#smart watch with calling function

[marvelstoriesepic]

Your Ghost Knows Me

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader

Summary: On a mission to dismantle a Hydra base, Bucky’s activation codes are triggered. And what does he do without a kill order?

Word Count: 2.3k

Warnings: mind control; non-consensual behavior (not sexual but bodily autonomy themes); possessive behavior; gun violence (implied, not graphic); threats of violence; emotional manipulation (unintentional); PTSD; trauma responses; forced proximity; mentions of Bucky’s past; Hydra

Author’s Note: I'll never get tired of a possessive Winter Soldier!! Honestly, I should write about him more often. Anyway, this absolutely iconic request is from my sweet dear!! Thank you so much, and I hope you'll enjoy ♡

2k Drabble Challenge Masterlist | Masterlist

There is always something quiet about Bucky when he looks at you before the mission begins. Quiet in the way thunder is quiet just before the crack. As if he is holding something inside himself too loud for the world.

You always say his name and he would look at you like he’s afraid to blink.

You don’t think you’re supposed to notice the way he hovers at your side. You’re not supposed to feel his shadow, stitched to your steps. But you do. You always do. Because Bucky Barnes does not know how to stay subtle. Not with you. Not when he thinks you might not make it out of this alive.

Your mission is to break into an old Hydra base with heat still humming through the walls and ghosts still hanging from the rafters.

The team drops in like rain. Controlled chaos. Clint on the left flank. Sam from above. Steve on the right flank. Nat somewhere in the dark.

You are light-footed and fast and smart and alive. Bucky stays behind you. Always behind you. Watching your six. He never lets you fall.

And you get the proof of this for the thousandth time when he throws his arm out and grabs your vest to yank you back hard enough to make you gasp. Your heart stutters in your throat. You stumble, twist, spin - and crash into him.

There was a tripwire. You almost walked into it. And Bucky saw. He sees everything.

“You okay?” He breathes, voice low, not quite touching worry but brushing the edges of it.

“Yeah,” you whisper back. “Thanks.”

He nods. Says nothing. Keeps moving.

You press forward into the maze of concrete and metal that is the Hydra base, gun raised, heart playing the drum in your ribs.

Bucky slows.

You glance over at him. “What is it?”

He stares at a rusted door, barely ajar. A soft static pulses from within, like an old radio dying in slow motion. The sound crawls down your spine. Your skin prickles.

“Bucky,” you start, reaching for him. “Let’s move.”

But he’s already walking toward that door with narrowed eyes.

The room is dark. Cold. Frost is on the walls like a memory that won’t let go. A machine in the corner makes low noises. Wires twitch on the floor like veins ripped from a corpse. The air stinks of metal and mildew and something old. Something wrong.

And then it speaks. A voice, thick with static, seeps out of the machine. A voice you don’t understand. Not really. You can’t make out the words, but you know them. You know what they mean.

“Желание. Ржавый.”

You spin around, heart rushing up to your ears, calling his name, but it’s too late.

“Семнадцать. Рассвет.”

Bucky stands frozen.

Stone. Steel. Silence.

His face is slack. That haunted stillness takes over.

He isn’t gone. But he isn’t Bucky anymore.

“Печь.”

His eyes go distant. Flat. His face cracks into something you’ve only seen in nightmares. No fury. No fear. Just absence.

“Доброкачественный.”

“No,” you breathe. Your heart forgets how to beat. “Bucky,” you basically yell at him. Nobody even knew there were still functioning systems here. But they’d been waiting. Planning.

“Девять.”

“Bucky please snap out of this.” You know it’s useless. You don’t know why you say it.

“Возвращение на родину.“

Your hand trembles around the grip of your weapon as you force yourself to jump out of the shock your limbs are locked in. You raise your arm and aim. You pull the trigger. One.

“Один.”

Two.

“Грузовой вагон.”

Three.

Four times.

The machine sparks. Cracks. Screams. A dozen red lights blink and die like stars going out. The voice cuts out, perhaps wanting to give a command, a final breath of Russian strangled by silence. And it slams into the room like a body.

For a heartbeat, for a breath, you think it’s over.

You hope it’s over.

But his name dies on your tongue when you turn back to him.

Bucky doesn’t speak. He doesn’t blink. He doesn’t breathe like a man. He doesn’t look at you - he tracks you, the way a sniper does. As if you’re a piece of intel.

Sam’s voice crackles over the comms. “Hey. We heard something. Everything good over there?”

You can’t answer right away.

Your voice is lost.

Because Bucky Barnes is gone.

And the Winter Soldier is standing in his place.

It takes you a minute to explain your situation and you hear the tremor in Steve’s voice when he tells you they’re on their way.

You try to breathe around the panic growing like thorns in your chest.

You whisper his name, again and again, as if it’s a spell that might pull him back. But the Winter Soldier does not know your voice.

Does not know you.

And when Steve finally rounds the corner, face pale, shield up, Bucky growls.

Low. Subhuman. A warning without words.

“Woah, woah- easy,” Steve says, holding up a hand. He looks at you. “He’s- He’s not gone. We’ll fix this. We can bring him back.”

You don’t know how promising he tries to make this sound.

But Bucky shifts his body, in front of you.

He plants himself between you and everyone else, like a wall, like a weapon.

Like a threat.

No orders. No hesitation. Just instinct.

He scans Steve’s hands. Sam’s gun. Natasha’s eyes.

Every time someone even twitches in your direction, he angles his body tighter around you, metal hand flexing. His breathing is shallow. Sharp.

He has no words. No explanations. He doesn’t seem to need them.

You try to take a step forward, away from his back. He moves with you. You stop. So does he.

“Please,” you whisper. “Bucky. Come back.”

But he doesn’t flinch.

Not for the begging in your voice. Not for the heartbreak in your eyes.

But you know he doesn’t hear you. He only hears the ghosts in his blood. The machine in his brain. The purpose Hydra seared into his bones.

“Alright, this can’t-“ The moment Sam takes a step forward, Bucky moves.

He grabs you. Not roughly, not violently, but fully. As if the air between your bodies has never existed. As if he’s made of magnets and you’re the only thing that ever pulled him north.

His metal arm anchors around your waist, his other hand at your shoulder, your spine, your hip - everywhere, all at once. He places himself between you and the others again and makes sure to keep you there as if you are a holy thing. His breath is ragged. Feral.

“Bucky,” Steve tries. There is something pained in his tone. Also something warning. “Let her go.”

But he doesn’t listen.

Because there is nothing left to listen to.

No more commands. No more codes. No more voice in his ear.

So he seems to have written a new directive into his mind and that is you.

You are the mission now. You are the purpose, the protection, the last thing left when everything else burns.

His hand is wrapped around your wrist so tightly, it makes your breath hitch. But you don’t pull away. You can’t. There is something in his eyes. Something not Bucky but not nothing either.

Not the soldier.

Not the man.

Just this animal of loyalty. Of violence. Of need.

You try.

God, you try.

You speak to him in pieces. In whispers. In words coming from trembling lips and bruised hope.

“Bucky,” you plead.

Soft. Like maybe softness will do it. Like maybe he’ll come back to the sound of your voice wrapped in love instead of command.

But he doesn’t.

And he doesn’t let anyone near you.

Not Steve, who takes one careful step and ends up with a knife lodged in the floor in front of his foot.

Not Sam, who reaches out and gets a warning growl that raises the hairs on your arms.

Not Natasha, who tries to circle behind, quiet as a whisper - and is met with the barrel of Bucky’s gun aimed clean between her eyes.

You frantically call Bucky’s name.

“Hey- easy,” she says, voice low. “Nobody wants to harm your girl, Barnes.”

He doesn’t blink. He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t care.

He tightens his grip on you, fingers locking around your arm like a shackle. You try to find a piece of Bucky still breathing in there.

But all you see is possession.

He steps back into the shadows, pulling you with him, shielding you with his body as if the world is trying to take you and he’s the last wall still standing.

No one sees you now.

Because he won’t let them.

He moves you behind crates. Walls. Corners. Shadows. Always putting something between you and them. Always hiding you. Not out of shame. Not out of fear.

Out of possession.

Out of protection.

Out of a command he gave himself.

You are a mission. A precious object. A singular order sculpted into the ruins of his memory.

You hear Steve’s heavy sigh. His quiet and deep voice. The pain in it. “We need to sedate him.”

The next thing you pick up is the click of a safety releasing.

Bucky’s gun is pointed and ready.

He would kill for you right now.

He would kill them.

All of them.

Within the blink of an eye.

For you.

“No,” you croak out, voice breaking. It feels wrong to call him Bucky. It feels wrong to call him Soldat. “Please don’t! Don’t do this!”

You don’t know if it’s something in your voice or something in your tense stance against his back, but he slowly lowers his gun, slowly turns his head to stare at you.

Empty.

Unreachable.

But somehow not cold.

And then his hand rises. Flesh fingers trace your jaw. So gently it nearly breaks you.

It’s not affection. It’s assessment.

He’s checking. For wounds. For weakness. For threats, you might be hiding beneath your skin.

You breathe as if forgetting how to.

You try to shift. Just a little. Just to look behind him. Just to meet Steve’s eyes, Sam’s, Natasha’s, Clint’s - who finally got his ass here as well.

But Bucky moves. Fast.

A hand around your chin. Tilting your face back toward him.

Eyes narrow. Jaw locks.

You know what it means.

He doesn’t want you to look at them.

He doesn’t want you to speak with them.

He doesn’t want you to think of them.

You are his now.

Because something in his mind burned the world down and left you standing in the wreckage, and he needs something to hold onto. Not just anything. Not just anyone. You.

You try again.

Whispers, again.

“I have to talk to them-”

He shakes his head. Once. Sharp. Final.

“No,” he growls. Not language. Not word. Just a sound scraped from somewhere too deep and too far gone.

You flinch and he feels it.

His grip grows stiff.

Your body goes still.

He doesn’t want to hurt you. But he doesn’t let you go.

You catch the glint of Steve’s shield out of the corner of your eye.

They haven’t moved in minutes.

They’re waiting.

They’re watching.

They don’t want to hurt him either. But they will if they have to.

“Don’t,” you murmur. “Don’t come closer. Don’t- don’t try to talk to me, he- he doesn’t want that.”

You hear Sam lower his weapon, just a hair. “We can’t leave you like this.”

You want to cry. You want to scream. You want to pull Bucky into your arms and shake him until something clicks and he remembers you. Remembers himself.

But the Winter Soldier only seems to be remembering his duty. Violence shaped into protection.

And right now, that protection looks like isolation.

You. Alone. Tucked behind crates and corners and silence and his broad shoulders.

You speak anyway. Because you have to. Because he’s in there somewhere. Because he might not hear the others, but maybe he can still hear you.

“Bucky,” you speak. Swallow. “They’re not the enemy.”

His hand twitches on your arm.

“They’re your friends.”

He tightens his grip.

“They’re my friends.”

He releases another deep and gravelly sound.

His body is tense, electric, fury held in the cage of his bones.

“Please,” you say. You hate the sound of your own voice now. You sound like you are shattering in slow motion. “You don’t have to protect me from them. You don’t- I’m not-”

You breathe out shakily.

Your lip trembles. Your eyes sting.

Because he’s looking at you as if he would kill the whole world to keep you safe. And he doesn’t even remember who you are.

You press your forehead to his chest. His body doesn’t move.

He’s breathing faster now. His pulse thrums under your cheek.

But he lets you stay there.

That has to be something.

Behind Bucky, someone whispers your name. Carefully. Cautiously. As though if they say it wrong you’ll be ripped out of this moment and Bucky will hunt them all down.

You lift your head.

Bucky sees it.

Sees the way your eyes pull toward Sam’s voice.

Sees the way you’re still trying to hold onto them. Still reaching.

He doesn’t like that.

He hates that.

His hand finds the back of your neck. He pulls you into him, hides your face in his chest. Your shoulders lock. His body shields you like a fortress of flesh and metal and confusion. As if your gaze is a window, and he is closing the shutters.

You are not theirs anymore.

And he will not let you be.

[themintsimmer]

20+ mods for realistic and aesthetic gameplay | all links for mods mentioned

hi friends, here's a list of my favorite mods at the moment for realism and better gameplay! you can find a showcase of all mods on my youtube video below. thank you to all of the wonderful cc and mod creators, happy simming!

Watch Here

food mods

s&s functional waffle maker by @somik-severinka

peanut butter, jam, and nutella sandwiches by @somik-severinka

cereal / flakes for breakfast by @somik-severinka

life like-simz cookbook & new recipes by @lifelikesimz

functional don julio reposado by @lifelikesimz

cake retextures by @oduvnix-ts4

coffee & tea retextures by @oduvnix-ts4

tech mods

apollo soundpad by @ophernelia

plumbline pro collection by @simkoos

vanity girl phone / phone mod by @kikovanitysimmer

pc game override by @gloomiee

luminova smart home mod kit by arnie

alertz burglar alarm recolor by @rennesims

interaction / drama mods

more romance by jellypaws

adult life reheated (18+) by jellypaws

drama unleashed by jellypaws

petty exes by lumi

extended phone calls by @simkatu

xtreme squabbles by @kingblackcinema and error404phillips

self care / beauty mods

hair care maintenance mod by @kikovanitysimmer

sky braids + hair tie mod by @kikovanitysimmer

automatic sleep masks by @natabear-sims

misc mods / cc finds

clearview mini fridge by gua

plushie pals by jellypaws

eclecticism cas background by @themintsimmer

[cressidagrey]

Mr Oblivious

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Felicity Leong-Piastri (Original Character)

Summary: Oscar Piastri is absolutely oblivious to the fact that people try to flirt with him. It drives Lando nuts. Felicity finds it very amusing though. 

(divider thanks to @saradika-graphics )

Lando Norris had a very simple opinion about Oscar Piastri:

The man was smart, fast, loyal to a fault — And completely, hopelessly, oblivious.

Especially about certain things.

Like, say, the fact that every now and then, some thirsty influencer or overly-friendly interviewer decided they wanted to test their luck around one of McLaren’s golden boys.

Case in point: today.

It was supposed to be a simple media day.

Smile, wave, answer a few questions without accidentally swearing — easy stuff.

And then she showed up.

Some influencer.

Lando didn’t catch her name.

Didn’t want to.

Her outfit was orange enough to suggest she'd Googled "McLaren colors" five minutes before showing up.

 Her laugh was the kind that made Lando want to put himself in an ice bath.

But what really got him was the way she locked eyes on Oscar from the moment she walked into the room.

Like a hawk spotting a particularly delicious rabbit.

And Oscar — sweet, pure, unsuspecting Oscar — stood there politely, posture perfect, nodding like he was about to explain suspension geometry to a cactus.

She sidled up to him with all the grace of a Bond girl in heels, flashing teeth and dimples and Lando could see it coming.

Could see the slow-motion train wreck unfolding with the inevitability of a Ferrari strategy call.

She sidled closer.

Tilted her head. Big fake lashes, even faker laugh.

"So, Oscar," she purred, "looking very fit this season. What's your secret?"

Lando, standing just off to the side, already felt his skin crawl.

Oscar, meanwhile, nodded thoughtfully like she’d asked him about chassis balance.

"Consistency," he said, serious as anything. "And good hydration habits. Also core strength. That’s really important for maintaining control in high G-force corners. I’ve been working with a new strength and conditioning coach. Core engagement and flexibility training. Lots of functional range mobility exercises. Very important for endurance."

Lando nearly dropped the can of Monster Energy he was carrying.

He physically turned away, took a moment to compose himself, and turned back — and she was still going.

She giggled — the kind of giggle Lando associated with botched lip filler and red flags — and twirled her hair like they were in a teen movie from 2004.

"Flexibility, huh?" she said, her voice doing That Thing™. Then winked.

WINKED.

Oscar, God bless him, nodded solemnly.

"Yeah. Critical for cockpit comfort. Limited hip mobility can lead to premature fatigue during longer races."

Lando just stared.

The influencer stared.

Oscar stared earnestly back. Oscar blinked at her with the open innocence of a Labrador Retriever about to explain knee cartilage.

It was like watching someone flirt with a toaster.

And then — then — she tried it.

She went for the kill.

"Well," she said, laughing in a way that definitely wasn't natural, "maybe you could show me some... flexibility exercises later?"

Lando choked on air.

Oscar, bless him, just looked mildly puzzled.

Lando’s hands curled into fists at his sides.

Oscar thought she wanted workout advice.

Meanwhile, this woman was basically trying to climb him like a tree.

"I mean," Oscar said, frowning thoughtfully, "I guess? If you’re interested in physiotherapy protocols? There's a lot of hip flexor and thoracic mobility involved."

He paused.

"Although," Oscar added very seriously, completely unaware he was standing in a verbal minefield, “you should always get a doctor’s clearance before starting any high-intensity exercise program.”

The influencer blinked.

Lando stared at the heavens.

Why.

Why had the universe given this man a marriage, a child, and a heart of gold, but no flirting radar whatsoever.

Lando was so angry on Oscar’s behalf he actually saw red.

Because it wasn’t just the flirting.

It was the disrespect.

Oscar — who had a wife who fixed racing models better than half the paddock. Oscar — who had a four-year-old daughter who beat engineers at Sudoku. Oscar — who literally carried his entire family in his heart wherever he went.

He wasn’t available.

He wasn’t interested.

And he damn well deserved to have people respect that without needing to tattoo MARRIED. TAKEN. HAS A BUMBLEBEE-OBSESSED DAUGHTER across his forehead.

And then — because clearly the universe wanted to personally test Lando’s self-control — the influencer winked.

Like, full-on, slow-motion, cartoon-style winked at Oscar.

Oscar blinked back, confused.

Then said, very seriously:

"You should also stretch regularly to avoid cramping."

Lando actually made a noise — somewhere between a groan and a dying animal.

The influencer tried to recover, laughing awkwardly, but Oscar had already turned — calm, unfazed — and was politely thanking the PR rep for organizing the media day.

Lando stormed over, practically vibrating with protective rage.

"Mate," he hissed when Oscar finally wandered off-stage, "you realize she was hitting on you, right?"

Oscar frowned. "Was she?"

"YES," Lando hissed, arms flailing. "She was basically ready to throw herself at you!”

Oscar looked genuinely perplexed.

"But... I’m married."

"YES," Lando repeated, louder, like he was explaining quantum physics to a pigeon. "You are married. You have a kid. You are the dictionary definition of off-limits."

Oscar scratched the back of his neck.

"Maybe she didn’t know?"

"She definitely knew," Lando muttered darkly. "You are actually wearing your wedding ring for once and Bee’s little bead bracelet. You might as well walk around holding a sign that says 'I love my wife and daughter more than oxygen.'"

Oscar shrugged, entirely unfazed.

"I mean... it’s true."

Lando stared at him.

Somewhere between admiration and absolute rage.

When they reached the McLaren motorhome, Felicity was there — perched on the couch, Bee asleep with her head on Felicity’s lap, Button the Frog tucked under her tiny arm.

Oscar’s whole face lit up like a sunrise.

He crossed the room without hesitation, dropped a kiss onto Felicity’s hair, and gently stroked Bee’s back.

Felicity smiled up at him, all soft and warm and easy, like they had a language no one else could hear.

Lando stood off to the side, arms crossed, watching it all unfold.

Watching how Oscar's whole world just locked into place around them, without hesitation, without second thought.

Yeah.

Let them flirt. Let them try.

Oscar Piastri had everything he needed right here. And he was smart enough — good enough — to never even glance anywhere else.

***

Meanwhile on Twitter: 

@/F1TeaSpill: BREAKING: Influencer tries to flirt with Oscar Piastri.

Oscar responds with “core strength” and “doctor’s clearance.”

Meanwhile, Lando Norris nearly combusts in the background.

[attached: video clip]

@/pitlanechaos: Not Oscar offering that woman a PHYSIOTHERAPY REFERRAL I’m losing it. He thought she wanted professional advice. He’s too pure for this world.

@/felicityfanclub (pinned tweet):

‼️OSCAR PIASTRI IS MARRIED

‼️HE LOVES HIS WIFE

‼️HE LOVES HIS DAUGHTER

‼️HE IS OBLIVIOUSLY LOYAL

‼️AND WE ARE HERE TO DEFEND HIS GOLDEN RETRIEVER ENERGY

@/formulawoah: This man said “consult your doctor” instead of realizing she was flirting. He’s not oblivious. He’s loyal at a molecular level.

@/landohmygod: Lando Norris being 1 second away from lunging across the paddock like an angry chihuahua deserves its own Emmy. He was FIGHTING for Oscar’s honor.

@/suspension_nerd: If I was that influencer and Oscar hit me with “thoracic mobility is important” when I was trying to flirt, I would simply evaporate on the spot.

@/gridgossip: This man has a wife who fixes telemetry errors in her sleep, and makes him bento boxes everyday. AND A DAUGHTER WHO BEATS ENGINEERS AT SUDOKU. What did you THINK was going to happen??

@/F1psychology: Watching Oscar Piastri react to flirting like it's a sports injury safety video is the most fascinating psychological case study I’ve ever seen. Also, Lando's visible rage is priceless.

***

Oscar waited until Bee was down for the night.

She’d fallen asleep curled up around Button the Frog, one arm flung dramatically across her pillow like she was staging a nap-themed protest. He’d kissed her forehead and tucked the blanket under her chin, switching the night light to its soft pink glow before slipping out of her room on quiet feet.

He figured... if Felicity was going to hate him, she probably shouldn’t have to do it in front of their daughter.

Which was stupid. He hadn’t done anything wrong.

But the pit in his stomach wouldn’t go away.

He was sweating, suddenly aware of how clingy the collar of his t-shirt felt. His hands wouldn’t sit still — twitching, tapping, twisting his wedding ring around and around until the skin beneath it burned.

He felt fifteen again. Awkward and uncertain and too full of words he didn’t know how to say.

And then Felicity padded into the living room, hair twisted into a lazy bun, bare feet soft against the floorboards, wearing one of his old McLaren hoodies that hung off her like it still didn’t understand how it ended up lucky enough to be wrapped around her.

She looked soft. Tired. Safe.

She smiled when she saw him, sweet and a little sleepy, like she was expecting him to ask about what tea she wanted or whether he’d remembered to order oat milk.

Oscar nearly chickened out.

Instead, he sat up straighter — awkward and abrupt — and blurted:

"Someone tried to flirt with me today."

Felicity blinked.

Tilted her head slightly, eyebrows raised — curious, not alarmed.

"Okay," she said, in the same tone she might use if he told her they were out of clean towels.

Oscar frowned.

"No, like — really tried. At a media thing. In front of cameras."

She just blinked again. Still calm. Still patient.

Still not mad.

Just... waiting.

Oscar swallowed.

"And I didn’t realize it was flirting until Lando nearly had an aneurysm."

That earned him a real laugh — soft, sudden, surprised. The kind of laugh she gave him when Bee said something absurd or when Oscar accidentally fixed something in the kitchen by whacking it with a shoe.

It went straight to his chest.

God, he loved her.

"And I was worried—" he continued, words stumbling out now like they’d been dammed up too long, "I was worried you’d think I was — I don’t know — encouraging it or — or being stupid, or not noticing because I wanted to miss it—"

Felicity crossed the room in three quick steps, not breaking eye contact once.

She dropped onto the couch beside him, slid her legs over his lap like she did every night, and tucked herself against his side like she’d always belonged there.

"You thought I’d be mad," she said, amused, "because some random influencer tried to flirt with you?"

Oscar nodded miserably, guilt still clinging to the back of his throat.

Felicity pulled back just enough to look up at him.

Eyes shining. Smile small and full of something dangerously close to laughter.

"Oscar," she said slowly, "I saw the whole video. You tried to offer her hydration advice."

He groaned, already regretting every decision he’d made since opening his mouth.

"Please don’t remind me."

"You told her to stretch her hip flexors," Felicity said, delighted. "Oscar, you sounded like a yoga instructor trying to scare off a client."

"Bee probably would’ve handled it better," he muttered, rubbing at his face.

Felicity laughed — a real one this time, head back, eyes crinkled, full-body kind of joy.

Oscar melted a little.

She curled closer, arms winding around his waist like she didn’t intend to let go anytime soon.

"I’m not mad, love," she said gently, brushing her nose against his shoulder. "She never stood a chance."

Oscar blinked down at her, stunned. A little breathless.

Felicity grinned up at him.

"You are so... mine, it’s not even funny."

She said it like a joke. She said it like a truth carved in stone.

Both were true.

Oscar let out a long, shaky breath, tension finally bleeding out of his chest.

"I just didn’t want you to think—"

She kissed his cheek, quieting him with the ease of someone who knew every version of him — the champion, the kid from karting, the dad who braided Bee’s hair with frog clips.

"I married you," Felicity whispered. "I know exactly who you are. I trust you with my life. And frankly, if anyone tries to flirt with you again, I might just send them a condolence card."

Oscar laughed, startled and in love and still trying to figure out how he’d ever ended up this lucky.

"And also," Felicity added, smirking like a fox who had absolutely won, "it’s way too funny to be jealous about."

He buried his face into her neck, overwhelmed by the warmth of her, by the sharp edges of her wit and the soft edges of her love.

"You’re ridiculous," he mumbled, muffled by her skin.

"And you," she said, threading her fingers through his hair like he was something precious, "are very bad at realizing when people want you." A beat. "And your brain is permanently stuck on ‘wife good, daughter best, car fast.’"

Oscar smiled, eyes closed, letting her steady him with nothing more than her heartbeat and her presence.

"You really aren’t mad?" he asked, still half-disbelieving.

Felicity leaned back, just far enough to look at him fully — bright-eyed and ferociously sure.

"Oscar," she said solemnly, "you are the most obliviously loyal man I’ve ever met. If I had to design a loyalty test, it would look like you."

Oscar kissed the curve of her throat, slow and reverent.

"Good thing I only ever wanted you," he murmured.

Felicity’s arms tightened around him, like she could will him into her bones.

"Exactly," she whispered.

Exactly.

[varshinimusic123]

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[happy74827]

A New Moon

[Dexter Morgan x Female!Reader]

Synopsis: Despite his gut telling him he shouldn’t, Dexter can’t help but fall deeper into the trap of his own emotions. And the more time he spends with you, the more he starts to realize what exactly those emotions are. {GIF Creds: beautifulguycollector}

WC: 2889

Category: Slight Lime/Spice, Friends to Lovers + Forbidden Love (if you squint) Tropes

Gotta keep this fandom alive somehow 🥲 (also… why are titles so hard to write? That and the synopsis are harder to write than the actual fic)

『••✎••』

You were too good for him. Plain and simple. You were a smart, beautiful, hard-working woman who had goals and dreams. He was a cold-blooded killer. Not to say that he hadn't been there for you, though. The two of you had been friends since… well, a while. A long while.

He couldn't quite pinpoint the moment he started to notice the changes in your relationship. It was a slow, subtle buildup, and the first time you called him your friend, Dexter thought nothing of it. The second time, it made him pause, but not enough for him to consider what the implications of you saying that to him could mean.

But when you said it again and again and again, he realized the meaning behind your words, the affection they held. Dexter couldn't say that he was particularly close to many people. There were a select few he'd consider his friends, but he wasn’t emotionally invested in any of them. And he didn't think he was invested in you, either.

But maybe he was.

Debs was different, and it made him question how much he was supposed to care about someone. But that was his sister, the one person in the world who loved him unconditionally. That reason alone made his relationship with Deb unique. He was sure of that.

The same went with Brian—his brother, as it turned out. And Harrison, his son. Dexter felt things for those people, but they were different. Those were family, the people he was genetically tied to. Of course, he would care about them.

But you weren't family, and yet he still cared about you. It was a different kind of caring. And it was confusing. Dexter had convinced himself for years that he was a high-functioning sociopath, but lately…

Lately, he was beginning to question if that was true. Simple glances from you could bring an unwelcome smile to his lips. And when he heard the sound of your voice, he could feel his chest getting warm. It was a nice feeling, something he'd only experienced briefly with Rita, but then, that relationship was different too.

It was hard to put his finger on it, but being with you was just… easy. And it didn't feel like work. There was no pretending. Dexter didn't have to act when he was around you. He didn't need to try to be someone he wasn't. It was the real him.

It was terrifying.

Because now, as he sat on your couch, watching as you moved gracefully around your small apartment, the feeling was back, and he didn't know how to deal with it.

He should have been home with Harrison, but the little boy was staying over at Debra’s tonight, so he didn't have any responsibilities. The passenger within him didn’t see it as a problem either, considering he’d just recently “disposed" his latest target.

It was nice, Dexter decided, to relax every once in a while. Work and family didn't give him a lot of opportunities to do so, and now that the two were temporarily taken care of, he felt he deserved to be lazy for a bit.

You didn’t have a TV in your living room, so the two of you settled for movies. Dexter didn’t really have a preference for them. He could watch a comedy, action, drama, or horror and not feel strongly for or against any of them.

Apparently, you didn't mind what he watched either because he could see the spark of excitement in your eyes when you pulled out the case for one of the worst comedy films Dexter had ever seen.

He'd seen it before. Not with you, one of the movies Vince shoved down his throat when he planned a night out with him, Angel, and Quinn.

It wasn't his favorite, not by a long shot, but the grin on your face and the way you eagerly skipped to the DVD player, set the disk inside, and closed the hatch made him bite his tongue.

Dexter had learned a long time ago that you were a very expressive person. And even though most of the time your feelings weren't displayed on your face, your eyes told another story. Such opposites to his own, Dexter often found himself fascinated by the light they held.

You had a passion for life that was rare, and it drew him in. It was a quality he lacked, and he could see it in everything you did. Whether it was talking about the newest book you read or making coffee, you put all of yourself into your actions.

It was something that Dexter had never understood. How could you have such a strong sense of self? Didn't it get tiring, having to live up to a standard of being so… so good?

But then again, you'd always been better than him. He might’ve been smarter in some regards, but what was intelligence if it didn't come from a place of morality? You were better, purer than him. He knew it, and everyone else did, too, even if they weren’t aware of how pure he wasn’t

That's why this was so wrong. This thing that had been going on for the past couple of months between the two of you. The subtle touches, the longing stares, the late-night calls. It was all wrong.

You were similar to Rita in some ways. You were kind and compassionate, always looking for the good in others. You had a knack for taking care of people, whether they needed it or not.

Dexter could tell that was your nature, and it was one of the things that initially attracted him to you. All the things he lacked, you had. But that didn't mean that you could replace Rita. He didn’t want you to.

And that was the difference. While he may have found qualities in you that resembled the ones he'd found in Rita, you were not her. Rita was gone, and it was his fault. She didn’t deserve to die, and yet she did. She deserved to grow old, to see Harrison grow up.

She deserved better.

The same went for you. You didn’t deserve a monster like him. The more he thought about it, the more he came to the conclusion that he should stay away. It was for the best of both of you.

And yet he was here. On your couch, watching a shitty movie and drinking the beer you'd offered him. Because, despite his efforts, he couldn't keep his distance from you.

He should've known. When it came to you, Dexter didn't have a choice.

His gaze drifted over to your form as you sat down beside him. You were smiling, your eyes bright and focused on the television. A lock of hair fell across your face, and you pushed it back, the sleeve of your hoodie falling down slightly.

Dexter had never been so tempted to reach out and touch someone in his life.

It was a feeling that had been creeping up on him the last few weeks, and now, sitting with you, watching a bad movie, it was at an all-time high. He'd never craved intimacy. But there was something about you, a pull that he couldn't deny.

It gave him a sick feeling in his stomach. Reminded him of that need with Lila. God, Lila. What a mess that had turned out to be. Another thing to add to his growing list of mistakes.

And yet, the longer he stared, the more he found himself leaning forward. He didn’t register what he was doing until his lips were a hair width away from yours.

You froze but didn't move away. The only indication that you were startled was the widening of your eyes. They bored into his, unflinching. He could hear his heartbeat pounding in his ears.

He was scared. Scared? Yes. That was what he was feeling. Why? He didn't know. Fear was new. It was a feeling reserved for Deb and sometimes his son, but even then, it was different.

But as Dexter gazed at you, so close and so beautiful, the fear melted away. It was replaced by a warmth that he was quickly becoming familiar with. It made his body thrum and his blood rush. It made him feel alive.

You were the first one to make a move. Well, not really a move, just the smallest shift forward, and then you were breathing the same air as him. You weren't kissing. You were just… waiting. Waiting for him to make the final move.

It was like an unspoken rule between the two of you, the power dynamic. He was the dominant one, and you were the submissive. You had never fought against it. You were a people pleaser, and he knew that.

It was one of the reasons he knew this was wrong. Because he couldn't stop, and you would never ask him to. Even now, as he hesitated, you waited patiently. You trusted him.

Why did you have to trust him? Why couldn't you be more selfish, more like him?

But deep down, Dexter knew that it wasn't your nature. You couldn't change, not any more than he could.

So, after another agonizing second, he closed the distance between you.

It was gentle, the way his lips pressed against yours. A stark contrast to the usual forcefulness he applied when taking his victims. No, with you, he was careful. Almost timid.

Your lips were soft and smooth, and the kiss was sweet. Nothing more than a simple caress. Dexter didn’t expect the tingling sensation it would cause, but the slight brush of your mouth sent shivers down his spine.

The kiss was short and chaste, but it was enough to leave him feeling dizzy. The heat spread through him, from the tips of his toes all the way to his cheeks.

Dexter pulled back, and you stared at him. His breath hitched in his throat at the look in your eyes. There was something there, something that mirrored his own emotions.

Was it possible? Was he really capable of such intense emotion?

Maybe he was.

You didn’t move. It was like time had stopped, and the only sound that could be heard was his own uneven breathing. That, and the movie playing in the background, which was forgotten as soon as your lips touched.

The urge to reach out and grab you was there. He could feel the need deep in his bones, in his soul. But instead, Dexter sat, staring. Staring into the eyes of the woman who had somehow managed to break down all the walls he'd spent his life building.

You didn't speak. There was nothing to say. No words could describe the feelings that had surfaced between the two of you. So, instead, you smiled. A simple, beautiful smile that had him feeling weak.

He could have stayed there forever, just looking at you, taking in the beauty that was you. It was a new experience for him, and it was nice.

“Debra is going to be pissed," you finally said, breaking the silence. “I’ll be bullied into telling her every detail."

He blinked. Once. Twice. Then, his lips curled up in amusement. It was true. Eventually, she’ll figure it out. Maybe she already knew but was waiting for confirmation. Debra was good at figuring out things, even if it wasn’t the most obvious answer.

His sister was good at a lot of things, like being a detective. And, apparently, being an interfering matchmaking nuisance.

At least she wouldn’t call you the things she called Lila.

The thought made him chuckle, and you looked at him in confusion, but it would have to stay a mystery to you. For what was life without a few private jokes between siblings, right?

You didn’t press for answers, though. You did what you’ve always done and waited for him—waited for him as if it was his turn in Chess.

And he did the only thing he could think to do. He kissed you again. And again. And again. And again. Until he had you pinned beneath him, your arms around his neck, and your breath coming out in heavy gasps.

The kisses were still innocent, just as you were. But he could feel the passion behind them, the hunger. He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt that. It had been a long, long time.

But the longer he kissed you, the more the heat grew, and soon, he was lost in the sensation. Your hands found their way into his hair, and you tugged at the strands. His heart was racing, and the sound of his own ragged breathing filled his ears.

It was exhilarating.

Your lips parted, allowing his tongue to slip inside, and the innocence was gone. Replaced by a desire that left him trembling. The feeling of your tongue against his, the taste of you on his lips, the smell of your shampoo mixed with your unique scent—it was all intoxicating.

The movie continued to play in the background, forgotten as you pulled him closer. The warmth in his chest intensified, and Dexter didn't fight it. Instead, he embraced it. He gave in to his emotions and let himself feel.

He didn’t go too far; he knew you weren't ready for that yet. The craving was there, and it was strong, but the moment wasn’t right. Instead, he satisfied himself by touching your skin, mapping out every inch of it, memorizing the way it felt under his fingertips.

And, when you finally pulled away, breathless and flushed, he held onto you, refusing to let go. His eyes searched yours, searching for something. Anything. He didn’t know what he was looking for, but whatever it was, he didn’t find it.

He mostly saw fear, anger, and some regret when he had them pinned down beneath him. Of course, that was usually the case with his victims. Fear, anger, and regret were normal emotions—a reaction to being trapped by their own demise.

Having someone look up at him with emotions on the other side of the spectrum was different. Not a bad different, just... different.

Rita had been the first to look at him like that. Lumen did, too, once upon a time. And Lila, well, her emotions were never consistent.

But you? You looked up at him with an expression that was all too familiar and yet not quite the same. Your eyes were full of affection and desire, yes. But they were also filled with something else. Something he couldn't place.

Something he couldn’t understand.

"Dex,” your voice was so soft, a whisper. He almost didn’t hear it, and yet, he felt it. He felt the way his name rolled off your tongue, and it was like music to his ears.

"Yeah?" he whispered back. He didn’t know why he did that; it wasn't like the two of you were speaking in a library or something. Maybe it was the way the light danced in your eyes, the way the colors reflected off the white walls, casting an ethereal glow.

"I didn’t expect you to be… like this," you murmured. You ran a finger over his cheek, down to his jawline. He swallowed thickly. He could feel his pulse quicken.

"Like what?" he asked, his voice rough.

"Not bad," you replied. Your lips curved up, and his eyes were drawn to them. They were red and swollen from kissing, and it was such a contrast to the pale skin of your face.

"You think I'm not bad?" he said, raising his brows. "I'm flattered."

You shook your head. "You know what I mean," you said. "I just meant that you're different than how you come off. I didn’t think you'd be so... bold.”

He snorted.

Bold.

If you only knew.

"I guess I'm full of surprises," he said, smirking. You rolled your eyes and punched him lightly in the shoulder, only for him to catch it and press a kiss to the back of your hand. It was something he picked up from a movie once, and it seemed to be a pretty romantic gesture. And by the look on your face, it seemed to be appreciated.

You didn't say anything else. You didn't have to. There was nothing else to say. The two of you simply enjoyed each other's company, content to just be together. The movie might've been a failure, but the night wasn’t.

And when Dexter finally left, he couldn’t help but feel a sense of relief. Not the type of relief he felt after a successful kill, but the type of relief one feels after a burden is lifted off their shoulders. The type of relief one gets when they are finally honest with themselves.

Rita was gone. Lumen was gone. And although his guilt and shame were still there, his self-loathing and fear were slowly starting to fade away. It wasn't gone, it was never going to be, but it was a start.

A fresh start.

A new beginning.

A new moon.

Yes, tonight was the night that changed everything. Tonight, Dexter Morgan learned that maybe he was more than the monster he thought he was.

[etherealrin]

✧₊⁺ thinking about nerd!karasu...

nerd!karasu who wears heavy rimmed glasses whenever he's in class or studying. though he wears contacts most of the time and whilst playing football, he houses a firm belief that wearing his glasses make him a better student.

nerd!karasu who accidentally becomes your academic rival after placing above you one too many times in the test rankings. it pisses you off how he's so good at analyzing your facials, knowing exactly how to press your buttons. and he wasn't even a psychology major!

nerd!karasu who's in love with anthropology and can occasionally be found on weekends sitting in random cafes near campus. according to him, he's "people watching."

nerd!karasu who needs a matcha latte every morning or else he cannot function at the 9 AM lectures he foolishly thought he could wake up for when he was doing course registration.

nerd!karasu who despite being known as "studious" somehow has time to be the star player of your university's football team, and a full time gym rat. does this man even sleep?

nerd!karasu who is often caught at the convenience store at stupidly late hours. one time you witnessed him microwaving a buldak carbonara inside of 7-11 at 3 am. why were you there? to get a red bull (so you could continue your all nighter.)

nerd!karasu who's keenly perceptive; he knows when you're feeling down. if he's feeling generous that day, he'll ask if you want to grab pastries together (when you're in a bad mood he almost always pays.)

nerd!karasu who during midterm and finals season is too tired and locked in to gel up his hair so you're blessed with the rare sighting of his raven colored locks falling naturally down his face. his bangs get into his eyes and he has to shake his head to clear them.

nerd!karasu who has this infuriating (hot) habit of lifting his shirt up to wipe his sweat in the too-warm lecture halls, giving everyone a glimpse of impeccable washboard abs. he winks when he catches girls staring.

nerd!karasu who's favorite subject is chemistry, which you happen to share with him. your professor had just assigned a month-long lab report that would total 20% of your semester grade, so you were really praying that your partner wouldn't be a complete bum. when karasu’s name and yours are called together, you're not sure whether to be relieved or distressed. on one hand, karasu was insanely smart. on the other, he was annoying, your number one competitor, and kind of beautiful. scratch that, he was majestic.

karasu wastes no time tracking you down after the professor is done, his smirk making you self-conscious.

"would ya look at that, sweetie. it's us two, again."

"yeah well, don't drag us down," you shoot back, rolling your eyes. you pretend he has no effect on you, that his deep eyes don't draw you in with a magnetic pull.

and maybe nerd!karasu had pure, academic intentions when he invited you to his room to work on the report. maybe he didn't mean to lean in too close, to flirtingly tease with you.

you're trying to type and he's making it impossible because he insists on "making sure you didn't mess up his pc settings." what that really entails is his hot breath on your neck as you attempt to finish up the document. karasu is staring shamelessly; you're trying not to think about any of it. you're in his room, sitting in his chair, with his things surrounding you—worst of all, he's way too close. every little spike of his purplish hair, you feel against your skin.

"you're turning red," he notes, peering at you through his black rimmed frames.

"maybe if you got off m- huh?"

karasu's pulling you in by the waist, expression unreadable and eyes shining with anything but the intent to do schoolwork.

"we're practically done now. i think that we should stop studying the reactivity of elements and start looking at attractivity instead."

a/n: karasu and his cheesy chem pickup lines…we've seen nerd!gojo but wb karasu!! even better bc imo this is so canon.

masterlist!!

[theseh00perscanh00p]

Coaching Violation: Part 1

paige x azzi

word count: 3.5k

a/n: honestly obsessed with this dynamic please let me know what yall think and how you want to see it play out

First Day of Training Camp

Paige’s POV

The gym smelled like new beginnings and old ghosts.

Paige stood at the edge of the court, clipboard in hand, trying to focus on rotations and formations, not the pounding in her chest. She’d been here since sunrise, tweaking practice plans and pretending this wasn’t her first day — her first anything — since the injury.

Since everything changed.

She could feel the eyes on her. Half the team still hadn’t figured out if she was the cool ex-player or the no-nonsense rookie coach. She didn’t care either way. They’d learn.

Her assistant coach murmured something about warm-up drills, but Paige’s attention shifted — drawn without permission — to the doors at the end of the gym.

And then she saw her.

Azzi Fudd walked in like she hadn’t broken Paige’s world open just about a year ago. Hoodie sleeves pushed up, curls pulled back, chewing gum like this was just another Tuesday.

It wasn’t.

Paige’s throat tightened.

Azzi hadn’t seen her yet. She was laughing at something Dani said, bumping shoulders like nothing was cracked or unresolved.

Then their eyes met.

A pause.

Nothing obvious. Not a word. Not a flinch.

But Paige felt it like an old wound flaring.

You weren’t supposed to be here.

Azzi’s smile dropped — just a flicker — then pulled back up like armor. She kept walking.

“Of course,” Paige muttered under her breath.

Azzi’s POV

She should’ve walked out the second she saw her.

Paige Bueckers, standing like she owned the court and the air in it, clipboard hugged to her chest like a damn shield.

Of all the cities, all the teams, all the timing — it had to be LA.

Azzi sucked in a slow breath. She could still feel the way Paige had touched her that night. The way she’d looked at her like there was something soft behind all that steel. And then the silence. Two days later, Paige disappeared like it never happened. A few weeks later — injury. Career over.

No goodbye. No explanation.

Just nothing.

Azzi adjusted her wrist tape and joined the stretch line. Fine. If Paige wanted to act like nothing ever happened? Game on.

Paige’s POV

“Fudd, you’re running point,” she called, tone clipped. “Start with the motion set, full speed. Let’s go.”

Azzi didn’t say anything — just nodded once and took her place at the top of the key. Controlled. Confident.

Still dangerous.

The drill kicked off. Azzi didn’t miss a beat. No-look passes, seamless footwork, calling switches before they happened. Paige watched every movement, refusing to let it show on her face.

God, she was good.

She was good that night too.

Paige swallowed that thought.

They ran it again. And again. And again.

Azzi stayed sharp — until she didn’t.

She got cute. A flashy bounce pass between defenders, showing off, smirking like she used to after practice scrimmages. Paige felt something snap.

No. Not today. Not in front of this team.

The whistle came down hard.

“Cut it!” Paige barked. The gym fell silent.

She walked onto the court, voice low but slicing. “You had the wing wide open. You chose flash over function. Again.”

Azzi’s smirk faltered. “It worked last time.”

“This isn’t last time,” Paige snapped, louder now. “And this isn’t about what works when you’re showing off. It’s about playing smart. Disciplined. Like you’re part of something bigger than your ego.”

A pause. A beat of silence thick enough to drown in.

Azzi looked at her — really looked — and something unspoken cracked across her face. Hurt. Maybe anger. Maybe both.

Then she said, quiet but steady, “You always did know how to walk away once it stopped going your way.”

Paige flinched. Just barely.

No one else caught it. But Azzi did.

“Again,” Paige said through clenched teeth. “Run it again.”

From the sideline, Paige kept her eyes on the clipboard. Anywhere but on Azzi.

But her mind had already left the gym.

Back to that hotel room.

That night.

The soft question Azzi had asked, still echoing:

“So… what is this?”

And the silence Paige gave in return.

Flashback — All-Star Weekend

Ten months ago – Hotel bar, Las Vegas

The hum of post-event energy buzzed through the hotel like electricity — the kind of high only athletes understood. The kind that made everything feel louder. Looser. Like rules didn’t apply.

Paige sat at the corner of the bar, long legs crossed, hair still damp from the post-game shower, sipping a mezcal mule and trying to keep her phone flipped face-down.

She hated these weekends — all flash, no substance. Cameras everywhere, agents in full networking mode, teammates you liked until they started talking brand deals and podcast features.

She wasn’t even supposed to be here. She’d been a late roster fill-in after another guard pulled out. But the press wouldn’t shut up about it: Two of the most-watched players of their generation on the same All-Star bench.

Bueckers and Fudd. Rivalry or royalty?

She rolled her eyes just thinking about it.

“Damn,” came a low voice beside her, “I didn’t think you drank tequila.”

Paige turned.

Azzi stood there, dressed down in a vintage tee and gold chains, curls falling loose around her face, smirking like she’d been waiting to be noticed.

Paige arched an eyebrow. “I don’t. It’s mezcal.”

Azzi slid onto the stool next to her without asking. “Bougie. Makes sense.”

“And you?” Paige asked, glancing at her glass. “What’s that — vodka cran?”

“Whiskey sour. Don’t judge me.”

Paige looked at her, lips twitching. “Too late.”

Azzi laughed, full and warm. “You know, you could at least pretend to like me for the cameras.”

“Why? We’re not on camera now.”

Azzi’s eyes sparkled. “Exactly.”

A beat. Charged. Unspoken.

They hadn’t really talked before — not off court. Too many comparisons. Too much media noise. Too many people waiting to spin any look, any photo, into a headline.

But here, now, in this corner of the bar where the air smelled like citrus and wood polish and every other All-Star was too busy partying upstairs — here, they were just two people with tired legs and tired walls.

“So,” Azzi said, turning toward her fully. “What’s the real reason you’re sitting down here alone?”

Paige shrugged. “Needed quiet.”

Azzi tilted her head. “And somehow I still ended up sitting next to you.”

“Tragic.”

“Or fate,” Azzi said, smiling now, all teeth. “Depending on your angle.”

Paige looked at her for a long moment — the kind that made her chest pull tight for no reason she wanted to name.

“You always this smooth?” she asked.

Azzi leaned in slightly, the edge of her knee brushing Paige’s.

“You have no idea.”

The banter spun out for an hour. Two. Drinks slow. Laughter slower.

They shared too much and not enough — stories about growing up in the spotlight, about training camps and blown plays and how no matter what you did, someone always had something to say.

And underneath it all, something unspoken buzzed like static — the way Azzi looked at her like she wasn’t afraid to be caught. The way Paige found herself leaning in just a little more every time Azzi cracked a joke.

It wasn’t supposed to feel this easy. This natural.

But it did.

Later — somewhere between the second round of drinks and a shared plate of fries — Azzi said quietly, “You know what sucks?”

Paige glanced up. “What?”

“That we’re never allowed to be regular. Just… two women vibing in a bar.”

The words hit Paige harder than they should have.

And before she could answer, Azzi added, softer now:

“But I guess if I only get one night of it… I don’t mind that it’s with you.”

Silence.

Then Paige leaned in and kissed her.

No hesitation. No teasing.

Just heat.

And want.

And a little desperation tucked in the corner of it all.

Present Day – Post-Practice

Azzi’s POV

The locker room had mostly emptied out, but Azzi was still there — peeling tape from her wrists like it was a science experiment, retying her shoes, scrolling her phone without actually reading anything.

Truth was, she was stalling.

The way Paige had snapped at her on the court still echoed. Not just the words — but the tone. Cold. Like they hadn’t once shared fries and laughter and breathless promises behind a hotel room door.

Azzi told herself it didn’t bother her. That she didn’t care anymore.

But that was a lie.

And Azzi hated lying — especially to herself.

She glanced toward the hallway, where the coaching offices sat quiet and closed off behind frosted glass.

You don’t have to talk to her. Let it go. Let her be cold.

But the question kept burning:

Why did she cut me off like that?

Azzi grabbed her water bottle and slung her bag over her shoulder before she could talk herself out of it again.

The hallway was quiet, her sneakers whispering against the tile.

She reached Paige’s door and paused. Through the narrow window, she could see her — hunched over her laptop, hoodie sleeves pushed up, blonde hair tied in a messy knot. Same calm, focused look. Same posture as that night in bed, scrolling through game film even after they’d—

Azzi shook the thought off and knocked once, softly.

Paige didn’t look up. “Yeah?”

Azzi opened the door halfway and leaned against the frame. Her voice came out quieter than she expected.

“Hey.”

It was the kind of “hey” you say when it’s just the two of you in a hotel room and everything feels possible. It wasn’t meant to sound that soft. But it did.

Paige froze.

Slowly, she looked up, eyes guarded and sharp. “What do you want?”

Just like that — ice wall. Reinforced.

Azzi’s fingers tightened around her bottle.

Okay.

She stepped inside, closing the door partway behind her but not all the way. “I just thought maybe we could… talk.”

Paige raised an eyebrow. “About what — practice? Or something else?”

Azzi searched her face. “You don’t have to be like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m some stranger who just transferred in last week,” Azzi said. Her tone wasn’t angry, just… tired. “You really gonna pretend it’s not weird? Us. This.”

Paige didn’t answer right away.

Then, slowly, she leaned back in her chair, arms crossing over her chest like she needed the protection.

“You’re my player now,” she said flatly. “That’s what this is. That’s all it can be.”

Azzi’s heart kicked harder.

“That all it ever was to you?” she asked, quieter now.

Paige’s eyes flickered — just for a second.

Then she looked away.

“I think you should go.”

Azzi stood there for a second longer, waiting — hoping — for something.

Anything.

But Paige had already gone back to her screen. Back to the script.

So Azzi nodded once, lips pressed tight.

“Got it, Coach.”

And just like that, she walked out.

But her chest burned the whole way back to the locker room.

Paige's POV

The door clicked shut behind Azzi, and the silence that followed wasn’t peaceful.

It was deafening.

Paige stared at her laptop screen — something about film cuts and shot clock percentages — but the numbers blurred like static. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, unmoving.

Her chest felt tight. Too tight.

She exhaled slowly and leaned back in her chair, dragging both hands down her face. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

Of all people.

Of all cities.

She closed her eyes and whispered toward the ceiling like maybe the universe owed her something.

“Real funny, God.”

No answer, of course.

Just the hum of her office lamp and the faint echo of a basketball still being bounced somewhere deep in the facility.

She let out a bitter laugh, head tilted back.

“I already lost everything. What else do you want from me?”

She didn’t ask for this job. Not really. She didn’t want to coach. She wanted to play. She wanted her knees back. Her court. Her future. Not a clipboard and a whistle and a constant reel of “what could’ve been.”

And she definitely, definitely didn’t want Azzi.

Didn’t want her swagger. Her goddamn smirk. That low, quiet “hey” like it still meant something. Like they could just go back.

Paige sat up, hands bracing the edge of her desk, knuckles pale.

She could still feel the way Azzi looked at her — not like a player looking at her coach.

Like a woman looking at the one who left.

And she hated how much that cracked her open.

Because she remembered.

The hotel. The way Azzi had touched her like she was something soft. The way her lips had brushed her collarbone in the dark, murmuring things Paige had tried so hard to forget.

And worst of all?

She remembered how badly she’d wanted to stay.

Paige stood abruptly, pushing away from the desk like movement could outrun memory. She paced to the window, arms crossed, jaw clenched.

This couldn’t happen.

She wouldn’t let it.

She was Coach Bueckers now. Not that woman from All-Star weekend. Not someone who lost control. Not someone who—

Her phone buzzed on the desk. A message from her assistant about the next morning’s media appearance.

Paige didn’t read it. Just stared at the screen, the reflection of her own expression staring back in the glare.

Wrecked.

So much for unbothered.

Next Day – Press Room, Media Day

Paige’s POV

The lights were blinding.

Not in the metaphorical, championship-glory kind of way — in the literal sense. Too hot. Too bright. Cameras too close.

Paige sat at the front table, polished and still in her branded quarter-zip, shoulders squared, hands folded neatly on the mic. The Sparks logo loomed behind her like a warning.

She’d done media her whole career. But this? This was different.

This was her first presser as head coach. And seated two chairs to her right?

Azzi Fudd.

Hair slicked into a perfect bun, fresh lashes, nails painted in team colors. Her chain glinted under the collar of her jersey warm-up. Smiling like this was her stage.

Because it was.

It always had been.

“Let’s open it up,” said the PR director at the mic stand. “Coach Bueckers, Azzi — thanks for joining us. Let’s talk about this new chapter.”

Here it came.

A reporter in the front stood up. “This question’s for both of you. You’ve shared the spotlight through almost every phase of your careers — high school accolades, college comparisons, rookie seasons, All-Star debates. Now that you’re no longer rivals on the court… how do you plan to navigate this new dynamic, learning to lean on one another in very different roles?”

Paige smiled. Press smile. Clean. Unbothered.

“I’ve had the opportunity to watch Azzi grow as a player for years now,” she said, even and smooth. “She’s a competitor. She brings talent, energy, and leadership to the court. My job now is to coach this team to the best of my ability — and that includes helping her thrive in a new system. That’s our focus.”

Professional. Perfect. Controlled.

But then Azzi leaned forward into her mic, just a beat too slow.

Her voice dropped — sincere, not performative.

“If I can just add something?”

Paige turned slightly toward her, already bracing.

Azzi didn’t look at her at first. She looked at the room — the reporters, the lenses, the eyes.

“I know it’s easy to label us — rivals, opposites, whatever story fits the headline. But… I’ve seen Paige in game sevens. I’ve seen her run film till 2am. I’ve seen her push through pain no one else even knew she was in.”

Now she turned — fully, carefully — and met Paige’s eyes across the space between them.

“And I know this transition from player to coach? That’s no joke. That’s hard. Real hard.”

Paige’s breath caught. Just a little.

Azzi’s voice softened.

“So I just want to say… I’m here to learn. I’m here to lock in. And I’m gonna do everything I can to be the best player I can be for Coach P.”

A few reporters chuckled at the nickname. Paige… did not.

She was too busy trying not to visibly short-circuit.

Her ears were hot. Her chest tight.

Did Azzi just—

Was that admiration? Affection? Both??

In public??

She could feel her skin betraying her — the blush creeping in, high and fast and obvious under the lights.

She cleared her throat, eyes flicking down to her notes. “Thank you.”

It came out quieter than she intended.

But Azzi heard it.

And she smiled — small, private, victorious.

First crack in the ice, Paige thought.

Damn her.

Flashback – All-Star Weekend (Later That Night)

Hotel Room, Hours After the Bar

The city hummed outside the window, Vegas lights glowing like the inside of a neon snow globe — all pinks and golds and electric blue shadows flickering against the hotel walls.

Paige lay half beneath the white sheets, propped up on one elbow, breath still slowing. Her blonde hair was damp at the edges, her lips slightly parted like she hadn’t fully come down yet.

Azzi lay beside her, sprawled across the mattress like she belonged there — one leg draped over Paige’s, fingers tracing lazy shapes along her forearm.

It should’ve felt awkward. Rushed. Like a mistake in the making.

But it didn’t.

It felt quiet. Not empty. Not silent. Just… still.

Azzi tilted her head to glance at Paige, a sleepy smile playing on her lips. “You always that competitive in bed?”

Paige huffed out a laugh, cheeks coloring faintly. “Was that a compliment?”

Azzi shrugged, still tracing that same spot on her skin. “You didn’t exactly let me win.”

“I don’t let anyone win.”

“That’s what I figured.” She shifted closer, chin nudging Paige’s shoulder. “You always this hard to read?”

Paige hesitated.

That was the thing about Azzi. She asked questions that sounded like jokes, but they weren’t. Not really.

“I’m just… not usually like this,” Paige murmured, almost like a confession.

Azzi looked at her for a long moment. “Like what?”

“This,” she said, gesturing to the space between them — tangled sheets, shared breath, her heart still pounding in her chest. “Soft.”

Azzi’s smile softened too. “I like you soft.”

Paige’s throat tightened.

“Don’t get used to it,” she tried to joke, but her voice gave it away — too low, too full.

Azzi leaned in, brushing her lips along Paige’s collarbone.

“Too late.”

They didn’t talk about what it meant. Not that night. Not with words.

But Paige stayed.

She didn’t usually stay.

And when she finally did fall asleep, Azzi was still wrapped around her like a promise — one neither of them dared speak out loud.

In the morning, Paige would wake up first.

Slip out of the bed.

Pick up her phone and see a text from her agent.

And when Azzi mumbled, half-asleep, “So what is this?”

Paige would look at her like the question was too much — and say nothing at all.

But for now?

It was just them.

Two women.

No headlines.

No cameras.

No lies.

Just breath and warmth and the quiet ache of something beginning.

Present Day – Post Presser

Azzi’s POV

The press room emptied in waves — camera crews packing up, interns scurrying to get sound bites, reporters already tweeting out quotes.

Azzi moved slower. On purpose.

She didn’t miss the blush that had climbed Paige’s cheeks when she called her Coach P in front of the cameras. Didn’t miss the way her voice caught mid-sentence like someone had pressed pause on her brain.

Small win.

Tiny, almost invisible.

But she felt it.

And she wasn’t done.

She spotted Paige down the hall, headed toward the stairwell instead of the elevator — classic move, avoiding small talk, probably hoping no one would follow.

So of course Azzi did.

“Hey,” she called, catching up.

Paige didn’t stop walking.

“Don’t tell me you’re still mad I made you blush on live TV,” Azzi teased, falling into step beside her.

Paige didn’t even glance her way. “I didn’t blush.”

Azzi smirked. “You did.”

“Are we done here?”

“I don’t know,” Azzi said casually. “Are we?”

That made Paige stop.

Dead in her tracks, hand on the stairwell door, jaw tight.

She turned slowly, eyes narrowing. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Pretend this is anything but complicated,” Paige said, voice lower now. Not angry — just firm. Like someone reciting rules they’ve already rewritten in their head a hundred times. “That night was one thing. This? This is a whole different game.”

Azzi tilted her head, playing it light even though her heart knocked hard against her ribs. “Maybe I’m just trying to figure out the rules.”

Paige held her gaze.

And for a second — just a second — something flickered. Something raw. Something that hadn’t healed.

But then it was gone.

“I’m not doing this with you,” Paige said quietly.

Then she turned and slipped through the stairwell door without looking back.

Azzi stood there, alone in the hallway, heart still thudding like she’d just sprinted baseline to baseline.

She’d thought she was past caring. Past wanting.

But now?

Now she just wanted to know what it would take to make Paige look at her like that again.

And maybe next time?

She wouldn’t let her walk away so easily.

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Where Do You End Pt. 2

Main Masterlist - Dean Masterlist

Read on A03! - Pt. 1 - Pt. 3

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, angst, body swap, mentions of smut, humor, horniness, very weird

Summary/Warnings: You put the plan into motion, and Sam realizes you're not Dean a little too late.

Author's Note: Supernatural characters are incapable of the just making the emotionally smart choice on the first try, but they're doing their best.

Word Count: 4.5k

Dean had half shoved the phone into your hand. His hand. Your hand was the one who shoved it into Dean’s hand, and Dean’s hand was the one that was dialing Sam while your hand drummed on the table, and your own eyes watched you with a searing intensity that only Dean was capable of. 

You’re not sure what suddenly made him take this seriously, but you don’t really care. You just need this to be over. 

Because the last twelve hours have been the longest of your life.

It started with your eyes wandering where they shouldn’t. Dean would shift in his chair, your body would shift with him, and when your boobs would bounce it was suddenly impossible to stop staring at them. Dean would walk away from you—to the parking lot, or through a door, or over to the bar—and your hips would do a little swaying thing that made Dean’s body tense. 

Your body tense. Dean’s body that was right now your body—and only about twenty percent in your control—tense. 

And he’d bend over, and your ass would stick in the air, and it was like your eyes were magnetically drawn to it.

You have a nice ass. You’ve never really seen it before, but it’s a nice ass. And nice tits, and an overall face that was better than you’d ever really given yourself credit for. You’re pretty. You have good features, a nice voice, and a great body.

This experience would be an overall ego booster, if you haven’t spent the whole time trying not to lose your mind.

Because then Dean wiggled his ass—your ass—and your jeans felt tight. Almost painful. And there was a weird throbbing feeling between your legs that was deep in your core, but it was heavier than you were used to-

You’d glanced down at your lap with a frown, worried you’d done something to fuck up Dean’s body, and almost fallen out of your chair.

You never wanted to experience an erection again. They were uncomfortable and sudden and annoyingly obvious. They made it hard to focus when you were trying to talk to Dean about the situation, and distracting when you were trying to do research. 

It didn’t help how they were purely out of your control. How easily they appeared, and how impossibly they went. 

And Dean was not fucking helping. He’d squirm when you touched him, and you’d get a boner. He’d use your voice to whine or mumble or just say anything at all, and you’d get a boner. At one point he kicked you and you got a boner.

You don’t know how he functions like this. You’d been a little worried that he doesn’t. That you’re getting turned on by your own shockingly attractive body for some fucked up Freudian reason, and Dean’s got nothing to do with this.

Then you’d dragged him out of the diner, and it had killed that doubt with fire and smoke. You’d never drag your own body like that. You hated it when Dean did that to you—the close proximity and overall Dean-ness of the action always made you weak and soft, molding into him when you were supposed to be pounding on his chest and calling him an asshole—and you hadn’t even really been considering it as an option to stop him going to the bathroom, but Dean’s muscles had flexed against your will, his body had stood taller without your permission, and suddenly you’d been grabbing your own arm and manhandled Dean out of the diner.

He’d been sulking the whole ride back. It was the same way you usually sulked after he did that to you, with a pout and arms folded over your chest.

His boobs—your boobs—were pushed up. You could see cleavage when you glanced to the side, and your cock twitched in your jeans to shove between those pretty fucking tits-

What the fuck was wrong with you.

It was like your body—Dean’s body—had a mind of its own. Behaving as Dean would behave, had none of this shit ever happened. Opening doors and placing that broad hand on your lower back, towering over you closer than he had any right to be and pressing you into corners until he was only just not touching you.

You really wish you’d pushed harder to make him stop doing that. If only for the sake of you now, crowding your own space and getting hard whenever Dean would squirm away from you. But you hadn’t, because when it was you in your own body, you loved it.

It was a cruel, masochistic drug you’d hooked yourself on, where Dean didn’t want you like that but he was still giving you this. You were only his friend in his mind, but he still liked you as a body. He didn’t feel anything for you the same way you felt things for him, but there was still an animalistic attraction that made him hover and smirk and tease you.

It gave you something to hang onto. It gave you something to hate about him, because you really did love everything else. 

You really loved Dean. You really loved his dumb jokes, and his shit-eating grin, and how loud and annoying and adorable he could be. You loved how he loved his car, how he cared about Sam with everything he had, how he was maybe to biggest, hottest geek you’d ever met. 

You really simply loved Dean.

And he didn’t love you, and you’d forced yourself to live with that because you had to. He was still your best friend. You hate him, and you’re furious with him for telling you no and then acting like nothing had changed when he’d ripped your heart out of your chest, carved his name on it, and returned it without any desire to care for how he’d mauled you in a beautiful and irreversible way, but he’s your best friend. And you love him.

And this needed to be fixed now, because you can’t keep living in such firm and solid proof that Dean’s body wants you, but there’s something revolting enough to his brain that he never ever cross that line you’ve had to restrain yourself from all day.

The first step is to call Sam, and execute the secrets plan so you can have some help that isn’t just a grumpy Dean. The second step is to hiss at Dean that he needs to leave the room before Sam picks up, because the whole point is that this a you and Sam secret, and Dean isn’t allowed to hear it.

“You can’t just cut me out of this, sweetheart,” he hisses back, narrowing your eyes. It’s cute. You’re going to fucking die. “I’ll be damned if I let you and Sammy whisper about me while I just stand in the freakin’ hall-“

“Not everything is about you, Dean.” You sneer. “And if you want this to work, wait outside.”

“But-“

“Outside.” Your voice raises slightly as you point to the door, and there’s an authoritative, commanding tone to it that makes Dean’s eyes—your eyes—widen. “Now.”

Dean scowls and shuffles outside, his low grumble about this being bullshit muffled as the door closes behind him.

You glare after him—not loving how annoyed his body is that you just let Dean walk away without picking him up and kissing his hair—and Sam picks up seconds later.

“Listen, Dean, I know you’re freaking out, but you can’t keep calling me.” Sam sounds exasperated, and you frown into the air as he continues. “This is supposed to be my week off with Eileen, and it’s hard to relax when you keep fucking calling me.”

“I-“ You shake your head slightly, glancing back to the door. “What?”

“You’ve called me seven times, Dude. Listen, it’s not going to go bad, she doesn’t hate you, and all you need to do is talk about your feelings like an adult and everything will be fine.”

“I don’t-“

“Yeah, I know.” You can hear Sam’s eye roll through the phone. “There’s nothing to talk about, she doesn’t know what she’d be getting into, you’d rather be miserable and all that shit. Look, Dean, at this point all I can tell you is to get your head out of your ass, and stop calling me.”

“Sam.” Your voice is slow, cautious, and wired with things you don’t fully understand. “What are you talking about.”

He says your name like it’s obvious, and you think the world stops spinning. “I know you didn’t wanna solo hunt with her, but-“

“Why didn’t he- Why didn’t I want to solo hunt with her?” Your voice is more frantic than Dean’s usually is. You don’t really care. “What’s wrong with her?”

“Nothing’s wrong with her, Dean, you’re just still in love with her, and kind of being a fucking dick about it.”

Sam keeps talking. Something about how Dean’s always worried about hunting with you, how he’s always worried he’s going to slip up and put you in danger, how he’s afraid you’ll catch on to his real feelings, how he believes it’s easier when Sam is there to run interference and prevent too much of Dean’s hand from being shown.

It’s all just noise, though. Because there’s no way Dean loves you. He’d said he didn’t. He’d said you were his friend and nothing more, he’d shot you down, he’d apologized and told you the feeling would fade, because it was just a crush, and it would pass.

You’d spent months forcing yourself to be okay with that. You couldn’t make him love you. It would kill you to contort and reshape yourself into someone he would want, and if you did go down that path there was a chance you’d come out the other side someone he hated. 

You’d lost sleep reminding yourself that Dean loving you was not something you were owed. That you were lucky he cared about you enough to be your friend, and to let you down gently. He could’ve been cruel, and listed every reason you were vile and repulsive and had no right to be his. He could’ve told you to pack your bags and leave the bunker. 

And you’d tried to move on, because you owed him that much. You’d failed, but you tried.

He’d always stopped you. At countless bars he’d stepped between you and whoever you were flirting with, telling you Sam was drunk and they had to go now, or you all had an early drive in the morning and had to go now, or you just had to go now.

Sam had never really looked that drunk. 

Dean had always guided you out of the bar with a possessive hand on your lower back.

He’d rejected you, and he’d never let you get over him. 

As if he-

“Sam.” Your tone is harsh and cold. You don’t care. “How long has- Have I been in love with m-“ You correct yourself again with your own name, your voice dropping another octave, and there’s a long pause over the speaker.

“Forever, dude. You told me that like, day one you were whipped. I mean- You know that. Are you-“

“I’m fine.” You snap. You’re barely breathing. “Sam, I need you to feed the cat.”

For a second, you think the call dropped and that the plan hadn’t worked. The plan needed to work. You needed to get back into your own body so you could fucking kill Dean-

“Dean, we don’t have a cat. You’re allergic-“

“Sparky. In storage room nine. He needs food.”

“Spar- I don’t- What- Did-“ Sam snaps your name, and your heart jumps into your throat. “Did she tell you something? Did you get her drunk again? Because you know she’ll kill you when she gets sober, she hates it when you do that-“

You know exactly what Sam’s trying to accuse you—accuse Dean—of. You get loose-lipped when you drink. You tell secrets and lose your filter, and you always feel horrible in the morning because they’re rarely your secrets and the lack of filter is really embarrassing.

Dean’s told you it’s adorable. That he likes drunk you, because she’s honest and takes somehow less shit than sober you. That she’s you in the rawest form, and its’s awesome.

You can’t believe you ever bought that he didn’t have any feelings for you at all.

“There’s wet food in the pantry, behind all the cabbage and carrots. Should be enough for Sparky until I get home.” You push on, narrowing your eyes at the air. “Scoop the litter box too. I think I forget.”

“You- You’ve never been in the pantry. That’s why we-“ Sam cuts himself off, and you can hear the gears spinning in his brain over the phone. 

Then he says your name, and there’s an element of horror in his voice that feels pretty appropriate. 

“Thank fuck.” You mutter, and take your chances to try and just say it. “Code Vermilion, Sam.”

“Code- That’s a zombie situation, are there-“

“Shit- sorry.” You chew on your tongue, trying to recall the emergency system you’d fucking designed. “Code Puce.”

“You fucking body swapped?!” There is it. Thank God. “Why didn’t you just, you know, say that-“

“I couldn’t!” You were shouting, but Sam was also shouting, so it was only fair. “I called you all day on my phone, and the moment I tried to, the call dropped! I tried to email or text you and it never sent, I tried to fucking snail mail you and the letter burst into flames! Dean short-circuited a fax machine-“

Sam groans. “Shit, you’re gonna kill me. I mean Dean, Dean’s gonna kill me. I was never supposed to tell,” Sam says your name, then cuts himself off with another groan. “Fuck, I mean you, I wasn’t supposed to tell you- God damn it-“

“Sam.” Your voice has become clipped. Short. You don’t need a reminder of the previous conversation, and this just really needs to be over. “If I email you all the details, can you start looking for fixes?”

“Yeah, sure, just-“ He pauses, his voice dropping sightly. “You think emails gonna work now?”

“We’re talking about it and the call’s not dropping.” You shrug, even though he can’t see it. “Text me any solutions you have. I’ll keep you updated on my end, and when Dean gets home, make him sleep on the floor of your room and don’t let him go to the bathroom alone. Okay?”

“Oh- Wait-“ Sam says your name, and you can hear the confusion in his voice. “What do you mean when Dean gets home-“

“I mean when Dean gets home. Bye, Sam.” 

You hang up, and spend a long minute just staring at the wall.

Dean’s in love with you. Sam says Dean’s in fucking love with you, and you believe him, and you-

You can’t stay here. 

This needs to be fixed, but you cannot stay here. 

You open the door to the hall. And there he is. There you are, and your body—Dean’s body, the one that’s allegedly in love with you—is leaning forward to be closer to you. To Dean.

Fuck.

“Were you ever going to tell me?”

Dean frowns at you, pulling your lips down into a pouty frown. It makes your dick—Dean’s dick—twitch in his pants. 

“Tell you what?”

You brace your whole body, standing a little taller. “That you love me.”

“That I-“ Dean’s eyes narrow, and you’ve never been on the receiving end on your own glare. It’s more violent than you’d imagined, and his dick is twitching again. “What the hell did Sammy say to you-“

“Don’t blame Sam.” You snap. “Answer me.”

“You didn’t ask a freakin’ question, sweetheart-“

“Yes. I did.” You lean down a little, holding Dean’s gaze. “Were you ever going to tell me you’re in love with me.”

Dean stares at you, and you think he’s going to deny it. That he’ll grunt that you’ve had this conversation before, and he doesn’t love you. That he doesn’t know what the hell you’re talking about, and whatever Sam said was a joke. Just a prank, and you need to focus on fixing this body swap instead of your feelings.

What he does is worse. 

He shakes his head, refuses to meet your eyes, and pushes his words through his teeth.

“You were never supposed to know.” He mutters. “It was for your own good-“

“Shut the fuck up, Dean!” Your voice is a roar, and you make yourself flinch, but Dean doesn’t.

He’s in your body. 

You never flinch when Dean shouts, because you know he’d never actually hurt you-

You’re going to start fucking crying. You probably already would have, if it didn’t feel like an effort in Dean’s body.

“You- You broke my heart.” You glare at him, your voice half between a hiss and a whisper. “You told me you’d never seen me that way, and you apologized. You said you didn’t want me. You told me the feeling would pass, and then you fucking stopped it-“ Your voice raises, and you stand a little taller. You can be shattered and furious. You can be a fucking storm of glass to break and carve into Dean the same way he did to you, because how could he do this to you. “You fucking stopped me from moving on! You cockblocked me, and you got angry whenever I’d go out without you, and you kept touching me and acting like everything was fine-“

Dean says your name slowly, and you can hear the regret in his voice, but you don’t care. This hurts, this hurts so much worse than before because you’d felt insane, you’d driven yourself mad with love for Dean and he’d just tightened the straitjacket and acted like you’d find a cure for this when he’d been actively keeping it from you-

“Why the fuck would you do this?! Do you hate me? Am I really that horrible that you can’t stand the idea of being in love with me-“

“It’s not you.” Dean snaps your name, shaking his head. “It’s- I was keeping you fucking safe-“

“Fuck off-“

“No!” His voice—your voice—is trying to mimic your own shout, and it’s not really working in his favor. “You- you don’t fucking get it, sweetheart, if I let us do that, let us be that, you’d have a target on your back, every son of a bitch in hell and heaven would use you and hurt you, just to get to me-“

“I’m not stupid! I know what the risks are just associating with Winchesters, and I don’t care.” You rub your face, and everything hurts. You feel like you’re choking on the air, and you can’t be here. “I didn’t care, Dean, I just wanted you.”

“You would’ve cared.” His voice—your voice—is bitter. Hollow. Resolved. “When you were being tortured and murdered, you would’ve cared. And I would’ve had to live with it. With the fact that I lost you-“

“You wouldn’t have lost me, Dean.” You fish the keys to the Impala out of your pocket, and toss them to him with his phone. “You never would’ve lost me, if you’d actually fucking tried.”

It would be kinder to let him get in a word, or a protest, or even a sort of apology. But everything hurts, and you really can’t fucking stay here or you’ll rip off your skin—Dean’s skin—and beat in your own skull with your hands. 

Your real skull—holding Dean’s mind—with how raw and furious this pain is, or Dean’s real skull with self-inflicted pain.

And that’s why you’re past kindness. You’ve been shot and choked and stabbed and sliced to pieces, but this is the worst pain you’ve ever know. He was never supposed to hurt you. You’d always trusted that this huge lunk of a body would never hurt you.

But you hadn’t counted on Dean, and how he’d been willing to risk your of peace of mind for his misguided, self-sacrificing martyr bullshit.

You’d always tried to tell him that you didn’t want him to sacrifice for you. That him staying with you meant more than him leaving you alive, but alone.

And he’d never listened.

So now you’re walking away.

Dean will be fine. He’ll get your body safely back to the bunker, tell Sam everything that happened, and figure out how to justify this to himself.

Sam will make sure nothing happens to your body until this gets fixed. And you’ll take care of Dean’s body by yourself, far away from Kansas, hiding in a shitty little harbor town until you work this out.

Alone.

Just like Dean had wanted.

For a long week, time drags to a crawl. You hole in a motel room with a laptop, coffee and vodka—you don’t really care which on you’re drinking when your go for a glass, just as long as it’s one of them—about half of a gas station’s junk food supply, and the local library’s entire collection of books of cult, myth, and lore.

The motel is dusty and warm, and the nights are horrible and cold, but this is what you needed. You stop running into doorways and hitting your head on things, and you figure out how to sleep comfortably in his body. You learn how to go to the bathroom and barely touch or think about what you’re doing, how to not get weirded out when the same face you see in your dreams is the same one that greets you in the mirror.

And you miss him. A lot.

But your fury is stronger than the ache for him to return to your side. And there’s a slightly fucked up comfort to being trapped in his body. You can watch the hands you’ve had graphic and detailed dreams about sort through papers, and you can bite your lips and understand what that sensation would do to Dean’s body.

You never cross that line. Dean’s cock will call itself to attention at random time, and you’ll just ignore it, no matter how demanding it feels. 

You’re getting really good at ignoring things.

Calls. Texts. Voicemail after voicemail from Sam and Dean. You listen to one or two, just to check—they’re fine, just angry you’ve vanished and demanding to know where you are—and delete all the rest. Sam gives up after a few days, when you respond to his email about Eurasian body swapping lore with a list of your own working theories. 

You think he’s just happy to know you’re alive.

This doesn’t seem to be the case for Dean. 

He doesn’t stop trying to get you to pick up the phone. His voicemails get longer and longer, and his texts come more and more frequently, and the only thing that save him from being blocked is that you still love him.

You’d meant what you said. Dean would never lose you, not really. You’re just certain that if you talk to him or see him he’ll try to explain himself, and you don’t want an explanation. You just fucking want him, and as long as he’s going to keep pretending that’s something he can’t give you, he doesn’t get to have you at all. 

So you keep the door locked, keep your phone on silent, and just fucking work until you fix this. 

And when you do, you don’t bother with a warning. You find the exact curse, work out the ritual for reversal, and do it. 

The world blur, your head spins and Dean’s body seizes like it’s been struck by lightning, and that’s it.

You’re in the bunker library, lying on the floor as Sam hovers over you, and it’s over.

“Dean, what the-“ Sam jostles you slightly, and a little vomit shoots up your throat. After effects. “Dean-“

“Not Dean.” You mumble your own name, shoving Sam’s hands away from your face and pushing yourself upright. “I fixed it.”

“You-“ Sam shakes his head, scanning over you with a frown. “You fixed it?”

“Obviously.” You rub your temple, your head pounding and everything far too bright. “Dean’ll be in Sekiu, Washington.”

“Why-“

“Because that’s where I was-“

“I know that.” Sam snaps, giving you a glare. “Why are you telling me. You’re the one going to get him.”

You roll your eyes. “No, I’m-“

“You are.” Sam’s making a stern bitch-face. He’s about to get punched. “Because either you act like an adult and go talk to Dean, or he stays in Washington until you grow up.”

“Until I-“ You give Sam a look of pure disbelief. “He’s the one who lied to me! Why do I have to grow up-“

“Because it’s Dean. You know he wasn’t trying to hurt you-“

“But he did.” You rub your arms for comfort, and God, it’s nice to be back in your own body. You know where to pinch your own skin to keep your head right, and you can cross your legs without any discomfort, shielding your face from Sam by bowing your head and letting your hair take care of the rest. “He was just going to let me think he didn’t love me, that he didn’t care-“

“You know he cared.” Sam says, his voice still firm, but a little more gentle. “He does care. He spent the whole week trying to figure out how to fix this, and when I told him to stop calling you he told me to shove it, because he needed to work this out. He’s just-“ Sam sighs. “He’s Dean.”

“I know.” You chew on your lips, frowning at the floor. “But it’s- It wasn’t fair, Sam. It was mean. It- I don’t feel loved. I just feel like he didn’t love me- didn’t want me enough to do something about it.”

“Okay.” Sam shrugs. “Tell him that. Or just kick his ass, because he deserves it, or make out with him. I don’t care, as long you go pick up Dean, and I get my week off.”

You give him a flat look. “You just want your secret spa time-“

“Yeah, I do. Get out.”

“But-“

“You get to drive the Impala again. The keys are in your pocket.”

Your hand flies to your jeans, and they are. And Sam’s right, you do have to work this out somehow. If you leave the bunker, you’ll be abandoning the secret cat to Sam, and it’ll die within the week.

So you’re either kill Dean or-

You don’t let yourself think of the alternative. You’ve trained yourself not to. 

But it doesn’t stop the spark of hope in your chest when you start Baby’s engine, take a long breath, and head out to go get Dean.

End Note: Sam I hope you have a wonderful secret spa day, you've earned it my king.

If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

Taglist

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[ram-bles]

Hellooooos

I was wondering you do an Mouthwashing headcannon where they react to reader having a bitchy resting face and they immediately think there rude but is the most sweetest person in general.

Or if you want to do something else, can you do there reactions to reader style is 2000s that wears low rise jeans,piercings,styling thongs , etc and ppl think there dumb but there highly intelligent person? If you have time of course!oh also don’t overwork yourself and make sure your hydrated 😊

tulpar crew & bimbo!reader

tags: gender neutral reader. pre-crash.

⚠️ jimmy.

this is up my alley.,. thank u so much anon 🙇 also was this you !!

[ Curly ]

🩹 I don't think he'd judge you based off of your looks, but if Jimmy tries to badmouth you around him, unfortunately he'd just nod along even if he doesn't think of you that way.

🩹 Doesn't really mind your style but is more worried about the functionality of your clothes for your safety in the ship.

🩹 Probably just really worried about you running about with stilettos on and even tried to discuss it with you as politely as he could for you to wear thicker heels at the very least. (He has no idea what types of heels are).

"You look lovely, don't get me wrong. It's just, your shoes— They're nice! But is it the only pair that you have at the moment?" "Oh? There a problem with it, Cap?" "I don't want you to get hurt while working, S'all." "I have a more comfortable one, if that eases you." "Please and thank you."

🩹 He tries his best not to... Stare. Your choice of clothing suits you after all.

[ Daisuke ]

🌺 We've got a babe on board?!?!

🌺 Bitchy or not, you're definitely his type. Well, luckily for him, you're sweeter than the packets he steals.

🌺 At first, he was really intimidated around you since he probably thinks you're waaaay out of his league. But after a few interactions, he warms up and it's either he's shy or suave around you, there's no in-between.

🌺 Unlike Captain over there. He will stare. Unconsciously, though. It's hard not to admire you after all. If you catch him staring and mention it, he'd be profusely apologizing.

🌺 In his words, you're;

"Super cool, and hot, and pretty/handsome. Like, totally hotter than the babes in this magazine—" "What magazine?" "Anyways."

[ Swansea ]

🌺 Super specific but he's super attracted whenever he sees you carrying around stuff especially when you have press-ons/nails on.

🌺 Probably memorized your piercing locations.

🦢 Definitely was annoyed at you at first, thinking that you'd be a drama queen/king.

🦢 Surprisingly not

🦢 Just like Curly, questions the functionality of your clothes though.

🦢 But if you work just fine, he doesn't really care.

🦢 In the same vein as Daisuke, you do look like a model.

🦢 Even more attractive when he found out you were knowledgeable with tools and his work as well. You were the crew's all-rounder of course. Strong and smart.

He was calling out for Daisuke, each time he sounds more and more annoyed. That's when you pop up, dropping a box of inventory he told the intern to pick up earlier. "You good, Swans?"

"Better if the damned kid's here to help. Where is he?!"

"Told me he had 'to fix a pipe' or whatever and asked me to bring these to you."

"Why I oughta—"

"Easy boss, might wanna focus on the wires there. Looks swapped." You take a glance towards his work and passed him one of the tools he needed before heading out. "I'll go call him for you."

[ Anya ]

🔷 Star struck and intimidated.

🔷 Usually, your types were from the more popular cliques back in university and often times, Anya wouldn't really interact with them unless needed.

🔷 Grew closer with you while getting your ankle sprain treated after a small mishap with your heels.

"Anya, you gotta agree, they're really hot." "Very..." The blue and pink duo were watching you work, both sipping on water trying to act inconspicuous. "Wanna play?" He tilts his head towards the Ludo board. "Loser wingmans winner." "Deal."

🔷 You often play dress up with her and Daisuke. Including makeup. She gets super flustered about it especially when you compliment her.

[ Jimmy ]

You felt a hand wrap around your waist as you were cleaning up after you ate. By instinct, you instantly jab your elbow behind you, earning a gasp from a man.

"Fuck's your deal?"

"The fuck's my deal?" You turn around to face him, watching him recover. "You're the one who can't keep your hand to yourself."

"Then don't walk around the ship with your ass out." Jimmy crosses his arms and leans back on the counter, eyeing you up and down as you jab your finger onto his chest, huffing in amusement. "What are you, a barrack bunny or some shit? Slept with anyone here yet? Or maybe everyone else but m—"

You slapped him so hard it echoed through the room and made his ear ring. Before he could even hit back, you've already kneed his crotch, the same joint meeting his face as he folded over.

"Pretty sure sluts wouldn't want you either way."

[jeonette]

after school hours - jjk

A classic 90's enemies to lovers skit. Mixtapes, rooftop hangouts, and harmless bickering between classes. But somewhere between hallway glances, stolen car rides, and one kiss under the stars, everything changed.

pairing : jungkook x reader

genre : enemies to lovers ( my favv )

The classroom buzzed faintly with low chatter and the soft hum of the overhead fan, lazily spinning in the warm air. Pages rustled. A pencil rolled off a desk and clattered to the floor. Somewhere in the back, someone was half-asleep with their head against the window.

And in the middle of it all, Y/N was glaring at Jungkook.

"That’s not even the right metaphor," she muttered under her breath.

Jungkook didn’t look up from his notebook. “It is if you actually understood the poem.”

She scoffed. “I understood it fine. You just love the sound of your own voice.”

“Good thing it’s a nice voice, then.”

Jimin, sitting between them like some long-suffering referee, groaned softly. “You two are like divorced parents. I’m begging you—let me get through one class without a custody battle over Shakespeare.”

Y/N leaned over Jimin to poke Jungkook in the arm with her pen. “You think you’re so smart just because Mr. Kim actually likes your essays.”

“He likes them because they’re good. Unlike your tragic five-paragraph breakdown of 'Romeo + Juliet' where you called Romeo a walking red flag.”

“Am I wrong?”

Jimin stifled a laugh. Jungkook rolled his eyes but the corner of his mouth twitched.

The bell rang before Y/N could get another jab in.

Outside the classroom, muffled voices were already echoing down the hallway.

“Lunchtime!” Hoseok’s voice cut through the noise like a trumpet. “Let’s goooo, I’m starving.”

As students poured out into the corridor, Y/N grabbed her things and slung her denim jacket over one arm. Jimin stuck close by her side, nudging her playfully.

“You’re gonna marry him one day, y’know,” he whispered.

She scoffed. “I’d rather marry my Walkman.”

Jungkook, just ahead, turned slightly like he’d heard—but didn’t say anything. Just that little smirk again.

Outside the classroom, the rest of the crew was already waiting — Hoseok with a candy bar halfway to his mouth, Mina reapplying her lip gloss using the reflection in the vending machine, Jiwoo balancing her textbook on her head like a crown, and Yoongi leaning against the wall with his headphones in, pretending not to care.

“There they are,” Mina sang. “Finally. What took you so long—fighting again?”

“No,” Jimin said. “Just academic foreplay.”

Y/N elbowed him.

They all fell into step down the hallway, laughing, bumping shoulders, voices rising and falling in that chaotic harmony only best friends could make.

-

The cafeteria was full, so the group had claimed their usual spot — a half-shaded corner of the courtyard, where Hoseok’s guitar case was used as a bench and someone had definitely carved “KIM WAS HERE” into the picnic table.

Y/N popped a fry into her mouth while Jiwoo dramatically told the story of how she tripped over her own shoelaces that morning and almost took Mina down with her.

“It was like watching a slow-motion disaster,” Mina said between bites of her sandwich. “I literally felt my life flash before my eyes.”

“Don’t blame me!” Jiwoo whined. “These are the school’s floors, not mine. Slippery as hell.”

“Or maybe your boots are just for fashion, not function,” Yoongi muttered, eyes behind his sunglasses, sipping his iced tea.

Everyone laughed.

Jimin stole a grape off Y/N’s tray; she slapped his hand but offered him another anyway. Jungkook leaned back on his elbows beside her, legs stretched out in front of him, chewing gum and watching the clouds like he couldn’t care less about anything — except he kept glancing her way every now and then.

That was when Mark, Dongyeon, and Chanyeol strolled over, reeking of too much cologne and fake confidence.

Mark leaned against the end of the table. “Ladies.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “Gentlemen. Or… whatever you are.”

Jiwoo choked on her drink.

Mina looked amused. “What’s up?”

“There’s a party at mine tonight,” Mark said. “Figured we’d invite the pretty half of this table.”

Chanyeol winked. “You girls should come. Bring that chaotic energy. We like that.”

Dongyeon added, “It’ll be fun. No parents, music, drinks... all the things good girls need to loosen up.”

The air shifted.

Yoongi pushed his sunglasses down, eyes sharp now. “You done?”

Mark blinked. “What?”

Jungkook sat up straighter. His gum hit the ground. “They said no.”

“No one actually said no,” Dongyeon muttered.

“They don’t have to,” Jimin said, voice light but eyes hard. “But since you’re not picking up on social cues, let me translate: no means no. Leave.”

Mark snorted. “Damn, relax. Didn't know they came with bodyguards.”

Hoseok stood. “And you didn’t come with manners.”

The courtyard quieted around them — not enough for teachers to notice, but enough for a few heads to turn.

Mark raised his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. Message received.”

As the trio walked off, Chanyeol threw one last wink at Y/N. “Offer still stands.”

Before Y/N could respond, Jungkook said flatly, “She’s not interested.”

The second they were gone, Jiwoo broke the silence. “Well, that escalated quickly.”

“Ugh,” Mina rolled her eyes. “I wasn’t gonna go anyway. Their parties are just cheap beer and bad flirting.”

Y/N glanced at Jungkook, whose jaw was still tight. “You alright there, hero?”

He shrugged, not looking at her. “They’re just idiots. Doesn’t mean you have to listen to them.”

She smirked. “Aw, was that you caring?”

He gave her a look. “Don’t get used to it.”

“You so totally care,” Jimin said, grinning.

Jungkook kicked his shin under the table.

-

Mina’s place was their go-to hangout spot — big enough to fit the chaos of seven teenagers and loud enough that no one cared if someone accidentally knocked over a lamp during charades.

By the time they got there, shoes were already piled by the door and someone had claimed the remote. Jungkook tossed his backpack in the corner, flopped on the bean bag, and declared he wasn’t moving unless someone bribed him with snacks.

Y/N rolled her eyes. “You’re already eating my chips.”

“Exactly. You bribed me without knowing.”

Mina and Jiwoo were arguing over which CD to play next — Backstreet Boys or Nirvana — while Hoseok tried to convince Yoongi to play a stupid card game he swore he wasn’t rigging.

Then the door creaked open.

Mina’s mom peeked in, smiling warmly. “Well, well, the usual suspects.”

“Hi, Mrs. Lee,” the chorus chimed.

She looked around the room like it brought her joy to see her daughter’s life laid out in laughter and tangled limbs.

“You all staying for dinner?” she asked.

“Only if you’re making your kimchi stew,” Jimin said brightly.

“Oh, I might be persuaded,” she teased — then turned to Mina, voice shifting.

“By the way, I ran into Mark’s mom at the store. She said Mark’s throwing a pre-end-of-semester party tonight. Apparently you girls turned down his invite?”

Mina froze halfway through detangling her hair. “Yeah, uh… wasn’t really our scene.”

Mrs. Lee gave her a pointed look. “Well, she seemed really disappointed. Said Mark had been looking forward to you girls coming. Poor thing, probably nervous about throwing a party.”

Jiwoo muttered, “Yeah, nervous is one word for it.”

But Mina’s mom had already decided. “You should go. Be polite. Just for a little while.”

The boys all exchanged looks. Jungkook’s eyebrows raised. “Did she just guilt-trip you into partying?”

“Apparently so,” Mina sighed.

“We’ll go,” Y/N said with a shrug. “We’ll make an appearance, sip some soda, judge his music choices, and dip.”

“You guys should come too,” Mina said, turning to the boys.

Jimin raised a brow. “You just assumed we’d follow you into social hell?”

“Yes,” Mina deadpanned. “Because you’re whipped for us.”

Hoseok clapped his hands together. “Alright, alright. One hour. That’s it. We go, we dance ironically, we leave.”

-

“No, you can’t wear that,” Jiwoo said, snatching a sparkly crop top out of Y/N’s hands.

“Why not?”

“Because I wanted it.”

The girls raided Mina’s closet like they were prepping for a concert instead of a high school party thrown by a boy who once got suspended for graffitiing his own locker.

Meanwhile, in the living room:

Jimin sprawled on the couch. “Should I change or do I already look too good for this party?”

“You wore that to biology,” Jungkook said.

“And still looked better than you,” Jimin replied.

Yoongi didn’t bother changing — he just swapped his hoodie for a leather jacket and called it a day.

By the time the girls came out — Mina in platform heels, Jiwoo in glitter, Y/N in a cropped tee and low-rise jeans — the boys actually stopped talking for a beat.

Hoseok let out a whistle. “Damn. Okay, maybe we do stay longer than an hour.”

Y/N looked at Jungkook. He looked… unreadable for half a second. And then he tossed her his car keys.

“You call shotgun.”

She caught them. “Why me?”

“Because if I have to suffer through Mark’s voice for an hour, at least I should have decent company.”

-

They stood outside Mina’s driveway, debating the car situation.

“Yoongi’s driving me,” Jimin said, already sliding into the passenger seat.

“Obviously,” Yoongi muttered.

Hoseok gestured to his car. “Girls, hop in.”

Mina paused. “Wait — where’s Y/N going?”

“I’ll take her,” Jungkook said before anyone else answered.

Y/N blinked. “You sure?”

He shrugged. “My car’s quieter.”

Mina raised an eyebrow at her but didn’t say anything.

Y/N slipped into Jungkook’s passenger seat, tossing the keys back to him. “You always this generous with rides?”

He smirked. “Only with people who argue about Shakespeare like it’s a sport.”

The others pulled away, leaving just the two of them under the soft pink glow of the sunset.

The car doors shut.

The music turned low.

And for the first time all day — it was just the two of them.

Jungkook had one hand on the wheel, the other resting loose on the gearshift. The windows were cracked, letting in the breeze, and the stereo played something mellow — probably one of Yoongi’s burned CDs. Lo-fi with a bit of a grunge edge.

“You don’t mind giving me a ride?” Y/N asked casually.

He shrugged, eyes on the road. “Wouldn’t have offered if I did.”

“Could’ve made Jiwoo sit on Mina’s lap in Hoseok’s car.”

“I could��ve,” he said, smirking faintly. “But then you’d be stuck in a car with Dongyeon’s house in your future.”

She laughed. “God, imagine.”

“Don’t even joke about it.”

Y/N nudged his arm lightly. “What, jealous?”

Jungkook glanced at her, jaw twitching ever so slightly. “Of Dongyeon?”

“Of anyone,” she teased.

“Why would I be jealous?”

She tilted her head. “I dunno. You were awfully quick to shut them down earlier. Kind of heroic. Hot, even.”

He rolled his eyes, but she didn’t miss the way his grip tightened slightly on the steering wheel.

“They’re not good guys,” he said, quieter. “Not the kind who look at you the way they should.”

“And what’s the right way to look at me, Jeon?”

This time he glanced at her — really looked. And for a moment, his voice dropped, softer, less guarded.

“Like you’re not just something to win.”

Y/N’s breath caught.

The car settled into silence, but it wasn’t awkward. It was thick with all the things they weren’t saying.

Then she smiled, leaning back again, breaking the tension. “So philosophical all of a sudden. You trying to win me over with depth now?”

He scoffed. “Nah. Just tired of guys who think throwing parties gives them the right to hit on whoever they want.”

“Sounds like someone’s taking this personally.”

He didn’t answer at first. Then:

“Maybe I am.”

That hung in the air.

She looked over at him again, eyes narrowing slightly. “You’re being weird today.”

He glanced at her again, his voice low. “You make me weird.”

Her heart did a little stutter-step.

Before she could say anything, his phone buzzed in the console. He ignored it. Then it buzzed again. And again.

Y/N peeked over. “Someone’s popular.”

He glanced, saw the name, and rolled his eyes before flipping the phone facedown. “Just Hana. From science. She’s been weird lately.”

Y/N raised a brow. “Weird how?”

“She asked if I wanted to go to the party with her,” he said, casually, like it meant nothing. “I said no.”

“Oh?” Her tone was too light.

“Yeah.” A beat. “Didn’t want to go with anyone else.”

She looked out the window, hiding the tiny smile tugging at her lips. “You’re really laying it on thick tonight.”

He shrugged, a little smirk forming. “Maybe I’m finally done pretending I don’t mean it.”

Y/N didn’t respond right away. But when they pulled up to the party house, music thumping faintly in the distance, she turned to him.

“I like this version of you.”

“What version?”

“The one that’s just a little jealous. And not afraid to show it.”

He glanced at her, cocky smirk replaced by something gentler.

“Stick around tonight,” he said, voice low. “You might like what else you find.”

-

The bass was already thumping by the time Jungkook pulled up along the curb, headlights washing over a line of cars crammed into Mark’s street. Multicolored lights leaked out through the living room windows. People milled around on the lawn, red solo cups in hand, yelling over music and laughter.

He killed the engine and looked over at Y/N. “You sure you wanna do this?”

She leaned forward, peering at the scene. “Not even a little.”

“Wanna ditch and hit the convenience store instead? Instant ramen and peach soda?”

She smiled, tempted. “Don’t make this harder than it already is.”

Just then, Yoongi’s car pulled up behind them. Hobi’s headlights followed seconds later.

The gang regrouped on the sidewalk, dressed like a band of misfits forced into a high school teen drama.

“I already regret this,” Jiwoo muttered, tugging her jacket tighter around her.

“You and me both,” Yoongi sighed.

Mina groaned. “Let’s just go in, make a loop, and get out.”

As they approached the porch, the music grew louder—fast-paced 90s hip hop, all bass and no taste. Jungkook lingered close to Y/N, his shoulder brushing hers as they climbed the steps.

One of them knocked.

A beat passed.

Then the door cracked open—and there stood Mark, frozen mid-sip of his drink.

“Oh.” His eyes trailed over the girls first. “Didn’t think you were coming.”

Mina crossed her arms. “Yeah, well, my mom ran into your mom.”

Mark blinked. “Seriously?”

“She made us come,” Jiwoo added flatly. “So say thank you to Mrs. Lee.”

His gaze flicked to the boys. “Didn’t know this was a plus-one situation.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “Problem?”

Jungkook stepped forward, calm but unreadable. “We’ll only be here a bit. We won’t get in your way.”

Mark hesitated—clearly annoyed, but too proud to say no. “Yeah. Sure. Whatever.”

He stepped aside, letting them in.

The second the door opened fully, music hit them like a wave. The living room was packed—kids dancing, some standing around the kitchen shouting over each other, the lights dimmed and replaced by neon strips and someone’s terrible strobe setup. A couple was already making out near the coat rack.

“Classy,” Yoongi muttered.

They filed in, awkwardly scanning the room.

“I need a drink,” Jimin said immediately.

“Peach soda doesn’t sound so bad now, huh?” Jungkook said to Y/N under his breath.

She grinned. “We’re committed. Let’s suffer.”

Hoseok motioned toward the kitchen. “We’ll do a lap. Grab snacks. Scout the exits in case we need to make a dramatic escape.”

As they moved deeper into the house, Mark disappeared into the crowd—but not before throwing one last look at Y/N.

Jungkook noticed.

Of course he noticed.

He didn’t say anything, but his hand brushed the small of her back, gently guiding her away from the doorway, his voice low in her ear.

“Stay close, yeah?”

-

The house was packed.

It smelled like cheap cologne, orange soda, and someone’s burned popcorn. The music bounced off the walls, some mixtape of late-90s bangers that had been left on loop. Every conversation was a shout, every hallway a squeeze.

Y/N stuck close to Jungkook’s side as they moved through the crowd, shoulder-to-shoulder in the worst way. Not that she minded. He was warm and familiar, even in the chaos.

He leaned in toward her, voice low in her ear. “You alright?”

“Yeah,” she said, tugging on the hem of her borrowed top. “Just don’t feel like being here.”

He nodded. “Then don’t leave my side.”

“Wasn’t planning to.”

They found the rest of the group gathered near the kitchen counter, already mid-debate about whether or not the red punch had alcohol in it.

Jiwoo took a cautious sip and cringed. “That’s a no from me.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Hoseok said, dramatically wiping down the countertop with a napkin. “The vibe here is sticky.”

Suddenly, a too-familiar voice rang out across the kitchen.

“Well, look who finally showed up.”

They turned just in time to see Chanyeol, drink in hand, flashing his signature too-wide smile.

He approached the girls first, eyes blatantly scanning Y/N, Mina, and Jiwoo.

“Thought you three were too good for this party,” he said, stopping a little too close. “Changed your minds?”

“Nope,” Mina replied. “Our moms did.”

Chanyeol smirked. “Lucky for me, then.”

Jungkook was beside Y/N in half a second, body angling slightly in front of hers.

Chanyeol noticed. Smirked wider.

“Relax, Jeon,” he said lazily. “Just saying hi to our guests.”

Jimin cut in with a grin that didn’t quite meet his eyes. “And now you’ve said hi. Congrats.”

Chanyeol shrugged and moved off, disappearing into the crowd with a wink Y/N pretended not to see.

Once he was gone, Jungkook exhaled slowly.

“You okay?” he asked her again, voice softer.

She nodded, but tucked herself just a little closer to his side.

“You’re sticking to me like glue tonight,” he teased gently.

Y/N gave a half-smile. “That a problem?”

“No,” he said quickly, eyes flicking to her mouth for a second too long. “It’s not.”

They stood like that for a moment—too close to be casual, too quiet to be normal.

Then Jimin appeared beside Y/N with a can of soda in hand.

“For you, m’lady,” he said with a mock bow.

She laughed and took it. “You’re too good to me.”

Jimin bumped her shoulder with his. “You doing okay?”

She gave him a small smile. “Better now.”

He looked at her knowingly, then at Jungkook. “He hasn’t left your side.”

“I haven’t let him,” she said, a little too honest.

Jimin’s expression softened. “That’s how it should be.”

Across the room, Chanyeol was watching again.

And Jungkook noticed.

He reached for Y/N’s hand without a word—just laced their fingers together like it had always been that way.

She looked down at their hands, then up at him, heart beating louder than the bass.

“Just so he gets the message,” Jungkook said, voice low.

She nodded. But they both knew it wasn’t really about Chanyeol anymore.

-

The party continued to pulse around them, but Y/N was only half-aware of it. She could feel Jungkook’s hand still wrapped around hers, thumb brushing gently across her knuckles like he was grounding himself with the contact.

His touch was calm. His energy? Not so much.

Across the room, Chanyeol was still watching — too casual, too smug — while Mark had reappeared, chatting up two girls from their chemistry class and throwing occasional glances in Y/N’s direction.

Jungkook noticed every single one.

“You alright?” she whispered to him, tilting her head just enough so only he could hear.

He didn’t answer immediately.

Just leaned a little closer, his breath brushing her ear as he murmured, “They keep looking at you like they’re waiting for me to slip up.”

She blinked. “Well, you haven’t.”

He gave a soft huff of amusement. “Don’t plan to.”

Just then, Mark sauntered over — red cup in hand, grin a little too practiced.

“Didn’t think you guys would last this long,” he said, eyes sweeping over their intertwined hands.

Jungkook didn’t let go.

“We were about to bounce, actually,” Jiwoo said flatly, already reaching for her bag.

But Mark was quick. “Wait, hold up—me, Dongyeon, and Chanyeol were gonna head upstairs. Start a game.”

Y/N’s brow lifted. “A game?”

“Truth or dare,” he said smoothly. “Classic. Stupid. Fun.”

Jiwoo crossed her arms. “Sounds more like a setup.”

“C’mon,” Chanyeol chimed in, appearing behind him with that lopsided grin. “Just the group of us. Old-school. Like spin-the-bottle but less gross.”

“Can’t promise that,” Dongyeon added, smirking.

The girls exchanged a glance.

Mina rolled her eyes but smiled. “We’ll come only if the boys come too.”

Mark laughed. “Wasn’t gonna exclude them. Especially not Jungkook.”

He clapped Jungkook’s shoulder — a little too hard, a little too familiar.

Jungkook didn’t even blink. Just smiled a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Lead the way.”

Y/N squeezed his hand once.

“Are we seriously doing this?” she whispered as they followed the group toward the stairs.

“Apparently.”

“You’re not gonna kiss Chanyeol if the bottle lands on him, right?”

He looked over at her, deadpan. “Only if you kiss Dongyeon.”

She burst into laughter, leaning into his arm, and just like that — the air between them was warmer again. But something electric hummed underneath.

Because they were heading upstairs.

And if there’s one thing high school parties in the 90s were famous for…

It was what happened when the dares got too real.

-

The group slowly filed in, forming a lopsided circle on the carpet. Jiwoo and Mina plopped down first. Yoongi settled beside Hobi near the corner, arms crossed and expression unreadable as always.

Y/N went to sit in the space between Jimin and an empty spot—clearly left for Jungkook.

Jungkook followed right after her.

But just as he stepped forward—

Chanyeol slid right in, shoulder bumping Jungkook’s arm as he casually dropped down next to Y/N.

“Oops,” Chanyeol said with a smirk, not even looking up. “This spot taken?”

Y/N blinked, startled. “Oh—uh—”

Jungkook froze.

For half a second, his jaw clenched. His eyes dropped to Chanyeol’s hand, which had conveniently braced itself on the carpet a little too close to Y/N’s leg.

But Jungkook said nothing. Just exhaled through his nose and moved to sit on the other side of Jimin, opposite her now.

Jimin noticed everything.

He leaned slightly toward Y/N and gave her arm a gentle nudge. “Don’t worry. He’s fine. He just doesn’t want to ruin the game by launching Chanyeol through a wall.”

Y/N tried not to laugh—but it bubbled out anyway.

Chanyeol didn’t notice. Or pretended not to.

Instead, he turned to her, lowering his voice with faux sincerity. “Haven’t seen you around much this semester. You good?”

She gave a polite nod. “Yeah. Just been busy.”

“With Jungkook?” he asked, with that too-sweet tone.

She tilted her head, answering without hesitation. “Yeah. With Jungkook.”

Across the circle, Jungkook smirked quietly to himself.

“Alright!” Hoseok clapped his hands, grabbing a battered glass soda bottle from the shelf. “Shall we get this 90s cliché started?”

“Let’s,” Yoongi muttered.

Mina spun first. It landed on Jiwoo, who ended up doing a silly dance move in the middle of the circle.

Then Jiwoo spun. “Truth or dare, Dongyeon?”

“Dare.”

“I dare you to compliment Mark. With genuine emotion.”

The room howled.

It was lighthearted. Silly. And for a moment, everyone relaxed.

The bottle moved again. Jimin took a truth and admitted he once got detention for dancing too hard in gym class.

Then it was Chanyeol’s spin.

It stopped on Y/N.

“Oh boy,” Mina murmured under her breath.

Chanyeol leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Truth or dare?”

Y/N hesitated for half a beat. “Truth.”

“Alright,” he said, grin stretching. “Who in this room do you think has the biggest crush on you?”

Jungkook’s eyes snapped up.

The room went quiet for a second, the energy shifting ever so slightly.

Y/N stared at Chanyeol. He was enjoying this.

Jimin, beside her, muttered under his breath, “You can say ‘pass’ if he keeps being weird.”

But Y/N just smiled sweetly and turned to glance at Jungkook across the circle.

Then, calmly, she looked back at Chanyeol.

“Easy,” she said. “The guy who knows not to ask questions just to prove a point.”

Oof.

Yoongi gave a short, quiet laugh.

Even Hoseok raised his brows. “Damn.”

Jungkook’s mouth tugged into a grin — small but real.

And for the first time all night, Chanyeol looked caught off guard.

The game continued, but now there was a silent undercurrent flowing between Y/N and Jungkook. Every glance, every brush of eye contact held more weight.

-

The game kept going, the circle relaxing again after the slight spike in tension.

Mark got dared to sing a random love ballad with his eyes closed. (He chose the cheesiest one possible — everyone regretted it.)

Yoongi, when asked for a truth, revealed he once broke a vending machine at school and walked away pretending nothing happened. (“We knew it was you,” Hoseok said flatly.)

Then Mina spun the bottle, and it landed on Hoseok.

“Truth or dare, dance captain?” she asked with a grin.

Hoseok dramatically sighed. “Dare.”

“I dare you to text your crush right now and say ‘I’m thinking about you.’ No context.”

Half the room screamed.

“Do I have to send it?” he groaned.

“Yes!” Mina shouted.

He pulled out his phone, muttering, “I swear, if this ruins my life…”

They watched as he typed and hit send, dramatically flinging his phone face down on the floor.

“That’s tomorrow’s problem,” Jimin said, high-fiving him.

The laughter continued. Y/N started to genuinely relax, resting her arm against Jimin’s and occasionally glancing at Jungkook, who caught her eye more than once from across the circle. Every time, it felt like their own private thread pulling tighter.

Then it was Jimin’s turn.

He spun the bottle with too much flair. It rattled, clinked, and landed…

…on Jungkook.

“Ohhh,” Mina teased. “Finally.”

“Truth,” Jungkook said coolly, brushing a hand through his hair.

Jimin grinned like he’d been waiting.

“Alright, be honest. When was the exact moment you realized you liked someone in this room?”

The group immediately ooooooh’d like a sitcom audience.

Y/N tried not to freeze.

Jungkook didn’t blink. He leaned back slightly, one arm draped over his knee, expression unreadable but eyes locked on Jimin’s.

“You’re assuming I like someone in this room.”

“You didn’t say no,” Jimin replied, smug.

There was a beat of silence.

Then Jungkook shrugged. “Okay. It was the second week of school last year.”

Y/N blinked.

“That’s… weirdly specific,” Jiwoo said.

Jungkook didn’t elaborate.

He just looked briefly—so briefly—at Y/N.

And her heart stuttered.

Mina leaned over to Jimin, whispering behind her hand, “We are SO steering the next one.”

Jimin nodded solemnly. “Let’s make history.”

Next spin landed on Jiwoo, who had to wear a kitchen glove on her head for the next five minutes. (“This is bullying,” she said while posing like a queen.)

Then Mina took her turn.

The bottle spun.

And it landed between Y/N and Jungkook.

The group paused. So did Y/N’s breath.

Mina tilted her head dramatically. “Hmmm… we’ll let fate decide.”

She reached over, adjusted the bottle slightly (not subtly), and smiled.

“Looks like it’s Y/N.”

Y/N narrowed her eyes. “That bottle didn’t even stop moving yet.”

“It did emotionally,” Jimin added, nodding.

Mina smirked. “Truth or dare, sweetheart?”

Y/N glanced across the circle. Jungkook wasn’t smirking like the others. He was just watching her—quietly.

“Truth,” she said.

Mina didn’t miss a beat.

“If you could kiss someone in this room tonight... would you?”

Another beat of silence.

Jiwoo gasped. “That’s not even fair!”

“It’s just a question,” Mina said innocently.

Jimin, beside Y/N, leaned in. “Be brave.”

Y/N looked down, fiddling with the hem of her jeans.

Then she glanced up—only at Jungkook—and said:

“Yes.”

Not loud. Not bold.

But sure.

And just like that, the room seemed to still for a second too long.

Someone cleared their throat. Mark started laughing awkwardly. Jiwoo broke the tension with a joke about wanting another soda.

But Jungkook?

Jungkook’s gaze didn’t waver.

-

The room hadn’t quite recovered from Y/N’s answer.

The air felt heavier now — not uncomfortable, just charged.

Y/N could feel Jungkook’s stare, even when she looked away.

Mina tried to act casual. “Okay. Who’s next?”

Jungkook leaned forward, grabbed the bottle without a word, and spun it with two fingers — smooth, controlled, almost lazy.

It clinked around the circle once… twice…

Then landed on Mina.

“Ugh,” she groaned dramatically. “Knew I shouldn’t have interfered with fate.”

“Truth or dare?” Jungkook asked, calm as ever.

She narrowed her eyes. “Dare.”

Jungkook tilted his head slightly. “I dare you… to pick two people in this room to switch seats.”

Mina blinked. “That’s your dare?”

Jungkook shrugged. “Use it wisely.”

Y/N’s stomach flipped.

Mina took about two seconds to think before pointing between Chanyeol and Jungkook.

“Switch.”

Chanyeol groaned. “Seriously?”

“Yeah,” she said sweetly. “You’re in Jungkook’s seat.”

Jungkook didn’t wait for permission. He stood, walked back across the circle, and this time, dropped down right beside Y/N.

No one said anything, but they didn’t have to.

Y/N could feel the heat of him now — how close he was, the subtle way his knee brushed hers as he leaned back on one arm, gaze forward but attention on her.

The game went on — more spins, more laughs, more noise — but none of it registered.

Because now it was Y/N and Jungkook.

Side by side.

His voice dropped near her ear when the others were distracted by Mark doing a handstand.

“Was your answer earlier for real?” he asked quietly.

Y/N turned slightly, just enough to meet his gaze.

“You asking because you want to dare me to prove it?”

His lips twitched. “Maybe.”

She raised a brow, whispering, “Then ask.”

A long pause.

Then—

“Mina,” Jungkook called across the circle, voice casual. “Dare for Y/N.”

Mina looked up from where she was watching Hoseok try to chug orange soda. “What?”

“She said truth before. I’m saying dare now.”

The group oooh’d again.

Y/N felt her pulse in her throat.

Mina, grinning like the chaos fairy she was, nodded. “Alright. Dare it is.”

Jungkook turned to Y/N — slowly, deliberately.

“I dare you to kiss someone in this room.”

Everything stopped.

The music downstairs. The laughter. Even the buzz of cheap light bulbs overhead seemed to fade into static.

Y/N didn’t hesitate.

She leaned forward, caught Jungkook’s collar between her fingers, and kissed him.

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t overdone.

But it was real.

Too real for a party game.

His hand came up to her jaw, warm and steady, holding her like he’d wanted to for ages.

No one spoke. No one dared to.

Because even if it was just a dare…

Everyone in the room knew:

That kiss wasn’t part of the game.

-

The party buzzed on without them.

Laughter still echoed down the hall, muffled behind closed doors. Music thumped faintly beneath their feet. But none of it mattered anymore.

Because Y/N was slipping on her jacket, and Jungkook was already holding the door open for her.

They didn’t say anything as they stepped out into the cool night air.

Just moved together — side by side, like muscle memory — until they reached his car parked on the street out front, quiet under a flickering streetlamp.

Jungkook opened the passenger door. “Get in.”

She did.

He walked around, climbed into the driver’s seat, but didn’t turn the key.

Instead, he leaned back, exhaled slowly, and tilted his head up toward the sky.

“Look,” he said softly. “You can actually see stars tonight.”

Y/N followed his gaze.

The sky above was velvet-dark, scattered with tiny pinpricks of light — rare for their town, rare for nights like this.

“You ever think about how crazy that is?” she murmured. “That those stars are millions of years old? And we’re just… here. Existing beneath them for a second.”

Jungkook looked at her. Not the stars.

“Yeah,” he said. “I think about that every time I’m near you.”

She turned to him, breath catching.

“I’m serious,” he added, quieter now. “You walk into a room, and everything slows down. Like the universe forgot what it was doing and just… paused.”

Y/N blinked. “That’s… kind of the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

He gave a lopsided smile. “Well, I don’t say it to just anyone.”

They fell into a comfortable silence. The kind only possible between two people who’ve known each other too long to pretend. The kind that held a weight — not of pressure, but of possibility.

Jungkook leaned forward, resting his arms on the steering wheel.

“You meant it, didn’t you?” he asked. “During the game.”

Y/N nodded slowly. “Did you?”

He smiled again. “You kissed me first.”

She laughed softly, turning toward him. “Only because you dared me to.”

“Only because I wanted you to,” he said.

Her heart fluttered. Like it used to when she was younger. Like it always did around him.

He reached out, his fingers brushing against hers on the center console.

“Y/N,” he said, voice low, “I don’t know what this is. I don’t even know when it started. But I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since… forever.”

Her fingers turned and laced through his.

“You don’t have to,” she said gently. “I don’t want you to.”

The silence returned — this time warmer, wrapped in headlights and starlight and soft glances that said everything words couldn’t.

Neither of them said “I like you” or “let’s make this official”.

They didn’t need to.

Because right then, in the quiet hum of Jungkook’s car, watching the sky that had seen them grow up…

They knew something had changed.

And neither of them wanted to go back.

-

The drive home was quiet — but in the best way.

Jungkook had the windows rolled down halfway. The cool night breeze slipped in, playing with strands of Y/N’s hair as she leaned back in her seat, half-smiling to herself.

He glanced at her when they stopped at a red light. “What?”

She shrugged, barely looking over. “Nothing.”

“Liar.”

She turned to him with a lazy grin. “Okay. Maybe I’m just thinking.”

“About?”

She hesitated. Then, softly: “About how weird it is that… tonight felt kind of perfect.”

His grip on the steering wheel relaxed.

“Yeah,” he said. “It really did.”

They pulled up in front of her house a few minutes later.

The porch light was still on — a warm, yellow glow washing over the front steps. The rest of the house looked dark.

Jungkook stepped out first, rounding the car to open her door without even thinking.

Y/N rolled her eyes playfully. “You know I’m capable of doing that myself.”

“I know,” he said. “Still wanted to.”

She stepped out, and for a second, they just stood there on the path, their arms brushing.

The energy between them had changed since the party — softer now, but still buzzing underneath their skin.

At the doorstep, they slowed.

Neither made a move to unlock the door just yet.

“So…” she murmured.

“So…” he echoed.

They both laughed quietly. The air smelled like summer grass and sleep.

“I had fun,” she said.

“I had more.”

She raised a brow. “Competitive even now?”

“Only when it comes to you.”

She rolled her eyes again — but this time, she was smiling too wide to hide.

He stepped a little closer.

The space between them was so small now.

“I’m really glad you kissed me,” he said softly.

Y/N’s breath caught. “I’m really glad you dared me to.”

And then, finally—

A kiss.

Not like the one at the party.

This one was gentle. Slow. The kind of kiss that said we don’t have to rush anything — we’re here now.

It lingered for a moment, both of them quietly afraid to pull away.

But then—

A small voice from behind the screen door broke the silence.

“Oooohh I am so telling Mom.”

Y/N jumped, nearly stumbling back as the porch light flickered behind the front window.

Her seven-year-old sister stood there with a juice box in her hand and the smuggest look in the universe.

“Mina!” Y/N gasped. “What are you—why are you awake?!”

Mina just blinked innocently. “I was getting apple juice. And then I saw you kissing a boy.”

Jungkook awkwardly cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck with a nervous laugh.

Mina pointed straight at him. “You’re really handsome.”

Y/N groaned. “Oh my god.”

“Are you her boyfriend?” Mina asked, eyes wide.

“Uhhh…” Jungkook looked like he was about to melt into the ground. “Something like that?”

“Cool,” she said, then turned to Y/N. “Can I be the flower girl at your wedding?”

“Mina, GO TO BED!”

Still grinning, Mina turned and walked back inside, mumbling something about “diaries” and “blackmail.”

Y/N covered her face with both hands.

“I swear, she’s not usually like that.”

Jungkook just laughed, eyes crinkling as he stepped backward down the porch steps.

“I like her. She’s chaotic. Like you.”

She narrowed her eyes playfully. “Goodnight, Jungkook.”

He smiled. “Night, Y/N.”

And with one last look — the kind that held way too much affection for a single glance — he turned and headed for his car, disappearing down the street as the porch light flickered softly behind her.

-

The morning sun was lazy, bleeding gold across the sidewalk as Y/N walked beside Jimin on their usual route to school.

He was sipping iced coffee from a cup twice the size of his hand, eyebrows raised as he watched her try (and fail) to hide a very suspicious smile.

“…So,” he said, drawing it out.

“So,” she replied.

“You’ve been quiet for approximately two and a half blocks, and you never shut up in the morning. Something’s up.”

She side-eyed him. “I don’t always talk.”

“You once recited your entire math homework aloud just to ‘hear how stupid it sounded.’”

Y/N tried not to laugh. “Okay, fair.”

“So…” Jimin bumped her arm lightly. “You and Jungkook.”

She blinked. “What about us?”

He gave her a deadpan look.

“Y/N, please. You sat next to each other at lunch yesterday like two magnets that just learned what touch was. And you haven’t stopped smiling since we left your house.”

She hesitated, cheeks warming.

“We kissed,” she said quietly.

Jimin nearly tripped on the curb. “I knew it! I knew there was weird tension at that party!”

“He kissed me back,” she added.

Jimin beamed. “You say that like it’s not the most obvious thing in the world that he’s obsessed with you.”

“Shut up,” she muttered, swatting him, but she was grinning now.

They reached the school gates, voices blending into the morning rush. Students poured in from all sides, some dragging feet, others already cracking jokes and chasing each other up the stairs.

But before they could even reach the front steps—

“Y/N!”

Chanyeol’s voice cut across the crowd like a bad ringtone.

She winced. Jimin rolled his eyes so hard it was a miracle he didn’t see the future.

Chanyeol jogged up beside them, brushing his messy hair out of his face.

“Hey,” he said, giving Y/N a grin. “You left early last night.”

“Yeah, just got tired,” she said, keeping it short.

Chanyeol leaned a little too close. “We didn’t even get to finish talking.”

“We didn’t start talking,” Jimin muttered.

Chanyeol ignored him. “Anyway, I was thinking maybe we could hang out this weekend? Just us. Something chill—”

“She’s busy,” Jimin cut in flatly.

Chanyeol blinked. “How would you know?”

“Because she has better taste.”

Y/N sighed, already inching toward the doors, but Chanyeol wasn’t done yet.

“I don’t get it,” he said, louder now. “We’ve known each other forever—why are you acting like I’m some creep?”

“Because you are,” Jimin said, smile sharp.

“Dude, back off.”

Chanyeol glared, but Jimin stood his ground, and after a tense pause, Chanyeol scoffed and walked off, shaking his head.

Y/N sighed in relief. “Thanks.”

Jimin just gave a tiny smirk, tapping his coffee cup like he’d just come up with something evil.

“…What?” she asked warily.

“Oh, nothing,” he said sweetly. “I just had an idea.”

-

The courtyard was packed during lunch — bright sun, open tables, and every group claiming their territory across the grass.

Jimin sat beside Jungkook, chewing on his straw, leaning in like he was sharing state secrets.

“You want me to what?” Jungkook said, blinking.

“Just one kiss. Quick. Soft. Maybe a little showy,” Jimin said. “You don’t even have to dip her dramatically, though that would be iconic.”

“Hyung…”

“Chanyeol won’t stop pestering her,” Jimin said seriously. “And Y/N doesn’t like confrontation. But you? You’re the statement.”

Jungkook glanced across the courtyard. Y/N was sitting with Jiwoo and Mina under the big tree, legs crossed, laughing at something.

And Chanyeol was, not so subtly, hovering nearby.

Jaw tightening, Jungkook stood.

Jimin grinned. “That’s what I thought.”

Across the grass, Y/N looked up just as Jungkook approached — hands in his pockets, jaw sharp under the sun, confidence in every step.

He didn’t say anything.

Just walked up.

She stood instinctively, confused. “Jungkook—?”

Before she could finish, he gently cupped her face, leaned down, and kissed her.

Right there.

In front of half the school.

It wasn’t aggressive. Wasn’t rushed.

Just a kiss that said she’s mine. This is real. We’re done playing around.

When he pulled back, her eyes were wide — stunned, heart thudding, hands still frozen midair like she forgot how to move.

And then he smiled — really smiled — and turned, walking back to his table without a word.

Around them, the courtyard exploded.

“OHHHHHHH!”

“WHAT?!”

“HOLY—”

Jiwoo screamed. Mina screamed. Someone from the basketball team yelled, “FINALLY.”

And off to the side…

Chanyeol stood completely still.

Mouth slightly open.

Then he turned and walked away without another word.

Defeated.

Jimin leaned back with his arms crossed, sunglasses on indoors, sipping from his straw like a smug villain.

"Park jimin you wizard. How'd you pull this off?" Hoseok gasped next to him, seeing the look on Jimin's face was enough to tell he was behind this.

He simply smirked. "I did nothing really, they did this to themselves."

"Chanyeol's probably pissed." Yoongi says with a pleased smile, eyes looking back down at his ukulele from the newly announced couple.

Y/N turned slowly back to her seat, dazed.

“Are you okay?” Mina asked between gasps of laughter.

“I… I think I just got publicly claimed,” Y/N whispered.

And somewhere in the distance, Jungkook smiled.

-

Later that night, the sky over town stretched wide and quiet. The streets had gone still. The party echoes and school gossip had long since faded.

But up on Jungkook’s rooftop — a little above it all — two people sat side by side on a blanket, legs dangling over the edge, the night humming gently around them.

The stars were scattered like salt, and the air was cool enough to press them closer.

“I can’t believe you did that,” Y/N murmured, nudging him with her shoulder.

He looked over, grinning. “Did what?”

“You know what.”

“Oh, you mean the epic, public, once-in-a-lifetime kiss in front of the entire school?”

She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. “You’re so annoying.”

“You kissed me back,” he said.

“You kissed me first.”

They both laughed quietly.

The kind of laugh that felt like something new beginning.

“Was it too much?” he asked after a pause. “Too showy?”

Y/N looked at him for a long moment.

And then, simply: “No. It was perfect.”

A breeze drifted between them, and she leaned into his side, head on his shoulder.

They sat like that for a while. No rush. No pressure.

Just two people who had always almost been something… now finally were.

“You know,” she said after a while, voice soft, “I used to think we were just too different.”

Jungkook tilted his head. “Different how?”

“I don’t know. You’re loud, I’m quiet. You’re chaos, I’m… slightly less chaos.”

He smirked. “You’re a different kind of chaos.”

She giggled, then went quiet again.

“But then,” she added, “I realized maybe that’s the point. We balance each other out.”

He looked down at her, warmth in his eyes.

“You’re my favorite balance,” he whispered.

She smiled.

“You’re my favorite everything.”

And then he kissed her again.

Not like the one from earlier — not to prove anything, not to claim or perform or make a scene.

Just to feel her smile against his lips.

And when they pulled apart, the stars still above them and the town still asleep below—

“You used to fight me over grammar, you know?” Y/N said, bumping her shoulder against his.

Jungkook smirked. “Only so I could talk to you without sounding obvious.”

She laughed. “Obvious about what?”

He looked at her — soft, a little smug. “Liking you.”

Her breath caught just slightly, but she covered it with a playful eye roll. “Still never beat me in English though.”

He shrugged, that same boyish grin tugging at his lips. “Maybe not. But I did get the girl.”

a/n : btw if you can't already tell, I loved writing this and am currently kicking my feet over my own story and I usually NEVER re-read my stories after it's posted. hehehehe, like, reblog and lmk what you lovelies think below mwahh

[aftertheleaving]

Not A Threat III

Pairing: Damian Wayne x Reader

Warnings: Language, Batfamily chaos, Bruce Wayne being Bruce, sharp sarcasm, weapon nerding

Notes: ok so. here’s part three because apparently y’all want me dead. enjoy your batboys, your chaos, and your overachieving intern. if you cannot tell I suck at labelling so if it is, in fact, mislabelled, I am sorry.

1, 2, 3

SCENE 1: The Test Run

You didn’t expect your first day in R&D to involve Lucius Fox handing you a tray of prototype batarangs and saying, “Make one.”

You stare at the spread. There are like—twelve different types. Folding, impact-reactive, EMP-loaded, carbon-tipped. Half of them are labeled in acronyms no sane person should understand.

You point at one.

“What’s this?”

“Thermal-returning,” Lucius says. “It’s supposed to recalibrate to the user’s handprint when thrown. Doesn’t work right.”

You squint at the blueprints. Study. Cross-check. Frown.

Fifteen minutes later, you hand him a functioning replica.

Lucius blinks. “Already?”

You nod. “Blueprints were messy. Overspec’d. Like, no one simplified the magnetic circuit path. Looked fancy but didn’t need to be.”

He flips it over in his hand. “...You looked at that diagram for thirty minutes.”

“I needed to figure out how not to build it,” you shrug. “Once I knew what not to do, it was easy.”

Lucius just whistles.

“Alright. Remind me never to challenge you to a wiring contest.”

“Please do,” you grin. “I like crushing rich men’s egos.”

From the shadows, you swear you hear someone choke on their coffee.

SCENE 2: The Batboy Gauntlet

They descend one by one.

First Dick, smiling like you’ve already been adopted. Then Tim, who stares at your half-built mini drone with scientific awe. Then Jason, who’s eating something and already calling you “Sparky.”

“Okay,” you say slowly, surrounded. “Why are you all here?”

“Bruce said the new hire was scary smart,” Tim says.

“So we came to judge for ourselves,” Jason adds.

“I brought cookies,” Dick offers. “Bonding food.”

You stare at the plate in his hand.

“...Are those shaped like little bats?”

“I bake when I’m nervous.”

Damian walks in. Sees you surrounded. Immediately bristles.

“Do you not have work?”

“She’s fun,” Jason says. “Can we keep her?”

You blink. “Okay. All of you need therapy.”

“You say that like we haven’t had twelve therapists quit,” Tim mutters.

Dick just hands you a cookie.

You take it.

It’s really good.

SCENE 3: Bruce Wayne Suspicious Dad Mode

You find yourself in a cave. At 2 a.m. Sitting across from Bruce Wayne. Alone.

No coffee. No warning. Just cold Batdad energy and a file with your resume in it.

He doesn’t speak for like… two minutes.

You break first.

“Is this where you ask if I’m evil?”

“No.”

“…Do I look evil?”

“You look efficient.”

You squint. “That’s not a compliment, is it.”

He slides a paper across the table.

“Explain this.”

It’s your sketch of a gauntlet upgrade. You’ve annotated it with profanity and sarcasm.

“Oh,” you say. “That’s just a joke. The original design sucked. It had twelve circuits doing the job of three. I was mad.”

“You redesigned it.”

“Yeah. So it doesn’t explode.”

Bruce studies you.

“What do you know about classified R&D infrastructure?”

“Not enough to break anything. But probably enough to improve it.”

He raises a brow.

“Where’d you learn security protocol?”

“…Reddit.”

He blinks.

“That’s either a lie or concerning.”

“I’m not sure which answer you want, so I’m just gonna say: uhhuh, sure.”

Bruce sits back. Thinks.

Then:

“You’ll do.”

SCENE 4: Rooftops & Blueprints

You’re cross-legged on the floor of the cave’s workshop, pencil in your mouth, blueprints spread around you like chaos incarnate.

Damian’s leaning against the wall. Watching.

“You’re quiet,” you say without looking up.

“You work like a storm,” he says.

You glance up.

“That’s either romantic or an insult.”

“Observation.”

You snort, shifting the page.

“I’m trying to upgrade the Batplane’s stealth field. Your dad’s design works but it’s bulky. If I thread the power matrix through the frame, I can cut the weight and stabilize the cloaking field at lower altitudes.”

Damian steps closer.

“That’s not in any blueprint.”

“I know,” you say, grinning. “That’s why I’m making it.”

He watches you for a long moment. Then sits beside you, cape folding neatly around him.

You don’t say anything. Neither does he.

You just work. Together.

And for once, the cave is quiet.

also—sorry I haven’t been posting these last two days!! I had to go to the optician and was told very seriously not to write or go online for more than 30 minutes a day, because apparently if I keep staring at stuff close-up 24/7, I will literally go blind. so!!

this part was written over the last couple days, only in little 30-minute bursts. I even put a lockdown on my devices and made my younger brother set the password so I couldn’t cheat. dedication or crazy? both. also if you couldn’t tell, I had zero ideas, like zilch, for what to do plot-wise, so instead I just went with a bunch of little snippet scenes instead of one big cohesive thing. most of these were born in the shower and I had to keep repeating them out loud until my next 30-minute writing window opened up.

Anywayyy tags:

@ur-mums-house @datgurl-rhea @corvoqueen

I tried to tag @123-just-ignore-me but it ain't working, so.

[rabotimagines]

"Party Dice"

oh- oh this is def gonna need a continuation or another character's scenario. This hit different

"Party dice" pt 2 GN BOT Reader x Rumble [Smut]

Summary: Summary: You get paired with Rumble during a cross faction game of "interface dice". Or giving the cassette a good ol' handy.

Genre/Theme: Smut scenario 🔞 MDNI

Warnings: Voyeurism, Technically Public Hand job, Rumble calls reader a whore, mild brat taming on Rumble. (As result of the former)

Pronouns: You, Your, Yours, they

Notes: Written with flirty Older Autobot Reader, Reader is a bigger bot than Rumble, not said how much but just mentioned that you're a bigger bot than him. Part one with Skyfire is right here!, Randomly selected happens for the other mechs here, (aka Astrotrain is mentioned taking a servo up his valve, etc,)

Rumble was stuck staring till Skywarp nearly fell on top of him after Starscream smacked him for his smart aft comment. It took a while for things to pretend to settle down for everyone after the show you put on servicing Skyfire's spike. You'd done more work than just for Skyfire with that slagging show you put on.

When they got back to the game, Bumblebee got the dice next and had to make out with Starscream. And neither of 'em even objected to the draw! Sure, Bumblebee sighed, but he just got up and met Starscream halfway- and they just started going at it! Starscream basically yanked Bumblebee against him to kiss him harder. And Rumble wishes he was either of 'em in all honesty. He was pent up and ready for just some kind of action.

But the roll chances of array stuff were still low, so after the make out, It went back to the usual slag. Though the next highlight of the game of definitely Astrotrain's lucky roll.

Astrotrain on his knees and servos with all four of that dune buggy's digits stuffed up his valve. Muttering "I think I can fit my servo in here-" all before he was halfway gauntlet deep in Astrotrain. Skywarp laughed loud over the sound Astrotrain had made suddenly getting stuffed full. Astrotrain glared and told Skywarp he was going to fragging make him regret his function if he didn't shut up. And Skywarp only kept laughing like a loon.

And it just so happened two rolls after that Skywarp rolled a real lucky. "Get valve spiked by Astrotrain."

Skywarp used his chicken as soon as Astrotrain's helm snapped in his direction. Rumble laughed over the sorry expression on Skywarp's faceplate. Shame, though, cause Rumble would have loved to watch Skywarp get his valve pounded by Astrotrain of all mechs. Especially when he was this slagged off at him. Rumble bets Astrotrain could've made Skywarp cry. Real shame.

Then it was the usual slag for a while again- which Yeah funny, but Rumble wanted some heated action! Somethin' good. It's been a while since your performance, but Rumbles' frame was still humming hot just thinking about it.

But the dice finally make their way back to Rumble again. And he could get something good-! Rumble rolled the dice together against his servos. "C'mon, Rumble needs a good- roll!" He tossed the dice out onto the floor.

The glyphs projected up into the air.

"Get spike job from-

Rumble couldn't stop himself from jumping up with a shout of victory when he saw the other dice projecting your designation. "Yeah! That's what I'm talking about!"

"Oh, C'mon-!" Skywarp cursed under his vents.

"Stuff it, Skywarp! It's my turn!" And then he realized everyone was looking right at you- Right, you might bail on him! Slag! Rumble paused and waited for what'd you'd say.

"Eh, it's just a- what's the human term? A handie? Yeah, just a handie." You shrugged unbothered by any of it. Your optics found Rumble's visor. "Well, what are you waiting for? C'mhere. " You patted your own thigh. A grin split his faceplate again, and Rumble was not about to wait.

With one more smug look towards Skywarp (sour slagger!), Rumble dashed over to your spot on the floor. Rumble practically threw himself down in your lap, enjoying the huff outta you when he sat with a thunk. Your servos flew onto his waist to steady him, and Rumble leaned his back against your frame. Your em field brushed lightly against him, and he paused at the touch of it. His array already reacting in interest. One of your servos tapped directly above his modesty panel "Open up."

Rumble did, and his spike pressurized, and he huffed, crossing his arms over his chassis. "Well, get to it." Rumble grinned.

"Bossy, ain't you?" Your tone was a touch clipped, but you obeyed. Your servo casually wrapped around his spike and slowly started serving him. The slow slide of your palm dragging another fit of charge up Rumble's spinal strut every time you stroked. "What? You void of manners or something?" Rumble could feel your chassis lightly hum with energon when your vocalizor activated.

Rumbled scoffed. "What? Like, I gotta say 'please' or some slag like that? I ain't no fragging good for nothing Autobot. I'm just the Con who got lucky and gets to use you this turn." Your em field pulled back immediately, and the warmth that was coaxing along Rumble's plating went cold when it left. Rumble's plating that started loosening on its own flattened back out. Your servo pumped, and on your next trip to his spike head, your thumb smeared his pre lubricant over his tip.

You hummed the sound rather loud when his back was almost flat against your frame. "Oh, really now? And what do you mean by 'use'?"

Rumble scoffed. What like it wasn't obvious? You're joking, right? "What? You think it's not obvious you're the Autobot's whore?"

"Hey! That's not-!"

"Bumblebee." You started, and the scout shut up just like that. "Oh, am I now?" Your servo slowly kept stroking his spike- and yeah, you knew exactly what you were doing. Rumble would bet shanix you'd done this more times than you could count. "And that means- you can just... demand what you want from me?"

Well, at least you understood that part. "Yeah, cause you're easy." You hummed again your em field ghosted along the edge of his plating and Rumble couldn't even make out what emotion you were putting out- whatever it was, was hot so he assumed you were getting off on just this.

Your pace only stayed at the same slow aft rate, and Rumble could feel his hips wanna buck up. "Cmon, pick up the pace already-!" Rumble gripped your arm and your thigh.

"Okay, brat." You bite out and Rumbles plating ruffles. Did you just call him a brat? Rumble knows he can hear Skywarp and Starscream laugh. He even hears a fragging sound from one of the Autobots-! Rumble only feels himself getting actually slagged off. If there was one fragging thing he hated the most, it was being treated like some unprogramed new build just cause he was small.

"I ain't no slagging youngling!" Rumble bites out, his em field turning sharper at the edges "What? You need your optics checked or something? You old bag of bolt-!" You shifted your entire body weight, and Rumble almost falls sideways right off your lap. "Hey, what the-!" Your servos fully mech handle Rumble, so he's laying back in your lap now. Sprawled out on top of your thighs.

"Bite your glossia before I bite it for you, brat." Your servo catching the back of his helm is the only reason Rumble doesn't fall outta your lap. Rumble is stuck staring up at your faceplate for half a nanoklick before you lock him into a kiss-! Rumble hums in shock, his own sound of surprise getting caught in your mouth.

"Hey-!" Rumble can hear Skywarp shout, and Rumble doesn't even wanna laugh about it. That's the second time you'd called him a brat, and you were actually fragging getting him mad-! Doesn't matter if you were servicing him or not! You call him that again, and he's gonna- Rumble makes a noise of surprise when your glossia laps against his derma. Your other servo wraps back around his spike, and Rumble gasps when you start pumping his spike again. And you just use the opportunity to slip your glossia into Rumbles' mouth.

Frag- Rumbles is a bit aware of your size difference when he's trying and failing to match your glossia. Glossia pressing against his own and on the flat of his own denta. But Rumble wouldn't just- lay down and let you mech handle him like this or nothin'! He may be small, but that doesn't mean he's easy to beat! Rumble latches a servo on your arm and squeezes. You don't make a sound, but your plating twitches under his hold. Rumble pushes back against you, doing his sparkdamnest to try and win some control over this stupid kiss you locked him into.

But Rumble groans into your mouth when your servo pauses to squeeze the base of his spike. You just tilt his helm back more, and Rumble almost chokes on the amount of oral lubricant that starts spilling down his intake. You just take the opportunity to take his glossia and swallow around it. His glossia stings lightly, and-

Rumble grunts when you pull back a bit from the kiss, taking his glossia along with your mouth. You've got his glossia trapped between your denta, and you're holding him there. Rumble can feel one of your fangs nipping against the top of his glossia. And you're staring down at Rumble- gaze narrow and optics sharp-! There's a hissing vent outta someone, and Rumble almost thought it was his own. But the quiet cursing definitely told him it was someone else. Your em field is dragging along the dips of his spinal strut. Your servo slowly squeezes the base of his spike firm, and Rumble can't help failing to bite back a whine. Your derma only quirked up at the sound.

You closed the distance again and let Rumble's glossia fall back into his mouth, followed by your own glossia-! Rumble groans against you when you pump his spike faster. Yeah, just like that-! Rumble's hips jumped on your next stroke upwards, and you laughed against his derma.

Rumble should be mad-! He should be fragging furious you were playing with him like this in front of everybody. But the way you were kissing him was like you were kissing his thoughts away-!

You moaned against him, and Rumble's thoughts go sliding down his intake along with your oral lubricant. Oh, you were slagging dangerous!

"Rumble you're losing!" Skywarp called out- and you know what?! What the frag ever! Rumble didn't care if you lead! Especially if it slagged off Skywarp-! Especially when you made him feel like this when you did it! Rumble just lets go of your arm to flash Skywarp his middle digit. Rumble can't help his 'em field flexing in amusement when he can hear Skywarp's seething from over here. Jealous fragger-!

"I don't think he cares, mech. Losing never looked so good." The dune buggy drones. And he's slagging right! Rumble would lose a hundred sparkdamn times to the Autobots if it meant he could have this happen every time-! Rumble can feel you hum against him the sound tingling on his glossia. Rumble can't miss the amusement in your em field when it practically wraps back around him. Rumble's whole frame warms and your servo speeds up even more and-!

Rumble's hips jump again, and he's overloading in your servo with a muffled groan. You just swallow the sound down and keep working his spike- and you're still kissing him-! Your derma pressing against his own and your glossia is tracing over his own denta! You just nipped down on Rumble's bottom derma when he tries to break the kiss. His bottom derma stings, and he can't pull back when you're biting him, so he pushes forward where you just use the chance to kiss him again-!

Rumble's hips are twitching and bucking against your servo that's now unforgiving on his spike. Frag-! Frag-! Rumble can hear himself getting louder against you, but frankly, he can't give a single sparkdamn. Especially not when you were making him forget why he needed to worry about that in the first place. Who cares-!? Not Rumble! Rumble gasps against you, and you just keep on chasing him when he tries to break the kiss again. Rumbles fragging light helmed, and stuck stupidly swallowing around your glossia by the end of it.

Rumble's frame slacks and tenses all over again in your lap when his overload ends, and you finally slowly pull your servo off his overworked spike. You pull away from him when your glossia was in the back of his mouth. A string of oral lubricant lately realizes it can't stay on either of your glossias and falls down onto his own chassis. Making a bigger sparkdamn mess on his front along with his own transfluid.

"Oh slag-!"

"Oh yeah."

Rumble doesn't even care the rest are gawking right at you both now- Rumble doesn't give a single frag. Rumble huffed in rapid vents, trying real hard to get his processor working the way it was supposed to be. Rumble eventually registers the feeling of oral lubricant spilling down his fragging throat from the side of his mouth.

Rumble tenses all over with a grunt when your servo suddenly dipped lower to just start touching his valve. "Frag-!" Rumble can't stop his vocalizor from pitching higher than it usually would when your digits start rubbing over his soaked valve. Rumble's mouth falls open with a huffy vent when two of your digits slip between his valve mesh and nudge against his own entrance. Rumble grits his jaw when his valve instinctively tries to clench down on your digits even when you aren't inside him yet.

But instead of pushing your digits in the rest of the way inside, you pull away. Your servo rises and a string of his own valve lubricant sticks to your digits. Making a shiny, barely but still very obvious connection of his own slick.

Your other servo cups the side of his face, and Rumbles helm gets titled. Rumble can feel something soft against his temple- it's your derma. "Good boy." You praise and your 'em field brushes down his frame warm and makes his post overload haze somehow even more addicting. Rumble can't even get his vents half under control before someone's engine revs loud and uncontrolled, and then everyone starts yapping at once.

A loud cough was followed by an aggressive resetting of a vocalizor "Sorry-!" Bumblebee apologized.

"Sparkdamn."

"It should have been me-!"

"Well-" followed by nervous sounding laugher "That was um-"

"Slag-" Rumble curses and swallows the ridiculous amount of both your oral lubricants in his mouth. He forces his very heavy servo to raise and wipe away the messy trail down his own jaw. "That was-"

Your optics find his visor, and you smile at him like a cybercat. Smug.

It makes Rumble's plating fluff. And Rumble wants to be mad about it- he wants to be so mad about it. But he can't right now, especially not right after that overload you gave him.

And that somehow makes him feel- he didn't know-!

"Back to your spot, Darling." You say and pull him back into sitting position in your lap. Rumble sways a little at the tug, your servos gliding over both the dips of his hips. (He's not thinking about that still! No, he's fragging not!). But Rumble just follows what you'd said and pulls himself back up.

Rumble didn't need his optics functioning to know everyone was watching him when he walked back over to his spot on the floor and sat down. Rumble could feel Skywarp glaring at him from his right, and he couldn't help smirking a bit. Oh, Rumble's gonna be able to brag about this to Skywarp for fragging cycles. It didn't matter you used him like that when it felt so fragging good in the first place. Skywarp's jealous em field was promising some string of violence when you started talking again.

"Okay. Who's next?" You scooped the dice up and made everyone stop gawking at Rumble to turn towards you instead.

And Rumble was real glad he didn't have an engine so he just grunted when you raised your other servo- the one you had on his array, and casually popped your two digits into your mouth. The ones he knows were almost in his valve- You pulled your now cleaned digits out of your mouth, your glossia swiping over your derma. You started shaking the dice in your one closed servo. "Anybody feeling lucky?" You smiled.

Rumble sat up straighter, realizing he might get extra lucky tonight.

Probably not, but he could still fragging hope so!

[luveline]

Hii! How are you?

I love all ur fics especially Hotch and his adult daughter ones. They are just brilliant<3 Can u please write something with Hotch being worried about his daughter as faints or get injured? Thank you!

thank you for requesting! <3 fem, 2k

There are silver-linings to your concussion. Not many, and he’d much prefer you were better, but silver linings all the same. 

You, unable to look after yourself with on-again off-again dizziness and shortness of breath, have no choice but to stay at Aaron’s house. (Well, you could’ve stayed home, and he could’ve come to visit you a few times a day while your mother worked, but this is easier on his gas tank and his heart.) 

The silver lining is that he actually gets to spend time with you, large swaths of it, and that he gets to see you without your smart formalwear for the first time since you’d met all but four months ago. It will never not be strange to have a daughter and to be her acquaintance, but Aaron feels that this time is perfect to get to know you beyond two hour dinners and texts. 

It is admittedly occasionally awkward, but he doesn’t expect it to be easy. He doesn’t need you to pretend that you’re more comfortable with him than you are, or that he’s been there for you as you deserved. He wishes he was, and he can’t forgive your mother for keeping you a secret, but he can understand her reasoning (to some extent), and he can try to give you what you deserve, because it is about you. You’re a young woman who deserves a father and has one now. He’s determined to prove that it isn’t too late. 

You curl on the family couch with a new pillow under your head. You wear pyjamas he bought you, socks you’ve borrowed, and a big blanket covers your legs. Jack sits on your feet eating grapes from a bowl. 

You look younger without makeup. Aaron can almost see you as a kid. 

“You want another grape?” Jack asks you. 

“Please, buddy,” you whisper, holding out your hand. 

You’re trying not to talk or move too much, as movement hurts your nose, which was broken. Aaron still can’t believe someone hurt you —you were assaulted in the subway during a city riot and passed out as result, where you hit your head, and ended up where you are now with post concussive syndrome.

A bad fall can do such great harm, he can’t imagine how awful it would’ve been to have met you and had you stolen from him that swiftly. He’s a lucky man. 

Aaron almost hadn’t answered when you called, about to change into Kevlar and prepare the BAU for an anti-terroism strike that Strauss shoved into their laps. He’d smiled briefly at your contact photo and thought of the phone call he’d have with you later to apologise for missing the first, but then he got a strange feeling. What could it hurt for him to make sure you weren’t in the centre of it? 

“Do you want water?” Jack asks. 

You hold out your hand again, searching for Jack’s. You find it and give his fingers a squeeze. “No thank you. You don’t have to worry about me, I just want you to watch your movie.” 

“I’ve seen it a hundred– hundred times,” he says, taking his hand back to eat another grape. After a moment, he lays his cheek against your legs where you have them bunched up. 

“Don’t choke on your grapes,” you say. 

“Don’t worry,” he says. 

You laugh quietly. “I won’t.”

Aaron closes his laptop, having failed to work from home in the armchair beside you both. He might need some help to get back to a functioning place when he returns to the office, but his hands itch with a different need today. He checks his watch. 

“Time for another dose, if you want it?” he asks you. 

“Please.” 

It’s only anti-nausea and painkillers, but you’re quite dependent on them. He’s staying on top of them, because on your second morning here, you’d woken up and forgotten the anti-nausea. Being sick with a broken nose is agony. He doesn’t wanna see you crying again. (Though again, that had made you closer. To get to rub your back, and promise it wasn’t too disgusting, he could deal with it no problem.) 

Haley hums in the kitchen. She’s happy to have her way, which is to have him home, if vaguely bitter that it’s for you. He understands her annoyance, but it’s different. If Jack were attacked and recovering, of course Aaron would be home with him, as he’s home with you, but he won’t stay home for much less and lately, it's been a point of great contention between them. 

Still, she’s a good woman who looks after everyone the best that she can. Your pills are waiting on the counter with a glass of apple juice and a muffin, and your laundry is being folded from the dyer next to Jack’s. 

Aaron ushers her in for a grateful hug, a kiss pressed to her soft cheek. “Thank you, honey.” 

“You’re welcome. She shouldn’t take so much tylenol when she’s barely eating. You’re gonna have to convince her.” 

“I will. I was thinking I’d make soup. You know, my mom’s split pea. What do you think?” 

“Does she like split pea soup?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“Just ask, Aaron,” she says, not without sympathy. 

“I was going to.” 

Haley gives a long sigh. “I’m sorry.” 

He rubs her arm. They’ve been very far apart lately, so far that he’s wondered if they’re not going to make it work, but for today they seem back in sync. 

“Don’t be sorry,” he says. 

“No, I am. I know it’s impossible, but I keep imagining how I would feel if it happened to me.” She wipes lint or maybe nothing from his collar. “What if I had a baby out there and I knew nothing about her? It’s not… not fair on either of you.” 

“Worse things have happened, Hale.” Because it really is awful, but he doesn’t need anyone to feel sorry for him. You, yes. Poor girl, your poor nose. Aaron gives Haley a quick kiss. “We’ll be okay. Don’t worry about it, hm?” 

“Okay, honey. Well, find out what she wants for dinner.” 

“I’m gonna make it.” 

“I can make it.” She moves back to her pile of laundry. “I don’t have much to do, with you home. It’s nice.” 

He winces, grabbing your pills, your juice, and the muffin. Aaron has no qualms sharing duties, but he can’t have this conversation again. Of course it’s nice to be home, that’s not the issue. 

You and Jack are exactly where he left you eating grapes and watching TV, but you’ve shifted upward a little to make more room for him, the blanket now over his legs.

“Are you looking after your big sister?” Aaron asks. He can’t help himself. 

Jack grins at him. “Yeah, dad. We need more grapes.” 

“Yeah?” Aaron walks around the couch to pass you the few pills into your hand. He crouches in front of you. It hasn’t stopped feeling alien, suddenly having two kids, but it has started to feel right. “It’s dinner time soon, Jack, can you wait? I don’t want you to have a full tummy.”

“What’s for dinner?” he asks. 

Aaron passes you the glass of juice for you to wash down the pills. “I was thinking we’d let Y/N choose…” He taps your knee gently. “Do you have a craving for anything?” 

“I can’t choose,” you say. 

His hand turns to cup your knee, hoping it isn’t too much. “Sure you can. Jack chooses dinner all the time.” 

“I’ll eat whatever.” 

“You’ve barely eaten all day, isn’t there something you love? Something soft?” 

You look like him when you’re not happy. Unsure, you look to Jack. “Can’t Jack pick, please?” 

“It’s your turn,” Jack says. 

Aaron puts the muffin he’d been given for you on your knee. “Honey, just think about it. There’s no rush. You and Jack can live off grapes for the rest of the night.” 

“Mean,” you murmur. 

Jack slips off of the couch with his bowl. He makes for the kitchen, his wobbly declarations of love cute and ringing when he sees his mom. “Hi, mommy. You’re pretty. Can I have grapes?” 

“Hi baby.” 

You smile, fingertip playing with the muffin’s paper casing. “He’s so lovely.” 

“I know.” 

“It’s okay, right?” 

Aaron holds your gaze. Not commanding, but listening intently. “What’s okay?” 

“For us to– you know. To cuddle.” 

“Yes, it’s okay. Jack makes his own mind up about things, and if he wants to cuddle with you, he will. If you don’t want him to cuddle, you can ask him for space.” 

“It’s strange,” you say, laying your face against your pillow, muffin ignored, “to have a brother now.” 

“Bad strange?” he asks. 

You smile. Almost hopeful. “No.” 

Aaron does know what you’re thinking. He has four months of evidence on your behaviour, and you aren’t dishonest, so he believes his frame of reference to be correct. Right now, you’re feeling unwell, maybe the pain in your face is flaring or your concussion is giving you grief, but you seem to already love your little brother. If not love, then to be very fond of him. You have similar feelings about Aaron, but you’re shy about showing it. 

He understands that you might not feel very close to him so soon, he understands that you’re practically still strangers, but he loves you. Maybe it’s something innate in being your father, but he really does love you. 

It’s like being passed your baby —you don’t know your baby, they’re a baby, but you love them. Aaron doesn’t know if you like vegetable soup more than French onion, if you like buttered bread or a dinner roll or toasted baguette on the side, but he’ll learn. 

“I’ll make you anything you want for dinner,” he says softly, looking for your hand in the blankets, and taking it with similar care. “You just have to tell me what you like.” 

You look down at his hand. 

“Sorry for making things difficult.” 

“You’re not making anything difficult.” His thumb rubs your hand of its own accord. “You aren’t difficult. You’re remarkably easy to look after.” 

“Thank you.” 

“If you could just pick what you wanted for dinner…” 

You both laugh at one another, and you wince at the soreness in your nose. Aaron stands from his crouch with aching legs to pat you on the shoulder. 

“I’ll figure something out,” he says. “I’m a good guess, usually.” 

“Okay. Thank you, Aaron,” you say, resting with a sore squint back against your nest. 

In the kitchen, Jack sits in Haley’s lap, his bowl filled again with more grapes. She’s chewing on one when he comes back. “Hey, did she decide?” 

“Not yet. I’m working on it.” 

“Well, we have time.” 

[creature-wizard]

How to persuade people more effectively

So my lovely Tumblr people, I think you can agree that we are facing dreadful times and that it would be wonderful if we could get out of them. As we all know, changing anything in society and politics requires changing a lot of of minds, which often feels like a Herculean task. Since I believe in trying to fight smarter rather than harder, here's my list of advice to make this work easier.

Ask yourself if you’re really up to the task.

If you’re really tired or not in a good mood, you might want to pass. If you’re looking at someone who’s really obnoxious and maybe likely to set you off in bad ways, you can pass. If OP has a username that signals an extreme viewpoint like retvrn1488, maga5ever, or wyldwombyn, consider that just blocking them may be your best choice. Also, you’re probably never going to get anywhere with someone who thinks you’re beneath them – if someone obviously holds you in contempt, just don’t bother. You are not required to try and educate or argue with everybody who’s wrong. Pick your battles.

Know your stuff.

I’ve made the mistake of trying to talk about things that I didn’t know nearly as much about as I should have a few times. Even though I wasn’t wrong, I just didn’t have enough information to demonstrate that my positions were justified. Each time I tried this, it basically blew up in my face. Please don’t repeat my mistakes.

Ask yourself: Can you explain and justify your position without repeating a soundbite like “X is a conspiracy theory” or “Y is racist”? Can you show why it’s a conspiracy theory? Can you show how it’s racist? If you can’t, you’re not ready yet. Go level up first!

Stay composed and be charismatic.

I know this is sometimes easier said than done, but coming off as calm and confident does wonders, especially in contrast with someone who just can’t hold it together. It also helps to have a big vocabulary and to be articulate, and to inject an energy into your message that makes people feel empowered and motivated.

Don't talk to people like they've been consciously choosing evil just because they want to.

People don't do that. People believe that what they've been doing is either good, neutral, or necessary to survive. Functionally telling people "you're evil and you know it" signals to most people that you're a bad faith actor. (The ones who will actually agree with you are probably deeply traumatized from abuse and/or suffering from moral OCD.)

Don’t show contempt.

Showing contempt signals that the person you’re arguing with isn’t worth taking seriously. This is can be useful for handling bad faith actors who come and try to make themselves your problem. You know you aren’t going to change their minds, but you can signal to anyone watching that this person is an utter fool, even a laughingstock while signaling to them that they aren't getting anywhere with you.

If you’re trying to actually change somebody’s mind, you do not want to show them that they aren’t worth taking seriously. You want them to feel respected, like you think they’re smart and have ideas and feelings worthy of attention. I know this can be easier said than done! But if you begin with the assumption that the person you’re talking to is capable of learning and probably has some insights, values, and opinions worthy of consideration, you’re going to give off a much better vibe for them.

Don’t attack people personally.

If you’re trying to persuade someone, don’t call them racist, sexist, bigoted, etc. Don’t call them ignorant, stupid, or whatever. This is basically just a form of showing contempt. Again, showing contempt has its uses, but persuading people isn’t one of them.

A lot of people assume that the people they want to persuade think very highly of themselves and if they just cut their ego down to size they’ll become receptive and listen. But most people are just going to see an attack and nope out. Besides that, teaching self-hatred is how capitalism manipulates people into making themselves more profitable and marketable, and it’s also one of the ways white patriarchy manipulates people into taking on its repressive and often oppressive roles. Self-hatred is the weapon of the enemy, we don’t need it.

Don’t play the victim.

Playing the victim isn’t the same as acknowledging that you have been abused or harmed, or acknowledging that you lived a life where everything was stacked against you. Talking about ways you’ve been victimized doesn’t equal playing the victim, contrary to what some bad faith actors out there say.

Playing the victim is about the role you take on in a social interaction, where you position yourself as fragile, put-upon, and vulnerable. It’s the kind of thing a lot of white women do when things don’t go their way. It’s also a habit that’s easy to pick up if you don’t have firm boundaries. People who haven’t realized they can just go, “I don’t want to do this, I don’t want to have this interaction, so I just won’t,” might start traumadumping, or try to shame the other person, or try to make a big guilt trip. “How dare you talk to me this way, you don’t know what I’ve been through! You’re so selfish, you don’t think about anyone but yourself! You’re forcing me to do all this work for you because you’re so entitled!”

I know, people can be really frustrating. Sometimes they can be incredibly upsetting. Sometimes they can send us spiraling into dangerous places. But the thing about playing the victim is that it not only doesn’t persuade people, but it’s also really unhealthy for you. It feeds a narrative that you are always disempowered, even when you’re not. On the Internet, you can usually just choose to not interact if things get overwhelming, and maybe use the block button. It can be harder to get away from people offline, but it’s important to do the best you can.

It’s also useful to recognize when you’re getting defensive and to know what you can do when that happens. Here’s a page that might help you with this.

Don't act like anyone you wouldn't listen to.

When's the last time you've listened to one of those street preachers screaming about everything they think is wrong with society and yelling at people to repent of their sins? Never, right? Don't act like the kind of people you would ignore.

Be a good listener.

Persuading people isn’t just about saying what you want them to hear, it’s also about listening to them so they feel like you’re engaging with them, rather than talking down to them. Plus, listening helps you assess what they actually know and believe, which helps you determine what you need to say to them. Here’s a page to help you improve your listening skills. (And I know stuff like maintaining eye contact and reading body language isn’t always easy or possible for people – just try to do the best you can!)

Validate people where you can.

Validation signals that you understand and care about people’s problems, which makes them more open and trusting. You don’t have to validate bigotry or anything like that, but you can validate how frustrating it is to deal with high grocery prices, politicians who don’t seem to care, and lots of everyday frustrations. This is also how you begin building solidarity, by the way – when people see how we all suffer the same way, they can begin to see that we’re all working toward a common goal.

Use anecdotes.

It would be wonderful if we could just show people scientific data and have them be persuaded by it all the time, but for many people data feels abstract and not really real. (It probably also doesn’t help that most people don’t understand how the data was collected.) However, anecdotes often feel more real to people, and have a lot more persuasion power. (Consider how many “this happened to a friend of a friend” stories get passed around like gospel!) Personal anecdotes are really great – telling someone about your awesome trans friend can do a lot do make them reconsider their prejudices about trans people.

But also, have scientific/scholarly resources.

Some people are going to be sharp enough that anecdotes won’t work on them – and good for them, honestly! Also, scientific and scholarly resources can lend further credence to anecdotes. So try to have them on hand, if you possibly can!

Give people reasons.

People don’t like doing things if they don’t feel like there’s any good reason for it. Also, be aware that different types of reasons will be more or less compelling to different people. Some people will find moral reasons compelling on their own, while some people will respond better to a “how this benefits you personally” reason. Someone might respond better to “we shouldn’t do X because it hurts the environment” than to “we shouldn’t do X because it’s cultural appropriation.” (And of course we want people to understand that cultural appropriation is bad, but that’s going to be a whole other thing you’re going to have to give reasons for!)

Adjust your rhetoric for the person you’re talking to.

Though we all share many common values, we also understand the world through many different lenses use different language to communicate what we see and feel. We also prioritize certain ideals over others.

If I were going to talk about the racism in the Republican party to a strongly Christian person or a New Agey person, I might say that all of this stuff they’re saying about immigrants is meant to stir up fear and divide people, then go on to talk about how the data just doesn’t support this idea that immigrants are as violent as they say.

If I were talking to the kind of person who strongly believes in the ideals of freedom and liberty, I might talk about how anti-queer legislation infringes on people’s freedom to live how they see fit. I might bring up that it violates their constitutional right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.

Offer alternatives.

The easiest way to end a bad habit or belief is to replace it with a good (or at least neutral) habit or belief. For example, if you’re trying to persuade people to stop using unsourced white sage (here's information on the problem with this, if you don't know), list alternatives such as rosemary and juniper.

Leave them with additional resources to explore.

Keeping a big list of resources on hand is the secret to activism bliss. Okay, maybe not, but it sure makes things a lot easier! If someone is really curious and engaged, they’ll often be willing to explore resources if you have them. Do try and make sure that not all of your resources are locked behind paywalls or require a deep understanding of specialized language. Curating resources accessible to any means and level of education will help you maximize your ability to persuade and educate.

[wttcsms]

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖࣪ if you love me right, then who knows !!

ᝰ.ᐟ you decide it's time to let your beloved bodyguard relax. ( fem!reader )

pairing jinchul woo x reader word count 2.4k content contains breeding kink, creampie, roleplaying domesticity (pretending to be husband&wife), bodyguard!au, rich girl!reader, size difference/size kink kinktober masterlist

It’s been a rough day, give or take. 

From the moment Jinchul Woo steps into the office, he’s been slammed with work. Hunters not returning, hunters looking to sue because of jobs gone wrong, new gates opening up at every other second, coworkers who are so swamped with work that they’re looking to pass it off to anybody and everybody — and as the chairman’s right-hand man, Jinchul gets the privilege of taking the brunt of it. How lucky is that?

And it’s because he’s the chairman’s most trusted employee (and the strongest A-Rank he has in his arsenal), that when all is said and done, the working day isn’t over for Jinchul. 

Instead of coming home to his stark apartment, empty save for the essential pieces of furniture, like a couch he put purely for its functional purposes instead of aesthetic reasons, he finds himself pulling up to a gated estate, opening the clicker so the gate opens to allow his car inside, and then he’s parking in a garage full of luxury vehicles. 

For the past month and for the foreseeable future, Jinchul Woo has been given the assignment of a lifetime: watching over the only granddaughter the chairman has. Even if Jinchul didn’t respect Go Gunhee, there would have been no room for Jinchul to deny the chairman’s request. Him asking to take care of you was just a formality. And as a formal man himself, Jinchul can respect that.

The only issue is that you’re not one for formalities. As a college-aged girl with more money and privileges than most, it’s no surprise that you’re a bit of a brat. The moment you saw Jinchul and learned that he was to be at your beck and call, Jinchul knew he was in trouble.

He just never knew just how far he’d go to reprimand you. 

It all starts off innocently enough; he supposes that’s how most things go. Gentle scoldings here, a few lectures there. But ever perceptive, Jinchul would catch the way you clench your thighs and rub them together every time he gets onto you. He notices the way you decide to walk around the mansion in pajama sets that get more revealing by the day. The way you start asking him to open jars for you and to build furniture that you don’t need. He knows better than to ever act on your desires, but his resolve to remain unaffected crumbles the second you practically pounced on him, batting your pretty lashes slick with tears, asking him why he won’t fuck you. Is it because you’re not pretty enough? Smart, driven? What is it? 

No. He thinks you’re absolutely perfect the way you are. And he spends that night fucking you, showing his devotion to you, all while reprimanding you in a way that will certainly leave an impression: spanking you for teasing him, for constantly disobeying him on purpose. 

That’s how sex usually initiates between the two of you. You decide to push his buttons and wait for him to snap. 

But Jinchul is pleasantly surprised when he walks in, slipping off his shoes and tossing aside his briefcase, only to be greeted at the sight of you on your knees, wearing an apron, smiling up at him sweetly. 

“Welcome home, husband,” You chirp cheerfully. 

For once in your dynamic, it seems like Jinchul’s the one in trouble now. 

He swallows hard, looking down at the demure sight of you. 

“Wha- what is this, exactly?” Jinchul stutters, unable to remain composed, nervously tugging at the tight knot of his work tie. 

“Can’t a wife greet her husband when he comes home?” You pout, and it all clicks. 

The guys at work always say it’s easy for Jinchul to pull in overtime and work himself to death; after all, it’s not like he has a family or a wife or even a girlfriend who’s going to stay up late, worrying about him. One night, when Jinchul decides to grab a drink after work and comes back to you, you help him onto the couch, worried. He had been too drunk to realize it at that moment, but the fact that you stayed up because he hadn’t come home to you yet makes his heart ache. (It’s why he doesn’t pull in as much overtime as he used to, no matter how hectic work gets.) That night, he admits that it’d be nice to have a wife and start a family, to have something distract him from work, to pull him out of the misery of paperwork and other people’s troubles. 

He didn’t realize how that drunken confession would impact you. 

He runs a hand through his blond hair, messing up the styled strands, disrupting the hair gel. “Get up, honey.” He tacks on the pet name, trying it out for the first time. It rolls off his tongue easily, a little too easy, really. He pats your head, and it doesn’t go unnoticed by him how much larger his hand looks when it’s anywhere near your body as opposed to his own. 

“That’s not fair. I wanted to treat you to something special.” You get up, though you’re still pouting. 

“Oh, yeah?” He’s walking to the kitchen, wondering whether it would just be easier to order takeout, before the scent of a home cooked meal hits him. “Did you cook?”

“Of course, I did.” You cross your arms, bringing attention to the pink apron you’re wearing. “Why wouldn’t I?” You seem happy that he’s surprised about this. “Now go to the dining room, and you’ll see that I already have your plate ready! Just wait a second, though. I have to reheat the soup.” 

Jinchul doesn’t go to the dining room, though. He remains rooted in his spot because he’s frozen at the view you’re giving him when you turn around. Underneath the apron, you’re wearing nothing. Not even a pair of panties. You’re crouching down a bit to bring your mouth closer to the pot of soup, and you’re sipping from the ladle, testing to see whether it’s warm enough or not. 

“Ah!” You let out a squeal when you feel the muscular body of Jinchul, the only thing separating him from you being the stiff fabric of his suit. Quick with his reflexes, Jinchul reaches from behind you to catch the ladle before it falls into the pot, potentially splattering you with hot soup. He places it gently in, before shutting off the stove entirely. 

“Jinchul.” You whine, bending awkwardly to try to look at him. “The food will get cold.” 

“I know, but can’t a husband just take a moment to appreciate his wife?” You love it when Jinchul’s voice gets all low and husky like this, every word he says coated in his dark desire. His large hands grip your waist, squeezing you gently but firmly, and you feel the growing bulge of his cock straining against his suit pants. “If I knew you went through all this trouble, I would’ve told the guys at work to fuck off so I could come home to you sooner.” He whispers this in your ear, leaning down. The strands of his hair tickle your cheeks, and before you can tell him that it’s okay, he’s spinning you around to face him. 

You look up at him, and he’s grinning, licking his lips as he stares down at you. “I’m sorry, honey, I know you worked hard but dinner’s going to have to wait. I need to fuck you.” His tone lowers a bit more. “Can I fuck you, honey?” 

“Of course.” You choke out the words, too caught up in just how hot Jinchul looks when he’s unbearably horny. He’s so careful, so put together, so stoic in his everyday life. It suddenly occurs to you that when he’s with you, this is the only time he gets to be a little unhinged, to relieve his stress. 

He’s easily picking you up, placing you right on the granite island of the kitchen. Even sitting on the elevated surface, you still have to look up at Jinchul, and he still has to lean down to crash his lips into yours. You moan into his mouth, enjoying how messy and sloppy Jinchul makes out with you. It’s a stark difference from how he handles everything else in his life, and you want to unravel him just a bit more. 

While he’s sloppily kissing you, swapping spit and swallowing up your moans, he’s making quick work of the bow of your apron, untying the knot and slipping off the tiny strip of fabric from your body. The cold air of the mansion hits you in full force, and you shiver a bit. 

“Spread your legs for me.” He grunts out, when he momentarily separates from you, and you comply. He takes a sharp breath, admiring the way your folds are already glistening, how you’re already wet for him. “Were you this wet the entire time?” He asks, dragging his index and middle fingers against your slit. 

You nod, knowing that anything you say will only be caught in between your little pleasured mewls. 

“You got wet waiting for me to come home? What were you thinking about?” 

“I-I wanted to welcome you home with a blowjob before you ate dinner.” You confess, more slick being produced when the fantasy re-enters your mind. 

His eyes darken at the sound of that. “Yeah? Fuck — you’re such a good wife, you know that?” The tips of his long fingers tease your soaked entrance, and he leans down to whisper in your ear. “We’ll have more nights for you to do that, don’t worry. But tonight, I’m going to be a good husband and treat you so well. You know what good girls like you deserve?” 

You shake your head, not knowing what filth might come out of Jinchul’s mouth.

“You deserve to have me fucking a baby into you. You’d like that wouldn’t you?” He chuckles, feeling the way your hole clings to the tips of his fingers, eager for more, desperate for it. “Yeah, I knew you would.” 

Jinchul makes quick work of his pants, undoing his belt and unzipping his trousers, pushing down the layers of fabric ‘til his cock can finally spring free from its confines. He pumps his cock once, twice, but he’s too starved of you to do much more. You’re so wet, the need for prep has long since disappeared, and besides, Jinchul’s fucked you like this many times before. Before you took on the role of wife, you were the brat he had to babysit, and to teach you a lesson, he’s fucked your cunt with no courtesy orgasm to prepare you. 

And you love it. 

You’re already writhing, laying down on the cold granite of the counter as you spread your legs, inviting Jinchul in, gasping and moaning at the way he taps the head of his cock teasingly against your slit before inserting the head in. He’s in love with the sight of his long cock disappearing into your wet, tight cunt. 

“I’m gonna make you feel so good, honey.” He grunts out, sliding his cock further into you ‘til he’s balls deep. You haven’t stopped moaning the entire time. 

He leans down to capture one of your breasts in his mouth, sucking and biting at the soft flesh as he starts steadily pounding into you, getting into that quick, jagged rhythm of his that he’s particularly fond of when he’s in a rush to cum. His mouth moves upwards, sucking and kissing at your collarbone, moving further up until he’s planting a kiss right on your lips, inhaling your moans of pleasure, keeping up with his same, quick pace, battering away at your cervix. 

“Feels good, doesn’t it, honey?” He asks you, feeling the way you tighten up. “Yeah, I knew my little wife would love this. You ready for me to get you pregnant, sweetheart?” He coos, and you can’t help but nod. A little Jinchul running around wouldn’t be too bad, right? In fact, right now, with his dick making you see nothing but stars, you think several tiny Jinchuls would be a dream come true. 

You can’t answer him using your voice, but you do wrap your legs around his waist, keeping him in place as if he was going to run off. He smiles at your reaction, taking a calloused thumb to rub circles against your clit, relishing in the feel of your walls tightening around him. 

“Ah, ah, ah!” You squeal out, before letting out a jumbled stream of syllables that sounds distinctly like his name. You’re creaming all over him and his cock, the cock that’s splitting you open, the cock that’s going to get you fucking nice and bred, all for him, only for him. His grin is feral as he continues with his thrust, now content to chase after his own high. The ring of white circling around his cock only motivates him further, and he’s shoving himself deep inside of your messy cunt as he cums. 

Shooting copious amounts of thick, white cum right at the entrance of your cervix, practically straight into your fucking womb, Jinchul still keeps rutting his hips until you let out a weak whine. 

“Aw, are you too tired, honey?” He asks you, giving you a forehead kiss. “Just give me a second, okay?” He tells you, waiting for the pleasure of your walls clamping on his dick to subside. Even after his cock gets too sensitive and begs for relief, he remains inside of you, still wanting to enjoy the feeling of your cunt twitching around his cock, swallowing up his cum. 

He rests his forehead against your own. “You feeling alright, honey?” Even though the act should be over, Jinchul is still calling you by that pet name, and you love it. You don’t protest it, but you try not to draw attention to it, out of fear that he’ll realize he should stop pretending and shatter the illusion. Despite his cock plugging you up, a trickle of the mixture of your shared cum is trickling out of your cunt, and you let out a mhm. 

“Ah, I should get up and reheat the soup for you.” You mumble, struggling to lift yourself from the counter. He only pushes you back down, shushing you. 

“You should rest. Let me heat it up.” Jinchul’s hand finds your own, and he’s entangling your fingers together. “But let’s stay like this just a little bit longer.” 

You don’t complain, letting the warmth of Jinchul blanket you. You want to stay together like this forever.

(And he does, too.)

[kidspawn]

Need a good laugh. What is your most insane TRC/TDT takes?

hello, my good friend, it is i, your local not normal about media guy! i am currently hiding in the cooler at work bc I locked myself in again. insane TRC/TDT takes? I have a few rapid fire miscellaneous ideas/headcanons for the masses that I rattle amongst the brain like a hyperactive toddler. allow me to share:

- blue gets the barbie movie. henry gets the barbie movie. it took gansey two watches to get the barbie movie and blue nearly gave up because "if you don't get it i can't help you" but by god he tried. ronan gets it but pretends he doesn't and owns an "i am kenough" fuzzy sweater he does not wear anywhere. adam did not get the barbie movie. he will not pretend to get the barbie movie. he does not care because those tickets were nearly thirty dollars so he did not see it. who the fuck is ryan gosling? noah loves it, he kind of gets it but a lot of it goes over his head. declan, like ronan, pretends not to get it but "i'm just ken" is in his spotify wrapped. matthew adores it but for the wrong reasons and he and ronan have matching fuzzy sweaters.

- ronan's nut allergy is canon. to ME. and he didn’t really register as a kid that other people weren't allergic to peanuts he thought they were all the DEATH NUT so one day when Declan really pissed him off he crushed up peanuts and put it in his dinner because kids do dumb shit like that and Declan ate it all and said he felt fine and ronan was appalled and convinced Declan was secretly microdosing on peanuts to built an immunity so he decided to do the same he started choking and nearly died but he's okay now.

- Matthew has had three concussions. one was formed halfway through healing from the second concussion. they never told him because they didn't know if he really had a normally functioning brain to have permanent damage in. sometimes he takes a little long to process information and Declan holds his breath but nothing significant as far as they can tell

- Henry canonically listens to kpop, which means he probably listens to 2nd gen kpop, which means I can say with confidence he listens to my favourite bands SHINee and BIGBANG, 2NE1, Wonder Girls. Why is this important? idk it just brings me joy.

- adam and ronan have kinks, they are aware they have kinks, they both are kind of aware the other has kinks (adam knows Ronan is into his hands, Ronan notices Adam kind of gets off on Ronan being smart they just dont talk about it) and they stumble into several dubious circumstances revolving them both being sexually repressed and unwilling to talk about their kinks theyre fine its all fine but like sometimes they'll just do things and forget safewords or to even say "hey man pls do not call me that" and its fine but also I do not see these two communicating about sex beyond "yes please" and Ronan kinda just letting Adam do what he wants with him. all well and good but also sometimes as a response Adam will ask him to take out the trash and he'll get a boner

- adam cannot cook. I have never felt more adamantly that he cannot cook. he and gansey cannot cook. however, gansey can learn. adam said, "fuck you gansey if you can read you can cook" and tried to cook and nearly burnt the Barns down and it is his deepest shame he still cannot cook meanwhile gansey can make grilled cheese and god does adam wish he could make grilled cheese as good as gansey's grilled cheese but no. Ronan thinks its hilarious and refuses to help and adam tells no one he can't cook because he sees it as a weakness.

- gansey microwaves his tea its disgusting blue groans in disgust everytime she sees it

- blue convinces Ronan to let her pierce his ears and pretends like she'll let him do hers too but she lies and gets them professionally pierced because she's worried about infection meanwhile ronan's ear swells and he has an adverse reaction and cannot sleep on his side for a month

idk if these count as insane but I DO have more and will gladly share these are rapid fire off the top of my head and I hear my manager with the keys about to let me out