#thought he was crying at a first glance too with the sheen on his closed eyes bby boy no 😭😭😭 Explore tagged Tumblr posts

[fullscoreshenanigans]

Posuka Demizu’s New Year's Art for 2025

[targaryenrealnessdarling]

Rage Becomes Her

Aemond x bastardTargaryen!female

Summary: of all the Targaryen bastards he could have underestimated, it should not have been her | Word Count: 3.8k~ | Warnings: smut, Aemond being a fat douche, mentions of sex work, angst, oc described as having Targaryen features

No day was as cursed as the day her mother looked between her bloodied thighs, glancing up at the faces of her friends and common women, with shame and fright. The babe between her legs was pink and crying, their skin glistening with afterbirth, and a tuft of silver hair atop their tiny head.

What was survival, when the Gods had bestowed a Targaryen bastard into her belly.

Her own daughter lived as her mother did, learning the ways of the body and pleasure. She could recall the first time a man leered at her. Only two and ten and barely formed into the shape of a woman. Somehow the silver sheen to her hair made men think they could have her before her ripening. Plucked from the tree too early.

If only her mother could have resisted the irresistible pull of greed. Purses of gold coins lined her pockets, paid to her with the virtue of her only daughter.

An income. Nothing more.

It was only when she died, that she formed her own protection. Madame Sylvi gave her more freedoms than the usual whores. Bestowed upon as her ‘choice’. Something she had known little.

The brothel was tucked away in one of the narrow, winding alleys of King's Landing, a hidden enclave where nobles and commoners alike sought the pleasures denied to them in the light of day. The air was thick with the scent of incense and the low murmur of whispered promises. Sweet ones, from between the lips of whores.

The men who paid for the service or fucking a young woman with silver hair were usually all the same. Drunken fools with egos far bigger than their cocks, eager to stick whatever they pleased between her legs to make themselves feel like men.

She rarely spared it much thought. She moaned sweetly and whispered hushed mutterings to inflate their already fragile masculinity. Did what she had to do to survive, like so many around her.

But she would be remiss not to think about her most recent patron. One whom she had stolen from Madame Sylvi, who did not seem particularly precious about the loss, seeing as the One Eyed Prince simply crossed the threshold to her room instead. As long as business was within her four walls, she was content.

He was, at first, quiet and required work and effort to calm his fraught and tense muscles. But like most men, the second he sheathed himself inside her, he was a man driven by the inescapable warmth of not only her cunt, but by the comfort of what it provided. However false.

The night is seared firmly into her memory. His body heavy with Milk of the Poppy, he staggered as he pulled his clothes off, and for some time he was unable to become hard due to its calming effects. And she saw the familiar pang of annoyance most men got when their fleshy counterparts would not do as the mind commanded. 

She will never forget the look upon his face as she knelt in front of him, took his heavy manhood in her palm and pressed her lips to the shaft, stroking upwards with her touch and tongue. Beneath him like this, his face angled and sharp, one could be mistaken he was a statue. His skin resembled such porcelain. Made smooth by the hands of the Gods themselves. 

He had looked upon her as if she were an entity of the Seven Heavens. And when she took him into her mouth, his breath hitched, and his hands instinctively tangled in her hair. The sensation was overwhelming, a blend of pleasure and relief that washed over him in waves.

She moved with an expert's grace, her rhythm steady and unhurried, drawing soft moans from his lips. For a moment, the world outside ceased to exist; there was only the warm, wet heat of her mouth and the exquisite torture of her tongue. He closed his eye, surrendering to the pleasure, feeling the tension in his body slowly melt away. Aemond's grip tightened as he guided her movements, lost in the sensation and the raw intimacy of the act.

He fucked in very much the same way. With urgency. As if someone were to take her away.

Was it some necessity this great man needed, away from the bustling court and the duties of his birth?

Or she reasoned he fucked her because he was simply bored of Sylvi.

But as it became more and more regular, she began to realise that her forbidden parentage played a more significant role than she had first thought. He wanted someone who looked so like his ideal, but someone who ultimately was destined to remain, steadfastly, inferior.

Aemond Targaryen pushed open the heavy wooden door, its creak swallowed by the hum of conversation and laughter inside. He pulled his hood lower, shielding his face from prying eyes. Though he was a prince, here he was just another man seeking escape. Several women crowded him, offering wine, their bodies and services with doe eyes and lips framed with rouge.

The back of the brothel was shrouded with silken curtains, providing no real privacy but rather giving one the security of feeling it. Pale pinks, lilacs, warm amber glows bounced off the stone walls, a warm emanating through the space as if walking through honey, and willing to be drowned in it. It was a dangerous feeling indeed. The warm, sticky call of a woman’s body.

The first time he saw her he did not like her. The whore with silver, golden hair. She had a bastard’s taint on her bloodline despite its noble sheen. There was a part of him that refused to admit that despite the muddied nature of her birth, that she was beautiful. He was still willing to be held by Sylvi back then, cuddled against the woman’s breasts like a babe.

It was different now.

Sylvi regarded him, using her body as somewhat of a shield, to part him and the heavenly depravity that lay across the threshold. She said nothing, and simply extended her hand, to show her palm. Aemond noted the surprised look in her knowing eyes when she felt the weight of the purse, the familiar tune of coins ringing true and greedily.

She fetched a hefty price compared to the others. One Aemond was willing to pay for her company.

When he pulled the silks aside and stepped within her lair, she was seated as usual, upon a chaise draped with rich fabrics, her posture relaxed and yet alert. Her hair, so much like his own, caught the flickering candlelight, like looking up to the stars when one was too deep in their cups, only to find the silver light stretching across their vision.

Only the muffled music was heard, and the rapid thud of his heart.

The fabrics lay like water on her skin, cinched at her waist. The translucent material had her rosy buds perk beneath it, the glimmering and blushing shade of pink almost alike to her own flesh in the low and intimate amber light. She did not need to show herself to entice, he thought.

“My Prince.”

She greeted with a soft, warm melody of enchanting, in a manner that eased his shoulders but not his soul. He regarded her face the same way Sylvi did to him. One eye glazing over her familiar features. 

His motions were easy to memorise. He would do no more than was necessary, as most patrons did. He would strip from his clothing, lay between her thighs and take her roughly. Preparation for someone as lowborn as her, and getting paid for it, was no necessity for a customer, nevermind a prince.

There were glimpses where it was enjoyable. But Prince Aemond was guarded, sometimes so much so she hardly thought him capable of the act. But he would surprise her. And once he was done, he would lay beside her, and he would talk, with only their flesh as comfort.

Sometimes, like right at this moment, he would just lay beside her, running her bright locks, ruffled from their salacious acts, through his long and slender fingers. She often thought he looked like a lost soul, eyepatch discarded and bared in this wretched place for her to lay her eyes upon. And then another thought lay under that still. The thought that this man before her had such hate in his heart for his half sister’s children, and yet visited her every other evening to sink into the haven that her own existence offered.

An existence she was sure he internally loathed.

But it seemed he loathed himself more than anything else.

“Do you dream of being more than you are.” Not a question. An inquisition shaped as a demand.

She hesitated, knowing that her answer must please him. "My dreams are inconsequential, my prince. My only desire is to serve you and to bring you comfort."

He smirked, satisfied with her response. "It is the natural order of things. Your role here suits you, providing solace to those of us born to higher stations."

She felt her brows furrow in annoyance, but tried to soften her features, his keen blue eye boring into her face. Your role here suits you. And what was that exactly? A whore who merely existed to be a sheath for men’s blades whenever it suited them. A vessel, nothing more.

"I would never forget, my prince," she said softly, her eyes downcast. "Your presence is the only thing that gives my life meaning."

Aemond reached out, his hand cupping her cheek. "Sometimes, I wonder if there is more to you than just your services to me."

Her heart quickened, but she kept her voice calm and composed. "I am whatever you need me to be, my prince."

Often, that was all it took to sate him. 

He would always come back, in varying moods, and she felt the reins on her white-hot temper begin to slip, the flames rearing to the roof of her insides the more delicate insults came out of his mouth. Those among her argued that he cared for her deeply. But how can a man care for a woman and say such hurtful words in exchange?

A bastard, indeed she was. But her existence strayed the line between demanding some semblance of respect, drawn to her by the milky skin and pale hair that he recognised in himself. She pondered this contradiction endlessly. Why did he come to her, night after night, seeking her presence, only to remind her of her inferiority? What was it about her that captivated him, despite his disdain?

Her thoughts often wandered as she prepared for his visits, trying to unravel the mystery of Aemond Targaryen. Did he see something in her that he could not find elsewhere? Was it the shared blood, tainted as it was by her illegitimacy? Or was it simply the thrill of asserting his power over someone who mirrored his own visage?

“You seem troubled.”

“It is nothing,” his response was cool, followed by the discarding of his hood, only turning when she urged a decently full glass of wine into his hand.

“You forget, my prince, that I am well-versed in the art of reading men. Tell me, what burdens you tonight?”

Stealing the wine from his lips, he cannot help the wandering of his fingers, tracing the golden spun locks of her hair that glow moonlit as he touches them. “Your features betray you,” he muses, “do you ever wonder what it would have been like, had you been born legitimate?" he asked, his tone laced with condescension.

She hesitated, searching his eyes for any hint of sincerity, but found only the cold amusement that so often accompanied his words. "It is not my place to wonder such things," she replied, her voice steady. "My fate was decided long before I drew my first breath."

He tilted his head, studying her. "And yet, you bear the mark of our blood so clearly. It must gnaw at you, knowing you could never rise above your station, no matter how much you resemble the dragonlords of old."

"Perhaps," she admitted softly, "but we all have our roles to play, my prince. Even those born amongst lust and lechery."

Aemond's fingers continued their path through her hair, his touch both gentle and possessive. "You speak wisely for one of your birth," he said, a faint smile playing on his lips. "It is a pity you were not born to a higher station. You might have made an interesting rival."

"Or an ally," she suggested, daring to meet his gaze.

He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound. "Or an ally," he conceded. "But as it stands, you are here, and I am there. The order of things remains unchanged."

"And you come here to see me," she retorted, her gaze unwavering. "What does that say about you, my prince?"

“I enjoy you.”

"Or perhaps the dragon seeks something he cannot find elsewhere."

Aemond’s expression hardened, his pride pricked by her words. "Do not presume to understand me. You are here because I allow it."

"And you are here because you need it," she countered, her voice a seductive whisper. "What drives you to seek solace in the arms of a bastard? A whore?"

He pulled back, his eyes narrowing. "You speak too boldly-"

"I speak truth," she said, her gaze unflinching. "Something even a prince cannot escape."

Aemond regarded her for a long moment, a mixture of contempt and fascination warring within him. She was a puzzle, a riddle wrapped in the enigma of her bloodline. He hated and desired her in equal measure, drawn to the mystery of her existence.

She let out a breath, surprised when his fingers wrenched around her face, tugging her towards him. But her expression never faltered. “I wonder who is the depraved cunt who sired you,” Aemond murmured, deep and low against her face.

“Prince Daemon or the late King Viserys, it does not matter. Half of the whores on the Street of Silk knew the shape of their cocks-”

Aemond's grip tightened, his eyes blazing with fury. "Watch your tongue," he hissed, his breath hot against her skin. "You may have Targaryen blood, but you are still a whore. Do not forget your place."

She winced but refused to look away. "And yet here you are”. Her voice was steady, defiant, challenging him despite the pain.

His eyes narrowed, the fury in them warring with something deeper, something he could not name. "I am a man who indulges in his whims," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "Nothing more."

"Is that all it is?" she whispered, her voice softening, searching his gaze. "An indulgence? Because if that's true, you wouldn't keep coming back."

Aemond's grip loosened slightly, his fingers trailing down her cheek. "You know nothing of my reasons," he said, a trace of vulnerability slipping through his hardened exterior.

He looked at her for a long moment, the conflict within him evident in his eyes. "You remind me of what I am and what I can never escape," he said finally, his voice a raw whisper. "The blood we share, the legacy that binds us. You are a mirror, showing me my weakness. The weakness of my House."

"And you, my prince, are the reminder of what I could have been. The life I was denied, the nobility I can never claim."

Aemond's hand twitched, a sudden urge to pull her close, to feel the warmth of her body against his, but he forced himself to remain still. He could not afford to show that side of himself, not to her, not to anyone. In another world, she might have been born legitimate, a sister to him, one he could wed, bed and breed at his leisure.

And yet.

"You speak of nobility as if it is something you could ever grasp," he said, his voice softer, yet still laced with condescension. "You will never be more than what you are now. A whore, a bastard, a mere footnote in the history of my House."

Her eyes flashed with quiet anger, a smouldering fire that burned beneath her calm exterior. How dare he speak to her this way? He knew nothing of the struggles, the pain, the countless indignities that had shaped her life.

"How fortunate you are, my prince," she said, her voice measured but tinged with bitterness, "to never have known the struggles of those who are less fortunate. To speak so easily of things you can never truly understand."

Aemond's gaze hardened, but he did not interrupt her.

"You may see me as nothing more than a whore and a bastard," she continued, her words steady, each one a dagger aimed at his pride. "But you know nothing of the world outside your gilded cage. You have no idea what it means to fight for every scrap of dignity, to claw your way through a life that was decided for you before you even drew breath."

Aemond's jaw clenched, his eyes burning with a mix of anger and something he couldn't quite name. "You forget yourself," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "You forget to whom you speak."

"And you forget, my prince," she shot back, her voice unyielding, "that respect is earned, not given by birthright alone. And certainly not because you have a dragon."

A silence fell between them, heavy with unspoken truths and simmering tension. They stood there, locked in a battle of wills, neither willing to back down, both caught in the web of their shared blood and conflicting worlds. There was a strange respect in his gaze. As if he had seen the same flames that captivated him.

Slowly, she reached into the folds of her dress and pulled out the purse Aemond had paid her that night. She held it out to him, her hand steady. "Take it back," she said quietly, but firmly. "I don't want your coin."

He stared at her for a long moment, the purse heavy with silver between them. Slowly, he reached out and took it from her hand, his fingers brushing against hers. The touch was brief, but electric, a spark that neither could ignore. He could not help the smile that rose to his face, testing the weight of his coin in his palm. Looking down upon the woman in front of him with a cold but unyielding respect.

The events of that night lingered in Aemond's mind, gnawing at the edges of his thoughts. The war was intensifying, and the tension within the Red Keep was palpable. It was during one of these tense small council meetings, that Aemond found his thoughts straying.

“Prince Daeron’s dragon, Tessarion, has at last taken to wing. Your brother expects to join the fight soon.” 

He half listened to Lord Wylde, his head half turned, eyes darting to listen to the cries of the smallfolk so loud it was as if they were in the room. Screams. Cries of terror.

“Dragon!”

“Get inside!”

“And when he does…the Hightower host will be unstoppable.”

He acted on instinct, feeling the hot whips of something he would not admit was panic at the back of his neck. The doors gave way to a bright, sunny afternoon. His one eye squinted to peer into the blue abyss, narrowed to the appearance of a great beast.

A dragon, its silver scales gleaming in the sunlight, descended from the sky.

Silverwing.

And there, riding atop the great beast, was her. Her silver hair flowed behind her like a banner for war, and her eyes, filled with determination, met his with an intensity that took his breath away. Aemond's mind raced, understanding dawning on him as he realised the implications.

Rhaenyra's recruitment of Dragonseeds had borne unexpected fruit.

She guided Silverwing to soar over King's Landing, her movements graceful and confident. She made several passes, almost as if she were flouting. The dragon's powerful wings created gusts of wind that rippled over Kings Landing, sending leaves and dust swirling, with smallfolk and merchants knocked off balance.

Aemond stood there, watching in a mix of awe and resentment. There was a part of him that couldn't help but admire the sight, the sheer power and majesty of the dragon, her commanding presence. But another part of him burned with anger. The idea of a bastard riding a dragon, flaunting her newfound status above the city, challenged everything he believed in.

What did that make him? How was he special if bastards could claim dragons? The exclusivity of his birthright felt tarnished, the unique status of House Targaryen diluted.

She seemed to sense his gaze, turning Silverwing to circle back and hover momentarily over the Keep. Her eyes locked onto his, a silent challenge in her gaze. She was revelling in her newfound power, asserting her place in a world that had tried to deny her.

Aemond's grip tightened on the hilt of his sword, his knuckles turning white. He liked her, there was no denying that. She fascinated and infuriated him in equal measure. But the sight of her riding Silverwing, basking in her defiance, stoked the flames of his inner conflict.

As Silverwing ascended higher, leaving King's Landing behind, Aemond's eyes followed them until they were mere specks against the sky. He stood there long after they had disappeared, wrestling with the tumultuous emotions swirling within him. Admiration, anger, attraction, and resentment collided in a storm that he couldn't quell.

The sun was setting by the time Aemond reached Vhagar. The great dragon stirred, sensing her rider's agitation. Aemond's resolve hardened as he climbed onto her back. With a command, Vhagar spread her immense wings and launched into the sky, the force of her takeoff shaking the ground below.

The flight to Dragonstone was swift. The wind whipped through Aemond's hair, his mind racing as fast as the dragon beneath him. He couldn't let this challenge go unanswered. 

As Dragonstone came into view, the outline of Silverwing against the darkening sky confirmed his target. He urged Vhagar to increase her speed, but the older dragon's pace couldn't match Silverwing's agility. Aemond's frustration grew with every beat of Vhagar's wings, the gap between them refusing to close.

She watched him, the man who had insulted her, bedded her, wronged her, as he turned his great beast mid-air, her own dragon purring against her touch atop the peak of a tower of Dragonstone. Even from afar, she could sense his frustration, the simmering anger that radiated from him, and she revelled in this unique reaction, savouring the way it felt.

For a moment, their eyes met, and in that silence, a thousand emotions passed between them. He glanced back over his shoulder, watching as she sat firm atop her beast, the wind whipping her hair around her face. The tension in the air was palpable, but there was also a sense of resolution, a quiet acknowledgment of the lines they had drawn.

That this was no surrender.

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[nightmarecountry]

He had shown him an almost gentle affection up to this point; rough hands, scouring fingers, yet never quite so devastating as the way he tore apart his prey. This night sees a shift in his once restrained behavior. Absence may see the heart grow fonder, for Severen it has made him savage. There is a hard sheen in cloudless blue, a focused, feral ferocity that pierces through flesh at a glance. “I’ve missed you”, comes a husked rasp, voice deep, growling through his bared fangs as the shadow born thing curls around this stray ray of light penetrating his darkness. “The way you say my name”, frost dusts its high cheekbones as cracked lips press near its skin, jagged nails scratching along its throat. As he presses his broad chest against its spine, the wild creature pulls the spawn back into his wraith-like form. “The way you bend”, nearly rabid, it licks the exposed portion of its flesh, “the way you break!” Hard points dig in, arms encircling into a crushing hold. His sunbeam is here and he will not miss a single moment of its golden glow.

Gone for seven nights, two of the first spent rotting in his cage to escape the foul moods of his master. Better to be out of sight and out of mind, let himself be locked away where he can't make things worse, but gods, the boredom. The empty of it all. Alone with his thoughts and his hunger for two days and nights, hoping Morpheus wouldn't come to see him, but wishing that they would.

For those two nights and every night after until this one he had thought incessantly of the monster that now shadows his free hours. Had known it would be waiting for him, sniffing around his usual haunts. Had feared somewhere deep inside himself that it might dare to come here and he would see it ripped apart at Morpheus' hands. Finally he could wait no longer and had slipped from the castle with no protest from his maker, though something in him sensed that Morpheus knew he was not only leaving to hunt and feed.

All that dread solidifies the moment they're together again--I shouldn't be here, we shouldn't be doing this--and then it simply melts into a different, preferable kind of apprehension. The beast is wild for him. It has missed him; it presses against his back like an animal, claws raking thin red lines along his throat, and the spawn cannot help itself. It tilts its head back against the thing's shoulder, dizzy with the force of its enthusiasm for him, letting itself be drawn in close, closer. After a week of being largely ignored by his creator, his monster's icy touch is a searing brand; his teeth feel as if they will leave jagged scars with how deeply they sink into flesh, for all that the Corinthian knows it does not--cannot--scar anymore. Not without considerable effort and repeated reopening of wounds.

It is just as well. Morpheus' wrath if his fledgling was marked by the beast would not bear thinking about.

As the Corinthian sags in its grip, eyes half-closed, its voice resounds in his head. The way you bend. It's holding too tightly, biting too hard, but there's no escape from its jaws. The way you break. The spawn keeps shuddering in its arms, nails digging into the thing's sinewy forearms as it drinks of him like it may never taste him again.

If the beast can hear anything at all over the rush of the spawn's blood and heart, he might hear the faintest, rattling rumble in its throat, more subtle vibration than true sound.

"I don't break," he mutters, hazily, eyes watering with pain. Drunk on proximity, torn between the kind of hurt that transmutes into a fucked up kind of pleasure he's been chasing in strangers for centuries, and pain that is simply pain, the kind most animals claw and cry to get away from.

The Corinthian grits its teeth, finally trying to pry away. It, too, hungers. "I would have come back to you sooner. I got... caught up."

[emrysslowlylosestheirshit]

Erin felt her blood pumping through her body as she tried to jog to the schooner. Her head was fuzzy, and all she could see was them. Her lungs filled with air she couldn’t breathe and she clutched her chest. Gunshots and cries rang out around her but she couldn’t hear them. Get to the ship, she thought. If you don’t get to the ship they're dead.

From on the roof, Jesper spotted her stunning towards the dock, and moved to pick off anyone that tried to attack her.

“There!” Jesper yelled, hoping someone would go help the Shadow. Wylan was the only one who heard him, and looked to see Erin getting closer. Sweat covered her face and it looked like she’d been crying. Erin clumsily pushed past Rotty, who was helping Wylan keep the shooters back.

She staggered over the ship, grabbing the ropes that kept them from floating off.

Untie the ropes, lift the anchor, fly the sails. She repeated it in her head like a mantra. Rope, Anchor, Sails.

She hadn’t touched a ship since… well since she came to Ketterdam. Her heart was pounding faster than Jesper could shoot, and she felt her stomach rise. Erin froze as she tried to lift the anchor, her hands touching the cold water.

I’m drowning. Where is the surface? I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe—

“I got it”

Rotty pulled the anchor up for her. His voice broke Erin out of her trance for the moment. She looked around, realizing everyone was on board and they had left the harbor. Matthias was the only one on deck, throwing up over the side.

Erin sank down to the floor of the ship, shutting her eyes. This is not the Cardea. This is not the Cardea. You will not drown, you will not drown. It took everything she had to stand back up, placing her feet on the railing and hoisting herself up the rope rungs to reach the sails. She gagged as she looked down. Even from his place on the deck, Rotty could tell she was trembling. He disappears below deck, looking for something.

The Shadow pulled the sails down and out, the boat picking up speed. It gave her a rush, and for a moment she enjoyed the wind in her face. Then she vomited.

“Watch it!”

Kaz looked up from the deck, scowling. He looked like shit. Blood splattered on his face and clothes, his usual sheened back hair in his eyes. Erin didn’t respond, shimming down the rope and placing her feet on solid ground.

“I thought you were a sailor.” He grumbled, stepping around the liquid on the deck. He gripped the railing, obviously queasy himself.

Erin held onto the rope

“I said I had been sailing. There’s a difference.”

Now that she was close enough to the edge, she saw her reflection in the water. It flickered between the mess she was now, and the scared girl she was. She felt sick again and covered her mouth, shaking. Kaz glanced at her.

“You need to be faster. If you had been gone any longer we’d have been screwed” he said coldly. Underneath his demeanor, she could’ve sworn there was concern in his eyes.

“Wouldn’t have to worry about it if you hired a damn crew” Erin grimaced as water splashed her.

“I didn’t think I needed one. Clearly I was wrong. You can barely stand without getting sick.” He scoffs

Erin glares at him, sweat dripping from her chin. If he noticed, he wasn’t letting on. She roughly pushed past him and up to the wheel, trying to think about anything other than the unforgiving water. Kaz was upset about something and followed her.

“Do you understand me? If you falter we all die.” He raises his voice slightly. Erin flinches, for the first time since they’ve known each other. That, he notices.

“Erin.” His voice is taught.

“I’m perfectly aware of the situation.” She responds.

“Then act like it”

Erin clutches the wheel tighter. She’s angry. She’s not sure why, maybe Kaz’s attitude had been too much. He didn’t seem to care about how she felt, of being on the sea made her feel. Erin’s face falls into a dark glare.

“You’re tardiness almost got us all killed and if you get sick while piloting the ship-“

“I know!” Erin yelled. She whipped her body to face him. Kaz merely raised an eyebrow, expecting her to continue. She wasn’t sure where she was going with this, her breathing was labored.

“Why are you acting like this is my fault. You didn’t have to be first mate”

That pissed her off. “First mate?? I am the only mate. I am the only person on the godforsaken ship that knows how to sail, or navigate, or anything that will get us to Fjerda.”

Kaz’s face remained unemotional. He glanced up seeing Jesper come up from the cabin. The sharpshooter looked at Erin and his eyes widened in concern

“Erin? Erin are you ok? Saints Kaz, what did you say to her” Jesper glared at his friend. Kaz shifted his weight.

“Reminding my Shadow that we’ll be fish food if she’s late again.”

Jesper puts his arms around Erin, who was clearly not hearing their conversation. He felt her shaking, and bet that Nina could hear her heart beat, even from below deck.

“She’s having a panic attack Kaz”

Jesper leaned down and looked at Erin. He tried to run the dried blood from her face.

“I’m fine” was all she could say. From behind her, Kaz clenched his jaw. He wasn’t quite sure how to feel. Upset he didn’t notice or upset she could be affected so easily. It’s not like he had a place to speak, it took most of his strength to not go running to the rail and throw his breakfast up.

“You are not fine. What happened at the harbor? You looked like you’d been running,” Jesper asked. Erin’s breathing calmed slightly and she was able to speak again.

“There were too many of them- I led five, no six of them down an alley. There wasn’t an exit.”

“And then?”

Jesper thought of Erin as a capable girl. Her shadows were not something to be on the wrong end of, but six men? He wasn’t sure how she made it out alive.

“And then I…. Then I-“

“Spit it out” Kaz said from his place at the wheel. He was growing impatient with her stuttering

“I cut them.”

Kaz looked over at her. The Cut. He’d never seen her do it, but from description of those that survived attacks from the Darkling, an infamous shadow summoner, he was sure he didn’t want to. He glanced at Jesper and the two of them made eye contact. There was a reason he’d never seen her do it, much like how he’s never taken his gloves off.

He stood unwavering in his place, watching Jesper comfort her. Part of him wanted to hold her too, and part of him wanted to strangle himself for thinking that. Kaz turned on his heels and departed to the cabin, needing to clear his head.

[gas-stxtion-a]

The Onceler’s smile, even forced as it may be, makes something warm blossom in Tony’s chest, and the words prompt a ragged laugh. “Not the first time ‘ve been shot, sweetheart,” he tells him, paying no need to how alarming that information may be. “‘S fine. ‘ve had a lot worse.” He doesn’t naturally have a particularly noticeable accent when he speaks, as used to suppressing and obscuring it as he is, but his words are thick and heavy on his tongue, slurring out of him with all the grace of a drunk filled with more alcohol than blood. Part of him is even a little surprised that he’s able to talk in the first place.

Everything feels fuzzy to Tony, his senses muddled and his brain full of cotton, both literally and metaphorically. It’s as though he’s dreaming, floating listlessly through clouds of smoke with no sense of direction. Even the dull, throbbing pain in his body is little more than an afterthought, drowned out by the drugs flowing freely into his veins and his own deep-seated exhaustion. It feels like it’s been far, far too long since Tony last had the chance to rest, and he knows it’ll be longer still before he’ll finally have that, if he ever will again.

Still, even through the haze, the genuine, white-hot rush of joy and relief that passes through him at the sight of the Onceler is enough to have him smiling and staring at him, committing every detail of him to memory. A little less than two days ago, Tony was certain he’d never get to see the Onceler again. Now that he knows that is not the case, he’s not going to waste a moment of their time together.

In his current state, Tony doesn’t quite register how severe the Onceler looks, but he does gather soon enough that something is wrong. His smile falters, and he shifts to try and sit up and regard him more fully, only to grimace and let out a quiet hiss of pain at the strain the movement puts on his wounds. He quickly abandons that course of action, but he doesn’t take his eyes off of the Onceler.

The Onceler is visibly trembling, his usual coat and tie shed and hanging over the back of the shitty hospital chair he’s perched on. His eyes are wide and frantically darting around, there’s a clear sheen of sweat on his forehead, and he’s alternating between clawing at his arms and biting his fingers. Immediately, muffled alarm bells are going off in Tony’s head, and he reflexively glances around the room to evaluate whether or not there are any threats, as if he could protect the Onceler from himself. (Though, if he could, he would do so without hesitation.)

His grip isn’t particularly strong right now, but he squeezes the Onceler’s hand again as he looks at him, his face a mask of open concern. “Onceler,” he says, “what’s wrong? You can tell me…” Dimly, he remembers that they had a fight, and a bad one at that, but he can’t remember what it was about. Tony tenses slightly as he tries to figure out what’s troubling the Onceler, what he might have done to hurt the man he cares so much about. It hurts to focus, and he lets out a groan as his eyes slip closed for a brief moment. He clumsily rubs his calloused thumb over the back of the Onceler’s hand for a moment, trying to offer what comfort he can. When his eyes open again, he manages a half-smile.

“Guess I got lucky,” he hums at the Onceler’s next remark. “Missed all th’ important parts when ‘e blew my brains out.” If he didn’t know better, he’d almost think that the other agent wasn’t actually trying to kill him. It’s not hard to kill someone with a bullet to the skull at close-range, after all. Especially when they’re already on the ground and bleeding out from the first three gunshots.

The thought makes Tony frown, shaking his head slightly, though he quickly stops when the movement prompts another throb. It takes him a moment to regain his bearings, but when he does, he realizes that the Onceler is crying, shaking his own head fervently as the tears begin flowing freely down his face. Immediately, Tony’s eyes widen and he lifts his other arm, heavy as it is, to grasp the Onceler’s hand in both of his own. His heart aches to see the Onceler in so much pain, a wholly different kind of pain from the kind wracking his battered and bloodied frame.

“Mi cielito,” he mumbles desperately, squeezing the other’s hand gently. He hasn’t called the Onceler that before, at least not while he was conscious, but he has no time to worry about those sorts of things now. “Hey… hey, ‘s okay. You didn’ know.” Tony clears his throat, trying to strengthen his voice. “‘S not your fault, baby, ‘s not. ‘M the moron who turned my back on ‘im, thinkin’ he wouldn’t actually shoot.” He tries to laugh, but the sound comes out as more of a wheeze than anything. He’s still clutching the Onceler’s hand as though it’s a lifeline, and at this point he supposes it may as well be.

“Don’ beat yourself up, mi cielito,” he continues. Normally, Tony wouldn’t want to worry the Onceler by explaining what happened, wouldn’t want to place more of a burden on those shoulders, but now he doesn’t have it in him to hide anything. “‘S better I wasn’ there, an’ it would’a happened anyway. He…” Tony swallows. “He was lookin’ for me. If I’d been there, you mighta gotten hurt instead…” Tony’s brow furrows, and he continues stroking the Onceler’s hand as he trails off. He wouldn’t let anything happen to the Onceler, not if he has anything to say about it.

Every second of waiting for Antonio to wake up has been agony.  The Onceler hates hospitals on a good day, and these circumstances are far from ideal.  He has been going out of his mind without a shred of nicotine in his system, and he has ripped off his gloves to bite his nails in an effort to fill that void.  He is still biting them now, hours later, even as they have been reduced to stubs, even as he is gnawing on his fingers more than the nails.  The nurse who had been on duty when he came in learned quickly to leave him the fuck alone when she asked if she could get him anything and he took a break from tending to his manicure to bite her head off instead.  She evidently didn’t warn her replacement who took over the next shift, forcing him to do it again.  No, he can get his own goddamn water from the fountain in the hall—fucking fuck off.

He’s sweating like a pig, having already shed as many layers of his suit as he can, the coat and tie draped over the side of his chair.  The coat cost him thousands of dollars, and now it’s touching a germy hospital floor, and he doesn’t care, it’s so hot.  He’s shaking and bouncing his leg, and the edges of what remains of his nails are bleeding, and when he’s not working those bloody stumps down even more, he is using them to scratch at his neck and forearms.  He knows he looks a mess, and his wild blue eyes dart toward the door every time he hears footsteps pass in front of it, as if he expects someone to drag him out of here and onto a gurney of his own and stick a bunch of needles in him because he ‘needs’ it, or because he deserves it.  He has been willing Tony to wake up and get better so they can get out of here before something really bad happens.

When Tony says he’s glad to see him, the Onceler forces a smile around the cuticle he has halfway pulled off with his incisors.  “I wish I could say the same,” he says, “but these aren’t exactly the best circumstances.”  He almost jokes about how he bets Tony expected the roles to be reversed, but he doesn’t want to remind the other of their argument from a few nights ago.  The Onceler had been so confident, so self-assured, so adamant that he was in total control of himself, and now here he is, shaking like a leaf and with a mouth full of blood.

“You’re looking and soundin’ great f’r a guy who got shot in the head, though,” he remarks, his voice wavering between his professional voice and the more casual, heavily accented one.  “Still got all your faculties by the sounds of it.”  There is another joke, self-deprecating as hell, about how Tony must not be doing that well if he is happy to see the Onceler and not furious, as if a wire must have gotten crossed somewhere in there, but he lets that one die before he utters it, too.

Instead, he shakes his head, his face contorting with pain, tears pricking in the corners of his bloodshot eyes.  “Oh, pumpkin, this’s all my fault,” he says, the movement of his head becoming more fervent with each word.  “If I hadn’t’ve—”  The Onceler doesn’t know how much of their argument Tony remembers, and he catches himself before he can reveal too much about how he chased Tony out of the house.  He remembers hoping that the other man would be out of his life so that he could do what he pleased without judgment, and now look where the two of them are.  “If you hadn’t been out ‘n’ about—”  The tears become too fat and hot to hold back anymore and spill over his lashes and down his greasy cheeks.  “Oh, baby, you should’ve been staying with me, and then none of this woulda happened, ‘m sorry.”  He tries to push the tears away with the back of his hand, the one not held in Tony’s feeble grip.  “This is my fault, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done—‘m sorry.”

[duskamethyst]

TW dark content but imagine the reader being trained by Nanami like Itadori is and one day the two are fighting a curse that happens to attack the reader leaving them just horny as fuck and all they can do is plead to Nanami about how they feel weird and need to be fucked and poor Nanami is so conflicted cause he’s supposed to be looking out for you but now he’s spreading your legs open as you’re crying little thank yous and it all feels so wrong but oh so right and I need Jesus

a/n: let me give a big fat kiss for u. u are very seggsy. i wanted to use sensei, but nanami wouldn't want to be referred as such. tagging @noritoshiikamo cus she was so excited for this.

warnings: dubcon, aphrodisiac, reader is in third year.

physical injuries are usually expected when you have to go head-to-head against a curse. nanami ended up unharmed but unfortunately, you received the final blow. yet what makes it peculiar is that there are no apparent wounds or marks left on your body.

both of you thought it's nothing too critical, seeing that you look and feel perfectly fine at the time but nanami urges that you should get medical care immediately just in case.

and all is well until you get inside the elevator of the eerie building.

the feeling is rather familiar, to be honest. yet, is odd for how overwhelming it is. you glance at nanami with your heart pounding in your ears, don't know whether to voice it out or not because it just feels too embarrassing.

the feeling surges through you quickly, becoming worse and unbearable as time passes– making you weak in the knees as sweat breaks out in a thin sheen across your body. much to your dismay, you can feel it immensely between your legs, causing you to uncomfortably rub your thighs together to relieve the ache.

nanami notices this and with concern in his voice, he asks you if you're alright.

"no.. i feel weird." you mutter, hands balling into tight fists as you try your hardest to fight against it.

nanami puts his hand across your forehead, eyes widening over how extremely warm you feel. "hold on. we'll get to the infirmary quickly. does it hurt anywhere?"

all inhibitions fly out the door as you want nothing more than feel better again. you know the exact remedy and you take his hand from your forehead and guide it down underneath your skirt. "here."

nanami looks startled and flushed and tries to pull his hand away but you tug him back by the wrist and begin to grind against his palm that's cupping your pussy.

"please, nanami�� i really need you right now." you mewl, looking up at him with desperate tears prickling in your eyes.

nanami gulps, feeling your slick through the damp patch on your panties from beneath his skin. "i– don't think.. it's the curse earlier wasn't it?"

"mmh– yeah– no, i don't know." you sob. "b-but you're making it feel a little better."

you shift his hand slightly, forcing him to rub your clit as you grind harder on his fingers. his throat runs dry as he gazes at the hand being used to pleasure you, only snapping back to look at you when you start to whine.

"'s not enough."

all words abandon him as he watches you hoist up your skirt and reveal your sodden panties. before he can try to ask you to stop, you're already grabbing his fingers again and pulling your panties to the side before bringing two of them inside your sopping cunt.

"fuck– ah– nami, p-please." you moan as you seek for alleviation from his thick fingers.

nanami lets out a sharp breath. your warm and tight walls sucking him in cause his feelings and moral to waver. he knows that this isn't entirely considered as him taking advantage of his student, but he can't help but to feel ashamed for doing this with you, much more over the fact that his cock is throbbing inside his pants.

but you're now clutching onto him for dear life, panting heavily as you hide your face in his chest.

"we're not supposed to do this, you know? i'm your mentor." he whispers.

"but.. you're the only one who can help me now."

there's a hint of reluctance in his pace as he first pump his fingers in and out until your whines and the squelching noises begin to spur him on, causing him to fuck you with his fingers even more fervently.

"yesyesyes– that feels so good– faster."

nanami complies, the dense air making him light headed and before he even realizes it, he's already grabbing your jaw and pressing his lips onto yours, swallowing your moans as his tongue clashes with yours.

the thumb stroking your clit while his fingers curl and drag against your sensitive walls have you keening his name. the work of his fingers alone has your legs trembling and almost pushes you over the edge.

almost.

"need more." you whimper against his lips.

"w-what?"

you bring your hand down to his erection, rubbing it with your palm. "please."

"no, we shouldn't." he attempts to coax you through bated breaths. this kind of thing shouldn't happen between a mentor and his student. it's all so wrong. whatever you've inflicted with doesn't change that fact. "i think that's.. too much."

"need it, nanami." you place a gentle kiss on his lips and look at him pleadingly. "need you to fuck me."

nanami doesn't say anything as you fumble with his belt and his pants. even when he's certain he doesn't want this to happen, deep inside he knows that he's lying and the way you're just rubbing and palming his cock leads him to overlook his conscience.

"fuck." he sighs, loosening his tie and takes off his blazer.

you let out a yelp when nanami lifts you up and wraps your legs around his waist before leaning your back against the wall.

"just this time."

you nod your head profusely, eager to get filled as he rubs his tip against your wet slit, gathering slick before slowly sliding his cock inside you.

"mmh, nami– thank you–" you moan, hands finding purchase on the back of his dress shirt as he sinks deeper. "thank you, thank you, thank you–"

you pull him towards you as close as you can, as if in fear that you might lose him by any amount of distance while nanami bounces you on his cock.

the air in your surrounding becomes thicker– the only sounds entering your ears are your moans and his heavy grunts, coupled with the obscene noises coming from where your bodies are joined.

"ah– f-feels good– harder. please–"

nanami buries his face on the crook of your neck, hot plumes of breath tickling your skin as he fucks you harder. the walls sucking him in and clamping down on him have his own cock twitching.

"nanami– 'm gonna cum–" you sob, feeling each thrust brushing against your cervix threatens to tip you off the edge.

"cum with me." his grip on the back of your thighs tighten, forming a deep shape of his nails on your skin as his hips rut into your cunt. "now."

your vision blacks out under your eyelids as your eyes roll back, the wave of pleasure washes over you as you gush around his cock while he releases a thick load into you.

the both of you stay pressed against each other as you catch your breath before he pulls out his spent cock inside his pants again and carefully puts you down so you can fix your skirt.

"you okay?" he asks through shallow breaths, holding you up on your wobbly legs.

you shake your head, feeling like the world is spinning as you hold onto nanami for leverage. he grabs his blazer and puts it around you before lifting you in his arms and presses the door open. god knows how long since the elevator stopped.

"it's okay. just sleep. maybe.. we'll forget about this too."

he knows he won't.

duskamethyst © 2020 • all rights reserved. do not modify or repost anywhere. plagiarism will not be tolerated.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

"I wish Bucky Barnes would prepare me a bath and wash my hair."

Warnings: dark content and nonconsent; implied kidnap and confinement, sensory deprivation. If you fail to acknowledge these warnings, you proceed at your own risk.

Requested by: anonymous

Please reblog if you read and leave your thoughts. Thank you to those who submitted and I hope you like the drabble.

✨✨✨

You shield your eyes as the door opens and lets in the bright light. Tears wobble in your blurred vision as you hold your hand up to block out the blinding sheen. So long in the small compartment, with only the dark and the whisper of your own breath, your body is cramped and thoughts drifting.

His shadow fills the sudden opening into the world beyond your tiny existence and your shudder. His touch makes you flinch though it isn’t rough, not so cruel as your confinement. He draws you out and you stumble against him. He catches you, an arm across your back as he turns you to stand beside him.

“Wha…” your voice crackles and dies, lips chapped and throat dry.

“Time to get you cleaned up, doll,” his deep timbre sinks into your bones and you shiver again.

The thin shapeless sheath that hardly reaches your knees lets in the cool air as your legs tremble beneath your weight. You have no choice but to lean on him. He guides you down the hall and through another door. You hesitate at the threshold, expecting another desolate cell.

Instead, there’s a large porcelain tub with steam rising as water streams out from the high arcing faucet. The noise is more than you can bear after endless silence. You cover your ears as he guides you across the tile. He steadies you and turns to face you.

You dare to look at him, his blue eyes cling to you and crawl down to the thin garment. He grasps the sides and bunches it in his fists, swiftly swooping it over your head, your arms catching before you think to lift them. You close your eyes and try to forget his face.

Bucky Barnes was always your best customer. He was quiet for the most part but polite. He came to grab his prescription and never bored you with the rambles common of your other regulars. He took the small white bag and promised to see you next month. He was harmless and almost forgettable.

Until you ended up in that tiny room, barely more than a closet, walls padded, meals in boxes and water in flimsy plastic bottles. Days and nights spent in the dark, weeks wilting away in your own filth.

“I have a friend coming for Christmas today,” he says and you wince. Even as he speaks softly, it’s too much for your tender ears. Your scalp tingles as your hair stands on end. “So we need to have you presentable, doll.”

“A friend?” you whisper, all you can muster in your confusion.

He doesn’t answer. Instead, his hands whisk down your naked sides and he hums. He urges you around and leads you to the tub. Your legs shake and he lifts you suddenly, scooping you up and lowering you into the basin. You cry out but it’s barely more than a pathetic squeak.

He twists the faucet off before the water can reach the brim. His metal fingertips dip along the water and his eyes admire the rippled sight of your body. You cross your arms and bend your legs as you try to shield yourself.

He smiles and says nothing. He draws his hand away and stands. He fumbles with the hem of his shirt then sheds it in a single motion. You look away, embarrassed.

Your mind skews and you remember your first day there. You remember how you tried to run, tried to turn back all the locks before he caught up to you, but he did. Like a nightmare, you couldn’t move fast enough to escape. Then, it was only the room. A place he told you was for bad girls only.

You jerk back to the present and glance over as his shadows nears. You try to ignore his obvious arousal as he touches your shoulder and moves you away from the porcelain as he steps into the tub. He eases in behind you and pulls you back against him.

“Don’t worry, doll, I’ll do all the work,” he runs his hands up your arms and neck.

Frames your face before he cradles your head. He nudges you and guides you down to your hair. He watches you as his fingers massage your scalp, the sounds muffled by the water. You feel the prodding beneath and his jaw twitches.

He pulls you back up and reaches for a bottle. You recognise the dark brown plastic. It’s the same brand and scent in your own shower. How long ago was that? That place is vague in your head and you only remember the shampoo because it’s right there.

He squeezes it onto your hair and sets the bottle back on the ledge. Carefully he spreads it from your scalp to ends. You let him because there is no fighting him. You hug yourself as your head sways between his hands.

“What’s the matter, doll?” he asks as he drops his hands to your shoulders.

You shake your head and keep your chin down. He hums and tickles along your back so goosebumps rise on your skin.

“I know it’s a lot right now,” he says, “but I got you lots of gifts.”

You nod and sniffle, tears falling softly into the bathwater.

“You’re going to be a good girl, right?” his tones hardens, “you can’t be acting out around our company.”

“I am good,” you insist weakly, “I won’t… I won’t be bad.”

“I know, doll,” he coos and gently urges you back down to the water, “I just know you forget sometimes.”

You close your eyes as he begins to scrub away the lather and your hot tears continue to trickle out. You knew he wouldn’t let you cry in front of his friend, whoever it was, so it was best to get it out then. And if he invited a friend, you knew they were no friend of yours.

“Do I have to?” you ask as he sits you up.

“Do you have to what?” he’s touching you, all over. His hands are curious, urgent.

“Meet your friend?” you wonder and cough as your voice catches.

“Of course, I told him all about you,” he squeezes your waist and wiggles against you, a soft breath rising from him, “I’ll be good too…” he promises as he pushes you away, “I’ll be patient.”

[iwaasfairy]

Hmm... ok spooky thoughts! Just take w/e interests you or chuck this if you aren't feeling it! Reader getting bullied and the teacher being in on it tickles my pickle. Sukuna voring... what if a sorcerer who can use reverse cursed technique is kept as a sacrifice, can chop the gal up and feed her to sukuna forever :) manipulating your pregnant wife feels mean too. I don't have any kinks to suggest :( i find them all hot and not scary :((

bby i loved every single one of these and i'll probably write them all bc honestly, your brain,, you just see me and ...wow jHGUFDGEYID yes ty so much, but for now have this

𝚁𝙴𝙻𝙴𝙽𝚃𝙻𝙴𝚂𝚂

tw student/teacher, noncon, manipulation, power abuse, victim blaming, bullying and sexual harassment mentions, reader is 18+

a/n. i feel like i shouldn't even have to say this but obviously i don't condone student/teacher relationships and gojo is absolutely being a creepy, manipulative asshole here

You hate him. You hate them more, of course, wish you could snap back and fight at their sneers and whispers until you’re finally free of the ridicule. But you hate him too, when he clicks his tongue and only glances your way briefly to smile.

He smiles pretty, he does, with that strange sheen of perfection that barely cracks at the edges and fills up entire days with jokes, jokes you’re much too tired to indulge in. You don’t understand how you could possibly enjoy it when it’s always the smile you get when you’re sitting in the chair before him with yet another complaint; sniffling and pathetic.

“Please, Sensei, can’t you ask to transfer me to the Kyoto school before the end of the year instead?” you ask once again as Gojo gets up from behind the desk, stretching his long arms above his head with a sigh as a sliver of skin peeks from under the jacket and you look away too quickly. He moves instead to sit on the side of the chair— your chair, radiating heat from his body too close to your own and leaving you fumbling over your words. ��I- I just- don’t think I can do it anymore.” He used to be in charge of the first years.

Used to teach you the ropes, and even then you had to come in once every few weeks to tell him about an incident, however minimal it might’ve seemed at the time. Gojo gave you the feeling that you’d be understood here, safe here; he recommended you to the school in the first place. Shouldn’t he be the most understanding of all? When you got here you’d been a shivering mimic of a person, barely able to look him— or anyone- in the eye without getting wobbling lips. But then Gojo sensei moved on to the second years along with you, by chance, and the bullying only got worse.

Your clothes were ripped, your bag torn upside down. Your locker raided and room trampled over, at least once a week, and you were left coming into Gojo’s office with a pout way too often. But now, third year in a row and nearing the end of it, you’re sick of pretending like everything is fine. You’re sick of listening to him hush you when you cry, treading long fingers along your face like it’s meant to take away any of your pain, your stress. “You’re about to graduate,” he mumbles, puffing out his cheeks in a childlike, mocking manner when he turns over his shoulder.

“Can’t you handle it for a few more months?”

A thick line digs between your brows when you curl in on yourself more to escape his presence, staring out the window for a few seconds before you sigh. “That’s what you said last time, and you promised you’d transfer me at the start of the year too. I don’t feel like I have to handle anything, I shouldn’t have to take this.”

“You’re sure going hard on them, it’s just boys being boys,” he tutts his lips further, before blowing out a deep sigh. “A sensitive little thing, aren’t you?” Sensitive? Last time they snuck into your room when you were taking a shower and took pictures, leaving the doors open to match. There’s nothing left to be sensitive about. He was informed by the staff that found you crying hours later, and still— You hate him, clamping your hand down harder on the arm of the chair. Maybe he’s not wrong. You are sensitive, and Gojo sensei knows that.

Instead of responding to his never ending jabs, you just stare at the side of his face where the blindfold moves ever so slightly whenever he blinks under there. “I’m sick of it,” you finally sigh, pushing yourself from your chair. “If you won’t help me I’ll ask the principal instead.” Your steps are hard and loud as you get up and walk to the door, only to be cut off when he appears before you yet again, the same shit-eating grin splitting his cheeks as his large hand lands on your shoulder, feeling much too heavy.

“Okay, okay, no need to get so fussy on me.” His other hand scratches at the back of his neck for a few seconds, before he finally seems to come to a decision, squeezing your shoulder tighter. “I guess there’s a few options I haven’t tried yet. But that’ll take a bunch out of my schedule, sweetheart, and I don’t really have that kind of time to waste.” It stays quiet, giving you the words to process the words as he tilts his head, popping his jaw back and forward in thought. “Well, guess you’re lucky I’m this invested in my students. Consider it done, okay?”

Despite the wishy-washy nature of his previous promises you can’t help but feel a bit relieved, letting your tense, determined posture drop just long enough for Gojo sensei to notice, leaning down to meet you face to face. He does it almost comically easy, pouting along with you. “Aw, you poor thing, this has really been keeping you up, hasn’t it?” There’s a hand on your back that slides down to the small of your back, and another that pushes a knuckle under your chin, his mouth corners tugging up despite yourself. “Am I not your saving angel?”

“If you manage it,” you fake a chuckle, but your stomach drops when he straightens up and still keeps you caged between his arms, nodding along with your words.

“Always so distrusting, and even after all the work I’ve put in to make sure you got in here.” His one eyebrow raises, and you can almost imagine the smug grin that he holds back next. “Some would even say you’re ungrateful of all my help.”

“I’m- I’m not, Gojo sensei,” you backtrack, the pressure on your back keeping him too close almost making your lungs feel like they’re failing you. You might’ve been more assertive than usual just minutes earlier, but that was when he wasn’t keeping you so close, way too close for your liking, and the front you put up is quickly fading now. “I really appreciate your help, I do, but t-they -still haven’t stopped, and that’s- that’s just what I’m worried about. But you said you’ll do it so I’m very grateful,” your voice cracks a little when he walks you further away from the door now, face so near yours you have to lean into his touch to escape it.

“Right, and I plan to,” he hums, running his tongue over his bottom lip. “But I think it’d go a whole lot easier if you give me some more incentive to help, you know? I’m a very, very busy man.” As he lets go of you and you fall back onto your butt at the lack of support, wincing, he slowly shrugs his blindfold off, humming cheerfully as your lip trembles and you’re left staring at his crotch, right in front of your face. “Open up like a good girl and I’ll get your transfer application in as soon as I can, hm? That sounds fair to me.”

[lavendermin]

from sea of flowers, garden of eternity | xiao

pairing | xiao/reader

word count | 2k

genre | pwp, fluff, light angst, brief smut

note | glaze lily spirit reader, you are also in perpetual pain I’m sorry

“Xiao…” he hears your voice meekly call.

The adeptus is already on his feet before you can fully enter the room, his eyes quickly focused on you. He scans your body language diligently, looking for signs of pain or discomfort. It’s become a routine by now.

“Are you…?” His voice trails off when you shake your head apologetically. The slight strain in your smile doesn’t go unnoticed by him.

“I’m alright for now. The pains haven’t started yet. I think I’m set for another few hours, a day if I’m lucky,” you reassure him. “I just— wanted to check on you.”

Xiao gives you a blank look, one you recognize as confusion. “Check… on me…?”

“Just to see how you’re doing,” you clarify with a shy smile. As you make your way to sit on the bed, you gently pat the space next to you.

There’s a slight red upon his cheeks as he chooses to take up your invitation. The bed dips under his weight, and words do not need to be spoken to know both your minds drift briefly to past trysts that took place where you sit.

“I’m heading out to patrol the area in an hour. If you need anything at all, speak my name,” Xiao announces quietly. It’s a brief awkward silence as he rigidly sits next to you—tense almost. You answer him with a simple nod, hands absentmindedly rubbing little circles on your legs to ease the tingles of pain that slowly resurfaced.

Conversation was scarce the past few months you were placed into his watchful guard. The relationship you both harbored was a blurred line you tried not to think about too much for fear of over-complicating it.

And with your entire being, you could say you came to the unfortunate doom of falling in love with him. The emotional distance he kept oftentimes only confused you as much as your own emotions left him puzzled and a little flustered.

He kept you alive. That was the simplicity of the details Xiao was given. Perhaps it was a favor he was doing you, but he diligently carried it out with all the steadfastness of a contract bestowed onto him by the former Lord of Geo.

—

“I’m sure you are aware of the situation near Qingce Village,” Zhongli had brought up upon summoning Xiao several moons after the stirrings of a slumbering god.

Though the situation was previously dire, all was settled—Xiao knew this as a fact, for he was the one that swiftly took care of the aftermath of a dormant god’s power seeping through the earth. So, the battle hadn’t ended then…

“I was careless—“

Zhongli cut him off, carefully setting down his cup in its saucer. “On the contrary, this was in no way able to be foreseen by you. The world has a way of ending and raising new questions, just as easily as it provides answers to those who seek them.”

On the small garden table, Zhongli’s eyes trail to the glaze lily that sits in a small decorative vase. Unlike most, this lone flower is fully bloomed despite the time of day. It glows ever so slightly—weakly almost.

“You are aware that glaze lilies grow in the Qingce area, and there are a few wild outcroppings that shy away from prying eyes,” Zhongli starts.

His gloved finger reaches out to tenderly graze the petals, and at once the flower closes up. The petals take on a dullness, and visibly they start to wilt in small patches.

“The reasons are uncertain, but rumor spread around the village of a wandering ghost that followed the moon aimlessly. A spirit born of glaze lilies appeared after the battle that took place near there. It seems the power seeped deep into cracked earth among the flowerbeds.”

The young adeptus remained quiet, taking in the information. What exactly did this have to do with him, he wondered?

With a hint of apprehension, Xiao asks, “This spirit—has it taken on a malevolent nature?”

Instead of answering straight away, Zhongli wordlessly stands and makes his way back indoors. Xiao obediently follows, curious of the nature of this spirit.

“Nothing of the sort. However, these glaze lilies fell victim to the corruption of your karmic debt and at the same time were nurtured by immense adeptal power. There is a wavering balance that must be kept, for her body is as fragile as a flower’s and cannot withstand the depletion and shifts of adeptal energy.” With graceful steps, Zhongli stops before a door. “No other adeptus has successfully remained compatible with the energy she needs. So far it has only brought excruciating pain for her, and I fear she may die at this rate.”

With a silent nod, Xiao processes this information. His gloved hand is unmoving on the door handle.

“What are the terms of this contract,” Xiao silently asks, amber eyes trained on the door in front of him.

“My time has long passed to give you a new contract, Adeptus Xiao.” Zhongli chuckles fondly at the serious habits of the adeptus before him. “This is a choice I am giving you. It may take centuries for her body to adjust to the adeptal power she now harbors. If she is compatible with you, it is up to you to decide whether you supply her with your adeptal energy, otherwise she may not make it past next week.”

Xiao remains quiet for a brief moment before speaking softly, “Her body is tearing itself apart…”

“Correct.”

There’s something in that fact that stirs feelings Xiao isn’t used to in his chest. He accepts, and the first memory of you that adorns his mind is one that clenches his heart in a way he rarely experiences. The pain that twists and contorts your face as you desperately heave, body seemingly tearing itself apart in a way the naked eye cannot see.

You’re a beautiful tragedy born of moonlight and sweet soil. And in that moment when your eyes meet his, a single tear rolls down your cheek. He cannot fathom the thought of letting your life end as quickly as it began.

The door behind him clicks shut, and he takes your fragile life into his hands.

—

The lights of the house are dim—a subtle golden glow against a comforting darkness in the blanket of night. A meadow of glaze lilies surrounds the little cottage in a sea of fragrance. A prominent mark of your abode.

The little house defended by mountains is secluded, one which Zhongli sent to be made for you while your body stabilizes.

And though the exterior is tranquil, within its walls come soft pants and gasps. Xiao’s brows are knit together in concentration as he ruts against you.

“Please—Ah…nnh a–again,” you beg against your trembling body’s protests.

And he wordlessly complies, folding your legs until your knees are practically at the sides of your head. His hips pick up the pace and his thrusts become desperate, bodies covered in a sheen of sweat. The moans you let out are loud—obscene as he fills you up until you’re overflowing. The pains have long subsided, and you choose to let him overcompensate in giving you the energy that will get you by another few days.

In the serene calm of night, the tranquility is drowned out by the squelching sounds of your bodies meeting each other through desperate thrusts as both of you are sent over the edge. His name falls from your lips in a melody Xiao has grown addicted to. For the nth time that night you come undone beneath him, your essence stabilized.

There’s a swelling warmth in your chest that blooms like spring meadows as Xiao buries his face in the crook of your neck. The tips of his ears are a bright scarlet and though he tries to control it, he is still left a breathless mess as he rides out his orgasm.

“Is it…enough?” Xiao asks between pants, his cock still buried deep within you.

He’s still twitching within you and your entire body shudders with delight at the feeling.

“You… haah—can keep… going if you want,” you offer weakly. There’s a dazed look in your half-lidded eyes that makes Xiao’s chest squeeze. “‘M full but you’re still…”

Hard.

You glance down to where you two are still joined together, the view of his come leaking out of you shamelessly sending heat between your legs again. The tips of Xiao’s ears turn bright red though he tries to remain composed.

“I’ll be fine. You should get some rest to preserve the energy longer.”

He pulls out and ignores the way your eyes look away dejectedly. Before he can stand to go, your hand gently tugs him back down. Xiao allows himself to be pulled against you, his head resting in the valley of your naked chest.

“Stay with me for a bit?”

Xiao doesn’t answer right away, and your heart leaps when he lets out a little sigh and agrees.

“Alright.”

The minutes tick by in tranquil silence. Both tired bodies ignore the sticky feeling of sweat and sex. It’s a feeling you’re both quite used to by now.

“Xiao?” you start quietly after a while. He hums in response, your fingers running through his dark hair soothingly. “Can I kiss you?”

The question is soft, self-conscious almost with the fear of rejection. But you were beyond a breaking point. The feelings were welling up in your chest like a high tide as you felt him tense up at your question.

Sex was common—quite often as a means of easily transferring adeptal energy to you. And because it was a painful process to take in, you found that this method dulled the pain through the twisted pleasures and mixed sensations.

But that’s all it was— a means to keep you alive. You could never say there was a time Xiao kissed you and he always showed restraint in touching your body more than necessary. His bodily needs were never foremost on his mind and he would never tell you how his hands ached to roam your body, how this arrangement became an illusion of a different reality he couldn’t have. And so he locked away his emotions for his own sake.

Xiao lifted his face from your chest, his golden eyes wide with momentary confusion—perhaps even shock. And your face… those wonderful sparkling eyes that glistened with glossy tears on the brink of rolling down your face. He wished he wasn’t the reason you were crying.

In an instant he propped himself up on his forearms, feeling you lightly tremble beneath him from holding back the urge to cry. A quiet hiccup left you as you were overwhelmed by bottled up feelings all at once, his thumb gently brushing your tears away.

“Why?” was all he asked.

Though it was a genuine question, his actions remained tender and calmed the anxiety that gripped your naive heart.

“Because I love you—because I think I love you.”

Quietly you hiccuped beneath him and Xiao gently rested his forehead against yours, eyes closed.

“Then love me if it makes you happy,” he responds softly. The tears that twinkle down your face like falling stars are gently kissed away by his soft lips. “I’m with you until the day I die, and if loving me makes living less painful for you then use me as an anchor to reality.”

Your soft crying is hushed as Xiao presses a tender kiss to your lips. It’s short and just enough to bloom your heart with newfound emotions you had yet to experience. Perhaps you reminded the adeptus of himself in a simpler time—naive, innocent. For that, he took pity on you, and also fell deeply in love with you though he would not know it for a long time.

Simply put, he wouldn’t allow himself to know it.

The flowers that surround the small house glow and dance in the night breeze. They bloom with your newfound knowledge—heartache.

[forever-rogue]

If you’re taking requests, can you do 102 & 110 from the 390 prompt list for Bucky Barnes please 💛

Prompts used: 

102. "I had a nightmare about you and just wanted to make sure you were okay."

110. "I just wanted you to know that when I picture myself happy...its with you."

A/N: I hope you all enjoy! 🥺

Pairing: Bucky x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 2k

Warnings: none

MASTERLIST

»»————-　♡　————-««

It was dark, filled with smoke and haze as Bucky looked around, attempting to figure out where he was. He waved his arm around trying to clear the path in front of him as his heart pounded in chest, threatening to burst through and bleed out. His mind was reeling as he tried to shut out the noise, screams, shouts, cries, and pleas that rushed to him all at once. It was so much, too much, at once and he felt like putting his hands over ears to ground himself. 

His knees felt weak and shaky as he pushed himself to move forward and make some sense of his situation. Left foot, right foot, left foot, right -

But then he heard it. And it caused him to stop dead in his tracks and stand still. It was your voice, your very distressed cry meeting his ears.

"Bucky!" 

His head whipped around so quickly it was a shock he didn't snap his own neck. Ragged breath and broken cries left his lips as he tried to make sense of where you were. He followed the trail of your voice as best as he could, pushing his way through crowds of people that were suddenly there. 

"Help me!"

Blue eyes scanned the crowd as he looked through the frantic horde. A sound of frustration bubbled up in his throat, along with acid and bile when he realized you weren't nearby.

"Bucky!"

»»————-　♡　————-««

Bucky sat up rod straight as he tried to slow his breathing. His chest was rising and falling rapidly and he was covered in a sheen of sweat. At least he was safe, he realized as he grounded himself by looking around his small apartment. Refrigerator, television, table. Refrigerator, television, table. He repeated the phrase to bring himself down several times until he finally felt the panic subside. He held his tired face in his hands as he slowed and evened his breathing, reminding himself that this was all a nightmare. It wasn’t real, none of it was real - it was all a cruel ploy of his imagination. 

With a loud sigh, he grabbed his phone off the nightstand and glanced at the time. 3:33. It was too early for anyone to be logically awake, but too late for even night owls. Bucky threw off his thin blanket and stretched, all of his thoughts rushing back to you. 

It was all a dream. He had to force himself to remember that. There was no reason for him to fly into a panic and come to check on you. But then again...he had the spare key to your apartment and could easily just pop in and check on you. Five minutes, he reasoned with himself, five minutes was all. In and out to ensure you were safely tucked into bed before he returned home to pretend nothing happened. He’d tell Dr. Raynor about this later. Maybe. He didn’t need her on his case even more about his nightmares and demons. 

He quickly swiped his black t-shirt off the floor and tugged it on his haste, not even bothering to change out of his grey sweaters before sliding on his shoes and grabbed his keys. He had no doubt he looked like a mad man, more mad than he even felt half the time, but he didn’t care. There was only one thing on his mind right now and that was ensuring your safety. 

»»————-　♡　————-««

When he reached your apartment, he was silent and aloof as he approached the door and looked around to see if anything was amiss; it all looked perfectly normal. Almost too normal in fact, and although the logical part of his mind knew he was overreacting, he couldn’t help but think of the worst possible things. Looking down the hallways, he made quick work of sliding his key in and quietly unlocking your door. 

Windows closed, lights off, everything put neatly away as it always was. Not a thing out of place. He shut the door behind him, remembering too late that it always creaked if you closed it at a particular angle and grimaced at the sound. Hopefully you were deep enough in sleep that you wouldn’t stir. Bucky stealthed down the hall to where he spied your open bedroom door and heard the faint sounds of the television still. 

A smile tugged on the corners of his mouth as he realized you’d fallen asleep while watching your favorite show; you’d had it on in the background when you’d talked to him on the phone earlier too. And then there you were, sprawled across your bed in your pajamas, mouth open ever so slightly as you snored quietly. You were okay, he told himself, very much alive and very much okay. He nodded to himself as he grabbed the remote for the television and switched it off so you’d have full peace and quiet. But for some reason that was the singular act that snapped you out of your dream sleep and you sleepily rubbed at your eyes as you moved to sit up. 

Bucky froze in terror as you yawned and opened your eyes to find him awkwardly standing there. Despite your sleepy state, you beamed at him and his heart relaxed as you held out a hands towards him, “hi Bucky. What are you doing here? ‘ts late and you should be sleeping, silly old man.”

Unable to stop, he came to you, taking your hand in his as he pressed a gentle kiss to your knuckles, causing you to sigh softly, “I-I had a nightmare about you and just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“A nightmare?” you were suddenly wide awake as you looked at him with gentle, curious eyes. You pulled him towards you, “oh Bucky, I’m so sorry, my love. Stay - come lay with me.”

“It’s late,” he reminded you, “you need to sleep and I need to go.”

‘I’m not going to be able to sleep if I worry about you for the rest of the night,” you insisted firmly, standing up in front of him, “just get into bed with me, Bucky. Let me hold and you make sure you’re okay. I love you and just like you worry about me, I worry about you.”

“You don’t-”

“Don’t even try to argue with me James Buchanan Barnes,” you insisted gently, but with bite before you pressed a kiss to his lips. He relaxed, truly relaxed for the first time that evening as he keened into your body, “let me care of you too. You deserve it, Bucky. Stay with me?”

And who was he to refuse such an enticing offer? Blue eyes met your gentle ones as he bit his lip lightly before nodding. Your hands moved to his waist as you reached for the hem of his black shirt and slowly pulled it up and over, letting him discard onto the floor. A hand rested on his chest, just above his heart as you felt it beat, steady and true, under your palm. Bucky swallowed the lump on his throat at your small act of intimacy before letting a world weary exhale. You pressed a few kisses to the bare skin of his shoulder, working your way up his neck and jaw before pausing at his lips. He kicked off his shoes before letting you guide him into your soft, warm bed; it was always a comfort, just like you.

He made himself comfortable, burrowing his way under the covers and taking up the spot he normally occupied as you rejoined him. Curling around his body, you enveloped him, making him feel small and safe, and most importantly loved. It had been a rarity for him, before you came into his life, to feel like this, but you gave and gave and gave, almost never asking for anything in return. But he always gave back, as much as he could, because to him you were everything. Everything he was not, every bit of light and love that he wished he could be. But he was learning, learning to live and love again, and for whatever reason you were there with him, never thinking twice about your decision to so openly love and care for him. 

You wrapped your arm around his waist as you rested your head against his back, but not before pressing a few more kisses to his warm, soft skin. He practically hummed in content as his restless thoughts lurched to a screeching halt.

“I know they seem real, Bucky, but they’re just nightmares. Nothing can hurt you anymore,” you whispered softly, tracing aimless shapes over his body, “you’re not him anymore, you’re you. And it’ll be okay, everything will be okay. I’ll fight off all your demons myself if I have to.”

Bucky choked up for a moment, unable to properly form any words, but you felt him nod lightly as he took your hand and laced your fingers together. You didn’t need him to say anything; you knew, you both knew. It was quiet for some time, and eventually you felt yourself start to drift off to sleep as his breathing became heavier and steadier. 

“You’ve asked me before about why I stay with you,” you whispered to what you thought was a sleeping Bucky, “and I hope you know it’s because I love you - fully, and completely, every part and parcel. I just wanted you to know that when I picture myself happy...its with you. Always. And even if it takes you a while to realize that, I’ll always be by your side. I’m not going anywhere, Bucky. I am yours and you are mine.”

Bucky’s eyes were wide open now as he listened to your gentle words and stared out the window at the pale moonlight. Suddenly he felt calmer, more relaxed, like he was seeing things with a sense of clarity for the first time in a long time. He swallowed the lump that had welled up in his throat. Blinking back the stinging in his eyes, he brought your hand back up to his chest holding both of your hands above his heart. How vulnerable and human he felt in that moment - how loved. 

“I love you, Bucky,” was the last thing you said once you closed your eyes.

You didn’t hear it, but if you’d been awake still, you’d have heard the gentlest I love you spill from his lips. But it was okay, because you knew. You knew.

»»————-　♡　————-««

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[1kook]

commercial break ; NINE

this is part of my netflix & chill series!

SUMMARY “I think that, like— me and you? We’re like, totally destined,” you ramble, “you should, like, take my number! And maybe we can, like— Netflix and chill one of these days?” WARNING angst with implied smut at the end!!, flashbacks, low self esteem, alcohol consumption, jk is (implied) a virgin in this, there’s a lil fondling by oc u know the usual  MISC they r soulmates <3, our queen doyeon returns, i tried to use symbolism👁 in the dialogue so yes everything drunk oc says has a meaning hehe RATING m bc alcohol WC 2.2k

NOTES i said once a long time ago that n&c couple were prolly at the same party once but didn't realize so hERE WE GO ! its not proofread bc um. yeah<3

Homecoming week. 

Jungkook doesn’t even think his university’s football team is good, but he had read somewhere that part of the college experience is obnoxiously supporting this team all four years. And well. Jungkook wants to fit in. Frankly, Jungkook feels a little dumb having accepted this invitation from Kim Taehyung from his first-year writing class. He’s only known the man a solid four weeks, probably won’t know him this well once Taehyung finds real friends, ones who suit his outgoing personality, and decides Jungkook is too boring, but Jungkook will make the best of it while he can because, again, he wants to fit in. Badly. It’ll be different this time, he had told himself while getting ready. You won’t be awkward anymore. You’ll make friends. 

And then it’s nearing midnight and Jungkook has spoken to a whopping two people at this party of over a hundred. Not including Taehyung, it’s down to one. Even that had only been to ask where the bathroom was. He feels severely out of place, like he’s both too large and too small to be in this area, to be at this party, so he shuffles into the kitchen when he hears them call for another match of beer pong. He’s actually pretty good at the game, has refined his skills at get togethers with his older cousins. But it’s not like anyone here wants to be Jungkook’s partner anyway. Or even knows who he is for that matter. 

Taehyung had bumped into him a little past ten, had had two girls clinging to his sides when he had greeted Jungkook. One of them had almost looked tempted, Jungkook wanted to believe, brushing her hand against his arm. But he didn’t act quick enough— what would he even have done? what did he even want? —and Taehyung disappeared with both girls soon after, leaving Jungkook by himself once more. 

The kitchen is empty, the drinks long since having migrated to the living area of this huge frat. With a defeated sigh, Jungkook sinks back against one of the counters, setting his lukewarm cup of beer down beside him. He’s buzzed, drank in a feeble attempt to ‘lose himself’ as all the movies claimed. But now all he can feel is a pounding headache threatening to consume him. He doesn’t even like drinking— why did he drink this much? 

He should go home. 

Events like this, parties like this— they weren’t meant for someone like Jungkook. He was too quiet, too shy to let loose like everyone else. He doesn’t do well in social situations, or at least not as well as his therapist had told him he would. He hesitates too much, never speaks when he needs to. Haerim from his freshman basics class had even said so. “You’re quiet, huh,” she had smiled, and when her notebook had touched his elbow, he flinched. She didn’t take it to heart. Just like Taehyung wouldn’t if he left right now. They know how he is. He doesn’t belong here. These types of parties were made for outgoing people, people who lived on the edge, people who weren’t trapped in their own thoughts all the time, people like—

Like the girl who stumbles through the doorway now. “Woooo,” she slurs, and then promptly faceplants into the dirty tile of the kitchen, the same tile littered with sticky footprints and random debris. He can’t even imagine what else is on the floor of a frat house mid-party. Jungkook flinches at the sound of her knee hitting the ground, before rushing over to help her up. 

She’s a giggling mess, eyes half shut by the time Jungkook gets her into a seated position. “Are you okay?” he flounders, hand on her shoulder when she wobbles again, nearly falls back down. 

“Just peachy,” she sings, flashing him a sloppy thumbs up. Her neck isn’t doing a particularly good job of holding her head up and when Jungkook places a hand on the back of her head, she leans into it, blissful smile on her face. She’s really pretty, it makes Jungkook’s cheeks burn when she aims it at him next. “Pucca loves Garu,” she lets him know, eyes finally fluttering open. “He’s a pretty boy.”

Jungkook blinks. He has no idea what you’re talking about. “Huh?” he stutters, glancing back at the bar stool by the counter instead. It’s probably infinitely times better than the sticky tile beneath your bare legs. “I’m gonna stand you up,” he tells you, taking your loud cackle as a sign that you’re okay with it. Jungkook’s been working out all summer, so you’re not heavy in the slightest, arms thrown around his shoulders while he slips his own around your back. Your proximity leaves him drowning in your scent. 

The giggles don’t subside when he sits you down, not even when he begins opening random cabinets in search of a glass to get you some water. He’s had his fair share of experiences looking after drunk people, so he has a pretty good idea of what to do now. However, your sudden bout of commentary certainly doesn’t make it easier. “Isn’t it, like, super cool how the sun and the moon are, like—“ a hiccup, Jungkook settles on tap water “tooootally different beings, but, like— they, like, both maintain the earth?” Your hand reaches for his forearm when he returns, gives him this little squeeze in your excitement. “Like— Like they both have to, like— work together? To keep it perfect, y’know?” 

Jungkook pushes the water into your hands. You’ve got this sparkly sheen to your eyes, the one that most people get after one too many drinks, but it’s accompanied by this childlike wonder that leaves Jungkook breathless when you meet his gaze. “Yeah,” he says quietly. You beam. It’s blinding. So blinding that Jungkook promptly looks away, nudging the cup in your hands. “You need to drink this.”

You frown. “Boooo, so boring,” you huff. It’s nothing Jungkook hasn’t heard before, but it is a little disheartening to hear it from a stranger. He stamps the feeling down, pursing his lips as he gives up on letting you drink yourself. The cup is swiped from your hand and Jungkook tasks himself with making you drink it instead. And of course, like all wasted young adults, you put up a fight. “Ew, what is that?” you spit. 

Jungkook sighs. “Water.” 

At his defeated tone, the exaggerated grimace slips off your face, replaced with a rather solemn expression instead. Jungkook tries to take advantage of it and pushes the cup against your lip again, but all he really accomplishes is sloshing it down the front of your dress. You don’t yelp, but he does. “I’m so sorry,” he panics, sliding the sleeve of his shirt down around his thumb to wipe your chin. 

You let him, head tilted curiously to the side. Jungkook tries to ignore your analytical gaze until: “you’re cute,” you announce, and abruptly send him into shock. 

He recoils, face a blazing mess. “I’m—“ he chokes, swallowing when you wipe your hand down your own chest, leave a glistening layer of water over your sternum and down between your breasts. 

“Cute,” you repeat, downing the glass he had been trying to coax into you like it’s nothing now. With it gone, you don’t waste any time, throwing your hands around his shoulders, fingers brushing through the hair at the base of his neck. You pull him close, so close in fact, that he ends up having to hold the back of your chair to keep from accidentally crushing you with his weight. “Your name, pretty boy?” 

He can’t think. You’re so drunk and smell so good and are just so pretty— his brain short circuits. “Um I’m, uh, Jeon J—“

“Jeon,” you repeat, silly smile back on your face. You’re not technically wrong, so he nods along with a blush high on his cheeks. “Well, Jeon,” you purr, but you’re still so drunk, eyelids fluttering in a rather funny way. “I think that, like— me and you? We’re like, totally destined,” you ramble, “you should, like, take my number! And maybe we can, like— Netflix and chill one of these days?”

Jungkook doesn’t even know what that means, and honestly, he doesn’t really hear you over the thundering of his own heart and the bass in the other room. “Um, but you’re really…” he stammers, leaning back but a finger loops around one of his curls and he gasps when you pull at it. “You’re drunk,” he rushes out, lower lip trembling when your nose knocks against his. 

A soft hum, the sound sending electricity down his spine when you cup his cheek. “But don’t you think I’m pretty?” you murmur, eyes flickering to his mouth. 

“Yes,“ he chokes out, “you’re a very, very pretty girl. But I really shouldn’t—“

“Hey,” you shush, tilting his head just the slightest. Jungkook has never had a girl touch him like this, has never even touched a girl before either, but, well. He really wants to kiss you. And that’s saying a lot considering Jungkook has never kissed anyone before. 

Despite how good it feels, he knows you’re still really drunk. It’s with a decisive huff that he pushes away, hands on your waist to keep you from touching up on him any further. You’re not that strong anyway. And then he’s met with the biggest pout he’s ever seen, an absolutely distraught look on your face. 

Something in him says you’ll cry if he doesn’t explain himself soon, so he launches into it right away. “You’re very pretty,” he says, almost laughing at the way your entire face lights up immediately. “But you’re very drunk.” You huff. “You deserve to be treated like a queen.” Mostly regurgitating something he heard in a motivational video. 

It works. Eventually, you stop being fussy in his arms and settle with a frown. “You’re too nice,” you grumble, forehead on the countertop. He doesn’t see how it’s much better than the floor but he lets you be. “You got a girlfriend, don’t you?” 

At that, Jungkook laughs. “No,” he reassures you, hesitates, and then gently pats your back. Jungkook actually feels you melt under his touch. That sultry look is gone, replaced with this rather tranquil look that he doesn’t quite understand. 

“That was pretty,” you murmur, but Jungkook doesn’t quite hear. 

“What was that?” he asks.

“I said your smile was pre—“

“There you are!” someone hollers from the kitchen doorway, the shrill tone of their voice making both you and Jungkook jump. When he turns around, he’s met with the sight of a rather tall girl angrily stomping your way, eyes a blazing fire, fists clenched by her side. Jungkook realizes only a second too late that she’s looking at him. “Get off of her, you sweaty city-owned dumpster,” she hisses, using the strength of three football players to push Jungkook away. “You make me sick—“

“Doyeonie,” you beam, launching yourself into the angry girl’s arms. Ah. The Help had arrived. 

Said angry girl (Doyeonie?) is still using every mash-up of words possible to degrade Jungkook as she hauls you into her arms, shooting daggers every step of the way. “I can’t believe you would try to take advantage of a poor girl when she’s this drunk,” she spits. 

“What?” Jungkook coughs, cheeks warm. “I wasn’t—“

“Tell it to Campus Safety when I report you, you wannabe, dollar store Rain.” Jungkook clutches his chest at the acidity of her tongue, surprised anyone could be so mean. 

All things considered, this was actually good. Someone who knew you had come to take you to safety, meaning Jungkook didn’t have to look after you anymore. When this Doyeonie turns around, he’s met with your smiley face smushed against her shoulder. 

(It’s weird. He’s a little sad to see you go.) 

“Bye, Jeon,” you giggle, hand brushing down his arm, squeezing his hand, before you’re abruptly yanked away. Jungkook manages one weak wave, cheeks lit ablaze once more when you send him a silly air kiss from the doorway, urging him to catch it. He does, and he feels really silly when he puts it in his pocket, but he can hear your laughter for a second more before he loses you. 

The last few minutes being so hectic, he decides to go home. Parties weren’t really his thing. Jungkook doesn’t think he’ll ever go to one again. 

Until a few years later. 

“You’re, like, really pretty,” you slur, lips against his throat. Another invitation, this time, Taehyung’s birthday. His friend had practically begged him to come, knowing how Jungkook was. In the end, it had been you who had accepted on his behalf. 

“Baby, not here,” he laughs, hand on your shoulder when you try to shove your hand down his pants for the third time that night. 

Taehyung had been ecstatic to see Jungkook here. And then had quickly become annoyed when he caught the two of you making out in his storage closet an hour later. “Bro, don’t be that couple at parties,” he had groaned, locking the door behind him. 

Jungkook had laughed. “I wouldn’t know what ‘that couple’ is at parties,” he reminded him. 

Taehyung rolled his eyes. “Well, I’m sure your girlfriend can fill you in.”

Apparently not. You’ve been trying to kiss him for the past three minutes but keep missing because you’re so drunk. “Just one,” you beg, so pretty but so drunk. The fake lashes you’d worn today make you look like a doll, batting them his way until he’s giving in, slotting his lips against yours. You’re probably going to throw up in his bathroom when you get home, so he should make the best of your kisses now. Jungkook pushes that thought aside as he reaches a hand out to wipe at the sweat accumulating on your chest. There’s something weird about the gesture, like he’s done it before at another party. But that doesn’t make sense; he couldn't have— this is his first party with you. 

“We should, like, leave,” you whisper against his ear, fingers burying themselves in his hair; when you pull on a strand, he nearly moans. “Go home. Maybe netflix and—“ a hiccup that makes him smile “—chill?”

Jungkook kisses your temple. “Sounds good to me, pretty girl.”

Copyright © 2021, 1kook on tumblr. absolutely NO reposts allowed.

[goldentournesol]

Not in That Way

*gif not mine, found on Giphy*

(Spencer Reid x fem!Reader)

The one where Spencer’s TA falls in love with him.

Length: 3.3k

A/N: VAGUE SPOILERS FOR S15 AHEAD! AGE GAP (10 years). Read at your own risk everybody, very angsty. NO PART TWO’S WILL BE WRITTEN. enjoy :)

masterlist

It wasn’t hard, really. It wasn’t hard at all to fall in love with Spencer Reid. In fact, it was the easiest thing she’d ever done. It came so easily that it shook her to the core.

Really, what’s not to love? He is a badass FBI agent with a heart of gold, he can literally recite almost any book to her on demand, and it certainly doesn’t hurt that he looks like he’s been sculpted by a coveted artist.

She didn’t know though, she didn’t know how easy it would be to be completely enamored by someone. She didn’t know what kind of life she’d be stepping into when she’d applied to become his Teaching Assistant. She’d heard from her peers that there was a part-time professor who had been looking for a TA. She signed up without a second thought, desperate for any kind of connections that could possibly help her with her PhD in forensic psychology. When she’d learned that he was a certified genius whose other job was to be a real life superhero, she hoped and prayed he’d pick her application.

She was over the moon when she found out that he did indeed pick her out of all the students who had applied. This was an opportunity of a lifetime. She’d seen his university ID photo on the website and thought he was attractive, but seeing him in person was almost magical. The camera definitely could not quite pick up on the subtle gold flecks in his irises or the silky sheen of his hair. And that smile. She was sure she could drown in it forever.

After being chosen and going through a number of interviews, Y/N learned just how meticulous Dr. Reid was in everything he did. She helped him create the syllabus as well as build his lesson plans. Over the semester, she would go over his grading since he had the tendency to give students the answers instead of making helpful comments on the papers to make them think and reflect. She’d also learned about his particular aversion to technology, which meant they had multiple meet-ups when he was in town just so she can walk him through certain systems, like the university’s portal system as well as the email. She also showed him how to pose his answers as questions instead, explaining that sometimes, he shouldn’t answer their incomplete thoughts because it's an undergrad class. Also, with his unpredictable schedule concerning the FBI, she would often step in and teach his class whenever he was away on a case.

They’d become good friends outside of his office and classroom, probably closer than they should have been. He was just too likeable and she was always eager enough to hear what he had to say, thus a bond between them was born and reinforced each time they saw each other. He was so thoughtful, it shocked her. Once he’d heard her mention that she used to love collecting keychains when she was a child, and made sure to get her a new one from each state he’d visit thanks to his trips around the country. Her previous boyfriends were beyond disappointing in comparison to say the least, and they weren’t even dating. He knew her favorite coffee order by heart and often had it ready with a fresh croissant whenever they met at the university’s coffee shop and if they were meeting at his office, he’d take them to go. 

It was little things like that that made her fall in love with him. And she knew, it’s not like she didn’t, she just chose to hide it with every cell of her being. Crushing on your professor is pretty common amongst university students, but being a TA and being desperately in love with your professor was a whole different kind of story. 

She already admired his intelligence in class immensely, however hearing his stories from his time out in the field made her heart grow three times the size of normal. His stories ranged from being about geographical profiling, to action-packed anecdotes, and even funny moments with the team.

Was she constantly impressed by him? Yes.

Was she constantly worried about him? Also yes.

Which is why she’d practically made him adopt the habit of texting or calling her every time he landed in DC. They’d been chasing this unsub, Lynch, for months on end and he’d informed her that they were finally close to getting him. The last time they talked two days ago, he was feeling confident. But then it was just silence. He hadn’t texted her, he hadn’t called her. She didn’t even know if he was back in DC. Her mind took her places she didn’t want to go. He’d gotten so good with keeping her updated that this silence was turning her blood into ice water.

She’d left 11 missed calls so far. But she didn’t give up, she was determined to hear from him. The next morning she tried again, holding her breath and squeezing her eyes shut in a silent prayer.

“Hello?” Someone finally picked up, a woman.

“Hello? Who is this? I’m trying to reach Spencer Reid.” Y/N said into the phone, voice clearly on the edge of tears.

“Oh you must be Y/N Y/L/N. You’re Spencer’s TA. I’m Penelope Garcia, I work with Spencer.” She said into the phone evenly, calmly.

“Yes, I am. Did something happen to Spencer? He hasn’t contacted me in two days. Why do you have his phone?” Y/N worried into the phone. She could hear every heartbeat, loud and clear.

“Spencer is in the hospital. There was an explosion yesterday and he hit his head really hard. We found him passed out in his apartment this morning.” Penelope answered. Y/N’s eyes widened and she felt the tears slip from her eyes quickly. The panic began to set in.

“C-could you please text me the address?” Y/N managed to whisper into the phone through her tears.

“Of course, sweetie. He’s going to be okay. His mother is here, I’m assuming you know about Diana?” She asked tenderly.

“Yes, yes, I know. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” Y/N said, already rushing to put on shoes and looking for her keys.

The drive to the hospital wasn’t long, but Y/N felt like it took ages to get there anyway. Her breathing was uneven and her eyes were already swollen as if she’d been crying for days. There was a bad, bad feeling reverberating around in her chest. She’d somehow floated through the hospital like she was running on autopilot. 

She’d found the room and met eyes with a blonde woman adorning two identical blue puffs in her hair. She would have thought they were adorable if she wasn’t panicking her heart out. She spotted Spencer laying on the hospital bed with oxygen tubes hanging around his ears and inserted into his nose. The sight made her stomach lurch. Something about the way his usually pink lips were drained of their color made her want to sob until tomorrow came. Beside the bed on the other side sat Diana Reid, a tall woman with short blonde hair. She’d seen her in photos before. Diana merely stared at her with a hint of a smile.

She stepped in the hospital room, swallowing down the bile in her throat, “H-Hi, I’m Y/N.” She waved tentatively into the room, almost unable to keep with the tensity of the two women’s gazes. She wiped at her eyes and stood at the foot of Spencer’s bed, “Is he going to be okay?” She asked, staring at the steady rise and fall of Spencer’s chest. That way it was reassuring to watch him. She could hear her heartbeat in her ears as she stood.

“The doctors are hopeful.” Penelope replied, assessing the young woman who just entered. She was much younger than she previously thought she was. Although she had no idea what to expect when it came to Spencer’s academic life, he was always surprising her.

Diana sat still and silent in the hospital chair, a pensive expression draped across her features. Penelope sensed a tension in the room and looked towards Diana, “Hey, Diana, would you like to come with me down to the cafeteria to fetch some jello for Spencer to eat when he wakes up?”

Y/N sent Penelope a sidelong glance filled with gratitude. She tuned out the sounds of Diana telling Penelope the story of the first time Spencer had jello as they exited the small room. She immediately pulled up the chair closest to his bed and grasped his hand tightly. She let out a shaky breath at the contact. Cold, his hand was so, so cold.

“Oh, Spencer, you scared the shit out of me.” She whispered, pressing her lips to the back of his hand quickly, “I could have lost you today...and-and I wouldn’t have known what to do with myself if that would have happened. I know you probably can’t hear me, but I still have to say what I’m going to say. I have to. For myself. So here goes,” she pauses, taking a deep breath, “there’s nothing that scares me more than losing you, and that thought alone terrifies me.” She sniffled, wiping away her tears, “What I feel for you terrifies me, Spencer. I didn’t know I was capable of loving someone so deeply until I met you. And...I don’t know what to do with all this love, I want to hand it all to you, let you see yourself the way I see you, but I can’t do that. I can’t.” She held back an incoming sob, whispering, “I can’t ask that of you.” 

She bowed her head and rested it along his forearm, her silent tears soaking through the hospital sheets. The fear of grieving for him outweighed the fear of rejection. She’d never forgive herself if he died without knowing how big of a space he occupied in her heart. She didn’t know if she was brave enough to tell him to his face while he was awake, but this was a start. Solidifying her feelings was a start. And man, were they solid.

A few minutes later, her phone began to ring because of an endless stream of emails. There was a class today, and she’d have to teach it. She went back and forth from her phone to Spencer’s face and released a deep, heavy sigh from the pit of her chest. She stood from her seat and hovered her hand over his cheek before allowing it to rest timidly on his skin.

“I have to go, but I’ll see you soon.” She paused, chewing on her lip, “I love you.” She said softly, fresh tears making their way back to the brim of her eyes. She pulled away from him and exited the room swiftly. 

Spencer’s bleary eyes opened slightly to just barely catch the sight of her disappearing into the hallway from which she came. Seconds later, Penelope and his mother came marching in, seeing his open eyes.

Penelope set down the cups of jello nearby and Diana made her way to her son quickly. He could barely keep his eyes open for long enough. It was a small achievement but they both held onto it dearly. 

Hours later, he blinked his eyes open again as he heard his mother and Penelope conversing about his favorite type of cloud. Diana leaned over her son’s bed and set a comforting hand on his shoulder. He stared at her fondly.

“Am I alive or is this heaven?” He asked, smiling slightly.

“You are very much alive.” Diana smiled broadly at him.

Garcia had since gone back to the office to assist the team in finally closing the Lynch case. Spencer was just waking up from yet another snooze. 

Diana looked at him closely, sometimes he felt she was the profiler in the room, “She told you didn’t she?”

Spencer rubbed at his eyes slightly, “Who are you talking about?” He yawned.

“The pretty girl who was in here earlier.” Y/N’s name had slipped her mind the second she said it. Spencer stared at his mother incredulously, shocked at just how clear her mind was at the moment. Diana took his silence as an affirmative and nodded at him.

“You should tell her.” She said definitively. For a moment, he doubted if he understood just what she meant, but he understood.

“How did you know?” Spencer asked curiously.

“I told you, a mother always knows. And I saw the way she looked at you. She deserves to know, Spencer.” Diana said.

She deserves to know.

The thought tumbled around in his head for days after he was discharged from the hospital. He was on medical leave for the moment but as soon as he could see straight, he took the train to her apartment. He’d been there a few times, they’d had a few casual dinners there while grading papers together or coming up with future lesson plans. His hands were on the verge of trembling as he knocked on her apartment door. The numbers nailed on the door mocked him as he stood waiting for her to open.

She frowned at the sound, she wasn’t expecting anybody. She pushed her laptop to the side and stood to straighten her pajamas, making her way to the door. She ripped it open as soon as she saw who it was.

“Spencer! Oh thank goodness you’re okay! I’ve been worried sick about you.” She threw her arms around his middle tightly, making him stagger a bit from the impact, but he enveloped her in his arms anyway. The contact was very welcome.

“Hey.” He smiled into the hug, his heart spilling with gratitude over being worthy enough of her attention. They separated from the embrace and she stared at him with a look resembling wonder.

“What are you doing here? I thought you still had a few more days off until you had to get back to work. Come in, come in.” She moved aside to let him in. She also moved a plethora of blankets and textbooks off the couch to make space for him to sit.

“I know, I’m sorry for kind of coming over unannounced. I didn’t mean to intrude or anything.” He eyed her matching set of cartoon character pajamas as he took a seat, making a mental note that it was the most adorable thing he’s ever seen. She blushed under his gaze but shook her head nonetheless.

“Oh come on, you know you’re always welcome here. Can I get you something to drink? Some water or coffee, maybe?” She asked.

“Water’s fine.” He smiled, leaning back into the couch. She nodded and made her way into the kitchen. Spencer’s shoulders untensed for a moment and he hadn’t realized that he’d been carrying so much of his worries in them around her. She came back with the water and took a seat next to him, angling her body to face him. He muttered a thank you as he sipped from it, unsure how to approach the situation.

“I wanted to thank you. For coming to the hospital to see me. That meant a lot.” He met her eyes and saw a flash of panic dance across her irises. How did he know she was there? Penelope probably told him, right? He couldn’t have heard her.

“Of course, Spencer. It’s the least I could do.” She smiled sweetly. His heart cleaved in his chest as he stared at the sweet girl in front of him. 

What did he ever do to deserve her friendship? 

He fidgeted with the glass in his hands, a silence beginning to drape over them.

“Is everything okay?” She asked, noticing his fidgeting. 

He took a deep breath and set the glass down on the coffee table in front of them. He turned his body to face her and reached for her soft hands. Her breath hitched at the intimate contact, butterflies erupting in the pit of her abdomen.

“You are a remarkable person, Y/N. I’m so lucky to have you in my life. I see the absolute worst that humanity has to offer on a daily basis, but you have made it your mission to make my life easier. And you do, honestly, I wouldn’t know what to do without you.” He said with soft eyes and a half-laugh. She smiled back, she could practically feel the rush from his words directly in her brain.

“And it is an honor to be loved by you,” his voice hesitated to say the word, his eyes darkening with regret as he continued. Realization snapped into place for her as he said, “but I can’t give you what you need.”

He had heard her. He knew.

Her blood ran cold as she tore her hands away from his, as if the skin on his hands had the ability to burn her. He frowned as he watched her frantic eyes search his for any semblance of dishonesty. Her throat closed up over all the words that fought to surface. She opened her mouth to say something but nothing came up. Instead, tears sprung to the corners of her eyes.

“What?” She whispered, brokenhearted and momentarily in disbelief.

“I’m sorry, Y/N.” He tried to console her but she was past the point of consolation. 

“I-I understand.” She nodded painfully, tears cascading down her face before she even got the chance to wipe them away, “It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have said anything, it’s completely unprofessional.” She swallowed an incoming sob as best as she could.

“No, I’m glad you told me, but if I’m being honest, I knew long before it. This isn’t about professionality, I don’t care about that. But I care about you, a lot.” Spencer said softly, staring at the young woman in front of him. She shook her head, utterly devastated and doing her best to shield herself from his gaze. Thoughts escaped her as her heart took a deep-dive to settle in her abdomen.

“And I thought I should let you know how I feel. I love you, Y/N,” he paused, “just not in that way.” The soft voice he used was completely useless against the harshness of the words. 

She tried, she tried her absolute hardest to suppress the incoming sob, but those words just about broke the dam. She rubbed at her eyes, nodding. He tried to set a comforting hand on her shoulder but decided against it. She took a deep breath and stood up from the couch. 

That was enough humiliation for the day.

“No, no, I completely understand.” She said, voice wobbly and eyes ringed with red. He frowned up at her at the sight of her being so upset. 

“Will you be okay?” He asked as he stood up from his seat. She laughed slightly, this man had devastated her, broken her heart with a few simple words and still wondered if she’d be okay. That’s Spencer Reid for you. The question made her heart ache and long for him more. His simplicity and good intentions made her question why the world wasn’t kind enough to let her have him.

“No, I won’t. And I probably won’t be okay for a long time. Because I will keep meeting men and keep comparing them to you so, until I stop doing that, no, I won’t be okay, Spencer.” She answered with a surprisingly stable voice. He frowned and nodded.

“I’m sorry.” He whispered, stepping forward to cup her cheek and gently use his thumb to wipe the remainder of her tears. Her glassy eyes bored right into his, her lips wobbling at the contact. She then closed her eyes and leaned her cheek into his palm, soaking in his warmth one last time before he tore himself away from her completely and showed himself out of the apartment without looking back.

That was when she allowed herself to fall apart. He heard her heart wrenching cries from behind the door and hesitated, but decided to walk away anyway with a chest heavy with regret.

She will never be enough for him, she thought.

He will never be enough for her, he thought.

[tartagilicious]

little light > gojou satoru

→ synopsis | a man who can see far too much is in love with a woman who can see nothing at all. (blind!reader)

→ genre | angst + fluff

→ word count | 1.5k

→ warnings | descriptions of blood, ptsd

→ note | I binged this show in two days and the only things I retained are that curses are bad and gojou is hot. this is my first time writing for him so I hope he’s in character enough !

“look at me."

his voice is gentle, patient with the distress that paints your features. blood runs over your skin like sweat, leaving a gruesome sheen as you grasp unsteadily for him. gojou gives you his hands without a second thought. the sight of you so frightened leaves him breathless.

“look at me. please.” he repeats, urging you on as your lip quivers. your entire body shakes as you say,

“i can’t."

your sudden sob startles him, hands gripping yours tightly. the words confuse him. he means to ask you, but the moment you raise your head, any question he might have had dies in his throat. for the first time, gojou satoru is left completely speechless.

dark blood pools unforgivingly into bright irises, physical evidence of your bad run-in with the special grade curse he’d just dealt with on your behalf. but as he stares at the way the red covers the expanse of your eyes, he feels hopeless. something in him breaks as your fingers tighten around his.

you wail softly as your nails leave angry half moons in his skin. he doesn’t mind the pain.

“...i can’t see you."

almost a year after the battle that had cost you your sight, your eyes had settled into a cooler gray tone, the vessel that had originally bursted settling low — useless for all but a story.

you tell your tale as one of advice, a lesson to someone who could perhaps benefit from your mistakes. a preliminary caution to anyone that might ask why you wear two eye patches. but gojou doesn’t miss the way your shoulders square, nor the way you take a few seconds too long to catch your breath every time you inevitably share it.

as someone who had stayed close to you during your recovery, gojou believed he could tell it just as well on his own by now. though the story still never ceased to make him sick; to bring up the image of your shaking form and blood-soaked face; to remind him of how it felt to lose a part of someone, a feeling he’d tried so hard to forget.

but there were things neither of you could truly forget, impacting your lives in ways that were simply unavoidable: not only as a human, but also as a jujutsu sorcerer. while handy with your usual method of choice, there was an undeniable disadvantage you had when faced with the threat of a curse.

instead of throwing yourself into the fray as you once had preferred, you were now forced to succumb to a disability that impacted the very things that grounded your soul.

but it’s with gojou’s guidance that you’re still able to hold a weapon at all.

it’s his voice that finds you when you begin to panic, to let the frustration of blind get to you.

“you fight with that thing on willingly when I don’t have a choice?"

“that’s not fair! you know the blindfold is just a cosmetic choice, don’t you?"

you can hear the way his lips purse in the playful tone of his voice. his footsteps pad lightly on top of the dirt of the training ground as he takes a step back, giving you a chance to loosen the grip on the weapon in your hand.

you resist a groan. of course you know it isn’t, but you choose not to say anything.

“I’m waiting for the day someone comes and knocks you off your pedestal, satoru. unless you enjoy the feeling of fighting blind?"

he hums. “thrilling, isn’t it?"

you let out a laugh of disbelief. “masochist."

it’s his rough fingers that intertwine with yours that keep you grounded in moments you feel like letting everything go.

too many nights do you find yourself sitting awake in a cold sweat, the residual shapes and colours from your dream fading as a vast nothingness takes its place. the frustration is heartbreakingly fresh as you silently beg for another moment of clarity, only to receive no response.

a sob bubbles up in your chest as you try hard to suppress it. the world feels as if it’s suddenly crumbing around you before you feel a limp hand reach over to catch yours.

gojou doesn’t say anything, but you know he’s awoken and looking at you.

carefully, you let your opposite hand find his shoulder as you twist to lay into him. he takes you without qualms, holding you close with one hand on your back while the other doesn’t leave yours.

after a few minutes of quiet cries, a finger trails up and down your back in a soothing nature.

“nightmare?” he asks.

you shake your head, letting out a strained breath.

“..I dreamt that I could see again."

gojou is silent at this. his hand squeezes yours tightly.

“I don’t—“ you cut yourself off, pursing your lips as to fend off another onslaught of tears. “I-I keep… I keep forgetting what your eyes look like—"

a sob tears from your throat as you curl around him. in that moment, gojou is almost glad that you can’t see the forlorn expression he wears.

but above all, it’s his unwavering support and will to stay by your side. had he not been there in that moment, there’s a part of you that doubts you would have found the will to make it out at all.

“i think i want to wear a blindfold.” you speak quickly, as if embarrassed, but the words pique your boyfriend’s interest immediately. gojou covers his cerulean eyes for his own reasons, but the idea of extending his odd custom to you is exciting.

hearing him sit up straighter next to you, you shift away, face heating just imagining the expression on his face. it’s exactly as you think — the grin stretching his lips is so wide it transcends the boundaries of nature.

“ah,” gojou hums, the child-like laugh that escapes him as he rises infectious. gojou carefully lends you his hand. the simultaneous absence and ever-flowing presence of infinity from beneath them mind numbing.

“you’re a good student, you know;” he gushes as he normally does, but the small hint of sweetness that lines his voice is like a quirk reserved for only you. “to follow in your teacher’s footsteps."

“think what you want, but do you know how hard it is to put on two eyepatches while blind?"

you say this, but can’t resist a laugh as he pulls you forward into him. gojou lands a chaste kiss on your forehead as he sets a comfortable pace you rely on him to keep. you trust him more than anyone to do so, just as you always have.

“well then,” he lets go of your hand when you reach your destination, recognisable as his office by the warm smell of wood and spring breeze through a cracked window. “allow me to be the one to make it easier."

gojou takes your wrist and puts what you assume is a blindfold in your hand. you poke around at it clumsily for a moment, trying to find the opening in the pool of fabric. when you can’t, he doesn’t become impatient. instead, he teases you and takes your hand in his, guiding you to the right places.

from there, you’re able to discard the eyepatches you wear, baring your eyes to the daylight. your innate senses don’t seem to pick up the way gojou stares at you, gaze swimming between glancing from your smile to your eyes. he’s prideful in the notion you’re able to smile in such a way again.

as you slip the fabric over your eyes, it bunches around your ears and fits awkwardly at the neck. but your smile is dazzling nonetheless, as if you couldn’t be happier.

“this will help, I think.” you say, still busy adjusting the fabric as you think aloud. “with my sight completely restricted like this, my other senses should be able to grow even stronger."

perhaps you’d never noticed, but goujou is already well aware of the way you’d adapted in the recent months. whether in the way you immediately resort to touch to identify things, or how you’re able to hear virtually anything — it sets a small buzz of hope aflame in his chest to have been able to witness such changes.

“stronger senses, huh?” gojou’s tone is suggestive as he pulls you in by your waist, head tilting down into yours. “does that mean what I think it does?"

when you laugh and string your arms around his shoulders, he smiles along.

“pervert."

anyone only listening to the conversation might assume you’re losing patience with the man in front of you, but the grin on your face is unmistakable. what your eyes can longer show seeps through in the gentle way you pull him down for a hug, and is returned in the arms that hold you tight.

[maybe-your-left]

i wholly believe odin ren is 100000% a mamas boy the wee thing

lets talk about the clingers baby-which means the Ren boys are in competition for affection

SPOILER: Daddy Ren always wins.

TW/CW: NSFW, Odin is a crybaby, Kylo is a crybaby, attention whores, we coddle the boys, oddly sentimental, who is this woman

-------

You were having the most wonderful dream, you were on a beach, bikini-clad. Drinking out of a coconut, basking in the warm sun as it kissed your skin in a delicious tan. When you were awoken by a loud cry, emanating from the door of the master suite.

Behind you, Ren groaned in his slumber. Throwing his beefy arm across your waist as he stirred to life. You opened an eye, seeing the outline of your baby, illuminated by the lights he had turned on downstairs. His blanket in his hand, harsh sniffles between his hiccuping sobs.

"M-mom-m-y," he choked.

Rushing to your bedside, you cringed when he came closer. His face was beet red, stained with tears and snot. Odin was gasping for air, his little hands scrambling under the sheets to find you. He hoisted his body onto the bed, pinning you down. You groaned at the weight, he was getting bigger, and bigger by Ren standards meant he was too heavy for you to cradle.

"What's wrong, baby," you whispered, letting Odin burrow into your chest. His wet cheeks smearing across your bare collarbone, you decided to sleep in the silk pajamas you received for Mother's day, exposing a little too much of your chest.

"Nothing," Ren murmured into your hair, "Other than you're wearing too many clothes."

You threw an elbow into his ribs, causing him to wheeze awake. Mistaking your soothing words for Odin, as words for him. Who was still sobbing into your chest, breathing picking up at the sound of his father waking. "Kylo," you hissed, one look over your shoulder revealed a confused husband. Brow furrowed as he blinked awake, he rolled onto his back. Propping up on his forearms to peer over at the sobbing child, "Odin had a nightmare."

"Hm," he rumbled, "Bubba," Ren whispered to Odin, who was still trembling in your embrace, "What's wrong, why are you up so late?"

Odin sobbed at that, you shot Ren a glare. "I just said he had a nightmare," rolling your eyes you tried to pry Odin off of you. Sitting up in the process, Odin dug his fingernails into your skin, causing you to yelp.

"Baby! Stoppit, let go. It's okay, you're with mommy and daddy now."

Ren sat up with you, latching his hands around Odin's ribs. He tugged on the boy a few times, whispering softly, "Come on, you're hurting your mother."

Odin wouldn't budge, understandable given his attachment to you over his father. But Ren wouldn't let go of him, "Odin, it's okay, let's just lay down."

"I don't wanna lay down," Odin whined, finally releasing you enough to sit in your lap. Wiping his running nose on his blanket, you'd have to clean that in the morning. Ren winced at that, ever the germophobe.

"Do you wanna lay with mommy and daddy," you cooed, running your fingers through his hair like you do for Ren. Odin nodded his head swiftly, jumping between you and his father.

Ren glared at you, hissing through his teeth, "(Y/N), he can't keep sleeping in bed with us."

"He had a nightmare," you laid down next to him. Continuing to pet his hair, you nuzzled his head with your nose. Smelling his sweet shampoo, still a hint of baby left on him. You hated the thought of his growing up, mainly for the loss of your baby boy.

And the reality of having a carbon copy of Ren around, ready to fight his dad for attention.

Ren huffed loudly, falling down on his back. He stroked a hand against Odin's tufts of black hair. He has stopped crying the moment you let him stay, back into a slumbering child with no nightmares. Ren watched him closely, listening to his breathing like you were.

------

That morning, you woke with Odin attached to your chest. Snoring loudly against your skin, a small puddle of drool had collected. You gagged a small bit, maneuvering so he could roll off you.

Ren wasn't in bed, a glance at the clock said it was nine, Odin never sleeps this late. You tapped on his shoulder, softly waking him up so you could eat breakfast.

Odin walked with you hand in hand to the kitchen, where Ren was seated at the table. Drinking coffee and reading the paper, you yawned as you sat Odin down. Even though he whined when you walked away, leaving Ren and him alone.

You watched the two of them from the counter, seeing Ren try to keep Odin calm. Holding his little hand across the table, even though he hated how much you coddled him. He was just as guilty, speaking to his son in soft tones. Telling him how his room was safe to sleep in once again, 'Daddy made sure of it.'

Odin smiled when you came back, sitting between your two boys. Where Ren could touch your leg under the table, and Odin could hold your hand while all of you ate.

The rest of the morning was slow, Belle was out at the friends' house for a sleepover. So it was the three of you, until it was time for Odin's nap. He reluctantly went to his room, even though he tried to guilt you into napping with him.

But Ren said no, he had to be a big boy and face his fears.

Once Odin was pacified and snoring, Ren dragged you to the bedroom. The two of you locking lips for the first time today, Rens hands were all over you. Mumbling against your mouth, "You're coddling him too much."

"Mhm," you mused, pushing Ren flat on his back on the bed. You swung a leg over his hip, straddling him as you fisted the black henly he wore, "I do the same to you."

"Thats because," he paused, ripping off your camisole that you handed changed out of this morning, "I'm the baby you're supposed to coddle."

You giggled at that, letting Ren tug your clothes off until you both were naked. Straddling his cock, you rocked your hips back and forth, moaning as softly as you could.

Ren laid kisses along your collar, moving towards your breasts that were swinging in rhythm with your hips. Ren placed a hand at the small of your back, propping the two of you up with another behind him.

"Am I not giving you enough attention, Kylo?"

He shook his head, panting through an open mouth as he stared up at you. Ren groaned loudly, thrusting into you in quick succession. "No-never enough," he latched onto your nipple, sucking harshly before nibbling it between his teeth.

You gasped at that, walls clenching around his cock. Seated completely inside you for a brief moment, "I can't always pay attention to you." Your breath hitched an octave higher, the head of his cock was nudging delightfully at your cervix. Ren's hips pistoned into you, forcing you to bounce like a ragdoll in his lap.

Blissed out smile stretching across your face, loving the feeling of him inside you. Cock stretching your walls with each slick thrust, you would never get enough of it.

Ren's hand slid down to cup a cheek, the tip of his middle finger lightly prodding your tight back entrance. You jolted in his hold, earning a loud chuckle in your ear, "You like me inside you, huh?"

"Uh-huh," you moaned, "I fucking love you're big cock."

"Fuck," he stilled for a moment, leaning forward to capture your lips in a kiss. Ren wrapped both arms around you, careful to not break apart as he scooted to the center of the mattress. Laying down fully on his back, Ren placed a steady palm squarely on your chest.

Pushing you to be upright on his cock, you bit your bottom lip at the sight. Ren's cheeks pink from fucking, slicked with a sheen of sweat, dark hair mussed up. You raked your nails along his chest, his breath hitched as you scraped his nipples.

"You know," he croaked, latching his hands on your waist now. You felt him readjust, planting both feet on the mattress. Elevating you from the bed, "If you gave me attention-you'd get my big cock all the time."

Before you could rebut, Ren slammed his hips up. Jostling you so hard you yelped, he chuckled below you. Thrusting with all his strength, you clutched to his shoulders. Digging into the skin as he fucked and fucked and fucked.

"Ky-y-ylo," you cried, cunt fluttering around his length. Ren groaned at that, eyes rolling back just as yours were, "You're gonna cum on my cock-all for me."

"Yes," the 's' hissing through your clenched teeth, rocking back and forth as he continued to thrust. You both were right on the edge, the only thing you needed was...

"Mommy!" came from upstairs.

Ren and you both halted, frozen in fear of Odin coming to see you both naked. Still lodged inside you, Ren rolled the two of your bodies. Making sure your faces were looking at the doorway you had stupidly left open. Ren tugged a blanket over the two of you, rolling his hips a little as you waited.

"Mommy!"

"What's wrong, Odin?" Ren boomed through the doorway. He clasped a hand over your mouth, "Mommy's busy!"

"But-but-but," and tears.

Odin must be screaming at the top of his lungs, you could practically see his little face turning bright red from the exertion. You thrashed in Rens hold, trying to be free so you could at least talk to your son.

Ren kept you pinned, waiting a little more before he continued fucking you. Letting yourself briefly moan from the sensation of him dragging against your walls, "Be quiet baby-want you to cum with me."

Not the best plan, but fuck you were so close and it sounded like Odin was tiring himself out. You could give Ren a little bit more of your attention... he was begging for it.

You opened your legs a little wider, making Ren groan in satisfaction. He placed a hand on the back of your knee, keeping you still as he fucked in fast strokes. A glob of spit falling from his pursed lips to the top of your pussy, clit now glistening with it.

Ren nodded towards it, "Rub it-right now and cum on me."

Obeying like the good girl you were, you rubbed tight circles along yourself. Moaning at the feeling of clenching his length. Ren stilled for a moment. Closing his eyes tights before groaning, both of you cumming in a slow fall of ecstasy.

Ren's cock painted your pussy, filling you deliciously while you creamed him. Both of you smiling like horny teenagers as he pulled out, your still pulsing cunt pushed out a glob of cum. Which he swiped with the tip of his finger.

Gingerly pushing it back inside, "Where it belongs."

------

You swung out of bed after that, despite Ren making a noise that could only be described as complete despair. Throwing on a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt, you probably looked like a mess but he was five, he wouldn't know.

Running up the stairs to your baby, who was indeed red-faced and still crying. Babbling about where you were, and why he was scared, this, and that. You kept him cradled to your chest, rocking him back and forth.

Footsteps brought your attention to the door, your husband stood in the frame. Hands-on his hips, a little out of breath, dressed like you were.

He walked into Odin's room, plopping down on the carpeted floor by you both. Ren said nothing, he just scooped Odin from your arms. Letting him cry into his chest for a few moments, you stared at the two, your attention hogs.

Desperate for you in every way, but you wouldn't want it any different.

--------

wow okay-so sentimental is apparently an emotion I can have? big shocker.

yes Odin has nightmares, like young Kylo

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[a-game-of-stars-and-ink]

Ashes to Ashes - Chapter two

Chapter one Here

Warnings: Harsh caretaker (Steve), intimidation, delirious whumpee, sick whumpee, fever, choking, threatening, argument, slapping, unrequited love, rejection, anger, threatening, mentions of attempted murder, gunshot wounds, swearing.

Tagging @equestrianwritingsstuff, and @shydragonrider

(Reblogs very appreciated)

Zion stayed up most of the night, monitoring the assassin, who had soon become delirious from his fever. 

With a sigh, Zion placed a damp washcloth on his brow, noticing how he nuzzled into her touch with a pathetic whine.

It was hard to believe this feverish, whimpering mess, was the same arrogant, deadly assassin who had first tried to use her as a way to complete his mission, and then, when she’d foiled that plan, he’d tried to kill her.

But she couldn’t hate him. Seeing him like this made it hard to feel anything but pity.

Zion gently adjusted the blankets over the shivering man, before she went back to wiping his face and neck with the cloth.

His icy blue eyes fluttered open, glassy and unfocused. He lifted his head slightly, fear and exhaustion warring on his handsome features.

“Please…” He groaned. “Don’t… don’t… no more…”

“Sssshhhh.” Zion murmured, easing his head back to the pillow. “Sssshhh. Just rest.” 

Ryler moaned, his eyes rolling back into his head.

Zion debated calling for Steve, and glanced at the clock. 

3:33 AM.

He would not be happy if she woke him up now. They’d been house-mates for nearly two years, since Zion was twenty, and he was twenty-three and friends since childhood. Hell, he and his mother had been some of the first to visit the day Zion was born. 

And Steve’s opinion on sleep had not changed much from age five to twenty-five. He liked sleep, and disliked whatever was interrupting his sleep.

And right now, he disliked Ryler enough.

So, Zion went on tending the assassin alone, doing her best to make sure he was comfortable. It was nearly dawn when she fell asleep.

It was 7:30 when Steve went to check on Zion and their unwelcome house guest. 

Upon opening the door, he felt a pang in his chest upon seeing Zion curled up next to the bastard who had nearly killed her, sound asleep.

Steve had been enamoured with Zion for years, and seeing her next to the asshole who had tried to shoot her five days prior… it made his stomach twist. 

Said assassin was clearly not doing well, his skin was waxy, coated in a sheen of sweat, and he was shivering.

“Morning.” Zion yawned, and Steve turned back to her.

“Morning.” He replied, barely sparing a glance at Ryler when he groaned.

“It was a rough night.” Zion sighed, gently placing her open palm on the assassin’s forehead. He shifted slightly, swallowing thickly.

“You should have woken me.”

“And disturbed your beauty sleep? Never.” Zion said with a forced smile. 

“I mean it, Zion. I’m the one in medical school.”

“I know.” She replied. “But I handled it.”

Steve sighed, and approached the assassin. “I need to check on the wound.”

Ryler’s eyes snapped open as Steve leaned over him. His breathing picked up, chest heaving. He started to try to sit up, but Steve easily pinned him with a hand on his chest.

“Lie still.” He growled, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw Zion scowl at him.

She gently smoothed Ryler’s hair back.

The assassin whimpered as Steve began peeling the bandage back.

“N-no, don’t…” He moaned.

Steve ignored him, and Ryler squirmed weakly.

“Please…” He rasped, and Steve tensed with rage.

“Stop whining.” He snarled. 

“Steve.” Zion warned, but he ignored her, glaring at the cowering assassin. “You’re pathetic. Begging and crying and thinking I’ll feel sorry for you. How do you think Zion felt when you were threatening her life?”

“Stop it-” Zion started, but Steve held up a hand to shush her.

The assassin shook his head, crying now. “I-I don’t kn-know. I’m s-sorry. Pl-plea-please-”

Steve grabbed Ryler under the jaw, watching the man’s already frightened expression dissolve into one of pure terror.

Then he jerked back, letting go of the injured man as pain flared through his cheek. 

He stared at Zion in shock, realizing that she had just slapped him.

“If you ever do that again,” She snarled, putting herself between him and the sobbing assassin. “I will put my foot so far up your ass you’ll think my toes are your tongue.”

“He nearly killed you.” Steve objected.

“Yes. Me. Not you. So stop being such an asshole.”

“He doesn’t deserve your mercy-”

“And I don’t need you to protect me.” Zion hissed, cutting him off. “So stop trying. It will not make me love you, not the way you want me too.” She snapped.

Steve stepped back at the words, which hurt more than the physical blow she had dealt him. 

“Zion…”

“I see you as a friend. As a brother even. But that’s it. That’s all I’ll ever see you as. If you can’t accept that we’ll only ever be friends, then we need to part ways.”

“I already know that you see me as a brother.” Steve said softly. “I just hate that he tried to kill you.”

“Well he didn’t. In fact, since I’m the one who fucking shot him, I’d say I almost killed him.”

Steve sighed, nodding.

“Alright, fine. I still need to check the wound-”

“No.” Zion said firmly, her body language suggesting she was ready to physically fight him. “I’m not letting you near him again.”

“You have no medical training, Zion, he needs someone who-”

“I’ll call my real brother then.” The girl hissed. Steve had never seen her so angry.

“And what should I do?”

“I don’t care.” She spat, turning away and kneeling beside Ryler, who had curled up under the sheets, and was trembling all over. Feeling numb, Steve left, closing the door behind him.

Jackson shuddered as Zion finished peeling the bandages away from his wound. 

“Ssssshh, it’s alright.” The girl murmured. “I’m sorry he did that. I thought he would control his temper better.”

Why did you defend me? Jackson wanted to ask, but was afraid that it would only upset her.

“My brother goes to medical school with Steve. I’m going to call him to come treat this wound.”

Jackson stiffened as fear shot through him. 

“I won’t let him do anything like what Steve did. I promise.” Zion said, squeezing his hand. Then she took out her phone, and held it to her ear.

“Hey, Chris? I need your help with something. Can you come over?”

There was a pause. “Yes. Right now… see you soon. Thanks.”

Jackson met her silvery-grey eyes. “He’ll help fix this...” She said, gesturing to the infected wound. “Okay? Just hang in there.”

[honeymoonjin]

pairing: namjoon x jimin genre: smut, 18+ readers only word count: 5.1k

summary: namjoon has worked as a bodyguard for an upscale BDSM dungeon for long enough to know that jimin is the most sought-after dom there. it only takes one miscommunication for namjoon to discover firsthand why that is.

warnings: unedited, sexually explicit content, power bottom!jimin, sub top!namjoon, unprotected sex, degradation, light pain play, BDSM dynamics, kinda temperature play, i think that's it but i'm so out of practice so i apologise if i missed something

a/n: this piece came to fruition thanks firstly to the @armyadvocates AAPI Justice and Advocacy initiative, and secondly to the kind commissioner @goldenwallsvol6 on twitter who requested this (i'm so sorry for not including everything you asked for, i got a little carried away kdsjfdssk). please check out the AAPI initiative here, consider donating, and check out the resources that come with it.

-----

Clocking in to work has become such a routine for Namjoon that he often finds himself switching his brain off, preoccupied with half-thoughts as his body runs on autopilot.

He signs in, uses the staff changing room to replace his sweats with the company standard uniform - a tight t-shirt and slim fit jeans, the belt of which he hooks his keys on. He doesn’t actually start his shift for another couple minutes, and so he ducks to the bathroom, chews a breath mint, and stretches before heading out of the office and down the narrow hallway that leads to the den.

In fact, it takes him a few steps into the dungeon before his automatic schedule is disrupted.

It appears Namjoon is entirely alone in the facility.

His steps, taken with heavy-duty boots, echo around the hollow space with nothing but the walls to absorb them. It’s a Thursday night (he consults his phone just to be sure) and he was on the closing shift. On any usual day, he’d be starting work right at the bustling high of the BDSM dungeon, yet he finds himself wandering alone.

Shaped in a rough X, the center of the dungeon is open-plan, with more private spaces forking off. The wing he’s in is generally full of swingers and kinksters making use of costume changing stations and a room full of cleaning supplies and disposables like condoms or wet wipes. It was always the calmest section, but never dead like this.

In a daze, Namjoon glances inside the rooms anyway, half-expecting the place to burst into life at any given moment. But it stays undisturbed, and in no time he’s in the central atrium, weaving through bolted-down couches, benches and racks until he can sink onto a stool at the bar.

Coherent thought escapes him. His brain flails for a reason, but the absurdity of an entirely vacant sex dungeon has him lost for words. After a moment, in restless futility, he stands back up and goes behind the bar, back further into the mini storage/kitchen that he knows features a window.

Outside the narrow, slightly dusty frame is an empty parking lot. His heart sinks, feeling sorely left behind and out of the loop, but a glint catches his eye. Pressing his nose to the glass, he squints and peeks a somewhat familiar vehicle, pulled into the closest park to the entrance of the dungeon.

Namjoon stares pointedly at the Hyundai, racking his brain. God, who was it that had a-

A wooden scrape from behind has Namjoon jumping in violent fright, catching his forehead on the protruding frame of the window. Cursing, he whirls around and glimpses movement further inside. Another drawn-out scrape is followed by a very human-sounding huff.

Heart still racing, Namjoon makes his way out of the storage area and stands behind the bar, seeking out the presence.

“Oh, shit, you gave me a heart attack!” Park Jimin stands off to the left of the room, hands on his hips and head tilted back in relief. “I thought you were a burglar.”

“No,” Namjoon states redundantly, mouth not quite working beyond that. He knew he recognised that silver SUV - every Thursday he watched Jimin hop into it and pull away after a long night of scening. The two had exchanged words often, more than Namjoon could say for most patrons. Being the bouncer for a sex dungeon didn’t lead to that much genuine conversation, but he always appreciated the effort Jimin would put in, hair wet with sweat and lips curved with happy exhaustion but still asking Namjoon if he’d managed to work out whether it was birds or the neighbour’s cat eating his strawberry plants.

He forces himself to check back into the present when current-Jimin cocks his head with a slightly sheepish grin, awaiting an actual explanation. “I, um,” Namjoon stutters, having to avert his eyes to construct anything coherent, “I didn’t realise the club was shut, I’m honestly a little confused.”

Jimin’s smile drops, plush lips rounding in surprise. “Oh, really? Hoseok-hyung said he sent out emails to all the staff. There was a pipe leak so we called off our whole calender until Monday. Did you not get it? We’ve had troubles with work emails getting stuck in spam; something about a sex dungeon really seems to set off the detectors,” the man quips with a jovial lift of his brow.

Namjoon bites down on his tongue, offering up a silent nod of acknowledgement. He’d seen Jimin more times than he could count in black, red, royal purple. In the club he favoured leather, not buckled and studded but sleek and tight, often decorating his lithe body with harnesses, gauntlets and heavy rings instead. More often than not, he’d boast unsmudgable smokey eyes with sharp liner, cheekbones as harsh as they were dewy. It had taken a while, but Namjoon had eventually grown used to the sight, able to prevent chubbing up at the mere sight of his ass as he bent to open his car door.

For some reason, seeing him outside of that whole persona is far more intimidating. Still covered in a light sheen of sweat, that’s the only linker to the Jimin Namjoon is faced with today. He’s got chunky white sneakers weighing down his feet, long overalls rolled up at the cuffs to let some air reach his ankles. The overalls prove particularly problematic to Namjoon, as they don’t seem to have anything underneath. Namjoon can see collarbones, glorious collarbones, and the lean bare sides of Jimin’s torso. If he bent over, Namjoon would probably get a glimpse of his nipples. The thought dampens his mouth with need.

Jimin himself seems unaware of, or at least unbothered by, the way Namjoon stares  him down. Instead, he reaches down to push a cardboard box as tall as his waist across the hardwood floor closer to the bar one shove at a time. “Anyway, you’re welcome to head home. I’ll get Hoseok to add half an hour to your payslip for your troubles.”

“What are you doing here then?” Namjoon asks reflexively, cringing at how loud he’s accidentally pitched his voice.

Jimin’s face is surprisingly round without the stroke of makeup to emphasise dimensions, and when he beams at Namjoon, it softens his whole face even more. “I’m taking advantage of us being closed to install some new furniture. D’you wanna see?” He seems to reconsider, shooting Namjoon a worried look. “It is sex stuff, though.”

“I wasn’t expecting a bookshelf,” he answers honestly, and is rewarded with the bubbling sound of Jimin’s laughter, drowned out prematurely by another shove of the box. “Here,” Namjoon says suddenly, darting out from behind the bar, “let me help.”

At first, Jimin pushes while Namjoon pulls, but after a few grunts of exertion, steps back and lets Namjoon take over, not disguising the way his eyes linger on the way Namjoon’s biceps and pecs flex under his t-shirt sleeve. Obediently, Namjoon lets the bleach-blonde guide him to an open space near the centre of the room, depositing the weighty box there.

With a satisfied hum and a lingering glance at Namjoon’s body, Jimin bends over with a pen from his pocket, using the nib to pop and rip the tape on the box lid, yanking back the flaps with ferocious enthusiasm. He lets out a delighted cry upon lifting a frame of styrofoam out of the box, revealing the goods inside.

One at a time, he takes out oddly-shaped plates of metal, plastic baggies of bolts and screws, and some rubber caps. Kicking the empty box away, Jimin slots his hands back on his hips and grins at Namjoon. “Can you guess what it is?”

Namjoon takes a moment to consider the different sections of stainless steel. The largest isn’t flat, but a rectangle with a slight curve to it, the gentlest arc. The rest come in mirrored pairs, most just for structure, but four of them featuring heavy-duty O-rings. Though he works outside the play area, Namjoon can guess what those are for. “Something for bondage?” he ventures, stomach flipping when Jimin eyes glint with thinly veiled interest.

“A breeding bench,” Jimin explains, squatting to let his fingers trail down the side of one bar, “the metal feels sterile and cold for those that like it. Have you used one before?”

Namjoon feels unsteady on his feet. “No,” he answers, but the softness in his voice betrays his lack of aversion to the thought. But Jimin might think he was a dominant, too, Namjoon worries. Everyone else tended to. “Not yet,” he adds after a moment.

Jimin sucks in a silent but sharp breath, chin lifting. “I could use a hand setting it up. Would you mind…?”

“Oh! Uh, yeah, no problem.” Namjoon tries to clear his throat, but the lump of anticipation remains. “Happy to help.”

“Excellent,” the dom beams, fishing around the pieces of styrofoam to locate the printed instructions, handing them to Namjoon. As Namjoon begins to make sense of them, looking over the basic diagrams, Jimin sits down on a nearby ottoman, intended for viewing the other stations, but continuing to face his new help instead. “I’ve been wanting to get to know you more anyway,” he divulges in a honeyed tone.

“Really?” Namjoon glances up from the instructions, feeling the heat of Jimin’s gaze. Even in worn overalls and unstyled hair, the man strikes a gorgeous image, and his posture screams distinguished dominant down to the curl of his fingers. His mere presence has Namjoon feeling off-balance in the most electric way. “There’s not much to know.”

“I don’t believe that for a second,” Jimin replies immediately, deadpan. “Why are you standing outside every night when you’re just as kinky as those of us indoors?”

“Excuse me?”

Jimin leans forward, legs splayed wide and elbows on his knees. His eyes are intently focused, blazing. “For a while it drove me crazy,” he starts, “you looked so familiar. I saw you every evening and couldn’t put my finger on it. But you used to scene here, didn’t you? Years ago.”

Namjoon’s heart stops beating, sitting heavy behind his ribs instead. “You- You’re not meant to approach people you know from the dungeon outside. It’s against the rules.”

“We aren’t outside,” Jimin counters. “I want to know why you stopped. You don’t look happy, Namjoon, seeing others come and go while you’re stuck to your post. Help me understand.”

Taking a few deep breaths, Namjoon stays silent, opening his mouth seeming too daunting a task. After a moment, Jimin swallows hard and sits back again, giving up the inquisition. Namjoon chooses to continue the task at hand, consulting the instructions.

The bench itself is a relatively simple setup. There’s two long cuts of steel in an X below the main panel for stability, four legs with the O-ring bars at either end, and the rubber caps on the bottom to avoid scratching the floor. As he putters around with the nuts and bolts, using a tiny spanner provided in the baggies to tighten them, he feels Jimin’s curious gaze on him. Silent.

Eventually, the silence has its desired effect, and Namjoon lets his internal thoughts vocalise. “I played here for a while. My partner and I ended up going our separate ways, and I wanted to give him space.” He doesn’t make eye contact, pulse thudding and heating the pieces of metal he fiddles with.

Jimin takes a short moment to reply, but it feels cavernous. “It’s been years, then. Hasn’t he had enough space yet?”

Namjoon’s eye twitches. How many nights had he stayed up with that exact question in mind? “It doesn’t feel right anymore. People would know me for who I was then. And I’m- I’m not that person.” His partner, an eager sub with a need for a firm hand, had asked Namjoon one day if he was sure he was really happy being a dom, and it had entirely dismantled the place in BDSM that he’d cultivated for himself. That sub was right, and he didn’t know how to adjust his course to fit his true desire.

So he’d pulled away entirely, unable to fully leave this world, but unsure of whether it still had a spot for him inside it. He just wants to feel what it’s like to let go in the way his subs did.  And as his hands focus on constructing the heavyset bench, his mind wanders deeper in this vein, loose-lipped enough to confess it all to Jimin.

Jimin listens without judgement, not even seeming surprised when Namjoon admits to feeling more submissive, and the lack of reaction is liberating in a way he couldn’t have expected.

It’s not until the final bolt is fastened in place and Namjoon leans back, slightly breathless, that Jimin stands up and approaches him again. He crouches in front of Namjoon, eyes tender and hesitant, reaching out a hand.

Confused, Namjoon holds his out, palm-up, and Jimin takes it carefully, circling his fingers around the narrowest part of his wrist. Still, it’s too meaty for Jimin’s fingertips to connect. He squeezes lightly, carefully, before locking his gaze with Namjoon again, who swears he’s no longer breathing.

“Do you want to try?” Jimin asks. His voice is low, soft but full-bodied. “Do you want to try to let go? Club rules would apply.”

And Namjoon is nodding, and the grip on his wrist is tightening, restraining, and Jimin’s surging forward, lips on his.

His free hand comes up to hook around the nape of Namjoon’s neck. He’s held there, unforgiving, as the dom deepens the kiss. There’s no space between them, just skin on skin, tongue on tongue. It’s uncoordinated on Namjoon’s part, but so calculated and thorough on Jimin’s, like he knows the exact way to unwind him.

Jimin’s fingers scratch up into Namjoon’s hairline. He’d been growing out the length a little for winter, just enough to cover his ears, and it provides leverage for Jimin to grip on and tug, tug, tug in sharp bursts, timed unevenly enough that Namjoon is never ready. Every pull sends an electric shock down his spine, right between his legs.

He’s hard already, achingly so, and it just worsens when Jimin shifts his weight, bringing a foot forward and over Namjoon’s thigh, half-caging his body flush against his.

Jimin’s body is hot, even through the denim overalls and searing when it’s skin-on-skin. Namjoon can hear himself panting when their mouths split apart briefly, but he can’t stop his head from spinning long enough to care.

Before long, a rumbling growl escapes Jimin’s throat, and his teeth find Namjoon’s lower lip, scraping and nipping at the flesh. It’s not until Namjoon’s hand is shaking in Jimin’s grip that he pulls away, eyes wild and alight.

Namjoon must look utterly debauched, with swollen lips, hazy eyes and rucked-up hair, but his cock is screaming to be touched, and his breaths become infused with pleas for more, begging Jimin to touch him.

“God, you greedy little thing,” Jimin remarks in wonder, and a shudder takes over Namjoon’s body. Jimin quirks a brow. “Good? Bad? I don’t know what you like.”

“Good,” Namjoon insists without shame, “oh my god, good. Say m-more like that.”

Jimin hums with a grin, hand on Namjoon’s neck slipping around front to fist his shirt, yanking it suddenly. “Up, then,” he barks, standing himself, “I want you on the bench you built for me. Thank God that body is good for something; it’s not much fucking use now, is it?”

Namjoon’s breath leaves him in a rush, and he gets up shakily, almost tripping over his own feet as he lowers himself back down on the end of the bench. It’s chillingly cold even through his jeans, and he trembles at the thought of touching it with bare skin. Jimin has no such qualms, however, planting his palm on Namjoon’s chest and pushing him backwards, insistently guiding him down without knocking his head on the metal.

His teeth chatter briefly, but it’s nothing compared to when Jimin clicks his tongue and reaches down to strip the thin fabric of his t-shirt off with one fell swoop, the stitches breaking as they’re forced over the broadest part of his shoulders.

Ice erupts across his back and he gasp, shooting up. Jimin’s hand prevents him from getting far, and his breathing grows loud and sharp, shivering violently as his body fights to warm up the steel. The slight arch of it slots perfectly into the divot of his spine, meaning every inch is flush against him.

“You stay where I put you,” Jimin scolds, flicking at a nipple in punishment. “It’s pathetic, isn’t it? You, lying here, asking to be degraded by somebody half your size? Pathetic. You’re lucky I’m a giving man.”

“Th-thank you,” Namjoon offers up with wide eyes. He doesn’t know the protocol, doesn’t even know how he should be acting as a sub, let alone as a sub for Jimin. He can barely believe the situation he’s ended up in, but he’s never felt so alive. The cold steel is a wakeup call to sluggish veins, his blood rushing faster than ever, most of it going straight to his dick.

Jimin huffs like he’s not quite pleased with the response - even as his eyes crinkle and glint with satisfaction - and simply hooks a finger into the waistband of Namjoon’s jeans, frowning. “Can’t even get undressed yourself. For goodness’ sake.”

Namjoon’s cheeks burn, and he squeezes his eyes shut, feeling so overwhelmed. Though it was years ago, the habit of being in control hasn’t left him, and part of him feels anxious being so vulnerable. Closing his eyes eases that, and Jimin lets him, briefly reaching up to give his upper arm a squeeze, a lilting hum asking the unworded question.

“I’m okay,” he breathes to the darkness behind his eyelids, and the squeeze returns before Jimin straightens up again, fingers yanking impatiently at Namjoon’s jeans, undoing them and yanking them off, taking his briefs with them.

The new level of nudity sends another shock of cold to his system, but this time Namjoon welcomes it with a groan, tilting his hips up so that his cock rests on his lower stomach. His fingers twitch, aching to wrap around himself.

His desire is answered, not with the delicious grip of fingers, but with the hard press of the heel of Jimin’s palm, pinning his hardness down without mercy. A moan dies in Namjoon’s throat as his body tries to curl inwards. A second hand holds him down still, leaving him unable to escape the heavy pressure.

He pants, writhing and toes curling, but Jimin just sighs softly, like he’s more relaxed than ever. “Such a waste,” he drawls, his voice blooming with all the flourishes of a Disney villain, “wanting to be treated like a slut, but what am I getting out of this? Hm?”

“U-uh-” Namjoon has no idea what to say, cracking his eyes open to seek out the comfort of acknowledgement above the level of the scene. His breath is taken away at the sight. Jimin, above him like an avenging angel, golden-haired and glittering with sweat, still fully clothed (as fully as you could call a single piece of denim). He finds Namjoon’s searching gaze and sends him a calm, dreamy smile of encouragement, before twisting his palm against the base of Namjoon’s dick, wringing a strangled groan out of the man. “You can take me,” he pants, filled with the urge to provide, to serve, “take what you want.”

Jimin tilts his head to the side, like this proposition is worth considering. As he makes a show of pondering, he taps his fingers lazily against his cock’s dripping head. Namjoon swallows the whimpers that threaten to bubble up, and forces his hips not to budge. “I’ll be honest with you,” Jimin says finally, “because you don’t deserve sugar-coating. If I was here with a fleshlight or a dildo, I would’ve come already. You’re wasting my precious time, sweet boy. I don’t want you to lay here and simper, I want you to be a good toy for me. So what’s it gonna be?”

Namjoon’s muscles are trembling; from his lips to his toes, he feels like he’s vibrating slightly, restless down to the very atoms that make him up. Jimin is patient, lazily drawing sticky patterns of precum on Namjoon’s abdomen with his pinky finger. Namjoon fights against the primal part of his brain for something coherent, replaying his words. Fleshlight or dildo. Be a good toy. Jimin was offering him the choice to top or bottom, Namjoon realises, and his cock twitches, feeling liberated and thoroughly taken apart with that heady mix of submission and power. He was giving control to Jimin, but never losing his choices.

For a moment, he does consider what it might feel like to let Jimin take him. He’d never bottomed before - at least not for anyone but his own fingers in his experimental years - but if anyone could make him feel safe, he suspected it would be the dom leaning over him. It’s once he really thinks about it that he knows he’s not ready, a thin strand of dread winding around his lungs that won’t go away until he’s stammering to Jimin that he can have Namjoon’s cock if he wants it.

Jimin sucks in a slow, pleased breath, a smile curling at his lips as he lays the weight of Namjoon’s length across the palm of his hand, looking it over. The chill of the steel beneath him is nothing compared to the iced shiver that runs through him upon being inspected in his most private area. Second most private, he corrects. Baby steps.

“I suppose,” Jimin declares finally with a sigh, “this should do. Not winning any awards, though, is it?” Namjoon’s cheeks burn with shame at the comment even as his face scrunches up in disagreement. If there was one thing to be proud of physically, it was that he could always bring his partners pleasure with the equipment he grew into.

Jimin sees the unfiltered reaction on Namjoon’s face and suddenly claps his free hand over his mouth, turning away. The giggle, impish and delicate, doesn’t get as muffled as he probably intended. “Dammit,” he mumbles, “stop being funny, that’s not fair.”

Namjoon blinks, still stark naked and hard as rock beneath the clothed and chuckling dom. “...Apologies,” he says after a pause, “but do you want to- um- are we-”

“Sorry, sorry,” Jimin says, clearing his throat and wiggling the muscles in his cheek to force the smile down. His fingers reach nimbly for the straps that hold his set of overalls on, and undresses down to skin as he takes some deep breaths as if to hype himself back into character. Once he’s done, he swings a leg over the metal bench and straddles Namjoon’s thighs with a swiftness that takes his breath away.

While it may take Jimin a second to slip back into his dom headspace after the break in mood, all Namjoon needs is the feeling of Jimin’s plump ass cheeks settling onto hs lap and he’s being smacked in the face with submission, ready to beg to feel it more intimately.

Jimin doesn’t wait for him to beg, however, rolling his body forward and down, all the way until their cocks are pinned together between their stomachs, and their noses bump. Close enough to kiss, Jimin stays right there, a breath away, and Namjoon freezes, unsure if he’s allowed to close the gap.

Pleased with the restraint shown, Jimin smirks, eyes wandering over Namjoon’s face in pure bemusement, slightly cross-eyed with their proximity. “Most toys can’t kiss back,” he mentions, a hand sliding up Namjoon’s forearm and shoulder to thumb at his jaw, tilting his head back and holding it in place, “so I figure I might as well treat myself.”

“Most?” is the final worried exclamation Namjoon manages to get out before lips are descending on his, and heat erupts.

There’s no way Namjoon could keep up. Not when his face is pressed tightly to Jimin’s, lips nipped at, tongue sucked at, and mouth thoroughly explored. Not when every inch of his front is pressed to Jimin’s, the latter’s nipples hard against the soft, relaxed flesh of Namjoon’s chest. Not when he becomes aware of slow rocking, Jimin grinding their cocks together.

It takes him an unknowable eternity of this to realise that the slow, indulgent groans passed between them aren’t all his, and that Jimin’s shifting motions are brought on by the way he’s reached behind himself with a finger slick with their shared spit, working himself open.

It’s that realisation that becomes the last straw for any of Namjoon’s reserves. He feels so - so passive, not even prepping the man who’s about to take his cock. He’s lying on unforgiving steel, body used as a grinding post and mouth deeply plundered, just a mindless toy, dumbed down to pleasure and need. He isn’t even really aware of his own body where Jimin isn’t touching it; he isn’t too sure where in space his hands are, or what his feet are doing. His lips are for Jimin and his cock is for Jimin and that’s enough to make him light-headed.

When Jimin sits up, Namjoon grunts a bit and fights for some clarity to help line himself up against Jimin’s awaiting body, but the dom just tuts and rebuffs the advances, suiting himself. Part of his weight is on Namjoon’s right shoulder as he props himself up, slowly bearing the rest down so that the head of Namjoon’s cock pushes inside.

The moan that leaves Jimin’s mouth is enough to make Namjoon’s bones shake, wishing he could hear it on repeat, and the dom certainly seems to be doing his best to make it a reality with the enthusiastic way he works his hips down in tight circles, clenching around the intrusion.

Namjoon feels like he’s floating, the hard edges of steel no longer grounding him. He doesn’t lift his hands up to hold onto Jimin, he doesn’t fuck up into him, he’s barely even looking at him with how low his eyes are lidded, but there’s liberation in that inaction.

The pressure to perform is entirely lifted, and he feels the pleasure twofold, once from his own sensation and then again like an echo with every sigh and groan that leaves Jimin’s lips.

The dom has the stamina of an athlete, lifting a leg up onto the metal base beside Namjoon’s hips to gain better leverage, and Namjoon has a front row seat to the way the muscles in Jimin’s thighs flex. They’re corded and thick, such an erotic contrast to the softness of his ass, and Namjoon feels drunk off of it.

He lets Jimin take what he wants, and he feels, and that’s all.

He doesn’t even think, not really, nothing deeper than mindless observation.

Jimin is beautiful, like nobody he’d seen before, and the lack of makeup and unstyled hair certainly doesn’t change that. It’s a reminder that he’s real, and that he’s sharing this experience with Namjoon. He sits up, leaning backwards with a hand on Namjoon’s knee instead of his shoulder, and the first time he plunges down, his whole body is wracked with a violent tremor.

“I’m close,” he pants outs, eyes flicking down to Namjoon, a lazy grin appearing momentarily, onto to be knocked off by an expression of pure euphoria as he swaps the bouncing out for grinding. He rocks his hips back and forth, Namjoon buried deeply inside, and seeks out his own end irrelevant of the body that cock belongs to.

Namjoon doesn’t care, loves the near out-of-body experience he’s having, and wills the pleasure to simmer long enough for Jimin to come first.

When Jimin gets really close, he loses some of the fluidity in his movements and becomes jagged, seizing up more and more until he’s stock still, breaths staccato and mouth wide open. The physical release follows soon after, and Namjoon shudders as hot white paints the underside of his chin and his chest.

Jimin has a hand around himself, tugging out every last drop as he sucks in desperate lungfuls of air, slowly curling in on himself until his burning forehead is on Namjoon’s shoulder. “Fuck,” he curses under his breath, chest heaving.

Namjoon reaches his end without even noticing. The pleasure throughout his whole body is so electric that an orgasm is barely a notch higher, more so a spreading warmth throughout his body. Wet where Jimin’s still joined to him, and damp everywhere else with perspiration, but it’s blissful nonetheless.

Jimin heaves himself back upright after a brief interlude, brows furrowed as he glances down at Namjoon. “Did you- oh,” he remarks, shifting a little and seeing the cum that’s split around the base of Namjoon’s cock. He lets out a deep sigh, eyes slipping closed for a moment as he tips his head back. “Okay, bye-bye dom.”

Namjoon’s mind slips back into awareness at a snail’s pace, feeling first the way his throat has dried up a little and his jaw hurts from clenching his teeth. Then his voice comes back to him, and he coughs a little, blinking up at the dom above him. “Does dom have a return date by chance? That was… fucking incredible,” he admits.

Jimin laughs, the action causing him to clench around Namjoon. With playful fingers, he reaches down and lightly pinches the fat of Namjoon’s cheeks. “You’re too cute,” he declares, before lifting himself up and off, clicking his tongue at the rush of wetness that drips down his legs. “Far out, it’s like you haven’t nutted in a year.”

Namjoon feels his cheeks heat against his best intentions. “That’s just normal.”

Jimin sends him a sharp look, searching his face. “Holy fuck,” he muses, stalking over to the nearest station to raid a small drawer of wet wipes, “and you’ve been letting that beast sit out in the cold every night instead of coming in here? Masochist.”

It takes all the energy left in his body to sit up, but Namjoon gratefully accepts a fresh wad of wipes and begins to clean himself off. “The beast doesn’t pay the bills,” he quips, already feeling more casual with Jimin after their intense shared experience.

“Then I suppose I’ll have to enjoy its company on your free time,” Jimin offers up, avoiding Namjoon’s gaze with what appears to be a shy streak as he dresses himself.

Namjoon smiles, appreciating the gorgeous sight of Jimin’s body before he covers up. Appreciating even more the way he feels so comfortable in his presence, enough to let go the way he did. “I’d like that.”