysttank @ourautumn86 @my-tearsricochet @shotgun-shelby @5oh5 @psychedelic-ink @what-is-your-wish @sugadolly @elissaaa @nobodycanseeinsidemysoul

thank you for reading! x

[jonathanbyersphd]

Stranger Things - Endless Summer AU Moodboard

Jonathan knows next to nothing about surfing, beach culture, or California but when his college roommate Argyle asked if he wanted to work at his family's surf shop. Well, Jonathan figured there were worse ways to spend his summer than on the beach with his best friend. Now he's spending his days smoking, selling boards, snapping photos, swapping tourist horror stories with the ice cream parlor employees next door, and trying not to have a summer romance with the cute reporter renting out Argyle's spare bedroom.

[daisyvisions]

Do I Wanna Know? | Octoberfest Day 2

➺ Pairing - best friend!Juyeon x fem! reader

➺ Drink - Old Fashioned with a hint of absinthe (aka best friend!au x high / drunk sex)

➺ Summary - They say you should always chase your dreams...But what if your dream is a person?

➺ Word Count - 0.9K

➺ Warnings - Smut (18+, minors DNI), wet dreams, unprotected sex, dub con (don't read if triggering), foreplay, fingering, dry humping, messy makeouts, begging, wet dreams, marking, creampie, hair pulling, biting (?), a very in love Juyeon if you look closer , idiots-to-lovers eventually

➺ Author’s note - a shorter fic for today but I had this idea in my wips for a long time, felt like it was the right time to use it haha thinking of making a part 2 for this but do let me know if you’re interested in that! Title inspired by the Arctic Monkeys song of course. Proofread once, hope you enjoy!

➺ Taglist - @deoboyznet @snowflakewhispers @midnightfantasiez

@momhwa-agenda @nyu-topia @jaminthemiddle

➺ OctoberFest Masterlist

It almost seemed too real for Juyeon.

The way you whined under his touch. How his lips kissed the soft skin of your neck, one hand holding your neck while the other rested on your hip, enveloping you in a warm embrace as he cuddled you in his bed from behind. Holding onto you as if you'd slip away from him at any given moment.

He always had dreams like this. Dreams where he had you to himself. Dreams where he crossed the boundary of your friendship. Dreams where he could finally call you his. Dreams where you felt the same as he did.

Oh, how he hated waking up from these kinds of dreams, because he would have to face the reality that you were not his.

It's not that Juyeon hated being your best friend. He would rather choose your friendship over anything, even if it meant squashing down whatever romantic feelings he had for you. Even if it meant one day you two could no longer hang out the way you would because someone else had your attention.

Until then, he would cherish every moment he had with you, relish in dreams where he was the center of your attention for once. To touch you as only a lover should, just like he's currently doing in this very hazy but vivid dream.

"I want you," he mumbles in your ear, "I want you all to myself."

"Then have me. I've always been yours…" you whine out.

Something stirred within Juyeon as you said those words, making him tighten his grip on you as he started to leave love bites on your neck and shoulder. His hands snaked beneath your denim shorts, his palm cupping your sex as you moaned sweetly for him.

Juyeon's fingers start to dip between your folds, teasing your sensitive bud as you squirm against him. You couldn't help but desperately gasp his name, begging for him to undress you and tear you apart. And so he did, aggressively pulling down your shorts and pulling your panties to the side.

You could feel his clothed erection pressed up against your wet entrance as he slowly ruts into you, one hand cupping your mound as the other lifts your leg for better access.

Juyeon's breath falters as he feels your slick slowly dampening his clothes. He lets out a growl against your ear, swiftly removing his own pants as his desire for you grows stronger. He desperately needed to feel your skin against his, even your wetness was starting to feel too real for him to comprehend. He tugs his length briefly before aligning himself to your entrance, his tip eagerly nudging as he waits for your command.

"Tell me you want it." Juyeon gently holds your jaw with his other hand, wanting to look into your eyes as you beg for him to cross the line.

"Please, I want it. I want it so bad," you whine. Juyeon leans forward, his lips just a whisper away from touching yours as his eyes look down to your lips.

"If I give it to you, there's no turning back," he says with a deep and slow voice, subtly warning you of the consequences of your actions.

"I don't care," you breathe out, your eyes filled with desire. "I want you, Juyeon. I've always wanted you."

Without hesitation, Juyeon captures your lips in a passionate kiss, his hips slowly pushing forward as he enters you. You both moan into the kiss, overwhelmed by the sensation of finally becoming one.

Your hand instantly grabs his hair behind you as he starts to thrust his entire length inside you. Juyeon groans as you tug onto his hair, slowly increasing his pace while he holds your leg up. You two don't stop kissing as he continues to fuck himself between your velvety walls. Lips slotting between one another perfectly, tongues intertwining with one another, moaning into each other's mouths.

Everything about this dream was perfect to Juyeon, almost too perfect in fact. From all the wet dreams he's had, this one by far had to be the most vivid. Your touch, your sounds, even the smell of the shampoo you used, it almost seemed like—

"Fuck, I'm so close—" Juyeon slurs his words. "Come with me, please come with me," he begs.

"Juyeon, I— ugh!" Your walls suddenly squeeze his cock as you tighten your grip on his hair, tugging it as you fall over the edge. Juyeon comes right after you, his warmth instantly blooming inside you as he stills. He tries to catch his breath for a moment, trying to grasp why everything felt too real for him…

"Juyeon!"

He feels his body being shaken as your panicked voice causes his eyes to flutter open. His vision slowly adjusting as he feels his bed dip, your figure moving frantically as you pull away from him. Once Juyeon's vision starts to become clear, he sees your widened eyes looking back at him, as if you've seen a ghost.

"What's going on?" his groggy voice asks you, but you don't move a muscle as you're frozen in place.

Something wet flutters around his cock, making Juyeon hiss at the feeling. The moment he looks down to check, the realization hits him like a tidal wave… it wasn't a dream after all.

"Oh fuck…"

[jaeclerc]

charles gender exploration fic is being written rn…she’s a long one i will say! but i’m just so excited for it like this one is really dear to me 🤞🏻

[xnxthinglastsfxrever]

Verse: College AU

It’s been a whirlwind for the past couples of months, getting into NYU was hard as it is but getting a dorm with a reasonable roommate was difficult. It took the redhead eight times with the dean and the dorm department to get a different roommate and finally, she got a place to herself. A full ride to the university, she had to focus on all her classes because one bad grade, she was out of the scholarship and will be paying out of pockets.

It was one fall day, the leaves on the trees on campus were changing colors and falling off the branches, the weather had been chilly and classes were almost over. Just a couple of more weeks until winter break and that means one thing: FINALS WEEK. Natasha was in her economic class where the professor was going over the chapter that will be in the final and she was over here passing a note to her friend that was down a couple of rows. On the note it reads: Kind of a pretty boy, isn’t he? and her friend, Ashely knew who she was talking about. Almost every girl on this campus knew. Because he was the kind of boy that was invited to parties, study dates and if you need a good fuck. The last part, Natasha wasn’t sure it was true or not, she only saw him at one of the parties last weekend and never got him off her mind but her friend Ashely and along with the girls along the campus had been stating that he’s definitely a fuck boy.

Was this going to be the start of something new or a heartbreak wanting to be told? Only time will tell for this Russian Doll.