#especially for something fucking innocuous

[soupandsorcery]

the minute you tell someone to kill themselves over an argument on the internet, you immediately lose all credibility in my eyes.

#some people on this site are so emabarrassing #you can disagree with someone without wishing them harm did you know?? #especially for something fucking innocuous #'you wrote something i don't agree with/donated to a site i don't like/ship a ship i don't like. you deserve to die.' #you deserve to get some social skills and learn how to act with other human beings #and honestly i don't even care if you're right #telling someone to die because you disagree with them immediately invalidates your whole point

[spearheadrampancy]

every time i come back to fandom spaces - like, the concept of A fandom at all - it seems like everyone is just so... hostile.

and yes some of the things that people are getting riled about are legitimate concerns and stuff, but it seems like everybody is just at each others throats more and more. feels like fandom is less a community and more a kind of label that some people present as some army rank or something.

i dont know. there's just something really sad about it. to log on and see shit like "if you think the princess would ever dare to wear a PURPLE 🤢🤢 skirt instead of the PINK one she is always seen wearing then you should kill yourself and i mean that genuinely." all the time. from all fandoms. from fandoms you didnt even know existed. from fandoms youve been entrenched in for years.

over the last couple of weeks i had started to wonder why i slowly felt less and less comfortable with being in fandom territory over the last 10 years, and i saw a post today talking about how tumblr itself is generally just hostile in the worst way and it clicked. it isnt really a fandom specific issue, it just happens to be prominent in fandom. it's not just a tumblr issue, or even an internet issue though. people on a day to day basis talking to their friends make jokes that are genuinely so aggressive and violent; there's some level of normalisation at play. i'm not sure where it comes from. there's something to be said about how it probably isnt healthy that we're constantly surrounded by news of Yet Another Moral Failing somewhere in the world, how there's a latent anger at everybody and anybody in every direction.

i'm not saying we're in the wrong to be angry at the world. i just think its sad that we've turned art and appreciation into a battleground for some reason.

fandom used to have rules like "dont yuck someone else's yum" and a whole litany of other phrases. but now everyone is just hostile all the time. it sucks. makes me want to stay far away.

#srs09:m:haix #suicide tw #<sprry i forgot that tag #idk im just. sat in my thoughts on this one #its why ive been so quiet especially on the fandom front lately #i cant talk to anybody about the things i like because everyone has something negative to say all the time about innocuous things #to be clear this is just about how ppl attack eachother over literally insignificant things born from personal interpretation #and not a commentary on where the line should be drawn for 'acceptable' vs 'unacceptable'/(un)ethical content #edited to add a readmore bc i figure nobody really gives a fuck anyway bc this has been discussed a lot lately in all fairness

[ohnococo]

Pining Hiromi Higuruma HCs

(Hiromi Higuruma, pining away for you, his coworker. Except he's kind of a pervert about it.)

Hiromi Higuruma who always listens to your professional opinion, and makes sure to credit you to coworkers and higher ups.

Hiromi Higuruma who becomes your lunchtime venting buddy early on. Sometimes you’ll catch each other's eyes and he’ll give you that look that lets you know he has some shit he needs to say RIGHT now so it’s time to take a break.

Hiromi Higuruma who is happy to help you out off the clock because at least you give him something to look forward to during his stressful days. He really does want to support you in your career growth (among other things).

Hiromi Higuruma who takes turns with you buying each other lunch, then dinner when you have to order takeout for overtime. He knows your go-to order from every place that delivers to your office.

Hiromi Higuruma who looks ten times more stressed when you get back from any time off. His jokes get increasingly more serious about how you “can’t just leave me on my own like that” even when you aren’t working on the same things so your presence makes no difference. Except it does. To him. He feels like his head is going to explode from dealing with work all day without those little moments of relief from being around you.

Hiromi Higuruma who glares at anyone making jokes about him being your “work husband” because it’s unprofessional and “two people can just get along without there being something to it.”

Hiromi Higuruma who knows there absolutely is something to it because he’s so, so bad at not thinking indecent things about you all day long. He doesn’t even know if you’re flirting with him or if it's all in his head. What he does know is he can't bring himself to show restraint over how much time he spends with you in the office.

NSFW/18+ ONLY UNDER THE CUT

Hiromi Higuruma who, when you eventually bring up adding him on social media, takes weeks to add you back because he knows he can’t be trusted with access to a collection of pictures of you. He was already battling guilt over jerking off to the picture of you on your LinkedIn. It was so posed and styled that it barely looked like your day to day self but it was all he had outside of his imagination for months.

Hiromi Higuruma who feels like a disgusting fucking pervert when he makes a whole folder of saved pics that make his dick twitch after clicking through every single picture. Innocuous things like a photo of you sitting down, looking up at whoever was taking it with a twinkle in your eye - ammo enough for him to picture you looking like that on your knees in front of him. God help him if he finds a picture of you in a swimsuit, or anything more revealing than your work attire. He knows it's scumbag behaviour, and he knows it's risky having them on his phone because he'd look like a crazy person if someone ever saw him with a hidden collection of seemingly innocent pictures of you, but after months and months of pining he sometimes finds he has to lock himself in the bathrooms at work to stroke his cock looking at them. Especially if you've shown up wearing those heels.

Hiromi Higuruma who so helpfully accepts your request to house sit for you when you’re going to be gone for a week. All he needs to do is pop in to water some plants, maybe feed a cat or some fish, just generally check everything was in order. He knows from the second you leave your key with him that he will be an absolute freak about it too. The first time he goes over he finds himself looking in your dirty clothes hamper, heartbroken to find it empty. He doesn’t even finish the actual job he’d come there to do because he feels that fucking guilty for being a creep.

Hiromi Higuruma who, a day later, comes back, waters your plants, and settles for stealing a pair of clean panties to spend the rest of the week jerking off into. He’ll return them washed, right back where he’d found them, the day before you come home. And he'll miss them just as much as he hates himself for doing any of it in the first place.

Hiromi Higuruma who makes you second guess if he really liked you as much as you thought when he starts asking when you’re going on vacation next. It’s not that he doesn’t miss you while you’re gone… it’s that he can’t stop kicking himself for not rifling through your drawers to see what sex toys you use on yourself. 

Dating Co-Worker Hiromi Higuruma HCs

#my writing #hiromi x reader #higuruma x reader #higuruma hiromi x reader #hiromi higuruma x reader #jjk headcanons #jjk smut #higuruma #higuruma hiromi

[crybaby-bkg]

“I thought I was supposed to be the one worshipping you today,” you say in a gasp, eyes fluttering close as you grip the sink counter tight in front of you. Bakugou only huffs a little laugh, his nails digging into the fat of your ass before he taps his palm against the flesh hard, eliciting a little hiccup from you.

“‘S my birthday, so what I say goes.” he tells you muffled, the vibration of his words making your knees quake. he has to hold you up, but he doesn’t care, finds the weight of you pressing back into him something he can get drunk off of.

he woke up nearly right after you did, trying to squeeze you close to him in bed but you scrambled out of his hold, promising to make him breakfast instead. you hadn’t expected him to follow you, to press you against the sink, to nip at your neck and kiss his way down to where your underwear rested on your hips. hadn’t expected him to drop to his knees, to worship, to kiss, to taste you. hadn’t expected him to lick you so sweetly with such a rough tongue through the fabric, for your arousal to bleed through onto his waiting tongue.

“Better than breakfast,” he mutters against you, thick fingers spreading you wide to get a good look at your winking hole, how it drools down the inside of your legs. he spits on it, diving back in to follow the trail, his lips puckering as if kissing you in such an intimate way, you think your vision goes black for a moment.

“Make me cum,” you whimper to him, his lapping pushing you up onto your toes, your hips digging into the sink counter. you reach a hand back to hold his face still with a grip on ash blond locks, grinding yourself against him until his face becomes sticky, but he grins all the while. rolls his tongue from his mouth, lets you use him because there’s no better present than being able to please you.

it comes out as a gush, your pleasure. sprays all over his mouth and chin and neck, your cries stuttered and high, your eyes clenched shut, your entire body shaking from the stimulation that overtakes you.

“Even better than birthday breakfast.” Bakugou grins, nose slightly scrunching at the tug to his hair when he slurps at your hole that still drips for him, spitting back the contents once more. he doesn’t catch it this time, just watches the thickness of his spit mingle with your pearlescent stained cum, thumbing open your cheeks to watch your hole clench and unclench from the scrutiny, the wetness slipping down your thighs.

he kisses you once more, a smacking sound, humiliating, before letting your cheeks go. not without another smack on the roundness of them, nipping at the red and warmed mark of his palm that he branded on you just moments before.

“A lot fucking better.” he tacks on once more about the stupid breakfast. you glare at him over your shoulder, even though he’s the one who’s keeping you held up right now with his firm grip around your still twitching hips.

“You’re gonna stop shading my cooking, asshole.” you bite at him, unable to hold back a shudder when you catch his devious grin, the bottom half of his face and neck still wet from your squirting.

“You caught that?” he asks with an innocent cock of his head, pressing another innocuous kiss to your warmed flesh. you tug at his hair a little harder this time, knowing it’s something that the birthday boy loves, especially by the way he’s damn near leaked through his white boxers.

“Shit head.” you mumble, but he only grins wider, his eyes flickering with the promise of devouring you whole today. just as a little birthday treat, he supposes.

#my first idea was from December of last year and it ended up being something #I’ve already wrote before lmfaooooo I was so mad #I was like damn. this concept feels very familiar #I WONDER FUCKIN WHY???? #anyway this has also been in my drafts since like November lol #idk why the concept of him spitting on and then slurping it right back up is so hot to me #but I lob him #anyway happy bday king you’ve changed the trajectory of my life 🙏🏼 #bakugou treats! 🍬 #—new treat in the streets! 🍫

[scarletevening]

innocuous [ könig ]

saying im obsessed with this man is an undersatement.

cw: suggestive [ some are a little up front... ], foul language, age difference? [ i mean he is a colonel... ], might be toxic [ idk tho too many hearts in my eyes ], also kinda fem! reader but can be read as gn! reader

Older bf! König, whos not a man you can read, far too experienced with life to let you get in his thoughts, but that doesn’t mean that he could keep himself out of yours. 

OlderBf! König, who basically entranced you with his intelligence, guiding you like a gentle wing, keeping you close and safe from unfamiliarity, because he was familiar with all of it.

OlderBf! König, would let you make mistakes so he could help you learn, hold your hand and reward you for every little thing you accomplished, even as small as finding the breaker, talking you through it, even for something as big as every time he makes you squirt.

OlderBf! König, even in things you might have experience in, he’ll baby you. he’ll baby you when you first kiss him, gently pressing his scarred lips against your plush, glossy ones, carefully holding your chin, guiding you even if you knew what you were doing. but god did it make you nervous when he did that, nervous enough to make the hand on your chin more than helpful. 

OlderBf! König, who is a total tease, but refuses to admit it. He knows how to get your pretty little head all riled up, and with his deep voice, his vocabulary more extensive than yours, even as his foreign language, in english, he speaks like a poet. even when he talks about the ways he would fuck you in his office. 

OlderBf! König, who wears sexy rectangle glasses every night as he closes his day with a chapter from a mystery book. he knows you look- stare at him, the way the glasses sit at the tip of his large, hooked nose, slightly crooked from a long-since healed break. a nose you have very lewdly felt between your legs.  

OlderBf! König, lets you babble to him about your day, responding in short hums as you chatter, taking no particular interest in your words because he’s too focused on your plump, glossy lips. doesn’t matter if your yelling, screaming, whining, crying, just plain talking, he loves the blush of your lips.

OlderBf! König, who doesn’t get jealous because he knows you’re all his. who enjoys the way you pout when you purposefully try to make him jealous, giggling and laughing with McTavish. but why can’t he just share his good little girl? knowing you’d probably like that too.

OlderBf! König, who can make you melt with just his eyes. not just his adorable puppy eyes that any man would bend for, but the way he looks down at[on] you, his towering height forcing you to deflate under his orders, piercing gaze making words out of stares. he isn’t a colonel for no reason, its hard to do anything but listen, especially when he whispers in your ear how to move your hips. 

OlderBf! König, who loves to mock the way you moaned the morning after. chuckling as he caresses your faces, using poetry to describe the way tears so beautifully filled your eyes, just as he filled you. 

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

i am a whole different person when hes mentioned

idk if i should do hcs again i’m more of a rambler yk?

directory 

#ao3 #ao3 author #konig #konig x reader #konig mw2 #konig cod #konig smut #konig call of duty #mwii könig #könig x reader #könig #cod #cod x reader #cod mw2 #age difference #older bf

[kremlin]

@wikwalker hi sure yes anything to give me an excuse to procrastinate the post i should be writing right now. here are all teh drugs and how to manage them. you can trust me, a drug addict

first of all: https://www.erowid.org/ , erowid always

don't be afraid of drugs, if they're the right drugs, you should do them since they will be a blast regardless and overcoming fear is also good (but outside the scope here)

OK to do as much as you want: alcohol - social benefit greatly outweighs health effects, no reason to avoid if predisposed to abuse since that'll happen sooner or later. what can i say? don't be a fucking dork. when you start drinking, really overdo it as much as possible without dying and get a few real nasty hangovers under your belt so you know how much is the right amount to drink.

weed - innocuous enough to be fine but will make you stupid in the long term. make sure to only buy from a real drug dealer and never some legal institution. cut it out when you're a "real adult". don't smoke weed and watch TV routinely, go out and do things so you naturally grow to hate it. good to go through this as early as possible to minimize the time you spend as a cringe weed enthusiast

i guess those are the only two.

ok to do infrequently (annually): "lsd" - or whatever it is, probably not lsd, blah blah blah, if it works and is sold on blotter its fine and won't make you go nuts or whatever. opt for a better psychadelic imo. see psych rule at bottom of section

mushrooms - better than acid since you know what they are. rule of thumb is to always do more than you think you want. minimum 1/8oz. see psych rule at bottom of post

dmt - if you somehow have a dmt hookup you don't need to be reading any of this. lasts 10 minutes which leads to tendency to way overdo it, don't do this, my favorite webcomic artist is permanently crazy from exactly that. using a crack pipe is also not the uhhhh most dignifying-feeling thing to do either. it's harder than you think.

mdma - for use at electronic music event or rave. overuse causes brain lesions or something.

coke - wait until you're in your 20s, have maxed out your roth IRA for a couple of years in a row, and havent missed a car payment in a similar timeframe. better still if you've worked a very shitty low paying job and know the value of a dollar. if you still find yourself buying candy you're not ready. too expensive to be worth it to get hooked on. know that you are VERY ANNOYING to anyone who also isn't high. don't fuck around with the guy selling it to you. avoid discussing or thinking about business ideas. you can't afford to make it a habit + kinda turns you into a piece of shit after a while, but at least a very interesting one

ketamine - another sick drug that rules, but save it for a special occasion. don't try and go into the k-hole your first time

rule for psychedelics - you get one good strong trip a year and that's it, make it count, always opt for doing a bit more than a bit less. but don't make it a habit, otherwise you turn into a very stupid very annoying "hippy" style cliché and believe in ghosts, aliens, crap like that.

ok to try once prescription opiates/benzodiazepine (xanax), valium, this kind of shit - worth trying so you can go "holy shit, this stuff is way way way too good to ever use responsibly" and then never do again. especially if you're white. for some reason we just can't handle this shit. if a doctor prescribes it to you, idk, that's your call to make.

ayhuasca - this is just dmt in a different form. do some other psychadelics a number of times before you do this. once you realize the whole "substantial visual hallucinations" thing is made up, its time. do exactly this: -buy root online (legal). receive box of dirt -boil dirt into "tea" (read erowid for exact recipe) -take over-the-counter anti nausea medicine or anything that will give you a stronger stomach -drink tea (its nasty as fuck, get it down quick) -have someone bigger than you keep an eye on you for the next five hours. -have the experience, which is absurdly intense, has no bearing to the real world, etc etc. don't be a bitch and throw up, if you do it'll only last an hour or so. again there is no way to provide a consistent description of the experience except that you will meet god. you only ever need to do this once and never again. trust me

peyote/salvia/etc - try em if you want, you'll never ever want to again afterwords. these are drugs for idiot teenagers too lame to get real drugs. imagine being very very sick from poison and utterly terrified at the same time. No good

whippets/nitrous oxide - just find a dentist that uses it and don't bother creating hundreds of pounds of trash on your floor for this crap that lasts ten seconds. you have to understand the extremely short timeframe coupled with the cost makes zero sense. go to a phish concert parking lot and do some people watching -- you do not want to be these people. only use is as a motivator to get routine dental exam. also if you somehow manage to make it a heavy habit your fucking legs stop working, no shit, but they start working again once you quit.

don't ever do heroin/meth/pcp - is is truly a mystery why you should never do these 🙄

synthetic weed/k2/shit from the gas station - it is so funny that they sell this as "weed that won't pop you on a drug test". its not weed. it is some dubious chemical sprayed on yard waste. smoke it to have a terrible time and go nuts. only buy drugs from legitimate drug dealers!

kratom - anyone's guess as to why this is legal but it's heroin for pussies. its still heroin

dxm/cough syrup - do you ever wonder why it is exclusively teenagers robotripping? it's because it sucks ass. is like a cheesegrater on your brain in terms of health effects with repeated usage. you're better than this king

inhalants - these are at the bottom of the list for a reason. do not huff gas. don't huff paint. do not consume computer duster. not fun + fastest way to make yourself a complete, uh, (word i can't say anymore) and then dead

not listed quaaludes- unavailable due to no longer being manufactured. these ruled apparantly

sincis2c - unavailable due to not existing, i just made this up

amphetamines - cannot provide objective take here. they're my albatross, lifelong (posted 4:55am natch)

#posts i will be deleting

[anlian-aishang]

SNK Men - Masturbation Habits - Levi, Erwin, Eren, Armin, Jean, Reiner, Zeke [nsfw]

Levi

Masturbates in the shower. Levi deems it as a way to save time, to keep his sheets and clothes from getting too dirty. He hates to admit it, but something about sex makes him sweat easily. Even more shameful, he is weak to the flow of scalding water on his skin and the way it melts his reserves, inhibitions down the drain. The echo of tile walls amplifies the smacks of his hand around his cock, making it easier to imagine it's your pussy around him instead. Feigning the priority of cleanliness, he grants himself an excuse to be filthy. Levi sees masturbation as a last resort, something to rely on when he can’t have the real thing. As such, when by himself, he finishes fast. Three minutes of ferocity, white-knuckle holds of the shower bar and his erection. Toes curl tight against slippery tile. Soap trickles down his bangs and into his eyes. Squeezing them shut, he relies on imagined scenes to get him there. Strives to stay silent, but especially when it's been too long, not even Ackerman can prevent the grunts and swears from escaping. At the sound of his own succumbing, his ears, cheeks, chest flush red. On comedown, he deliberately jerks the metal handle to cold with hopes that, by the time he steps out and sees the mirror’s reflection, his fucked-out state will not stare him back.

Erwin

Gets off at his desk. It’s always the end of the quarter that his sex drive surges. Though it’s inconvenient at best and incapacitating at worst, he has come to understand why. A cruel chain reaction: work piles up, his mind multitasks to its bitter end, and at that end is a pure, carnal desire for reprieve. His signature grows illegible with the way his hand is shaking. He is making mistakes and making them in ink. Erwin clenched his fist, nails dug into his palm, but neither his erection nor filthy thoughts will die down. His hand is big, but his cock is bigger. The ratio aids his fantasy, trying to pretend it's your grasp wrapped around him instead. Erwin pumps himself a couple palms full of the lotion that others find so innocuously stored on top of his desk, lays a path of tissues on the pad of his office chair, and shuts his blinds as well as his eyes. Left hand works his member tight from tip to base. Right hand undoes his top button and hooks itself on the loop of his tie, allowing his breaths to deepen, and they do. Erwin growls through it. After this many successive nights of overtime, he deserves these minutes of release from those reins. Squeezing so hard that the veins in his biceps rise. Exhales harsh, fogging the oak of his desk top. Toes curl in his leather shoes. Words fail him as he climaxes to the thought of you barging in on him - loud grunts and moans of your name all the man can muster. 

Eren

Lays back on the sofa. Unspeakable yearnings have brought him to this point. It was not only that he was unable to make it to the privacy of his bedroom. More accurately, Eren was so caught up in his fantasy that he couldn't care less if he were walked-in on. Lying on his back, his right hand slithers beneath the hem of his shirt and hikes it to his teeth. Abdomen exposed to less stifling air. At the same time, his left hand handles his belt, button, zipper before tugging his waistband to rest at his upper thighs.  Eren leans his head back over the armrest, airway straightened, low yet loud vocals fill the room. Running his fingers through his hair, his elastic band snaps and lets his locks flow freely. Even with his eyes closed, his thumb lands right atop the lotion bottle - an old habit - and pumps a couple ounces into his hand. The unexpected cold draws a few hisses and curses, but before long, the fierce friction of his hand has converted it: hot like the rest of him. Even though he is reclined back, Eren is an active masturbator. His left hand has one job, one primary motion, but his right hand plays himself. Palm over his chest, fingertips pinching his jawline. Legs squirm, heels jut - all threatening to rip the leather couch. Instead of damaging the space around him, he takes that tension out on himself: cock sore, nipples bruised, scratches on his abdomen - but nothing that his sweatshirts can’t hide.

Armin

Shuts himself in his closet. An unexpectedly experienced masturbator, yet the shame Armin feels is disproportionately tremendous. Not even his bedroom is private enough, Arlert retreats to his locked closet, barely large enough to fit his clothes, let alone him. The blonde leans back against his wooden, creaky dresser and props his feet on the opposite wall. On the way to grab himself, his arm twitches: do you really need this? He tilts his head back and sighs: yes, you do.  Armin dips his fingers into his mouth and pretends that they’re yours. Sucks them deliberately as he aims to keep quiet. As his tugs grow tighter, fuller, that sucking becomes sloppy, though. Overstimulated cries demand his lips fall from a circle to a helpless part. His breaths are brisk on his skin, covered in his own saliva. Soon enough, his tongue is flopping in frantic indecision: keep quiet or cry your name? That tug-of-war results in a submissive symphony for his reddened ears alone. But at least you can’t hear it. But what if you did? For what he lacks in confidence, he makes up for in imagination. Armin softens his grip to match the way he thought you would hold him. First, your fingers. Then, your presence. Now, your contact. Once his walls have weakened past the point of disbelief, and only once he convinces himself that you’re the one working him can he get himself to his toe-curling, back-breaking climax. 

Jean

It always starts on his bed. Lazily palming himself on his mattress, Jean is rather carefree. Masturbation is not something he plans, but something he indulges in when he feels like it. It’s just one of those things. It is not something he lets himself anticipate all day, nor is it something he approaches with shame. Before he wakes up or before he drifts to sleep, it will cost only a little energy but help him rest. It’s the lie he tells himself, arousal his most gullible state. Less than a minute after he begins, Jean is panting, drooling, burying himself into his pillow. Swears muffled as he envelops his twitching cock in his similarly trembling hand. In working hours, he keeps his thoughts for you under wraps. When the sun is down, though, so is his façade of composure. Oh, the things he wants to do to you. More than that, what fucks him up is the thought of what you would do to him.  Tendons strain and cast shadows on his neck, a desperate attempt to subdue his needy vocals. In this one session, the scenarios he has fantasized over have flashed faster than seconds. In that way, he thinks he must have lasted a while. In reality, everything is skewed. When he goes for days, sometimes weeks, without release, that release is difficult to delay. His pent-up dam demands a break: the uncatchable shot of his warm seed through his fingers and onto his sheets. He always thinks that climax will wind him down, but instead, it gets him up and out of bed, to the laundry machines.

Reiner

Slams himself against the door. Panting hard before he can even unbuckle and unzip himself. He’s ashamed to admit it all: how badly he wants to cum, how badly he needs to. The desperate rasp in his throat and the way it bounces off his bedroom walls turns his blush ablaze. He manages a squint and the sight of his bed, but the stagger in his legs tells him that he won’t make the walk. Reiner leans back against the wooden slate, one hand around his cock, one hand clutching the doorknob for stability. Eyes rolled back into his head. Hair a mess after this many runs of his hand through it. Inhales hiss through his teeth. Exhales shake on their fall past his lips. Looking down at himself, he notices the way his abdomen ripples with blood flow and wonders if you’d like that. He could practically hear you, the way you would dip your fingers into his mouth and pry, beckoning his moans and encouraging their volume. His imagination of what else you would do drives the speed and force of his hand. Pants crumpled at his ankles bind his legs to the perfect spread. His back is soaked with cold sweat, slicking and sticking him to his bedroom door. The flicks of his wrist are automatic now, racing to catch up with the snowball effect in his mind: you you you. With one final, nearly sadistic yank, he brings himself to finish - the sensation just as incoherent as his calls of your name.

Zeke

Tucks himself into bed. To Zeke, masturbation is a ritual, religiously stocked with offerings. From the drawer of his bedside table, he removes fire-and-ice lubrication and a ten-inch fleshlight. Atop the nightstand, a pack of cigarettes and his reflective lighter wait to accompany his comedown. He removes his glasses and sets them aside. By a thumb on his waistband, he peels his briefs down and flings them into the hamper across the room, satisfied with his aim.  Zeke deliberately clashes his teeth together, trying to resist the admission of how good the initial sheathe feels. This is his relaxation time and he intends to savor it. His spank bank is rich with both fond memories and colorful fantasies. Playing them back in his mind, he accompanies the scenes with his own vocalizations, beating himself to the rhythm of your ass as it bounced around his cock, or the way your head bobbed back and forth around him. Most men last only a few minutes. Zeke basks in his average time of one hour. Edging himself on and on, chuckling maniacally each time he - to his own surprise - manages to wean himself off at the last second. His arm does not tire. His images are endless. It is only after the friction reaches an unbearable burn and his wrist begins to cramp that Zeke decides to give in, though he didn’t like to phrase it that way. Tilting his head back, his exhale is deceptively cool as his hot cum soaks his sleeve. It takes a couple flicks of his lighter, and many more involuntary twitches, though, until the pleasure truly ends.

// masterlist //

#snk men #levi x reader #erwin x reader #eren x reader #armin x reader #jean x reader #reiner x reader #zeke x reader #levi #erwin #eren #armin #jean #reiner #zeke #aot x reader #snk x reader #levi x you #erwin x you #eren x you #armin x you #jean x you #reiner x you #zeke x you #anlian writes #my writing #alias's #smut #headcanon #2023

[chrollohearttags]

kinktober day one

character: choso kamo

show: jujutsu kaisen

kink: pegging

word count: 1.7K

other themes + warnings: male sub, anal play, (obv) mommy kink, oral sex, strap on, spit play, choking, dom reader, overstimulation, cumshot, slapping

📝: some of my stuff I’ll be posting is inspired by videos so I’ll try to link the sauce material if I find it and this one happened to be inspired by this. Enjoy 🌚 (nsfw link btw! click with caution)

── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.───── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.───── ･

dating choso kamo was an experience like none other you’ve had before..being with him had taught you so many things you’d never even thought to imagine. He brought forth shades of you that possibly may have never been revealed otherwise and although some may say, you two had no business being together…you could care less nor did you pay any mind to the chatter about him ‘below your standards’ or ‘not enough’. It was the furthest thing from and as far as you were concerned, he was perfect for you! The yin to your yang..a grade A stereotypical goth with his black clothing, painted nails and fishnets..along with tattoos lining his arm and his affinity for the guitar. A stark contrast to your more dainty and soft aesthetic; blazers and plaid skirts filled your wardrobe along with babydoll platforms and lighter colors. Mirroring that of every quintessential ‘pastel gf/goth bf’ meme when together..even so, the love you shared was equally reciprocated and abundant on every level. Despite your obvious differences in personality, appearance and even interests. But there was one thing you found common ground on..something that would shock anyone who knew you for your outward appearances.

“Open up, baby boy…gonna get it nice and wet for me, right?”

“Mmphm..yes..”

a pair that by all accounts, regardless of contrast..looked innocuous, sweet and so delicate. Little did anyone know that once you got behind closed doors, those masks were peeled away and the facades faded rather quickly. More so, when it came to being in the bedroom. Most would probably guess that your grungy, dark eyed stud took the reins between the sheets. Probably a more softer, sweeter dom with a gentle approach but still in charge nonetheless. However…they’d be sadly mistaken! Especially considering the fact that you were gently stroking the side of his face whilst he sucked off the silicone cock you had harnessed to your thick thighs. The two of you had just come home from a rather eventful Halloween party..drunk and dressed in rather salacious costumes. You in a sexy demon costume that left little to the imagination and Cho in his incubus get up with wings included. Truthfully, (y/n) had dreamt of seducing and dominating your man for a long time and this was the perfect excuse. Wondering just how well he’d fair when he was no longer in control. As it turned out, he loved it far more than anticipated. So much so, each time you guys got intimate, Choso insisted that you take the lead. Whatever you wanted, he was at your whim and mercy.

currently seated on all fours, he’d take subtle kitten licks at the tip before taking it a little further. Hand rested atop his head as you guided him along so carefully..akin to the many times he had done the same to you. Watching those pouty little lips of his coil around that plastic shaft and glide across all eight inches. “Look at you..so cute and pathetic. Sucking on this dick like a good boy. Are you enjoying yourself? You like pleasing mommy, don’t you?” Cooing with such a seductive tone and he loved it. If he knew what was good for him, he’d get it nice and slicked up..with his back slightly arched and hands planted into the mattress, he’d focus intensely on slurping up that fictitious dick; allowing you to fuck his mouth with as much subtly or force as you pleases. He was your bitch..your toy to mold and play with at your leisure. Behind these four walls, without judgemental eyes to pry, you made love the way you saw fit.

“Good job, baby..you took the whole thing that time. And you didn’t even gag..you’re learning.” Offering up an encouraging smile and swipe of a thumb across his pale cheek. Your thumb rested between his teeth before being replaced by your strap on yet again. You could see him discreetly attempting to cup at his own member. What he wouldn’t give to jerk himself as he worshiped your perfect physique before him; perfectly round, big tits, brown, supple skin and dark areolas with puffy nipples. Nipples he wished to flick his tongue around as you bounced him up and down on that dildo. It would be nothing short of a dream but alas, it was a mere privilege. And privileges were earned. Getting to touch you in any capacity right now was something he’d have to work hard for. However, you wanted to explore a little more of that sexy body. You wanted to see how he’d deal with being placed on all fours, waiting to be mounted as you gripped his waist and he tossed his ass back..you surely were about to find out!

“..turn around, baby boy. I think you’re ready for me now..” giving the command to face towards the scattered plushies strewn about your bed and the wall as you saddled up behind him. With a quick tug to his neatly tied pigtails, you’d snatch his head back just so you could watch his initial reaction when you slid in.

“Mmm…fuck—wanna be so full of you right now..” the uttering of that phrase alone causing your pussy to quiver. You were a leaking mess between your thighs and had those straps not been in the way, you’d be trying to get off as well but right now, it was his turn to be slutted out. “Don’t worry, my sweet love. I’m gonna take such good care of you..just relax.” Giving him a barrage of reassuring, sloppy kisses. So with that, you’d prompt him to place his hands on both asscheeks behind his back and spread them open. That puckering little entrance was practically twitching for you to get inside of him. Whereas many men would shy away from the idea of being impaled on a cock, Choso knew that the ultimate pleasure lay in that exact spot. He wasn’t ashamed of getting stuffed full to fulfill his desires. Panting like a stray pup, he’d wait patiently as you slicked it up with lube and even massaged some onto his entrance. The sheer sensation of the cooling liquid made him shudder but you were quick to massage his skin..hoping to quell that anxiety. Leaning forward, (y/n) clutched three fingers around his throat, slightly tilting his head backwards before teasing that tip around the rim of his little entrance.

“Ooh, Cho..you’re so handsome, baby boy..so fucking cute like this.”

and it was that exact declaration that had him ready to be used any way you desired. And seconds after uttering so—

“G’ahh! F-fuck!” A loud cry erupted from his mouth; gentle whimpers falling from those pouty, trembling lips as you impaled him on that toy and tugged him back towards you. “But you look even cuter getting fucked.” Coaxing a chuckle from you whilst bucking your hips forward..those long fingernails coiled throughout his wavy black locks as you used them to keep him controlled, along with a hand on the small of his back. You tried your hardest to mirror his own rhythm but soon, you found a pace of your own that worked for both of you..especially when you could hear your boyfriend whining and crying out for more. It was something so hot about watching this man writhe his hips and try to wiggle his ass to meet your thrusts. You’d lean up a little to spit onto his orifice, giving him a little extra wetness.

“Yeah? That feel good, baby? You’re doing sooo good taking mommy’s strap right now. I love it..” receiving that type of praise from you had Choso ready to burst right now but he exercised restraint and just clasped the pillows in front of him as he tried to maintain that arch. His own cock was throbbing and his prostate being stimulated beyond relief. He was a firm believer that every man should try this at least once!.. “..th—thank you..thank you so much…fucking me so good.” So desperate for a release as that pressure began to build. He looked so utterly pathetic, it was adorable. Remnants of his eyeliner staining his cheeks and those guttural groans becoming louder by the second. Clutching a hand around his throat, you’d tug him back even further and impale that toy deeper. “So gracious…just for that, jerk that dick for me, baby. C’mon, stroke that shit while I fuck this little ass. I know you wanna come so badly..” and that would be an understatement; crying out, Choso hooked a hand underneath his torso and began to rub the tip of his cock in his palms, letting that seeping precum lubricate his palm. Eventually, he’d speed up a little as it was all he could bear. But that wouldn’t last long when you’d begin to dote on him.

“It’s okay, baby boy..you can come. It’s okay to nut from getting fucked like this. As long as you feel good, that’s all that matters..nothing to be ashamed of..”

it was at that moment, he’d begun to lose control and began shaking, so close to reaching his orgasm. Legs trembling, arch breaking and his balls swollen to the brim. Once you gave him the signal and permission to let go, he didn’t hesitate and before you knew it:

“G-g..GAHHHH! Fuck!” It was as if something had shattered inside of him at that very second and his warm, juicy load began to spill all over your bed sheets. Opaque cream meshing with the pink linen..a dumbed out expression on his face and tears rolling down his cheek. You’d make haste in comforting him as you leaned forward and placed a kiss to his temple before letting your lips meet in a haze of sloppy, passionate kisses. He was so elated and in indescribable ecstasy right now. Nothing felt better than this!

“I love you…I love you so fucking much..”

“I love you more, Cho..you did so good, I’m so proud of you..”

and you’d help bring him to this climatic high anytime he wanted.

@greenieweeniesworld @spaceforher @anubisisthebomb @crazychaoticizzy @makaylasierra789 @momobaby227 @certified-stargirl @thickbihhwitdagapp @kameko-ko @valentineluvu @mukurosbracup @prettypink-princesss @bleach-your-panties

#kinktober #choso kamo #choso x black!reader #choso x reader #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen x black reader #jujustu kaisen #jjk smut #choso smut #choso #choso x female reader #jjk choso #jujutsu kaisen choso #choso x you #choso x y/n #choso kamo x black reader #choso kamo x reader #jjk au #jjk #jjk x you #jjk x reader #jujustsu kaisen au #jujutsu Kaisen x black reader smut #black reader #cw pegging #cw smut #black fem reader #anime au #cw sex mention

[cenorii]

RE headcanons!

PART 1 (if you like it I'll make a sequel with other characters. I was just bored)

My serious headcanons about some RE characters. Some I'll write about more than others because I thought about them more often, I apologize in advance.

Chris Redfield

— his favorite color is green, he enjoys this color and adds it to any set of clothes, even his military gear. He doesn't care if shades of green may not match at all in the same outfit, he just wears that color because he loves it.

— his favorite genre of music in the early years, judging by his daring clothes, guitar and references to «Queen», was heavy metal and pop-rock. Nowadays, many years later, he probably likes the laid-back tunes of «Roxette» and «Savage» because Chris' life has become hectic and he needs an island of peace.

— he smokes, but he's not a heavy smoker. In his youth, Chris smoked a lot and often, judging by his concept art. Now, however, he smokes to get in the right frame of mind and pace, to focus and calm down.

— After the amnesia episode, Chris stopped drinking and now only drinks on holidays. Drinking has become disgusting to him, it reminds him of his episode of weakness.

— Chris prefers his natural scent, doesn't use any special perfume on himself because he washes with regular soap.

— he's a latent gay man, but he's never been in a relationship. Chris seriously doesn't understand why he isn't attracted to women. The last thing he thinks about is his real orientation. He's silly.

— he likes Wesker more than Chris is willing to admit. Since he doesn't realize what kind of attraction it is, Chris doesn't guess his crush. He's too inexperienced in love affairs to realize it. Especially when it comes to Wesker, who he has a ton of emotions associated with, a lot of which are negative.

— Chris has some guitar skills, but after 1998, he barely remembers it. He can't sing, he's just an amateur at it.

— he doesn't know how to cook, ordering takeaways. Chris doesn't like junk food, having given up his attempts to learn how to cook and not even opening the cookbook Claire gave him.

— Chris never has enough time to shave his face or cut his hair. But that doesn't bother him.

— he had a low grade in school, Chris liked fun more than textbooks.

Wesker

— his favorite color is blue, but Wesker doesn't like others to know too much about it, so he adds this color to his clothes very carefully. Blue color in his clothes has never been the main color, it is only an accent.

— Wesker doesn't usually listen to music, he prefers silence, but if he had to choose, he would settle for Frank Sinatra songs. He can only listen to something that won't throw him off his thoughts.

— Wesker doesn't smoke or drink. Spencer dreamed of creating an ideal society, so he raised the Weskers as ideal people. Such people should not drink and smoke. These people should only spend time on self-development and so on.

— he doesn't swear. Wesker doesn't like and/or know how to swear because of his «proper» upbringing. He will never insult a person with a rude word, but will pick up the most innocuous one, even if he is very angry. Who shouts «self-righteous fools» or «ignorant cretins» in anger? Only the child or Wesker, because in his situation I'd be yelling «assholes», «fucking bastards» and so on. He's polite and well-mannered, just like Spencer wanted.

— he has a good sense of humor. Wesker doesn't seem like a joker because his jokes are very subtle and infrequent. He says «I have a date to keep» and then goes and destroys the Red Queen with the phrase «goodbye, fair lady», isn't he the most serious joker in fandom after that?

— Wesker is pansexual, but he doesn't care about relationships and so he, like Chris, is not even aware of his preference. He doesn't pay attention to it, so his involvement with Ms. Muller or his sudden obsession with Chris doesn't give him any reason to wonder what his orientation is. He doesn't care.

— he's in love with Chris, but he sees those feelings as a manifestation of his pride in him.

— his bathroom shelf is filled with various self-care products, and he is very worried about his appearance. First, the smell of his perfume enters the room, and then Wesker enters.

— Ms. Muller was not just a «one-night stand» for him, there was a warm relationship between them, because she remained in good opinion of him and even kept the child. This is a side of Wesker that is unknown to the players, because he had no opportunity or chance to show it. I think they broke up because Wesker was getting too attached to this woman and she was becoming his weakness, and he «can't have weaknesses». His job may have also interfered with the relationship, causing Muller to make her own decision to get out of his way, keeping the good memories alive. Wesker, on the other hand, tried to forget about that pleasant time with her so it wouldn't interfere with him.

— he is not ashamed to recognize someone else's merits and praise another person. He appreciates people who are good at something, he is sincere about it.

— Wesker is not a villain and an antagonist, he is the anti-villain. He has all the personality traits that fit that definition. He is not the pure evil that many believe him to be due to their inattention.

— he can cook, and he does it well. Wesker is known for being great at everything and cooking is no exception. Back in the days of S.T.A.R.S., he took care of his healthy diet, but once he gained power and became a bioterrorist, he stopped cooking for himself, preferring to order food from restaurants or have a personal chef. Because of the virus, he doesn't need to eat as often as normal people, so he really enjoys the process, since it rarely happens.

— because of his principles or Spencer's upbringing, Wesker can't directly harm a child. Children have never been a target for him, and he considers it beneath his dignity.

— his name is a mononym. Wesker doesn't call himself Albert and doesn't like it when others do (but doesn't stop them out of politeness). He is Wesker to everyone and to himself. However, there is a contradiction here — he hates the word «Wesker» and this whole project. Surely he must have considered changing his name if he had achieved the evolution of humanity. He still uses his initials AW when necessary.

Leon S Kennedy

— Leon has no color preference, he wears whatever clothes he feels comfortable in. He doesn't care if the colors don't match.

— he loves children and is easy to get along with.

— he uses feminine shower gels and likes sweet scents.

— likes to drink to relax or for any other reason. But he doesn't smoke.

— the music that Leon likes is very hard to define. He is probably a music lover who listens to whatever he likes.

— Leon isn't shy about swearing. He likes to make silly jokes to lighten the mood.

— He knows how to cook, but not very well, but these skills are enough for him. Leon can make toast or fry eggs, but it would be difficult for him to cook something more complicated, so he often watches tutorials on the Internet or eats fast food.

— Leon is bisexual and he knows it. He's crazy about Ada Wong, but he tries to hide it, which is unsuccessful.

— he likes karaoke.

— it annoyed him that if he showed up in any kind of transportation, there was a high probability of an accident or something. He sometimes wondered if he was a loser.

— he had a girlfriend once, but the affair was so casual that it broke up after almost a month.

— In school he had average grades, Leon could not be called a bad student, but he was not an excellent student either.

Ada Wong

— her favorite color is not only red, but also black.

— she loves elegant clothes and doesn't care if they don't fit her work. Despite the design, Ada chooses only clothes in which she can move freely.

— only Wesker knows her real name, and her name «Ada Wong» is just a rehash of «AW» (Albert Wesker).

— I like to think that she and Wesker could have acted like best friends, but voluntarily opted out for personal reasons.

— Ada pretends not to like music, but she actually likes «Marina and the Diamonds». She listens to these songs alone, in a deserted place.

— she smoked once, but she quit. She doesn't drink.

— Ada doesn't have any holidays, she doesn't even celebrate her own birthday.

— she's straight, and she's openly attracted to Leon.

— loves subtle scents in perfume, she always smells nice, but this scent is barely perceptible.

— Ada can't cook and hasn't tried to learn. She eats food from cafes and prefers to go there herself instead of having it delivered.

— She has no problem with foreign languages, she probably knows a few besides English.

— she was an honors student in school and she's easy to learn new things.

— Ada is an anti-hero.

Alex Wesker

— Alex's favorite color is white. It is the color of sterility and truth that she strives for in her research.

— I guess her full name is Alexandra.

— loves getting her nails done to cheer herself up. Due to illness and failed experiments, she is always in a bad mood, so taking care of herself helps her keep her head cool and rational.

— Alex loved her own short hair, which she had in the past, but it reminded her too much of Albert, whom she respected. Because of what she knew about «Project W» and the truth about them, Alex felt a kind of guilt for keeping her brother in the dark and lying. So she changed her image so she wouldn't think about it.

— she's a lesbian.

— Alex knows Russian.

— she must have a secret altar in her house dedicated to Albert.

— she respects Albert so much that she even tries to think and act like him. It is forbidden to insult her brother in her presence, even though they have hardly ever met and are not related.

— Alex did grieve when she learned of her brother's death in the volcano. But when she learned of his death in 1998, she was not sad, because she had not yet had time to get to know him so well and get into his personality.

— the clothes Alex wears are formal and office style. She doesn't like to wear something informal because she feels insecure in it.

— the mole under her eye is painted, or appeared there with age.

— Alex likes only classical music, her ear cannot perceive anything from modern genres.

— Has never thought about relationships, but can admit if she likes someone.

— Alex's only humor is black.

— often communicates with quotes from books, like someone quotes from songs. This helps her to express her thoughts properly and emphasize them.

— she's a lot harder to piss off than Albert.

#resident evil #rebhfun #chris redfield #albert wesker #leon s kennedy #ada wong #alex wesker #resident evil headcanons #I don't want to offend anyone

[reallydelicatezombie]

1995 Rust Cohle NSFW Alphabet

Alright, fellow fanfiction SLUTS. *cracks knuckles in preparation for typing all this shit out* Let’s do this. P.S. I hope you all like this because our Sad Boi is very hard to write for. 

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

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

There are shades of aftercare with Rust, and it all depends on where you’re at in your relationship. If you’ve just started seeing each other and having sex, I think aftercare won’t come naturally to him. It’s not necessarily that he means to be cold or anything; he’ll still offer to help clean you up and ask if you’re okay, but he won’t immediately go to pull you to him. He’ll be hesitant to initiate it, though if you curl yourself up to him, he’ll cautiously put his arm around you. He’s a bit stiff, and not sure what to say; honestly, he’s a little shellshocked at having you turn up in his life, and it surprises him the way he starts to feel something again.  Affection never came easy to him, and he hasn’t been this close to anyone, physically or emotionally, in years, yet he still secretly craves your nearness. As your relationship progresses and grows past the shoot out with Reggie and Dewall Ledoux, Rust starts to hold you tighter, to pull you closer after. The event kind of wakes him up; makes him aware of just how much you mean to him. He also begins to stroke your hair gently as he holds you, which is a surprisingly tender act from him. 

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

Rust *needs* to feel your ass, hips, and waist. He’s a hard man whose life hasn’t been filled with much of anything soft, and he always marvels at the suppleness of your ass, the curve of your hips under his hands, no matter how many times he touches you. He grips your waist so hard sometimes he leaves bruises, but it’s never meant to hurt you. He just finds gripping these parts of you grounding when you have sex; his synesthesia can be pretty overwhelming then. He sees/feels a deep, pulsating rose color when he hears you moaning or when he cums, so something so tangible helps him refocus. He also loves your hair. It might seem like an innocuous thing to some, but to him it’s just another layer of softness to you; you offer him the comfort of your body so freely, and he can’t help but take it. Yes, pulling your hair during sex satisfies some animalistic need deep inside him, but he also loves the color and texture of it. When he starts to stroke it after sex, he realizes it’s not just a way to comfort you, but also himself.

As for his body, Rust would say he doesn’t care about anything so trivial, but that’s because he’s a fucking liar when it comes to his feelings sometimes. We all know that he cares about his hair. I submit for your consideration: his different hairstyles during the three different eras. 1995 Cohle does not just wake up with his dirty blonde hair effortlessly wavy; no, he spends at least 10 minutes putting product in it and then scrunching it, you can’t change my mind. In 2002, we see all that gel put in his hair in an effort to make it kinda spikey. That takes time. That takes effort. Let us also note that Rust, eschewer of all things material, is also spending his money on these products. Finally, 2012 Rust grew out his hair for a reason. Think about it: why did he take the time to wash it and put it in a little ponytail? He could've just shaved it all off or not bothered with putting it back, but he didn't.

You love his hair because he lets you touch it and run your fingers through it, which he finds comforting (although he pretends like he doesn’t need any comfort initially, but you can tell he loves it, so you keep doing it, even if he teases you about it). Over time he eases up about this, and even lets you hold his head in your lap. You also love his pensive blue eyes and long, elegant fingers especially when they’re pumping in and out of you. He gruffly says something like, “They’re just fingers, Y/N. Nothin’ special about them.” But again, he’s full of shit because he will purposefully do something fiddly with them just to get you riled up. 

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

Even though Rust totally unloaded one unprotected into Maggie, and he would absolutely do the same with you the first time, I think he would be a bit horrified and panicked after the fact. In the heat of the moment, it felt amazing to cum inside you, but after that, when he realizes the sex is gonna be regular, he always makes sure to have a condom, or to pull out if not and you’re also on the pill. He is deeply afraid of getting you pregnant and has no desire to be a father again.

As mentioned in “B”, cumming for him can be pretty overwhelming; he sees and feels that deep, thrumming rose color, and sometimes when he cums really hard he sees a marine blue flooding it and mixing with it to make a sort of purple, maroon color. To be honest, he feels very vulnerable when he cums, so if at the start of your relationship you don’t have condom for some reason, he’ll flip you over and cum all over your ass. This way, he can grip you and ground himself (and he also thinks your ass looks lovely covered in his cum, but this is all going to be internal dialogue at this point). Once he’s gotten more secure in himself and actually opens up a bit more with you, he feels like it’s okay to face you eye-to-eye while he cums. Those sky-blue eyes boring into yours while he finds his release is a bit unnerving, but in a deliciously intimate way. In this position, if he doesn’t have a condom, he’ll pull out and cum on your pussy or breasts. He’ll start to tell you how beautiful he finds you like this. Since it’s a compliment coming from him, it makes you feel electric and powerful.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Okay, so hear me out: Rust wants to fuck you senseless in his biker jacket, either with him fully clothed as Crash wearing the jacket, or with you in nothing but the jacket. Either way, it’s a win for him. It’s not that it’s the filthiest fantasy a person could have, but he obviously struggles with verbalizing even his most basic emotional and physical needs. When he first met you, he couldn’t help but fantasize about it. He told himself it was just because it had been a long time and you were so pretty; it’s a basic human need to fuck, so he told himself that it wasn’t anything more than that. But if the frequency of how many times he dreamt this scenario is anything to go by, he was down bad for you. 

If he were to be dressed as Crash (let’s face it, it’s a persona for him), he would use either his belt or tie to bind your hands above you to the headboard and do whatever he wanted with you. He would not be gentle, and there would be bruises, but chasing his need, just using you like that, seems unbelievably satisfying to him. His mind would turn off for however long it took to get the urge out, and that sounds like a glorious thing to a mind that is continuously turning over. In the scenario where you would be wearing nothing but the jacket, he’d have you ride him like he was a bronco at a rodeo. He’d love to run his hands all over you as you just take your pleasure from him, and again, the peace of having his mind turn off and his body just be on sounds heavenly, if he believed in such a thing as heaven. 

(Spoiler alert: both these scenarios go down, and even though the world is shit and life is meaningless and men and women aren’t supposed to work and all that jazz, Rustin Cohle has a very, very good time.)

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

More than people like Marty or the other cops would think, but still not a ton. Rust really strikes me as demisexual, so he's not getting into bed at the drop of a hat. He did have to take pills to help him stay erect when he was undercover as Crash, since that whole scene was violent machismo and sexual conquest was a big part of that, and he hated every second of it, tried to get those encounters over as quickly as possible.

With the experiences he did want, however, Rust was always a very observant partner, and it won't be any different with you. Even though he might be afraid of intimacy, he doesn't strike me as the type to not pay attention to the sounds you make, to the way your fingers tighten on his shoulders and how your back arches when he hits a certain spot. He'll take his time to learn all of you and make sure to do those things that elicit the strongest reaction from you.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

There are a few, and like everything else with Rust, it's very dependent on what point in the relationship you're at. Initially, because of how vulnerable he feels and how much that both excites and makes him nervous, doggy style and both of you lying down on your sides with your back to him are his go to moves. He'll still try to connect with you, though, because he really does need intimacy even if he can't ask for it. He'll reach around and play with your clit, suck on your neck, or whisper "Good girl" when you cum.

Later on, he really wants to look in your eyes and watch your face as you fall apart, so he'll prefer missionary or you both lying down on your sides, face-to-face. This feels much more intimate for the both of you, and he tends to hike your legs up over his waist to get deeper in these positions. He'll also cradle your head and thread his fingers through your hair.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

Lol, it's Rust Cohle, so NO. He's very focused on what's going on during sex and all the sensations he's feeling, and trying to be funny during the moment will pull him out of that state. Plus, he's not one to crack many jokes in nonsexual moments, though he does have a unique sense of humor that comes out sometimes. We see that when he has the conversation with Marty at the banh mi place and Marty tells him that he can't admit to having doubts. Rust replies, "I doubt that," with a cocky little attitude. And then when they reunite and interview the Childress' former maid, he makes the quip about hoping that she was wrong about death not being the end. 😸

Anyway, back to the matter at hand: he does get to a point where he can make a few cocky remarks and smirks during sex, but you wouldn't exactly call them jokes or him being goofy. Everything he does is with an intense seriousness.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

Rust doesn't have much hair down there to trim anyway, but it is a bit darker than the rest of his hair. He really doesn't spend any time grooming it.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

We've established that while Rust can't verbalize his desires and emotions easily, especially when your relationship is new, he does deeply crave intimacy. That's because he doesn't actually want to completely disappear from humanity, no matter how much he says he does. We see it in the show in little ways, like when he decides to stay for dinner with Marty's family, when he tries to go on the double date, when he asks Marty how he's been after they finally start speaking again. He's someone who wants something meaningful, not superficial, because he's hurting so much from all of the loss he's suffered. So when he starts a relationship with you, he does make an effort, however unsure of how to do this he may be.

Intimacy with Rust isn't rose petals on the bed, or date nights at fancy restaurants, or even sweet words. He's a doer, not a talker. It's him pulling you tighter to him when he lets his guard down. It's him cradling your head softly while he's buried deep inside you and gazing into your eyes. It's him coming up behind you while you finish putting away the dishes together and turning you to him, kissing you deeply, and leading you by the hand to your shared bedroom where he makes you shake with passion around him.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

He’s never been one for masturbation, mostly because he’s very disconnected from his body; he spends so much of his time turning things over in his mind, sorting out his personal philosophy. BUT, when he first meets you and starts to have the fantasies involving Crash’s jacket, he does jerk off a few times to relieve the tension he feels around you. He thinks nothing physical will ever happen with you, and he hopes that by relieving the ache he feels when his pants tighten at the thought of you he might just get it out of his system and move on. He finds these feelings more frustrating than pleasurable at first, so he tries to get it over with as quickly as possible. (Spoiler alert: it doesn’t work.) Instead, he finds himself craving you more and more. Once you finally hook up, he doesn’t feel the need to do it as much since he can just be with you if he feels the need. He’s very pro you masturbating, though, and thinks it’s sexy that you touch yourself to thoughts of him. He asks to watch you do it, which you gladly oblige. You get folded like a lawn chair after. 

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

*rubs hands together gleefully* Ooh, goody! Rust has a few kinks, one of them being the desire to tie you up and just take you (consensually, of course). The need to be in control and let go of all of the stress and tension he feels is very present, especially before the shoot out. He only wants to use his belt, his tie, or some other piece of fabric and not handcuffs, however, because that feels too much like his job and that doesn’t really turn him on. 

EDGING: he loves bringing you right up to the brink, and then pulling back. He does this during your longer sessions, as it makes more sense to do it then. Hearing you whimper at the loss of force or a slowed down pace when you were so close makes him even harder; and the sweet, desperate way you beg makes working you up all over again worth it. 

SHOTGUNNING: This is more of a pre- or post-sex kink, if that can be a thing. He just likes sharing the smoke with you and hearing you inhale it. He thinks it’s sexy. If you’re sitting on his lap facing him while you do it, it’s safe to assume he’ll get so turned on that you’ll get fucked hard. If it’s post-sex, then he’ll lazily watch you exhale the smoke, and it looks like a weird kind of halo around you.

STOCKINGS AND GARTERS: Rust doesn’t need you to have fancy lingerie, he’s a simple man. However, he finds stockings and garters very classy and very sensual, and if you wear a skirt that shows just a little bit of the garters when you move or bend over, he won’t be able to keep his hands off of you. He is secretly always hoping you will wear them because he just wants to run his hands up and down your thighs and over your hips and ass. If the stockings are crotchless, even better because he will definitely ask you to wear them during sex. 

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

Rust doesn’t care very much about where you two have sex, so long as it’s safe and private. For instance, he would never have sex at the police station because one of his coworkers might walk in or overhear, and he would literally die if that happened. You’ve had sex in the backseat of his truck when the two of you went for a drive in the country at night; you were the only car on the road for over an hour, so it seemed private enough. The place he feels the most comfortable, though, is your place because everything there smells like you, and your bed is soft and warm. You have a lot of blankets and pillows, which he definitely does not have at his apartment, and he secretly likes being all cozied up to you after sex.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

We’ve mentioned the shotgunning and the garters and stockings, but there are other things that get him going. You showing any depth of knowledge about anything, whatever area you have a lot of skill or knowledge in, that really turns this brainy fucker on. He values knowledge, thoughtfulness, intelligence, intellect. He craves it in the shithole that is Louisiana*, and you’re like a breath of fresh air to him. It really excites him to be with someone who is as smart and caring as you. Speaking of which, showing any level of care towards him gets his blood pumping. Did you make a homecooked meal just for him? Fuck. Did you wash and iron his work shirt because you noticed he hadn’t had time to? Girl. Did you put a book back that had fallen off his bookshelf and he hadn’t bothered to pick up? OH BABY. He just appreciates the little things, because they show him how much you care about him, and that turns him on immensely. 

*As someone from Louisiana, I can confirm that Louisiana is a 100%, Grade A, USDA-certified intellectual shithole. It’s not a stereotype, it’s true. 

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

The thought of any sort of necrophilia, or anything where you’d pretend you were a corpse or something like somnophilia turns his stomach. Even though he might like to tie you up and have your movement limited, part of what’s so enjoyable about that is your response to his ministrations. You are very much alive, and he needs that feedback. Also, spending all day looking at DBs pretty much guarantees he wouldn’t want to see that when he gets off, even if it’s just pretend. 

Also: absolutely no daddy and mommy kink, for obvious reasons. I don’t think he’d want to be called “Daddy” in any context, and definitely not a sexual one. 

The thought of actually hurting you also makes him physically ill: light spanking and hair pulling is one thing, but choking you or slapping you across the face reminds him too much of his time undercover with the Iron Crusaders, and he has no desire to revisit that. 

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

He has no preference, and likes giving as much as he likes receiving. Very good at giving because he is so detail-oriented and pays attention to exactly how you respond with each flick of his tongue or drag of his teeth. He enjoys the way you taste, and will take his time eating you out, really working you up until you need him to finish you. 

For receiving, seeing you in nothing but his leather jacket, knelt down in front of him really does something to him. He could honestly spend all afternoon watching you trying to take all of his length in. He loses it when you kitten-lick the tip and then suddenly deep-throat him. Bonus points will be given if you swallow every last drop, because fuck, he thinks that shit is so hot. “Are you trying to kill me, Y/N?” “No, but what a fun way to go.” ;)

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

It’s either hard and fast, or slow and sensual. There is no in-between. At the beginning, it will mostly be hard and fast because he’s getting it all out of his system; it’s been so long for him, and he needs some time to get in touch with the side of himself that can be sensual. When it is hard and fast, it’s overwhelming because you have to basically brace yourself for the ride (not that you mind; you understand Rust probably better than he understands himself when it comes to his emotional and physical needs). 

Once he’s opened up enough to consistently use a slow and sensual pace, he goes deep. This is when you’ll be face-to-face, looking into each other’s eyes, with your legs wrapped tight around his waist or raised over his shoulders. This pace is overwhelming in a different type of way. Someone like Rust being so connected with you is special and not to be taken lightly because you know he wouldn’t do this with just anybody. It means he trusts you and thinks highly enough of you to be vulnerable and take his time with you. 

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Quickies are very rare for you two because he greatly prefers taking his time. Since it’s already difficult for him to be physically and emotionally open, he doesn’t really have the ability to quickly get it up, get with you, and then go on with his day. Plus, he doesn’t really like to have sex in a location where you two can be interrupted or discovered, and those locations are usually where quickies happen. That said, the few times you have had them, like the locked bathroom at a bar or dance hall (he won’t go to the clubs unless it’s for an investigation, sorry), have been very lustful and intense. 

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Absolutely. Freakin’. Not. No way. While he grows more open to trying new positions, toys, etc., with you as the relationship grows, Rust will never, at any point in your relationship, do anything that would physically hurt you (He’s also extremely afraid that he’s going to fuck this up and hurt you emotionally, and that honestly scares him more than he cares to admit). Again, being a little rough is not what this means: it means he’s not going to put you in any danger. He’s not taking you undercover as Crash; he’s not carelessly bringing you to places where you might be in any danger. He’s also very afraid before the shootout that whoever is behind the murders and disappearances will find you and hurt you because of his investigation. He’s very protective of you in this way. 

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

He has a surprising amount of stamina. He can switch it up; either one long session, so long as you are able to, or several faster sessions. It depends on where he’s at mentally. If he’s in his head more, it will probably two faster, shorter sessions, though he always makes sure you’re satisfied before he finishes. If he’s more relaxed, he’ll take his time with you, and this is usually when he sets a slower, more sensual pace.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

None, unless you count the belt and tie. He counts those as accessories, not toys. He’s not opposed to you having them, however, and definitely enjoys watching you use your vibrator  or clit sucker on yourself (or him using them on you). Other than that, he really doesn’t have any experience or knowledge of what other toys are out there, so if you like to use more, you’ll have to show him. He’d be a bit out of his element at first, but since he’s so intelligent, would get the hang of them quickly. 

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Rust Cohle, while he doesn’t have what you would call “game”, can be a motherfucking tease when he wants to be. Generally, he doesn’t play games and if he wants you, he’ll let you know, BUT he thinks it can be entertaining to see you riled up over him, to the point where you’re clenching your thighs and nearly begging for him to take you. He’ll use his hands to slowly rub your thighs if you’re out for a drive, going higher a little bit each time, but never as high as you want/need him to go. Or he’ll take his time kissing down your torso or up your legs, but never making his way to your center. He has his cocky smirk on at that point. He will eventually give you what you want, because it’s actually what he wants to. 

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Rust doesn’t make much sound in terms of moaning, but he does breathe very heavily and grunt when he cums. He absolutely lives for your moans, though, and there’s just something about the way you shakily scream out his name in the heat of the moment that snaps something inside of him. He has an excellent auditory memory, and can recall each note and sound you make. When he’s home alone and it’s late at night and he can’t sleep, he remembers every sound you make.

He has an unsurprisingly filthy mouth, and once he’s truly comfortable in the relationship, he’ll say things to you that make you blush furiously (he loves this response). “Fuck, Y/N. That pretty pussy all for me?” and “You gonna be a good girl and cum for me, huh? Cum all over my dick.” And you are a good girl, so of course you do. 

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

Rust wants to take pictures of you wearing only the leather jacket so he can have them with him when he misses you (we don’t have sexting at this point in time), but he has no idea how to ask. He knows you would do it in a heartbeat, but it just seems so personal for some reason. Little does he know, you have plans to surprise him on his birthday with some pictures you’ve taken yourself in the jacket WITH garters and stockings WITH a cigarette in your hands. Even though he hates birthdays and doesn’t see the point in celebrating a day when he was ripped out of nonexistence against his will into this violence, he’s going to stop complaining when he sees the pictures. You actually render him speechless. 

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

Not very thick, but very long: a shower, not a grower. Since he’s on the thinner side, it makes sense that it wouldn’t be too thick. It has a slight curve to it, which he uses to angle into you just right. Surprisingly pink when he’s aroused.  

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

Pre-shootout, it would not be very high (though for him it comes cums as quite a shock since he was not expecting to be horny at all), maybe twice a week. Once the shootout happens, he feels like he can relax a bit more, and that’s when it ramps up for you two. At least 3 times a week, though it is usually more if his case load isn’t too busy. His sex drive is absolutely tied to what else is going on his life, and to his mental state. When it does pick up, he craves you. He’ll never pressure you if you’re not in the mood, though. Forcing himself on you is something that Rust wouldn’t even think about doing.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Rust has terrible insomnia, but every once in a while, after you’re both sated, he finds himself actually sleeping. Not every time, but often enough that it gives his body some of the rest he desperately needs (please just let this Sad Boi sleep. Please.) If he has trouble sleeping for a long period of time, you can bet you’re going to get it rough soon, because he’s figured out that there’s a connection between how hard he goes and how deeply he sleeps. You’re honestly glad that you can help him rest. For the times when he still can’t sleep, he’ll just lie there, quietly watching you sleeping peacefully and his heart aches a little bit at the sight. He might shut his eyes and dream, the dreams being softer than what he used to dream about before he met you.  

#Rust Cohle #rustin cohle #rust cohle x reader #rust cohle headcanons #true detective season 1 #true detective #matthew mcconaughey

[total-drama-brainrot]

Total Drama Psycho Noah AU, before Alejandro knew the truth, Noah would sometimes cuddle to the charmer while sleeping... Alejandro was amused and fond by this... But when Alejandro learns about Noah's true crazy colors and the sleeping Noah cuddles into Alejandro again, Alejandro is trying NOT to freak out! 😴

Wait no you're so right. Noah's sleep cuddling habit would've been seen as innocuous throughout the whole series, especially in World Tour when their sleeping arrangements were so cramped. Of course he'd always end up practically gluing himself to the nearest person in his sleep- who would usually ended up being Owen or sometimes Alejandro, as they were the two people Noah tolerated enough to spend most of his time with.

But as soon as everyone on the jet becomes aware that he's not nearly as harmless as he's portrayed himself to be? When he intentionally shows himself to be a threat to their safety/wellbeings?

Well, suddenly his "cute little quirk" has turned into a very volatile situation.

-

What is Alejandro supposed to do when he wakes up in the Economy cabin, not even twenty four hours after the London challenge, and finds everyone's fearful eyes trained on him. How is he supposed to react when he feels the familiar weight of the dangerous, downright vicious person they'd all watched snap someone's arms like uncooked spaghetti, draped over him like a blanket?

Especially when they all know that a Noah who's woken up before he's ready is cranky. And that was the Noah from before, who was apparently keeping a tight leash on his wilder instincts- now that he's given up on holding himself back, who knows how he'd respond to being woken up?

Oh wait. They all know how he'd respond- and it involves a lot of bloodshed.

He's trapped; waking up Noah is a guaranteed death sentence, and any movement could be enough to stir the other from his precarious slumber.

And the others know it too. Tyler and Duncan watch him like a hawk, their faces palid with pity and terror, though they thankfully remain just as muted as Alejandro himself. It's unnerving, being held under the terror-shrunk gazes of the two, but not nearly as unnerving as the soft steady breathing of the deranged bookworm sleeping on top of him.

For a moment, there's a tentative silence that hovers between the three of them like a sheet of ice over a frozen lake.

So of course, Owen's boisterous entrance to the cabin shatters it.

"Hey guys, Chef's serving breakfast in the-! Oh, did I interrupt something?"

Noah stirs from his sleep, and Alejandro's breath becomes an inmate in the prison of his lungs. He'd doomed.

"Wuzza'? Is it ch'llenge time?" The bookworm slurs, one hand wiping at his sleep-crusted eyes as the other finds purchase against Alejandro's shoulder. Noah pulls himself into a sitting position, his body subconsciously curling itself towards the nearest heat source- which just so happens to be Alejandro's terror stilled form- and the Spaniard in question internally prays to whatever God is listening that he'll somehow evade the psycho's inevitable ire when he realises that Alejandro is, in fact, not a pillow.

After a trepid second of inaction, Noah hums inquisitively against the warm mass beneath him, and blinks tired eyes up towards Alejandro's ashen face. A moment of incomprehension passes. Then another. And then realisation flickers over the bookworm's features like a dying ember.

Alejandro is so fucked.

Noah's face solidifies into something blank and unreadable- the complete lack of discernible emotion in is expression is almost eldritch in its uncanniness- and the latino doesn't know if its more or less unnerving than the unhinged, crooked smile he's graced the cast with yesterday. But then, unexpectedly, Noah wordlessly slides himself off of Alejandro's lap.

No broken arms. No stab wounds. Not even a threat against his person.

...What?

"Uh. Sorry for sleeping on you, I guess." The cynic says off-handedly, in his customary sardonic drawl, before he steps over to Owen and calmly asks what the blonde oaf was so excited about.

What?!

"It... is no problem, mi amigo." Alejandro chokes out, displacing the stationary air in his lungs.

Where is the vicious psychopath from last night? Why is Noah acting so... normal? Was his display of instability a fever dream or something?

No, both Tyler and Duncan shoot Alejandro matching looks of bewilderment from their seat on the adjacent bench. What happened last night was real, regardless of Noah's current docility.

Owen and Noah's conversation filters off into nothing, and the Archvillain spares a glance towards the pair. Only to find the both of them staring back at him, grinning; Owen's face scrunching up into his usual friendly smile, and Noah's smug smirk rapidly morphing into that same too-wide snarl he'd adorned on the bus- are those fucking fangs?!

"You make a pretty good pillow, Al."

#in other words; noah notices just how scared his teammates are of him and decides to play The Waiting Game #you know that feeling when you're anticipating a jumpscare so you're just sat there being super tense? and then nothing happens? #that's what he's been going for this whole time. but now he can use it on his teammates too! how fun! #sprinkle in a few Scary Smiles™ and unhinged comments to keep them on their toes. #and THEN when everyone finally loses their paranoia he'll Do The Jumpscare. #the alternative here is noah wakes up against alejandro freaks the fuck out and crawls into the vents The Grudge style #which is the funnier option and therefore canon in my heart #total drama #psycho!noah au #alenoah crumbs? #silly ideas #replies

[chrisbangsbf]

Jisung solo (ft. Chan)

Explicit | 900 words

Tags: food play, food fucking, sex toys/fleshlight, masturbation, fantasizing, crack treated seriously, jisung fucks a fleshlight full of mac and cheese and chan is normal about it

twt link | ao3 link

"You're not... actually gonna fuck that, are you?" Chan asks, looking like he has just rolled out of bed even though it's already nearing eight at night.

"With a condom!” Jisung doesn’t hesitate to clarify. “I don't want some weird UTI."

"That's… not what I meant," Chan sighs, exasperated yet fond. He just can't help it with Jisung, that’s his baby. His baby that regularly gives him new grey hairs to worry about, but his baby nonetheless. 

"You can't tell me you aren't curious," Jisung teases, carefully pouring the freshly made sauce in with his noodles. It looks absolutely delicious after mixing everything together, so he takes an experimental bite as he makes eye contact with Chan. Ever the button-pusher.

Chan blinks several times in quick succession, eyeing the pot with what looks like both disgust and curiosity. And he continues to watch as Jisung pointedly hums and sucks the excess cheese from his spoon. 

"Not that curious," the elder chuckles, a little awkward as he gestures toward the clear fleshlight sleeve sitting on the kitchen counter between them. Jisung has no shame, especially at home, and something about that is just… way hotter than it should be.

"Well," Jisung shrugs. "You only live once, hyung," he says wisely, popping the lid off the fleshlight and scooping macaroni into it as if he's doing something as innocuous as folding laundry. Chan wants to pick his brain. And maybe watch this tomfoolery unfold, but that’s another matter entirely. 

"So, that means you should fuck a fleshlight full of pasta just because some ramdom porn star said it felt good?" Chan can't help but laugh. He doesn't really know why he's surprised, to be honest. It's the exact kind of thing he should expect from Jisung after living with him for so many years and having to hear all about his weird sexcapades in explicit detail.

"Why shouldn't I fuck a fleshlight full of pasta to see if it's really as good as people say?" Jisung joins in on the laughter, shaking the toy around to get the noodles distributed as evenly as he can. He seems pretty excited about this. 

Chan shakes his head and takes a bottle of water from the fridge, hovering a few feet away like he isn’t quite sure how to leave. "Well, you go do that.” He makes a step toward the hallway. “I'm gonna be–" he pauses, trying his absolute best to not imagine Jisung's cock squelching as he fucks into this abomination, "uh, somewhere else, doing something totally normal."

“Your loss!” Jisung’s shouts, watching as Chan hurridly slips into his bedroom and closes the door. 

It’s somehow a whole lot goopier than he thought it would be. And he definitely should have let it cool down a little more first before sticking his dick inside, but well. He was too impatient, okay? 

The first few thrusts feel very much like– well, like he’s fucking mac and cheese, honestly. Which he quickly finds to not be such a bad thing. The thick sauce coats his cock immediately and makes the slide pretty pleasant, and the noodles make way for his cockhead easily, opening up and closing back around him with each thrust. 

It’s interesting, really, how good it actually feels. He looks down and watches his length slide in and out of the toy, fascinated by how quickly he thinks he can come from this. Biting his lip, he fucks the toy down his length faster, a little deeper until the noodles are spilling out and making his balls messy. The sound of it is obscene– truly, as they say, like the wettest pussy he can imagine. 

He closes his eyes for a moment, tilting his head back to moan. As much as he enjoys solo play, he can’t help but imagine a certain pair of plush lips wrapped around him instead. Having his hand in a head of curly hair, a tongue there to lick every drop of sauce off his cock, shiny brown eyes looking up at him as he fucks their face and cums thick stripes over their wide nose and dimples. 

Jisung braces himself against the sink, furiously moving the toy up and down until his legs start shaking. Macaroni noodles fall out around him onto the floor, but he couldn’t care less, fucking deep into the mess and coming with the smell of cheese in his nose and his hyung’s name on his lips.

When Jisung walks out of his room later to dump the destroyed mac and cheese out of his fleshlight and into the garbage disposal, he finds Chan back in the kitchen. Sitting at the counter, eating a bowl of cereal. His ears are blood red. 

There’s no way he didn’t hear. 

Smirking, and naked except for his underwear, Jisung leans against the sink and makes eye contact with him. 

Chan looks away quickly and clears his throat, probably half because he’s embarrassed and half because he doesn’t want to choke on his raisin bran. “So, um. How was it?” 

Jisung laughs quietly, stepping right up next to him and stretching both arms above his head. Without looking, he knows Chan glances at his stomach, at his little waist. 

Bending down, mouth next to Chan’s ear, he chuckles, much lower than it had been earlier. “You should have came and watched, hyung. If you were that curious.”

#tw: food play #chansung #chansung drabble #skz #stray kids #chrisbangsbf #jisung #skz smut #stray kids smut #chan

[txttletale]

hey, why the fuck are you still reblogging dyatlovpassingprivilege when they have still yet to apologize for their transmisogyny around the megapope situation and when asked to address it have doubled down and cattily deflected. other trans women are watching and we're noticing how you keep silently platforming transmisogynists while vocally decrying them. it's a shame because i really like your blog otherwise. and please don't feed me that "nicey time on the computer" bullshit. this matters

because i think you're asking this in good faith i will answer in kind! basically, i think that the logic you're operating on uses a definition of 'platforming' that isn't really useful to anybody. like, the only thing i can think of that i've reblogged from dyatlov recently is a screenshot of that godawful aztec game's steam page. i reblogged it because it was posted in a discord server i was in and i wanted to point out that they wrote 'describtions' because lol they wrote describtions and i didn't especially care who posted it. i don't think there's any harm being done--any 'platforming' taking place here. when people say you shouldn't reblog posts from terfs or nazis, it's not because there's some inherent moral contagion present, but because those are organized political groups who use their tumblr blogs as recruitment platforms.

like, terfs and crypto-terfs especially will openly structure their blogs around getting people to follow them for innocuous joke or feminist theory posts and then actively attempt to recruit from among their non-terf followers. that's why you are actually 'platforming' them if you reblog their posts. this isn't the case with dyatlov! dyatlov is just a dumb cis guy who said something shitty and transmisogynistic. it sucks that he did that and it sucks that he refused to acknowledge it but it is what it is and there's no organized recruitment or propaganda process i'm contributing to by reblogging a post from the guy. you contrast 'platforming' vs. 'decrying' them as if one is a material and one is a purely performative action but they are in fact both fairly trivial and immaterial actions--it's all posting on blog.

tldr, i think i've made my opinion on the matter perfectly clear, and i don't think that's undermined because i reblogged a post about a video game to point out the video game guys made a funny typo

#ask #discourse

[be-my-ally]

Director Elvis & Model Bunny

So this comes off of the yet to be released/finished big bunny #3 but essentially, it’s post the flight in #2 and after Elvis has taken her in the morning to his rehearsal just because I thought she'd be very amenable to his suggestion.

you may have deleted it but too late jade, i saw the message, and you got me hooked please never think you're being too demanding I love it - if someone else is writing this too, or if you were gonna use it for yourself then pls god pls i need that too but uh…. i couldn’t resist. So happy birthday @whositmcwhatsit (even though I’m like half hour late) xxxxxxx 

summary: bunny + elvis get up to fun with a camera. 

warnings: 18+, apologies for the use of Priscilla but I swear she’s barely there. Watching a tape of two girls w/o their consent, video recording (with consent), fingering, p in v sex - elvis cums in her. this has not been edited.

wc: miss concise smut strikes again - 4.5k. 

I was imagining (not wearing this suit but still) Elvis from this day in 1974 in case you were wondering.

You sit there primly, for the rest of the rehearsal, ignoring your newfound nakedness under your skirt - unable to draw your eyes off of his wrists, his waist, now you know the story of those innocuous little white bands. Waiting to be dismissed, sent home - although you hope that you might, one day, get another invitation. He finishes, stripping off the weights as he’s laughing and thanking the sound guys - although he's shouting back at one of them as he stalks across the stage to where you’re sat to the side of the front row.

“That interference needs to be cut by tonight, it’s messin’ with my ears, I don’t care if you have to go out and buy a whole new fucking system - just get it done.” Despite his harsh words by the time he’s kneeling in front of you he’s smiling slightly bashfully. His eyes crinkling at the edges as he mutters to you - 

“Don’t know why I keep ‘em around.” He offers you his hand, pulling with his suddenly weightless feeling muscles to yank you up with him. His arm coming around your waist. He stands there, legs spread and solid, holding you to him, brushing your hair off your neck to whisper in your ear. 

“Wanna come back with me, honey? C’mon baby,” He’s pleading with you, entreating you to follow him, babying tone convincing you as if you even needed encouragement. “How - How’d you feel about, I got some things we could watch, we could," He stutters a little, perhaps a little nervous about his next suggestion - you think it's sweet, "we could - I sure would love to tape ya, baby.” You lean back, brow furrowing as your mind runs through what he’s suggesting. 

It’s not something that’s unheard of, especially in the circles you’re running in - hell, half the tapes on Big Bunny were pornographic, but to feature in one yourself? Watch one, with Elvis? It takes a minute for your brain to process. He strokes his hand up your back though and that’s all it takes for you to succumb, nodding desperately. He kisses you as a reward, and you feel yourself melt further, the thought running through the back of your head that you’re not wearing any panties, and god are you about to drip down your thigh? You clench your legs together as he shifts, switching his hand from around your waist to your wrist, pulling you along with him. 

He practically shoves you into the car, his knee jiggling - in nerves or anticipation you can’t be sure. Ironically, he places his hand upon your thigh stilling your own movement while he jostles you with his. His grip is tight, and you can feel the cold of the rings pushing into your bare skin - tiny skirt riding up, in contrast to the burning heat of his fingers. He stares out the window, quiet, for the extent of the drive and none of the boys look surprised to see you accompanying him despite his lack of explanation. You squirm in your seat, unsure why it’s so much more embarrassing for them to know you’re being brought back for sex now than it is on the plane. But you do your best to try to ignore the heavy atmosphere. Elvis leans back, finally facing forward, kicking the seat in front of him when Red gets a bit too loud. The blatant control - the wordless authority he carries with him making your heart beat a little faster in your chest. He finally glances over at you, appraisingly running his eyes from your head to your knees. He smirks as he watches you unable to stay still under his gaze and you’re relieved when finally, finally you’re pulling up into the delivery bay of the hotel - letting him escape into the building without a crowd. He whispers to Marty as he clambers out, a hand held out for you to clutch, before he pulls you with him up to his room. It’s unnerving you - the uncharacteristic silence on the way up and it causes you to shift around anxiously, as much as you can with his tight grip on your hand, but as soon as you’re through the door to his room he’s drawing you closer. 

He presses his lips to your neck, brushing your hair away from it, holding you close. Almost immediately his hand is travelling up your thigh, bunching your skirt at your waist - his large hand span holding it against your skin. Your nakedness, sticky from the morning activities and arousal from the car ride, being slowly exposed. You’re looking up at him, making eye contact through his coloured glasses when he pulls back a little, silently pleading for both more and less, desperate at least for a kiss. His lips are barely a breath away from yours when there’s a knock on the door, and he pulls away. You brush your skirt back down, trying to look slightly put together again as best you can while practically trembling with anticipation. Marty’s pulling a black rolling bag behind him, leaving it in the centre of the room, 

“Thanks man, that’ll - that’ll do just there. I’ll sort it out.” Marty nods, slightly uncomfortably looking, clearly trying to ignore you. 

“Sure thing E, uh, enjoy.” The door shuts with a click as he leaves and Elvis is quick to unload the set-up from within. You awkwardly hang around, hands rubbing at your arms as you wait for him to be done; 

“S’ok baby, why don’t you get comf- oh, actually, how’s about you - no, no, hang on a second baby - Jerry’ll be knocking any minute now with some things for you.” He gestures to the bed from where he’s bent attaching cords and wires to the little television set, “Why don’t you get comfy in the mean time.” You frown, a little confused as to what you need Jerry to bring you but you don’t question him, following his directive to sit down, perching a little tentatively on the bed. It’s mere moments before he stands, glancing over the set-up with his hands on his hips, nodding, pleased with himself. He’s starting to pull out what looks an awful lot like a tripod - you don't know why you're surprised that he would have the full professional kit - when the door goes again. He nods at you, asking, “Could you get that honey?” You’re already up and heading towards the door before he finishes his question - hopeful it was Jerry and anxious to see what he’d brought with him. It was, and you smile at him as you open the door - he’s always polite to you, 

“Hi, uh, here.” He thrusts a shopping bag into your arms, and you take it with some surprise, 

“Oh - uh, thank you, wha-“ He cuts you off before you can ask what it was, leaning around you in the doorway to speak to Elvis, 

“I’ll be next door - some of the boys are going out, so if you need anything else you’ll have to talk to me.” He pauses, “Remember, we’ve got a show tonight although it’s a late one so,” He glances at the clock, Elvis not even looking up from where he was continuing to pull out and twist screws on each of the legs of what was certainly a tripod. “So, someone will be coming by in uh-about four hours - around 5 so you can start getting ready.” Elvis looks up at that, 

“You think I don’t know my own damn schedule?” Jerry looks slightly taken aback, and quickly attempts to backtrack as Elvis stands up, 

“No - no, I was just, it just normally takes a while to get uh all of this, just, just making sure, uh, bunny, here knows we’re on a tight schedule today was all Boss, of course you know.” Elvis has made his way over to the door, and as Jerry is finishing his attempt at a defense, he’s got a hand grasping the door, bracketing you with his arm, staring him down. It makes you shift a little nervously at the tension, clutching the gift bag, you trip a little as you shuffle your feet and fall into Elvis, who grunts slightly as he takes your weight leaning on him but continues to stare down Jerry. 

“Sorry - sorry E, I wasn’t, I wasn’t trying to suggest anything -“ Elvis lets go of the door, 

“I’ll see you at 5.” Shutting it practically straight into Jerry’s face. Elvis turns to you, his face unimpressed. You worry it’s going to put a damper on the afternoon, and he tuts at you as he looks you over, eyes cloudy through his glasses, lips pressed into a line. You don’t know what to say for the best, unused to his sudden changes in temper. But he solves the problem for you, running his hand through his hair and jabbing a finger into the bag.

“Now, why don’t you run along and put that on for me. Getcha lookin’ all nice and pretty and then we’ll have some fun.” He directs you into the bathroom, his stomach resting on your back as he manhandles you to face the right way. You head into the bathroom, slightly taken aback by the sheer volume of products already lined up on the counter; having clearly been deposited with his luggage whilst at the rehearsal.    You settle the bag on the toilet seat, for lack of other space, rifling through the layers of tissue paper. There’s a smaller bag from a drugstore inside - you laugh as you unload it, realising that it looks like a man desperately raided the Revlon counter, and that that was almost definitely what happened. But still, theres an eyeliner and shadow and a lipstick that almost perfectly matches the one you were wearing earlier. You set them to one side, and delve a little lower finding a little pile of underwear. You pull it out, unfolding them across the counter. You look back into the bag, checking there wasn’t anything else, surprised that this would be the lingerie of choice. A simple white set, practically plain cotton - just a little lace band around the waist, and cups. You nibble your lip, worrying for a second that it’s a joke in some ways or that in this form and situation you’re not going to seem as attractive - when he could have his pick of literally everyone on the ground versus his limited choices in the air. But you knock that thought out of your head, muttering to yourself, don’t be ridiculous, you’re attractive, he wants you, he wouldn’t have asked you here if he didn’t. 

You dress yourself, wondering how on earth they knew your exact size, and freshen up with the provided make-up. You check yourself out after finishing your eyeliner, giving yourself a final little pep-talk, before throwing your dress back on. You consider your shoes, before remembering how much he’d liked your feet before, and leave them in the bathroom - heading back out to him. 

You pad out of the bathroom, toes digging into the carpet. Elvis is sat against the headboard, legs out and spread, tiparillo in his mouth, shirt unbuttoned so low that it’s practically entirely open - his chest and stomach peeking out. He’s watching something on the screen, although he looks over at you as you walk over, smiling approvingly at your bare feet. 

“Why’d you cover up, baby?” You look down at yourself, shifting from foot to foot, 

“I, I uh didn’t -“ He pulls the slim cigar from his mouth, 

“Go on bunny, take it off little ‘un,” You finger the hem, until he encourages you again, “Do it, baby.” You pull up the dress and he groans as you reveal the underwear set, trying to be a little bit sexy as you do, throwing your dress over a chair in the corner. “Oh lord baby, now c’mere.” He pats the bed next to him, eyes moving back to the screen. You settle next to him, flushing as his arm wraps around you, pulling you to press against his side and thigh. 

“What are you - is that?” You were trying to play coy at first, pretending you didn’t know that he was watching a home movie, but you hadn’t expected to see, her. He’s put on a tape of his ex-wife - you blink, you’re watching Priscilla, the mother of his child, roll around on a bed with another girl. It’s not as risque as it could be - they’re both, technically dressed. Although, in a very similar set of bra and panties that you were wearing - both of them in a little white set. But then it suddenly becomes significantly more explicit, Priscilla’s manicured finger running across the other’s covered mound. 

“Yeah bunny, yeah it is - just, just sit and watch baby, gonna make a little film of our own later.” Your mouth opens of its own accord, wondering if this was how Elvis felt earlier, watching you and Maggie make-out. Priscilla and the unnamed girl are now wrestling on the bed, hair flying and the camera zooms in. “See, bunny, the focus now, isn’t on the action - I’ve changed the composition of the frame, just with the camera movement.” You nod in agreement, but honestly, you couldn’t hugely tell the difference other than the fact that you were seeing everything closer up now. 

“So, are you - is it you filming?” You lean harder onto him as he grips you close, pulling your legs over his, rubbing his hand up your thigh. 

“Yeah baby, I - uh, I don’t needta see myself though, I’m just outta shot.” You nod, that makes sense - while you couldn’t imagine Priscilla would be pleased that other girls were watching this her image wasn’t as necessary to protect as Elvis’ and you can’t imagine how dramatic it would be if a video with him in was accidentally left somewhere or lost. You shift, it seems that the last night and day has been awakening all sorts of feelings that you didn’t know you had, arousal growing as you continue to focus on the girls on the screen. The film seems to be coming to a close, Priscilla disappearing from the shot and Elvis’ cigarillo is done with, tapping it out on an ashtray on the bedside table. He uses his newfound free hand to curl it around your bare stomach, and you can’t help the way your muscles tense in response to the feel of him.

On the screen the other girl is now nude and you can’t help but compare her body to yours, assessing how her nipples pebble and tighten against her chest. You watch her trail her hand down her tummy to her clearly slick folds, curly hairs glistening a little in the strangely bright lighting of the film. Your breath hitches as you watch her sink a finger into herself and Elvis chuckles a little at your reaction, his finger tucking into the leg of your panties. Your heart is starting to pound with the anticipation of it all, his long finger just barely brushing over you inner thigh. He pulls you onto him a bit further, tucking his head into your neck. His pouty little lips are kissing the side of your neck, just below your ears and as he moves down to your shoulder you squirm, his sideburns tickling you as goosebumps start to form on your skin. The film cuts out then, just as he starts to suck down on your collarbone, and you lean against him harder as he leaves a perfect purple bruise. You moan, eyes falling closed but then he pulls away, almost a moment too soon. Pushing your legs off of him, and rolling you to be sat by yourself on the bed, he stands. He leaves you there, bereft of his touch, as he busies himself setting up the camera on the tripod, and turning some music on. 

“Ok darlin’, there’s no audio baby, so don’t you go gettin’ all embarrassed about those little bunny squeaks.” You suddenly realise what he means - that you’re going to be the sole person in the film. 

“Uh, ok - El, have I - you’re gonna tell me what to do though? Right?” He laughs, 

“Of course honey, I’m directin’.” He situates himself in a chair, just behind the camera, lighting a full-size cigar he’d pulled out from a little silver case. He’s almost too attractive like this, shirt open, trousers tight on his thighs. His hair is soft, falling onto his forehead when he doesn’t push it back and his face, despite its growing soft edges, is focussed on watching you. You squirm, as he presses the button to start the recording. 

“Right bunny, sink on down now, that’s it.” He adjusts the angle on the camera to better catch you from above. “That’s it baby, no - no actually, actually, kneel up for me bunny.” You do as he directs - this, you can do. Pushing your chest forward and spreading your knees. You lean up, rolling your hips a little to the beat of the song playing. 

“Oh, yeah, that’s it.” He puffs the cigar, his own legs spreading, you swallow, the outline of his cock gently hardening becoming more and more obvious to you. “That’s it baby, go on - move onto your hands and knees now, look at the camera.” You follow his directives, trying to lower yourself down as seductively as possible. You look up at the camera, knowing it’s getting both the perfect shot of your face - a perfect recreation of how you would look looking up at him on your knees between his thighs, as well as a perfect shot of your cleavage where it’s spilling out of the soft little bra. 

“That’s it baby, lie down.” You lower yourself down, ass up, unable to stop yourself grinding against a roll in the comforter underneath you. Elvis laughs, rolling his sleeves up, exposing his slim wrists, diamond encrusted Elvis bracelet jangling with the movement as he rubs himself over his trousers. “Roll over now baby, you can touch your little tits - but not, don’t touch that wet yittle cunt yet.” Your hips jerk, and your breath catches, 

“Oh, oh god, Elvis - that’s, that’s - have I really gotta wait?” He chuckles at you, 

“Yeah baby, go on now, roll over.” You do as he says, “That’s it baby, doing so well for me, that’s it now, suck those little fingers baby and You can touch.” 

“Touch my- my, pussy?” He shakes his head, 

“No bunny," He tuts, as if you're a child not listening to his instructions, "You’re not ready for that yet, touch those little nipples first.” You follow his instructions, wetting your fingers before bringing them down to circle your nipples, the fabric of the bra starting to go see through with your saliva. “That’s it baby, just like I did it earlier, pinch them a little, just a little bit.” You do and you can’t prevent your hips from wiggling, surprised at how much it’s turning you on. You’re starting to feel your pooling wetness dampening your panties. 

“Please, please let me touch,” He hums, 

“Not yet, yittle, not yet, go on now, down your stomach,” You trail your hand down, “Hold it there baby, just, just look at me.” You look over at him, “Hands on your thighs, just barely touch yourself honey, watch me.” He’s pulling his cock out now, ringed fingers grasping the chubby thing. You’re forced to watch as he jerks himself off, clearly well-practiced in the motions, his head falling back in pleasure, sweat starting to form in the hollow of his neck, bracelet jangling and necklace bouncing on his lightly haired chest with his movements. You would never admit it but you’re forced to swallow as drool starts to form in your mouth, your hands clenching on your inner thighs, trying desperately not to touch as you watch him. He rolls his head forward again, making eye contact with you as his hips jump from him brushing a thumb over his tip, a high-pitched moan escaping his lips. You can’t help it but respond in kind. 

“Go on then bunny - you can touch, but just, over those little panties for now - let the camera pick up that little wet spot, that’s it baby - that’s the angle, perfect. Lord, Jesus Christ, ain’t that a picture.” Your hand finally moves across to touch yourself properly, and you get a flashback to the way Maggie touched you last night, you try to copy her movements. Rubbing your clit over the fabric, your hips circling, before running your finger down, pressing the damp fabric into you a little bit. You moan, watching Elvis pull his hand away from himself, as if pulling himself back from the brink. 

“I can’t - please, please let me take them off,” He makes a considering humming noise before finally, finally, he agrees, 

“Strip them little white panties then doll, get ‘em off and throw them over here.” You do as he requests, and though you’re not wholly unsurprised you’re still slightly taken aback when he sniffs them before pressing the wet spot to his cock, using your slick as lube to move the fabric up and down on himself. Your fingers nudge against your folds, spreading yourself to allow for a finger to sink in. It meets little resistance; your vagina having had more of a work-out the past few days than it had in years. Your entrance is still a little sore, but you’re so wet and slippy that this is barely noticeable to you now in the moment, just adding a little edge to the feel of the second finger joining your first. You curl them, trying to hit the right spot inside you,  while your thumb circles your clit again. Your head presses against the bed as your eyes roll in pleasure, glad that there wasn’t any audio being recorded as your noises get louder and louder - more and more explicit. 

Suddenly, with your eyes closed you hear the click of the camera turning off and then you feel him, kneeling onto the bed, over the top of you. He pushes your hand out of the way, pulling your fingers out from yourself.  He’s grasping your hip with one hand, as his other tugs on himself once, twice, before moving his hand to spread your labia with two fingers, stroking down you with a third. He pushes one into you, his skin-warmed ring knocking against you. It’s so much thicker than your own, and he mouths at your neck, moving down to your breast, pulling on a nipple with his teeth as he sinks a second into you. You gasp as he crooks them in just the right way, your hips circling - you’re so close that you’re shuddering to completion as soon as he brushes a finger over your clit. The external stimulation mixed with the internal enough to send you over the edge. Your whole body tenses, stomach undulating as your toes curl and you tremble, moaning into his mouth as he kisses you - filthily, practically devouring you, his tongue forced into your mouth swallowing your noises.

Your lips are bitten raw by the time he pulls away, and you lie there, shakily taking a breath but it’s not long before he’s pulling you back to him, rolling you onto your front again. Your roughened nipples rub against the comforter as he pulls you back, pulling your hips up to meet his. He manhandles you into the perfect position for him to enter you from behind, sinking in to the hilt in one long stroke. You’re more than ready for him, if you hadn’t been before then your orgasm had certainly lubricated the way and you grunt into the sheets as he grips your hips and fucks into you. You don’t expect the force of his thrusts, the power from that famous pelvis, you know how little sleep he’s had the past couple of days. But still, he’s a solid form behind you, thick and sturdy. His stomach knocking against you as he drives into you with force. 

“That’s it - my sweet -  little - bunny, take it. Take - it.” He leans back slightly, his hand coming down to lightly stroke around your stretched hole, feeling the tightness in the skin right around the entrance, and the looseness that surrounds. Your mouth falls open in surprise, the touch unexpected, noise catching in your throat at the feeling. You can feel the sweat dripping off of him now, its cooling dampness making your bodies slide against each other. He pulls his hand back, spanking your ass, causing you to shudder against him, the tinge of pain mixed with the pleasure, and it causes him to rock perfectly against just the right spot in your walls. Getting in deep enough that you can feel his hips against yours and you can no longer work out where you end and he begins. You can feel yourself getting to the edge again and his hand slips further up, as if a reminder that it’s Elvis behind you can feel that bracelet rubbing against you, and his huge TCB ring catching on your skin, and he brushes his fingers over your clit, capturing it in his fingers. A moment later you’re shaking as a second orgasm crashes over you. You’re relieved he’d put you in this position, your arms giving out on you, only being held up by his hands on your hips, as you’d have simply collapsed had you been held in any other way. He chases his own completion, praising you the whole time that he fucks into you, 

“Yes - that’s it, god, lord, yes bunny, go for me again, that’s a good girl, such a good yittle girl. Gonna turn that camera back on - get a good look at you like this. Yeah baby. Gonna turn it back on.” You can feel his release inside of you as you hear his high-pitched whimper. He presses into you, placing a kiss on the back of your shoulder, before he pulls out, rushing to turn the camera back on. You can hear the whirr of the zoom as he focusses it onto his seed dripping out of you. It matches the feel of your trembling skin, and you hold still, letting him capture the shot. You hear the click again a moment later, and you relax onto the bed, collapsing on your front. You’re sure you’ll be lying in a wet spot but you find it hard to care. He pats your shoulder, 

“Gonna have something new to watch for the next flight huh?” 

#elvis smut #elvis fanfic #elvis x you #big daddy elvis #be-my-ally #elvis presley x reader #elvis x reader

[ugh-yoongi]

threw a punch in a bar | knj

(or, nothing good happens when a man you’d accidentally knocked out in a bar fight tells you to run.)

→ pairing: namjoon x f. reader → genre: zombie!au | crack, smut → rating: explicit. minors dni. → warnings: swearing, alcohol, a guy gets pushy in a bar, this results in a bar fight (mentioned broken bones, but nothing is described in explicit detail), vague american setting in order to drag the us healthcare system, side vmin, taehyung has klepto tendencies but he steals from wal-mart so it’s fine, really mid smut including: kissing, very slight dom!joon, grinding/thigh riding, implied oral (f. receiving), fingering, reader drops a bryce harper quote during sex, namjoon’s dick is big but we knew that, this is cancelled out by his horrible dirty talk, unprotected sex, vmin’s dumpling fight but make it settlers of catan. this is technically a zombie fic, but the circumstances are 99% in the background. there is nothing gory here, just sort of found family vibes centered around an apocalypse. also when i said the smut is mid i meant it. everyone has himbo tendencies except yoonjin. → wordcount: 11k → a/n: started this forever ago after doing one of those twt pause games on who i’d be stuck with in the zombie apocalypse. my result was vmin & namjoon, which birthed the idea of vmin spending the entire apocalypse subtly trying to convince you to sacrifice yourself for them. i was going to publish the draft of this on halloween but decided to finish it, went into a trance, and added 9k words, so please accept my late and humble offering. → thank yous: lauren, bee, and jess as always for all of their help: beta’ing, general feedback, constructive criticism, telling me when my shit doesn’t make sense. @effortandmore​ / @hot-soop​ / @the-boy-meets-evil​

Any bartender worth their salt knows you don’t mix tequila and brandy.

Jimin, apparently, is only worth enough salt to rim a margarita glass.

All because he’s chaos incarnate: an absolute hellion of a person who causes problems just because. The type of person who calls a drink something innocuous like Tipsy Meow because it sounds sweet and he knows it’ll get people to order it. Sometimes he even serves them in glasses with cats painted on them, which is really cute and endearing and gets people to order that drink in the cute cat glass despite the fact that that drink in the cute cat glass is tequila and brandy.

In any other bar, that drink would be called something appropriate and applicable, like a Knockout.

Because that’s what it does—starts bar fights.

Which Jimin knows, because he’s actually a very competent bartender, but he likes to cause problems on purpose, especially on Tuesday nights when there’s not much else going on.

“Why did you do that?” Yoongi asks, watching some poor, unsuspecting woman practically skip back to her table with two Tipsy Meows in hand.

Jimin just smiles and shrugs. “Because,” he answers, eyes twinkling with something underhanded, “that tall guy at the high-top? He’s been eyeing her all night. She wouldn’t go for it on a good day, but after one of those?” A low whistle under his breath.

Yoongi just stares. He’s known Jimin a long time, going on six years now, so he’s never truly surprised at how duplicitous he can be, but sometimes he pretends for appearance’s sake. “Evil.”

“Not evil,” Jimin retorts, eyes rolled, “just bored.”

Snorting, Yoongi whips the towel off his shoulder and starts wiping down the bar. “Then do a fucking crossword puzzle.”

Jimin waves him away. “I’m not good at them. I’m good at this.”

“Getting people to fight in our bar?” Yoongi clarifies. Jimin nods. They stare at each other for a minute before Yoongi shrugs and finds some menial task to busy himself with. “Whatever. You’re on clean-up duty, though. The last time you pulled this shit, I was sweeping up glass for three fuckin’ days.”

Because he’s chaos incarnate, Jimin’s response is a sarcastic salute, two fingers pressed to his forehead as Yoongi flips him off in return.

Something is wrong.

You’ve been to this bar countless times, have always ordered the same thing. Always made sure to stick to your limits, because college had been both an exercise in adulting and maintaining a functioning liver.

Maybe it’s because the mint-haired guy didn’t make your drinks this time. Truthfully, you’ve been wary of him for a while, convinced he’s been watering them down just to get you to buy more. Not that you’re complaining. In all the years you’ve been coming here, you’ve never made a fool of yourself.

Now, though?

Now you’re very rapidly approaching find the nearest trashcan ASAP territory. I’m going to regret this in the morning territory. This hasn’t happened since that frat party sophomore year territory.

Yeah, that party. You’d drank something god-awful that night, too. Got roped into a game of strip poker in a seedy basement and walked away with $2,000, three nickels, and a half-used KFC gift card, only down a sock. Some douchebag frat bro hadn’t liked that very much, accused you of cheating and gave you a real hard time about it. Long story short, you’d been fueled by too many of the suspicious drinks and knocked him out.

This feels a lot like that.

Because you’re drunk, yes, but there’s something else lurking beneath the surface. Something that’s itching for a fight. Something that’s been dormant for a long time.

(This is a startling realization, because you’re not a violent person, despite all evidence to the contrary. You’ve only ever thrown one punch in your life. It’s really not your fault that it wound up being the punch heard ‘round the world.)

Those who cannot remember the past are doomed to repeat it. Your sixth grade history teacher had that quote hung on the wall and you haven’t thought about it until now. Because there’s a guy approaching your table—probably six-foot, wearing an expensive watch and polished shoes—and he’s been eyeing your friend all night. Had made a few crude comments to his buddies that you’d regretfully overheard, and you’re all out of sorts because the mint-haired bartender hadn’t made your drinks, so he’s nearly got his elbows on the table when you say—

“Fuck off, asshole.”

Both your friend and the guy look equally shocked. “Excuse me?” he says, looking back to the idiots at his table in disbelief.

You roll your eyes, blood beginning to boil. “I said fuck off. She’s not interested.”

“And she can’t speak for herself?” he retorts, all faux-chivalry now that everyone’s attention is on him, even though the bar is practically deserted at nine o’clock on a Tuesday. “Your friend’s a little uptight, huh?” he says, shifting his attention fully away from you.

God, you always do this—befriend the most wholesome people in the room. The ones who always assume the best in others; the ones who can’t say no; the ones who feel guilty speaking up. This friend is no different. Looks at you like a deer about to get rearranged by a car, all wide, panicked eyes and a tight-lipped smile, only polite out of obligation.

What happens next is shocking to everyone except Jimin and Yoongi. Safe behind the bar, the two of them watch as you tell the man to fuck off one more time. He refuses, his attention still laser-focused on your friend, reaching for her. Someone appears to his left—another stranger, this one taller and wider in all the right places and exuding far less scumbag energy—and places a large hand on his shoulder. Leans down to say something to him that you don’t catch. Whatever it is, you’re assuming it’s said in that brand of tense politeness men use with other men before they threaten to knock them out.

Regardless of what’s said, the original douchebag just snorts derisively, jutting his shoulder backwards to get the stranger’s hand off of him. This really bothers you, for all the obvious reasons. Why can’t this idiot take no for an answer? What’s his fucking deal?

Apparently you voice the latter out loud, and the bastard is laughing again, lips turned upwards in an ugly little sneer. Far too quickly, you go from bothered but mostly in control to seeing red and cocking back. All because the mint-haired bartender hadn’t mixed your drinks. Now you’re punching some pushy asshole in the jaw and are probably going to get arrested.

“Oh shit,” you hear, but it sounds like you’re underwater. It’s certainly not a voice you recognize, but you only know one person in this bar and you just punched someone to make sure she didn’t get harassed by some asshole who couldn’t take a fucking hint.

Pain erupts in your hand. There’s probably something broken, maybe multiple somethings, but you don’t have much time to dwell on it before someone’s grabbing you by the elbow and dragging you out of the bar.

A shame, you think; you’d really like to see how much of a pissbaby that guy turns into when he catches sight of his own blood.

“I hope you’re proud of yourself.”

You groan. Whatever room you’re in is far too bright and far too loud, which means you’re probably at home already being lectured by Hoseok. You crack an eye open, and—yep, that’s Hoseok, usual human embodiment of sunshine who is now staring at you like a grumpy little rain cloud. “What’re you talking about?” you grumble, fingers flying to your temples to ease some of the throbbing pain.

Hoseok must be pretty pissed, because he just watches you clutch at your aching head and doesn’t say a word. Usually you can guilt trip him into making you coffee and buttered toast. Grabbing you some pain killers, at the very least, but he’s not budging. You swallow hard.

“Do you remember anything from last night?”

“Not really,” you answer. You’ve been awake for approximately three seconds and your two brain cells haven’t connected to form a rational thought yet, let alone conjure up whatever shenanigans you got into the night before. “I think I went out for drinks with the new hire from work, but that’s it.”

“Mehmehmeh but that’s it,” Hoseok mimics under his breath, voice pitched far too high to ever pass as yours, looking more and more incensed by the second. Everyone told you he’d be too neurotic to live with. You should’ve listened. “Do you remember drinking too much and punching a guy?”

Ah, that would explain why your hand is fifty shades of purple, you think. “Ah, that would explain why my hand is fifty shades of purple,” you say.

Hoseok looks like he’s ready to explode. “Can you fucking take this seriously,” he seethes. “You’re too old to be getting wasted and starting bar fights! What in the actual fuck is wrong with you? You broke a man’s nose, you fucking maniac! What if he calls the cops? God, what if he sues you? Do you have lawsuit money? Because I sure as fuck don’t, not that I would bail you out of jail for this, anyway, because you don’t deserve it—”

“I broke someone’s nose?” Far too late, you realize you should’ve kept that proud wonder out of your voice.

Hoseok’s up and screeching before you can plug your ears. “You are un-fucking-believable! I have to leave. I can’t sit here another second and listen to this.” He’s fussing over his clothes and hair as soon as he’s on his feet, distress seeping out of every pore. “There’s fresh coffee in the pot and I made sure to save you two slices of bread,” he grits out, as if it’s causing him immense pain to be nice to you right now, before adding, “and there’s also aspirin and water on your nightstand. I would not recommend taking it on an empty stomach.”

And then he’s gone.

You microwave the mug of coffee and choke down the toast that’s grown suspiciously hard. You swallow two aspirin with coffee even though you know better and should be drinking the water, but the water has been sitting out for god knows how long and probably has dust particles and other gross things in it. You take a long shower to wash away the bar grime and hangover remnants and nearly crumble to the floor in pain when you try to wash your hair.

Right, your hand.

It’d been easy enough to ignore when you were focusing on not vomiting and taking your painkillers, but not so much anymore. Even if Hoseok hadn’t told you you’d punched someone, you could’ve pieced that much together—the bruising is severe and the swelling even more so. Trying to bend your fingers feels like a fate worse than death, so you salvage your shower as best you can before getting dressed one-handed and ordering an Uber to the nearest urgent care.

Which, much to your horror, is packed.

Every seat is taken except for one next to a man with a baseball cap pulled low and a thawed-out ice pack in his hand. He doesn’t acknowledge you when you sit next to him, and you’re almost offended until you spot the AirPods in his ears. God, he must’ve been here forever if he’s brave enough to plug his ears in a place that unashamedly sends you to the back of the line if you don’t answer when your name is called.

You need to know what you’re getting into, so you tap him on the shoulder and ask, “Hey, how long have you been here?”

The man seems flustered. He reaches for his phone and sends it plummeting to the floor, and when he retrieves it you notice the screen is cracked to hell so this must be a common occurrence. “Oh, uh. I’m not sure,” he says, voice all nasally like he’s got a bad cold. “Maybe two hours or so?”

You groan. “Two hours? Are you for real?” He just nods, still not meeting your eye. You pull out your phone, too, then, and put in the web address for the hospital. “D’you think the wait times are less shitty at the ER?”

“Maybe.”

“You didn’t look? No offense, but you sound pretty awful. I figured you’d want to get whatever it is taken care of sooner rather than later.”

The man snorts. Sounds painful. “Yeah, well. I work at a shitty nonprofit and the only insurance tier I could afford had a two-thousand-dollar deductible, so I’ll take my chances here.”

You hum in sympathy. “Do you believe in karma and reincarnation and all that? Because I do, and I think I must’ve been pretty fucking terrible in a past life to be born in a country without free healthcare in this lifetime.” The man beside you grunts in agreement. “Like, shit. What if I was Norwegian in a past life? Or, like, Canadian?”

“Only worth being Canadian if you’re not Indigenous.”

“Hm, yeah, that’s true. What human rights violations have the Norwegians committed?”

“No clue.”

“I’m gonna Google it,” you decide. Then, a second later, “Not great being Indigenous in Norway, either.”

“Is everyone shitty?” the man asks, pressing the warm ice pack back to his face. You wince on his behalf.

“Yeah.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you watch him pause his music. An album cover you don’t recognize, because this guy definitely strikes you as the underground type: paid Spotify account with immaculate playlists full of artists no one else has heard of, either. Probably imports half of his own shit, too, so his playlists only work on his own phone and everyone yells at him when they try to play his playlists and get nothing but silence.

“What about you?” he asks, and it’s a question that should sound greasy but just sounds really sad with his clogged nose. “Are you shitty?”

“Yep,” you answer instantly, holding up your hand. You’d managed to wrangle an elastic bandage around it, but the bruising is obvious and not easily hidden.

The man whistles. “Damn, how’d you do that?”

“Punched a guy in a bar fight, apparently.”

In hindsight, it should be obvious, the cruel joke the universe is playing on you: you, with your mottled, probably-broken hand; the man next to you, with a black eye and an ice pack pressed to his nose. Right church, wrong pew, your mother always used to say about you, and you’d taken it then as a nod to your creativity and ingenuity, but now you’re thinking you might just be fucking stupid.

Because the atmosphere immediately shifts. The man goes stiff, pauses, tenses his shoulders. Then he asks, “Yeah? What bar? I might’ve heard about it.”

And you might be fucking stupid but you’re not dumb, so you just shrug. “Oh, I don’t know,” you reply, doing your best impression of a person with nothing between their ears. “My coworker dragged me out, and I like her fine, y’know, but if I’m being honest, I don’t know how long she’s gonna last. I think she’s too nice. Well, I thought she was too nice, but then she invited me out for drinks and invited me to this crazy bar with horrible, violent people—”

“And you punched someone,” the man finishes for you, cutting short your tirade.

“Supposedly punched someone,” you correct. “I have no recollection of it, but that’s what my roommate said. He was shrieking and used his Serious Mom Voice so I’m inclined to believe him, though.” You try to wiggle your fingers and have to suppress a scream. “Plus I can’t move my hand, so there’s that.”

This is the part where you get yelled at. You can feel it. The man beside you is about to blow up, demand your name and phone number so he can report you for assault, probably also demand some money because he’d just talked about his god-awful insurance and you’re the entire reason he’s here, but the universe may be cruel but it’s also fair, because—

“Nam…joon?” a bored medical assistant calls out. The man startles, curses under his breath that no one even attempts to pronounce his name correctly, drops his phone again, and if you weren’t glued to your chair in fear you might’ve picked it up for him.

Namjoon stands—he’s fucking massive, and if this is the guy you actually punched, you’ll spare a second later to marvel at yourself—and looks down at you. Sends you the meanest, most murderous glare he can muster, clenched jaw and all, and then he’s disappearing behind a door.

You… feel bad.

It’s not like you’d meant to punch him. You hadn’t wanted to punch anyone! And that has to count for something, so when he comes back out you’ll plead your case and offer to buy him a late lunch, because if he’d been waiting hours you’ll be waiting longer, and maybe he’ll find you just endearing enough to forget that you’d broken his nose and the two of you will become friends. You’ll do the Best Person speech at his wedding and laugh about the time you’d punched him, or maybe you’d be marrying him and—

Pump the brakes.

You love a good enemies-to-lovers, but maybe not so much in real life.

  The wait is torturous.

An hour ticks by. You text Hoseok, tell him about the man you’d met and ask if he thinks it’s The Guy, and Hoseok writes back with a very pointed, I fucking hope it is. You’re not sure what that means. Does he hope Namjoon is the guy so you can apologize? So you can make sure he’s okay? Surely he wouldn’t be hoping for Namjoon to even the score and break your nose, too, but he was really mad this morning so you wouldn’t put it past him.

Another half hour. If you’d been paying attention, you would’ve realized how eerily quiet the waiting room has grown. No idle chatter, no coughing, no pained groans. People seem to be going in but not coming out, and you’ve been paying attention to that much, at least, so you can catch Namjoon.

And then the door slams open.

Namjoon stands there, nose stuffed with a cartoonish amount of gauze and a large splint across the bridge. He’s breathing hard. Looks like he’d just ran a marathon, which doesn’t make sense because how large can the backend of an urgent care really be, but then his eyes found you and—

“Run,” is all he says.

Nothing good happens when a man you’d accidentally knocked out in a bar fight tells you to run. Fucking stupid but not dumb, though, so you’re up and out of your seat before he can repeat himself.

Although you’re not sure where you’re supposed to go. You’d taken an Uber, and you can’t really order an emergency one of those. Besides, all Namjoon had said was run but not why, so you’re also not sure if it even is an emergency.

So here you are, standing in the middle of the parking lot like a bozo while Namjoon fumbles with the keys to a pickup truck. “Hey!” you call out, stomping towards him. “Are you gonna tell me what the fuck’s going on?”

Namjoon looks up only long enough to catch your eye. “You need to get out of here,” is all he says. Which is supremely and deservedly unhelpful.

“Why? I ca—I took an Uber here, I don’t have a car. I don’t know where I’m supposed to go or why I had to run out of there or if this is DEFCON 5 or DEFCON 1—”

“One,” Namjoon answers. “It’s definitely DEFCON 1.” Door unlocked, Namjoon meets your gaze again, deadly serious. “I’m not fucking around. You need to get out of here. Right now.”

This has to be a joke. He’s mad you’d broken his nose and now he’s getting his revenge. Still, you’re not all that keen to pay hundreds of dollars in medical bills for them to tell you something you already know, so you’ll play along. “Fine. Can I get a ride, then?”

“No.”

“So it’s an emergency but you won’t give me a ride.”

Namjoon glares at you. “You broke my fucking nose!”

“But I also broke my own hand, so we’re even.” It’s absolutely not a fair trade, but Namjoon seems to chew it over nonetheless. “Hey, c’mon, you wouldn’t leave me here! You’d feel too guilty.”

“How would you know?”

“Because you work at a nonprofit and care about human rights violations, and I am a human with rights, and it’d definitely be a violation to leave me here in a DEFCON 1-level emergency when I don’t even know what’s going on—”

Namjoon slaps a hand over your mouth. A large hand. A very, very large hand that easily covers half of your face. You’ll blame your pathetic whimper on fear. “I saw some shit in there, okay?”

“What kind of shit, though. Urgent cares are weird. Ominous little vortexes where reality is altered. You ever been in one at night? Like 28 Days Later vibes—”

“Yes!” Namjoon snaps his fingers. “Yes, that! Exactly like that!”

Your relief is palpable. You sag a little. “Oh! So it was just weird in there? What, did you get a creepy doctor or something?”

“No.” He groans. Runs his hands down his face. “Not the vibes part, the—”

“The zombie part?” you whisper.

Just then, the entrance slams open, people pouring into the parking lot. Most are screaming, which prompts you to scream in response, so Namjoon screams too and drops his keys. You’re picking them up before you can think twice, pulling the door open and pushing him inside of the truck. There’s something to be said about the way you manhandle him, how ripped his back feels through the thin fabric of his t-shirt and the view of his ass as he climbs over the center and into the passenger seat, but whatever weird shit is going on takes precedence.

You climb in behind him. Shut the door and lock it, and then you’re rolling down the window to adjust the side mirrors while Namjoon just shoots you an exasperated look. “We don’t have time for this!”

“Do you want us to crash and die? I’ve seen movies like this, okay, and someone always dies some stupid, avoidable death because they forget something obvious.”

“Yeah, it’s usually don’t read the weird Latin incantation in that book or don’t go outside to investigate weird noises, not checking your mirrors!” He pauses. “Hey, wait! They’re not even your mirrors! You’re fucking up all my shit!”

You roll your eyes. “Shut up. I’m getting us out of here.”

During Namjoon’s stunned silence, you turn the ignition and peel out of the parking lot as best you can with one good hand, tailspinning onto the main road, tires squealing. “That was… kind of hot.”

“What, me telling you to shut up or my driving?”

“...Both?”

“I—yeah, that’s fair. You’re big, but you seem like the type to enjoy getting pushed around.” Namjoon stays quiet, and when you dare a glance over at him, his cheeks are red. “Did you get a boner when I punched you?”

That actually gets a laugh out of him. “Don’t go there.” You shrug.

The two of you drive for a while. There’s nothing in the rearview mirror. No one behind you. Really, the world around you seems normal, quiet, still. It almost has you second-guessing everything you’d seen, all the things Namjoon had said. And you don’t know him beyond breaking his nose, but everything in you is screaming to trust him.

So you do.

“Hey, do you mind if we swing by my place? It’s, like, two minutes away, and I should probably grab some stuff.”

Namjoon just shrugs.

Surprisingly, there’s very little time to panic. Namjoon sets about grabbing whatever he can from the kitchen and the bathroom while you shove clothes into a large duffel. You grab your laptop and chargers and Namjoon’s scoff is loud when you ask if you should bring your vibrator, too, but he doesn’t say no, so into the bag it goes.

Hoseok comes home in the midst of your ransacking. You meet him in the living room and, aside from the small look of confusion, he seems much happier to see you than he’d been this morning. “Hi,” he says. Sounds normal, too. Doesn’t sound like he’d seen some weird apocalypse shit outside. “Where is there a tall man in our kitchen shoving all our food into bags?”

“Ah, right, that.” You suck in a breath. “Hobi, go pack up whatever you care about and meet us back here in five minutes. There’s some Train to Busan shit going on and we’ve gotta get moving.”

“Yo, what the fuck!” Namjoon yells from the kitchen. “Are you just saying that because I’m Korean?”

Hoseok had looked dubious before, but seems to fall into blind trust upon hearing the strange, tall man in his kitchen is also Korean. “Hey, me too!” When Namjoon comes skittering into the living room, they shoot matching finger guns at one another and do a weird bro-dap. “Oh!” Hoseok says, recognition blooming. “Are you the guy? The nose guy?”

Namjoon just glares at you.

“That’s him,” you answer instead. “Go pack, please. I’m serious.”

Hoseok is scared of everything: spiders, his shadow, carousel animals, your neighbor’s dog because it’s fifteen years old and blind and lost half its fur. He once had nightmares for a week after you’d made him watch the first Goosebumps movie and insisted on sleeping in your room. Had nightmares again after he saw a particularly sinister Squishmallow at Wal-Mart. So, yeah. It’s imperative you convince him to come with you because he stands no chance on his own.

You don’t expect him to shrug and go off to pack.

“Hey, did one of you grab any ibuprofen?”

“Yeah, got it,” Namjoon replies.

“What about allergy medicine? I get really bad sinus headaches so I’ll be miserable without it, but if it’s too much I guess I could—”

“Pack it,” you shout back.

There’s a loud crash from his room. Another smaller one seconds later. “I’m fine!” he calls out. “Hey, cool! I found a bag of Twizzlers!”

“Hoseok—”

“Bring the Twizzlers, please!” Namjoon says, cheeks warming again. “What? I like them.”

It’s your turn to glare. “If I get eaten over some goddamn Twizzlers.”

“At least you’d be strawberry flavored?” Namjoon offers, as unhelpful as ever. Then, before you can respond, “Hey, man, are you almost ready? I texted my roommate and he’s good to go but I still need to pack up all my shit, too.”

“One sec!”

Approximately fifteen seconds later, Hoseok reappears in your living room with a bookbag, a duffel bag, and an oversized rolling suitcase.

“This isn’t a vacation, Hobi,” you deadpan.

He looks at you like you’re a moron. Fucking stupid but not dumb, you remind yourself. “Okay, but I’m not leaving all my nice clothes here to get eaten by zombie moths or whatever. There’s Off-White in here.”

Namjoon nods in understanding. “Valid.”

It’s not worth the argument. The three of you pile back into Namjoon’s truck, you stuck in the middle of the bench seat this time while Namjoon drives. Hoseok babbles the entire way, seemingly unfazed by this bizarre situation in which you’ve found yourselves. He tells you about the cafe he’d met a friend at, the latte he ordered and didn’t like. You can only tell he’s starting to get nervous because he devolves into more and more unhinged chatter. One second he’s telling you about a dog he saw wearing a little sweater and the next he’s rattling off the digits to his social security number.

“Forget you heard that,” you say to Namjoon.

He looks pained as he replies, “Unfortunately I have a god-tier echoic memory so I am physically incapable of doing that.” He feels your stare. “I’m really sorry, I can’t help it! Tell me something else so I forget it!”

“Okay: I think you’re about to run over that guy.”

Namjoon jerks his eyes back to the road and gasps, hitting the brakes so hard Hobi nearly goes flying into the dashboard. He’s moaning, bitching about his seatbelt probably breaking a few ribs, and the tiny man standing in the road in front of you hasn’t budged an inch. Stared death right in the eye and dared it to take him.

“Fucking Jimin,” Namjoon curses. At both your and Hoseok’s blank stares, he clarifies, “My roommate.”

“Is that seriously your roommate?” Hoseok asks, still pressing against his ribs to check for fractures.

Namjoon, huffing and puffing and finally at a complete stop, just nods. “Yeah.”

Hoseok is finally silent. Then, “That tiny, terrifying little man is your roommate and you managed to get knocked out in a bar fight? What, was he busy that night?”

There’s an obvious reply on the tip of Namjoon’s tongue, but before he can spit it out the tiny man is banging his fist against the window. “I’m gonna fucking kill you!” he screams. “Open the door so I can kill you! Did you not see me? I told you I’d be waiting by the mailbox! I even packed all your shit for you and this is how you repay me, by almost hitting me with your stupid truck? You’re fucking cra—wait, who are these people?”

Hoseok, obviously scared shitless, grimaces as he waves hesitantly. “Hi!” you say, though Namjoon’s roommate probably can’t hear you through the thick glass. “I’m the person who broke his nose!”

Then the roommate is smiling. “Oh, that was you? You look different than I remember.”

When you look to Namjoon for answers, you find him slumped against the steering wheel. “Jimin’s a bartender,” is the only explanation you get.

You look out the window again. Small, but no mint-colored hair. “Ah, I had my suspicions about him. …I think.”

Namjoon cranks down the window just enough to tell Jimin he’ll have to hop in the bed with all the luggage, and then the four of you are off again. There’s one more stop, to Jimin’s boyfriend’s place to pick up him and his roommate, and all you can do is hope one of them has a larger vehicle.

Just like before, this drive is suspiciously unremarkable. You’ve long since resigned yourself to believing Namjoon and what little he’d told you, but you can tell Hoseok’s skeptical. Along for the ride, of course, because there’s always the small chance you hadn’t been lying and then he would’ve been knee-deep in shit, but skeptical nonetheless.

“Can I just ask—are you sure about this?” He’s looking out the window. Looking at all the normal cars and houses and businesses. Nothing about the outside world screams looming zombie apocalypse at all. “It seems pretty quiet.”

Namjoon sighs. Grips the steering wheel a little tighter, knuckles flashing white, but he seems okay. Adrenaline, maybe. It’ll hit later. “Yeah, I’m sure.”

“You saw something?” Hoseok prods.

“I—” He nudges you. “Did you notice how most of the people in the waiting room just seemed to have bad colds? Sneezing, coughing, all that?” You nod. “I didn’t really think anything of it since it’s still flu season, but once I got called back, everything just felt… off.”

He sucks in a breath. Keeps driving. Keeps talking. The nurse who’d taken his vitals seemed exhausted. Cracked some joke about being glad Namjoon was there for a broken nose and not whatever respiratory thing was going around. Told him a doctor would be in shortly to patch him up, and when she left his room she hadn’t shut the door all the way. Left enough of a crack for Namjoon to see what was going on: frazzled nurses and doctors and techs huddled around, panicking. Namjoon thinks someone called for an ambulance.

True to her word, a doctor did come in to pack and splint his nose. Then, in the middle of jotting down the name and phone number of his pharmacy, a scream.

“An old man came in. I saw him when they took me back. He was just sitting on a bed because it was so crowded, wasn’t in a room. I guess at some point he passed out. Didn’t have a pulse. I think he was who they called the ambulance for, but while I was waiting for the doctor I kept hearing this weird moaning.”

Hoseok shudders. “Yeah, I know where this is going.”

“Right. So the doctor comes in, fixes me up, and next thing I know, someone’s screaming. Guess that old dude wasn’t as dead as they thought he was.”

“Could they have been wrong?” you ask tentatively. It’s so quiet outside, maybe everyone had just—

“No,” Namjoon says, and he does it with so much conviction you don’t argue further. Jimin bangs on the back windshield, holding his phone up to it so you can see.

It’s all over Twitter. Not even Facebook, where you’d expect a zombie apocalypse conspiracy to begin. No, there are posts all over Twitter and Instagram and even the local news station’s website. Hoseok looks a little green.

“Okay, so it’s definitely real and this is definitely happening,” you mutter. “Does anyone have a plan?”

There’s no plan.

Not even in a hyperbolic, we say we have no plan, but somehow we’ve conveniently got a small arsenal of weapons, kind of way. There’s simply no plan.

Jimin’s boyfriend is named Taehyung. They have a needlessly tearful reunion, and you wait in Taehyung’s tiny kitchen for twenty minutes while he packs. He’s roommates with the mint-haired bartender that you like. His name is Yoongi. He has all his stuff packed and waiting by the front door, and you like him so much more for it.

“Should I pack condoms?” Taehyung yells from his bedroom.

“Are you fucking ser—” Yoongi starts, then seems to come to a realization. “Yeah. Yes, you absolutely should.”

“‘Kay! Be out in a sec!”

Namjoon appears then, in the midst of shoving his battered phone in his pocket. He looks around the room, taking stock, and his eyebrows knit in confusion. Fuck, he’s so hot and you’re taking the express train to hell for thinking it. “Hey, has anyone seen Jimin?”

Jimin and Taehyung are gone. There are weird noises coming from the direction of Taehyung’s room. Yoongi looks positively haunted. “Sorry!” Jimin calls out. “Be out in a sec!”

“Tae said that exact thing five minutes ago!”

“Are you calling him a liar?” Jimin yells back. Sounds genuinely angry and genuinely prepared to defend Taehyung’s honor. You’ve never met a tinier, scarier person.

“I’m calling you both zombie food!”

Hoseok sidles up next to you. “Is it just me or is that other tiny man really hot?”

“His name’s Yoongi,” you tell him.

Hoseok just sighs, like he’s carrying all of the world’s burdens on his thin shoulders. “I’m learning a lot about myself.”

You watch him mentally tabulate through all the stages of grief while Namjoon and Yoongi think up a plan. Namjoon’s large but clumsy and mostly useless, and Yoongi is small and deadly. You can hold your own, they decide, so Yoongi adopts Hoseok and Namjoon becomes your problem.

“Wait a second,” Hoseok almost wails. “Why can’t I stay with her? She’s my roommate!”

Yoongi looks offended. Probably is. “You don’t think I can defend you?”

Hoseok flushes crimson. “I-I didn’t say that…”

He’s halfway through a stuttered, awkward apology when Jimin and Taehyung appear, not at all looking like they’d just been getting off together. Sure, Jimin’s hair is a little mussed, but Taehyung—

Taehyung is only holding a box.

Yoongi pinches the bridge of his nose. “Taehyung.”

“Please don’t use that tone of voice with me,” Taehyung whines. “You know this is my emotional support jigsaw puzzle.”

“All you’re bringing is a jigsaw puzzle?”

“And condoms!”

“You’re not bringing any clothes? Medicine? Food?” Namjoon asks, because he might not be the oldest but he has the most overworked single mother energy out of all of you. “Jimin, go help him pack a bag of clothes, at least. Yoongi, can you grab any extra house stuff and toiletries you have laying around? Laundry detergent, soap, shampoo.”

Taehyung scoffs, sound dissipating as he disappears back down the hallway. “We can just steal that stuff.”

Hoseok looks like he’s about to pass out. “I am not turning into a criminal!”

He does.

You all do.

The six of you pile into two separate vehicles—you and Hoseok with Namjoon again in his truck, and Jimin and Taehyung behind you in Yoongi’s beater car. The plan is to drive to Namjoon’s cousin’s house in the middle of nowhere and bunker down there for a while. It’s plenty big—“His parents are politicians, so he’s got money,” was Namjoon’s explanation—and far enough outside of the city that it should buy you enough time to come up with something better.

Step one, though: Wal-Mart.

“Don’t worry, I steal from here all the time,” Taehyung says, breezing to the front of the pack like he’s leading the rest of you into war. Yoongi throws his hands up. Jimin looks lovestruck.

Hoseok hangs back by the cars, still traumatized from the Squishmallow experience, and you stay with him. You’ve seen Zombieland, and you won’t be able to do much fighting with a broken hand. At best you’d be able to fire a gun or whack someone with a pipe, but you’re not trying to go kamikaze mode on some innocent bastard in a Wal-Mart who’s also just trying to survive.

You’ve known Hoseok for a long time—since your sophomore year of college, when he was failing the stats class you shared and you took pity on him and offered some tutoring—so you’ve seen him in various states of distress. You know all of his tells, and the way he’s gnawing at his cuticles is a glaring one.

“Hobi, hey,” you say, moving to gently pull his hand away from his mouth. “Try to relax, okay? Don’t make yourself bleed.”

“I feel like I’m gonna be sick,” he replies. Anguish is clear on his face. “Everything feels fucking overwhelming and scary.”

“I know. I know it does, but if we’re gonna get through this we’re gonna need you, all right?” He nods but he’s shaking, still looking tormented and green around the edges. You pull him into a hug that has him nearly sagging in defeat.

Slowly, your shoulder grows wet and warm. Hoseok’s crying, body shaking from the weight of all his fear, and all you can do is hold him. “You’re my best friend, Hoseok,” you whisper into his hair. “I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”

You feel him nod. Then, in the smallest voice, “Yoongi too?”

Figures. Hoseok’s a horny little demon at the best of times—the thin walls of your apartment can attest to that—so it makes sense that impending doom would exacerbate it. “Sure, Hobi,” you assure him, scratching softly at his scalp.

You get him calmed down. Tucked into the backseat of Yoongi’s car so he can lay down. He’s asleep not long after, fatigue finally catching up, and you just stay. Park your ass at the edge of the seat, leave the door open, waiting. There’s a gentle, warm breeze, and you wish you could bottle it. Wish you could do more in this moment than just experience it, because it’s the last chance you’ll have at something resembling normalcy.

You might never be able to hug Hoseok in a parking lot again.

“We’re back!”

You look up, not at all surprised to see Taehyung skipping towards you, arms full of stolen goods. “I see that. What’d you get?”

“Oh, a lot of stuff,” he answers. Yoongi pops the trunk of his car and they set about shoving it all inside. “It was packed in there! Felt like Black Friday, except everyone was fighting over bread instead of ultra hi-def TVs.”

Wary, you look over your motley crew. “Are you all okay?”

“Yeah,” Yoongi answers, voice gruff. “It was mostly civilized. Don’t think people really realize what’s going on yet. Is Hoseok sleeping?”

You nod. “He, uh—had a moment? He got really upset, so he’s sleeping it off… if that’s okay?”

Yoongi just shrugs. “Yeah, whatever. Who’s riding with me?”

“Me,” Jimin says. “I’m not taking the bitch seat in the truck.” Taehyung immediately pouts, some unspoken bond clearly broken now, and Jimin scoffs. “Don’t pout at me. You know my ass requires a full seat.”

“But—”

Namjoon pointedly slams Yoongi’s trunk closed. Hoseok doesn’t stir an inch. “Jin’s expecting us so we need to get moving. Taehyung, shut up and get in the truck.” Then, to you: “Guess you’re with me again.”

Fine by you, especially since Namjoon ripped the sleeves off his shirt.

Not even Namjoon’s arms can salvage this drive.

Taehyung fiddles with the radio the whole time. Flips between radio stations that are all depressing carbon copies of one another. Complains that Namjoon’s truck is too old to have a CD player and that he doesn’t know how to work cassette tapes. Complains endlessly about Namjoon’s driving, too, although you can’t really blame him for that one.

“Hey,” he eventually says, elbowing you a little too hard in your side. “I don’t wanna be rude or anything, but—”

Namjoon tries to snort and immediately regrets it. “I don’t wanna be rude or anything, but I’m about to say something extremely rude.”

“I was not!” Taehyung defends, but when you quirk an eyebrow at him to continue, he says, “Are you willing to sacrifice yourself for me and Jimin in the unlikely event that the three of us are cornered by a zombie and are facing imminent death and only two will survive? Because I think you should be.”

You blink. “Um.”

“It just makes the most sense logically,” he continues, as if he hadn’t just volunteered you to be a zombie chew toy. “Jimin and I are soulmates. Platonic and romantic. And you’re—” He pauses. “Um. New. And Jimin might not look like it because he’s small, but he’s scrappy and can easily protect me, which means you’re redundant. Not to mention your hand is broken, so.”

You study him. “So, what are you bringing to the table?” you ask. Taehyung looks at you like you’re stupid. “I’m just saying, if Jimin and I can both defend ourselves, why wouldn’t we team up in the name of long-term survival and ditch the weakest link, which would be you?”

Namjoon laughs loudly beside you. His whole body shakes with it, a sound somewhere between a guffaw and a dog panting, and it’s a nice contrast to the death glare Taehyung’s sending you. “Jimin wouldn’t do that to me.”

“People are unpredictable when they’re staring death in the face.”

Taehyung’s silent the rest of the way.

It hurts to admit it, but you’re rethinking your all-politicians-are-evil, eat-the-rich stance, because it starts like—

(Seokjin’s parents’ place is truly in the middle of nowhere and safeguarded to the nth degree, harder to get close to than Area 51. The house itself is deceptively large and modern, clapped in black-stained red cedar. Single-level. Expansive windows you’d thought were an oversight until you got closer and realized they were made of armored glass.

“Shit, is all of this really necessary?” you ask, stepping inside. There’s definitely insider trading going on here. “Are these people on the goddamn Supreme Court?”

“That’s not funny,” Namjoon says.

“Are you sure? Because I’m pretty sure that”—you point to a nondescript door with an ominous symbol on it—”is some kind of rich people bomb shelter and the only politicians I know that would require this level of security are the I just voted to strip half the country of the ability to make their own reproductive decisions kind.”

Namjoon chokes.

“Gross,” a voice chimes from behind you. “Please don’t debase and sully my parents’ good name by even joking that they’re conservatives.”

Jesus, is everyone in this family stupidly attractive? The man before you is shorter than Namjoon but still tall, legs as long as his shoulders are wide. Hair styled neat but dyed blond. Kind eyes and plush lips, and there’s the Kim family resemblance.

“Hi, I’m Seokjin,” he says, offering you his hand. Definitely raised in a family of politicians. “I hear you’re the one who broke my cousin’s nose.”

“I, uh, might’ve done that, yeah.”

Seokjin smiles. “Cool. Welcome. Please make yourself at home and we’ll chat strategy later.”)

Which becomes—

(Later turns into days.

For the most part, life proceeds normally. Seokjin gets periodic updates from his parents who have left the country entirely—(“Damn, they just left you here?” someone asks, and that’s how you meet Jungkook)—about the government response, or lack thereof, along with whatever useless psychobabble the CDC is sending out. None of it bodes well for the future, so you spend most of your time trying to stay in the present. Right now, you’re okay. Right now, you’re with a group of people hellbent on staying alive. Right now, you have enough food and shelter in a house in the middle of nowhere with armored glass windows and a bomb shelter.

The eight of you eat meals together and play games and talk about your Before lives. You already knew Namjoon worked at a nonprofit and that Jimin and Yoongi owned a bar, but you learn Taehyung was in grad school for art therapy. Hoseok, of course, split his time between the dance studio and the streetwear boutique his sister owned. Seokjin was some bigwig corporate attorney.

Jungkook, of all things, played minor league baseball.

Needless to say there won’t be any scientific breakthroughs from any of you.

“I was supposed to go pro this year,” Jungkook huffs, forcefully grabbing the microphone for the karaoke machine. He’s been singing “I Will Survive” by Gloria Gaynor for four days.

All things considered, you somehow managed to fall into the best possible outcome, even if one of Taehyung or Jimin still tries to convince you to sacrifice yourself at least six times a day.)

Which culminates in the one possible downside—

“Yoongi wants Hoseok to move into my room,” Namjoon says, appearing in the doorway of your (now-solo, apparently) room. He takes up nearly the entire frame. It makes you feel a little lightheaded.

“Oh,” you reply stupidly. “Okay. Are you here for his stuff?”

“No, I’m here to ask if I can move in with you. I’m not really interested in spending the rest of the zombie apocalypse third-wheeling.”

Sarcasm seems like your best defense. “Wow, after all we’ve been through. We’ve got a real enemies to lovers vibe going on. I’m pretty into it.”

Namjoon flushes down to his toes. “Haaa, what? We’re—that’s not—we’re not even lovers yet.”

You give him a second, but he doesn’t seem to realize what he’s said, so you can’t help but smirk, to press on the bruise just to watch him squeal. “Yet?”

Now he turns full-on crimson. “That’s not what I meant.”

Somehow he’s still cute, even with the yellow-green bruising beneath his eyes and his sheepish, hunched posture. Namjoon is the kind of guy that makes you feel bold, makes you want to mess him up, but he’s also the kind of cute that has you relenting, easing off.

“Sure,” you finally say. “You can move your stuff in here.”

He smiles, dimples flashing, and he’s only gone a few minutes so you have no time to catch your breath before he’s back, dumping his clothes on the bed to put them in the dresser. He doesn’t mention sleeping arrangements because there’s no point: all of the bedrooms have single, queen-sized beds. Naturally, you and Hoseok had bunked together with little fuss, having fallen asleep in each other’s beds a million times after years spent living together. You assume it’d been the same for Namjoon and Yoongi and their decades of friendship.

You’d joked about being enemies to lovers; clearly you’d chosen the wrong trope.

“How’s your nose?” you ask, wordlessly moving to help sort and refold the t-shirts as best you can. They smell nice: something soft and clean and inherently Namjoon.

“Still sore,” he answers. Says a small thank you when you push a stack of black tees towards him. “Jungkook’s been helping me with the packing.”

“He’s had a lot of broken noses?”

“He’s had a lot of broken everything.”

It hits you, then, how much of an outsider you are. That the six of them are all connected, have history. And Namjoon must notice, because he grows serious. Gets shy all over again when he says, “Hey, we’re all glad you and Hoseok are here.”

You snort. “Yeah, as a sacrifice.”

Namjoon laughs a little, too. “Taehyung’s only so insistent because he’s useless. He accidentally stepped on a stink bug once and cried. He’s not really built for something like this.”

“Are any of us?”

“You are, I think,” he says immediately, no hesitation. “You’ve been really calm, haven’t panicked at all. It’s helped me a lot—all of us, really.”

Oh, you’re embarrassed. “I have to be, living with someone like Hobi.” Why are you embarrassed? “One time he saw the red light on the coffee machine and slept in my room for a week because he thought there was a demon in our apartment.”

Namjoon can’t help himself. “Was there?”

You sigh, over-dramatic and theatrical. “No, just me.”

He laughs, loud and unashamed, but it sounds a lot more like everything’s going to be fine.

Hoseok had been a cuddler.

You’d always wake up with him wound around you like a snake, limbs akimbo as he snored quietly. But, like all things Hoseok did and does, there was grace in it. He kept a normal body temperature. He didn’t hog too much of the bed or the duvet. He didn’t kick you or elbow you in the side of the head. Aside from the cuddling, which has never really been your thing, Hoseok was a perfect bed-sharing partner.

The same cannot be said for Namjoon.

His broken nose has him snoring at obscene levels. It doesn’t lessen when you shove a pillow over your head, either, which is not the way you fantasized about going lightheaded in bed with him. Not to mention his stupidly large body is stupidly large and requires a lot of space. What had started as a clean split down the middle has you grasping to the edge, trying desperately not to fall off. Every time you try to inch closer to the center, Namjoon unconsciously protests and sends elbows flying, and arms that size can do a lot of damage. He sleeps so hot you always wake up in a thin sheen of sweat just from the proximity.

You’re not sure you sleep at all for the first three days.

And then things start to shift. Like your roommate, Namjoon is a cuddler too, but in vastly different ways. Hoseok’s would be subconscious—he never dared to touch you when he was awake out of respect for boundaries and personal space, but Namjoon doesn’t have those hangups. He climbs into bed one night and immediately fits himself to your back before asking if it’s okay, and yeah, of course it is. You couldn’t have waterboarded Hoseok into touching you purposely the way Namjoon does casually, so unthinking, just does what he wants.

It makes you ache.

So you become sleepless for other, new reasons.

His snoring lessens, gives way to these breathy little sounds that border on soft moans. Still obscene. He stops forcing you to the edge of the mattress and instead presses you into it, the weight of his massive body leaving you with nowhere else to go. Every time he touches you, either knowingly or not, he leaves trails of heat in his wake.

Even in sleep, Namjoon is a tease.

Sometimes his hands will drift—too close, too far, both simultaneously—and you feel your breath hitch, wondering if he’s awake, if he’s doing it on purpose. Sometimes you wake up with him wrapped around you, hard cock pressing into your ass, the small of your back. Sometimes he’ll rut once, twice, and come to and disappear to the opposite side of the bed in shame and embarrassment, leaving you frustrated and pretending to be asleep.

Because you’re not… sure.

You know you’re attracted to Namjoon. You know he’s some degree of attracted to you in return. But the outside world is so volatile, the situation you’re in so unstable, that you’re afraid to push. Afraid the delicate house of cards will come tumbling down, that you two will fuck to get it out of your systems and make things horribly awkward, ruin the good thing you’ve got going.

But you can only take so much, is the thing. There’s a very large man with a very large cock at your back and you’ve had enough of this game.

“Namjoon,” you say, rolling in his arms so you’re face to face. You poke him in the stomach when he doesn’t stir. “Namjoon.”

He jolts awake, hands immediately moving to you—checking that you’re still there, that you’re safe. “Wha’?” he slurs, voice thick with sleep, deeper than you’ve ever heard it. “Wha’ happened?”

Now you feel awkward. He’s concerned with your safety in the midst of a fucking apocalypse and you’re just horny. Still, sometimes the only way out is through, so you blurt out, “Do you want to fuck me?”

That grabs his attention. He’s fully awake now, propped up on one elbow, gazing down at you like you’ve completely lost your mind. Fucking stupid but not dumb, like a mantra. “Uh.” He pauses. Swallows. Pushes sweaty hair off his forehead. “Did—did you, uh, get bit? Are you feeling okay?”

You glare, though it’s useless in the dark. “I’m fine. How’s your dick?” You dare a glance downward. Still hard is the answer.

Namjoon embarrasses easily in a way that is both horribly endearing and horribly inconvenient, because instead of feeding you some greasy line like want to find out? he’s reaching down to adjust himself in his sleep shorts, stumbling over apologies as he goes. “Shit, fuck, I’m so sorry, this is so awkward, I’m sorry—”

“Can you answer my question, please?”

Namjoon stills. Puts that giant brain to use. “Um. Which one? You asked me two.”

“Well, I can clearly see that your dick is still very hard, so let’s start with the first one.”

There’s a sound that you think is meant to sound like a laugh. A pained a-haaa that sounds more like Namjoon begging for divine intervention in the form of death. “The, uh, doIwanttofuckyou question?”

“That would be the one, yes.”

“Is… is there a wrong answer?”

“No.”

He nods, tongue darting out to wet his lips. It’s lewd, a cruel and unusual punishment for your fleeting moment of horny delirium. Gets even worse when he tugs the plush bottom one between his teeth, staring at you all the while. Sizing you up, it feels like. Deciding between what he wants to do and what he’s actually going to do.

Just like the last week of your life, everything goes from zero to one hundred in a split-second.

“Do you wanna talk about this first?” he asks. You’re just staring at one another and he already sounds fucked out. Obscene.

“What’s there to talk about?”

He reaches for you. Two fingers beneath your chin and a thumb on the hinge of your jaw to keep you where he wants you. “What you want.” Leans in, his lips so close to your ear. “What you don’t.”

Around you, the world narrows. Nothing exists outside of this bed. Not the weird house in the middle of the woods. Not the apocalypse. Not a goddamn thing except Namjoon and his big hands and the way he’s touching you. “Tell me what you want,” he says, words skimming along the column of your throat, “and I’ll do it.”

You wonder if he’s talking about big-picture shit or just sex. If he’s someone who needs something concrete to hold onto before he fucks or if it even matters anymore. Would he still want to sleep with you if you’d met under different circumstances that night at the bar, or is it just something to pass the time while you wait out the end of the world?

Although, you feel like the world might end if you don’t finally fuck this man, so maybe it doesn’t matter.

“I’m clean and I have an IUD I’ll have to figure out how to remove in three years if I live that long. I’m down for mostly anything as long as you ask first but I draw the line at most bodily fluids. Oh, also—don’t kiss me if your tongue goes anywhere near my ass. I think that’s it, though. What about you?”

Momentarily stunned, Namjoon’s hands stop moving. “I’ve never eaten ass before.”

“Oh. I mean, we totally can if you want to, but—really?”

“Why do you sound so surprised?”

“Because your lips are pornographic,” you admit, completely void of shame. “Like, you have the kind of mouth that looks like it’s done a lot of dirty things.”

Namjoon laughs. “You also said I look like I like getting pushed around.”

You cock an eyebrow. “Do you?”

He’s growing bold. His response is a low chuckle, more vibration than anything, and he reaches for you again. Seems like he can’t keep his hands off of you, needs to be touching you always, even before when it was harmless, and this time he goes for your hips. Fits his large hands to your waist, the tops of your thighs, presses his thumbs into your hip bones. “Most people don’t try.”

“Yeah, that tracks,” you reply dazedly.

His lips move to your neck, trace the neckline of your sleep shirt, dip below to nip at your collarbone. “Where’s your hand, baby?” he speaks into your skin. Finds what he’s looking for and pins your arm above your head, gently like you’ll break. You think you might. “You can push me around when you’re healed. Can I kiss you?”

You must nod, because Namjoon drags his lips from your throat to your jaw to the corner of your mouth, and then he’s pressing them to your own. This is gentle too, Namjoon careful with his own injury, and it’s not lost on you that this is your fault. You’re not going to get the filthy, primal fucking you want because you’d thrown a punch in a bar, but this isn’t a bad consolation prize, you think.

Because Namjoon is good at this. He’s easy to rile up but rock-solid once he pushes past it. And, sure, he kisses you gently, but he means it. Whimpers into your mouth like you’re doing him a favor, and you think you might be able to do this, just this, forever.

Your free hand fists the thin cotton of his shirt as he licks into your mouth. It should be gross, because it’s the middle of the night and you no longer have the luxury of your favorite toothpaste, but you find it hard to care when he drops his weight, that massive body of his pressing into you, against you in all the right ways. This time it’s you who whines, and it’s a small sound but it seems to drive Namjoon a little crazy.

“Wanna hear you,” he says, pulling back, and you’re about to ask him what that means, if he just wants you to start moaning like some bad porn, but then he’s grabbing your leg to wrap it around his waist and pressing his hips to you harder.

“Oh fuck,” you sigh. Even through his sleep shorts you can tell he’s big—big and really fucking hard. Forget a zombie apocalypse, you’re not sure you’ll survive this right here.

What Namjoon wants, Namjoon gets. You’re unabashed as he grinds his cock against your core, careless about your volume. You’ve suffered through almost everyone in this house either fucking or jerking off, and you can take a little ribbing, so you’re going to enjoy this. What’s the point in modesty if you’re all going to die, anyway?

So you just keep babbling, words spilling out of your mouth before you can filter them, writhing and whining all the while. “I know, baby,” Namjoon says, hands all over, mouth not far behind. “Keep going,” he urges, hands to your hips to move you the way he wants.

“Thigh,” you say, barely able to get the word out of your mouth with the way he’s moving against you. “Wan-wanna ride your thigh.”

He keens. “Shit, yeah, okay.”

Namjoon fucks like it’s the end of the world.

You get off on his thigh but he deems it not enough. Strips you bare and situates himself between your legs. Puts that sinful mouth to use and gets you off again. Asks you when the last time you had sex was and laughs at your answer, all condescending heat, and he uses the slick from you and his mouth to stretch you on three of his fingers.

You’re going to ruin this man’s hair once you have two working hands. Maybe just ruin him in general.

The build-up is dizzying. One second he’s slow and sensual, content to take you apart, continuously bring you to the edge just to yank you back—and the next is all feral urgency. He can’t make you come, can’t kick his shorts off, can’t peel his briefs down those thick thighs fast enough.

“Will you ride me?” he asks, so intent on taking your one rule to heart. As long as you ask first. But some things don’t need to be questioned, like when Hobi asks if you want to take an edible and watch the Spice Girls movie and will you sit on Namjoon’s massive dick.

You huff, already halfway in his lap. “Clown question, bro.”

As you sink down onto him, you understand why he’d laughed when you said it’d been awhile, why he got a little cocky. Three fingers hadn’t been anywhere near enough, but the stretch, the overwhelming fullness, is delicious.

“I was go—ah, fuck—gonna suggest you don’t ca-call me bro, but I don’t think I care when you feel this fucking good.”

“Yeah?” you stupidly ask, and you’re usually better at dirty talk, but there’s not much you can do when all of your brainpower is going towards riding the best cock you’ve ever had in your life. “Tell me.”

Namjoon moans, grips your hips to move you again. Back and forth at a steady, torturous pace. “Baby,” he whines. “Feels like one of those wa-water wiggler toys—”

Okay, so clearly neither of you are at your best right now.

And that’s how it goes. You brace yourself on Namjoon’s chest, nails of your good hand digging into his pec, your broken one held in his. Time seems to drag on forever and stop all at once, and you’re oversensitive and admittedly a little in pain and a lot exhausted so you’re probably not going to come again, but you find yourself dangerously close watching Namjoon chase his own orgasm.

Head tilted back, neck on display, mouth dropped open. You want to shove your fingers inside, so you do.

He comes immediately.

Namjoon kisses you as the two of you come down, whispering more praise in between each one. Tells you how good you are, how beautiful, that he’s glad you broke his nose. Then he realizes the dumb thing that has come out of his mouth and pauses, looking confused and delicate. He’s so cute you kiss him first this time.

And then you pull back and realize he’s got blood all over his face, gushing from the nose he’s so glad you broke, and he’s out of the bed and into the bathroom before you can blink.

“You can’t do that, we’re soulmates!”

Jimin scoffs, placing the Robber on Taehyung’s hex tile anyway, ruthless as he watches his boyfriend miserably discard half his hand. “Your fault for building a city there. I’m coming for your ore tile next.”

You roll your lips to keep from laughing. You hadn’t expected the house’s sardonically-named Royal Couple to be on the brink of disaster twenty minutes into a game of Catan, but you’re safe for now in your small part of the world, surrounded by all of these people you’ve come to love, Namjoon especially, so you’ll take all the manufactured, external drama you can get.

“Told you he’d turn on you, Tae,” you chime. He gives you the finger. “You can’t trust Libra men.”

“What about virgins!” Jungkook calls from the kitchen, where Yoongi has convinced him to drink tequila and brandy to see if he can get him to punch Namjoon, too, and Seokjin laughs so hard he looks like he’s about to keel over and die.

Yeah, you think you’re going to be fine.

#bts imagines #bts fic #namjoon fic #namjoon smut #namjoon x reader #namjoon x you #namjoon imagine #btswritingcafe #thebtswritersclub #btshoneyhive #bts smut #bts scenarios

[chrollohearttags]

Just wanna say I love your work girlie 💕 💕

If you're taking requests, can you do a character (Ace or Reiner) x reader where said character and reader are roommates. Something just straight filthy. And if you're not, it's cool 😊

Much love to you ❤🍒❤🍒

ahhh thank you so much, lovely!! I really appreciate it and I really appreciate this request as well. I love it!! (for obv reasons 🤭🩷) but I’ll be glad to write it. 🤍 I’ll look for any excuse to write about either of these two.

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LIVING ARRANGEMENTS

roommate!ace, black fem!reader, modern au, mentions of weed, porn without plot, oral/69, dirty talk, he and reader are friends with benefits, hair pulling, backshots, prone bone, just pure filth as you said

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it was a damn shame, honestly…truly sinful the way he had you behaving. You told yourself you’d never wind up in the situation ever again. Especially because nothing good could possibly ever come of sleeping with your best friend…Ace. A man you’d known since childhood. Running around the streets and getting into trouble with as teens, a man you began renting your first place alongside when you guys moved out of your family’s homes for some semblance of independence...

“Fuck!…slower, baby..feels so good.”

“Mmm, I won’t stop if you won’t…”

was now the same man letting your entire body lie across his own as you sat atop his face! Yours buried in his crotch as you swallowed his cock down to the base. Jerking his shaft in your palm as you bobbed your lips around his sensitive tip..emitting bright red with pearly strings of precum. He was due for a climax at any time but you wanted to savor this moment. Meanwhile, his face? Smothered between your plump asscheeks as you ground that juicy cunt on his lips. There wasn’t a single place he’d rather be at that moment. So much so, he canceled plans to hang out with his friends just to fuck on you! It wasn’t anything abnormal by any means, you both had a terrible habit of doing so and from the outside looking in, anyone would swear you were a couple madly in love. However, neither of you had made things officials by any means. Just enjoying this dirty little dynamic you had going on. No need to fix what wasn’t broken. “Yeah, just like that. This pussy tastes so fucking good—“ doting on you as he continued devouring your center; wrangling his tongue around in your tight entrance..spitting into it and your other puckering entrance as he smacked your bottom with heavy palms. You weren’t making matters any better because you’d subtly twerk against his mouth and he was loving every second. (Y/N) would release faint giggles and loud whimpers as you enjoyed every second of this carnal pleasure. “Oh my gosh..yes! Right there..put that tongue in it, baby..mm, fuck!”

sounds of filthy words being exchanged between you guys and smacking sounded off across the bedroom. Your own in fact; an oasis shrouded in pink and plants. A humidifier spouting steam in the corner to keep them flourishing along with posters decorating the wall. Such an innocuous aesthetic for such a slutty girl! He’d sound off about how badly he needed to be inside of you and you’d tell him how desperate you were to come on his dick. So reluctantly, you’d both halt for the moment to switch positions. He’d prompt you to get on all fours and arch your back. To which you’d happily comply. “You know what to do, beautiful.” It was for this moment alone that he couldn’t even think to entertain any other girls..you had him stuck! For a moment, he’d become entranced watching that fat ass wiggling around and bouncing for him. Even causing his cock to twitch when you’d reach back and spread yourself open for him. “Like this, daddy?�� The name causing him to stutter over himself. You knew what it did to him and would only serve to elicit raunchier behavior from him. Smirking, Ace would cackle as he placed his hand to your waist to tug you towards. “I swear I’m gonna fuck the shit out of you, hope you know that.” Well aware that you had riled him up beyond comprehension and his appetite wouldn’t be sated until you were soaking these sheets!

“Exactly what I was hoping for..” and with that adorable smile and lecherous grin, he’d pull you back and demand that you don’t break it for anything. Without a moment more of haste, he’d slide into you and immediately gasp, trying not to buckle as he worked to gain his rhythm, it wasn’t long before he was slowly thrusting into you..his hips colliding with the thickness of your backside. “Yeah I know..you always get what the fuck you want out of me. Only one who can.” The compliment making you chuckle once more. But alas, you’d continue meeting his deep rutted strokes with subtle bouncing and your fingers clawing into one of your pillows. You’d find yourself huffing and whimpering for more as they sped up. You’d find yourself faltering but was quickly snapped back when he hissed into your ear and grasped your neck. “What did I say, baby? This is what you asked for..take this dick.” Causing your eyes to roll back with drool seeping from your mouth. By this point, you couldn’t even keep up. Ace’s thrusts had become even harder and you were being pounded into the mattress. The entirety of the bed rocking against the thin walls of your two bedroom apartment. He wasn’t relenting at all..never was when he got a taste of your nectar. Becoming all but feral when you two fucked!..

“I—ugh, shit! Fuck me, just like that.”

“Ooh, you’re gonna come, aren’t you, sweetheart? Yeah, I know that pussy better than anyone. Isn’t that right?”

the answer to that question all but inevitable but he needed to hear you say it. Needed that affirmation to give you exactly what you desired!.. “y-yes, daddy! It’s yours..oh my gosh!” With that seeming to suffice and the unbridled lust coursing you guys’ veins, Ace would take the initiative to press you flat into the mattress and do all of the work. Allowing the recoil of your backside to ricochet against him. Taking and claiming your body all for his own.

“Good, baby. That’s all I wanted to hear..I got it now. “

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