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grenadehearts · 3 months ago

Text

between cold soba and back alley kisses.

synopsis: somewhere between the ding of a cash register, premade soba, a lingering headache, and the smell of bleach—you meet japan’s most wanted. on your shift.

authors note: first touya x reader fic, pls he's so loser bf!! fluff so much fluff sorta soft touya?? word count 1.6k, masterlist link here.

You were a cashier at a run-down grocery store, doing anything you could to make ends meet. The place smelled like bleach and expired meat half the time, and the lights above your register flickered like they were possessed. Nothing really surprised you anymore—You were used to the peculiar customers who wandered in the daily—drifters, the half-sober, the too-loud, the too-quiet. But what did catch you off guard was him.

Japan’s most wanted standing in aisle three, in the saddest excuse of a disguise you’d ever seen—black hoodie pulled too low, black jeans, scuffed sneakers, and sunglasses like that would actually do something. He moved like he had all the time in the world, drifting through the aisles, staring at the premade noodle section like it held the answers to his sins. Ramen, udon, soba. He grabbed a few packs of cold soba—enough for more than just one person—and then made his way to your register.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just plopped the stuff down with a bit more force than necessary. The silence felt loaded. Strained. Your gut twisted a little. You weren’t a pro at this kind of thing, but something screamed at you—that’s him. Dabi. Or well… Touya Todoroki. Endeavor’s kid. The same guy who took over every screen in the country a few weeks back, spilling his father’s sins like gasoline and lighting it on fire.

Truthfully, you didn’t care much for Endeavor. Never did.

You started scanning the items, eyes flicking up just in time to see him reach into his pocket. He pulled out a crumpled wad of cash mixed with loose change. As he fumbled, the sunglasses slipped from his face and clattered to the floor.

Before you could stop yourself, you were moving—around the register, heart in your throat, hand shooting out to retrieve the flimsy black shades. You straightened slowly, back brushing against the edge of the checkout counter, one hand gripping it for support, the other extending the sunglasses to him.

And that’s when he looked up.

White strands of hair fell loose from under his hood, the black dye fading at the ends. His eyes met yours—glacial blue, clear and sharp enough to slice glass. The same eyes you’d watched staring into the nation’s soul, unflinching, as he exposed the man everyone thought was a hero.

You froze. You knew without a doubt. This was Touya Todoroki.

He took the glasses from your hand, fingertips brushing yours. Then his gaze flicked down to your name tag. His voice, low and rough like smoke and gravel rasped, “Thanks, y/n.”

Your breath hitched.

You turned back quickly, grabbing the soba and bagging it in a blur. “Here,” you muttered. “Just take it. It’s on me.”

He raised a brow. “What makes you think I deserve that?”

You hesitated, looking around. “I don’t know. Just… I think you do.”

He clicked his tongue, rocking back on his heels. Then, quieter, “I know you know who I am.”

Your posture stiffened. “No,” you said too fast, too defensively. “You’re just a customer.”

“Sure,” he said through gritted teeth, amused and bitter. “Sure you’re not scared of me.”

You swallowed. “I’m not scared.”

“And how do you know I know who you are?”

He laughed—harsh, cracked, like a smoker too far gone. “Just knew. Saw it in your body language the second I walked up.”

You glanced away. “Look… I don’t care who you are. I was just trying to help.”

He didn’t respond. Just nodded, muttered, “Alright,”

And just like that, he was gone. But not before slipping something into your pocket.

Later, you reached in. Money. He paid.

He started showing up more often after that. You’d see him on the news before your shift, then in the aisles an hour later. And now, even after your shifts, you found him behind the building, near the old crates and dumpsters, thirty feet from where anyone could see.

Tonight, he was lighting a cigarette with a flick of his blue flames. The smoke curled and drifted toward you as you walked up, making you cough.

His head tilted. “Been waitin’ on ya,” he muttered. Then he held the cigarette out. “Want a drag?”

You gave him a look. “You know I don’t smoke.”

He grinned, all teeth. “Thought maybe I could corrupt you.”

You arched a brow. “Haven’t you already?”

His expression shifted. Then, before you could say anything else, he leaned in—kissed you.

It was the first time he ever kissed you.

Messy. Harsh. Smoke and spit and something desperate.

You almost fell back, knees weak, but he caught you. Dragged you down to the ground with him, lips never parting. It was the first time he kissed you. And maybe it was wrong, maybe it was dangerous, but you didn’t care. Not when it was him. Not when you saw past the villain—saw the boy who never got held, only hurt. A boy broken by the hands of a man everyone called a hero.

That was enough to make anyone snap.

And now, here you were, on your knees, his mouth pressed to yours like he was trying to take something from you—maybe comfort, maybe forgiveness, maybe just the illusion of something soft in a world that wasn’t.

And with every encounter—every soba purchase, every lingering glance, every half-joke hiding real pain—you knew your first instinct had been right.

You were falling for Touya.

You still called him Dabi. You didn’t think he was ready for anything else. Most of what he said was sarcastic anyway—a shield made of sharp words and mockery. It was easier to joke about tragedy than confront it.

Finally, he pulled back. Breath ragged. Eyes lowered.

“Now I have,” he muttered, voice barely above a whisper.

And that’s how you started dating Japan’s most wanted. Except, to you, he wasn’t “wanted.” Not evil. Just a man. Just him—the man you loved. Not the headlines. Not the scars. Just someone hurt, and hurting, and trying.

As the days dragged on, so did the back-alley grocery store dates—shadows and neon signs, muddy combat boots and scuffed sneakers brushing under dim light. Those nights bled into mornings spent sprawled across your bed in your too-cozy apartment.

He's there now. Face buried in the warm space where your chest melts into your stomach. His boots—caked in mud and ash and whatever else followed him home—lay abandoned by the door, one toppled over, the other still upright like it couldn’t decide whether it was staying or leaving.

Your flower-shaped lamp glows golden in the corner, petals casting soft shapes across the walls. Sunlight peeks in through slatted blinds, slicing stripes across his exposed skin, from his loose white shirt slipping off his shoulder. His jacket's somewhere—maybe draped over your kitchen chair, maybe forgotten in the hallway.

The TV hums with some idle sitcom, volume low. Just white noise to quiet the thoughts inside his head.

He’s bathed in that rose-pink glow, strands of white hair falling messy across your skin, tickling you when he shifts. He smells like smoke and faint lavender, like the detergent you use and the night air you kissed into his hoodie when he left last. He looks beautiful like this. Soft. Free.

But you know he’s not. You know he won’t be—not until he ends the war with his father, the one he’s fought for years in silence and screams. But you pretend. And maybe, in some small aching way, so does he.

He shifts again, lazily, one hand sliding beneath your shirt, fingertips grazing your skin—that warmth grounds him, makes his heart remember how to beat whole.

Then he looks up. Blue irises like shattered glass and sea glass and sky all tangled in one glance. He blinks slowly, like he’s surfacing from a dream. But there’s a weight behind his gaze. You feel it before he speaks. Something's been gnawing at him—clawing inside his chest, waiting for the quiet to be spilled into.

He only ever bares it like this: nose tucked into your stomach. Cheek resting against your softness. Voice hushed, truths spilling in murmurs, never louder than your breath.

He’s told you everything this way. How he got here. What he plans to do. How the man who made him never truly fathered him. How the name everyone fears was never his choice. You know his real name. Though he’s never given you permission to use it. Not yet.

It’s sacred. A wound. A reminder.

But now, he stirs, something unfamiliar tightening in his shoulders—he’s nervous. This man—this villain who burns cities, who bathes in blood and rage—he’s nervous. And somehow, it’s the most endearing thing you’ve ever seen.

“Y/n…” His voice is quiet, rasping into your skin, a vibration more than a sound.

You hum, hand threading through his icy locks, gentle.

“Want you to call me Touya.”

You still. Eyes blinking open, lips parted but frozen. “I… I thought— I mean, isn’t that—doesn’t it hurt to hear that name?”

He moves before you finish. Rising over you now, shifting until one leg slots between your thighs, the other bracing beside you. You’re caged in, breath caught.

He’s staring. Blue eyes boring into your soul like they’ll find their place and stay there.

“No,” he says simply, but the word is heavy.

He leans in, pressing into the crook of your neck—his favorite place to hide when the world gets too loud.

“Not when it comes to you,” he murmurs, softer now. “Wanna hear you say it. If you say it, then it’s not tied to them. It’s just… me.” He pauses. Breath hitches. “If the girl I love says it… then I won’t hate it anymore.”

Touya is all bite and burn in the daylight—sarcastic kisses and half-truths wrapped in smoke. But here—when he's wrapped in you, pressed skin to skin—he lets it all fall away.

Here, he bares his teeth—rotten and real and trembling.

And you love him like this too.

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sereia4skz · 1 month ago

Text

twoshot | cognitive dissonance: flirtation & fault lines

pairing: poly!minsung x f!reader

warnings: academic rivals/enemies to lovers, minsung, banter?, kinda slow burn

word count:

< part 1: uncontrolled annoyance | request

The library smells like paper and panic.

You check your phone, 10:42 PM, and shove it back into your tote bag before you start spiraling about how little time you have left to finish your group presentation on social conformity.

You find them in the farthest, darkest back corner of the third floor: Han Jisung is half-asleep on the study table, hoodie bunched up under his cheek like a pillow. Minho is beside him, eyes glued to a case study, pen spinning between his fingers like a loaded weapon.

You drop your stuff on the table with a thud. “Let me guess: one of you forgot the reference list and the other refuses to admit it.”

Minho doesn’t look up. “We’re waiting on you. Han short-circuited half an hour ago.”

You glance down. Jisung’s face is slack, lips parted in the beginnings of a snore, a smear of highlighter across his cheekbone like war paint.

You raise a brow. “He’s literally drooling.”

“Think of it as his brain leaking.”

You blink, surprised. That was… almost a joke.

You sit down. Minho slides a folder toward you. “I revised your section on informational influence.”

You flip through it. Your notes are still there, but cleaner, sharpened. Like he didn’t erase your thoughts, just polished them. It throws you off more than it should.

“You didn’t have to-”

“You were rushing,” he says flatly. “I could tell.”

You look up. His eyes meet yours, unreadable as ever. “…Thanks.”

His pen stops spinning. Then, quietly: “You’re welcome.”

You don’t know why that feels more intimate than it should. Just words, just voices in a library corner. And yet “I hate when you’re nice,” you mutter, just to break the tension.

He scoffs, dry. “Good. I hate when I am.”

An hour later, Jisung stirs beside you.

You’re mid-sentence, reading aloud from your laptop, when his head drops right into your lap.

You freeze. Minho freezes.

Jisung sighs and nuzzles closer like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “So warm,” he mumbles. “Don’t move. I’ll die.”

You glance at Minho in pure panic. He stares at you both like he’s just walked into a glitch in the simulation. His jaw tightens, fingers pausing mid-highlight stroke. “Is he… serious?”

“Who knows,” you whisper back, terrified to wake him.

Minho leans back in his chair. “You could move him.”

“You move him.”

“No.”

You exhale through your nose. “He's your roommate, stop staring like you’re jealous.”

His eyes flick to yours. “I’m not.”

It’s too fast. Too defensive.

You blink. “Wait. Are you actually?”

“I said I’m not.”

Silence. Jisung shifts slightly in your lap and you reflexively place a hand on his head to still him. Minho watches. Something flickers across his face, unreadable. You go back to typing, pretending you don’t feel his eyes burning into your skin.

By midnight, you’re done.

Your document is saved, cross-checked, and uploaded. Jisung is still dead to the world. You consider nudging him awake but… he’s warm. And peaceful. And honestly? You’re kind of enjoying this. Not that you’ll ever admit it out loud.

Minho packs up slowly. “You should wake him,” he says, but it sounds like a suggestion, not a command.

You glance at Jisung again. “What if I just… don’t?”

Minho snorts. “You want to babysit him overnight?”

“I’m not heartless. He looks tired.”

“He is tired. He stayed up last night trying to write a mnemonic for normative social influence using Pokémon names.”

You blink. “Wait. That was him?”

“Mm. He wrote: ‘Norman Seeks Ivysaur: Classic Under Pressure.’”

You wheeze. “That’s… genius.”

“Idiotic.”

“Creative.”

Minho sighs. “You’re both insane.”

You smile a little. “And yet here you are.”

He doesn’t respond. Instead, he walks over to your side of the table, crouches low, slowly, and reaches out.

You hold your breath as his hand brushes Jisung’s cheek, gently patting him awake. It’s soft. Uncharacteristically so. Like he’s done this before.

“Han,” Minho murmurs. “Wake up. You’re drooling on the enemy.”

Jisung stirs. “Mmh… she’s not the enemy. She’s warm…”

You glare at Minho, cheeks heating. Minho only smiles.

Fifteen minutes later, the three of you are standing outside the library. The air is cold. Jisung is still half-asleep and clinging to your arm like a koala. Minho stands a few steps away, hands in his coat pockets.

You say, “We did good tonight.”

Jisung hums. “We did great. We’re the dream team. You guys love me.”

“Delusion,” Minho mutters, but for a split second, barely a flicker, his lips curve upward. Barely-there. A glitch in the matrix.

You think: oh no. You think: I’m in trouble.

You don’t realize you’re still holding Jisung’s hand until he squeezes yours once, sleepy and soft.

⋆��°✩

You spread your notes on the small café table in the student union, laptops open and coffee cups dangerously close to tumbling.

Minho leans in, eyes sharp and unblinking as he points to a bullet in your slide deck. “Your wording here is too vague. ‘Significant conformity effects’ doesn’t cut it. We need numbers, specifics.”

You snap back, “Well, maybe if you hadn’t rewritten my entire section last night without telling me, I’d know what I was supposed to put.”

He smirks like it’s a challenge. “Consider it helpful criticism.”

Jisung bounces a little in his chair, smirking too but rubbing his eyes like he’s survived a zombie apocalypse. “Guys, maybe cut the academic sass? We’re supposed to be on the same team.”

You roll your eyes but can’t help smiling. Jisung always breaks the tension, even if he’s barely awake.

Minho shoots you a glance and then deliberately reaches out to grab the pen you were using, his fingers brushing yours. The contact is brief but electric, and your heart stutters.

“Hey,” you say, pulling your hand back, but the corner of your mouth quirks upward. “Don’t steal my tools.”

“I’m just borrowing,” he replies, voice low. “Like I borrowed your notes.”

“You mean polished my notes.”

He leans back, cocky. “Semantics.”

Jisung groans, throwing a crumpled paper ball at Minho’s head. “Can we focus before you two start whatever this is?”

You catch Minho’s eye again. There’s something in his look, maybe challenge, maybe interest. You can’t tell, and that drives you crazy.

Later, you’re rehearsing your parts aloud. Your voice cracks when you forget a line, and you feel Minho’s gaze sharpen, like he’s waiting for you to mess up again.

Jisung nudges you and whispers, “Ignore him. You got this.”

Minho steps closer during your next line, standing so close the heat from his body brushes yours. His voice drops an octave, “You’re better than this.”

You swallow. “Thanks, I think?”

He smirks. “You’re welcome. For once.”

Jisung watches the two of you with amusement, flicking his pen between his fingers but not saying a word.

The air hums with something unspoken.

After practice, you’re all a little breathless, not just from talking, and you realize the lines between rivalry and something else have blurred more than you expected.

Minho packs up first, but before he leaves, he pauses and says quietly, “Don’t underestimate me tomorrow. I’m not just here to compete.”

You glance up. “What, you want to win and mess with me?”

He grins, eyes dark and teasing. “Maybe.”

Jisung rolls his eyes but you catch the way he’s watching Minho’s back, protective and soft all at once.

You feel dizzy, tired, excited, and definitely distracted. Tomorrow’s presentation? It’s going to be interesting.

⋆｡°✩

The lecture hall buzzes with low murmurs as you and your group file in, papers and laptops in hand. The air smells like fresh coffee and adrenaline.

Minho catches your eye from across the room, arching a brow like he’s daring you to mess up.

Jisung is beside you, practically vibrating with nervous energy, whispering, “Deep breaths. We’ve got this.”

You swallow hard and take your spot at the front, heart pounding louder than the projector humming behind you.

The first few slides go smoothly. You speak clearly, voice steady, and even Minho nods at a well-made point. But then, halfway through, Jisung stumbles over a key statistic. The data you triple-checked turns into a jumble of numbers on his tongue.

You see Minho’s eyes flash, sharp and ready to pounce.

But instead of cutting him down, Minho steps in. “Don’t worry, Jisung. Let me take that one,” he says, voice smooth but low enough only your group can hear.

You blink, surprised, as Minho clarifies the stat with a confident grin, giving Jisung a quick nod that says, You’ve got this.

The tension in the room lifts.

When it’s your turn again, Minho leans just a bit too close as you present your conclusion.

“Impressive,” he murmurs. “Maybe you’re not such a threat after all.”

You flush but keep your composure. “Careful, Minho,” you say. “Don’t let the competition turn into a crush.”

He grins wider, eyes sparkling with mischief. “We’ll see about that.”

After the presentation, Jisung drags you both to a quiet courtyard.

He grins, eyes twinkling with exhaustion and victory.

“We killed it,” he says. “Teamwork makes the dream work, right?”

Minho chuckles, ruffling Jisung’s hair. Then he looks at you, softer this time.

“Good job,” he says quietly. “Seriously.”

Your heart skips. “Thanks,” you breathe.

And just like that, the line between rivalry and something more feels a little thinner, maybe ready to be crossed.

⋆｡°✩

The sun’s setting low, casting a warm glow over the courtyard. You lean back on the bench, the weight of the presentation lifting, replaced by a strange flutter in your chest.

Minho stands a little too close, arms crossed, smirking like he’s daring you to say something.

“You know,” he says, voice smooth and low, “I might have to start letting you win just to keep things interesting.”

You raise an eyebrow, a slow smile tugging at your lips. “Is that your way of flirting? Because it’s subtle.”

He grins wider. “Maybe. But I’m a sucker for competition.”

Jisung, sitting beside you, nudges your arm with a grin. “You’re both impossible.”

Minho leans down just enough that you catch the faint scent of his cologne, fresh, a little spicy. Your breath catches.

“Tell me, do you get this competitive with everyone, or am I special?”

Your heart thumps a little faster. “Definitely special,” you reply, voice steady but softer.

His eyes flash, amused, challenged, and maybe something warmer.

Jisung clears his throat loudly, breaking the moment. “Hey, lovebirds, want to grab some food? My treat.”

Minho laughs, stepping back but throwing one last glance your way. “Sure. But I’m warning you… I’m not done winning.”

You shake your head, but inside, you’re smiling. Because for the first time, the rivalry feels less like a battle and more like the start of something you didn’t see coming.

< previous part

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livvymd · 3 months ago

Text

After Hours Service. MDNI

this one low key isnt eating sorry anon

The second the restaurant doors opened, you knew this day was going to be chaos.

You'd worked a few pop-ups before, but nothing quite like this — a full-on Sidemen event, half content shoot and half real service. It was all a bit mad: cameras everywhere, orders flying in, the back kitchen sounding like a school canteen on fire, and somehow you were meant to keep a smile on your face and carry three plates at once.

You were good at your job. Calm. Composed. Focused.

Or at least, you were — until ChrisMD entered the building in a too-clean apron and made eye contact with you for a full second before looking away like you’d physically blinded him.

And that became the theme of the day.

Chris was also “working” the event, roped into the front-of-house rotation with various YouTubers, and he was doing an okay job when he wasn’t short-circuiting every time you got close.

You didn’t even have to flirt. You just existed — and he apparently couldn’t handle it.

It started small.

You passed him a plate of sliders. “Table three, yeah? You good with that?”

He nodded a little too fast, eyes flicking from your hands to your face. “Yep — uh — totally. I’m good. I can do plates. Yep. That’s what I do.”

You raised a brow. “Right… Well, try not to drop them.”

Spoiler: he nearly did.

And that was before he walked into a folding signboard that hadn't been there two minutes earlier.

It escalated.

Every time your paths crossed, it was a fresh scene from a romcom:

You asked him to carry drinks. He spilled a third of a Coke on himself.

You brushed shoulders near the pass window. He nearly dropped a tray of garlic bread.

You asked him how the tables were going. He blanked completely, said “table 9 is a man,” and walked away.

You couldn’t not smile around him.

And apparently, neither could the others.

By the third hour, Harry had started narrating his movements. “And here comes Chris, attempting human interaction. Will he survive? Odds are low.”

Ethan chimed in, “Bro turns into a loading screen whenever she walks by. Buffering for his life.”

You caught Chris ducking his head behind the drinks fridge, pretending to look for cans. Probably hiding from you.

Cute.

You decided to push your luck.

Near the end of the lunch rush, you cornered him — lightly, playfully — by the cutlery stand.

“Chris,” you said, and the way his name sounded in your voice made him glance up, heart already racing.

You held out your hand. “Need help with section five? Looks like they’re about to riot.”

He blinked at you. “Help? From…you? Yeah. Totally. I mean, if you’re not too busy — ”

You just smiled and walked past him, bumping his shoulder gently. “Come on, then.”

He followed.

He always followed.

By dinner service, things had settled into something almost normal. Tables were clearing out, the last guests were halfway through desserts, and the YouTubers had mostly stopped pretending to be competent.

You were behind the bar restacking glasses when Harry strolled past you.

“Y’know he’s completely lost for you, right?” he said casually.

You raised an eyebrow, playing dumb. “Who?”

Harry snorted. “Chris. You’re like his Roman Empire. He can’t think straight.”

You smirked but didn’t answer. The warmth in your chest betrayed you. You liked knowing that. Liked that Chris wasn’t like the others — he wasn’t pushy, or flirty just for content. He was genuinely trying, and failing spectacularly, and that was half the charm.

The restaurant emptied out slowly.

Most of the crew started packing up, clearing the last of the plates, throwing out props. Cameras were off. The lights were dimmed. You stayed behind to tidy up your section, focused on the last table when someone stepped up beside you.

Chris.

Hair slightly messy. Apron wrinkled. Hoodie sleeves pushed up. He looked boyish, nervous, and — despite the long day — still painfully fit.

“Hey,” he said, voice low, eyes on the table you were wiping. “I wanted to — uh — say thanks.”

You glanced at him, pausing your work. “For what?”

“For… not laughing at me. Much. Or for not reporting me to management for being the worst pretend-waiter of all time.”

You leaned back against the table, crossing your arms. “You weren’t that bad.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“Okay, you were terrible. But you were sweet.”

He shifted closer. “Sweet like… pity sweet? Or sweet like maybe-you’d-consider-hanging-out-after-this sweet?”

Your mouth quirked up. “Depends how brave you’re feeling right now.”

He looked at you for a long moment — longer than any glance he'd managed all day. His confidence wasn’t fake, but it was shy. Tentative. Like he’d finally decided to risk it.

“I’m feeling brave enough,” he said.

You reached out, your fingers curling lightly around the edge of his apron, tugging him closer.

“Then show me.”

The kiss started soft.

He leaned in slowly, carefully — like if he moved too fast you’d vanish. His lips brushed yours once, tentative, testing, then again with a little more pressure.

You sighed into it, your hand moving to the back of his neck, fingers threading into his hair.

That was the switch.

He kissed you again, deeper this time. Not rushed — just sure. His hands slid to your waist, gripping gently like he couldn’t quite believe you were real.

You pulled him closer, mouths moving in sync, the kiss growing more heated. His tongue brushed yours and your knees went a bit weak — not from the kiss itself, but from how into it he was.

Like he’d been holding back all day and couldn’t anymore.

The door clicked behind you as Chris locked it.

You were both still breathless — bodies too close, pupils blown, hands already wandering.

The restaurant was closed. The others were gone.

You were alone.

Your back hit the prep counter as Chris’s mouth found yours again — this time deeper, desperate, no hint of nerves left. His hands roamed with less hesitation now, gripping your waist, skimming over your hips, tugging you closer until you felt every hard inch of him pressed to your body.

“You’ve no idea what you do to me,” he breathed against your lips, voice low and wrecked.

You smiled, your hand sliding under the hem of his hoodie. “I think I do.”

You pushed it up and over his head, and Chris dropped it to the floor without a care. His chest was warm and lean, skin smooth beneath your palms as you traced down the slope of his abdomen, dragging your nails lightly just to watch his abs twitch.

“Fuck,” he whispered, shivering at your touch.

He bent, lips ghosting down your neck, then across your collarbone. His teeth grazed gently as he nipped, sucking marks into your skin you’d probably have to hide tomorrow. One hand slid under your shirt, warm and rough against your waist, until his thumb brushed just under your bra.

You arched into his hand.

“Off,” you said, tugging at your own shirt. Chris helped you peel it off in seconds, followed by your bra.

His breath hitched when he saw you — his gaze devouring, lips parted, frozen for a moment like he was trying to burn the image into memory.

“God, you’re — ” He stopped, swallowing thickly. “You’re unreal.”

His mouth latched onto your chest — tongue and lips moving slowly, wetly, kissing over sensitive skin while his hands gripped your thighs. You reached between your bodies, unfastening his belt and jeans, pushing them down just enough for his boxers to tent obscenely in front of you.

Chris groaned when you brushed your fingers over him through the fabric.

“Y/N…” he rasped, forehead against your shoulder, hips jerking.

You kissed his jaw, then his throat, licking a slow stripe across the hollow of it before whispering, “Want you.”

He stepped back long enough to drag your trousers and underwear down your legs, his hands firm but reverent. You helped him out of his jeans and boxers, both of you standing fully bare in the middle of the dark, empty kitchen — fluorescent lights buzzing softly overhead.

Then he was between your legs again, lifting you onto the counter like you weighed nothing.

Chris kissed you slow this time — less urgent, more worship. His hands settled on your thighs, thumbs tracing the inside gently, so close to your centre but not touching yet.

“I’ve thought about this too many times than I'd like to admit,” he said quietly, eyes locked on yours.

“Then show me,” you whispered, wrapping your legs around his waist.

He reached down between your bodies and lined himself up, the head of his length brushing against you — hot, hard, ready.

And when he pushed in?

You gasped — head falling back, nails digging into his shoulders as he filled you in one long, perfect thrust.

“Shit — ” Chris choked. “You feel — fuck, you feel amazing.”

He paused once he was fully inside, letting you both adjust, just staring at you with wide eyes and parted lips. You were flushed and panting, legs tight around his waist, hands gripping the back of his neck like you needed him to anchor you.

Then he moved.

Slow at first — deep, dragging thrusts that had your whole body rocking with each one. The wet, filthy sounds of skin against skin filled the kitchen, along with your moans, his groans, his whispered curses in your ear.

Your hips met every movement, your thighs tightening with each delicious grind of his pelvis against yours. He hit that perfect spot again and again, making your breath hitch, making your body clench around him until his rhythm stuttered.

“God, Y/N — you’re so tight — I’m not gonna last — ”

“Don’t stop,” you whimpered, eyes rolling back. “I’m close, Chris, please — ”

He shifted slightly, adjusting the angle — his thumb pressing to your clit just right.

Your whole body tensed.

And then you broke.

Your orgasm hit hard and fast, waves crashing through your body as you cried out his name, shaking, clenching around him. Your walls pulsed and fluttered, drawing him even deeper.

Chris groaned — deep, raw, helpless — and followed you over the edge with one last thrust, burying himself to the hilt as he spilled inside you, head falling to your shoulder as he trembled in your arms.

The air between you was hot and thick with breath, skin sticky and flushed.

You stayed like that — entwined, panting, bodies still joined — for long minutes.

Finally, Chris lifted his head, lips brushing your forehead.

“I’m never gonna look at the prep counter the same way again,” he muttered.

You snorted, too blissed out to care. “Guess I’ll never eat another chicken tender again without getting flashbacks.”

He chuckled, pressing a lazy kiss to your mouth. “Reckon we’re due a round two in the freezer.”

You grinned. “And then maybe… dessert?”

Chris smirked, lips against your neck. “Sweetheart, you are the dessert.”

#chrismd #chrismd x reader smut #chrismd x reader #chrismd imagine #chrismd x you #chrismd smut #chrismd fluff #arthurtv #arthur frederick #arthur hill #george clarke #italianbach #uk youtubers #smut #fanfic

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dhazefawn · 15 hours ago

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— RACING HEARTS

AT THIS STOP YOU WILL SEE . . . ‎jason todd ‎& gn!reader, 2.8k wc. f1 au. jason and reader are both racers on the opposite teams. rivals to reluctant lovers(?) snarky jason n reserved reader. racing jargon author scrapped off of google (in shame) will they wont they, flirting, sexual tension??? denial of feelings. ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎

𝒮 𝘐𝘗 & 𝒮 𝘗𝘐𝘓𝘓 . . . You’ve spent three seasons locked in an intense rivalry with Jason Todd, but during Monaco Grand Prix, loaded media interviews and heated confrontations start blurring the lines between competition and attraction.

Point two seconds up through sector one. Just need to hold it together through the Swimming Pool chicane and I’ve got him.

The Monaco harbor blurred past in streaks of gold blue as you downshifted into the chicane, your car dancing on the knife’s edge between control and chaos. Your heart hammered against your ribs—not from fear, but from the intoxicating possibility of finally, finally beating Jason Todd to the pole position.

“Purple sector two,” your engineer Marcus crackled through the radio, barely containing his excitement. “You’re flying out there.”

The Casino section approached fast. This was where races won and lost in Monaco, where millimeters mattered more than horsepower. You’d watched Jason nail this sequence lap after lap, his red and black car flowing through the corners like it was choreographed. But today felt different. Today, you had the pace.

Your tires kissed the barrier exiting the Casino, close enough to scrape paint. Perfect.

“Todd’s just gone purple in sector one,” Marcus’s voice cut through your focus. “Two tenths faster.”

Your grip tightened on the steering wheel. Of course he had. Jason Todd didn’t know how to give up, which would been admirable if it wasn’t so damn infuriating.

“Copy,” you replied, keeping your voice steady despite the frustration building in your chest. “Tell me sector times, not names.”

You’d learned that lesson the hard way during your rookie season. Hearing Jason’s name in your ear during qualifying was like having him sitting in the cockpit next to you, that insufferable smirk of his burning through your concentration. Better to focus on the numbers. Numbers didn’t have the piercing green eyes or the way of making you question every racing line you’d ever taken.

The Swimming Pool section rushed toward you. This was it—make it or break time.

You sent it deeper into the braking zone than physics should have allowed, your car protesting with a slight lockup that you caught just in time. The chicane was a blur of armco barriers and blue Mediterranean water, your car threading the needle with millimeters to spare.

“Sector two, purple!” Marcus shouted. “You’re up by three tenths overall!”

Take that, Todd.

But even as you set up for the final sector, you could see Jason’s car in your mirrors during the long straight back towards the harbor. His helmet turned slightly in your direction as he passed—not racing you, since he was on his cool down lap, but the gesture felt deliberate. Like he was acknowledging the gauntlet you’d just thrown down.

The checkered flag waved as you crossed the line, and Marcus’s voice exploded through your headset: “P1! Provisional pole! Outstanding lap!”

You pumped your fist as you headed into cool down, adrenaline still singing through your veins. Provisional pole at Monaco. In your third season, driving for a team that had been backmarkers just two years ago. The media would eat this up.

“Red car’s got issues,” you observed over the radio, watching Jason’s car weave slightly as he tried to manage what looked like an overheating engine. Steam was beginning to rise from his rear wing.

“Copy that. Stay clear,” Marcus replied, but there was something else in his voice. Opportunity.

You could pass him easily. The photo of you leading Jason Todd across the line, even on a cool down lap, would be front page of every motorsport publication tomorrow. Your team’s sponsors would love it.

Instead, you backed off, giving Jason space to manage his failing car.

You couldn’t say why you did it. Professional courtesy, maybe. Or perhaps you wanted to beat Jason Todd fair and square, not because his engine had given up.

Through his mirrors, you saw Jason’s helmet turn toward you again. This time, he held up one gloved hand—a small wave that could have been thanks, or acknowledgment, or something else entirely.

Your radio crackled: “What are you doing back there? Perfect chance for a statement.”

“Just giving him room,” you replied, but your eyes were still fixed on Jason’s car ahead, wondering what was going through his mind.

Twenty minutes later, you found yourself in the media pen, still buzzing from qualifying P2—Jason had managed to hold onto the pole by just 0.025 seconds, his earlier sector time proving unbeatable despite his car troubles.

“So,” the Sky Sports reporter leaned forward with that hungry expression journalists got when they smelled drama, “you and Jason Todd have had quite the intense rivalry developing this season. Four races where you’ve finished within five seconds of each other, some petty aggressive wheel-to-wheel racing. How would you characterize your relationship with him?”

Before you could answer, a familiar voice cut in from behind you.

“Intense is one word for it.”

You turned to find Jason approaching, his race unzipped to the waist, dark hair still messy from his helmet. He moved with casual confidence that had annoyed you since your first day in F1, like he owned every paddock walked through.

“Jason!” The reporter’s eyes lit up. “Perfect timing. We were just discussing your rivalry with—”

“Oh, we’re rivals now?” Jason’s green eyes found yours, and something in his expression made your stomach flip unexpectedly. “Here I though we were just two people who happened to be really good at driving in circles.”

The reporter laughed, but you caught the subtle challenge in Jason’s tone. He stepped up beside you, close enough that you could smell his cologne mixing with the lingering scent of rubber and high-octane fuel.

“Well,” you managed, trying to ignore the way he was looking at you, “when you’re fighting for the same piece of real estate at two hundred miles per hour, I suppose rivalry is inevitable.”

“Inevitable,” Jason repeated, like he was testing the word. “I like that.”

The interview continued, but you found yourself distracted by Jason’s presence beside you, the way he gestured when talking about racing, the quick glances he kept shooting in your direction. when the reporter asked about tomorrow’s race strategy, Jason’s answer was directed more at you than the camera.

“I think tomorrow’s going to be very interesting,” he said. “Monaco rewards patience, but sometimes you have to take risks to get what you want.”

As the interview wrapped up and you walked away, Jason’s words echoed in your mind. Tomorrow’s race suddenly felt like it was about much more than twenty-five points and a Monaco trophy.

Behind you, you heard Jason call out: “See you on the track tomorrow. Try to keep up.”

You didn’t turn around, but you couldn’t stop the small smile that tugged at your lips.

Game on, Todd.

The sponsor event was a special kind of torture—two hours of forced smiles and diplomatic answers while Jason sat close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off his skin. The Monaco Yacht Club’s pristine white table cloth did nothing to hide the way his knee kept brushing against yours, each casual contact sending sparks up your spine that you desperately tried to ignore.

“So what’s it like,” the journalist from Autosport leaned forward with predatory interest, “being the only one currently fighting for race wins against someone like Jason here?”

You fielded this question a thousand times, but something about the way she phrased it—against someone like Jason—made your jaw clench. Beside you, Jason’s posture shifted almost imperceptibly, and you caught the flash of annoyance that crossed his features.

“I don’t really think about the details when I’m doing two hundred miles per hour,” you replied smoothly. “I’m just focused on being faster than whoever’s in front of me.”

“And that’s usually Jason,” another reported chimed in. “You two have had some pretty intense battles this season. There’s definitely chemistry there.”

The word chemistry hung in the air like a loaded gun. You felt Jason’s attention shift to you, could practically feel that insufferable smirk forming even without looking at him.

“Chemistry?” You couldn't hold back the bite in your tone.

“Chemistry,” Jason parroted back, his voice carrying that low, dangerous tone that made your stomach flip. “That’s an interesting way to put it. I mean, you need a certain level of understanding to race wheel-to-wheel the way we do. Trust, even.”

Your breath feels too heavy. Suddenly you remember every moment of silent understanding between the two of you not only on the track, but also outside of it. Away from all the judging eyes, the competition, the pressure—all of it. The silent understanding slowly began to turn into something else and you can’t pinpoint where it all changed. When did your heart skip a beat when you saw the red shade you associate with him? When did the gaze of his green eyes become so heavy as if it cuts into your soul? Is it trust? Or something else?

His fingers drummed against the table, dangerously close to yours. Again you can feel the heat. So dangerous and so intoxicating at the same time.

“You have to know exactly how the other person thinks, what they’re going to do before they do it. It’s almost,” he hesitates before continuing, eyes trailing to you, “intimate.”

Heat flooded your cheeks, and you shot him a warning look that he met with barely concealed amusement. You wanted to punch his smug, albeit pretty face.

The reporters were eating it up, scribbling notes and exchanging meaningful glances. You’re sure they’re writing down how Jason is only looking at you, how you can only furrow your brows in attempt to distract yourself from the heat surrounding you.

“Intimate,” you managed, keeping your voice level. “I’d call it competitiveness. Analysis at best.”

“Same thing, really,” Jason murmured, and this time his knee definitely pressed against yours deliberately.

The rest of the event passed in a haze of careful PR speak and Jason’s increasingly loaded comments. Every time you thought you had your composure back, he’d lean closer to share the microphone or make some observation that sounded professional but felt like a challenge meant only for you.

By the time you escaped to the paddock, your nerves were frayed and your patience exhausted.

You hate him. Hate the way even after you beat him after a race, he still manages to make you feel like he won. He has a way of making your heart feel heavy. It’s a mix of nervousness, hatred and admiration you wish you could squash under your foot.

You can’t even look at him in the eye. His gaze is too much. He’s playing a game and you don’t even know the rules. Everything he says plays over and over again in your mind and you find yourself analyzing every syllable.

It is intimate.

You and Jason Todd are playing a very intimate game. The game started the very moment you two started locking eyes at the race track, cars almost floating through the air because of the speed, but not to only look, to see the other person and drink in any sign of emotion.

When did it all change? When did it change from competition against each other to wanting to peel back the others layers, see what was under the pretenses?

You needed an answer.

You cornered him outside the team motorhomes, where the Monaco night air was thick with expensive perfume and the sound of waves against the harbor.

“We need to talk.”

Jason turned from where he’d been signing autographs for a small group of fans, that familiar smirk already forming. “Do we? About what?”

“You know exactly what.” You waited until the fans had dispersed before stepping closer, lowering your voice. “That performance in there. What the hell was that?”

“Performance?” He had the audacity to look innocent. “I was just answering their questions honestly.”

“Honestly?” You let out a short laugh. “Intimate? Really?”

“You don’t think so?” Jason stepped closer, close enough that you felt the familiar skip in your heart beat. “The way you move on track, like you can read my mind? The way you always know exactly where I’m going to be?”

“That’s called racecraft, Jason. Not—” you gestured helplessly between you. “Whatever this is.”

“And what is this, exactly?”

The question caught you off guard. For a moment, neither of you spoke, the air between you charged with something that had nothing to do with racing and everything to do with the way he was looking at you.

“It’s you playing mind games,” you said finally, but your voice lacked conviction.

“Is it?” Jason’s hand came up, hovering near your face like he might touch you. “Because from where I’m standing, it feels like something else entirely.”

Your breath caught. He was so close you could see the flecks of sea-blue in his eyes, could smell his cologne mixing with the salt air, and you know it will be engraved in your memory. For a wild moment, you thought he might actually kiss you right there in the paddock.

Instead, you stepped back, your heart hammering.

“This is exactly what I’m talking about,” you said, proud that your voice only shook slightly. “You can’t just say things like that. Do things like that. We have to work together, race against each other—”

“No,” Jason’s voice was quieter now, more serious. “We don’t have to do anything. The media wants a story so we give them one. But what happens between us? That’s our choice.”

“There is no ‘us,’ Jason.”

He studied your face for a long moment, then nodded slowly. “Right. Of course not.”

But as he walked away, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you’d just lied to the both of you.

A few hours later you were at the paddock again. At 6 AM it was a different world—quiet, stripped of its usual chaos, just the soft him od preparation and the distant sound of waves against Monaco’s harbor. You hadn’t expected to find anyone else awake at one of the catering tables, staring into a cup of coffee like it held answers to questions he wasn’t ready to ask.

He looked up when you approached, and for once, that cocky smile was nowhere to be found.

“Couldn’t sleep either?” You asked settling into the chair across from him.

“Race day nerves,” he said, but you both knew that wasn’t quite true.

You’d been racing long enough to recognize that look he wore—the weight of expectations, the pressure that came with being good enough to win but never knowing if it would be enough. You’d seen it in your own mirror plenty of times.

You wrapped your hands around your own coffee cup, absorbing it’s warmth. “My team principal sent me three different strategy briefs. Each one basically boiled down to ‘don’t let Jason Todd’ beat you.”

“Smart strategy.”

“Everyone expects us to hate each other.” You must hate him. There can’t be another way. “I should. It would make things easier.”

“Easier how?”

You gesture vaguely. “I wouldn’t lie awake thinking about whether you meant what you said last night. Whether this—” you waved between you, “—is just you trying to get in my head before a race.”

Jason was quiet for a long moment, turning his coffee cup in his hands. “What if I told you it wasn’t?”

Your heart skipped a beat. “Jason—”

“I know.” He said quickly. “I know it’s complicated. I know we’re supposed to be rivals, that the media loves this whole enemies thing we’ve got going. But sitting here, at six in the morning before the biggest race of the season,” he trailed off, shaking his head.

“What?”

“I keep thinking about how you’re the only one who understands. On the track, during interviews and events suddenly you are the only person there beside me. As if I can’t hear the shouts, the questions nor the expectations. Just you.”

You can only manage a soft murmur of his name. His words play over and over again in your mind.

Jason stands up, moving away from the table. “Big day ahead.” His walls already building back up. “I shouldn’t take too much of your time.”

“Jason.” You don’t know what possessed you to say his name again.

You suddenly feel yourself move purely on instincts. You move beside him, the proximity bringing heat to your cheeks. You try control the way your heart beats uncontrollably and place a small kiss on his cheek against the stubbled skin.

When you pull back, you can heat the intake of breath from Jason. The pink hue on his cheeks is obvious and it makes you even more nervous.

“Good luck today,” you murmur. “Don’t make it too easy for me.”

“I won’t.” He answers, voice rougher than before.

When you move away from him, you can feel the way his gaze locks onto you, eyes trailing to each other like magnets.

Today, you were going to race against someone you were starting to care about.

𝄢　© DHAZEFAWN 𓈒　𓋫　’𝟮𝟱𓈒　ᛝ　do not copy, take inspo, repost, feed my works to ai.

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gunwoo-bh · 3 months ago

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The Night Shift - Part 11 [Min Yoongi x f!Reader]

MIN YOONGI x F!READER UniStudent!Yoongi AU SUMMARY: You chose a boring, quiet job at your campus’s 24-hour library for a reason: it kept you away from drama, gossip, and parties. It was positively uneventful. Until it wasn’t. 18+ MDNI cw: warnings for talks of depression & anxiety, talks of bullying, lots of cussing, concerned reader & friends, smut, light fingering, penetration, kissing lots of kissing as usual, sad yoongi and reader, life is stressing them out loads, dual POV for one section (it's pretty obvious I think), and a tiny conversation flashback wc: 5.4k A/N: This is being posted far quicker than I ever thought to be honest. And there's a lot going in here. We're fast approaching the end and I am both dreading the end, but I'm also excited for it! I really hope you enjoy it!

THE NIGHT SHIFT

PART 11

A U G U S T

The sound of panting echoes against your bedroom walls as your head hits the pillow, his body collapsing on top of yours as he rests his head on your chest. You smile as you bury a hand in his hair, scratching his scalp as he begins to purr under your touch. You shut your eyes, catching your breath when he moves above you and you feel his lips press kisses to your chest.

You hum contentedly, his mouth tracing a path up to your jawline as you arch your chest into his mouth. His chuckle is low as he pulls back, watching you, “Hey now, you’re getting excited again…”

“Stop touching and kissing me then…”

He scoffs, “Do you really want me to?”

You shake your head, “Never…”

But he stops, stills above you and watches you with so much love in his eyes.

Your return home from your trip had brought out this hunger in you, a need to know what being with Yoongi would be like. To feel him the way you are now, buried inside of you with your legs locked behind his lower back and his mouth on your body.

You glance at your bedside table clock, “They’re gonna be back soon…”

“We should shower…”

You grin, “Should we now?”

“Yeah, saving water and I can still have my hands on you, too…” You playfully slap his back as he moves, holding the back of your thighs as he slips out of you. He slips the condom off, tying it off and throwing it out. You already miss the fullness as he kisses the inside of your knee, “Let’s go…”

You sit up, get out of bed and search for clothes, the both of you sneaking off to take a shower. Yoongi loves to use his hands to caress every inch of you, hands hardly anywhere else but you. He loves washing your hair, standing tall enough to make it easier for him to lather and rinse out the product out of your hair.

By the time your friends return with their boyfriends, conveniently Yoongi’s friends too, you’re both snuggled on the couch binge watching a show. You’re under his arm, looking up at the door when you hear the laughter on the other side and you giggle as you push on Yoongi’s stomach to sit up right as they all tumble in.

“Hi guys!”

You start laughing when the girls trip over themselves to come say hi. Oh god, they’re so drunk. They pile into your left side as you glance up to your boyfriend, who sits amused at your drunk friends’ antics.

“How was the club?” You rub their backs.

“SOO fuuuun…” you laugh softly, nodding to Jungkook who grabs Eunji’s hand, trying to coax his girlfriend to come to bed with him.

“Mind if we stay the night? I know it’s you guys’ night…” Jungkook asks, glancing between Yoongi and you.

You nod with the gentlest smile, “Stay, it’s fine.” You grab Yoongi’s hand. “We’re about to head to bed anyways…”

You are far more familiar with helping your drunk friends than their boyfriends, so as the boys catch up in the living room you are helping your best friends get settled for bed. You laugh when Eunji tries to pull you into the bed, pulling away before she plants a kiss to your lips.

Wandering back in the living room you call out to the boys, “Okay, boyfriends. Your very cute and drunk girlfriends are finally in bed, I hand over the responsibility to you.”

Both Jungkook and Hoseok laugh, thanking you and walking past you to join their girlfriends. You stand there for a moment, staring after the guys. You’re filled with joy that you can’t describe that your friends are happy in relationships.

“Baby..”

You look over to Yoongi, he’s leaning forward and extends his hand for you to grab, “Yes?”

“Do you wanna go to bed?” You glance to the stovetop and then back to him, nodding.

“Yeah, I really do…” You take his hand, tugging him off the couch as he falls into you with a chuckle.

He kisses your forehead, letting you take him back to your bedroom where the remnants of your passionate post-coital euphoria occured. With the crumpled sheets, displaced pillows and clothes strewn across the floor, you’re immediately brought back to that moment.

The moment he shuts the door behind you, he begins changing the sheets and fixing the pillows as you get ready for bed. You brush your teeth, do your skincare routine and brush your hair when Yoongi walks in to brush his teeth. His hand brushes your lower back and you look at his reflection with a soft smile. How can someone make you feel like this over and over?

You leave first to get settled in bed, joined soon after by Yoongi when he easily wraps you up in his arms and against his body. You relax in his arms, shutting your eyes when he presses his lips at the back of your ear with a whispered goodnight.

And just like that you drift off to sleep.

B U S A N

“Oh my god, babe, your course load is intense!” You’re staring at Yoongi’s upcoming class schedule, spread over five days chaotically.

“And that’s not including the hours I have to do as a teacher’s assistant for this one class…” He looks stressed already and school doesn’t start for another two weeks.

You’re back home in Busan for the week to visit your parents. Four days in already back home and you don’t know if it’s because you have a boyfriend now or because you have a routine, but you miss Seoul. You miss your friends. And you definitely miss Yoongi.

He’s rubbing his face, “Have you gotten yours?”

You stare at the email on your screen, “I have…I just haven’t looked yet.”

You’re on a video call with Yoongi. It’s late here at home, your parents are already in bed and you try to stay quiet enough to not wake them up.

“Why not?”

You shrug, but you know why, “Because I have to face whatever kind of shitty schedule I have…”

He grins softly, “Open the email, baby…” You sigh, but you do as he says, clicking on it and shutting your eyes. “You gotta open your eyes…”

“If I do, there’s no going back…” he laughs at your theatrics.

“Come on, what’s it look like?” He asks.

You finally look at it, going over the week day by day as you process what your weeks are going to look like.

“Uh, let me send it to you…” He hears you click a few buttons and the email pops up on his screen. You open his schedule next to yours and you confirm what you already figured out.

Shit.

He has three more classes than you do, each of those extra classes running an hour and a half or three hours. You look up to see Yoongi doing the same thing, he’s putting two and two together as he glances up at you.

“Not looking great, huh?”

Your dry laughter concerns him right away, “Nope…”

“We’ll make it work. We can make something work…” He’s trying to be positive, you love him for it but this schedule is basically a giant fuck you to you two ever having a chance to spend time together.

Okay, Miss Negative & Needy. Chill.

You nod softly, chewing on your lower lip, “I’m gonna have to go part time, my schedule just won’t work with library shifts now. Will you keep your full time job with your folks?”

He shakes his head, “No, probably will have to go down to part-time…”

You bite your lower lip, “What did you say again? We’ll figure it out?”

“That we’ll make it work.”

“Yeah, that…”

You’re quiet, still staring at the schedules on your screen as you sigh.

“How was your day?” You watch the way his eyes soften when he looks at you. “Tell me about it…”

“Well, I went to the market with my mom this morning and we spent hours there.” He chuckles. “Mom wants to make me food I can take home and,” you laugh at this next part, “I told her your favourite food was bulgogi so she’s making you some of her spicy one but I did tell her not to make it too spicy…”

“She doesn’t have to do that…” he’s shy as he rubs the back of his neck, “but thank her for me…”

“I will, and she loves doing this…” you’re smiling as you bite your lower lip, “and there’s a part of her, just like your mom, who thinks she’s feeding her future son-in-law…”

He laughs, “Ahhh, yes, our wedding. I forgot about that. We still don’t have a date for that, do we?”

“Nope. But I’m sure once our parents decide? We’ll be looped in…” Rolling your eyes playfully, you smile at his content face.

He’s lying on his bed, a pillow under his head as he stares at his laptop and you’re in the exact same position wearing one of his hoodies.

“So, do you still want me to pick you up at the train station?” You break out into a smile right away when he asks.

“Yes, I would love that…” He nods, grabbing his phone as he sets up a reminder.

He watches you shift in bed, “I’m excited to see you, even though it was just a week…”

“I love going home and seeing my parents, but I miss my routine…”

“That’s normal, though…”

You’re both silent as you go back to staring at your reality for the next sixteen weeks. It scares you. And it wasn’t even something you were thinking of until Eunji and Jungkook got their course schedule, and you had gotten a string of texts in the group chat about how impossible making time would be. It had not occurred to you until that moment, even though logically you knew these things happened. Life doesn’t adjust to you that easily.

And since that day, you have spent every single moment concerned about the way your schedule would look like. You let it get to your head, easily. The fear of losing out on time in what you felt was still the early stages of your relationship and with your friends.

Lord knows, you have all been distracted by boys these last few months and have been making plans to hang out. Your group of girlfriends had expanded from just you three to include Eunhye and Sohee as well. Girl nights were fun. You still weren’t a drinker, but luckily neither was Eunhye.

Balancing life proved to be hard without any classes, you suspect it’ll be even harder once the new semester starts.

“I should go to bed.” You snap your eyes up. “I’m actually opening at the restaurant tomorrow.”

You pout, “Okay. I’m visiting my aunt and uncle tomorrow, so I’ll be up in the middle of nowhere…”

“Send photos when you are within service…”

“I will. Update me whenever and I’ll text back whenever I can…” You promise.

He sighs, smiling gently, “I…I love you.”

You have a visible reaction to that, sucking in a hard breath as you smile at your keyboard, “I love you, too…”

Saying goodbye to your parents proves harder this time around, you don’t know why exactly. You cry to yourself as quietly as you can when you’re on the train, and once you calm down, you look out your window and watch the view change for the next two hours. You think back to the last conversation you had with your mom on your way to the train station.

“You’ll have to convince your boyfriend to come with you next time or we can come down, your dad and I, and we can all have dinner. He seems like such a lovely young man and I’m so happy you told us about him–”

“Mom?”

She stops, “What’s all this?

“Even when you dated before in high school or after, you never shared anything…” You grin because your mom would be one hundred percent right about that. “...I’m just happy my daughter is dating…”

You laugh, “Wedding bells, I feel like that’s what you’re hearing in your head right now…”

“I’ll have you know I was your age when I married your father!”

“I know, mom! I’m just teasing. His mom said something similar to him. I know it’s normal for you guys to expect your kids to be married and popping out kids at this age but…”

She grabs your hand, keeping her eyes on the road, “It makes me happy only because you look happy…That’s all we want for you. Don’t rush into something like marriage…”

You smile at her and look out, “I’m nervous, though…”

“Why?”

You take a second, looking back at your mom, “We just got our new schedules for school and his is packed, mine is all over the place. I have to cut my hours at the library and find another job that will let me work good hours to make up for that. I don’t want to be the girl who moves everything around her boyfriend’s schedule…but it’s not just him, it’s all of our friends too. It feels like…” you rub your chest but why is it hurting? “seeing even our friends will be tough. Every new year, every new semester I get busier and busier, and it already sucked seeing Hwayoung and Eunji less but now with Yoongi, it just…”

“You’re scared…”

The statement scares you even more because of how true it is. Yes, you are scared.

Because what happens if you’re not worth waiting for? If things get too difficult and you can’t make enough time for each other. If you are not enough…

“Yeah…” Your mom probably hasn’t heard your voice sound that small in years.

She stays quiet as you watch her, “I know it’s going to be easy for me to say because I am your mom, I think I am meant to be this way but…when you make it about the quality of the time spent together instead of the quantity? The time apart will slowly and overtime get better…”

“Oh…”

She smiles, “But you’re in the honeymoon phase, all over each other and breathing each other’s air just doesn’t feel like enough but that…that doesn’t last.”

You look at her as she adds, “It’s hard work, a loving marriage,” you give her a look, “or relationship, sorry, sorry.”

You laugh, feeling heat climb up to your cheeks, “Thank you, mom.”

“Mhm, of course. I want you to be happy…”

You playfully glare at her, “You want me married off…”

“Oh, that too…” She plays into it, making you laugh as you shake your head.

As you near Seoul, your heart slams against your ribcage at the reality of seeing Yoongi and getting back into your routine.

Don’t let your brain get the best of you, again.

Focus on the good things these last two weeks of summer will bring you. Time with your friends. With your boyfriend. Sleep, as much sleep as possible. So much to do in two weeks.

An announcement plays out on the speaker, warning passengers of your arrival in Seoul soon. Finally. Your leg shakes as you wait for the go ahead to move and exit the train.

Walking off the train, you shoot him a quick text.

You [1:37 PM]: I’m getting off now, be out soon!

The station is crowded, more than just your train have obviously pulled in and off loaded because you’re trying to break through the swarm of travellers, waiting for a message from Yoongi to confirm his location. But as you near the exit you see him walking in, looking disheveled and stressed, poor thing.

“Oppa!”

He hears your voice through the noise, snapping his head and eyes widening when he sees you as he breaks through the crowd to reach you, your arms wrapping around his shoulders. Your lungs feel replenished with air when you’re near him again. He squeezes you tightly against him, one arm around you and the other grabs your luggage where it was abandoned next to you two.

He groans in your neck, “Fuck, I missed you…”

“It was only a week…” You liar, you missed him too.

Chuckling, he pulls back, “I know, I still missed you…”

You giggle, pulling you back into his arms, “I’m happy to be back…”

He keeps you tucked into his side when you walk back to the car and you start the drive back to yours. He holds your hand the entire ride back, caressing the back of your hand with his thumb. You tell him about your trip, earning a few chuckles from him especially when you talk about your parents also talking about marriage.

“High expectations, huh?”

“Parents? Always.” You joke.

When you’re finally back in your room, you collapse on your bed in relief as he climbs in next to you. Reaching for your hand, lacing your fingers with yours and leans in to kiss your cheek, moving lower as you spread your legs apart. You feel so good when his hand slips between your legs with your invitation, his mouth sucking at the skin on your jawline as you roll him over you.

“Wanna make up for a week of me being gone?” You pant into his mouth when he hungrily kisses you.

He chuckles deeply, fingers sinking inside of you as you gasp, “You don’t have to ask me twice…”

You sit in the living room with the girls and some of the boys, glancing over your shoulder as you call out to your boyfriend.

“Do you need any help?”

He looks at you and shakes his head, mouthing ‘I’m okay’ to you.

You hadn’t expected visitors this quick but when they showed up, you couldn’t hide your excitement at seeing them all. Even if you were completely exhausted still. Yoongi had gathered what you had in your fridge to make you guys some food, working on his own and insisting you sit and relax.

You look over to something that’s caught your attention in Hwayoung’s room, “Did you get a new desk?”

Everybody looks over as your friend smiles, “Why yes I did! It was on sale too, I really couldn’t stop myself.”

“How did you get that in here?” You chuckle.

Hwayoung glances to the kitchen, “Your boyfriend helped me out actually. Him and Hoseok.”

You look over to Yoongi who avoids looking back, and you can only imagine that he’s blushing right now when he’s being praised by your best friend. You want to walk over to him and kiss him, take him back to your room to give him a proper thank you. But that’ll be later.

“Did he?”

She grins at you, “Yep.” You both grin. She knows you find it sweet and you also know that if it weren’t for her, you probably never would have heard from Yoongi.

When everybody else keeps talking, you keep your eyes on your friend as you mouth ‘really?’ and she nods, obviously grateful at your boyfriend’s help. She takes her phone out and you take yours out too, a text from her coming in almost straight away.

Hwayoung [7:28 PM]: I asked for his help, he said yes without hesitating. And he said he’d let you know, I thought he did.

You [7:28 PM]: He didn’t. He said nothing.

Hwayoung [7:29 PM]: He’s a good guy 😊

You would agree with her as you look over to him again. Right at that moment he brings the food over before returning to the kitchen to make some more. Everybody digs in but you note that even twenty minutes into eating, he’s still cooking. You go to him, wrapping your arms from behind as you press against his back.

“You gonna come eat?” you whisper, chin leaning against his shoulder blade.

“Mhm, I will…” he nods, not looking at you, “you should go eat.”

You frown. Don’t read into the tone.

He must feel the shift because your grip loosens on him, turning to you, “You okay?”

“Yeah. Are you?”

He looks over to your friends then back to you, “I’m crashing hard…I’m just tired. Kinda like when you need a recharge…”

You feel helpless because he’s usually the one in the position to help you and you realize you don’t know how to help him or what you can do to help. He must see your concerned eyes because he cups your cheek, “Let me make you guys food, then I’ll just go sleep…”

“Are you…still staying here tonight…or?”

He loses his smile, “I think I’m gonna go home…but I will be back in the morning. I promise. We can go for breakfast and coffee…”

You hide your disappointment because the part of you that understands? Gets it. But the one who is confused about the sudden change is you. You know you’ve agreed to talk if thoughts like that overtook your minds but you also don’t want to nag him into it.

You hum before going back to your spot, getting quiet until he does exactly what he says he will. He sits next to you, rubbing your back as he does, and eats, cleaning up the dishes before leaving. The others notice because he never leaves first, and they note how quiet you get. But this is one of those times when everyone knows better than to ask questions that even you don’t have an answer to yet.

As you lay in bed that night, confused and scared you get one text from him. One that doesn’t do much to alleviate the fear.

Yoongi 🧡🍊[10:02 PM]: I love you ♥️

He cancels on you the next day.

It’s been a full three days since his text and he’s read your messages.

You’re doing everything in your heart to not let it break, because you don’t have a reason for it to break. Yet. You know that just like you he gets into his head too, but where you simply quiet down? He pulls away which, for you, triggers this sudden fear of abandonment.

Your friends have been able to tell something’s happened but they haven’t asked, and you haven’t said anything. You’re keeping as busy as you can and you try not to bug him. And just when you think you’re settling into a routine today, there's someone ringing the doorbell.

Don’t get excited.

And you’re not going to because when you look at who your visitor is, you’re shocked. You open your front door and wait until you’re met with his eyes.

“Hey, Namjoon…”

He smiles shyly, “Hey. Can we talk?”

You invite him in and you’re wringing your hands, “Yep. Come in.”

He grabs your arm gently, “Breathe. I know you’re stressed but…”

You nervously laugh and shake your head as you sit down on the couch, Namjoon sits across from you.

“What’s up, Namjoon?”

“You’re wondering what’s going on with him…”

“Obviously…”

“Look, he’s okay, but I don’t know how to even approach this conversation because I am going against what he wants. He’s made me promise to never tell anyone but I really don’t think that’s helping anyone, especially him…” He’s scared and nervous. “I know he’ll forgive me, eventually, but it’s still scary.”

“You’re officially freaking me out, ‘Joon…” God, when did your palms get so sweaty.

“Yoongi has been severely depressed for as long as I’ve known him.”

Namjoon collapses against the chair, exhaling so loudly he sounds like a deflating balloon. He’s relieved to have this off his chest because he’s obviously been carrying this for so long. A wave of calmness hits you as you finally process what he’s said.

This is not about you. Or Namjoon. Or anybody else.

This is about Yoongi.

“Okay. I know how…difficult a position you are in, but do you think you could tell me more?”

And he does.

Explains when it started. The bullying in high school, overcoming that but being left with anxiety and depression in the wake. How Yoongi has never done anything to hurt himself on purpose but how he’s sometimes engaged in scary behaviour such as over drinking when he shouldn’t.

“He hasn’t been like this since before you…” you nod, “and I’m not stupid enough to think that having a great girlfriend would fix his depression and anxiety, and that’s nothing against you and how awesome you are, by the way…”

You can’t help but chuckle, dryly but it’s mostly genuine, “I know having a girlfriend won’t ever fix that. And,” you sigh, “I’ve just been this insecure girl letting her boyfriend reassure and validate her feelings these last few months. He’s just been so good to me and for me, I never even thought that it could or would ever be this deep for him…”

“You can’t beat yourself over the head too hard for that…” Namjoon breathes out, “Yoongi does everything in his power to not tell people…especially you.”

“Why?”

Namjoon scoffs, “Because he thinks that it would scare you off for good and I do honestly believe it scares him…”

“Oh…”

“But I’m guessing it won’t scare you off?” You shake your head.

“People are tricky, y’know? And I know how easy it is to say it doesn’t scare you, but the truth is? It is scary. It scares me, but…he doesn’t scare me.” You rub your thighs nervously.

“He goes through phases, episodes, and he was fine and I don’t know why he crashed this hard and I know he will get himself outta of it because he always does, but you shouldn’t be on the outside of it. It’s not fair to him and it’s not fair to you…” Namjoon sighs.

“Is he gonna be mad at you?”

Namjoon shrugs, “Disappointed, maybe. I mean, the boys kinda know that he’s struggling…but he’s never said anything to them directly…” he locks eyes with you, “I just have to hope he won’t be pissed forever…”

“Why are you telling me?”

He laughs, “Because he misses you. I don’t expect you to be the one fixing this for him, because you shouldn’t be. I don’t wanna assume why he hasn’t been open with you about it but I think he thinks he’s protecting you from it…”

Sounds like something he would do, you think to yourself.

“Look, I didn’t come here to tell you this so you can go and knock on his door to fix it. No. I told you because I think he would want you to know that this has nothing to do with you. He loves you, I have no doubt about that.” Namjoon rubs his face and you really take in just how tired he is.

You both stay silent for a moment before you look up at him, “I won’t lie…I have no idea what to do next…” you laugh nervously.

Namjoon stands and you follow, standing up to look at him, “Show him you’ll be there? Fuck, I don’t know. I wish I had a better answer for you…” he apologizes as you rub his arm.

“It’s fine…” you lick your lips, “I’ll figure something out.”

“Yeah?” He’s hopeful for his friend.

You nod, “Yeah, I will. I love him.”

He seems comforted to hear that, walking into you for a hug.

You pull back, smiling softly, “Everything’s gonna be fine.”

Yoongi walks home from work at the restaurant, exhausted and hoping for the warm embrace of his bed. But having you there would make it better.

No, he thinks, you pushed her away, you idiot.

He glances down to your pinned conversation still sitting at the top of his messages there, your last text visible and haunting him for the last four days now.

Baby ♥️[4:16 AM]: I love you 🧡 I’m here whenever, and always.

God, he doesn’t deserve you. Don’t force that thinking on her, that’s not fucking fair.

His brain has been a battleground these last few days, everything crashing down at the most inconvenient of moments. The guilt of ghosting you yet again eats at him, swallowing him whole the moment your name is mentioned or when he gets a glimpse of you.

He’s ruining what you had left of the last two weeks of freedom before the busiest of school semesters. Because his head had him convinced there was no way you would go through the struggle of making time for him. Because why would you?

Because she loves you.

He loses track of time, looking up to his apartment as he shakes his head. How can he mindlessly walk here and not even notice everything in between? The fact that he makes it here alive is a miracle.

When he keys into his shared apartment, it’s quiet. The boys must be gone, he thinks. He checks his phone again and he sees the missed texts from Namjoon and Hoseok, both staying with their girlfriends tonight. You could too, y’know?

He takes his shoes off and wanders in, body sore as he heads directly to his bedroom. He begins kicking his clothes off, piece by piece until he steps into a shower. The hot water no longer makes him hiss, having grown accustomed to the feeling these last few days.

He doesn’t know how long he stands there, but it must be way longer than he should have because the water begins running ice cold when he snaps out of it finally. His body feels like he weighs three tons, bones feeling like they’re crumbling under the weight of it all and making being in his skin painful. He despises this feeling. He despises his brain right now. He despises not having you here with him to run your fingers through his hair.

Yoongi exits the bathroom and makes a beeline straight to his bed, ready to throw himself into it when he stops.

What was…

He snaps his head back to his room, eyes tiredly scanning the entire area to figure out what was different. And that’s when he sees it, his chest suddenly feeling tight as he strides to his desk to make sure he wasn’t seeing a mirage. That he hadn’t lost his goddamn mind.

His eyes begin brimming with tears, lips trembling at how it all finally collapses. The veil of darkness that’s been surrounding him being burned to the ground. Its ashes gone in the wind, just like that.

All because of a blue post-it and a tangerine sitting on top of his laptop.

You.

He carefully grabs the fruit in his shaky hands, feeling the first of the tears falling down his cheek as he angrily rubs at it.

You were here. At some point today.

His gaze slowly moves from the tangerine in his hands to the post-it. He picks it up in his hand and brings it closer to read it through tear filled eyes.

You’re not alone. I’m here. Always. I love you <3 - Your Girl

His girl.

Fuck, he had to make things right.

12:16 PM

You’re walking home alone after work, your steps slow as you keep looking at your phone.

You had left the tangerine at Yoongi’s place mid-shift with Namjoon’s help. You had wanted to leave it there yourself, somewhere in his room where he would obviously notice. Where he would know it was you. But it has been hours now.

Dragging your feet up the small hill leading to your place, you look at your phone one final time before getting inside. The ride up the elevator is slow, letting you get lost in your own mind as you pick at some fluff on your shirt.

Ding.

The elevator doors open and you rush to your door. You just want to be home so badly and to enjoy the quietness of your place before your friends return with their boyfriends. But you’re not alone.

Because he’s here.

How do you know?

Because his shoes are at the entrance. You’d recognize those anywhere.

Your breath catches in your throat and you drop your bag at the entrance as you rush inside, eyes scanning the kitchen and living room before zooming to your room as you push the door open.

Yoongi is turning around right as you burst in.

“Hey baby…” he looks from his feet to you, “I think I owe you an explanation…”

A/N: So, this is a bit of a heavier chapter by the end, yeah? I know depression and anxiety presents differently and varies for everybody so this was based off of my own experience with it. The story is coming to an end soon, but even with the end? I won't ever stop visiting these characters. I really hope you enjoy this!

tag list: @muchwita @kam9404 @ot72025 @lalazilz @janeelizabeth1216 @rinkud @yngisstuff @lolpanda94 @angelicbunnee @wubbz05 @illicitelle @legendarydreamqueen @flyxfall @mintmango-min @moorepls @gojomyoneandonly @yoongiiuu93 @wobblewobble822 @michaela0901 @ariakamil @watchingover-hypegirl @lovesvt17 @misschelliejeon @niieceyy @this-most-assuredly-counts @ronaa33 @yoonminv @meghanacloud @petroogorodnik @existentialzaddy @illnevertrustmyselfagain

Post separator credit to @hyuneskkami

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gotta-winwin · 7 months ago

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hii! love the 24 hrs with seventeen event and i was wondering if i could request 3:15 a.m. with wonwoo? maybe something where he's up gaming but reader wakes up hungry and wants him to make some ramen? thank you! love your writing 💗

omg tiya hi! i love your writing too (•̪ o •̪) your christmas series with svt was TOO CUTE ! AND a request for wonwoo, the loml - straight to my heart.

3:15

🌷part of the 24hrs with seventeen series ! request a specific time + activity/scenario to experience it with seventeen yourself !

requests are now closed for this event! thank you to everyone who requested.

You’re kept awake by the glaring light of Wonwoo’s computer and the sound of his keyboard. No matter how many times he’s adjusted his screen’s brightness, it’s still not enough to hide his tendency to game late into the night. His roommate is sound asleep in his room, and you feel suddenly jealous - Mingyu’s obviously getting sleep - while you and your boyfriend are not.

The only thing saving Wonwoo from your crankiness and lack of sleep is the fact that he looks back at you every time he’s waiting for the next round to load, his eyes full of adoration and mild amusement as you grump. “You love watching me play.” He’d remind you constantly, never forgetting how you had once complimented his skills and how fast his fingers could move - which eventually led to him showing you just how fast - but never mind.

Wonwoo, who finds it adorable, how you’re restless even when tired, how you pad around his room like you own it - and you basically do. You own the owner of the room, which makes this room yours as much as it is his. It’s evident you’ve colonized his place by the sheer amount of trinkets that are yours, your own drawer, your own section of his shelf for your romance books. He’ll never admit to it, but he’s read through almost everything you bring over, cringing at some - but secretly enjoying most.

Wonwoo, who knows you’re bored out of your mind but trying to support his interests nevertheless. He’s a perceptive man - he sees your eyerolls whenever he tries schooling you on computer terms you’re unaware of, or how your shoulders shake from a silent sigh whenever he’s yelling out his gaming terms, passionate and on call with his friends. He loves you for just trying because he knows what his interests are aren’t for everyone.

Wonwoo, who can only smile at you amusedly when you nudge his leg from your side of bed, sprawled out so you can reach him at his gaming chair. His lips thin into his infamous smile when you quietly ask him for ramen, stating that waiting for him to finish has gotten you hungry once again.

Wonwoo, who wouldn’t trade your nightly routine for anything else in the world. As much as he loves gaming, he loves having a presence next to him more - liking how you’re only ever a step away whenever he needs a break from the virtual world. You make him love reality - it’s that simple.

Wonwoo, who blows on the steaming ramen before he serves it to you, knowing the countless times you’ve forgotten and had burned your tongue. A bout of satisfaction and pride washes over him when you let out a hum of enjoyment, mumbling through bites of ramen just how much you love his cooking - even if it is just a packet of instant noodles. The satisfaction and pride far outweighs that in which he feels after a win.

Wonwoo, who abandons his computer in favour of his bed, wrapping his arms around you as he waits for you to drift off. He would never tell you, but he’s never fallen asleep before you - relishing the few pockets of time left before he must relinquish his sight, taking off his glasses and turning you into a blurred figure beside him. He insists your beautiful even as a blurred figure, but Wonwoo likes having your peaceful face be the last thing he sees before sleep comes for him too.

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elliefuckinwilliams · 1 year ago

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can you write subby Abby and Ellie x reader? (It doesn’t have to be smut or anything)

oooh i l o v e this! let's make it half and half!

⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅

abby x ellie x reader

☆ these two are a handful separately but together is a whole other hassle

☆ they're constantly in competition! who does more for you? who does it the fastest? who's the strongest?

☆ you give both of them equal amount of attention but they take satisfaction in drawing attention away from the other

☆ cuddling isss so amazing and warm! you can all sometimes overheat but everyone is to comfortable to actually do anything about it so you just all boil together

☆ lots of kissing! kissing here and there and everywhereeeee

☆ it gets the point where you tell them to cut it out and they never show their competition in front of you again...behind close doors tho is another situation

☆ " did you see how she praised me and gave me kisses when i took the trash out?" " oh yeah well i drove her to her hair appointment and we made out in the car for 30min"

☆ they act as if they aren't also dating?!?!

☆ neither one of them really adopts a dom persona when it's just them two it's just two subby masc kissing sweetly on each other

⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅nsfw⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅

☆ you thought sub ellie was bad?!? OH you haven't met abby

☆ she knows she's strong than you so she'll take what she wants if you don't give it to her fast enough and just take the punishment

☆ say you're fucking her missionary but you're going to slow and she wants it faster but you want her to wait she whines really loudly and just grabs your hips using you as leverage for deeper, faster thrust

☆ " why can't you just go fasterr." " abby baby be patient!" " ungghhh no! fuck- oh my god fuuuck yes please oh- yes ." " jesus fuck- abby!" ( no orgasms for a 2 weeks after that one)

☆she's literally insane when it comes to you and ellie. she's so fucking possessive and she can't even help it

☆ say you're just chatting to someone you just met randomly, they both stroll up with frowed brows and crossed arms ready to go home cause now you're not giving them any attention

☆ "baby me and ellie wanna go home now!"

☆ brats

☆ ellie is an angel when paired with abby tho

☆ she's your sweet babyyyy she does whatever you want whenever you want it

☆ abby is on punishment again so she has to sit on the corner while you give ellie head which is her favorite thing to do

☆ ellie is such a load moaner she can't even help it she just is so sensitive and always feels so good

☆" how does it feel ellie."

☆ she can't speak she's so fucked out on her 3rd orgasm in the last 30min...she also comes so quickly

☆ abby has punishments in sections 1st section no touch you or ellie, 2nd section she can touch only ellie , 3rd she can finally touch both of you and she cant cum during any of that until you say so

☆ abby and ellie are grinding softly on the couch their kisses become desperate chances to taste each other but they barely have the brain power together to actually move their lips so it's just them sharing their air.

☆ they had been at it for almost an hour, their thighs shaking and their clits throbbing. ellie had already come a few times and abby was finally waiting to get permission. there was so much friction and everyone was so soaked you could hear it as they moved around trying to keep their orgasms at bay

☆ you were perched in a chair across from them observing

☆ " please can abby come? her clit is so swollen and red." it's truee it was so puffy and pink. ellie rubbing her thumb against it definitely didn't help

☆ "i guess so."

☆ your dismissive attitude turned her on even more causing her orgasm to go through her body in a way she's never felt before

☆ she can barely say a word her eyes roll so far into the back of her head and she's overwhelmed by the pleasure

☆ her pussy clenched around nothing while ellie took the opportunity to drink up everything that was coming from abby cause her own orgasm untouched

☆ "what do you say?"

☆ "t-thank you baby"

⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅

OH MY GOD WHO WROTE THAT?!?!

okay love you bye

#abby anderson #abby anderson smut #abby anderson x reader #ellabs x reader #ellie williams smut #ellie williams x reader #vi arcane x reader #ellie smut #ellie the last of us #ellie williams

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lucy-literates · 1 month ago

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Another story with Arthur 👉🏻👈🏻

He wasn t going to pass an exam and the teacher put YN to teach him. While Yn is trying to teach him, he is flirting and touching her, making her wet…they end up fucking in the back of one of the library bookshelves ( in school )

Extra smut pleaaaaaase❤️🫶🏻🫶🏻

A/N: Ooooh I liked writing this one! Very American cliche, nice!

Study Break

You already knew he wasn’t taking this seriously.

Arthur showed up five minutes late, hair messy, shirt untucked, cocky smirk already loaded before he even sat down.

“I don’t bite, you know,” he said, dropping into the chair beside you, his voice just loud enough to make an old man two tables down look up disapprovingly.

You didn’t even flinch. “Good. You need your mouth for repeating back these formulas.”

He chuckled. “Do you ever stop being bossy?”

“Do you ever stop being annoying?”

“I can be quiet,” he leaned in, eyes glinting, “but only if you beg.”

You choked on air.

Arthur grinned.

This was going to be impossible.

You flipped open the textbook between you, ignoring the heat curling low in your stomach. You weren’t blind — of course you’d noticed how hot he was. Everyone did. And sure, the mop of curls, those soft brown eyes, that accent, that mouth— it was a lot.

But you had a job to do. Get him through this exam or he failed. And you didn’t want to be the reason he didn’t graduate.

Though the way he kept looking at you?

It was like he didn’t want to graduate unless you were sitting on his face when he did.

“Okay,” you said tightly, pointing to a graph. “This is where you keep messing up. Can you tell me what this means?”

Arthur didn’t even glance at the book. His eyes were on your mouth. “No idea. Think I need you to show me.”

You turned toward him—and froze.

His hand was on your knee.

And moving.

Slow. Teasing. Upward.

“Arthur,” you hissed.

“Yes, baby?”

Your legs squeezed together automatically, but that only seemed to encourage him. His fingers inched higher, pushing the hem of your skirt up just enough to ghost over bare skin.

“You’re supposed to be studying.”

“I am.” He leaned in, brushing your ear. “Studying what makes you moan.”

Your breath hitched.

You should have pushed his hand away. Should have told him to stop. But instead, you shifted—just a little—giving him room.

His fingertips traced the crease where your thigh met your hip. His voice dropped into a growl.

“You’re wet already.”

“Because you’re impossible,” you whispered, trembling.

“Because you want me.”

He grabbed your hand and pulled you to your feet so fast you barely had time to glance around. The library was nearly empty. One old woman near the front desk. A bored student in the back. No one near the history section.

Arthur tugged you between shelves.

“Arthur—” you gasped.

But then you were pinned. Back pressed against the bookshelf, dusty encyclopedias looming above you, and his body flush to yours.

“Be quiet,” he murmured, “unless you want someone to hear how desperate you are.”

You opened your mouth to protest—and he kissed you.

It wasn’t gentle.

It was all tongue and teeth, rough hands pushing your skirt up to your waist, fingers slipping under the edge of your underwear like he had every right to ruin you.

“You shouldn’t be allowed to wear this skirt,” he muttered, dragging the fabric up and letting it bunch around your hips. “Do you even know what it does to me?”

His hand slipped between your legs, and you whimpered—loud, shocked by your own sound.

He grinned. “So sensitive. What would you do if someone walked by right now? With my fingers in your cunt?”

You clenched around nothing, head falling back against the wood.

Arthur’s fingers pushed aside your panties, sliding into you without warning. One, then two.

You bit your lip so hard you tasted blood.

His free hand cupped your jaw, forcing your eyes to meet his.

“Don’t you dare look away. You’re gonna watch me fuck you with my fingers while I talk about how much I want to bend you over this shelf.”

“Arthur—”

“Oh, now you remember my name?”

He curled his fingers just right, and your legs buckled.

He caught you easily, pressing a kiss to your temple like he hadn’t just made you see stars.

“You’re mine,” he growled against your neck. “Say it.”

You shook your head, panting.

He pulled his fingers out slowly. Too slowly.

“Say it.”

“Yours,” you breathed. “I’m yours, fuck—”

He spun you around.

You barely registered the sound of your panties being shoved down before he lined up behind you. One hand on your lower back. The other gripping your throat, pulling you back so he could whisper in your ear:

“Be good for me.”

And then he pushed in.

The stretch made you cry out, one hand slamming against the shelf for support, the other clutching at air.

“You like being fucked where anyone could find us?” he grunted, hips slamming into yours. “Like knowing you’re mine while the whole world could hear?”

You couldn’t answer. Could barely breathe.

His cock filled you too well. Too deep. His grip never wavered — possessive, demanding, feral.

He fucked you until you were dripping down your thighs, until your legs trembled and your throat ached from silent screams.

Until you came with his hand still over your mouth.

Until he came with a growl against your shoulder, teeth scraping your skin.

When it was over, he didn’t let you move right away. Just held you there, pressed against the books, panting.

Then, finally, he pulled out. Tucked himself away. Helped you back into your panties like he hadn’t just turned you into a puddle of overstimulated mush.

He leaned down, kissing your cheek.

“So…” he whispered. “Still gonna help me pass?”

You glared at him, cheeks flushed. “If you ever pull that shit during study hours again—”

“You’ll what?” he smirked. “Fail me?”

“No,” you muttered. “I’ll make you beg next time.”

Arthur grinned.

“God, I love when you’re mean.”

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