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ki-yomii · 1 month

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helloo! could you recommend your favorite jungkook and yoongi fics? thank you and have a lovely day ♡

hey there~ 💛

... tbh i haven’t read too many fics for my boys lately 🙈

i've been trying to work through the books sitting on my shelf collecting dust + i got sucked back into fallout now that the show is out lol.

but i do have some all-time favorites!!

please mind the warnings/tags - you're responsible for your own reading consumption. that said, all of these fics are 🔞

i hope you have a great day nonnie and if you have any recs send them my way 🥰!

JUNG KOOK FICS

the crimson shell series by @angelicyoongie

mermaid aus are my lifeblood istg. and this is one of the best one's i've ever read!! it's dark, it's creepy, it's foreboding - and tantalizing. everything i love about mermaid/siren aus crammed into one series.

you had always found comfort in being at the beach, often spending hours just watching the waves lap against the shore. but unbeknowst to you – something had been watching you back.

make you mine two-shot by @colormepurplex2

i'm a sucker for abo, and as such, have read a looot of it over the years. its a genre that's very easy to descend into wtf-how-are-they-still-alive-after-THAT territory but this fic does it very well in a way i haven't seen too often. i loved the world-building and set up.

Alphas might rule the world, but Jungkook finds himself being ruled by the need to make you his. Omegas are rare, precious, and pliant. At least, most are. When you present late, well into your twenties, you're already set in your headstrong ways; a challenge even for a commanding alpha like Jungkook. Add to that the centuries-long feud between your families and the last thing anyone expected was for him to claim you as his soulmate.

a sea of indigo series by @foxymoxynoona this was the first BTS fic i ever read... and is a big reason as to why i got into the fandom in the first place. i had no clue who they were before then. i'd heard of them + listened to agust d without knowing it was yoongi 💀 but this fic made me check out BTS RUN and now here we are 🤪

Pitbull Hybrid Jungkook has finally been freed from the fighting rings, and now finds himself at Marigold Sanctuary & Transition Estate, a place for healing and self-discovery for rescued hybrids. It's stupid, dumb, cheesy, and hell-bent on helping Jungkook "heal" and "find himself" and "decide the course of his life." And right at the center of it is Y/N, a nurse who's got everyone bamboozled that she's like some awesome person. She's not that great. Jungkook hates it here.

YOONGI FICS

witch oneshot by @sailoryooons

this is easily one of my top 3 yoongi fics. the world building, the tension, the relationship between yoongi and reader. it ticks all my boxes and vividly paints a picture of this universe. i adore the concept, and love the way this fic is brought to life through sailoryooons storytelling.

For years, you and Yoongi have played cat and mouse. It’s his duty to rid the world of witches, but he always finds a new excuse to let you slip through his fingers. When you find yourself at his mercy, you wonder if the great witch hunter will finally end your game of chase, or if there’s something that will stay his hand.

desolate series by @angelicyoongie

one of the first hybrid fics i've read for bts 😭 i love my lil meow meow and the set-up for this fic is amazing. it takes a fresh direction with the hybrid trope and builds a relationship that feels organic and progresses very naturally💛

you just wanted a cute little normal cat to keep you company. so you're not really sure how you ended up with the grumpiest hybrid on earth that seems hellbent on making your life difficult.

ps. i woof you oneshot by @gimmesumsuga

this one is just so so cute and asjhdjsghfjs!! i adored remi and thought about having yoongi and holly as neighbors for days after reading this lol.

The one with a happy accident of the furry, four-legged kind - “Are you calling my dog a slut?!”

first and last and always oneshot by @floralseokjin

i'm not one for holiday fics/aus usually but there's something about this one that i absolutely adored. it felt very realistic and drew me into the relationship within the first few paragraphs. the angst is so well done and heartfelt, it made me cry lol.

You and Yoongi broke up two months ago. It was mutual, you’re positive, but there’s one teeny tiny issue... You never told your parents, and now they’ve invited you back home for Christmas. Both of you. You can’t say no, but you also can’t bear to go alone, so you do the only thing you can think of, plead with Yoongi to come with you and pretend like everything’s okay...

go send these authors some love!!

#asks #get recc’d 📚#fic recs #jungkook x reader #yoongi x reader

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ewanmitchellcrumbs · 1 year

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I really love you aemond fics!! The angst always on point, so I have a request you can reject it.

After the birth of thier child who doesn't hold targaryen features, aemond doubts his wife, and his mother doesn't help ease his doubts. He refuses to see her or even be in the same room, which makes the reader falls into depression it wasn't until the babe was few months old and able to open their eyes probably that the violet targaryen eyes are shown. He hears it from her personal maid and then tries to redeem himself after seeing the state she has fallen into, feeling great guilt because of his mistrust to her.

Sorry if it's too long and thank you!

Woof, nonnie, you're going straight for the jugular with this request.

I hope you don't mind, but I've altered this slightly to fit with the headcanons I have for Aemond. Drabble below the gif and cut. This is SFW, but still 18+.

You cried, tears of relief and exhaustion rolling down your cheeks as you fell back into the pillows. Finally able to relax, hours of painful and intensive labour were at an end as the nursemaids worked to remove the afterbirth and wrap your squalling bundle.

Aemond ceased his anxious pacing as the babe was placed into your waiting arms. Striding towards the bed and seating himself on the edge of it, he placed his arms around you protectively, kissing the crown of your head. "You did so well, my love, I'm proud of you."

"Congratulations, Prince and Princess, you have a healthy baby girl." smiled the nursemaid.

You beamed up at your husband, as you cradled your newborn daughter to your chest.

The look of adoration and wonder shone bright in Aemond's violet eye as he gazed down at the infant. "We will call her Alysanne" he whispered.

You smiled, offering a tired "hmmm" in agreement. You eyes were heavy with impending sleep.

"I will let you rest, my love", Aemond said softly, placing a delicate kiss to your temple, "I must tell my mother the wonderful news. Avy jorrāelan." I love you.

Aemond had a spring in his step as he walked the corridors of the Red Keep towards his mother's apartments. He was a father, surely there was nothing that could sully this happy feeling?

Chatter from the courtyard below caused his ears to prickle, and he stopped in his tracks, lingering behind a pillar to mask his presence as he eavesdropped.

"I just can't imagine wanting to couple with...him..." a lady's voice said, full of disgust.

"I know!" the other assented, "Imagine having to look upon that marred face. It would make me sick."

"I shouldn't imagine that princess does look upon him much. Who would want to?"

"Yes, it's highly unlikely the babe is his. A bastard, I reckon."

Aemond had heard enough. Bile rose in his throat, as his heart hammered wildly in his chest. The search for his mother forgotten, he found his legs carrying him back towards your bed chambers.

Insecurity fuelled his actions. You'd never given Aemond any reason to doubt your love or devotion for him. If anything, you were slightly over eager to perform your marital duties and Aemond basked in the attention you rained down upon him.

There was always a niggling doubt in the back of his mind though. "She can do better. She deserves someone whole."

He swept back into the room, regarding you coldly, as he stood at the foot of the bed.

You paused your rocking of your fussing infant and looked up questioningly at your husband.

"Is she mine?" he demanded.

Aemond regretted the words the instant they left his mouth, seeing the hurt expression that crumpled your soft features.

"How can you ask such a thing?!" you gasped, holding Alysanne protectively to your chest, as if to shield her from the insinuation his question carried.

He felt his heart twist urgently in his chest as he struggled to find the words to placate you. "I..."

"Leave us!" you snapped, hot tears scalded the rims of your tired eyes.

Aemond felt as though his very soul was being torn from his body, he reached forward, desperate to comfort you in your fragile state.

"I said leave us!" you all but screamed, tears now flowing hotly down your cheeks. Your daughter wailed in your arms.

Aemond turned, downtrodden, and walked away. "What the fuck have I just done?" he thought to himself.

After a few hours riding on Vhagar, Aemond returned to the Red Keep with a sense of clarity and deep regret.

He slipped quietly into your bedchambers. You were asleep, unsurprisingly. The hour was late and your labours had left you exhausted.

Baby Alysanne lay gurgling in her cradle beside you. As he gazed down at the babe, the pale moonlight reflected the vibrant lilac hue of her doubtless Targaryen eyes. He hated himself for ever questioning her parentage. For questioning your loyalty.

He gingerly reached into the cradle, stroking a gentle hand over his baby daughter. A lone tear tracked its way down his cheek as she grasped his index finger in her little fist.

"ñuha byka zaldrīzes, iksan sīr vaoreznuni", he whispered. My tiny dragon, I am so sorry.

You awoke as the sun was rising, bleary eyed and waiting for the room to swim back into focus. Confused as to why you hadn't been awoken by the cries of your daughter.

The sight that finally met your eyes when you eventually sat up immediately melted your heart, all anger you'd felt for Aemond the previous day dissipated.

He sat slumped in an armchair beside the bed, dozing as Alysanne lay sleeping soundly on his chest. One of his large hands was splayed protectively across her back as she nuzzled into his neck.

You were unable to stop the happy tears that flowed freely and your sniffles startled Aemond from his light slumber.

Slowly and with much care he lifted baby Alysanne from him, placing her back in her cradle and moving to sit beside you on the bed.

"I am so sorry", he whispered, his voice mere moments from cracking, as he pulled you into his arms.

"All is forgiven, my love," you stroked his hair to soothe him, "I know you did not mean it, but why ever did you say it?"

He inhaled a shuddering breath, before pulling away from you and cupping your face as he looked earnestly into your eyes. "I overheard some common folk yesterday saying how awful it must be for you to have to lay with me and I am ashamed to say I let my own thoughts get the better of me."

"Oh, Aemond", you whimpered, "How can you let anyone make you think that? You know there is no one I would rather have as my husband than you. No one I love more."

"I know", he said, pressing a kiss to your forehead, "And I will never doubt you again."

"Good", you quipped, pressing forward to capture his lips with yours. When you finally broke apart you whispered, "And if you tell me who these common folk were, I will have them fed to Vhagar."

He chuckled drily. "Avy jorrāelan, ñuha nēdenka zaldrīzes." I love you, my fierce dragon.

#aemond targaryen #house of the dragon #aemond targaryen angst #aemond targaryen fluff #aemond targaryen x reader

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teencopandthesourwolf · 2 months

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I really need someone at a con to ask Tyler H Derek's favorite song. If anyone knows I'd love them forever.

oooh, what a great query, nonny—i'd bloody love to know that, too!

i should've asked him when i met him at comic con last year... sadly, i was too busy being a major dork and giving him a copy of one of my derek artworks and making him promise me that—even tho i knew he would be lying through his teeth, which i told him—he would put it up on his refrigerator at home with a couple of magnets PFFT! (which he did, btw, with a gorgeous smile on his face, bless him forever for playing along; such a good sport!).

anybody in the wolfpack have any info on this?

cassidy xp

ps how good would it be if he picked a track from off my DEREK PLAYLIST?

#tyler hoechlin #a song for derek #derek hale #team woof #music nonny #cassidy answers #xp

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bucknastysbabe · 10 months

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WESTERN WESTERN WESTERN WESTERN WESTERN WESTERN WESTERN WESTERN WESTERN WESTERN WESTERN WESTERN WESTERN WESTERN WESTERN Sheriff Lee Bodecker WOOF WOOF BARK BARK ARF BARK GRRRR WOOF

BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK GRRRRRR HERE YOU GO NONNIE I HOPE YOU ENJOY OUR SHERIFF

AU Bingo - Western - Lee Bodecker

Rating: Explicit

Tags: Surprise moment, non-con play, breeding kink, dirty talk, restraints, outlaw!reader, pnv!sex, PUSSY EATING LIKE A CHAMP, slight overstim, Lee is Possessive, confessions of love

A/N: I don’t beta we die like Lee in the woods😀

Well the gig was up. Maybe. Probably so.

You’d likely be hanging in the morning in front of an excited crowd of idiotic townspeople. Some bounty hunter by the name of Arwin dropped you right off into Knockemstiff’s sheriffs building. Here you sat in a minuscule jail cell, some crazy frothing at the mouth next to you and this freak catcalling from the right.

You were doing your own thing trying to get money for your gang when the bounty hunter surprised you in a damn trap. A trap? What were you, some sort of rookie? Peering out the tiny window you frowned. The gang was probably not going to get your ass. Left here to rot.

Clanging on the metal bars jerked your attention forward. A man with dark hair and rather intense blue eyes smirked at you. He tipped his hat, sheriff’s badge gleaming on his chest. You hissed, “What’chu want? Ya’ gonna hang me regardless. I know what I did.”

He cocked his head and hummed, “Nah. I don’t think you did sweetheart. Think we need to do some interrogatin’ down in the pit here.”

Your heart began to race. Something in his eyes told you this wasn’t a normal ‘interrogation’. The sheriff stalked forward, big body looming over your own, thick fingers coming to grip your chin. Chains rattled as your hands shook in your lap. He grinned, “Awe, lookit’chu, scared lil’ bunny now huh?”

You grimaced, cheeks flushing as you looked away.

“C’mon then,” he huffed, jerking you by your bonds. The sheriff practically hauled you with one arm, walking in that slow strut of his. You spat, “Fuck you, they’ll come get me and shoot your ass!”

“Sure they will, sweetheart.”

“Stop calling me that!,” you barked as the man shoved you down the stairs, you stumbling and spurs clacking irritatingly. It was dark down in the ‘pit’. A table, a chair, and an ominous amount of weapons and torture devices. The sheriff crooned, “Don’t worry, I ain’t gonna mess your pretty face up with none a’ that.”

Your cheeks darkened further in embarrassment. A big hand shoved you down in the chair, hooking your manacled wrists above your head with a clink. He drew closer, getting a good look, you could see his last name on the Badge. Bodecker.

“You can just call me Lee if ya’ like, little outlaw,” he pinched your thigh, “Or bunny. That’s whatcha’ are without that gang or yer’ guns.” You glared at him and spat, “Oh fuck off you pudgy sonnuva’ bitch! I oughta.”

You didn’t get to finish the sentence as two fingers slipped in your mouth, pressing down on your tongue roughly, drool leaking out. His handsome face split into a grin, cooing, “You oughta what bun? Kill me? Cuz’ it looks like I gotcha’ to myself.”

Whimpering helplessly and jerking in the bonds had him cooing again, snaking his other hand up your strong thigh. Lee sighed, “I thought you were jus’ the prettiest thing on all those bounty posters, wonderin’ how such a sweet face could be so, so bad?”

All you could do was drool around his fingers, lashes growing wet from tears. You willed away the growing slick between your thighs. This was wrong, so wrong. But you wanted the brunette to coo and stroke you more, down deep. Didn’t get much more than a rough fuck on the run.

He grinned with pretty teeth, grunting as he got down on his knees. Easing his fingers out of your now swollen lips the sheriff sucked on them, slurping with a low moan. Your cheeks burned with heat, pussy throbbing in time with your rising heartbeat.

“If you’re good ta’ me, maybe I’ll let you off,” digits curled around your gunbelt, “Or maybe I’ll just keep ya’ locked up in my place.” You shook your head, wanting to growl but whimpered, “Please…no.”

The gunbelt was discarded and he began to unbutton your pants, peeling them down your thighs, roughened from all the time on horseback. You looked up and away, lips trembling as Lee lowly whistled, “Gorgeous little bunny, not so scary without those big guns huh?”

Big hands spread your thighs apart. You could feel his breath traveling up to your weeping cunt, pressing a couple of kisses along the way. With a strangled grunt you barked, “Q-quit playin’ around!” Bodecker slapped your inner thigh roughly, blue eyes blazing as he glared up at you, full cheeks puffy as he frowned.

Biting down on your lip the sheriff hoisted legs over broad shoulders and lapped a stripe up your pussy. Your wrists clacked in the restraints, mouth falling open with a moan. Bodecker squeezed and massaged your thighs as he licked and ate at you hungrily, moaning.

“Christ!,” you hollered, belly tightened.

The brunette moved to suckle and pointedly lick at your swollen pearl, making you squirm and shy away from the intense pleasure. You had nowhere to go— simply stuck whining and dripping for this horrid man. Bodecker shoved the same thick fingers from earlier into your pussy, stretching and curling maddeningly.

Arching your back you met his pleased expression, lips wet and red. Lee sucked on his teeth and laughed, “Bunny just lovin’ this huh? Yeah, I think m’gonna keep you to myself. Taste too sweet.” He dove back onto your clit before you could rack your muddled brain for an insult.

Involuntarily your thighs clamped tighter onto him as the man curled his wicked fingers faster into that soft spot, tongue flicking and flicking and flicking. Tears streamed down your cheeks now, head tossed back as you painfully arched. In a pitiful whine you said, “Oh, oh fuck Lee, don’t stop, m’so close!” He hummed around you, eyes rolling up as you gushed on his fingers and chin.

You thrashed and cried out, chains jingling at a fever pitch. All you could do was cry and howl his name as the pleasure ran through hot veins.

Eventually the pressure died down and you blinked slowly, legs still curled around his shoulders. Lee pressed a little kiss to your knee, smirking. He asked, “You okay? That was a different little game than we usually play.” You easily picked the lock to the manacles, hands coming to rest on Lee’s cute cheeks.

“Mhm, more than okay, that was fun.”

His blues eyed you grumpily, the man murmuring, “I don’t like playing the big bad guy with you, already do that in real life.” You slid your thighs off the crooked sheriff’s shoulders and into his lap, arms coming around him. Kissing him gently you shrugged, “S’fun to pretend, but we ain’t gotta do it anymore.”

Lee frowned, hands now at your waist. He rumbled, “When’s the rest of your crew rollin’ into town? Y’know I can’t stand Leroy.” Rolling your still slick cunt over your man’s cock had his breath hitching. You breathed, “Mmm, probably round sunset. We got all day with eachother.” You nipped at his ear with a small smile.

“Good,” he stated with a new intensity, “Y’gonna let me fuck that pretty pussy in this mudhole or back in my place?”

He was right, the bed was a much more viable option. Even if it was about to break as you rode him hard into the mattress. Lee gasped your name, meeting your bounces weakly. His cute tummy was soft underneath your groping hands.

The bed creaked in time with your fever pitch fucking, riding Lee’s thick cock with helpless moans and cries. He rambled, “Ah, bun, fuuuck, missed ya’.” Leaning down to kiss his eager lips you grinded down on that sweet spot again, whining against his lips, “M-missed you too baby!”

“You should stay with me all the time, ain’t gotta ride around like that, we can handle business round here,” he panted, groaning between words.

Your hips stilled a little as he purred, “C’mon bun, wouldn’t it be nice, I’ll put a ring on it and a babe in your belly.” The words sent a hot streak up your spine, another shrill whine from your lips. Lee grinned and flipped you into the bed, bigger and softer frame pressing you firmly down.

He fucked into you at a brutal pace, mouth lapping at your bouncing tits. The brunette grunted, “Know ya’ want it, being a mama, handling business and a babe. So damn perfect bun. Gonna let me fill you up this time?”

You wanted it. Wanted it real bad. Riding round all the time was tiring, and Lee was real good to you. Too good for how you ran around on him. Pulling him flush you mewled, “Please, do it, fuckin’ breed me! I love you!”

He mouthed wetly against your sensitive neck, belly and hips slapping roughly against your own. Lee growled, “Y’sure? You wanna’ be knocked up? Y’aint going nowhere, I’ll drag yer’ pretty ass up to the chapel with my cum drippin’ between your legs.” You wailed and clung tighter to him, begging for it like a two nickel whore.

“I love you too bunny,” the brunette groaned as he shoved his cock deep up inside you, flooding your cunt with his seed. The feeling sent you reeling, coming apart sniveling and sobbing, fluttering around him with each contraction of ecstasy. Oh…you really loved this.

Lee kissed your slobbery lips, promising darkly, “Relax now sugar, c’mon, I ain’t letting you out the bed until I’m sure it’s taken. The gang can wait n’the saloon.”

#lee bodecker x reader #lee bodecker smut #au bingo #outlaw!reader #ask answered

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ohtobemare · 5 months

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Happiest of birthdays to you! Would love to request my man Slider and the prompt “you remembered?!”¹ “what kind of question is that? of course i did!”

Hope you have fun plans for your bday (or at least good VK dreams!)

Alright, nonny. Here it is. The kickoff to my birthday celly. And woof, she was rough. Slider is so hard in all the right ways, of course and I really hope it doesn't take me this long to get through all of these. Enjoy our favorite RIO (sorry, Goose!) and thanks so much for celebrating with me!

Favors

“Sli? Sli baby, you here?”

Ankles all but throbbing as you wobble through the front door in heels, quick eyes skirt the kitchen for any signs of life potentially lurking in the after-5 shadows crisscrossing the tiles of the floor.

Nothing but the quiet hum from the open window and the overhead light on the stove fills the space. Huffing a little breath, the groceries drop to the granite countertop of your island with a hard thunk, overflowing arms aching with the sudden relief.

Tossing keys on the counter and kicking your heels off against the island, cool tile feels miraculous on your feet. Does wonders for the dull flame in your arches as you curl your toes, adjusting to the change. Eyes catching the time on the stove, your hand slips along the granite countertop as you cross the kitchen. Do the mental math.

And that makes you a little more anxious than you were before, hurrying towards the stairs.

Calling for Slider again, you’re not sure where he is. That piece of shit he drives is parked at the curb, just as it had been last night. When Ron had passed out on your couch. He obviously hadn’t bothered leaving, the hood on his pickup was still cold.

You head upstairs, two at a time, surveying the living room from the open banister. TV still, Ron’s once-rumpled blanket from where you’d covered him up folded with clinical care on one of the cushions. His Navy duffle parked by the recliner he’s been calling his since the day you’d moved it in.

Nothingness. It’s there, like a taut wire. Waiting to be plucked, for the butterknife to come and cut the tension like it’s Sunday dinner. Odd that Slider isn’t rumbling around your duplex in your absence—usually he’s doing something. Working out, changing a lightbulb, that one time he’d taken it upon himself to wash baseboards. The man isn’t prone to stagnancy. Even if you insist he relax.

At the top of the stairs, a hit of familiar peach tickles your nose and gives you pause. Wriggling toes into the plush carpet, you hear the running water at the end of the hall. This house is nothing if not held together with paper-thin walls and discount nails. A true product of the 1970s, you’d replaced the carpet last year. Slider had wrangled up some of the boys, beer and home cooked food had brought them around to help lay carpet and new tile.

The neighbors hadn’t been so nosy, or visible, since.

Curiosing your way down the hall in the direction of running water, you slip into the master to find light cutting into the shadows of your bedroom from the on-suite. Fusty shampoo and steam roll from the cracked door, and your lips quirk up into a goofy smile at the little off-key humming.

Some tune you don’t know, but coming from Ron? It’s like front row seats at Billy Joel. Or it might as well be.

Stopping at the door, you gently grab the knob and use your other hand to knock a knuckle against the door. Immediately mute, nothing but the rush of the shower slapping water against the backsplash takes up the space.

Peeking past the door to the mirror hanging over the sink, you can see Ron in the shower. He’s paused, mid-shampoo. Eyes squeezed shut, adorable crow’s feet and all.

“I’m back from the store, Sli,” you check his watch, which has been hanging out on your wrist since you’d snatched it off the nightstand this morning. Resting your head against the door, you twist the ball of your foot against the carpet and gnaw teasingly on your lower lip.

“Yeah?” The titter of a laugh is there. More of a chuckle, really. “Get what you need, baby?”

Baby. It punches low, white-hot. Sends tingles of pleasurable heat; promises all the things he does right buzzing through your fingertips.

Sticking your head through the crack of the door, you smile crookedly at the reflection of him trying to clear the soap from his face. Mirror half fogged over from the heavy steam, something similar rolls through the low of your gut. Pleasant but clawing, devastating but delicious.

And he really is a beautiful creature of a thing—all hard muscle and suntan, there isn’t a part of him that isn’t near to carved bronze. Little more than Icarus flying into a too-near sun, he cuts you at the knees every time he smiles your direction. When his hand takes yours, the atmosphere thins into hardly-there air that’s all too good and impossible to breathe at once.

And that little thing he does, the slow drag of his lips against the line of your jaw, down the soft flesh of your neck to the collarbone? It shakes you all the way down.

Ron Kerner is the glistening sun, you all too thrilled to orbit. A clear northern sky. Endless canvas of midnight sprinkled with the glow of far-off worlds only ever promised in poems and movies and stories, what he does to you is nearly sinful. Little does he know that he grips you in strong, calloused hands that balance so much more than the way he holds your hips, the way he cups your face—you little more than putty in his hands. They hold your world, your heart, your ability to love.

Two years together—two revolutions around the sun—has throttled you into never letting go. Into thinking you can’t exist without the hard planes of him fitting so perfectly against you. He’s a disease you can’t shake, radiation poisoning that corrupts the body and soul; toxic divinity that’s contaminating every realm of your fathomable existence.

Even here, separated by doors and steaming clouds and frosted glass of a shower door that hides all the things that matter, you’re one calculation from drowning in the way he’s smiling crookedly. How his hair curls so beautifully when it’s wet—how rivulets of water carve what feel like unexplored chasms down his breastbone, his pecs, obliques.

Hands dropping from working shampoo through his hair, his little smirk twists when he goes to bite the corner of his bottom lip. He can feel you staring, obviously. And the frosted strip of glass on the door is doing a magnificent job of hiding everything that crosshairs your line of sight. Welded there and unable to move for any amount of collateral known to man, you hardly notice the door moving. Or the fact that you’re squirming.

Until Ron steps forward, head poking through the opening to grin at you, goofily.

“My eyes are up here, gorgeous.” And his wagging brows make you blush. Eyes dragging away to far off places, all conveniently across the bathroom, your bottom lip rolls inward.

Drumming your nails against the back of the door, he snorts at the color lighting up your face. “Well don’t be shy about it, for Christ sake,” teasing is only half of Ron’s game.

Cool eyes find the inferno of yours, the corner of his mouth ticking up a quirk. “Get over here.”

And before you can even breathe, he’s waving his hand for you to come.

For a few beats he doesn’t say anything. You weigh the decision from behind the door as if it's stock and your flat-footed stance behind the door is Wall Street. But you’re burning in all the right places—for a moment, thinking you might be combusting from beneath the collar of your button down shirt.

Because you can’t feel the limp noodles that have conveniently replaced your arms at either of your sides. Legs feel like they’ve disconnected from your body. All you can feel is the pulled-taut hot little feeling between your legs, the way your core is absolutely throbbing in need of the way he’s looking at you.

Fingers curling and uncurling at your sides, you slip through the door. Gently toe it closed. Pressing your ass against the twin sink countertop, your toes flex against the cool tile of the floor. It’s slick in that way that cool tile gets when steam is in the air, and one wrong move will have you skating like a newborn foal.

And suddenly everything about this room is hyperaware, flogging you in deeper living color. The atrocious color of the walls you haven’t repainted; that ugly spot that one painting from your mother was supposed to cover, but sits perpetually at the back of your closet because it’s not your style.

It’s all so here, so alive, as Slider does nothing but hold your attention. Waving you come like a damn siren of a thing and not the Naval aviator you've been pining over since that day you'd seen him at the O-Club.

Fortifying your position, your fingers curl into the granite countertop before a desperate, coy little smile twists your lips. Shaking your head, the throaty chuckle rolling around the back of your throat is a little deeper than you thought possible. And your tongue is thick, clumsy in your mouth over him.

Your eyes dart immediately when he slips further out of the shower, one of his tree-like legs stepping home on the bathmat. Water pours from him like the gates of Sesame have opened, taking with it all moisture from the back of your throat.

Chuckling in disbelief at your stubbornness, he leans out of the shower to reach for you. “What? Don’t trust me?” How his brow lifts conspiratorially confirms that he knows, and you lift to your toes to lean back from his grabbing hand, farther over the sink. “Oh come on, gorgeous—”

“—you get over here, Kerner. Away from the shower.” Your eyes drop to the center of his abdomen, more telling than you'd like to be.

You heave yourself onto the counter with a heavy plop, planting heels against the cupboards beneath, the heavy oak a little rougher on your feet than you remember. Then, crooking a finger at him, your chin lifts as your eyes drop to a lusty half mast.

His face might as well be a landing strip the way his brows take off, and you chuckle when his tongue so visibly fills the pocket of his lower lip.

“What? You don't trust me?”

Return smile slow, “Not even for a second,” has your brows bouncing suggestively. That tight little snake that’s been slipping low down your spine curls into a tight coil at the base of your stomach, poised. Waiting. Like springs; catapults that clamp metric tonnes of aircraft home to the cold blue surface of carriers. Waiting for the greenlight. Of flight. Of going.

And like the crack of a whip, Slider slaps open the shower door with a wet palm. Stepping out, his hand drags through the rivers of water cascading down the glass to the floor, like life itself depends on finding paydirt.

In a breath he’s suddenly standing between your legs, water from every crevice of his finely-hewn body pouring to the floor. Fingers curled into the granite at either side of your thighs, the running shower that’s wasting water by the gallons disappears from thought.

The only thing tangible is Slider’s hot breath between the two of you. His cock, heavy between the yummy, God-ordained V of his hips. The way his breathing is just a little ragged when he steps between your legs makes you forget your name; one of his thick wet hands sliding home to your hip.

Fingers twisting in the Rayon of your shirt, his other comes to brush your bangs from your forehead, playing. Exploring. Investigating how they whisp away, how it sends shivers down your spine.

Even two years under Ronnie’s spell, you still can’t breathe when his eyes move from yours to your mouth. Catching your bottom lip between your teeth, you attempt to steady the heart that’s practically pulsating between your ribs. Any second you expect it to jump into his awaiting hand—little’s changed since the first time he’d kissed you in the front seat of your Pontiac, tasting like beer and chapstick and cologne that didn’t match his personality. Your heart had beat just as quickly then.

Jury’s out on when it would ever not.

Slider leans forward a little to brush his lips against yours. And you try to kiss him, breathless and head spinning, but he pulls back a little, smiling. Angling to skim his mouth along your jaw, his nose brushes the apple of your cheek. Wet, and his like-steel grip on your thigh has left a wet handprint in the denim of your Levi’s. But you don’t care, not really.

Because it’s so hot, so perfect the way his fingers skim to the sensitive juncture of your legs. To that whiny, needy little spot that aches just so in way’s only God Himself could smile at.

Goosebumps chase up your arms as his fingers curl into the meat of your thigh. Fingertips brush up the curve of your side to the collar of your shirt as he works thick, inferno kisses to that spot he knows you love. It’ll be all kinds of red and blue by tomorrow, and it will all but stand up and demand your best full-coverage base, but that’s a tomorrow problem.

Right now all you can feel is the magnetism in the base of your gut, the twitch of fighting the urge to close your thighs around his waist and pull him close.

His lips drag back to your mouth, hovering. Tasting, teasing. And he smells like shampoo, like peach and rain and that musk that only men seem to ever have on their skin. Nose brushing the end of yours lightly, his lips curl into quicksilver as he takes your hand, laces his fingers through yours, and guides it to the middle of his chest.

All but shaking, you gnaw at the inside pocket of your cheek. “Smile for me, sweetheart,” and the throatiness of it rips a breathless little whimper from the back of your throat, his fingertips brushing down the column of your neck. Head tipping back as your eyes flutter closed, toes burning against the rough oak cabinets like you can feel every splinter of rough wood.

“Smile for Slider on your birthday, hm?”

And that punches your gut like nothing ever has. Head snapping forward, you can’t resist—your mouth crashes against his like steel punching steel, teeth knocking together in a way that makes neither of you pause but pulls a surprised grunt from him. Legs lift to wrap around his waist. Pull him forward, suck him in.

Your fingers memorize every swell and curve of hard muscle as they trace up his arms, across his collarbones. Until all at once your arms slip around his neck, pulling him down, flush against your chest. His fingers skip along the hem of your shirt, dangerous. Possessive. It’s nearly treason.

“You remembered,” between lazy kisses that pull and push in all the right ways, your smile grows. And his fingers slip up your back lightly, fisting the material of your shirt as he holds you. Dips you forward with gentle pressure until you’re chest-to-chest. Heartbeat to heartbeat. Until you’re looking up into lusty eyes beneath your lashes, hardly able to breathe.

“‘Course I remembered,” his brow furrows a little, like he’s a bit confused by the question, “what kind of guy would I be if I forgot my babygirl’s birthday?” Ownership is definitely a thing between the two of you–-a bedroom kink that snaps you just short of a rubber band. Curls heat down your spine like its smoke in the air.

Biting your lower lip, you smile at him before your nose wrinkles a little. “You’re bad for me, Ronnie,” his lips curl up into a grin as he chuckles against your mouth, a singular finger tracing the line of your shoulder blade beneath your shirt.

“And you’re too gorgeous to be twenty-nine,” it's almost whining. Taking your bottom lip between his teeth, his brows wag a little when you blush up at him. Pulling away, piglet cheeks warm under his attention as you arch back into his hands, the front of your shirt stains wet from his chest.

And arching back only snags his attention. Ducking to press an open-mouth kiss to the pulse in your neck, his teeth lightly drag against your skin when he sucks. Hard. Twisting a delicious little hiss that tastes like heat on your tongue, he chuckles. Your finger playing through the curls on his chest sends goosebumps across his skin, you feel them pebble beneath your fingertips. Droplets on his skin have fanned cold, but the room is still swirling with team from the nearly overwhelming thunder of the shower.

“Feel any older?” His murmur is thick against soft skin. Very suddenly nothing about him is chilled–he may as well be cut from volcanic rock.

Throaty hum chasing any reasonable response from your head, his hand lifts to the back of your hair, fingers searching for a handful of hair before the light tug drops your head back.

Pain is momentary before it bleeds into warm heat that lights up your nerves, sends blood ripping through your ears like a stoked locomotive on fire and threatening the rails. Chest rising and falling in tandem with his, your fingers curl into the damp curve of his bicep, pulling him a little closer.

“'Only as old as you feel, Ron,” your tongue skates your bottom lip, eyes darting over his shoulder to consider the shower, “And I don’t feel very old. Not yet, anyway,” head canting to the side, his other hand cards through your hair. Looking hungry, looking very engaged with what you’re saying, your smile grows. Sweetly, innocently.

“I think I’ve got some miles left in me. Don’t you?”

It’s taking visible effort for him to stay composed, you can tell. It’s in the twitch of his fingers, the little tick of muscle in his jaw. Ron has never, in two years, been very good at keeping a poker face—the man is too animated. Too much of a card to keep any secrets, and today he’s as much Ron Kerner as you’ve always known him to be.

But the push and pull of your body against his working off your shirt is uncoordinated and hot, too many steps to even fathom as that familiar twisting serpent hums in the base of your belly. In the perfect, God-designed V of your legs, the damn thing.

And Slider is nothing if not easily entertained—it takes little to no effort for his attention to drop to the growing cut of your shirt as one by one, your fingers work at buttons like they are hardly there.

Watching to the point of huffing, Slider resolves to just rip the garment the rest of the way off, tossing it away into the abyss this on-suite has become. His disregard–the nerve. It was your favorite shirt. A white and gray little striped thing that you got at Bloomingdales, on sale. Normally couldn’t afford.

But Ron hasn’t ever really cared about clothes, not in the heat of the moment—he’s replaced every garment he’s destroyed. Bless him and his generous soul, you’re willing to bet a week’s salary he’s prepared to buy you three more. Had planned to rip that one off of you as soon as you’d kissed him goodbye to leave for the damn store.

Chest to chest, your skin nearly ripples with feel-good bumps that make you shiver—it’s the only thing keeping you boots on the ground. And he wastes exactly zero seconds—his fingers are nearly lithe with the button of your jeans, laying them open with a mere pop of his thumb.

And all too quickly, his hands are in yours, fingers interlaced as he steps back from the sink, tugging you with him.

“You think so, huh?” You’re nearly a full foot shorter than Slider, a fact he’s never failed to bring to your attention. Lowering to lazily play with your bottom lip, his smile grows as he steps back a few more paces, and now you can all but feel the spray of the shower dance across your skin. “How about putting money where your mouth is, baby?”

And like a crack of lightning, both of you are suddenly beneath near-scalding water, chest to chest with your back pressed hard against the backsplash.

“You hate shower sex, Sli,” never mind saturated jeans weighing heavy on your legs, and how truly awful that feels—you couldn’t wriggle out of them if you’d even tried, “Why would you—” Boxed in between either of his arms, there’s little more between you than him.

And there’s nowhere to run, pulse of hot water lighting up your skin like fire. Another fistful of your hair has your head tipped back against the tile, his fingers slipping through the droplets clinging to your skin.

“But you don’t,” he shakes his head once, saturated curls all but bouncing with the effort before he rakes them back with a smooth hand, “and today is about you, gorgeous,” hands falling to either of your hips, he guides you forward until his dick presses softly to your thigh.

"And besides," In a sweet, hardly-ordinary-for-Slider nose-to-nose kiss, his smile becomes loose for all of a few seconds. Leaves you breathless, dizzy. Stupid—more stupid than you want to feel on your birthday. Almost conspiratorial.

“—my birthday is in a couple weeks."

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