#on the other there's the horror to the dangers of it when looking back

[dcxdpdabbles]

Demon and Angel Brat was the first I heard of and read your work. Even with working my way down the list, I think it's still my favorite.

What if the BatFam was not wrong about Danny, though?

If the BatFam were not wrong about Danny, then it would go like this:

Danny is in the middle of explaining the hilarious prank that Damian and he managed to pull when he suddenly collapsed. His chin slammed against the floor, making his neck bounce back a little bit.

The taste of copper fills his mouth, from where his tongue got caught between his teeth on the way down. A dull ache starts up in his chest area, having also taken some damage from his fall. For a second, he's not sure how he wound up on the ground like this.

There are shouts around him as he tries to make sense of the new change of location. He wiggles around, pushing himself up on his arms, and realizes that his legs are not weighing him down.

Had he really gone intangible mid-sentence again? How embarrassing. Danny hadn't done that since he accidentally lost his powers to Desiree.

"Daniel!" Damian shouts, scrambling to his side. He clutches his shoulders in a frantic grab, but Danny waves him away.

"It's fine. They'll come back. This happens a lot-"

"Daniel! You're dissolving," Damian cuts him off, sounding choked with tears and panic. Danny blinks at him, then glances down to his legs where he finds- oh.

His legs haven't gone intangible or invisible. They were instead breaking apart into little specks of light. The same kind of thing that appeared around Clockwork whenever the ghost used his time staff.

That means this was Time's doing.

"If we do that, there is a chance that Time will try to force his existence out. It could…. erase Daniel completely." Dick had said, but at the time, Danny had been so sure he wasn't in any real danger. Or maybe Danny had been with the Waynes before the Flash had gone back and changed the timeline, and the Fentons had been Clockwork's way to correct it?

Damian and Danny had broken the safety net Clockwork had placed under him, and now he was falling to his death.

"Danny! Hold on, just hold on. " Dick begs, typing on his phone, likely calling for a speedster.

"Kon! Help!" Tim cries next, head through the window, and sounds like his world is ending. There is a boom in the distance, likely from Superboy, racing over as fast as he could. But Danny doubts neither Kon nor Wally will make it in time.

He gasps as his insides shift, breaking apart, and feeling every second of it, yet somehow feeling no pain. Damian's arms are around him, trying to ground him, but Danny's form is nearly gone.

He feels his brother, sobbing, running his arms over his body desperately, and any other time, Danny would have been amazed that Damian showed so much emotion, as he slowly raises his eyes to meet his horrified father's gaze.

Reaching out a hand to him, Danny gasps out, "Save me, please, Dad."

Bruce jerks as he's been struck. He tumbles out of his chair, reaching for Danny's hand. Only the second his fingers brush his son's, they vanish.

Danny's broken plea echoes in the room as Damian tilts over, now only clutching air.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean it. I don't want to die. You can save me, right Dad?" His trusting smile and tearful eyes only have a few seconds of visibility before Danny's face breaks into pieces, and that's the last expression he will ever make.

Bruce falls to his knees, images of a blown-up warehouse playing behind his eyes. Steph covers her mouth, tears rolling down her face. Cass turns away, shaking all over and clutching her arm hard enough to draw blood. Kon is embarrassing and devastating, Tim, who had collapsed into his hold the second he arrived. Alfred, Duke, and Jason fall into their chairs, looks of horror and disbelief playing across their faces.

The worst, however, is Damian, who is rubbing his hands on the carpet as if searching for the light particles that had fallen between the fabric, calling Danny's name.

He receives no answer.

[werezmastarbucks]

cat. pt3

cat. masterlist

cat!yoongi + f!reader

in which you can't walk past a little black cat, crying for help from inside a carton box, drowning in the rain. months later, after the two of you have adjusted to each other well, the cat disappears. but? not completely.

word count: 9508

music

warnings / tags: cat!yoongi displaying cat!sentient behaviour. mostly fluff. what the fuck have i written here. let's see: ah, NIHILISTIC EXISTENTIALISM. sorry for this. lots of cursing. touching butt. bipedal social horror.

They must have heard about what happened to Yoongi.

There is no other way.

You see four cats, running towards you through the alley, even under the small, unpleasant drizzle that betrays the shit spring weather.

One ginger (Jimin), one grey and striped (Tae), a big brown one with short fur, and a beautiful, domestic looking lush cat with long fur. If you hadn't seen it in the street before, you'd think he doesn't belong to the gang. Maybe Malsoon grooms him. Maybe it's your job now that you have their brother. Maybe you should've thought about it earlier. Again, this human bias, forgetting that the street suffering didn't end when Ren got a home and changed his name.

The three cats run to you in their little cat stride, while the brown one walks unhurridely behind them. A leader, having their back. His tail goes up once he sees you. You squat on the ground, reaching out for the ginger head that has both ears bitten through. Whatever that fight was about, Ren won.

You pat the cat on the head. They never mobbed you like that. Seoul street cats, they are too cool to express affection and need openly, unless they are in real danger. Jimin rubs against you with his whole slender, cat body, reminding you of the simpler days too much. You pat his butt several times.

"Ren is okay", you say to them. The brown cat sits down at the respectful distance. You can't not humanize them now; the process is irreversible. Now you are deluded that they are actually humans first, trapped in cats bodies. Your brain knows it's the other way around. You can't stop seeing intelligence in brown cat's eyes.

"That's why you're all here, right? He just fell on his elbow, but he is okay. You can come round", you say, then think. "Not too often though. He is very jealous".

You can't stop yourself from touching the pretty long-haired cat and fluffing his back. He sneaks away from your hand. There's a sound of a fight coming from down the street: loud meows. The brown cat is on his legs first, then the others follow. They scatter around.

"I will bring you guys the wet food!" you yell after them, "We don't need it anymore!"

A neighbour passes you by with a pitying look. You sit on the ground, trying to talk to a wall.

You gather yourself up and turn onto the main road where the light shop is always open. Morning or night, no matter the weather, even on national holidays, her shop is open. Malsoon must not have any family at all. And lonely people do strange things. It's more common than people think. You find yourself slightly flustered as you see her on her little chair, with a cup of coffee in her hand, feet crossed on the ground. You bow.

"How's work?" she asks. Grandma had woven herself into your life. She knows your schedule, more or less, and where you work, and how you live. You chit chat with her all the time. Never thought it invasive or weird. She is always alone, but looks dignified and relaxed. Her shop is always clean, always lit. You don't want someone like her to be the crazy old hag peeping into people's windows.

"Okay. I am getting a promotion", you smile. Grandma is sincerely glad: she raises her eyebrows, keeping the cup at her mouth.

"Wonderful. You can get another cat!"

You chuckle with all your chest.

"My first one might not like it".

She huffs with a laugh. You suck the air in and suck it up.

"So... My boyfriend said hi to you this morning? I hope he wasn't being weird".

Malsoon nods several times.

"Oh, he was. I was passing by the street from the market. And he waved at me from the window, and then hopped out bare-footed", she says it, not complaining, but with a grin.

"He is definitely bonkers, but very pretty. If only I were ninety years younger..."

You laugh out, scratching your neck. She takes your direct stare like a champ. In fact, it's you who begins to feel uneasy.

"Yeah, he... isn't from Seoul".

"Oh? Where from?"

"Mmm, Ilsan".

The old woman finishes her coffee.

"Yes, I heard they're all bad in the head in Ilsan".

She nods her chin and dismisses you with a smile.

You have nothing else to do but leave. Lingering just a second more, you decide to write it off as usual age-related peculiarity. You come home slightly stooping.

Yoongi is snoozing on the couch, a bright copy of "Myths of India" lying on the floor next to his hanging hand. The hurt arm on his chest, elbow up. Your eyes wander through the kitchen first: the counter is cleared of the swabs, medication and sanitizer. Instead, a thrashed pack of painkillers attracts your suspicion, and you kick off your shoes and walk there to count how many he's taken.

Yoongi sleeps light; as soon as you enter, he already starts waking up. He yawns wide, a sight of pure unemployed bliss. Then looks at you with misty eyes. His fingers start kneading the air, searching for the book.

"I had a dream about Vishnu chasing me in a car", he complains. You click your tongue.

"PTSD. Saw your friends. And grandma".

"Yeah?" he sits up and stretches so sweetly. Some people have the ability to eat in a way that makes you want to eat something, too. Yoongi usually stretches so nice that it makes you want to hop into bed and doze off.

"What'd she say?"

He walks slowly around the living room, monitors everything, finds everything intact and okay, then pivots towards you.

"Either you or she is lying".

He stops.

"Huh?"

"She said she was passing by, not staring through the window. That you waved at her, not the other way around. She also saw you jump out of the window".

His sleepy mouth opens in shock.

"Why would she do that?"

Then he narrows his eyes.

"You believe me, right?"

You are inclined to. In his simple innocence, the lack of understanding what was so wrong this morning, he might not have a reason to make up unnecessary bullshit. You nod. Yoongi takes it as a signal and starts walking again.

"Don't leave any pills like that without a pack. Medication shouldn't be exposed to sunlight", you say.

"There's no sun today", he chimes and then poses himself behind you, and hangs from you, arms around your waist, chin on your shoulder. You remember how you used to carry him around the room sometimes, keeping him in your arms, when you wanted the cuddle. Yoongi would always try to get away, he didn't like to be held and carried at all.

You put the painkillers away and move slowly, held back by his weight. He moves his feet reluctantly, limping slightly, stuck to you like a leaf.

"What are the others' names?"

"Which ones did you see?" he booms into your ear. "You smell like smoke".

"Coworkers smoked while we waited for the bus. I saw the lush one, pretty long-haired cat with those huge eyes..."

He sighs, almost annoyed.

"Jin".

"And I saw Jimin and Tae as well. Jimin really likes being pet".

Yoongi says nothing.

"And there was also the alpha, I guess, big brown guy, also pretty", you puff, "all cats are pretty..."

"Joon. He is the leader. Now I realize it's kinda funny. Six dudes commanded around by the biggest one".

You smirk and waddle towards the fridge. Asking him to get off you is useless. He will get tired of it in a minute anyway.

"There's two more. Kookie is very shy and almost never shows up during the day. He is scared of people".

"Did they hurt him?"

"No, he is just young. And Hoba, he is very skinny".

"What colours are they?"

"Kookie is black like me. Hoba is light brown, almost ginger".

He lets go when he starts smelling food. Yoongi is intricately interested in cooking but you're afraid to let him do it yet. Grabbed the knife at the sharp end once. He only watches for now, and while you're away, eats what's prepared. You are so fucking happy he wasn't a dog because a human-sized dog with functioning thumbs would eat everything edible in a day.

"How did you all meet?"

"Some of us were born together. I've known Joon forever. Maybe we are brothers, we don't know".

"What happened to your mother?"

He shrugs. Assumes his usual position at the kitchen counter and waits.

"I barely remember her. Maybe she left, or died. We moved into this neighbourhood when I was little".

You put food in two plates and watch that he uses the fork right. He knows perfectly well how everything works, but sometimes just flings it for no reason. Like he is protesting the human existence. Like he refuses to let go of his catness. That's quite understandable. Every day you want to have that conversation with him. When the final understanding hits. When he realizes the whole ontology of him. That there's probably no going back. You want him to know that he won't be alone. But you don't even know how to begin. Instead, you remove the tips of his hair from his mouth, and he jerks his head. Once he finishes his dinner, he leaves the plate on the table and you hiss at him. Every time you imitate cat sounds, Yoongi glares at you like you've said something racist. But he does put the plate into the sink, again, because he knows the rules. It's just that he deems himself above it all. He bends his knees and gets behind you again, shoving his face above your plate and trying to nick the food away from your fork.

After dinner, at almost the end of the day, you want nothing more than to get into bed with your cat and watch a movie and listen to his low humming. But you force yourself up from the couch where he lounges, a book in front of his eyes, head on your lap.

"I am leaving in an hour".

His whole body lifts up.

"Where to?"

"I've been skipping gym ever since you turned. I haven't been there for almost three weeks. I need to go", you confess. Yoongi eyes you up and down.

"You've been to work just today".

"Yeah, there are places except work".

He shakes his head.

"No".

You wave him away.

"I gotta go. I pay each month. What's the point of it if I skip".

"Take me with you then".

"I can't", you walk into bedroom in search of your workout clothes. Last time you've been to gym, the whole life was different. Now, you've been creating excuses for friends for almost a month. I'm not feeling well. I am tired after work. I need to help grandma. Yoongi is vomiting. Anything, to stay with him, because he was adapting. Readapting. Now, that he seems fine, maybe it's time to try and put your own life back on track. Even though there's no track left, probably.

"Why-y?" he screams from the living room.

"It's one subscription per person. You can't just walk into gym if you're not a member".

He groans. You suddenly go back to his dream he'd told you about.

"How are you feeling?"

"Betrayed, neglected, unloved", he replies. You pack the sports bag and ravage through the wardrobe in search of your running shoes.

"Don't you think you should spend more time with me now? I am", he shakes the book in the air when you emerge again, "not just a body, I am a spirit that's been travelling through the worlds only to end up at your place".

You walk over to the couch. He knows what you'll do. His arm elbows you in the stomach as you reach for the book.

"You read too much", you try to yank it away from him. Unfortunately, Yoongi's cat brain cannot be separated from his human brain. He takes it as an invitation to a playfight. And again, against the grrr who used to be just a meow meow, it ends in inevitable failure for you.

Yoongi hooks your legs with his foot and flips you onto the couch, kneeling above you, and attacks with his teeth on the neck like he is really about to tear your to pieces.

He adjusts his biting strength really well: it hurts just enough to make you wiggle, but not enough to actually get scared. His frantic breath fans on your cheek as he drinks up your yell, the animal grunt growing at the base of his neck. Having lost the claws, he actually became safer. Because the cat attacked the same way, only didn't realize what dangerous weapons it had at the tips of the fingers. Toes. Whatever.

"Stay with me", Yoongi flops on top of you, knocking all air out, and your mouth swings open.

"Heavy", you mouth with all the remaining breath you have, "heavy".

He waits a second more and then lifts himself up on one arm.

"It's just for two hours".

His face smoothens up. Eyes widen and become lighter.

"Oh. Two?"

He hops off and stands up, stretching, his fingers sticking apart.

"I thought you'd be gone all night again".

"What kinda gym you thought it was?"

"Bitch, I read books on philosophy. Not your boring human establishments system. I'll go take a nap".

Completely satisfied, he goes into the bedroom and falls on the bed. You jump up quickly, trying to get away before he changes his mind.

🐾⋆ 🐾⋆ 🐾⋆

"Do you want to meet my friends?"

"The one who plays volleyball, and the one who called me a cutie?"

"Chaewon and Soyoon, yes".

Yoongi looks at you folding his shirt and then takes another one, tries, and finds it too boring, so he makes a triangle out of it. Then picks it up and shoves in the drawer shapeless. You wince at this debauchery.

"She had it bad for me".

"Soyoon?"

"Yeah".

"Everybody did. Everybody was head over heels with you".

He sighs almost busily. Smooth lock over his eye. You take pleasure in brushing his hair. It's still nowhere close to the ecstasy that Yoongi experiences as soon as the hairbrush touches him.

He gives you a curious side-eye.

"Really?"

"People adore cats. And you're a very pretty cat".

"I was".

"I was trying to soften it".

The laundry folding has become obsolete with him. He takes every piece of clothing you fold, unfolds it and shoves it wherever into the wardrobe. He loses interest in it quickly, too. He sits on the bed, his butt on the clothes pile like he is trying to hijack your attention. He finds with displeasure, even when the damn phone is away, you are always taken by something.

"People adore cats?" he grimaces like you've almost offended him. "That's the first time I hear about this".

"You kidding? Why do you think there's so many cat videos on the internet? And cat musicals? Meow meow meow meow songs?"

His eyes dart around the room as his brain computes. His hands lay on his lap. You try to pull your top from under him, but he doesn't budge.

"Makes no sense. If people love cats that much..." he stares through space. He is building the architecture of his own philosophy. It's fascinating. He theorizes, imagines things. He builds logic chains. If... then... books that he reads are doing something dangerous to him.

"First of all, no thanks", he rubs his eye, "second, why are there so many stray cats then?"

You sigh.

"Cause... a human's adoration doesn't always translate into actual care".

The tip of his nose goes up, and his brows go down.

"Human... you cared about me".

"Stop saying it in the past tense. I care about you. Most people do love cats for real. It's just, it's expensive first of all. Also, not everybody is ready to commit. Then also, some people don't have time".

He still keeps that disgusted expression on his face like he doesn't buy it. You wonder if what you said warps his perception of you. You never slapped him, even when he misbehaved. Never not paid attention. But then again, you are lonely. You like animals more than you like people. And you found Yoongi to be everything you needed to complete your life. You're sure you can call yourself a responsible owner.

"What do we tell them? Chaewon and the..."

"Soyoon. That's a good question. Yoongi, move".

He makes it look like he is about to comply, and instead spreads his hands and lies down, covering all washed clothes, eyes never leaving your face. As if saying, fuck you and your laundry. Our laundry. You click the tongue agains the roof of your mouth in disbelief.

"Why are you being a cunt?"

"I'm not. Should we tell them I am Yoongi?"

"I think we keep the name. It's pointless for you to pretend you have a different name every time you see them. It should be... mostly truth, with a little bit of lies".

"Why, you think your friends will think you're crazy?" he asks in the same tone with which he berates you for adjusting to the society. Being liked? Being accepted? Bullshit that nobody needs. You kneel on the bed and yank a shirt from under the small of his back where it doesn't press down too tightly.

"Should I remind you what happens to those who claim cats turn to people?"

His sharp eyes move to the ceiling. He is especially pale today, making them look black. Yoongi desperately needs some sun. For some reason you're sure if you tell him that, he will revolt.

"You know, you should start helping me", you say, a little tired. Eyes move back to you. "Around the house and in general. I can't do it all alone".

Yoongi rolls his eyes, then, his body, letting you gather the laundry.

He gets on his stomach and moves his feet in the air. Takes a pillow from under the blanket and nuzzles his face into it, quiet, like he is thinking.

"So, people love cats", he says, his voice muffled, "and kick them out into the street and stone them to death".

You look at the back of his soft head, rocking to the sides as if he is trying to leave and impression of his face on the pillow.

"And people love each other. And put each other into psycho houses when they hear something they don't like".

You don't want to be cruel when you say,

"They also sometimes kill living things for no reason at all".

Yoongi crooks his neck and looks at you.

"I know that".

His eyes are dark. You don't want to turn him into a misanthrope. One of you is already enough. Kim Minho somehow lingers with you even though technically it's been closed and avenged.

"What makes you different? Or are you waiting for a moment to kill me?"

It hurts like he clawed your face in. You don't even know what to say at first.

"There are so many people, bad and good ones exist. You know that".

You sit down on the bed, deeply distraught. Yoongi kicks his knees in the air, gathering himself up. He swings his arms and grabs the remaining clothes, all in one hug.

"Why would I kill you", you mutter. Yoongi tries to form a ball. Then opens the wardrobe door and shoves it all inside, making the room look clean in an instant.

"I love you so much".

You almost say it to yourself first. He sits down next to you, his touch quota drained and ready to be filled. He makes sure to press his hip against yours.

"Humans are really gross, inside and outside".

"You're one of them now".

"Nah, I can be whatever I want to be", he says, more energetically.

"Which book told you that?"

He reads through your home library scarily rapidly. He usually spends around two days on a medium sized book. Just reads all day, sometimes falls asleep, then wakes up and continues reading.

"The billboard next to the market".

"Aah".

"I don't like it when you sulk like this", Yoongi pinches your cheek and pulls it. "Makes me think we're screwed".

The thing is, you're drained.

"We're not. We just need to create a realistic legend and come clean about the cat, so that we won't have to lie too much in the future".

You finally snap, your eyes focusing again. You could use a holiday.

"Are you absolutely sure your friends won't understand?"

It makes you think. The two girls you know from college are nowhere near to the childhood friends who would know you through and through. You would trust them to get you home after a night out, when you're drunk and lost a shoe. But you don't have faith in their... readiness to accept the world the way it is? Or you don't want to share Yoongi with them?

"It takes a very specific type of person to believe that".

"You did".

"I still wake up in the middle of the night", you say. His hand drops from your face as he watches you. "Search for my little black cat. My brain is still trying to cope but hasn't accepted it completely. Thing like that breaks the structure of the Universe. You know? If this is possible, then what else?"

"Reincarnation?" he asks, without missing a beat. You stop in your tracks, a little puzzled.

"Uh, I don't know".

You don't want to soak in it. You'd messaged the girls as soon as he displayed interest. You have plans for the night. Tomorrow's Sunday, which means freedom. You don't want to wallow in this sticky substance of painful truths. You don't want the cat who was never meant to be faced with all this crap in the first place, - don't want him to have to go through all the same anthropological disappointments. And you are losing this. It's slipping through your fingers; you see by his face he has already been loaded with it. There's already some dark thoughts brewing inside his skull.

As he tilts his head, he loses his human features, staring right into you. And you realize you two are pondering about very different things at the moment.

You don't have to dress Yoongi - he dresses up himself. And he is. Fucking. Cute.

He likes his wide jeans which make him waddle like he's a bandit cat, the baddest of them all. On his belt, he hangs the little monkey that bobs every time he takes a step. He has a cool almost blank sweatshirt with only a tiny logo on the right side of the chest, that looks suspiciously similar to his own version of a drawing of a cat. He points to his chest:

"I was this", then, to his hip, at the monkey, "and now I am this".

"Damn, it's a good point", you push the monkey with your finger and make it jump, "Sometimes I forget I am an ape".

He hangs the faux metal pearls around his neck, and you groom his hair back a little. You've begged him to gather them into a half-bun, he would look like he eats girls for dinner. He refused. So, you settled with squashing his hair with styling gel. At some point, he has started to look like you pulled him by miracle, and not the other way around. His sneakers have beige stripes and look nineties. He tilts his shoulder, bending one knee, like you tell him to.

"If you ever want to help me out and earn some money, we'll get you into a modelling agency", you say, almost with a grudge. Yoongi bares his upper teeth and it can't spoil the vision.

At first, he holds your hand firmly while you travel through the city; sitting with one knee up on the bus, poking his lip: a habit he picked up from you. Some girls stare at him once, twice, then bring their heads together and whisper. Yoongi clocks them and doesn't know to look away; he burns them until all three of them go red in faces and scoot back into the other side of the bus.

"So... when you were calling me pretty..." he gazes at you questioningly.

"You know a man's best quality?" you grumble and can't hold back. You still move the strands of his hair here and there, behind the ear, and on it.

"Humility".

He cocks an eyebrow.

"I thought it was strength".

"No".

He likes the city center, and hates it at the same time. He sniffs furiously around even though he knows he can't smell too many things clearly. All the sounds of the evening, warm Seoul: the honking, the loud screams, laughter, clicking of the heels, booming of the trains, squeal of electricity and hiss of car tires - makes him turn his head. He doesn't feel scared, but isn't peaceful, either. The problem seems to be, every thing attracts his attention, and it exhausts him. He rakes his hair in the first purely human motion you've seen him do.

"Loud?"

"Mmm?"

He is distracted, fingers barely closed around your palm, all the way to the bar when you're meeting Chaewon and Soyoon. And you think that maybe he will choose something else, and someone else once he learns how big the world is. This might be the first time in his metaphysically short-long life when he has perceived the center of Seoul. So many incredibly pretty girls around, with their hair long and gleaming like his long gone fur; you see his eyes following them, round mouth opened slightly, cat brain demanding that he chases, and touches.

By the time you make it to the bar, your hand clutches his palm almost aggressively, but in reality it's more of despair. You sit at the table where the girls greet you, and you look at them as if for the first time. Whitened out teeth and glimmering necklaces, small faces and surprised, charming smiles. You think for some reason that you would lose to them. Yoongi is completely overwhelmed with the vertical world: he drinks their facial expressions, lets them shake his hand and closely observes their palms wrapped around his wrist, and how they bow slightly to him, and the way their postures say they are just a tiny bit nervous. Out of animal volition, he rounds his eyes when they do, and adjusts his voice intonation to theirs. The cat is completely emotionally horny for new people. He will know new people. It was your idea. And he will see there are more fascinating people than you.

So, when it's time to put the legend into flesh, you are more than ready to act out your part.

"So... have you met the cat?" Soyoon asks, her eyes darting between you and Yoongi, "how crazy is that, you and him have the same name?"

"He, uh, yeah, he met him", you utter, moving your fork around the plate. No hunger at all, none. You know Yoongi is seething inside because you have coached him five times not to steal bites from the fork if it's not in his hand.

"Yoongi the cat has been run over with a car", Yoongi delivers bluntly and quietly.

They both go mute. Chaewon is especially numb for a second. They both stop blinking.

"That's how we met", he moves his shoulder against yours, "I tried to save him, but..."

You press your lips together and look at your plate. Soyoon gasps.

"y/n, is that why you've been... avoiding us? For a month? Oh my god, why didn't you tell us?"

You begin crying even before it's your cue. Tears just cascade by themselves and run down your chin and drip into the club sandwich.

"I couldn't... come to terms with it", you wipe your nose with the side of your palm. Chaewon's trembling hand reaches for you across the table with a napkin, and you think, shit, your brain has been completely cooked. How could you sit here and imagine your only two friends, good friends, good girls, trying to steal him? They have never given you any reason to believe they are capable of this.

You still cry though. Because, in part, Yoongi the cat has died. Yoongi the human nods slowly, his hand tap-tap-tapping you on the back. He comes across as a little cold to them: you see Chaewon glare at him shortly.

"How, uh, have you tried to... help him?"

Soyoon's eyes glisten with tears. She is looking at you in what people call total empathy. She is feeling the pain.

"I'm a vet", he says, "unfortunately I have to see things like that all the time. And... often there's nothing I can do".

He is so good at lying it's scary. His voice sounds smooth and steady, he doesn't sound like he's reciting it. What he isn't wonderful at, is imitating human compassion. His large hand beats on your back mechanically, he doesn't control the force so it looks like he thinks you're choking. You move your shoulder to signal him to stop. His hand curls into an uneven fist and falls to his lap.

"I'm so sorry, y/n..." Chaewon mutters.

"We should've met at home", Soyoon adds, "it's so uncomfortable here. y/n, do you want me to take you to the bathroom?"

Yoongi finally breaks.

"You go together, too?"

Soyoon dabs her nose with another napkin and looks at him.

"Usually, yes".

Yoongi turns to you with his whole body and a silent accusation in his eyes. You are fucking exhausted. You constantly need to perform at least two or three operations when he is in public. You bring your hand down and pinch his thigh sharply.

"Ow!"

You burst harder into tears, refusing to do anything anymore.

Chaewon ends up dragging you to the bathroom by your elbow, and Soyoon follows you two, leaving Yoongi completely alone at the table. You see him turned in the chair, watching you three go, curiosity and indignation on his face.

You're scared he will be gone once you return, but it's just so tiring.

You collapse on the draped little bench in the women's room, and Chaewon shoves another napkin into your hands.

"Has he at least helped you cope?" she asks softly. You furiously nod.

"He's just super blunt", you say, "he's from Ilsan".

Soyoon stands at the mirror, her upper lip trembling. Her black mascara gathering under her eyes. You're sure your makeup is screwed completely.

"Poor little... little furry... innocent..." she gulps, and it makes you cry fucking harder. All the cosmic horror. The suspicion. The usual horror. The frustration. The weight of responsibility. Even the excitement. Leaking out of you.

"Little baby..."

She turns and holds herself up on the sink. Chaewon squats comfortably in her high heels, her pretty round knees stuck together.

"It is definitely the wrong time to bring it up", she says. She isn't crying, but Chaewon doesn't cry at all. You believe the sadness in her eyes.

"But he is very fucking handsome".

You nod in agreement.

"Guess all doctors are a little weird", her stare crawls up to Soyoon for support. "Even animal doctors".

The girls prove to be really perceptive and really protective of you. They pick up on Yoongi's uncanny from just that? You might be screwed after all.

You consider calling it off and telling them the truth. And still can't. Not yet, at least. Let them mourn the cat first. A little lies and a lot of truth. There's no cat anymore. Not really.

You wash your face in the sink and it feels like you wash off all beauty. What was this cool top for, with cleavage, together with flare pants and new sneakers. It feels grey. Soyoon always has her make up kit with her and she gives it to you, so together you touch up your faces. It doesn't satisfy you. Chaewon places her hand on your back with a completely different kind of message from Yoongi.

"Did you get rid of his toys?" she whispers carefully. You stare at the three of you in the mirror. "If you keep them lying around, you know, they will hurt you a lot".

You nod. Lots of truth.

"I put them away into the cloakroom".

"Do you want us to come round and take them away? We can donate them to a shelter".

Soyoon's face lights up at her friend's words.

"You should get another pet. Immediately".

Your eyes grow at that.

"Don't take it the wrong way. Another little life will help you. Yeah, Yoongi, the cat, is gone, it's horrible. And right now you need to hold something alive against your chest for a while".

It's a really good piece of advice. In fact, you agree with her. In fact, you already do it, but there's no way to tell her, and so you smirk involuntarily, bringing your head down.

"Yoongi actually heals it well. I know he doesn't look it", you say, "but he's strangely good at it".

"Whatever helps", Soyoon quits it politely. You finally dry your eyes. You take their hands and go back into the bar room, hoping to see his black sweatshirt covering the table, and you sigh huge relief when you do.

Yoongi is busy privatizing your food. The fork is in his hand. Chaewon's eyebrows go up, and Yoongi looks at you, chewing.

"Cried everything out?" he sighs deeper than he wants to let on. He studies your face carefully, before looking away.

"Let's drink", you say.

That's one thing everybody can happily agree on. The girls exchange glances, in hopes the alcohol will help them crack this case. You forget Yoongi had never drunk in his entire life.

He watches you closely and brings his glass to the center above the table, and is unimpressed when a little bit of soju splashes onto his palm upon impact. Yoongi licks it off his palm, the simple motion making his jaws sharp, and Soyoon experiences something of a sexual awakening. You don't give a shit anymore. You're two glasses down and need to keep an eye on him. Pretending to kiss him on the cheek, you bring your mouth to his ear and see his neck tense hard, because Yoongi has been coached not to purr in public.

"Don't drink too fast".

The first ever gulp of alcohol made him feel all kinds of things. He wanted to gag, but four seconds down, his expression changed to deeply impressed. You imagine all street cats are easily getting drunk on evening gas emissions or fish scent from the market. It suits him. His eyes almost bulged out onto his forehead, which even made Chaewon chuckle.

"You should be in their ad".

"I never tried it before".

Soyoon chokes on her drink.

"What'd you mean? You never drank before?"

"Not soju", you help, "he's from Ilsan".

It's an incredibly stupid thing to say, so you just down the next one and leave her hanging. Yoongi gets tipsy after the first glass; you tried to water it down with lemonade and not make it weird for the girls, so you only filled it half-way under their intense stare. After the third, you grab his hand under the table, and when he turns to you, he looks drunk. Properly, dangerously drunk. His eyes stop being sharp; he looks like a housecat. The tips of his pink lips pulled down in a capricious expression, chin dimpled, heavy lids half-way closed. People of art would characterize it as a well-fed tiger stare.

"To y/n's promotion", Chaewon offers, and raises her glass.

"Mm", he goes, and you hope that if there's one thing left in his head, it's the last, the most important thing you told him before you left the house: remember, you're not a cat. You're a human.

"Money. We love... we love money", he slurrs. Soyoon shrugs like she can't argue with it.

"Does a vet earn a lot?" she asks once she downs the glass. Yoongi drinks in small gulps under your watchful eye, then you push your plate towards him, and he doesn't refuse.

"Enough", he says, "to be cool".

They both chuckle.

"My sister's dog has got sick", Soyoon continues, "it keep coughing this yellow goo..."

"Nice. Hope it dies", he bites into a small piece of the sandwich and then realizes the table fell silent. Your hand touches your nose, then rubs your eyebrow, you kind of gave up. Yoongi blinks three times exactly, then pushes the sandwich behind his cheek.

"Dogs are literally worst. No?"

He looks quite helpless.

"No", you say tiredly, "they are man's best friend".

"Then what the fuck am I?" he raises his voice, and people at the other table look.

"Man".

He pauses, then looks at the girls.

"O-oh. Right. I love dogs".

Chaewon's face is distorted into a grimace of readiness.

"Fuck you, man. What is wrong with you?"

"I am so m-drunk", he says, surprised. He can't stop chewing the sandwich.

"That's enough for you then", you take his glass and drink it to the bottom, throwing your head back. Chaewon and Soyoon look at you with wondering expression.

"Look. He is... kinda psychopathic".

"Uh-what?!"

Yoongi swallows the sandwich and bites again.

"Not in the killing people and dogs way", you muster. You slurr a little too, but thankfully you have experience in this. You are fully in control of what you're saying at least.

"In the confusing people's cues way. His frontal lobe", your finger taps on his forehead, and Yoongi jerks his head.

"Is not developed. He often doesn't care about what he says".

"I also have Tourette".

"No, that was a lie for the shop assistant".

He leans back on the chair.

"I can't cope with your improvisations". And rubs his by now numb face with both hands.

"I'm not sure what's happening", Soyoon says. The air becomes uncomfortable. You suddenly hear the song that is playing in the bar in this ringing silence. Yoongi hiccups the way he sneezes: out of place-cutely and quietly.

"They are both fucking drunk", Chaewon says darkly and sucks the air through her teeth. The refusal to accept the absurd saves you both. You're glad you didn't tell them anything. They tell themselves you're weird because you're grieving, and Yoongi is weird because he is drunk. Everybody has quirks. That's the same thing you told yourself about grandma Malsoon.

In ten minutes the conversation is back to normal. You control Yoongi under the table, squeezing and letting go of his hand. Drunk, he becomes quiet and contemplative. He only opens his mouth again to ask,

"How can you literally kiss someone with strawberry skies? I swear I read a lot of books by now", his finger pricks his arched eyebrow, "and I still struggle with abstract things".

You listen to what he is complaining about: the song. Some people dance in between tables already: it's late.

"It's not abstract", smart and less drunk Chaewon says, "it's just... hyperbolization".

"Metaphor", you help. Soyoon coos, looking at him:

"You have blueberry eyes".

"y/n says I have sharp night eyes".

Soyoon whistles quietly.

"She's fucking right".

The girl rests her head on her fist with a sigh, staring at him.

"It was a compliment, just say thank you", you advise. The glass rolls in your palm. You think maybe it's your last, too. You have a huge cat to bring home tonight. And he manages to be swaying even sitting down.

Instead of saying thank you, Yoongi turns his head and looks at you directly, searching for something. Again, the supernova sparks. Something is happening. You remember those epiphanies a brain goes through when very drunk and very young. Some deep gospels birth themselves as the braincells die. He ignores the sighing Soyoon and Chaewon that tries to keep the conversation going. Just stares at you, eyes blinking, lips parted. Simplicity steps through his facade. His eyes crawl all over your face, each feature at a time. Thankfully, he doesn't say anything, just ruminates, shocked by his own thoughts. You'd pay him to know what he is thinking about.

"Well", Chaewon confesses, "this has been the stangest evening in a while".

She outstretches her hand to Yoongi, and he bows to try and sniff it, and you almost punch him in the shoulder. She tragically thinks he was about to kiss it, and jerks it back.

"So... yeah".

She loads barely alive Soyoon into the taxi. Then turns to you.

"You'll be okay?"

Yoongi is instantly taken by the noise of the street. People walk in pairs and threes, like sea waves, threatening to yank him away. Something falls from the sky; either rain, or piss, or beer. The hair around his ears stands up as he watches the world function chaotically. The neon lights of the narrow streets flickering in his dark eyes.

"y/n?"

You nod at her.

"Yeah. We'll walk a little, he needs air. Me, too".

Chaewon is not convinced but she reckons you're an adult. She gives you a hug, a strong one, unusually strong, and you hug her back. For dealing with Yoongi tonight and keeping it civil even though he really tried to wreck everything.

"Let's meet again", you suggest, "when he's settled in Seoul".

"You know, I don't think it's Ilsan, y/n".

You chuckle into her shoulder. Her eyes watch Yoongi cautiously.

"But I get you".

Yoongi looks back.

"Stop it, let's go".

His hand tugs you on the back of your top, then slides, and he notices he can hook his finger into the belt loop of your pants.

"I get you", she repeats. Once the weight of Soyoon is off her, you notice Chaewon is also drunk. Also perplexed and fascinated with the boy you have.

"He's been a dick all evening", she mutters, her hand still around your shoulders. Yoongi pulls you in his direction.

"And the only thing I keep thinking about is that his hair is slightly wavy".

You snort into her and hug her again.

"Stop!" he snaps clearly. Yoongi is running on empty, confused why his usual domestic final tone doesn't work on you. Chaewon lets go of you and gets inside the car.

"Text me when you get home safely", she says. And closes the door. Yoongi replies,

"Mind your own fucking business", but thankfully she can't hear him. You turn to him. Hot mess. He closes and opens his eyes, showing the grudge. The chain on his neck glistens with red, then green, of the traffic light nearby.

"You did relatively well for someone who's been human for a month".

"You did badly", he responds, right into your face, a breath of soju and raspberry lemonade. "You didn't even notice what happened".

"What happened?"

"It keeps coming in waves", he says, refusing to lower his voice, and it doesn't matter. It's Hongdae: let him scream that he's an alien from Pluto, nobody gives a shit.

"My brain readjusts itself in portions, like a computer program. I got more human tonight, and you didn't notice".

"Is that why you were staring at me?"

Your eyes are way too dry and heavy to care. You just know you need to keep him close.

"No", he spits out. His face is too close and it's fine.

"Then why?"

"You're not hearing what I say, right?"

"Yoongi", you hollow out. The word becoming somewhat sacred and maddening to you. "You sit on my bed, consume my space and say words like 'reincarnation' with the tongue that doesn't have hooks anymore. I am. Uprooted. If it seems like I don't care, it's because I'm burnt out".

He keeps quiet, watches your mouth move and lowers his eyes further.

You are like two towers of Pisa, so funny to the random people around, heads meeting at the tilt.

"I am a nobody", he mutters. Selfish little catboy. He knows nothing else.

"I was a nobody and I still am a nobody".

"You are Min Yoongi", you respond. His head against your shoulder moves sideways.

"It's just words. Like Ren Lotus. Just sounds. I have no human ID. No hobbies. No interests. No place".

It pierces you like an arrow. His drunk weight tilts dangerously, and you tap him up, begging not to fall. Yoongi balances himself on his two feet, stands up again.

"You're not a nobody. You're my favourite", you say firmly. Your finger points to his face, and his eyes don't snap at it, they stay focused on you.

"Does it mean anything at all?"

"You're never drinking again, fucking bricks", you breathe out. "Nothing means anything, there's just you and me", you wrap your hands around his neck. And the hands of the Camus-possessed feline-turned-bipedal disaster get straight to your butt.

Nothing quite breaks the tension like that.

"Yoongi!"

His name is like rainbow in between your teeth, reflecting all kinds of emotions.

He is about to fall asleep. You feel by the weight of the head on your shoulder again, and by now his body starts slowly drooping onto you. His human body begins to shut down, part by part: head, shoulders, knees, brain. Only palms knead your ass out of an unkillable pre-installed cat instinct. When you feel love - bake.

"You used to let me sleep on your butt", he slurrs so badly that you have to make out his words, "and now we sleep dressed as if I don't know what you look like".

Then he falls. You fall with him: right on the dirty asphalt of Wausan-ro. His whole body crashes on you, and you hit your tailbone on the hard ground, one foot bent painfully under him.

He is out.

Several people approach and offer help; you shove your phone into someone's hand, asking them to call a taxi to your address. You crawl from under him, keeping his head up and on your lap.

"Is he okay?" someone asks with laughter.

"He is drifting into nihilistic existentionalism, what do you think?" you roar, angry. The face turns from amused to scared, "I don't want him to be jaded and depressed like all of you stupid losers!"

Someone coughs.

"I want him to be happy and dumb again!"

You cry again, in the taxi, too. The driver helps you heave Yoongi into the car and warns that if he vomits you both get kicked out immediately.

Yoongi sleeps his bothersome cat dreams all the way home, and the kind man stops the car right at the entrance of the building and then helps carry him home. You pay him double.

You two place him on the couch. You take off Yoongi's chain and the monkey from his belt, thinking that the monkey will want to sleep in the jacket's pocket, fuck knows why. Why don't we accommodate all the fucking animals in this house. You turn Yoongi's head to the side, thinking he might choke in his sleep. His hurt arm twitches in his sleep, which is a good sign, assumedly? He used to run from his dreams, thrashing all limbs around, and now only moves the elbow. You shove your hand under his sweatshirt to check his temperature, and your palm feels his warm, soft stomach. He feels okay, but you can't make yourself leave, his words boring holes in your head.

Finally, you dash into the bathroom. This is the strongest sleep he's had; doesn't wake up when you drop the plastic toner bottle on the floor, and then open and close the door. You check him again before retreating into the bedroom and collapsing on the bed.

You cry again, squeezing the last of it out, into your pillow, and then move onto the second one, that Yoongi now normally occupies. Supposed to occupy: his head is more often on the mattress, a bit lower. You meant to close the curtains, you recall after the body has already killed the switch. The only light in the street is the faint golden glint of the Wang Light Shop. You wish you could share it with someone, even if just one person. My little lovely cat turned into a big lovely human, and I am scared he is going to suffer greatly. Who did this to him? Yoongi begins snoring from the living room.

🐾⋆ 🐾⋆ 🐾⋆

You're jerked awake in the morning, almost by the hair.

He is shaking your shoulder, knees making the mattress cave in and wobble.

"My head hurts", he says, even before you open both eyes. You wince. Your hand reaches for him out of habit and you catch air when Yoongi pivots.

"Do I take the same painkiller?"

"Yes", you mumble.

"How many pills?"

"Take one at first".

"What if it doesn't help?"

Your mouth is glued half-shut by the poisonous saliva of yet another hangover. You try to move your head away, but the light is everywhere.

"Close the curtains", you plead in whisper.

"Are you sick?"

Yoongi means to get his answer through touch, the language most familiar to him, and his hand wraps around your throat for a moment.

"Take one pillow", you blurt.

"What?"

"I mean pill. Curtains. Please".

He jumps off the bed with too much energy for someone who's gotten drunk for the first time yesterday, and now has headache. First, Yoongi closes the curtains and brings cool, sacred dusk into the room. Then walks into the kitchen, and you hear the shuffle of medication packs. Hiss of water, he drinks tap water again!! You're pressed down under the blanket and dizziness, you can't move your tongue. It can't only be alcohol; last night you weren't black-out drunk. It must be the deeper exhaustion, the chasm.

Yoongi returns, his feet sliding on the floor quietly, as usual, and crawls into bed.

He lies behind you at first, then tries to crawl over, sees there's no space, and tucks himself against your back.

"Do you remember last night?" he asks suddenly.

"Mmm, no", you lie. One-syllable words. Why do you feel so much worse than him?!

"Good. I was saying all kinds of embarrassing things. I thought it would never end".

"You fell. Asleep in the street", you say.

"I know".

You sprawl yourself on the back with force, and the picture of the room returns. You rub your face.

"You are too well-spoken for your condition. You're supposed to feel like shit", you complain. You don't see him; can't move eyeballs. You feel his warmth at your side. His hand is back at your ribs, fingers tugging at the fabric of your shirt timidly.

"I guess I am superhuman".

You grab a handful of his hair like a needy child, to ground yourself. You can't express how relieved you feel to hear his usual wavy, deep voice. Yoongi hums.

"Scratch".

"Fuck off..."

He sniffs through his nose, and the stream of air hits your side.

"I am joking".

He does something he's been doing for a while, in his desire to learn to live like you: scratches you back. His fingers run across your stomach, curled, on top of the shirt. You make a mental note to tell him humans prefer back rubs.

You wake up for the second time the natural way, Yoongi taking almost all bed. His legs and arms are spread in the shape of a star, and his pink mouth, open just enough so that you can hear the soft breath coming in and out. Hungover cat. You've never seen anything like that before.

He painfully bites his lip, all forehead creased, as he is trying to crack this puzzle.

"I feel sick".

The pale palm on the side of his head, fingers sorting through the greased up, gelled hair from yesterday. The idea of chasing him into the bathroom and washing his hair, as usual, makes you feel pleased. You like everything to do with his hair, because is the only part of him that's left, that de-stresses you instantly.

You get through the fridge with one eye open. Your head booms. Thankfully, there's still some spicy tom yam left, so you warm it up in the microwave (Yoongi feels so bad that he doesn't even stand with his nose on the other side, eyes observing the plate spinning slowly) and pour into two portions.

"Spicy food", you teach, "helps with hangover".

Yoongi looks at you weird. When you talk, he looks at your mouth moving. And when you do something, he doesn't look at your hands anymore, but instead, right into your face. It's unsettling.

After late breakfast, energy is low again. He hangs over the tub, sitting on the floor; once he took off his home shirt, you discovered an already dry set of narrow cuts on the back of his shoulder: abrasion he didn't tell you about, from the fall. You choose not to comment on it, although your nostrils flare, and once your fingers touch the skin, all his back muscles twitch and move. He coughs and changes the sitting hip and grumbles.

You wash his hair in warm water, face pinkish from the heat, and ruffle it up with the towel. Yoongi loves walking around with the towel on his head, like a turban, because it makes his head warm.

The day after getting very drunk and overcoming a mental breakdown is the type of human sweet pain that's one of the reasons the life is worth living. The heaviness in the limbs, slow liquid metal dragging through the veins; Yoongi feels it all, as well, and doesn't even question, just experiences this state quietly. You lie on the couch, head on the lap, then sit side by side, then head on the stomach. Keeping in one position is hard because limbs go numb.

On the second movie Yoongi falls asleep, his voice almost coarse from purring, and the small bones in your palm suddenly cramping with how long you've been grooming his head. You drift out, too, to the sound of Steve Rogers quietly walking around the Avengers Tower with the phone in his hand.

The third time you wake up, it's already dark. The laptop had gone black, which means the movie ended some time ago. Night rain drumming on the hollow windows from the outside. In the darkness of living room, hands slide under you and grab your back, and you are lifted in the air. You realize Yoongi has come to terms with carrying things and is maybe testing his strength. Your throat is a little dry, so it produces a dull, empty sound instead of a sigh, and you hold yourself against his shoulders as he takes you towards bedroom. Quiet steps. The kitty has grown so much that you don't feel your own weight pulling you to the ground, his arms pretty reliable: you should make him carry all the groceries and shopping.

Then it comes: bang! Double hit. You shriek in pain and writhe in his arms, as the doorframe attacks you on all sides. Your ankle bursts in bright ache, and the whole room booms as your temple collides with the wood.

"Sorry!"

For all his hatred to dogs, he himself still has poor spatial awareness, too. Yoongi spins in place, trying to hook your waist, and you cling to him like a monkey, still whining, because you can do nothing else while the sharp ankle bone hurts.

"Oh, sorry, sorry, I'm sorry".

He enters the bedroom and plops you on the bed, and you instantly fold, grabbing your foot. Verbal apologies do nothing for Yoongi, especially because you don't react, rocking back and forth. So he employs the soft headbutt, bumping into your thigh.

"It's okay", you breathe out finally, when the pain receeds. Nerve endings sometimes give a human the time of the day. You lie on your back, fingers rubbing the temple which hurts much less.

Yoongi takes your ankle and sits himself into an almost perfect ball at your feet. The shaded and layered darkness, curtains closed, makes you see him in blue hue; clean, fluffy dark hair on both sides of his face masking the eyes glistening.

"What do I do? Kiss it?"

You chuckle.

"You don't have to".

"You kiss when something hurts".

You nod to yourself. Yoongi's breath warms the skin, and then he licks it.

"No, that's not a kiss", you mumble.

"Huh?"

It gets very quiet. Pain is replaced with the murkier, stickier substance of shameful need. You feel small.

"You put your lips together. You know how I kiss your ear", you mutter, looking up.

Yoongi tries it and almost succeeds a normal, closed-mouthed kiss.

Before you can let go completely, the swings of sweet pleasure carry you to and fro. Yoongi keeps his face to your foot, the hair pleasant against the recently shaved skin.

Goosebumps.

Then, of course, catastrophe. Sorry. (I have to do it, bear with me): cat-astrophe.

The doorbell rings for the first time in months. Nobody really rings it; Soyoon and Chaewon don't have to, you usually come together. Yoongi knows the door code, and the delivery packages are left at the door with a silent notification on your phone. So, the ringbell sounds like a shrill cry throughout the apartment.

Yoongi jumps up, his back tense, eyes pointed through the open bedroom door.

"Wha-at?" he hoots curiously. After the ring, there's a rap on the door. Tap-tap-tap. Pause. Tap-tap-tap. Polite, but persistent. Then, another ring.

You get up, and the cat follows you close behind. You don't even have a peep hole, that's how outdated home visits are nowadays. The surprise, and the feeling of inevitable mountainous onset of bullshit makes you forget all caution. The time is midnight. The bell rings again.

You crack the door open and see, maybe, the most impressive kind of face; you have gotten used to Yoongi's elegant and cunning, doll-like beauty a little bit. This guy is also handsome, but in a different way. His eyes, symmetrical and elongated, stare down at you as he pushes the door open slowly and lets himself in. You try to hold the door with your body but fail: he is taller, bigger, stronger. Yoongi walks to the wall and clicks the light on, and you see this lean, cougar-faced, tanned stranger standing in front of you. His dark-brown hair is short, little upturned nose is carefully crafted, as if with a knife.

"Sorry", he says, and then looks at Yoongi. You notice he wears something that looks stolen and put together: wide working grey pants from the tire repair where Kim Minho works, no doubt. Plaid brown shirt that's buttoned wrong under his throat. And on his feet, a pair of worn old boots which you saw people on the market wear.

"Ren?" he says. He sounds so polite, the voice so controlled, like he is an intellectual. There's steady rumble to it. He cocks his head slightly to the side, then you see: he can't hold focus. He looks at you, then around the kitchen, then at Yoongi again, then at you. His nostrils moving, as he sniffs. But he is so guarded about it. Yoongi behind you has the grimace of disbelief on his face.

"...Joon?"

The big brown cat nods. Yoongi says, 'ongh', like someone punched him in the stomach.

taglist: @jajabro , @mar-lo-pap , @ryryvna , @kiki-zb , @angelfuzzy2 , @n33mesis

[elene78-blog]

Jeremy and Jean begin a secret relationship, kissing secretly, slowly, unhurriedly, enjoying each other without anyone bursting their bubble. No one knows, although they suspect it, especially Cat and Laila, who hear Jeremy's door opening to enter Jean's room when he thinks everyone is asleep.

Jean is fascinated by Jeremy. He has to pinch his face when he wakes up to make sure he's not dreaming. They talk all the time. Jeremy teaches him so many things, and sometimes Jean stares while he talks, and Jeremy asks him questions, and Jean blushes because he wasn't listening, too focused on his smile and his freckles, and Jeremy laughs and repeats himself. And then he repeats himself in very bad French, but it's Jean's French, and he loves it when Jeremy uses it.

Jeremy wakes up thinking about Jean. He goes to bed thinking about Jean. He dreams of being in his arms and just resting, certain that Jean will hold him when he's exhausted. Jeremy watches him while he sleeps. Jeremy just wants to see Jean relaxed, so he makes sure there's something nice for him every day, and it's very easy because Jean appreciates every silly thing Jeremy gives him. There's something Jeremy loves about Jean's incredibly witty grunts. Jean is a genius at Exy and everything he touches, and Jeremy is encouraged to try things because he wants to be a genius at something other than Exy, too. Jean looks at him in horror when Jeremy tries to surf, and this makes Jeremy burst out laughing and Jean puts his feet in the water to make sure Jeremy is okay when he falls off his board. Jeremy takes him for a walk along the shore to calm him down.

Jeremy would like to hold his hand, but he doesn't want anyone to say anything bad about Jean for being there for him.

But...

The more Jeremy gets to know Jean, the more scars he sees on her skin when they're naked in bed. More information comes to light about Jean's parents. More Ravens commit suicide. Jeremy learns more about Elodie and how Jean took care of her because their parents were horrible, but he also realizes they weren't the ones who physically hurt Jean so much.

With Kevin's hand broken and so many Ravens committing suicide, Jeremy thinks about Tetsuji and Riko, and the sheer reign of terror they had to establish. But... How did they allow this? How is it possible that the FBI is having so much trouble finding Tetsuji? How is it possible that no one in Evermore did anything? How is it possible that so many families remained silent about what was happening there?

Jeremy pushes those thoughts aside because he knows Jean doesn't want to talk about it, but there's something in his head that tells him Jean may be in danger, and that scares him. The alarm that sounded when he saw Noah getting worse and worse is on, and Jeremy can ignore it at Jean's request, or turn it on.

One night, the four of them watch a Foxes game. Jean criticizes Neil.

This isn't new, but Jeremy thinks about Neil and his strange relationship with Jean. Jeremy thinks that both have parents connected to criminal organizations and both were in The Nest. Why The Nest? Why did they go there? Why could Tetsuji do whatever he wanted without consequences for his players?

Why?

And Jeremy thinks about the Moreaus, the Wesninskis... About how two players connected to criminal organizations ended up in a place where people were abused to the extreme for financial gain. He thinks about Riko, who destroyed Jean and Kevin without them being able to defend themselves, and Tetsuji, who did nothing to fix it and fueled the whole thing. He thinks about the FBI looking for Tetsuji and that he's disappeared.

Jeremy thinks about millionaire Ichirou Moriyama, heir to a business empire.

Jeremy thinks about Jean, with his kind and protective heart, and how terrified he was even after leaving The Nest.

And then... Jeremy understands.

When he and Jean go out for a walk that night with Jab, Jeremy is very serious.

"Can I ask you a question?"

Jean's back stretches, tense. No one speaks for long seconds until Jean nods slowly.

Jean is ready.

Jeremy looks him straight in the eyes.

"The Moriyama family is like yours and Neil's, right?"

Jean's eyes widen, but he doesn't say anything.

Jeremy doesn't need to.

Jeremy takes Jean's hand, which has lost all color and warmth, and kisses the palm. Jean's pulse is racing, but he slowly relaxes with his kiss.

"I'm with you, Jean. No matter what."

Jean is silent. He pulls Jeremy close and kisses his forehead with the warmth and love Jeremy has never felt before.

"I don't want to drag you into this. I won't."

"That's not your decision, it's mine."

Jean isn't convinced, but there's something absolutely liberating about the fact that Jeremy has guessed what's going on and continues to kiss his hand.

"I can't stop playing," Jean reveals. "Actually... It's not that bad. Not anymore."

Jeremy feels relieved by this, but also guilty for all the times he's said Jean didn't have to keep playing when he graduated. There's a lot he still doesn't know, but now he knows it's not that easy.

"Please don't leave me out of it. Whatever happens, don't do it. I won't allow it, Jean. I won't leave you behind."

Jean gasps, fascinated, unable to think. He's never seen Jeremy so serious and serene, so determined.

Jean thinks of Neil. Neil wouldn't put Minyard in danger, never, so there might be a chance for Jeremy and him. Maybe.

Jean takes a breath. He gently lifts Jeremy's chin and summons all the courage he thinks he has in this single moment.

"Okay. I'll tell you."

[vm-haunts]

Ice Cream

Reasonable to think that the Fentons would have a freeze dryer to preserve samples and what not.

Also reasonable to think that they don't care about lab safety enough that they'll make astronaut ice cream with it.

[finallychaoticeffigy]

Yandere patient x psychologist reader

You can't believe it. How were you assigned to work with the most dangerous patient in the hospital when you just started working a few months ago.

You shook your head "Sir there must be some kind of mistake here, I don't have enough experience to work with him"

Your boss chuckled putting down his coffee at the nearby table as he looked at you "I know it's been only a little while since you started working here, but i believe in your abilities y/n"

You stared at the door , guards behind following you. Room 13, every psychologist would rather quit than to be seen here. Last time he tried to run away, he killed over 9 guards with just a fork. But like your bosses say you have the abilities so it's only worth a try.

You opened the door. You saw a huge man with a straitjacket on.

"Hi" you greeted, putting down your things at a table. You turned to the guards "Leave us, I'll just call when there's an emergency. They nodded as they closed the door.

The patient, or should i say Darius looked at you. His eyes softened. "H-hey" you looked at him with awe . According to his documents he doesn't speak a word to anyone. So that simple word shocks you.

"Come closer...please" He softly utter making you think. Is he trying to get you to come close so he can also stab you with a fork? Even with a straitjacket on , you never know what happens next. Oh well you can't really talk to him when you are this far, unless you shout that is.

You came close to him. You get a better look at him. Jesus this man is beautiful, you thought. Even though he's a murderer psychopath who looks like he could crush you with his pinkie. He's sitting down but you can already tell he's tall as hell.

You then explained the things he had to do to get better. "Don't forget to drink your medicine at the right time." You fix your coat and stand up ready to leave.

"Wait, leaving already?"

"Yes, our time is over" you explained

"oh...Will you come again tomorrow?"

"Totally" you picked up your papers and left

It's been a month since you have been assigned to Room 13. And dare you say ,you two have gotten a bit close. He's not as cold as you thought he was. Actually, he seems clingy and sweet, but you're still not completely comfortable with him.

"Am back" You gave him a small smile. He quickly turned to you and beamed "Y/n !! Come and hug me please" He softly pleaded.

It's kind of weird how he would want to always get in contact with you but you brushed it off. I mean you do work in a mental ward , people here are naturally weird.

As you get closer to him you notice his straitjacket looks a bit out of place. Your suspicion was confirmed as he suddenly lunged at you.

"Hey ! What are you doing Darius get off " you tried to hit him but he's just too strong, heck he even broke his straitjacket.

"Mmmh you always smell divine baby, You have no idea how long I've waited for you to be in my arms" He commented as he licked your cheeks down to your lips.

"No get off! Help someone! " You screamed feeling terrified at his actions. His arms wrapped tightly around you as he also began to suck and lick all over your neck and he moaned in delight.

"I love you Doc , i love you so much i could die, I just wanna kiss you, lick you, suck you and love you forever." He smiled at you , his other hand moved down to your waist and softly squeezed it.

It continued on for a few minutes , the most terrifying moments of your life until the guards came to sedate him.

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

You were given a week of vacation to make up for the traumatic experience you've been through.

You entered the hospital to get some of your things when you noticed how uncomfortably quiet it was.

You suddenly stopped at your track. Is this a prank? You don't think so. You let out a scream as you saw multiple bodies with blood, gut out.

You know those stupid characters in horror movies when instead of running through the exit they ran upstairs instead.

You used to get so annoyed with that , but who knew that's what you'll also do. You didn't think . You just ran through your office .

You collapse on the floor as soon as you close the door. With trembling hands you began to type.

"911 what's your emergency" the other line calmly asked.

H-hello , th-theres been a massacre at the xxhospital. I saw so many dead bodies please we need help" You cried feeling terrified for your life. You still have dreams, you can't die.

" Maam i need you to stay calm , please go to a safe plac-"

"Hello!" You began to panic as the line on the other side was cut off.

"Y/n" you heard a voice outside calling you

"Doc... please come out , i know you're there" He cooed as he began to bang on the door and twist the knob.

You could only cry , not knowing what to do. "Go away !"

"Fuck y/n even your shaken voice is cute. I love you more and more now"

You ran under your table hoping this nightmare could all go away.

Just then you heard the door break down. No..No this can't be, is he in?

"Baby..." Softly said and yanked you out under the table .

You protest and kicked him which was obviously useless as he began to hug you suffocating you,almost.

"Aww. You look so vulnerable right now Y/n, i could just eat you up" The huge man chuckled at you breathing heavily, you swore you could see heart forming in his dark eyes.

"You're mine.. Everything about you " He picks you up still hugging you tightly.

"Now let's get out of here and live together for the rest of our lives"

----------

English is not my first language so my apologies if my grammar is not perfect

[killerplink]

INFECTED

Pairing: Dick Grayson x Female Reader x Jason Todd

Plot: What was supposed to be a simple mission to stop Ivy takes an unexpected turn when her latest scheme leaves you, Jason, and Dick trapped, and at the mercy of some very potent pollen. With your minds hazy and bodies burning, boundaries blur, and well... things escalate fast.

A/N: I don't know if this is what y'all had in mind with this spicy pollen fic, but as you might've noticed, I'm a yapper. I don't do 'let's get it and leave' type of shit. No, we're diving deep into the filth and the feelings. So yeah... this turned out way longer than expected, but your girl loves details 😭

The warehouse stinks of damp wood and fertilizer, the air thick with the scent of Ivy's latest eco terrorist bullshit. You, Jason, and Dick move quickly through the dimly lit space, scanning for the so called "pollen bombs" that intel suggested she was planting all over Gotham.

"God, it reeks in here," Jason grumbles, wrinkling his nose behind his helmet. "What the hell is she even tryin' to do? Make the city smell like a goddamn greenhouse?"

"Could be worse," Dick muses, flipping acrobatically over a crate before kneeling beside a sleek metal canister. "Could smell like Killer Croc's lair."

Jason makes a gagging noise, and you fight back a laugh as you crouch beside them, eyeing the canister. It looks pretty standard—small, about the size of a fire extinguisher, a simple pressurized trigger system on top.

"Think this is one of them?" you ask.

"Either that or the world's most industrial lookin' Febreze bottle," Jason mutters.

Dick scoffs, running his gloved fingers along the side of the canister. "Ivy's getting sloppy. This is—"

PFFT.

The release is instant. The three of you barely have time to react before a thick, pale green vapor hisses from the canister, spreading out around you in a slow, curling cloud.

"Shit," Jason curses, jerking back, but it's already too late.

Instinctively, he pulls you with him, yanking you closer to his chest as if that could shield you from whatever the hell is happening. His arm wraps tight around you, his body stiffening as the vapor swirls around all three of you.

The gas spreads, clinging to your clothes, sneaking past your masks. You inhale before you can stop yourself, and—

"Wait," you murmur. "Why does it... smell good?"

Jason and Dick freeze, both of them taking tentative sniffs. The air is thick with something warm and sweet—notes of honey and spice, deep and rich like fresh blooms in the summer sun. It's nice. So nice, in fact, that for a second, the three of you just... stare at each other, confused.

Jason exhales sharply, waving a hand in front of his face. "Okay. What the fuck?"

Dick coughs, looking around at the dissipating mist. "Maybe it's, uh... a trap? Some kind of knockout gas?"

"We'd be on the floor by now, Grayson," you point out.

There's a beat of silence. The three of you just stand there, letting the last wisps of the pollen drift away, waiting for some kind of reaction—dizziness, nausea, anything.

But nothing happens.

Jason huffs. "So lemme get this straight. Ivy had all these bombs set up, and instead of droppin' us where we stand, it just..." he gestures vaguely, "Makes Gotham smell better?"

The absurdity of it hits you all at once. A soft giggle bubbles up in your throat, and then another, until you're actually laughing, shaking your head.

"Damn," you say, breathless. "Deadliest eco terrorist in Gotham, and she really just gave us a perfume sample."

Jason snorts. "The horror."

Dick rolls his eyes, standing up and dusting himself off. "Okay, well, if this was supposed to be some big master plan, I think we can call it a bust. Let's get back to the cave and let Bats know."

Jason claps a hand on your back, steering you toward the exit. "Yeah, yeah, before Ivy shows up and actually does somethin' dangerous."

None of you notice it yet. The subtle heat creeping into your limbs, the faint buzz just beneath your skin. By the time you're in the Batmobile, it's in you.

The car hums beneath you, the quiet rumble of the engine filling the space as Gotham blurs past the tinted windows. Jason's driving, one hand gripping the gear shift, the other draped lazily over the wheel. Dick's in the passenger seat, his mask still on, head tilted slightly like he's lost in thought.

And you? You're burning up, but not in a sick way. Not in an oh God, something's wrong way. It's just... heat. Low and thick, curling beneath your skin, settling deep between your thighs in a way that has you shifting uncomfortably in your seat. You tug at your collar, brows furrowing, but it doesn't help. Nothing does.

It's all there, wrong but right at the same time, pooling in the pit of your stomach, thrumming between your legs. Your thighs press together, the friction sending a sharp little spark up your spine.

You swallow hard, forcing yourself to stare out the window, pretending like you're not embarrassingly close to squirming in the backseat of the goddamn Batmobile like some desperate, needy mess.

Maybe it's just—God, maybe it's just them. Jason and Dick, sitting up front, broad shoulders filling out their suits, muscles flexing with every shift of the steering wheel, every casual movement.

That's it, you tell yourself. That has to be it.

This is just because you've been down bad lately, right? Because let's be honest, you've spent way too many nights with your hand or your toys between your thighs, gasping their names into your pillow. It's ridiculous how often it happens, how they've completely hijacked your brain.

Jason, with his sharp mouth, broad chest, big hands. That stupid smirk that makes your stomach flip. His voice, rough and lazy when he calls you "doll" like it's the easiest thing in the world.

And then there's Dick. All smooth charm and soft lips, stupidly pretty even when he's bleeding, the kind of guy who can talk anyone into anything. That boyish grin, those ridiculous acrobat's hips. The way he looks at you sometimes, all teasing and playful but just sharp enough to make you wonder.

Truth be told, you're painfully under fucked. Gotham's dating scene is trash, and while you could technically take the edge off yourself, your current stash of sex toys is... underperforming. No matter what setting, what angle, it's just not enough. Not enough pressure, not enough stretch, not enough them.

Because the worst part? The part that keeps you up at night, panting into your pillow, legs shaking from overstimulation?

You don't think about some faceless, nameless fantasy. You think about them.

Jason, his big hands pinning your wrists down, his voice rough against your ear as he stretches you open. Dick, slick with sweat, his mouth everywhere, moaning into your skin as he fucks you deep.

Sometimes—fuck—sometimes, it's both. One of them eating you out while the other fucks your mouth, one stuffing you full while the other whispers the filthiest things in your ear.

Your fingers have been the next best thing, but they always leave you wanting. And now, sitting here, feeling hotter by the second, it's all rushing back—every desperate, aching thought.

No. You shake your head, pressing a hand to your cheek. Get a grip. You are not about to get horny in the goddamn Batmobile. Except... you already are. And you're not the only one.

Up front, Dick shifts in his seat, biting the inside of his cheek, his fingers curled into fists on his thighs. His suit is... well, not built for this. The material is thick, durable, but not forgiving. His cock is already half hard, twitching every time the car hits a bump in the road, the sensation sparking something hot and needy down his spine.

His jaw tightens. His thoughts have already turned against him, flashing back to every moment he's ever had to force himself not to look at you, not to stare too long at the way your suit hugs your curves, not to think about how sweet you probably sound when you moan.

But now? Now it's like those thoughts are pumping through his veins. He shifts again, pulling his hand over his lap, casually resting his elbow on the car door, tilting his head like he's just relaxing. But his fingers curl into his thigh, his cock throbbing against the fabric, and shit, he can't stop thinking about you.

He clenches his jaw. This is fine. He can just breathe through it, ignore it. Right?

Because it doesn't make sense. One second, he's fine, the next, his skin is tight, his pulse is loud, his body thrumming like it's been wired wrong. His mind flashes back to the warehouse, to the smoke. Shit. Okay. Okay, this is fine. Except it's not fine because he chances a glance in the rearview mirror.

And that is a mistake. Because there you are, brows furrowed, teeth sinking into your lip, looking so warm and soft and pretty.

He forces his gaze forward, but his dick throbs insistently against the fabric of his suit, demanding attention, aching in a way that has him pressing his thighs together and shifting in his seat, trying to be subtle about it.

But Jason notices, because of course he does. His grip tightens on the steering wheel, fingers flexing as he watches Dick shift uncomfortably in his seat. The way his chest rises and falls a little too fast. The way he adjusts himself as subtly as he can.

Jason grits his teeth. Goddammit. This is already bad enough. He's used to getting hard, and that's not really news, considering he's around you.

It's embarrassing at this point. He's used to this constant, low level problem whenever you're near. The way his body responds to you like some fucking reflex. A glance, a laugh, a casual touch, and suddenly, he's half hard in his jeans like a goddamn teenager.

But this? This is different. This is fucking brutal. The heat is unbearable, his whole body buzzing with tension, his dick pressing uncomfortably against his pants. And fine, maybe he shouldn't be thinking about you right now, but his brain isn't listening.

It's giving him vivid fucking images—your lips wrapped around his cock, your pussy stretched around his fingers, the little gasps you'd make if he spread you open, if he fucked you just right. He exhales through his nose, gripping the steering wheel tighter, focusing on the road. Not now. Not fucking now.

And then there's Dick. Sitting there. Shifting around. Acting all innocent, but Jason knows. He sees the way Dick's jaw is clenched, the way he's hiding behind his fucking hands, the way his shoulders keep tensing like he's fighting something off.

And that's a whole other problem. Because Jason does not get hard around Dick. But now? Now, his cock is aching, pressing insistently against the inside of his jeans, and it's fucking weird because Dick is right there.

No way in hell he's acknowledging this. He focuses on the road, breathing in through his nose, willing the heat to settle, willing the blood to go anywhere but his dick. It doesn't work. His suit is hot, the collar too tight, his whole body buzzing with restless, frustrated energy.

His fingers flex against the wheel. "Goddamn it," he mutters under his breath.

Neither of you hear him, and that is concerning. And then, Jason chances a glance in the rearview mirror, and you're squirming.

Not a lot, but enough. Shifting in your seat, pressing your thighs together, lips parted ever so slightly, brows still drawn like you don't even realize you're doing it. He forces his eyes forward, gripping the wheel tight enough to hurt.

Oh, this is so fucked. And he knows—knows—it's about to get worse.

The second the Batmobile rolls into the cave, you're out.

"Okay—" you blurt, voice higher than usual. "I think I'm gonna take a shower."

You don't even wait for their answers before you're practically sprinting toward the locker room.

Jason clears his throat. "I think there was somethin' in that fuckin' smoke bomb."

"Yep," Dick says, shifting his weight from foot to foot, looking like he wants to say more but physically cannot.

Jason glances away, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. "Y'know what, maybe she's right. A shower wouldn't hurt. Maybe wash these clothes, too, given whatever the fuck was in that shit is on us."

"Yep," Dick repeats, and then, without another word, both of them hurry toward the showers.

The locker room is sleek—clean lines, dark tiles, recessed lighting that casts a soft glow instead of that harsh, clinical brightness most locker rooms have. It's modern but comfortable, not cold or uninviting, just functional.

The walls are lined with neatly organized gear, each section personalized to its owner, creating a sense of quiet efficiency. Even the air has a faint hint of something metallic, like fresh tech waiting to be put to use. It's a space that serves its purpose, but it also feels like it's built for those who belong, making it almost... homey in its own way.

The showers are set up in a row, each with tinted glass dividers that fog up easily with the heat—not fully clear, but not enough to hide everything, either. No doors, no curtains, just a spacious, open layout that suddenly feels like the worst possible decision Bruce could've made.

Not that you're thinking about that. Nope. You're focused on the water cascading over your skin, the steam curling around you, the way your body still burns in a way that has nothing to do with the hot spray.

And okay, fine. You might be a little slow on the uptake, but even you have to admit now that this? This is not normal. You've never felt this desperate before. Not even after a dry spell, not even after the nights you spent aching between your sheets, body wired with need that just wouldn't settle. This is different. Worse.

You exhale sharply, pressing your palms against the cool tile as the water rushes down your back. Okay. Deep breaths. Just... get through this. It'll wear off.

But then you fucking hear it. Jason's low muttering as he steps under the spray, the deep groan he lets out when the hot water crashes over him. Dick exhaling hard, shifting around, the slap of water against skin as he pushes his hair back. And now, somehow, this is fucking worse.

Because your brain? Yeah, it's not helping.

It's giving you images. Images of Jason, big and broad and dripping, water sliding down his chest, over those stupidly defined abs, down to his cock, hanging thick and heavy between his legs.

And Dick, all lean muscle and smooth skin, his own cock probably flushed and aching, his face tipped back under the spray as he runs a hand over his body, slicking up every inch of himself.

You squeeze your eyes shut. No. Nope. Not doing this. Not right now.

But the heat between your legs is unbearable. Your fingers twitch at your sides, your clit throbbing, aching for relief, and fuck it, you slip your hand between your thighs.

Your breath stutters, thighs trembling as you press your fingers against your puffy, soaked clit, rubbing tight, desperate circles. And God, you're so fucking wet. Soaked. You can feel it, slicker than you've ever been, dripping down your thighs, mixing with the hot water as you rub yourself with quick, jerky movements.

This should do. Probably. Hopefully.

You bite your lip, forcing your moans down, listening, but the water covers any sound, the steady rush of the showers masking the way you whimper when your fingers slide lower, teasing at your entrance, dipping inside just enough to send a shudder up your spine.

This is fine. They can't hear you. They don't know. Right?

Dick exhales sharply, bracing one hand against the tile as the hot water rushes over him. His body is wired, his skin flushed, his cock still painfully, achingly hard even after scrubbing himself down, after doing everything in his power to focus on literally anything else.

But it's not working. It's. Not. Fucking. Working.

His jaw clenches as he glances down, swallowing hard at the sight of his cock—thick and heavy, desperate, the tip drooling precum as it twitches in the air. Okay, he can fix this.

It's just... the pollen. That's what this is. Not him, not you.

It's just a chemical reaction, and the fastest way to get this out of his system is to handle it. Quickly. Before it gets worse.

So he wraps his fingers around himself and gives a slow, experimental stroke. The relief is instant.

A shudder rolls down his spine as his breath hitches, his hand tightening just slightly as he jerks himself once, twice, watching the way his cock twitches, the way another thick bead of precum leaks from the tip, slicking up his palm.

Fuck, this is bad. Because now, now that he's touching himself, now that he's letting himself feel it—you're there. Well, not right next to him. Not really.

But in his head? You're everywhere. Your mouth on his, warm and desperate, your hands roaming down his chest, slipping lower, wrapping around his cock, pumping him with slow, teasing strokes.

Your breath, hot against his ear as you whisper his name, your tits pressed against him, soft and warm, your nipples dragging over his wet skin as you shift in his lap, grinding against his cock, your pussy so wet he can feel it even through the heat of the shower. His pace stutters, his breath turning ragged as his hips rock forward, fucking into his fist like a desperate, needy idiot.

Because fuck, he is needy. And the worst part? You're. Right. There.

A few feet away, just behind that glass divider, water rushing over your body, slicking up every inch of your skin, dripping down your tits, your stomach, your thighs.

And he wants you. Has for a long time.

But now? Now, it's not just want. It's need, and it's fucking unbearable. His hand moves faster, breath catching as his muscles tense, his balls pulling tight, his whole body thrumming with the need to cum.

Because he just needs to cum, and then this will be over. Right?

Jason has the exact same fucking thought.

Because his dick? Yeah, it's not going down. Not even slightly. His head tips back against the tile, a slow, heavy breath hissing through his teeth as he fists his cock, thick fingers wrapping tight around the swollen length. He's had plenty of inconvenient boners before.

That's just part of the package when he's got you in his life—skintight suits, little smirks, the way you fight like you own the city, like no one can touch you.

Yeah, he's used to being hard when you're around. But this? This is fucking ridiculous.

His whole body feels wired, too hot, like there's an electric current running under his skin. His dick hurts, heavy and flushed, leaking against his knuckles as he starts to stroke himself, slow and firm, the pressure making his breath hitch. This should help. This has to help.

He forces himself to think about other things—literally anything else—but his brain? Yeah, his brain is not cooperating.

Because all he can see is you. Your body under the spray, your tits glistening with water, your ass round and perfect, your thighs slick and parted just enough for him to see the way your pussy clenches, desperate and aching.

And fuck, you're right there. Right. Fucking. There.

So close he could just step over, press himself against your back, run his hands down your body, feel the way your slick little pussy drips against his fingers.

Fuck. His strokes get faster, hips bucking up into his own grip, stomach tightening as he groans under his breath, low and rough, trying to chase that sharp, bright edge of relief.

Because yeah, if he just gets this out of his system, if he just cums, then maybe he won't be thinking about how he wants to bury his cock inside you so fucking bad he's starting to lose his mind.

You rub your clit in tight little circles, slick and needy, but it's not enough. The ache between your thighs burns hotter with every second, but you can't tip over the edge. Not like this.

Not with Jason and Dick right there, close enough that your mind keeps conjuring them instead of whatever weak fantasy you were trying to focus on. You bite your lip, hips shifting slightly as your fingers work faster, but it's no use, because all you can think about is how good their hands would feel instead.

Jason's fingers, thick and rough, stretching you open. Dick's tongue, wet and eager, lapping at you until you're a trembling mess. Fuck. You let out a shaky breath and force yourself to stop, frustrated beyond belief, body pulsing with need that refuses to be satisfied.

Meanwhile, Jason is in his own personal nightmare. Fisting his cock was supposed to help. He thought if he just got off, the unbearable need would settle. But no, he's still rock hard, twitching in his grip, and he's gritting his teeth so hard it's a miracle his jaw hasn't snapped.

It's worse because you're right there. He knows you're showering only a few feet away, completely naked, slick water running down that perfect fucking body of yours, and it's driving him insane. His strokes slow, and he tips his head back against the tiled wall, a groan tearing from his throat before he can stop it.

And that's when Dick stiffens. Not just in the obvious way, though yeah, he's still rock hard, still throbbing, and still aching for more, even after cumming. His skin is flushed, chest rising and falling in deep, uneven breaths, and his cock hasn't softened at all. He's still leaking, still desperate, and it takes everything in him not to wrap his fingers around himself again and just keep going.

Then Jason groans again, and it clicks. Dick's movements still. His brows furrow slightly. And before he even thinks it through, his gaze shifts—just barely—toward Jason's stall.

Jason, who is definitely still jerking off. Heat rushes up Dick's spine, a mix of embarrassment and something else—something dangerous—curling deep in his gut. They're both fucked.

Jason must feel the stare, because his grip falters. He huffs a breath, tilting his head to the side just enough that their eyes meet through the fogged up glass, and... oh. Oh, fuck.

The realization is heavy between them, thick with unspoken tension. Dick's lips part slightly, his fingers twitching at his side, and Jason—still flushed, still panting—grits his teeth, dragging a hand down his face like this is somehow his fault.

"This shit is fucked," Jason mutters, voice rough and strained.

Dick sways awkwardly, still pulsing with unbearable heat, and nods. Jason swallows hard, and when his gaze flicks to Dick, he finds the same wide eyed, panting, wrecked expression staring back at him. They're both so far gone it's pathetic. And if they're this fucked, then you must be even worse.

And then? You step out of the stall.

Wrapped in nothing but a towel, beads of water dripping from your skin, steam curling around you like a fucking wet dream. And when you lift your gaze and see them, your breath catches.

Jason is still gripping his cock, hand frozen mid stroke, his whole body stiff. Dick is still hard, still flushed, his eyes wide and dark as he takes you in. The tension is suffocating.

You all know what's happening here at this point. You swallow hard, your body throbbing with heat, and realization slams into you: none of you are getting through this alone.

The silence is thick, the kind that clings, all steam and heat and unsaid words hanging heavy in the air. All three of you just stand there, dripping wet, but you're the only one still clinging to any semblance of modesty, wrapped in a towel that suddenly feels too tight, too hot against your skin.

Dick and Jason? They're just there. Naked.

And maybe you'd all just keep standing here, awkward and unbearably turned on, if Dick didn't clear his throat and break the silence.

"So, uhm..." His voice cracks a little, and he grimaces before trying again. "There was something in the—"

"I know," you cut him off, and your voice is not as steady as you'd like it to be.

Jason, ever the blunt one, just snorts. "Yeah, so jerkin' off isn't doing shit."

That gets a laugh out of you, sharp and a little breathless. "You don't say."

And you really shouldn't be looking. You shouldn't. But they're right there. And when you finally, really let yourself look, trailing your gaze over bare skin, all toned muscle and broad shoulders and glistening tattoos, your eyes flicker down to their laps.

Fuck.

Your eyes drop before you can stop yourself, trailing down to where they stand, cocks heavy and thick against their stomachs, hard and mouthwatering, flushed at the tip.

Jason's hands flex at his sides, itching to reach for you.

Dick sways forward slightly, like he's barely restraining himself, like he wants to drop to his knees right then and there. And you whimper. A soft, needy little sound you cannot take back, and it feels like the air gets sucked out of the room.

Jason notices first—of course he does, always the one to pick up on the filthiest shit—and his eyes darken as his fingers twitch like he's about to grab you.

"So," he starts, voice thick, rough, the kind that settles low in your gut. "Maybe we should, uh... try and help each other out?"

You snap your gaze up to his face so fast your neck nearly cracks, and when you glance at Dick, he's already looking at you.

There's no denying it. There never has been. The attraction between you three has always been there, simmering under the surface, never acted on, never spoken out loud. You've thought about it. Of course you have. Working alongside them, running into them on patrol, spending late nights at the manor or in Jason's safe house—how couldn't you?

You know they like you. They know you like them. But friendship has always come first.

You know you're all good; you get tested regularly, a necessity when you're constantly fighting Gotham's worst, and besides, you're on birth control. You could walk away, end this right here, but they're right there. Naked, wet, needy, dicks that have no business being that fucking big, let alone rock solid.

And you want them so bad. So you do the only thing that makes sense: you let the towel slip from your fingers and drop to the floor.

The second it hits the tiles, their eyes devour you. It starts at your face, flicking down over the curve of your neck, the soft swell of your tits, the dip of your waist, the plush of your thighs, until finally, finally, both of them are staring straight at your bare, aching pussy, slick already glistening between your thighs.

And they look wrecked just from seeing you. Jason's jaw clenches, a muscle jumping in his cheek, and Dick sways slightly on his feet, but neither of them speak, too caught up in the sight of you until Jason finally breaks the silence.

"Fuck," he rasps, voice rough and thick. "You're fuckin' gorgeous."

Your face burns hotter, if that's even possible, heat rushing to your cheeks as they reach out almost in sync, hands gripping the knobs on their respective showers, twisting the water off in one smooth motion before stepping out.

And shit, they're even bigger up close.

Not just big, but big. Tall, broad, all muscle, sleek and strong, shoulders wide, thighs thick, every part of them defined—from the solid lines of their chests to the way their abs flex as they move, glistening wet, drops of water trailing down their skin in slow, teasing paths.

But it's their dicks that have you aching, twitching hard, flushed, heavy, and when Dick's cock gives a sharp throb, you bite back a moan so desperate it nearly chokes you.

Jason steps in first, heat radiating off him as he cups your cheek with one big, calloused hand, tilting your head up, eyes dark and hungry as he leans in.

And then he's kissing you. Hard, deep, hungry. His lips move against yours, hot and insistent, tongue sliding into your mouth like he's been waiting for this, starving for it, and fuck, he kisses like he fights—possessive, dominant, all consuming.

His other hand doesn't hesitate, palms smoothing over your skin, rough fingers sliding straight down to your ass, grabbing a handful, squeezing tight, yanking you up flush against him until his cock presses firm against your belly.

You moan into his mouth, body shuddering as heat coils in your gut, hands clutching at his shoulders, nails digging into muscle, every inch of him burning against you.

Behind you, Dick curses under his breath, and you can feel the heat of his stare, feel the way his breath comes out sharp, ragged, as he watches Jason kiss you like he owns you.

Dick steps up behind you, heat radiating off his body, slick skin pressing against your back, and you melt between them. Sandwiched, trapped, caught between two broad, solid bodies, both of them flushed and aching, cocks hard and hot against your skin. Jason groans when your tits press into his chest, and then Dick—fucking Dick—lets out the softest, neediest little exhale against your ear as his hands slide up your sides.

His fingers trace over your ribs, then higher, cupping your tits, thumbs rolling over your nipples, teasing, stroking, making you gasp as Jason leans in and kisses you again.

It's not like before. This kiss is slower, deeper, Jason taking his time to drink you in. His tongue licks into your mouth, lazy, hungry, and his hands roam, one gripping the back of your neck while the other settles on your waist, fingers flexing like he can't decide whether he wants to pull you closer or just hold you there and enjoy every shaky breath you make.

Behind you, Dick's mouth is everywhere—pressing open mouthed kisses to your shoulder, up your throat, teasing your ear as his hand dips lower. Fingertips ghosting down, past your belly, until they finally find your puffy, swollen clit.

You twitch at the contact, a sharp little gasp escaping against Jason's lips, and Dick groans, louder this time, pressing a little firmer, rubbing teasing little circles as he mutters, "You're so fucking wet."

Jason pulls back just enough to watch your face, brushing his thumb over your kiss swollen lips.

His voice is strained, rough as he asks, "You okay with this? With whatever's about to happen?"

His eyes are dark, intense, filled with want but laced with concern, because they need this, need you, but not like this, not unless you want it just as badly. You nod quickly, already breathless, but Dick? Dick's not having it.

He dips his head lower, mouth brushing right against your ear as he whispers, "Use your words, love. We don't wanna push you into anything."

It's almost cruel, the way his fingers slow down, teasing, playing, rubbing lazy, barely there strokes over your clit when all you want is more.

"Yes," you gasp, pushing into his touch. "Please."

That's all it takes. Jason and Dick lock eyes, silent for a moment, and then? Dick nods once, sharp, decisive, and says, "Sauna. Now."

Jason groans. "Jesus fuck, Dickie-bird."

But he doesn't argue. He just watches as Dick takes your hand, lacing his fingers with yours, guiding you toward the sauna with Jason trailing behind, adjusting the settings so it's warm, comfortable—not stifling, just enough to chase away the cold still clinging to your damp skin.

And the sauna? Yeah, of course it's luxurious as hell. Bruce built it, after all. The benches are smooth, made from high quality wood, wide enough to lie down comfortably, and the warm lighting overhead makes everything feel softer, deeper. It's the kind of place you usually use when you're sore and beaten up after patrols, when you need to relax and let the heat soothe your body.

But tonight? Yeah, you're about to use it for something very different.

Before you can even process what's happening, Jason spins you around, hands everywhere, and lifts you up like you weigh nothing.

You yelp, legs spreading instinctively as he hooks his arms beneath your thighs, locking you open, exposing you, presenting you, and Dick fucking drops to his knees.

"Oh, fuck," he breathes, eyes locked on your dripping pussy, hands already reaching, fingers brushing your inner thighs as his mouth parts in awe. "Look at you."

Jason groans behind you, rolling his hips up just enough to grind his cock against your ass, kissing the side of your head, whispering, "You should see what you do to him, baby. He's fuckin' mesmerized."

And Dick? He kind of is. His chest rises and falls in shallow, desperate breaths as he stares, like he's starving, like he can't decide if he wants to taste you or just kneel there and worship.

Dick's hands grip your thighs, fingers pressing firm, grounding himself as he leans in, eyes fixed on your swollen, dripping pussy. His breath stutters out, warm against your slick skin, and he groans, low and wrecked, because fuck, this is so much better than he ever imagined.

And he has imagined it. More times than he'd ever admit. Nights spent fisting his cock to the thought of you, to the way your suit hugs your curves, to the way you smell when you're close, the teasing, flirty little smiles you send his way. He'd always wondered if you'd taste as good as you look.

"Fuck," he breathes, his voice shaky.

With two fingers, he spreads you open, watching your slick drip, glistening in the dim heat of the sauna, and his tongue flicks out, hungry, catching a taste before he can stop himself.

And it wrecks him. His mouth seals over your cunt, tongue pushing deep, groaning as he devours you, hot and wet, lapping up every drop like he's been starving for it. His hands tighten on your thighs, holding you steady as he buries himself between your legs, tongue stroking, circling, pushing in deep before dragging back out, flicking against your clit in slow, teasing swipes.

And the sounds you make? Insane.

Breathless, needy, these little gasps and whimpers that make Jason groan behind you, arms flexing as he adjusts his grip, holding you up like you weigh nothing. Solid and so hot against your back, his cock pressing thick against your ass, twitching every time you moan.

"Fuck, Grayson," Jason mutters, voice strained. "She's gonna lose it."

And you are.

Because fuck, Dick knows how to eat pussy. He's skilled, dedicated, every lick and suck sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core. He moans into you, the vibrations making you shudder, thighs trying to squeeze together, but Jason's grip doesn't let you move.

"Feels good, huh, baby?" Jason murmurs, lips brushing against your ear, his tone all smug and filthy, like he's enjoying this just as much as Dick is.

You can't even speak. Your fingers tangle in Dick's damp hair, clutching hard, back arching against Jason's chest as Dick flicks his tongue against your clit in quick, teasing strokes, like he knows exactly how to unravel you.

Jason groans behind you, his arms tightening around your legs. When your head falls against his shoulder and your eyes meet his, he kisses you.

Hard, deep, like he's claiming you, like he needs you just as much as Dick does. His tongue licks into your mouth, swallowing your moans, his hands gripping your thighs tighter, bruising.

You whimper against his lips, and he groans, rolling his hips against your ass, grinding his cock against you, needing friction, needing something, because fuck, this is too much.

And Dick? He just moans against your pussy, tongue fucking into you, making you shudder so hard Jason has to tighten his grip just to keep you steady.

"So fucking good," Dick mutters, pulling back just enough to flick his tongue over your clit before sucking it into his mouth, making you sob his name. "So sweet. Fuck, I could eat you for hours."

Jason breaks the kiss just to groan, dropping his forehead to your shoulder. "Christ, Dickie, you're gonna kill her."

Dick grins against your skin, licking another slow, teasing stripe up your pussy, savoring the way you twitch, the way your fingers tighten in his hair, the way your little gasps turn into full whimpers, desperate and broken.

His fingers ghost over your entrance, teasing, barely there, making your pussy clench on nothing. You squirm in Jason's hold, breath hitching as anticipation coils tight in your stomach, but Dick takes his time. Watches the way you drip for him, spread open and helpless, Jason's arms locked under your thighs to keep you wide and vulnerable.

"Fuck," Dick rasps, his voice thick with arousal, his breath hot against your pussy. "You're soaked."

His thumbs part your folds, and he groans at the sight—slick, glistening, so fucking pretty. His tongue flicks over your clit again, and your whole body jerks, a whimper spilling from your lips.

Jason tightens his grip, pressing a kiss to your shoulder, his cock twitching against you as he murmurs, "Easy, baby. Let him take care of you."

And fuck, Dick does take care of you. His mouth works you over, tongue lapping at your swollen clit, lips wrapping around it to suck, firm and slow, drawing needy little noises from your throat. His hands grip your thighs, holding you steady, keeping you from writhing too much even though all you want to do is grind against his face, chase the pleasure that's building fast.

Then his fingers press at your entrance again, just the tips, teasing, and you moan, the need to be filled overwhelming. He chuckles against you, the vibration sending another pulse of heat through your core before he finally pushes a finger inside.

It's so much thicker than yours, so much longer, stretching you just enough to make your walls flutter around it. He eases it in, lets you adjust, then curls it up, searching, until—

"Fuck—" you gasp, back arching as he finds that spot, rubbing against it before sliding another finger in beside the first.

The stretch burns just a little, but the way he moves them—God, the way they scissor inside you, slick and warm, thrusting deep—has your mind blanking.

"Feel good, sweetheart?" Jason murmurs, brushing his lips along your jaw, hands adjusting their grip on your thighs as he holds you steady.

You nod frantically, but it's not enough. Not when you feel like you're unraveling from just this. "More," you breathe. "Please."

Dick groans like the plea physically pains him, but he doesn't stop, doesn't hesitate. His fingers thrust deeper, faster, stretching you open as his lips wrap around your clit again, sucking just right, tongue flicking against the swollen bud.

Your thighs tremble, pleasure tightening, the slick sounds of his fingers fucking into you obscene, messy, wet. You're dripping, leaking down his hand, onto his wrist, but he doesn't care. His cock is throbbing, leaking against his stomach, but he doesn't fucking care.

All he wants is to make you cum on his tongue. And God, you're close. You can feel it winding tighter and tighter, pleasure curling deep, building fast. Your mind is spinning, flooded with heat and hunger, desperate to feel them everywhere. Their mouths, their hands, their dicks stretching you wide—

Fuck, you're gonna cum.

It hits you fast. A sharp, electric snap of pleasure, burning through every nerve, sending you spiraling. Your whole body locks up, and then, you're cumming, and it's so much. Your cunt tightens around Dick's fingers, pulsing, fluttering, sucking him deeper as wave after wave of heat crashes through you.

It's almost too much. Your thighs tremble, your back arches, and a broken moan spills from your lips as your orgasm drags you under, pleasure rippling through every inch of you. You don't know if it's that fucking pollen messing with you or if Dick just knows how to make you come undone like this, but it feels insane. Shattering, like you're falling apart in Jason's arms, completely helpless to the pleasure tearing through you.

But Dick doesn't stop. He fucks you through it, thrusting his fingers deep, curling them just right, rubbing against that spot inside you that makes your vision white out. His mouth stays locked around your clit, sucking, flicking his tongue over it, dragging you higher, stretching out your orgasm until it's too much, too intense.

All you can do is choke out a breathless, "D-Dick, wait—"

But he doesn't.

Your body jerks, overwhelmed, but he doesn't stop. His fingers work you open, deep and relentless, his tongue still lapping at your clit, pushing, pushing—

And then you gush. A sharp, full body shudder racks through you as hot, slick arousal pours from your cunt, drenching his fingers, his wrist, his fucking face.

It splashes against the sauna floor, and heat flares in your chest, embarrassment creeping up your spine as you gasp, "S-shit, I'm s-sorry—"

Jason lets out a rough groan, voice thick with arousal. "Fuck. A squirter, huh? That's so fuckin' hot, doll."

Dick doesn't care. He doesn't stop. His mouth stays on you, licking up every drop, his fingers fucking you slow, coaxing another trembling aftershock out of your spent, twitching cunt.

Your body is wrecked, boneless in Jason's grip, but Dick soothes you. Soft kisses pressed to your puffy clit, to your inner thighs, murmured praises against your overheated skin.

Jason groans against your ear, nipping at your jaw as he murmurs, "So pretty when you lose it, baby."

Dick finally pulls his fingers from your soaked pussy, and you whimper at the emptiness, body still twitching in the aftermath. He stands up, lifting his hand between you, watching the way your slick drips from his fingers before he licks them clean, moaning like he just tasted the best thing in the world.

And then he's kissing you.

It's not like Jason's kisses—Jason devours you, rough and desperate, all teeth and tongue. Dick? Dick takes his time. His lips move slow over yours, teasing, coaxing, his tongue sliding into your mouth, letting you taste yourself on him.

His cock grinds against your swollen, soaked pussy, dragging thick and leaking between your folds, and you feel the heat of Jason against your back as he presses closer, lips finding your neck, licking and sucking at the sensitive skin, leaving marks.

Dick pulls back just enough to look at you, breathing hard, eyes dark with need.

"You still with us, love?" he murmurs, voice low, sweet, but so thick with hunger.

And you are. But you need more. Jason slowly lowers you to the ground, careful, like he knows your legs won't hold you up yet. And he's right. The second your feet touch the sauna floor, your knees almost buckle, but they're right there.

Jason's strong hands steady your waist, while Dick's arms wrap around you, letting you melt against his chest, your cheek pressed to his flushed, sweat damp skin. His heartbeat is racing, just like yours.

They try to soothe you, even though they're still buzzing with need, cocks aching, pulsing, leaking against your skin. You can feel it, how hard they both are, how they're holding back, muscles tensed like they're barely keeping themselves together.

Dick's fingers brush against your jaw, tilting your head up as he murmurs, "You okay?"

His voice is strained, rough with hunger he's barely keeping in check.

You nod, breathless. "I need more. I want you both, I want—"

Jason groans, low and wrecked, because fuck, his dick hurts, throbbing, hot, swollen with need. He's usually not like this—he's got control, he can push past anything, but this?

That fucking pollen? His logic is gone. The only thing left is the raw, aching need clawing at his gut, the sight of you, flushed and needy, still dripping from what Dick did to you.

"You sure?" Dick asks, voice tight, hesitant, because they care, because you're friends, because this is everything all at once.

"Yes," you gasp. "Fuck, I can't—I need more."

They try to resist. Try to be good, to be the men who have held themselves back all these years, who have ignored the teasing, the tension, the way you've always looked at them.

But it's too much. You're naked, hot, trembling between them, still soaked with slick and sweat, so fucking desperate for them, just like they are for you.

They exchange a look, like they're about to actually say something, like they're going to make one last attempt at self control.

But you're having none of it.

You grab both their hands, lacing your fingers with theirs as you guide them toward one of the benches, the air thick with tension, steam, and the undeniable pull of something you've all been trying to ignore for too long.

You stop in front of Dick, looking up at him through heavy lidded eyes as you say, "Sit down."

And he does, because of course he does. Because he knows better than to fuck with you when you've made up your mind, and even though you're smaller than both of them, you've always had a way of getting what you want.

You grab a few towels, spreading them on the floor in front of him because, honestly? Your body is already gonna be wrecked when this is over—bruises, hickeys, everything—and you really don't need your knees all fucked up on top of it.

Then, slowly, you kneel between his legs.

Jason is still standing behind you, watching, stunned, because sure, you've always been bold. You've flirted, teased, laughed in their faces when they tried to resist you, but this? This is something else.

You turn your head, looking up at Jason through heavy lashes, and say, "I need you to fuck me while I suck Dick off."

They both go still. Like their brains just short circuited. Like they can't quite believe what the fuck just came out of your mouth.

And you can see it happening, the exact moment something inside them snaps, because they've both fantasized about this, both thought about it more times than they'd ever admit, and now? Now you're on your knees, looking up at them, demanding it.

Dick swallows hard, his cock twitching, leaking against his stomach. His hands clench at his sides like he's trying so fucking hard to keep control. Jason? Jason just lets out a rough, breathless laugh, shaking his head, because fuck, you're gonna kill him.

Your ass wiggles as you shift into position, and behind you, Jason groans, deep and rough. "Fuck, look at you."

His big hands settle on your hips, hot and firm, fingers flexing like he's trying so hard to keep himself in check. And he can't help it, so he slaps your ass, the sharp sting sending a jolt of pleasure straight to your cunt.

"Oh—"

You gasp, thighs twitching, and Jason smirks, rubbing the mark he left behind, soothing the heat with his palm. "You like that shit, huh?"

You nod, looking over your shoulder at him with wide, glassy eyes, and his grip tightens.

"Got it, baby."

Then you turn back to Dick, gaze dropping to his cock. And God, he's just as long as Jason, maybe a little thinner, but just as pretty, thick and flushed, the veins along his shaft standing out against the hot, velvety skin. Precum beads at the tip, glistening, and when you lick your lips, Dick shudders, his breath hitching in his throat.

Behind you, Jason's hands slide lower, thumbs dragging over the curve of your ass before he spreads you open, groaning when he gets a good look at you.

"Jesus fuckin' Christ," he mutters under his breath, almost dazed, like he can't believe what he's seeing.

You're so wet, swollen, your slick dripping down your thighs, smearing against the inside of his fingers. And your pussy? Fuck, it's the prettiest fucking thing he's ever seen—hot, flushed, clenching around nothing, like you're begging for something to fill you up.

His head tips back for a second, like he needs to pull himself together, but when he looks down again, when he sees your cunt flutter around nothing, aching to be fucked?

He's fucking gone.

Because he knows you're gonna squeeze his dick like a glove, knows you're gonna be so fucking tight, so hot and wet around him that he might actually lose his mind. You're perfect. And this? This can't be real.

But oh, it is.

You shift your weight onto your knees, looking up at Dick, and he looks like he's about to lose his fucking mind too. Especially when you wrap your fingers around his cock. He sucks in a breath, head falling back against the bench as your grip tightens, your palm gliding over his length, slow and teasing.

Then you lean in, pressing soft, open mouthed kisses to the inside of his thigh, and Dick whimpers. The sound makes your cunt throb, pleasure sparking up your spine, because he looks so good like this—so flushed, so desperate, so pretty.

His cock pulses in your hand, leaking all over your fingers, and you purr, "Poor Grayson," before pressing a soft kiss to the tip, tongue flicking out to lap up his precum, tasting the salt and heat of him.

Behind you, Jason curses under his breath, and then you feel the hot, thick weight of his cock press against your dripping cunt.

You gasp, back arching as he rubs the wet head of his dick over your slit, dragging it up and down, teasing your swollen, puffy folds, mixing his precum with your slick until you're soaked in it.

And you? You're trembling. Because you need this. You need them. The second your lips part, taking Dick's cock into your mouth, his hand tangles in your hair. His fingers thread through the strands, tugging just enough to make your scalp tingle, a sharp contrast to the warmth of his other hand cradling your cheek.

You moan around him, the sound vibrating through your throat, and he hisses, his head tipping back against the bench. "Fuck—"

You take him deeper, inch by inch, your jaw stretching to accommodate his length. He's thick, hot, the weight of him pressing against your tongue as you hollow your cheeks and suck. His thighs tense under your palms, muscles jumping when you bob your head slow, teasing, testing how much of him you can take.

His fingers tighten in your hair, his hips twitching—just barely—but you feel it, the way he wants to thrust, to fuck himself down your throat, but he waits, panting, letting you set the pace.

Behind you, Jason is shaking. Shaking.

His fingers dig into the flesh of your hips, his whole body tight, because fuck, your ass is wiggling, pushing back against him, grinding against his cock like you're trying to drive him insane.

And it's working. His dick throbs, thick and aching, leaking against your soaked, swollen cunt as you shift again, tilting your hips just right, and Jason snaps. He lines himself up and starts to push in, slow, deliberate, even though his whole body is telling him to fuck you, to take you, to split you open and wreck you.

But he waits. He has to wait. Because he knows he's big, and with how tight you are—so hot and wet, squeezing around just the tip—he can't move, not even if he wanted to.

His whole body trembles as he leans over you, pressing his chest to your back, grounding himself as much as he's grounding you. His big hands smooth up and down your sides, soothing, steadying, feeling the way your breath shudders as you try to relax, try to take him deeper.

But he waits, even though every muscle in his body is coiled tight, his jaw clenched so hard it aches, because even through the pollen haze, Jason cares. He needs you to feel good.

Your walls stretch around him, clutching at him, and he slides in so easily, your pussy welcoming him, pulling him in. He sinks in slow, inch by inch, splitting you open until he's fully sheathed inside you, buried to the hilt, and you can't help but moan. The vibration makes Dick's hips jerk, a curse tumbling from his lips as his fingers tighten in your hair.

And Jason?Jason groans, burying himself inside you, his forehead dropping against the back of your shoulder.

"Breathe, baby," he mutters against your skin, his lips trailing slow, soft kisses along your shoulder, his body trembling as he forces himself to stay still, to let you adjust, even though he wants to move so fucking bad.

He gives you time, even though his entire body is screaming at him to fuck you, to finally lose himself in the heat of your cunt.

"You're doin' so good," he rasps, voice strained, like the feel of your pussy wrapped around his cock is driving him straight to the fucking edge.

You slide off Dick's cock with a gasp, a line of spit still connecting your lips to his flushed tip. Your fingers tighten around the base, stroking him as your head dips forward, and Jason groans behind you, eyes clenching shut, breathing through it, fighting against the way your pussy is milking his cock.

You can't breathe. You can't think. The feeling is overwhelming, his cock pulsing deep inside you, stretching you so wide you feel full. Too full, almost, but Jason soothes you through it, his lips trailing soft, slow kisses along your skin.

"Jesus fuckin' Christ," he mutters under his breath, his jaw clenched, his whole body so tight he thinks he might snap in half.

And then, finally, you shift against him. A tiny moan leaves your lips, and Jason can't wait any longer. Slowly, he pulls out, his cock dragging against your sensitive, fluttering walls, making your whole body tremble. Then he pushes back in, just as slow, filling you up again, stretching you, claiming every inch of your cunt.

It burns. It aches, just a little. Your whimper is soft, almost inaudible, but Jason hears it.

And he shushes you, kissing your shoulder again, whispering, "You're doin' so fuckin' good for me."

Jason's grip tightens on your waist, fingers digging into your soft skin as he starts to move, slow and deliberate, pulling out almost all the way before pushing back in, filling you up again, making you moan.

It's too slow, too teasing. You need more.

So you refocus, letting yourself drown in the heat of Dick's body, the way his cock twitches in your grip, thick and flushed and leaking all over your fingers. You slide your tongue over the tip, swirling around the slit, savoring the salty taste of his precum before taking him back into your mouth, sinking deeper this time.

The stretch is obscene, your lips stretched wide around him, your jaw aching as you push further, inch by inch, your throat tightening as he hits the back of your mouth. You gag, drool spilling from the corners of your lips, dripping down your chin, but you don't care.

You love it. It's better than every fantasy you've ever had, better than every late night thought of them, better than you could've ever imagined. Because they feel so good, sound so good, and you know you're not coming back from this.

Dick is gone. His fingers tangle in your hair again, watching the way you take him, the way you look up at him with glassy, desperate eyes, and fuck, you're so pretty like this, drooling all over his cock, taking him so fucking deep.

His whole body tenses, muscles tight, abs flexing, the veins in his forearms standing out as he tries to control himself, to hold back, but Jesus Christ, you're making it so fucking hard.

Jason is just as wrecked. His pace is still slow, but he's obsessed, his mind fuzzy with how good you feel, how tight you are, how fucking perfect your pussy is wrapped around his cock, gripping him like a vice.

He has to see it.

So he moves his hands from your waist, big palms spreading over the curve of your ass, gripping the flesh before pulling your cheeks apart, groaning when he gets a clear view of your soaked cunt stretched so tight around his dick.

His cock twitches, a groan slipping from his lips because fuck, you're swallowing him whole, your pussy gripping every inch of him, making a mess all over his cock, slick glistening along his length.

This is the best pussy he's ever had. But he knows it's you. It has nothing to do with that pollen. It's you.

And he's so fucking gone over you.

You whimper around Dick's cock, your eyes flicking up to meet his, watching the way his chest rises and falls in quick, desperate pants. And then, slowly, you let him slip from your mouth again, gasping for air, your hand tightening around the base as you pant.

"Fuck my mouth."

Dick freezes, his breath hitching, his lips parting as his brows furrow, like he's not sure he heard you right.

"W-what?"

You lick your lips, eyes heavy lidded, spit glistening along your chin as you repeat, slow and clear. "Fuck. My. Mouth."

His whole body shudders, and he doesn't even think. Doesn't hesitate. He does it.

His grip tightens in your hair as he tilts your head back, and then he's pushing in, slow but firm, guiding his cock past your lips, groaning as the heat of your mouth wraps around him.

And behind you, Jason hisses, his fingers tightening on your ass before landing another sharp slap, making you jolt forward.

"Shit," he groans, his voice thick with arousal, dark with want. "You're freaky as fuck."

Dick's grip tightens in your hair as he starts to move, slow at first, thrusting shallowly, watching the way his cock glides over your slick tongue, the way your lips stretch around him, spit pooling at the corners of your mouth.

"God, baby," he groans, voice strained, wrecked, his abs flexing as he pushes deeper, testing your limits, his hips jerking when you moan around him. "You feel so good—fuck, you're perfect. So sweet for me, taking me so well."

His words make your pussy clench around Jason's cock, the praise making your head spin, making you drool more as you relax your throat, letting Dick push deeper, the head of his cock nudging the back of your mouth. Your eyes flutter, heat sparking in your core as he fucks your mouth in slow, deliberate strokes.

His breath is ragged, his voice thick as he murmurs, "Just like that, pretty girl. You're doing so good. Such a perfect little thing."

Behind you, Jason groans, his grip bruising as he watches you take it, eyes dark, hungry.

"Fuck," he rasps, his voice rough, thick with need. "Look at you. So fuckin' nasty, baby. Goddamn, you're gonna make me lose my shit."

His hands slide over your ass, squeezing, spreading you open so he can watch the way your pussy stretches around his cock, gripping him like a fucking vice, sucking him in, milking him.

"You're so tight," he groans, his cock twitching inside you, his jaw clenching. "So fuckin' wet. Jesus Christ, this is the best pussy I've ever had."

The words make your walls flutter, make your body throb, and you can't help yourself. You push back against him, grinding your ass into his hips, moaning around Dick's cock as Jason curses, his fingers tightening on your ass.

And then he snaps. His patience shatters, his control slipping as he slams into you, knocking the breath from your lungs, making your eyes roll back.

"Fuck, yeah," Jason growls, dragging you back onto his cock, setting a relentless rhythm, fucking you deeper, harder, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing through the steam filled air. "That's what you wanted, huh? Wanted me to fuck you like this? Shit, you're so fuckin' needy, baby."

Your moans vibrate around Dick's cock, making him groan, his hips stuttering.

"Jesus Christ," he gasps, his fingers tugging on your hair, his head tipping back as he watches you, his cock throbbing as you swallow around him. "You're so fucking good, baby."

Jason groans, his cock dragging against your walls, each stroke sending sparks of pleasure skittering down your spine.

"Look at you," he rasps, voice low, dark, wrecked. "Gettin' your mouth fucked, gettin' your pussy fucked—shit, baby, you're drippin' all over my dick."

His words send a sharp throb through your core, making your walls squeeze around him, making him curse.

"Yeah, you like that? You like bein' a messy little thing?"

His words mix with Dick's soft, sweet praise, the contrast making your head spin, making your body ache for more, more, more. You're soaked, you're gone, and you're about to cum so hard.

Dick's fingers clench tighter in your hair, his whole body shaking as you take him deeper, swallowing him down until your nose brushes against the soft patch of hair at the base of his cock. His moans grow louder, ragged, his hips jerking forward, his self control slipping between his fingers.

"Fuck, baby," he groans, his voice wrecked, shaking. "You're—shit, you're gonna make me—"

You hum around him, hollowing your cheeks, sucking him harder, and that's it. That's all it takes for him to lose it.

His cock twitches on your tongue, the thick veins pulsing against the heat of your mouth as his orgasm slams into him, ripping through him like a live wire.

"Oh, fuck—"

His breath catches, his whole body locking up as the first hot pulse of his cum spills onto your tongue, thick and heavy, coating your throat as he shudders, trembles, his head tipping back against the wall, his lips parting in a wrecked, shaking moan.

You swallow it all, every last drop, your throat working around him, and it's too much. His thighs tense, his abs flex, his breath coming in sharp gasps as his hips jerk, his cock throbbing, overstimulated, as you keep sucking, drawing out every last spurt of his release.

"Jesus Christ, baby," he whimpers, his grip tightening for a second before his hand slips from your hair, his body melting, shaking, spent.

You finally let him slide free with a soft, wet pop, licking the last traces of him from your lips, and when he finally cracks his eyes open, looking down at you with flushed cheeks and a dazed, blissed out expression, he groans.

"God," he breathes, still catching his breath, his thumb stroking along your bottom lip, cleaning up the mess he left behind. "You're so fucking good."

You only have a second to grin before Jason grabs you. His arm wraps around your waist, yanking you up, pulling you against his chest as he slams his cock back into your pussy, the force of it making you gasp, your body arching as he fills you up again, stretching you all over.

"Fuckin' shit," Jason growls, his voice low, desperate, his breath hot against your ear as he pounds into you, his cock hitting deep, slamming into that spot inside you that makes your whole body tremble.

His free hand slides down, finding your clit, rubbing in quick, tight circles, his fingers slippery with your arousal.

"You gonna cum for me, baby?" he grits out, his voice dark, wrecked. "Gonna soak my fuckin' dick?"

You whimper, nodding desperately, your nails digging into his arms, your whole body coiling tight, every thrust, every press of his fingers sending you closer to the edge.

Your head tilts back, your lips parting, and Jason takes it as an invitation. His mouth crashes against yours, the kiss filthy, messy, his tongue sliding against yours as he fucks you harder, deeper, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing in the steam thick air.

It's too much. The way he's pounding into you, the way his fingers are rubbing your clit, the way his mouth is devouring yours—it's all too much.

You shatter. Your orgasm hits like a tidal wave, your body locking up as your walls clamp down around Jason's cock, your pussy spasming, milking him as you moan into his mouth, your whole body shaking from the force of it.

But he doesn't stop.

"Yeah," Jason groans, his pace relentless, his fingers still working your clit, pushing you higher, keeping you right there, shoving you into another orgasm before you can even catch your breath.

"Oh—fuck—"

Your whole body seizes, and then you gush, hot, wet, soaking his cock, the mess dripping down your thighs, pooling on the towels beneath you as your mind goes blank. Jason groans, his grip bruising, his voice full of awe and lust and pure fucking greed.

"Shit, baby," he growls, his hand sliding up your stomach to cup your tits, squeezing, his hips still slamming into you. "You're so fuckin' hot—goddamn, look at this mess you're makin'."

You're gone, trembling in his arms, panting, whimpering, still coming, your body wrecked, and he loves it.

But even after you've soaked his dick, even after you've cum so hard your legs shake and your body trembles, he just keeps going, fucking you through it, chasing his own high, refusing to let you catch your breath.

Your thoughts are a mess, a haze of heat and pleasure and pure, desperate need. Every time he thrusts back inside, it knocks the air from your lungs, sending another sharp jolt of electricity up your spine, making your toes curl.

His dick is so big, so hot, so thick, stretching you to your limit, the swollen head hitting your cervix with every deep, brutal stroke, the impact sending sparks of pain-laced pleasure licking up your spine.

Jason groans, his breath hot against your ear, his big hands sliding from your waist to your tits, squeezing, kneading, rolling your sensitive nipples between his fingers.

"Fuck, baby," he moans, voice wrecked, breathless. "You feel so good—tight little pussy's so fuckin' wet, takin' my dick like a fuckin' dream."

His voice is a growl, his breath ragged, filthy, and it makes you clench around him, your body reacting to the sheer, raw hunger in his voice.

"Drippin' down my fuckin' balls, makin' a mess all over me," he mutters, his pace getting faster, his hips snapping against your ass, the sound of wet skin slapping against wet skin filling the air. "Such a fuckin' good girl, lettin' me fuck you like this—shit—"

His moan is deep, gritty, his lips brushing against your neck, and it makes your brain melt.

You can feel Dick watching.

His heavy, ragged breathing, the way he groans softly under his breath every time your tits bounce from the sheer force of Jason's thrusts, the way he's still hard, his cock resting heavy against his abdomen as he watches Jason destroy you.

Jason buries his face in your shoulder, his pace stuttering, and then his voice turns urgent, desperate. "Shit," he pants. "Where do you want me to cum, doll?"

The words slip out before you even think.

"Inside," you whimper, the plea ragged, breathless. "Inside me, please."

Jason groans, his arms tightening around you, his body shaking. "Fuck."

He grabs your waist, slamming into you, fucking you like a man possessed, like he's starving for you, like he needs to be as deep as possible, stretching you wide, filling you to the fucking brim.

And it's like something in Dick snaps. He drops to his knees, his big hands sliding up your thighs, and then his fingers find your clit.

"Oh—fuck—"

Your whole body seizes—Jason's cock splitting you open, fucking you deep and hard, pounding into your soaking cunt while Dick's fingers rub your puffy, far too sensitive clit, quick and precise, pushing you higher, driving you insane.

Then Dick leans in, his lips brushing against yours, swallowing your moans, devouring them, and God, this has to be the hottest fuck of your life.

His tongue, hot, wet, messy against yours, kissing you like he needs you, like he's starving for the taste of your pleasure.

And shit, these two men—hot as fuck, sweaty, desperate, ruining you. They are going to wreck you for anyone else for sure.

Jason groans, his pace brutal, his cock pounding into your swollen, soaked pussy, stretching you so wide, splitting you open, filling you so deep you can feel him in your stomach.

He's right there, right on the edge, voice rough, breath ragged as he mutters, "C'mon, baby, I'm so close. Fuck, gimme one more, let me feel you."

And then, Dick starts slapping your clit slightly. It's sharp, the sting mixing with the unbearable pleasure of Jason's cock fucking you stupid, and that's it, you snap.

Your whole body locks up, your pussy clenching down hard around Jason's cock, milking him, your legs trembling as your orgasm crashes through you, drowning you in wave after wave of pure, burning pleasure.

Your mouth falls open in a wrecked, wordless moan, eyes rolling back, sweat dripping down your skin as you shake, your whole body on fire, pleasure exploding behind your eyelids, your clit throbbing, your walls spasming around Jason's thick cock.

And he loses it.

"Fuck—" His breath punches out of him, a deep, desperate groan rumbling through his chest, his grip on your hips turning bruising as your pussy chokes his cock, squeezing him so tight he can't hold back.

He buries himself to the hilt, grinding deep, grinding so fucking deep, and then, he cums. Thick, hot spurts of cum flood your pussy, painting your walls, filling you up so much you can feel it, dripping out around his cock, mixing with your slick as he lets out a deep, wrecked groan.

But he doesn't stop.

Even as his dick throbs, even as he pulses inside you, he grits his teeth and fucks it deeper, slow, deep rolls of his hips, making sure every last drop stays buried inside you, making sure you feel it.

Dick's fingers never stop, still rubbing your aching clit, making you whimper, making your whole body jolt, your thighs quivering, your nipples aching, your pussy so full and sensitive that every little movement makes you twitch.

And then Dick finally lets you breathe.

He breaks the kiss, his lips swollen, his breathing uneven, his eyes dark with lust as he soothes you, his hands smoothing up your back, down your arms, pressing soft kisses along your jaw, your temple, whispering soft praises against your skin.

Your breath shudders out of you, your head dropping forward onto Dick's shoulder as Jason stills behind you, his chest rising and falling, sweat slicking his skin, his grip still tight on your waist, grounding you as you tremble in their hold.

Jason does the same, his big hands rubbing slow, warm circles into your waist, his lips brushing against your shoulder, his breath deep, calming, as he lets you come down.

But it's not enough. You still need more.

Your whole body buzzes with it, aching with it, and before you can stop yourself, before you can even think, the words tumble from your lips, breathless, desperate, "I need... I—w-want you both at the same time."

Jason freezes. "Fuckin' shit."

His arm tightens around your waist, his cock still buried inside you, twitching just at the thought of it.

And Dick? His breath catches, his fingers tightening against your skin, his lips parting as his brows furrow, something unreadable flickering across his face before he cups your cheek, pressing soft, sweet kisses all over your flushed skin.

"Love, maybe we should—"

"No," you shake your head, chest heaving. "I need it. I—fuck, I need more."

Dick hesitates. "But we'd need lube, and—"

"I have some," you gasp. "In—in my locker. In my bag."

They both freeze. Jason raises a brow, his lips twitching, while Dick blinks at you, head tilting slightly.

"...You what?"

Your face burns. "I just bought it—I was gonna take it home, but I kept forgetting—"

Jason smirks, shaking his head, while Dick huffs out a quiet laugh before turning on his heel.

"I'll get it."

Your thoughts swirl, still dazed, still high from pleasure. It's really just a coincidence, something you bought last week and forgot to leave at home, but now? Now, you're just grateful you have it.

The second Dick is gone, Jason leans in, his lips brushing against yours, slow, deep, his tongue dragging along your bottom lip before slipping into your mouth. You moan softly, body pressing into his, heat still pooling low in your stomach.

When he pulls away, his smirk is sharp, eyes dark.

"You just bought it, huh?"

Your eyes dart away, face burning, and he chuckles. Then Dick is back, the bottle of lube in hand, and he's grinning, but there's something in his eyes, something darker, something hungrier.

He tosses the bottle onto the bench, his gaze flickering between you and Jason before he murmurs, "That's real convenient, sweetheart."

Jason's lips brush against your neck, hot and damp with sweat, his breath still ragged as he drags his mouth along your skin, pressing open mouthed kisses to the flushed heat of your throat. His hands slide down your waist, holding you, still keeping you close, as if he doesn't want to pull away just yet.

But then he does. His cock slips free, and the loss makes you whine, your walls clenching around nothing, feeling so empty after being stretched and filled so deep.

Jason chuckles, low and rough, pressing another slow kiss to your shoulder before he straightens, his hands steady on your waist as he helps you up, keeping you from collapsing completely. And then, his cum starts dripping out of you.

Thick, warm, messy, streaking down your thighs, slick and obscene, mixing with your own wetness, making your skin glisten under the dim lights.

Jason groans, watching it, his fingers squeezing at your hips before he turns you around, cupping your face with both hands, tilting your chin up so you have to look at him.

He kisses you, deep, messy, wet.

His tongue pushes past your lips immediately, curling against yours, dragging along the roof of your mouth, swallowing the small gasp you let out as he dominates the kiss.

It's all spit and heat, his grip firm, his fingers digging into your jaw as he devours you, groaning into your mouth, his own hips twitching forward instinctively, as if he's not done with you yet.

And maybe he's not. When he finally pulls away, your lips are slick with spit, swollen and tingling, your breath coming in short, shaky gasps.

But Jason just smirks, his thumb dragging across your bottom lip as he murmurs, "Took me so fuckin' well."

The praise sends a shiver down your spine, heat coiling in your belly, but you don't even have time to dwell on it because you're already turning to Dick, your whole body still thrumming with need.

"Lay on the bench."

His brows lift, lips parting slightly, but he doesn't question it. He grabs some towels first, spreading them out so he can sit more comfortably, before laying back, his cock still hard, standing thick and flushed against his stomach, twitching slightly as he watches you, pupils blown.

You barely give him time to think. You climb on top of him, straddling his hips, and the moment your soaked pussy presses against his cock, dragging along his length, he groans, his head falling back slightly.

"Fuck," he breathes, his hands gripping your thighs, sliding up to cup your ass. "That pollen fucked us up badly."

You nod, whimpering, rubbing yourself against him, smearing Jason's cum and your own slick all over his cock, making it all slippery, all hot, and then, Dick grinds right back.

His hands tighten on your ass, his hips rolling up against yours, rubbing the thick, leaking head of his cock against your throbbing clit, making you moan, making your thighs tremble from the overstimulation.

But you need him inside. Now. Lifting yourself up, you barely hesitate before sinking down onto his cock, and it's so easy. You're soaked, dripping, stretched wide and ready from Jason, and Dick slides right in, filling you up in one smooth, wet motion, the thick length of him pressing against every sensitive spot inside you.

Dick gasps, his fingers flexing against your ass, his chest rising sharply as his brows furrow, his mouth falling open in a soft, breathless moan. His thoughts are a mess.

He's inside you. He's inside you, and you feel so fucking good. So tight, so warm, so fucking wet, and it's all for him.

Well, for him and Jason, all of you caught up in this fever, this unbearable need, and fuck, he never thought this would happen, never thought he'd get to feel you like this, but now... now he can't stop thinking about it.

Can't stop thinking about how you feel around him, how you're squeezing him, how your slick drips down his length, coating his cock, making it so easy to slide deeper, making it so fucking hot.

"Jesus," he groans, his head tipping back, his fingers gripping at you. "Baby, you feel... fuck, you feel so good."

Dick can't stop kissing you. It's like he's obsessed, like he needs his mouth on you just as much as he needs to fuck you.

Every time his hips drive up, his cock sinking deep inside your dripping cunt, he's pulling you down to meet him, his lips crashing against yours, groaning into your mouth like he's drunk on the heat of you, the taste of you, the way your walls grip him so tight every time he moves.

"God, baby," he pants against your lips, voice breathless, wrecked, his fingers digging into your hips as he thrusts up into you again, harder this time, his cock rubbing against every tender, sensitive spot inside you. "I can't stop, I can't—"

You moan, your arms wrapping around his shoulders, clinging to him, feeling every shift of his muscles, every snap of his hips as he fucks into you with slow, deep, needy strokes.

And across from you, Jason watches. His lips are slightly parted, his chest rising with each heavy breath, his eyes locked on the way Dick's cock sinks in and out of your soaked, used pussy, slick noises filling the sauna, making his jaw clench.

"Fuck," he mutters, his grip tightening around his cock, stroking himself slowly.

His breath catches as he watches the way your body takes it, how easy it is for Dick to slide into you after he already ruined you, stretching you out, leaving you so wet that it's effortless.

His free hand slides up your back, fingers tracing along the sweat slick curve of your spine, following it down to your ass, where he grips the flesh and spreads you slightly. The moment he does, he groans at the sight of Dick's cock fucking into your pussy, your hole clinging to him, soaked and messy, your juices dripping down to your thighs, making the whole thing so fucking filthy.

You hear the slick pop of a bottle being opened, and then, his fingers, cool and slick with lube, gliding over the rim of your other hole. A soft, teasing touch.

Your breath hitches, a shiver running through you even as you grind down onto Dick's cock, making him groan, his hands flexing against your hips. Jason smirks, rubbing slow circles around your rim, massaging the tight muscle, teasing it, not pushing in just yet.

"Gotta stretch you open first, doll," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the dip of your spine. "Don't wanna hurt you."

You nod, panting, pressing back into his hand as he finally, slowly, pushes in the tip of his finger. Your body twitches at the stretch, a sharp inhale escaping you as your walls flutter around Dick's cock at the same time, making him groan, his brows furrowing as he tries to keep himself from losing it.

Jason waits a moment, watching the way you react, his other hand rubbing slow circles along your waist, his voice softer this time when he asks, "You okay, baby?"

You exhale shakily, nodding, your body adjusting to the new sensation, the slight pressure of his finger stretching you open.

And then he starts to move.

Slowly, teasingly, fucking you with the single finger, slipping it in and out in careful strokes, feeling the way your body responds, the way your walls tremble around him, your moans growing softer, more desperate as he adds another finger.

A low, drawn out out moan escapes you, your body twitching, your walls fluttering around Dick's cock again, making him groan, his fingers gripping your hips harder.

"You're so fuckin' tight," Jason mutters, his forehead pressing to your shoulder as he works his fingers in deeper, stretching you open, his cock twitching at the way you pulse around him.

His movements stay patient, calculated, letting you get used to every single sensation, letting you feel it, your body reacting to both him and Dick at the same time, your nerves lighting up from how much stimulation there is, how they're everywhere all at once.

By the time he slides in a third finger, you're trembling, panting, your nails digging into Dick's shoulders as he groans at the way you keep clenching around him.

"You're doin' so good, baby," Jason murmurs against your back, pressing a slow kiss between your shoulder blades, fingers curling inside you, stretching you wider.

Dick keeps kissing you. He can't stop.

His lips keep finding yours between every breathless moan, every shaky exhale, every soft noise that leaves your lips as Jason's fingers work you open, stretching you wider, preparing you for his dick.

You can barely think. Your body is trembling, nerves buzzing, your mind foggy with want, with need, your hands gripping Dick's shoulders as he pants against your lips, "You feel so good, sweetheart, I—fuck, I need to feel you."

Jason growls against your skin, his fingers sinking deeper, pushing past the tight ring of muscle until he's knuckle deep, fucking them in and out in slow, filthy thrusts. He watches you shudder, listens to the way you gasp, the way your thighs tremble when he curls his fingers just right.

"Relax," he murmurs, dragging his teeth over your neck, his free hand gripping your hip to keep you still. "You're already takin' me so fuckin' well, baby—bet you'll stretch around my dick like a dream."

He spreads his fingers, stretching you wider, dragging them back just to push in again, deeper, rougher, wetter. The slick, obscene sounds of it make heat curl in your belly, make your whole body tighten, aching, desperate.

"Fuck, you feel this?" Jason grunts, his fingers twisting, pressing, stroking in slow, teasing circles. "So tight, so fuckin' perfect—gonna ruin you, baby."

Dick presses another kiss to your lips, then another, then another, each one deeper, more desperate, more needy, because he has to. He has to taste you, has to feel you, has to lose himself in you while Jason kneels behind you, his cock hard and aching, the tip glistening as he slowly, carefully pulls his fingers out of your ass.

A low groan rumbles in his chest at the sight, his hands gripping your ass, spreading you slightly, watching the way your body twitches, the way your ass clenches, still slightly open from how deep his fingers had been.

"Relax, doll," he murmurs, his breath warm against your spine as he slicks himself up with lube, rubbing the tip of his cock against your hole, teasing, pressing just slightly to gauge your reaction.

Your whole body shudders, and Dick cradles your face, kisses you slow, deep, as he whispers against your lips, "Breathe, pretty girl. I got you."

Jason presses in. Slowly. The stretch is immediate, intense, your body clenching around him as he sinks in, inch by inch, his jaw tight as he groans, hands gripping your hips, feeling the way you shake as you adjust to the sheer size of him, to the way he's filling you.

Dick can feel it too. Your walls clenching around his cock, getting tighter just from how Jason is stretching you open, making him groan, his hands flexing against your waist.

"Fuck, baby," Jason grits out, his breath coming out shaky as he finally bottoms out, his forehead pressing against your back, his chest rising and falling in deep, heavy breaths. "You feel so fuckin' good."

You're a mess. Your breath is shaky, your pulse racing, your body overwhelmed in the best way possible, stuffed full, stretched wide, both of them inside you, filling you to the absolute brim.

Still, it's not enough. You need more. And the moment you shift, rolling your hips slightly, feeling the way it makes Jason's cock nudge deeper, Dick lets out a sharp, wrecked sound and tightens his grip on your hips.

"Hold still, love," he breathes, his voice low, strained, adjusting his grip on you, making sure you don't have to move, don't have to do anything except take it.

And you will. You'll take all of it. Because they need this just as much as you do, and neither of them can hold back much longer.

Jason exhales hard through his nose, his grip steady on your hips, his cock pulsing, buried deep inside your ass as he presses his chest flush against your back.

His lips graze your shoulder, his breath warm, voice low and gruff when he murmurs, "Good? Still with us?"

You nod quickly, too quickly, your brain foggy, words barely forming as you pant, "M-Move, please..."

Dick is the first to obey. His fingers flex at your waist, his muscles tensing beneath you as he rolls his hips up, fucking into your soaked cunt slow and deep, dragging a moan from your throat as the thick length of him stretches you open all over again.

Jason groans at the sight, at the way your tight little hole clenches around Dick's cock, the way your body shudders when Dick fills you to the hilt, rubbing against the spots that make you gasp, make you shake.

And then, Jason moves. It's slow, deliberate, his hips grinding forward, easing himself out just to push back in, filling your ass just as Dick fills your pussy, the slow stretch making your breath catch, making your fingers curl against Dick's chest.

Your mind is blank. Absolutely fucking blank. You can barely register the words Dick is whispering, his voice soft, warm, each praise making you clench down tighter, "God, sweetheart, you feel so good—so tight, so perfect—taking both of us so well, baby, so fucking good—"

His words make your breath stutter, make your walls squeeze around him, make Jason groan, his hands gripping your hips, thumbs stroking your skin as he kisses your back, your shoulders, your neck, his lips soft, reverent, even as he fucks you.

And you can barely breathe. Your mouth falls open in a silent moan, your body trembling as they thrust into you, stretching you, filling you, overwhelming you with the sheer amount of pleasure you're drowning in.

Jason's hand slides around you. Finds your puffy little clit. Presses down. You wail.

Your whole body jerks, your breath shattering as Jason grins against your skin, his fingers circling the sensitive bundle of nerves, slow and cruel, all while his cock grinds deep into your ass, making your walls clench around both of them.

Dick chokes on a moan, his hips jerking, his fingers digging into your waist, his cock stuffing your pussy, pushing deeper, hitting that spot that makes you keen.

Jason groans at the reaction, pressing his forehead to your shoulder, muttering, "Fuck, baby, that's it—take it—"

And you do. You take everything. The stretch, the pressure, the fullness, the filthy praise whispered into your ear, the heat of their bodies against yours. The way their cocks move inside you, making your vision swim, making your mind blank, making your whole body tremble as they keep fucking you.

And there's nothing—nothing—you want more.

Jason's fingers keep working your clit, slow and teasing one moment, rough and insistent the next, rubbing tight little circles that have your thighs trembling, your body caught between the steady drag of his cock in your ass and the deep, devastating thrusts of Dick's cock inside your pussy.

Your breath shatters, your body taut, stretched wide, so full, their cocks filling you over and over, slick and hot, the filthy sound of it echoing off the walls, slick wet noises mixing with your gasping moans, their groans, their praises.

Dick slides a hand up your waist, warm and firm, fingers trailing the sweat slicked curves of your body, before moving higher, higher, until he cups your breast.

A strangled moan gets caught in your throat as he palms you, rolling your nipple between his fingers, his grip firm, possessive, desperate, his hips never slowing, cock driving deep, kissing your cervix with every thrust.

Jason groans behind you, his cock throbbing, pulsing inside your tight, hot ass, his grip almost bruising at your hip as he watches Dick squeeze your tits, watches how you whimper and twitch, body so fucking responsive.

"Fuckin' hell," Jason rasps, pressing his forehead against your back, panting, "You're so tight, baby—grippin' me so good—"

Dick is all needy and breathless as he mutters, "You're so perfect—so wet, so fucking soft—"

And fuck, fuck, it's too much.

Your whole body tenses, muscles coiling, pleasure spiking, your slick dripping down, coating Dick's cock, soaking his thighs, Jason's fingers still rubbing your clit, still teasing, still playing with you.

Your vision blurs, your mouth falls open in a silent moan, and then you snap. Your orgasm rips through you like a fucking supernova, a shuddering, gut wrenching explosion of white hot pleasure. Wave after wave crashes into you as your pussy clenches, gripping Dick's cock so tight he chokes on a groan, hips faltering, hands gripping your waist to hold you there, fuck you through it, hips rutting up in messy, desperate thrusts.

Jason curses loud and filthy, his free hand digging into your hip as your ass tightens around him, milking his cock, making him throb, his jaw clenched so tight it aches as he rubs your clit faster, dragging out your orgasm, making you whimper, tremble, shake.

"That's it, doll," Jason growls, voice rough, filled with lust, "Fuck—look at you, so fuckin' messy, so good—"

Dick is moaning beneath you, his grip on you tightening, his cock still buried deep inside your spasming cunt, still rutting up into you, and it's so much, too much, your whole body a trembling, sweaty, soaked mess.

"M-more—"

Your voice is a broken little whimper, barely a sound at all, your body hot between them, overstimulated and fucked senseless, but still, still, you beg for more.

"H-harder—fuck—p-please—"

And that's it. That's it. Jason curses under his breath, and Dick's fingers tighten on your hips as something inside them just snaps, and they ruin you.

Jason grips your waist, holding you steady as he slams into your ass, hips snapping forward with messy, needy thrusts, cock stretching you wide, stuffing you so full, his abs flexing, sweat dripping down his chest.

Dick isn't any better. He's never fucked like this before, never felt like this before, usually so careful, so sweet, because he likes making love, likes taking his time. He's usually all slow, sensual touches and soft whispers, but the pollen, the fucking pollen.

You're soaking his cock, clenching around him, your pussy hot and wet and so fucking tight, making these little whimpering sounds that make his brain short circuit, that make him lose every single ounce of restraint.

He pounds into you, moaning, hips driving up to meet yours again and again, his mind blank, wrecked, obsessed with how you feel around him, how good you take it, how you keep begging for it.

"Yes—yes—yes—more—fuck—"

You can't stop babbling, pleading, brain melting under the push and pull of their cocks inside you, their hands gripping you, keeping you in place, using you, fucking you.

"More—more—more—"

You're whimpering, gasping, trembling, bouncing between him and Jason like you belong to them.

"F-fuck—"

Jason feels like he's burning alive, the heat of your body, the way your ass grips his cock, the way you tremble every time he fucks you deeper, the sweat dripping down his back, his chest, his hips slapping your ass, his free hand sliding up your spine, grabbing the back of your neck, squeezing just a little, just enough to make you gasp.

"Shit, baby, you're so fuckin' tight—"

And then—

"Fuck—fuck— fuck—"

Dick breaks.

His whole body tenses, back arching, muscles coiling as his cock jerks inside you, and then he's cumming, gasping, groaning, fucking his seed deep into your cunt, pumping you full, stuffing you so full, hot and thick. His arms lock around your waist, holding you down as he ruts up into you, still moving, still fucking you through it because he can't stop, can't fucking stop.

And you—

You feel it, feel the hot rush of it inside you, feel it leak out around his cock, smearing on your swollen folds, on Jason's fingers still working your clit, on his balls, sticky and messy, so fucking filthy. You love it, love the way it drips out of you, love the way Dick whimpers as he fucks through his orgasm, love the way Jason grunts behind you, voice rough, guttural.

"Christ, look at that—fuckin' drippin'—"

And he's still fucking you, still grinding against you, his cock still hard, still deep, still pounding your ass, and you whimper, still shaking, still so fucking sensitive.

Jason's fingers are merciless.

They press against your swollen, throbbing clit, slick with a mess of cum, circling it, teasing, rubbing just right.

"F-fuck, Jay, I—"

Your words break, barely more than a whimper, and Dick shifts beneath you, his hands tight on your hips, his cock still stuffed deep in your wrecked pussy, and he feels it.

He feels the way your walls are fluttering, spasming, gripping him, the way your whole body is starting to shake.

"That's it, baby, let go—"

Jason's voice is low, gravelly, and then it hits you.

A wave of white hot pleasure, so intense, so overwhelming, your whole body tenses and breaks at the same time, back arching, mouth falling open in a silent, shattered sob as you clench around both of them, your pussy squeezing Dick so tight he groans, hips jerking, and your ass—

"Shit—fuck—"

Jason chokes on his own breath, the sudden tight, spasming grip around his cock making his rhythm stutter, making his fingers falter, making his whole body tense as heat coils low in his gut, hot and throbbing, his hips snapping forward in shallow, desperate thrusts.

"Fuck— baby—"

His hand locks onto your waist, fingers digging into your soft, sweat slicked skin, and he buries himself deep, cock throbbing, pulsing, spilling inside you, thick and hot. He can't stop moving, can't stop grinding into you, fucking it deeper, groaning, shuddering against your back as his orgasm wrecks him.

You sob.

Not just because it's too much, not just because your body is shaking, not just because your clit is pulsing under Jason's fingers, because your pussy is still leaking cum, because your ass is stuffed with it, because the pleasure is endless.

You sob because you've never been fucked this good, because it's Dick and Jason, because your body is spent. Because you're so tired and still trembling, still whimpering as Jason finally stills behind you, followed by Dick, both of them still inside you, both of them breathing hard.

"Baby—"

Dick's voice is so soft, and you barely register it before your body gives out, before you collapse against his chest. His arms catch you, wrap around you, hold you tight, his big, warm hands rubbing slow, soothing circles into your back as you keep sobbing, sniffling, your body twitching from the aftershocks.

"Shit—"

Jason's hands smooth down your back, his lips pressing against the curve of your spine, kissing your sweat-damp skin as he exchanges a look with Dick, something unspoken, something concerned.

"Breathe, sweetheart," Dick murmurs, tucking you closer, his lips pressing to your temple, your forehead, "You're okay. We got you."

Jason hums against your back, his hands gentle now, tracing slow, grounding touches down your waist, your sides, rubbing at your hips, pressing softer kisses against your skin.

"M'sorry—" you hiccup, voice hoarse, and Jason shakes his head, arms tightening around you.

"Nah, baby," he murmurs, "Nothin' to be sorry for."

"We got you," Dick echoes, voice still so soft, lips still brushing against your skin, still pressing slow, tender kisses over your face, "We got you, love."

And the haze of the pollen is fading, just slightly, just enough to let the exhaustion creep in, just enough to let you sink into their warmth, just enough to let you breathe.

A little sniffle escapes you, barely more than a breath, and Jason exhales, his fingers tightening on your waist before he slowly, gently pulls out. You whimper, hips twitching at the loss, and he shushes you, hands smoothing down your sides, his voice low and gruff—

"Sorry, sweetheart."

It's only then, as his head starts to clear, that he sees you, like... really sees you.

The red marks scattered across your skin, the deep, dark hickeys, the little bruises blooming where fingers had gripped too tight, where mouths had been too hungry.

And normally, Jason wouldn't care. Wouldn't think about it, wouldn't dwell. But this wasn't some random fuck. This was you. And he cares about you.

He exchanges a look with Dick, who seems to be thinking the exact same thing, but before either of them can say anything, you lift your head slightly, voice soft, drowsy, still so blissed out.

"That was... that was so..." you pause as you take a slow, heavy breath. "That was the best fuck of my life."

For a second, they're stunned. Then Jason snorts, shaking his head as his hands squeeze your hips.

"You're somethin' else, pretty girl."

You hum, then shift, sitting up on Dick, your hands steadying yourself on his chest, his cock finally softening inside you.

Dick's hand cups your cheek, his thumb brushing away a stray tear, his gaze soft, fond, full of something warm and aching.

"You okay?"

You nod, but he tilts his head, eyes scanning your face. "You sure?"

"So fucking sure," you murmur, leaning into his palm, letting his touch ground you, soothe you.

Jason exhales, then reaches over, fingers brushing your damp, sweat sticky hair from your shoulder before he leans in, pressing a soft, warm kiss to your skin.

They let you breathe, let you come down completely, their hands slow and gentle, smoothing over your back, your arms, grounding you with soft touches, murmured reassurances, little praises that make your stomach flip.

And then, you shift again, lifting yourself from Dick's lap, and—

Oh.

The mess is... everywhere. Your thighs are slick, cum dripping from your swollen pussy, smearing on Dick's softening cock, streaking down onto the bench beneath you, pooling on the towels.

And now that the pollen haze has lifted, now that your mind is clearer, the sight of it, the reality of it, makes your face go hot, embarrassment creeping up your spine.

They see it. They know you. Jason clicks his tongue, turns you to face him, and pulls you into his chest, his arms wrapping tight around you, caging you against him.

"Don't do that shit," he murmurs, voice warm, rough, "It's fine. We'll clean up."

You bury your face in his chest, mumbling something unintelligible, and he huffs, hand smoothing down your back.

"Kinda late for that, doll."

You groan, lifting a weak arm to swat at his shoulder. "Shut up."

Dick chuckles, shaking his head as he stretches, standing from the bench, his legs shaky, his hands settling on his hips as he exhales.

"You two go ahead and clean up," he says, rolling his shoulders, "I'll handle things here."

And before you can argue, before you can say I can help or I should clean up too, he steps up behind you, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your shoulder.

"Okay?"

You nod, still tucked against Jason's chest, and Dick hums, brushing his fingers down your arm before stepping away.

But before you can step away, Jason's arms tighten.

"Wait—"

Your words die in your throat as Jason lifts you, carrying you towards the showers like you weigh nothing, and normally, you'd protest.

Would roll your eyes, would shove at his shoulder, would grumble about carrying yourself. But right now, you're too fucked out to care. So you just sigh, letting your body go boneless against him, arms loosely wrapping around his shoulders as he carries you away.

Jason sets you down and turns on the water, the warm steam curling around you, soaking into your aching muscles. And the second your feet touch the tile, your knees buckle. But he's there, his hands steady on your waist, keeping you upright, and you let him.

His chest rises and falls with a slow, steady breath before he lifts one hand, cupping your face, his calloused fingers warm against your damp skin.

"You sure you're okay?"

His voice is quiet, rough around the edges, something almost hesitant underneath it.

You swallow, blinking up at him, exhaustion pulling at your limbs, your bones, every part of you. "Yeah." Your voice is soft, barely above a breath. "I just... 'm tired."

He nods. "I know."

You pout, and God, it's that little pout that always made him wanna kiss you, that always made his chest tight, even when he'd told himself not to care, even when he swore he wouldn't let it get to him.

"I wanna go home," you murmur, voice small, pleading.

His fingers tighten just slightly on your waist. "We'll take you home in a bit."

He leans in. Just a little. Just enough to brush his lips over yours—hesitant, almost unsure, because apparently, the pollen's not fucking with your heads anymore, and maybe this is where it ends, maybe this is where it stops, where everything just goes back to the way it was.

But you kiss him back. Soft, gentle, nothing like the desperate, frantic kisses from before, and his breath catches against your lips.

You pull back, barely, just enough to whisper, "Will you stay tonight?"

His brows pull together, his fingers brushing along your cheek. "Yeah, baby."

Your stomach flutters at the rasp of his voice, and you swallow, biting your lip before murmuring, "Both of you?"

He exhales, tilting his head down, brushing his nose against yours as he whispers, "Yeah. Both of us."

You nod, barely there, barely anything at all, and Jason watches you for a second, something warm, something almost uncertain flickering behind his eyes.

And then, you kiss him again. Soft, sweet, exhausted. And something about the way his lips press to yours, about the way his hand cradles your face, about the way his body relaxes against yours, even now... it feels right.

Like it was always meant to be this way.

Like something shifts inside you, deep in your chest, something small and fragile and terrifying.

Because you've had only fucked up men in your life before. Men who hurt. Men who took. Men who left nothing but bruises and scars in their wake. And now you have them—Jason, Dick—and you're scared.

Scared of losing them, scared of ruining this, scared of the ache in your chest that tells you you want them, not just like this, not just like what happened tonight, but something tells you they feel the same. Something tells you Dick feels the same. Something about the way Jason holds you now, the way he kisses you like it's not just about the fuck, like it matters, like you matter.

After cleaning up and making sure there's no evidence of what went down in the Batcave, the three of you made your way back to your apartment, exhaustion settling deep in your bones, but something warmer, something unchanged lingering between you all.

You're sprawled across your couch, tucked between two very warm, very big bodies, soaking up their heat as you all demolish a large pepperoni pizza. Because after that? After the hours of fucking, the overstimulation, the pollen that had you all wrapped up in a desperate, needy haze?

You're starving. And for once, there's no tension. No awkwardness. No 'so... what now?' kind of moment.

Just pizza. Just warmth. Just them.

Dick sits to your right, long legs stretched out, one arm draped over the back of the couch, fingers idly brushing over your shoulder as he chews, completely at ease.

And Jason's on your left, reclined, socked feet propped up on your coffee table like he owns the place, one arm resting over your thighs while the other holds his slice, chewing with that half lidded, relaxed expression that means he's content.

And the thing is, it's not weird. It should be, right?

You just got wrecked by both of them in the Batcave of all places, and now you're here, cuddled up between them like it's nothing, like this was normal, like this was just another night of the three of you hanging out.

Except, it wasn't just another night. It was the first time you'd crossed that boundary. The first time you let yourselves give in to the tension that had always been there, just beneath the surface, lingering, waiting for something—anything—to push you all over the edge.

And it should've changed everything. But it didn't. If anything, it felt like it enhanced it.

Like something had clicked into place. Like this was always meant to happen. Dick swallows his bite, licking a bit of sauce from his thumb as he watches you from the corner of his eye. And he knows you.

He knows that little crease between your brows means you're overthinking. That the way you press your lips together means you're trying to make sense of something, trying to name whatever the hell this is, trying to define it.

And for once, you don't have to. Because he gets it. He feels it.

He'd spent years wanting you, wanting this, but never acting on it, because you were one of his closest friends, because you were one of Jason's closest friend, because the idea of losing you over some reckless decision was too much, too dangerous.

Jason snorts as you grab another slice of pizza, shoving it into your mouth like you haven't eaten in days, and he bumps his knee against yours, mumbling, "Jesus, slow down, doll. You're gonna choke."

You roll your eyes, mouth full, and mumble back, "Whose fault is that?"

Dick laughs—a soft, breathy chuckle as he leans back against the couch, his arm draped casually behind you. "She's got a point."

Jason clicks his tongue, tearing off a bite of his own pizza. "Yeah, yeah, whatever."

And it's so normal. So easy. Dick can't stop thinking about it. Because this should feel different. He thought it would feel different.

That maybe things would be awkward, that maybe you'd pull away, that maybe Jason would crack some joke that would make it feel less than what it was, like it was just another fuck, another good time.

But it wasn't.

And this—this easy, quiet warmth, the way you're curled up against them like you've always belonged there, the way Jason hasn't made a single move to leave, the way he hasn't wanted to leave... it feels like something that was always meant to happen.

Because as he glances at Jason, sees the way he's watching you, the way his fingers absently trace circles into your thigh, the way he looks so calm, so sated—he knows Jason feels the same.

Jason, who for the first time in years, isn't holding himself back. Jason, who had spent the last two hours running through every memory of you in his head, trying to figure out how he went so fucking long without having you like that, how he ever convinced himself to not want you. Because he did.

And he won't fucking say it, won't admit it, won't even let the thought settle too deep in his chest, but yeah. Yeah, he feels it, too.

He watches as you swipe a thumb across your lips, catching a stray bit of sauce, your lashes fluttering with exhaustion as you sink deeper into Dick's side, and something inside him tightens.

Because this isn't just some random hookup. This isn't just some heat of the moment bullshit he can brush off and forget. This is you. And fuck, if that doesn't scare the shit out of him.

He exhales, dragging a hand through his hair before reaching for another slice, and Dick glances at him, something knowing flickering behind those bright blue eyes.

But neither of them say anything. Because there's nothing to say. Nothing needs to be said. This was the first time the three of you crossed the boundaries of your friendship.

But not the last.

[gyugraphy]

the popcorn incident (r.r.)

synopsis : You hate Bob Reynolds. Or at least, that’s what you keep telling yourself — ever since he pulled away and got closer to Yelena. Now you spend most of your time ranting about him to Bucky…

Meanwhile, Bob spends most of his time avoiding you. (Because he’s pretty sure you like Bucky. And he’s very sure he’s in love with you.)

pairing : robert 'bob' reynolds x reader / sentry x reader

content : pure fluff (again lol don't hate me on this), slight enemiestolovers!au , friendstolovers!au , jealous!bobreynolds

warning/s : kinda cheesy idk

word count : 4.6k

You hate Bob Reynolds.

You hate the way he walks into a room and won’t look at you. You hate the way his eyes flicker toward you when he thinks you’re not watching. You hate how he always chooses the furthest seat from yours now, even though (once) you were the person he chose first.

And worst of all?

You hate how much you still want him to come sit next to you.

The common room smells like popcorn and vaguely burnt pizza. Ava’s cracked the windows again, letting in the cool night air from the New York sky outside. Dim overhead bulbs cast the room in warm yellow light that barely competes with the flickering horror movie on screen.

Yelena is curled on a beanbag chair with her legs tucked under her like a smug cat, hoodie two sizes too big. John’s hogging the recliner, a beer in one hand and his dumb Stars-and-Stripes socks visible from where his boots sit discarded nearby. Ava’s lounging in the corner with a bowl of gummy worms and a knowing smirk.

You walk in behind Bucky, both of you still talking about a mission briefing that had somehow turned into a discussion about raccoons with knives.

“Do not pretend a raccoon could take you down,” you mutter as Bucky snorts.

“I’m just saying, it’s more dangerous than you think,” Bucky deadpans. “Especially with a butter knife.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

He shrugs. “I’m not the one who got chased through a compound last week by a genetically engineered goose.”

“That goose had rage in its soul,” you hiss, before realizing the entire room is listening. Yelena snorts into her sleeve. Ava just shakes her head.

You clear your throat, cheeks warm. Your eyes instinctively scan the room—and stop.

There. Couch. Right side.

Bob.

He’s sitting low, one leg crossed over the other knee, navy-blue sweater sleeves bunched up his forearms. His posture is slouched, but his eyes are sharp, focused on the screen, until you catch the briefest glance your way.

Your stomach tightens.

He looks back at the screen before you can even smile.

You hesitate, then move toward the couch. The big popcorn bowl is balanced between him and Bucky. You think about sitting next to Bob, think about all the nights you used to sit shoulder to shoulder, knees brushing, fingers grazing accidentally over the same handful of popcorn.

Maybe you can fix this. Maybe he’ll say something. Maybe this silence he’s been giving you for weeks will finally end.

You hover by the bowl. “Hey,” you say, careful and light. “Can I grab some?”

Bob doesn’t look at you. His hand tenses slightly on the bowl’s rim. He shifts it toward you in silence.

Your fingers brush his.

He pulls back like he’s touched a hot stove.

You feel it like a slap.

You grab the popcorn, mutter a stiff, “Thanks,” and move to sit next to Bucky instead.

Bucky shifts slightly to give you room. You slump beside him, chewing angrily.

“Well that was painful,” Bucky mutters under his breath.

You don’t respond.

“He flinched,” Bucky continues, almost in awe. “Like your fingers were poison.”

You keep your eyes on the screen. “Maybe they are.”

“Strike four,” he whispers.

You glance at him. “You’ve been keeping count?”

“Of every tragic interaction, yes.”

You throw a kernel of popcorn at him. He catches it mid-air.

You lean in slightly, voice low. “Do you think he’s mad at me?”

“I think he’s a dumbass.”

You smile, but it’s hollow.

“I just—don’t get it. We used to talk. Like… a lot. He used to laugh at my dumb jokes. Now he acts like I stole his dog.”

“Maybe you did.”

You blink. “What?”

“Maybe you stole his metaphorical dog.”

You stare at him. “That’s the worst theory I’ve ever heard.”

“It’s still better than yours,” Bucky mutters.

From across the couch, you feel Bob shift. You glance—he’s still watching the screen, but his fingers have stopped moving. The popcorn bowl rests untouched now, perfectly still in his lap.

The movie flickers into a tense silence.

Then John, voice flat, says, “Can the lovebirds quiet down?”

Your entire spine stiffens.

“Excuse me?” you hiss.

“Shh,” John says, not even turning.

You stare ahead, cheeks burning. Bucky looks halfway between smug and offended.

“Lovebirds,” he whispers, amused.

“Don’t even—”

“I mean, if the shoe fits…”

You elbow him sharply. “I hate you.”

“You don’t,” he says, still smiling.

You risk another glance toward Bob.

His jaw is tight. His eyes are still on the screen. But there’s a twitch in his cheek. The kind he gets when something’s bothering him.

He doesn’t look at you.

You look away first.

The meeting room is too cold.

The A/C’s on full blast, humming above the fluorescent lights. You swear Val keeps it that way just to remind you she’s in charge of everything—including your blood circulation.

You’re running late.

You shove the door open with a muttered apology, the metal creaking slightly, and step inside—boots still muddy from training. Your hair’s barely dry from your post-mission shower, damp strands sticking to your neck. You tug at the collar of your jacket, feeling both underdressed and overstimulated.

Everyone’s already seated.

Yelena’s halfway through a protein bar and somehow still managing to lounge in a government-grade steel chair like it’s a beanbag. Ava’s scrolling her tablet, boots on the table despite multiple prior threats from Val. Walker’s twirling a pen and looking like he’s about to make a comment no one asked for.

Then your eyes land on him.

Bob.

Second from the right. Notebook closed in front of him. Shoulders hunched slightly like he’s trying to make himself smaller, or maybe disappear altogether.

Two empty chairs beside him.

You hesitate.

The little voice in your head—the one that’s gotten crueler lately—says, Don’t bother. But you ignore it.

You step around the table, slow but deliberate.

Your pulse kicks up as you approach. You wonder—stupidly, hopefully—if maybe this is the moment. Maybe today, he’ll look up. Maybe he’ll say “Hey,” like he used to, voice low and warm. Maybe you’ll sit beside him and feel something like before.

You stop beside the chair next to him.

Bob looks up.

Your breath catches.

And then—

He blinks. His mouth twitches. Not a smile. Not even close.

He closes his notebook.

And he stands.

Your eyes widen. He murmurs something to Yelena—too low for you to hear—but she raises one eyebrow and gives him a look that says Seriously? Bob says nothing else. He walks around the back of the table, silent and swift, and drops into a chair across the room.

Your throat tightens.

You sit down heavily in the now-empty chair next to Bucky.

“Wow,” Bucky mutters, barely audible. “That was… something.”

You just shake your head, biting the inside of your cheek. “What the hell was that?”

Bucky leans in. “He looked like you were holding a knife.”

“Maybe I should start holding one.”

Val walks in, clapping her hands once. “Alright, Thunderbolts. Everyone awake? Good. Let’s make this quick. I’ve got meetings stacked higher than Walker’s ego.”

Walker scoffs. “Hilarious.”

“Quiet, star-spangled disaster,” Val says dryly.

You try to focus. Val drones on about the last mission—errors, improvements, recon notes. Words blur into static.

Bob doesn’t look at you. Not once.

You glance at him—he’s leaning back, hands clasped in his lap, eyes fixed on the slide deck like it owes him something. He’s not scribbling notes like he usually does. He’s not twirling his pen. He’s not moving.

You grit your teeth and turn to Bucky.

“He’s ignoring me again.”

Bucky side-eyes you. “We’re mid-briefing.”

“I’m going to strangle him with his own hoodie.”

“That’s dramatic. Effective, though.”

Val clicks to the next slide.

You whisper, “Why is he like this? He used to talk to me.”

“Used to eat lunch with you too,” Bucky murmurs. “Used to laugh.”

“I know that.”

“And now he’s pretending you don’t exist.”

“Exactly!”

“You think maybe… that’s the opposite of what’s happening?”

You blink. “What?”

Bucky just smirks.

Then—

Val slaps a hand on the table. “Hey. Lovebirds. Try keeping the domestic bickering to a whisper?”

Your soul leaves your body.

You blink. “I’m sorry—what?”

Walker snorts. Ava doesn’t even look up from her tablet.

Val waves a hand. “Whatever. Just pay attention. I’m not repeating myself for your unresolved sexual tension.”

The room falls quiet.

Bucky leans into his hand, elbow on the table. “I think we’ve just been outed.”

You bury your face in your hands. “This is a nightmare.”

You chance a glance at Bob.

He hasn’t moved.

He’s staring at the table. Not at you. But his knuckles are white where they rest on his knee.

You’re too stunned to say anything.

The rest of the debrief is a blur.

The training room smells like rubber mats and frustration.

Sweat beads at the back of your neck as you pace toward the punching dummies, your left ankle throbbing with every step. You rolled it bad—stupidly—during a dodging drill with Ava and Walker. You’d laughed it off at the time, brushing dirt off your shoulder like it was nothing.

But now that the adrenaline’s fading, it hurts.

The sun’s just beginning to dip behind the compound’s reinforced windows, casting the entire gym in a low, orange haze. Yelena is by the far wall, throwing knives at a wooden dummy’s face like she’s flirting with murder. Ava’s perched on a bench with her headphones in, scrolling through footage on her tablet. Walker’s long gone, probably off to inflate his ego somewhere else.

And there’s Bob. Across the room.

He’s standing by the free weights, curling a bar like it weighs nothing. His hair’s damp at the edges, sticking slightly to his temples. He’s in his navy long-sleeve again—his favorite, the one that’s worn thin at the elbows. His eyes flick toward you as you limp slightly past.

Your breath catches.

It’s the first time he’s looked at you today.

You feel it. That familiar flutter in your chest that you keep trying to kill.

You open your mouth—to say anything—but hesitate. He looks like he might say something, too. Like he’s going to take a step forward. His fingers twitch slightly against the bar.

And then you hear it:

“You alright?”

You turn.

Bucky’s walking over from the hallway, towel slung around his shoulders, brow furrowed as he catches your limp.

“Oh. Yeah. Just twisted it earlier. It’s not bad.” You wave a hand like that makes it true.

“Let me see,” he says, already crouching down beside the bench. “Sit.”

You hesitate. “I was gonna—” You glance back toward Bob.

But he’s still standing there. Still watching. Frozen in place.

Whatever he was going to say—if he was going to say it—dies.

He takes one slow step back.

You sigh, quietly, and sit down beside Bucky instead.

He pulls your boot off gently, inspecting the swollen ankle.

You wince. “I’ve had worse.”

“Doesn’t mean you should ignore it.” Bucky digs in a nearby locker for an ice pack. “You planning on training through this like a moron, or letting me tape it?”

You roll your eyes, but smile. “Fine. Doctor Barnes.”

“I’ll add that to the list of titles I never asked for.”

Across the room, Bob hasn’t moved.

His jaw’s tight. His hands open and close once, then again. He watches the two of you quietly, unreadable.

He takes a breath, like he’s about to come over anyway.

But Yelena appears behind him without warning. “You’re glaring again,” she mutters.

Bob startles, just barely. “I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I wasn’t—” He glances over at you and Bucky. Bucky’s crouched now, wrapping your ankle in gauze, your hand on his shoulder to keep balance. You laugh at something he says.

Bob turns away.

Yelena raises an eyebrow. “You gonna keep lying or just explode already?”

“Shut up,” Bob mutters.

“Sure,” she says, biting into an energy bar. “Just let me know when you’re done pining like a 17-year-old Victorian widow.”

He shoots her a look, but she’s already walking away.

He turns back toward you, just in time to see you toss Bucky an appreciative smile and say, “Thanks, Buck.”

And then you’re gone—hobbling off toward the lockers with Bucky trailing beside you.

Bob stares at the door long after you’ve disappeared.

Bob’s hands have been sitting still for too long.

One of them rests on the disassembled sidearm laid out in front of him, the other curled tight against his jaw as he leans on the table. His brow is furrowed. His brain hasn’t registered a single thing in the last fifteen minutes. The room is quiet, except for the distant hum of the overhead lights and the occasional thud of Yelena dropping gear somewhere behind him.

He stares at the gun like it’ll reassemble his thoughts for him.

“You’re sulking again,” comes her voice, sharp and dry as vodka.

He doesn’t look up. “I’m not.”

“You’re brooding in the dark, surrounded by dangerous objects,” she replies, stepping closer and leaning against the metal counter with a crunch of her granola bar. “That’s called sulking, Bob.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re lying.”

He exhales, long and slow. “I’m just… thinking.”

“About her?” Yelena chews. “Or are we pretending you don’t do that every three hours?”

He doesn’t answer. Just picks up a screwdriver, flips it once in his palm, then puts it back down like it’s too heavy to hold.

She softens a little. “What happened this time?”

He doesn’t know where to start. He could say, I saw her ankle give out and didn’t move fast enough. Or maybe, I saw her smile at Bucky again and it felt like a kick to the ribs. But none of that explains how badly he wants to rewind everything. Go back to when you used to wait for him after missions. When you’d lean on his shoulder while teasing Walker or smirking at Yelena like you were in on some inside joke Bob would never understand.

He remembers the sound of your laugh. That full-bodied, uncaring laugh that only came out when you felt safe. You used to laugh like that around him.

“I think she hates me,” he says eventually, voice low.

“She doesn’t,” Yelena says without hesitation.

“She used to talk to me,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair. “Every day. About random stuff—TV shows, your neighbor’s dog, the vending machine being rigged. And I was stupid enough to think it would last.”

Yelena quirks an eyebrow. “What changed?”

“I did.”

And he did. Somewhere in the space between trusting you and falling for you, he got weird. He started pulling back, dodging eye contact, brushing off conversations before they could start. He didn’t know how to handle it—how to want you without scaring you away.

So instead, he scared himself into silence.

You’d walked into the common room that night with Bucky at your side, your laugh trailing behind you like perfume. You were trying to get popcorn—just a normal thing—but then your hand brushed his and his whole body tensed like he’d touched fire. He pulled back before he even thought about it.

Your smile faded so fast it made his stomach turn.

He should’ve said something. Sorry. I didn’t mean to—

But instead, he just froze, watching you walk away, bowl in hand, settling on the couch next to Bucky like that was where you belonged now.

He couldn’t focus on the movie. He couldn’t even hear it over the pounding in his ears. Every time you leaned into Bucky’s side, something bitter tightened in his throat. You didn’t even look his way after that. Why would you?

He hadn’t just pulled away. He’d disappeared.

Yelena watches him quietly now, like she knows where his mind is drifting. “Did something else happen?”

He nods. “Debrief, a few days ago.”

She waits.

“I walked in and saw her scanning the room,” he says. “She looked like she was gonna sit next to me. She almost did. But I… I moved.”

“You ran.”

He winces. “Walked. Quickly. To the other side of the table.”

“Coward.”

“I know.” He leans back, eyes flicking to the ceiling. “I couldn’t do it. I was going to say hi. Ask about her shoulder—she took a hit on the last mission—but I panicked.”

Yelena hums in that way she does when she’s judging him quietly.

“She sat next to Bucky instead. Again,” Bob adds, bitterness creeping into his voice. “They were whispering to each other, laughing during Val’s rundown, and then Val says—” His voice shifts, mocking: “‘Can the lovebirds pay attention?’”

Yelena snorts.

“She didn’t deny it,” Bob says quickly, like he needs her to know this part. “Didn’t laugh, didn’t say, we’re not a thing. Just turned red and glared at Val, like it was a thing and she was embarrassed about it.”

Yelena doesn’t answer right away.

Bob lets his head drop forward into his hands. “I know it sounds stupid. It is stupid. But I keep seeing them together, and it’s not just the proximity. It’s the way she looks at him. Talks to him.”

“You mean the way she used to talk to you?"

He goes still.

Yelena softens, voice less teasing. “Bob… maybe she’s just trying to fill the space you left.”

He doesn’t know what to say to that.

Then yesterday happened.

He saw you limp into the gym and his entire nervous system lit up. You were trying to play it cool, but he knew that look—you were in pain and trying not to show it.

He took one step forward, almost called your name.

But Bucky beat him to it.

Hey, you alright?

Bob watched, rooted in place, as you let Bucky guide you to the bench. Watched you let him take off your boot. Wrap your ankle. You laughed at something he said again, that same sound Bob used to hear on accident—when you were scrolling your phone on the couch beside him, or teasing him over his “weird cult-leader” handwriting.

Bob’s hands had clenched. His chest felt hollow.

And still, he hadn’t moved.

“Every time I try to fix it, I mess it up more,” he says now, his voice ragged with frustration. “And every time I don’t fix it, I lose her a little more.”

Yelena tosses her granola wrapper in the bin. “So what, you’re just going to keep watching her from across the room like some tragic Regency novel?”

Bob glares weakly. “I just… I don’t know what she wants anymore.”

“Well,” Yelena stands, dusting off her pants. “Maybe she doesn’t either. You’ve given her nothing to work with.”

He swallows.

She’s right.

He remembers the way you used to look at him—eyes full of challenge, of trust. You don’t look at him like that anymore.

Now, when you glance his way, there’s hurt in your eyes. And confusion. And maybe—just maybe—a little hope you haven’t managed to kill off completely.

Bob wants to believe it isn’t too late.

But he also knows he’s running out of chances to find out.

The med bay is quiet except for the gentle whir of the portable stim unit on your ankle. You should be focusing on your recovery, on resting, but your mind’s pacing in circles. Restless. It’s been days since the last mission. Days since you sprained your ankle and Bob almost helped you.

Almost.

The sound of that one step he took toward you is burned into your skull. You heard it. Saw the flicker of concern in his expression. The way he looked like he might finally say something. But he didn’t. Again.

Instead, Bucky helped you. Like he always does.

And maybe you’re just exhausted—mentally, emotionally, physically—but tonight, as the pain pulses dully through your foot and frustration simmers in your chest, you decide you’ve had enough.

You’re done letting Bob hide behind silence.

You leave the med bay the moment your foot can bear weight and stalk the halls with too much purpose for someone supposed to be recovering. You know exactly where he’ll be. The observation deck. He always retreats there after missions, like he’s hoping the stars will answer something the rest of you can’t.

Sure enough, you spot him through the glass, silhouetted in the cool blue glow of the night sky beyond. Hood up. Shoulders hunched. Like the world’s sitting on his back.

He doesn’t hear you enter. Or maybe he does and chooses not to turn.

You stop a few feet behind him.

“Why do you keep avoiding me?”

His shoulders stiffen.

No greeting. No pleasantries. You don’t have the patience for any of it.

He doesn’t turn.

You take another step closer. “Seriously, Bob. What the hell did I do to make you act like I’m some kind of ghost?”

Nothing.

You force a breath. Your voice cracks. “You used to be my best friend.”

That finally gets him. Slowly, he turns, the hood dropping back just enough to let you see the guilt carved into his features. He looks tired. Paler than usual. And yet somehow still impossible to read.

“I’m not avoiding you,” he says, too quiet to be convincing.

You scoff. “Bullshit. You can’t even look me in the eye anymore. I try to talk to you, you bolt. I reach for the popcorn and you practically teleport away. You leave the room when I sit down. You change training shifts to avoid me.”

“I didn’t mean to—”

“You didn’t mean to, or you didn’t want to be around me?”

He winces. His mouth opens like he wants to explain. But nothing comes out.

You hate how much it hurts.

“Do you hate me now?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

He jolts. “What?”

“Just tell me,” you snap, covering your pain with anger. “If I did something wrong—if I messed this up somehow—just say it.”

“You didn’t,” he says, fast, desperate. “You didn’t mess anything up.”

“Then why?” You’re breathing harder now. “Why did you just… drop me? You let me think I was crazy for feeling the distance when you were the one building it!”

“I had to,” he mutters.

You step closer. “Why?”

He shakes his head. “It’s complicated.”

“No, it’s not. You either care or you don’t.”

“I do care,” he blurts, suddenly louder, voice cracking like thunder off the glass.

Silence falls between you. Heavy. Fragile.

You blink. “Then why do you treat me like I don’t exist?”

Bob runs both hands through his hair, pacing away from you, then back, like he’s coming apart.

“Because it’s easier than wanting something I can’t have,” he finally breathes.

You stare.

He exhales like he’s been holding that in for months. “You and Bucky… I see the way you look at him. I hear the way you talk to him. I thought maybe if I backed off, I could deal with it. But every time I see you with him, it’s like my ribs are caving in.”

You’re stunned.

“Bob—”

“And then Val calls you ‘lovebirds,’ and you don’t deny it. You blushed. I thought…” He trails off, swallowing hard. “I thought I missed my chance. That I’d already messed it up. And if I couldn’t be what you wanted, the least I could do was get out of your way.”

Your voice comes out gentler. “You thought I was with Bucky?”

“Aren’t you?”

You stare at him. “No. Of course not.”

He blinks. “But you’re always with him. Laughing. Whispering. You lean on him.”

“Because he listens. Because you wouldn’t.”

“I was trying to protect myself.”

“And I was trying to understand why the person I care about most started treating me like a stranger!”

That lands like a punch. Bob’s shoulders sag. He looks like he’s about to fold in on himself.

You step forward. Hesitate. Then place a hand on his chest—just over his heart.

“You idiot,” you whisper. “You really thought I wanted Bucky?”

Bob doesn’t answer. His eyes are wide, vulnerable. Your touch stills him completely.

“I wanted you.” You say it quietly. Gently. Like it’s the simplest truth in the world.

He exhales shakily. His hands twitch at his sides, then lift—hesitant, slow—as if he’s terrified touching you might break the moment.

But when he finally presses his palm over yours, the tension breaks.

Neither of you says a word for a long time.

Then, finally, he leans forward, forehead resting against yours, breath shallow.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs.

You close your eyes.

“I missed you,” you whisper.

His breath hitches. “I never stopped.”

You weren’t planning on sitting next to him. Not really. You told yourself you’d play it cool. Casual. Normal. You were going to walk in, nod politely, and take your usual spot next to Bucky like the last three weeks.

But tonight… you hesitate at the door.

Bob’s already there. Hood down, for once. Jacket draped over the back of the couch. He’s wearing that old faded band tee you once teased him about—the one you said made him look like a roadie, not a superhero. And he’s looking around the room like he’s searching for something.

For someone.

Your pulse kicks up.

Yelena’s on the far couch, legs tucked under her, already spoon-deep into a pint of ice cream. John’s half asleep in the armchair with a beer balanced precariously on his thigh. Ava is floating just above the beanbag pile, watching the screen like she’s trying to decipher code. Bucky’s leaning against the back wall with crossed arms, waiting to see where you sit before he picks a seat.

And Bob… Bob catches your eye and doesn’t look away.

Not for a second.

It’s nothing like before.

There’s no flinching. No retreat. Just that soft, unsure gravity you’d missed so badly.

Your feet move before you think about it. You take the empty spot beside him like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

It feels terrifying.

And then Bob shifts, ever so slightly, to give you more space. Or maybe to meet you halfway. His thigh brushes yours. He doesn’t pull back.

You glance sideways. His fingers twitch against the blanket on his lap.

Yelena lets out an exaggerated gasp.

“Oh my God.”

You freeze.

John jerks upright. “What?”

Bucky just huffs a quiet chuckle and takes the nearest beanbag. “Took them long enough.”

You blink. “What are you—”

“Oh, please,” Yelena drawls. “This has been a six-act drama and we’re finally at the resolution. Do not deny me this.”

Bob lets out a groan and sinks lower into the couch.

Val, from somewhere in the hallway, calls out without even looking in: “If anyone makes out during the opening credits, I’m kicking you off the mission roster.”

You bury your face in your hands.

Bob coughs into a laugh beside you.

Bucky leans over and mutters, “So, when’s the wedding?”

You elbow him, face burning.

Bob’s hand brushes yours—light, hesitant—and then doesn’t move. Fingers barely touching. Like a promise he’s still too shy to make out loud.

The movie starts. Everyone settles.

You stay exactly where you are, shoulder to shoulder with the man you thought you lost. The man who is still here.

And even with the teasing, the knowing glances, and the smug looks from across the room—you’re smiling.

Finally.

A/N : another blurb before i do a request and continue finishing psyche 3 (i just have no creative juice to squeeze anymore)

A/N 2 : i love bob so much i want to write him in every trope there is LMAOO

A/N 3 : bucky barnes one shot, anyone? non-smut because i physically cannot bring myself to write smut i get very uncomfortable while writing and they end up being SO BAD

[speed-world]

Hello, im a fan of the self aware scenario you did with the coward y/n cookie, and I was wondering what their reactions would be of meeting the beast cookies

To be honest, you had no interest in going to Beast-Yeast, at all. After all, why would you? Whatever conflict the Ancients and other cookies had with each other didn’t concern you, not to mention that just the name - “Beast-Yeast” - already freaked you out.

If it weren’t for Pure Vanilla Cookie promising that your safety, due to the agreement between the Ancients and Dark Enchantress Cookie, you would’ve stayed comfortably in the Cookie Kingdom far away from the other continent.

You wish you never listened to Pure Vanilla now, because this beast - Shadow Milk Cookie - immediately wanted to make you run far, far away.

The jester scared you with his sinister and maniacal behavior. If you had a fear of clowns before entering the cookie world, then you’d pass out the more his actions continued.

After seeing the mental turmoil Pure Vanilla was experiencing, the loss of Elder Faerie Cookie, Shadow Milk’s terrifying powers and his “plays” that were mockeries of all the adversaries of the Beasts—the color blue might be your most hated now.

Yeah, you’d be completely fine and dandy if you never saw a hint of Shadow Milk’s Cookie ever again

However, he couldn’t stand to think of this meeting being your last…

How were you convinced to go back to Beast-Yeast a second time?? Suppose you can be grateful for that promise with the Ancients and Dark Enchantress Cookie.

You actually really liked the Ivory Pagoda. The atmosphere was so serene and otherworldly, and warmly inviting…or dangerously alluring.

The company of Dark Cacao Cookie, Caramel Arrow Cookie, Crunchy Chip Cookie, and the Cacao warriors made this trip a whole lot more comfortable and relaxing. However, their presence couldn’t make things better when you finally came face to face with the other Beast - Mystic Flour Cookie.

You thought the slow creepiness of Cloud Haetae Cookie would be the worst of your problems, but at least the story they told was directed to the Ancient instead of you.

The second you saw that spider pop out of that cocoon, your soul ascended to the crossroads. Your body went so pale that Dark Cacao thought you succumbed to the pale ailment.

You really couldn’t articulate how much Mystic Flour scared you. Shadow Milk was insane, but this?! She’s so uncaring, so unrelenting in her belief of apathy, is it too late to stay with Peach Blossom Cookie for the rest of this journey?

Let’s not even get started on that face. You hated any related horror stuff in the real world, and now you’re seeing that in front of your face!!

Yeah no, forget this. Awesome job on Dark Cacao awakening, time to get on the first airship outta this place.

As much as you wanted to be as far away from Mystic Flour Cookie as possible, you couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. Stared at by a force that you couldn’t look back at, no matter how hard you tried….

Hell. To the freaking. NO

Naaaaaah Golden Cheese Cookie, she’s crazy if she thinks you’re going to accompany her to Beast-Yeast. Promise be damned, they clearly didn’t account for the mental pain that you’ve suffered through.

Smoked Cheese Cookie seemed dead serious on agreeing with you, but Golden Cheese wouldn’t take no for an answer. You decided to stick close to Smoked Cheese, because the Beast is only focused on Golden Cheese after all, right?

Had it not been for the presence of Golden Cheese and Smoked Cheese, you wouldn’t have even thought of coming to this place. It’s hotter than a truck engine in the summer, a lot of these Spice cookies are pretty hostile, and—Oh God the sandstorms are the crumbs of dead cookies?!?????!

And then, you met him-Burning Spice Cookie. He’s already scary to look at, so you just hid your face whenever you saw or heard him.

His power is also way too scary-he doesn’t care about any collateral damage caused, heck he probably loves if there’s more of it! Smoked Cheese spent his time making sure that not even a crumb of you were harmed during the fight of Golden Cheese and Burning Spice.

You weren’t sure what freaked you out more: Nutmeg Tiger Cookie’s unwavering devotion to such a being like Burning Spice, or the fact that Burning Spice Cookie does all that he does…for entertainment.

All the death, destruction, suffering he causes, everything, all for a cheap laugh?! Why-why again did you ever come here?!?

To make matters worse? Smoked Cheese and Golden Cheese were locked away in a cage. But you? No, Burning Spice didn’t want you in confinement.

He found it much more amusing to have you by his side, attached to his hip and sitting on his lap.

Your soul departs each time he speaks, your breath is taken away when he breaks something, because you’re scared that it might be you he breaks next. Seeing him be so casual and collected after crushing Cilantro Cobra Cookie in front of your face was what set you over the edge.

You were panicking, screaming, tossing around. You wanted to leave now, no ifs, ands, or buts. You can’t take this anymore and-…

He-he’s staring at you….he’s in the middle of his second round fight with Golden Cheese Cookie, and he’s staring. Right. At. You.

You were eternally grateful for Smoked Cheese Cookie being so understanding, and being so quick in trying to get you out of this God forsaken continent.

But even as you were getting away, you heard his laugh. You know Golden Cheese struck him down, but you heard his faint sinister laugh; virtually paralyzing you in place.

Please, for your sake, can you never come back to Beast-Yeast ever again?!?

…

…

Where did this ticket come from?

[onlypinkslut]

warning 18+ next part 2 > older pervy teacher!toji x innocent student f!reader🎀.

cw: manipulation, teacher x student, age gap, dubcon, taboo. mdni.

professor fushiguro had a reputation. not the kind that showed up in formal complaints or scandalous whispers, but the quieter kind, the dangerous kind. he was handsome, unnervingly so tall, built like a fighter not a lecturer, always dressed in black button-downs with the sleeves pushed to his elbows, veins peeking out like he wanted you to stare. and married. very married. a slim platinum band on his ring finger that he never took off, not even while scribbling equations across the whiteboard or wiping chalk on his pants.

he taught intro philosophy. the kind of class full of wide-eyed boys/girls who thought they were deep because they’d just discovered camus. but he never looked at them at least, not the way he looked at you.

it started subtle. lingering eye contact when he called on you, asking for your thoughts when you hadn’t raised your hand, brushing his fingers too close when passing papers. at first, you thought you were imagining it. that you were projecting something sick and inappropriate onto a man who clearly had no interest in silly little students. but then came the way he said your name slow, thoughtful, with the corners of his mouth curling like he was tasting it. like it meant something to him.

and then the school trip was announced. a philosophy retreat to another city. three days, two nights. guest lectures, roundtables, and some pathetic team-building exercises. you weren’t even going to sign up until he looked straight at you, mid-lecture, and said i expect all of you to come. some of you need the experience more than others. his eyes didn’t move. you didn’t dare look away.

the flight was cramped. assigned seats. you didn’t realize the horror of it until you read the manifest and saw

mr. fushiguro listed next to your name in tight black font. he was already seated when you boarded, legs wide, jaw tense from the early morning. and when you shuffled in, clutching your little bag to your chest, he barely blinked. just motioned for you to sit like it was normal.

his thigh touched yours. his elbow grazed your arm every time he shifted. he didn’t look at you. didn’t say a word. but when the lights dimmed and the plane rose into the sky, you felt it that heat, that wrongness, crawling up your skin like a fever. he exhaled slowly beside you and his breath grazed your neck.

then came the descent. everyone around you began to shuffle, seatbelts unbuckling, the aisle clogged with bodies waiting to leave. you stood up, trying to squeeze past him, but the line wasn’t moving and he didn’t budge.

you mumbled something excuse me… but he just looked up with that lazy, unreadable expression, eyes dragging from your thighs to your lips. and before you could step back, he gripped your waist and pulled you down, right onto his lap. your knees hit the seat, legs splayed awkwardly on either side of his, and you froze, heart hammering.

his voice was low and soft against your ear.

relax. just until the line clears.

you looked around in panic. students were watching, some snickering, others wide-eyed. your cheeks burned. you tried to shift off but his hands pressed into your hips, holding you there.

you’re shaking, he murmured. nervous flier?

you tried to speak. to move. but his thigh shifted beneath you, just enough to make you feel the hard shape forming there, and your blood turned to fire. he didn’t even pretend to hide it. just rocked his hips subtly, like it meant nothing. like it was normal.

good girl, he breathed, still loud enough for only you. you’re learning how this works.

you didn’t speak for the rest of the walk off the plane. your skin felt like it didn’t fit right, legs sore from trying not to grind down on his lap, jaw locked so tight you thought it might crack. professor fushiguro stayed close behind you the whole time, rolling his suitcase casually like nothing had happened, like your thighs hadn’t just clenched around him in front of half your classmates.

the others were loud. dragging their bags through the terminal, laughing, pushing each other like overgrown children. you stuck to the back, head down, trying to disappear.

but he didn’t let you.

careful, sweetheart,

his voice slid out behind you as you stumbled slightly on the escalator. his hand found your back warm, wide, steady and pressed there as you stepped off.

you really should wear more supportive shoes. your ankles are too delicate for all that walking.

you heard the giggles before you even turned. two girls near the vending machine, whispering behind their hands. someone muttered, he’s so protective of her, and another one snorted. you wanted the ground to open up and swallow you whole.

but he didn’t stop. he leaned closer, brushing your hair off your shoulder in one slow sweep, his fingertips grazing the back of your neck like it was just a kind gesture.

did you even eat this morning? he asked, frowning at your suitcase like it had wronged him. you’re already swaying. c’mon, let’s find you something light.

professor, i’m fine..-

no, he cut in gently. you’re my responsibility now. can’t have my favorite student passing out in front of the whole class, can i?

you swallowed hard. someone definitely heard that. the stares were louder than the voices now. you kept your head ducked while he guided you through the airport like a little girl his hand always on your back, his voice soft, too soft.

and then came the hotel.

they passed out room keys in the lobby. everyone was half-asleep, waiting for their pairings to be called. you hovered near the back, praying hoping but then the coordinator raised a small envelope and called your name, along with one that made your knees lock.

professor fushiguro.

your head snapped up.

you expected him to object. to say it must be a mistake. instead, he smiled. actually smiled. that same lazy, slow grin he gave in class when a student said something dumb.

looks like you’re stuck with me again.

the envelope was placed into his hand. he didn’t even give you yours. just held it in one hand and reached for your wrist with the other, tugging gently like he was leading a child through traffic. your breath hitched.

don’t worry, he whispered low, only for you. i don’t snore.

your knees nearly gave out.

the hotel room door clicked shut behind you with a soft finality. you stood frozen near the entrance, arms tight over your chest, suitcase still in hand. everything felt a little too quiet. a little too still.

the room was bigger than you expected luxurious in a way that didn’t feel meant for students. polished wood floors, a king-sized bed with a tall headboard and crisp white sheets, gold lamps glowing warm on each side, casting light that made the shadows stretch long. there was only one bed.

you stared at it too long.

he noticed.

looks like they forgot to give us two, he said casually, not even surprised. he rolled up his sleeves with slow fingers, loosened his tie and tugged it from his neck like he’d done it a hundred times before.

probably some kind of mix-up with the school. they’re always disorganized with this stuff.

you swallowed. your throat felt dry.

he turned back toward you, voice warm. you don’t mind sharing the bed with this old man, do you? it’s just one night.

you opened your mouth. closed it. shook your head.

no… it’s fine professor.

he smiled, soft.

good. you’re like my daughter, anyway.

your stomach twisted.

you didn’t say anything as he took your suitcase from your hand without asking, set it beside his, already resting near the bed like it had always belonged there. the two bags looked strange next to each other. intimate. like a couple’s.

you stood there while he moved through the room with ease, kicking off his shoes by the armchair, stretching like he was home. like this was normal.

then he picked up the hotel phone and called room service.

he didn’t ask what you wanted.

for her? something soft. salmon. jasmine rice. tea. nothing spicy.

your eyes snapped to him. his were already on you.

just something sweet and easy, he added, like he knew you better than you knew

yourself.

you nodded, too afraid to speak. your voice felt buried.

when the food arrived, he set it on the table and pulled the chair out for you. you sat.

legs crossed tight beneath the hem of your school-issued skirt, and picked slowly at the plate while he poured your tea.

you keeping up okay in class?

he asked, tone light.

yes, you whispered.

anyone giving you trouble?

you shook your head.

he sipped his own tea and leaned back slightly, watching you. the silence stretched.

you’re quiet,

he said.

always have been. the kind of girl no one notices unless they’re really looking.

you didn’t know if that was meant to make you feel safe or exposed.

you nodded again, forcing another bite of fish into your mouth.

his phone buzzed. he reached for it, glanced at the screen, and his face barely shifted but you saw it.

a small tightness in his jaw. he turned it around and showed you without a word. a picture. a little boy sitting in his lap, smiling up at him. a woman behind them, pretty, poised, hand resting on his shoulder.

my family, he said. no emotion in his voice. just fact.

they’re… cute, you offered, shy.

yeah, he said, already locking the phone and setting it face-down.

after you finished eating , he sat down in the armchair again, legs wide, thighs stretching the fabric of his dark slacks. he patted one.

c’mere. i’ll show you more pictures if you want.

you hesitated.

don’t act like we haven’t done this before, he said gently. come on, sweetheart. it’s just us.

your body moved before your brain caught up. you sat carefully across his lap, thighs draped over his, heart pounding in your chest like a small animal trying to escape.

he pulled you close. one arm behind your back. his phone in the other. photos flipped by birthday parties. vacations. family dinners.

and then his hand moved. not suddenly. not obviously. but slow. casual. it rested on your thigh, just above your knee. warm. wide. like it belonged there.

you squirmed.

he didn’t stop.

he swiped through another picture. his thumb rubbed slow circles into your skin.

you’ve grown a lot this year, he said quietly. filled out in places. you’re becoming a woman.

you tried to pull your skirt lower.

professor…

he kissed your cheek.

it’s okay. you’re like my daughter. this is just affection.

his hand slid higher.

you pushed it gently.

don’t be nervous, he murmured.

i just want to make sure you’re okay.

you sat still, heart pounding, thighs trembling over the stretch of his thick one. he’d pulled you into his lap again like it was normal, like the hotel room hadn’t gone too quiet, like dinner hadn’t already gone cold on the tray. the lights were dim now, golden and low. his hand rested over your stomach, the other between your thighs. not groping. just… resting.

he rocked you gently, side to side. you didn’t know why he did that. it felt like something a dad would do to calm a baby. but your pulse was racing, and your body felt so strange hot, stiff, twitching in ways you didn’t understand.

professor… your voice was small. you felt it tremble.

he hummed against your hair. mm?

why’re you… touching me like this… you asked, confused and breathy. it feels… weird…

that’s because you’ve never been touched properly before, he murmured, hand sliding slightly lower, grazing the soft curve of your inner thigh. your body doesn’t know what it wants yet. but i do.

you shifted, uncomfortable. the movement made his thigh brush directly against your pussy again and your breath hitched.

it’s okay, he said softly. you can feel that, can’t you?

feel what…?

the heat. his fingers brushed between your legs, right over your panties. right here. this part’s all wet now. that’s your body’s way of asking for help. and i’m going to help you.

but.. i don’t understand, you whispered, squirming in his lap. it’s not… i didn’t do anything..

you didn’t have to, he said, kissing your temple. your body reacts to me even when you don’t mean to. that’s what makes you different from those other girls.

you blinked. what girls…?

the ones who chase boys and drinks at dorm parties, he said, rubbing soft circles into your clothed slit. they think they’re grown. think they’re in control. but not you.

your eyes stung. you shook your head softly.

i don’t… i don’t party, you whispered.

you don’t even let boys touch you, do you?

n-no… never.

his hand pressed a little harder.

have you ever let anyone see this? he asked gently. right here?

you swallowed thickly, shaking your head again.

no. i never… no one’s ever…

do you even know what a cock looks like, sweetheart?

your whole face burned. i mean… no! not really. i’ve seen it in biology but not in real life.

no…

he smiled. god, he was so calm. so smug. like this was a lesson he’d taught a you.

that’s good, he said. i like that. means i get to be the first one to show you everything.

you looked down, still confused. but why… me? why’re you doing this…

he lifted your chin and looked you in the eyes.

because you’re the only one who still has something worth touching.

and then his hand slipped past the side of your panties hot fingers grazing your folds gently, slowly, carefully.

you gasped.

professor..

shh, he whispered, rocking you again. this is just a lesson. now tell me the truth…

his fingers rubbed delicately up and down your slit.

have you ever touched yourself here before?

you whimpered, eyes wide.

i… i tried once… but i didn’t know what to do… i stopped… my fingers hurts my pussy..

that’s because no one ever taught you, he said. and now i will.

your breath hitched hard when his fingers slid deeper, just barely spreading your soft, soaked folds open under the cotton of your panties. your whole body jerked, thighs twitching, lips parting but no sound came out at first. and then, like something cracked inside you, your face crumpled.

professor…

his fingers paused instantly.

what is it, baby?

your hands curled into his shirt, face twisting, eyes filling fast.

i-it feels so weird… it’s t-tingly and i— you whimpered, cheeks wet, i think i need to… pee or something…

you tried to close your thighs. tried to squirm away. but his arms held you tighter, locking you into his lap like you were made to stay there. he pressed a kiss to the side of your face, slow and gentle and warm like he wasn’t doing anything wrong at all.

shhh… no, no, sweetheart. you’re not gonna pee.

he whispered, brushing your hair back as your tears slipped down.

that’s just your little body not knowing what to do. it’s okay. it’s good. it means you’re feeling it right.

b-but professor, why’re you touching me there, you cried softly. i-it’s private…

he didn’t stop rocking you, just pressed his palm deeper against your soaked panties again and rubbing it.

it is private, he murmured, kissing your cheek. but you needed help. and no one else was going to teach you the right way. only me.

you whimpered, hips jerking forward without meaning to. the heat was unbearable. and the shame stung just as badly.

but you’re my teacher…

i know, he whispered. and that’s why it’s okay.

your eyes widened.

what…?

because sweetheart, he said, rubbing you slower now, lips brushing your temple. i see how soft you are in class. how shy. no one else notices. but i do. and that means i’m the only one who gets to help you.

you sobbed again, barely able to sit still, your hips sliding forward with every desperate rock of his thigh.

i don’t wanna be weird… i’m not like those other girls you said…

you’re not, he breathed. you’re better. softer. cuter. you don’t chase boys.

you don’t pretend to be grown. you just sit there with your pretty little skirts and keep everything bottled up, like your body’s too good for this world.

you hiccuped, voice cracking.

d-does your wife pussy pee like this…?

the question came out in a whisper. like something you shouldn’t have asked.

he went quiet for a beat. the movement slowed.

then his mouth dipped to your ear.

no, he said flatly.

his hand cupped your pussy again, rubbing the wet fabric in slow, grinding motions.

she’s old now. bitter. independent. thinks she knows everything. never cries for me like you do.

you blinked tears down your cheeks.

i’m not trying to cry..—

but i love it, he said. i love how overwhelmed you get. how honest you are when you’re like this.

his fingers slid under your panties fully this time, parting your slick folds with a quiet squelch that made your entire body tense.

you’re so sweet down here, he whispered. so soft. you’re leaking all over me, baby. it’s okay. let it happen.

but i-i don’t know why i feel like this, you whispered, trembling.

because you’re finally safe, he said, kissing your cheek, rubbing slow, deep circles into your pussy now. parting your wet lips with his thick fingers exposing your soaked twitching hole.

his thigh was so warm, and everything felt slippery between your legs. you didn’t even know when your panties got this wet. your whole body trembled against him, tucked into his lap like you were part of him now his hands guiding your hips in soft, humiliating little rocks while he whispered so gently into your ear, like this was all just... educational.

feel that, baby?

he murmured, hand slipping lower again to press between your legs,

cupping you through the soaked cotton.

you’ve been dripping since dinner.

i-it’s not my fault..

you whispered, voice cracking, tears brimming.

i don’t know why it’s happening...

he hummed, rubbing slow lazy circles over your pussy with two fingers.

because your body knows what it needs. even if your brain’s still trying to catch up.

your lip quivered. your thighs twitched. the damp heat had gotten unbearable.

but professor… this place… it’s gross and private. isn’t it wrong?

his voice honey-sweet.

it is private. that’s why it’s mine now. only someone who really cares should ever touch you here. and i care more than anyone ever could.

you whimpered, tears falling.

i don’t understand why it feels like this,

you sniffled.

i-it’s like… hot. and i get this.. tingly squeeze inside. like i’m gonna pee..—

oh, baby.

he whispered with a soft laugh.

you’re not gonna pee. that’s your little pussy trying to cum. it just doesn’t know how yet.

you shook your head.

i-i’ve never done that before. i never touched it like that. i didn’t know it could do that…

i know,

he said, rocking you a little rougher now.

you need me to teach you everything, don’t you?

yeah…

good girl. then let’s start with the basics. say the word.. 'cock.'

your eyes went wide.

i don’t want to..-

his fingers dipped just beneath your panties, grazing your soaked slit.

say it.

you swallowed hard, squirming.

..cock.

he groaned softly into your hair.

that’s it. again.

‘cock.’

you repeated again, blushing.

mmh. now say, 'i’m wet.'

your voice cracked.

i’m wet…

he licked his lips, dragging his fingers up and down your folds, so slow you thought you’d break apart.

say, 'touch me here.'

t-touch me… here…

good girl,

he growled.

you’re so fucking sweet.

you gasped as he unbuckled his belt behind you. your body froze. your heart skipped.

what are you doing…?

relax. he breathed, stroking himself now behind your back. i’m not gonna do anything to you. just sit right there sweetheart.

you flinched when something heavy and hot pressed against your thigh. you looked down. your breath caught.

what is that..—?

you whispered, panicked.

why is it so… big?

he chuckled darkly, wrapping one arm tight around your belly.

that’s my cock, baby. the thing your little body keeps reacting to. it’s big because you’re small. because you’re made to sit right here and take care of it just like this.

your eyes filled again.

it’s scary…

shhh, i know, baby. i know it looks scary. but it’s not for hurting you. it’s just for making you feel good.

he moaned, stroking himself faster now, grinding your soaked pussy down harder onto his thigh. you’re perfect, baby. so soft. so sweet. say it again.

professor c-cock… i’m wet… touch me here…

his whole body shuddered behind you. you could feel the heat spurt across your leg,

thick and wet and terrifying. he groaned deep, squeezing your belly tight, panting against your ear.

see what you do to me, baby? just by sitting there leaking like that… fuck.

you looked down at the mess between your thighs.

you were still tingling. still hot. still wet. your thighs were sticky where your panties clung, and your tummy felt tight in a way you didn’t know how to soothe. he’d told you to rest. to go lay down.

to be his good girl and not touch anything but how could you?

not after what he did to you.

you were on the bed, curled up in your thin little pajama set shorts too small, top riding up your soft belly, clutching your stuffed bunny with your cheek pressed to the sheets. your eyes kept drifting to the light under the bathroom door.

you heard the shower.

your thighs pressed together again. he was in there. naked. touching himself maybe. you weren’t sure what men did when they showered. but you knew what you saw earlier the thick, scary thing that had rubbed against your leg. it looked swollen. heavy. too veiny. and it made your whole body squeeze up with confusion and need. your bare feet padded across the carpet before you even realized it. bunny still in your arms, you crept closer to the door, the quiet hiss of water growing louder. and then you peeked. your breath hitched.

he was there back turned, broad shoulders glistening. his hips rocked under the spray.and between his thighs… it hung so long. thick. heavy. wet and twitching slightly. your whole body locked up. you didn’t even notice the sound you made.

his head turned.

his voice was sharp.

what are you doing?

you flinched, hugging your plush tighter.

i-i was just… looking…

you whispered, shrinking in the doorway.

he stepped out of the shower slowly, water trailing down his chest, down to his hips, down to the terrifying length between his legs.

his brows furrowed.

i told you to be in bed.

you whispered

i was.. but i couldn’t stop thinking about it…

he paused.

about what?

your eyes dropped.

your… your manly big thing.

he blinked. then he laughed.

this?

he asked, wrapping his big hand lazily around it, giving it one slow stroke.

it scared you?

you nodded fast, lip trembling.

it’s so ugly… and… veiny… and hairy… and it looks like it’s in pain or something…

he stepped closer, cock still hanging, still so heavy. your eyes widened.

it’s not in pain, babygirl.

he said gently.

it just gets like this when it needs attention. and yours made it like this, remember?

you squirmed in place, thighs rubbing together again.

i didn’t mean to…

he crouched in front of you, still naked, stroking it idly with one hand.

i know, sweetheart. but it’s part of being close. bonding.

bonding? you repeated, voice unsure.

mhm, he smiled. girls your age bond with their daddy’s big cock when they don’t have anyone else to teach them.

but… what is it?

you asked, voice soft.

what does it do?

he leaned closer, rubbing the tip against your center pajama shorts, right where you were still damp.

it makes you feel good. it helps when that little place between your legs gets too full. like earlier. you felt better when i touched you there, didn’t you?

you nodded slowly.

but… it looks like it wouldn’t even fit… anywhere…

he smiled wider.

that’s why we start small. we’ll get you used to it, baby. don’t be scared. it loves you already. can’t you see how hard it gets when you’re near?

he gave it another slow stroke, and you couldn’t look away. it twitched again. your whole body ached.

you’ll learn to love it too. he murmured. you’ll see. soon you’ll be begging me to let it kiss your little pussy. and when you’re ready, we’ll make it yours forever.

you whimpered, hugging your bunny tighter.

do i have to? he kissed your forehead, thick cock still brushing your thighs.

you couldn’t stop looking at it.

he stood there, still wet from the shower, his thick cock hanging heavy between his legs, twitching every few seconds like it had a mind of its own. it scared you. made your stomach twist and your thighs press together all over again.

you hugged your bunny tighter.

it’s still twitching… you whispered.

toji chuckled, slow and dark.

yeah, babygirl. because you’re still here.

your face burned.

do you… want to say hi to it?

you blinked.

what?

he stepped closer, his cock brushing your leg again. he likes you. i think he wants you to touch him.

but it’s not a person… you murmured, confused.

he’s not, toji said gently. but he reacts like one. look how hard he gets when you’re near. look how red and swollen his head is. that’s all for you, baby.

you looked down, trembling. it was huge. the tip shiny and flushed, leaking a little bead

that dripped slowly.

i don’t know how to touch it… what if i do it wrong…?

toji smiled.

you won’t. just pet it a little. like you do with your bunny..

your hand moved slow. so slow. your fingers brushed the side of the shaft, and toji hissed between his teeth.

fuck… see? he likes you already.

it’s… hard. but soft… you said, voice cracking. and warm…

he loves your hands, toji whispered, wrapping his own big hand over yours and helping you stroke down.

you’re the first person he’s wanted in years.

but why does it feel like it’s… pulsing?

because he’s excited. because you’re so pretty and soft and sweet. he knows you’re made for him.

you whimpered as your fingers closed around it shakily, barely able to hold half its thickness.

it’s so big… he won’t fit anywhere…

toji kissed your cheek.

not yet. but one day he’ll fit perfectly. your pussy’s still too small. but he’s patient.

your eyes were still wide. your thighs rubbed together from the pressure building again.

do you want to kiss him?

you froze.

w-what…?

just a little kiss. right here.

he stroked the leaking tip, smearing it with his thumb.

give him some love babygirl.

you shook your head fast.

b-but it’s… it smells weird… and sticky…

that’s just because he’s happy,

toji whispered.

he needs to bond with you. just like you bond with your bunny when you sleep with it.

but he’s not soft like bunny… he’s scary…

toji cupped your chin and gently guided your head down, cock pressed against your cheek now, hot and veiny and twitching.

just a kiss, baby. just a little one on the tip.

you whimpered again, mouth trembling.

i… okay…

you leaned down and pressed your lips to the flushed head. toji groaned loud, his hand tightening in your hair.

fuck, baby… you’re perfect.

you pulled back quickly, eyes watery.

he stroked your hair, breathing hard.

you were still on your knees.

the bathroom tiles felt cold under your thighs, and the smell of his skin clean but earthy, musky, older was thick in the steam around you. toji stood in front of you, cock heavy and hard, veins raised like it was angry. your bunny was clutched to your chest

still, squished between your arms and your trembling body.

now babygirl just a few licks with your sweet tongue.

he murmured, stroking himself slowly.

like ice cream. start from the base. all the way up.

your nose wrinkled. your eyes stayed wide, glassy.

i don’t wanna. it smells weird… and it’s hairy…

he laughed, low and deep.

of course it’s hairy, baby. i’m a man. not some pretty little boy from your books.

your gaze dropped again, shame pulsing between your legs. it was huge. thicker than your wrist. flushed and leaking and terrifying.

why’s it so veiny?

because it’s real. strong. and hard for you.

he took a step closer. his thighs flexed. you saw the way his abs weren’t cut, but thick. his stomach had a softness to it, a grown man’s stomach not flat, but firm. his arms were thick and veined, and his chest

had a scar down the side. older. rougher. experienced.

you’ve never seen a body like mine, huh?

you shook your head quickly.

n-no..

he cupped your jaw. tilted your face up.

that’s why you’re lucky. you get to learn with a real man who knows what he’s doing. not some awkward boy.

you squirmed. the tip of his cock rubbing your cheek again.

i’ll be gentle, baby. just one lick. come on… just like ice cream.

you pressed your lips together.

but i don’t want to… it’s… gross…

his hand moved from your jaw to your hair. stroked it softly. then he leaned down, whispering, and i didn’t want to get hard over my sweet little student. but here we are.

you blinked.

you did this,

he murmured.

you made it ache. now you have to help me feel better.

but…

he stroked your hair again, voice like honey.

you’ll feel better too. you’ll see. you’ll feel strong. grown. bonded. and i’ll be so proud of you. don’t you want me to say you did good?

you whimpered, lips parting slowly. he took your hand and wrapped it around the base again. your tiny fingers looked laughable against the girth.

now lick, baby. from the bottom.

your tongue came out. shaky. trembling. the first lick dragged slow along a vein that pulsed against it. you nearly gagged from the taste.

but i can’t…

you can, he whispered. you already are.

he held his cock with one hand, angled it up, and guided you to the leaking tip.

kiss the top again. let him know you’re not mad.

you kissed it. this time wetter. more open.

good girl, he growled. he loves your sweet mouth already.

your body burned. your panties were soaked. your hand was still around him, and your

tongue still trembled against the underside of his shaft.

you didn’t know how long you’d been like that on your knees, throat stretched, lips swollen and trembling around something too big, too hot, too wrong.

he hadn’t stopped. not when you gagged. not when your eyes welled up. not when your nose ran and the salty taste filled your mouth until you didn’t know if you could breathe anymore.

toji was patient. quiet. calm.

like this wasn’t inappropriate.

like he wasn’t your teacher.

you’re doing so well,

he whispered, his hand resting heavy on the back of your head gripping your hair.

guiding you down to the base.

he loves you already, you know that? he’s been waitin’ for you.

your knees burned. your bunny had slipped out of your arms, forgotten in the corner of the steamed-up bathroom. you were dizzy. your jaw ached. spit and precum clung to your chin in wet strands.

this isn’t wrong,

he murmured.

it’s necessary. you’re learning. bonding. this is what happens when a girl’s body starts asking questions. i’m just answering them the only way i can.

you whimpered around him, trying to nod, trying not to choke again. his cock twitched. he groaned softly.

fuck… that’s it, baby. almost there… just hold him a little longer…

he pressed deeper.

your throat squeezed. your chest shuddered.

your eyes blurred.

then he came. thick, hot, punishing pulses flooding your mouth, spilling across your tongue, sliding

down your throat before you could stop it. your body flinched, but he held you close, rubbing your back with one hand while his cock pulsed against your tongue.

shh… it’s okay. he needed to be close to you. he needed to know you accept him.

you couldn’t speak. couldn’t think.

you were still crying.

he pulled out slow, letting his softening length fall against your wet lips as your tears dripped down your chin and onto the tile below.

good girl.

he whispered, crouching down to gather you into his thick arms.

you didn’t resist.

your body folded into him, limp, shaking, soaked.

he carried you out of the bathroom like something fragile and ruined, whispering soft praises the whole time.

you did so good… took me so well… just like i knew you would…

he laid you down on the bed, tucked the blanket around you like nothing had happened.

your plushie bunny was pressed back into your arms, your body still trembling under the heat of shame and the ache between your thighs.

and then he crawled in beside you, propped up on one elbow, stroking your hair.

he misses your mouth already.

you looked up at him, dazed.

he sleeps best in it. and you… you sleep best with him.

he moved your head gently into his lap. you didn’t fight. your lips parted on instinct.

he placed the weight of his cock back between your lips, soft now. warm. familiar.

you closed your mouth around it slowly. your eyes fluttered shut. and tears kept falling.

shh… he whispered, stroking your cheek. this is how good girls rest.

you fell asleep like that.

his cock in your mouth.

his hand in your hair.

his lies buried deeper than anything else inside you…

⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡ thank you for reading my twisted little piece of fiction. this story is dark, filthy, and deeply personal🖤

so if you made it all the way through, i appreciate u more than you know. ur reblogs, comments, and thirst keep me going. stay dirty, stay curious, and stay safe🖤

onlypinkslut

[bunnis-monsters]

NSFW

a/n: this was a commissioned werewolf piece, it’s 1.2k words long!

Everyone warned you that being out late at night was dangerous, but you never listened… and that would end up costing you in the end.

You had trouble sleeping, and in your earlier years, you despised how long and lonely each night could be… but now that you lived on your own, that changed.

The night was special to you. It was a time where everyone else was asleep and you could really let loose. Some nights you’d listen to music until morning, or maybe binge a show you had been putting off for months.

Though, others you left the safety of your little home and wandered into the woods.

It was well past your usual bedtime when you decided to get some fresh air. You felt cooped up in your room, and even after pacing and trying to find something to do in your house, nothing caught your interest.

You already tried masturbating to help you sleep, but it didn’t work. Now your pussy was wet and aching, and you didn’t even get to cum. There was only one other way to get yourself to rest…

The forest was calling to you, luring you out with the promise of adventure and crisp air that could clear your mind and lull you to sleep.

Usually you wouldn’t mind being up all night, but tomorrow you had to be up early for work. Most days you went in after lunch at the earliest, but one of your coworkers was sick with the flu and asked you to cover his shift.

Although you wanted to decline and sleep in, he had saved your ass a few times already and you owed him.

So, you put on your sneakers and a coat before grabbing a flashlight and leaving the safety of your home.

Everything about the forest felt comfortable and familiar. The crunch of leaves under your feet, the soft sounds of creatures scurrying from tree to tree, and even the wind made your tension ease.

For a while, you felt at peace…

Then, you tended up. Something was watching you from afar, and you could feel someone’s stare burning into the back of your head.

When you turned to see who was there, you didn’t spot anyone. You waved your arm, your flashlight’s beam moving over rocks and trees… before something glinted in a bush about 20 feet away.

It was an animal’s eyes, and whatever it was, you could tell it was huge.

For a moment you gazed on in horror, your eyes wide and hand trembling. The creature met your gaze, and that’s when it stepped forward.

You didn’t even notice you dropped your flashlight until after you were sprinting through the dark forest, tripping over a branch and scrambling to get back up. Thorns scraped your knees and arms, making you cry out in fear.

You could hear it behind you, panting and letting out a low growl. You caught sight of its yellow eyes and sharp fangs.

It looked to be some kind of wolf standing on its hind legs, but you didn’t stop to examine it thoroughly, you were running for your life.

But you weren’t fast enough.

The creature could see in the dark, and you couldn’t. Every time you tripped or stumbled you were slowed down, and eventually it was on top of you.

You cried out as you felt its large claws circle around your arms, pinning you against the ground. It hovered over you, panting from either excitement or fatigue, you couldn’t tell which.

Now that it had you in its grasp, you were able to get a good look at its appearance.

The creature was nearly twice your size, his gray fur bristled and wolf ears twitching as drool dripped from its sharp toothed maw.

All you could do was tremble and cry. This was the end, you hadn’t listened to your loved ones’ advice and now you were looking death in the face.

Hopefully it would be over quickly…

You squeezed your eyes shut and turned your face away from it… but instead of it attacking, you felt something… hard and wet rubbing against your thigh.

For a few seconds you kept your eyes closed, but they shot open when you felt one of its large, paw-like hands roughly grope your clothed cunt as its tail thumped behind it.

It was sniffing you, licking at your neck where your scent was most prominent. His fluffy wolf ears were flicking as he kept pawing at your pussy, as if trying to arouse you so he could smell more of that delicious aroma.

His teeth weren’t used to tear your flesh and eat you alive… instead he bit your shirt and tore it off, his tongue lapping at your bare breasts.

This thing didn’t want to eat you… he wanted to mate! It must have smelled the slick still on your panties and cunt from earlier!

If you played along, maybe you’d get home safely after all!

You could tell the poor thing was struggling by the way he let out pathetic whines as his cock bobbed needily. To help it out, you guided his hands to your breasts.

“Play with these, okay?”

His ears perked up and his tail picked up speed as he groped and kneaded your tits, his yellow eyes following the way they bounced and squished together. While he did that, you pulled down your pants and panties.

Honestly, you were aroused, embarrassingly so. He could smell it, immediately going to bury his face into your cunt the second he caught your scent.

“Th-that’s it-“ you blubbered out. He was inexperienced and rough, but his tongue was so big that it rubbed against your clit every time anyway. It was clear that he was desperate to mate, but couldn’t stop himself from tasting you first.

Before you could cum, he pulled back, his fat cock shoving itself unceremoniously inside of you. Fortunately you were just wet enough so it didn’t break you, but the stretch was painful and uncomfortable.

His hips slapped against yours as he mounted you, his hands gripping your soft flesh so tightly you could hardly bear it. The feeling of his nails digging into your hips hurt… but also added to the pleasure.

He was hitting your gspot, making your pussy clench around him as you had your first orgasm of the night.

The thrusts were going at an animalistic pace, and when your knees gave out he lifted you up and bounced you on his cock.

You felt your belly bulge, he was absolutely huge and was bottoming out inside of you. Suddenly his cock began to expand, and you realized too late that he was knotting you.

Your womb was stuffed full of his cum, and he howled at the full moon as his thick ropes of cum spurted into you, painting your walls white.

The werewolf let out a sigh, his knot keeping you connected to him as he calmed down. He was so relaxed and happy after his orgasm, licking your head affectionately and curling up around you.

It looked like you weren’t going to be able to cover for your coworker tomorrow… not when the werewolf was following you home for round two.

“Don’t wolves mate for life..?” you questioned yourself aloud, looking back at the werewolf as he followed behind you like a loyal puppy.

You’d have to find that out later… all you wanted to do was sleep after that experience.

————————

NSFW TAGLIST: @avalordream @icommitwarcrimes @bazpire @im-eating-rn @anglingforlevels @kinshenewa @pasteldaze @yoongiigolden @peachesdabunny @murder-hobo @leiselotte @misswonderfrojustice @dij-ology @i8kaeya @lollboogurl @h3110-dar1in9 @keikokashi @aliceattheart @mssmil3y @namjoons-t1ddies @izarosf1833 @healanette @lem-hhn @spufflepuff @honey-crypt @karljra @zyettemoon1800 @exodiam @vexillum-moeru @imperfectlyperfectprincess1 @enchantedsylveon @mysticranger575 @readeryn68 @danielle143 @kittenlover614 @filthybunny420 @annavittoria-mm @makimamybelovedwife @blubearxy @omglovelylaila @toocollectionchaos-universe-blog @fruk-you-usuk-fans @wil10wthetree @hammerhead96-blog @slightlyusedfloormat @bubblez-blop @sunshineangel-reads @heroneki-neko @soapybabyboop @anonymouskiwi

[demon-at-peace]

DC + DP

Danny had been working with the Justice League for the last few years. He liked working with the Bats the best. They were stunning really, powerless yet some of the most effective heroes out there. They moved like ghosts, and not his type of ghost.

But they were just allies, coworkers at most, they worked together occasionally, Danny would help out when he could. the bats would smile and vanish into the night. They were coworkers, so really why were they over reacting.

He needed a safe house, because his cover was blown. He'd left Amity in a rush, bleeding, and with more broken bones than he'd have wished. But he was fine.

except apparently the Bats disagreed. Batman himself was looking at him in horror, his mouth slightly agape. The collection of Birds looked smaller, all with slightly varying expressions.

"Hi," Danny says weakly looking over the city, they'd agreed to meet at an abandoned observatory, their general meeting place. "Sorry for the intrusion, but I need a place to stay.." he hoped they'd say yes. He couldn't reach out to the other league members, they wouldn't understand.

But the Bats might, they too had a reputation of being dangerous, and the general public didn't know how to feel about them. Maybe they'd understand, and if not it would be better than going to Superman or something.

"What happened to you?" His voice sounds so shocked and worried, practically dripping with concern. "Are you okay?"

"Fine," Danny waves his hand wincing, he's out of suit, wearing jeans and a tee shirt, blood drips through them, radioactive green, with some barely noticeable red specks. Is it just him or is the room really blurry?

"Sure," Red Hoods voice drips with sarcasm, "Lets get you to the med bay," Danny startles at that.

"Med bay?" he stammers "I hardly need medical attention?" he laughs and then coughs some blood up. "I just need a place, for a day, I promise I'll be gone by morning?" He hopes they say yes.

"Phantom you need professional medical attention," Robin scolds him.

"I really don't," He protests tensing at the idea of a hospital, "You're overreacting."

"Phantom, you look like your about to pass out?" Red Hood scoffs, at least Danny thinks he does it's rather hard to tell with the helmet.

"That's because I haven't slept in like forever" He rolls his eyes, "I just need rest honestly." He crosses his arms, ignoring the spinning lights..

Shit why is everything spinning, he thinks he hears someone shout "Phantom!" Really they're overreacting he thinks as it fades to black.

"

I'm back? sorry, I'm a moron.

[jaysbaefie]

slide into me | pjs

synopsis: in which your night shift ends in the backrooms and the only way out is through him.

genre: backrooms au

pairing: entity!jay x afab reader

warnings: dubcon, very weird descriptions of places, descriptions of flesh, mean dom!jay, gaslighter!jay, mocking, teasing, invisible binding, oral (f. rec), fingering, clit slapping, spitting, manhandling, overstimulating, dirty talk, degrading, dacryphilia, unprotected p in v, jay has a demon dick!!!! lowkey a breeding kink sprinkled in there, creampie, i think that’s it..

wc: 9.1k

a/n: look who’s back…anyways i felt inspired after reading @gyuuberryy ‘s fic ‘don’t look back’ so i decided to write one w a bit of my own twist. this is such a fun concept of writing i feel like i should write more horror esk concepts even though this is very tame. anyways..enjoy. comments,reblogs and notes are always appreciated!

▬▬ ▬▬ ▬▬ ▬▬ ▬▬ ▬▬

you took the job because it was supposed to be easy.

midnight shifts, half-asleep mall rats, and a paycheck big enough to cover your rent and leave you just enough for junk food and gas. it was supposed to be quiet. boring, even. which it was—until tonight.

the mall had always been unsettling after hours. too quiet. too still. the overhead fluorescents hummed above you like a dying animal, and the janitor's closet on the second floor always reeked of bleach and something else you couldn't place. but still, nothing that screamed danger. nothing you couldn't handle with a flashlight and a firm tone.

until tonight.

it starts with a sound. soft and distant. like the scuff of a shoe on the squeaky floor tiles of the place.

you pause by the entrance of the food court, your flashlight flicking over darkened storefronts and plastic chairs stacked like bones. the noise comes again, this time sharper—like fingers dragging across metal.

your stomach tightens.

you pull your walkie to your mouth, whispering a check-in to your partner on the other end. but no response comes back, just static.

okay, you tell yourself. don't be dumb. don't go towards it. you're not in a horror movie.

you step back. your sneakers squeak on the floor, loud in the quiet. you turn on your heel and start walking the other way, fast. maybe it's a rat. maybe it's some idiot hiding in the dark and doing one of those '24 hours in the mall challenge' from 2016, or maybe it's nothing.

whatever it is, you just want to get to the office, call it in, and get the hell out.

but the air shifts.

it feels... wrong. heavy. thick, like walking through water. the hum of the lights grows louder, buzzing at a pitch that makes your jaw ache. something flickers in your peripheral. you spin, flashlight jerking toward it—nothing.

your knees suddenly give out.

no warning. no pain. just a dizzy, stomach-dropping sensation like the floor disappeared beneath you—and then black.

▬▬ ▬▬ ▬▬ ▬▬ ▬▬ ▬▬

when you wake, everything is yellow.

the world smells like mold. not fresh mold—old, dead mold. the kind that's lived too long in dark spaces and grown stale with time.

you're lying on cold carpet, face pressed into a nauseating mix of damp fibers and dust. fluorescent lights above you stutter and blink, buzzing in intervals that sound almost... rhythmic.

you sit up fast, heart slamming in your chest as your eyes struggle to adjust to the stale brightness of the unknown place.

this isn't the mall.

you're in a hallway. no windows, no doors. just endless, repeating yellow wallpaper—peeling in places, patterned with some ugly 90s texture—and identical hallways stretching on in every direction.

you push yourself to your feet, head spinning.

"hello?" you call out, voice cracking. nothing. just the hum. you turn a corner. then another. and another.

it feels like walking in circles, except every hallway is just different enough to make you doubt it. a different stain, a different pattern in the ceiling tiles. but always the same walls. the same lights. the same sickly yellow glow that makes your skin look waxy.

where the fuck are you?

you start to run. but the halls go on. and on. and on.

and somewhere behind you, a shadow moves. you've been walking for what feels like hours.

your legs ache. your throat is dry. and the lights—god, the lights—never stop humming. they flicker sometimes, almost rhythmically, as if reacting to your breathing.

you gave up calling out 20 minutes ago. the silence that followed every "hello?" was worse than nothing. it felt... intentional. like something was listening. choosing not to respond.

you stop to rest against a wall. the wallpaper peels beneath your touch, crumbling like dried-out skin. the carpet squelches faintly underfoot. it's damp now. damper than before. it didn't start out that way—you're sure of it.

you close your eyes. just for a second. then you hear it.

click.

a tiny, impossible sound. like a nail tapping on glass. you spin around fast—nothing behind you. just more yellow, more humming.

you swallow hard and start walking again, faster this time.

the whisper comes a few minutes later.

faint. garbled. like a voice behind a wall.

you stop cold, "...can you hear me?"

you whip around—heart hammering, chest heaving—but the hallway is empty. it sounded so close. like someone just on the other side of the wallpaper, lips pressed to the wall, whispering into your ear.

"don't run."

your breath catches and you take a step back. then another.

a low, almost inaudible rustle drifts from behind you, like fabric dragging along the floor. you don't look back this time, you run.

you sprint down the endless corridors, turns blurring together. every wall looks the same. every shadow stretches too long. the humming of the lights becomes deafening, almost sentient—rising and falling in sync with your panic.

and then—a corner.

you turn it too fast, shoulder slamming the wall. and there he is.

a boy.

he's standing halfway down the corridor, backlit by the same yellow haze, dressed in black and hunched slightly, like he's been walking for days. he looks up, his eyes hollow and lifeless.

you freeze.

he looks just as scared as you. "wait—" he says, breathless. "you're real?"

your heart nearly caves in your chest.

finally—finally—someone else.

you don't know that he's been waiting here for you. you don't know that the whispers were his. you don't know that he's the reason you're here at all.

you only know relief and that's exactly what he wants.

he's standing in the middle of the corridor like he's been waiting there forever. just... still. as if he knew you were coming.

your feet skid to a stop, sneakers dragging against the damp carpet, chest heaving from your sprint. his head lifts slowly. your eyes meet.

he's beautiful.

not the kind of beautiful you expect in a place like this—no, he looks too clean, too human, too painfully real. black hair falls across his forehead, his eyes wide and startled, like he hadn't seen another living thing in years. his frame is lean, shoulders hunched slightly with tension, a black jacket clinging to him like a second skin. he looks tired.

his mouth parts, stunned. "you're... real?" he asks, voice barely above a whisper.

you don't answer at first. you're still frozen. still trying to figure out if this is a hallucination. if the place has finally cracked your mind open and spilled delusions into your skull. but he takes a hesitant step forward, hands raised as if to show he means no harm.

"i—i heard someone running. i didn't think... i thought i was alone."

you nod, slowly. your throat is too dry to speak. he sees it in your face, that fractured look of someone at the edge—and his features soften.

"hey, it's okay. i'm not gonna hurt you," he says gently. "you've been here long?"

your voice finally stirs. "i don't know. not long. maybe an hour?"

he winces. "i've been here days," he says, lowering his gaze. "maybe weeks. it's hard to tell."

you want to ask where is this and how do we get out, but the words collapse in your mouth. he seems just as lost. just as scared. and if there's one thing you know about surviving fucked-up situations, it's that panic spreads like a disease. and right now, he's the only person tethering you to something human.

"what's your name?" you ask, voice hoarse.

he smiles faintly, "jay." you give yours in return. and somehow, it feels sacred. the first time you've said it aloud since waking up here. it tastes real again.

you walk together.

not aimlessly—jay says he's mapped a bit of the place out. that some corridors loop, some don't. he tells you he's found areas with flickering lights and strange noises. some that smell like burnt plastic. some that feel colder than others, like they're not finished forming.

"sometimes i hear things," he says, tone hushed. "but i try not to listen."

"you hear them too?" you ask, something cold settling in your bones.

he glances at you. then gives the smallest nod. "they whisper your name, don't they?"

you don't answer, but your stomach twists.

you keep walking. you try not to notice the way the lights don't flicker around him like they do when you're alone. how his shadow always falls in the right direction, no matter where you turn. how his footsteps are too quiet—too synchronized with yours.

you try not to notice how his eyes flick toward your throat when you speak. how he never really seems out of breath. how the carpet never squelches beneath his feet the way it does yours.

he keeps asking you things.

where you're from. how you got here. what you remember.

and every time you answer, he watches you like he's cataloging each word. storing it. savoring it. but his smile is kind. his laugh—quiet, sweet, disarming. it feels like warmth in this place where nothing is warm.

hours pass. well, you think.

the corridors have started to change. the wallpaper grows darker the deeper you go, browner. as if stained by time or something else entirely. the lights flicker longer now and shadows linger too long at the edges of your vision.

you want to stop walking, but jay touches your arm—gentle, reassuring—and murmurs, "we're close. i think i found something a while ago. it might be a way out."

your chest stutters with cautious hope.

"really?"

he nods. "i didn't go alone. i was scared. but with you—" he breaks off. his voice turns soft, "—i feel safer with you here."

you look at him. he seems so genuine. eyes big, expression honest. he says it like it's a confession. like he needs you. you nod. "okay. lead the way."

and so you do. deeper.until the lights above flicker one final time—and die.

time doesn't pass here the way it should.

you think it's been days. maybe a week. maybe more. but there's no sunrise, no clocks, no hunger cues to guide you. only the flickering lights and the ever-stretching corridors—yellow fading into brown, into olive, into something sickly gray.

but you stop counting the days. because now, you have jay.

he stays close. always at your side, quiet but attentive. sometimes he hums under his breath—soft, tuneless notes that lull your nerves. sometimes he tells stories about his old life: a little apartment with too-thin walls. a sister he hasn't seen in years. a favorite café with mismatched mugs. things that feel so vividly real you almost forget where you are.

you learn his quirks. how he hates the buzzing lights more than the silence. how he taps his fingers on his thigh when he's thinking. how he always walks slightly ahead of you, like he's trying to shield you from whatever comes next.

"you know," you say one 'day' as you walk together through a hallway tinged orange by dying fluorescents, "if you weren't here, i think i'd have lost my mind already."

he glances back at you, lips quirking into a small smile. "same."

"really? you seem like you've got it together."

"nah," he chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. "i'm just good at pretending."

you don't think about it much. but the next time the lights go dark for a stretch of corridor, it's his hand that finds yours. warm. solid. grounding.

and you don't pull away.

you have moments like that now. tiny, precious ones that feel stolen from reality.

he finds a corridor with walls covered in strange drawings—childlike scribbles in charcoal, some of them humanoid, some not. you sit with your backs to the wall and pretend you're at a museum, whispering critiques and giving the "artists" fake names.

you laugh together. it's a rusty sound at first—too loud in the quiet—but jay laughs too, soft and real.

sometimes, when it gets too quiet, he'll ask about you.

your job. your family. the place you grew up. and he listens—really listens—with his whole body, eyes fixed on you like you're telling him the most important story in the world. when you falter, he encourages you. when your voice cracks, he gently changes the subject.

and when you dream—because you do, sometimes, in flickers and fits—he's always in them. guiding you through endless rooms. catching your hand. pulling you close before you fall.

you wake up and he's right there, watching you with a worried expression like he's been guarding your sleep.

"you talk in your sleep," he says once, voice quiet.

"oh god," you groan, rubbing your eyes. "what'd i say?"

he pauses. smiles faintly.

"you called my name."

▬▬ ▬▬ ▬▬ ▬▬ ▬▬ ▬▬

somewhere around day fourteen—or what you think is day fourteen—you stop hoping for a way out.

not because you've given up, but because this, whatever this is, doesn't feel unbearable anymore. you eat the ration bars from your security belt. you sleep curled near jay in corners that feel less watched. you follow his lead because he always seems to know where to go, which halls to avoid, when to turn around.

you stop asking questions.

and you start looking at him longer. watching the way his profile softens when he's not speaking. how his hair falls into his eyes. how he always reaches for you first when the shadows flicker too close.

he never tries anything. never crosses a line. he treats you like something breakable.

so you start crossing those lines yourself. a teasing shoulder bump when he's zoning out. lingering touches when you pass him supplies. once, you fall asleep with your head on his thigh. when you wake, he hasn't moved an inch.

"you could've shifted me off," you mumble groggily.

"i didn't want to."

but still... there are moments. strange ones.

times when the lights flicker a little longer when he walks through. when the hum syncs to his steps. when he looks ahead into the darkness a beat too long, his expression unreadable. once, you see something in the wall—a smear of something dark, a shadow stretching toward you—but jay turns his head at the exact moment and it disappears.

you blink. it's gone.

and he's already holding his hand out to you again, voice soft. "this way."

you take it. you always take it.

"i think we're close." jay's voice is quiet, but it cuts through the murky silence like a flare.

you blink up at him, wiping the sleep from your eyes. your back aches from the floor. the light above your heads flickers with that same electric buzz, only softer now—like it's struggling. failing.

"close to what?" you murmur, throat dry.

he glances down the corridor ahead. you follow his gaze.

it's different here. the walls have changed again—duller, the yellow wallpaper turning jaundiced and blistered, warped like water damage has soaked through the structure itself. the ceiling is lower, and the light is dimmer. there's a smell now. faint. metallic. wrong.

"a way out," he says softly. "or... something. i don't know. i didn't go in before. i found it a while back, but i was alone."

"but you didn't try?"

he shakes his head. "i was scared." his voice wavers, just a little. you look at him closer, and it feels like the most human you've ever seen him—shoulders slightly hunched, jaw tight, eyes dark with something you can't place.

"but i'm not now. not with you."

you believe him. how could you not? after everything, all the ways he's kept you calm, grounded—safe.

so you follow.

the deeper you go, the more the backrooms begin to rot.

the wallpaper falls away in strips, revealing a glistening material beneath—like old flesh or wet clay. pipes jut from the walls now. some of them drip. the air is heavy, saturated with warmth, as if something is breathing in these corridors right along with you.

"do you hear that?" you ask quietly.

jay tilts his head.

there's a sound behind the walls. a low thrum. a rhythmic thud-thud-thud—like a heartbeat. like footsteps. but not yours.

you grip his sleeve.

"don't worry," he says. "just a little farther."

the hallway finally ends in a door.

not a real one—just an opening. the trim is darker here, almost black. the light inside pulses faintly, like it's trying to lure you in. and the smell intensifies.

when you step through, you find yourself in a new chamber.

this one is wide, circular. walls curved and smooth, lit by a single humming bulb that swings slightly above your head. in the middle of the room are three slides—long, slick, and strangely out of place, like they were built into the floor of a decaying playground.

one is white, polished like marble. one is red, chipped at the edges, with a faint dark smear down the middle. one is black, dull and velvety, almost absorbing the light around it.

you stare at them. "what... is this?"

jay exhales next to you. "i don't know. i found this place once before. didn't stay long enough to figure it out."

"you said it could be a way out."

"i think it is. maybe."

his voice is unreadable.

you turn to him. "do you know where they lead?"

he shakes his head slowly. "no. but we have to choose. eventually."

you look back at the slides. something deep in your stomach curls. they feel alive somehow. waiting. "what if it's a trap?"

he doesn't answer right away. then softly says, "then we face it together."

you look at him. he looks calm, soft-eyed—safe. just pick one, you think. you're not alone. he's here.

your eyes fall to the slides again. white. red. black.

your fingers twitch toward the black one. the surface almost shimmers. you step toward it.

and jay smiles. not sweet. not warm. sharp.

but you don't see it, not yet. the moment your foot touches the black slide, it shudders beneath you.

not visibly. not violently. but it reacts—subtle, like something flexing beneath its skin. the surface isn't hard plastic like you expected. it's soft. pliable. warm. like flesh left out too long.

but jay is right behind you. watching. and something in your chest tells you to keep going.

so you sit and push off.

the slide isn't straight. it twists. drops. swells and curves like a throat swallowing you whole. the walls are too close—pressing in—and the material isn't smooth. it pulses. you think you feel something breathe against your shoulder.

your hands sink slightly as you try to brace yourself. a slick, wet sound echoes all around you. like something digesting. and then—black.

pure, absolute black. no light. no air. no sound but your own blood roaring in your ears.

you try to scream—but nothing comes out.

you fall forever.

and then—you land.

hard.

but not on carpet, on something alive.

it shifts beneath you, twitching like muscle memory. the ground is slick and damp, lit by dim red bioluminescence leaking from the walls like infected wounds. it smells like copper. salt. something rotten and sweet.

you stumble to your feet. the slide behind you is gone. there's no way back.

you're alone. or—you think you are. until you hear his voice. "you chose it, you know."

your head snaps toward it.

jay.

but he's standing different now—spine straight, head tilted at an unnatural angle, like his neck is made of wire instead of bone. he's watching you. not with the wide, soft gaze you've grown used to.

with something else. something ancient.

"you could've picked any of them," he says quietly, stepping forward. "safety. death. or this."

you shake your head, backing away. "what are you talking about?"

"you picked me." his voice is still warm. still familiar. but too steady. too calm.

"i don't—this isn't—what the fuck is this place?"

"it's mine," he says simply. "or, more accurately... i am of it."

your stomach turns, "i don't understand—" he smiles. soft. so soft. but something ripples beneath his skin, like muscle twitching beneath stretched fabric.

"i made it easy for you," he murmurs. "you wouldn't have followed me if i wasn't kind. if i wasn't... safe."

your knees nearly buckle, "you're lying."

"no. i've never lied to you. not once." he pauses, his mouth curling into a cruel smile, he steps closer. "you just never asked the right questions."

your heart is in your throat now. the walls pulse with it—thump-thump-thump—like they're echoing your fear.

"this isn't real."

"it's more real than where you came from," jay says, almost tender. "you just don't want to admit it."

"what are you?" you whisper.

his smile widens, just slightly. his teeth look too white. too straight. too perfect.

"hungry."

you've never felt cold in the backrooms. until now.

the air is still warm—wet and clinging to your skin—but your body is shaking. not from temperature. from something else entirely. from the kind of fear that curdles in your gut and hollows you out.

you stagger back, but the ground beneath your feet pulses with every movement. it's not carpet. not even earth. it's... him. it's part of him. you don't know how you know that, but you do.

jay stands in front of you, his expression peaceful. soft. like this isn't a reveal—like it's a gift.

"you were always going to end up here," he says gently. "i just helped you make peace with it."

you shake your head slowly, the world pitching around you. everything's wrong. everything's been wrong.

his kindness. his patience. his restraint.

"you lied to me."

"i didn't," he replies, stepping closer. "you just believed what was convenient." and that, that—breaks something open inside of you.

because he's right. you never questioned him. not once. not when he always walked ahead of you, somehow always knowing where to go. not when his eyes flicked toward the shadows before you noticed them. not even when he told you "i feel safer with you here" and never let you see him afraid.

you wanted to trust him. you needed to.

and now you realize: you told him everything. your childhood, your family, your fears, the dreams that had started to fray in the real world. every scar. every vulnerability. you poured yourself out like an offering because he listened. because he looked at you like you mattered.

but what did he tell you?

his name. that he had a sister. a favorite café.

things you can't prove.

"i asked you what you did before this," you whisper, more to yourself than to him. "you said it didn't matter anymore." you could feel a stream of tears begin to pour down your face like a facet, and you could only imagine how ridiculous you looked right now.

"because it didn't."

"you said you couldn't remember how you got here."

"i didn't lie."

you can't breathe.

you remember how he always turned questions around on you, how he always made you feel like the one in control. and you fell for it. every time. he played the perfect companion, the kind stranger, the fragile survivor. but he was leading you. grooming your trust. guiding your hand to this exact moment.

and you never saw it.

"you were watching me this whole time."

his smile doesn't change. "since before you fell. you were marked the second you stepped out of your world."

you try to move, to turn, to run—but the room itself responds. the walls bulge inward, not closing, just guiding you back toward him. toward the center.

and now, behind jay, the ground shifts, ripples, and 3 new openings emerge from the flesh-like floor. 3 more slides, each one glistening in the low red light.

white. red. black. again.

but this time, they're not clean. they're not innocent. they're organic—like veins, like tongues, like they've grown from the very bones of this place.

"you made me choose," you whisper. "back then."

"i had to. i needed your consent. your fear. your longing." you flinch at his words, your body twitching with fear.

"you could've picked safety," he continues, voice low. "you could've chosen death."

"but you picked me."

you can't speak. you can barely stand. the pressure in the room is like a hand on your throat.

"and now," he says, walking toward you slowly, reverently, "i'm giving you a second chance."

he gestures to the slides behind him, and you realized what each colour had represented.

white is safety. "you'll wake up in your home. you'll think that this is all a dream and if you tell anyone they'll never believe you."

red is death. "not metaphorical. not symbolic. ending. i promise it will be quick."

black is to stay. "with me. not just in this place. part of it. bound. fed. worshiped."

your knees nearly give out, "why me?"

he stops. looks at you—really looks at you.

"because you were lonely," he says softly. "you needed to be wanted. i felt it when you fell in. all that ache, all that heat under your skin, how badly you needed something to hold you down, claim you, keep you."

he tilts his head.

"i just answered the call."

you want to scream. you want to cry. but deep down, under the panic, under the betrayal, under the spiraling horror— a part of you remembers how safe he made you feel.

how warm his presence was. how seen you felt when he looked at you. and that part of you doesn't want to leave.

jay sees it. he senses it.

he steps closer, close enough for you to see the subtle shifts in his face—something beneath his skin twitching, pulsing, like he's holding back something monstrous, waiting to be chosen.

"i'll let you go," he whispers, "if that's what you really want."

you stare at the slides.

white. red. black.

you step toward one of them and your fingers brush the edge. behind you, jay's breath hitches. soft. hopeful. and you fall forward—into white.

you don't land. you arrive.

the slide disappears beneath you the moment your body releases into it—no momentum, no tumbling drop. just a blink—

and then you're standing, a chamber breathes around you.

walls of dark, glistening flesh, lit by a muted, red glow that pulses like a living heartbeat. the air hums. it tastes of copper and warmth. there's no door. no light above. no escape.

you turn in a slow, stunned circle.

what is this? where is he?

and then you hear, "you picked well." jay's voice cuts through the silence like silk dragging across bone.

you whip around. he's behind you. standing too close.

his features are familiar, still mostly human, but they don't move like they used to. his limbs are too fluid. his eyes glow faintly with something primal and ancient. there's no tension in his body now, no hesitation—just the unshakable stillness of a predator who has already won.

your chest tightens. "what is this place?"

he just smiles. not cruel. not mocking. patient. "home."

you stare at him, heart thudding, breath shallow. your mind races back to the moment at the slide. how he'd waited. watched. how he hadn't even followed. he knew.

"you said... you said it was a choice."

"and you made one."

"but the others—" your voice cracks. "white was supposed to be safety. red was death."

his expression softens ever so slightly in faux sympathy, "white was suppose to be home, this is home."

you step back like you've been struck, "you said—"

"i never said which realm," he interrupts gently. "i just said they were options."

you feel like you're floating—adrift in something sick and sweet. "then why—why offer a choice at all?"

he tilts his head, gaze tracking you as you retreat another step. the chamber pulses around you, sensing your panic. the walls twitch with each heartbeat. the floor beneath your feet trembles in response to your breath.

you are not in control.

"because you would've run, if i hadn't made you feel like you had a say." his voice is calm. steady. "but this way—" he closes the distance in a single, quiet step, "it's consensual, isn't it?"

your breath stutters. "you tricked me—"

"no. i led you. there's a difference." he begins to circle you.

his movements are slow. languid. like he's savoring your fear. not in a sadistic way—but with intimacy. like he's memorizing every tremble, every shake of your breath.

"i listened to you. i protected you. i let you tell me every little thing that made you feel small. and when it was time to choose... you chose me."

the walls around you shiver. something stirs beneath the floor.

"there was no way out," you whisper, horrified.

"no," he confirms. "but if i told you that from the beginning, you wouldn't have been ready for me."

"you used me."

"i wanted you," he corrects softly. "and i waited until you wanted me back."

he's right in front of you now. you want to scream, but it catches in your throat. not because of fear.

because somewhere, deep down—beneath the betrayal, beneath the horror—you still remember how it felt to be seen by him. how safe you felt when he looked at you like you were worth something.

"you never had a choice, little one," he murmurs. "but the moment you believed you did... you became mine."

you don't run. you can't. your feet won't move, no matter how loud your brain is screaming. because it's not just fear anymore.

it's confusion. it's betrayal. it's the bitter taste of something that once felt safe now turning rotten in your mouth.

your breath stutters, but jay doesn't move. he stands there, gaze quiet, composed—like he's waiting for you to catch up. like he wants you to take your time. let it all sink in.

and oh god, it does.

your thoughts tumble out in a frantic stream:

he never told you anything real. he always let you talk first. he dodged questions with smiles. he cried once, remember? but his face never wrinkled. not really. he held your hand when you were scared, but his skin never sweated. never shook. he never ate. he never slept. but you trusted him anyway.

you think of the stories he told—the apartment, the sister, the café with mismatched mugs—and how vivid they seemed at the time.

but now?

you realize... none of them had names. not the street. not the city. not the sister. just placeholders. just enough to fill the silence you gave him.

you built him. you projected goodness onto something hollow.

and he let you.

"i thought you cared about me." your voice is hoarse, barely audible.

"i do," he says.

and it sounds real. but so did everything else.

you stagger back a step, and the floor beneath your feet shivers—soft, slick, and alive. you suck in a breath, but the air's too thick, syrupy and humid. every inhale feels like it costs you something.

your body is overheating.

you can feel your heartbeat pounding behind your eyes. your chest. between your legs. like the atmosphere itself is stroking your nerves raw.

"why does this feel like—"

you cut yourself off, horrified. because it feels good.

your body—traitorous, stupid—responds to his closeness. the heat, the scent of him. the pull. and it disgusts you. it shames you. but it also excites something low in your gut that you can't name.

jay sees it.

of course he does.

"the backrooms don't just shift for anyone," he murmurs. "they respond to what you feel. what you want."

you shake your head, frantic. "no. i didn't want this. i didn't want—"

"didn't you?" he steps forward again, slow, like he's taming a wounded animal.

"you followed me. you chose me. you let me in."

your vision sways. your breath shortens. because some part of you is still clinging to the way he held you when you were scared. the way his voice calmed you. the way he never pushed. never demanded. he earned your trust and now he's twisting it in his palm like a flower's stem, bending until it snaps.

you sink to your knees, shaking.

you can feel the pulse of the room rising—thump-thump-thump—the walls breathing with you, the floor cradling your body like it wants to hold you. trap you. keep you soft and helpless and pliant.

jay crouches in front of you.

he doesn't touch you, not yet.

his voice is quiet.

"you can cry. you can scream. but it doesn't change anything." he continues, "you're here now. with me. where you were always meant to be."

your vision swims. the fear twists into something else. something hotter.

is it adrenaline? arousal? both?

you hate it but you want more. and that, more than anything else, breaks you.

because now you're not scared of jay. you're scared of yourself.

"you can't move, can you?" jay's voice is soft. breathy. too close.

your limbs won't respond—your legs twitch, your fingers curl—but you're locked in place. not harshly. not like restraints.

like... longing.

your thighs ache to part. your back arches just slightly. it's like your body is moving on instinct, reacting to him.

he circles you slowly, steps silent. the walls pulse with a deep, ambient thrum, responding to the rise in your breathing.

"look at you," he murmurs from behind, his palm dragging down your spine. "so sensitive. like your skin's just waiting to be touched."

you shudder under his hand, eyes fluttering closed. you want to deny it, you should—but all you can do is feel.

heat. tension. craving. your own body is betraying you.

"you think it's just arousal, don't you?"

he appears in front of you, crouching. his eyes glow faintly in the red light. there's something predatory in the way he watches you—like he's savoring a secret.

"you think it's just the moment. adrenaline. fear. me." his hand slides beneath your chin, tilts your face up."it's not."

he smiles, slow and indulgent. "you're already bound to me. you just haven't noticed yet."

your breath catches. "what are you—"

but you stop because you feel it now—subtle threads under your skin, like the gravity in the room is focused only on you. like something invisible is holding your wrists, your thighs, your breath, and telling it to stay. to obey.

"you gave yourself to me the second you believed in me," he whispers. "and now you'll let me take everything."

his hand falls between your thighs, and your knees instinctively try to close—but they don't. you're wide open. exposed. desperate.

he chuckles low in his throat. "see? not even trying anymore. your body knows who it belongs to."

you gasp as his fingers stroke the inside of your thigh, slow and torturously light.  he leans in, pressing his mouth to the shell of your ear. "you don't want gentle, do you?"

his other hand rises. fingers grab your jaw—firm, but not painful. he turns your face toward him. you meet his eyes and almost flinch. they're burning.

"you want filthy. you want my hands on you. my spit in your mouth and my cum slipping out of your cunt. you want to be ruined by something that doesn't even pretend to be human anymore."

you whimper, but your hips rock forward—helpless, aching. he grins. a flash of something sharp behind his lips. "good girl."

then—he spits. right between your parted lips.

you choke on your breath, stunned, but you don't pull away. you can't. you swallow without thinking, dazed, flushed from the heat crawling across your skin.

"that's it," he breathes. "so easy now. so eager."

he pushes you down, palms skimming your thighs as you sink. you don't even realize you've dropped to your knees until you're looking up at him, blinking like you've come undone.

the floor pulses under your skin. the room is watching.

his hand cups your cheek, thumb rubbing gently at your lip like he's wiping you clean—but you both know better.

"no one's ever gonna take you like this. no one else could," he murmurs. "you were made for this. for me."

his voice is velvet-wrapped venom. his gaze pins you in place.

and you? you're no longer sure if you want to be free.

"that's what i thought."

jay sinks down in front of you—slow, deliberate, like he's descending into worship or war. his knees press into the pulsing floor, and your breath catches the moment he pushes you back and his hands come to your thighs.

his eyes trail down. he grabs the waistband of your pants—your last piece of dignity—and pauses just long enough for the panic to rise in your chest. then he rips them down, dragging your underwear with them in one fluid movement.

you gasp, hands moving to cover yourself—but something catches your wrists and forces them above your head, pressing them down into the floor.

the bindings return. invisible, pulsing. your arms are trapped, held still by nothing you can see — just the air around his body thick with power, with control, with him.

"still crying a few minutes ago, weren't you?" he murmurs, voice low and cruel. "sobbing about trust and betrayal and 'how could you do this to me, jay?'" he mimics your tone mockingly, a smirk curling his lips.

you turn your face, burning. but he grabs your chin—firm, sharp fingers tilting your gaze back to his. "look at me when i speak to you."

your breath stutters. his hands slide downward again, slow over your thighs. your skin trembles beneath him. and when his fingers graze over the soaked heat between your legs, he lets out a laugh—soft, delighted, mean.

"oh, sweetheart..."

he drags two fingers slowly through your slick, watching the way your hips twitch, how your mouth parts on instinct.

"you really let me break you that fast?"

you squirm, but the invisible binding tightens. you're not moving unless he allows it.

"so wet for the monster who lied to you," he taunts. "the same one who's been watching you, stalking you, baiting you since the moment you stepped through that yellow door."

he presses his fingers against your clit—just enough pressure to make you gasp. "and now look at you."

he leans in, lips brushing your cheek. "so needy. so fucking ruined."

his free hand grabs your thigh and pulls you open wider, like he's claiming more of you by the second.

"don't you dare pretend you don't like this. your body's too honest, baby."

he spits again but this time low, messy, right where you're dripping—then drags his fingers through it and back onto you, rubbing it in like something unholy.

"i should keep you like this," he whispers. "on your knees. dripping. trembling. always ready for me." your head drops back, a moan torn from your throat.

"that's it. make those pretty little sounds—show me what a filthy thing you are now."

his mouth replaces his hand and he devours you. he licks a thick strip up your slit, enjoying the way your body twitches when he slides over your clit. he ditches the teasing fairly quickly, his mouth engulfing you whole.

not gently. not lovingly. like he's starving and this is what he's been made to eat. his tongue drags through every inch of you, relentless and skilled, and you can feel his power tightening around your limbs every time you twitch or buck.

he's not holding you down with strength. he's holding you down with want. and you can't fight it anymore, you don't want to.

not when he pulls back and looks up at you, mouth wet, eyes gleaming with something dark and endless.

"say it." his voice drops to a growl. "say you want to be mine."

your lips tremble, your chest heaves, and all that comes out is a whimper—but you say it.

"yours."

his smile is all teeth, "that's my girl."

"pathetic little thing." jay's voice is rich with amusement, a low rumble in the thick air around you. he's still crouched between your thighs, fingers gliding lazily through your slick heat, but he's not focused on pleasuring you—he's toying.

his hand moves away. you gasp at the loss, but he's already reaching higher.

"take this off."

you blink through the haze. "what?"

he leans in. slow. terrifying. "your shirt. now."

your hands move on instinct. you tug it up, trembling, but your fingers fumble and you wince when the fabric catches. your eyes blur with tears —again.

jay clicks his tongue. "unbelievable." in one swift motion, his hands are on you, tearing.

the sound of fabric splitting echoes like a scream in the pulsing room. your shirt is gone in seconds, shredded, forgotten and he tosses it aside like trash.

"you can't even get undressed without crying?" he laughs, shoving you back. the warm, fleshy floor catches you like a cradle. "were you always this helpless, or do i just bring it out of you?"

his hand grabs your jaw. not hard enough to bruise, not yet—but enough to make your breath hitch. "you were so loud before. crying about betrayal. sniffling like i ruined your life." he leans in. voice dropping. "but your nipples are hard and you're soaking through your panties. want to explain that to me, baby?"

you turn your face, humiliated. his grip tightens, "look. at. me." you do. your eyes sting. your bottom lip trembles. you hate this. you love it.

he sees everything, "you don't get to hide anymore."

he leans back on his heels, gaze raking over your fully bare body, and groans like he's witnessing something sacred.

"fuck, look at you. trembling. dripping. thighs shaking like you've been begging for this since the day you met me."

your face burns. you try to squeeze your legs together but he slaps your inner thigh.

not hard. not painful. but enough to sting. to make your hips jolt. "spread. them."

you don't obey fast enough so he grabs your knees and forces them open. "you want to cry again? go ahead. i like the way your tears look when they roll into your mouth."

you let out a shaky sob, frustration and arousal eating you alive, but jay just leans down and licks the tear from your cheek.

"sweet little mess," he breathes, lips ghosting over your skin. "this is what you were made for."

he kisses down your neck. your chest. your stomach. his teeth graze your hip. "tell me you want it, or i'll stop."

you squirm, humiliated, raw, "say it."

"i want it," you whisper.

"say it louder."

"i want it."

he smiles. mean. sharp. perfect, "good girl."

he presses his mouth to your heat again. tongue flat, slow, claiming. and this time, he doesn't stop. his tongue slides over your center like he's savoring something expensive.

slow. wide. cruel.

you arch under him with a soft cry, body already raw from how he's stripped you down—not just physically, but completely. nerves exposed. pride shattered. his now, and he knows it.

"mm," jay hums against your core, licking you again, slow and deliberate. "sweet little thing... this what betrayal tastes like?"

your thighs twitch. his grip tightens.

"thought you hated me just ten minutes ago. now you're dripping like you've been waiting your whole life for my mouth."

you whimper, hips twitching. he doesn't give you relief—just more pressure. too slow. too controlled. like he's building something just to tear it down.

he pulls back, licking his lips lazily. his mouth shines.

"you gonna cry again? huh?" he coos, one brow raised. "go ahead. doesn't matter how much you sob, this pretty cunt's still begging me to fill it."

you suck in a breath as his fingers trail back down between your legs. he teases you—barely brushing the slick entrance with two fingers, then pulling away.

again. and again. you try to buck your hips and move your arms but the invisible bindings at your wrists tighten.

"stay still." his voice darkens. and something shifts in the air.

he presses two fingers in—finally—but only halfway.

your eyes roll. your mouth drops open. he watches you, eyes filled with amusement. "that desperate for my fingers? not even halfway in and you're already squeezing like a whore."

you squirm as he thrusts them deeper. the stretch is overwhelming, so sudden after being teased for so long, and the heel of his palm grinds down against your clit until your vision blurs.

"feel that?" his voice is right in your ear now—he's everywhere. "that's your body saying yes while your head's still pretending to be innocent."

he curls his fingers just right and you scream. he grins like the devil himself, "there she is."

he thrusts faster now, fingers soaked, the sound of it filthy in the quiet, pulsing space. his palm slaps against your clit with every movement. your thighs shake, your hips jerk—but you're bound. you're stuck.

"how long do you think you'll last?" he murmurs. "how many times can i make you cum before you forget your own name?"

you whimper, breath hitched. "please, i—"

"please what?" he slows. again.

you almost sob.

"please let you come? please wreck you harder? or maybe you just want to be filled up like a good little toy."

you moan, body straining. the bindings tighten again—not painfully, but enough to remind you that you're completely his.

he leans in, fingers still deep, curling slow and mean. "you're not cumming until you admit it."

"admit what—?"

"that you like this."

you freeze. breathless.

"say it. say you like being used. being ruined. say you like being owned by the thing you were so scared of."

you hesitate, so he stops. fingers still buried inside you, but unmoving. "say it or i leave you here. trembling. soaked. aching."

you bite your lip. humiliated. soaked. desperate. and then you whisper it, "i like it."

"louder."

"i like it. i like being ruined. i like you owning me."

he smiles and fucks you hard with his fingers, curling, thrusting, his mouth back on your clit as he laps at you hungrily. you feel a foreign feeling build in the pit of your stomach, your body shaking and twitching.

you cum fast. loud. messy. completely undone. your body shakes, back arching, a loud sob tearing from your throat as he holds you through it—mouth locked to you, tongue relentless, fingers fucking you through the aftershocks.

and when you collapse?

he doesn't stop, "you thought i was done with you?"

jay's voice is thick with amusement, warm breath fanning over your thighs as he stays buried between them. his fingers don't stop moving. his tongue is still licking.

slow, lazy, like he has all the time in the world.

you're shaking. sobbing. your thighs twitch with every tiny stroke to your clit, and your hips jerk helplessly, but you still can't move—not from exhaustion, not from the invisible force that keeps your wrists pinned above your head.

"don't squirm," he mutters, licking a long stripe up your oversensitive center. "you said you liked being ruined. so now i'm going to ruin you right."

you choke on a moan, head thrashing. "too much—"

he laughs. "too bad." his fingers thrust again—deeper, meaner now. the squelch of your slick, the wet drag of his knuckles, the obscene slap of his palm against your clit—it's all loud now. deliberate. degrading.

"listen to that," he sneers. "your messy little cunt can't even pretend to fight me anymore. soaked. swollen. like it's been waiting for me for years."

you gasp, mouth open in a silent cry as he flattens his tongue against your clit again. but this time, it's not slow. this time, he devours you—relentless, tongue dragging tight circles, fingers curling into that sweet, ruined spot that makes your whole body seize.

"you're gonna cum again," he growls into you, voice muffled by your skin. "don't care if you're ready. don't care if you're crying. this little pussy's mine now, and i decide when it stops."

your eyes roll back and you can feel it—already. your legs shake violently, breath catching in short, high-pitched gasps as you spiral toward a second orgasm.

"that's it. you're close, aren't you? fuck, look at you—" he slaps your clit once, sharp, just to watch you jolt. "—so easy now. so fucking weak for me."

you scream. you thrash. but the bindings hold.

"you gonna cum again, baby? gonna soak my hand like the needy little hole you are?"

your voice breaks, "jay—please—"

"beg louder."

"please! please, i—" but you never finish.

he fucks his fingers into you deeper, thumb circling your clit, tongue flicking across your folds like he's marking you with every stroke—and it tips you over.

the second orgasm crashes into you like a wave of white heat. you scream—louder than before—head thrown back, thighs quivering, tears spilling freely as your body locks and trembles and pulses around his fingers.

and he doesn't stop.

"yeah, that's it," he growls, watching the way you break apart beneath him. "fucking cum for me again. make a mess. cry about it. you're not leaving this floor until i'm finished with you."

your chest heaves, mind blank.

and jay? he's just getting started.

"look at you." jay's voice is velvet-coated filth. he's above you now, body heavy between your thighs, pinning you to the pulsing floor with casual, crushing dominance.

you can barely see him through the blur of tears. your face is hot, your lips swollen, your chest heaving with hiccuped sobs—and he's smiling. like your wreckage is beautiful. like your suffering is his reward.

"crying again, angel? didn't i just give you everything you begged for?" he reaches down—grips himself—and your breath stops.

because that's not human. not anymore.

you hadn't realized when he got the chance to slip off his pants, your eyes immediately zeroing in on what was clenches between his fist.  his cock is thick. veiny. too hot. it pulses in his hand like it has a heartbeat of its own, the head flushed darker than the rest, slightly curved, the base wrapped in ridged muscle you've never seen on anyone living. it looks designed—to stretch, to bruise, to own.

"don't pretend you're scared now," he huffs, pressing the thick head against your drenched entrance. "you begged for this. cried for it. soaked my face like a desperate little whore."

you whimper as he shoves in the tip.

your back arches, and your mouth drops down to an 'o'. "too big?" he mocks. "what a shame." his hand clamps down on your waist. you try to pull away—reflex—but he drags you back down like your body belongs to him. because it does.

"this body's not made for anything soft anymore." he pushes deeper and you scream. it burns. it stretches. he's so much, and you're still raw, still trembling from the last orgasm—and he knows it.

"so fucking tight," he grits. "like you were waiting to be split open."

he bottoms out and you sob again and jay laughs. "god, you're crying again. what's wrong, baby? can't handle being filled by what you gave yourself to?"

your fingers claw the air, wrists still bound, whole body shaking as his hips start to move—slow at first, dragging every ridge and vein against your walls, pulling back just enough to make you feel the loss before slamming back in deep.

"this pussy's mine now." he pounds into you again, "say it."

"j—jay—"

he grabs your jaw, forces your mouth open. "say it or i'll cum inside you and keep you full forever."

your cunt clamps down on him tight and he groans, low and dangerous. "fuck. you liked that, didn't you? thought you'd hate being ruined, but now you want it dripping down your thighs."

you choke. your legs are shaking again. your mind is gone. he keeps fucking into you—hard, brutal, possessive.

"i'm gonna fuck you until you forget you ever had a name. until the only word you know is mine."

your body convulses and another orgasm hits you, this one violent and sharp—rips through you as his cock drags over every spot that shouldn't exist inside you. it's like he's built to keep you on edge, to ruin you forever.

and when you cum, crying, broken, babbling nonsense—he smiles. "good girl."

he thrusts once. twice. and then he growls, a sound inhuman and deep, filling you with a rush of heat so intense your whole body trembles.

his cock pulses. deep inside. and he doesn't pull out. you could feel yourself dripping with him, your cunt clenching pathetically around him like a vice.

"mine now," he whispers into your ear, licking the sweat from your temple. "forever."

you don't respond. you can't.

and jay? jay just watches you twitch beneath him, a satisfied god feasting on the wreckage he made.

▬▬ ▬▬ ▬▬ ▬▬ ▬▬ ▬▬

no one finds her.

not the mall staff. not the cops who skim the grainy security footage with bored eyes. not her family, who post missing posters no one reads.

there's no door. no sound. no sign.

just static on the feed where her flashlight dropped. just silence in the halls where she vanished.

but sometimes—if you're unlucky— if you wander too far past where the lights flicker and the walls feel too soft you might hear something.

a voice.

a moan.

a laugh, low and sweet and wrong.

or maybe you'll see something flash by—dark hair, bare feet, eyes too wide, a figure slumped against yellow walls with something crawling beneath her skin.

you won't know if she's alive.

you won't know if she's alone.

and the worst part? she might smile at you.

soft. slow. dreamy.

like she's waiting. like you're next.

because the backrooms keep what they're given. and they remember every sob, every scream, every second of surrender.

and somewhere inside them, in the red-lit heart of something ancient and hungry—he's still fucking her open. still whispering in her ear.

still asking the same question, over and over again: "do you want to be mine?"

and maybe—just maybe..

she said yes.

— enjoy this fic? check out my other ones right here!

[nekonaps0]

The mood is gone pt2

✦part1 part3 part4

✦gn!reader

✦characters: Cater, Jade, Vil, Malleus

✦slightly smut

✦how the boys would react when things are just about to get heated with their beloved… and then bam! someone barges in, killing the mood.

Cater Diamond

Things had been flirty all day, photos with heart filters, little brushes of fingers, and just enough lip-biting to make your knees weak.

Now classes are over and everyone went back to their dorms, and you were straddling Cater’s lap in the empty classroom he’d dragged you into “for couple time.”

His hands trailed your thighs. His voice, breathless and smooth

“Babe… you look way too hot~ Should I take photos of us and post it on my private story?”

His lips just barely brushed yours, his hand sliding under your top—

SLAM.

“CATER!? ARE YOU IN—OH GREAT SEVENS—”


Deuce stood frozen in the doorway like he’d just walked in on a crime scene.

Cater slowly turned, one hand still on your hip, the other pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Yo, Duecey. Maybe try knocking next time?”

You sighed, climbing off his lap.

“Yeah… mood’s gone.”

And you left.

Cater blinked after you, then looked at Deuce.

“You just cockblocked the best moment of my week. I’m not gonna cover you next when you break a rule.”

That night, he showed up with a heart-shaped lollipop at your door

“Let’s try again... but this time, no witnesses~”

Jade Leech

The lounge was empty. Closed. And you? Pressed up against the bar with Jade’s long fingers wrapped firmly around your hips and his lips ghosting over your throat.

“You really shouldn’t tempt me like this,” he purred, voice dangerously soft. “I don’t have much self-control when you beg like that…”

You whimpered softly, fingers clutching his uniform. His mouth hovered over your collarbone—

CLICK.

“Jade? I forgot my pen on the counter—OH FOR THE LOVE OF—”

Azul stood, horrified, in the doorway, eyes wide as his soul visibly tried to escape his body.

Jade didn’t even blink.

“Ah, Azul. A touch late, wouldn’t you?”

You groaned, pulling away, flushed and flustered.

“Mood’s gone Jade.”

And you left. Jade exhaled slowly, turning to Azul.

“Well, this has been deeply inconvenient.”

Later at night in your dorm, Jade brought you tea, pulled you gently into his lap, and whispered against your ear:

“I’m deeply sorry about what’s happened, shall I pick up where we left off, my pearl? The tension has only… intensified~”

Vil Schoenheit

You were in Vil’s room, sitting on the vanity table back pressed against his mirror, while he pressed kisses along your collarbone, undoing the first buttons of your shirt with a grace that should’ve been illegal.

“You’re intoxicating,” he murmured. “Every time I look at you, I forget the whole world.”

He pushed your hair aside, teeth grazing your shoulder—when—

BANG.

“Vil! I can’t find the hair—AH!!”


Epel stopped mid-sprint through the door, immediately turning bright red.

“WHAT IN—SWEET APPLE SAUCE I’M OUT—!”

He bolted. The door slammed.

You stared at Vil. Vil stared at the ceiling with the expression of someone trying very hard not to break something.

You cleared your throat and stepped off the vanity.

“Yeah… the mood’s gone. I think I should go.”

You left before Vil could respond.

He was silent for a long moment. Then:

“Epel. You are on cleaning duty for six months.”

That night, he returned to you with roses and your favorite chocolates.

“No more interruptions. I promise.”

Malleus Draconia

You were curled in Malleus’s lap beneath the stars, tucked in the garden. The night air was warm. His hand caressed your waist. His voice was low and thick with desire.

“You’re… dangerous to me, my love.”

His eyes glowed as he leaned in slowly, reverently, lips just brushing yours—

CRASH.

“WAHH—WAKASAMA!!! I HEARD—ARE YOU UNDER ATTACK—OH SEVENS—!!”

Sebek exploded from the bushes like a gremlin on fire.

Malleus froze mid-kiss. You choked on a squeak. Sebek’s eyes were wide in horror as he turned full crimson.

“I—I—IT WAS FOR YOUR SAFETY, MY LORD— I DIDN’T MEAN TO—”

You pulled away, wiping your lips.

“Thanks Sebek… the mood is gone.”

And with a blush and sigh, you walked off.

Malleus blinked once.

Then twice.

“Sebek.”

“YES WAKASAMA!?”

“You are forbidden from speaking for the next forty-eight hours.”

Later, Malleus appeared in your window with glowing green eyes and a velvet box.

“Shall I make the stars sing for you tonight? No interruptions this time, I promise…”

..............................................................................................................................

HERE IS THE PART 2!!! Now back I said!!!

[damselneedssaving]

how would they react to you calling them your hero?

batboys x f!reader

"Seriously—" He blinks, unable to rip his eyes from you as you turn to face him under the glow of the warm moonlight. "—I mean it," you continue, quiet, sincere, "You're always there for me—always there to save me, even when I do more than enough to prove I don't deserve it." You take a deep breath, looking him straight in the eyes. "You... "You're my hero."

line divider by @cafekitsune

-> DICK GRAYSON <-

Dick's breath hitches.

Something in his chest feels light. Fluttery. Almost... familiar.

'Almost' because there's something different about it this time, something... electric.

Your words carry this weight, an honesty he's never heard from you before, one deep and true; full and new.

You speak as though unwarranted, like there's no thought behind your words, like what you're saying is real. Natural.

Easy.

The thought has Dick's heart skip a beat, hands clamming up beneath his gloves as he all but falls into an ocean of pink, the dye of which is situated nonchalantly in your pretty little hands.

And he wouldn't have it any other way.

"Dick..?"

He gives you no time to react before his arms are up and around you, pulling you to his chest, holding you close, refusing to let go.

Your hero, you called him.

Oh Princess...

"...You have no idea how much that means to me."

-> JASON TODD <-

Jason blinks again, cogs in his brain whirring as your eyes regard him with the warmth of the sun even while twinkling under the stars of the night.

It takes a moment or two for him to re-register reality, for him to see anything but the admiration in your gaze, but once he does, once he finally allows himself room to breathe, he wastes not a second more, replying in a drawl that comes almost too soon, "I'm no hero, doll."

Your lips pull into a frown, and Jason turns his head to the side, the sight like a hammer to his chest.

"I'm hardly a man."

A beast more like it. A monster wearing human skin. Certainly no one worthy of you.

You deserve more, a man not as dangerous, one that didn't rise from a pit like some sort of crappy horror movie villain, one that doesn't have so much blood on his hands despite being, as you say, a hero.

"I've done shit no hero would ever do."

"I know," your voice cuts through the air, soft and grounding.

Jason turns his head back to you just in time to catch the way your hand reaches for his own, and he finds that, even through his gloves, he can still feel your skin.

He's practically memorised the feeling.

"You're still my hero though."

Jason parts his lips to argue, gears himself up to shoot you down, but all it takes is just one look into your eyes for him to close them again. For him to pause and think that maybe, just maybe—

—he can allow himself this.

-> TIM DRAKE <-

Tim's eyes widen, and he can feel the heat that crawls up his face before he can see it in the reflection of your gaze.

"I—I, uh—"

He watches himself stumble back through your eyes, the sight alien and probably something embarrassing enough to haunt him for the rest of his life had your words not been the only thing currently echoing in his mind.

Your hero. You called him your hero.

God, it's everything he's ever wanted and more.

This here? This is why he begged Batman for this job.

So he can be a hero. Your hero.

Holy shit, he's your hero.

Is this what it feels like? To be looked upon like a lifeline? Like a tether keeping one from plummeting to what would surely be their doom?

Is this what it feels like? To be depended on like an air bubble? Like the last source of oxygen in the depths of the very sea itself?

Is this what it feels like? To be your hope? Your home? Your hero?

If it is, then Tim doesn't ever want it to stop.

"Thank you, [Name]."

-> OLDER DAMIAN WAYNE <-

Damian moves his hand up to cup your own, the warmth of your skin bleeding into his cheek and then his eyes as he looks at you like you've strung up all the stars in the night sky just for him.

And maybe you have. He certainly would believe it if you said so.

"Beloved..." he breathes out, hand trailing down your own before dipping to where his other one rests at your waist and pulling you close, "I'm not worthy."

Your lips curl up, eyes crinkling around the corners as you loop your arms around his neck, breath hot against his skin. "Didn't I just say that I'm the one not worthy?"

His cape billows behind him, reaching for the hem of your skirt like he, himself, often does your hand—for safety, for comfort, for you.

"Nonsense, Habibti. I would tear down the world if it meant saving you."

And he would.

And you know he would.

"See? That's why you're my hero, Dami."

Warmth blooms through his chest at the mischievous sparkle in your eye, his gaze growing heavy with all the words he wishes to say, but can't find the perfect way to.

So instead, he simply says, "Yes, well, I suppose you've got me there."

—And accepts, with a smile, his fate as your hero.

[skzophreniic]

⍣ ೋ cw: explicit sexual content, oral sex, overstimulation. pussydrunk!jisung, bestfriend!jisung

It’s almost 1 a.m. and you’re both still wide awake—half-slouched, half-curled on Jisung’s bed, the glow of his laptop screen flickering shadows across the room. The horror movie he picked is objectively terrible—low-budget effects, scream-heavy soundtrack, and a villain in a mask that looks like it was bought at a gas station. But he’s watching it like it’s peak cinema, one arm propped behind his head, the other busy fishing popcorn out of the massive bowl balanced between you.

“You cannot be serious,” you mutter as a girl on-screen runs straight into a shed full of clearly dangerous tools. “She just watched her boyfriend get blendered and thought, ‘Yeah, let me hide next to a wall of chainsaws.’”

“She’s resourceful,” Jisung says with a straight face.

You shoot him a look. “She’s an idiot.”

He shrugs, grinning like a little shit. “That’s what makes her relatable.”

You snort. “That’s what makes her a red smear on the floor in five minutes.”

There’s a beat of silence, and then a truly absurd scream echoes from the laptop speakers—over-the-top, guttural, too long to be taken seriously. You burst into laughter, nearly knocking over the popcorn as you double over.

“Was that supposed to be scary?” you gasp.

“It was art,” Jisung says, trying to sound offended, but he’s laughing too, his head dropping against your shoulder.

The two of you dissolve into giggles, your bodies leaning into each other like it’s instinct, like it always is. It’s comfortable—too comfortable. You've spent enough late nights like this to know the rhythm by heart. Banter. Touch. Teasing. But tonight it feels… off. Not in a bad way. Just different. Quieter, maybe. Slower.

The movie plays on, forgotten. The popcorn ends up on the floor somewhere between your third round of arguing about which horror tropes are the worst and the moment he lets out a dramatic sigh and flops sideways onto the mattress.

“Okay, real talk,” he says, staring up at the ceiling. “You’re trapped in a haunted house with a killer clown. What’s your move?”

You blink. “Why’s it a clown?”

He shrugs. “It’s always a clown.”

“I’d cry and accept my fate.”

Jisung laughs. “You wouldn’t even try to fight back?”

“I can’t fight a clown, Jisung.”

“What if I was the clown?”

You glance over at him. He’s lying on his side now, propped up on one elbow, watching you with that same dumb sparkle in his eyes that makes everything he says sound like a dare. You match his stare.

“Then I’d definitely accept my fate.”

His smile cracks wider, but he doesn’t say anything. Just watches you, that playful light in his eyes softening by degrees. The shift is subtle. Natural. You barely notice how the space between you gets smaller—how your knees brush under the blanket, how his fingers toy absently with the frayed edge of your hoodie.

His fingers are still fidgeting with the hem of your hoodie when the tension in the air snaps.

You don’t know who moves first. Maybe it’s you. Maybe it’s him. Maybe the air between you just catches fire and you both lunge toward the spark.

One blink, one breath, and then his mouth is on yours.

No warning. No pause. Just heat and pressure and everything happening at once.

Your brain flatlines.

Jisung kisses you like he’s starving—like the silence cracked something open and he couldn’t hold it in a second longer. It’s not gentle. It’s not sweet. It’s clumsy and urgent and real, and you gasp into it, eyes flying wide before fluttering shut.

Your hand fists in his hoodie before you can even think about it.

And for a moment, it’s chaos. The kind that’s been building for weeks. Maybe longer.

His fingers are in your hair, your legs tangle under the blanket, and it’s impossible to tell who moves first, who deepens it—just that neither of you stop.

Jisung jerks back like he’s been burned, chest heaving, lips slick and red, eyes blown wide with panic.

“Shit—I—fuck, I didn’t mean—” He’s breathless, already pulling away, already regretting it, voice cracking. “That was stupid. I’m sorry, I—god, I shouldn’t’ve—”

You grab him by the collar and haul him back down.

No room for second thoughts. No space for guilt.

You kiss him like you want to erase whatever apology was about to fall from his mouth. Your fingers tangle in the back of his hair, tugging just hard enough to make him groan—and then he’s kissing you again, harder, like you flipped a switch he didn’t know existed.

His body presses flush against yours, hips slotting between your legs like it’s instinct, like he needs to be closer. His hand finds your waist under your hoodie, fingers trembling as they grip your skin.

You bite his bottom lip and he gasps—this desperate, broken sound that shoots straight down your spine—and then he’s grinding against you like he can’t help it, like he’s chasing the friction without thinking.

A shudder wracks through him the second his hips roll down, like the contact alone scrambles his thoughts. His hands flex on your waist—like he wants to stop, like he should stop—but then you rock up against him, and any restraint he had vanishes into thin air.

“Fuck,” Jisung chokes, voice rough, forehead dropping to rest against yours. His breath fans hot across your lips, shivering and uneven. “You—” He swallows hard, hips stuttering against yours. “You can’t just—”

“I can’t just what?” You whisper, tilting your head so your nose brushes his.

He groans—frustrated, desperate—and surges forward, capturing your mouth in another breath-stealing kiss. It’s messier this time, all lips and tongue and teeth, nothing careful about it. His hands slide up your waist under your hoodie, fingertips pressing into bare skin like he’s mapping out something sacred.

Your thighs tighten around his hips, and he hisses through his teeth, a whimper slipping free before he can stop it. “Oh, my god—”

The words break off into a moan as you rock up into him again, the friction making your head spin. He’s hard already—you can feel him, pressed thick and throbbing against the heat between your legs, barely separated by layers that feel more and more unbearable by the second.

“Fuck—fuck—” Jisung pants, burying his face in the crook of your neck. “I swear, I just needed—just for a second—” But he doesn’t stop moving, doesn’t stop grinding down against you, his entire body trembling like he’s strung too tight.

“You’re a liar,” you whisper, voice wrecked, hands scrambling at his hoodie.

Jisung nods against your skin, barely coherent. “I know—fuck, I know—” He gasps as you rock up against him again, hands spasming on your waist like he’s barely holding on.

You’re both a mess—panting, flushed, desperate, but it’s not enough. Not nearly enough.

Jisung pulls back just enough to look at you, lips swollen, pupils blown wide. His hands slide down, fingertips tracing the bare skin of your thighs under the hem of your hoodie. “Please,” he breathes. “Fuck, please let me—” His voice breaks off into a whimper as he presses an open-mouthed kiss to your jaw, then another, dragging down toward your neck. “I need to taste you.”

Your stomach flips, a heat blooming low in your belly that makes you arch up into him. “Jisung—”

“I’ll be good,” he rushes out, mouth brushing your collarbone. “I’ll make you feel so fucking good—just—please.” His fingers dig into your thighs, thumbs stroking over sensitive skin like he’s trying to soothe you even as he trembles with need. “I—I need to—” He swallows hard, exhaling shakily against your skin. “I need to have you on my tongue, please.”

The way he begs—raw, unfiltered, desperate—it makes your head spin. He kisses his way down your throat, mouthing at your pulse, his breath heavy and uneven against your flushed skin. His desperation is palpable, pouring into every kiss, every trembling touch.

You can barely breathe, your fingers tangling in his hair as he trails lower, lips ghosting over the dip of your collarbone, then lower still. His hands push at the hem of your hoodie, shoving it up with an urgency that makes you dizzy.

“Please,” he whispers again, lips brushing just above your ribs. His voice is wrecked, hoarse with need. “Please, baby, let me.” He presses an open-mouthed kiss to your stomach, tongue flicking against your skin, and you swear you feel your pulse between your legs.

You whimper, arching into his touch, and his grip tightens. “Jisung—”

He groans at the sound of his name, like it’s unraveling him completely. “I wanna make you come on my tongue.” His voice is thick, slurred with need, hands sliding down to squeeze your thighs. “Wanna taste you—wanna feel you—” He nuzzles against your stomach, breath hot and uneven. “Need you so bad, baby, please.”

Your head tilts back, a shaky exhale slipping from your lips. The way he’s begging, pressing his need into your skin like a prayer, has you aching. “Then do it,” you breathe, fingers tugging at his hair. 

He lets out the filthiest sound, something between a moan and a whimper, before he’s slipping lower, hands dragging your thighs apart, lips trailing a burning path down your body.

Jisung doesn’t waste time. Doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t even pretend to think about what this means.

He just moves.

One second, he’s mouthing at your stomach, breath hot and uneven against your skin. The next, he’s yanking your shorts down in one rough motion, taking your panties with them, groaning the second you’re bare beneath him.

"Oh, fuck—" His voice is barely there, just a breathy rasp as his hands splay wide over your thighs, spreading you open like he needs to see, like he’s been dying for this longer than he even realizes.

And then his mouth is on you.

You barely have time to process before he licks a broad, desperate stripe up your slit, groaning so deep it vibrates against your skin. It’s not tentative. It’s not slow. It’s hungry—messy and uncoordinated, like he can’t pace himself, like the taste of you just wrecked him on the spot.

"Holy shit—" Your head slams back against the pillow, breath punching out of you. "Jisung—"

He doesn’t respond—doesn’t even slow down. He just moans into you, burying his face deeper, tongue flicking, lips sealing around your clit as he sucks with an obscene, wet sound.

He’s getting off on this.

You can feel it—the way he grinds into the mattress, rutting against it like he’s the one being touched, like eating you out is sending him to the fucking edge. His hands tighten on your thighs, fingers flexing like he’s trying to memorize the way you feel under him.

"God, you taste—" He cuts himself off with another groan, eyes fluttering shut as he laps at you, tongue dipping inside, drinking you in like he’s never going to get another chance. "So fucking good—so perfect—"

You gasp as his lips close around your clit again, sucking hard, the pressure making your entire body jolt. "Sungie—fuck, oh my god—"

He whimpers against you—actually whimpers—hips stuttering against the bed, getting himself off just from this, from the sounds you’re making, the way you’re trembling beneath him.

"Shit, you’re so wet," he groans, pulling back just enough to breathe, lips slick, pupils blown. "I can’t—fuck, I need—" He surges forward again, sucking your clit into his mouth, flicking his tongue in a way that makes your back arch.

You’re close. Too close.

"Jisung— I’m—fuck, I’m gonna—"

"Do it," he pants against you, voice wrecked. "Come for me, baby, please—please, wanna taste it—wanna feel you—"

That’s all it takes.

Pleasure slams into you like a live wire, your body tensing before shattering completely. You come with a sharp cry, thighs shaking against his grip, head tilting back against the pillow as waves of heat crash over you.

But Jisung—he doesn’t stop.

"Oh my god—" You jolt as his tongue keeps moving, dragging over your oversensitive clit, his lips sealing around it like he’s determined to wring every last drop from you. "Ji—fuck, I—”

He just moans against you, messy and desperate, tongue fucking into you, one hand slipping down between his own legs to press against his cock, grinding into his palm like he needs the friction.

"Too much," you gasp, trying to push at his head, but he just shakes his head, groaning against you like he’s lost in it, like he can’t stop himself.

"Can’t," he breathes, barely pulling away. His lips are red, wet, eyes completely dazed. "I can’t stop—fuck, I don’t wanna stop—" He licks another filthy stripe up your slit, groaning like he’s savoring it, like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted.

His fingers press into your thighs, dragging you closer, keeping you spread for him as his tongue flicks over your clit again—relentless, messy, focused like he’s on a fucking mission.

"Fuck—fuck— Jisung—" Your legs shake, hips jerking against his mouth, overstimulation hitting you hard, but he loves it. Soaks it in. Feeds off it.

He’s panting against you, his own hips grinding down into the mattress, chasing relief he’s not even fully aware of. "Please—please, again—" His voice is wrecked, lips dragging over your slick skin. "Just one more—wanna feel you come again, please—"

He drags two fingers through your folds, groaning when he feels how fucking wet you are, before pressing them inside—curling just right, working in sync with his tongue, pushing you toward a second orgasm so fast it makes your head spin.

"Come on, baby," he begs, eyes wild, desperate. "Please—please, I need it—wanna taste it—"

And then you’re gone again.

The second orgasm rips through you, even harder than the first, your whole body shaking, breath punching out of you as your back arches off the bed.

Jisung moans as you come, tongue lapping up every last drop, fingers still fucking into you, hips still grinding into the mattress like he’s about to come just from this.

Only when you physically push at his head does he finally—finally—pull away, panting, lips swollen, chin dripping.

"Fuck," he breathes, voice ruined, eyes hazy. "That was—" He swallows hard, shaking his head. "—so fucking hot, holy shit."

You can barely move. Barely think.

And Jisung—he looks wrecked. Completely undone. His hoodie is bunched up around his waist, his sweatpants pulled tight over what is definitely a very hard, very leaky problem.

He licks his lips, still catching his breath, and then—

"Shit." His expression shifts. Clears. Reality slams back into him all at once. His eyes dart up to meet yours, and you both realize—fuck.

This just changed everything.

[writeriguess]

neemaaa

can i request a katsuki x reader where they are secretly in a relationship? they get caught making out by their friends and then get teased the whole time

Unveiled

Your heart was pounding in your chest, a mix of excitement and nervousness thrumming through your veins as you pressed yourself against Katsuki Bakugo. His lips were hot against yours, moving with a fervor that sent a shiver down your spine. One of his hands was gripping your waist, pulling you impossibly closer, while the other cradled the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair. Your arms were wrapped around his neck, nails grazing the nape of his skin, earning a low groan from him that you felt reverberate through your entire body.

This was risky. So damn risky.

Your friends could walk in at any moment. Hell, they were supposed to be here already! But the adrenaline, the sheer thrill of sneaking around, made it impossible to care. You had been keeping your relationship with Bakugo a secret for months, slipping away in between training sessions, sneaking into each other’s rooms at odd hours, exchanging heated glances across the common area when no one was looking. It was exhilarating, having this little secret between just the two of you.

"Tch, you taste good," Bakugo muttered against your lips before diving back in, deepening the kiss. You couldn't help but melt into him, fingers tightening against his skin as you pulled him closer.

That was when it happened.

The door to the empty common room slammed open with a loud BANG.

"OH MY GOD!" Mina’s voice practically echoed through the room, followed by the distinct sound of Kaminari’s laughter and Kirishima’s deep chuckle. You barely had time to react before the two of you jerked apart, but it was too late.

You were caught.

Bakugo's face was a mix of horror and absolute rage, his entire body tensing as if he was about to explode—not figuratively, but literally. You, on the other hand, were frozen in place, eyes darting between your very smug-looking friends.

"YOU HAVE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME!" Kaminari wheezed, clutching his stomach as he doubled over with laughter. "I THOUGHT YOU HATED EVERYONE, BAKUGO!"

"Shut the hell up!" Bakugo barked, his face turning an alarming shade of red.

Mina smirked, her arms crossed as she leaned against the doorway. "Secret relationship, huh? Oh, this is juicy. You guys have been sneaking around this whole time? How long?!"

"None of your damn business!" Bakugo snapped, but his reaction only seemed to fuel their amusement.

Kirishima grinned, slinging an arm around Bakugo’s shoulder despite the clear and present danger of being blown to smithereens. "Man, this explains so much! You've been way less of an asshole lately."

"The hell I have!"

You groaned, burying your face in your hands. "Can we just pretend you guys didn't see anything?"

Mina gasped dramatically. "Oh, absolutely not. This is the best thing that's happened all week!"

"Yeah, we're never letting you live this down," Kaminari added, grinning wickedly. "So, tell me, Bakugo, how long have you been secretly making out with our dear friend here?"

Bakugo twitched, his fists clenched, and for a moment, you genuinely feared for Kaminari’s safety. "You wanna die, Dunce Face?"

"Relax, man, I think it’s kinda cute!" Kirishima piped up, and Bakugo turned his death glare toward him instead.

Mina was practically vibrating with excitement. "Oh, I can’t wait to tell the others! You know this means the whole class is going to grill you, right?"

"Don’t you dare," you warned, but it was futile.

"Oh, I dare," she teased, winking. "I give it five minutes before everyone in 1-A knows."

Bakugo groaned loudly, dragging a hand down his face. "I swear to god, I will kill all of you."

But the teasing didn't stop there. By the time the rest of your classmates found out, it was pure chaos. Sero and Kaminari wouldn't stop making exaggerated kissing noises every time you and Bakugo were in the same room. Todoroki, in his usual deadpan tone, commented, "I always assumed Bakugo was incapable of romance. This is surprising."

Momo and Iida, on the other hand, seemed genuinely happy for you both, though Iida did remind you that public displays of affection should be kept to a minimum.

It was insufferable. It was embarrassing. It was never-ending.

And yet, despite all the teasing, Bakugo still found ways to sneak you away, to press you against the walls of empty hallways, to steal quick, heated kisses when no one was looking.

"They can tease all they want," he muttered one night, his lips brushing against yours, "but that doesn't change a damn thing. You're mine."

And honestly? You wouldn’t have it any other way.