#and not it be complaining about something

[winterpeta1s]

Jax's relationship with Ragatha is so funny because why are you obsessively beefing with a woman eight years older than you

[badjokesbyjeff]

A young man decided it was time to come out to his family. 

He was worried most about his grandmother, so he approached her in the kitchen.

"Grandma, I, uh, have to tell you something."

"Yes, sweety?"

"I, uh, I'm gay."

"Gay?" His heart stopped. "Does that mean you put men's things in your mouth?"

"Grandma!!!!"

"Well??"

Mortified, he muttered sheepishly, "I, uh, yeah?"

Whack! The wooden spoon found its mark. "Don't you EVER," she sternly replied, "complain about my cooking again."

[yan-randomfandom]

I've been reading the fanart. You have a natural talent for creating a more distinctive personality for the Saja Boys from the bits and pieces they gave us in the movie!

Ever since that fanart where the Saja sneaked into the reader's room, I couldn't stop imagining what they would be like sleeping alone with her, as if every day of the week except the weekends they will take turns sleeping with the reader or something like that.

And again, I love your writing. I hope you like the idea. Have a nice day!!!

Saja Boys x GN!Reader

a/n; anon thank you so much heheh!!! this one isn't too accurate to your idea, but i love it and i hope it's still okay!

summary; physical touch with the boys and why they wanna go to your bedroom :))) (touch starved. written separately but they all live in the same housing)

warnings; stalking (watching you sleep), body curious, touching w no permission, nothing sexual tho!

— 🍃 [Monday]

Here's the thing, guys. The boys don't actually need sleep. They're demons. Sleep isn't something their bodies need—instead it's something they want. They are still aware and can feel through touch, which is exactly why they'd prefer to sleep with you.

You're warm, so alive, and they don't know it yet.

Surprisingly enough, Jinu is the first one to knock on your door.

"Jinu?" you drawl, voice laced with sleep. He stands awkwardly by the doorway, patiently waiting for you to process what's happening. Glancing idly at your sleepwear and dimlit room.

You yawn, widening the door. "What's up? Need something?" You pause, raising a lazy accusing finger. "Wait. You're not here to suck my blood, are you—?!"

"What? No!" Jinu gasps, almost offended. You sigh out of relief anyway.

"...We're not interested in physical bodies. Anyway, uh, sorry for waking you up. I just need to see how our socials are going," he explains as he steps into your room. "You can power your computer and go back to sleep."

As soon as you heard the word 'social', you were already turning it on. "'kay, buddy. You sure you don't need help, though? I know I taught you a bit but I understand it can get confusing—"

"No, no," Jinu huffs, denial flooding his form. "I can do it."

"You remember how to turn it off?"

"Yes. Don't worry."

Then you fall asleep next to him, your body slightly pressing against his. His eyes slowly drift away from the glow of the computer screen to your sleeping form. He stares for a moment.

Soft, warm. It reminds him of the past on how he couldn't sleep with his own fam—

Jinu pulls the computer plug off and teleports away.

—💐 [Tuesday]

Baby made you piggyback him. A lot. It was sort of your fault.

You saw the Saja Boys taking turns carrying him—it was a pretty funny ordeal. Then you jokingly offered to piggyback him to see what the hype was about.

He accepted it all too eagerly. As soon as his full weight falls on you, you're genuinely surprised at how light he is. It's probably equivalent to a box full of volleyballs.

"You're lighter than I thought," you say, adjusting your arms behind his legs.

Baby suddenly lets his head rest on yours. "Why are you so..." Warm. He buries himself into your shoulder, his arms tightening around you.

"Why am I so what?" you ask, turning your head, only achieving to tickle him more.

He doesn't let you go for the rest of the day.

And by extension, night.

You tried to complain at first. "Didn't we agree to—"

"Just this once, please?"

You folded.

He snuggles all comfortable within your arms, acting as the little spoon, greedily content in your warmth and breathing.

But then you wake up with his mouth on your skin. He wasn't biting, sucking, or anything. It was just.... there.

Still, though, you assumed the worst.

"I thought you said demons don't suck blood, Jinu!?!"

"We don't!!?!"

—🪷 [Wednesday]

Abby wanted you to touch his abs for some mysterious reason. Yapping about how "no one else will have this chance," or "you might not live long enough to feel it!" and "I actually haven't let anyone touch my artificial abs yet" — it was really weird, but you shrugged it off and agreed anyway.

Like hell yeah. Sure, why not?

So he unbuttons his shirt, all giddy, and watches as you reach for his skin.

You make contact with his abs. Caressing it gently, it feels normal in texture — but you suppose it's a little too cold. The fact didn't totally sound weird at the time.

Looking up, you flinch at Abby's expression. You thought he'd be smiling, like he was the whole time, but he looks so serious that it's actually concerning. He's not looking at you; his eyes were down and fixated on your hand.

You notice, pulling your hand away from him, and snapping your fingers. "You okay?"

He blinks. "Uh."

Later that night, Abby welcomes himself into your room.

He stares at you from the corner. From the center. From the edge of your bedframe. On your bed.

Sometimes, he'd gently let his hands roam over your exposed skin. Mostly your warm hands. And your warm face.

You wake up to find his face in front of you.

Screaming, you unintentionally kick him in the abs.

"Ow, my perfectly crafted abs!"

— 🪻 [Thursday]

Mystery almost lost it when you pat his head.

You did it voluntarily. It's a nice, comforting feeling as you pat his shoulder, his arm, and his cheek. He utterly melts under your casual touches without a single word.

He loves it. You leave him demanding for more. So, Mystery decides to linger around you like a guard dog. Who hopes to be spoiled, who wishes to be held.

But, then, night comes.

"You're not exactly allowed in my room," you say, only to pause when he straight up whimpers.

... You folded. With a sigh, you step away from the door and give him space to walk in.

He happily skips into your room, flopping face-first on your bed. You stare at him for a moment, thinking about how despite them not being human — they really love to rest.

You lie down, feeling Mystery move around under your blanket, closing your eyes when he finds himself comfortable against your chest.

Your chest rising and falling with every breath—Mystery simply can't help but feel envious.

— 🌺 [Friday]

Romance is confused.

There's a buzz between his band members — apparently, they visited your bedroom? Didn't they agree to avoid that specific place in this house?

He doesn't realize he's been staring blankly at nowhere. Reality hits him hard when something gentle touches his hair.

"Might wanna style your hair again, Rome," you chuckle, brushing his hair with your fingers. He shivers when your skin grazes his forehead. "You got the bed head. Though I guess you just snap your fingers and it'd be all okay."

You leave right after that, but Romance keeps staring at the last place he saw your figure, his fingers fidgeting with the hair you just touched.

Okay. He gets it now.

Next day, you woke up with him hovering over your head.

You suddenly grab his shoulders, push him back against your bed, breathing heavy from the shock. The bed sinks under both your weight.

Romance stares immensely up at you.

"You guys," you breath, "will be the death of me."

He smirks. "I can only imagine."

— krazy

[bunbun007]

ᴏɴᴇ ʜᴇʟʟ ᴏꜰ ᴀ ᴛʀɪᴘ - ꜱᴀᴊᴀ ʙᴏʏꜱ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ᴛᴡᴏ: ꜰᴀᴍᴇ ɪꜱ ᴀ ʜᴇʟʟ ᴏꜰ ᴀ ᴅʀᴜɢ

Warnings: Mentions of demon pacts ✧ദ്ദി( ˶^ᗜ^˶ ) Word Count: 1.9k Pairings: Saja Boys x Reader Chapter sum: You have come to accept the fact that your soul belongs to a group of demons and try to coexist with them. It's hard.

<- Last chapter || Next ->

It was moments like this that made you consider that maybe, just maybe, the one suffering from making a pact with demons was them instead of you. Honestly, it was a funny conclusion, but given the fact that they were lying on the ground weeping, it seemed like it.

“We are so doomed. Hopeless.” One of the demons whined as he ruffled his short pink hair. “You hopeless, useless human! How come you are poor?”

Classist. That’s what this group of five demons was.

Not only were they ungrateful for your soul—your precious, all-worthy soul, thank you very much—they had the nerve to complain about your living situation.

“This is some sort of joke, right? You didn’t just summon us to have us live in this… hovel.”

You gasped dramatically while clutching your shirt, throwing daggers at the blue-haired demon. “I’ll have you know that the only reason why I summoned you was so that I could get out of this situation. And yet, regardless of everything, my ‘situation’ is not that bad! I’m just a few months behind in rent!” And your diet consisted mostly of instant noodles below 1,000 won. But hey, how could they judge? They didn’t even own a home.

“Wow, you are just sad.” The demon in the middle —heavens, why was he always standing in the middle?— gave you a small smirk as he walked in front of you, his black hair being covered by a black gat that matched his hanbok. “But fear no more, human. We’re here to make it better. We’ll help you out, yeah?”

You gulped — that being the only sound in the room.

“Why me? What type of demons even are you?” Your voice cracked. It wasn’t fear, exactly. It was the growing, horrible realization that you were in over your head.

Silence.

One of the demons stretched out across your bed, yawning like a cat who owned the place. Another picked up a cracked mug on your table and sneered at it. Then, finally, a soft chuckle came from behind you.

“Why not you?” a voice purred, lilac hair draped over his eyes as he tilted his head. “You’re cute. You’re sad. And you’re clearly desperate enough to sign anything, aren’t you? Besides, it was either you or the middle schoolers who knew nothing about idols. And—” he walked closer, booping your nose softly and snickered— “they weren’t nearly as alluring.”

You took a step back. Idols?

“Idols, as in performers? What is it to you if I know about idols or not?” You stood your ground—or tried to, at least—but these creatures were weirdly enticing, as if an invisible force was pulling you toward them. The pact was getting stronger the more time you spent with them. “Is that why you all have colored hair? Must be it. Are the hanboks part of your theme too? Most demons are supposed to be scary, terrifying. But you are all… handsome.”

Finally, the last demon—who had yet to talk—walked behind you, his light pink bangs fluttering in your eyes as he held you by the shoulders and tilted your head back. “Quite. Thank you, dear. You clean up after yourself quite well.” He winked as he held you in this uncomfortable yet butterfly-inducing position.

Your stomach dropped as you pried away, holding your hands in front of your chest to keep some distance, but your shoulder hit something else.

A yelp escaped your lips as a flash of blue hair came into vision and a soft hand held the side of your waist to prevent your endangerment.

“Aye, careful there. Wouldn’t want our little human to get scratched, or hurt.” You froze, only straightening when the demon pushed your back forward so that you stood on your own.

A hand ruffled your hair as you steadied yourself.

“There, there. You look stressed. Poor thing looks ready to snap.” A sudden hand ruffled your hair messily as he fixed you a smirk, the only thing visible due to the purple locks covering his eyes.

A strong arm circled your shoulders and pulled you toward him in spite of a small sound of dissent from the one who held you before. You tilted your head to face the demon and he flashed you a smile. “Our starshine sure does. Relax, little one. We won’t hurt you—unless you want-”

“Okay, that’s enough,” the last demon called. Given the fact that the others stopped pestering you, it was a sign he was their leader. “You guys know how humans are—their little hearts can’t take it. And judging by their body language, this one is at their limit.” He walked closer. “Come here, starshine. We’ll explain everything.”

And they did.

Well, it’s not like you could do anything but listen. They were the owners of the chains you were now bound to. As their voices filled with teasing contempt, they revealed that whoever bore your contract… owned your soul.

As a visual representation of their power, they started throwing this small piece of paper around—a folded black envelope—and smirked at you. When you asked, they just laughed.

“Oh, this? This is your soul, Moonbeam. It’s ours to play with.”

⋆｡˚✩˚｡⋆

There’s a truth in sad boy literature: you don’t know how lucky you are until you miss that shine you took for granted. The magic behind being alone and at peace. But now, you were being trailed by a group of five sad-looking, handsome men.

“Why are we here…” The blue-haired demon whined. He unmistakably whined in a way that would usually be considered annoying—were it not for his handsome face. Pretty privilege. He tugged at your hair audaciously. “Hey human, this is so boring~”

You stopped in your tracks and turned around painfully slow.

“Stop being such a baby. You guys might be free from hunger, but I’m not. And if you want me to be able to promote your sad excuse of a boyband, then let me have this.” A sharp arm wrapped around your waist. You nearly dropped your basket.

“Now, Moonbeam, we wouldn’t want you to lose your cute little ability to talk back. Now, would we? If I were you, I would be nicer to us.” The light pink-haired man spoke softly in your ear, holding you more sternly as you tried to pull away.

To anyone else, it looked like a cute couple being close and shy with each other.

“Well, aren’t you a romantic…” You gritted your teeth and detached from his embrace, the hair on the back of your neck standing. “I’ll take your suggestion. Thanks.” You gave him the fakest, most obvious smile you could muster.

All that charm, and still can’t fix his attitude? Tragic.

Breathe.

“But if I were you, I’d be nicer to your manager. After all, I know how the world of entertainment works. While you…” Your gaze lingered on the black hanboks they were still wearing—pedestrians thought they were some kind of cosplayers. “…are undoubtedly lost. Face it, you guys need me.”

What you needed was power. Being your rightful owner again.

You needed them to free you.

The demon in the center smirked as he grabbed your chin and forced you to face him. “I think it’s the other way around, sweetheart. Remember your place, human—we could have you six feet under if we please.”

You saw red. But tried to breathe.

Yeah.

That didn’t work.

"You want to own my soul? Fine. But if you're going to drag me to Hell, you better do it right—because right now, you're all just dragging your feet." You snatched the man's hand away from you and pulled him dangerously closer. “If you want your little show to work, then you’ll have to hand some of the reins over. The summoning connects us both ways. Don’t think I don’t know that, demon.”

The demon froze, his eyes scanning your face as his lips fought to hide a small smile.

“Whatever you say, Polaris. But if you want to threaten me, do it by cursing my name. Jinu."

⋆｡˚✩˚｡⋆

You were being dragged to another store. Because, apparently, that’s the only way demons knew how to guide you anywhere they wanted to gaze at.

After spending the day with them, you had come up with a few nicknames for some of the demons—the ones that teased you most.

There was Baby, the smug, annoying one who kept tugging your shirt and making flirtatious comments when older women were present, making you a stuttering, ashamed mess.

There was also Romantic, which was originally just you being sarcastic—he had yet again threatened to end your life if you didn’t buy him a shiny necklace he liked.

Mysterious, who didn’t speak much, except for the small remarks he made when he thought you couldn’t hear him.

And Abby—who originally wanted to be referred to as Abs—who had a weird habit of holding your shoulders to show off his muscles.

Apart from the comic dialogue that had filled the silence in your head for most of the day, you were set on a single thought:

The demons needed clothes.

You didn’t know how you would pull off the whole boyband idea, but it was more than obvious that you wouldn’t be able to do it with them dressed like a historical Korean drama.

“I saw this exact fit on J-Dragon,” Romantic said proudly, shoving a hanger of glittery skinny jeans in your face. “Fancy, aren’t they, Moony?”

“From what year?” you asked, stepping back to admire the pair of slacks fully. You made an expression better left sealed than shown to the world. If side-eyes could kill, those pants would be long gone. “Those things are banned by Big Bang now.”

“2010, maybe?” he said.

“Exactly.”

Baby was already halfway into a pair of skin-tight pants. You didn’t know how he moved so fast—or how his bones were even intact.

“I look good,” he posed in front of the mirror like he was auditioning for a role in Twilight. “Humans will drool over me, won’t they, little star?”

You groaned. “You are so old, it’s painful to see.”

“No, no,” Mysterious spoke from beside you, making you jump as he appeared out of thin air. He flipped through a rack of mesh tops with a sinister kind of interest. “It’s vintage now. Retro. Cool.”

They were all going to get arrested for crimes against fashion.

“Bold of you to talk about crimes,” Jinu said, humming as he smirked your way—not understanding the definition of personal space.

…Did you say that out loud?

He tried on a leather jacket with zippers that went nowhere. You had to give it to him—he could wear a trash bag and still look good.

“Since we’re not paying for any of this.”

You froze. “What?”

They didn’t answer.

...

The alarms went off fifteen minutes later.

You walked briskly. They strolled—bags in hand, not a single receipt between them. Not even pretending to care. One of them even waved at a security guard on the way out.

“This is shoplifting!” you hissed, nearly tripping over your own feet as you tried to escape mall security. You were sweating bullets, and you weren’t even the one who committed a property crime.

“We don’t call it that,” Jinu said calmly, adjusting the lapels of his coat. “We call it… redistribution of aesthetic resources.”

“It’s theft!” you hissed again. “You could’ve gotten us caught!”

“No one saw you do anything,” Baby said, patting your head like you were a toddler who just learned object permanence. You pushed his face away as he laughed. “We handled it.”

The worst part?

They had.

Did I make everyone flirt with the reader? Yes, and I was blushing the whole way JAJAJA But then again, I don’t want to make them soft straight ahead. Because…they are demons.

ANYWAYS

Reader being nicknamed after stars bc when souls go to the demon realm, they look like shooting stars. Each character had a special nickname which will be unlocked throughout the series start.

Here are the unlocked nicknames until now:

Romantic — Moonbeam Why: “Moonbeam” feels elegant, timeless, and full of ‘gentle’ affection — perfect for someone who says “dear” like he invented the word. It's also a little melancholy, which fits “Come now, Moonbeam, don’t pout. The night would weep without your light.” Jinu — My Polaris Why: He sees you as his an anchor. The nickname reflects deep respect and connection. It’s not flirty — it’s reverent “You don’t have to prove anything, my Polaris. I’ll follow you anywhere.” Maybe, still a work in progress: When the whole nicknames are revealed, the story will break into individual routes for each character. Like otome games.

Special thanks to: @lillycore @apelepikozume @junni-berry @hornehlittleweeblet2 @crescent-z @arieslucy @enerofairy @soldmygenderforglitter

☆ ～('▽^人)

[peachywonnie]

emo!ni-ki x hyper fem!reader 𓈒 ❤︎︎ ࣪ ˖

masterlist

- this man just goes soft for you like no doubt. he probably would be in an all black outfit, black hoodie on, but anyone can spot the little my melody keychain from a mile away that hangs from a loop off his jeans

- pink isn’t his favorite color, in fact he hates pink, but because of you he learns to love it

- would LOVE doing your hair with little bows or clips that you have. definitely learned how to braid just so he could see you all cute in a hairstyle HE did!! would def just pass it off as “you take too long so im tryna help” but we all know the real reason

- literally 2 days later he has a basket full of bows and ribbon he bought in his room just so he could do your hair at his place

- ok and don’t forget the skin care!!

- he acts “forced” to put on a face mask with you but secretly enjoys it

- he def has a little skin care section in his bathroom dedicated to you after you guys start dating and if one of your fancy moisturizers or serums are low you best believe he is purchasing you a new one!!

- will complain about how long you take getting ready

“ni-ki you can’t rush perfection”

“but you’re already perfect”

and proceeds to shower your face in kisses despite your complaints about “ruining your makeup”

- speaking of getting ready, this man will get ready in 2 seconds while you take 2 hours

- sighs when he sees you in a cute skirt when it’s cold out

“god forbid a girl wants to look cute”

“god forbid your boyfriend wants you to stay warm”

- yeah you already know he’s either grabbing an extra jacket (that’s his) or he will end up giving you his in the middle of the date

- and this man probably about dies if you ever wear any of his clothes

- his clothes aren’t exactly your style, so when he sees you wearing one of his shirts one day he goes insane

“oh my goodness princess you look so good in my shirt”

“you think so? i forgot to bring pajamas”

“i hope you forget everytime”

- yeah needless to say even if you brought overnight clothes they would “magically” go missing

- when he’s over in your room he kinda clashes a little with all the pink and mountain of stuffed animals on your bed while he wears some dark outfit

- he’s just casually laying on your bed, feet hanging over cause he’s a little too tall, just cuddling a bear plushie you have as he waits for you to finish applying lip gloss

- but he contributes to this mountain of plushies you have as whenever he’s out and he sees something pink or sanrio he buys it with a simple “it reminded me of you”

- he definitely gets made fun of by his friends just because he is so whipped for you but he wouldn’t have it any other way

[ggukivrse]

THIRD TIME'S THE CHARM | JJK

summary. when you complain to jungkook about your lack of action in the past year, you're not really asking for a solution. but when he casually offers to help, you just can't seem to bring yourself to say no.

after all, what's the worst that could happen in hooking up just this once?

pairing: jeon jungkook x f!reader

genre: friends to lovers, smut, fluff, slight angst

word count: 7.7k

warnings: swearing, they actually talk about their feelings :0, explicit sexual content, kissing, making out, hickeys, dry humping, oral (f. receiving), multiple orgasms, unprotected sex (be smarter than them pls), a bit of banter, petnames (baby), they're really fucking cute in the end it makes me sick, let me know if i missed anything!

notes: idk if this counts as my first completed series buttt... i'm gonna act like it does. thank you so so much to all the love and support you guys have given me for the past two parts, i'm genuinely so beyond grateful for it all :<< hopefully, you guys enjoy this part too!!

ps. READ PART ONE HERE & PART TWO HERE!!

⌗ masterlist. ⌗ taglist. ⌗ feedback

You open his chat window again like it’s muscle memory. Like your thumb don't know how to not betray you.

It’s not even about sending something. You’ve got no intention of doing that. At least, that’s what you tell yourself. But the screen is always open, staring back at you with that last unread message you sent almost a week ago — a throwaway meme you found on your lunch break. No reply. Not even a reaction.

And it hadn’t felt like a big deal in the moment. You sent it like always, light and dumb and nothing. But then the nothing kept going. No little gray typing bubble. No 'lol.' No double text. No late night 'you up?' Just this wall of silence.

You would’ve rather gotten a dry reply. Hell, even a thumbs up. Anything to prove that he saw you.

But now it’s been long enough that sending something new would feel desperate. Like you’re chasing him. Like you’re asking for something you’re not even supposed to want.

You lock your phone and throw it face down on your bed.

Then pick it back up five seconds later.

Then toss it again, harder, as if that’ll prove something.

You wish you were mad. You think you are mad — at least a little. But it’s a tangled kind of anger. One that knots itself up with embarrassment and sharp, bitter shame. You want to scream at him, yeah. But also at yourself.

Why did you let this happen?

Why did you let him blur the lines and kiss you like that and touch you like he meant it?

You were supposed to be smarter than this.

You lie back across your bed with one arm flung over your eyes. It’s stupid. You know it’s stupid. It was just sex. Just two nights. Two insanely good, dangerously close, way-too-connected nights. But still — technically just sex.

Except it wasn’t.

Not when he remembered your favourite sauce order without asking. Not when he brushed a loose strand of hair behind your ear while you ranted about work.

And especially not when he went cold the second things felt too good.

That’s what keeps twisting the knife. That shift in him. Like someone flipped a switch and rewrote the script. One minute, he was holding you like you mattered. The next, you were stepping out of his bathroom and into a stranger’s apartment.

You haven’t heard his voice since.

You bite the inside of your cheek and squeeze your eyes shut, trying to push down that lump of feeling before it rises too high.

It’s fine. You’re fine. You’re overthinking it.

Maybe he’s just going through something. Maybe he didn’t mean to shut you out. Maybe he thought you didn’t want to hear from him. Or maybe he’s just a fucking coward who got scared when the stakes changed.

But then, why didn’t you reach out?

Why didn’t you ask if he was okay, or tell him he was being weird, or demand an explanation like you’re owed one?

Because you’re afraid.

Because you don’t want the truth if the truth is that he regrets all of it.

Because deep down, you know this isn’t just a friendship anymore, and pretending it is would break you worse than silence.

Your phone buzzes once on the comforter beside you.

You freeze. Then sit up fast, breath catching halfway in your throat.

Your eyes are already scanning the screen before your brain can fully catch up.

Kook 🍜: hi

One word. Just hi. Like the last seven days didn’t happen. Like your stomach hasn’t been in knots trying to make sense of his silence. Like he didn’t vanish without warning after folding you into his sheets and leaving you to figure out what the hell it meant.

Your breath leaves you in one uneven exhale.

You blink at the message, your body locked in this strange stillness. Your thumb hovers, frozen. Part of you is tempted to stare at it until it disappears. Ignore it. Let him feel what it’s like to be the one left hanging. But your hands betray you again — just like they always do with him.

You: Radio silence for a week and all I get is a fucking hi? Wtf Jungkook

It’s not even what you really want to say, but it’s the closest thing you can manage that doesn’t sound like I missed you so much it made me sick or please don’t do this again.

Three dots appear.

Your heart squeezes like it’s caught in someone’s fist. And then the dots vanish.

Then come back.

Then vanish again.

You mutter, “Fucking say something,” to no one. It comes out too small, too desperate. You shut your eyes tight for a second like you can wring the feeling out of yourself by force.

A minute or so passes before his reply finally sends.

Kook 🍜: sorry. can i talk to you today?

You reread it so many times the text starts to lose meaning. Can I talk to you today?

You feel sick.

There’s no way you don’t know what this is. The phrasing. The tone. He wants to talk? What the fuck else could that mean, if not that he’s about to cut things off? That he’s going to hand you some polite little speech about how you’re great, but this can’t happen again. That he wants to stay friends and he doesn’t want to confuse things any more than he already has.

Or worse — he thinks you guys are better off cutting contact all together.

You bite down hard on your thumb, suddenly on the verge of tears and furious at yourself for it. You should’ve never let it get here. You should’ve drawn the line before the second time. Before the car. Before the party.

You should’ve been more careful with your heart.

But you’re here now. So far past the line you can’t even see it anymore.

You open your keyboard, then close it again. You want to ask what he wants to talk about. You want to demand answers over text so you don’t have to see his face when he says the words. But you know you won’t get anything that way.

You: Where?

Kook 🍜: i can come to yours

You sit there for a second, just breathing. You feel like you’re bracing for a crash that’s already midair.

You: What time?

Kook 🍜: i can be there in an hour?

You don’t answer. Not right away. You’re too busy staring at your reflection in the dark screen, wondering why your face looks so calm when your body feels like it’s trying to collapse in on itself.

You: Okay

You put the phone down carefully, like it might go off again, or explode, and turn your gaze to the ceiling. Every minute after this is going to stretch like it’s mocking you.

You don’t know if you’re getting closure or clarity. You don’t even know which one would hurt more.

But you know you won't cancel.

Because if this is going to end — if he’s going to say it — it has to be to your face. You need to see it.

You need to know for sure.

Jungkook is fucked.

Like, actually, cosmically, irreversibly fucked.

He stares at the elevator doors like they’re the gates to hell, and his own reflection in the brushed metal does him no favours. He looks tense. Jaw tight, shoulders hunched up high like he’s trying to fold himself into a more manageable version. Someone chill. Someone who isn’t about to shit himself over the thought of seeing you.

He rolls his shoulders back, shakes out his hands. Useless. He’s already sweating through his hoodie.

Every nerve in his body feels like it’s tuned an octave too high. Like if someone so much as breathes in his direction right now, he’ll either snap or confess something humiliating.

He wipes his palms on his jeans again. That’s the fourth time since the lobby.

The worst part is, he knows how he got here. He knows exactly when it happened, too — the moment the line moved.

It was your laugh. The tired kind, all cracked at the edges after that hellish Friday you had. You were curled up in his passenger seat, half out of it, feet tucked under you, and you’d looked over at him with that soft, worn-down smile.

And it just… hit him.

The weight of it. Of you.

He wanted to reach over and touch your face. Not to tease. Not to start something. Just to feel your skin under his fingers like it was allowed now.

And the second that thought formed — clear and blinding and way too tender — it was over. Game fucking over.

Because it wasn’t supposed to feel like that.

You’re his best friend. Have been for years. He knows how you take your coffee, how you organise your playlists by mood, how you chew on the inside of your cheek when you're anxious. You’re not just some girl he hooked up with at a party. You’re you.

And now, he’s standing in an elevator on the way to your apartment, trying not to think about how badly he messed it all up.

He hadn’t meant to ghost you. Not really. It was just — after that night, after the way you looked at him, all warm and trusting — he panicked. Full-body, brain-scrambling, total system failure. He couldn’t even look at you without feeling like he was seconds from saying something stupid like "Don’t sleep with anyone else, please," or "I think I’m in love with you."

So instead, he shut down. Did the one thing he always swore he wouldn’t do with you — he pulled away. Got weird. Avoided it. Avoided you.

And now you’re pissed.

Rightfully so.

He deserved that text you sent. Probably worse. You could’ve ignored him completely and he wouldn’t have blamed you. But you didn’t. You texted back and he’s clinging onto that like a lifeline. Because it means there’s still time. Still a chance to fix it — if he doesn’t blow it again.

He presses the heel of his hand to his chest like that might steady the erratic rhythm of his heart.

What the fuck is he even going to say?

Sorry for being an emotionally constipated idiot?

Sorry I ghosted you because I realised I’m in love with you and it short-circuited my whole fucking personality?

Sorry I thought I could fuck you and still keep pretending like you don’t mean more to me than anyone else?

The elevator dings.

Jungkook flinches like it slapped him, then scrubs a hand through his hair, lets out a tight breath, and steps through the doors before he can change his mind.

He’s here.

Fuck. He’s actually here.

Jungkook looks like he didn’t sleep last night. Hair messy, clothes a little wrinkled, eyes flicking up to meet yours for a second before they dart away again. His hands are shoved into the pockets of his jacket like he’s afraid of what they’ll do if left unsupervised.

You tell yourself not to feel relieved. Not to let it show. He didn’t cancel. He showed up. That shouldn’t mean as much as it does. It really, really shouldn’t.

But still — there’s something in your chest that unclenches when you see him standing there, real and present. Even if he does look like he’s about to apologise for burning down your house or something.

“Hey,” he says, voice quiet.

You step back from the door to let him in. Dry. Wordless. The move is automatic, but your body feels stiff with it, like your own muscles are annoyed on your behalf.

He hesitates before stepping inside, like he thinks the floor might swallow him up. You don't offer a smile. Don't even look at him once the door’s closed behind him.

You cross your arms and lean back against the edge of the kitchen counter, watching him with a blank expression that’s only half-real. The other half is tightly coiled under your skin — anger, sure, but under that, all the feelings you’ve been pretending not to have.

He does a slow, uncertain glance around your apartment like something might’ve changed since the last time he was here. But it hasn’t. It’s still your place. Same plants, same overhead light humming softly, same faint scent of laundry detergent that clings to the air.

He stands there awkwardly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. It’s like he doesn’t know where to put his body.

You’ve never seen him like this before. Not around you. Jungkook’s always been comfortable here. The kind of comfortable that leaves shoes by the door without asking. The kind that opens your fridge like he owns a shelf. But right now, he looks like a stranger in someone else’s house.

You let the silence stretch out. You’re waiting for him to just speak, but he doesn’t

He doesn’t even try.

Eventually, your voice cuts through the air, a little too sharp. “Jungkook, you said you wanted to talk.”

His head snaps up like he forgot that was part of the deal. Like the fact that he came here at all already cost him everything he had in reserve.

“Yeah,” he says. His throat moves when he swallows. “I do.”

You raise your eyebrows, waiting.

He opens his mouth like he’s about to start, then closes it again. Shifts his stance. Rubs the back of his neck with one hand. You catch the way his eyes flick to the floor, then back to you, then away again.

You narrow your eyes. “Well?”

He breathes out a weak, almost bitter laugh and runs both hands down his thighs, like he’s physically trying to ground himself. “I don’t know how to do this,” he mutters.

You frown, arms still crossed tight across your chest. “What? Talk?”

You hate being like this towards him — you feel like a bitch. But it’s the only way that you can stop yourself from just spilling all of your thoughts and feelings to him.

“No, I—” He breaks off, jaw flexing. “No. I mean… say the right thing. Say any of it without sounding like an idiot.”

You blink, unimpressed. “So you came here without knowing what you were gonna say.”

He looks at you then. Fully. And for the first time since he walked in, you see the real wreckage behind his eyes. There’s nothing cool or casual about it. He’s unravelling in slow motion. Everything about him is quiet desperation wrapped in someone trying really hard not to fall apart.

“I didn’t know what to say because I didn’t know what I wanted,” he says finally. “And then I figured it out, and that somehow made it worse.”

You stay silent.

He shifts closer, not by much — just a few inches. “I fucked up,” he adds, voice barely above a whisper. “I know I did. I know I disappeared. I didn’t mean to make you feel like I didn’t care. I was just—” he stops, jaw tightening again. “I got scared.”

You scoff under your breath and look away.

“I’m serious,” he says, softer now. “It freaked me out. How fast it happened. How much it changed.”

You look back at him, jaw set. “What changed?”

He swallows again. Stiff. His voice cracks a little when he speaks next.

“You,” he says again. “How I feel about you. That changed.”

Your chest tightens.

You don’t react, not visibly. You keep your face still, unreadable, even though your brain is suddenly scrambling. You’ve been yanked in too many directions this past week. You’re not going to lean into hope just because he finally decided to speak.

So you say nothing. You just hold his gaze and wait.

Jungkook takes a breath, his shoulders rising with it, then falling in a slow, deliberate exhale. The nervousness is still there — but it’s settled into something quieter now.

“I kept trying to tell myself it didn’t mean anything,” he says. “That it was just— whatever. Two friends, getting carried away. We were drunk the first time, right? It was easy to lie to myself about that. Easy to say it didn’t have to go anywhere.”

His voice is calm, but there's tension underneath it.

“But the second time?” He pauses, tongue running along the inside of his cheek, eyes still locked on yours. “That wasn’t drunk. That wasn’t casual. That was me driving us across town just to make you feel better, because I can’t stand it when you’re not okay.”

You flinch — barely — but he sees it. You know he does.

“And then it was me kissing you like I’d lose my mind if I didn’t. You think I didn’t notice how different that felt? I’ve never kissed you like that before. And I haven’t stopped thinking about it since.”

The weight of his words hangs in the air between you.

You’re still standing by the counter, arms crossed, but now your grip has loosened. You hate how much this is getting to you, how badly you want to give in, how your chest aches just hearing him say the things you’d only let yourself think when the lights were off and your phone screen was dark.

Jungkook takes another step toward you.

“When I brought you back to mine that night… when you came out of the shower, and I saw you just standing there in my space, looking at me like I was safe…” His voice catches, but not in a way that makes him crumble — just enough to show the truth of it. “I freaked the fuck out.”

You blink at him, finally speaking. “Yeah. I noticed.”

He huffs out a breath that's almost a laugh, but not quite. “I didn’t mean to shut down. I didn’t even know what I was doing in the moment. I just— everything in me wanted to pull you close, and that’s when I realised I couldn’t keep doing this the way we were doing it. Not without losing my shit every time you left.”

Your throat feels tight, but you still ask, “So you decided to ghost me instead?”

That lands. His jaw flexes, and he nods once. “Yeah. I did. I thought if I gave it space, I could go back to being normal. Go back to just being your friend. But I couldn’t. I can’t.

“I don’t want to be just your friend anymore. Not because of the sex, not because it was good— which it was, but that’s not the point. It’s you. It’s always been you. I didn’t realise how much until I almost lost it completely.”

You swallow hard. Your arms are uncrossed now. Not folded in, not defensive — just hanging at your sides like you’re too stunned to remember what to do with them.

Jungkook steps in closer. Not touching you yet. But near enough that you can smell him — faint cologne, his laundry detergent, the scent you associate with your car windows fogging up.

“I missed you,” he says, and his voice turns softer. “Every day. And it scared the shit out of me, how badly I wanted to talk to you. Touch you. Just be around you. I wasn’t ready to admit it last week, and I was a coward for that. But I’m not running anymore.”

Silence again.

Except it doesn’t feel like the ones you’ve been drowning in for a week.

“I don’t know what you’re feeling,” he says, lower now, like the words might break if he’s too loud. “And I’m not assuming anything. But if you still want me around— really want me— just say the word. I’ll figure out the rest.”

You inhale slowly, try to even out your breathing, but your chest still feels like it’s barely holding together. Your heart’s doing that thing where it thuds too hard without speeding up.

You hate that you believe him. That you always would’ve. That no matter how angry you were, no matter how cold you tried to be when he walked in — you still wanted him to explain, to prove it wasn’t what your worst thoughts told you it was.

And now he has.

He’s standing in front of you with open hands, with the words you oh so desperately wanted to hear. And for a moment, you’re not sure what to do with that.

“I hate you,” you say quietly.

It’s not true. Not even close. But it’s the first thing that leaves your mouth.

Jungkook huffs out a dry laugh, eyes dropping to the floor. “Yeah,” he murmurs, nodding. “I figured.”

You shake your head once. “No. I mean it. I fucking hate you for this. For—” You break off, because your voice is shaking now. “For making me feel like I was crazy. For not even saying goodnight after… after everything.”

His face tightens, but he doesn’t interrupt.

“You could’ve just told me,” you go on. “You could’ve said it was too much. That it got weird. That you needed time. Anything. But you disappeared. And I had to sit here wondering if I made it all up."

You pause, pressing your lips together.

“And I— I missed you too, you know,” you add, quieter this time.

His mouth opens like he might speak, but no sound comes out at first. Instead, he closes the space between you by half, slow and steady, like he’s afraid of pushing too far.

“God, you’re such an asshole,” you whisper, but your tone isn't mean. Not even close.

He laughs, soft and low. “Yeah. I know.

“You promise me you’re sure? Cause Jungkook, I will fucking cut off your dick if you pull this shit again.”

He smiles but doesn’t hesitate. “I promise. I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

You stare at him.

Long enough that the air between you stretches taut, thin as thread.

His hand twitches like he wants to reach for you but still doesn’t know if he’s allowed. His jaw flexes, his chest rising and falling in uneven swells. You can tell he’s waiting — for a sign, for a go-ahead, for you.

And even though part of you still wants to be mad, still wants to make him sweat just a little longer, the rest of you aches. For his mouth. For his hands. For the solid, grounding weight of him.

So you move.

You step into the last inch of space between you and grab the front of his hoodie. He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for a year, but you don’t give him a chance to say anything.

You kiss him.

Not out of impulse. Not for show. You kiss him because you need to. Because your chest feels like it’s going to split open if you don’t.

At first, it’s quiet. Just lips pressed to lips — careful, slow. There’s a pause between each pass of your mouth over his, like you’re both trying to remember how this started. How you even got here.

But then he sighs against you — not loud, not dramatic, just a sound full of relief — and it unravels something.

His hands lift, hesitating for only half a second before they settle on your waist, fingers curling tight. You press closer, and his lips part beneath yours. The angle shifts. Your nose bumps his cheek. It’s not perfect, but it’s real, and when your tongue brushes his, everything tilts.

The sweetness melts fast.

He makes a sound low in his throat and drags you in like the distance is unbearable. Your hands slide up into his hair, fingers threading through the strands at the base of his neck, and the way he reacts — the little shiver he tries to swallow — sends heat straight down your spine.

You kiss him harder.

His body crowds yours until your back meets the wall. Not rough, not rushed. Just firm. His chest presses to yours, and you can feel the way his heart races. How your own pulse kicks up to match it.

The kiss deepens, turns messy at the edges. His teeth catch your bottom lip and your breath stutters, but you don’t pull back. You tilt your chin, chasing more, and the next time he kisses you, it’s hungrier. One of his hands slips to the small of your back, palm dragging slow and warm beneath your shirt. The skin-to-skin contact makes your whole body twitch.

You gasp into his mouth, and he swallows the sound, his hands tightening. His other arm slips around your waist completely, pulling you flush against him, and suddenly you’re not thinking anymore. You’re just feeling.

The tension that’s been bottling up between you two — the silence, the week of wondering, the ache of missing him so much it hurt — it all floods to the surface.

You fist your hands in his hoodie, yanking him impossibly closer. Your hips shift forward, just enough to brush him, and the sound he makes is sharp and involuntary, caught between a breath and a groan.

“Fuck,” he mutters, barely pulling back. His forehead presses to yours, breath ragged. “You’re driving me insane.”

You huff, lips brushing his. “That’s fair.”

Then he kisses you again. Rougher this time. Desperate in a way that makes your knees go soft.

He doesn’t stay at your mouth for long. His lips trail down — your jaw, your cheek, the shell of your ear. His breath is hot and uneven, and when he finds your neck, your whole body reacts. Your hands clutch at him, your back arches off the wall, and the soft sound that escapes your throat isn’t one you mean to make.

He feels it. Hears it. Answers it with a low, reverent sound that seems to vibrate straight through you.

His tongue traces the spot beneath your ear, slow and deliberate, and your eyes flutter shut.

Your fingers tighten in his hair, your breath catching sharp in your throat. You pull back for a second before lowering your mouth to his neck, right where the collar of his hoodie dips. He lets out a small sound, hands flexing on your waist, when your lips press there.

You start slow. You can feel his pulse under your tongue, the way his chest rises against yours, unsteady and warm. Then you part your lips and suck gently at the spot just below his jaw. His whole body stutters, hips jerking against yours before he can stop it.

Your fingers trail down his chest, tugging his hoodie collar aside for better access. His head tips back, eyes squeezed shut, lips parted.

You do it again, this time with enough pressure to leave a mark, and the sound of your mouth working against his skin is lewd.

He groans. It’s low and rough and barely held back, and the sound shoots straight between your legs. You feel him hardening now, undeniable through the fabric where he’s pressed against you.

“All mine?” you whisper, your lips brushing over the new mark you’ve left.

He doesn’t even hesitate. “All yours.”

His voice is breathless. Wrecked. And so damn certain it knocks something loose in your chest.

You pull back just enough to look at him — really look. His pupils are blown, his lips swollen, a flush climbing high on his cheeks. He looks at you like he wants to devour you. Like he would if you let him.

“I missed that mouth,” he mutters, hands gliding under your shirt again, palms broad and warm. “Missed everything.”

You kiss his throat in reply and drag your teeth across it until he swears under his breath.

His hips grind against you again, harder this time. You both feel it — the friction, the heat building between your bodies.

His arms shift beneath you and he lifts you clean off the ground in one smooth motion, hands strong under your thighs. A startled sound escapes your throat as your legs wrap around his waist on instinct, gripping him tight.

“Fuck,” he mutters again, forehead dropping to your shoulder. “I want you so bad it’s actually stupid.”

You smile, drunk on the feel of him.

“Bedroom?” you murmur, tracing your lips over the new mark blooming against his skin.

He hums lowly, and shifts his grip on your thighs.

He carries you through the hallway and your lips never leave his skin for more than a second.

When he reaches your bedroom, he doesn’t hesitate. He steps inside and drops you onto the mattress in one fluid movement.

You barely get your bearings before he’s crawling over you, slotting his body between your legs, His mouth finds yours again, and you moan into it before you can stop yourself when his knee presses between your legs.

Your hips twitch, grinding down against the pressure, and he groans in response, the sound vibrating through your chest as his mouth moves with yours. His hand slips under your shirt again, this time bolder, fingers spanning across your ribs and inching higher until his knuckles brush the curve of your breast.

You gasp softly, and he pulls back just enough to murmur, “Off.”

You sit up just enough to grab the hem of your shirt, tugging it over your head in one smooth pull, your hair mussed from the friction. He watches the fabric fall to the floor, then looks at you.

“You’re so fucking pretty," he breathes.

You roll your eyes automatically, even though your face is already burning. “Shut up.”

“I’m serious,” he says, and his voice drops low. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

His lips part and he kisses along your sternum — slow, wet presses of his mouth that trail up and then out, over the swell of one breast, then the other.

You inhale sharply when his mouth grazes the sensitive skin beside your nipple, and his eyes flick up at the sound, pupils blown. He kisses lower, then higher again, murmuring against your skin, “Can’t believe I went a week without this.”

The vibration of his voice right against your skin makes you arch, and he meets you halfway, grinding down slow and deliberate, like he knows exactly what you’re chasing and wants to stretch it out just to watch you squirm.

Your hands curl into his shoulders, nails biting down just enough to make him grunt softly into your skin. He rolls his hips again, slow and heavy, and the pressure against your core has your breath catching in your throat.

“Koo,” you whine out.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, lips pink and wet, hair falling into his eyes. He grins, crooked and hot and deeply pleased with himself.

“Yeah, baby?” he asks, and his voice is pure sin.

You glare, but your thighs shift open under him anyway.

“Please.”

He hums, satisfied, and starts working his way lower. Every kiss is wet and unhurried. Down your chest, across your stomach. His hands follow, smoothing over your ribs, down to your hips, dragging the waistband of your pants just slightly with them. His thumbs hook in the fabric, pausing right above your pelvis.

He looks up at you, smug and dark-eyed.

“Gonna let me take these off?”

He's so annoying you're gonna kill him. “Do I look like I’m stopping you?”

“No,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss just below your navel, “but I like hearing you say it.”

You huff, fingers threading into his hair again. “Take them off, Kook.”

He eases them down slowly — too slowly — dragging the fabric down your legs while his mouth follows in a path of heat and pressure. He kisses your hipbone, your inner thigh, every patch of skin he uncovers like it’s something sacred. When your panties go next, he makes a quiet sound in the back of his throat — more reverent than smug this time.

You’re already wet, already aching, and from the way his eyes flicker as he takes you in, he fucking knows it.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “You’re soaked. You missed me that much?”

You exhale hard, cheeks hot. “Shut up and do something about it.”

He grins again, slower this time. “Anything you want.”

His hands grip your thighs and spread them further apart, and before you can say another word, his mouth is on you.

The first swipe of his tongue is long, and delibirate. You jerk at the contact, a broken sound slipping from your lips, and he groans like he’s the one falling apart. His hands tighten on your hips, holding you in place, and does it again.

Every movement of his tongue is practiced and precise. He starts slow, almost gentle, licking through your folds with a kind of focus that makes your head spin. Your thighs threaten to close around his head, but he pushes them apart with ease, never breaking rhythm.

Your hands move to the back of his head, gripping tight. His tongue circles your clit once, then again, and the third time he sucks it between his lips. You try to stifle a moan, but it slips from your lips anyway.

He pulls back just enough to speak, breath hot on your skin.

“Keep making those sounds, baby,” he murmurs, voice wrecked. “Wanna hear every fucking thing I do to you.”

He movements turn faster, his mouth messy and hot and relentless. You’re already close, the build-up sharp and climbing, and he can feel it. One of his hands slips lower, spreading you open further with his thumb, and his tongue drags in tighter circles.

You’re writhing, panting, toes curling into the sheets. Your fingers tug at his hair, your spine arching off the bed.

“Fuck— Kook—” you gasp, head thrown back.

He groans again, the sound vibrating straight through your pussy. He doubles down, mouth moving faster, and when your hips start to stutter, erratic and desperate, he presses his hand over your stomach, grounding you.

“You’re gonna come for me?” he murmurs against you, mouth slick with you. “Gonna let me taste it?”

You nod frantically, unable to speak, your whole body wound tight and ready to snap.

He presses his mouth against you again, lips sucking against your clit, and the feeling has you squirming with pleasure.

“Kook—” your voice breaks open as you come hard against his mouth.

He moans, but his movements don't stop.

Your body arches helplessly, heels digging into the bed, one hand fisted in the sheets, the other still tangled in his hair as you ride out the wave. You’re gasping, blinking hard, your heart trying to punch through your ribs.

Only when your legs start to tremble uncontrollably does he finally pull back.

His lips are slick and swollen, jaw damp, hair messy from where you’ve been gripping it. And he looks wrecked — eyes heavy-lidded, pupils blown wide, like just being between your thighs has undone something in him.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, then drags his lips slowly up your inner thigh, leaving lazy kisses in his wake.

You’re still catching your breath, staring at the ceiling like your soul just left your body, when he plants a final kiss on the inside of your knee and murmurs, “Yeah. I’m never ghosting you again.”

You let out a breathless laugh, too blissed out to be mad. “You better not.”

“After that?” he says, crawling back up your body, slow and unhurried. “I’d be clinically insane.”

He settles over you again, pressing a warm, open-mouthed kiss to your stomach, then another between your breasts, then finally your mouth. You taste yourself on his tongue, and when he groans against your lips, it sends a fresh jolt of heat straight through you.

His body is flush against yours, his clothed cock thick and heavy where it presses against your thigh. You let your hands trail down his chest slowly to tug at the denim loops of his jeans.

"Want these off," you mumble against his lips.

He smiles and presses one last kiss to your mouth before he leans back onto his knees. His hands go to his belt, and you watch the way his fingers fumble for just a second.

He gets the buckle undone, then the zipper, the sound louder than it should be in your quiet bedroom. You watch as he shucks them down, boxers and all, and your breath catches slightly at the sight of him — flushed and hard and achingly ready.

“Better?” he asks, voice low.

You nod, breath shallow, and he’s already crawling back over you. The heat of him sinks into your skin as his body settles between your thighs, bare now.

Your legs part without hesitation.

His weight, the press of his chest to yours, the familiar scent of him wrapped in something raw and new — it all hits at once, and your whole body shivers.

He’s warm everywhere. The kind of warmth that soaks into your bones and makes you ache for more.

His hands slide along your arms until they find yours where they’re resting above your head. He threads his fingers through yours and presses them gently into the pillow, pinning you there. His eyes search yours, and you feel the first brush of him between your legs, just the tip, teasing the edge of you.

He doesn’t move yet. Just rests there, eyes locked on yours.

“You okay?” he murmurs, voice low and thick, like he’s hanging on by a thread.

You don’t answer — not with words. You just tilt your hips up, welcoming him in with nothing but a look.

He pushes in slow — painfully slow — each inch dragging fire across your nerves as your body stretches to take him. Your mouth falls open in a silent gasp, your fingers clenching around his. When he’s fully buried inside you, he stills completely.

“Fuck,” he breathes, forehead dropping to yours. “You feel… unreal.”

You can’t speak — your body’s too full, too wrecked already — so you kiss him instead. Slow and sweet and a little desperate. Your hips rock up, seeking more.

He groans into your mouth, finally starting to move, and every thrust is so fucking deep. It’s not rushed or frantic. It’s him savouring you, like he wants to remember how this feels with every part of himself.

His hands stay tight around yours, anchoring you both to the bed, to each other.

The rhythm builds, a slow burn that spreads everywhere, and between kisses you catch the way he looks at you — like he’s seeing something he’s afraid to lose. Like there’s something he wants to say but can’t yet.

“You were supposed to beg,” you manage to murmur against his mouth, breathless. “Grovel a little.”

That crooked smile curls against your lips. “My bad, baby,” he murmurs. “You can make me beg next time.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You’re gonna regret that.”

He shifts his hips, thrusting deeper, and your breath leaves you in a ragged gasp.

“You promise?”

The challenge in his voice is smug, but his eyes are dark and glassy, his control hanging by a thread. You whimper in response, thighs tightening around his waist, and he dips his head to your throat, dragging his lips along your pulse like it’s the only thing tethering him to earth.

He starts to move with more purpose now, making you feel every second of it. His cock grinds into that spot that makes your vision blur, and your whole body tenses, fingers squeezing his like a lifeline.

The moan you let out is shameless, high and wrecked, when he tilts his hips just right — again and again, like he’s carving his name into your body from the inside.

“Right there?” he murmurs, already knowing. His hand slips between your bodies, thumb finding your clit with the kind of confidence that only comes from knowing you — every reaction, every sound. “God, you’re so fucking wet. You always get like this for me?”

“Koo—” His name slips out broken, a warning and a plea wrapped in one.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers, voice ragged, forehead pressed to yours. His thrusts get rougher now, faster, the rhythm losing polish but gaining intensity. “Let me have you, baby. Come again for me.”

The words send a bolt of heat straight to your core, your whole body winding tight. His mouth crashes against yours before you can respond, tongue tangling with yours, greedy and open and honest in all the ways his words still aren’t.

When he pulls back, he’s panting, “You feel like heaven, fuck.”

You can’t even process it — not now, not when his rhythm stutters and his hips slam harder, each thrust jolting a cry from your throat. Your legs are trembling, your grip bruising where it clings to him, and you can feel the knot in your stomach tighening.

“That’s it,” he groans, watching your face like it’s the only thing that matters. “Let go for me. Let me feel you.”

You bury your face in his shoulder, teeth catching on his skin as your orgasm crashes over you. Your body locks up, thighs clenching, and you cry out his name. His hand squeezes yours back, holding you through it.

Your walls grip him tight, and he groans loud against your skin, hips faltering. “Fuck— shit—”

He thrusts once more before spilling into you with a broken sound, voice rasping your name like a prayer.

His whole body shudders as he comes, arms locked tight around you like he needs you to stay exactly where you are — here, under him, around him, real. His forehead drops to your shoulder, damp curls brushing your skin as he exhales, long and shaky.

Neither of you move right away. The air between you is thick with heat and breath and a comforting silence.

Eventually though, he shifts just enough to press a kiss to your collarbone. Then another, softer.

His hand slides along your waist, fingertips brushing lazy patterns into your skin. You hum under your breath — not a word, just a sound — and he responds by kissing your shoulder again.

Your legs are still tangled together. His body still half-draped over yours. There’s a mess between your thighs and sweat clinging to your skin, and you should probably say something, anything — but there’s something sweet about the silence now. It’s soft. Unspoken. Peaceful, in a weirdly intimate way.

He shifts again, easing out of you with a quiet groan, and you wince a little at the loss.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, running a hand gently over your thigh like an apology.

“It’s fine,” you breathe, eyes closed, chest still rising and falling too fast.

He doesn’t go far. Just rolls to the side, still close enough that his leg stays pressed against yours, and reaches for the blanket to pull it up over you both. He tugs you into his chest like second nature, burying his nose in your hair, his hand stroking absently up and down your arm.

“You good?” he asks softly, lips brushing your temple.

“Yeah,” you say, quieter now. “You?”

He pauses. Then he nods against your skin. “Yeah. More than.”

You lay there like that for a while, heartbeats evening out. He’s still drawing shapes on your skin — fingertips slow, mindless — and you smile to yourself, warmth blooming low in your stomach.

“So,” you murmur eventually, voice still hoarse. “What now? We high-five and call it a night?”

He huffs a laugh into your hair. “I mean, I wouldn’t say no to a high-five.”

You laugh, nudging him with your shoulder. “Cocky.”

“Confident,” he corrects, grinning. “But really—” He shifts a little so he can see your face, one hand reaching up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “If we’re doing this, I wanna do it right.”

You blink, caught off-guard by the sudden sincerity in his voice. “Do what right?”

He raises an eyebrow, like it should be obvious. “Us.”

There’s a pause. You look at him, and he looks at you, and it’s terrifying and sweet all at once.

“I really like you,” he says, quieter this time. “And I’m not just saying that because I just got laid.” He cracks a small smile. “Though, to be fair, that was mind-blowing.”

You snort. “So humble.”

“I’m serious,” he says, nudging your nose with his. “I’ll take you out. I’ll plan dumb dates. I’ll be obnoxiously charming and show up with flowers. I’ll be— like— a gentleman, or whatever.”

You give him a look. “You should’ve done all that before you fucked me.”

His grin spreads. “Yeah, well. Guess I got the order wrong. You gonna hold that against me?”

“Maybe,” you say, lips twitching.

“I’ll make it up to you,” he says, fingers brushing your cheek. “You’ll see. I’ll be so romantic it’ll make you want to punch me.”

“I already want to punch you.”

“And yet,” he says smugly, pulling you closer, “you’re still in my bed.”

“This is my bed, dumbass.”

He pauses. “Okay, fair. But I am naked in it. With you.”

You roll your eyes, but the smile on your face won’t go away. His arm tightens around your waist, and you let yourself relax into it — into him. For once, it doesn’t feel like something to second-guess.

He kisses your forehead, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth.

You tuck your face into his neck and sigh. “You better bring the good flowers. Like the ones that don’t die in two days.”

“Oh, so now you’re picky?”

“You said dates and flowers. I’m holding you to it.”

“Noted,” he says, fingers threading into your hair. “I’m gonna be so disgustingly good to you.”

You laugh softly into his skin.

And he just holds you tighter.

⌗ masterlist. ⌗ taglist. ⌗ feedback

[mooningningg]

notes, I feel like after all that tension ya'll deserve action, ty anon for requesting.

★ Roommate!Sukuna kisses you.

It started with a bet.

Because of course it did.

“You’re bluffing,” you snorted, arms crossed as you leaned against the kitchen counter. “You talk a big game, Sukuna, but you wouldn’t last five minutes in my lecture hall.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You think I give a fuck about Western Civ? I could pass that class with a hangover and one eye open.”

You arched a brow. “Oh yeah? Name me one Enlightenment philosopher.”

He blinked. “...Voltaggio.”

“Voltaire, dumbass.”

He scoffed. “Same shit.”

You rolled your eyes so hard they nearly exited your body. “Okay, bet. You fail the next quiz in my class, you'll do my laundry for a week.”

His grin was instant, sharp. “Fine. But if I do—”

“You won’t,” you interjected.

“—then you gotta kiss me.”

Your laugh choked in your throat. “What?!”

He shrugged, completely casual, like he hadn’t just dropped a full grenade into your afternoon. “Scared you’ll like it?”

You scoffed. “No. Scared you’ll start writing my name in cursive after.”

“Bold of you to assume I know cursive.”

You threw a kitchen towel at his head. He caught it. You hated him.

You forgot about the bet.

Sukuna didn’t.

Three days later, he slapped a graded quiz onto the coffee table in front of you, looking like a smug devil in sweats.

A B+. You squinted. “How—”

“I cheated off the nerd in the front row,” he said proudly.

You stared at the paper, then at him. “You don’t deserve this kiss.”

He shrugged. “Wasn’t about deserving it, babe.”

You rolled your eyes. “Fine. Pucker up.”

“Ew. Don’t make it weird.”

“Oh, I’m the one making it weird?”

He just smirked. “Let’s get it over with, princess.”

So you leaned in.

Fully intending to do a stupid, quick, no-emotion peck. Something harmless. Forgettable.

But then… something happened.

Maybe it was the way he leaned forward too, just a second before you met him. Or how his hand came to rest against your jaw like muscle memory. Or the way his lips pressed too slowly, too firmly, like he wasn’t planning to stop anytime soon.

And maybe—maybe it was the heat that surged between you two like the air itself changed.

Your chest brushed his. He tilted his head. You kissed back.

Harder.

You didn’t mean to. That’s the worst part.

You didn’t mean for your hands to find the fabric of his hoodie or for him to press you into the back of the couch like gravity lost its damn mind. It just happened.

You both broke apart a breath later, stunned. Breathing fast. Too close.

Your eyes were wide. “...That wasn’t part of the deal.”

Sukuna stared at you. His lips were red. Voice low.

“I’m not fuckin’ complaining.”

You blinked. “You liked it.”

He scowled. “You liked it.”

“You’re still leaning in.”

He jerked back like you burned him. “Shut up.”

You grinned, a little breathless. “You liked it so bad.”

He stood up, flustered, grabbing his phone. “Don’t make it a thing.”

“You’re gonna write my name in your diary.”

“Shut up.”

“You’re gonna start calling me baby on accident.”

He was halfway down the hall now. “This is why I should’ve just failed.”

You sat back on the couch, fingers still tingling from where you grabbed his hoodie.

…You liked it, too. Worst of all.

Taglist, @humeysaga @williamafton26 @aranisbaee @probablynotleahhhh @probablynotleahhhh. @beaniesayshi @levifiance @rinofcike @fushiguroooozzz @gojoscumslut @bellsoftheball @kunascutie. @after-laughter-come-tears

[lambiconic]

john (price) hitting on the barista at is fav coffee shop !!!

John wasted no time in meeting the “cutest barista on earth” his men were raving about. He took his coffee at home but he can stop by real quick and see what the big deal is!

And a big deal you were! Charismatic, funny, and you’d convinced him to buy the most foul tasting sweet he had ever put in his mouth. He didn’t even like sweets. But he paid for it, smiled through the first bite, and didn’t complain!! Because you’d recommended it with such enthusiasm, and hell if he was going to ruin that smile on your face.

John could see exactly what was driving everyone crazy.

He told himself it was a one-time visit, just curiosity. But then he found himself back the next morning. And the one after that.

Each time, he ordered something he didn’t need just to watch you light up when you spoke. Like you hadn’t already worked a full shift, like you weren’t surrounded by a dozen other people demanding your attention.

You still always managed to give him your all and, sometimes, even a little more.

He wasn’t used to that. And that was what really got him.

You caught on quick.

...

“Back again?” you teased one morning, not even looking up as you slid a cup across the counter. His usual, like you’d memorized it.

“Convenient location,” he replied, leaning casually on the counter, trying not to smile too much. As if you’d fall for that lie.

“Right…the middle of nowhere. So convenient.”

He laughed, and that was when it happened. The first real moment.

You looked at him. Not through him, not past him, and it felt like, to him, something shifted.

“So, John,” you began, folding a napkin absentmindedly. “You got a lady?”

That threw him.

He blinked, then leaned in just a bit. “A lady.. A girlfriend?” 

You nodded, folding the napkin to death. Slightly taken aback by your forwardness.

He hesitated, then said, quieter than usual, “No. No girlfriend.”

A beat passed. He didn’t break eye contact. “Why? Want my number?”

There was a pause. A soft one. Your smile came slow..shy. “Sure.”

It wasn’t a grand gesture, no sweeping confession. Just a moment.

But for John? It was the start of something.

the others:

simon

gaz

johnny

[kuidore]

More random ZoeYstery HCs ✧ KPOP demon hunters ✧ Zoey x Mystery

✧ They’re a little codependent but the sprinkles of toxicity are mutual so it cancels out

✧ Mystery never wants to go anywhere if Zoe isn’t going. He goes to social stuff because she goes and he wants to spend time with her.

✧ Zoey will still go to things on her own sometimes, leaving Mystery to hangout at home, but she spends a lot of time on her phone texting him and always leaves earlier than she would have if Mystery was with her

✧ This is entirely her choice, not once has he ever asked her to come home or complained about her going out. She just misses him extra hard sometimes and finds herself getting bored way faster when he isn’t around

✧ If it was up to either of them, they’d be together literally all of the time.

✧ They can’t actually do that, so he just follows her everywhere like a puppy on an invisible leash as much as he can

✧ He can see perfectly fine through his bangs (demon logic) but he still has a habit of running into things as if he couldn’t. Poles, signs, corners, fire hydrants. He’s surprisingly clumsy

✧ that’s because he doesn’t look where he’s going. he stares at Zoey instead

✧ totally worth it to him, especially the times when Zoey would start fawning over the possibility of him being hurt

✧ ‘a girlfriend wants a boyfriend who she can turn her brain off around’ except Mystery is the girlfriend

✧ He’s sorta an airhead, he’s ignorant to a lot of things that humans would think of as common knowledge

✧ Mystery thinks Zoey is the smartest person in the entire world and he says it a lot

✧ he eventually gets comfortable enough to ask her questions not just about herself, and she answers him with lots of details and excited hand gestures

✧ She’s happy he’s curious about humans in general and happier that he was asking her.

✧ In reality he’s still just curious about her and not all humans. No other ones, really. Maybe the rest of Huntrix, barely. he could handle her friends because they were extensions of Zoey.

✧ he was asking about topics he remembered her mention before in conversation.

✧ Zoey forgets what stories she’s told and what conversations she’s had with what people, so it doesn’t really click together that she just happens to know at least a little bit about pretty much about everything he asks

✧ he’s not doing it with manipulative intentions. Dude just genuinely could not care less about anything if he can’t play ‘seven degrees of Zoey Huntrix’ with it

✧ He compliments her multiple times a day, usually just blurting out something he was thinking as opposed to any sort of setup or cute delivery. In his eyes he’s just saying things that are true, but Zoey always giggles and thanks him anyways

✧ His deadpan tone and complete lack of awareness, in Zoey’s eyes, is a cute delivery

✧ Zoey is a crazy good baker. Mystery will hangout in the kitchen with her, sitting down and staying the hell out of her way as she zooms between cupboards

✧ Every so often she stops in front of him, a piece of chocolate or pastry or whatever else she was messing around with pinched between her fingers, and pops it in his mouth for a taste test

✧ He’s never any help when she’s trying to figure something out, but Zoey already knows that. She’s not expecting critique, she just gets all giddy seeing him smile and say it’s yummy when he tastes it

✧ where Jinu never lets Rumi see his demonic eyes, Mystery is exactly the opposite with Zoey

✧ When they’re at home, even after he’s started pinning up his bangs, he only ever has bright amber eyes with cat-like pupils

✧ Mystery has nothing but his demon form in his past, and as much as he didn’t care, sometimes he wondered what Zoey thought. If she ever remembered he was a demon when she was alone and recoiled at the thought of his ‘real’ form

✧ it’s the first question he’s afraid to ask her, so he doesn’t

✧ One day when she’s laying on top of him on their couch and his eyes are closed, she presses her lips to his eyelid, telling him not to open them as she did the same on the other side

✧ He opened them back up and just raises an eyebrow, and she shrugs back at him and tells him he has pretty eyes

✧ she gets a new thing for her ‘what makes Mystery blush?’ list

[lilirae00]

Home Court Advantage

Paige x Azzi

Word count: 2.5k

Warnings: fluff, sexual content 18+

a/n: I couldn’t get this future reunion out of my head so here it is. Here’s to hoping summer workouts finish up so our girls can be reunited. Please remember these are fictional stories inspired by real life people.

———

The sun was setting low over the Dallas skyline, painting the city in soft gold and peach hues. Paige stood at her apartment window, her arms crossed as she watched the light slip down behind the buildings. The air was still warm from the day’s heat, but she felt a cold jitter in her chest—the good kind. The nervous kind.

Azzi was landing in less than an hour.

Paige hadn’t seen her in person since that night two weeks ago at the Mystics game. The night they’d tangled themselves up in each other until all the space that had stretched between them for too long finally disappeared. Since then, they’d been counting down every day, every practice, every FaceTime call, and every sleepy “I miss you” text.

Now, it was down to minutes.

Paige didn’t even notice she was pacing until her socked feet were nearly burning from the friction of the hardwood floor. She looked down and laughed at herself. “Get it together,” she muttered, tugging a hand through her messy bun. Then, just as she reached for her phone to check the time again, it buzzed.

Azzi: landed, in the uber now 💗

Paige’s heart stuttered.

———

The knock on the door was soft.

Paige flung it open before the second knock could land. There she was. Azzi, in black joggers, white sneakers, and a navy UConn hoodie three sizes too big, probably Paige’s. Her curls were piled on top of her head in a lazy bun. She looked tired—but radiant.

They stood there, just looking at each other, both suddenly still.

Then Azzi dropped her duffel and launched herself forward. Paige caught her mid-jump, arms wrapping around her waist, holding her like something precious.

“You’re here,” Paige breathed into Azzi’s shoulder.

“I’m here,” Azzi whispered back, her voice shaky with emotion. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

Paige pulled back just enough to kiss her. It started soft—like a homecoming—but quickly deepened, months of distance collapsing into a single, desperate breath. Paige’s hands found Azzi’s face, her waist, her hips. Azzi tugged at the hem of Paige’s tank top like she wanted to crawl under her skin and stay there.

Eventually, they pulled apart just long enough to stumble inside, laughing breathlessly.

———

Later, after pizza boxes had been tossed and the sun had disappeared completely, the two lay curled up on Paige’s oversized sectional, limbs tangled, a soft throw blanket half-draped over them.

Azzi was nestled between Paige’s legs, her back resting against her chest, their fingers loosely intertwined. The TV played some old rom-com on mute, but neither was watching.

“You know,” Azzi murmured, tilting her head to look up at her, “I thought being apart would get easier.”

Paige’s fingers paused mid-stroke through Azzi’s curls. “Did it?”

“Nope,” Azzi said, turning fully in her arms. “It sucked every day.”

Paige smiled, brushing her nose against Azzi’s. “I feel like I kept it together for like, the first three days. And then I turned into a clingy mess.”

“Same.” Azzi traced patterns on Paige’s forearm. “I missed everything about you. Your smell. Your dumb TikToks. The way you complain about oatmeal like it’s a personal betrayal.”

“Oatmeal is dry paste pretending to be food.”

Azzi laughed. “There she is.”

There was a pause, filled with the quiet hum of the city outside.

Then Paige leaned in and kissed her slowly. Less fire, more gravity. Azzi melted into it with a sigh.

“You’re really staying?” Paige asked softly.

“I’m really staying,” Azzi confirmed, brushing a thumb across her jaw. “Workouts are here now, and I’m with you. No more two-week stretches. No more FaceTimes before bed instead of the real thing.”

Paige leaned back just enough to study her. “Good. Because I wasn’t kidding about needing you here. Like… actually needing you.”

Azzi pressed her forehead to Paige’s. “You have me. For real. I’m yours, remember?”

Paige nodded, and then grinned. “Good. Because I bought you something.”

Azzi’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Is it another jersey?”

Paige jumped up and disappeared into the bedroom. When she returned, she was holding something behind her back.

“Okay, don’t laugh,” she said.

“I’m already laughing.”

Paige pulled out a hanger. On it was a Wings jersey, custom stitched, with the name “Azzi” on the back and a tiny heart embroidered inside the number five.

Azzi’s face split into a grin. “You didn’t.”

“I did,” Paige said proudly. “Because if you’re gonna wear someone’s name, it’s gonna be your own. Right next to mine.”

Azzi took it from her hands like it was fragile. “This is… actually perfect.”

She stood and slowly pulled the jersey over her hoodie, letting it hang oversized off one shoulder. “How do I look?”

“Like you’re mine,” Paige said without hesitation.

Azzi walked over and straddled Paige’s lap, arms wrapping around her neck. “Damn right.”

Azzi’s mouth found Paige’s again, but this time there was no teasing, no restraint—just heat. She shifted in Paige’s lap, hips brushing, and Paige let out a quiet groan as her hands settled at Azzi’s waist, gripping tightly.

“You feel so good,” Paige murmured against her lips, tugging the jersey up just enough to get her hands under it.

Azzi leaned back slightly and peeled it off, tossing it to the couch beside them. She was still wearing the hoodie underneath, but even that felt like too much.

“Take it off,” Paige whispered, hands already sliding beneath the hem. Azzi didn’t need to be asked twice—she reached behind her neck, pulled it off in one motion, and let it fall to the floor. Underneath, she wore a sports bra that Paige immediately tugged upward.

“God, I missed you,” Paige said as her hands slid up Azzi’s back, pulling her in. She buried her face in Azzi’s neck, kissing the spot just below her ear, feeling the way Azzi shivered in her arms.

“I missed this,” Azzi whispered. “Missed you touching me like this. Like I’m the only thing in the world.”

“You are,” Paige said honestly, her hands sliding over the curve of Azzi’s back, thumbs brushing beneath the band of the sports bra before finally pulling it over her head and letting it drop between them. She leaned back just a little to take her in.

Azzi was breathing hard, her eyes dark with want. “Are you gonna keep staring at me or…?”

“Don’t rush me,” Paige grinned. “You’re too pretty not to look at.”

Azzi blushed—then grabbed Paige by the front of her tank top and pulled her forward until their lips crashed together again. Paige moaned, her hands roaming over warm skin, tracing the lines she’d missed for too long. Her thumbs brushed over Azzi’s nipples, and she felt the sharp inhale her girlfriend took in response.

Paige broke the kiss just long enough to murmur, “Bed. Now.”

Azzi stood, taking Paige’s hand and pulling her with her down the short hallway into the bedroom. The second the door shut behind them, Paige turned her and pressed her gently up against the wall.

She kissed down Azzi’s collarbone, down her chest, taking her time. She sucked gently at the skin just above her breast, leaving the kind of mark that wouldn’t be visible in a jersey—but Paige would know it was there.

Azzi gasped as Paige dropped to her knees, fingers trailing down the waistband of her joggers. She looked up, waiting.

Azzi nodded, breathless. “Please.”

Paige tugged the joggers and underwear down in one motion, letting them pool at Azzi’s ankles before pressing a kiss to her hipbone, then the inside of her thigh.

“Paige,” Azzi breathed, threading her fingers through Paige’s hair. “I need—”

“I got you, baby.”

“You’re so wet for me already,” Paige whispered, voice rough against Azzi’s skin.

Azzi nodded, breathless. “I’ve been like this since the airport.”

Paige grinned and kissed Azzi’s belly button, then the soft skin just beneath it. “That right?”

Paige leaned down further and kissed her center softly, then again, slower. She felt Azzi’s legs tremble as her hands found the back of Paige’s head, holding her close. Paige licked long, teasing strokes until Azzi was squirming, then focused her tongue on exactly where she knew Azzi needed it.

“Oh my God—yes—” Azzi gasped, head falling back against the wall.

Paige reached up with one hand to grip her waist, the other sliding between Azzi’s thighs to help her stay steady. She loved how responsive Azzi was—how every moan, every shake, every soft plea was like a song only Paige got to hear.

When Azzi’s legs started to give out, Paige stood and caught her, lifting her easily and carrying her to the bed. She laid her down gently, kissing her along the way.

Azzi pulled her in by the shirt. “Now you,” she whispered.

Paige stripped off her tank top and shorts, climbing over Azzi with a hunger that had been simmering for weeks.

Their bodies found a rhythm immediately—hands tangled in hair, mouths never far apart. Paige pressed herself against Azzi, their bare skin brushing, and both of them gasped.

“I love you,” Azzi said into her shoulder, clutching her tight.

Paige kissed her neck, her cheek, her lips. “I love you too.”

Azzi’s lips were parted, her chest rising and falling fast, but she didn’t look away either. The air between them was charged—thick with all the tension that had been building for weeks.

“God, I missed you,” Paige murmured as she leaned down to kiss her again, slow and deep.

Her hands roamed Azzi’s body—over soft curves and strong muscle, committing every detail to memory like she hadn’t already done it a hundred times. She kissed her way down Azzi’s neck, sucking gently at the spot just below her jaw until she felt Azzi twitch beneath her.

Paige’s hand slid down between Azzi’s legs, brushing over her center—wet and aching. Azzi inhaled sharply, her hips jerking forward at the contact.

“Paige,” Azzi said, a whine already lacing her voice. “Please.”

Paige loved when she begged. Not because she liked control—but because it meant Azzi trusted her with that vulnerability. Trusted her to take care of her, to give her what she needed.

She kissed down Azzi’s stomach, then lower, settling between her thighs. Azzi opened for her without hesitation, spreading her legs wide across the sheets.

Paige brushed her mouth over her again—just once, light as a feather—and watched as Azzi’s back arched, a low moan slipping from her lips.

Then she licked her properly—slow, deliberate, pressing her tongue against Azzi’s folds and sliding through her soaked heat.

“Fuck—” Azzi gasped, fingers threading tightly into Paige’s hair.

Paige groaned at the taste, anchoring her hands on Azzi’s hips as she started to move her tongue with purpose. She licked in slow, deep strokes, circling her clit every few passes, drawing out a string of high, broken moans.

Azzi was already close—Paige could feel it in the way her thighs trembled, the way her hips rolled up to meet her mouth. But Paige wasn’t ready to let her fall just yet.

She slowed, pulling back slightly. Azzi whimpered, hips chasing the contact.

“Not yet,” Paige said, voice low. “Wanna make this last.”

She slid two fingers inside her, feeling Azzi’s walls clench tight around them as she pumped slowly. At the same time, she leaned back in, flicking her tongue over her clit in fast, steady strokes.

“Paige���oh my God—” Azzi cried out, hands gripping the sheets now.

“That’s it,” Paige murmured against her. “Let go, baby. I got you.”

Azzi came hard, her thighs clamping around Paige’s head, her whole body shaking as the orgasm tore through her. Paige didn’t stop—slowed just enough to let her ride it out, kissing her through every wave of it until Azzi collapsed against the bed, boneless and gasping.

Paige pressed a final kiss to her inner thigh, then crawled back up her body, resting on her elbows so their faces were just inches apart.

“You okay?” she whispered.

Azzi nodded, dazed. “You just wiped me off the face of the earth.”

Paige chuckled and kissed her softly. “Not done yet.”

She reached down, grabbing Azzi’s thigh and guiding it around her own hip, pressing their bodies together—wetness meeting wetness, skin on skin.

Azzi’s eyes fluttered open, and Paige could see the fire starting to return.

“Ride me,” Paige said.

Azzi didn’t need to be asked twice. She flipped them over smoothly, straddling Paige with practiced ease, her thighs already slick and shining in the low light. Paige looked up at her in awe—completely bare, flushed, glowing.

“God, you’re unreal,” she whispered.

Azzi leaned down to kiss her, slow and sensual, before reaching between them to guide their centers together. She rocked her hips forward, and they both gasped at the contact—slick heat grinding against slick heat, everything desperate and perfect.

Azzi started to move, slow at first, hips rolling in lazy, wet circles that made Paige’s eyes fall shut. Paige grabbed her thighs, then her waist, holding her tighter with every stroke. The friction was everything—soft and intense and burning in the best way.

“Az—fuck,” Paige gasped, her nails digging into Azzi’s hips.

“I want you to come with me,” Azzi said, voice trembling.

“I’m so close,” Paige panted, lifting her hips to meet every thrust. “So close, baby.”

Azzi leaned forward and buried her face in Paige’s neck, moaning as their rhythm turned frantic. Every inch of their skin was slick, bodies grinding together fast and deep until the pleasure overtook them both.

Paige cried out as her climax hit, her back arching off the bed, pulling Azzi down with her. Azzi followed a beat later, clutching Paige’s shoulders, body writhing in her arms as she came again—louder this time.

They stayed like that for a long moment—clinging to each other, breath shaky and hearts pounding.

Azzi finally collapsed onto Paige’s chest, and Paige wrapped her arms around her tightly, pressing soft kisses to her temple.

Neither said anything at first. They didn’t need to.

They lay tangled up together, skin still warm, the room quiet except for their synced-up breathing.

Azzi’s body trembled beneath her, and Paige slowed everything down—her hands, her kisses, the way she held her. She wanted Azzi to feel safe in every second of it, not just wanted.

Their breathing was still heavy, but the urgency had settled into something quieter—deeper. Paige traced a slow circle along Azzi’s waist as they lay tangled in the sheets, bare skin warm against bare skin.

Azzi’s eyes fluttered open. “Hi,” she whispered.

Paige smiled and pressed a kiss to her temple. “Hi.”

Neither of them moved for a long moment. Azzi was curled into her side, one leg thrown over Paige’s, her cheek resting just above her heart. The soft rhythm of their breathing filled the quiet room like a lullaby.

Paige reached for the edge of the blanket and pulled it up over them, letting it cocoon their bodies in warmth. Azzi hummed softly, already drifting.

“You okay?” Paige asked, her voice low and tender.

Azzi nodded without opening her eyes. “More than okay.”

Paige kissed her forehead and let her own eyes close. There was no rush now, no countdown ticking down until one of them had to leave. No airport goodbyes or awkward time zones. Just this—soft skin, shared breath, the steady beat of a heart she knew better than her own.

For the first time in a long time, Paige didn’t feel like something was missing.

Azzi was here. She was home.

[fragranticareviewers]

As someone who doesn't know a thing about perfumes, reading what you have to say about them is so unbelievably cool!

If I may ask something, what would a magical girl use, but not the pink main one, maybe the orange/yellow one?

ive been sitting with this for a little bit rotating it in my head... this will be a long one

so im putting my answers into two different categories:

one is for the Orange Magical Girl Archetype, which is how i was thinking of the first one. in my head, the orange ones are usually sporty, energetic, and have a sun or fire theme going on, while still maintaining a lot of that youthful sparkly fun vibe. (i also personally associate them with citrus, because, well, orange) so i was thinking of that. this will be my first category of answers.

olympea solar by rabanne - yummy! white florals and mandarin orange.

h&m sunray - golden warmth by h&m - straight up smells like summer. sunscreen, coconut, slightly floral?

orange ice cream by colornoise - i have no idea if this one is good or not to be honest. but it looks like it should fit. i trust it. i believe in it.

dr. botica poção da criatividade by o boticário - ok pause. i have never seen this mentioned before by anyone and found it by accident. what is this. this is ridiculously cute. how do i get my hands on it? the bottle is so cute! it has a star for god's sake

sundrunk by imaginary authors - "oh noo it's so linear" "it doesn't smell like a city on fire or bull's blood" i don't care. smells like artificial orange flavoring followed by neroli. yummy

...so this was my first thought.

then i started thinking: what about the actual orange magical girls from things i've watched? what do i associate with them?

and then i realized: WHERE ARE ALL THE ORANGE MAGICAL GIRLS?? i can think of, like, 5 total! all of them have completely different personalities! everyone's always like "ohh toei hates making green magical girls, we're starving, please feed us more green magical girls please" as if there is not currently a CRISIS of MAGICAL GIRLS WHO WEAR ORANGE in their series even greater than this...

with that said: the 5 magical girls i can think of who are primarily orange all have completely different associations for me, so i figured it'd be fun to pick a perfume or two for each of them.

cure soleil from star twinkle precure - i think they technically classify her as yellow so she might not even count. that's stupid. she's orange. being blonde does not change the color of her outfit.

for her, i pick aqua allegoria nettare di sole by guerlain. it has solar notes, which are critical for her IMO, along with beautiful white florals, which i think matches with her association with flowers.

hazuki from ojamajo doremi - ah, i'm struggling with this a bit.. she's very shy, naive, and studious, with an interest in things like violin and ballet. i was hoping i could find something with maybe a light varnish accord, but no luck. instead, i looked for things with an old book/paper smell without being overly dark or old, and i'm stuck between these 2...

gion by fantome - powdery rose tea with honey and books. light and cute.

morning room by solstice scents - you thought i was gonna do a recommendation post without mentioning solstice scents huh? huh?? *beats you up* this is another powdery and light floral, this time mostly based on violet instead of rose. and, of course, there's a paper note in here.

cure sunny from smile precure - i'm realizing that, in my head, she is the prototypical orange magical girl. i may be biased because she's also my favorite. i want to find something that evokes fire without being overly smoky or autumnal.

beach bonfire by alchemic muse - a firey gourmand with a little bit of nice sandalwood and amber, nice!

fire opal (orange 2; natural) by dsh perfumes - planning on getting a sample of this. bitter orange that people are complaining is "too masculine"

sailor venus from sailor moon - oh god. is she orange? anyways, i think i'd associate her with like, makeup accords, like the way lipstick smells. but fun and silly. it'd be cool if i could find a light and fun fragrance with a hot iron accord because she has a chain attack and all that, but no such thing seems to exist

iris crush by jimmy choo - powdery floral lipstick. yay!

nagisa momoe from puella magi madoka magica - is this even a question?

cheesecake by arcana wildcraft.

anyways, to be transparent, a lot of the time i don't answer fandom/character requests because it's always things i've never watched/read/played/etc. before. but mahou shoujo... well i've heard of it

[orellazalonia]

His Soft Spot

Summary: You’re a sunshine-hearted barista in a dangerous city, all smiles and soft edges. Unaware that the quiet, brooding man at your café table is the most feared name in the local mafia. But when Bucky Barnes starts carving gentle moments into his brutal world just to be near you, even he begins to wonder if someone like you could ever love someone like him. (Mob Boss!Bucky Barnes x Sweetheart!reader)

Word Count: 2.1k+

A/N: Been wanting to do a mob AU with this pair for a while now. I finally got to it, and they’re so cute! (Imo lol.) Happy reading!!!

Main Masterlist | His Sweetheart Masterlist

The corner coffee shop was nothing special. Chipped counters, secondhand mugs, and a bell above the door that only worked when it wanted to. But you loved it. The soft clink of ceramic, the low hum of conversation, the smell of roasted beans.

You’d worked there for a little over a year now, always opening at 6 a.m. sharp, rain or shine. Most of your regulars were kind, or at least kind enough. Grumpy people in suits needing caffeine, half-asleep artists sketching in the window, moms with strollers and tired eyes. And then… there was him.

He wasn’t a regular in the traditional sense. He never came at the same time, never stayed too long. But you noticed him. Of course you did. Broad shoulders under expensive coats, a deep-set frown carved onto his face, and stormy blue eyes that rarely met anyone else’s. He always sat in the corner booth, never used his name, and always ordered a plain black coffee with two sugars.

You’d started calling him Quiet Guy in your head.

And he was. Quiet. Still. Intense. He didn’t smile, not once. But he tipped well, never complained, and never forgot to say thank you even if it came out in a low, quiet murmur that barely reached above the hiss of the espresso machine.

You didn’t think he noticed you much, not really. Especially not the way you always added a little extra whipped cream to his coffee, even if he didn’t ask for it. Not the way you smiled at him even when he didn’t smile back.

To you, he was like one of those paintings you stare at in a museum. Sharp, beautiful, and just a little sad.

Meanwhile, you were just the girl behind the counter. Apron stained with chocolate syrup, hair tied in a messy bun, a bandaid on your knuckle from an unfortunate knife-vs-avocado incident. Too smiley, too soft, too… naive, according to your friends.

But Quiet Guy never looked at you like you were silly. Never talked down to you and never flinched when you ended up rambling about your new cookie recipe or your dream of maybe, someday, opening a bakery with pastel tiles and big sunny windows.

If anything, he listened.

Really listened.

But it wasn’t until the third week of October that he spoke more than a sentence.

Rain was pouring that day. It was real ugly rain that soaked your shoes and stuck your hair to your face. You were closing up, locking the front door and tugging your jacket tight, when you saw him outside. No umbrella. No coat. Just standing there, rain dripping down his face, his shoulders hunched like a man carrying something heavier than water.

You hesitated. Then, without thinking, you held out your umbrella. “You’ll catch your death out here,” You said, half-joking, half-worried.

He looked down at it, then at you. For a moment, he didn’t move. Then he spoke, voice gravelly, “You always this kind to strangers?”

You smiled, sheepish and soft. “Only the ones who don’t complain about the coffee.”

A ghost of something flickered at the corner of his mouth, almost a smile as he took the umbrella, his fingers brushing yours.

“Thanks, sweetheart,” He said, eyes lingering for just a second longer than they should have.

You watched him walk away, the umbrella bright yellow against the gray street.

You didn’t know you’d just handed protection to the most dangerous man in Brooklyn. And he didn’t know he’d just started falling for someone who wore bandaids with cartoon fruit on them.

You didn’t see him for a week after the umbrella incident.

The streets were rougher than usual that week. There were more police on the corner, more closed signs on family-owned businesses, and more whispered rumors behind half-lowered blinds. You heard someone mention the O’Rourke deal and someone else murmur about a warehouse fire that wasn’t an accident. A few people joked nervously about the mob running wild lately– Who’s in charge now, anyway?

You didn’t pay too much attention to that kind of talk honestly. Not because you weren’t curious, you were. But you’d grown up in this city. Danger was background noise like sirens or subway screeches. You learned to stay in your lane, smile when it was smart to, and never ask too many questions.

Besides, you had your own problems: the espresso machine started leaking, your paycheck bounced for the second time this month, and you accidentally burned your fingers on a pan of fresh croissants.

You were wiping the counter, cursing under your breath and cradling your wrapped-up hand, when the bell above the door jingled.

He was back.

And this time, he looked different. More tired like he hadn’t slept. His coat was darker than usual, collar turned up high. There was also something stiff in the way he moved, like something hurt under the surface.

“Hey,” You said, immediately smiling despite the nerves fluttering in your stomach. “Rough week?”

He looked at your bandaged fingers first.

“What happened to you?”

You blinked. “Oh. Just being clumsy again, it was the pastry tray versus my hand. The tray won.”

His eyes narrowed slightly, like he didn’t find that answer as harmless or humorous as you did. He stepped forward, slow and quiet, placing a twenty on the counter.

“Black. Two sugars.”

“Same old?”

“Some things don’t need changing.”

You bit your lip to hide the smile that tugged at your mouth. He was… oddly comforting, even with the way he made your stomach flutter and your thoughts skip.

You turned to prep the coffee, carefully working around your bandaged hand, when he spoke again.

“This neighborhood isn’t safe lately.”

Your back stiffened slightly. “I mean… it’s never really been safe, has it?”

“Worse now,” He huffed. “Too many people trying to prove they belong at the top. They’re reckless.”

You glanced at him over your shoulder. “You sound like you know something.”

He didn’t answer that. Instead, he said, “You always walk home alone?”

“Sometimes,” You admitted. “I usually take the back route past the laundromat. It’s better lit.”

He looked genuinely displeased by that. “Don’t.”

You blinked. “Don’t… what? Walk home?”

“Don’t go through that alley again.” His voice was low and serious, like it wasn’t a suggestion. Like it was law.

You nodded slowly. “Okay. I won’t.”

You set his cup in front of him. He didn’t take it right away. He simply looked at you and for the first time, it didn’t seem as guarded as usual.

“You ever wonder why no one messes with this place?” He asked.

Your brows knit together. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, two blocks down, there’s a diner with bullet holes in the glass. There’s a liquor store that got torched. But your little coffee shop? Untouched.”

You looked around like you were noticing it for the first time and he wasn’t wrong.

“I guess we’re lucky,” You said, quieter this time.

He finally took the cup.

“Not luck,” He murmured. “Some places are off-limits.”

Your stomach did a slow flip. Before you could ask what he meant, he slid a small piece of paper across the counter. His handwriting was sharp and deliberate. There lied a number.

“If you ever feel unsafe,” He said, “Call. Don’t hesitate, just call.”

You looked up at him. “What should I save it under?”

He met your eyes, and for the first time, he smiled. Small, crooked, but real.

“James,” He said. “But you can keep calling me ‘Quiet Guy’ if you want.”

And then he was gone, the door jingling behind him, a gust of cold air in his wake.

You flushed, knowing he must’ve overheard you talking about him to your colleague. You stared down at the paper in your hand now and thought, James. Huh.

You didn’t know that name came with weight. You didn’t know that in certain circles, that name made grown men flinch. And you definitely didn’t know you’d just become the softest secret in James Buchanan Barnes’s world of blood, power, and control.

You never really called the number.

Not that day, not the next. You stared at it for a while. Once during your lunch break, once before bed, but you never dialed. You didn’t need to since nothing had happened. The streets were loud, the rumors kept circling, but your world stayed small, safe, and ordinary.

But something changed after that.

The Quiet Guy – James – started coming in more often.

Sometimes in the early morning, when the city was just beginning. Sometimes in the quiet lull between lunch and dinner. He never stayed long though, but he started talking more. Asking questions and not the kind people ask just to be polite; it was the kind that meant he was actually listening.

He’d ask about your recipes, about the books you liked, whether you preferred cats or dogs. One time he even noticed the way you hummed to yourself one of your favorite songs when you were focused, and he asked what the song was.

You told him it was nothing.

But the next day, he left a little radio on the counter when he left. It was old, scratched, but with the exact song loaded onto a USB inside.

You didn’t ask how he got it. And he didn’t ask what you thought of it. But you smiled a little bigger the next time he walked in, and that was enough.

Then, one afternoon, he came in without a coat. No shadows under his eyes. Just him. Solid, real, and standing in front of you with a calm you hadn’t seen before.

“Are you free Friday night?” He asked, like it wasn’t a question that made your heart trip over itself.

You blinked. “Me?”

“Yeah. You.”

You smiled. “I mean– yes. Yeah, I’m free.”

He nodded, like he’d already planned everything. “Wear something warm.”

You didn’t know what to expect.

He picked you up just after dark in a sleek black car you didn’t recognize the brand of. His jacket was pressed. His shirt was ironed. And when he offered his hand to help you inside, you hesitated just long enough for your cheeks to flush.

He noticed but he didn’t tease.

Instead, he said, “You look beautiful,” like it was the only truth he knew how to say.

You didn’t know that three hours earlier, he’d been standing in a warehouse near the docks, quietly threatening a man with a broken nose not to let a whisper of trouble near your neighborhood tonight. You didn’t know that Bucky had postponed a weapons shipment and moved a backroom poker game three blocks east just to clear the air around you.

All you knew was that the rooftop he brought you to had a string of soft, glowing lights, a space heater, a tiny table with mismatched chairs, and two steaming paper bowls of your favorite takeout.

You gasped when you saw it. “Is this…?”

“I remembered you said you liked the dumplings from Ling’s.”

“I didn’t think you were listening.”

“I’m always listening.”

You sat, half-nervous and half-stunned, watching as he poured you a cup of tea from a little thermos he brought himself. It was clumsy, imperfect, but somehow… it made the gesture sweeter.

“Why up here?” You asked curiously.

He shrugged. “I don’t like crowds and it’s quiet.”

“Do you always go to this much trouble for dinner?”

He hesitated. “No.”

You looked up at him and found he was already looking back.

There was something different in his eyes now though. It wasn’t cold or guarded. It was more like a storm had passed and left something warm in its wake.

You ate slowly, talking about everything and nothing: your favorite cartoons as a kid, the weirdest thing you’ve ever baked, your theory that the city pigeons are evolving to become smarter than humans.

He laughed at that one. Actually laughed. It was rough and low, a rare sound that made your chest ache in a good way.

Later, when the wind picked up, he moved closer. His arm barely brushed yours.

“Cold?” He asked.

“A little.”

He draped his jacket over your shoulders like it was instinct and maybe it was.

You glanced down at your tea, heart pounding, and asked softly, “James?”

“Yeah?”

“Why me?”

He didn’t answer right away. You thought maybe he wouldn’t but you’d asked anyways.

But then he said in voice low and almost vulnerable, “Because you're the only good thing I don’t want to ruin.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. So you reached for his hand and to your surprise, he let you hold it like he didn’t want to let go. It all felt like the beginning of something neither of you could name just yet.

[youhideastar]

I hesitate to mention this because I don't want to sound like I'm complaining about folks making fanworks based on my fanworks, which I LOVE and find super flattering... but there was a thing recently where a group of other fans all got together to create fanworks based on different works in a series I'd written, and the only way I found out about it was that *one* fan in this group mentioned in the AO3 notes that their work was part of this larger project. Without that, I'd have had no idea where this spate of related works was coming from.

And when I left a comment saying, "hey, thanks for mentioning this project, I'm so flattered and I'd love to learn more about why the group picked my work for it!" they never responded.

To be clear, I don't think these fans did anything wrong! And I am, again, very touched that they were so inspired by my work, and I'm sure their works led other readers to my fic, which I really appreciate! It's just a little bit of a lonely feeling to know that there's probably a whole discord server that was devoted to talking about my fic, and I'll never hear a word of it.

Please consider sharing something--anything--of your discord conversations with the author. Even just a few particularly funny lines of reaction; even just letting them know that people *were* saying nice things about the fic on discord. It would mean a lot.

a feel like the new generation of fanfic readers NEED to understand that clicking on a fic (interaction) does nothing. ao3 has no algorithm. your private discord discussions of fic do not reach the authors. if you do not actively engage with writers they will stop posting. this isn’t social media this is community.

[littlelovelunette]

Milf reader x vi cuz like look at her MOMMY ISSUES anyways so like reader fucking her and making her feel small and dumber than her

UNEXPECTED TURN

— SUB! VI X MILF! READER ★

Reader is a single parent in this au, Vi is an adult in this au— don't get weird ideas guys, age gap, fingering, clothed sex, mentions of being caught, implication of later sex, sub!Vi

★ YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED. DON'T COMPLAIN IF YOU READ SOMETHING YOU DON'T LIKE—

Your daughter's friend Vi has been checking you out since the moment she walked in your apartment with your daughter— Melanie. Melanie asked Vi to sit by the couch and wait for her. The moment your daughter disappeared in her room, Vi started flirting with you in more ways than one. She was clearly eye-fucking you.

“You do this to all your friends’ mothers?” You asked, legs crossing as your eyes remained trained on the screen of your laptop.

“Not all of them are as hot as you,” Vi said, voice smug.

But you could say, her control was slipping. It was the way her thighs clenched together as if she was trying to hold onto the last string of self control. Her blue eyes gazed over to your cleavage, breasts almost spilling out of the top that felt a bit tight on your chest but you hadn't had the chance to change. You'd been busy.

“You're staring,” you said dully.

Vi cleared her throat, “No, I'm not.”

“I wasn't born yesterday,” you said, a slow smirk pulling on your glossy lips.

Vi felt her cheeks go red, heat spreading through her body in a way she hadn't ever felt before. Fuck it, Vi was supposed to be the dominant one, she always had been. Vi had always held the upper hand when it came to women and controlled how things went with them, even in the bedroom. Never once had she submitted to a woman.

Melanie appeared at the doorway, “Are you okay, Vi…?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Vi looked at Melanie. “Totally wasn't checking your mother out,” she thought, placing her hands over her lap.

“You're acting a little off,” Melanie said, eyes squinted as she plopped onto the couch beside Vi.

“I'm fine,” Vi said, voice almost throaty.

You got up, “I'll get you both some snacks,” you smiled, grabbing your laptop off and walking out of the living room.

Hours passed by. It was late in the afternoon and Melanie was deep asleep on the couch beside Vi with her head lolled against the back of the couch. Vi had a controller in hand, lazily playing a video game until she saw you walk past the living room and suddenly she felt a heat pool in her stomach again. She couldn't control it. She put the controller down and rose to her feet.

“Y'know everyday I find myself wondering how a gorgeous woman like you is single,” Vi said, walking around the kitchen counter and close to you.

“You're telling me you think about me everyday?” You looked at her, something dark and primal in your gaze.

“That's not what—” Vi flushed. “...Maybe.”

“Is that right?” You stepped closer to her. “You do know I'm a lot more experienced than you are, right?”

“What's that supposed to mean?” Vi swallowed, throat bobbing.

“That's supposed to mean,” you pulled her close by her waist, “I know how to handle naughty girls like you.”

“What if Melanie wakes up?” Vi asked, her voice shaking.

“I guess, you'll have to be quiet.”

That was hard to be when your fingers were so good in her, your long fingers twisted inside her making her back arch. Vi grabbed the kitchen counter with one hand, other hand on your shoulder as your fingers worked faster in her dripping pussy. Your hand was in her boxers and pants, easily fingering her so good while she broke down in front of you.

“Fuck, you're so good.” Vi threw her head back.

You grabbed her jaw by your other hand, pulling her in for a deep kiss so she'd stop whining and moaning loud enough to wake Melanie. Your thumb found her clit, pressing the pad of the finger firmly against the sensitive bundle of nerves. Vi squeaked softly in the kiss.

“There we go…” you chuckled and pulled away from the kiss as your fingers curled inside her, rubbing against her sweet spot almost excruciatingly.

Vi looked at you, eyes lust clouded as her eyebrows furrowed. Her mouth opened as if she would say something but the only thing that exited was a breathy “Ha…”

“Are you gonna cum, sweetie?” You asked, voice honeyed as you felt the way her walls fluttered around your digits.

Vi couldn't only muster a weak nod as she rutted against your hand, your fingers pumped faster if possible making her knees buckle. “I can't, I can't,” Vi whispered, her voice almost inaudible, her toned arms wrapped around you— holding on for balance.

“Cum for me,” you said, forcing her to meet your gaze and she did. She broke in your arms, because of your fingers, she was completely submissive to you. You helped her up on the kitchen counter, she sat there, catching her breath. She raised the waistband of her boxers and pants just enough to look at her messy, wet pussy.

“Fuck you.”

“Is that supposed to be on your to-do list?” You gave her a victorious grin, tasting her juices on your fingers. “Sweet.”

Vi rolled her eyes, “I should get going, it's getting late… but do tell Melanie I'll be back next weekend,” Vi got off the counter.

“Coming back to get fingered by her mom?” You asked with a sweet smile.

Vi didn't say anything, but her cheeks brightened red— there was your answer.

Yes.

[corpscs]

summer’s for the girls ⧗ yelena x new avenger!reader

♡ minors and men dni , no use of y/n , wlw , team bickering , everyone is annoyed and sweaty , smut 18+ , ice cubes , stonetop!yelena , yelena and reader are girlfriends , reader has unspecified electrokinesis ability , images are from pinterest , divider , this was edited by my cat so ignore any spelling or grammar mistakes i will probably find them later , russian is from google/reddit

‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ♡ detka - babe , lyubimaya - my love

‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ♡ masterlist , word count: 3.5k

bones’ now playing ▶︎ for the girls - hayley kiyoko

the watchtower was hot.

a heatwave was currently rolling across the east coast and caused a black out. the power was back on now, but the hvac system got fried in the power surge. oscillating fans could only do so much and the windows of the watchtower barely opened for safety purposes. all the team could do was sit and try not to move too much.

bucky walked into the room, his phone call interrupting the rare, natural peace the team had achieved all on their own, or maybe you all were just overheating. when bucky cursed under his breath, you decided to looked up from your book.

you and bob started your own book club after you got benched for a failed mission due to an electrical explosion, which totally could have not been because of you, but who knows? this week you decided to play some kind of sick joke and choose stephen king’s under the dome, 1,080 something pages. poor bob nearly had a heart attack, but you promised him way more than a week to read and marathon run of the show they made about it before he hesitantly agreed.

“alright.” bucky gruffed into his phone’s receiver. his hair was pulled into a haphazard bun, the shorter fringe pieces sticking to the sides of his sweat slicked face. “thanks, you too.” he hung up the phone with a sigh.

“so… what’s the verdict?” ava asked.

“two days.” and the entire room erupted into groans.

“why can’t we get a hotel?” john suggested. his shirt had been discarded long ago, now only wearing a pair of gym shorts. he was laying flat on the tile floor, the coldest place to be. it was also where ava chose to sit and hog one of three fans set up in the room.

“why? you offering to pay for it, taco bell?” you snorted. the nickname appeared after the sentry folded his shield.

“why should i? barnes’ got a bigger salary than all of us.”

“no hotels!” bucky’s commanding tone was enough to silence them all. “you’re avengers. if a little east coast heatwave can take you all out then we really are doomed.” he paused, feeling a slight draft behind him. “close the freezer, yelena.” bucky warned. even with his back to the bar he could see the russian draped over the bar’s freezer. she groaned before complying with his order, but slamming the cooler door in retaliation.

“you sure you can’t fix it, sparky?” john asked.

“i’m not a fucking engineer.” you rolled your eyes as yelena wandered back to the couch.

the blonde was clad in a grey tank top and black lounge shorts. flopping down to take up the remaining space of the two-seater, head on the arm rest and laying her legs across your thighs. you lifted your book to accommodate her legs before lowering your arms back down to her shins and continuing to read.

“eugh,” she made a face, throwing her head back in disgust. both of you were instantly aware of the slickness of your combined sweat, but didn’t care enough to move. “this is the worst!” yelena complained, yet she made no attempt to change her position.

“we’re all hot yelena.” bucky reminded her as he finished off his nth water of the day.

“yes, but my girlfriend is next to me. and she is sticky and wet, but not in the good ways.” she spoke to the ceiling before lolling her head to the side and locking eyes with bucky.

the others groaned in disgust while you laughed at bucky trying to downplay choking on his last sip of water. now deciding to neglect your book, you watched her laugh falter and then you watched the movement of her throat as she swallowed. the exposed skin of her upper chest and shoulders glimmered with sweat under the bright studio lighting of the tower ceiling. you decided to turn back to your book because it was way too hot to be allowing your mind wander in that direction right now.

“why do we even have leather couches?” yelena moved slightly feeling the stick of the material.

“easy to clean?” john suggested.

“john, i’ve never seen you clean one thing in this entire room before.” ava pointed out.

“yeah, well, i didn’t mean me.” he snapped before silence enveloped the group for a minute or two. the air is so humid and hostile you almost feared the next person who opened their mouth was gonna get themselves tossed out one of the open sliding doors.

“has anyone seen alexei?” ava blurted. they hadn’t spotted the man in a few hours.

“maybe he’s at the pool.” bob suggested. he’d been so quiet reading with his back against the cold stone of the wall you forgot he was there

“isn’t that pool like 80 degrees?” john asked.

“that’s colder than the air, right?”

yelena chose to ignore bob’s question, the last thing she wanted was to lash out at someone who didn’t deserve it. she reminded herself that she was just irritated and that bob was bob.

“he’s probably off drinking to forget about the heat. i don’t know.” she shrugged her outward shoulder slightly. a pause and suddenly yelena was sitting up like you had electrocuted her. the sound of her skin peeling off the material of the couch made you internally cringe.

“yelena, no.” you derailed her train of thought before she could even suggest something.

“oh c’mon, lyubimaya” she whined. “you did not even hear my idea.”

“i don’t need to.” you ignore whatever she grumbled under her breath as she continued to stare at the side of your face.

“you have been reading that same page for six minutes.” her eyes dropped to the page open in your lap.

“i’m distracted.” you side eyed her flipping the page. not because you finished reading it, but to prove a point.

“am i distracting you?” you made the mistake of fully looking at her. whisps of her bangs had fallen out of her headband and stuck to her brow. you could see a small bead of sweat dripping down her left temple.

“the team is distracting.” you lied.

“if i have to watch you two flirt in this heat i may actually stroke out.” john jokingly gagged.

“keep it up you guys.” ava feigned a cheer.

“i think you all got heat stroke.” bucky muttered before leaving the team with one final order, “drink some water.”

it wasn’t a moment later before alexei appeared in the room like a summoned spirit.

“and where have you been?” yelena asked her father in an accusing tone.

“cold shower.” he held up both hands closing his thumb and pointer fingers into a double okay sign. the rest of the team made sounds acknowledgment, but you could only imagine the future lecture from bucky about the water bill. you opened you book back up and attempted to read once more.

you managed to get two pages in before yelena was leaning close to your face,

“detka, i have a new idea.”

“of course you do.” you turned to your left, your faces now no more than two inches apart. her breath didn’t even feel warm against your already heated skin. her eyes moved to your lips before she jerked back, catching the half empty water bottle that walker just hucked in your direction. that action alone had some deprived part of your brain clicking to life.

“hey!” she scolded him.

“get a room.” he hollered. yelena huffed, and threw her legs off your lap, both of you releasing small twin ow’s at the sweat stuck skin ripping apart. you opened your mouth to complain but she leaned down and ordered you to wait ten minutes before following her, “you never heard my idea.”

˖ . ݁𝜗☠︎︎𝜚. ݁₊

while you had tried to think up the possibilities of yelena’s idea, you actually did not think of this. but here you were, laying on one of her bleach stained towels, back against your mattress. yelena straddled one of your legs, sitting comfortably despite the temperature of the room. the hum of that fan that’s been running for thirty-some odd hours straight drowned out whatever playlist yelena had playing. it was pointed towards the bed and softly blew around the lose wisps of her hair.

beside her was a metal bowl full of ice cubes.

“ready?” she asked reaching her hand into the bowl. she took a single ice cube into her hand as she adjusted her knees to straddle your hips.

“go for it.” you gave her a lazy ‘okay’. she grinned and placed the ice cube between your collar bones. you gasped from the cold sensation spreading across your skin, goosebumps prickling down your shoulders and arms.

she dragged the ice between your collar bones and chest, avoiding the hem of your tank top. but the ice melted quickly on your heated skin, some soaking your tank and the rest slipping down around your neck. she dragged the cube to the center of your sternum, under the tank top before holding her hand over the material. it didn’t take long for the ice cube to melt completely through the warmth of your chest.

although the ice was startling, the minor relief from the hot air was good enough.

yelena unceremoniously yanked your tank top down below your breasts. and when you heard the threads of the fabric snapping, you scolded her with a gasp of her name.

“relax, i’m pretty sure this one was mine anyways.” was.

“i don’t think so.” your voice pitched upwards into a shriek as she pinched your nipple with cold fingers. “you said you don’t like spaghetti straps.” you recalled catching your breath back.

“i don’t.” yelena agreed. she didn’t like them. she remembers the conversation you two had about waking up tits out because that type of tank top tends to travel in any given direction while sleeping. it was one of the first times yelena was fully honest with you about something. she didn’t like that vulnerability, being exposed. and you were so understanding, you always were.

so no, she would never tell you that the real reason why she gave you all her spaghetti straps a few weeks after that was the very same reason she hated them. you’d probably call her some sort of pervert.

dipping her hand back into the bowl, yelena picked out a new ice cube placing it on the same spot between your collar bones. she dragged the cube in the same path as the first one before sliding it to the opposite nipple she had pinched before. it didn’t feel bad, but it felt strange. like your brain couldn’t figure out if it hurt with all much sensory input against the air in the room.

you gasped loudly, your hand instinctively moving to grab at her wrist. yelena was obviously faster than you and she grabbed a hold of your wrist with her free hand instead. heat flooded your core when she laughed in your face at your attempt to push away. but she held it there until the ice cube was too small to hold in her fingers anymore so she let it melt against your heaving chest.

“c’mon, it must feel nice.” she moved her soaked hand to rub the water across your chest.

“it’s cold.” you wined.

“but it is so hot in here.” she countered. “and you are sweaty. i bet you smell horrible.”

“yelena!” you gasped in embarrassment. now trying to wiggle yourself out from under her.

“i am no better!” she laughed, squeezing her thighs around your hips. “it is, like, 40 degrees in here.” your physical strength was almost infantilizing compared to yelena, and it was too hot to keep up a fight you can’t win.

“i don’t know the metric system, babe.” maybe your delivery was more snarky than you had intended because yelena yanked up her your tank top before dropping an ice cube directly to your belly button. you shrieked loudly, your free hand now going for her wrist. she decided to let you grab her, knowing your physical strength alone isn’t enough to move her hand.

“be careful with your hands detka. you do not want not shock me, again.” you instinctively bucked up against yelena, your hips twisting to avoid the cold sensation. she only followed and controlled your movements.

by the time the ice cube on your stomach melted, her your tank was nearly soaked through with the combined back sweat against the fitted sheet. she allowed you to sit up and wiggle the material off your arms fully.

yelena paused briefly, only allowing herself time to admire her girlfriend, but not really allowing you a full chance to recover. her ice cold hand slipped from it’s spot on your middle and down the below the waistband of your shorts. the cold digits ghosted over your panties and you squealed once again reaching for her.

“ah-ah, please keep your hands to yourself this time. that was very rude.” yelena chided, though she understood it was your natural reflex to the cold. she took some sympathy on you and reached for the hem of her own sweat-soaked tank. she peeled it off, leaving her clad in a black sports bra, before she unceremoniously dropped the cotton onto your bare chest. “since you want something to hold on to.”

she grinned as you immediately gripped the grey article between your fingers. it was damp against your own sweaty palms and it smelt strongly of yelena.

she used the m distraction to sit up and pull your shorts and panties down. the sweat coating your thighs working extra hard against her, but winning the struggle with some extra effort from you.

yelena manhandled you back to where she wanted before straddling you once more. you watched her with wide eyes as she grabbed another ice cube. placing it back against your belly button. you gasped as she slowly brought it down your lower abdomen before holding just above your cunt.

your lips pressed into a thin line to keep your shrieking to a minimum. normally she would be against it, after that one time you accidentally bit through your lip hard enough that it bled for more than a few minutes. and yelena would rather drink bleach than sit through another meeting, where mortifying enough, she shared real reason behind the injury and not because they thought you two had some sort of physical dispute. after that incident yelena said no more and called the ego boost collateral.

her free hand reached to grip your jaw, not hard enough to hurt but firm enough to hold you in place. “be careful.” she warned, feeling your unsteady breaths against her hand as you nodded.

the ice cube was about the size of nickel now and her fingers had long since lost their feeling. yelena originally was going to let this ice cube fully melt before she got another, but she decided that she was too eager to see your reaction to wait. after shuffling back just ever so slightly to brace for your reaction, she slipped the remains of the ice cube directly beside your clit.

your entire body seized up, your mouth finally opening in a dramatic gasp. “oh my god!” you shrieked, repeating the phrase like a mantra. “lena!” your legs jerked from under her but the weight of her hips held your knees firmly in place.

when you arched too far off the bed for her liking the hand that once gripped your jaw pushed your chest back down to the bed. her hand held just below where you still gripped her tank top. “i think you can handle it.” her voice carried a song to it’s tone.

you shook you head while crying out dramatically, “its cold!” your legs still tried working against her, but she didn’t budge an inch. her height made her seem unassuming, but she was 5 foot something of solid muscle.

what remained of the ice cube quickly disappeared with the heat from your folds, but yelena kept her hand there. only giving you a break from the cubes, her nearly ice cold fingers still sliding mindlessly through the added water in your arousal. she selfishly took this time to warm her own fingers back up. you called her name softly as she tucked her thumb around your clit, rolling the bundle around slowly.

“yes, lyubimaya?” she drawled, not really paying attention to you. she said something else in russian you couldn’t understand before her cold pointer finger was slipping inside of your heat. you gasped, walls fluttering around her digit. she pumped it slowly before adding her middle finger alongside it. she curled her fingers before slipping them out to toy with your clit. her finger pads moved in steady circles and figure-eights your breathing sped up and your grip on her tank top tightened.

fearing destruction of the garment, your right arm had reached to grip the nearest item of bedding, which happened to be the white top sheet yelena had pushed over. it didn’t take long for her to make you cum.

and while you were catching you breath, yelena brazenly pinched your clit between her knuckles. just because she can. your hips jerked, unsure if you wanted to run to or from the feeling. “see,” she said simply. “not so bad?” you wanted to protest. to bicker that yes, she was being mean. but her fingers were toying with your clit once more, and any protests died out into moans.

the ice cubes left in the bowl where nearly half melted now, their crystallized edges now smooth and rounded like well-worn sea glass.

you watched her grab the next one. the look in yelena’s eyes alone should have had you nervous, but your brain had yet to fully catch up.

without hesitation she slid the ice cube through your folds as your body tried to clench up. but her fingers still pushed through, the ice cube breaching your hole, her two fingers holding it inside you.

you had long since given up attempting to keep quiet. you squealed doing your very best to try and run from her. yelena chased your hips with her hand, lifting the pressure off your thighs ever so slightly. even when the ice melted and the water soaked her hand, she kept it in place, just pumping slowly.

yelena began to rub lazy circles on your clit with her thumb. you moaned loudly, eyes fluttering as your tired body practically hummed with the warm feeling after all of the cold. after she felt you were worked up enough, distracted enough, she effortlessly used a combat move to flip you onto your stomach. landing with and oof, you turned your face to the side to look back at her.

“watch it.” you grumbled as yelena pulled your hips up and back towards her.

“you’re fine.” was all she had to say. before she slotted her knee between your knees. your breath trembled as your clit slid down her thigh.

the feeling from the ice cubes had long left and now your body was warming by the second. “lena.” you gasped out as she pushed her fingers back through your entrance, using her free hand to help fuck you back into her hand. she used that thigh between your legs to help rock you forwards after the pull back, stimulating your clit.

you were now hot. too hot. you honestly might pass out. now you were no longer paying attention to anything anymore. only gasping out into the crumpled sheets below you.

you were so close. yelena knew it. she could feel it. you’re hips were squirming against her hold now, yet she tried her best to control your rhythm. when she felt it, felt your body seize. she kneed your thighs apart, as far as your hips would go. the hand that had been thrusting now rubbed your clit in short circles prolonging your orgasm. still cumming, you were so in your own head that you never noticed her pause to each her hand into that metal bowl.

yelena used her dry hand to push your hips down and open before she shoved the final ice cube inside. you attempted to close your legs, but she had you practically sitting in her lap face down. then when you tried to pull forward, she yanked you right back into place, keeping your hole plugged with her fingers until the cube melted down.

you’re certain that you had a momentary black out from shock and you almost couldn’t catch your breath. still yelena didn’t move. she was watching you and waiting for you to move first.

“i think i’m dead.” was the first thing you said, arms moving slowly to stretch forward above your head.

“i can confirm that you are not.” she rolled you off onto your side, putting the bowl of cold ice water on the night table.

“i think i saw God.”

“and what did she look like?” yelena’s voice was farther away as she reached around bedding and fished out a water bottle, she knew she had stored somewhere.

“you.” you said with a giggle.

“you are so flirty.” she laughed landing a playful slap on your sensitive cunt. you jolted, but stayed put until she yanked you back to a sitting position. she handed you the uncapped water bottle which you drank greedily.

“do you think bob would want to get ice cream with us?” yelena blurted. you blinked.

“since when did we decide to get ice cream?” yelena shrugged.

“i don’t know somewhere in the middle.” she made an obtuse gesture with her hands.

you huffed, “i need like twenty minutes and a cold shower.”

˖ . ݁𝜗☠︎︎𝜚. ݁₊

if you’re in hot temperatures wherever you are be sure check up on pals with no ac and remember to DRINK WATER!!!

this would have been up earlier today, but i was victimized by another nap. also this ended up being SO MUCH longer than i had intended. at some point i got way too high and kept on going and going,, also sorting out some sort of master list

𓉸 ♡ ,

bones

[batsandbirdbrains]

To continue my Dick Grayson and Billy Batson bff agenda: what if it’s a young justice au where Bruce knows Dick was actually five instead of eight when he took Dick in. Or, Dick told him after maybe a month or two when he suddenly remembered he wasn’t actually eight. Bruce updates Dick’s documentation right away, but he keeps him home schooled for a few years because Dick is actually a little ahead of his age group.

But maybe Dick had already started going out as Robin before he told Bruce his actual age. He’d met the Justice League members already. Batman told everyone that Robin was eight. And now he doesn’t want to correct them when they continue to think that’s Robin’s age, because he doesn’t want Dick to feel bad, doesn’t want them to get upset with Dick for not correcting them all sooner. Because Dick really had forgotten, it had become so normal for him to change ages that he did sometimes forget what his actual age was. Bruce didn’t want Dick to feel like it was his fault, because he’s just a little boy, he didn’t have a choice.

So they keep up the misconception that Robin started out when he was eight. Bruce only takes him out on kiddie runs once he finds out - it’s just runs across rooftops so Dick has a chance to run and jump around. Get his energy out. Taunt some muggers while Batman does the actual heavy lifting.

Besides, having Robin and Dick Grayson have such different ages does wonders for their secret identities.

But then the young justice team forms, and Dick is ten years old. He’s in school now, a sixth grader at Gotham Academy Middle School. He started attending Gotham Academy the year prior and tested into fifth grade.

The team thinks he’s thirteen. No one knows Batman and Robin’s secret identities other than Superman and Wonder Woman.

But then Captain Marvel comes into the picture, and Batman clocks him immediately as a kid. He has a ten year old himself, he knows what they act like, even if they are a little mature for their age. Batman doesn’t say anything to anyone else, but he pulls Captain Marvel aside one day and asks him about it. Invites him to the Batcave to discuss it.

That’s when Bruce Wayne meets Billy Batson, followed closely by Dick Grayson then meeting Billy Batson. And they instantly click. They’re best friends immediately. Having someone else who has a secret ID about their age is something they bond over right away.

Whether Bruce ends up adopting Billy too or not, Billy is at the manor and the Batcave all the time after that. Dick and Billy play together, they do homework together, they have sleepovers together. Billy wants to be part of the young justice team, but Dick convinces him that he’s better off without the team anyway. He tells him how inexperienced the team is, how they don’t work all that well together.

Dick and Billy decide to go on their own missions as a mini team. Bruce gives them missions he thinks they’d do well on, and they actually work really well together since Billy has started training with them. They’re not going to work as well together as Dick and Bruce do, but that’s because Dick and Bruce have five years of practice working together. Billy is catching up quickly, though.

The team eventually finds out that Robin has been going on missions with Captain Marvel, but Robin shuts them all down when they start whining and complaining. He explains that he works well with Captain Marvel. That sometimes there are missions that require a smaller team.

When they start being mean about Captain Marvel? Robin is furious. He yells at all of them. Then he stomps away to go find Billy so they can go back to the Batcave together.

Then the dimension splitting thing happens with the adults and the kids being separated, and Dick and Billy work together like a well oiled machine. He’s the one who convinces Billy to transform to Captain Marvel, who comes up with most of the plan from the kids’ side of things.

Once things are all back to normal, Robin is standing next to Billy who has changed back into a kid from Captain Marvel, and they’re both a little exhausted. And Batman crushes both of them together as he hugs them, because he’d been so worried about them.

Idk I just them being buddies and Bruce being a doting dad