#thread: escaping together | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

anantaru · 3 months ago

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⋆. 𐙚 ̊ how they kiss you — love and deepspace

including. zayne, xavier, rafayel, sylus, caleb

genre. fem! reader, making out (quite sexual), body fondling, established relationship

⋆. 𐙚 ̊ zayne

there's always a subtle silence before you happen to feel it— you know? the way zayne watches your lips like he's studying anatomy again— not clinically, silly! but reverently, like he might carve the shape of your mouth into his memory.

so precise, so devout, it borders on madness. soaked in tension and lust— quite obsessive, don't you agree? almost grotesque in how deeply he desired you.

the man leans in, close enough for his breath to ghost over your skin as he abruptly stops, catching himself in the same course of action he tends to take, every damn time.

zayne held himself back like the act of restraint was the only thing keeping him from collapsing into you completely, succumbing to those pretty, warm lips of yours as something deep inside of him broke that night.

he's going deeper before pressing into your lips at last— his psyche, his shadows, the way the hunger on his tongue felt different than anyone else's as he cups your face like he's afraid of shattering it, mouth crashing into yours.

not messy, not wild, instead, devastatingly precise— and every stroke of his warm muscle felt like it's been rehearsed in secret, fantasized about in sinful dreams as his hand slides down your throat, thumb resting on your pulse like he's checking it— not for medical reasons, but for control.

the kiss deepens and sharpens at the edges of each lap and suckle of your bottom lip between his teeth as his body presses you to the nearest surface with a force just edging on subtle bruising— and when your fingers suddenly thread into his hair to taste him more, when you pull him harder into you— he groans low, a sound rattling from somewhere hidden and forbidden, yes, like something sacred within him was being exposed.

and well, in that exposé, zayne finds a terrible, exquisite relief in each slip and slide of your tongues intertwining, bodies stroking each other as though this was the only way he's ever known how to feel alive.

⋆. 𐙚 ̊ xavier

xavier touches you first— although not to grope, yet to ground himself with his palm on your shaking hip while his other hand brushes against your soft cheek, and that look on him which was revealed next haunted you— like he's seeing a future he doesn’t believe he deserves.

slow, searching, his lips coax across your bottom lip, the tension behind each suckle on it unbearable as he continues to trace yours like he's adamant to make it everlasting. your boyfriend grunted like restraint stretched thin inside his frame, like one more kiss might tip him over the edge into something more, well, feral? ugh, but he holds himself back of course.

yet just barely.

those kisses you shared weren't just random pecks here and there, they felt like confessions, truly, like a collapse of two loving hearts forming a dance of possession— each movement sharpening to the truth of what this relationship meant to him, all of it rooted in desire and lust, shadowed with emotional gravity and physical intensity of hands squeezing your flesh.

and you felt it, all of it— the tremble in his fingers, the quiet threat of his teeth brushing just behind every soft tug at your lip, as though even the smallest motion could unravel him further.

you arch into him, obediently feeling the low, guttural sound that escaped his throat— a half moan, a sound so faint it could almost be mistaken for a prayer, whispered to no god at all, but to the madness he cannot escape.

your lips stay close at all times, breathing hard against each other with foreheads pressed together, "i don't want to hurt you," his voice, thick with restraint, was taken hostage somewhere between a confession and collapse, yet his hands disobey him at last— sliding beneath your shirt with a quiet desperation, mapping the ridges of your shape like he's meant to be.

truly, if you let him keep going with those addictive kisses, he'll worship you until he forgets where he ends and you begin.

⋆. 𐙚 ̊ rafayel

hands in your hair, rafayel's lips were already open and panting, breath warm and uneven and jaw slacked, well, it's all then and there with no waiting, no warning— just the sudden, dizzying sensation of being devoured by the man you loved.

his tongue was everywhere on you— teasing you, curling and invading your mouth as he moans into your parted lips, pulling your lower lip between his teeth and laughing when you gasp out in slight shock— quite literally, the man loved to push you over the edge, he lived for the sweet, little responses you'd grace him with in return.

from being tangled in your hair to squeezed within your clothes, rafayel slides down further to cup your ass, squeezing the addicting mounds of flesh as you wince into his hold, "ugh, you taste like a bad decision," he smirks, whispering against your mouth, yet already leaning right back in.

before you could even response to him he kisses you harder, deeper, lapping and lapping and lapping his hefty tongue against your own as your hips were grinding against him just enough to make the room spin and your eyes roll back into your skull.

without a doubt, every second with him felt like falling and screaming and shattering all at once— fast at that, disoriented and inevitable when all you needed is for him to imbed you with his scent until there was nothing left of you to claim.

it's there when you realize that rafayel tasted like the sweetest sin that has ever existed, not kissing to seduce, but to ruin— and make sure you’re begging him for it.

for a slight second he pulls away just enough to look at your lips and what he's done to them— and would you look at that? your boyfriend adored the lusting sight of swollen, glistening, needy lips parted and puffed up, "baby, you're gonna be the death of me."

rafayel says it like it's a promise.

⋆. 𐙚 ̊ sylus

you can’t call this a kiss— no, not with the way sylus's mouth drags across yours like he's already lost the war against wanting you.

to call it a claim would be closer though, but even that sounds too civilized. there is nothing civil about the way his tongue parts your lips— wet, scorching, impatient, nothing gentle in the sting of his teeth catching your mouth, just enough to pull breath from your lungs and copper to your tongue.

he tastes it— even better, tastes you— and it makes something violent bloom in his chest as he growls out embarrassingly loud, not like an animal but like a man who's tasted divinity and was furious that he ever lived without it in the past.

his grip on your hips tighten as he drags you against him, feeling you up like shame didn't exist in his vocabulary, in fact, it quite literally didn't.

not a flicker of hesitation, not even the illusion of pause— only the dreadful inevitability of a hunger given form around his tongue, his lips moving with the certainty of something long premeditated, as if his body had been waiting its entire life for permission to devour you.

he doesn’t ask for allowance to be rougher, sylus knows he doesn’t need to.

his mouth licks into yours with a frenzied rhythm, like he’s trying to bury every unspeakable thought inside your throat as every shove, every bitten gasp, every ragged exhale that leaves his body was a hidden confession disguised as a dominating sin.

the man was not delicate. he was not kind. but he was true.

terrifyingly, brutally true.

furthermore, his tongue traces a wet line from your bottom lip, creeping toward your jaw, then dipping lower to your neck— infused with desperation and something dangerously raw.

his teeth find your skin at last— not out of need, no, but out of some dark impulse deep hidden beneath his heart, as if marking you up was the only act left that can prove he existed, that he's here, tethered to a body that's already unraveling.

"you have no fucking idea," he pants, his breath a jagged rhythm against your skin as if the act of inhaling and exhaling was the only thing that kept him secured— each exhalation a tremor, a faint admission of the madness threatening to spill over.

he smirks, "what you’ve done to me."

⋆. 𐙚 ̊ caleb

in the language of a yearning man, caleb doesn't speak— instead the silence clung to him like a second skin, as if words would shatter whatever fragile shell still held him upright.

as an alternative, his hands found your waist as he exhales deeply from his mouth when he feels your body— yet tentative at first, but with a pressure that deepens and sharpens, afterwards he leans in to kiss you.

not in a haste, no, not like a man chasing basic pleasure, but like a man aching with his mouth against yours— slow, burning, unbearably tender.

his lips taste of quiet torment, of years spent repressing the thing now trembling beneath his touch and the longer it goes on, the more unraveled he becomes— now here, his breath falters, his jaw tenses and when his tongue brushes up against your own needy one, it is with such aching slowness that it felt like a sin.

he grips your jaw softly, almost fearfully, as if he cannot believe you're letting him touch you as his other hand slips beneath the waistband of your pants— fingertips skimming over your bare flesh and squeezing at it like he's utterly worshipping you.

more and more, you want more but the kiss breaks open, becoming wet and open-mouthed, desperate and messy and ugh— caleb cannot stop and neither can you, even less when you whine at him all quietly and overstimulated, the kind of sound which made a man fall on his knees.

okay, he should pull away, correct? uh, before you'll both be unable to stop and take it further, you see the truth in that?

well, he doesn’t.

and neither do you.

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wonderlandwalker · 2 months ago

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Hell Hath no Fury like a Buckley

𝐧𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 / 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 / 𝐢𝐧𝐛𝐨𝐱 / 𝐩𝐭. 𝐈𝐈

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: steve harrington x buckley!reader 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 6.2k 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: there's exactly two thoughts left in Steve's brain: you, and the fact that he's about to majorly violate the bro code 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: the usual I guess, hopeless pining, smut, mostly those, seems the only writing style I have is 'falls desperately deeply in love at first sight' and I'm not in the mood to psychoanalyse it so here's more of that

𝐚/𝐧: was gonna work on this more but I had to commemorate Pope Francis' morbidly entertaining demise somehow x

Steve Harrington was many things—

Former King of Hawkins High (retired, thank you very much). Babysitter extraordinaire (unofficial title, of course, but the kids would back him up). And, according to Robin Buckley—his best friend, partner-in-crime, and personal tormentor—a ‘walking disaster with good hair’.

But right now?

Right now, he was fucking mortified.

Okay.

Wait—

Let’s rewind.

Five minutes ago, life had been simple: Steve had been doing his best impression of a responsible lifeguard, which mostly meant leaning against the chair with his sunglasses perched low, pretending he wasn’t counting the minutes until his shift ended and he could stop caring about pH levels. The Hawkins community pool was the same as ever— the sharp tang of sunscreen and chlorine in the air, kids cannonballing into the deep end, and Debbie — the one lifeguard who actually gave a shit about the rules— blowing her whistle at some poor kid for running. Steve?

Steve was here for two reasons. One: free access to the pool after hours — unofficial, of course—courtesy of Keith’s lack of managerial oversight. And two: A pay cheque that barely covers gas money but is still better than listening to his dad rant on to him about ‘loafing around all summer like a goddamn bum.’

And then—

Then he saw you.

Which, okay, is not that unusual— people come to the pool all the time. And it wasn’t that you stood out, not really. No, you were just— there. In a swimsuit like half the other girls, a loose cover-up tied around your hips, but fuck— As you stepped into the sunlight, it was like the universe had hit pause. You moved like a struck match in a room full of shadows—vivid, flickering, impossible to look away from. Everybody else blurred at the edges, cardboard cut-outs in your wake, but you? You burnt.

And Steve—God, Steve was already half in love with the way the light would destroy him. He knew the story. Knew how it ended. Orpheus wasn’t supposed to turn around. But you smiled at him, and suddenly he understood: some temptations aren’t meant to be resisted. They’re meant to unravel you, thread by thread, until you’re grateful for the ruin.

Oh, shit.

You were walking straight toward him.

Fuck.

Think, Harrington, think.

You looked familiar. Hawkins isn’t exactly a metropolis—if you’d gone to school here, he’d know you. Had you been at the summer fun fair? Sat behind him in chem sophomore year? Christ, this was bad. Steve—King Steve, who used to have the entire school catalogued in his peripheral vision—couldn’t even scrape together a fucking name. Maybe you were—

Your eyes met his—sharp enough to flay him open—and your smirk said you knew exactly how hard his brain was liquidating.

Double fuck.

You were smiling at him—Christ—that stagnant, astute curve of lips that already felt branded behind his eyelids, and he was staring. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. Some distant, rational part of his intellect screamed at him: say something cool. Say something cool.

Instead, all he could track was the way you tilted your head—that loose strand of hair escaping, catching sunlight like spun gold as it tumbled free. His fingers spasmed at his side with the sudden, visceral urge to reach out—to brush it back behind your ear with a touch too tender for whatever this was. The realisation made him feel violently stupid, like some second-rate rom-com hero about to monologue his feelings in the rain.

"Hey," you said, and your voice wrapped around him like smoke. Steve's pulse stuttered. "Have you seen Robin by any chance?"

The whiplash of it—the casual destruction of that moment—left his cerebrum sputtering like a dying engine.

Robin?

Why the hell were you asking about Robin?

Robin doesn’t have friends he didn’t know about. He is her best friend, which means he knows all her people—the band geeks, the weirdos from the record store, and even that one girl who could recite The Hobbit in Elvish. He’d met them all.

And yet, here you were, asking for her like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like you had the right to know her schedule. Like you—

His mouth moved faster than his brain. "She left to grab beers, like...five minutes ago."

"Figures," you hummed, rolling your eyes, but the corners of your mouth twitched—that tell-tale sign of years weathering Robin's particular brand of chaos. "She swore she'd meet me here, but I guess we're operating on Buckley Standard Time again."

Steve's thoughts screeched to a halt.

Buckley Standard Time.

That was—

No. That couldn't be right. Because that was his bit. Well, technically it was their bit — his and Robin’s— the joke he'd made after she'd shown up forty minutes late to their shift because she'd "gotten into a debate about whether hot dogs were sandwiches with some guy at the record store."

He'd thought that was theirs. Just theirs.

But you knew it.

Which meant—

Oh shit.

Oh, no.

His stomach dropped like he’d just crested the first hill of a rollercoaster—that awful, weightless second before the plunge. Because there were only two kinds of people who knew Buckley Standard Time: him, and someone who’d known Robin longer than he had. And unless you were some kind of psychic super-stalker (which, given the way his heart was currently trying to break through his ribs, he might’ve honestly preferred), that left only one earth-shattering possibility.

His eyes flicked over your face again, searching for it—the resemblance. The same sharp wit tucked into the corner of your smile. The identical nose scrunch when you laughed. Christ, how had he missed it? He’d been too busy being dazzled, too busy cataloguing the way sunlight caught in your eyes, to notice the nuclear bomb of a truth staring him in the face.

“Y-you’re—” Steve cleared his throat, trying to wrestle his voice into something resembling casual indifference. It came out closer to a pubescent seagull. “You’re Robin’s…?”

“Twin.Yeah.” Your grin widened, head tilting in a way that should’ve had a government warning: Caution: May cause permanent heart palpitations.

Holy.

Shit.

He’d heard about you, of course—the mythical other half of Robin’s childhood stories, the shadow in the Polaroids stuffed in her wallet. He’d even known you were coming to town for the summer. But in his mind, he’d just pictured… Robin 2.0. Same chaos, different zip code. But meeting you in person was a different kind of disaster.

Not only were you Robin’s sister—fully, irrevocably off-limits by the Bro Code in every conceivable universe—but he’d just spent the past two minutes mentally drafting embarrassingly bad poetry about how your eyes reminded him of...something poetic (he hadn't gotten that far).

And Robin?

Robin was going to murder him.

Slowly. Painfully. With that special look of disappointment she reserved exclusively for when he was being “particularly Harrington-ish”.

"Oh," he said, brilliantly. "Cool. That's—cool." The words hung in the air like particularly unimpressive confetti. You raised one eyebrow, clearly savouring the spectacle of smooth talking. Steve Harrington reduced to a floundering mess. "You okay there?"

"Yep. Great. Never better." His grip on the lifeguard chair tightened until the plastic creaked ominously. "Just, uh—didn't know Robin had a sister." Stupid. Stupidstupidstupid—

The moment the words left his mouth, your face twitched—part amusement, part genuine bewilderment. “Really?” For a second he wondered if he should just fucking bolt, but then your smile returned, and he forgot how his lungs worked. "I've been away at college," you explained, shifting your weight just enough to make the hem of your cover-up ride up, and Steve suddenly developed an intense fascination with the chlorine dispenser behind you, his ears burning crimson. "But I'm back for the summer, and Robin promised me pool privileges." You leaned in, dropping your voice to a conspiratorial whisper that sent shivers down his spine. "Apparently, you're the guy to sweet-talk for after-hours access."

Sweet-talk.

You wanted to sweet-talk him.

Oh no. Oh no, no, no.

His mouth opened, ready to blurt something catastrophically eager like, "You don't even need to sweet-talk me; I'd drain the pool and refill it with champagne if you asked," when—

"There you are!"

Robin materialised like some kind of vengeful angel, arms loaded with a six-pack and a half-eaten bag of chips. "I see you two already met." Her expression cycled from relief at spotting you to instant suspicion as her gaze darted between your amused smile and Steve's deer-in-headlights-meets-fish-out-of-water-meets-man-who-just-remembered-he-left-the-stove-on panic. "Why does Steve look like he's about to pass out?" She asked flatly, already exhausted. "Earth to Harrington. You good?" Robin waved a hand in front of his glazed-over eyes, then shot you a look. "This guy's supposed to save lives? Yeah, right."

Which brings us back to fucking mortified.

Robin doesn’t even wait for you to reach the car, having commandeered you on an urgent towel retrieval mission she absolutely (and suspiciously) couldn’t handle herself. One second Steve's watching you go, the next he's being manhandled behind the snack bar like a misbehaving golden retriever, Robin's fingers digging into his bicep like she’s trying to jump-start his malfunctioning brain through sheer force. "What the fuck is up with you?" She hisses, voice low enough that it bypasses his eardrums and vibrates directly in his panic centre. Her free hand gestures wildly toward the parking lot. "Why are you acting so weird?”

Steve opens his mouth. Closes it. His throat makes a noise like a dial-up modem trying to connect. "I wasn't—" Robin's eyes narrow into lethal slits. "You were." She releases his arm only to jab a finger against his sternum hard enough to leave a bruise. "The moment she walked in, you short-circuited so hard I could smell burning wiring. You called the pool ladder ‘ma’am’. Twice."

Steve’s pulse kicks into overdrive. “What? I was just—being nice.” He gestures vaguely at the pool, as if that explains anything. “I’m a nice guy, Robin. It’s a thing I do.” She scoffs, nostrils flaring. “Harrington, I’ve seen your ‘nice’. This wasn’t ‘nice’. This was—” She makes a frantic explosion motion with her hands, complete with a “pshooo!” sound effect. “—full-system meltdown ‘nice’. You were sweating.”

“It’s July,” he protests weakly.

“You never sweat.”

“I always sweat!”

“You once fought a demodog in a leather jacket and came out dewy at most.”

Steve opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. “That’s— that’s not—” But before he can dig his grave any deeper, you reappear, sauntering over with a smirk that spells nothing but trouble. “Everything alright over here?” Robin’s grip on his arm tightens like a warning. “Great!” she chirps, voice suddenly three octaves too high. “Steve was just telling me how thrilled he is to have another Buckley around.”

Steve’s smile is less charming Harrington grin and more man awaiting execution. “Thrilled”, he croaks. “Yep. So. So thrilled.” Your grin widens at his words—slow, studious, dangerous. "Yeah?" You step closer, and Steve's heart launches into an Olympic-grade gymnastics routine—triple backflip, perfect landing, gold medal in catastrophic panic. "Because I was just thinking..." Your finger taps a thoughtful rhythm against your chin. "...about all that quality time we'll be sharing. Robin says you throw legendary parties."

Steve’s brain flatlines. Parties. Together. You. Him. Oh God.

Across from him, Robin’s gaze darts between the two of you, her expression morphing from suspicion to outright dread.

Steve's Adam's apple bobs like it's trying to flee his throat. She knows. Christ, she definitely knows. He has just enough coherent thought left to realise:

He is so spectacularly, catastrophically, irrevocably fucked.

He spends the rest of the week trying to avoid you. Trying being the key word here. The universe, it seems, has other plans.

Because you're everywhere—a constant, maddening presence burning at the edges of his vision like the ghost of a flashlight in the dark. He swears you're doing it on purpose, catching his eye just to watch him fumble, that sly smile playing at the corners of your lips every time his pulse stutters under your gaze. And God, does it stutter.

You’re at the impromptu movie night Nancy throws, wedged between Robin and Eddie on the couch, laughing as you recall some childhood disaster involving a stolen bike, a jar of peanut butter, and—if Robin’s dramatic interruptions are to be believed—a "very pissed-off raccoon with a personal vendetta."

"Way more traumatic than this," you declare, gesturing at the slasher flick on the screen where some poor extra is meeting their gory demise. Steve—who’s stranded in the armchair like some sombre, forgotten puppy—can’t manage to join in. Not when your laughter does things to his pulse that’s sure to send him into cardiac arrest any day now.

But then your knee brushes against Eddie’s as you lean forward to grab a handful of popcorn, and something hot and irrational coils in Steve’s gut. It’s stupid—Eddie’s just a friend, and it’s not like he has any claim over you—but the way your fingers linger near Eddie’s wrist for half a second too long makes Steve’s jaw clench.

Then there's the Hawkins High tailgate, where the lukewarm beer and golden-hour sunlight are the real stars of the show – not the Tigers' tragic losing streak. Steve leans against his BMW, nursing a drink and trying to convince himself that he’s here for school spirit— he’s lying. He’s so fucking obvious about it that Robin’s been giving him that look all afternoon—the one that says, ”I will skin you alive if you make this weird.”

And like his personal reckoning—you appear. One second, he’s staring blankly ahead, and the next, you’re sliding onto the hood of his car like you own it, all long legs and lazy smiles. The dying sun paints your skin in hues of amber and gold, catching on the delicate bend of your collarbone and the smooth plane of your thighs where your cut-off shorts ride up.

Christ.

He wants to map every inch of you with his mouth, starting at the delicate dip of your ankle—that vulnerable hollow where his lips could linger—then leisurely, torturously working his way up. Up the taut line of your calf, tracing the sensitive bend of your knee with his tongue. Higher still, along the trembling skin of your inner thigh, where his teeth might graze just to feel you shiver. An unhurried pilgrimage of worship, every gasp and hitch of your breath another sacred waypoint in his journey.

”Dude, you’re, like, actually drooling.” Dustin’s voice cuts through his increasingly inappropriate thoughts. Steve chokes on his drink, beer burning his sinuses as he wheezes, ”What? No, I’m not—!” But Dustin just raises his eyebrows, impervious. ”Uh-huh. Sure.” And then Robin’s there. ”So!” she chirps, stealing Steve’s beer right out of his hand. ”Who’s ready to watch our team get slaughtered?” You hum softly in your throat – a vibration Steve feels more than hears – as you tilt your head toward him. The calculated brush of your knee against his thigh burns through the denim between you, lingering just a second too long to be accidental. His breath catches when you don't pull away, your leg warm and insistent against his.

He’s so screwed.

Even as the midday sun is brutal at the Hawkins pool, he barely feels it—not when you’re walking toward his lifeguard chair with that look in your eyes —the mischievous Buckley spark.

You hold up the sunscreen bottle , tilting your head with a smile of practiced innocence. "Can you help me?" Before he can answer, you're already turning—presenting your back to him where the strings of your bikini top form a delicate, infuriating knot. "I can't reach," you add, voice dripping with false helplessness.

Steve's soul nearly leaves him: "I— You—Robin can—" "Robin's allergic to coconut oil," you lie effortlessly, glancing over your shoulder. The sunlight catches the curve of your shoulder blade, the flutter of your lashes. His mouth goes desert-dry. "And you are the lifeguard." You let the implication hang between you like the summer heat. "Isn't it your job to protect me?"

Fuck.

His hands tremble as he squeezes sunscreen onto his palms, the lotion warm from the sun. When his fingers finally make contact with your skin, you hum—soft, satisfied—and he swears you lean into his touch, just slightly. The sound goes straight to his gut, hot and insistent. His thumbs press into the dip of your spine, dragging sluggish circles that have no business being that deliberate. “You missed a spot,” you murmur, shifting just enough that his fingers brush the edge of your bikini tie. Steve’s breath comes ragged. This is torture.

And now? Now the bass from Tina’s stereo thrums through the floor, rattling Steve’s bones like a second heartbeat. The air is thick with sweat and cheap beer, the kind of chaos he usually lives for—except tonight, his entire world has narrowed down to you.

All evening, he’s been trapped in a loop of stolen glances and half-formed hopes, wondering if the way your eyes linger on him means something or if he’s just another fool drunk on wishful thinking. Is this real? Is this worth it? The questions gnaw at him, unanswered, even as he drains the last of his beer and sets the bottle down with a clink. And then, as if summoned by his desperation, you’re there. Emerging beside him like smoke, you lean into the wall, your shoulder pressing against his, and suddenly—the music, the crowd, the entire fucking room might as well not exist.

"Trying to hide from me, Harrington?" You taunt, tipping your drink to your lips. The bottle’s rim glistens under the dim light, and your mouth—pink, slow, meticulous—lingers there for a beat too long. It’s a calculated assault on what little composure he has left. His throat goes dry.

“Would it work if I were?” He shoots back, aiming for casual and missing by a mile. His voice is rougher than he intended, betraying the way his pulse jumps under his skin. You laugh, low and keen, before stepping into his space. Your palm lands on his chest, searing through the fabric of his shirt. “Probably not.” You admit, fingers crooking slightly—testing, teasing—and he knows you can feel the frantic hammering of his heart beneath your touch.

“You know,” you murmur, leaning in until your breath ghosts his jaw, “Robin talks about you all the time.”

His breath hitches.

This is dangerous.

Your knee brushes his thigh, prudent and—holy shit—his thoughts dissolve into static. “But she never mentioned how cute you are when you’re flustered.” The words curl into his ear, sweet and lethal. He should say something clever, something smooth, but all he can manage is a shaky exhale as your fingers trail up to his collarbone, tracing the edge of his shirt. You’re close enough now that he can smell the jasmine of your perfume and the faint tang of gin on your tongue. Your hips tilting, just a fraction, and— “I wonder”, you whisper, lips grazing the shell of his ear, “what else I don’t know yet.”

Before he can respond—before he can even breathe—you’re leaning in, your nose almost brushing his. His hand lifts—to pull you closer? To push you away? —when—

"Oh my God."

Robin’s voice shatters the moment as she stands there, arms crossed, looking done. “I leave you two alone for five minutes—”

Steve jerks back like he’s been burnt. "Robin! Hey! We were just—"

"—about to make my life a living hell?"

Steve’s mouth snaps shut, his fingers flexing at his sides like he’s still debating whether to reach for you again, and his gaze flickers to your lips — just for a moment— before he forces a laugh, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. The gesture does nothing to hide the flush creeping up his throat. “Come on,” he deflects, “We were just talking.”

Robin raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. "Uh-huh. And 'talking' now involves you two looking like you’re about to re-enact Dirty Dancing in the middle of the living room?" Steve can feel your pulse kick where your thigh brushes against his, but you don’t back down. You’re clearly used to these sparring matches with Robin, a rhythm he doesn’t yet know the steps to, and he’s equal parts terrified and intrigued.

"Maybe you should’ve knocked," you shoot back, grinning wider when Robin’s jaw drops and Steve’s composure nosedives like a bird that just noticed the window isn’t open.

"Nope.��No. Absolutely not." Robin jabs a finger between the two of you like she’s warding off evil. "I refuse to be the third wheel in whatever… this is." She spins toward the kitchen with enough dramatic flair to create wind resistance. "I'm getting another drink," she announces over her shoulder. "Or seven. Alone. Like the abandoned best friend in every fucking rom-com."

Steve takes a half-step forward. "Rob—"

"Save it, Dingus." She pauses, levelling you both with a glare that’s equal parts warning and surrender. "Ground rules," she announces, holding up a finger. "You—" The finger jabs at Steve's chest. “If you hurt my sister, I’ll give you a live demonstration of why The Texas Chainsaw Massacre wasn’t rated PG. Spoiler: It’s the bone saws.” Her finger swings to you, and Steve can practically hear your heartbeat kick into overdrive against his side. "And you—if you give him another existential crisis, I'm telling Mom you're the one who broke Grandma's urn and that you're the reason we had to get the couch steam-cleaned in '82."

Then she’s gone, swallowed by the noise of the party.

The silence between you is thick, charged. Steve exhales, slow and shaky, before turning back to you. The air crackles—Robin’s interruption only fanned the flames, and now it licks at his skin, relentless. His voice comes out rough, just this side of breaking: "She’s never gonna let me live this down." You bite your lip, stepping closer. The scent of your perfume coils around him, dizzying. "Then we might as well give her something real to complain about," you murmur, lips grazing the shell of his ear. His breath stutters when your fingers skate up his throat, nails scraping just barely over his stubble. A whimper claws its way out of him, raw and unbidden. "Christ. You’re killin’ me here." You grin, all teeth. "Good." Your thumb brushes the frantic pulse under his jaw. "We’ve got about twelve minutes until she storms back. Better make ‘em count."

This time, when you lean in, there’s no one to stop you, just the muffled clink of Robin angrily rearranging liquor bottles in the kitchen. Steve finally—fucking finally—learns what you taste like (gin and mint and something addicting), how your lips feel against his (softer than he imagined, but demanding, hungry), and how the dip of your waist fits under his palms like it was made for him. And Christ—the sound you make when he pulls you flush against him, a moan clawing its way up your throat, is enough to unravel him completely.

His brain, stuck on a loading screen for days, finally processes one coherent thought:

Fuck it.

Steve's hand fists in your hair, dragging you closer—Christ, not close enough—until your shared breath turns jagged. Just as he tilts his head to finally taste you properly, you pull back. His stomach plummets like a failed carnival ride. For one gut-twisting second, he's certain he's ruined it—misread the way your body arched against his, all heat and hunger, like you wanted to melt into his skin. Then your fingers lock around his wrist, nails biting just shy of pain, and the look you give him isn't hesitation—it's wildfire. "C'mere," you murmur, already walking down the hallway, tugging him along. Steve doesn't think; his body moves before his mind catches up, pulled by the magnetism of your touch.

The party dissolves into white noise—drowned out by the hammering rhythm of his pulse. Every passive draw of your thumb against his skin is a brand-new dare, burning straight through to his sternum. The hallway diminishes around you, lit only by a sputtering bulb that throws strobe-light shadows across your face. He doesn't miss the way your teeth sink into your lower lip as you glance at the bathroom door—or how your grip tightens like you're fighting the urge to sprint the last few steps.

Then you're shoving him inside, all impatient hands and shared momentum. The door clicks shut behind you with finality, sealing you both in the dark. Somewhere outside, a cheer goes up—maybe for the keg stand, maybe for the universe laughing at how thoroughly Steve Harrington is about to lose his goddamn mind.

The space is cramped, the air thick with the odour of soap and the lingering sweetness of someone’s perfume. The sink digs into his lower back, cold enough to make him hiss—but then your hands are on him, warm and demanding, and he forgets everything else. Forgets the way your thighs had tensed when he licked the salt off his hand before taking a shot. Forgets the way you’d watched his throat bob as he laughed at one of Robin’s jokes. Forgets the way you’d nearly choked on your own tongue when he’d rolled up his sleeves in the kitchen, forearms flexing as he scooped ice into a cup. The party’s bass thrums through the walls, a distant echo beneath the serrated sound of his own breathing and the slick noise of your mouth on his skin. Christ, he hopes the music’s loud enough to drown out the way you whimper when he sucks at your pulse point.

“You’ve been driving me crazy all night,” you admit, voice low, and the crude honesty in it makes his throat go dry. Your fingers dig into his hips, pulling him closer. “All week”, you correct, and suddenly he’s replaying every glance, every brush of contact: the way you’d “tripped” into his side at the pool, how you’d lingered in his space after movie night, your knee pressed to his thigh for a full thirty minutes before Robin kicked you both off her couch. The memory of your breath on his neck when you’d leaned over his shoulder to steal a fry at the diner—had you always smelt this good?

Steve’s hands trail up your waist, thumbs carving possessive lines into that sliver of exposed skin where your shirt’s ridden up. “Yeah?” he rasps, voice wrecked—drunk on the way your breath hitches, on the way your ribs expand under his palms like you’re already starving for it. “Funny. I thought I was the one losing my damn mind.” You hum—a quiet, perceptive sound—before inching your lips along the column of his throat. He feels the vibration of it like a live wire down his spine, sparking at every vertebra. “Show me,” you murmur against his pulse, and the challenge in it sends his blood south so fast he gets lightheaded. It’s all the permission he needs.

One hand fists in your hair, wrenching your head back as he crashes into you. This kiss isn’t like before—no teasing, no hesitation—just heat and teeth and the slick, filthy slide of your tongue against his. He swallows your whimper when his other hand slips under your shirt, palm skimming the bare dip of your waist. Christ. The whimper you let out when his fingers dig into your hip isn’t just sound. It’s a bloody revelation.

Steve knows he’s on borrowed time. Robin’s sharp and observant—she’ll come looking sooner rather than later, and when she does, she’ll take one look at his flushed face and your swollen lips and know. The thought should sober him up, but right now? He doesn’t give a shit. All that matters is the way your nails bite into his shoulders, the way you gasp when he nips your lower lip, and the way your body fits against his like you were carved from the same damn stone. And when you roll your hips against his—slow, deliberate, maddening—his grip tightens, fingers digging into your waist hard enough to bruise. His voice is rough, wrecked, barely recognisable when he growls against your mouth: "This isn't exactly how I pictured our first time."

The words tear from Steve's throat, rough and wrecked—a confession to his sinful thoughts. The second they hit air, he freezes. Shit.

But you—Christ, you—just beam like you've won the lottery, dragging your teeth over his swollen bottom lip in a way that makes his knees threaten to buckle. "You pictured our first time?" Your voice drips with delight, thumb brushing the frantic pulse in his neck. Heat floods his cheeks, but you don't let him recover. You crash into him, kissing him so hard his back slams against the tiled wall. His hands move on pure instinct—lifting you onto the sink with a grunt, fingers skating up the soft underside of your thighs like he's memorising the map of you. When they dig in, kneading with a hunger that surprises even him, you moan directly into his mouth, and the sound goes straight to his dick.

You moan, and the sound tears something primal from his chest—a growl that rumbles against your lips, vibrating through you. "How about we save your ideal first time for later?" You murmur against him, biting his lip just hard enough to make him jerk against you. Your voice drops to a whisper, all heat and promise: "And focus on fucking my brains out in the next ten minutes?"

Steve's resolve doesn't just shatter—it disintegrates. Any pretence of patience evaporates as his hands find your waist, fingers pressing bruises into your hips that you'll savour tomorrow. His mouth crashes into yours again, but this time he's a man on a mission. He charts your skin like territory to be conquered—the sharp line of your jaw, the salt-slick column of your throat, the frantic flutter of your pulse beneath his tongue. When he reaches the swell of your cleavage, you arch into him with a gasp that turns into a whine as his teeth scrape delicate skin. Your fingers are already working at his belt, tugging with impatient urgency.

"Steve—"

"Fuck," he rasps, pulling back just enough to watch your face. "You sound even better than I imagined." And Christ, he has imagined this—in the shower, trying to relieve the ache with his hand, in his bed with the sheets tangled around his thighs, in the fucking Family Video break room when you'd leaned too close to reach a tape. Every fantasy pales in comparison to the reality of your nails digging into his hips as he shoves his jeans down just enough to free himself. Your hand wraps around him in one smooth motion, and for one blinding second, the world narrows to the slick heat of your fingers, the way your thumb swipes over the head just to watch his abs clench.

If this is heaven, he'll sign his own damn death warrant.

But then—then—you spin him around with surprising strength, dropping to your knees on the bath mat. The cool tile bites into his palms as he braces against the sink, but all he can focus on is the way your breath ghosts over him, the way your eyes lock onto his as your tongue—

Jesus.

Fucking.

Christ.

His vision fractures at the edges, tunnelling until the universe condenses to three points: the wicked curve of your lips, the flutter of your lashes against your skin, and the sinful press of your tongue where he needs it most. For one suspended, blasphemous moment, Steve's convinced Robin actually killed him—because there's no earthly way this is real: your mouth sinking onto him like you've been starving for it, hot and wet and perfect, swallowing him down to the hilt with a vibration that travels straight to his fucking spine. The sound you make—a muffled, content hum around him as he hits the back of your throat—sends a full-body shudder through him.

Holy mother of God.

He knows better than to look. He knows he shouldn’t—but he does anyway, helpless as a marionette with its strings cut—

Big mistake.

Because now he's watching, really watching, as your lips stretch obscenely around him, as your throat works to take him deeper. Your eyes lock onto his, crinkled at the corners with vicious amusement as you take him deeper, and shit, suddenly he’s sixteen again, stumbling across his first Playboy, heart racing and palms sweating. Except now it’s your mouth, your knowing gaze scalding him hotter than July asphalt as you savour every choked noise he can’t suppress. He should say something, should at least try to form words, but all his head does is thud back again. That look alone—like you’re cataloguing his every twitch and heave—threatens to spill him into your throat right fucking now. If he doesn’t—

A burst of laughter ricochets down the hall, sudden and too close. Your fingers tighten reflexively around the base of him, nails grazing the sensitive skin there, and Steve’s entire body tenses like a bowstring drawn too tight, but his hips jerk forward before he can stop them, dragging a ragged groan from him.

“Fuck—we have to be quiet,” he rasps, but you just smirk around him, all devilish intent, dragging your tongue along his underside in a measured, filthy stripe that makes his vision blur at the edges. His legs actually cave in; he has to brace a forearm against the wall to stay upright.

It’s agony.

It’s ecstasy.

Then your eyes flutter shut, and the soft, satisfied hum you let out vibrates through him straight to his spine. His fingers fist in your hair—gentle, got to be gentle—but his hips jerk of their own accord, chasing the sinful heat of your mouth like it’s his only chance at salvation. “Fuck, sweetheart,” he chokes, voice shredded. “You’re gonna fucking ruin me.” And he means it. Because if this is what you do to him in some shitty bathroom, with Robin and half the party just beyond the door—Then what happens when he gets you alone? His mind whites out, fever-bright with the images: Pinning you against the first available surface—his bed, his car, the fucking kitchen counter—anything to finally take what you’ve been tormenting him with. Peeling you out of your clothes with agonising slowness, just to hear you whine and beg for his name. His mouth on every patch of skin he’s watched you expose all summer—the dip of your collarbone, the inside of your thighs, that spot behind your ear that makes you gasp when he accidentally brushes it. The way you’d clench around him when he finally sinks in, tight and desperate after an eternity of stolen glances. The filth he’d whisper in your ear: “Knew you’d take me so fucking good.”

“Christ,” he grits out, hips stuttering as you swallow him deeper. His knuckles tensing against the sink. “You’re so fucking—”

A sharp knock at the door interrupts him.

“Hey, dipshits!” Robin’s voice slices through the haze, sharp with accusation. "You better not be doing what I think you’re doing in there."

Steve’s head thunks back against the wall. Goddamn it.

His entire body locks up, every muscle pulled taut between the mind-numbing pleasure of your mouth and the very real possibility of Robin kicking the door in. His fingers twist tighter in your hair—not to stop you, never to stop you, but because if he doesn’t anchor to something, he might genuinely combust. The bathroom light flickers overhead, casting shadows against your cheeks as you glance up at him, and—fuck—he’s never seen anything more obscene.

"Shit," he hisses, voice shredded. "Fuck, fuck—" The litany spills from him like a prayer, like a curse, like heresy. You pull off just enough to smirk up at him, lips slick and swollen, and the sight alone nearly undoes him. "We should stop," you murmur—liar, fucking liar—your breath scorching his skin. Your tongue grazes his tip as you speak, and Steve sees actual stars. He groans, low and wounded, but his thumb trails over your bottom lip anyway, smearing spit as he claims the wetness there. "Yeah. Yeah, we—" Another knock, louder this time, rattling the doorframe.

"I swear to God, Harrington," Robin’s voice cuts through the wood, "if you’re defiling my sister in there, I’m replacing your hairspray with Nair."

You pull back just enough to make him ache, and Steve’s breath hisses through his teeth—sharp, frustrated, barely holding back something far filthier. His hands twitch at your waist like he’s debating dragging you right back, but all he does is adjust himself with a rough groan, his jeans straining. When his gaze locks onto yours, it’s wildfire in the dark, pupils swallowing every last bit of reason. "This isn’t over." The words scrape out of him like a match strike, sulfur-sharp and spark-ready.

A smirk curls your lips as you stand, lips grazing the stubble along his jaw. The shudder it pulls from him is downright criminal.

"Better not be," you murmur against his skin, your tongue swiping the sting from his skin, sweet as poisoned candy. "Or I’ll finish what you started on my own—and trust me, you’ll lie awake trying and failing to picture it half as vividly as it’ll sound."

Steve’s breath catches. "Christ," he mutters, dragging a hand down his face. He’s half-hard, wholly ruined, and absolutely fucked when you step back, looking far too innocent for someone who just had their mouth on—

The door flies open under Robin’s impatient fist. Steve barely has time to yank it wider before she’s glaring up at him, arms crossed. But Steve only has one thought consuming him:

Later.

[pt. II]

2K notes · View notes

dior-luxury · 2 months ago

Note

i JUST saw your reverse kiss and make out fic and i LOVE THEM is it okay for you to do the same for the rest of the cast plssss 💖

Kiss And Makeout *FLIPPED

( ✧ ) ────── parent stories . fluff - gn!reader .

- [𝐜𝐡.] riddle . ace . deuce . jamil . idia . silver

- [𝐩:𝐬] ~Fluff with a Dash of Heat . Emotional Comfort . Bad Day Comfort (for Riddle, Deuce, Silver, Jamil) . Impulsive Behavior (Ace, Idia, Jamil) . Suggestive Themes . Kissing . Emotional Vulnerability . Anxiety/Insecurity Mention . Possessive Behavior . Flustered/Desperate Behavior . Unexpected Boldness .

Note: I think you guys want me to make a second part... but I don't know 🤭. Alright, your guys' wishes have come true! Here is part two!!! (≧◡≦) ♡ Hope you guys enjoy it like the first one~

Riddle Rosehearts

It had been one of those days. Riddle had been holding it together by the finest thread of willpower and discipline. His prefect duties had dragged longer than expected, a few underclassmen had dared to ignore the Queen’s Law No. 89 about corridor traffic flow, and worst of all, someone spilled rose jam on one of the unbirthday party table linens.

By the time you found him pacing the Rose Garden, cheeks flushed with frustration and lips pressed into a hard line, he was seconds from snapping.

“Riddle,” you called softly.

His head snapped toward you. That stern expression flickered just for a moment. “I don’t have time—”

You took a step closer. “You’re pushing yourself too hard.”

And that did it. Something broke.

Without a word, he grabbed your hand—firm, but not rough—and began walking. You barely had time to react as he led you down the corridor, past classrooms, past portraits whose eyes seemed far too nosey, and toward a supply closet tucked away behind the alchemy wing. The moment the door shut behind you, he turned the lock with a soft click.

You barely had time to question before he pinned you gently but with urgency against the shelf-lined wall. His eyes flickered with something between anger and desire.

“I need this,” he breathed, his voice strained. “You.”

He kissed you like he was trying to drown out the world. No rules. No order. Just the rush of lips on lips, and the way his hands found your waist like he was anchoring himself. Riddle wasn’t usually this desperate—not this untethered—but when your fingers tangled into his hair and you kissed him back just as fiercely, a low, almost uncharacteristic noise escaped from his throat.

One of the brooms clattered from the shelf beside you, but neither of you paid it any mind.

Minutes felt like moments. He eventually pulled back, forehead pressed to yours, breath shallow. His usually perfect uniform was wrinkled, his collar askew, hair a mess.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “That was… unbecoming.”

But you smiled, brushing a thumb over the pink hue of his cheek. “It was perfect.”

His eyes softened. “Only you can calm me like this.”

Ace Trappola

Ace had been flirting with you all day. That cocky smirk, the sly touches when no one was looking, the way he leaned way too close during lunch and whispered, “You’re making it real hard to focus, y’know.”

You’d rolled your eyes. “You never focus anyway.”

“Yeah, but now I have a good excuse.”

He’d been plotting this. You could tell by the glint in his eye—Ace wasn’t exactly subtle. So when you walked past an empty classroom on your way to your dorm and felt someone tug you by the wrist and yank you inside, it wasn’t a surprise. Not really. What was surprising was just how fast he shut the door, turned the lock, and kissed you like he hadn’t seen you in months.

“Missed you,” he mumbled between kisses, pressing you back against a desk. “Even though I literally saw you like an hour ago.”

You laughed, breath hitching as he nipped at your bottom lip. “You’re such a idiot.”

“Yeah, but I’m your idiot.” His grin turned into another kiss, deeper this time, his hands sliding along your hips like he couldn’t get close enough.

He tasted like cinnamon gum and just a little trouble.

One of his hands slid under your blazer, fingers toying with the hem of your shirt while his other hand cupped your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek as he tilted your head to kiss you better. He kissed like a tease—playful, slow, then suddenly intense enough to leave you dizzy.

“You drive me crazy, y’know that?” he whispered against your lips. “Been thinking about this all day. Like, do you try to distract me or are you just naturally irresistible?”

“Shut up,” you muttered, pulling him in for another kiss.

He did. But not without a smug little chuckle rumbling in his chest.

Eventually, when the risk of someone catching you got just a little too real, Ace pulled back, panting and flushed. He grinned down at you, wiping a smudge of gloss from your lip with his thumb.

“We should probably go before Crowley shows up and gives me detention again.”

You smirked. “Worth it?”

“Hell yeah.”

Deuce Spade

Deuce tried. He really did. He studied for the test. He kept his nose clean. He even avoided Ace’s latest dumb scheme. But the world had other plans.

Professor Vargas announced a surprise pop quiz—on a unit they barely covered. Then a potion exploded in his face during lab. And just when he thought he could walk it off, he overheard a couple of older students talking about how “guys like him never amount to anything.”

By the time you found him hunched on a bench outside the classroom building, he wasn’t saying much. Just… clenching his fists like he was one second from punching the sky.

“Deuce,” you said gently, placing a hand on his shoulder.

He looked up, and for a second, his tough-guy mask cracked. His eyes were red. From smoke? Anger? You weren’t sure.

“I—I’m fine,” he said quickly. Too quickly. “I just—needed air. It’s dumb.”

You crouched in front of him. “What happened?”

And that did it. The floodgates opened.

He told you everything—rushed and frustrated, hands flailing as he vented. “I try so hard, but it’s like… one thing goes wrong and suddenly I’m that guy again. The delinquent. The screw-up. No one thinks I’ll ever change.”

You grabbed his hand. “I do.”

That’s when his expression shifted. Like you’d said the one thing he didn’t realize he needed to hear. And without another word, he stood up, pulled you to your feet, and led you quickly—not even glancing around—into the nearest empty classroom.

The door barely shut before he turned around, eyes stormy and locked on you.

“I… I just—can I—?”

You didn’t wait for him to finish. You kissed him.

At first, it was soft. A tentative press of lips, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed this comfort. But when you wrapped your arms around him, pulled him closer, he melted. Like all the tension had been clinging to his muscles and finally let go.

His hands found your back, sliding up slowly, as if grounding himself. He kissed you like it meant something. Like it saved him.

“I’m really lucky,” he murmured, forehead against yours. “To have you. To have… this.”

You smiled, brushing hair from his face. “And I’ll always be here to remind you—you’re not that guy anymore.”

“Not with you around,” he whispered, kissing you again—deeper this time, slower. More sure.

Jamil Viper

Jamil had been quiet all day. Too quiet.

You’d noticed it during lunch. The way he stirred his food absently, how his gaze lingered on the horizon, thoughtful and dark. Kalim had been extra excitable, and Jamil had worn that polite mask of patience, but you could tell—he was simmering underneath.

So when you caught his eye across the courtyard later, that gaze wasn’t passive anymore. It was intense. Hungry.

And when he wordlessly gestured for you to follow him, something electric sparked in your chest.

You didn’t ask where he was going. You just trailed behind him as he glided through the halls, silent but purposeful, until he reached a storage closet near the gymnasium. He opened the door, looked back at you with something unreadable, and when you stepped inside, the door shut behind you.

The dim space felt thick with heat.

“Bad day?” you asked quietly.

Jamil didn’t answer.

He pressed you back against the door so fast your breath caught. His lips were on yours a heartbeat later—silencing any thoughts you might’ve had with a kiss that was slow, dangerous, and completely intoxicating.

“I needed something,” he whispered between kisses, voice low and smooth like velvet over a blade. “Something that’s mine.”

His hands were steady, but his kiss was anything but. He kissed you like he was unraveling. Like all the things he had to hide and control every day had finally broken the surface. His body caged yours in, not out of aggression, but out of sheer desperation to feel something real—you.

You could feel the tension radiating off him. He touched you like he didn’t trust himself to go further, but couldn’t stop. One hand braced above your head, the other gripping your waist as if letting go meant returning to that carefully curated mask he wore every day.

“You always make me feel like I don’t have to keep pretending,” he murmured into your neck. “Like I can just be.”

You wrapped your arms around him, pulling him closer, whispering into the curve of his jaw. “Then don’t pretend right now. Just be here.”

He kissed you again, slower this time—full of gratitude and longing. His breathing slowed, his forehead pressed against yours.

“I should get back,” he muttered reluctantly. “Kalim’ll start searching if I’m gone too long.”

You smiled, brushing a lock of hair behind his ear. “Then let him look. Just a little longer?”

Jamil exhaled a quiet laugh, a rare, genuine sound.

“Yeah… just a little longer.”

Idia Shroud

Idia had been spiraling all morning.

The new project in Ignihyde Lab glitched hard, Ortho almost got accidentally reprogrammed, and to top it off, he overheard some random students talking about you—how “someone like you” was wasting time on a shut-in like him. That shouldn’t have mattered. But it got under his skin. It festered.

He spent the next two hours in a haze, typing too hard, muttering under his breath, eyes flicking to his tablet screen like your name might just pop up and make him feel okay again.

Then he saw you walking toward the main building. And instead of retreating like he usually would, Idia stood up, ran a hand through his electric-blue hair, muttered a string of curses about how this was “like, peak out-of-character behavior,” and bolted to intercept you.

“Whoa—Idia?” you blinked as he practically teleported in front of you. His hair glitched from neon blue to a deep pink.

“I—uh—I need you. I mean—not like that! I mean yes, like that, but—just—come with me before I short-circuit or die or implode—whatever happens first.”

You could barely laugh before he’d grabbed your wrist, nervously leading you through the winding back halls of the science wing. Your heart pounded with curiosity and adrenaline. And when he stopped in front of a rarely used equipment storage room, unlocked it with trembling fingers, and stepped inside with you—oh. You knew what this was.

The second the door shut behind you, he turned to face you. Pink light flickered wildly in his hair.

“I-I don’t know how to do this kind of thing,” he admitted, words rushed. “But I’ve been thinking about kissing you all day and I feel like my brain’s doing that ‘blue screen of death’ thing because—holy crap—look at you.”

He hesitated. But you stepped closer, brushed your hand over his hoodie-clad chest, and smiled.

“Then stop thinking.”

That was all he needed.

He kissed you like he was afraid he’d glitch right through you. Soft at first—shy, hesitant, stuttering against your lips like a program still loading—but then something changed. His hand slid around your waist, and he groaned softly against your mouth as he leaned in, lips parting with yours like he’d forgotten everything but this moment.

The taste of cola from his favorite energy drink lingered faintly on his tongue. His other hand came up to cup your cheek, surprisingly warm despite how jittery he was, and he tilted your head like he was learning how to really kiss you.

“Is this okay?” he whispered, breathless.

“It’s perfect,” you murmured, brushing your nose against his.

He smiled—a real one. Soft. Rare. Beautiful.

“Achievement unlocked: Most Unbelievable Moment Ever.”

Silver

Silver usually wore serenity like a second skin—calm, gentle, a touch sleepy. But sometimes, sometimes, something inside him cracked through that dreamy exterior. Especially when he was exhausted, emotional… or desperate for you.

You noticed it after a long, grueling day of training with Lilia. Silver had taken on too much—again. You caught him nodding off in the garden, sword still in hand, posture rigid even in sleep. When you knelt beside him and gently touched his shoulder, his eyes snapped open—cloudy, tired, but focused on you.

“Y/N,” he said, his voice rough. “Come with me.”

You barely had time to respond before he stood, took your hand, and started leading you. His fingers were warm but firm. There was something off—different. Not bad. Just… intense.

“Silver?” you asked softly.

“I had a dream,” he murmured. “You were in it. And when I woke up, you were here. And I… couldn’t tell if it was still a dream.”

The hallway was quiet. He led you into an unused classroom, probably one of the knight training theory rooms, filled with old armor and worn-down desks. He locked the door behind him.

Then he turned to you, his eyes darkened with exhaustion and longing.

“Let me stay here a while,” he whispered. “With you. Like in the dream.”

Before you could reply, his lips were on yours—slow, deep, full of emotion. It wasn’t rushed. It was aching. Like every part of him had been waiting for this. His hands were gentle as they cupped your waist, pulling you flush against him, and he kissed you like someone who dreamed of this moment too many times to waste it now.

His breath hitched when you kissed him back, and his hand slid up your back, burying into your hair, holding you there like he needed to make sure you were real.

“I’m always slipping between sleep and wake,” he murmured into your skin. “But this? This is the clearest I’ve felt all day.”

You felt your heart squeeze at the quiet vulnerability in his voice. His forehead rested against yours, and you swore you saw the faintest smile curve his lips.

“If this is a dream,” he added, eyes fluttering shut, “don’t wake me up.”

#𝐃𝐈𝐎𝐑-𝐋𝐔𝐗𝐔𝐑𝐘 #twisted wonderland x reader #twisted wonderland headcanons #twisted wonderland imagines #twst x reader #twst headcanons #twst imagines #twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland scenarios #twst fanfic #riddle rosehearts x reader #ace trapolla x reader #ace trappola x reader #deuce spade headcanons #deuce spade x reader #jamil viper x reader #idia shroud x reader #silver vanrouge x reader #twst silver x reader

1K notes · View notes

hobi-side · 1 month ago

Text

for morale | myg

— pairing: min yoongi x f!reader

— playlist: moment's silence (common tongue) - hozier, love me harder - ariana grande, honey - kehlani, adorn - miguel, don't - crush, waves - dean

— summary: After two weeks apart, you come home from Bali sun-kissed and full of stories—except none of them compare to the warmth of Yoongi’s arms. He wrote you a song. You brought back tequila, a TikTok trick he has no idea about, and a plan you executed after a terrible week strictly for morale.

Yoongi never stood a chance.

— word count: 9.9k

— warnings: lovey dovey couple, they're so in love, little fluffly at the beginning but they're always horny (i get them), established relationship, tequila shots?, yoongi missing oc, oc missing yoongi, unprotected sex, dirty talk?, cunnilingus, little rough, multiple orgasms, jealous yoongi if you squint.

— note: HELL YEAH! so this was fun to write because it was born, like most of the things i write, from a personal experience with tequila shots. wanna thank miss salma hayek for letting us know The Trick to get a man like that. i miss you yoongi (thank god he'll be back soon). FIRST YOONGI ONE SHOT BTW CROWD CHEERED.

Yoongi has always been sure of two things. Well—always is a strong word. Maybe lately is more honest. Certainty doesn’t come easy to him; it’s something he’s had to fight for, inch by inch, thought by thought. But here, in this quiet moment—his fingers idle on the keys, a half-finished verse echoing in his mind—he knows these things like he knows his own name.

One: he loves music. Not in the cliché way people throw around the word love, but in the way it threads through the cracks in his chest and holds the broken parts together. It’s been his anchor, his escape, his language when he couldn’t find the right words. Music has never asked him to be more than what he is. It just lets him be.

Two: he really, truly, fucking loves you. It’s terrifying, how real that is. How permanent it feels. Like it’s carved into him somewhere deep. You came into his life without warning, without fanfare—and now you’re in the pauses between his breaths, in the silence between his notes. He doesn’t know when it happened, but loving you feels inevitable now. Like it always would’ve come to this, no matter the path.

Three—was there a three? Yeah because now, standing here at the airport, watching you walk toward him, duffel slung over your shoulder, smile cracking through the jetlag—he knows something else, too.

He’s really fucking glad you’re home.

You nudge him gently, your fingers brushing against the fabric of his hoodie sleeve as he sits hunched over his laptop, headphones around his neck, the room bathed in dim yellow light and the faint scent of coffee and something else uniquely him.

“Yoongi,” you say, voice soft with that teasing affection only he ever gets to hear.

He glances over, the corner of his lips twitching into a tired smile—one of those barely-there ones that still makes your chest warm. His eyes, though, tell a different story: they flicker with something like relief. Like seeing you in front of him makes the past two weeks fall away.

“I wanna hear the full song?” you ask, and then you hesitate just a beat, voice quieter, more vulnerable: “Missed you.”

That’s when he turns fully, shutting the laptop with a quiet click. His eyes don’t leave yours.

“I missed you, too,” he says, and it’s not just words—he means it. His voice carries that low, slow sincerity you know he only lets out when he’s too tired to hide anything. “House felt empty. Bed felt colder.”

You laugh softly, settling down beside him on the couch, your thigh pressing lightly against his. “You could’ve texted more, you know.”

“I know,” he murmurs, and his hand finds yours, thumb brushing over your knuckles. “Didn’t want to bother you. You were having fun.”

“I was,” you admit, leaning your head on his shoulder. “But it didn’t feel right without you. Kept looking over like I was gonna see you sitting next to me.”

He lets out a breath, quiet and shaky. “I kept hearing your voice in my head when I was working. Thought I was losing it.”

You grin. “Maybe you are.”

He finally laughs—low and real. Then he squeezes your hand and says, “Let me play you the song. I finished it... the night before you came back. It’s about you.”

Your heart skips, just a little. “Of course it is.”

And in the soft silence that follows, he slips the headphones over your ears and presses play, watching your face as if every beat and lyric matters more now, because you’re home. And so is he.

The music washes over you like a wave—warm, layered, intentional. It’s him in every note: the way he composes with feeling first and logic second, the subtle textures, the pause right before the chorus that somehow says more than words.

And the lyrics? God. They’re not even overly romantic, but they are him—honest and understated and impossibly vulnerable. There’s a line in the second verse that pulls something tight in your chest. Something about “empty spaces filled by the weight of a laugh I forgot I needed.” And another one, quiet, tucked into the bridge, that just says: “You made room where I didn’t know I had any left.”

When it ends, you don’t say anything for a moment. You just breathe. His hands are resting on his thighs now, and you can tell from the way he’s chewing the inside of his cheek that he’s nervous.

You blink a few times, then take off the headphones slowly, setting them aside. “Yoongi,” you say, voice soft, caught somewhere between awe and teasing, “are you trying to kill me? Be honest.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Emotionally or musically?”

You snort, nudging him with your shoulder. “Both, obviously. That was… wow. I don’t even have the words.”

“That’s ironic, coming from someone who works with words all day,” he says, smirking just slightly, but his eyes are searching—worried.

You look at him. “I’m serious. That was beautiful. It felt like…” You pause, pressing your lips together before letting the truth out: “Like you cracked open your chest and just—let me see everything.”

Yoongi shrugs, but it’s the kind of shrug he does when he’s trying to be chill and failing. “Yeah, well. Took me long enough to say all that. Figured I’d just put it in a track before I chickened out.”

You lean in, forehead touching his. “You’re still such a coward sometimes,” you whisper, smiling against his skin.

“I know,” he murmurs. “But you waited for me anyway.”

You both go quiet for a second. The kind of silence that doesn’t ask to be filled. The kind you only get with someone who knows you inside out.

“I was gonna say,” you continue, pulling back just enough to look at him, “funny how this all started with you awkwardly avoiding eye contact that night we met at Hobi’s thing.”

Yoongi groans. “Don’t remind me. I was not avoiding eye contact.”

“You literally stared at the floor the whole time.”

“I was tired.”

“You were shy.”

He rolls his eyes, but there’s no heat behind it. “And you were so annoyingly composed. Sitting there with your editor brain probably judging my entire existence.”

“I was not judging,” you say, laughing now. “I was intrigued. You were the only one in the room who looked like they wanted to be somewhere else.”

He smiles again—smaller this time, realer. “Yeah. Then you sat next to me and started talking about existentialism and short stories and somehow I didn’t want to leave.”

You grin. “And then we spent the next year pretending we weren’t falling in love during every 3 a.m. conversation.”

Yoongi’s hand finds yours again, and this time he lifts it to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. “You didn’t pretend very well, by the way.”

“Oh?” you tease.

He nods. “You kept looking at me like you were already writing a story about us.”

You shrug. “Maybe I was.”

Then, quieter, you add: “But I like your version better.”

You and Yoongi have been together for over two years now. That’s not even counting the year before—when you both clung to the idea of just friends like it was some kind of lifeline, even as everything between you said otherwise. Late-night calls, shared silences, too-long stares, the kind of conversations that felt like peeling each other open, layer by layer.

Everyone saw it. Except, apparently, you and him.

Or maybe you did see it. Maybe you were just scared to name it.

Either way, it all came to a head one night—tangled sheets, hearts racing, a confession slipping out in the dark like it had been waiting all that time just to be said out loud. And after that, well… the rest unraveled beautifully.

“It was bound to happen,” Hoseok had said with a grin so wide it felt smug. “Honestly, I was just waiting for one of you to crack. You were already acting like a married couple and you hadn’t even kissed yet.”

Seokjin, ever the dramatist, had clapped a hand on Yoongi’s shoulder and told you both, “You don’t understand. This guy? He doesn’t react to people. He nods at introductions and moves on. But you? You walked into the room at that party and he looked up. That’s practically a love letter coming from him.”

Namjoon had agreed, of course—more calm, more analytical, but just as insistent. “We’ve seen him hear a song he loves and still just blink. But when you spoke for the first time, he tilted his head, like he was trying to figure out a melody he didn’t want to forget.”

It sounds dramatic. Overblown. But you’ve lived with Yoongi long enough to know that his reactions aren’t always loud—but they’re deep. And real.

And now, two years in, you still catch him looking at you the same way he did back then—like he’s studying you, memorizing you, writing lyrics in his head that only you’ll ever get to hear.

You joke that he’s soft for you. He just shrugs and says, “Yeah. And?”

But there’s this quiet steadiness to it, too. Like after all the slow burn, the long talks, the almosts and maybes, you both found something solid. Something that doesn’t need to burn wildly all the time because it stays.

So yeah—Hoseok was right. It was bound to happen.

And now you both took a break.

Well—technically, you didn’t take a break. Let’s rewind. That makes it sound way more dramatic than it was.

You just went on a trip.

A girls’ trip. Bali. Sun-soaked beaches, endless laughter, fruity drinks with names you couldn't pronounce, and the kind of easy joy that only comes when you’re surrounded by women who love you like sisters. It was good. No—wonderful, even. It was the kind of trip you talk about for years after, the kind that feels like a pause from real life in the best possible way.

But still… you missed him.

You didn’t say it at first. You told yourself it was healthy—good, even—to have space. That it was nice not to be The Couple for once. You didn’t need to be that clingy type, right?

Right?

Except… it hit faster than you expected. Maybe on the second morning, when your coffee didn’t taste quite the same without his weirdly specific milk-to-coffee ratio. Maybe when someone cracked a joke and your instinct was to turn, to catch his eye across the table and share that look you always did when something was exactly your brand of funny. Maybe when you fell asleep without the weight of his arm slung around your waist and woke up reaching for someone who wasn’t there.

It was the first time you’d spent more than 48 hours apart since becoming officially, capital-B Boyfriend and capital-G Girlfriend—a title that felt funny on your tongue at first, but quickly became second nature. You weren’t all over each other all the time.

(Okay, you were. But like, in a wholesome, “I’d follow you into the kitchen just to steal a grape from your hand” kind of way.)

But it wasn’t just physical. That wasn’t it. You liked him. Genuinely. You liked being with him—liked how he made space for your chaos, how he listened like every word mattered, how he challenged you without ever making you feel small. You liked the quiet hours and the loud laughter and the strange little routines that made your life feel stitched together in all the right ways.

So yeah, Bali was gorgeous. Your girls were radiant. The food was incredible. But there was this quiet, persistent pull in your chest the whole time—a whisper that said, I wish he was seeing this too.

And now you’re back. Sitting beside him, knees brushing, headphones still warm from when he played you that song. And it hits you all over again:

You missed him. Not in a dramatic, world-ending way.

Just in the way you always miss home when you’ve been gone too long.

You’re still barefoot, half sunk into the old couch in the corner of the studio, hair a little messy from the flight, face flushed with excitement instead of exhaustion. You just listened to the song—his song—and you swear your ribcage is still vibrating from the last chord. But your mind’s already off, burning through memory, hands moving animatedly as you talk.

“Oh, babe,” you say, practically bouncing in your seat, “Bali was insane. I mean, the kind of beauty that doesn’t even feel real half the time. You’re walking down a street and suddenly there’s a temple just... there. No gates. No warning. Just stone and incense and a woman with silver hair weaving flower offerings like it’s the most normal Tuesday in the world.”

Yoongi hums from the swivel chair, eyes on you, chin in hand. You’re not even looking at him—you’re too wrapped up in everything you're trying to say at once. And god, you’re glowing.

“And the air?” you go on, laughing breathlessly, “Yoongi—it’s like the whole island is perfumed. Salt, frangipani, smoke, clove cigarettes—it gets in your clothes, in your hair. You become part of it. I haven’t felt that light in years. Like my whole body was being wrung out and re-threaded.”

He doesn’t say anything. Just watches. Quiet. Intense.

“And there was this one night,” you continue, tucking your feet under you. “We went to this hidden beach—like, you have to go down a billion steps that look like they’ve been carved by actual ghosts—and when we got there? Bonfire. Music. Locals playing guitar on these beat-up amps powered by a generator that sounded like it was dying.”

You grin, eyes flicking up to him for the first time. He’s still. Too still.

You push on, because you’re on fire now. “They handed us drinks—stuff made with arak and fruit juice, totally unregulated, I’m probably lucky I didn’t go blind—and they were just... flirting. Shamelessly. With everyone. Dami got asked to teach this guy how to salsa. Chaeyoung got proposed to with a mango. And I—” you pause, tilting your head, eyes dancing, “—I got called a goddess like, three times. Four, if you count the guy who kept asking if I wanted a moonlit shoulder massage.”

Yoongi's eyebrow twitches.

You notice. You smirk.

“Relax,” you tease. “I told him I was taken. Very taken. Like, off-the-market, emotionally-devoted, boyfriend-writes-me-songs kind of taken.”

His lips twitch, but the line of his jaw stays tight.

You lean forward a little. “Yoongi.”

He still doesn’t look at you.

“Yoongi,” you sing again, dragging out the vowels.

Finally, he lifts his eyes to yours, deadpan. “I’m just wondering why you remember how many times someone called you a goddess, but you can’t remember the name of the ramen place we went to three times in one week.”

You blink. Then you laugh. “Are you—oh my God, are you jealous?”

He shrugs like it’s nothing. “I’m just saying, you were gone for two weeks and apparently became the main character in a beach romance novel.”

“Well,” you hum, shifting closer, “I am a woman of many genres.”

He gives you a look. “Including ‘hot girl summer in Bali with mysterious shoulder-massaging men.’ Got it.”

You bite back another laugh, slide closer until your legs touch. “Would it make you feel better if I told you none of them had your voice? Or your hands? Or your devastating ability to turn missing someone into actual music?”

He doesn’t reply—but he’s listening.

You rest your chin on his shoulder. “I loved every minute of it. But I thought about you the whole time.”

His voice is lower now. “Even when someone was calling you a goddess?”

You grin. “Especially then.”

He exhales, finally, leaning back into you.

“You’re still annoyed,” you murmur, smiling.

“I wrote you a love song and you got proposed to with fruit,” he mutters.

You laugh against his neck. “Okay, that’s fair. But at least your song didn’t give me food poisoning.”

He finally cracks a smile.

And in the soft silence that follows, you slide your hand into his.

Back. Safe. Still burning—with the sun, with the music, with him.

The day after the studio session—after Yoongi had pulled you into his world and played you that new song with the kind of pride he rarely let show—you were finally home, finally grounded enough to unpack.

You’d brought back a mountain of things, mostly souvenirs for your friends. It wasn’t even guilt-buying; you just missed them. A lot.

You started sorting everything out on your floor, each item sparking a memory of someone’s laugh, someone’s oddly specific obsession.

For Namjoon, you had a set of handcrafted ceramics—delicate bowls and one oddly shaped mug you knew he’d appreciate in an “object with character” kind of way. He was into stuff like that: things with weight, texture, stories.

Seokjin’s little bundle was easier. He had this current fixation with coffee, and not just any coffee—he’d sent you the exact brand he wanted, grown somewhere at a particular altitude, roasted a certain way. You weren’t even sure how he found it, but you made the detour just for him. Worth it, you figured, for the chaos he’d unleash in the group chat once he got his hands on it.

Hoseok was getting the batik fabric you found in a tiny shop tucked away near the market. It had deep blues and burnt oranges—bold and beautiful, just like him. You already pictured him turning it into a jacket or draping it over something dramatically at a dance studio. And for his girlfriend, a delicate piece of handmade jewelry—silver with tiny amber stones, shaped like falling leaves. She was going to lose her mind over it.

Your own stuff? That took less time. You hadn’t packed much to begin with—mostly bikinis and breezy tops. The heat had practically demanded it. But you’d also picked up a bunch of new shorts, the kind that showed off your legs just enough. The thought made you grin.

You were definitely planning to wear them around Seoul soon. Yoongi was definitely going to like them.

You were halfway through organizing your pile of clothes when your hand hit something solid near the bottom of your suitcase.

“Oh... right.” Tequila.

Chaeyoung.

The memory hit you like the smell of lime and salt.

She’d shown up in Bali like a whirlwind—barely touched down in Seoul for the past eight months. She’d bounced from London to Chile, Argentina, and then Mexico, and somehow skipped straight to Bali to meet you all, suitcase in tow and stories practically spilling out of her mouth.

“I brought the best tequila for you girls,” she’d announced like it was gold. She held it up like a trophy, her sunglasses still on even though the sun had already dipped behind the trees.

“You’re gonna love it. I swear,” she added, unscrewing the cap to let you smell it right then and there.

Dami squinted at her, skeptical. “What do you mean best? Like—good flavor or good time?”

Chaeyoung had smirked. “Oh, babe, if I told you half the things I did after a couple of shots of this…”

“You’re crazy,” Taeha called out from the back patio.

“No, babe,” Chaeyoung said, eyes wild and glass already half-empty, “you’re gonna want to be crazy after I teach you this little trick. Trust me—this stuff? It’ll get your man on fire.”

The room paused, like it collectively sensed incoming chaos.

Jieun blinked. “Why does that sound illegal?”

“Because it probably is,” Dami whispered, crossing her arms like she was preparing for war.

Chaeyoung ignored both of them, too far gone. She slammed her glass down like she was about to present a scientific discovery. “Okay, LISTEN. I’m about to change all your lives.”

“Oh no,” Taeha muttered. “Not another ‘I saw a TikTok and now I’m a sex guru’ monologue—”

“SHUT UP and listen”, Chaeyoung snapped, already standing like a drunk prophet. “So I was in Mexico, okay? Had just eaten like...six tacos and a churro. I’m tipsy. This guy is rambling about the flavor notes in mezcal like he’s auditioning for MasterChef: Alcoholic Edition, and I’m scrolling TikTok minding my business—and BAM.”

She clapped loudly. Everyone jumped.

“This woman—an actress, like straight up goddess energy—comes up on my For You Page. And she’s like, ‘This is how you seduce a man in ten seconds or less.’ I didn’t even blink. I learned.”

“Stop,” Jieun begged, already wheezing. “I can’t breathe when you talk like this.”

“I’m serious!” Chaeyoung shouted. “You don’t need lingerie. You don’t need a playlist. You just need THIS.”

She grabbed a pillow off the couch and slammed it onto the floor like it owed her money. “Dami, you’re the man. Get over here.”

“No. Absolutely not.”

“DAMI. Get. Over. Here.”

By the time Dami crawled over, purely out of morbid curiosity, Chaeyoung was already miming the scene. She picked up her shot glass like it was sacred, locked fake-eyes with Dami, and whispered:

“You take the tequila. You hold it. You stare. Not blink. Not smile. Just stare like you’re about to commit emotional crimes.”

She mimed holding the shot in her mouth, then leaned toward Dami with cartoonishly intense eye contact.

“And THEN,” she continued, dramatically slow, “you pass it. Mouth. To. Mouth.”

The room exploded.

Jieun SCREAMED. “WHAT THE FUCK!!!”

“I SWEAR TO GOD I’M GONNA DIE,” Taeha said, curled into a ball.

Dami fell backward, shrieking. “Get off me, you demon woman!”

“I WAS DOING RESEARCH!” Chaeyoung yelled back, offended.

“YOU DID THIS TO SOMEONE?” you gasped.

“In the bathroom of a rooftop bar in Oaxaca!” she declared like she was announcing a Grammy win.

“WHAT.”

“WHATTTTTTTTT?!”

Jieun was hiding behind the couch now. “I cannot believe I have to know you.”

Chaeyoung, now fully unhinged, launched into a dramatic reenactment—flipping her hair, straddling the pillow like a man was beneath it. “Then we made out so hard I almost knocked a soap dispenser off the wall. I think there was applause outside. I don’t know. I blacked out from the POWER.”

“You need help,” Dami groaned, fanning herself.

“No, YOU need tequila and a man with low expectations,” Chaeyoung snapped, already pouring more shots. “Now, who’s next? Let’s practice. I’ll be the guy. Come on. Seduce me, cowards!”

You were crying from laughter. Your stomach hurt. Your soul hurt. Jieun looked like she was about to call a priest.

“Do we need to tell Yoongi about this?” Taeha asked you with an evil grin.

“No one tells Yoongi anything,” you said quickly, gripping your drink like it was your only protection.

Chaeyoung just smirked at you, devilish. “You’re gonna try it. I know you are.”

You just laughed—and avoided her gaze.

But she already knew.

Yeah, that bottle of tequila was now staring at you.

Oh, you were gonna have fun.

By the time Yoongi woke up—hair messy, hoodie slipping off one shoulder, blinking at you like you were a dream—it was nearly noon.

“You unpacked already?” he asked, voice raspy, warm with sleep.

“Trying to pretend I’m not still on Bali time,” you mumbled, smiling into your mug.

He padded over, kissed your temple, and muttered something about making tteokbokki.

And god, he really could cook.

You sat cross-legged on the counter while he moved through the kitchen with quiet confidence, slicing green onions, adding just the right amount of gochugaru like it was instinct. The rich, spicy scent filled the apartment, and when you finally sat down to eat, you could have cried from the comfort of it. After two weeks of fresh seafood and tropical fruits, having something that tasted like home—like Seoul, like him—felt grounding.

“Still like mine better than any Bali food?” he asked, smug as he watched you devour the last piece.

You licked your spoon. “No offense to Bali, but your tteokbokki is emotional support food. It wins.”

He grinned, that small, rare one that made your stomach flutter.

Now, hours later, the sun was setting outside the living room window. The city buzzed softly in the distance, but here in the apartment, it was calm—dim lights, a quiet movie playing, legs tangled under a shared blanket. Yoongi leaned into the cushions, one arm draped behind you, the other lazily scrolling through his phone during the slow parts.

“Should we open some wine?” he asked, his voice low, almost a hum.

“Only if you pick it,” you replied, resting your head on his shoulder.

He gave you a small pat on the thigh before heading over to the shelf tucked into the corner of the kitchen—a narrow unit lined with a modest but respectable collection of bottles. He crouched down, humming to himself, searching for the right red.

Then he paused.

“...What the hell is this?”

You turned your head.

Yoongi straightened slowly, holding up a sleek, unfamiliar bottle. The label was bright. Bold. Very not him.

He squinted at it. “Did this multiply in my apartment without my permission? I did not buy this.”

You bit your lip, trying very hard not to smile.

He turned to face you. “This yours?”

You gave him a sheepish nod.

He examined the label again, then looked at you with a mixture of suspicion and amusement. “Why... do you have a bottle of tequila hiding in my apartment?”

“Chaeyoung gave it to me,” you explained, as innocently as possible. “As a gift.”

Yoongi arched a brow. “That sounds fake. Try again.”

“Okay,” you admitted, slowly standing up, blanket falling from your lap. “It was part of a girls’ night... situation. Involving stories. And hypotheticals. And a very specific TikTok.”

Yoongi narrowed his eyes at you like he was trying to read subtitles you weren’t offering.

“…What kind of TikTok?”

You gave him a totally innocent smile. “A harmless one.”

“That’s never true,” he said flatly. “Every time someone starts a sentence with ‘so I saw this TikTok’ it ends in something insane or borderline illegal.”

You raised your hands in mock surrender. “Nobody got arrested. Nobody died. There were just... beverages. And discussions. That’s all.”

Yoongi held up the bottle like it was radioactive. “So this ended with you bringing back imported mystery tequila from girls' night? That’s the takeaway?”

“Don’t be dramatic,” you said, walking over and plucking the bottle from his hands. “It’s artisanal.”

“That’s not reassuring.”

“You act like I’m hiding a crime,” you teased, setting it carefully on the table.

“You are hiding something,” he muttered, still watching you suspiciously. “You’re way too smiley for this to be a normal ‘hey let’s have tequila’ situation.”

You shrugged, doing your best to look unbothered—even as your face threatened to betray you with another grin. “Maybe I just missed you and thought it’d be fun to have a drink together.”

“Uh-huh,” he said slowly, eyes narrowing like he was filing that line away for later. “Totally believable. No other reason. No hidden context.”

“Exactly.”

A pause.

Yoongi finally dropped back onto the couch beside you, still eyeing the bottle like it might start talking.

“You’re lucky I like you,” he muttered under his breath.

You nudged his knee with yours. “I am lucky.”

He glanced at you, then let out a small, exasperated laugh. “And now I’m low-key afraid to drink that.”

You leaned over and kissed his cheek. “Well, good thing we’re having wine right now.”

He shot you a look, but couldn’t help the amused smile tugging at his lips.

It had been a shitty week. No poetic metaphors, no dramatic flair. Just plain, exhausting, soul-sucking shit. Going back to work was shitty. As an editor at a publishing company, you were used to juggling deadlines, writer meltdowns, and 2 a.m. “urgent” revisions — but this week? This week decided to personally test your will to live.

By Friday, you were running on caffeine, petty rage, and whatever serotonin your cat videos could offer.

Thankfully, it was over. Finally.

You were curled up on the couch in an oversized hoodie, staring blankly at your phone while half a bag of chips sat forgotten beside you. Yoongi had texted earlier — be home in an hour, miss u — and even just that had been enough to keep you from combusting.

With a sigh, you opened your messages app, finally catching up on the chaos you’d ignored all week.

Your friends' group chat was on fire. Everyone was still riding the Bali high, posting blurry sunset photos, thirst traps in bikinis, and messages like:

Taeha: literally thinking about the nasi goreng at 3am Jieun: my skin still glows like i bathed in tropical gods Dami: WHEN are we doing round two. i need a new passport stamp and a new man. urgently. Taeha: can we do Greece. or Spain. or literally anywhere with sun and drama.

You smiled, heart softening a little. Yeah. That trip was magic.

And then you saw it — a private message from Chaeyoung.

Chaeyoung💥: [TikTok link] “this is the visual representation of what i tried to explain that night LMAO” “giving this to u cuz u r the only one with a man lol”

You tapped the link, suspicious.

The video started playing — and you immediately paused it, jaw dropping, face heating.

Oh. OH.

It was the exact tequila trick she’d so enthusiastically attempted to act out back in Bali. Except now, seeing it performed in real time — slow, hot, absolutely lethal — made something in your brain short-circuit. You blinked, stared at your phone like it betrayed you, then hit play again. For science.

The way the woman in the video straddled her man, the effortless way she passed the drink between their mouths, the almost moan he let out like it rewired his whole nervous system—

Yeah. You were watching this on a Friday night after getting metaphorically body-slammed by your job. You deserved joy. You deserved serotonin. And preferably, you deserved it in the form of your boyfriend, shirtless, on this very couch.

You: chaeyoung. what the hell. why r u sending me this

Chaeyoung: DIDN’T I JUST SAID YOU R THE ONLY ONE WITH A MAN THAT YOU CAN CALL YOURS. SEE THE VISION

You: i see it i feel it

Chaeyoung: YESSSS get that man WEAK, babes.

You: he’s coming home in 40 how fast do u think i can shower and emotionally prepare

Chaeyoung: light the fucking torch.

You stared at the screen for a second, heart racing, lip caught between your teeth.

Well. You did just wash your hair last night. And your cute robe was clean. And that bottle Chaeyoung gave you? Still hiding behind the wine rack like a dirty little secret.

You stood up.

Time to turn this terrible week around—with tequila, TikTok tactics, and one very lucky boyfriend.

The apartment was dimly lit, cozy, and quiet—exactly the way Yoongi liked it after a long day. He kicked off his shoes by the door, ran a hand through his hair, and called out casually, “Babe? I’m home.”

No answer.

Well, no immediate answer.

Just the soft hum of music coming from the living room—something low and sultry. It wasn’t your usual playlist. This was a vibe.

He squinted. Suspicious.

“Babe?” he tried again, stepping further in. His jacket was halfway off his shoulders when he turned the corner—and stopped dead in his tracks.

You were in the living room. Waiting.

Correction: you were posed in the living room.

Wearing your favorite silk robe—one that barely grazed your thighs, tied in a loose, suspiciously flimsy knot. Candles flickered on the coffee table. Two glasses sat beside a bottle he definitely didn’t own.

“Hi,” you said sweetly, crossing one leg over the other as you sat perched on the edge of the couch like a perfectly wrapped sin.

Yoongi blinked. “...What the hell is going on.”

“Celebrating,” you answered, like it was obvious.

He raised a brow. “Celebrating what?”

“The end of a very horrible week,” you said, then added with a grin, “And also… you.”

Yoongi was now actively side-eyeing the bottle. “Is that—”

“The tequila,” you confirmed. “Yes.”

“I thought we said we were saving that for—”

“Plans change,” you cut in, voice light. “Besides, I have a new method. A fun one.”

He blinked at you again, slower this time. “Why does that sound threatening.”

“It’s not,” you said. “It’s sexy.”

You laughed, a little wild in your eyes, and patted the spot in front of you. “Sit. Trust me.”

Yoongi hesitated, that familiar wariness flickering behind his dark eyes like a warning siren—this was definitely going to be one of those moments. But as always, he couldn’t resist you. With a sigh, he shrugged off his jacket and dropped onto the couch, still shooting you a suspicious look. “You’re being weird.”

“I’m being generous,” you teased, voice low and mischievous.

You slid closer, your hands gentle but firm on his shoulders. “This is something I learned.” You practically straddled him, settling down on his lap with a confident smile.

Yoongi’s brows knit together, confused but intrigued. “What—”

“They said this is how tequila tastes the best,” you whispered, your fingers tracing the buttons of his shirt. “And since I know you really like your alcohol…”

You slowly hooked your finger into the top button of his shirt, eyes not leaving his face. “Can I unbutton this?”

Yoongi tilted his head slightly, lips curling in amusement. “Yes,” he replied, raising a brow as if to say whatever you're up to... I’m watching you.

With a sly little grin, you unfastened one button. Then the next. Then another. You were deliberate with it—fingers brushing his skin each time, exposing just enough of his chest to leave your mouth watering. His skin was warm, soft, and smelled faintly of the cologne he always wore. That scent you liked to steal from the collar of his sweaters.

You leaned in, holding the tequila shot glass loosely in your hand, and whispered—half to him, half to yourself, “And then I have to... huh... lick.”

You dipped your head and—without hesitation—flattened your tongue against the base of his neck. You dragged it slowly up, tracing a path over his collarbone and along the curve of his shoulder, right where the salt would go in the classic version. Except you weren’t following any rules.

Yoongi’s breath caught sharply. His hands, resting on your hips, twitched.

You leaned back, just enough to lock eyes with him. He looked stunned. Flushed. Slightly speechless.

Then, as if to really commit to the bit, you took the shot. Head tilted back, throat bobbing as the tequila slid down.

And finally��eyes on his—your hand reached out for the lime. But instead of putting it in your mouth, you brought it up to his lips.

“Bite,” you said softly.

He obeyed.

You leaned in one last time, stealing the lime back with a kiss that lingered longer than necessary, your lips brushing his in a mix of citrus and heat.

“Okay—where the hell?” Yoongi sputtered, blinking like he just came out of a trance. “What? Why? What the hell?”

He was flustered—genuinely flustered—and that was rare for him. A soft pink crept up the sides of his neck, and his chest was still rising and falling just a little faster than usual. You stayed exactly where you were, still straddling his lap, hands resting lightly on his now half-unbuttoned shirt like it was the most casual thing in the world.

You tilted your head innocently, though your smirk betrayed you. “This is why I wanted to save that bottle.”

Yoongi stared at you, eyes narrowing. “This is what that TikTok discussion was about?”

You leaned forward just enough so that your chest brushed his, your voice dropping to a whisper. “I told you it was educational content.”

He huffed a dry laugh, but his hands were already on your hips again, holding you tighter now. “Educational? Babe, you just licked me like a human salt rim and then kissed tequila into my mouth. That wasn’t education. That was witchcraft.”

You bit your lip, eyes gleaming. “Witchcraft that works, clearly.”

Yoongi’s gaze dropped to your lips, his breath catching slightly. You could feel him shifting beneath you, his composure unraveling by the second.

“You’re literally still on top of me,” he muttered, voice lower now, rougher.

“Mhm.” You rolled your hips just a tiny bit, enough to make his hands dig into your waist in warning. “On purpose.”

His eyes snapped back to yours, something darker flickering there now. “You planned this.”

You kissed the corner of his mouth. “Maybe.”

“Maybe, my ass.”

He surged up just enough to kiss you fully, mouth warm and tasting faintly of lime and tequila, his hands sliding under your shirt like he was reclaiming control. But you broke the kiss with a breathless laugh, leaning back just enough to look him in the eyes.

“You said you liked tequila.”

“I like peace and quiet too, but I guess I’m not getting that either,” he muttered, though the way he looked at you said something very different.

“Not when I’m around,” you teased, pulling his shirt fully open now and tossing the shot glass aside like the game was only beginning.

He chuckled, low and wicked. “And here I was, just trying to have a normal Friday night.”

“But did you like it though?” you asked, breathless now, lips still tingling from the kiss. You dragged your hands slowly up his chest, over the exposed skin you’d just unbuttoned, nails light enough to make him twitch. “You haven’t said anything about it, babe.”

Yoongi looked at you—really looked at you. His pupils were blown wide now, jaw tight, lips slightly parted as he processed the question, like you had just asked him something offensive.

“You’re seriously asking me that,” he said, voice low, hoarse with restraint, “while you’re literally sitting on me like this?”

You rolled your hips ever so slightly, the friction cruel in how light it was. “Just want feedback.”

Yoongi let out a sharp breath—half disbelief, half groan—and grabbed you by the hips, steadying you, containing you, but barely. His fingers dug in, possessive.

“Of course I fucking liked it,” he said, eyes dragging down from your lips to your neck, to the swell of your chest beneath your shirt. “Who the fuck do you think I am?”

You smiled slowly. “Just making sure.”

“You licked my neck, downed a shot like it was foreplay, and then had the audacity to grind on me like it was a goddamn game.”

You tilted your head. “It was a game.”

He pulled you flush against him, his mouth brushing the corner of yours with maddening softness, the kind that made your whole body tense in anticipation. “Oh, it’s a fucking war now.”

You gasped, but before you could respond, his mouth was on yours again—hotter this time, needier, tongue sweeping past your lips like he needed more of you now. His hands slid up your back, under your shirt, dragging it higher with every desperate kiss.

He was already hard beneath you, and the way his hips bucked up, just once, slow and deliberate, told you exactly how much control he was pretending to have.

“You wanna know if I liked it?” he growled against your mouth, lips brushing yours with each word. “I’m gonna show you how much.”

And he kissed you again—messy, rough, like the question had flipped a switch in him. One hand tugged at the waistband of your shorts while the other held you firmly in place, his thigh pressing between yours now. Heat pooled low in your belly.

“Tequila,” he muttered against your skin, trailing kisses down your neck. “What kind of spell did you girls cook up in Bali?”

You laughed, breath shaky as your hands tangled in his hair. “The kind that ends with you begging.”

He was gone the second you straddled him.

Yoongi tried—really tried—to keep his cool. But the minute you whispered “lick” and dragged your tongue along his neck, something short-circuited. His brain, his restraint, his sense of time. All of it.

And now, here you were—sitting on him like sin in human form, asking if he liked it.

Liked it?

He wanted to laugh. Scream. Flip the couch. Instead, he grabbed your hips because he had to. Not to stop you—hell no—but because if he didn’t hold on, he might do something entirely unhinged. Like flip you over and lose his mind.

“Of course I fucking liked it,” he said, and even to his own ears, his voice sounded wrecked. He could feel the way your weight settled into his lap, how warm you were, how smug. You knew exactly what you were doing, and it was driving him insane.

He couldn’t look away from your mouth. The way you were breathing a little faster. The faint shimmer of tequila still lingering on your lips.

When you rolled your hips again—again—he swore under his breath.

His body reacted instantly, hips lifting into yours with an involuntary jerk that made him clench his jaw. Your breath caught. Good. You felt it too.

“You’re gonna fucking kill me,” he muttered, dragging his hands under your shirt, mapping every inch of skin like he had to memorize it. “This—whatever this is—you’re not walking away from it, you know that?”

You tilted your head, smirking. “Wasn’t planning to. I told you I had a shitty week.”

Yoongi chuckled, the sound deep in his throat as he leaned in, lips brushing against the shell of your ear. “So this was your plan, huh?”

You felt the slow drag of his hands down your sides—warm, steady, maddening.

“Mmm,” he murmured, voice low and laced with amusement. “You just wanted to have a little fun. That it?”

His nose nudged against your cheek before he whispered, “You missed me, babe. Don’t play like you didn’t.”

You tried to keep a straight face, but the way he spoke—so casual, so sure of you—made your breath hitch.

“Two weeks without me…” His teeth grazed your jaw. “Two weeks without sex.”

Your thighs instinctively tightened around his hips, and he noticed—of course he did.

“Ohhh, I knew it,” he grinned, cocky now. “I wonder what you got up to while I was around. Hm? What kind of desperate little thoughts did that pretty head of yours have?”

He ran his hands up under your shirt again, slow, appreciating every curve like he’d been starving for it. “You did something to this body, didn’t you?” he drawled, voice dark velvet now. “You’ve been walking around all tan and glowy and smug like that trip fixed your soul—but I know what you really needed.”

His fingers curled around your hips, rocking you down against him, just enough to remind you exactly how ready he was.

“You’re a whole different person when you’re horny, baby. So needy. So fucking honest.”

You squirmed, and his laugh was smug, satisfied.

“You had a shitty week,” he said, dragging his mouth down to your neck, lips soft but teasing. “So naturally, you thought—‘Hey, I know what’ll help. Let me climb on top of my boyfriend and ride the stress away.’”

“Is it working?” you whispered, breath hot against his cheek.

He pulled back just enough to look at you—really look, eyes burning like they could eat you alive.

“I made you a song while we were apart,” he said with mock offense. “You? You learned a seduction trick off TikTok.”

You grinned. “Productive two weeks.”

Yoongi’s hands were still on your waist, warm and possessive, when he leaned back just slightly, eyes hooded and gleaming with something dangerous. You knew that look. That smirk. Your stomach flipped.

“So…” he began, brushing his thumbs in slow circles over your bare skin, “you pulled that little tequila stunt…”

You grinned. “Guilty.”

“…and thought I wouldn’t retaliate?”

Your smile faltered. “What?”

He leaned in again, lips barely ghosting over yours as he whispered, “You really think I don’t have a few tricks of my own, baby?”

You swallowed hard.

“I’ve been patient,” he continued, dragging his fingers slowly—infuriatingly slowly—down your spine. “You had your fun. Now it’s my turn.”

Before you could respond, he was lifting you effortlessly, standing with you wrapped around him like it was second nature—because, at this point, it was. You barely had time to gasp before he was carrying you down the hallway toward the bedroom, kicking the door shut behind him like he meant it.

He laid you on the bed with a reverence that made your heart race and your thighs press together, and then he disappeared for a second—just long enough to make you whine in protest.

“Relax,” came his voice from somewhere near the kitchen, casual and dangerous. “I’m just grabbing the bottle. If you’re gonna start something, babe, you better be ready to finish it.”

Your mouth went dry.

When he returned, the bottle of tequila was in one hand, and that same dark smirk was back on his face. He set it gently on the nightstand, then climbed onto the bed with the kind of grace that made your breath catch.

“You remember how it goes, right?” he murmured, kneeling between your legs. “Salt… lick… shot.”

You nodded, suddenly the one speechless.

He dragged a finger across the curve of your collarbone, then leaned in to kiss the spot—slow, open-mouthed, lingering. You felt your heartbeat stutter.

“Lift your arms,” he whispered.

You obeyed. He licked a line just below your clavicle, then sprinkled the salt there with deliberate precision. His lips brushed your ear again.

“Keep still.”

You couldn’t breathe.

He brought the shot glass up, holding it steady in one hand as he dipped his head.

The lick came first—wet, slow, decadent. His tongue traced the salt from your chest with a kind of reverence that made your whole body tighten beneath him.

Then the shot—head tilted back, clean and quick.

And then?

Then came the lime.

Instead of handing it to you, Yoongi brought it to your mouth himself, holding the wedge with his fingers just so. “Bite,” he murmured, his eyes locked on your lips.

You did—and his eyes darkened.

He watched the way your mouth moved, watched the little shiver run through you from the sour tang and the heat still lingering on your skin.

“Fuck,” he muttered, dropping the lime to the side and pushing you gently back onto the pillows. “You're never allowed to do that trick again unless I get to do it right back.”

Your laugh was breathless. “Deal.”

But before you could say anything else, his mouth was back on you—hot, insistent, everywhere at once. He kissed a path down your stomach, murmuring praise between every inch of skin.

And just before he disappeared between your thighs, he looked up at you with that same boyish smirk that always got you in trouble.

“You had a shitty week,” he said, voice low “Guess I’m gonna have to fuck it out of you.”

You barely had time to react before Yoongi’s mouth was on you again—slow. He kissed down your stomach like he was mapping it, like he was reclaiming it. His fingers slid under the waistband of your shorts, tugging just enough to make you whimper.

“You wore these to tease me, huh?” he murmured, hot breath fanning over your skin. “You knew exactly what you were doing.”

“Maybe,” you said, breathless, hands tangling in his hair.

He chuckled, dark and low. “You walk in here, tequila bottle like some kind of sex witch… straddle me like it’s nothing, lick salt off my chest like that’s a normal Friday night—what the fuck do you expect me to do?”

You were about to answer—something witty, something bratty—but then he had your shorts off and his mouth was on your inner thigh, kissing the skin there like it was sacred.

“You smell like heaven,” he muttered. “And you’re shaking. You’ve been thinking about this all week, haven’t you?”

“Yes,” you gasped.

He hummed. “Then stop pretending like you don’t want me to ruin you.”

And he did. Tongue pressed flat, slow and firm—one long lick that had your hips bucking off the bed. His hands gripped your thighs, holding you down with practiced ease.

“Fuck, baby,” you breathed, already seeing stars.

Yoongi didn’t respond. He was focused, utterly and deliciously focused, like he was composing a melody with your body as the instrument. He switched between long, slow strokes and quick flicks that had you sobbing his name.

Every time you got close, he’d pull back—kiss your thighs, suck a little mark into the skin just to watch you squirm.

“You don’t get to come yet,” he said, voice rough now. “Not until I say.”

You whimpered, a full-body shiver running through you.

He slid two fingers into you—slow, curling just right—and your back arched. Your hands gripped the sheets, clawed at them. He pressed kisses to your inner thigh as he fucked you with his fingers, mouth still devastating between your legs.

“You taste like you missed me,” he said, voice hoarse, fingers never slowing. “Is that what this is? Two weeks of missing me? Of needing this cock and not getting it?”

“Yoongi—”

“Tell me.”

“Yes—yes, fuck, I missed you—”

“Yeah, you did.” His teeth grazed your skin, his fingers moving faster now. “Missed being filled. Missed being fucked like you deserved.”

You were a trembling mess, every nerve ending lit up, every muscle tense and begging for release.

And just when you thought you couldn’t take another second, he moved up your body, hovered over you, kissed your lips deep and dirty with your taste still on his tongue.

“Wanna come?” he whispered, grinding against you, already rock hard through his boxers.

“Yes, please—”

“Good,” he smirked. “Because I’m not stopping until you do. And then again. And again. You're not sleeping tonight, babe.”

Yoongi didn’t stop—not when your legs started to tremble, not when your breath hitched in that high, helpless way that drove him insane. He was relentless, completely immersed, tongue gliding in slow, torturous circles before switching to sharp, precise flicks that had you arching off the bed.

“God, fuck. Please,” you almost choked, voice wrecked, coming out in desperate, broken pieces. “Fuck, fuck—”

Your hand flew to his hair, threading through the dark strands with shaking fingers. You weren’t just touching him—you were clinging, grounding yourself against the overwhelming wave crashing through your body. Then your other hand joined, not stroking, not pulling—just holding on as he pulled deeper sounds from you than you'd ever made before.

“I—fuck,” you gasped again, voice hoarse and breathless, hips rising against his mouth. “Yoongi—please—I can't—”

He growled low, the sound vibrating against you in a way that made you cry out. And still, he didn’t stop.

Didn’t even look up.

He knew exactly what he was doing.

You were falling apart under him, trembling and moaning and begging, and he was drinking it in like your body was his favorite kind of worship. His hands tightened on your thighs, holding you open, holding you down—as if to say You’re not going anywhere. I’m not done yet.

Because he wasn’t.

He was building you like a beat, layering sensation on sensation until it all collapsed—until the dam broke and you screamed his name, clenching around nothing, your body shaking as pleasure tore through you.

And even then, he still didn’t let go.

“Good girl,” he murmured against your thigh, breath hot, voice rough with pride and lust. “Now let’s see how you take cock”

He didn’t give you much time to recover—just enough for your breathing to even out, for your lashes to flutter open, dazed and ruined, still trembling from the aftermath.

Yoongi leaned over you, chest brushing yours, the weight of him grounding you. His lips ghosted across your jawline, featherlight, and then lower, over your neck, where he bit down gently—claiming.

"You always taste like this?" he murmured, lips brushing the shell of your ear. "Or is this just what happens when you miss me?"

You whimpered, already breathless again.

He sat back on his knees, undoing his belt in one smooth pull that made your mouth go dry. His eyes never left yours—dark, heavy-lidded, pupils blown wide with hunger. His shirt hung open, still a little damp where you’d licked the salt off his skin, and he looked completely, devastatingly fucked out, even though he hadn’t gotten anything yet.

“Look at you,” he murmured, eyes raking down your body. “You’re shaking. You really had a week, huh?”

You nodded. Barely. And he smiled, slow and sinful.

“Well, baby,” he said, positioning himself between your thighs, stroking himself once, twice—thick, flushed, already dripping—“let me make it better.”

And then he pressed in.

The stretch made your breath catch, eyes fluttering shut—your body still too sensitive, too desperate—and he hissed between his teeth.

“Fuck, you’re tight. Always so good for me. Goddamn.”

He rolled his hips, slow and deep, and it was like the air was punched out of your lungs. He filled you completely, every inch deliberate, every movement dragging against all the places you needed him.

Your hands flew to his shoulders, nails digging in for purchase.

“Yoongi—fuck—”

He caught your mouth in a kiss, messy and hot, all tongue and teeth, swallowing your sounds like he wanted to own them. His thrusts got harder, deeper, finding that rhythm that had your entire body arching, your legs locking around his waist like he was the only thing anchoring you.

"You think you can come in here, ride me with tequila tricks, and not get absolutely wrecked?" he growled into your neck.

You moaned—helpless—and he smirked.

"Not after that little show, baby. No way."

He shifted, one hand sliding under your thigh to hitch it higher around him, changing the angle—and fuck, you saw stars. Your back arched off the bed, your head thrown back, and Yoongi watched like he was witnessing art.

Yoongi’s grip tightened, his voice dropping low and rough against your skin. “What did they call you? A goddess?” His hips thrust harder, heavier, deliberately rougher, every movement pushing you closer to the edge. “But they didn’t get to have you like this, right?”

You choked on a breath, overwhelmed by the sensation. “Oh my god… I told you—fuck—because I thought it was… there, fuck—funny… Oh my god, are you really jeal—fuck!”

Your eyes rolled back, pleasure washing over you in waves so intense you could barely keep up.

“I’m not jealous,” Yoongi growled, voice thick with need.

“No?” you teased breathlessly, arching into him.

“I’m thriving,” he said, pressing his forehead to yours, every word dripping with possessiveness. “They don’t fucking get to see you like this. Only I do.”

“You feel that?” he grunted, thrusting harder now, body slamming into yours with a rhythm that left you gasping. “That’s mine. All of this—mine.”

You couldn't speak—you could barely think. Every movement was electric, every drag of him inside you a white-hot promise of release. His pace was brutal now, every snap of his hips laced with possession, with the kind of love that ruins you for anyone else.

“You’re gonna come again,” he said—low, rough, a little breathless, but firm. Not a question. A command. “And then you’re gonna do it one more time. Because I missed this, too. I fucking missed you.”

He growled the last part, voice cracking slightly under the weight of how real it was. His hips didn’t let up—deep, relentless, tuned perfectly to your body like he’d memorized every reaction, every gasp.

Your fingers clawed at his back, useless against the way your body spiraled. You were wrecked—utterly, completely, beautifully wrecked.

“I—I missed you so much, Yoongi,” you sobbed, the pleasure too much to hold in anymore. “I’m gonna… fu—fuck, cum—”

“Oh my god,” is all you can manage, your voice wrecked and breathless, your whole body trembling beneath him.

“Inside,” you whisper, your lips brushing his ear, need thick in your tone.

He’s still moving—slow now, but deep, deliberate—as if he wants to feel every last second of you wrapped around him. The look in his eyes is feral, undone.

“Fucking missed you so much, babe,” he groans, and then he’s right there—burying himself deep as he cums hard, hips stuttering, spilling into you with a growl so raw it vibrates in your chest. His whole body tenses against yours as he rides it out, forehead pressed to yours.

“I fucking missed you,” he repeats, almost breathless, voice rasping against your lips. “I told you—I wrote a whole damn song because I missed you. I didn’t have time to give you something earlier but I had this whole fucking plan—a date, like a proper boyfriend.”

He huffs out a breathless, delirious laugh, still barely able to move.

“And now look at us,” he adds, burying his face in your neck. “Fucking tequila.”

You laugh, weak and breathless, wrapping your arms around him tighter. “Next time you bring the salt.”

Group Chat: 🌴 Good Bitches Reunited 🌶️

You: update: tequila trick was… effective 😌✨

Chaeyoung: I KNEW IT

Taeha: WAIT. omg she DID

Jieun: This is why I need to start collecting frequent flyer miles. I’m flying to you next.

Dami: HELLO???

You: girl. the look on his face when I did it… like he saw God

Chaeyoung: I’M SO PROUD I COULD CRY

Taeha: Honestly I thought you’d chicken out but no. you did the whole “lick → salt → shot → kiss” thing right??

You: Of course I did I studied the tape

Jieun: So you're telling me tequila + cleavage + terrible week + some sort of emotional reunion = Yoongi malfunction?

You: He short-circuited 😌 Then rebooted and proceeded to rearrange my internal organs

Chaeyoung: This is now a case study Scientific proof that tequila leads to spiritual fulfillment and hot sex like I SAID.

You: Anyway. Legs? Gone. Dignity? Questionable. Regrets? Zero. So… success?

Chaeyoung: Tell Yoongi I accept thank-you notes in the form of concert tickets or exclusive unreleased demos 🫶

You: He wrote me a whole song during the trip So I seduced a man and got a song.

Dami: MAIN CHARACTER SHIT

You: I’ll send a selfie later once my legs function again Love u whore💋

Taeha: God I missed us Can we go to Greece next?

Jieun: Bitch, we’re going to Spain next. Get a freakin grip.

#yoongi smut #bts smut #bts fanfiction #yoongi fanfic #yoongi x reader #yoongi ff

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