nvrngl

[nvrngl]

˚ · .˚ ༘ 𝒃𝒓𝒖𝒊𝒔𝒆𝒅, 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒃𝒓𝒐𝒌𝒆𝒏

synopsis. hughie's specialty is getting hurt. yours is patching him up with soft hands and sweet words.

pairing. the boys ﹢ hughie campbell x reader ﹢ fluff

wordcount. 494

warnings. injuries (mentios of bruises, busted lip, stitched brow), mild swearing, tender patch-up (non-graphic)

You find Hughie slouched on your couch, a frozen bag of peas pressed to the side of his face and a sheepish expression in his swollen eyes. His bottom lip is split, a thin line of dried blood darkening the skin around it. There's a gash above his right brow, freshly stitched but clumsily done, like someone rushed it. Probably him.

"Jesus, Hughie," you whisper, the door still swinging shut behind you. "You look like you lost a fight with a brick wall."

He cracks a wry smile that turns into a wince. "Technically, it was a guy thrown through a brick wall, but... close enough."

You drop your bag and immediately cross to him, hands reaching out like instinct. "Did you at least win?"

"Define 'win.'"

You sigh and settle onto the edge of the couch, already reaching for the small first-aid kit from under the coffee table. You've done this before. Too many times. But it's never stopped feeling personal.

"Hold still," you murmur, fingers gentle as you nudge the bag of peas away and start inspecting the damage. He's warm under your touch, skin flushed and humming with pain.

He leans into it anyway.

You dab at the blood on his lip with a cotton pad, slow and careful. He flinches slightly but doesn’t pull away.

"You always take the hits so personally," he says quietly.

"That's because they're on your face, Hugh."

He chuckles and winces again, then mutters, "You make it sound like I do this on purpose."

You look at him, really look at him—the bruises blooming along his jaw, the exhaustion hiding just beneath his attempt at humor. The way his eyes keep flicking to your face like he’s checking to make sure you’re not angry. Or worse—disappointed.

"You’re allowed to not be okay, y’know," you murmur. "You don’t have to laugh it off every time."

He exhales slowly, eyes fluttering shut as you clean the cut above his brow. "I know. I just... I didn’t want to worry you."

"Too late for that," you whisper, and lean forward to press a kiss just beside the bruise under his eye.

He opens his eyes again, and for a moment, he’s completely still. Then he smiles, soft and small, the kind that belongs to mornings and movie nights and a version of life that doesn’t involve blood and broken ribs.

"Thanks for taking care of me," he says, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Always." You dab on a bit of antibiotic cream and sit back to survey your work. "You’re lucky you’re cute."

"You think I’m cute? Even like this?"

You grin. "Especially like this."

He laughs, and this time it doesn’t hurt as much.

You curl up beside him on the couch, pulling his hand into yours. The peas sit forgotten on the floor. His injuries still throb. The world’s still a mess outside your door.

But right now, he’s here. You’re here.

And that’s enough.

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[nvrngl]

Can you please make one where Taehyung and the reader have been dating for a long time, and he just got discharged from the military and wants to have alone time with his girlfriend because he's been away for so long and they both really missed eachother, but they could never have any because the company or ther members keep interrupting them to tell him about their upcoming schedules and stuff. So he decided to plan a romantic getaway to Paris for him and his girlfriend to have their respective and well needed alone time.

˚ · .˚ ༘ 𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒊𝒔

synopsis. taehyung is back. and everyone noticed. it seems like it has been impossible for you to find just one single moment with him. until he decides to fix things.

pairing. bts ﹢ discharged!kim taehyung x reader ﹢ very soft smut (mdni)

wordcount. 842

warnings. oral sex (f. receiving), mentions of idol life pressure & fatigue

my very first request .ᐟ god, i am excited and writing this brought such a warm and fuzzy feeling. thank you so so much for requesting, cutie. i hope you like it 💌

the first time you finally get him to yourself, really and truly—no staff, no phones, no “hyung, just one sec”—it’s three weeks after he’s discharged.

he’s home. finally. after two years of waiting, visiting, calling, missing—he’s here.

but no one will let him rest.

the moment he’s back, they start flooding in—managers with calendars, members with updates, stylists with contracts. taehyung’s patient, always kind, always polite. he nods, makes notes, smiles when he’s expected to. but you can see it in his eyes. the exhaustion. the ache. the way he glances over at you every time he has to let go of your hand just to answer another damn phone call.

so when he pulls you into the hallway that night and whispers, “pack a bag. don’t ask, just trust me,” you don’t hesitate.

you pack the minute you get home.

—

paris in june is a fantasy.

it’s sun-warmed cobblestone and dappled light under trees. it’s espresso in the morning, citrusy wine by sunset, bare legs sticking to wicker chairs outside tiny cafés. the breeze smells like sugar and car exhaust and roses all at once.

taehyung books a flat on the left bank—nothing extravagant, but personal. tucked above a bakery, with ivy on the railing and enough space to breathe. he tells you he found it years ago, “saved it just for this,” and that alone nearly breaks you in two.

he walks around barefoot. wears thin white t-shirts and tortoiseshell sunglasses and the kind of smile that only appears when no one’s watching.

you never stop touching.

hand on the small of your back when you walk. lips to your temple when you wake up slow in the morning. long, lazy fingers tracing your thigh under the table at dinner like it’s just second nature.

you’re both a little dizzy with it all.

and it’s not about the place, not really. it’s about the quiet. the space. no texts. no interruptions. no schedules.

just you. and him.

—

on your third night, he kisses you outside a wine bar on rue dauphine. just presses you up against the warm stone wall with that soft, aching urgency he’s been carrying since he got back.

you hum into it, hands curled in his shirt, breath quick as he nips at your lower lip.

“baby,” he says, voice rough. “i’ve missed you so much, i can’t—” he cuts himself off, kissing you again. longer this time. slower. deeper.

“i know,” you whisper back.

he presses his forehead to yours.

“take me home.”

—

the walk back is a blur of hands and soft giggles and him whispering “you’re not real” against your cheek like he still can’t believe you’re here, like this, under his hands again.

once inside the flat, he doesn’t flick the light on. just tugs you close and kisses you like he’s starved—like this is a need he’s held back for years.

your clothes come off in pieces, somewhere between the hallway and the bed. the early summer night is warm, and your skin feels sticky and flushed. his fingers brush lightly over your sides as he stares at you like he’s rediscovering a masterpiece.

“so pretty,” he breathes, eyes tracing every inch of you.

you smile, cheeks pink. “you’ve said that every day.”

“and i’ll say it every day for the rest of my life.”

he kisses you, slower now, his body pressing you down into the sheets. the breeze from the open window flutters against your bare shoulder, but his skin is so warm on yours, you barely notice.

he moves down your body in worship.

his mouth finds your thighs first—then the soft skin of your hip, your belly, the crease between your legs. he doesn’t rush. not even a little.

when he finally slips his tongue between your folds, it’s soft and slow and so deliberate.

you moan, hips lifting toward him, fingers already tangling in his hair.

“i dreamed about this,” he whispers, mouthing along your inner thigh. “every night.”

his hands hold you open gently, thumbs pressing into your hips as he begins again. long, languid licks—like he has all the time in the world.

you writhe under him, overwhelmed. “tae, oh my god…”

he groans into you, nose pressed to your clit, eyes fluttered shut like he’s the one losing control. “let me take care of you.”

you come with his name on your lips, a sharp cry followed by gasping laughter as your body trembles in aftershocks. he doesn’t stop until you pull him up by the shoulders, tugging him into a kiss that tastes like wine and heat and your own sweetness.

he curls around you after, warm and flushed, your bodies tangled in the sheets.

you rest your hand over his heart, feeling it beat slow and steady under your palm.

“we needed this,” you whisper.

he kisses your forehead, lashes brushing your skin. “i need you. not the interviews. not the chaos. just this.”

you nod, eyes drifting closed.

outside, paris hums on, soft and golden and slow.

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[nvrngl]

˚ · .˚ ༘ ����𝒂𝒄𝒌𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒈𝒆

synopsis. you're dating taehyung but no one really knows. backstage tension turns explosive when tae corners you in the only place private enough at an award show.

pairing. bts ﹢ kim taehyung x popstar!reader ﹢ smut

wordcount. 991

warnings. NSFW ! mdni ! semi-public sex (bathroom), secret relationship, rough sex, unprotected sex, dirty talk, dom!tae, mild choking (consensual), strong language.

You didn’t plan on sneaking into the disabled bathroom—it just sort of… happens.

There’s a throb in your chest that has nothing to do with the post-performance adrenaline and everything to do with the man watching you from across the hall, half-shadowed beneath a greenroom sign, collar popped, gaze molten.

Kim Taehyung. Black hair falling into his eyes, that sinful mouth curling in amusement when your eyes catch.

You look away too fast. He’s going to make a meal out of that.

And sure enough—ten seconds later, his footsteps fall in behind you like a predator stalking prey. You catch the sound of a quiet tsk just before a hand grazes your hip, low and secret and lethal.

“Running, baby?” he whispers, hot breath against your ear. “Didn’t take you for a coward.”

You whirl around, shoving open the nearest door that doesn’t lead to a hallway full of makeup artists or stagehands or nosy backup dancers. It’s a single-stall bathroom—larger than necessary, bright, sterile, and mercifully empty.

Click. Lock. And suddenly you’re caged.

Taehyung moves like a storm, sweeping you back until your spine meets cold tile. His hands find your face like he’s been waiting hours to touch you. Then his mouth crashes into yours, and you dissolve.

Your limbs forget how to work. You melt under him like sugar on hot skin, all gloss and glitter and need.

He tastes like breath mints and victory. His tongue swipes across your bottom lip, hungry and bold. You groan into him, legs already threatening to give out.

“Fuck, baby,” he huffs, dragging the zipper of your dress down way too slowly. “Do you even know what you do to me?”

You whimper. “Tae, we don’t have time—”

“Oh, we’re making time,” he growls, pulling the neckline down until your tits bounce free. “You’re out there singing like a fucking temptress, staring at me with those fuck-me eyes, and you think I’m not gonna wreck you?”

Your panties are soaked. The lace clings to you like a second skin, doing nothing to hide how ready you are.

He dips two fingers between your thighs, swiping through your folds without warning.

You arch, gasping.

“Dripping,” he murmurs, more to himself than you. “So fucking wet and I haven’t even put my mouth on you yet.”

You nearly sob. Your head falls back, hitting the wall. You should stop this. You should.

But Taehyung is palming your ass, pulling you closer, kissing down your chest like he’s tasting his favorite meal. His voice is low and teasing as he sucks a bruise into the curve of your breast.

“You wanna know what I was thinking about while you were on stage?” he asks, lips brushing your skin. “I was thinking about this pussy. Wondering if you were bare under that little slit dress. Imagining dragging you under the stage and fucking you with the mic still in your hand.”

You let out a broken moan, clinging to his shoulders.

“Turn around,” he commands, voice wrecked. “Now.”

You obey like your life depends on it.

The mirror in front of you catches every sinful angle: your flushed face, mussed hair, dress hitched up over your ass, Taehyung behind you looking like sin incarnate.

He nudges your legs apart with his knee, pulls your panties to the side, and runs the tip of his cock along your slit with a groan.

“I’m gonna fuck you so good you’ll be trembling at your encore.”

And then he slides into you—slow, thick, devastating. You cry out, clutching the edge of the sink as your body adjusts. He bottoms out with a hiss, hands anchoring you in place.

“Goddamn,” he breathes. “You take me like you belong to me.”

Your eyes flutter shut. “I do,” you whisper. “I do.”

He loses it.

His thrusts start hard and fast, dragging obscene sounds out of both your mouths. The stall walls shake with every movement, the slap of skin on skin echoing. His hands grip your hips tight enough to bruise.

“You feel what you do to me?” he rasps, snapping his hips up into you. “I’m supposed to be cool, baby. Collected. Instead, I’m railing you in a bathroom like a fucking animal.”

“F-fuck, Tae—” you cry, back arching.

He yanks you up against his chest, one hand on your throat, the other slipping down to your clit.

“Gonna make you come like this,” he growls. “All messy and cock-drunk with my cum leaking out of you.”

Your orgasm hits like fire. You shudder in his arms, walls clenching around him so tight he chokes on a curse and fucks into you harder.

He doesn’t last much longer.

A few more desperate thrusts and he’s coming deep inside you with a moan, face buried in your neck.

For a long, long moment, the only sounds are your panting breaths and the faraway thump of bass from the stage.

He pulls out slowly, his cum trickling down your thigh. You hiss at the sensitivity and clench your legs together.

Taehyung chuckles—low and smug—and helps you straighten up.

“You’re lucky I didn’t bend you over the greenroom couch,” he mutters, kissing your shoulder. “But I like this. Messy. Secret.”

You look at yourself in the mirror: completely fucked-out, lipstick gone, chest flushed. “You’re gonna get us caught.”

He grins, refastening his pants. “And? Worth it.”

You swat his chest, trying not to laugh. “I have an interview in ten minutes.”

He hums, licking your lip gloss from the corner of his mouth. “You’re glowing. They’ll think it’s highlighter.”

You roll your eyes but you can’t help smiling.

Before you leave, he stops you with a hand on your wrist. His expression shifts—less cocky, more earnest.

“I meant it, earlier,” he says quietly. “You do belong to me.”

Your heart lurches.

You lean up and kiss him, soft and sweet. “Then prove it. Later.”

He smirks. “Hotel key?”

“Back pocket.”

“Good girl.”

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[nvrngl]

˚ · .˚ ༘ 𝒎𝒐𝒏𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓

synopsis. payback has soldier boy shinning on stage--but offstage, you're the only thing keeping him from falling apart... or becoming the monster everyone fears.

pairing. the boys ﹢ soldier boy x reader ﹢ angst

wordcount. 829

warnings. possessive behavior, emotional manipulation, ptsd mentions, co-dependency, fame-related pressure, cursing, implied emotional neglect, a very messy, toxic relationship.

˖ ݁♬⋆.˚𝄞. heavily inspired by the song monster by shawn mendes n justin bieber

The crowd’s still screaming when you leave the stage.

Their roars echo through the concrete halls of the venue like some twisted lullaby made of ego and adrenaline. You can still hear them chanting his name—Soldier Boy, Soldier Boy, like he’s the second coming of Christ in a bulletproof cape. You know that look in his eye when he bathes in it, soaked in adoration like it’s a drug. He’s high on it, again.

And just like every other time, he left you standing in the wings. Smile painted on. Invisible.

You storm down the corridor, heels pounding against the floor, fingers trembling as you yank open the greenroom door. The scent of cigar smoke and cologne smacks you in the face—him. Always him.

The mirror lights flicker overhead. You cross your arms and wait.

“You done playing the national treasure out there,” you say coldly, “or should I come back when the applause dies down?”

Ben strolls in behind you like he didn’t just kiss a senator’s wife on the hand for the cameras while you stood offstage like a damn accessory. He peels off his gloves slowly, theatrically, like it’s foreplay.

He doesn’t answer. Just smirks.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you bite. “You think I’m pissed about the kiss? It’s not the kiss, Ben.”

“Oh, this’ll be good,” he drawls, tossing the gloves on the couch. “Go on, then.”

You spin to face him, fury boiling under your skin. “It’s the fact that once the spotlight’s on, I disappear. You hold my hand in private and drop it the second there’s a crowd.”

“It’s not personal. It’s PR.”

“No, it’s cowardice.”

He blinks.

And there it is—that flicker of something behind his eyes. The part of him that’s never really grown up. Still 20-something and drowning in medals and expectations, still that golden boy who never learned how to love without performance.

“You put me on a pedestal,” you say, voice shaking. “Told me I was different. Made me feel like I mattered. And then you tear it all down the second it threatens your image.”

His jaw flexes, but he says nothing. You’re not done.

“I spill my guts, and you act like I’m the one being unreasonable. You rearrange me, Ben. Break me into pieces just so I’ll fit into your perfect soldier-boy narrative.”

“You done?”

“No. Not even close.”

You stalk closer, the air between you electric, suffocating.

“You say it’s pressure, the fans, the job—yeah, I get it. But what happens when you fall, huh? What if you trip? What if the crowd turns? Are you still the hero then? Or are you the monster they always warned us about?”

His voice drops, dark and low. “Then I guess I’m the fucking monster.”

You flinch. Not at the words—but at how easily he says them.

Like he’s rehearsed it.

Like maybe, deep down, he’s always believed it.

“You want to be worshipped for your strength,” you whisper. “But you can’t handle being seen for your weakness.”

He moves before you can react, caging you between him and the mirror, his arms on either side of you. Not touching, not yet, but it’s a threat. A plea. A desperate need to still be close, even while everything crumbles between you.

“You’re not just some fling,” he says, voice cracking like ice. “You’re the only person who knows who I really am.”

“And that should scare you,” you murmur. “Because I’m starting to wish I didn’t.”

Something flickers in him then—something real, raw and wounded and angry. “You think I want this? You think I wanted to be the country’s weapon, some overhyped mascot who can’t even go to sleep without hearing screams in his head?”

His breath is shallow, panicked.

“I came in with good intentions,” he whispers. “I swear to God, I tried.”

You believe him.

That’s the worst part.

Because Ben’s a walking contradiction. A bleeding heart wrapped in titanium armor. He wants to be good, but he doesn’t know how to get there without leaving a trail of collateral damage.

“I won’t let you ruin me,” you say, quieter now. “I won’t bleed myself dry just to keep you from falling apart.”

A beat passes.

And then, quietly:

“Don’t let me fall.”

Your eyes close. Because he always says it like a prayer, like he still thinks you can save him.

You turn slowly, facing him, the warmth of his chest almost brushing yours. Your fingers find the hem of his jacket, gripping it just enough to keep from walking away.

“You’re not the monster,” you whisper, voice trembling. “But you keep acting like one.”

He exhales like you punched the breath out of him. His forehead falls to yours, touch tender where his words never are.

“I’m trying,” he murmurs.

And god help you, part of you still hopes he means it.

But another part? The smarter part?

It’s already bracing for the next time he lets go.

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[nvrngl]

˚ · .˚ ༘ 𝒘𝒆𝒃𝒔 𝒃𝒆𝒕𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝒖𝒔

synopsis. it's the middle of the night and jungkook stumbles ( yet again ) through your window, wounded, sheepish, irresistably adorable.

pairing. bts ﹢ spiderman!jungkook x mj!reader ﹢ fluff

wordcount. 1.6k

warnings. minor injuries, blood, language, shameless flirting, spiderkook

notes. to the one that loves jungkook like no other and is now falling back down the marvel blackhole, happy birthday c. 💚

You don’t look up when you hear the thud.

It’s followed by a sharp metallic creak on the fire escape and a muffled ow, which means Jeon Jungkook has once again flung himself into your life — bruised, dramatic, and ten seconds from bleeding out on your floor like it’s part of his nightly routine.

You flip a page in your book.

“I’m dying,” comes his voice through the window screen. He sounds like a Victorian ghost. It’s kind of impressive.

“You said that last week,” you call back, still not looking.

“This time it’s for real,” he groans. “I think I got shot. Or stabbed. Possibly both.”

You sigh and slide open the window. Jungkook slumps through it with the grace of a wounded cat, mask pushed up, suit half-ripped, curls wild, and an actual trail of blood following him like glitter.

“My carpet,” you say flatly.

“Hi to you too.” He grins, teeth and all. There's a cut on his lip. He looks like trouble. He always looks like trouble. And God does it make you feel something.

“Let me guess,” you say, grabbing the first-aid kit. “Drug bust gone wrong? Gang of mutant pigeons? You finally picked a fight with someone taller than you?”

“Bold of you to assume anyone is taller than me when I’m upside down,” he mutters, flopping onto your bed without asking.

You ignore the chaos, kneel next to him, and dab at the gash on his temple.

“Stop moving. I don’t want your blood on my comforter. It’s expensive.”

“I’m expensive,” he mumbles. “Limited edition. Real collector’s item.”

“More like ‘slightly used with minor damage.’”

He laughs — a warm, boyish sound that makes your hand freeze for half a second. You pretend it didn’t happen.

“You know,” Jungkook says, eyes flicking up to yours, “most people would be flattered Spider-Man keeps showing up at their window.”

“You’re not Spider-Man,” you say. “You’re Jungkook in spandex who can’t stay upright for more than fifteen minutes.”

“I got pushed, thank you very much.”

You snort. “By what? A toddler?”

“I’ll have you know she was twelve and vicious.”

You press a bandage to his forehead a little harder than necessary.

He hisses. “Ow. I’m telling your mom you abuse superheroes.”

“She already thinks you’re my boyfriend.”

Jungkook blinks. “Wait, what?”

You shrug. “You come over injured. You sleep here sometimes. You call me at 2 a.m. like we’re in a situationship.”

“That’s slander,” he says, looking far too smug for someone who might be concussed. “I only call you after midnight if I’m emotionally stable.”

“That has never happened.”

“Okay, true.”

You roll your eyes, dropping the bloody gauze in the trash. “Why do you even come here? Don’t you have, like, a nurse sidekick or a secret spider cave or something?”

“I have all that,” he says, hand flapping mid-hair like he's all that. “but none of them smell like your vanilla shampoo.”

You blink. “You are literally injured and flirting with me.”

“Multitasking. I’m gifted.”

“You’re gonna bleed out.”

“Then kiss me before I go.”

You stare at him.

He stares back, shameless, like this is normal behavior. Like he didn’t just crawl through your window half-dead and immediately start being a menace.

God, he’s cute. Unfortunately.

“Not tonight, web boy.”

“So you’re saying there will be a night?”

You pause. Blink. Your brain reboots.

“No. Nope. Totally not what I said.” But your speech is a little too fast. It's giving it away, and Jungkook saw it a million miles back.

“You paused. That was a pause.”

You shove the ice pack into his hand. “Shut up and hold this.”

He grins and does what he’s told.

You lean back against your desk chair, arms crossed, trying not to look at the way his jaw flexes or how his shirt is riding up slightly, revealing the tiniest sliver of abs. You’re not looking. You’re definitely not looking.

“Thanks for patching me up,” he says after a beat.

You glance at him. He’s watching you again — but this time it’s not loud or teasing. Just kind of soft. The kind of soft that makes your stomach do something it shouldn’t.

You flick your eyes away.

“Yeah, well. Don’t die. I’d have to clean up your body and that sounds annoying.”

He smiles like that was the most romantic thing he’s ever heard.

He ends up staying.

Which, of course, he always does.

You sit cross-legged on the floor beside your bed, sipping from a lukewarm energy drink and pretending not to care that Jeon Jungkook is currently stretched across your pillows like he pays rent here. He doesn’t. But you’re pretty sure he has a toothbrush in your bathroom.

He’s in his undersuit now — black and sleeveless and clinging in ways you absolutely do not think about. His arm’s bandaged, his curls are still damp from the wet cloth you made him use, and there’s a tiny smudge of blood drying at the corner of his mouth. He looks like a mess.

An unfairly hot mess.

“So,” you say, gaze fixed on a chipped spot of polish on your thumbnail, “what happened out there?”

Jungkook lets out a breath and stares up at the ceiling like it personally offended him. “Some idiot tried to rob a tech truck three blocks from Oscorp. Had, like, actual alien weapons. Not even subtle.”

Your eyes flick to him despite yourself. “Alien-alien or just suspiciously shiny?”

“Alien-alien. Chitauri plasma rifles. The one with the glowy blue veins? You know the type.”

You hum, casually. As if you don’t know. As if you haven’t watched every Avengers briefing leaked online.

“They really let just anyone steal those now, huh?”

“Apparently,” he mutters. “Anyway, I swing in — like, mid-getaway — and try to web the tires. But these guys had shields. And a drone. A full drone, MJ. Like, Stark-level AI.”

“That explains the new hole in your suit.”

He groans. “Do not remind me. This one was limited edition.”

You rest your chin on your knees, quietly watching him. He talks with his hands a lot when he gets going, all excited energy and half-formed gestures. It’s like he forgets how tired he is. Or how much he’s bleeding. Or that it’s 2:37 in the morning and you’re literally just some girl he keeps crashing into.

Still. You could listen to him forever.

“You should call for help more,” you mutter. “You’re not invincible.”

He glances at you. And for a moment, something flickers behind his eyes. He grins lazily. “You worried about me, MJ?”

“I just don’t want alien blood staining my sheets,” you shoot back. “We both have standards.”

Before he can respond with something equally stupid and flirty, his watch makes a sharp beep. He groans again — louder, more dramatic.

“Ugh, nooo. Not now.”

“What is it?”

He presses the face of the watch and a pixelated message glows to life:

DISTRESS CALLAVENGERS TOWER — LEVEL 4 SECURITY THREAT

Your breath hitches. “Avengers?”

“Yeah. I, uh... I help out sometimes.”

You blink up at him. “You never said you worked with them.”

Jungkook shrugs like it’s no big deal. Like Tony Stark didn’t probably give him that suit. “It’s casual. I swing by. Save a cat. Fight a god. Eat snacks.”

You scoff, but your stomach flips a little. He’s joking — but not really. He’s one of them. You’ve always known he was more than the “neighborhood” part of Spider-Man, but still. Hearing it out loud makes something sharp and weird twist behind your ribs.

Jungkook slides off your bed and stands, tugging his top layer back on. His movements are quick now, practiced, but he’s still limping slightly.

You stay seated on the floor, staring up at him. You don’t say it, but your jaw tenses.

He glances at you, then smiles — that annoying, infuriatingly charming smile that makes your heart stutter when you’re not careful.

“Hey,” he says lightly. “Don’t I even get a good luck kiss?”

You blink.

“Excuse me?”

He leans down a little, eyes glinting. “What if I don’t make it back? This could be our last moment. Don’t you want to make it cinematic?”

You raise an eyebrow. “You’re gonna guilt-trip me into kissing you before fighting an alien or whatever?”

He pouts. “You’re literally my emotional support girl. This is part of the job.”

“Then you should’ve unionized.”

He laughs — full-on, head-thrown-back giggle — and it does something catastrophic to your insides.

You roll your eyes and stand, slowly. “Fine.”

“Wait, really?”

“Yeah. Close your eyes.”

Jungkook lights up, immediately obedient.

You lean in close.

...and flick his forehead.

“Ow!” he yelps, stumbling back. “Rude!”

You smirk. “That’s for bleeding on my floor.”

He presses a hand to his chest like he’s wounded. “Cold. So cold.”

You cross your arms and shrug, even as your heart thrums traitorously. “Now go save the world or whatever. I’ve got a chem test tomorrow.”

Jungkook backs toward the window, already lifting his mask into place. His curls are wild again, his eyes bright with adrenaline.

But before he climbs out, he pauses — just long enough to glance back at you, one hand resting on the sill.

“You know,” he says, voice muffled through the fabric, “I’m gonna get that kiss one day.”

You roll your eyes. “You keep saying that.”

“And you keep letting me in.”

With that, he winks — actually winks — and dives out the window like gravity is just a suggestion.

You stand there for a second too long.

Then you sigh, turn off the light, and climb into your bed, pulling the blankets over the spot where he left his warmth behind.

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[nvrngl]

˚ · .˚ ༘ 𝟐𝟕𝐁

synopsis. your front door neighbor's cat has a habit to sneak into your balcony. today, however, he takes it a step further.

pairing. bts ﹢ jimin x reader ﹢ slice of life ; non-idol au

wordcount. 962

warnings. partial nudity, embarrassment-induced stammering ( like girl, get a grip!! ), flirty awkwardness, one very judgmental kitty cat

You barely know the guy in 27B.

Just the soft-eyed boy with pastel hair and an apologetic smile you’ve exchanged maybe six words with, total. The one you pass in the stairwell sometimes, each of you lugging groceries or buried in your phones or trying very hard to not make eye contact after one of those “both reaching for the elevator button at the same time” situations.

But you know his cat. You know him very well.

It started about a month ago — a lazy Sunday, sun warming the cracked tiles of your tiny balcony, when a little cloud of fur padded over from next door and sat square in the middle of your doormat like he paid rent. Just... plop. Like he belonged there. Like you were the guest.

You didn’t even know 27B had a cat. But this one — round-faced, lilac-cream puffball with a crooked tail and the most judgmental yellow eyes you’ve ever seen — was apparently a regular.

It became a thing. You’d leave the balcony door cracked open when the weather was nice. Sometimes he’d visit, sometimes he’d just stare from across the rail like some kind of feline gargoyle, silently monitoring your movements. Once, you tried offering him a treat. He sniffed it and walked away. Brutal.

But today?

Today he goes full send.

You’re curled up on the couch with a mug of lukewarm tea, cozy under a ratty blanket and halfway through a fantasy romance with a broody sword-wielding himbo, when you hear the faintest thump.

You glance up.

The cat — his cat — is in your living room.

You blink.

He blinks back.

“Excuse me?” you say, like he’s a burglar.

He yawns, hops onto the armrest, and promptly makes himself at home on your lap.

You freeze, book midair. “You can’t just— This is illegal.”

But he starts purring. Loudly.

You melt like butter in July.

Though, you're not really a cat gal. So, five minutes later, you’re standing in front of 27B with a slightly smug cat in your arms and your entire soul in disarray. You can hear faint music through the door — something poppy and low, the kind of music that smells like vanilla candles and expensive cologne.

You hesitate. But then you ring the bell.

Ding-dong.

Nothing.

You shift the cat (he’s heavy), try again. Still nothing.

Then— clunk.

Something inside falls over. A crash. A very distinct “ow.” And then, footsteps — fast and scrambling, followed by a panicked thud like someone slipped on hardwood and possibly died.

You panic in sympathy. “Oh my god— Are you okay?!”

A muffled voice groans something unintelligible.

Then… the door opens.

Park Jimin — 27B himself — stands in the frame, breathless, flushed pink, and wearing nothing but a towel.

A towel.

White. Fluffy. Barely hanging on.

Your brain promptly shuts down.

“I—Hi—I mean—uh—sorry,” you stammer, immediately looking everywhere but at his chest. “I—your cat—he—uh—he’s in my apartment—no, was, he was, but now—he’s here—uh—” You hold the feline out like an offering. “He came in. Through the balcony. He—uh. Hi.”

Jimin blinks, dazed.

Then he smiles.

It’s soft and sheepish and crooked with embarrassment, like he can’t believe this is happening either.

“Oh my god,” he says, voice husky from what you can only assume was a very recent shower. “Mochi, you little traitor.”

You glance down at the cat. Mochi? Of course his name is Mochi. That’s illegal levels of cute.

“He, um.” You clear your throat, still not looking directly at Jimin. “He walked in like he owned the place. I think he judged my book choice.”

“That sounds like him,” Jimin says, laughing now — a soft, belly-deep sound that makes your face flame. “He usually just patrols the balcony. I didn’t think he’d actually break in.”

“He didn’t even knock.”

“Well, he’s rude like that.”

You both smile. You’re still holding the cat like an offering to the gods.

Jimin steps back. “You can come in—if you want. I’ll—just—uh.” He gestures vaguely at his towel, mortified.

You shake your head way too fast. “No! I mean—no, it’s okay! I just wanted to, um, return the criminal.”

He leans forward and gently scoops Mochi into his arms — and yeah, he’s definitely still damp. His skin is flushed and glowy and everything smells like jasmine shampoo and cozy domestic heartbreak.

“Thanks,” he says softly. “For bringing him back.”

You shrug, struggling to look chill while the inside of your skull is on fire. “He’s good company. Kinda snobby. But, like, in a charming way.”

Jimin grins. “That’s how most people describe me too.”

You actually laugh — high and breathless. “Well, you did answer the door in a towel, so.”

“I slipped on my conditioner bottle,” he says gravely. “Risked my life for this interaction.”

“You’re a hero.”

He lifts a hand in salute, still holding the cat. “It’s what I do.”

There’s a pause.

You’re still hovering in his doorway like a confused delivery girl.

He looks at you. You look at your feet.

Then he clears his throat. “Um. If Mochi invades your apartment again, maybe you could… let him? He likes you, apparently.”

Your stomach does a weird swoop.

“Sure,” you say, trying not to sound like a teenager with a diary full of bubble letters. “He’s… welcome anytime.”

Jimin nods, biting back a smile. Even Mochi’s sure you’re not refering to him.

You take a cautious step back. “Okay, um. Goodnight, Jimin.”

“I’ll see you around.”

The door clicks shut.

You stand there for a second. Just… recalibrating your brain. Then you turn around, walk back to your apartment, and immediately collapse face-first into your couch.

Mochi’s fur is still on your blanket.

Your heart is still not okay.

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[nvrngl]

* = 18+. 2025 Lists. 2024 Lists

All of You - Jax Teller - @bellaxgiornata

* Devil in the Backseat - Dean Winchester - @nvrngl

* Rusty - Jack Abbot - @stellamarielu

* Team Bonding - Jack Abbot - @oceantornadoo

Quiet the Noise + Hit to the Head - Bucky Barnes - @navybrat817

Hair - Bucky Barnes - @bcksbarnes

Bucky Barnes - @ofstarsandvibranium

* Strangers - Michael Robinavitch - @m-robinavitch

* Sink In Me With Your Dog Teeth - Logan Howlett - @sceletaflores

* Frank Castle - @agirlcandream84

Enjoy

[nvrngl]

˚ · .˚ ༘ 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒎𝒂𝒏 𝒘𝒉𝒐 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒓𝒆𝒅 𝒂𝒕 𝒓𝒐𝒄𝒌𝒔

synopsis. of course, you would need to be in outer space to find your soulmate. you probably just wouldn't guess it would be him. quiet, compassionate, understanding, caring. it's beautiful to learn what love is between the quietness of the stars.

pairing. bts ﹢ kim namjoon x engineer!reader ﹢ slow-burn fluff

wordcount. 1.8K

notes. written for someone special. happy birthday, k. 💖✨

you spot him before you realize who he is.

he’s standing at the far end of the prelaunch observation deck, hands in his pockets, head tilted up as the low morning sun glints off the hull of the ship outside. it’s still in its support frame, sleek and massive, humming gently with systems tests. this is your third mission, and you know every inch of that vessel—she’s beautiful, but terrifying. a good machine, and a dangerous one.

but the man in front of you doesn’t look afraid. he looks like he’s watching something sacred.

you study him for a second: tall, broad-shouldered, dressed down in dark slacks and a fitted crew jacket like everyone else. but something about him is off. too graceful. too careful. and that face—you’ve definitely seen that face before.

you open the digital manifest on your tablet. right there, near the top of the list of private passengers:

KIM NAMJOON – CULTURAL INVESTOR / CREATIVE SPONSOR – CATEGORY: FUNDING TIER A

ah. that explains it.

not just a sponsor. the sponsor. one of the quiet backers who made this entire planetary observation project possible. and now, apparently, he’s going with you.

you’re still staring when he turns around.

his gaze lands on you instantly. he doesn’t look surprised—just curious.

“do you know her?” he asks. it takes you a second to realize he’s talking about the ship.

you glance past him at the hull. “yeah,” you say. “i helped build her.”

his eyes widen, just slightly. “seriously?”

you nod.

he smiles, and it changes everything. softer. open. “that’s incredible.”

you shrug like it’s no big deal. but your chest is warm.

“i’m namjoon,” he offers, holding out a hand.

“i know,” you say before you can stop yourself.

his smile quirks up at the edge. “oh?”

“not like that,” you rush to explain. “you’re in the manifest. i wasn’t—googling you.”

he laughs. “i wouldn’t blame you if you had. i’m… kind of hard to ignore.”

that makes you pause. not because he’s wrong. but because the way he says it—it’s not cocky. more like he’s aware of the weight he carries. like he’s lived a long time under a spotlight he never asked for.

“well,” you say, gesturing toward the ship, “you’re not the biggest star here.”

he follows your gaze, grins. “true. she’s stealing my thunder.”

you don’t mean to keep talking to him. you really don’t. but somehow, the conversation flows. he asks about your background, not just to be polite but with actual interest. propulsion engineering. systems operations. orbital stabilization. and when you glance up, expecting a blank stare, he’s just nodding, listening.

“you don’t talk like the other guests,” you say quietly after a while.

“they talk too much?”

“they talk like they paid to feel important.”

he looks at you for a long moment. then nods. “i didn’t pay to feel important. i paid to feel small.”

you blink.

“i’ve been… big,” he says softly. “for so long. and i think i forgot what it feels like to be nothing next to the stars.”

you don’t say anything. you don’t need to.

you get it.

you’re not assigned to passenger detail. not directly. but with a support crew this small, your paths cross again before launch—training simulations, pressure drills, safety briefs.

he’s always asking questions. good ones. he wants to know how the oxygen cycles work, what happens if the comms go dark. not in a panicky way. more like a man building a map in his mind. preparing to be quiet in the chaos.

you like that.

launch day.

you’re strapped in sideways, reading out engine vitals from the primary screen. namjoon’s strapped in two rows behind you.

you hear his voice over the com just before ignition.

“hey.”

you glance back.

“don’t let me die up here.”

you smile behind your mask. “don’t give me a reason to.”

he grins.

then the countdown hits zero.

and the world becomes light and fire and ascent.

the ship settles into quiet orbit like an exhale.

you unstrap. stretch. check your station.

when you look up, namjoon is floating a little above his seat, hair fluffy, limbs loose, laughing quietly to himself.

“first time in zero-g?” you ask, pushing over.

“yeah,” he says breathlessly. “it’s… insane.”

you anchor near him, guiding him toward the wall handle. his fingers graze yours as he grabs on.

“how do you even get used to this?” he asks.

“you don’t,” you say. “you just stop fighting it.”

he stares at you.

“that sounds like a metaphor.”

you shrug. “maybe.”

—

you fall into rhythm.

not all at once—just slowly, piece by piece, like systems syncing up after launch. there’s always a strange stillness to space travel once the engines go quiet. you’d call it peaceful, if it weren’t for the constant risk of death.

but namjoon makes it feel different.

he's quiet, most of the time. not withdrawn—just intentional. when he speaks, it's with purpose. and when he doesn’t, he’s listening. really listening. not the polite kind of listening people do when they're waiting for their turn to talk. it’s something deeper. like he absorbs everything you say and tucks it away somewhere safe.

on day eight, you catch him in the rec module, seated cross-legged, reading a thick reference manual on atmospheric stabilization.

“you studying for my job?” you tease, floating over to him with your tablet.

he looks up, smiling sheepishly. “figured it was time i knew what half your acronyms mean.”

“half of them are made up anyway.”

“what, like S.E.F.T.?”

“strictly-engineered-fake-terminology,” you deadpan.

his laughter fills the small space, warm and open. you’re still smiling when you settle into the seat beside him, your shoulder brushing his for just a moment. he doesn’t move away.

“want the short version?” you offer.

he nods.

so you start pointing at the diagrams. explaining the way oxygen scrubs through the filters, how backup valves reroute when the CO₂ levels spike, and what would happen if someone forgot to do their job.

he listens. asks smart questions. furrows his brow in this way that makes a tiny crease form between his eyebrows.

you want to reach out and smooth it with your thumb.

you don’t.

—

by day twelve, he’s always where you are.

not in a clingy way. just… present.

if you’re doing diagnostics in the nav deck, he happens to walk through.

if you’re refitting the safety lockers, he shows up to help unprompted, sleeves rolled up, offering to hold the panel steady.

he isn’t annoying about it either. he never hovers. never flirts. he just makes himself useful.

and when the rest of the passengers start forming their little elite cliques—perfect smiles, perfectly curated zero-g photos—namjoon doesn’t join in. he just drifts next to you, eyes shining as you point out the way europa’s frozen surface glitters like powdered glass under the reflection of jupiter.

“it doesn’t even look real,” he murmurs.

“it is,” you say.

he glances sideways at you.

“you’ve seen so much more than most people already,” you add. “and you’re still impressed.”

“that’s the thing about beauty,” he replies. “the more you know, the more precious it gets.”

you don’t know what to say to that.

so you just… look at him.

and that moment stretches—like gravity’s got you both in its pull.

—

on day sixteen, you’re in the crew galley late.

you’ve been rewiring a misbehaving circuit in the medbay panel and haven’t eaten since morning. there’s barely anything to choose from—sealed rations and watery rehydrated noodles—but it’s better than nothing.

he finds you there, crouched in your oversized hoodie, elbows on the tiny metal counter.

“you always eat alone?” he asks softly, setting down a tray beside yours.

“not always. just when i stink of coolant.”

“i don’t mind.”

you raise an eyebrow.

“you could be covered in engine grease and i’d still sit here,” he says, amused. “maybe even more enthusiastically.”

you chuckle despite yourself.

he cracks his noodles open. steam fogs the air. you both sit in silence for a while, just chewing, warm knees bumping gently under the table.

“what’s it like?” you ask quietly. “being you.”

he blinks. “being me?”

you nod. “rich. famous. talked about. loved. hated. everything in between.”

he doesn’t answer right away. just stirs his soup slowly.

“lonely,” he says at last.

your throat tightens.

“people love what i give them,” he continues. “but sometimes i wonder if anyone really knows me. not the stage version. not the brand. just… the guy who likes dusty books and ugly sweaters and being in places like this, where no one expects him to perform.”

you don’t say anything.

you just reach across the tiny table. fingers brushing his.

and he lets them stay.

—

on day twenty-one, he finds you in the viewport corridor.

you’re lying against the cool glass, lights low, watching jupiter pass like a god through the black.

he settles beside you without speaking.

for ten whole minutes, neither of you say a word.

then—

“if the ship failed right now,” he says softly, “would it be quick?”

you turn your head slowly.

“yeah,” you say. “you wouldn’t feel a thing.”

he nods.

“why?” you whisper.

“i think…” he hesitates. “i think part of me came here not just for the stars. but because if something went wrong… no one would be able to say i didn’t go out doing something i loved.”

your heart aches.

he’s not dramatic about it. he doesn’t cry. but there’s a pain behind his voice. one he probably doesn’t let many people hear.

you shift closer. your hand finds his in the dark.

“you’re not going out, namjoon,” you say. “not on my ship.”

he squeezes your hand once.

and then doesn’t let go.

—

on day twenty-five, someone makes a comment.

one of the other passengers, leaning against a wall in the gym module, eyeing you and namjoon as you float through.

“bet that one’s already got her bunk warmed,” the man says under his breath, loud enough for you to hear.

you stop.

namjoon hears it too.

but before you can snap, he just reaches for your hand—gently, deliberately—and tugs you forward.

doesn’t look at the guy. doesn’t flinch.

just takes you with him. somewhere quiet.

“thank you,” you say when you’re alone.

he shrugs. “wasn’t worth it.”

you tilt your head. “you didn’t even deny it.”

he looks at you.

and for the first time since launch, there’s heat in his gaze.

“maybe because… part of me doesn’t want to.”

the silence pulses around you like air between lightning strikes.

you swallow. “joon—”

he steps closer. just slightly. enough for you to feel the warmth of his chest.

but he doesn’t kiss you. doesn’t make a move.

he just says, “i like being around you. a lot. but i’ll never push.”

you nod, heart pounding.

“okay,” you whisper.

and he smiles.

you leave the room with your fingers brushing again, and this time—he laces them through yours.

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[nvrngl]

˚ · .˚ ༘ 𝒅𝒆𝒗𝒊𝒍 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒃𝒂𝒄𝒌𝒔𝒆𝒂𝒕

synopsis. you run into dean while working on a case.

pairing. supernatural﹢ dean winchester x hunter!reader ﹢ smut

wordcount. 1.1K

warnings. nsfw ! alcohol, too much flirting, semi-public sex, unprotected sex.

You clock him the second you walk into the bar.

It’s not just the leather jacket or the stupidly confident sprawl of his legs beneath the sticky table. It’s the way his eyes cut across the room like a weapon, scanning. Like yours. Like he’s hunting too.

You pretend not to notice. Order a whiskey. Neat. The bartender raises a brow but doesn’t argue.

The bar smells like beer and regret. One guy’s already passed out on the pool table. Perfect place for a cursed object to be changing hands. You’re here for the hex bag that’s been killing truckers up and down the state.

He’s probably here for the same thing.

You settle into the stool, sip your drink, and resist the urge to turn around and stare.

Doesn’t work.

Because suddenly, he’s beside you, leaning against the bar like he owns it.

“Hunter?” he says, low, amused.

You arch a brow. “You don’t exactly scream civilian.”

His smile kicks up lazy and crooked, full of trouble. “Dean.”

Of course he’s Dean. You’d know that face anywhere—even if you’d never met him before. Rumors. Stories. That smile.

“(Y/N),” you reply, taking another sip. “You here for the hex bag or just to annoy me?”

“Both,” he says, and he means it.

You snort, lips brushing the rim of your glass. “You always this charming?”

“No,” he says. “Usually I’m worse.”

You don’t flirt when you're working. Usually. But Dean Winchester is the kind of problem you want to make worse before you fix it. That look in his eye? That hungry edge under the smartass? You’ve met enough bad men to know what good trouble feels like.

He buys you a drink. You let him.

Then another. You pretend it’s for information-gathering. For the case.

But you both know better.

It starts as a game. The slow lean of his shoulder into yours. The way his hand brushes your thigh like he’s not even trying to hide it. He tells you about the hex bag—how he’s tracking it to some lowlife in the back booth, fourth beer in, about to head home with a “gift” for his wife.

You tell him about how you have already set a trap for the witch.

He looks at you like he’s impressed and turned on, and you’re too buzzed to care which one wins out first.

“You always work solo?” he asks.

“I like the quiet.”

“Bet you moan loud, though.”

You choke on your drink. He grins like it’s his birthday.

“Wow,” you cough. “Real smooth.”

“I can be,” he says, voice low, like he’s already picturing it.

There’s heat curling between your thighs now. You hate him for it. You love it.

One more drink. One more dare in his eyes. One more glance at that mouth and you know exactly how the night’s gonna end.

The bar’s too crowded. The alley’s too gross.

But the Impala? Oh yeah.

You don’t even make it ten feet from the bar before he’s pushing you up against the passenger door, mouth crashing onto yours like he’s been dying for it all night.

It’s not romantic. It’s not sweet. It’s desperate. Tongues and teeth and hands fumbling at layers of leather and denim. His knee slots between your legs and grinds just right, and you whimper before you can stop yourself.

“God,” he groans against your neck, “you sound even better than I imagined.”

You grip the back of his shirt and drag him into the car.

The moment you land on the backseat, it’s chaos.

He’s everywhere.

Mouth on your throat, your collarbone, your breasts. Hands unzipping, tugging, lifting. You don’t even remember your boots coming off. Your jeans hit the floorboard and his tongue hits your skin and it’s all heat and sweat and filthy little moans.

“Dean—fuck—”

“You gotta be quiet, sweetheart,” he murmurs, dragging his mouth down your stomach. “Don’t wanna give the whole lot a free show.”

“Then stop doing things that make me wanna scream,” you snap.

He grins. “No promises.”

His mouth moves lower, tongue sliding between your thighs like he’s starving. He groans when he tastes you—groans, like the fucking sound of it’s enough to undo him.

And you?

You’re seeing stars.

Your fingers claw at the seat, legs shaking, breath catching as he circles your clit with slow, devastating precision.

“Jesus Christ—Dean—”

He pulls back just enough to smirk. “Still like the quiet, huh?”

“Shut up,” you gasp.

He chuckles and dives back in. Your hips buck against him like they’ve got a mind of their own. He holds you down, firm hands on your thighs, tongue working you open like he’s been dreaming about this for years.

You come hard—loud, messy, clenching around nothing and sobbing his name like a prayer.

And he doesn’t stop.

“Oh my God—”

He only lets you breathe when he finally crawls up your body, kissing you like he needs to taste your moans in his mouth.

“You taste so fuckin’ good,” he pants, lining himself up. “You want it, sweetheart?”

“Dean—”

“Say it.”

Your nails dig into his back. “I want it. I need it. Fuck me already—”

He thrusts in.

Your head snaps back with a cry. He fills you deep, thick and hot and perfect. You cling to him, legs wrapped tight around his waist, every breath hitching as he starts to move.

Hard. Deep. Rhythmic.

The Impala rocks under you. The windows fog up. His name falls from your lips like a mantra, your whole body wound tight, strung out, ruined.

“God, you feel so good,” he groans, fucking into you like he’s trying to leave bruises. “So tight, so wet—fuck—been thinking about this since the second I saw you.”

You gasp against his shoulder, biting down hard enough to make him growl.

He slams into you faster, sweat dripping from his jaw, lips crashing into yours like he can’t get close enough. His hand slides between you, rubbing circles over your clit until your vision blacks out.

You come again—loud, shaking, writhing beneath him.

That’s all it takes.

Dean curses, slamming deep one last time before he groans your name and spills inside you, buried to the hilt, panting like he’s just fought off a demon with his bare hands.

The car goes still.

You’re both wrecked.

Boneless.

You don’t even open your eyes as he slumps on top of you, breath warm against your ear.

“Holy shit,” he mumbles.

You laugh, breathless, hair stuck to your forehead. “That was... yeah. Wow.”

“Top three,” he admits, nuzzling into your neck.

You snort. “Three?”

“Gotta leave room for improvement.”

You smack his shoulder.

He pulls back enough to look at you. His smile’s softer now, lazy and stupidly satisfied.

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[nvrngl]

Hiii i'm new & i just wanted to say your layout is reallyyy reallyy cute. Your a very creative person. Keep it up <3!

oh my goodness! thank you so much gorgeous 𖹭 tho i must say i am obsessed with your aesthetic!! i can't wait to see what you post (˃͈ ˂͈ )

[nvrngl]

˚ · .˚ ༘ 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒚𝒐𝒖

synopsis. it wasn't supposed to end like this. not with him caring. not with you living. and god, does it feel wrong.

pairing. the boys﹢ butcher x reader ﹢ angst

wordcount. 643

warnings. mentions of blood, death, guilt. a freaking mess.

You’ve seen blood before. Drenched in it, bathed in it, swam through it just to claw your way out of another mission alive. It’s not the red that gets you.

It’s the fact that it's his blood.

Butcher’s slumped against your chest, heavier than you ever expected him to be. His breaths come in ragged gasps, each one sounding more like a threat than the faintest sign of hope. There’s a hole in his side. Too big. Too deep. Too final.

“No, no, no—fuck, Butcher!” Your hands are pressed against the wound, slick and useless. “Why the fuck would you do that?”

He coughs, a dry, wet sound. “Didn’t fancy watchin’ you die, that’s why.”

“Bullshit.” You’re shaking. “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to save me like some goddamn hero and die for it.”

He manages a half-smile, bloody and tired. “Ain’t a hero, love. Just... couldn’t let Homelander take you too.”

You feel the ground tilt beneath you, even though you’re sitting on it. “You told me not to be sentimental.”

“Yeah, well... 'm a hypocrite.”

You bark out a laugh that sounds like a sob. He winces at the sound, or maybe at the pain. You don’t know anymore.

“You can't leave me,” you whisper. “Not like this.”

He doesn't argue. Just looks up at you with those dark eyes, soft in a way you’ve never seen before. Like he’s trying to memorize your face. Like he’s letting go.

“No,” you say again, firmer this time. “You’re not dying. I’m not letting you.”

He blinks slow. “It’s alright, y’know. You made it out. That’s what matters.”

“I don’t want to make it out without you.”

Your voice cracks. Your hands are stained. Your heart is breaking.

Billy Butcher, the man who never let anyone close, is dying in your arms, and there’s not a damn thing you can do about it.

“I was never supposed to care,” you say, more to yourself than to him. “But I do. God, I do.”

His lips twitch into something like a smile. “Told ya... trouble.”

You shake your head, tears falling now. Real ones. Ugly ones. “You absolute asshole.”

You press down harder on his wound, even though you know it won’t matter. Even though every second that passes feels like another nail in his coffin. Your voice drops into something quieter, something more fragile. “I never asked you to do this.”

“Didn’t need to.” His eyelids are heavy. “I chose it.”

The sirens are distant, maybe real, maybe not. You can’t focus on anything but the way his blood pools around you, staining your clothes, your hands, your memory.

“You hate being vulnerable,” you murmur, brushing a strand of hair from his sweat-soaked forehead. “You hate this—caring. Feeling. Fuck, Butcher, you hated me when we first met.”

“Didn’t hate you.”

It catches you by surpirse.

“Didn’t know what the hell to do with you.” He coughs again, weaker this time. “You were... too bright. Too stubborn. Too damn loud.”

A broken laugh slips from your throat. “And you still let me in.”

“Yeah.” His hand twitches against your arm, trying to hold on. “Didn’t mean to. You just... wormed your way in, didn’t you? You're a sneaky one,”

You cradle his head against your chest like it’ll make a difference. Like it’ll anchor him here. “Stay with me, Butcher. Please.”

But his body is turning cold.

And his eyes are staring right through you.

“No, no, no, no—”

You don’t hear the medics arrive. Don’t feel Frenchie pulling you back. Don’t register MM shouting orders.

All you know is that the man who never let himself love, who never let anyone close, just died because he cared.

He cared for you.

Now you’re the one left behind.

Now you have to carry the weight.

And it’s so fucking heavy.

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[nvrngl]

˚ · .˚ ༘ 𝒐𝒇𝒇-𝒍𝒊𝒎𝒊𝒕𝒔

synopsis. being jensen's sister has many advantages. but being able to hang with his best friend? ugh, that one takes the trophy.

pairing. jared padalecki x jensen's lil sis!reader ﹢ smut ( mdni )

wordcount. 2.2K

warnings. foul language, best friend’s little sister trope, oral sex (f!receiving), jensen is literally asleep right there lol, and lies--so many lies!

being jensen's sister has many advantages.

like a permanent VIP pass to his dry, savage humor. like someone always picking up your calls, even at 3 a.m. like the kind of hugs that make you feel ten again, safe and known, a forever bodyguard in flannel.

but the best perk?

being able to hang with his best friend.

ugh. that one takes the trophy.

you’re sprawled out on their couch in vancouver, wearing borrowed sweatpants and a hoodie that is definitely not yours (you think it used to be jared’s but now it smells like you and it’s claimed, sorry not sorry). jared’s next to you, long legs taking up half the damn couch, popcorn bowl in his lap, that boyish smile tugging at his lips as he picks the next horror movie like it’s a sacred ritual.

"okay, okay, hear me out," he says, turning toward you like he's about to pitch a million-dollar idea. "we skip the cheesy remake and go full 80s slasher. blood, bad hair, screaming girls. classic."

"you mean, your type of film." you grin, poking him with your foot.

he catches your ankle before you can pull it back and holds it hostage across his lap. “my type of film is whatever makes you scream.”

you blink.

he blinks.

you both burst out laughing, borderline choking on popcorn.

"that came out wrong," he wheezes, turning red.

"nope, too late," you tease, biting your lip. "freudian slip. totally noted."

you’re still laughing when jensen walks in from the kitchen, holding a beer, staring at the two of you like you're speaking an alien language.

"...what’d I miss?"

jared immediately plays it cool, tossing popcorn into his mouth like a professional. “nothing. just talking about how your sister's a total wimp with scary movies.”

“am not!” you protest, scandalized.

jensen snorts. “you literally hid behind a pillow when we watched The Sixth Sense.”

“he was dead the whole time! it was traumatic!”

jared gives you that look, soft and secret and amused, like he’s known you forever. “i’ll protect you,” he murmurs under his breath, just loud enough for only you to hear.

your face heats up. and of course, you giggle. you hate that you giggle. but he does this thing with his voice—all low and teasing and safe—and suddenly your body forgets how to function like a normal human.

"you two are weird," jensen mutters, plopping onto the recliner with a sigh. "weird and annoying."

jared shrugs, completely unbothered. “must be genetic.”

you kick him in the shin—gently, lovingly—and he just grabs your foot again, this time squeezing your ankle like he might never let go.

you try not to look down at where his hand is. you fail.

but you also don’t move it.

the movie starts. the lights dim. jensen gets halfway through his beer before falling quiet, absorbed in the on-screen chaos.

but you?

you can’t focus.

not when jared shifts closer. not when his knee brushes yours and stays there. not when he leans in to whisper, “okay, but seriously, if you get scared, i got you.”

you roll your eyes. “what makes you think i’m scared?”

he grins. “because your pulse just jumped like, a lot.”

you gasp, swat his arm, and whisper back, “are you feeling my pulse right now? you little creep!”

"you put your leg on me first," he shoots back, smug.

and yeah, okay, maybe this is dangerous. maybe this thing—this quiet, giggly, heart-racing, secret-something—is a bad idea.

but when jared slouches just enough for your head to fall onto his shoulder, and you feel his cheek rest on your hair like it’s the most natural thing in the world?

you think maybe the danger's worth it.

“you comfy?” he murmurs.

“mmmhm.”

“cool,” he says, like he’s smiling with his whole soul. “don’t tell jensen.”

from the recliner, jensen glances over again. eyes narrow.

“why do you two keep whispering?”

jared deadpans: “we’re plotting your murder.”

you nod solemnly. “slow and painful.”

“cool,” jensen mutters, shaking his head. “remind me never to invite either of you to movie night again.”

but he doesn’t move.

and neither do you.

and jared?

he just rests his hand on your knee.

like he’s always known it belonged there.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

jensen’s been asleep for over an hour now. his beer’s half-finished, the movie’s long over, and his steady breathing from the recliner is the only thing keeping you and jared from totally losing it.

you’re still on the couch. still wrapped up in that blanket you both pretended was only for warmth, not for covering the way your legs were tangled or how your hand had been resting suspiciously high on his thigh.

but jared moves first.

slow. deliberate.

his fingers brush your jaw, turning your face toward his. his eyes search yours like he’s asking a question he’s dying to hear the answer to—and you give it to him without a word.

your lips meet.

and everything tilts.

the kiss is deep immediately, full of heat and tension that’s been crawling beneath your skin for weeks. he groans into your mouth, low and quiet, like he can’t help it, like it’s been living inside him for too long.

his hands slide into your hair, tugging gently. your fingers clutch his hoodie, dragging him closer, legs folding over his lap as you shift to straddle him like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“jesus christ,” he whispers against your mouth. “been thinking about this every night since you got here.”

your hips rock down without permission, and oh god, he’s already hard under you—thick and hot and so responsive. he bites down on your lower lip when you grind again, hands locking around your waist.

“jared—”

he cuts you off with a kiss that steals the rest of your sentence, then breathes against your mouth, “shh. he’s right there.”

you nod.

but you move anyway.

you roll your hips again, slower this time, dragging a moan from him that’s just barely choked off.

his hands push up beneath your hoodie, fingertips skating across your bare skin, gripping your sides like he needs to ground himself. “fuck. can’t believe we’re doing this here.”

“you wanna stop?” you whisper.

“god, no.” he leans in to kiss your neck. “i wanna take you to my room and ruin you for anyone else.”

your breath catches—legs tightening around his waist—and he laughs softly against your throat, smug.

“but,” he says, licking a stripe just beneath your jaw, “i’ll settle for making you come on top of me in the living room.”

you gasp.

he pulls back enough to look at you, hair messy, pupils blown wide, lips already swollen. he looks like a man on the edge. and you love that it’s you who put him there.

“take this off,” he says, tugging at your hoodie. “quietly.”

you do—peeling it off and tossing it onto the floor. his eyes darken at the sight of your bare chest, and he palms your breast with one hand, mouth latching onto the other like he’s been waiting years for it.

you arch into him, biting down on your knuckle to keep from crying out.

“you’re so fucking perfect,” he breathes, kissing down your stomach now, hands guiding your hips until he’s the one flat on his back, and you’re straddling his chest.

“what are you—”

“shh,” he says, tugging your sleep shorts down, eyes never leaving yours. “i’ll be quiet. you just stay right here.”

and then he drags you up.

slowly. intentionally.

you realize what he’s doing a second too late—your thighs already trembling as he pulls you toward his mouth.

“jared—fuck, no—what if he wakes up—”

he grins, breath hot against your inner thigh. “then you better be really quiet, sweetheart.”

and then he licks you—broad, filthy, devastating—and your head drops back like gravity’s too much.

his hands grip your ass, holding you steady as he eats you out with the kind of focus that makes you wonder if he’s trying to memorize you. his tongue flicks and circles and presses until your thighs are shaking, your body soaked, and your hand is gripping the couch cushion behind him like a lifeline.

you come—silent, shaking, your lips parted around a gasp you don’t let out. he keeps going, tongue gentler now, like he’s easing you down, licking up every drop like he needs it.

and then?

he kisses your hip.

and smirks.

“you gonna return the favor?”

your eyes narrow. “cocky.”

“and hard as a rock,” he replies shamelessly.

and from the recliner?

a low groan.

jensen shifts in his sleep.

you and jared freeze.

then jared grins.

“…round two in my room?”

you grin back.

“quietly.”

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

it starts like a fling.

just a thing that happened. once. maybe twice. maybe the whole week you were in vancouver, maybe every night after jensen went to sleep.

it’s fine.

you leave. you go back to texas. and jared?

he calls.

late.

always late.

“hey,” he whispers, voice raspy with sleep or work or missing you. “just… wanted to hear you.”

and it stays that way for a while.

little things.

text messages.

good morning gifs.

that one photo of him shirtless in his trailer that definitely wasn’t accidental.

you play it cool. keep it light. pretend you don’t replay your voicemails from him like a teenage girl.

but when you visit again—back in vancouver for jensen’s birthday—you both crack like it’s never been months apart.

he hugs you too long when you show up. you wear his hoodie again that night. and jensen narrows his eyes like something doesn’t smell right.

“you two good?” he asks casually, like it’s just brotherly curiosity.

you shrug. “yeah. jared’s just…jared.”

jared, who that very night, kisses you breathless in the guest bathroom after jensen goes to bed.

he doesn’t even make it past undressing you.

your back hits the wall, your dress shoved up around your hips, his mouth hot and desperate against your skin. he sinks to his knees, drags your panties down your legs with teeth, and eats you out like he missed you more than air.

“been thinkin’ about this for months,” he mumbles against you, licking you open, hands gripping your thighs. “tasted you in my dreams.”

you bite your fist, head thrown back, trying not to whimper as he gets filthy with it. slow, soft licks that turn ruthless. fingers curling deep inside you. your legs threaten to give out—he doesn’t stop until you’re shaking.

and then?

you return the favor.

on your knees, against the door, lips wrapped around him, tongue dragging across his slit. he doesn’t last long. he never does when it’s been this long.

you swallow every drop. kiss his hipbone.

and walk out like nothing happened.

but jensen isn’t stupid. he sees the hoodie. he hears the creaky floorboards at 3 a.m. he raises an eyebrow when jared trips over his words.

“you’ve been weird,” he says one night, staring jared down over a beer. “she’s my sister, dude.”

jared laughs—too loud. too fake. “what? no, man, it’s nothing. just… a lil platonic crush. both sides. harmless.”

jensen gives him a look.

“platonic crush?”

jared shrugs. “swear.”

jensen doesn’t look convinced.

but he lets it go.

for now.

it keeps going like that.

you come visit again.

you fuck in the laundry room. you fuck in the backseat of jared’s truck during a run to grab groceries. you fuck in jared’s room with a chair propped under the doorknob.

but it’s not just sex.

it’s the way he looks at you after.

like he’s scared to blink.

like you might disappear.

and the calls when you're back in texas turn softer. longer. he calls just to hear you talk about your day. he sends you videos of harley and sadie and his morning coffee. he tells you when he's tired, when filming sucks, when he can’t stop thinking about how you taste.

and you?

you’re just as wrecked.

you keep your vibrator in your nightstand. you keep his hoodie under your pillow. you keep this secret in your chest like it’s sacred.

until one night—one night—you’re sloppy.

jared kisses you on the patio while jensen’s inside getting more drinks.

his hands are on your hips. your fingers are in his hair. and you forget the open window. you forget your brother has eyes.

later, after you’re long gone—after jared swears up and down nothing happened—jensen says: “you’re lying.”

jared blinks. “what?”

“i saw you,” jensen says, arms crossed. “i’ve known. you think i didn’t notice the looks? the giggling? the suspiciously timed showers?”

jared sighs.

runs a hand through his hair.

“you gonna hit me?”

jensen stares. then—slowly—“not yet.”

“look,” jared starts, voice lower, more honest. “it started off casual. we didn’t mean for it to get… serious.”

“but it is,” jensen says flatly.

jared doesn’t answer.

doesn’t need to.

“i swear i’d never hurt her,” he says instead. “and if you ever need me to back off, i’ll do it. i’ll walk away.”

jensen stares at him a long moment.

then sighs.

“if you do hurt her,” he mutters, “i’ll bury your body in the woods.”

jared nods. “fair.”

and just like that… it isn’t a secret anymore. not really.

but it doesn’t stop the late-night calls. or the thigh-gripping kisses when you visit. or the way he whispers i love you when you come apart in his arms.

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[nvrngl]

˚ · .˚ ༘ 𝒔𝒕𝒖𝒅𝒚 𝒃𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒌

synopsis. law is boring. you need a break.

pairing. supernatural﹢ stanford!sam winchester x gf!reader ﹢ smut ( mdni )

wordcount. 1.9K

warnings. public oral sex (m!receiving + f!receiving), fingering, praising, begging, overstimulation.

The campus library is dead quiet, the kind of quiet that tastes like dust and fluorescent lighting, and your fingers are cramping from how long you’ve been highlighting. Your back is aching. Your brain is buzzing. And Sam? He’s not even blinking. Just sitting across from you, leaned over his textbook like it's some ancient scripture.

You try to focus. You really do.

But Sam has that look on his face—the one where his jaw is clenched just slightly and there’s this little crease between his brows. His lashes cast shadows on his cheeks, and every once in a while, he runs his thumb across his bottom lip while reading. Like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

And he’s got his sleeves rolled up. Forearms on full display. His knuckles stained with ink. And you’re about to lose your damn mind.

You shift in your seat, crossing your legs and swallowing hard. Your pen taps against your notebook. Sam glances up at the sound, and when your eyes meet, you give him a soft smile. His mouth lifts at the corners, warm and knowing.

He knows.

God, of course he knows.

You scoot your chair a little closer under the pretense of showing him something in your textbook. He leans in, and the air shifts—slow and heavy, suddenly rich with something else. Your thighs press tighter together when you feel the heat of his body near yours, the way his eyes flick to your lips before dragging back up.

Your hand finds his under the table. Just a little brush of fingertips at first. Then your palm sliding against his, your fingers threading through. He squeezes your hand, and you’re pretty sure you stop breathing.

“You okay?” he asks, voice low, amused.

You nod. “Just… distracted.”

He smiles, like he’s trying not to. Like he’s proud of himself for pulling you under like this without even trying. He leans in a little more. “I could help you focus.”

You bite your lip. Your heart’s already in your throat, hammering against your ribs. You know that look in his eyes. Mischievous. Hungry. Warm and dark and entirely Sam.

You exhale shakily. “Or maybe I could help you relax.”

His brows rise, and he tilts his head just slightly, watching you like you're a challenge. Like he's already imagining what you might do.

“Library’s not exactly private,” he murmurs.

You smile sweetly, voice soft and teasing. “Not the way I do it.”

That’s all it takes.

Within seconds, you're packing your stuff in a haphazard rush, shoving books and pens into your bag, giggling softly when Sam follows suit, looking way too flushed for a guy who was just reviewing constitutional law. He guides you with a hand on your lower back, the two of you weaving through the maze of bookshelves until you’re somewhere deep and forgotten—where the air is colder, the lights are dimmer, and no one ever really comes.

You turn to face him, heart racing. He’s already watching you like he wants to devour you whole.

You drop to your knees before you can second guess it.

Sam’s breath catches.

You look up at him as you reach for his belt. “Wanna be good for you.”

His jaw flexes. His hands curl into fists at his sides like he’s trying to keep them to himself.

“Jesus, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice hoarse, already thick with need.

You undo his jeans slowly, watching his eyes. His lashes flutter as you pull him out, already semi-hard and heavy in your palm. You stroke him gently, loving the way he starts to throb under your touch, the way his abs tense and his breath hitches.

You lean forward, lips brushing the head of his cock, featherlight.

“Don’t tease,” he groans, voice strained.

But you love teasing him. You love watching him fall apart, watching how quickly the calm, collected student disappears under your touch.

You kiss down his length first, then lick a slow stripe up the underside, watching his hand slam against the nearest bookshelf to steady himself. Then you take him in your mouth—just the tip at first, sucking softly, tongue swirling.

He moans low in his throat. His other hand finds your hair, gentle but possessive, curling around the strands like he needs something to hold onto or he might shatter.

“F-Fuck, baby—”

You hum around him, loving the way his hips twitch. You take more of him, slow and steady, letting your throat relax as you work him deeper. His breaths come sharp and ragged above you, and you can feel the tremble in his legs as you slide your hands up his thighs.

“You’re… fuck, you’re so good at this,” he whispers, voice broken, reverent. “Always know how to drive me crazy, don’t you?”

You glance up, eyes glassy, spit dripping down your chin as you hollow your cheeks and take him even deeper. His knees almost buckle. He grips your hair tighter, not to force you—never that—but just to anchor himself, to keep from flying apart.

You bob your head faster now, using your hand at the base to stroke what you can’t fit, twisting slightly as you suck, letting your tongue press against that sensitive spot just beneath the head. He lets out a choked moan, hips jerking forward before he catches himself.

“Fuck, if you keep looking at me like that—” His voice cracks. “You’re gonna make me come in like two minutes.”

That only makes you more determined.

You hum again, faster now, your rhythm slick and messy, wet sounds filling the quiet as you swallow around him. His head drops back against the bookshelf, eyes squeezed shut, chest rising and falling rapidly.

“God, baby—gonna come—where do you want it?”

You pull off him just long enough to whisper, breathless and sticky-lipped, “In my mouth.”

He groans like that alone almost finishes him.

Then you’re back on him, working him desperately now, hands and mouth and tongue all in sync, coaxing him closer and closer until his whole body tenses—his thighs trembling, his grip in your hair bruising.

Then he spills down your throat with a guttural moan, panting your name like a prayer.

You swallow every drop.

He’s still breathing hard when you pull off him with a soft pop, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, eyes gleaming. You smile up at him—flushed, proud, glowing.

Sam stares down at you like he’s never seen anything more beautiful.

“Holy shit,” he says, still catching his breath. “That was… fuck. That was the best head of my life.”

His kiss is hungry.

You’ve barely stood up before Sam’s mouth is on yours—desperate and deep, like he needs to taste himself on your tongue, like he needs to feel every single place your mouth just was. His hands grip your waist, pulling you in so tight you can feel the flutter of his still-racing heartbeat against your chest.

You’re still panting, still flushed, still shaky from the way he came undone for you. But he’s already tilting your chin up, trailing kisses down your jaw, whispering against your skin.

“My turn.”

You blink up at him, breathless. “Here?”

He smirks, all dimples and blown pupils. “Sweetheart, you just sucked my soul out of my dick in the middle of a library. You really think I’m letting you walk out of here without returning the favor?”

You whimper when his hands slip under your skirt, fingers warm and possessive as they stroke along your thighs.

He backs you up until your spine brushes against the shelf behind you, cool metal against your sweater. Your bag hits the floor with a soft thud, forgotten.

“Leg up,” he whispers, nudging your knee with his own. “C’mon, baby. Let me see you.”

You obey—dizzy and trembling, lifting one leg onto the lower shelf behind you. It opens you up perfectly for him, your panties already damp and sticking to you from how turned on you still are.

Sam kneels.

And your breath catches.

He’s looking up at you like you’re sacred. Like he wants to worship every inch of you. His hands glide up your thighs, slow and reverent, thumbs teasing just beneath the hem of your underwear.

“You’re so wet,” he murmurs, lips brushing against the inside of your thigh. “You get off on sucking my cock, baby?”

You nod, cheeks burning. “I love it. Love how you taste. Love making you come.”

His growl is low and dangerous. “Fuck.”

He kisses your inner thigh again, then again, working higher and higher until you’re squirming, one hand flying to the shelf behind you for balance, the other tangling in his hair.

When his mouth finally presses over your soaked panties, you gasp.

He moans into you—deep and guttural—his tongue dragging slowly over the fabric before he pulls it aside with his fingers, exposing you.

“You’re dripping,” he whispers, dark eyes locked on yours. “So fucking pretty, baby.”

Then he dives in.

You choke on a gasp, your back arching hard against the shelf as his mouth finds your clit and sucks, hot and slick and so good you nearly collapse. His tongue works you with slow, filthy confidence, alternating between long licks and soft, maddening flicks.

You grab the edge of the bookshelf with both hands now, struggling to stay upright. “S-Sam—fuck—”

He hums, sending vibrations through your core, and your legs tremble.

Then he pushes two fingers inside you—so thick, so deep—curling them just right, finding that spot instantly like he’s memorized your body.

“Oh my God,” you moan, head falling back. “Sam, baby, please—don’t stop—”

He doesn’t.

His fingers thrust slow and deep, working you open while his mouth devours you. The sounds are obscene—wet and slick and echoing faintly in the silence of the stacks—but you don’t care. You can’t care.

His pace quickens. His free hand grips your thigh, holding you open for him, and the soft scrape of his stubble against your skin sends shocks straight through your belly.

You’re falling apart.

“Feels so good,” you whisper, barely coherent. “You’re so fucking good at this—gonna come, baby, I—”

His fingers speed up, mouth never leaving your clit.

And then you break.

You cry out softly—biting your lip, desperate to keep the noise in—as your orgasm crashes over you like a wave, sharp and overwhelming and so deep. Your thighs quake. Your vision blurs. You clamp down around his fingers, still pulsing long after the peak.

But Sam doesn’t stop.

He fucks you through it, relentless, tongue flicking your overstimulated clit while his fingers stroke inside you, dragging every last ripple of pleasure out of you until you’re sobbing his name.

“S-Sam, oh my God, please—”

He finally pulls back, licking his lips like he just tasted something divine, and kisses the inside of your thigh with a soft, worshipful sigh.

“You always taste like heaven,” he murmurs, voice low and ruined.

You collapse into him the second he stands, wrapping your arms around his neck as he lifts you effortlessly off the ground. He kisses you then—really kisses you—slow and messy and aching, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

“Can’t believe I got this lucky,” he whispers against your mouth. “You’re fucking perfect.”

You laugh breathlessly, dizzy and blissed out. “We’re in a library, Sam.”

He grins. “Exactly. Best study break of my life.”

You nuzzle into his chest, still catching your breath as he smooths your skirt back down, both of you flushed and giggling like idiots.

𓂃˖ ࣪⊹ navigation : all works ; guidelines ; let's be friends .ᐟ

[nvrngl]

ೀ ｡˚ ༘ 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

© 𝐧𝐯𝐫𝐧𝐠𝐥. do not steal, repost, translate and/or claim these work as your own.

⋆.˚ ★— 𝐁𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐓𝐀𝐍 𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐘𝐄𝐎𝐍𝐃𝐀𝐍 ⭑.ᐟ

the man who stared at rocks ★ kim namjoon ⭑ drabble ⭑ idol!au + slow-burn

mona lisa ★ jung hoseok ⭑ drabble ⭑ idol!au + smut

27B ★ park jimin ⭑ drabble ⭑ slice of life!au + fluff

backstage ★ kim taehyung ⭑ drabble ⭑ idol!au + smut

paris ★ kim taehyung ⭑ drabble ⭑ idol!au + soft smut ⭑ request

webs between us ★ jeon jungkook ⭑ drabble ⭑ spiderman!au + fluff

⋆.˚ ★— 𝐉𝐀𝐑𝐄𝐃 𝐏𝐀𝐃𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐂𝐊𝐈

off-limits ★ drabble ⭑ slice of life au ⭑ smut

⋆.˚ ★— 𝐉𝐄𝐍𝐒𝐄𝐍 𝐀𝐂𝐊𝐋𝐄𝐒

take one ★ drabble ⭑ actors au ⭑ fluff

⋆.˚ ★— 𝐒𝐔𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐍𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐀𝐋

devil in the back seat ★ dean winchester ⭑ drabble ⭑ smut

study break ★ sam winchester ⭑ drabble ⭑ smut

⋆.˚ ★— 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐎𝐘𝐒

bacon n' eggs ★ hughie campbell⭑ drabble ⭑ fluff

bruised, not broken ★ hughie campbell⭑ drabble ⭑ fluff

for you ★ butcher⭑ drabble ⭑ angst

monster ★ soldier boy ⭑ drabble ⭑ angst

too late ★ soldier boy ⭑ drabble ⭑ angst

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[nvrngl]

˚ · .˚ ༘ 𝒃𝒂𝒄𝒐𝒏 𝒏' 𝒆𝒈𝒈𝒔

synopsis. slow, soft mornings with hughie

pairing. the boys ﹢ hughie x reader ﹢ fluff

wordcount. 473

warnings. hughie being adorable. i love me a dorky nerd sigh

The smell of coffee pulls you from sleep.

It’s not sharp or burnt like the stuff from the office machine. It’s warm and sweet, with that soft nutty hint Hughie always goes for. He insists on grinding the beans himself—something about it being therapeutic, or maybe it’s just an excuse to procrastinate in the morning. Either way, it’s cute. He’s cute.

You roll over, cheek smushed against the pillow, and stretch an arm toward his side of the bed. Cold.

The sound of clinking dishes floats in from the kitchen.

You shuffle out of bed with your favorite hoodie slipping off one shoulder—his hoodie, technically—and pad down the hallway barefoot. Sunlight filters through the windows, dust particles dancing in the light. The apartment smells like toast, eggs, and the faint citrus of the orange juice he insists on drinking straight from the carton when he thinks you’re not looking.

He’s standing at the stove, one hand on the frying pan, the other balancing a spatula like it’s a sword. His hair’s sticking up in a dozen directions, sleep still clinging to his eyes. He hasn’t noticed you yet.

“You’re gonna burn the toast,” you mumble, voice still thick with sleep.

Hughie jumps, the spatula clattering to the floor. “Shit—sorry! I didn’t mean to wake you.”

You laugh, slow and fond, and cross the kitchen to wrap your arms around his waist from behind. He relaxes instantly, leaning back into your touch.

“You didn’t wake me. The coffee did.”

“Oh.” He grins, slightly sheepish. “Then mission accomplished.”

You rest your chin on his shoulder, watching the eggs sizzle in the pan. “You didn’t have to do all this.”

“I wanted to.” His voice softens. “Figured you deserved a morning without chaos. No calls, no Vought, no Butcher breathing down my neck. Just… us.”

You press a kiss to his shoulder through the fabric of his shirt. “Sounds perfect.”

He flips the eggs, awkward but determined, and you can’t help but smile at the sight. This is what you’ve come to love most—the little domestic moments. The quiet, unpolished mornings. The way he looks at you like you’re the best thing he’s ever had.

Breakfast ends up a little too crispy on the edges, and he knocks over the orange juice trying to grab the salt, but you sit at the table anyway, legs tangled under the surface, toes brushing against his in a sleepy sort of rhythm.

He looks across the table at you, wide-eyed and a little unsure. “It’s not gourmet or anything, but…”

You cut him off with a soft smile. “It’s perfect.”

And it is. Not because of the food. Not because of the silence or the sunlight or the fresh coffee in your mug. But because it’s him.

It’s you and Hughie, and a morning you don’t want to end.

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[nvrngl]

˚ · .˚ ༘ 𝒕𝒂𝒌𝒆 𝒐𝒏𝒆 📼 𝒓𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒚 𝒅𝒂𝒚𝒔 𝒏' 𝒔𝒄𝒓𝒊𝒑𝒕 𝒑𝒂𝒈𝒆𝒔,

synopsis. jensen's been great since day one. you're co-stars. lovers on the screen. friends in real life. but how easy is it to blur the lines?

in this part... a storm traps everyone on set late. the power goes out and you and jensen end up getting cozy.

pairing. jensen ackles x actress!reader ﹢ just pure soft fluff and giggles

wordcount. 869

warnings. just the overall danger of having jensen ackles as a co-star and him doing his dean voice .ᐟ

The rain starts around 6 PM. A slow, lazy drizzle that taps against the studio windows like an afterthought. By 7, it's a full-on downpour, rattling the roof and flooding the parking lot until production reluctantly calls it a night. The problem? Half the crew is stuck, trailers wobbling under the wind, and your car—like everyone else’s—is trapped behind a rapidly growing lake where the lot used to be.

So here you are. Trapped in the dimly lit soundstage with a handful of other cast and crew, waiting out the worst of it.

And Jensen.

Which, objectively, is fine. You’ve been working with him for a couple of years now, playing opposite him on Supernatural. You’re professionals. Friends. Costars. It’s normal to sit next to him on the worn-out set couch, his presence warm beside you, his cologne lingering even after a long day.

It’s fine.

Until the power cuts out.

The studio plunges into darkness with a deep mechanical thunk, and for a moment, the only sounds are rain hammering the roof and a collective groan from the crew.

“Well, that’s just perfect,” Jensen mutters, somewhere to your left. There’s a rustling noise—probably him digging out his phone—before a small beam of light flicks on, illuminating his face from below.

“Great,” you deadpan. “Now you look like a campfire ghost story guy.”

Jensen wiggles his fingers ominously. “OooOOooOO.”

You snort, and he grins.

Someone a few feet away calls out, “Gotta conserve phone batteries! Anyone got a flashlight that’s not running on 20%?”

“Yeah, actually—” You fumble through your bag, pulling out the small, heavy-duty flashlight you always keep on hand for late-night script readings. Clicking it on, the beam slices through the dark, much brighter than any phone screen. A few crew members cheer.

Jensen nudges you with his knee. “Look at you, all prepared.”

You shrug. “What can I say? I’m a professional.”

The warmth of his chuckle settles in your stomach, cozy and dangerous all at once.

By the time someone finds an old stack of blankets from wardrobe, you and Jensen are firmly settled on the couch, the flashlight propped between you. Outside, the rain has softened to a gentle drumming, but the wind is still howling like something out of a horror movie.

“Alright,” Jensen announces, dramatically shaking out a blanket. “We’ve reached the ‘huddling for warmth’ portion of the evening.”

You roll your eyes, but before you can argue, he’s already draped half of it over you. The warmth is instant, his body heat seeping through the thick fabric.

Yeah. This is fine. Totally normal.

“Since we’re stuck here,” he muses, picking up a script from the table, “wanna run lines?”

Your stomach flips. You should say no. Should remind yourself that hearing him slip into Dean’s voice while you’re wrapped in the same damn blanket is dangerous territory.

Instead, you nod.

The flashlight casts just enough of a glow over the script as he skims it. His voice is casual at first—just Jensen, reading aloud—but then something shifts.

He’s acting now.

“You think this is funny?” Dean’s voice, low and edged with something sharp, fills the space between you. The weight of it presses against your ribs, as tangible as the storm outside.

Your throat goes dry. “I—”

Jensen looks up, eyebrows raised expectantly.

Right. Your line.

You swallow, refocusing, and force the words out. “I think you’re scared to feel anything real.”

The tension in the script bleeds into the air around you. Jensen holds your gaze, his jaw ticking like Dean’s does when he’s trying not to say too much.

You can’t breathe.

It’s ridiculous. This is your job. You do this every day. But sitting this close, under the blanket, your knee pressed against his, his voice curling around the words like they’re meant just for you—

Yeah. You’re not surviving this night unaffected.

Jensen leans back suddenly, breaking the spell with an easy grin. “Damn, we’re good.”

You laugh, too high-pitched. “Yeah. Totally.”

He shifts, just a little, and the blanket tugs tighter around your shoulders. The air between you feels charged, crackling like the storm outside.

Jensen clears his throat. “Y’know, you’re really good at this.”

Your heart stumbles. “At what?”

He gestures vaguely. “The whole… acting thing.” His voice is softer now, more him. “You make it easy to—” He stops, hesitates, then shrugs. “—get lost in it.”

You’re pretty sure he’s not just talking about the scene.

Your fingers twist in the fabric of the blanket. “Right back at you.”

There’s a moment—a moment—where it feels like something’s about to happen. Where the space between you is too small, and the weight of his attention is too heavy, and maybe, maybe—

A loud crash from the other side of the room makes you both jump. Someone yelps. The spell is broken.

Jensen huffs a laugh, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Jesus. Almost forgot we’re not the only ones here.”

You force yourself to smile. “Yeah. Wild night.”

The rain outside starts to slow, the power flickers back on, and just like that, the moment is gone.

But the way Jensen looks at you under the blanket glow?

Yeah. This night definitely changed something.

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[nvrngl]

˚ · .˚ ༘ 𝒎𝒐𝒏𝒂 𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒂

synopsis. hoseok likes his girls pretty, so fine

pairing. j-hope x reader ﹢ smut ( mdni )

wordcount. 576

warnings. oral sex (m. receiving), lots of cursing.

now playing. ♬ ݁˖ mona lisa

the hotel room is dim, golden city lights spilling through the sheer curtains, casting a warm glow over his tired, gorgeous face. hoseok is sprawled on the edge of the bed, arms loose at his sides, body slack with exhaustion. he’s been running all day—rehearsals, press, the performance, the afterparty. he gave everyone everything.

but right now, you want him to just be yours.

“you okay, baby?” you murmur, crawling onto the bed, settling between his legs.

he hums, tipping his head back, eyes fluttering shut as your hands glide up his thighs. “mhm. better now.”

his voice is soft, wrecked with fatigue, but when you press a slow, open-mouthed kiss over his knee, he sucks in a sharp breath.

your hands slide higher, nails barely scratching over denim, teasing. “let me take care of you.”

his lashes flutter. a slow smile tugs at his lips. “yeah?”

you nod, fingers already working on his belt, popping the button, dragging the zipper down. his breath hitches as your palm presses over him, feeling him already half-hard, heat bleeding through the fabric of his boxers.

"my pretty girl," he murmurs, watching you through heavy-lidded eyes. "looking just like a painting."

the words hit deep, something warm curling in your chest. but you don’t reply. you just slide his jeans and boxers down, freeing him, watching the way his cock springs free, thick and flushed and perfect.

“fuck,” you whisper, licking your lips, taking him in your hand, stroking slow, deliberate.

he groans, head dropping back, jaw going slack.

you lean in, pressing a soft kiss to the tip, teasing, feeling the way he twitches in your hand.

"damn, baby," he breathes, his fingers digging into the sheets, thighs tensing as you lick him from base to tip, slow and deliberate.

you wrap your lips around him, taking him slow, savoring the way his breath shudders out. he hisses, hands tangling in your hair, not pushing, just holding, like he needs something to ground him.

you take him deeper, letting the weight of him settle heavy on your tongue, sucking just enough to make his thighs tremble. your nails dig into his hips as you pull back, tongue teasing along the underside, before sinking back down, taking him all the way in.

his moan punches through the air, raw and desperate. "jesus, baby—"

you hum around him, and the vibration makes him twitch in your mouth, his abs tightening, a deep groan rumbling in his chest.

"fuck, that’s—" he cuts himself off, hips jerking, a broken sound ripping from his throat when you swallow around him, sucking harder, deeper, messier.

he’s completely gone, falling apart just for you, panting, gasping, muttering curses mixed with your name, voice wrecked and breathless.

"gonna—fuck, baby, i’m gonna—"

you don’t stop. you let him thrust shallowly, chasing it, needing it, and when he finally shatters, spilling hot and deep down your throat, the sound he makes is filthy, his whole body tensing, trembling, then finally going slack.

you pull back, licking your lips, grinning up at him, and he just stares—wrecked, dazed, absolutely ruined.

"fuck," he breathes, chest rising and falling, fingers still tangled in your hair. "i’m in trouble."

you raise an eyebrow, amused. "oh?"

his lips curl. "yeah. you’re too good at that."

you smirk, crawling up onto his lap, kissing him slow, lazy, letting him taste himself on your tongue.

"good," you murmur. "i like keeping you on your toes."

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