#for now it's time to act first and think later

[ggukivrse]

THIRD TIME'S THE CHARM | JJK

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

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

pairing: jeon jungkook x f!reader

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

word count: 7.7k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then pick it back up five seconds later.

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

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

Why did you let this happen?

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

You were supposed to be smarter than this.

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

Except it wasn’t.

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

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

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

You haven’t heard his voice since.

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

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

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

But then, why didn’t you reach out?

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

Because you’re afraid.

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

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

Your phone buzzes once on the comforter beside you.

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

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

Kook 🍜: hi

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

Your breath leaves you in one uneven exhale.

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

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

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

Three dots appear.

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

Then come back.

Then vanish again.

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

A minute or so passes before his reply finally sends.

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

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

You feel sick.

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

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

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

You should’ve been more careful with your heart.

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

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

You: Where?

Kook 🍜: i can come to yours

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

You: What time?

Kook 🍜: i can be there in an hour?

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

You: Okay

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

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

But you know you won't cancel.

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

You need to know for sure.

Jungkook is fucked.

Like, actually, cosmically, irreversibly fucked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And it just… hit him.

The weight of it. Of you.

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

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

Because it wasn’t supposed to feel like that.

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

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

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

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

And now you’re pissed.

Rightfully so.

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

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

What the fuck is he even going to say?

Sorry for being an emotionally constipated idiot?

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

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

The elevator dings.

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

He’s here.

Fuck. He’s actually here.

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

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

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

“Hey,” he says, voice quiet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He doesn’t even try.

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

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

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

You raise your eyebrows, waiting.

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

You narrow your eyes. “Well?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stay silent.

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

You scoff under your breath and look away.

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

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

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

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

Your chest tightens.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jungkook takes another step toward you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Silence again.

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

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

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

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

And now he has.

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

“I hate you,” you say quietly.

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

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

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

His face tightens, but he doesn’t interrupt.

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

You pause, pressing your lips together.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stare at him.

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

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

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

So you move.

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

You kiss him.

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

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

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

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

The sweetness melts fast.

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

You kiss him harder.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You smile, drunk on the feel of him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Koo,” you whine out.

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

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

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

“Please.”

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

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

“Gonna let me take these off?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He moans, but his movements don't stop.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Better?” he asks, voice low.

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

Your legs part without hesitation.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You promise?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah,” you say, quieter now. “You?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You snort. “So humble.”

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

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

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

“Maybe,” you say, lips twitching.

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

“I already want to punch you.”

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

“This is my bed, dumbass.”

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

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

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

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

“Oh, so now you’re picky?”

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

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

You laugh softly into his skin.

And he just holds you tighter.

⌗ masterlist. ⌗ taglist. ⌗ feedback

[jyunhology]

oh, honey lady ˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖ smg (m)

summary: when you get stood up and cancelled on one too many times, your friend takes it upon herself to get you to enjoy a night out. but you’re faced immediately with the source of your woes pressed up to another and a bartender who catches on quickly. the latter offers to dance with you; will you say yes?

a/n: have been getting a lot of feels for mingi lately .. i blacked out n wrote this aft watching the recent ateez whodunnit because jesus christ that man looked FINE acting as a bartender.

wc: 6.1k

warnings: MINORS DNI!!!! bartender!mingi, softdom!mingi, sub!reader, reader's (ex) bf is a loser, reader lowkey traumatised from her (ex) bf, mingi is very understanding, consumption of alcohol (however, they’re not drunk during the deed, just a little tipsy), grinding in a public space (a club lol), lots of teasing, oral (f! receiving) / cunnilingus, fingering, praise, use of pet names (baby, honey, doll), bit of fluff in the middle, clit stimulation, unprotected p -> v sex (pls wrap it up irl), creampie, slight aftercare, mingi is so soft and patient with reader .. ❤️

No matter how much you knew this wasn’t your fault, you still can’t help but find fault with yourself — looks, personality, fashion. You passed it off the first time as something akin to a mistake, a miscalculation with the overtime your boyfriend, Hyunjae, had to do because of his recent promotion.

With mumbled apologies into your hair and fairly enjoyable sex, you thought everything between you both was going to be okay. It was just one dinner date, plus, he made it up to you with a fancy trip over the weekend and several, impressive gifts.

But you think you should’ve known better, because it happened a second time not even a month later, and the cycle repeats itself: sin, repent, and fall back into temptation all over again.

The only mistake you were making was thinking too highly of Hyunjae, assuming temptation was reports and hard work for extra cash, and not having a fucking affair with another woman in the printing room.

By the time the third incident came around, your friend was quick to propose a night out the next day despite your protests, but you know it came from a place of love. With the way she comforted you with memes and funny reels and words of advice, you realised it was the first time you’ve laughed since the supposed dinner at seven.

Ignoring the sinking dread settling in your heart the next afternoon, you shoot a simple ill be out late tonight to Hyunjae before dragging your body out of bed. You moved on autopilot, then, choosing not to acknowledge that he didn’t even return last night, preoccupying yourself instead with picking out your outfit.

And it was easy enough with a clear vision in your head; you weren’t afraid to dress up even after getting together with Hyunjae. This time it wasn’t any different — miniskirt, a cute fitted top and boots — that you already felt a bit better upon arriving at a bar for some pregame. The alcohol felt good, the company was better, and the both of you were already giggling and tipsy when you entered the club.

“Isn’t this way better than crying over that dumbass?” Yunjin nudges you gently before offering you a small smile.

You sigh, “I guess. I just don’t want it to be a recurring thing and make you responsible every time.”

“At least you know your limit now,” She loops an arm around you to keep you close as you two walk deeper into the club. “Still, as much as I love you, it was difficult trying to get you out of the club because you’d only be talking in counts of 8.” 

Ever the teasing friend, you nudge her back before breaking into laughter together, heading right to the bar for a lighter drink. It’s buzzing with orders left and right with the (possibly) poor newcomer trying his best to work the counter with all its confusing buttons. But he’s saved by another, a taller, more experienced bartender who was definitely carved by gods.

You try not to gawk, though, feeling guilty even when he shoots the two of you a small customer-service smile. “Give us a minute, alright? We’ll get to ya soon.” The moment he’s turned around, Yunjin shakes your arm excitedly.

“What? What?” 

“Don’t ‘what?’ me! Tell me you didn’t see the way he was looking at you.”

“Yunjin…” You sigh. “You know Hyunjae and I aren’t broken up—”

“Yet.” She interrupts with that single word and you shoot her a half playful, half serious glare.

“Okay, but, I have no business looking at other people just ’cause I’ve been stood up thrice.” The words leave a bitter taste in your mouth, recognising that it really didn’t sound good out loud.

“Yeah, but don’t you think those are enough times to call things off?” She faces you completely now with both hands on your arms, trying to look you in the eye while you shrink, flustered and a bit embarrassed at how easily you seem to crawl back to Hyunjae.

Because you felt that if you let this go, you’d never feel this way ever again, having someone else walking out your life again like clockwork.

Your fingers tense subconsciously; clenching, unclenching. You settle for taut hands to your friend’s, removing them with the little fight left in you. “Yunjin, can— can we please drop this for now? I came out to forget my boyfriend for a bit, and then I’ll go back home and everything will be f—”

But the universe has other plans for you, conversation cut short from the handsome bartender asking about your orders now.

“Sorry to interrupt, ladies. What will you two be having?” In the midst of wiping his hands on the towel, he leans over the counter just as Yunjin gives her order, but you swear over the booming music, the bass reverberating, the screamed lyrics, you hear familiarity.

It’s funny how habitual you can become with someone; hearing that same laugh in your skin on slow mornings and during reruns of B99 that you can’t help but search the dancefloor frantically.

You weren’t even sure why you did it, but you think you were chasing that familiarity and safety of having someone even though they were shit at showing up.

But along the desperate scans you do with your eyes, you register that you were simply accustomed to having Hyunjae in your life, accustomed to coming back again to an empty house. Yet, you can’t even remember the last time you said I love you to him.

And always trust your gut, because that sinking feeling from earlier comes back tenfold when your eyes lock onto two people on the floor with bodies leaving no space.

Hyunjae has no qualms about getting caught, his hands roaming all over her body and practically grinding from behind that you feel your knees buckle a little.

“Yunjin…” The lights were too blinding, the music now too loud, but you don’t have to say anything to know she’s already helping you onto a bar stool. When she turns to where you were looking, her jaw tightens and wordlessly places a hand on your lower back.

You go through emotions, fast — denial, and then anger and then a hint of sadness. But what you’re mainly feeling is a thirst for revenge knowing he thinks you’re a coward, a girl desperate for love.

Maybe you are, and there’s nothing wrong with mourning what you had. Though, being cancelled on three times within two months and spewing lies about overtime, ignites your resolve easily.

All the while, the bartender watches the interaction carefully, skilled hands still able to fulfill people’s orders, but he’s got you and your boyfriend all figured out. Not that he meant to eavesdrop, though, exchanging a glance with your friend until you raise your head with unshed tears.

“Thought I lost you there for a moment. That your boyfriend?” He nodded in the general direction and had probably used that line countless times, but you give credit where credit’s due; he was attractive and didn’t choose to comment on your glossy eyes.

With semi-long hair, pretty moles and plump lips, you want to enjoy this seat a bit longer, proposing a silly idea as you nod.

“Ex-, now. Do you have any chance to get them both kicked out?” You smile, small and unsure, but he replies with an even sweeter smile laced with sympathy that makes your heart skip just a little.

“No can do. If he’s not causing trouble, our bouncers have no reason to throw him out. Sorry, ladies.” For a moment, he’s back to being professional and tries not to steal glances at you as you blink away tears and attempt to appear unaffected.

He serves the drinks he’s already made, helps the counter boy again with orders until he hears your friend beg again when he comes ’round to your side.

“Oh please, Mr Bartender!” He raises an eyebrow, eyes trained on the both of you while capping his shaker before shaking. You purse your lips teasingly despite your blurred vision and the heat on your cheeks, “She can be pretty persuasive.” God, you didn’t even know what you were feeling at the moment.

He shrugs. “Well, tell you what — I get off my shift in about fifteen, and you’re looking for some retribution. Why don’t we do a little dance of our own?”

With a sigh, you ponder over your cards — Hyunjae might be pleasantly surprised and you’d end up with a hot bartender in your arms to boot. But if this is only going to leave a hole in your heart after everything, what really was the point?

“It’s your call, doll. If you’re still holding this,” He holds up a slim piece of metal that matches the club’s colours with its letters engraved in stark white, “by the time I come back, I’m taking you onto the floor for a dance. Deal?”

It’s dropped into your palm before you flip it over, running a thumb over the debossed name.

“Mingi.”

“You got it.” Mingi gives you a dazzling grin and a wink while you stifle a smile.

You spend the next ten minutes debating your options that you can’t count the amount of times Yunjin had to get your attention back on her. Revenge sounded delicious before.

Now? Now you’re waddling deep in doubt, worried about the aftertaste; all you wanted was to go home and sleep this whole thing off. Even the name tag was weighing heavy in your hand.

But the late nights cooking dinner, sitting alone at restaurants and the sheer indifference Hyunjae’s currently dancing with, did you in.

If you were chickening out only so someone this terrible stays, then you might regret this single night with someone else who already has shown you more respect than Hyunjae ever did.

The music is a bit clearer to you, now, and less suffocating as you call out to the bartender with five minutes left until his shift ends. You play with the pin at the back, unfastening and popping it back into place repeatedly. 

“I’ll take a Lemon Drop.” A knowing smile, a swipe of your card, sugar sweet on your lips. It hits great, and with a bit of liquid courage in you, you wait.

Mingi is quick to show up by your side a few minutes later, but he manages to take your breath away all over again with a more casual look.

Jewellery, messy hair and unbuttoned shirt down to his pecs that gives you a glimpse of a pretty little pendant resting nicely on his chest and rings adorning his fingers.

“Care for a dance?” His deep voice up close already has your stomach turning, opening your hand to show how you still had his name tag and he grins. “Keep it for now.”

You barely hear the whisper into your ear, but without any second thought you place your hand in his, the metal of his rings sending shivers right up your arm and down your spine. A faint cheer from Yunjin encourages you on, already feeling the addicting beats of the music playing.

Mingi is considerate above all else, looking back to see if you were still there, clearing a path for the both of you until you’re a few bodies away from Hyunjae. But standing out here now brings another wave of panic and embarrassment.

You were really about to do this, but—

What if he doesn’t like the way you danced? What if he’s a clean freak and would rather not have his hands over your already sweaty sides? What if Hyunjae creates a scene?

The thoughts are never-ending, swirling in your mind until you can feel Mingi’s hand enclose around your other hand, halting you from adjusting your outfit, from scratching at your skin.

It’s hot, too crowded for a dance floor and he knows that you’re nervous again with the increased proximity to your boyfriend.

Without words, Mingi brings your hands to rest on his shoulders. “Is this okay?”

You nod. Bodies beside you cause you to inch closer to him and his hair is so soft. Your tongue tingles from the lemon’s sourness and you want nothing more than to balance it out with his mouth that smells of rum. 

“Hey, I realise I haven’t gotten your name just yet.” The smile he has isn’t teasing, cocky, and you manage a small one back. He leans down to get your answer.

“It’s (Y/N).”

“Pretty. Follow my lead.”

And slowly but surely, you get out of your shell as you both lose all formality with the ear-splitting songs. The cocktail makes your hands wander, trailing over his nape, over his broad shoulders. He still hovers.

You don’t know whether it’s Mingi, the dim lighting or the song but you don’t hesitate to force his hands to your sides and he takes it as a sign.

He’s pulling you close until you’re pressed to his front, head immediately going for your exposed neck, and the laugh that escapes feels so different from Hyunjae, so free that you giggle with him.

It turns from wanting to Hyunjae to see you could do so much better to genuinely enjoying your time with the bartender that you don’t register the shock forming on Hyunjae’s face when he spots you just a few people over. Mingi doesn’t miss it, squeezing your waist softly to bring it to your attention.

“B-babe? What’re you doing here?” He acts like he doesn’t even know the girl dancing with him, yanking her off of him as he tries to preserve his dignity. But you knew better — you’ve seen her face at company dinners, on his Instagram story.

“Why are you here?” He sputters out an answer, not expecting you to fight back. Hyunjae’s smaller than ever now.

The bartender resists the urge to scoff at his lack of explanation, about to tell him to piss off when you push at Hyunjae with a finger. “I’ll tell you why I’m here. Witnessing you and the girl you told me not to worry about. Talking crap about overtime just to fuck her in your workplace.”

“W-What? That’s bullshit, where’d you even get that from?!”

Thank God for Mingi’s Lemon Drop, because you shove Hyunjae harder than before, angering the people behind him who push him back towards you.

“Guess you’ll never find out how. Get your shit out of my apartment and leave before tomorrow morning or else I’ll be telling your boss about inappropriate workplace conduct.”

Hyunjae rolls his eyes and waves you off, “You wouldn’t dare.”

“I hope the job market’s ready for someone who promised overtime hours only to soil the printing room. Keep checking your emails babe.” You purposefully drag out the pet name he likes to use on you, which now sounds cheap and tacky. Mingi can’t help a cackle from escaping, tugging you closer as if you’re his.

And you might just be by the end of this night. 

Hyunjae doesn’t bother to one-up the bartender one bit, only throwing Mingi a scowl before elbowing himself through the crowd. Unknowingly, your body relaxes, melting into the other’s arms easily and wanting nothing more than to turn off your brain for the night. It makes Mingi smile.

You’re bolder when the night deepens. It starts with running your hands down his chest and grasping softly at his waist. There’s whispered lyrics into your skin, letting him trail kisses down your jawline to your sternum and you feel like you’re on top of the world. 

His body’s flush against yours, tensing and breathing hard. The heat’s suffocating and the kisses sweet, hovering over just where you both need each other desperately.

“Heard you’re a dancer,” Mingi mumbles, sneaky hands going past your hips to your ass and kneads. You laugh. 

“You heard whatever Yunjin said? It was one time,” You reminisce about the time you went out for her birthday before getting shit-faced drunk and talking to her only in counts, “and she was struggling to understand what I was saying.”

It takes a beat for you to take the leap. “Want me to show you?”

A pretty laugh leaves his lips, “Your dancing or your innate ability to only talk in eights?”

Fuck, he’s handsome and funny.

“Har-har, very funny.” The moment’s playful but charged with underlying tension that only increases once the song changes. With a hand, you lift his head from your neck, taking advantage of his surprise to turn around.

Pushing up against him, you make sure he’s feeling every part of your ass on him, swaying your hips until you get a small groan from him. Tempted, Mingi places his hands along your waist, helping you grind down on him while arousal pools in your panties.

He’s enamoured with how well you fit against him, even more so when you lace your fingers with his, tugging one up to rest on your chest.

He takes the bait with how you turn your head, boasting your pretty lips with eyes closed. But you’re not letting him get what he wants that easily, finger pressed against his lips.

“Did the Lemon Drop do this, hm?” He’s back on your neck like it’s his home, slurring his words in that deep, deep voice of his that you want nothing more than to hear that for the rest of your life (and hopefully in your bed tonight).

“Maybe.” You can’t help but chuckle triumphantly, but it’s cut short when he suddenly yanks you back to his front; shit, you can feel his hard-on — he’s big.

You subconsciously gulp and pull him closer (not without a mildly surprised “oh”), overwhelmed with the feeling of his chest against yours, of his hips moving in tandem with yours, of his breath on your lips.

“I’m full of surprises, too.”

“That was so corny.” Biting your lip, you try to stifle a smile but it bleeds out past your lips, “You’re lucky I still want to fuck you.”

“Aw, only fuck?” He feigns sadness as he bats his eyelashes at you. That question probably would’ve made you think twice, but with Mingi’s little pout, the vodka in your system and Rihanna in the background, you throw all complicated feelings out the window.

“Shut up, Mingi.” 

That elicits a low chuckle. “Gladly.”

He collides with you immediately, lips moulding into yours like two parts of a whole that you stumble a bit from the force. But you waste no time in reciprocating with neediness of your own, tugging him down to you with hands tangled in his black hair.

You could care less about your ex, about Yunjin excitedly texting you from the bar, nor the people around you.

Not when Mingi’s slipping his tongue into your mouth and your pussy’s just desperate for relief that you moan softly into his mouth.

“God, you sound pretty,” He pulls away for air, but he’s already hooked onto your taste, leaving pecks on your lips again and again. His hands rest comfortably on your sides, caressing, squeezing. “Need to hear that in my sheets.”

You mutter a soft fuck before licking your lips, “Your place?”

Mingi hums into your lips, “You have my name tag, baby. It’s up to you,” and grins when he sees you jolt. The pet name affects you. He knows.

Fuck it. You need this man now.

With a quick text to Yunjin, everything that happens on the way to Mingi’s doesn’t exist. The ride was both a torment and a blur when his hand trails so closely to where you need him and his hips adjust uncomfortably in the driver’s seat. You’re so horny that you’re sure you’ve sobered up already.

You lunge forward once the front door’s closed, eagerness undermining both your abilities to remove your shoes, too preoccupied with devouring the other.

Mingi tastes like sage and citrus, a flavour you’ll keep locked away forever; he breaks the kiss reluctantly, and that taste travels down your body, taking his time.

Mingi’s anything but composed, though, larger hands wrapped around your middle while he takes in your scent and sweat, nose pressed against your heaving stomach.

Just a mere bartender, a one-night stand acting like a lover when he fully goes onto his knees and zips open your boots. Torturously, agonisingly slow, and removes them even slower.

By the time the second shoe’s off, your hand has already messed up his hair. You push him to you, he pulls back.

“It’s my time to tease, doll. Patience.” You whine softly in disagreement, letting him plant soft kisses along your ankle, up to your shin and knees and finally your inner thighs that threaten to tighten in his hold.

“Mingi…” You don’t mean to sound so desperate off the bat, but your cunt’s pulsing and the AC’s sending goosebumps all over your skin and possibly the hottest man alive is on his knees in front of you.

“Fuck, baby, I can smell you from here.” Like a gentleman, he helps you to shimmy out of your miniskirt and underwear before tossing it somewhere and you’re suddenly self conscious about being all exposed.

But Mingi simply doesn’t care about decorum as he lifts your leg, prompting you to place it on his shoulder. He marvels at your arousal illuminated by the doorway lighting, stifling a moan.

“Look at you.” Sighing, he plays with your folds, trailing a finger up and down and smirking when he feels you shiver under his touch. “So perfect. All this for me?”

“Y-Yeah, just for you,” Your words are muffled from your hand, trying to hold back your sounds but Mingi isn’t having any of that. He thinks your ex-boyfriend may have something to do with it.

“Let me hear you, alright, honey?” Mingi takes your hand and interlocks it together with his, a promise that you’ll be the star tonight. “We’re safe here, there’s no need to hold back.”

You nod just as he blows into your cunt, making you clench around nothing and he smiles. “For now, let me eat my meal.”

And Mingi eats, convincing yourself that you’ve definitely driven a hole through his shoebox cabinet with how hard you were leaning against it. Your hips buck against his face, tongue flicking over your clit as you relish in the pleasure.

“Oh my G-God, Mingi…” You can barely hold eye contact with him as he latches onto your pussy like a vice, addicted to your taste, your sounds and how you drip endlessly all over his tongue.

“That’s it, doll, tell me how good you feel.” Mingi continues to inch closer on his knees, trapping himself under your thighs as his tongue works wonders.

With an experimental finger, he circles your pulsing hole and pushes in ever so slightly, making you almost keel over from the overwhelming feeling.

“Fuck, Mingi, that feels so—!” Your moans fill his house together with the lewd sounds of your pussy, feeling the vibrations of his hums on your sensitive clit. His thumb plays with it as he comes up for air, adding a second finger easily before starting to pump them with determination.

“That feel good?” He’s brutal in his thrusting, but it’s not even a minute when he returns with his merciless tongue again, swearing that you were seeing stars from this alone.

If Mingi was this pussy drunk, who knows how you’d feel when he’s in you? You tremble at the thought, fingers pulling at his hair until it stings.

But Mingi loves it, loves seeing your eyes flutter close and your toes curl in sheer pleasure as the prettiest mewls fall from your lips. You’re full on grinding into his face now, holding onto his hand like a lifeline, while there’s the audible slick sounds of your juices. 

It’s hotter than it was on the dance floor, and fully knowing you’d be buckling to the ground if it wasn’t for Mingi’s secure hold on you. Because you can feel yourself getting weaker and weaker the more the coil in your stomach turns, clamping down hard on his fingers.

“I-I’m close, baby—” Your words slip, every part of your body tingles and he pants out a plea.

“Call me that again for me, doll.” He’s ravishing you, ruining you for any other person and you wouldn’t have it any other way. His rings feel so cold on your cunt, while his mouth’s hot and he’s dizzy off of you.

“Gonna cum, baby,” If your friend couldn’t understand you while drunk, Mingi’s chest puffs with pride making you babble nonsensical things while you’re both tipsy with his name being the only coherent thing, “Mingi, Mingi, Mingiiii.”

The name becomes a chant together with needy whines that’s drowned out by your soaking pussy. Mingi lets the force of his palm stimulate your clit instead, and the visual of seeing him on his knees with this tongue out—

“F-fuck…” Your orgasm hits you in sudden waves, sending you jerking against his hold even when his fingers don’t slow down, “Feels s’good, Mingi—”

“There we go, baby, keep cumming… Taste just like honey.” Mingi groans and drives his tongue along your folds for a taste, but now he takes and takes, savouring whatever you have to give. Sweeter than his Lemon Drop, you taste so heavenly that he wants seconds.

But you have other plans, trying your best to regain your balance and simultaneously drag him up by the biceps. Mingi traps you in between the cabinet, and you trap him with a passionate kiss. Moaning into his mouth at your taste while he soothes your aching thighs with his gentle touch.

“Bed. Now.” Your cheeks warm as he laughs against your lips at your request. 

“You got it, doll.” With a hand outstretched, you grab hold and let him lead you just like the club. Along the way, you slip on your underwear just so you won’t be butt ass naked and he throws you a small smile. Except this time, you’re not performing for anyone, not for Hyunjae, not for yourself, and hopefully not for Mingi.

Though, if riding Mingi’s tongue had you thrashing left and right, you think you’d be safe, knowing he’ll take care of you.

His room feels strangely familiar — posters and records plastered up everywhere with a portable closet and pretty lights. There’s a few guitars in cases with one displayed proudly while his desk is littered with cute trinkets and a gaming set-up. It’s a lived-in bedroom, worn down from years of tape on walls and accidents from silly dance moves.

“Hard to believe I’m an adult with this room, huh?”

You smile at him, finding it endearing he’s still kept his hobbies and favourite things close to him. “No no, it’s charming. I like it.”

You continued, “I don’t think having a ‘serious’ job like bartending immediately eliminates your other hobbies.”

Mingi shoots you that boyish grin again, “You think my job’s ‘serious’?” and mimics your air quotes.

“Well, you are handling alcohol — it seems pretty serious, don’t you think?” There’s no choice but to giggle when Mingi’s expression turns from all-knowing to pondering. “And— And there’s always the usual brooding persons that come in to vent their problems to you.”

Mingi bursts out laughing at that with an attractive rasp to it, plopping on his Queen size. “You’re not wrong about that. I guess I’m sort of like a therapist too.”

Like a magnet, you feel the pull into his arms just as he whispers a c’mere, finally able to see his face properly when you stand in between his legs.

The glistening juices on the bottom half of his face make you flush just a bit, but up close, Mingi feels so familiar. Not the way Hyunjae was — that was habit disguised as familiarity.

But despite your unconfirmed fate and the possibility of never seeing Mingi again, he enchants like no other. Fuck, you were talking crazy. 

The other seems to see your dilemma, reaching for your hands. “We don’t have to do anything, you know?”

His touch is so tender, it makes your heart ache, “I know we only danced to scare off your boyfriend but I genuinely did want to know you. And… I know you feel it too, but I don’t wanna pressure you after seeing such a shitty thing in the club.”

“You’re… not wrong, Mingi. It has been only a few hours and you’ve already made me feel more worth than he ever did but, I’ll need time to process my feelings too.”

Slowly, you remove your hands from his but only to straddle him in the next second, whining softly when he tugs you closer if that was even possible. 

“But tonight, I want you to fuck all the feelings out of me. I don’t wanna think, I don’t wanna—” You heave a heavy sigh, swallowing when you think back to Hyunjae and his colleague. 

Mingi applies light pressure to your side to ground you. “(Y/N), hey, it’s no problem. Your wish is my command, tonight.”

“And after—”

“We’ll talk about the after later, don’t worry your pretty little head ’bout it.” You don’t even realise he’s flipped you over but he takes his time to remove his pants and boxers, ego stroked just a little when he sees your wide eyes at his size.

“You’re…” 

“I know, baby. We’ll take it slow, alright?” Mingi is steady even as he reaches over for a condom, but you stop him.

“Wanna feel all of you.” He swears his heart bursts at your cute pout. “I’m clean and on the pill, that okay?”

“More than okay. I’m clean too. You sure you’re okay?” He asks as he tugs your panties to the side, interrupted briefly from your impatient hum.

“Yes, Mingi. Please just fuck me already.” Your voice is less bratty, more pleading, but it strikes a chord within him. He obeys immediately. 

“Okay, okay!” His deep laugh elicits one out of you, too. At least you don’t stop him from taking the lube — he spurts a good amount and strokes himself with a soft grunt, mixing in with his pre-cum. Relief. “It’s gonna hurt. Need you to breathe and relax, okay?”

Mingi’s already much thicker than your ex, and you hiss slightly at the stretch once he inches his cock in. But it’s nothing you can take, eyes trained on how he’s pushing through slowly. 

“F-Fuck, baby, you gotta stop clenching. So tight—” You whimper at the sight, but Mingi uses his body to push you down, distracting you with deep kisses that subconsciously relaxes your body. His intoxicating smell and presence does the rest of the job.

“Taking me so well, good girl.” He mumbles into your skin as you become obsessed with the way his body engulfs yours, towering but certain.

His pendant’s movements are messy, colliding with your chin over and over but Mingi is just so deep it doesn’t register in your head. “Just a little more, honey, you got it.”

In the next minute, Mingi’s loud groan fills your ears, bottoming out in your walls that feel so warm that he never wants to pull out.

His furrowed eyebrows with sweat lined along it paired with his beautiful parted lips is enough to make your cunt pulse and heart full — making a pretty man like him lose his mind over you, desperation and profanity spilling over.

“M-Move, baby, please—” With a slow thrust of his hips, he has to drop his head to yours because you just feel too fucking good wrapped around his aching length. Both your shaky breaths mingle as he sets a comfortable pace that allows you both to feel every part of the other.

And his languid movements have never felt slower and more intense, the obscene noises of your soaking pussy stuffed full reverberating off the walls. It surrounds you like a cloud, making the feeling, the sensations rise to an all time high.

It’s worse when Mingi folds your legs to your chest, the image of his shaft disappearing into your pretty little pussy searing itself into his brain.

Mingi keeps his promise to you, taking your one-worded pleas and turning them into repeated “ah’s” with no room for any word or any doubt left in your mind. By now, he’s pistoning in and out of you, your release from earlier merging with the lube until both you and Mingi are filthy and soaking, juices flowing down your thighs and right into his sheets.

“You’re so wet, holy f-fuck—” His eyes are the ones struggling to stay open now, drunk off of everything you that he can’t even move his hips properly, stuttering every now and then.

There’s the delicious squelches every time his skin meets yours, the dizzying pap! pap! pap! that hypnotises you. “Listen to how wet your sweet pussy is, baby.”

You’re past words, only babbling incoherence as Mingi grunts above you, continuing to fill you up with his cock. His thrusts start to turn erratic, so lost in the feeling that the grip on your legs loses its hold. You take the chance to wrap them around his waist, barely catching his pendant and yanking him towards you.

“Kiss me stupid, Mingi.” The long, drawn out moan against your lips sends heat bubbling up from inside you. And the kiss he lands on you leaves fire along your skin, burning indefinitely until a particular thrust has your eyes rolling back.

“Cumming— f-fuck—!” It comes out in broken sobs as you see white, cumming so hard on his pulsating length that your juices spray everywhere and your legs shake uncontrollably. The slight sheen along his cock starts to form a ring of white and he whines at your warmth.

Everything — the craving for you, your tight cunt, how you leak all over him — makes him cum right after. “I-I’m gonna pump you full, baby— shit…”

Your eyes can’t help but roll back again at the sensation of Mingi painting your insides white, cum spurting so deep in you that you can feel it flow out. It’s so warm that you squirm as he holds your hips down, making sure your hole gets every last drop.

Without pulling out, he admires your sweaty top that’s been pushed past your tits, your heaving chest and the remnants of your trembling thighs with a lip bite accompanied by a smile.

Silently, he caresses your outer thighs, slowly bringing your feet down to rest on his soaked sheets. You whimper when you feel him pull out, the salacious sight of cum leaking out from your pussy comes out in blobs; it takes everything in Mingi to compose himself. 

Because you were utterly fucked out, eyes constantly blinking with a light-headed expression that tells him he might’ve fucked you dumb. Your little sounds are just adorable that he rubs his cum just one last time over your folds, claiming you.

“Okay okay, baby, I got you.” With a peck to your forehead, Mingi promises to come back with a wet rag and some water and the last thing you remember is sage and citrus wafting through the air as he plants a sweet kiss to your lips. “And then tomorrow, we’ll figure everything out, okay honey?”

You drift off easily, but you’ll find that for now and possibly forever, Mingi always keeps his promises.

A dream — you think, when you wake up, but you recognise that the bedroom is not yours and the ache in your body persists. But to your dismay, Mingi is nowhere to be found. Not until you hear faint humming coming from the kitchen and smell the lovely aroma of pancakes.

“Morning, baby.” Mingi says like you’ve always been in his life, like you’ve lived here for many years, like you’re familiar to him.

“Y-Yeah, good morning, Mingi.” Awkwardly, you take a seat at his island, but as you watch his broad back cooking breakfast for his one-night stand, you relax for a bit.

Mingi piles a few pancakes for you effortlessly, sliding the plate to you, followed by the butter and then holds up maple syrup in his left hand and honey in the other. The question is unsaid, but you nod towards his right with a small smile that’s returned.

“Eat.” With a plate in his hand as well, he plops down beside you as if one-night stands don’t complicate feelings and makes things messy.

But Mingi, the bartender, with a pure heart and even lovelier soul (you have yet to discover this), eats a meal beside you like you’re tied together by fate (maybe).

(You are).

Now, his deep voice sounds small, but sure. “And then we’ll talk feelings after. And we can talk about the ‘after’ after.”

A deep breath for good measure and luck. “And also maybe about the date I’d wanna bring you on.”

by. janus, from me to you ♡ also major thank you to this video which made me lose my mind n inspired this...

[nekonaps0]

Ok. This is the first time in a long time I asked someone for something on Tumblr.

What if the Housewardens/dorm leaders found out that Female MC is the daughter of the goddess of Love and Beauty. Aphrodite!

I’ll totally understand if you don’t feel like doing this. I’m like so nervous. ;-;

Your little high and mighty

✦fem!reader

✦characters: dorm leaders

Riddle Rosehearts

Riddle was already struggling with how effortlessly you turned heads. You were always so graceful, eloquent, heart-stoppingly lovely… and he hated how flustered he got in your presence.

But when Crowley casually mentions your divine heritage during a Housewarden meeting, Riddle nearly drops his teacup.

“A-Aphrodite?! You’re her daughter?! That’s why everyone becomes irrational around you…”

He goes red to the tips of his ears.

He spends the next week rereading Every Magical Law About Deities & Demigods, trying not to look at you too long or think about how good you looked the last time you smiled at him.

Eventually, he admits to himself

“It makes sense. You’re love incarnate… no wonder I couldn’t help falling.”

Leona Kingscholar

He always knew there was something dangerous about you. The way you walked, spoke, smirked at him, everything about you screamed temptation. He told himself you were just annoying.

But when Jack slip your parentage after accidental.

Leona stares. Blinks. Scoffs.

“Makes sense. Aphrodite’s kid, huh? Guess that explains why every guy in this school loses their damn mind around you.”

He acts cool, but the knowledge kills him. Now every time he looks at you, he can't help but imagine you lounging on some cloud in a silk robe, dripping in divine perfume.

He starts avoiding you.

…Only to later press you into a wall with a growl:

“Tell me right now, herbivore—did you use your mom’s powers to mess with my head, or is this just how you are?”

Azul Ashengrotto

Azul always prided himself on control, charm, and strategy.

So why did he fumble words every time you got close? Why did the lounge fill to bursting on days you worked a shift there?

Then one night, Floyd lets it slip:

“Shrimpy’s a demigod~! Her mama’s that hot love lady~!”

Azul spills his drink. His first reaction is panic.

“Does this mean I signed a business contract with a goddess’s daughter?! Oh Seven…”

He spirals. Hard.

But once he calms down, it all clicks—your allure, your emotional intelligence, your strange way of getting even the most stubborn eel to obey. Eventually, he shyly pulls you aside.

“I… I hope you don’t think I treated you differently because of your heritage. It’s just… you’ve always been radiant.”

Idia Shroud

Idia almost short-circuits. He learns about your divine heritage through an obscure, outdated wiki link Ortho finds—and immediately spirals.

“This is a love interest route I’m not leveled for!! She’s literally part of the Olympic pantheon!”

He becomes too afraid to talk to you, convinced you’re out of his league. He avoids eye contact, stammers more than usual.

Eventually, you confront him with a smile and a soft,

“You don’t have to treat me like a goddess, you know.”

He turns neon pink.

“T-Too late! You’ve already unlocked my heart’s hidden event!”

Malleus Draconia

Malleus is intrigued. A goddess’s daughter? A being who understands the weight of lonely legacy?

He’s not threatened, he’s fascinated. Your aura has always glowed in ways beyond the human, and now that he knows why… he feels closer to you.

“Daughter of Aphrodite… I wonder, does your magic rival mine?”

There’s a strange kinship in your connection now, two ancient bloodlines drawn to one another.

“I, too, know what it means to live among mortals, yet never truly be one of them.”

And when he next kisses your hand, it lingers. Reverent.

“Let us walk this strange mortal world together, my radiant deity.”

Kalim Al-Asim

Kalim is the most excited of all. When he finds out from Jamil (who knew, but definitely didn’t want to say), Kalim literally gasps and nearly trips over himself.

“That’s AMAZING!! No wonder you’re so kind and beautiful! Your mom’s literally the goddess of love?!”

He starts calling you “goddess” playfully, and showers you in compliments and gifts.

He never treats you differently, but he’s constantly in awe.

“Can I ask what love magic feels like? Do you sparkle? Is there, like, a divine aura?”

The truth is… he’s always been in love with you. He just didn’t realize how fitting that was until now.

Vil Schoenheit

Vil suspected it.

No mortal girl should have skin that glows without highlight or lashes like that naturally beautiful. You were natural perfection, and it irritated him—until it fascinated him.

When your divine lineage becomes public? He’s quiet for a long moment, then simply says:

“So. You’re Aphrodite’s daughter. Hmph. I suppose. It’s explains a lot.”

He plays it off like it doesn’t affect him, but he’s watching you more closely now—studying you. Trying to understand how you walk that fine line between allure and divinity so effortlessly.

Eventually, he pulls you aside.

“Let’s have tea. I want to know more about your mother’s beauty rituals… and you. You fascinate me, potato.”

..............................................................................................................................

[kxsagi]

Bllk boys with an s/o who somehow manages to make them fall asleep just by blasting sleepy phonk like they'd be wide awake and then sleepy phonk and they're knocked out cold and they question why every time ( kaiser, rin, shidou and anyone else you wanna add )

“𝐩𝐡𝐨𝐧𝐤 𝐟𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐲𝐥”

a/n: I THOUGHT THIS REQ WAS FUNNY

but i’m not really sure what sleepy phonk counts as, is it like the instrumental of roi by videoclub or the lost soul down by NBSPLV??? 

ft. kaiser michael, itoshi rin, shidou ryusei, itoshi sae, karasu tabito, isagi yoichi, nagi seishiro, bachira meguru

kaiser michael

you play one of those slow, mellow phonk songs with the deep bass and hazy loops, and he doesn’t think anything of it. he’s literally in the middle of dramatically trash-talking isagi when his body just… starts betraying him. 

his voice fades. eyelids droop. his upper body sways. 

“what the f– … why am i…” BONK. slumped sideways on the couch, dead asleep. 

you didn’t even notice, you were too busy wiping crumbs off your shirt. when you turn around he looks like someone hit him with a dart tranquilizer. 

wakes up four hours later like “who drugged me?” and you’re like “uh. the speaker?” 

absolutely refuses to believe it's the music. keeps blaming it on bad sleep or low blood sugar. 

tries to fight it like it’s a challenge. he’ll stare at you dead in the eye and go, “i won’t fall asleep this time.” cue you playing it again. three minutes later he’s dozing off mid-smirk. 

one time he got so mad he threatened to destroy your speaker. (he tripped over his own feet on the way and knocked himself out before he could.) 

itoshi rin

rin is fully convinced this is psychological warfare. 

he’ll be standing, talking to you normally, then you press play and suddenly he’s blinking slow as hell like he got rebooted. 

“wait. no. you’re doing it again.” 

tries to leave the room. doesn’t make it past the hallway. collapses dramatically like a fainting goat. 

once fell asleep in the middle of washing dishes. the faucet was still on. 

absolutely hates it. thinks it’s “unnatural.” starts researching “subliminal music control” and asks if you’re brainwashing him with some kind of audio hypnosis. 

he once accused you of trying to assassinate him with music. 

“turn that off. turn it off. my nervous system is shutting down.” 

refuses to let you have aux ever again in the car because last time he woke up in a parking lot two hours from home with a blanket on him and no memory of how he got there. 

shidou ryusei

cackles the first time it happened, he thought you laced his food. 

“you’re telling me you just played this… and my brain factory reset?” 

every single time he hears that beat drop, he immediately yells “NOPE NOPE NOPE. NOT THIS DRUGGED UP COWBOY MUSIC AGAIN–” then collapses mid-sentence like a tranquilized bear. 

literally wakes up mad. throws your speaker across the room while still rubbing the sleep out of his eyes like a grumpy toddler. 

tries to act like he’s too wild to be affected, then you catch him sleeping with the same sleepy phonk playlist under his pillow like it’s a bedtime lullaby. 

“listen i don’t need it, it’s just a vibe. you wouldn’t get it.” 

will absolutely start calling it your "sleepy black magic tape" and pretends he's scared of you. fake shivers and all. 

“my body associates your music taste with comas now. thanks, babe.” 

itoshi sae

you start playing it during a late-night drive, and within five minutes he’s gone. head slumped against the window. breathing soft. soul left his body. 

wakes up all confused like he just took a power nap in another dimension. 

“how long was i out? …why do i feel like i’ve been asleep for twelve years?” 

every time you play it again he tries to stay awake out of pure ego, but he gets so annoyed at how heavy his limbs feel. 

mutters a whole paragraph of insults under his breath before slipping into REM. 

eventually starts using it intentionally but won’t admit it. like he’ll go “i guess it wouldn’t kill me if you played that stupid zombie song again” right before bed. 

“i’m not addicted. i’m just being efficient.” 

pretends it’s annoying but secretly has the playlist saved on his phone under the name "🤨" 

karasu tabito

BRO STARTS DANCING TO IT AT FIRST. 

you’re like “karasu no” and he’s like “karasu YES.” 

and then two mins later he’s laying face-down on the floor like a body outline at a crime scene. 

wakes up, rolls over, and goes “yo did i die for a second orrrr…?” 

loves it though. finds it hilarious. he’ll literally set it as his own alarm so he wakes up and falls back asleep in a loop. 

“you don’t get it, babe. this music is laced. this is phonk fentanyl.” 

sometimes just asks you to play it to prove to people that it works. like he’ll invite bachira over and go, “watch this,” then collapse 60 seconds in like it’s a magic trick. 

he becomes the #1 believer that you’re a sleep witch. 

“this woman is dangerous. protect her. or let her drop a mixtape. either way we all win.” 

isagi yoichi 

isagi thought it was a coincidence the first time. “oh maybe i was just tired.” 

second time? “okay maybe i’m still tired.” 

third time? “wait a damn minute.” 

he gets so serious about it. starts journaling his sleep patterns. literally charts the timestamps of when the music plays and when he loses consciousness. 

“this is a phenomenon. i need answers.” 

he keeps trying to test it under different conditions like it’s a science project. “okay play it while i’m exercising.” falls asleep doing jumping jacks. 

one time he tried to fight it by drinking three energy drinks beforehand. the music still knocked him out. woke up with a headache and heartburn. 

“what is this sorcery?? this is stronger than melatonin AND ASMR combined.” 

eventually surrenders and asks you to play it when he has trouble sleeping. but only if you’re there. otherwise he gets paranoid and thinks he’ll wake up in an alternate timeline. 

nagi seishiro

honestly? he was already halfway to unconsciousness when it first happened. 

but the moment you played that dreamy, floaty phonk beat? instant deep slumber. like you enhanced his default settings. 

he didn’t even say anything. no reaction. he blinked slowly like a sleepy cat and just laid down right where he was standing. 

you were like “bro you good?” and he mumbled “yeh…” then snored 0.5 seconds later. 

he now refers to your playlist as the “ultimate sleep cheat code.” 

uses it on nights when even he feels too lazy to fall asleep naturally. 

“just play the thing. the lo-fi cowboy drug one.” 

weirdly enough, he becomes your personal sleep ambassador. 

you bring it up once around the blue lock team and he goes “it’s like being gently sedated by cloud ninjas. 10/10 experience. would die again.” 

if you’re gone and he can’t sleep, he’ll text: nagi: can you send the playlist nagi: the one that knocks me out nagi: i’m twitching like a windows xp shutdown screen over here 

has lowkey gotten emotionally attached to it. if someone else tries to play sleepy phonk, he gets offended. “no. only she can do that. it’s different.” 

bachira meguru

bachira thinks it’s funny as hell. 

“i’m like a dog with a whistle. only this one is a sleepy cowboy beat.” 

the first time he heard it, he got weirdly invested. like “oohh this is a vibe! what’s it called?” proceeds to pass out mid-groove like a light. 

you turn around and he’s in the fetal position under the table. 

he wakes up grinning like “that was so fun!! what happened?? do it again!!” 

he starts treating it like a carnival ride. asks you to “put him to sleep” like it’s a magic trick. 

“close the curtains, bring me a snack, and hit me with that sleep sauce 🛌🧃✨” 

you accidentally make him fall asleep in public once (you were just playing it on your phone during a train ride) and he collapses onto a stranger’s shoulder. 

you’re mortified. he wakes up three stops later, bows and goes “thank you for being my pillow today :)” 

he names the playlist. something like: “cowboy dream juice vol. 1 💀🐴✨” 

sometimes tries to rap over it and see how long he can stay awake. his record is one minute and 14 seconds. 

“this music is like a lullaby made by sleepy ghosts on synths. i love it.” 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[daydreamgoddess14]

Slow Burn 🔥

Bucky x f!Reader

Allll the tropes - you can never have too much cake, friends! There's only one bed, injured on a mission, friends to lovers...

I am still under the influence of a heatwave 🫣 I also now appear to be writing sex acts I've never written before. It's like an unofficial mini-series 😂

Bucky Masterlist

Word Count: 2k

Warnings: face-sitting, oral (f receiving).

Alexei was going to pay for this. You weren't sure how just yet, but you'd think of something. Some suitable punishment for accidentally giving you enough explosive to level a whole building rather than just get you in the door.

You dug through your bag until your fingers closed around what you needed. An ancient tub of moisturiser. Picked up in a gas station more than a year ago, a totally unknown brand - probably banned from sale in the US. Probably not containing even a milligram of aloe.

Luckily it still smelled cool and fresh, still looked usable. Behind you, the bathroom door opened.

“How's the shower?”

“About as good as you'd expect.” Bucky grimaced.

You spun around with a wide grin just as he pulled his t-shirt over his head. Your grin disappeared, taking your bravado with it.

“There was me hoping for a huge walk-in with one of those rainfall things,” you muttered.

“Afraid not. I wouldn't even touch anything if I were you.”

Your expression must have said it all because he followed up awfully quickly, “I just mean, like, the walls, not yourse-”

His low voice petered off, the tips of his ears went pink.

“Well, yeah. Obviously,” you scoffed, filling the awkward silence.

The whole place was gross.

You hadn’t planned on a motel.

It was just a quick job - plant the charges, blow the door.

Instead, half the bunker went up in flames.

The burn on your shoulder said enough.

Bucky had dragged you clear of the fire, complaining the whole way to the motel about you not wearing your suit.

“If I’d been wearing my suit, I’d be peeling melted polyester off my skin right now,” you snapped.

He didn’t say another word.

Not until you got to the motel and found, befitting your terrible luck, one full-size bed. Not even a queen.

You passed him as you headed for the bathroom, and you could swear his eyes flicked to your shoulder, just for a second.

You closed the door firmly behind you.

You were friends. Kind of.

There was no need for this to be so… awkward.

You showered fast, following his advice and keeping your hands to yourself, and in the short time you'd been gone, he'd found the spare blanket and lay it on the floor.

“You can't sleep there,” you said before you were even fully back in the room. “It's disgusting. There's probably roaches.”

He didn’t look up. “I’ve slept on worse.”

You hesitated.

“The bed’s not that big,” you muttered. “Just don’t, like, spread out.”

He eyed the bed, then your shoulder.

“You should take that side. You’ll roll onto it otherwise.”

You arched a brow. “Since when are you the burn expert?”

“Since I carried your crispy ass out of a fire.”

You choked on a laugh. “My crispy ass? That’s what we’re calling it?”

He didn’t answer. Just stared at you for a second too long, then said, “get in the bed.”

You opened your mouth to argue, then shut it.

You took the side he pointed to and climbed in first, turning onto your side. He followed a second later, back to you, a careful few inches of air between your bodies.

The silence was too quiet. Too full.

He exhaled slowly. “I didn’t mean don’t touch yourself earlier.”

You sniggered in the dark.

“Goodnight, Bucky.”

He didn’t reply.

You lay still, hyper-aware of his presence a few inches behind you. His warmth. The shift of the mattress every time he moved.

Eventually, his breathing evened out.

Yours didn’t.

You didn’t know when you drifted off. Only that when you stirred again, it was still dark - just the faintest sliver of morning pushing at the curtains.

You didn’t move, you kept your breathing steady, even as you felt the bed shift slightly behind you.

His arm reached across you, slowly and carefully, for something on the nightstand. He was trying not to wake you. A soft scrape of something plastic. A quiet lid twisting open.

Then the slow slide of your top strap down your arm.

The cream felt cool. Soothing on your angry skin. His fingers worked it into your skin, gentler than they had any right to be.

He was being careful. Methodical.

But he lingered.

His thumb dragged lightly just below the edge of the injury. Too low to be part of the job. Too light to be innocent.

You kept your eyes closed, imagining his hands moving further down. It was all you could do to keep your breath steady, let alone your hips.

And then, as if you weren't already in pieces, you felt him blow lightly over the burn. Your skin cooled and tingled and you couldn't help the sigh of relief that fell from your mouth.

Even to your own ear, it sounded like a broken moan of pleasure.

You clamped your mouth shut, eyes pinching closed with embarrassment.

His hand froze.

You could feel the way his body went still behind you.

“Don’t do that,” he said, voice low. Strained.

You didn't move. “Do what?”

“Make that sound.”

You could’ve died.

He drew in a slow breath, his fingers still resting lightly on your shoulder.

“I thought you were asleep.”

“I was.” You paused. “But then you started touching me.”

“I shouldn’t have,” he said softly.

“Shouldn't you?”

You rolled onto your back to look at him, the burn smarting against the rough bedsheets.

“I’ve thought about it,” you admitted quietly.

“Fuck. Me too.”

“So,” you said finally, but trailing off into nothing.

“So if you don’t stop looking at me like that, I’m gonna kiss you.”

You snorted, “no you're not -”

He dipped down quickly and caught your mouth with his.

You gasped, surprised by his boldness, and felt him go still above you. Before he had time to doubt himself, you wrapped your arms around his shoulders to pull him down onto you.

He resisted, just a little, and pulled back.

“Your burn,” he muttered against your mouth.

“‘s fine.” You leaned up to kiss him again, but he twisted away from you.

“Not like this,” he said roughly. Then, after a breath, “c’mere.”

He shifted, rolling to his back, hands guiding your hips as he pulled you with him.

You could feel how hard he was beneath you, the restraint in every movement.

“You sure?” you whispered.

He huffed a laugh, one hand skimming your thigh.

“Sweetheart, I’ve been sure since Berlin.”

You sank into his kiss, half sprawled on top of him, your hands buried in his hair, his mouth hot and hungry against yours.

There was a quiet urgency in the way he kissed you - like he’d been holding back for months and now didn’t know how to stop.

The kiss deepened, his hands everywhere and yet careful to avoid hurting you. When you finally pulled back, both of you were breathing hard.

He looked at you, really looked at you. His voice dropped.

“How’s is it?”

“Better than in my head,” you smirked. He rolled his eyes and gestured to your shoulder. “It’s fine. It's nothing.”

His fingers brushed down your arm gently. “I want this to be good for you. Easy.”

You raised an eyebrow, your smile widening. “Are you saying I’m lazy?”

“No,” he said, leaning in, his mouth just by your ear. “I’m saying I want you above me. Comfortable.”

He lay back slowly, still watching you.

“Sit on my face.”

It wasn’t a question.

You blinked, heat licking up your neck - and not from the burn. “Bucky, I -”

“You don’t have to move. You don’t have to do anything.” His voice dropped, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Let me make you fall apart.”

“This isn’t exactly how I pictured our first time,” you laughed nervously, trying to reach for another kiss.

“No?” he grinned, pulling out of your reach. “Because I’ve definitely pictured it. Just relax, I've got you.”

His hand trailed down your thigh to the back of your knee, pulling your leg further over him. You shifted, your knees bracketing his hips, and sat up, peeling off your thin cami.

His eyes drank you in, dark and focused, but he didn’t reach for you.

“I could just stay right here,” you teased, rolling your hips against him. “Ohh, fuck -” you sighed. “Please, Bucky.”

His hands skimmed up your thighs, slow and steady. “Then lose the rest for me, sweetheart.”

You bit your lip, wriggling out of your underwear as his grip tightened, guiding you higher up his chest.

You hesitated again, your breath shallow and heart pounding. His eyes were locked on yours - not teasing, just openly wanting.

“I’ve never…” you started, then couldn't finish.

“I know,” he said gently. “That’s why I want you to.”

He didn’t rush you. He just waited with all his quiet intensity focused entirely on you.

You moved up his chest slowly, his hands steady on your thighs, guiding. When you reached him, hovering just above his mouth, he looked up at you like you were something sacred.

“This is ridiculous,” you muttered.

He lay back expectantly. “Not even a little. I knew you'd look perfect up there. Come here, sweetheart,” he murmured. “Let me take care of you.”

He hooked his hands around your thighs and pulled you down. You reached out to grip the thin wooden headboard to steady yourself.

As his broad tongue dragged a long, slow stripe through your pussy, your thighs clamped around his head, half in shock, half instinct.

“What if I fucking suffocate you?” You asked, horrified.

He rolled his eyes, and in them, you knew he was grinning into you.

“Do your worst, baby,” he said, muffled against you. His voice sent vibrations through your body, he held you a little tighter.

His tongue worked you open with a pressure that had you throwing your head back. By the time he swept it over your clit, your hands had given up clinging to the headboard for dear life, and were palming your breasts, rolling your nipples between your thumb and index finger.

“God, Bucky -” you rolled your hips, willing yourself to look at him.

He reached one hand up to cover yours, you swapped them so that yours covered his, kneading your soft curves.

He moaned into you, the sound enough to make you grind down against his tongue.

You reached behind and wrapped a hand around his thick cock, weeping and aching. He fucked up into your fist, each thrust in time with the flick of his tongue inside you.

When his lips closed around your swollen clit and sucked, your legs shook and your vision went white, his name tumbling from your mouth.

Your grip on his cock tightened as you writhed against his mouth.

Hot, sticky ropes of cum painted your back, your ass - he came hard in your hand, roaring into your cunt.

“Holy fuck,” you breathed, shifting back on unsteady knees.

He pressed a wet kiss to your inner thigh, making you tremble again.

Still catching your breath, you lifted your hand - slick with his release - and brought your fingers to your lips. Bucky groaned low in his chest, watching as you licked the taste of him from your skin with deliberate, languid strokes.

“Jesus,” he muttered, eyes blazing.

He surged up suddenly, sitting against the headboard and dragging you down with him, hands firm at your hips. You slid easily down the broad plane of his chest, letting your legs fall to either side of his thighs until you were straddling him again, skin sticking to skin.

His mouth found yours in a messy kiss, all hunger, no restraint - tasting himself on your tongue.

You rocked your hips without thinking, still pulsing around the aftershocks, still needing.

“Bucky…” you breathed against his jaw, your voice raw. “I want more.”

His hand slid up your spine and he blew lightly over the warm skin on your shoulder. “Yeah?”

You nodded, pressing your lips to his cheek. “I want to feel you. All of you.”

He stilled, grip tightening just slightly.

“What’s that, sweetheart?” he asked, low in your ear. “Gonna need you to say it again.”

You smiled against his skin, grinding your hips against the hard line of him. “Please. I need you inside me. Want you to fill me up.”

A rough sound left his throat.

“God,” he muttered. “Thought you’d never ask.”

When he finally pushed inside you, you knew you’d never need to ask again.

[kkuras-gamer-gf]

Read your diary | Megan Skiendiel

Smut. Any maneskin fans? Loosly based on their song of the same name! Too short, so sorry.

G!p megan. Perv!meg who sneaks into your room when your gone. Reader is just as bad kinda. Perv4perv in a way. Dom!Megan?? Who would've thought

Megan didn't intend on going this far; it started simply as wanting to be a good roommate, doing the laundry. One day while folding and putting it away, she found something, a small book. She shouldn't have read it, but she couldn't help herself.

Surprised by what she found: your dirty little secrets and detailed summaries of your hookups. Then she read further, and her name started popping up. First, just little comments about Megan being attractive, and then it switched; filthy fantasies filled the pages.

The next week, she was doing more laundry, and a pink pair of underwear fell out of the basket. She shouldn't have; she should've just put it back in the basket, but she opted to stuff it in her pocket. Later that night, she wrapped them around her cock as she pleased herself.

It should've stopped there, but it became a bad habit, stealing a pair and then throwing it in the washer after she was done. It was the perfect excuse; you were gone most of the day for work, so she felt comfortable in her dirty routine.

Until today, that is, you had a half day at work. Megan didn't know that, so she assumed it was safe. But it was different this time; she had dared to go further, settling into your bed with your used panties in her panties, reading various pages in the diary.

Just as she reaches into her boxers, you open the door with a sharp gasp at the sight.

"Wh- Is that my underwear?!" You ask, looking at the balled-up fabric in her hand.

"I—I was doing laundry."

"In my bed?!?"

She jumps up, hiding the small book behind her back.

"Well...well." She really didn't want to out herself further, but she also needed a way under your skin to get the control she wanted. "You write about how you want me to fuck you!" A smirk as she gains an upper hand.

Your jaw dropped at this. How'd she know that?

"You—wh—how?" Your cheeks are bright red as you fumble around for words, "Did you read my journal?!"

"This one?" Pulling her hand from behind her back and opening to a page, "I feel guilty. What would she think if she knew I fucked myself in her bed?" She quoted, An embarrassing confession.

"I—stop."

She didn't, flipping forward some pages.

"I wish instead of my fingers it was her coc—"

"Don't act like you're innocent." You interrupt, "You take my underwear when you do laundry. God knows what you do with it."

"I think you know what I do with it." She takes a step, making you gulp, "And I think it turns you on." Faces now only a couple inches away.

"You're disgusting." It's more of a whisper, not meaning it enough to put effort in. She wasn't wrong; you knew that with the way your core dripped.

"I'm disgusting? I'm disgusting?? Says the slut who writes chapters about me and my cock. Let's see, which page was it..." Long fingers flip through pages, "In my dream last night—"

"Fuck you."

The smirk on her face drops, slamming the book shut and throwing it on the bed before a hand moves to wrap around your neck, threatening to tighten. As much as you tried to suppress it, you couldn't help the small moan that left your mouth.

"On the bed."

You oblige, lying down, as she uses the grip she has to push you in that direction. Her hands fumbled with the button to the jeans she was wearing, not bothering to take them off, just reaching in a hand to pull her cock out, hard and already glistening with precum.

Bigger than expected, intimidating almost. Your eyes widen at the sight, causing a cocky smirk on the girl's face as she looks down at you like you're her prey.

"Aw, don't tell me it's too big. You can take it, right?" Faux sweetness in her voice.

Nodding rapidly, needing her to do anything to soothe the heat in the pit of your stomach.

At this, Megan pulls you so your legs hang off the edge. Pulling at your jeans and throwing them to the floor, a thumb rubbing over your soaked underwear, practically drooling at the sight.

"Fuck, no wonder I have to do laundry so much."

"M-Megan, please."

"You want these off, huh?" Despite the teasing tone, she pulls at them as soon as you're nodding your head. Though she doesn't throw them to the side, instead balling them up to stuff into her pants, you were too much in a haze to protest, admittedly the act turning you on more.

Her leaking tip slides through your folds with embarrassing ease before sheathing herself inside you in one thrust with no warning; a moan mixed with a cry echoed off the walls.

"Fuuuck." Megan moans as her head falls back at the sensation, "So fuckin' tight."

The brunette's hands grip at your waist, trying to ground herself and not cum right away. Starting with slow, deep thrusts, pulling little noises out of you with every move.

"You know how fucking long I wanted to do this?" Her breathing gets increasingly labored, and she thrusts quicker with her words as if she's working herself up.

"Fix that bratty attitude." A particularly harsh thrust as she mumbles the last part.

"P-pl-please." The words leaving your lips don't even make sense as you beg her, for what you're not sure.

It's like she was made to fuck you with the way her body fit with yours, the tip of her cock reaching where others have. Her tempo changed in tune with your body; it makes you wonder if she's that good or if she did a little too much research.

"Tell me how good this cock feels."

"Shhhit. So, so good." Words slurring at the pleasure, hands grabbing to try and pull her closer.

Megan's hand that once gripped your waist moved to rub fast circles over your clit, your own hand wrapping around her wrist at the overwhelming sensation. You didn't want to admit that your nerdy perv roommate had you close to an orgasm within minutes. Neither did Megan, as she wanted to uphold her current dominance, holding herself back.

"Mm, I want to fill you up." She mutters through her heavy breaths.

The loud moan you let out shows the effect it had on you, clenching around her, basically begging for it.

"You'd like that, right? Having my baby?" Megan's voice lowered as her hips stuttered, the idea making her closer to cumming.

"Yes! Fuck, yes. Please." Tears stream down your face as you plead for her to fill you up. "Want it so bad."

"Yeah? Want my cum, baby?" Breathless moans and whimpers as her once loserish persona fades back in a bit as she reaches her peak.

Pulling out her eyes filled with wonder as she stared at the liquid dripping onto your bedsheets, seemingly never experiencing it before.

Your body lay limp; you barely noticed her cleaning you up with your own underwear and, of course, stuffing them back in her pocket for whatever perverted thing she'd do with them later. Grabbing the diary from beside you and placing a sweeter-than-expected kiss on your cheek before grabbing your laundry basket.

"Same time next laundry day?" She smirks before walking out to your laundry room.

It seems now you have a new tradition for laundry day.

[wendichester]

⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆ strand by strand,

summary. this hunt drained you. it was a miracle that you managed to shower but now you have to deal with the aftermath: brushing your messy hair.

pairing. dean winchester x reader genre. fluffy sickingly fluff

wordcount. 502

notes / warnings. post-hunt exhaustion, hair brushing as an act of care, gentle physical touch, sleepy reader, dean being stupidly soft

You’re barely keeping your eyes open when Dean knocks on the bathroom door with two knuckles and a soft, “You good in there, sweetheart?”

Your body aches in places you didn’t even know could ache. You smell like cheap motel soap and shampoo and pure exhaustion. Your towel’s slipping off one shoulder, your hair wet and tangled and clinging to your back like ivy. You had every intention of brushing it out before collapsing—but somewhere between toweling off and blinking too long in the mirror, your limbs gave up on you.

“I’m fine,” you mumble. “Just… tired.”

Dean steps inside without another word, careful like always. He clocks your half-hearted attempt to sit on the edge of the sink, the way your shoulders slump under the weight of soaked strands.

And then, gently: “Sit on the bed. I’ll get the brush.”

You blink up at him, dazed. “What?”

“Go,” he says, nudging you out of the bathroom like a sleepy, dripping zombie. “I’m not lettin’ you fall asleep with your hair like that. You’ll wake up lookin’ like a damn tumbleweed.”

You laugh, barely, and shuffle to the bed with the grace of a limp cat. The towel’s loose but still secure enough to keep Dean from getting a full show—not that he hasn’t seen everything before. Still, he’s careful not to look anywhere but your face.

You sit cross-legged, spine curving forward on instinct. And then you feel the bed dip behind you.

Dean’s thigh brushes yours. His hands are warm.

The brush slides through the first layer with slow, deliberate strokes. You let out a little sigh. It feels so good. Comforting. Familiar. Like the rest of the world doesn’t exist right now.

“Tell me if it pulls,” he says, voice soft, breath brushing your ear.

“Mhm.”

He works through the tangles without yanking, section by section. You feel his fingers separate the strands like he’s done it a hundred times before. Like he likes doing it.

And god help you, you think he does.

Your eyes fall shut. You feel your shoulders drop, your entire body starting to melt with each stroke. His hand comes to rest lightly at your waist, keeping you grounded.

“Long day,” he murmurs.

You hum. “Mm. Sucked.”

He chuckles. “You kicked ass, though.”

“So did you.”

Dean’s quiet for a second. Then his fingers graze your scalp, massaging gently.

“I like this,” he says.

Your lips tilt into the faintest smile. “Brushing my rat’s nest?”

“No. Taking care of you.”

You go quiet.

A moment later, his lips press against the back of your shoulder. Just one kiss. Barely there.

“You always take care of everyone else,” he adds. “Let me do this for you.”

You lean into him. Soft, boneless, safe.

The brush keeps moving, slow and even, like a lullaby in motion.

You don’t even notice when your eyes close again.

He does. And he just keeps brushing.

Like he’s got all the time in the world. Like you’re something worth untangling.

ꔛ. navigation 𓂃˖ ࣪ all drabbles ; compatibility readings ; support my work .ᐟ

[t6ji]

— late return.

pairing. nerdy!toji fushiguro x fem!reader

cw. public-ish sex, jealousy, riding, thumb sucking, possessive!reader, territorial behavior, very subtle femdom energy, toji being too sweet and too fuckable for his own good, claiming in a library after-hours

you weren’t supposed to see it.

you were just stopping by the library to pick up your notes—left them in the second floor study lounge during your 4 p.m. calc panic—and figured you’d be in and out before the closing lights even flickered.

but fate, as always, had other plans.

the laugh catches your ear before anything else. it’s high and girlish and artificial in a way that makes your jaw tighten without thinking. the math aisle curves into a little alcove near the back, and as you round the corner, you catch the tail end of a sentence:

“oh my god, you’re so smart.”

you stop walking.

she’s sitting far too close to him. the air between them isn’t even warm—it’s thick. intended. she’s propped up on one arm, leaned over his thigh just enough to toe the line of inappropriate without technically crossing it. her voice is saccharine. fake clueless. the tone of someone who knows exactly what they’re doing.

and toji, your sweet, soft-spoken boyfriend?

he’s none the wiser.

he’s got that tired, shy smile on—the one he gives when someone compliments him and he doesn’t know what to do with it. he’s kneeling on the floor, glasses slipping low on his nose, cardigan sleeves pushed up as he scratches an equation into a spiral-bound notebook. he’s explaining something patiently, slowly, like he’s done a hundred times before, completely unaware of the way her eyes are devouring him.

“you make it sound so easy,” she giggles. “i think i just need one-on-one tutoring every week.”

he chuckles quietly. “you’re getting better, though.”

you don’t even hear the rest.

your spine feels too hot, your molars press too tight.

you turn, step back into the next aisle over, and press your tongue against your cheek.

you don’t doubt him. it’s never about trust. it’s about her.

and if she’s gonna act like your man is fair game, then maybe she needs a reminder.

forty minutes later, the library is closed.

you’re still inside.

technically the door is locked, technically there are signs that say the study spaces shut down by 10:30, and technically you should be halfway across campus by now. but you’re not in the mood to follow rules. not tonight.

you hear him before you see him again.

his voice is low. muttering something to himself.

and then—there he is.

back still pressed to the shelf. glasses on. clipboard in his lap. sleeves rolled up, collar twisted, legs folded long beneath him like he’s settled in for the apocalypse. he doesn’t even notice you at first. just squints down at his notes, muttering numbers under his breath.

you take a step closer.

then another.

he finally glances up. blinking.

“…you’re still here?”

his voice is tired. soft. unaware.

and in a single breath, you decide you’re not letting him go home unclaimed.

you kneel between his legs slowly, deliberately, and his brows furrow with that dumb little concern he always gives you when you act slightly out of pocket.

“baby?” he asks, breath catching. “what’re you—”

you straddle his lap.

his mouth parts just a little.

you lean in and brush your lips along his jaw—soft, slow, like you’re kissing a bruise. his breath catches again.

“you’ve been out here helping girls who already know how to divide matrices,” you murmur, voice featherlight against the shell of his ear. “i figured i’d come remind you who’s actually failing math and needs your attention.”

he freezes. blinks. stutters.

“she really did need help—i wasn’t—i wasn’t trying to—”

you rock your hips.

he goes silent.

his cock is already thick beneath you, pressing up against the soft material of his corduroy pants, and when you grind down again—harder this time—he chokes on a breath and tips his head back into the shelf with a soft thud.

your voice dips lower, curling like steam.

“you’re hard already?”

his glasses fog faintly.

“you—fuck—you’re grinding on me, how could i not—?”

you hum, skirt hiking higher, heat building. every shift of your hips drags your soaked panties over his clothed cock. he’s shaking beneath you already.

“thought you liked when i was quiet,” he breathes, a pitiful attempt at levity—but it comes out too needy, too cracked.

you kiss the corner of his mouth, lips grazing his skin as you whisper:

“you’ve been sweet to everyone but me today. so no, baby, i don’t want you quiet.”

his hands come up like he wants to stop you, but they don’t land anywhere. they hover—lost. he looks up at you with that helpless expression, face flushed, mouth parted. his hair’s falling into his eyes.

you take his glasses off slowly, fold them, set them on a forgotten textbook.

he looks dazed.

you kiss his cheek, then press your thumb to his bottom lip.

he gasps. swallows. obeys immediately.

his mouth opens. you slide your thumb in.

his tongue presses against it. warm. wet. obedient.

“i didn’t mean to make you mad,” he murmurs, voice thick around your thumb.

you tilt your head slightly. “you didn’t make me mad.”

you lean forward, lips brushing his jaw.

“you made me territorial.”

his hips twitch.

your cunt clenches around nothing.

you roll your hips again, slow and deep, pressing his cock right against your slick heat—and he whimpers, chest arching toward you, arms trembling like he’s holding back from tearing you down onto him.

his throat is flushed. adams apple jumping.

“you’re—fuck—” he groans. “i can’t—please slow down, i’m gonna—i can’t hold it—”

you kiss his throat, twice, maybe three times, before you finally reach down and tug your panties to the side.

“don’t wanna slow down,” you whisper. “wanna make you cum so hard she feels it when she tries to talk to you tomorrow.”

his breath breaks.

you sink down on him.

he moans—loud, wrecked—and it echoes through the dead-quiet library like sin.

you keep going anyway and now you’re already fucking him before he can catch his breath.

your panties are still tugged to the side, your skirt rucked up around your waist, and his cock’s buried so deep inside you it feels like it’s been there for hours—like it belongs there. he’s warm and full and pulsing under you, breath shattered into fragments, like he doesn’t know if he should be begging you to slow down or speed up.

but he’s not really speaking anymore. just soft, helpless little moans—like “ah…hahh… please…”—mouth parted, lashes wet, trying to blink up at you through the blur.

you’re sitting flush against him now. riding him slowly, cruelly, grinding your hips down just enough to feel him twitch every time your cunt sucks him in. it’s hot between you—your skin damp, your chest flushed, your thighs clenched around his. the quiet library air turns sticky. you hear your own wetness in the air, slick sounds echoing off the walls.

toji’s cardigan is slipping off his shoulder. his glasses are tossed away, useless. he keeps trying to focus, keeps trying to look at you—but his eyes roll every time you move.

his head tips back into the bookshelf behind him, a quiet thud lost in the heat between you.

you lean in—close, chest brushing his—and reach up to touch his jaw with one hand. he leans into it like it soothes him. you trace his bottom lip with your thumb. just once. slow.

and he moans.

his mouth parts, barely even a second of hesitation, and then—he pulls your thumb in with his lips, tongue wrapping around it immediately like he’s starved for something only you can give.

you feel it all. the warmth. the texture. the tremble in his breath as he sucks, slow and instinctive, his eyes fluttering half-closed as he lets the sensation anchor him.

his hips jerk again under you.

“baby,” he breathes around your finger, voice low and ruined. “you’re—i’m gonna—fuck—”

he tries to hold still.

he tries. but his cock twitches again, and your pussy tightens around him like a reflex, and that’s when you see it—the way his whole face starts to break open, all flushed and vulnerable and raw.

you keep your thumb in his mouth.

and keep moving.

not faster. just deeper. every grind is a threat, a promise, a pressure point. your walls clamp down around him with a wet, obscene sound and his breath shatters completely.

“too much,” he whispers, barely able to say it. “s’t-too much—feels too good—fuck, fuck, please—”

his thighs tremble underneath you. his fingers dig into the back of your sweater like he needs to cling to something, anything, or else he’ll come apart.

you shift just slightly, angle your hips a little higher so his cock hits deeper—and he gasps around your thumb. doesn’t stop sucking. doesn’t even think to.

you lean down, forehead to his, lips brushing his flushed cheek.

“you close?” you whisper.

he nods. barely. eyes unfocused.

“don’t hold it back.”

he comes like his body can’t help it.

trembles. cries. lips still wrapped around your finger, mouth dripping. his whole body jolts forward like you’ve shocked him, and you feel his cock throb inside you—once, twice, three times—hot cum spilling deep as his hands slip down to your thighs, clutching like he’s drowning.

and still—you don’t stop.

you grind down again, soft and slow. drawing out every shiver. every breath.

his whine catches in his throat. his thumb twitches against your ribs. he nuzzles your neck like he’s trying to ground himself, but his mouth is still open, still latched around your thumb like it’s the only thing keeping him from falling apart all over again.

your other hand slides into his hair.

you kiss his temple.

you ride the high with him.

and when he finally looks at you—eyes red-rimmed, lips parted, spit shining on your thumb—he looks like someone who doesn’t just love you.

he belongs to you.

t6ji | 2025 prod — do not copy, reuse, or translate anything written on this blog.

[jordiemeow]

omg would love your thoughts on stepbrother!patrick. def a lot more of a freak

absolutely agreed. where art is a freak in private, patrick could not care LESS.

he's ogling you shamelessly, watching the way your shorts ride up or your tits spill out of your tank. wolf whistling, patting you on the ass when he passes and muttering fake apologies despite the way you catch a glimpse of the corner of his lip quirks as soon as he turns away. accidentally barges in on you in the shower when he needs his toothbrush but he takes his time to admire the curve of your body through the fogged-up glass and rubs one out afterwards.

he convinces himself it's you who wants it. the way you look at him and goad him when your parents aren't home. you're just as pervy as he is. or, at least, that's how he justifies it. actively makes comments like "you don't even try to be quiet, do you? it's like you want me to hear" when he hears you touching yourself in the next room over. on one occasion, he pushes his luck enough to 'accidentally' walk in on you, legs spread and toy nestled between them. you see him, of course. maybe you keep going anyways, just to mess with him.

"you like putting on a show that much, huh?"

and then the front door opens before things can escalate, leaving you both to come down from whatever the fuck that was alone in your separate bedrooms.

it all comes to a head a while after that. you get blasted out of your mind at a party and he offers to take you home. not that he's in any state to drive, mind you, but he sees an opportunity. he somehow manages to get the pair of you home safely but neither of you make any effort to get out of the car. he leans over to undo your seatbelt for you, hand lingering on your thigh while the pair of you stare at each other. he's not sure who moves first—probably him—but five minutes later he has you bent over in the back seat right outside your house, ploughing into you, groaning about how he's wanted to do this for so long. about how he's sick of seeing you in bikinis and not being able to do anything, sucking on lolly pops to taunt him, leaving your door open just a crack when you're getting changed.

absolutely brags to art about it afterwards because he knows his best friend has a thing for you. "no condom, by the way. she liked it messy." art tells him he's sick, but he just shrugs it off. "maybe. but i still fucked her first."

maybe one night you bring a date home, cosied up on the couch to watch a movie. patrick's passive aggressive all night, deciding now he's a living room kind of guy to avoid leaving the pair of you alone. he justifies it by claiming he's just a 'good brother' and 'keeping an eye on you.' but when your date goes home, he's quick to corner you.

"you think he can fuck you better than me? bet he doesn't even know what you sound like when you cum."

"of course he does," you lie straight through your teeth.

"wanna compare? let me bend you over right now and prove it."

refuses to touch you until you're begging. his dirty talk is always absolutely filthy, always highlighting the reality of your relationship. "say it. say you want your stepbrother to fuck you. c'mon, use your words." he gets off on the thrill of being caught. sneaking into your room at night, hand over your mouth to silence your sweet mewls. every thrust a risk, each moan a gamble, but it's worth it in the end. "ah ah ah. shhh. you're being loud again, baby. you want them to hear? want them to know you're getting filled by their golden boy?"

he's big into hickeys. thinks it's fucking hilarious to point them out in front of your parents, acting like it wasn't him that left him there just to watch how embarrassed you get while your mother frowns in disapproval and his dad pretends not to notice.

he acts like he's proud of you. like you're just some innocent little thing. you get good grades—as far as your parents are concerned, you never do anything wrong. patrick would do anything to break that image. "you're such a good girl for everyone else.... but in this room, with my cock in your mouth? not daddy's sweet girl anymore, are you?"

or he makes you watch yourself in the mirror. hand curled around your throat to keep your head up so you can see the blissed out, cock-drunk look on your face. "look at yourself. look how fucked out you are. look what your stepbrother does to you."

he sends you filthy texts at the dinner table with your family asking whether you're thinking about it too. about him taking you right there. bet your pussy's already dripping through those little shorts. and when you reply with wanna check? he ducks his head under the table to 'pick up his fork,' met with the sight of you opposite him, pushing your shorts to the side, pussy glistening and no panties in sight. what a tease.

loves when you talk back. he's big into testing your limits: edging, choking, orgasm control, anal, calling you dirty names just to see how far he can take it. and you're always willing to go further. "look at you. from my bratty little stepsister to my perfect little slut."

also probably has a breeding kink. finds it especially hot because he's your 'brother.' send tweet

[swordmaid]

thinking about the obligatory masquerade scene that bg3 should’ve had!!!!!!!!! (upper city should’ve been gortash’s plot n he should’ve had a pre-coronation party!!!!!!!!!!!) but anyway shri’iia in a fancy dress 🤭🤭 I was thinking about giving her a dagger on her thigh or something but I also like the concept of her channeling her smites with any weapon she’s currently using and that also includes 👊🤜🤜 these hands

[crescencestudio]

Hi! I was wondering, will the full game cost money? I’m assuming yes because of how much work is being poured into this. Also, do you have a price range for the full game?

SO...... THIS IS ACTUALLY SOMETHING I WANTED TO TALK TO U ALL ABOUT AND I HAVE BEEN TRYING TO SUMMON THE COURAGE FOR IT FOR LITERALLY THE PAST IDK HOW MANY MONTHS...... I WAS GONNA TELL U ALL ON MY BDAY NEXT WEEK SO U COULDNT BE MEAN TO ME WHEN I ANNOUNCE IT SKXISOOSOS BUT I GUESS ILL JUST SAY IT NOW...... (sorry anon im using ur question as an excuse to make an important announcement)

Yes, Alaris will be paid, and it will be $15 USD ($12 USD for Early Access)

NOW..... FOR THOSE OF U WHO HAVE BEEN HERE A LONG TIME..... i know i have said in the past i was planning on alaris being $5-$7 but i cant emphasize how many times i was told by gamers and dev friends alike to increase the price. ppl literally BEGGED me bc i was Severely underselling myself and my work. even now with me making the price $15, ppl have been telling me its still undervaluing the worth of the game.

i know $15 is much more than i said the game would be and for a long time, i wanted to keep the price low for accessibility reasons. but as time has gone on and the amount of work i've put into this game has increased, it seemed less and less fair for me to price the game at $5-$7. having worked on the game for 5 years now, that price would literally be compensating me $1/year which just kinda..,.,. feels like someone spit in my face KXKSOSOSSO.

on top of that, i'm at a different point as a developer than when i first started alaris. when i first started the game, it was my first game ever, i wasn't in it for any kind of commercial success and i just wanted to make a silly little game with my little fingies. but five years down the road, a lot has changed. i've invested way more time and effort into this game than i originally had expected, the player base has gotten bigger than i would've imagined, and my experience as a dev has come a long way. the product is just different from what i had first imagined, and as someone no longer completely inexperienced, i also see myself differently (in a good way)!

alaris has always been my child but it's more than that now. it represents five years of growing as a developer, and i think the art assets and writing rly showcase that. i honestly think $15 is an extremely fair price for the game given the amount of content in it. it's partially voice acted, has 60+ backgrounds, will have 50+ CGs, 15 character sprites, 350k words, 6 routes, like... the list goes on ykwim. and compared to other vns of similar lengths/quality, $15 is more than reasonable.

i know some ppl will say they can't afford this which is totally fair, and i do plan on eventually having sales on the game so that it can be around that $5-$7 price (much later down the road). but i hope you all can understand where i'm coming from as a developer and someone who does have their own bills and life expenses to pay for. and more than that, i hope you can support this decision as a player who also sees the same value in the game that i do <3

[cheynovak]

Holdover

CHARACTERS: Mark Meachum x YN former coworker/ boss

SCENE: Abandoned Motel, late evening.

THE VIBE: Hurt/comfort, lovers-to-enemies-to-lovers, brutal honesty, slow-burn steam

CW: Language, emotional conflict, hints of (past) intimacy, romantic tension

The door slammed open hard enough to bounce off the wall.

YN stepped inside first, her breath ragged, sweat streaking down her dirt-smudged neck. She didn’t even look around. One twin bed. A dead ceiling fan. The motel reeked of rot and neglect.

Mark trailed behind, dropping his duffel with a heavy thud. “This place looks like it hasn’t had a guest since the Cold War.”

“You weren’t exactly giving me options, were you?” YN snapped. “Oh, right. Because you’ve been so good at giving people options.”

She spun around. “What the hell does that mean?”

“You know what it means.” Mark's voice was low and bitter. “You’ve been calling the shots since you got that promotion—and God forbid anyone challenge Saint YN.”

“Don’t start with this,” she warned. "You just couldn't handle a woman being your boss."

“No, I will start with this. You climbed the ladder, and somewhere along the way, you started looking down on the rest of us—me especially.”

“Oh, you did that all on your own. I wasn’t harder on you because I hated you, Mark. I was harder on you because you turned into this—this smug, flirty, arrogant son of a bitch—”

“Because you started to give me shitty jobs,” he roared. The room went quiet except for the sound of the broken fan creaking overhead.

Mark took a breath, eyes flaring. “You stopped looking at me like I mattered the moment you outranked me. And then you acted like I was some goddamn liability.”

“You were,” she bit out. “You stopped listening. You undermined me in front of the team. You acted like everything I said was a personal attack.”

“Because it was personal!"

“Then maybe you should’ve been professional enough to handle it!”

"Oh I handled it sweetheart!"

"You quite like a coward!"

They were toe to toe now. The tension coiled so tight between them it could snap a steel wire.

“You know what?” Mark said, voice tight. “You don’t get to stand there and judge me! You took a step back for this task force so you're my equal. No, no, technically I was here first, so you're a rookie."

She huffed "Yeah right!"

He smirked, a green with envy little rookie whose jealous of Oliveras.”

YN blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Oh please. You’ve been grinding your teeth every time I so much as smile at her. But you threw me away, remember? Or does your memory only work when it’s convenient?”

“That’s rich—coming from the guy who can’t go five minutes without acting like he’s God’s gift to women just to distract from the fact that he’s still hung up on someone who won’t give him the time of day anymore.”

Mark flinched.

“Hit too close?” she said coldly.

“I’m not the only one hung up.”

She laughed—sharp and bitter. “Please. You think I waste one minute thinking about you?”

“No,” Mark snapped. " Then why are you here YN? I think you waste every second trying not to think of me.”

Silence.

Her hands were shaking, and she hated that he noticed. She turned her back to him, biting down the burn in her throat.

“Forget it,” she muttered. “I’m done. You win. I don’t even know why I came on this mission.”

“Because you think we blew this mission, and you always have to fix everything,” he threw back. “Even things that are already broken.”

“Like you?” she said, barely above a whisper.

Mark didn’t respond.

She heard him mutter something under his breath before heading into the bathroom and slamming the door.

The water turned on a moment later.

She sat on the edge of the bed. Her hands were clenched. Her jaw ached from grinding it. But the worst pain sat somewhere behind her ribs—loud and aching and screaming at her that this still mattered

And that maybe she’d been just as much at fault.

She couldn’t sit still.

The anger had nowhere to go. The motel room felt like it was choking her. And so, for reasons she couldn’t name, she walked to the bathroom door. Slowly. Then pushed it open.

Steam greeted her like a wave.

She stepped in. Didn’t announce herself. Couldn’t.

Mark was just a silhouette behind the frosted glass, water streaming over his skin, his hands braced against the tile like he was trying to stay upright.

She leaned on the sink, jaw set.

Steam rolled toward her in thick waves. He didn’t hear her come in—he never locked the door. Water thundered against the tile as he stood in the small stall, back to her, his figure half visible through the fogged glass.

YN stood at the sink, arms crossed, biting the inside of her cheek like it might stop her voice from shaking.

“Did you ever mean it?” she asked quietly.

A beat. Silence.

Mark didn’t say anything for a long time. “Mean what?” His voice came from behind the foggy door, low and unreadable.

“You know exactly what I mean.” Her voice cracked on the edge of the sentence. “All the things you said. The nights we spent on stakeouts. That time in Madrid when you looked at me like I was the only person in the room.”

Silence. Then the water shut off.

He stayed in the stall a few seconds longer, as if bracing himself. Then the door creaked open.

Mark stepped out. Her eyes landed on his face —and he looked raw. Hair wet and curling over his forehead, water still dripping from his chest.water still dripping from his chest, lower over his abdomen to his hips lower to his ....

YN looked away instantly. “Jesus, Mark—”

“Hey, you came in here,” he said, stepping forward, grabbing a towel, wrapping it around his hips “You want to talk, have real answers?”

She kept her eyes on the cracked floor. “Just tell me it was nothing. Tell me I was a fool for thinking any of it meant something.”

Mark was suddenly right in front of her, close enough she could feel the heat from his body radiating through the humid air. His hand cupped her face—not rough, not soft either, just… real.

“You want the truth?” he said. “You terrified me. You got that promotion and suddenly it was like I didn’t know how to be around you without wanting more. And I hated that. I hated that you had control and life all figures out. I hated that it still wasn’t enough to stop wanting you. Because I didn’t deserve you.”

YN swallowed. “So you punished me for it.”

“Yeah,” he said flatly. “I did.”

They stared at each other. Just inches apart, but a thousand miles away.

She stepped closer, her voice trembling now. “You made me feel like I was... Like I was wrong for being good at the job.”

“You weren’t wrong,” he said. “You were brilliant. And I wanted to be the one who told you that every damn day. But instead I made it worse. Because I’m an idiot.”

Her breath shook as she looks into his green eyes. Mark’s jaw tightened. His hand came up to cup her face. Gently this time. Tender. Careful.

And then he kissed her.

Hard.

All teeth and desperation and years of unspoken things.

Her hands gripped his damp shoulders like she was drowning. He kissed her like he was trying to burn out the years between them.

The kiss left them breathless—foreheads pressed together, skin flushed, air hot with more than steam.

Mark’s hands were on her waist now, thumbs brushing bare skin where her shirt had ridden up. YN clutched his towel-damp shoulders, half-dazed, lips swollen from how fiercely they’d crashed together.

His voice was low—rough, uncertain, but still cocky in that way that always made her want to slap him and kiss him at the same time

“You started that,” he murmured against her lips.

She swallowed, smirking despite herself. “You kissed me first.”

“After you walked in here like a goddamn fever dream,” he breathed. “You stood there with that look on your face—I thought you were gonna kill me or fuck me.”

“Still might do both,” she muttered.

That earned a crooked grin. “Come here.”

He started to lead her backward, slowly, toward the bed. His hand was warm on her back, guiding, gently urging. His eyes were hungry now—open and bare in a way she hadn’t seen in years.

But YN hesitated.

Her hand pressed flat against his chest, stopping him.

Mark frowned slightly, eyes scanning hers. “Hey,” he said quietly. “What’s wrong?”

She exhaled, flustered. “Nothing.”

He tilted his head. “You sure? Because two seconds ago you were ready to melt into me.

She bit her lip, avoiding his gaze. “I just—look, I do want this. Desperately. But I feel…” She motioned vaguely to herself. “Disgusting. I’ve been sweating all day, my hair’s a mess, I probably smell like roadkill, and you just had a shower and now I’m standing here like—”

Mark blinked, then leaned back just slightly, a laugh catching in his throat.

“Are you seriously stopping this because you’re worried you’re dirty?”

“Yes!” she said, exasperated. “I am! Because I feel like I’ve been rolled in sandpaper and humiliation all day, and if we’re gonna—” she gestured vaguely at the space between them “—do anything, I’d prefer not to feel like I’ve been hit by a dump truck.”

Mark let out a breath that was part relief, part amusement. “Jesus, YN.”

He grinned—then softened.

“You could’ve just said, ‘Give me five minutes.’ You didn’t have to look like you were about to commit a federal crime.”

She gave him a flat look, cheeks flushed. “I didn’t expect to walk in here and end up halfway to ripping your towel off, okay?”

He smirked again, stepping closer, pressing a soft kiss to her temple.

“Go,” he said gently. “Take your shower. I’ll still be here.”

“In that towel?”

“Maybe...maybe not."

She groaned and turned toward the stall, but not before he gave her a sly look over his shoulder.

“Oh, and YN?”

She paused.

“I wanted this since Madrid. So take your time. But not too long.”

--

What do we think? Need a part two for ending or not? Maybe back story to their "Madrid mission"

taglist: Jensen: @jackles010378 @libby99hb @winchesterwild78 @suckitands33 @mostlymarvelgirl @deans-baby-momma @ancles @tulipsvanilla @thesilmarillionblog @jays-bonnie-on-the-side @kr804573 @kamisobsessed @hobby27 @globetrotter28 @kindollss @muhahaha303 @shadysoulangel @lyarr24 @spxideyver @impala67rollingthroughtown @panickedbitch @deansimpalababy @livya99 @yvonneeeee @ladykitana90 @stoneyggirl2 @imsiriuslyreal @panickedbitch @roseblue373 @n-o-p-e-never @ariasong11 @lmpala1967 @sherlockstrangewolf @spnaquakindgdom @writtenbyhollywood @mishkatelwarriorgoddess @healojane @star-yawnznn @deanswifeyy @lmg14

[behindthemirrorofmusic]

Remembering Michael Jackson today. Michael was a big fan of Musical Theatre and The Phantom of the Opera was his favourite production which he visited many times. Andrew Lloyd Webber has often talked about the times he spent discussing music and theatre as well as various projects with Michael. Here is an article he wrote about this in 2009.

"I first met Michael when he came to see Phantom of the Opera in New York when we'd just opened in 1988. He was clearly interested in the piece. He saw it several times and used to come backstage, often without the entourage that followed him around in later life.

The story got to him. I think he had a connection with the lonely, tortured musician. He found the idea of somebody working through music and having a girl as a muse very intriguing – and he loved that there was illusion in the show.

Michael became interested in playing The Phantom himself, in a movie version of the show. We talked about it a lot, but we'd only just opened and, at the time, I felt that it was too early for it to become a film. I felt his interest in Phantom was because he was interested in doing something theatrical himself.

He was a highly theatrical animal. I remember him saying to me that he'd seen Cats and how happy he was that dance was making a comeback in the theatre. He certainly talked about theatre a lot, and when he was last in London, he went to see Oliver!. Of course, he was a great showman himself, but he found the whole stagecraft of musicals extraordinary.

Seeing clips of Thriller on the news this week reminded me what an extraordinary dancer he was. He really brought dance and staging into the pop world, through his videos and concerts. Nobody before him had really done anything much like that. He was ahead of his time with all that he did.

I saw him a couple of times in concert. Thriller was probably the best stage event I've ever seen. From my musical-theatre perspective, I could see that he was bringing a completely new vision about dance to the stage. A tremendous amount of what he was doing then you see in musicals now.

Musically, Michael was also different to anyone before him. He was clever at taking pop hooks and using them in original ways, developing them theatrically. It's an influence that is now everywhere today. I remember listening to a Justin Timberlake album and hearing Michael's influence.

Young people still keep coming to his music because so many of his songs are classics. In the history of pop, Thriller will possibly stand out more than Sergeant Pepper because there were even more stand-alone hits on it. It's right up there with the all-time great albums.

Similarly, I would absolutely put him up there with the all-time greatest performers. I've seen most of the top rock acts – I saw Elvis several times – but with Michael's concerts, his showmanship was consummate. Very few rock singers have such quality.

Everybody was so looking forward to seeing what he would do when he came back to London. From what I was hearing, he was going to push the boundaries of what we'd seen in a rock arena much, much further.

The debts, all the court cases, and the trouble he got himself into, it was all so sad. But you can probably say already that his music has transcended all of that. Nothing sticks to him. In the end, the music will always survive."

[alisonsfics]

is it too late

pairing: bucky barnes x joaquin’s sister!reader (kind of exes to lovers, but more of ex-almost lovers to lovers)

summary: you hadn’t seen bucky since the fight with thanos and that one-off kiss. but when he hears about you, sam, and joaquin’s fight at celestial island and your brother getting hurt, he comes to check on you at the hospital.

word count: 3.4k

a/n: rewatched bnw recently and came up with this idea

The moment replayed in your mind.

Sam’s voice over comms.

“Joaquin’s down. We need emergency medical now.”

It was all a blur.

Seeing your brother fall from the sky. Sitting beside him in the helicopter as you flew to the hospital. Squeezing his hand, hoping and praying for him to squeeze yours back.

“C’mon, stay with me, please…I can’t lose you.” You whispered into his ear.

Then, they brought him back into the operating room. Your anxiety only got worse when you couldn’t lay your eyes on him.

Sam jogged in shortly after you.

You were sitting on the floor in a ball. He rushed to your side. “Is he going to be okay?” You asked. Tears were streaming down your face as he helped you up.

“Of course he is. He’ll pull through. He’s a fighter.” He assured you. He held your hand tightly as he led you to the waiting room and found a chair for you.

“I’m going to go find a doctor and see what they can tell us. You stay here, and if you need anything, text me.” He said, before jogging off.

You didn’t remember how long it had been when he came back. Time always seemed to move so slow in a hospital.

He sat back down beside you, letting you collapse into his arms as you sobbed. He quietly comforted you. You knew it his counseling background, but you didn’t care. You just didn’t want to feel alone.

“He’s in surgery. They said there’s a viewing room if you want. I’m going to go, but you can stay here if you want.” He told you.

“I’ll stay here. I can’t see him like that— all cut up and everything. But thank you Sam.” You said, giving him a weak attempt at a smile.

Bucky was walking into a meeting with another member of Congress when his phone buzzed in his pocket.

A news article popped up on his phone— news coverage from Celestial Island.

The headline “Falcon, Joaquin Torres, Critically Injured After Fight at Celestial Island”

Oh, no. His heart sank.

His first thought was of you. All he wanted to do was comfort you, but he wasn’t sure if it was his place.

You and Bucky had a complicated relationship.

Years back, you met Sam at a coffee shop. You both hit it off, so you told him to call you if any superhero business ever happened.

You were trained in the martial arts and had been training since you were a child— constantly sparring with Joaquin.

You were the one who introduced Sam and Joaquin years later.

The call from Sam finally came after the Sokovia Accords. You went with him to the airport in Germany.

That was where you met Bucky and the rest of the gang.

You, Steve, Bucky, Sam, and Nat all ended up going on the run together.

You and Bucky quickly developed feelings for each other, but never acted on them. It was weird enough living outside the law. Neither of you wanted to add a relationship to the mix.

When you all landed in Wakanda, ready to fight against Thanos, Bucky was different— more distant.

He knew how big of a threat Thanos was— and he couldn’t hide how terrified he was. So, before the battle, he pulled you into a room by yourselves.

“If this goes wrong, I don’t want to have any regrets.” He said, and then he kissed you. Kissed you like his life depended on it— pushing all those years of feelings into the kiss. To his delight, you kissed him back.

Then, the battle happened.

Bucky was dusted.

And you hadn’t properly seen him since.

It was mostly Bucky’s doing. He was constantly worried that he wasn’t good enough for you and that he had too much baggage.

“I’m sorry, Congressman. I really have to go.” Bucky said, turning on his heel and heading for the door.

“Congressman Barnes. Where do you think you’re going?” The Congressman yelled at him.

Bucky ignored the screams and kept walking. He had to get to the hospital.

Sam heard the door behind him click open. He didn’t even have to turn around to know it was Bucky.

“How’d you know? Super soldier intuition?” Sam asked, not taking his eyes off Joaquin on the operating table. He felt like it was his duty to watch your brother for you.

Silently, Sam was wondering if maybe you’d texted Bucky about what happened and that’s why he was here.

Sam had a front row seat to yours and Bucky’s relationship over the years. He knew how much you both cared about each other— even if you both couldn’t admit it sometimes.

“I saw it on the news.” Bucky said, walking up to Sam’s side.

Silence fell over the room. Bucky watched the surgeons, trying to get any sense of how it was going.

“Does she know?” Bucky asked. His voice came out as soft as a whisper.

He didn’t even the courage to say your name. He hadn’t let himself say your name for years. It was too painful to think about how he blew everything with you.

“She knows. She was there.” Sam told him. Bucky swore under his breath, putting his face in his hands. He couldn’t imagine how traumatizing that must have been for you.

“You should go talk to her, you know that?” Sam said, nudging Bucky.

Bucky jumped up, doing a terrible job at hiding his shock. “She’s here?” He asked, eyebrows raised.

He hadn’t been in the same building as you in years. It put him on edge, like at any second you could walk through a door.

“Go talk to her.” Sam said. It was more of a demand than a suggestion. He noticed that familiar look in Bucky’s eyes. It was like Sam could see Bucky’s fight or flight response kick in.

The thought of facing you after all these years terrified Bucky.

“She doesn’t need me to make her life any more complicated.” Bucky gave the first excuse that came to mind— the one that sat in the back of his mind every time he thought about you.

“She needs you more than you think she does. Trust me.” Sam said.

Bucky froze. If he could get up the courage to talk to you— what would he even say?

Sam noticed Bucky’s hesitation. That counselor training kicked in again.

“What do you I even say to her? How do I explain why I wasn’t there for her all these years?” The vulnerability was clear in Bucky’s voice. This wasn’t him just making excuses to avoid his problems— this was a genuine question that he’d been searching for the answer to.

“None of that matters. Just show her that you’re here now.” Sam encouraged him, pulling him into a quick hug.

Taking a few shaky breaths, Bucky headed towards the waiting room.

He found you alone in the waiting room. You were nervously shaking your leg and fiddling with the rings on your fingers.

He took another breath to steady himself before walking towards you.

You finally looked up when he was about five feet in front of you.

“Hey, gumdrop,” the nickname rolling off his tongue like no time had passed.

You broke. Tears started streaming from your eyes. They weren’t necessarily bad tears. You had hit your emotional capacity worrying about Joaquin. Seeing Bucky just sent you over the edge.

He quickly kneeled in front of you, pulling you into his arms.

You let yourself relax into his grip and let the emotions wash over you. You sobbed into his chest.

It felt nice to have someone be steady for you, so you could let go and stop being the strong one.

He caressed your back, whispering soft assurances in your ear. “I’m here. I promise, I’ve got ya,” his voice brought you more comfort than you thought it would.

“Bucky, it’s so bad. Everything has gone to shit. They don’t know if he’s going to make it.” You rambled in between sobs.

It broke his heart to hear you like that. He hated himself for staying away so long. He should have been there for you.

“Hey, hey, hey, look at me,” he took your hands in his, “don’t talk like that, it’ll all be alright.”

You looked down at his hands cradling your own. There was only one other time Bucky had held your hands— right before the kiss when he said he didn’t want any regrets.

You could see in Bucky’s eyes that the same moment was replaying in his mind too.

“You want to take a walk and get some air?” He asked you softly. He knew it wasn’t the time to delve into your complicated history, but it ate away at him.

He kissed you, so he wouldn’t have any regrets if he died, but he’d had so many regrets since then.

“I can’t leave him.” Your voice cracked as you thought about your brother.

Bucky shook his head, squeezing your hands. “I told Sam to call me the second anything changes. I promise we won’t go far.” He assured you.

You slowly agreed, letting him pull you to your feet.

You and Bucky walked hand in hand. His metal fingers intertwined with your flesh ones. Such a simple gesture that you had dreamed about for years.

You both found a quiet little garden attached to the hospital. There was a small metal sign outside that it was a place for loved ones to have some peace and quiet. There was no one around.

Bucky led you over to one of the wooden benches tucked between two large cherry blossom trees.

“Did Sam tell you to check on me?” You asked softly. He gently shook his head.

“I saw it on the news. I just knew I had to be here, but I didn’t know if you’d be here or not. If you weren’t, I was going to watch over your brother for you.” He told you.

You reached for his hand, placing it on your thigh. The physical touch made you feel a little more grounded and helped to calm your swirling thoughts.

“How have you been?” Bucky asked. He couldn’t express how genuinely interested he was in your life. It had killed him to stay away.

“Just trying to survive really and keeping Sam and Joaquin from getting themselves killed,” you told him, honestly. He could hear the tiredness in your voice. You’d been struggling to keep it together all on your own.

“I’m so sorry. There should be someone looking after you too. You shouldn’t have to do this all on your own.” Bucky apologized.

You refused to meet his gaze— knowing you’d just melt into his arms if you looked into his eyes. “It’s okay, Bucky. It’s not your job to look after me.” You said, pretending the words didn’t pain you.

Bucky looking after you and protecting you like you were his was the dream.

“What if I want it to be?” His voice was hesitant, terrified at how you’d react. Silence. He listened to your breathing as he waited for you to respond.

“What do you mean?” Your voice shook.

You couldn’t get your hopes up only to have them crash back down again.

“I want to take care of you and be that person you can rely on.” He confessed.

You finally looked up at him. His crystal blue eyes stared back into yours, searching your expression for a sign of how you felt.

“Why didn’t you come find me? After that kiss, after everything. Why did you stay away?” You asked him.

He sighed— trying to force himself to be vulnerable with you. He knew he needed to be, but that didn’t help with the knot in his stomach.

“I didn’t want to make your life complicated. I have so much baggage. I can never just be a normal guy.” He told you, giving you a weak smile.

His words echoed in your mind. You wondered if Bucky would ever understand that you never wanted him to be anyone but himself.

“I didn’t want a normal guy. I wanted you, Bucky. I wanted the guy that always knew how to cheer me up and the guy that used to cuddle into my side when we watched movies.” You watched as your words washed over him.

“Well…what about now? Do you still want that guy? Or did you move on?” He asked.

After all these years, you still knew Bucky too well. You could tell he was anxious from the way he furrowed his brow and focused on you.

“Well, I’ve been thinking about our kiss for years. I’ve been wondering what it would be like to kiss without the threat of a purple alien and dimensional war.” You told him.

“Congressman Barnes at your service.” He said, smiling as he leaned in to kiss you.

He cupped your face with both his hands. His lips were just as soft as you remembered. Your stomach felt fluttery as he kissed you with a gentleness you’d never seen before.

Your first kiss was rushed and short— but not this one. This was intentional and meant to express how much you’d both been longing for each other.

Your fingers traced up his sides. You’d started to forget what his muscles felt like under your hands, and you were glad to refamiliarize yourself.

You both pulled away— large smiles on both of your faces. “When your brother wakes up, I’ll make sure to ask him for his blessing.” Bucky assured you, lacing his fingers through yours.

Bzzzz. Bzzzz. Bzzzz.

Bucky’s phone.

You straightened up in your seat. “Is it Sam?” You asked as Bucky quickly answered the phone.

He quietly nodded as he listened to the phone. You jumped up to your feet, feeling like you were about to need to rush to your brother.

“Hey, Buck. They said surgery is expected to last another couple hours, but everything looks good. They have a room set up for after the surgery that you guys can wait in whenever you’re done making out.” Sam explained.

“He’s okay.” Bucky mouthed to you, giving your hand a squeeze. You took a deep breath before sitting back down beside Bucky.

“You spying on us, Sam?” Bucky asked, cocking his head to the side.

“Nope, just a good guess. I was right though, wasn’t I?” Sam teased.

Bucky rolled his eyes and hung up.

“They said the risky part of the surgery is over, and everything is looking good. They expect it to be another couple hours, but the room he’ll be brought to after surgery is ready. Sam said we can go wait in there whenever we’re done making out, direct quote.” Bucky told you.

A giggle slipped through your lips. Hearing your laugh again made Bucky feel warm and fuzzy inside.

“C’mon, let’s go.” Bucky grabbed your hand and led you upstairs to the hospital room.

“When do you have to go back to work, Congressman Barnes?” You asked, gesturing at Bucky’s suit as you both walked down the hallway.

He shook his head, massaging his thumb against the back of your hand. “This is more important. I can stay overnight and keep you company. You’ll probably be here a while.” He said, leaning over and kissing your temple.

“Bucky, you’re a member of Congress. You have more important things to worry about than this. I’ll be fine on my own.” You lied, feeling guilty.

He stopped walking, pulling you to the side of the hallway. “Nothing’s more important than you.” He said, softly kissing your lips.

“Thought I heard you lovebirds out here,” you both heard someone say beside you. You both pulled away and saw Sam sticking his head out of the room assigned to Joaquin.

“You mind keeping her company? I’m gonna run home really quick and pack an overnight bag for her, some pajamas and a blanket and whatnot.” Bucky said, resting his hand on the small of your back.

Sam quickly nodded. “Of course. I’m not leaving any time soon.” He assured Bucky.

“Be back soon, gumdrop.” Bucky said, pecking your lips before leaving.

“He’s still calling you gumdrop?” Sam teased as you walked into the room. You rolled your eyes at him, flicking his arm.

“Why don’t you get some sleep? I’ll stay up.” Sam said, gesturing towards the couch as he sat down in the chair next to the hospital bed.

“You promise you’ll wake me up if there’s an update?” You asked, raising your eyebrows at him. He nodded, assuring you he would.

He helped you fold down the back of the couch, so you could sleep on it like a mattress.

Bucky came back to the hospital an hour later. He had a bag packed with pajamas for both you and him. Along with a blanket, toothbrushes, and your favorite book to keep you occupied.

He walked into the room and noticed how quiet it was. Sam was quietly scribbling away in a notebook. You were curled up lying down, fast asleep. He swore his heart skipped a beat seeing you so peaceful.

Bucky set his bag down, tugging the blanket out. He nestled himself behind you on the couch, throwing the blanket over both of you.

He wrapped his arm snugly around your waist. Even while asleep, you leaned further into his touch. Sam had to fight back the smirk on his face.

You felt someone softly shake your shoulder, waking you up. “What’s wrong? Is it Joaquin?” You asked, squinting at the bright hospital lights.

“He’s out of surgery and awake. Everything went great. He’s here.” Bucky said, softly.

You fully sat up and saw Bucky and Sam standing up. They were several nurses wheeling Joaquin through the door.

As soon as Joaquin’s eyes landed on yours, he gave you a small smile. It made your heart swell. He was okay. He was still Joaquin— happy and upbeat Joaquin.

Once the nurses left, you raced to his side. “Can I give you a hug? I’m so relieved that you’re okay.” You asked him.

“C’mere, sis,” he said, holding his arms out. You gently gave him a hug— not wanting to hurt him.

“I’m glad you’re alright. You really scared us there for a while.” Sam said, squeezing Joaquin’s hand.

Then, Joaquin noticed Bucky standing behind you. “Oh uh…hey, Bucky. What’re you doing here?” Joaquin asked, confused. They knew each other and were friendly enough, but nothing beyond acquaintances.

Most of what Joaquin knew about Bucky, he knew through you and Sam and your friendships with Bucky.

“I heard about what happened on the news. I didn’t want you or your sister to be alone right now.” Bucky said, simply. His hand gently found its place on the small of your back.

“That’s really nice, man. I appreciate it.” He said, reaching out to shake Bucky’s hand.

You tried not to laugh as you saw the way Sam was smirking at you both. Bucky brushed off Sam’s look. This was the moment.

Probably best to do this while Joaquin was still on pain meds.

“While I’m here, I actually wanted to ask you a question.” Bucky started. Joaquin’s interest was peaked.

“I know you’re both as close as family gets. So, I wouldn’t do this without your blessing, but your sister is so special to me. I really would love your blessing to take her on a date.” Bucky said, nervously drumming his fingers on your back.

Joaquin furrowed his brows in confusion. The Winter Soldier wanted to date his sister? He hadn’t been around for all your years on the run, so he didn’t know anything about the romantic tension between the two of you.

He looked over at Sam. “The three of you are really close, so you’ve seen them together. Does he treat my sister right?” Joaquin asked Sam, knowing he’d be the expert on the subject.

Sam just smiled and nodded. Then, Joaquin looked at you, studying your expression. “You really like him, don’t you?” He asked, grinning at you. He was able to read you better than most people.

“Yeah, I do. I have for a really long time.” You said, smiling back at him.

“Whatever approval you need to make my sister happy, you have it.” Joaquin said, genuinely. You were beaming. You couldn’t help it. Bucky wrapped his arm around your waist, tugging you into his side.

“Feels kinda weird you asking me for my blessing when you’re old enough to be my great grandpa.” Joaquin joked.

Yep, he was back. Happy, upbeat Joaquin.

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[bweeeb]

NOTHING BETTER THAN REVENGE

Summary: The reader wants to show Pedro that he is the only one begging to cum.

warnings: same as the others, Fucking LIKE RABBITS. Get out of here if you don't like smut.

requests are open, I write anything!!!

Pedro had been cocky again.

All day.

Making those smug little comments.

Walking around shirtless like he didn’t know exactly what that did to you.

Touching you all the time. And worse? Acting like he was the one in charge.

So now?

Now you were going to show him what real control looked like.

He was lying on the bed — wrists tied loosely to the headboard with silk. Not tight enough to hurt.

Just tight enough to remind him: you own him tonight.And the worst part?

You hadn’t even touched his cock yet.

Just your fingers grazing his thighs.

Your mouth at his ear.

Your hips grinding just out of reach.

He was already hard. Red. Leaking.

You looked down at him with a wicked grin, one brow raised.

— Hmm… you’re not listening very well, papí. —

He groaned, shifting beneath you, hips twitching up for any friction.

You rolled your eyes like he was pathetic.

— What did I say about being good?—

— Fuck, baby, I’m trying, please—

— I just wanna touch you—

You let out a sharp, cruel laugh and slapped his thigh — not hard, but firm enough to make him gasp.

Then you leaned in, your lips brushing his ear, voice like satin-wrapped steel:

— Seems like you’re not old enough to missbehave…—

Your hand cupped his cock briefly.Just enough to make him buck.— …your dick keeps getting up like it has no manners. —

He whined. Actually whined.

Tried to reach for your hips, but the second he tugged on the restraints, you pulled back and sat up straight, crossing your arms.

— Ah-ah-ah.—

Your voice went ice cold.

— You don’t get to touch me.—

Pedro growled under his breath, eyes dark and furious — but the way his cock twitched said something else entirely.

— This is what you get for thinking you could fuck me three times and walk around like I wouldn’t take that personally. Silly —

You reached between your legs and slowly lowered yourself onto him — just the tip — then stopped.

His body arched.

He was throbbing. Desperate. Cursing in Spanish.

You moaned softly, pretending to enjoy it all for yourself.

— Mmm… I missed this.—

— You fucked me the day before yesterday old man. —

— I never get tired of you —

— Too bad, because you’re not allowed to come.—

Pedro’s mouth dropped open in disbelief.

— Baby, no no no no, please, let me come, I swear I’ll behave, I’ll be so fucking good, just let me—

— Shhh.—

You started riding him slow, hips moving in long, torturous rolls, hands in your own hair, not even looking at him.

Like he was just… a toy.

A cock.

A punishment.

He was panting now.

Trembling.

His arms strained against the restraints, but he didn’t dare disobey again.You came first — of course.

Loud.

Proud.

Fucking magnificent.

You dragged it out. Rubbed your clit right there on him, moaning shamelessly.

Soaking him.

And then? You stopped. Just like that.

Pulled off him.

Untied his wrists.

Grabbed your robe.

And walked out.

— Where are you going?! —

he shouted behind you, voice ragged.You looked over your shoulder and smirked:

— If your dick can’t behave, papí… it doesn’t get to finish.

Later That Night…You came back hours later — quiet, casual, wearing nothing but a silk slip.

Pedro was still lying there, hard, wrecked, frustrated.

He tried using his own hand, but nothing compared after you had already squeezed him with your sweet, hot pussy.

You climbed into bed, pulled back the covers, and laid next to him like nothing happened.

Then you rolled over, pressed your lips to his ear, and whispered:

— Now you can come.—

He nearly cried. He grabbed your waist and shoved his hard, weeping cock into your hole, he fucked you hard from the side like a needy rabbit, right next to your ear he moaned loudly,

— I'm going to shove fucking babies in you, darling—

grunting you moaned, grabbed the hair on the back of his neck and felt him lick the skin of your neck. — Cum inside of me, Pedro. Fuck. I'm obsessed with your dick —

— Oh baby, that's it. Fuck. Take all my cum. —

He groaned as he buried himself deep into your womb and made you shake with another orgasm.

— I love you.—

He murmured and kissed you softly before you both passed out.

[doliveiraa]

brat!skz x fem!reader headcannons

genre : smut, hella smut.

warnings : these headcanons are extremely explicit and NSFW, containing heavy sexual content, BDSM themes (edging, denial, restraint, dominance/submission dynamics), and emotional intensity.

1.0k+ words & 4.2k+ characters

a/n : uh first smut headcannons! i hope you guys enjoy, feedback and reblogs are appreciated!! ^^

p.s : please drink water while reading this ;)

p.s.s : and grab a snack, maybe some cheez its!

bang chan — 방찬

- talked back one too many times. gave you that cocky smirk like he didn’t think you’d do anything about it - now he’s tied up, panting, muscles twitching, and begging - “baby please, i’ll be good—i swear i’ll be good” - his thighs are trembling, face flushed, sweat beading on his chest - tries to act tough but he’s falling apart every time you stop right before he cums - mutters “fuck” under his breath every time you pull your hand away, like it physically hurts - kisses your hand like it’s sacred when you finally let him finish

lee know — 리노

- was being an unbearable brat all day. sassy comments, eye rolls, testing your patience - now he’s flat on his back, wrists pinned, whining through gritted teeth - “you think this is funny? you like watching me suffer?” - tries to glare at you but his body betrays him—hips twitching every time you slow down - bites his lip so hard it almost bleeds when you whisper “not yet” - hates how much he loves being denied. makes him feel helpless in the best way - when you finally let him cum, he moans like he’s dying. totally ruined. legs shaking.

changbin — 창빈

- got cocky. said “you need me more than i need you” with that smug grin - 20 minutes later he’s a mess. head thrown back, thighs clenched, begging for mercy - “please… please, i’m sorry… i was just playing…” - so sensitive he starts shaking every time you so much as breathe on his tip - keeps trying to thrust up but you hold him down by the hips - gasping and whimpering, desperate and twitchy, saying anything just to get you to let him finish - ends up moaning your name over and over like a prayer when he finally breaks

hyunjin — 현진

- gave you attitude in the car. full eye-roll, “whatever,” and tried to walk away from you - now he’s on his knees, hands behind his back, tears clinging to his lashes - “you’re so mean” he sobs, even though his cock is twitching every time you deny him - tries to hump the air like a needy little thing but you grab his chin and make him look at you - whines every time you say “not yet, baby” with that sweet little smile - completely broken by the end. messy hair, swollen lips, trembling thighs - thanks you when it’s over. like actually thanks you. “i needed that…”

han — 한

- was mouthing off all day. teasing you, saying you couldn’t handle him - now he’s biting his lip, back arching off the bed, begging like his life depends on it - “okay okay okay i’m sorry i’m sorry—please just let me cum, please” - gets hella loud. whines, gasps, half-laughs like he’s losing his mind - starts shaking when you edge him a fourth time, like his brain’s turning to mush - completely wrecked. ruined, flushed red to his chest, stuttering out apologies - sobs when he finally finishes. messy, desperate, ruined. you win.

felix — 필릭스

- sweet baby turned brat. crossed his arms, ignored your touches, acted distant all day - now he’s laid out under you, whimpering, tears spilling as you deny him again and again - “i’m sorry… i just wanted attention…” - his voice breaks every time he moans. so high-pitched and desperate - grabs the sheets so tight his knuckles go white - keeps saying “please, please, please” like a prayer, hips twitching every time you stop - when you finally let him cum, his body collapses. crying, clinging to you, whispering “thank you” like you saved him

seungmin — 승민

- gave you that smug smirk and a sarcastic “what are you gonna do about it?” - now he’s biting his lip, face red, fists clenched, trying so hard not to beg - “this is cruel” he grits out, but his hips won’t stop chasing your hand - tries to keep his pride intact but his voice cracks every time you edge him - you whisper “use your words” and he whimpers “please” like it’s breaking him - fully ruined by the end. pouty, swollen, flushed, eyes glassy mumbles “i hate you” under his breath but clings to you like he’s never letting go

jeongin — 정인

- bratty beyond belief. rolling his eyes, pushing your buttons, saying “what, are you mad?” - now he’s sprawled out, twitching, tears in his eyes, trying to be good for you - gasps like he’s drowning every time you stroke him and stop - “i-i didn’t mean it… i’m sorry… i won’t be like that again…” - doesn’t even realize he’s crying until you point it out. full-body shakes. lips parted. ruined. - begs so pretty. sweet, shaky little “please, please, please” - when you finally let him cum, he sobs into your shoulder, clinging to you like he’ll fall apart without you

doliveiraa ꪆৎ ― est. june '24 © do not copy or repost my content on other platforms