#week 24: blink

[ineffablyruined]

I just got home from a work trip, so it's later than I'd like, BUT, it's still technically Friday for me!

And we have TWO prompts this week to make up for my abject failure last week.

Week 23's prompt is: Garden.

The link to the collection is here:

Week 24's prompt is: Blink.

The link to the collection is here:

Tags below the cut!

Tags:

@interesting-egg @naturallyteal @bumblee27 @czitara @martinsharmony @ineffable-xenanigans @dierama-mojo @lickthecowhappy @ineffably-queer-book-lover @eybefioro @goodoldfashionednightingale @crowleys-hips @depraveddame @theriverspath

[noirecheris3]

cass’s shoulders broadening to actually fit babs jackets and hoodies as she gets older

[fidgetspringer]

I knew my old place of work treated us like dogshit. I knew England treated minimum wage workers like they're less than human.

But nothing has driven that fact home more than telling my new coworkers about what Tesco was like and having them look at me in absolute horror.

[bandomgay]

Typical artist moment genuinely a cliche but...when..how did acrylic paint get on my shoulder like what's going on

[mercvry-glow]

It's never over

parings. jack abbot x reader

summary. after a fight with jack, you spend the rest of your night clubbing with some friends. unfortunately that choice lands you into your partners er.

warnings. implied age gap (jack late 40s, reader late 20s/early 30s), established relationship, jack and reader fight, reader gets drugged and creeped on, hospital setting, medical emergencies, reader is okay tho, accurate as possible medical talk, soft!jack eventually, angst and hurt/comfort, let me know if there's anything else!

notes. I can't believe this is my longest fic and I don't like it 😭 I do love them though, and I love the angst, I just think this wasn't my strongest so we'll see how I feel when I get some more of yall's opinions. as always any and all feedback is appreciated!

wc. 4100+

You were just finishing your makeup when you heard the shower turn off.

It was a quiet kind of hope that filled your chest—small and delicate, but real. It had been weeks since the two of you had a night off together. Back-to-back night shifts, emergency call-ins, 4 a.m. arguments whispered in the dark… it had all blurred into something numb. Something too heavy.

But tonight?

Tonight was supposed to be the reset button.

You stepped out of the bathroom, smoothing your dress down with your hands, a nervous flutter in your stomach. Something soft played from the speaker on your nightstand. The perfume you wore on your first date still lingered in the air.

Then you saw it.

Black scrubs. His badge clipped to the collar. Go-bag on the floor.

You froze.

Jack stepped into the room, towel around his shoulders, running a hand through damp curls. He paused the second he saw your face.

“Babe—”

“No,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “Please don’t say it, you didn’t…”

He glanced at the scrubs like he wished they’d disappear. “Shen called when you were in the shower. They’re short. Real short. Two nurses out and a doctor is MIA—he’s drowning.”

You blinked. “And you said yes.”

Jack rubbed the back of his neck. “He sounded desperate. I figured you’d—”

“You figured I’d be fine,” you cut in, hurt creeping into your voice. “Because it’s always me who has to make the compromise.”

“It’s one shift,” he said, already tugging on his top.

“It’s never just one,” you snapped, then caught yourself, hands tightening at your sides. “I got off three hours ago, Jack. I’ve been dragging myself through twelve-hour nights, sometimes more just like you. And the one time we both actually had a night off…”

He looked away. “This isn’t about us.”

“Isn’t it?” you said, your voice cracking. “Because it feels like it is.”

Silence pressed in between you.

“I get it,” you added. “I know what it’s like when the unit’s falling apart. I know what it’s like to be needed, to be the one that says yes every time. But God, Jack… when do I get to be your emergency?”

He stiffened.

“You think I want to do this?” he snapped suddenly. “You think I don’t feel it too? That I don’t want to just stay here, take you to dinner, act like our lives aren’t chaos 24/7?”

“Then why don't you?” you said, voice breaking. “Why is it always someone else who gets the best of you?”

He looked at you then, eyes tired, voice bitter. “Because they need me. You wouldn’t get it.”

Your heart stopped.

“What did you just say to me?”

He hesitated—too long. “I didn’t mean it like that—”

“No. Say it again,” you said, stepping back. “Say I don’t get it, Jack.”

Jack sighed, frustrated. “You know what I mean. You’re not—”

“Not what?” you snapped. “Not enough? Not capable of understanding? I work the same damn shifts as you do. I patch up the same wounds, hold the same dying hands—don’t you dare act like I don’t understand.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he muttered, but it was already too late.

You grabbed your bag, throat thick with hurt. “You want to play doctor, Jack? Fine. Go save Pittsburgh. But don’t expect me to sit here and wait again for whatever’s left of you after.”

He moved toward you, but you stepped around him, heart pounding in your chest.

“I gave you tonight,” you whispered at the door. “And you gave it away.”

And then you left—heels in your hand, dress still clinging to hope, the soft click of the door the only sound between you.

Things didn’t get much better after you left. 

The music thumped in your chest, the bass vibrating through the soles of your feet. It was loud. Too loud. But that was the point, right?

After the fight, after the disappointment and the sting of Jack’s words, you just needed something different. Something that would make you forget for a little while. So, when Marina and Kat suggested hitting the club, you agreed. You’d always enjoyed the energy, the people, the feeling of being free, even if just for a night.

So now you found yourself in a packed, dark club with flashing lights and bodies grinding against each other on the dance floor. You didn’t know exactly why you were here, but the thought of being home alone, stewing in anger and confusion, was too much to handle.

The girls were already lost in the crowd, their laughter cutting through the music as they grabbed drinks from the bar. You followed, trying to shake off the ache in your chest, the one that kept whispering that Jack should’ve been out with you, not  at work.

“Another round?” Kat asked, leaning close enough for you to hear over the beat.

You nodded, your eyes scanning the bar area, the chaos of the club almost soothing in its madness. The atmosphere was a welcome distraction, even though it wasn’t the night you’d planned. You hadn’t expected to feel so… hollow. Jack’s absence was like a weight pressing against your chest, and you were trying to ignore it. Trying to not think about how your plans had been shattered, how this whole night had been supposed to be different.

You made your way toward the bar, needing a moment of quiet, a break from the noise, when a guy approached. He was dressed in a tight shirt that seemed to shimmer under the club lights, his hair perfectly styled. He smiled at you, one that was too eager, almost practiced.

“Hey, I couldn’t help but notice you,” he said, leaning in just a bit too close. “I’m Alex. And you—wow. You look incredible.”

You forced a smile, taking a step back instinctively. “Thanks,” you said, trying to keep the interaction polite, your voice still a little stiff. “I’m just here with some friends.”

His smile didn’t falter. “I can tell, I just had to come over. I mean, with a woman like you, how could I not?”

You glanced around, hoping to spot either Marina or Kat, but the crowd was thick and you were feeling boxed in. “I’m not really looking for company,” you said, hoping that would be enough.

He didn’t take the hint. Instead, his hand moved closer to your arm, brushing against the bare skin of your shoulder.

“You sure? I’m just trying to have a good time, and you seem like you’re someone who knows how to enjoy herself,” he said, his voice dropping lower, almost a whisper. A chill ran down your spine. You weren’t sure if it was the way he said it or just how off his energy felt, but it made your stomach turn.

“I said no, thank you,” you said, trying to sound firm, but your words barely made it through the noise of the music.

He didn’t back off, though. His dark eyes raked over you like he was trying to figure you out, like you were some new prize to be won. “Come on, what’s the harm in just one drink? One dance?” He stepped in closer, his breath warm on your neck.

You shook your head, feeling the walls close in. Your palms were starting to get clammy, the tightness in your chest spreading. “I’m not interested,” you repeated, your voice sharper this time, but his grip on your arm tightened, just a little.

“Don’t be like that,” he said, his fingers brushing the strap of your dress. “You know you want to have some fun.”

That was it. The polite smile you’d been forcing finally slipped away. You wrenched your arm free from his grip, your voice loud and clear now.

“I said no,” you snapped, the force of your words cutting through the loud music.

His eyes flashed, surprised at your sudden change in tone, but then he just scoffed. “Fine, whatever,” he muttered, his expression turning into a sneer. “Guess I misread you.”

You didn’t even wait for him to finish walking away. You turned sharply, heart pounding in your chest, as you made your way back toward the dance floor. The excitement of the club had completely evaporated, replaced with the taste of bitterness and frustration.

You made your way back toward the dance floor, heart still racing, the heat of the club suddenly feeling suffocating. The beat of the music had lost its pull on you, replaced by the sting of unwanted attention and the frustration of a night gone wrong. You barely noticed the way the crowd shifted, how people pressed against you as you walked through them, each of them just another stranger in your path. You tried to shake the unease away, but it lingered like a shadow.

Marina and Kat, the only two familiar faces in this chaotic scene, were still at the bar, but you couldn’t muster the energy to go back to them just yet. You needed a moment alone, even if that meant getting lost in the crowd. You found a quiet corner at the edge of the room, trying to collect your thoughts, breathing in the air that smelled of alcohol and sweat, but it did little to calm the storm in your chest.

The drink you’d had earlier—a rum and coke—was still sitting in your hand. You’d been nursing it for most of the night, the ice now long melted, the liquid a watered-down version of what it had been when you first grabbed it at the bar. It wasn’t your favorite, but you didn’t mind. You hadn’t been focused on the drink anyway, just trying to keep the edges of your frustration from seeping through.

But now, as you took another sip, something felt off. Your stomach tightened, but not in the way it usually did after too much alcohol. It was deeper, almost hollow, like there was something foreign inside you. You set the drink down on the nearest table, trying to ignore the growing sense of unease gnawing at the back of your mind.

Your vision started to blur, the flashing lights of the club becoming a chaotic swirl of neon. The music, once a vibrant pulse beneath your skin, now felt distant—like you were hearing it from underwater. The pressure in your head built an oppressive weight that made it hard to think clearly. You stumbled slightly, your legs growing heavy, and it took all your effort just to stay standing.

You glanced around for your friends, but the crowd had thickened, and the girls were nowhere to be seen. Panic crept up your spine. You needed them. You needed someone to help. But the room felt like it was spinning now, faster and faster, and your body wasn’t cooperating with you anymore.

"Hey, are you okay?" A voice cut through the fog in your mind, but you couldn’t place where it came from. You tried to focus, to find the person speaking, but your vision darkened again, everything going black at the edges.

You blinked, trying to fight off the overwhelming dizziness, but it was useless. The world around you tilted, and the last thing you remembered was sinking to your knees, the floor rushing up to meet you.

The ER was chaotic as always.

Monitors beeped in staccato rhythms, stretchers lined the halls, and the air was thick with the scent of antiseptic and the metallic tang of adrenaline. Jack hadn’t stopped moving since he walked in, not even long enough to get a proper cup of coffee. His scrubs still clung to his damp skin from the rushed post-shower change, and his muscles ached from tension he hadn’t had time to notice until now.

A code had just cleared. He stood in the corner of north three, charting with one hand, the other gripping a barely-sipped paper cup of coffee that had long gone cold. The flicker of a headache gnawed behind his eyes.

He shouldn’t be here.

His mind kept drifting—back to the house, to the way you looked in that dress, to the way your voice cracked when you said “when do I get to be your emergency?”

 God, that had hit harder than he’d let on.

And then he’d said the wrong thing—“You wouldn’t get it.” The words kept echoing back in his ears like a cruel joke. You did get it. Maybe more than anyone ever had.

He hadn’t checked his phone since you left. Couldn’t bring himself to. If you texted, he’d crumble. If you didn’t… Well, that was somehow worse.

“Dr. Abbot!”

Jack snapped out of it at the sound of John’s voice shouting down the hallway. He turned toward him, brows knitting together. Shen was already halfway across the ED, panting slightly, eyes wide.

“What is it?” Jack asked, already moving toward him.

“Overdose. Young woman—unknown age, female. Brought in from the strip district—some club off Penn. Unconscious on arrival, GCS dropped to six en route.”

Jack's jaw tightened. “ETA?”

“They just pulled up.”

Jack tossed his chart aside and strode toward the ambulance bay without another word, adrenaline already kicking in.

Shen jogged beside him. “Paramedics think her drink was spiked—GHB, maybe? Said she started seizing before they got her out of the club. Friends couldn’t find her at first—she was alone when they found her on the floor.”

Something twisted in Jack’s gut. He didn’t know why. Just a flicker of unease, a sick chill climbing up his spine.

The ambulance bay doors opened with a mechanical hiss. The flashing red lights reflected off the glass like warning signals in his head.

He stepped outside, heart thudding.

And then he saw her.

Or You.

Unconscious. Oxygen mask strapped to your still pretty face. IVs in both arms. Your dress—the dress you had bought—bunched awkwardly around your hips. One heel missing. A smudge of mascara on your cheek like a cruel reminder of what tonight was supposed to be.

The paramedic was shouting something, but Jack didn’t hear it. His vision tunneled. His world narrowed to just you—still, and small on the gurney.

“No,” Jack whispered, stepping forward, his breath catching in his throat. “No, no, no—”

He pushed through the medic, grabbing onto the rail of the stretcher.

“What happened?” he barked. His voice was hoarse, shaking.

“GHB suspected. Found alone. Low responsiveness. HR is unstable. She’s seizing on and off—”

Jack was already moving, wheeling you into trauma bay one. “Get Narcan ready just in case. Push fluids. Get me labs, tox screen, full workup. Page neuro for consult—now.”

He didn’t even care that his voice cracked. Didn’t care that every nurse and medic in that hallway was staring at him like he’d lost it.

Because he had.

You were his emergency now, and he was terrified he might be too late.

The doors slammed open with a bang as Jack wheeled you inside, every step fueled by sheer panic and clinical precision. His hands moved on autopilot, but his mind? His mind was screaming.

“She’s hypotensive,” a nurse called. “BP’s dropping—seventy over fifty.”

“Push fluids—hang a liter of LR, now. Get a second IV. 16-gauge if you can find a vein.”

Your head lolled to the side as the team lifted you onto the bed. Jack’s breath hitched.

“Jesus, she’s burning up,” he muttered, pressing his palm to your forehead. “Get her temp.”

“102.6,” Shen called.

“Possible serotonin syndrome or stimulant combo,” Jack said quickly. “Start cooling measures. Ice packs under the arms. Get a foley—need accurate output.”

A nurse moved to cut the dress from your body, but Jack put his hand out. “Don’t—” His voice cracked again. He paused, swallowed, forced the words out through gritted teeth. “Let me.”

No one argued. Everyone knew—this wasn’t just another patient, you were one of them, you were jack’s. His slightly trembling hands carefully unzipped the side of your dress, easing it off your shoulders and down. He fought to keep his face unreadable, but his throat felt raw, his stomach twisting into knots. The scent of your perfume—the one you wore on your first date—still lingered faintly in the air.

“Vitals?” he barked, refocusing as nurses applied leads to your chest.

“HR 122. O2’s eighty-nine but climbing. BP’s coming up a little.”

Jack leaned over you, brushing damp hair from your forehead. Your lashes fluttered, just barely. A flicker of awareness behind your lids.

“Come on, baby,” he whispered, not caring who heard. “Stay with me. I’m right here. You’re okay. You’re gonna be okay.”

You stirred faintly, a tiny groan slipping past your lips.

“Hey, hey—it’s me,” he said, brushing his knuckles gently along your cheek. “You’re in the ER. You’re safe now, alright? I got you.”

Your eyes opened a crack, glassy and unfocused. You blinked slowly, clearly struggling to process. And then—

“J…Jack?” you croaked, barely above a whisper.

He exhaled, choking on relief.

“Yeah, I’m here,” he said quickly, squeezing your hand. “I’m right here. You’re gonna be fine, I promise.”

You blinked again, trying to sit up, but your body betrayed you. “What… happened?”

“You were drugged,” Jack said gently. “Spiked drink. Club downtown. Do you remember anything?”

You shook your head faintly, then winced as pain rolled through you. “I—he—there was this guy… he wouldn’t leave me alone…”

Jack’s jaw tightened. Fury flared behind his eyes, but he pushed it down.

“Shh, it’s okay,” he murmured, brushing some hair out of  your face. “Don’t worry about that right now. You’re here. You’re safe.”

“Y-you were supposed to be at work,” you mumbled, confusion clouding your voice.

His heart cracked clean in half.

“I am. But they brought you in,” he whispered, gripping your hand tighter. “They brought you in… and everything else stopped.”

He didn’t realize his hands were shaking until your hand weakly squeezed his.And for the first time that night, Jack let himself fall apart—just a little. Because you were the emergency. And nothing else mattered now.

After an hour of working on you, Jack stood at the foot of your bed, hands braced on his hips, watching the slow rise and fall of your chest. Monitors beeped in steady rhythm. The IV pumped fluids into your system, and you were stable now—groggy but safe.

It had been the longest hour of his life..

He didn’t realize how tight his jaw had been until he stepped out of the trauma bay and let the door swing closed behind him. He needed a second. Just one.

But that’s when he saw them—Marina and Kat, hovering near the nurses' station down the hall like two ghosts.

They looked like hell. Club makeup smudged, heels in their hands, eyes wide and red-rimmed. They’d followed the ambulance but hadn’t pushed forward until now.

When Jack made eye contact with them, they froze. The hallway felt too quiet, the tension snapping taut.

He moved toward them with slow, deliberate steps. His face was unreadable—too calm to be safe.

“You two were with her.” His voice wasn’t angry, not exactly. But it carried the weight of someone barely holding it together. “So tell me what happened.”

Kat opened her mouth, but no sound came out.

Marina stepped in instead, her voice small. “We didn’t know. Jack, we—we didn’t know. She just said she needed a minute and went to the bar. We were right there.”

“She was alone,” Jack said, his tone still deceptively even. “Long enough for some asshole to slip something in her drink.”

“We didn’t see anyone,” Kat said, her voice cracking. “We were watching her an-and then she was gone until someone screamed. She collapsed. We thought—Jesus, we thought she just had too much to drink, but she only bought one.”

Jack closed his eyes for a beat, dragging a hand over his face.

“She didn’t,” he muttered. “Tox screen lit up like a goddamn Christmas tree. Probably in that one drink she barely touched.”

Marina blinked, horrified. “She said it didn’t taste right. Said it was too sweet.”

“She was trying to be safe,” Jack said, his voice tightening. “Did everything right. Still ended up in my fucking ER, barely coherent.”

Neither of them had anything to say to that. Because what could you say?

“I should’ve been with her,” Jack added quietly, more to himself than to them. “We were supposed to have tonight. And I left.”

Marina stepped forward cautiously, soft as always. “She didn’t blame you, Jack. She didn’t even say your name like she was mad. She just—she was looking for you.”

That hit harder than it should’ve. Jack’s throat worked as he swallowed, glancing back at the trauma room door behind him.

“She’s sleeping now,” he said finally. “Out of the woods.”

“Can we… see her?” Kat asked gently.

Jack nodded. “Just be quiet. She might not wake up for a while.”

Marina hesitated, then touched Jack’s arm, tentative. “She loves you, you know that. Don’t let tonight be the thing that breaks you both.”

Jack didn’t answer, but something in his expression softened—just barely. The steel cracked for a second, showing the man underneath. The one who hadn’t left her side. The one who never would.

And then he stepped back toward the door, glancing once more at the monitor inside.

“Tell her I’m here,” he said. “When she wakes up…”

The soft beeping of the monitor was the first thing you heard. It was steady, rhythmic, almost comforting, but it felt like the sound was a distant echo, like you weren’t quite sure where it was coming from. Your eyes fluttered open, blurry at first, the room around you coming into focus slowly.

Your head throbbed with a dull ache, a tightness in your chest pulling at your breath. Something felt wrong—like the world had shifted just slightly, leaving you off-balance.

Then, the scent of antiseptic and faint, stale coffee mixed with the familiar one that had always been home to you: Jack.

Your eyes scanned the dimly lit room. There, sitting at your side, was Jack—his back to you as he slumped in a chair, his hand resting near yours on the bed. His posture was stiff, but there was something in the way his shoulders hung, the way his breath came a little too fast, that told you he wasn’t just tired.

He was worried.

You tried to speak, but your throat felt dry, raw. You croaked out a faint sound, and Jack snapped to attention, immediately leaning forward. His eyes met yours, and there it was—the instant relief, mixed with guilt, storming across his features.

“Hey,” he said softly, his voice hoarse. “Hey, look at me. You’re okay.”

You tried to say something, but your voice wouldn’t cooperate. You croaked again, your hand weakly reaching for his.

Jack’s fingers tightened around yours, warm and steady. His thumb traced over the back of your hand as if to reassure both of you.

“I’m so sorry,” he murmured, his voice cracking. “I should’ve been there. I should’ve been with you.”

You blinked, your mind sluggish as it pieced things together. You could barely remember what had happened. The night, the club, the man at the bar, the drink…The wave of nausea hit you, and you squeezed his hand harder. He immediately noticed.

“Take it easy,” he said, his free hand brushing a few stray hairs from your forehead. “You’ve been through a lot.”

It wasn’t just the physical toll—it was everything else. The confusion, the anger, the heartbreak.

“I… I didn’t…” You stopped, your throat closing up. The words didn’t come out easily, but Jack was right there, waiting patiently.

“You didn’t deserve this,” he said gently, like he could hear everything you couldn’t say. “I know. I should’ve done better. I should’ve been with you.”

You squeezed his hand again, the weight of his words and your own swirling in the space between you. The thought of him taking the blame—the one who had stayed behind, who had always put in the work—was almost too much.

And you didn’t have the strength to argue.

“You’re here,” you whispered finally, eyes barely open. “That’s all I need right now.”

Jack’s chest tightened at that, his eyes darkening as he bent closer, brushing his lips against your forehead.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he whispered. “I’ll never do that to you again.”

Your heart gave a flutter at his words, and though your head was still spinning, your chest felt just a little lighter.

A quiet comfort settled between you, something unspoken but deeply understood. For all the chaos of the world outside, for all the mistakes and regrets, you knew that together, you’d get through it.

And for tonight, that was enough.

mercvry-glow 2025

[hyprfixate]

for the taking :: [B.C] x [H.J] x [K.S] x reader

read on AO3

summary: of your three boyfriends, you like to push chan's buttons the most so that he'll really get things going. you sadly underestimate how wild things can get when you rile him up.

pairing: kim seungmin x bang chan x han jisung x reader

tropes: poly!skz mmmf foursome, porn without plot

smut warnings: mentioned free use dynamics, dacryphilia, dom/sub dynamics, brat play, overstimulation x100000, pussy eating, implied mxm dynamics, dom jisung, soft dom/sadist seungmin, hard dom/brat tamer chan, mentions of safewords (it's not used), unprotected sex but it's a long established relationship, reader initiated slight cnc, dirty talk, reader is called a slut as a degradation thing. it's really just pure filthy, not a plot point in sight.

author's note: i didn't plan to write this at all. idk where it came from. enjoy anyway!!

word count: 8.7k

You're laying on your stomach in your bedroom. The lights are dim, music is thrumming from your speaker, and there's a candle on your wax warmer.  It's a quiet, soft night, the kind that you don't see many of. There's always something going on in the duplex you share with your partners. It can be tiring, but in the quiet, you realize you sort of miss it. You fiddle with the green beaded bracelet on your wrist as you scroll aimlessly through your phone.

Then, the door across the hall slams.

Only you and Chan are home tonight, Seungmin and Jisung off God-knows-where for whatever reason. Chan was supposed to go out with them, but he had a project to finish for his job, the same project that had him losing sleep for the last few weeks. You may never understand what exactly goes into producing music, but from the way he stayed hunched over his computer 24/7, you knew it was complicated.

You're not at all surprised when you hear your door creak open slowly. You turn over, eyes catching Chan's as he stands in your doorway with his arms folded across his chest. He's wearing a haberdash of house clothes, including a baseball cap, but you can still see the dark tint on his eyes.

You feign innocence.

“Hey you,” you smile at him. “Taking a break?”

“Something like that. What're you doing?”

You shift your phone to the hand with your bracelet, holding it up and giving it a little shake. His gaze hardens even more. “Just on Instagram.”

His eyes are trained on your wrist, just like you wanted. He recognizes the bracelet. Of course he does– he and the boys bought it for you after one of your many, many conversations. You give a little smile. "It's cute, right? The green matches my t-shirt," you say sweetly. 

It does, but that's not the only reason you're wearing it.

You're wearing it because they know that green means go. Or yes. 

Or take.

"Did you need something, Chan?"

He doesn't respond, choosing instead to push up off of the doorframe and make his way over to you. You decide to roll onto your back to see him better, and by the time you're situated, he's standing over you, arms still crossed.

You gulp.

"Um, hi," you breathe out. Nervousness was not part of the plan. "I– Did you... need something?"

He drops one of his hands and grips your ankle, and where the skin connects you feel like you've been electrocuted. Your body comes alive immediately. You can only watch as he barely strains a single muscle as he pulls you down to the edge of the bed.

"Put your phone down," he instructs. He reaches the soft part of your thigh and pinches, lips curling into a smirk when you yelp.

"Channie, I—"

"I said," he repeats, a little harsher this time, "put your phone down."

You do as you're told, dropping it on the floor next to his feet. He keeps pulling until your entire lower half is hanging off the bed. With your legs spread like they are, you're certain he can feel the pulsing coming from between your legs.

He hums.

"You know why I'm here," he says lowly. It's not a question.

Despite the speed of your heart, you blink up at him dumbly, fighting against the wave of arousal that licks down your spine when he raises an eyebrow.

"I don't know what you're talking about," you manage.

Both of his eyebrows are up now, his expression seemingly surprised for a second before it fades. He nods lightly, almost as though contemplating what you've said, and then he releases you and takes a step back.

Your heart drops for a second. You think you've messed up somehow, or maybe your tone didn't come out right. You're about to backtrack, but then he's back, hooking his fingers into either side of your waistband, and with one simple tug he has your pajama pants completely off. 

If Chan is surprised that you're not wearing any underwear, he doesn't show it.

You gasp when the cool air hits your lower body, and you watch as he smirks. He returns his vice like grip on your ankle when you start to squirm under his gaze. 

"I see you still like to pretend that you have some ounce of control in this relationship," he deadpans. He tugs you back down the bed when you try to wiggle away. You're embarrassed that his strength doesn't seem to be affected by his sleep deprivation. "Come on, baby. You know better than that."

You fight back the giddy smile that threatens to take over your face at his voice. "I don't know what you're talking about," you lie. "Why're you bothering me? Don't you have work to do?"

"I can't focus," he says smoothly. "I couldn't stop thinking about you while I was working. About how much easier work might be if I could fuck you to clear my head."

"That's too bad," you shrug, hoping he can't see how you're clenching around nothing. "I was busy."

He hums absentmindedly, letting the hand on your ankle travel higher. He runs his fingers up your calf, then your knee, until finally he hooks the inside of his wrist behind it, forcing your legs to part. You gasp and try to snap them closed, but he only has to shift a bit so that his other hand is on your opposite leg, holding you open for him.

"Why do you always act like you're not dying for me to touch you, hm?" he asks, but it's rhetorical.  He knows you don't have an answer. You never do. Even so, when you stay quiet, he huffs out a humorless laugh.

"Okay. I'm going to give you two options, because I'm feeling generous." He holds up one finger. "Option one, you admit you're just being a brat, I'll fuck it out of you, and then we can both go back to what we were doing. Or–"

You whine as he abruptly leans down with your legs still in his hands, effectively folding you in half. "Or, option two, you keep it up, and I can tell the boys to come home. Then we'll make this a lot longer than it needs to be."

Chan is dangerously close to your face now. The brim of his hat is touching your forehead. You're almost sure he can feel your heartbeat through the fabric of both of your shirts.

"So what do you want, princess?" he asks, voice dripping with honey. 

You shiver. His gaze is so intense you forget how to breathe. At your silence, he yanks you further into him, pressing himself right up against your uncovered cunt. Even through his basketball shorts you feel the unmistakable heat of his erection.

"I said, what do you want?"

Fuck.

You can't take it anymore. You feel like you're burning with need. "I'm sorry, Channie," you whine out. You can see the fire in his eyes, the way he's so worked up already, and it makes you weak. "I'll be good."

He gives you a sweet smile, leaning forward to press a kiss against your mouth. You sigh into it, letting your body go lax so he can take control. 

Despite your attempts, brattiness never lasts long with Chan. With Seungmin and Jisung, you love the challenge, love making them crack and beg a little, but Chan is entirely unrelenting. You know better than to get him too riled up, especially if you actually want anything to happen.

The kiss is a stark contrast to what you know is to come, and you know that it's on purpose. He always likes to give you the chance to back out, a way to change your mind. Bracelet or no bracelet, your comfort is still always his first priority. It's what makes you comfortable enough to tease him.

But when he pulls away from the kiss and you chase after his mouth, he only smiles.

"There's my good girl," he says. He releases your knees and presses a kiss against your cheek, and then the tip of your nose.

"Chan," you whine. Your body feels cold where his hands just were.

He only tilts his head when he looks at you. "Hm?" Then his gaze turns sinister. "Did you... need something, princess?"

Oh. 

Shit.

"Wait,” You're scrambling up from your position. “Wait, please, Chan, don't–"

He hums. "You were so mean to me," he says, trailing a single finger down your cheek. "I don't think you deserve anything from me."

You attempt to sit up, eyes widening, but he's keeping you pinned down on your bed. "But I said I'm sorry," you whine. "Channie, please, I'll be good--"

He tilts his head again, pretending to think, letting his hand fall down your face to hold your chin between his thumb and forefinger.

"No," he decides, and he straightens up, taking a step back. "I think I'm gonna go back to work."

Before you can grab him, he's slipped away, nearly halfway to your door. "Sorry, babygirl. Maybe next time, yeah?"

The smirk on his face is proof he's anything but sorry. He gives you a fake little pout before winking and stepping out of your room, clicking the door closed behind him.

You're sat up on the bed, staring at the door with your jaw slacked. This is a new level of evil, you think. You hear his bedroom door open and shut, then the muffled sound of the track he's working on vibrates the walls.

It takes longer than you'd like for your wits to come back to you, but when they do, you're both utterly gobsmacked and thoroughly impressed.

He's teasing you.

There's a part of you that's tempted to just give in, to make your way across the hall and apologize. Chan is stubborn, but not unreachable. You know if you march into his room, you could get on your knees and make him relent in seconds.

But fine. He wants to play dirty?

You can play dirty, too.

-

It's less than an hour later when you hear the front door open and shut, the sound of Jisung and Seungmin's voices carrying up the stairs. You hear takeout bags and the jingling of their keys, and then–

“We're home!”

You make no effort to move, waiting to see if Chan will leave his room first. Besides, you're still working through some of the details of your plan.

If you stay in your room, Seungmin would come upstairs to check on you first. You know he'll fuck you good, but it takes time to warm him up. By the time you start getting anywhere, Jisung will get to Chan, who might do something stupid like tell him that you were being a brat, and then he'll come in and ruin the whole thing.

No, you need eager. You need impulsive.

You need Jisung.

You pad to the bedroom door, opening it and sticking your head out. Chan's door is still closed, the track he's working on still pumping through the speakers, so you take the opportunity to get the ball rolling.

You make your way down the hall and to the top of the stairs, where you can see Jisung standing in the entryway of the kitchen. The two have already shed their jackets and shoes, and Seungmin is now busy unloading the food they brought back into the fridge. His back is turned to you.

Bingo.

"Hey," you say softly. Jisung's head whips up, eyes brightening as he spots you. He says something you can't hear to Seungmin before he's jogging up the stairs towards you. He scoops you into a squeezing hug.

"Hi my baby," he says happily, pressing a kiss against your forehead. "How was your day?"

You giggle in the hug. "It was alright. Kind of boring. How was yours?"

"We had fun," he says. He sets you down and leans against the wall next to you, reaching and catching your hand in his. You deliberately give him the hand with the bracelet, but he doesn't see it. "I missed you though."

"I missed you, too."

Jisung grins. He opens his mouth to speak again, but then he furrows his eyebrows when he looks at you, like he's just noticing something.

"Is that my shirt?"

“Is it?” You look down, feigning surprise. "Oh, yeah I guess it is."

He hums, tilting his head. His eyes trail to your hand, and he finally seems to notice the bracelet on your wrist. "That's weird. I could've sworn I saw it in my drawer this morning."

You shrug. "Maybe you're just losing your mind."

He grins, bringing your hand up to his mouth and pressing a kiss against your open palm. "Yeah, maybe. Or are you trying to tell me something?"

You bat your eyelashes up at him. "Am I?"

His smile turns sly. "You are, aren't you?"

Jisung doesn't wait for a response, clasping his hand around yours and pulling you down the hallway back into your room. He kicks the door shut behind him and spins to face you, a wicked grin on his face.

You squeal when he picks you up, wrapping your legs around his waist and laughing against his mouth. His kisses are hot and eager– there's no break for breath as he moves across the room with you. You don't even pause when he lays you down on your bed, hand sliding “his” t-shirt up your body.

You shiver when he brushes against your thigh. His hands are cold from outside, and the contrast against your warm skin feels like electricity. He smiles in the kiss and squeezes the skin tight.

Your own hands find their way around his neck, pulling him even closer into you. Through the thin fabric of the shirt you're wearing, you can feel the hardness of his body all pressed against yours. He shifts against you and the friction makes your nipples harden right under him.

His hands leave your thighs. They wind their way up your torso, feeling you up all along the way until he finds the stiff peaks that called his attention. He runs his thumbs over them, drinking up every sound you make. One of your hands cards into his hair and you tug.

He groans at that, finally pulling away from the kiss with a grunt and instead trailing his kisses down the column of your throat. His teeth graze your pulse point and you buck up into him in surprise.

You feel him laugh against you.

"You're so cute," he says into your neck. He mouths over the skin before biting down, hot wet tongue immediately after. A bruise, then.

"Sungie," you gasp out. Your back arches off the mattress as his hands wander all over you. You've always loved how naturally his mouth works its way around your body– he knows just where to kiss, what spots to brush his nose over. Like he's learned the entire road map to your pleasure.

Maybe he has.

He mouths down your body, pausing and sucking on your breasts before leaving wet, soft kisses down the expanse of your tummy. When he gets to your core, he shifts his kiss-trail over to your inner thigh.

"Do you know how hot you are?" He murmurs. "Like all the time. Holy fuck. This is my shirt, princess. My shirt. Don't you know that drives me crazy?"

You do. It's precisely why you grabbed it.

His tongue meets your skin in an agonizing, slow stripe along your inner thigh. The higher he gets, the more your legs tremble around him, until finally his lips close around your clit.

The feeling is overwhelming. Your head lolls back against the bed and you let out a breathy moan. He hums against you, fingers digging into the skin of your thighs as he holds your legs up. Your hands are shaking, but one winds its way back into his soft hair, and you tug.

He moans at that, a sound that sends vibration up through your whole core. He takes a hand away and brings it down, letting his thumb just press lightly against your entrance. Even in the slightest sense of pressure, you arch further into him, wanting more, more, more.

He sucks on your clit even harder, his tongue joining, and when you look down and see his blissed out expression between your legs, you think your heart might jump right out of your chest.

In all the times the boys have taken you apart, they've never made you come this quickly. You're not sure if it's because of the moment with Chan earlier, or because you've been thinking about having one of them fuck you all day. All it takes is two large fingers, pushing and stretching inside of you while his mouth moves so perfectly around your throbbing clit for you to snap. You come with a sob, your thighs pressing against his head.

If there's one thing Jisung certainly loves, though, it's eating you out. He could spend hours between your legs, kissing and sucking and licking until you're boneless and spent. So there is no sign of slowing in his rhythm, even when you wriggle from overstimulation.

"Sung," you moan. He responds by pinching your thigh, sucking hard on your clit so your yelp turns into a moan.

Distantly, you register the sound of footsteps that pause right outside of your door. You hear knocking, but not on your door, and you realize Seungmin has finally come upstairs, likely to grab everybody for some quality time after a day apart.

You almost laugh at how well this is working out for you.

Jisung slides his fingers back into you, and your attention is split between straining to hear what's going on in the hallway and the blinding pleasure you're feeling. He curls his fingers up and you find yourself gushing on his hand, your own fingers tangled in his hair so tight he can barely move.

"God, you're so fucking wet," he murmurs against you. He almost sounds giddy. "Did you miss me, baby?"

You can't even form a response, only able to whine as he fucks into you with his fingers, tongue flicking over your clit just fast enough to make you tremble. Your orgasm is coming on strong, and you feel like you're floating above your body, every touch electric, every movement monumental.

And then–

"Ah, so that's where they are."

Your eyes snap to your now-open door. Your other two boyfriends are there, and you make direct eye contact with Chan just as your second orgasm reaches its peak. You arch up off the bed, gasping into the air as your body trembles, and Jisung keeps his mouth on you, sucking hard and making your vision go white.

After a minute, he finally slows his pace, pulling away and finger-fucking you slowly and deep. He would never stop completely, especially not now that everyone's in the same room. His voyeurism is likely cranked up to 10, and you know he'll be pouty and whiney for the rest of the week unless he gets to watch one of the other boys split you open on their cock.

From the way he's looking at you, you feel like it'll be Chan doing the splitting.

Seungmin, ever the sane one, pretends to roll his eyes. "So this is why neither of you were answering my texts about movie night? This couldn't wait?"

"Well, she was wearing my shirt and nothing under it," Jisung says, grinning up at him. He gives your clit one last suck before kissing it and propping himself up, fingers still buried to the hilt inside of you. Your brain feels foggy as you stare at the three of them. You can still feel yourself gushing on his fingers.

Seungmin notices, eyes glued to your cunt as he walks over. You see his faux annoyance dissolving. "Fuck, she's really wet, isn't she."

Jisung grins. He presses a kiss against your inner thigh. "Yeah, I think she missed us."

Chan scoffs. He finally makes his way into the room fully, and you can see where his cock is straining against the fabric of his shorts. "No. She missed getting fucked." 

He stands at the end of the bed, eyes fixed on Jisung's hand as he continues to move inside of you. "Did you tell Jisung what happened earlier, baby?"

Jisung huffs out a little laugh, half lidded eyes going back to your face. "Hmm. No. She didn't."

A chill runs down the length of your spine. Fuck. It sounds like Chan got to them first.

"Chan said you were being a real big brat earlier," Seungmin hums. He pulls his eyes away from your center and finally looks at you. "Is that true, angel? Were you being bad for Chan?"

You shake your head, eyes going doe-ish as he gets closer to you. You realize you need to change your plan and do it quickly. It takes less than half a second for a new idea to come: Seungmin is the softest of the three of them, at least in sexual situations. If you can get him on your side you might have a chance.

That thought flies out of the window when his hand makes its way around your throat, squeezing with just the right amount of pressure. 

"Don't lie to me, sweetheart." His voice is deceptively soft. "Don't you think Chan already spoke to us?"

You fight back a gasp at the sheer betrayal, but decide to double down anyway. "Wasn't being bad," you manage. You stick out your bottom lip in a pout. "I didn't do anything!"

Seungmin squeezes again, harder, and you really do gasp this time. "Then why did we both get a text from Chan earlier saying you were being mean to him? Hmm?"

"He said he came to blow off some steam and someone," Jisung presses his fingers directly against that squishy part inside of you, "Was being all bratty. Telling him to leave her alone."

It's at this moment that you realize all your planning was futile. You've fallen right into their trap.

You try the Seungmin strategy again, panting as you look up at him. "Minnie, please," you whine. You can't think with Jisung hitting your spot like that. "I wasn't– I–"

He tilts his head. "Oh come on baby. I think you're just lying to us now."

Your chest heaves. Jisung has chosen now to dive back into your cunt, tongue swiping up your slit and circling around your clit. Your brain is too scrambled to think of any other ways out of this situation, so you resort to what you always do: 

Pleading.

"'m sorry, Minnie," you rasp. "Didn't mean to– Didn't mean to be bratty."

Seungmin softens only slightly. "Are you sure?"

"Yes!" You're gasping around your words. "I promise. I just wanted to make him mad, wasn't trying to be mean."

In all of your begging and the relentless fervor of Jisung's tongue, you barely notice Chan making his way to the other side of your bed. Seungmin's grip loosens around your throat, his fingers tracing the outline of your jaw as he takes in your words.

"Hm. What do you think, Chan?"

You turn to look at him. He's shed his shirt somewhere along the way, and the hard musculature of his stomach is glistening with sweat. He climbs onto the bed and situates himself so that he's behind you with your head in his lap. You're expecting his hand to replace Seungmin's around your throat, but instead he reaches over you, gripping the hem of your shirt and sliding it up over your chest until your breasts are on full display. Seungmin immediately sinks down to his knees and takes your nipple into his mouth.

You're a gasping, whining mess, eyes rolling back until all you can see is white. You feel Jisung sling his arm around you to keep your body still.

Above you, Chan lets the shirt go and switches his focus to your hands, pulling them up and holding your wrists together in one hand to keep them above your head.

"I think," he murmurs, using his free hand to caress your face, "That if she wants to cum so bad, we should let her."

Your heart drops. To the untrained ear, it sounds like you've won, but you know better. You know Chan, and you know he has something up his sleeve. But when you look up at him, he's looking down at you with a sickly sweet smile.

"If she's sorry," he continues, "She'll behave. Right, babygirl?"

You can't speak. The dual sensations are sending you to the moon. The hand caressing your face grips your jaw tight, keeping your gaze locked on him.

"I asked you a question, princess."

As soon as you open your mouth to answer, your orgasm crashes into you without warning. It's the third one in a row, and you feel much like a washcloth that's been wrung out. Your movements are jerky, uncoordinated, and even as you continue trying to respond to Chan, your voice is not coming out.

"Jisung." He says simply.

The boy in question pulls away from your cunt with a satisfying pop. He's absolutely pussy drunk, eyes half lidded and tongue rolling over his lips to savor the flavor of you. If it were just the two of you, he'd keep going, but amongst the hierarchy of dominance, Chan has been, and will always be, at the top.

"I think she's ready now, yeah?" Chan rubs his thumb against your skin. "Fuck her good for me."

When orchestrating your own plan, you looked at Jisung’s eagerness as something to work in your favor. You hoped he would get you riled up enough for you to scream his name a couple times and really make Chan mad. But now, as he shimmies out of his sweats and boxers, taking his thick length in his hand, you feel nervousness tickle your gut.

Seungmin has pulled away from your nipple, reaching down to hold one of your thighs up. He's murmuring sweet nothings to you as he holds you open for Jisung. The latter is poised at your entrance, stroking himself and watching you with hungry eyes. 

You tip your head back to look at Chan again, and he only smiles down at you.

"Channie," you whimper out. You can barely speak, you're so overwhelmed. "Please–"

"Shh," he coos. "I know, baby. But this is what you wanted, yeah?" His hand moves from your jaw to your mouth, pressing a finger against your lips. You suck it in without thought, letting your tongue swirl around him with your cheeks hollowed out like you would on his cock. "I just want to see you take Sungie's dick. Be good, baby."

You almost choke when Jisung thrusts into you. You're already so wet and so sensitive, and his cock is stretching you so wide, pushing deep inside until you're sure you can feel him in your stomach. He gives you no time to adjust, that eagerness coming full force as he fucks right into you.

"God, she's still so tight," he breathes. One hand finds purchase in the dip of your waist, the other moves to the thigh not being held by Seungmin, folding you up and spreading you open to give him more leverage as he fucks into you hard.

Seungmin hums, trailing kisses along your leg and the side of your neck. "Feel good, angel? You like having Jisung's cock inside you?"

You can't even respond, mind blank as Jisung plows you deep. Your back is arched off of Chan's lap, head pushed back as his finger keeps your mouth propped open. You're a dumb, drooling mess around him, and despite the soft smile on his lips, you know it's wrecking him. 

To prove your point, he digs his nails in one of your palms, a stark contrast to the way Seungmin's hand is gently rubbing up and down your body, playing with your nipples and caressing your sides and stomach.

It's all too much, the sensations are overwhelming, and you're so wound up from earlier that you already feel the orgasm building. You mewl pathetically, eyes watering as you look around for someone to have pity on you.

It's Chan who catches your pleading gaze, but he only raises an eyebrow.

"You're gonna cum again? Already?" he says. It's not condescending or snarky, rather genuine disbelief and curiosity. His finger leaves your mouth and you let out a dry sob as trails of spit drip down your chin.

Jisung doesn't hear this– or can't, rather. He's fucking into you like he'll die if he stops, breathy moans leaving his mouth as he does. He's babbling nonsense, things like how tight you are and how well you take him in. You know he's close too, because his hips have gone erratic in their rhythm. Yet somehow, he gets faster.

The knot in your stomach feels heavy as lead. This orgasm might genuinely take you out. 

"Please," you rasp. "Please, please, I can't–"

Chan shakes his head, smiling. "Oh, but baby, I thought you wanted to cum?" 

"I do," you whine. "Want to so bad but 's too much. Too much, Channie, please–"

"No. Shut up and cum, princess," the grit in his voice is back. "Cum on Jisung's cock. Be good for us."

That's all it takes for you to snap. You let out a broken cry as another orgasm rocks through your body. It's even more intense than the others, pulling all of your muscles taut so you sit up before slumping back into Chan's arms. You barely register the way your hands flex uselessly above your head, writhing in Chan's grip. You can only vaguely feel Seungmin kissing your cheek, whispering little encouragements in your ear, telling you how good you are and how pretty you look when you cum.

And then Jisung is grunting, snapping his hips against yours one last time before spilling into you. Your walls spasm around him as he cums, milking him dry and causing you both to whine into the air.

In typical Jisung fashion, he's still rutting up into you after you're both well past overstimulation. The pressure in your cunt throbs throughout your body, tears springing into your eyes. You're very close to abandoning the little bit of pride you have and begging him to stop.

It turns out you don't need to, because as if on cue, Jisung finally pulls out and Seungmin lets go of your legs, standing up. You nearly sob at the loss of his gentle contact, so you don't even notice he's taking off his clothes until he's standing where Jisung was, hands gripping the soft skin of your thighs to hold you open. 

"Aw, baby," he says softly. He runs a hand up your leg. "You did so well."

You pout, a sob bubbling in your throat when you realize their plan now. They're gonna drag as many orgasms out of you as they can, overstimulation be damned. The thought makes your clit throb, and that alone makes you whine. It's all too much.

Despite knowing you're already so wet and lax and malleable, Seungmin reaches down to rub at your clit in an attempt to open you up. 

"Min," you cry, squirming at his touch. Your cunt feels tender, and even though the first set of tears are long dried up on your cheeks, fresh ones start to come. "Minnie–"

"Shhh. It's okay, angel."

His words are gentle and reassuring, but when his eyes catch yours, all you see is darkness.

Seungmin's gentle dominance has a limit. He doesn't get all stern and mean like Chan, or desperate like Jisung, but there's only so long he can last before that other, darker part of him surfaces, the one that gets off on hurting you, on seeing you in pain and feeling good from it. You can tell by the look in his eyes that this is the part of him you'll be dealing with.

When he finally sinks his cock inside you, it's slow, and the moan that he lets out vibrates through his length and right into you. Your neck seems to give up, dropping you right back down in Chan's lap less than gracefully. It gives him better access to you, and he leans immediately to attach his mouth to yours. He alternates between soft kisses and hard bites that will surely bruise in the morning.

Seungmin is only a bit longer than Jisung, but he's so damn girthy. Every tiny thrust he rocks into you sends shivers down your spine. Your skin feels like it's on fire and you're not even kissing Chan back, basically panting into his open mouth.

"Prop her up, Chan," Seungmin grits out. "Wanna watch her while she cries."

He gives you one final peck, and then the hand that's still holding your wrists lets go. It takes a second, then both hands are under you, lifting you up off the mattress until you're sat up on his lap with his chest against your back. He crosses your wrists against your chest and holds them in one hand, and then the other snakes up and finds your throat. His hand is way bigger than Seungmin's, and he's not as gentle when he squeezes and forces you to look back at him.

He doesn't look mad, or even turned on. He's smiling at you, like you're a particularly good puppy. "Good girl. Gonna give us a big one, yeah?”

You barely have a moment to understand what he's implying before you feel a hand on your clit. Both of Seungmin's hands are occupied, so you're not sure why it surprises you to see that it's Jisung's deft fingers on you. He's standing behind Seungmin, one hand on him and the other on you.

It feels like your eyes are bulging out of your head. The touch is gentle, but it still feels like you're being hit with lightning bolts. You're too spent to even buck up at the contact.

"Oh my God," you choke. "Oh, oh, I–"

“That's it,” Chan purrs when you cum again. He kisses whatever skin is closest to his mouth, his fingers gripping your jaw. Your head feels light, the only thing keeping you grounded to the bed are their hands on you. You feel like you're going to faint, and Seungmin's eyes are only egging you on.

Your body trembles so violently, Seungmin is forced to pause in his motions to hold your knees and keep your legs from buckling in. Your vision is blurry, but you can see Jisung has a steady grip on Seungmin's hair, effectively holding him in place.

"Good girl," he breathes, those big brown eyes trained on your face. "You take him so well."

His words send shivers down your spine. Jisung is always more coherent and in control after an orgasm. You know if Seungmin was today's focus, Jisung would likely be spitting all kinds of nasty, filthy words in his ear, but his gaze is fixed on you. All it takes to get you going is a good stare.

He taps at your clit with his free hand. You jump, moaning loudly at the contact, your back arching off Chan's chest and into Seungmin's body.

"She's good. Keep going," Jisung murmurs, pulling his eyes away from yours to look at Seungmin. He pulls a little at the hair on the nape of his neck, causing Seungmin's cock to jump inside you.

They work in tandem. Jisung's hand keeps circling your clit in the same soft rhythm, and you're not sure how but it's making you even wetter and more loose. You're a mess of moans, not knowing whose name to scream when they all have their hands on you. It's dizzying in the best way. 

Seungmin has started rolling his hips into you with more vigor, the soft sound of skin slapping skin filling the room. The dark shroud over his eyes is back as he stares down at you. "Feels good doesn't it," he grunts. "Look at your little cunt fluttering open for me like a good slut."

You feel another sob bubble out of you, this one accompanied by tears, but it dies in your throat when Chan's grip on you gets even tighter. All you can do is pout and whine.

"Aw, look at the little crybaby." Seungmin starts to fuck into you in earnest, his own moans getting higher in pitch. You can tell by the way Jisung's grip in his hair tightens that he's close. "C'mon angel. You're being so good, you can take it."

"Minnie," you rasp, barely able to speak. "Please–"

"I said take it." He’s looking down, watching where your cunt is sucking him in with each thrust. He thrusts into you particularly hard, and your entire body lurches forward, causing you to gasp. "And if you can't, you know what to say. You know your word."

You do. Somehow, under all the begging and pleading, you're actually insanely giddy with want. It's all part of the little game you play, so you just pout pathetically at Seungmin as his hips snap harder into yours.

"She's not gonna say it," Chan sing-songs. He uses the hand on your throat to tilt your head to the side, giving him perfect access to more of you. He nips at your skin. "She likes being treated like this. Like a little toy."

It's all too much. Every inch of you is on fire, the room feels like it's a thousand degrees. Chan's mouth on your neck, Seungmin's cock deep in your cunt, and Jisung's fingers–

It's like something snaps.

A knot you didn't even realize was in your stomach explodes and your vision goes white. It's an orgasm unlike anything you've experienced before. Your brain completely melts, your hearing dulls, and you can feel the drool running down your chin. You feel like you're floating and drowning all at the same time. 

"Oh shit," you hear Seungmin groan. Your cunt is spasming around him. His thrusts become harder, sloppy. "God, fuck–"

He cums hard inside of you, hips jerking as he chases the aftershocks. You've gone completely limp, barely able to move at all as Chan continues to bite at your neck.

The hand on Seungmin's shoulder drops. "That's so hot," Jisung mutters, almost to himself. He's lost some of his in-control voice. "Wow, baby, you should be bratty more often.”

If you could see straight, you'd probably laugh at that.

Seungmin pulls out slowly, and when the head of his cock leaves you, you let out a tiny mewl. You're overstimulated to the point that you're numb. Seungmin smiles softly as he rubs the inside of your thigh.

"Oh, sweetheart, I know. It's a lot. But you're being so good for us.  I think it's Chan's turn though, hm? Wanna make him feel good?"

"Give her a minute," Jisung chides. You hear a sharp intake of breath and you know he's likely yanked on Seungmin's hair again. "She's about to pass out."

You can feel your limbs slowly returning to you, the fog clearing in your head. When Chan moves the hand from your throat, you breathe deeply, taking in gulps of air as moves his hand down to rub against your tummy. Jisung and Seungmin are bickering somewhere around you, and you let yourself relax in Chan's hold.

"Do you want to finish now, princess?" His lips are warm against your ear. "We can be done. You don't have to take me.”

It's a very tempting offer, especially with the way you can hardly remember what day it is. You could easily take it and call this all done. The four of you have almost certainly been at this for more than an hour now, and they've wrung six orgasms out of you. They're sweet enough to offer to call it a night.

But then you think about Chan, and how, despite being the reason this all started, he's barely done anything. Hasn't tasted you, hasn't shoved his cock down your throat– He's usually not one for letting go until you've milked him dry at least twice, and you can't stand the idea of him having that buzz under his skin all night. 

So you shake your head.

"No?" Chan laughs, almost like he's surprised. "Really? You still want to finish with me? Are you sure, princess?”

He's giving you the same offer he gave you earlier. An out. Making your comfort the first priority. The thought alone is what gives you the strength to nod against him.

"'m sure, Channie."

"Oh, fuck, okay." His grip around you goes a little slack as he moves, pulling you away from his lap and  laying you back into your bed. He leans over you and presses a gentle kiss against your mouth. It feels like he's thanking you, almost.

When he pulls away, his eyes are sparkling. You want to look into them for hours.

He barks something at Jisung and Seungmin, and the bickering stops immediately. You hear shuffling around you before Seungmin takes Chan's empty space and Jisung appears at your side. They're pressing soft kisses to your face and praising you as Chan works his shorts and boxers down. When his cock springs free, he lets out a hiss of relief.

The sight of him alone makes anxiety rear its ugly head. You start to wonder if maybe you should've taken the opportunity to tap out, or if maybe you should use your safeword, but then Jisung is grabbing your hand and pressing kisses against it, squeezing you and keeping you tethered to the present.

"You can do it, pretty girl," he murmurs in your ear, breath fanning over your cheek. "You did so good for us, just a little longer."

Chan catches your eyes, and he smiles again, reassuring. His hand runs down your body and grabs one of your legs, lifting it and hooking your calf over his shoulder. "Gonna go easy, baby. I know it's a lot."

Your stomach is filled with butterflies, and your hands are shaking a little bit when he ruts himself up against you. You're so open from the others that when his head catches on your entrance, it nearly slips inside.  

Your back arches as you moan, and then his cock brushes against your entrance with purpose and it feels like you're going to split right open. He rocks into you again, pushing in the barest inch and pulling right back out. You whine and shift your hips in an attempt to escape.

"Come on, be a good girl now, princess." His voice has gotten lower, lust taking over. "Relax.”

His eyes flit up from where you're connected to look at you, and in one move he pushes right inside of you.

It doesn't hurt– you're way too wet and open for that. It does feel like your stomach is being forced open, however. Like his cock is pressing against all of your internal organs. You arch up off of Seungmin's lap and he pulls you back to him quickly.

Chan groans, bottoming out inside you. His eyes are closed as he lets himself bask in the sensation, hips rocking shallowly. You're thankful that he doesn't move immediately, but even the barest amount of movement feels like too much, like you'll come apart at any second.

You barely feel it when Jisung slips your hand into his. It takes you a minute to realize it's because your brain has been reduced to nothing. Your body has melted into the bed, your muscles are lax, and there's an emptiness in your brain filled with nothing but static and Chan's name. You don't think about anything at all, can't form a single coherent thought. You don't feel the kisses on your throat or the way Seungmin's hands have taken residence on your stomach. The only thing you feel is the overwhelming pressure in your cunt as Chan slowly pulls out, leaving just the tip, before pushing all the way back in.

He builds a rhythm quickly. Seungmin is holding you tight to his body, as though he's scared you might float away, and you appreciate it because it gives you another sensation to focus on. Your head is lolled against his shoulder, eyes rolled back into your head so far all you see is white.

The sound of Chan fucking into you is absolutely obscene, a mixture of your juices and the remnants of the cum still leaking from your hole. He fucks you slow, but hard, snapping his hips into yours so hard it almost feels like you might get a bruise on your thigh.

Jisung is watching with hungry eyes from your side. He's not touching you at all anymore, too engrossed in the scene unfolding to do much else other than stare with his jaw slacked. Seungmin takes over for him.

"That's it," he breathes. "That's it angel, look at you." He moves the hand on your stomach and lets his thumb rub circles on your clit. You feel like you're going to pass out. You don't get time to beg him to stop before you feel that same hand move to your mouth, and two fingers push past your lips.

"Here, sweetheart," he breathes, eyes fixed on your lips as you suck his fingers. "That's you on my fingers, baby. Isn't it good?"

You moan around his hand, head spinning both at the taste of yourself and the intrusion of Seungmin's fingers in your mouth. He's not fucking them into you with any kind of rhythm, just shoving them in there until you're dribbling around his hand. He hums happily when he pushes in more and makes you gag, kissing away the tears the spill over.

Chan grunts, head falling back. "Min, again, please, she just– fuck, she–"

Seungmin doesn't need to be told twice. He repeats the motion again, making sure his fingers go far enough so you're choking around him. This time, when you splutter and gag, you can feel it when you clench down on Chan and his cock pulses in response.

"Oh my God," he moans, thrusting into you again. "Oh my god, baby, you're so good. You're doing so fucking good–"

Between the movement of his hips and the feeling of Seungmin's fingers down your throat, you're not quite sure you're still on this plane of existence. Everything is spinning around you, your cunt is throbbing, you can hear Jisung moaning somewhere, but you don't know from what.

You can feel Seungmin's lips pressed against your forehead as his fingers fuck your mouth, your eyes rolling back into your head again. You're so lightheaded, so far gone, you can barely remember your name. 

It's when Chan starts to thrust faster that you come back to your body with a jolt, mind filling with white hot heat. The pleasure has long since lost it's edge, and you're a moaning, writhing, teary mess again. The coil in your stomach starts to build for the seventh time, and you're pretty sure your brain has gone empty. The only thing you're able to focus on is Chan. Chan, Chan, Chan.

"Almost done, angel." You register a kiss pressed to the corner of your mouth, and then another on your forehead. You think the voice belongs to Seungmin. Maybe, if the way he eases his hand out of your mouth is any indication.

Nothing is making sense anymore. It all feels like you're having an out-of-body experience.

Chan's hips falter, and his hand slides up to your throat again, but he doesn't squeeze. Just rests it there as his orgasm approaches, hips snapping against you at an erratic rhythm.

"Sweetheart." His eyes flutter open with strained effort, but they remain locked on yours. "Can you give us one more, princess? Hm? Can I get you to cum on me too, please?"

There's a desperation in his voice that makes your body feel hot. You want to tell him yes, that you're close, so so close, but all that comes out is a weak noise that you're not even certain you made. 

Seungmin seems to get it though, because he slips his fingers down between your legs, finding your clit again. He rolls it between his fingers with one hand while his other reaches up and settles on your jaw. You feel Jisung's tongue flick over your nipple and your world draws to a pinpoint.

Chan curses above you, fucking into you at an almost punishing pace. "Yes, baby, let go for us. That's it. We got you."

It feels like someone's stuck a vacuum in your brain with the incoherent way you're thinking. The sound of his voice saying your name in that desperate tone is all it takes, and suddenly you're floating out of your body, ears ringing as the pressure inside you bursts. Your eyes roll back and the clinging remnants of an orgasm wash through your body. It feels more like an aftershock. You're only vaguely aware of the way Chan moans, loud and throaty, when he finally spills into you.

It takes a couple minutes before the two of you come back down to earth. You can't move, and even though you know Seungmin is holding you tight, it feels like you might drift right off the mattress and float up into the clouds.

Chan pulls out slowly, and you shudder when you feel a trickle of his cum leaking from your hole. It's not long before your eyes droop shut from pure exhaustion. You think you might pass out right on the spot.

The room gets kicked into gear pretty quickly after that. From what you can tell in the hazy state you're in, someone grabs a wet cloth to wipe you down with while someone else finds you a new t-shirt (and panties this time). They dress you like you're a doll, maneuvering your limbs and telling you you're good, you're so good, they love you so much.

Then you're scooped up into a pair of arms while the distant sounds of sheets being pulled off the bed floats up to you. They take you out of the room.

"You did so good for us, baby." The owner of the arms whispers against your ear. From the cadence in their tone you're pretty sure it's Jisung. "You were such a good girl for us, sweetheart. We're so proud of you."

You think you nod against him, but you can't be sure. You hear him kick a door open, and then he sets you down on a bed and you register Seungmin and Chan coming in.

"Okay," Jisung murmurs, going through his aftercare list out loud. "Fresh bed, fresh clothes, we got her some water."

You feel the bed dip behind you. "We got it, but she's gotta drink it, though," Chan chimes. There's fondness in his voice as he scoots closer to you. "Come here, baby."

You let yourself go limp, and a content smile plasters on your face as your boys fuss over you and make sure you're comfortable. They're so gentle, despite what just transpired, and they all take turns pressing kisses against your head, your cheeks, your nose.

When you've all settled into the bed, you feel three pairs of arms around you, holding you close, and you feel insanely lucky for all of it. You snuggle deeper into someone's chest, humming absentmindedly in that dreamy, fucked-out headspace.

"Thank you," you mumble, pressing a kiss to whoever you're snuggled against. You think it's Jisung from the way they nuzzle into your cheek.

"Of course, princess," Chan replies, his voice vibrating against your back. You feel his lips press against your temple, and you smile again. "You're our good girl, even when you're a brat. We'll always take care of you.”

You don't bother replying, simply allowing yourself to sink back into that fuzzy state. You're about to slip out of consciousness when you feel Jisung's nose against your cheek.

"You really do need to be bratty more often, though."

You hear a dull thump as Seungmin smacks the back of his head, and you let their hushed bickering be the lullaby you need to lull you into sleep.

[rosemaryhoney27]

Dead End Diner

Inspired by this post

Link

The neon sign above the little corner diner buzzed faintly, its flickering letters spelling out The Dead End. Rain drizzled from the Gotham sky, casting reflections of sickly green and crimson across the slick asphalt. Crime, chaos, and capes ruled the night—but inside the warm diner, a world of sizzling grills, greasy coffee, and ghost-proof walls thrived in peace.

Danny Fenton wiped down the countertop, ghost core humming gently with contentment.

Leaving Amity Park had been easy once his parents screamed the word “monster.” The lab accident that gave him ghost powers had changed everything, and not everyone could handle the truth. Especially Jack and Maddie Fenton.

Vlad Masters hadn’t taken rejection well either. Maddie still wanted nothing to do with him—half ghost or not. In a final, dramatic end, Vlad destroyed his ghost half and drank himself into the grave. The only note he left behind was a signed will, bequeathing everything to Daniel Fenton.

So now Danny was wealthy.

And utterly, devastatingly bored.

Money didn’t thrill him. Mansions made him feel lonely. Charity galas were stiff and full of liars. So he’d packed up and moved to the most chaotic, unpredictable, high-stakes city he could think of: Gotham.

He bought a crumbling building right in the Narrows, cleaned it out, reinforced it with ghost tech and some stolen WayneTech from Vlad’s stash, and opened a 24/7 diner.

He called it The Dead End.

It was a hit almost instantly. Not because of the food, though it was great (Danny had a mean hand with greasy spoons), but because of the way he ran it.

“Pay if you can, eat if you’re hungry, and don’t be a jerk.”

Word spread. The homeless knew they’d get warm soup and hot fries. Night-shift nurses sat next to henchmen on break. Cops blinked awkwardly at villains scarfing pancakes. No fights, no weapons, no questions. If a rogue battle broke out outside, people flooded in for shelter. Danny never locked the doors.

He sat behind the counter and watched the madness through the windows, eating his waffles in peace. If he had to step out and go invisible to redirect a missile away from his roof, well, that was his business.

Gotham’s vigilantes didn’t see it that way.

Nightwing was the first to break in.

Danny caught him perched on the rafters like an oversized, very broody bat.

“You want eggs or pancakes?” Danny asked, not looking up from his crossword puzzle.

“…I’m not here to eat.”

“Then you broke into my diner for nothing? That’s kinda rude.” Danny gestured to the stools. “Sit. I’m not feeding a potential burglar unless he’s sitting.”

Grumbling, Nightwing slid down and took a seat.

A week later, Red Hood tripped the back alarm. He got a grilled cheese shoved into his hands before he could say a word.

Tim Drake hacked the registers. Danny dumped a milkshake in his lap and gave him a free slice of pie “as an apology.”

Spoiler got caught trying to blend in by wearing a hoodie. She got extra whipped cream and a “next time just ask for a table.”

They kept coming. Not even Batman himself was immune. One evening, the lights flickered and dimmed as a familiar voice echoed behind him.

“You’re not what you seem.”

Danny, utterly unbothered, slid a coffee mug across the counter.

“And you look like you need caffeine and a therapist.”

The cowl’s frown deepened. “How is your building still standing after Joker launched a rocket at this block?”

“I reinforced it,” Danny said, sipping his soda. “Ghost-proof, explosion-dampening, and built with spite. That helps.”

“You let known criminals hide here.”

“I let everyone hide here. I’m not a cop, Bats. I’m a fry cook.”

“You’re not just a fry cook.”

Danny’s eyes shimmered green.

“No,” he said. “I’m also a ghost. Now sit your haunted butt down and let me feed you before you faint from low blood sugar.”

Eventually, the Bats gave up trying to prove he was a villain.

Instead, they started… showing up.

Red Robin brought his laptop and camped at a booth during patrol. He claimed it was “recon,” but Danny always brought him extra hash browns.

Red Hood “accidentally” forgot his helmet once and got his favorite booth permanently labeled “Angry Soup Guy.”

Nightwing flirted with the waitress, annoyed Danny to no end, and somehow ended up helping wash dishes on busy nights.

Even Batman… tolerated the place. He’d never admit it, but he once grunted “thanks” after Danny saved Batgirl from getting crushed by falling debris—without revealing her identity or asking questions.

The Rogues started calling Danny “Ghost Chef.”

The vigilantes? “Spook Fry.”

He’d been called worse.

One night, just before closing, Danny flipped the sign to CLOSED and leaned against the window. Outside, Scarecrow and Batwoman were having a rooftop showdown. The sky was full of smoke and red light. He yawned.

Behind him, Damian Wayne sat sipping a very serious cup of cocoa and glared at the sugar skull art on the wall.

“You’re suspicious,” Damian said. “You let Joker’s goons eat here last week.”

“They paid in stolen casino chips. I took it. Better than nothing.”

“You don’t fear us.”

“I don’t fear much.”

Damian narrowed his eyes. “You’re hiding something.”

Danny winked. “Aren’t we all?”

The Dead End became legend.

A safe zone. A neutral ground. A place where Penguin’s thugs might sit next to Batgirl and silently agree not to wreck the place.

Danny never asked questions, and he always served the best damn pancakes in Gotham.

He’d been disowned. Betrayed. Abandoned. But in Gotham, the city of masks and monsters, he found peace in chaos, purpose in pancakes, and power in doing what no one else dared: building something kind in a world built on fear.

And honestly?

That was way more fun than being rich.

[absdollievu]

Roommate Abby tutoring another girl and reader getting jealous? 🙈🙈 just a thought

Not the One I Notice

nerdy!abby x jealous!reader

Warnings: fingering

thank you anon for this request, you ask and I shall deliver

You’re not sure when it started bothering you. Probably the second or third time Maddy showed up with coffee and that bright, over-familiar smile.

The first time was easy to ignore—just a tutoring session, textbook open, Abby sitting cross-legged on her bed while Maddy leaned over her shoulder, laughing at something stupid.

But then she kept coming back. Kept touching Abby’s arm when she talked. Kept calling her “Ab’s” like it was something she’d owned.

Now it’s every other afternoon. Abby’s bed isn’t hers anymore—it’s a shared space. Maddy stretches out on it like she belongs there, and Abby doesn’t tell her otherwise.

That’s the part that sticks.

⸻

You try not to care. You really do.

But you come back from class and hear that laugh through the door again—Maddy’s high, rehearsed, flirty—and it gets under your skin.

You barely say a word when you walk in. Abby doesn’t notice. Or pretends not to. Maddy says hi in that voice that assumes you don’t matter.

You stay with your headphones on 24/7. You stay out later. You start timing your returns to avoid her.

Still doesn’t work.

She’s always there.

⸻

Friday night. Rain.

You’ve been out drinking, but not enough to be drunk. Just enough to dull things a little.

It’s quiet when you walk in. Abby’s sitting on her bed, reading. She looks up when you close the door behind you.

“Hey,” she says.

You pull off your hoodie and drop it on the chair. It’s still damp from the rain.

“Where’s Maddy?” you ask.

She blinks, like the question caught her off guard. “Not here.”

You don’t say anything. Just start digging through your drawer for a shirt.

There’s a pause. You feel her watching you.

“She hasn’t been over today,” she adds.

You laugh once, short and tired. “I didn’t ask.”

“You kind of did.” She raised an eyebrow.

You shake your head and pull your shirt over your head. “Forget it.”

“Seriously, what’s going on with you?”

You look at her now. Really look. She’s tense, arms crossed over her knees.

“Nothing,” you say.

“You haven’t looked at me all week. You barely talk. And then you come in and bring up Maddy like—”

“Like what?” you cut.

“Like you’re keeping up a fucking score!” She snaps back.

You step forward, arms crossed. “I’ve been here every day watching her crawl into your space, and you just let her. What am I supposed to think?”

“I was tutoring her,” Abby says, slow and measured. “That’s all it was.”

“She flirts with you.”

“She flirts with everyone.”

“Yeah,” you say. “But you don’t flirt with everyone back.”

Abby exhales through her nose. Her voice drops. “I didn’t even notice.”

“You noticed enough.”

There’s a beat of silence. She looks like she’s trying not to react.

“You really think I wanted anything from her?”

“I think you didn’t care what it looked like.”

“You’re mad because I’m tutoring her? Mad because she’s sitting in my bed?”

“I’m mad because you didn’t care how I felt. Watching her touch you. Take up space that used to be mine.”

Abby’s face hardens. “It was never yours.”

You flinch.

Then she shakes her head. “That’s not—fuck. That came out wrong.”

“No,” you say. “I get it.”

She takes a step closer. “It didn’t mean anything.”

“I know.”

“You don’t look like you know.”

You say nothing.

Then: “Why didn’t you tell me?” she asks.

“Why didn’t you?” you shoot back. “You think I didn’t notice you looking? That I didn’t feel it every night we fell asleep a foot apart?”

She’s close now. Two feet away, maybe less.

“I didn’t say anything,” she says quietly, “because I wasn’t sure you wanted me to.”

You swallow. Your voice is tight. “I did.”

More silence. Rain against the window.

Then she says it. Plain. Honest. “She’s not the one I think about.”

You nod once. “I figured that out eventually.”

Abby watches you for a long second. “So what now?”

You stare at her. At the line of her jaw, the pulse in her neck, the tension in her arms.

Then: “I’m still pissed at you.”

“I can tell.”

You step closer. “I don’t care what she meant. I care that you didn’t say it was me.”

Abby’s jaw tenses. “It’s always been you.”

That’s all it takes.

The space between you disappears in one move—her hands on your face, your mouth on hers.

Your lips crash together like it’s the only way to shut each other up.

It’s not soft. It’s not sweet. It’s everything that’s been boiling under your skin for days—every look she gave someone else, every time you held back, every night you lay there needing her and saying nothing.

Abby backs you into the wall with the weight of someone who’s done waiting. Her hands are rough when they grab your waist, drag you closer. You don’t resist. You bite down on her lip instead, hard enough to make her groan against your mouth.

She lifts your shirt—impatient, fingers fumbling—then yanks it over your head. Her mouth drops to your neck before it’s fully off, teeth grazing skin, and you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding.

You grip her hoodie, pulling her down to your level, and your voice comes out sharp. “You knew what you were doing.”

Abby exhales hard against your collarbone. “Yeah,” she mutters, lips brushing your skin. “I fucking did.”

She fists the back of your hair and tugs your head back, forcing your eyes up to hers. Her face is tight, jaw set.

“You really thought I wanted her?”

You just stare at her.

“Answer me.”

You swallow. “I didn’t want to think it.”

She pulls back just long enough to strip off her hoodie, then pushes you toward the bed without a word. Her body is solid against yours, muscle and heat and frustration.

You fall back onto the mattress. Abby’s on you in seconds, mouth everywhere—your chest, your ribs, the soft skin of your stomach. She drags your pants down rough, no ceremony, and drops them to the floor.

“Tell me to stop,” she says suddenly, voice low.

You don’t.

Instead, you hook your leg around her waist and pull her down on top of you.

“Don’t stop,” you whisper. “Not tonight.”

That’s all it takes.

Abby kisses you again—messy, angry, hungry. Her hand finds its way between your thighs, and she doesn’t hesitate. Her fingers slide through your slick and she exhales hard against your mouth.

“Fuck,” she mutters. “You’re already wet.”

“Yeah,” you breathe. “Wonder why.”

She pushes two fingers in without warning, and your back arches.

Her pace is fast from the start—no teasing, no games. She pins your hip down with one hand and fucks you like she means to leave a mark.

“You think she could do this to you?” she says, close to your ear. “Think she’d know how to fuck you like I do?”

You can’t answer. You’re already gasping, hips grinding down into her hand, chasing something fast and violent.

“Say it,” she growls. “Say it’s me.”

“It’s you,” you struggle. “Always you.”

She kisses you hard, swallowing the sound you make as her thumb finds your clit. Her rhythm changes, sharp, focused. Your hands claw at her back, digging into the warm skin under her shirt.

“Abby—” you gasp, legs starting to shake.

She doesn’t slow down. “You gonna come for me?”

You nod frantically. “Yes. Please.”

She curls her fingers just right and your whole body goes tight, breath catching in your throat. The orgasm hits hard—your hips jerk, your thighs clench, and all you can do is hold on as she works you through it, jaw clenched, eyes locked on yours.

When you finally go limp beneath her, chest heaving, Abby pulls her hand back and drags it slowly up your thigh.

She leans down, kisses the corner of your mouth.

You look up at her, eyes narrowed, breathless. “Still pissed at you.”

A smirk twitches at the edge of her mouth. “Good.”

Then she flips you over.

“Because I’m not done yet.”

[chuluoyi]

࿐ ࿔ 🕰️ 「 03:12 A.M 」

tw: pregnancy. just a little something based on ask~ gojo annoys you on daily basis, so now you return the favor and he can't refuse it bc you're his baby mama😋

a part of gojo's love entries

“satoru— your baby is hungry,” you pouted, poking his cheek repeatedly. “sa-to-ru!!”

it was 3 in the morning, and ideally, you would have been sleeping... only that suddenly you were awoken by rumbles from your growing belly.

yet your husband was still sound asleep without any care in the world, prompting you to poke him until you succeeded in making him hear you out.

satoru begrudgingly cracked his eyes open, still having his face tucked under the blanket and yawning. “ngh, sweets… what is it?”

his sleepy voice was thick, low and raspy. usually you’d swoon and leave a hickey or two on his neck but not now, as the overwhelming hunger made you almost curl.

“baby is craving mochi,” you said, eyes shining up to him ever so innocently. “get it for me, satoruuu.”

“oh?” if he wasn’t awake before, now he was after hearing your nagging tone drawling his name. he faced you and drew you closer. “what do you want again, hmm?”

“ice cream mochi!!”

“oooh that.” satoru scratched his head at the memory of him eating the last of it yesterday. “but we ran out of them, sweetheart… wait till morning, yeah? i’ll go to market to get some.”

“but...”

“can’t baby wait a few more hours, hmm?”

“no! want it— now!”

satoru blinked at your insistence. you looked positively adorable while sulking at him too.

“why mochi all of sudden, huh?” he decided to humor you. “you used to say they taste bland.”

“that’s because of your sperm infecting me,” you sullenly accused. “and don’t pretend you haven’t been feeding me mochi for weeks. baby likes it more than i thought.”

“hey! don’t bash my sperm! they did no wrong and completed the deed splendidly!”

“you’re just a one-time donor, don’t be smug.”

he whined and you huffed, before suddenly your stomach grumbled loudly and you curled up. “mmhm.”

“hey… what’s wrong?” satoru quickly sat up and placed his hand on your baby bump. “really hungry? wait, i’ll get you something to nibble on first.”

he rummaged through his work uniform and found several bite-sized chocolate bars he brought around, and unwrapped the foil. “here.”

you immediately devoured the treat to sate your hunger, but still, your baby longed for more—

“mochi…” you mumbled despondently, your expression turning heartbroken. and one second later satoru realized how much he wanted to squeeze your cheeks, and relented.

“okay, okay, sweets~” he gave your head several comforting pats, making you look up. “i’ll go and get the mochi, yeah? you stay put and wait for me, 'kay?”

“yay.” a little smile bloomed in your face and satoru chuckled, finding you so unbearably endearing.

and so, for you, he ventured out to the closest 24-hour convenience store, picking up some ice cream mochi along with other treats to replenish your stock, before teleporting back home.

he was expecting that you'd still be all sulky while waiting for him, but instead, he found you peacefully asleep, hogging his pillow.

each breath that caused your chest to rise and fall made you appear all the more vulnerable and soft in his eyes.

you looked so irrevocably precious to him. his sweet little wife... in that moment, satoru felt like he was the luckiest man alive, getting to have you as his.

“you naughty girl.” he let out an amused laugh before reclaiming his spot next to you. the hold you had over him— you made him go through the cold night air, and now you were monopolizing his pillow and he had to resume sleeping without one at all.

and yet all he could feel was love. for you and your baby, as he pulled you close to his chest.

“both of you sure love teaming up against me, huh?”

[glossdebut]

best laid plans | MYG

✧ PAIRING: yoongi x f!reader

✧ SUMMARY: You meet Min Yoongi at a GS25 on a nothing Tuesday. You don't expect him to change your life. You certainly don't expect to change his.

✧ TAGS: strangers to lovers, angst (with a happy—but hopefully realistic—ending), smut, fluff, this is a heavy one so please heed the warnings!

✧ WARNINGS: mental health issues, depression, depressive episodes, suicidal ideation throughout, suicide mentions throughout, implied suicide attempt (sort of?), panic attacks, specifically panic attacks after (consensual!) sex, smoking, recreational marijuana use, vaginal fingering, oral (m. receiving), oral (f. receiving), vaginal sex, mentions of unprotected sex (but no real unprotected sex), MINORS DNI, please do not read this fic if any of these warnings are triggering to you!

✧ AUTHOR’S NOTE: okay. so... i said i wasn't going to post any more fics until june. and i won't post any more until then after this! i'm still on semi-hiatus! but something happened in my personal life last week, and i couldn't... not get it all out, somehow. so... here's this almost 14k monster. thank you claret @yoonmetogether for beta reading and giving me so much love and support while i was in the process of writing this! i love you! and thank you yoongi, for writing/releasing so far away (and the last) in 2016 and teaching teenage aqua how to stay, even when i didn't want to. and teaching adult aqua the same thing every year since. i hope this fic helps someone. that's why i'm posting it.

P.S. i recognize that i haven't edited my taglist since my hiatus. if you want to be removed, let me know.

✧ WORDCOUNT: 13.6k words

It’s a Tuesday night, which means nothing. Just like Monday meant nothing. Just like Wednesday won’t either.

The buzzing fluorescent lights in the 24-hour convenience store stutter overhead. You’ve been zoned out in the ramen aisle for at least five minutes now, doing the same song and dance you always do. Pretending you’re going to try something different this time, be a little spontaneous. Because you must break the pattern today or the loop will repeat tomorrow, right?

Still, though, your hand hovers over the same one you always get—the spicy one in the black package that scorches your mouth and makes your nose run. But at least it makes you feel something. So, you grab it.

Into the basket it goes, landing beside a bottle of Milkis and a crumpled bag of gummy worms. You sigh, turn around—

—and nearly walk straight into some guy you didn’t even know was in the store.

You both do that awkward side-step thing, freeze, then side-step the same way again.

“Oh. Shit. Sorry,” the guy mutters, voice low and scratchy, like it hasn’t been used yet today.

He’s wearing an oversized hoodie, the drawstrings uneven. His hair, bleach blonde, is tucked messily under a beanie, and there’s a faint line on his cheek from what was clearly a very intense nap. He’s holding a can of cold coffee and a pre-packaged egg sandwich in one hand, clutched between long fingers.

His eyes flick up to yours, and you realize, belatedly, that you’re staring. You should probably move, or say something.

“No, I—sorry,” you say, taking a step back. Your basket clinks against your knee. “Didn’t see you.”

Both of you are still kind of in each other’s way. There’s that weird, hesitant pause where you’re not quite sure who’s supposed to move next.

You clear your throat, nodding at his sandwich. “Midnight craving?”

“Something like that,” he says, eyes flicking down to the ramen in your basket. “You going for pain, huh?”

You blink, then smile a little. You didn’t expect him to be game. “Only the kind I can control.”

That makes him huff a short laugh through his nose. “Hey, no judgment. I’m out here buying coffee at midnight, so.”

You nod toward the sandwich again. “And that. Bold choice.”

“I wasn’t ready to commit to tuna.”

“Fair.”

It feels dangerously like flirting, just for a second. Awkward, clumsy flirting, sure, but flirting nonetheless. But the moment ends just as quickly as it came, like you’ve both run out of things to say at the exact same time.

You awkwardly step in opposite directions after that.

You return to your mission. First, hot water from the machine by the coffee counter. Plastic fork from the stack that’s always slightly sticky. You sit on one of the cracked stools by the window while the noodles steep and sip from your Milkis while staring out at the empty street.

By the time you make it to the register, the guy is gone. You kind of expected that. 

He was cute, you think. A year ago, when you were a different girl and sort of had your shit together, you probably would’ve asked for his number. Batted your eyelashes or something stupid like that.

But now? You barely have the energy to brush your teeth most days. You’re certainly not in a place for romance. Not when your big life plan has boiled down to ‘survive one more month.’ 

So no, you’re not mourning the possible missed connection with the kind-of-cute stranger in the GS25. Just acknowledging it.

But then, when you’ve paid and make a move to shuffle out, the automatic doors slide open—and there he is. 

Again. Leaning against the low brick wall, trying to light a cigarette with the wind working against him. The flame sputters out twice before catching.

You could leave. You should. But you linger, and since the street is pretty much desolate, he notices.

“Didn’t mean to loiter behind you,” he says, glancing up.

You shrug. “Didn’t mean to run into you. Twice.”

He waves his free hand dismissively, the other bringing the cigarette to his lips, plastic bag dangling precariously. “No harm done.”

That should be it, probably. End of conversation, end of interaction. Two strangers walk in opposite directions to wherever it is they call home.

But something about the slump in his shoulders, so similar to your own, makes you momentarily brave.

“You got somewhere to be?” you ask, gnawing at your bottom lip.

“Does it look like it?”

It doesn’t. Neither do you.

“Wanna sit?” you offer, gesturing towards the curb. “I’m just gonna eat before it gets cold.”

His eyes widen, like that’s the last thing in the world he expected you to say.

“Uh. Yeah, sure. Thanks.”

You sit. He settles a little awkwardly beside you, pulling the sandwich out of its crinkled plastic. It’s predictably silent between you, but you don’t hate it.

He eats. You slurp noodles.

And eventually, inevitably, you glance sideways.

Okay. He is cute. Decidedly. Maybe even hot, if you caught him on a better day. In a bleary, worn out way. The kind of good looks that sneak up on you, delicate and masculine all at once. Pale skin. Sharp jaw. Soft mouth. You’re not going to do anything about it. Obviously. But… still.

“What’s your name?” you ask around a mouthful of noodles.

“Yoongi.”

You nod. Don’t offer yours yet.

Yoongi takes another bite of his sandwich. Swallows. “You here often?” he asks, immediately grimacing. “God. That sounded—"

“Like a line?” You laugh. “Yeah. It did.”

“Didn’t mean it like that.”

You shrug. “I’ll allow it. Just this once.”

Small talk comes easy after that. You find out he used to live on the other side of the river and only recently moved to this part of the city because of a roommate situation that imploded. You tell him that you only planned to live in your current apartment for a year, until you could afford something better. It’s been three now.

He tells you he’s currently between jobs. You admit you’re technically not sure if you still have your night gig, because your boss hasn’t texted you in three days and you don’t want to ask.

He gives you the remaining half of his sandwich. You pass over your ramen wordlessly, letting him steal a few bites. It’s still awkward, eating so closely with a stranger like this. Sharing your dinner with someone who doesn’t even know your name. But it’s weirdly nice.

When the food is mostly gone, he holds out his cigarette pack. You take one and he lights it for you. You both pass it back and forth in silence for a minute.

“I used to think I’d be famous by now,” he says eventually, exhaling toward the gutter. “Like, not stupid-famous. Just… enough that I wouldn’t be here. You know?”

You nod. You do know. 

“I wanted to be a writer,” you offer in return. “But I hate writing. And I hate people who are good at it. And I hate that I still kind of want to do it anyway.”

“I don’t even know what I do anymore,” he says. “I was making music for a while. Then I got tired. Now I sleep too much. Avoid my friends. Pick up shifts at my cousin’s record store when he gets desperate enough to ask.”

“That actually sounds kind of nice.”

He snorts. “It’s not. But thanks.”

You tip your head back, look up at the sky, which is a washed-out navy and completely starless. Seoul smog. “I work part-time at a bookstore that almost exclusively sells erotica. And I cry like, three times a week, minimum. Usually in the bathroom. Sometimes in front of customers.”

Yoongi flicks ash onto the ground. “You win.”

You both sit with it. The warm, awful food. The too-sweet soda and the gummy worms melting in the bag between your knees. The companionship of a stranger willing to share a cigarette and half of his shitty sandwich, whose life isn’t all that different from yours.

You turn your heads at the same time. Your eyes flick down to his lips where they’re sealed around the cigarette. Inhale, exhale. To his long fingers, thumbnail bitten to shit. 

He’s really pretty, even like this, in the unflattering light of the streetlamp you’re sitting under. Long lashes and dark eyes that pierce through you. You wonder if his mouth really is as soft as it looks.

He’s looking at your lips, too, you realize. When you catch him, he looks away fast, ears pink.

“This is nice,” he says, staring at the concrete beneath his shoes.

You blink. Then, just as quietly, “Yeah. It is.”

He offers the cigarette again. You take it. Neither of you says anything else for a long time.

✧

The bookstore has been blissfully, predictably dead since you opened this morning. That’s really the only upside of the job—nobody shows up. You could count the regulars on one hand, and half of them only come in to use the bathroom, despite the clearly posted sign that says they can’t.

You’ve developed a theory about it, about the shame that still lingers around buying erotica in person. As if reading about sex is fine, but purchasing it in the flesh is something to feel embarrassed about. You could write a dissertation on it, probably. But you won’t. You don’t write anymore. You just clock in, count the till, and reorganize displays no one looks at.

You’ve already done your morning routine. Opened up. Counted money. Packed a frankly alarming number of online orders (apparently people really love vampire erotica). Now, you’re posted up behind the counter, flipping through a paperback about sexy cowboys with a bright red cover and a title that would make your mother blush.

You’re in the middle of counting how many times the author uses the word member on one page (six, and one was throbbing) when the bell above the door gives its half-hearted ding.

You glance up from the counter, fully prepared to give your standard ‘we don’t have a public bathroom’ spiel, when you see him. Hoodie. Messy, bleached hair. Soft mouth.

Yoongi.

Your mouth actually falls open a little. You eventually gave him your name that night, but you hadn’t exchanged numbers. You didn’t even follow each other on social media. And yet, here he is, bearing witness to you in all of your smut-peddling glory.

“I guessed,” he says, by way of explanation. He sounds a little breathless. “You said bookstore, and there’s like, two in the area. The other one didn’t have nearly enough erotica.”

“So you just… showed up?” 

He shrugs, sheepish. “You didn’t give me your number.”

If he wasn’t cute, you might be a little creeped out. He’s lucky he’s got such a nice face. It makes things feel romantic. 

“You want something?” you ask, gesturing to the wide variety of bodice-rippers your manager has displayed so proudly at the register.

“Yeah,” he says. “A cigarette. And maybe to talk to you again.”

You exhale through your nose, amused despite yourself. “Come on.”

You lead him through the back, past the haphazard ‘Employees Only’ sign that no one respects. Outside, the alley smells like stale piss. Very romantic, indeed.

Just like Tuesday, he lights a cigarette for you to share. You take it, and he leans against the brick wall, watching you.

“I kept thinking about you all week,” he says suddenly, no preamble. His eyes are fixed on the smoke curling off the end of the cigarette. 

You take a drag, the smoke clinging to your teeth. “I thought about it too.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You look down at your shoes. “Didn’t think you’d actually show up, though.”

He gives a quiet little laugh, almost self-deprecating. “Honestly, I almost didn’t.”

“So why did you?”

“I don’t know. Stubbornness? Hope? Boredom?” He shrugs. “I guess I just didn’t want to go another week without feeling like something mattered. Even if it’s just a conversation in a piss alley.”

That earns a smile from you. A real one. You pass the cigarette back.

“I don’t know what this is,” he says eventually. “I don’t even know if I’m in a place to have a thing. But I liked talking to you. And I’m tired of not liking anything.”

You look at him. He’s not exactly looking back, more at the space near your shoes. But his profile is soft, a little hopeful.

“I feel the same way,” you say, cheeks hot and heartrate climbing. Something you haven’t felt in a long time—not for good reasons, at least.

He smiles. It’s small, but it feels real.

“You’re gonna give me your number this time, right?”

You dig your phone out of your pocket and hand it to him.

He types in his number one-handed, cigarette dangling from the other, then calls himself so he has yours too. When it buzzes in his hoodie pocket, he hums like that settles something. Like now, technically, you belong to each other in some tiny way.

You take the cigarette back from him. Your fingers brush, knuckles stay touching longer than they should.

“You’re not gonna ghost me now that you’ve won the chase, right?” you murmur.

Yoongi raises an eyebrow. “You think that was a chase?”

You shrug. “It was something.”

For a moment, you just stand there in the alley. The world keeps moving, traffic hums in the distance. Your shitty boss is probably inside wondering why you’ve been gone more than the regulation five minutes.

But you don’t move.

You look at him. His mouth. The cigarette between your fingers. And your body makes a decision your brain is too tired to argue with.

You lean in and kiss him.

It’s clumsy at first. Your lips a little dry, the angle off, but it doesn’t matter. He makes a sound like a surprised exhale against your mouth and then he’s kissing you back, slow and warm and honest.

He tastes like smoke and canned coffee. You drop the cigarette and his hand finds your jaw. Your fingers reach for the edge of his hoodie, twisting in the fabric like you’re worried he’ll disappear if you don’t hold on.

You kiss him again. And again.

You’re not trying to make it romantic, really. You’re not trying to make it anything. It’s just—fuck, it’s been so long since someone touched you like this. Since someone wanted to.

And Yoongi kisses like he wants to be anywhere but alone. Like he gets it.

When you finally pull back, both of you a little dazed, he lets out a quiet, almost embarrassed laugh. “Okay,” he says, voice rough. “So… this is happening.”

You nod, heart hammering. “Don’t make it a thing.”

“I won’t.”

And he kisses you again, one more time for the road, hands on your hips like maybe he needs the grounding just as badly as you do.

Yoongi leaves around the back and you go back inside like nothing happened.

But he leaves with your number, and you can still taste him on your lips.

✧

Weeks pass, but you both take full advantage of having each other’s numbers.

You text mostly during lulls, when you’re hiding behind the register pretending to alphabetize the books, or when Yoongi’s stuck in the back room of the record store sorting the new arrivals.

You never say good morning or good night. It’s not like that. But he sends you photos of weird album art, and you respond with blurry selfies surrounded by piles of books with egregious titles.

There’s comfort in the ease of it. No pressure. Just a quiet thread tying your days together.

You: someone asked if we have a bathroom and when i said no they said “then what do you do?” like they wanted me to shit in front of them for proof

Yoongi: People are the worst. Come work here. The pay is shit but at least no one talks to me

Sometimes you send voice notes instead of typing because you’re too tired, and he never comments on how drained you sound. He just sends one back where his voice is raspy and low and he’s clearly half-asleep but trying anyway.

It’s not dating, but it’s not not dating. You’re not friends, not exactly, but you care, at least a little, about whether he eats. Whether he sleeps. Whether he means it when he says he’s fine. 

It’s just whatever the two of you are capable of giving right now. Somehow, that’s enough.

It’s nearly midnight when your phone buzzes.

Yoongi: You up?

Yoongi: Don’t say anything about how that sounds btw

You stare at it for a second. Then you type:

You: i am. what’s up?

You: and yes i’m going to make fun of you anyway

You: is this a booty call

Three dots bubble up and disappear. Once, twice, three times.

Yoongi: I just want to see you

Yoongi: Is that okay?

You sit up, heart doing something inconvenient in your chest.

You could say no. You could ask why. You could point out the hour, claim you have work in the morning. But you haven’t seen him since the day you exchanged numbers (and saliva), so instead, you say:

You: yeah

You: come over

You send him your address. Twenty minutes later, he shows up, in the same hoodie as last time. Holding a plastic bag with canned coffee for him, Milkis for you, and a package of cookies you once mentioned liking in a text two weeks ago.

You don’t say anything at first. He holds up the bag like it’s proof that he should be allowed inside, and you take it with a soft, bemused snort. Then you step aside so he can come in.

He enters like someone trying not to wake a sleeping house—careful and quiet and unsure of what to do with his hands.

You close the door behind him. You both fidget for a second.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he says finally, standing just inside the doorway, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Kept thinking about you.”

Your heart tips, like it’s leaning closer to him whether you let it or not.

“I’ve been thinking about you too,” you admit softly.

And then, because it’s late and you’re lonely and he’s warm and real and here, you kiss him. Again.

It’s immediate this time. No fumbling. No hesitation. Just mouths pressing together like they’re picking up where you left off in the alley behind the bookstore. His hands find your waist. Yours cup his face, thumbs brushing the sharp edges of his cheekbones. You kiss him slow, then faster. Harder.

You don’t think about what it means. You don’t try to label it. You just let yourself feel it—the weight of his body, the sound of your breaths, the sudden, startling relief of being touched.

His mouth trails to your jaw. Your neck. His hoodie bunches in your fists.

When you finally pull back, both of you flushed and breathless, he presses his forehead against yours.

“I like you,” he says quietly.

You swallow around the knot in your throat and nod. “Kiss me again.”

There's a sharpness to the way your mouths move now. You tug at his hoodie, fingers slipping under the hem to touch skin, and he makes a sound against your lips, small and desperate.

Yoongi’s hands are everywhere. Gripping your waist like he’s trying to ground himself, sliding up your back, curling in your shirt like he can’t bear to let go. He presses you up against the door, urgent, and you gasp when his teeth graze the underside of your jaw.

“Fuck,” he mutters, breathing hard. “I’m sorry—I didn’t come here for this, I just—”

“Don’t stop,” you say, voice barely there. “I want this.”

That undoes him a little. You feel it in the way his mouth crashes back to yours, the way he exhales sharply through his nose like he’s already drunk on it. He kisses you hard, lips and teeth and tongue with no finesse.

His thigh slips between yours and you move against it, just enough to chase friction, just enough to let him feel how badly you want this too.

“Jesus,” he whispers, low and raw. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You tilt your head back and let him mouth at your throat, lips wet, sucking a bruise into the skin. Your hips roll down again, slow and deliberate, and Yoongi’s breath stutters.

“I missed this,” you admit, half-ashamed. “I missed being touched. I missed wanting someone.”

Yoongi lifts his head just enough to look at you, eyes heavy, expression unreadable.

“You’re not the only one,” he says.

And then he kisses you again, deep and dizzying, and slips a hand beneath your waistband. His fingers are warm against your skin. Tentative at first, like he's giving you a chance to stop him, even now. Like some small, rational part of him is still waiting for you to say, ‘don’t.’ But you don’t. You tilt your hips forward instead, breath catching, and he exhales like that’s all the permission he needs.

He pushes his hand into your underwear and groans when he feels how wet you are. 

“Fuck,” he gasps. “You’re so—fuck.”

It’s been a long time since someone touched you like this. Since someone wanted you like this. Desperate but gentle, afraid of messing it up. His fingers slide through your slick heat and you let out a sharp breath, clinging to his shoulders, your forehead pressed to his.

“I’m not gonna last long,” you whisper, already dizzy. “This is—fuck—this is embarrassing.”

Yoongi huffs a soft, broken laugh. “Don’t care. Come for me. Come fast. I want to feel you lose it.”

He fucks you with his fingers slow, then fast, then slow again. Just enough pressure to make you tremble, to make you cry out softly into his hoodie. His thumb finds your clit, and you nearly sob from the shock of it.

“Yoongi—” you breathe, hands scrambling for purchase. “I—fuck—”

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Just like that. Let me have it. I got you.”

You come fast. Hard. Pathetically hard. Your body locks up and then shudders violently, mouth open against his collarbone, heart pounding like it’s trying to claw out of your chest. Yoongi holds you through it. Doesn’t say anything. Just lets you ride it out with his mouth pressed to your temple, breathing you in.

When it’s over, you’re shaking. Barely upright. He eases his hand out of your underwear and presses a kiss to your hairline, tender in a way that makes your eyes sting.

You bury your face in his neck. 

“I can’t believe I let you finger me against my front door,” you mumble, mortified as you catch your breath.

“Can’t believe you invited me to,” he replies, grinning against your skin.

You both laugh. Quiet and shaky and a little shellshocked. You’re still leaning into him, your breath evening out, your body boneless. The high is fading, but the warmth he left behind is stubborn.

You lift your head, eyes still a little glazed, and give him a suspicious squint.

“I have a question,” you say.

Yoongi blinks, cautious. “Shoot.”

“How the fuck are you not getting laid constantly?”

His eyebrows shoot up. Then he laughs, quiet but full-bodied, like he’s genuinely caught off guard.

“I mean,” you continue, gesturing vaguely to your crotch, “that was—God. And I didn't even know if you’d be good at it! Like, I kind of assumed it would be decent, because you have a mouth and hands and a pulse—but that was fucking criminally good. Who taught you that? Why is this not a more widely available service?”

Yoongi presses his face into your shoulder and groans, laughing harder now. “Jesus Christ.”

“I’m just saying, someone out there is missing the opportunity of a lifetime.”

He finally lifts his head again, his cheeks tinged with pink. “Yeah, well. Most people don’t really stick around long enough to find out.”

That sobers you a little.

You study him—his messy hair, his blown pupils, the way he tries to play it off with a little shrug. But there’s something underneath it all. Not sadness, exactly. Loneliness, maybe.

You reach up and brush your fingers through his bangs, almost absently. “They’re idiots.”

Yoongi watches you for a moment. Doesn’t argue. Doesn’t deflect. Just leans into your touch. 

And then the quiet gets to you, makes you want to crawl out of your skin, so you say:

“So… uh… want me to suck your dick?”

Yoongi freezes. His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.

“...Right now?”

“No,” you say dryly. “Next Thursday.”

He laughs. “Are you always like this?” he asks, amused, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

You ignore him and reach for the waistband of his sweatpants instead, fingers slipping under, deliberate and slow. “So?”

Yoongi exhales sharply, eyes fluttering shut. “Yeah. Fuck. Yeah, I want you to.”

His head tips back when you start kissing down his neck. His breath goes shallow. The way he touches you, light on the back of your neck, like he doesn’t know what he did to deserve this—it makes you want to give him everything all of a sudden.

So you drop to your knees in your entryway, hitting the floor with a quiet thud that echoes in the quiet. Yoongi looks down at you in amazement, eyes wide, lips parted, chest rising and falling fast.

You tug his sweats down and he helps, fingers twitching against the fabric, thick cock already hard and leaking at the tip.

“You’re serious,” he says, voice thin. Disbelieving.

You glance up at him, smirking. “That a problem?”

“Not even a little.”

You spit into your palm, spread it over the head, and he twitches in your grip. When you lean in and lick a slow stripe up the underside of his cock, Yoongi lets out a quiet, broken sound.

You’re a little rusty, but you don’t tease. You don’t take your time. You just sink your mouth down around him, spit-slick and sloppy. 

“Fuck—” 

Yoongi’s head knocks lightly against the wall. One hand finds the back of your head, loose and shaking like he doesn’t know whether to pull you closer or hold you still.

You bob your head faster, messier. Let your saliva drip down over your fingers, curled around the base of his cock while you work the rest with your mouth. He groans again, choked and startled, and you feel him twitch in your palm.

“Jesus, you’re gonna—fuck, you’re gonna make me cum.”

You hum around him. That does it.

He gasps. Buckles a little. Then pulls back. Not all the way, just enough to jerk himself through the last few strokes, breathing ragged.

“Shit, shit—I’m—fuck, baby, fuck—”

You look up at him, mouth open, lips shiny and wet, tongue out just barely. 

He spills across your mouth, your cheek, your chin. Hot and messy and so, so much. You blink through it, a little stunned, a lot turned on.

“Holy shit,” he breathes, staring at the mess he made of you. “You’re—god. You’re insane.”

You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, still grinning. “You’re welcome.”

Yoongi laughs breathlessly. “I think I just fell in love with you a little.”

You feel the shift, then. It’s small, almost imperceptible, but suddenly the air feels different. Too quiet. A little too still.

“Don’t be weird about it,” you huff, just to fill the space. 

Yoongi leans down and helps you up with careful hands. Your legs are a little wobbly. His hoodie is rumpled. His hair’s a mess. His sweatpants hang loose on his hips and his lips are kiss-bitten and red.

You glance at him, then away just as fast.

You’ve crossed some invisible threshold. You both know it. And now you’re just... here.

“I’m gonna, um.” You gesture vaguely toward the hallway. “Wash my face.”

Yoongi nods, but doesn’t say anything. You don’t look back as you walk away.

In the bathroom, you stare at yourself in the mirror, palms braced on either side of the sink. You wash your hands. Splash your face. Pat dry and breathe.

Or try to.

Fuck, are you having a fucking panic attack? Over that? Your chest is tight, every cell of your skin foreign to you. Like you’re wearing someone else’s body and she just did something you weren’t supposed to.

What the fuck was that?

Not the act itself. That part was great. The enthusiasm, the sheer filth of it—you don’t think you regret it. Maybe. It felt good, in the moment. You wanted it.

It’s what came after.

The shift. The quiet. The moment you felt like he saw too much of you. The part of you that glows when it’s being wanted, and dims just as quickly when it’s alone again.

And—Jesus, ’I think I just fell in love with you a little’? Who the fuck says that?

It takes you longer than you’d like to calm down. You do the breathing exercises you were taught, back in college when counseling was free and they handed out pamphlets on every corner of your campus. In for four, hold for seven, out for eight. You smooth down your shirt. Brush your fingers through your hair. 

Then return to the living room like you didn’t just spiral for fifteen straight minutes.

When you return, breathing still a little labored, Yoongi’s sitting on the arm of your couch with his elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like he’s afraid of what comes next. Like you’ve left him with his thoughts for too long. 

He sits up when you approach, brow furrowed at the state of you.

“You okay?” he asks.

You sigh and sit down. 

“Yeah. I just…” You stare straight ahead. “That was good. Really good. But it’s been a while. And I don’t know what I’m doing. With any of this.”

Yoongi nods slowly. “You don’t have to know,” he says. “I don’t either.”

You turn to look at him, and the thing in his eyes, the softness, it’s too much. So you keep going. 

“Not just the sex. Not just… you. This,” you say, gesturing at yourself, then your apartment. The mess that’s accumulated over the past month. “Letting someone see me when I don’t have it together. When I’m not even trying to pretend I do.”

You rest your head on the back of the couch, stare up at the ceiling like maybe it’ll swallow you whole if you keep talking.

“I don’t know why the fuck now of all times is when I’m letting myself feel anything,” you say. “It’s not like my life is better. It’s not like I’ve earned it.”

Silence. 

Then Yoongi shifts. Leans forward, elbows on his knees again, like he’s working up to something.

“You don’t have to earn anything,” he says. “There’s no quota for being okay. Or being wanted. You can be a mess and still deserve good things. You can be at your worst and still… feel.”

You laugh. Bitter and small. “So what, we’re just two disasters trying to convince each other it’s fine?”

He shrugs. “Pretty much.” And then, so gentle it nearly breaks you, he adds, “I don’t think I’m here to fix you. I just want to be here.”

How can he be so sure?

You don’t know a damn thing about him. Not really.

You know he works the stock room in a record store part-time and hates most of his coworkers. You know he smokes too much. That he eats terrible sandwiches and drinks canned coffee. That he texts like he’s trying to make you laugh even when he’s probably in the middle of some breakdown of his own.

You know he’s good with his hands.

You know he looked at you, in all of your mess, like you were still human. You know that he says dumb, grossly honest shit way too easily.

But you don’t know where he grew up. You don’t know what keeps him up at night. You don’t know what kind of heartbreaks he’s carrying, or who let him down hard enough that he walks around like he does.

And still, there’s something in your chest that won’t calm down. Something desperate. Clawing. A tightness you don’t want to name.

Why?

Why the fuck are you feeling so much for someone who’s barely more than a stranger?

Is it just the attention? The intimacy? The fact that, for once, someone touched you without asking you to be okay first? Is this what happens when you’re starving? When your skin has been untouched for too long and someone comes along with warm hands and tired eyes and lets you fall apart without flinching?

Maybe.

But it doesn’t feel shallow. It doesn’t feel fake. Instead, it just feels too easy. Like being with him turns the volume down in your head. Like you don’t have to explain yourself to be understood.

It scares the shit out of you.

Yoongi slips down from the armrest, sinks into the cushion next to you instead. Your knee brushes his. His arm rests behind you on the back of the couch, not quite around you, but near enough that if you leaned even slightly, he’d catch you.

Neither of you moves for a while. You just breathe. 

Then his arm moves and his pinky finger nudges yours.

A small thing. Stupid. Barely anything.

But it’s the first deliberate touch since everything happened in the entryway. And it’s soft. Hesitant.

“We don’t have to do… that,” he says, quiet but firm. You know he means the sex. “We don’t have to do anything.”

Maybe you don’t need to define it yet. Maybe it’s not about love or fate or healing. Maybe it’s just about want.

Two people letting themselves be wanted for a while.

You hook your pinky around his.

Just this, you think. Just this is fine. 

✧

Yoongi doesn’t push. He doesn’t label anything. He just keeps showing up. 

Sometimes at your place, sometimes at his. Sometimes at the bookstore, when he has a day off.

There’s a pattern now.

Late-night convenience store runs. Shared ramen on cracked stools by the window, making fun of people’s bad haircuts as they pass on the street outside. Socks borrowed and never returned. His hoodie living permanently on the back of your chair. Your phone lighting up with ‘Proof of life?’ on days he knows you’re at a low.

Sometimes you kiss. Sometimes you just sit in the same room and don’t say anything. Sometimes he talks and you don’t respond. And that’s okay, too.

It’s not about what it is. It’s about the fact that it keeps happening.

When you disappear, he still shows up. Like today.

It’s not a dramatic breakdown. Not this time.

Instead, it’s the kind of bad week that sinks its teeth in slow. No single catalyst, no big meltdown. Just one exhausting day stacked on top of another, until your body forgets how to move without dragging. Your sink is full of dishes you can’t look at. Your hair’s unwashed. You haven’t eaten anything substantial in days.

You didn’t text Yoongi to come over. You didn’t say much of anything at all this week.

But you must’ve sounded off, or maybe he just knows how to read silence better than most, because around three in the afternoon, you hear the soft knock at your door.

You don’t answer at first. You don’t mean to ignore him, you just can’t make your legs move.

A minute passes, and your phone buzzes from somewhere near your pillow.

Yoongi: Not trying to crowd you. Just wanted to drop off some food Yoongi: Leaving it by the door. No pressure

You muster the energy to roll out of bed and crack the door open. A plastic bag sits at your feet and Yoongi is already halfway down the hallway, hands in his pockets.

“Yoongi,” you call, your voice raspier than you expect.

He turns around.

“Hey,” he says, probably surprised that you’re upright.

You open the door wider. “You can come in. If you want.”

Yoongi hesitates just for a second, checking that you’re sure. Then he nods. He picks the bag up and slips inside without a word, setting it on your kitchen counter. 

He doesn’t try to hug you or touch you or ask what’s wrong. He doesn’t judge your apartment, the clothes strewn about, the closed curtains, the dishes piling up in the sink. He barely even looks.

“You eaten today?” he asks, gently.

You shake your head. “Not really hungry.”

“Okay,” he says. “I’m gonna make something anyway. Just in case.”

He moves around your kitchen like it’s his. Not because he’s overly familiar, but because he’s not afraid of your mess. He pulls out eggs, rice, a few green onions from the bag he brought.

You retreat back to your couch. You didn’t mean to lie down again, but the second you sit, your body droops until you’re horizontal. So you stay curled on your side, facing the wall. Listening.

The clink of metal. The whoosh of your gas burner catching. The soft sizzle of garlic hitting oil.

You don’t remember falling asleep, but when you wake up, Yoongi is sitting on the floor in front of the couch, cross-legged, a steaming bowl in his lap and another on your coffee table.

You push yourself up slowly. Your head aches, your throat’s dry, but you can’t lie. It smells good.

“You didn’t have to—” you start.

“I know,” he says, soft. “I wanted to.”

You eat in silence. The rice is soft, buttery, a little salty from the soy sauce and the eggs scrambled through it. You’re hungrier than you thought, but you pace yourself.

Halfway through, he glances over at you.

“You wanna watch something dumb?”

You nod.

Yoongi takes your bowl when you’re done, rinses both of them without comment. When he comes back, he takes a seat next to you. He scrolls through streaming apps on your TV until he lands on something you like.

The opening credits roll.

He doesn’t try to hold you. Doesn’t try to tell you it’s going to be okay. He just sits beside you, shoulders barely brushing. When your body droops again, he lets you lean into his side.

Somewhere around the fifteen-minute mark, he mutters, “You don’t have to be okay for me to want to be here.”

You don’t look at him. Your throat tightens like you’re going to cry. Which is something, at least, after the numbness of the week. 

“This could be me next week,” he says, like it’s nothing. “Or tomorrow. So. I get it. That’s all.”

And then the movie continues. One ridiculous scene after another. The light from the screen flickers across his face.

You don’t say thank you yet, but you know you don’t have to.

✧

You still haven’t put a name to it.

Neither of you has tried. There was one moment, maybe, a few days ago. Yoongi was over for no particular reason. He’d looked at you from your kitchen floor, head propped against the cabinets, lips red from kissing, and opened his mouth like he might ask.

But then the takeout came, and the moment passed.

You text like friends. ‘Want anything from the store?’ ‘This customer just asked if we sell records on vinyl. I hate it here.’ ‘What are you doing tonight?’ ‘Absolutely nothing.’ ‘Come do nothing with me.’

You hang out like you’re in a relationship. Eat cross-legged on his bed. Steal fries from each other’s plates without asking. Sometimes fall asleep shoulder to shoulder watching terrible TV.

You make out. A lot. 

Against walls. On couches. Outside each other’s doors at night when neither of you feels like saying goodnight just yet. It never quite escalates to the point it did that night—maybe once or twice it almost does, but one of you always pumps the brakes.

You don’t meet each other’s friends. You don’t ask about exes. You don’t introduce him to your sister or take photos together or exchange socials. Because that doesn’t feel like what this is.

You like the bubble you’ve built. The little world where nothing outside matters. Where it doesn’t have to matter yet.

Because outside the bubble, your life is still a mess. Rent’s overdue. Work is torture. You haven’t written anything in over a year and you haven’t figured out how to be proud of yourself again, not really.

But inside it—when Yoongi’s mouth is on yours, when he texts you ‘Made extra ramen if you’re hungry btw’ like that’s not the most romantic shit anyone’s ever said to you, you feel steady.

But, like anything else, it comes with its own set of issues.

The thing about not fucking is that it used to be about not wanting. A lack of drive. A lack of spark. A lack of time or energy or libido or options.

But now? Now, it’s something else. Because you have the option. 

Now, it’s starting to feel like a crack in the glass. Like every time you grind against his thigh with your hips twitching and your breath shaky, or every time he pulls your shirt off and buries his face between your tits but doesn’t go lower, the crack gets a little deeper. And you’re both pretending not to see it.

Because the truth is: you want to fuck him.

You desperately want to fuck him.

You think about it constantly. The way his fingers curled inside you that first night, the soft, filthy way he talked to you, the way he looked down at your face when you sucked him off like he was watching a goddamn miracle unfold.

You think about how he’d feel inside you.

You ache with it.

But you don’t bring it up. Because once you do, once you have sex, it’s not a bubble anymore. It’s real, something with expectations.

And you know yourself, you know how you get. You’ll start needing more. Wanting more. And Yoongi, sweet and quiet and lost in his own way, will become another thing you don’t know how to manage. Another thing you don’t know how to keep.

You’re scared of that. Of ruining it. Of letting your body talk you into something your heart might not be strong enough to carry.

So you kiss him like you’re dying, but when his hands drift to your waistband, you laugh, too high-pitched, and pull away. Pretend you’re tired. Or hungry. Or something, anything. Any excuse not to cross that final threshold. Yoongi never pushes. He just nods, catches his breath, and helps you back into your shirt like a gentleman.

But you feel the tension growing. Between your thighs. In your chest. In the way you wake up soaked and aching after every sleepover, body clenching at nothing. In the way your kisses are starting to come with more teeth. With soft little growls in your throat you didn’t mean to let out.

Tonight, he’s at your place again. It’s late. You both know he should’ve left hours ago, and the crack is splintering even further, faster than you realize.

You’re straddling Yoongi on the couch, your knees bracketing his hips, your mouth fused to his. Your hips are rocking down, slow and aimless at first, but building. You can feel him getting hard beneath you, feel the press of him through his sweats as you drag your clothed pussy over him like your body is starving.

Yoongi groans into your kiss. His hands grip your thighs, fingertips twitching. But, like always, he doesn’t push. He just lets you move, lets you grind down on him with that ragged little gasp in your throat, lets you take what you need without crossing the line you’ve both carefully danced around for weeks.

Except tonight, something’s different. You’re different.

Because when he tilts his head and mouths at your neck, hot and slow, and mutters, “you’re gonna make me come in my fucking pants,” you snap.

Completely.

You pull back just enough to look at him, breathing hard, eyes wild. “I want to fuck you.”

He blinks. Catches up slowly, like he’s not sure if he imagined it.

“I want you to fuck me,” you amend, a little louder. Desperate.

Yoongi just stares at you for a moment, mouth parted, chest heaving. His hands tighten on your thighs. 

“You sure?” he asks, voice rough.

Once you say yes, it happens fast. 

Yoongi’s hands are everywhere. Gripping your hips, your waist, sliding up your back to tug your shirt over your head. He peels it off and tosses it somewhere behind you, eyes locked on yours like he’s giving you one last chance to change your mind.

You don’t.

Your bra’s off next, fast, and he curses the second your tits are bare, like he can’t believe this is happening. Like he’s been thinking about it for weeks too, and now that it’s real, he doesn’t know where to start.

So he starts with his mouth.

He palms your breasts and groans low in his throat, then leans forward and takes one into his mouth like he needs it—hot tongue flicking over your nipple, lips sucking gently before he bites, just enough to make you gasp. His fingers find the other, circling and pinching lightly.

“Fuck,” you whimper, arching into him. “Yoongi—”

You grind down on his cock again, still half-dressed from the waist down, the friction sharp and unbearable. You’re soaked. You can feel it. Your panties are useless at this point, clinging wetly to your folds, and you’re half a second away from tearing them off yourself if he doesn’t move faster.

“Condom,” you breathe. “Please. Where—?”

“Yeah—fuck—yeah, hold on.”

You scramble off his lap at the same time he stumbles off the couch, both of you half-laughing and swearing under your breath. He digs through his bag on your floor, frantic, muttering, “I swear I had one—fuck, wait—yes.”

He holds it up like a prize, and you don’t even give him the chance to rip it open before you’re tugging your shorts and panties down in one go, stepping out of them and crawling back onto the couch.

Yoongi stops cold, stares at you for a second.

Hair messy. Chest heaving. Legs spread. Eyes hungry.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, tearing the foil open and shoving his sweats halfway down his thighs with shaking hands. His cock bobs free, hard and flushed and so ready, and your mouth actually waters.

He rolls the condom on with practiced ease and climbs back over you, settling between your legs like he belongs there. Like he’s done it a hundred times in dreams and is finally allowed to touch.

He presses inside you slowly, inch by inch, and the stretch knocks the breath from your lungs. You’re soaked, but it’s still so much, been too long, and you cling to his shoulders with a gasp.

Yoongi groans, forehead dropping to yours.

“Jesus, you’re tight,” he rasps. “Fucking wet.”

You whimper, hips already rolling up to meet him. “Been wanting this,” you whisper. “Needing this—”

“Yeah?” he murmurs, voice shaking. “You gonna let me give it to you?”

“Yes, please—”

And then he starts to move. Just the brutal press of his hips to yours, every thrust deep and deliberate and filthy, like he’s trying to bury himself somewhere he won’t be able to crawl back from.

Your head tips back against the couch, eyes rolling up, mouth falling open on a gasp that barely sounds like a real word. He’s got one hand gripping the arm of the couch behind your head for leverage, the other wrapped tight around your thigh, keeping you pinned wide open beneath him as he fucks into you.

“Fuck, Yoongi—fuck—”

“You like it, baby?” he growls. 

You whimper, nodding helplessly, your hands scrambling up under his hoodie to claw at his back, his sides, anywhere you can touch.

Your skin’s on fire. Your thoughts are gone. All you know is the sharp, perfect drag of his cock, the sound of your soaked cunt every time he slams into you, the guttural noises he makes when your walls flutter around him.

“You feel so fucking good,” he groans, eyes squeezed shut, jaw clenched. “Tight little pussy just gripping me—shit, baby, I can’t—”

His pace stutters for half a second, like your body is pulling the soul out of him.

You cry out when he hits deep—too deep—and he groans, pulling your legs higher around his waist to get the angle just right.

“There,” he growls when you shatter under him, thighs shaking, cunt clenching so hard he nearly loses it. “Fucking cum.”

You come like you’ve lost control of your body. Loud, legs locked, nails in his back. It hits hard and fast and doesn’t stop, rolling through you in hot, humiliating waves. Yoongi hisses, desperate now, chasing his own end, rhythm starting to break.

“Gonna fill you up,” he pants, even though the condom’s there, even though it’s just a filthy fantasy, and you sob at the idea of it. “Fuck, I wish—wish I could come inside you—fuck—you’d let me, wouldn’t you? Let me ruin you for anyone else—”

“Yes,” you gasp, not even sure you mean it, but it sounds right. Feels true.

That’s all it takes.

Yoongi groans like it’s been punched out of him, hips jerking as he comes hard, cock twitching inside you, face buried in your neck as he spills into the condom.

You both stay there, gasping against sticky skin through the aftershocks. He kisses your neck once. Then again. And again.

“Holy shit,” you breathe, dazed. “I think you just rearranged my internal organs.”

Yoongi laughs. “Cool. I was aiming for your soul.”

The couch cushions are half off the frame, your legs still trembling where they’re spread open around his waist. Yoongi pulls out slowly, careful, and your body aches from it, clenches down involuntarily, already missing the stretch. 

He ties off the condom, looks around for somewhere to put it before settling on the empty takeout bag from earlier. Pulls his sweats back up.

You sit up with limbs like jelly, not bothering to put your underwear back on just yet, and run a hand through your hair. Your thighs are sticky. Your lips are swollen. You feel fucked out and raw and wrung clean.

Your body is so satisfied.

Predictably, your brain is a different story.

You glance over at Yoongi. He’s slouched against the other end of the couch, head back, eyes closed. His hair is damp at the temples, chest still rising and falling like he hasn’t quite come back to himself yet.

He looks gorgeous.

You want to kiss him.

You also want to run.

That tight, itchy feeling—the one you’ve been avoiding since you first let him touch you—comes roaring back. You just crossed the line. You fucked the one good thing in your life that wasn’t tangled in expectations. That didn’t ask anything from you.

You broke the bubble.

He opens one eye and glances over at you.

“You okay?”

You nod. “Yeah. Just…” You trail off. Shrug. “That was intense.”

Yoongi huffs a soft laugh. “Yeah. You think?”

You stand. Your legs are still shaking.

“I’m gonna, uh… go pee,” you say, already heading toward the bathroom. “Before I die.”

He doesn’t stop you. Just nods, eyes following you for a second before he looks away.

You close the door and sit on the edge of the tub. Breathe.

You want to feel good. You do feel good. But also… you feel like maybe you’ve fucked up. Or you’re about to. Or like this is going to change something that shouldn’t be changed.

You think about what you’ll say when you go back out there.

You think about whether he’s getting dressed. Whether he’ll leave. Whether he should.

You think, I don’t want this to become another thing I have to recover from.

✧

When you finally open the bathroom door, the light feels harsher than it should, and your skin’s still warm from the shower you didn’t really want but took anyway. Just to delay, to think, to scrub away the sweat and the way his hands felt on your hips and the way your body sang for him.

You step into the living room wearing clean underwear and a fresh shirt. Your face is bare. Your hair is damp. Your expression, despite your best effort, is a little too tight.

Yoongi looks up from the couch, where he’s still sitting, this time in his sweats and hoodie again, elbows on his knees, fingers idly twisting the hem of his sleeve.

His eyes meet yours. He doesn’t smile, but his gaze softens. Immediately.

“Hey,” he says, quiet.

You nod, cross your arms. “Hey.”

He watches you for a second, then leans back, patting the space next to him.

You hesitate, but you lower yourself onto the couch anyway. Not quite touching, not quite distant. A safe middle. 

“Wanna tell me what’s wrong?”

“I’m fine.”

“Okay,” Yoongi says, disbelieving. “Then why do you look like you’re trying to figure out how to ghost me while I’m still in your apartment?”

You wince, staring at your knees. “I just—I didn’t mean for this to turn into, like… a thing.”

He nods slowly. “Okay.”

“I mean, we’re not, right? A thing?”

You look at him now, really look. Your heart’s racing. Your stomach’s twisting. You’re not sure what kind of answer you want.

Yoongi looks back at you for a long moment. Then he leans back again, scrubbing a hand through his hair.

“I don’t know what we are,” he says. “I wasn’t trying to make it anything.”

You swallow hard, because part of you thinks that should make you feel better. Instead, it just makes your chest ache. You were the one who let him in, even when you swore you wouldn’t. You’re not trying to make him feel like he’s the one at fault here. It’s you. It’s always you.

“But,” he adds, eyes flicking to yours again, “I like you. I care about you. And if we’re fucking now, yeah, that’s gonna mean something to me. Even if we never put a label on it.”

“Doesn’t that make it worse?” you ask, voice thin. “If it means something?”

Yoongi doesn’t speak for a long while. You sink into him without meaning to, thigh to thigh, arm to arm. You don’t really know why.

He exhales, slow and deliberate, and says, “Can I tell you something?”

You nod against his shoulder.

“I wasn’t supposed to be at that convenience store,” he starts, voice shaky in a way that makes you sit up, just slightly. “I mean, I didn’t have a reason to be anywhere. But that night… I think I was sort of… walking around to see if I’d change my mind.”

You still. Your heart trips over itself, because that could mean a lot of things. Because you know, just by the tone of his voice, that he means the worst. 

He keeps going.

“I’d been thinking about it for a while. Not in a loud way. Not even like a plan. Just… wondering. If things would be better. Easier. If I just stopped. Just disappeared.”

You don’t interrupt. You don’t breathe too loud. You just listen.

“And that night, it felt close. Like maybe I was ready. Like maybe no one would notice.” He lets out a shaky laugh. “I hadn’t talked to anyone in a couple days. I didn’t even brush my teeth before I left the house. I just started walking.”

Your eyes sting. You try not to let it show.

“I stopped at the store because I thought—fuck it. One last shitty sandwich. One last can of cold coffee.” He huffs. “Really poetic, right?”

You let out a breath. “Yoongi—”

He shakes his head. “I’m not telling you this so you’ll feel bad. Or because I think you saved me. You didn’t. You just… made it a little easier to stay.”

You’re crying now, because god, you didn’t know, but you know. You know how it feels to always have that in the back of your mind, to convince yourself that there would be relief in giving up. Letting go. 

He turns his head toward you now, not quite meeting your eyes, like he’s still unsure if he’s allowed to say all this out loud.

“I still think about it. Sometimes. Not all the time. But… it comes back. When it’s quiet. When I’m alone too long. But since that night, it’s been easier knowing that someone gets it. That I don’t have to pretend I’m fine all the time.”

He finally looks at you, and it’s not a dramatic, sweeping kind of moment. There’s no soft lighting or music swelling. Just his tired eyes, and your tired heart, and the shared weight of knowing what it feels like to want to give up—and choosing, for whatever reason, not to.

“Maybe that’s all this has to be,” he says. “Not a love story. Not some perfect, clean thing. Just… two people who don’t always want to be here, making it a little easier for each other to stay.”

You can’t speak. You nod, and your eyes blur, and Yoongi presses his forehead to yours like it’s the only way he knows how to say thank you for seeing me.

✧

Days later, things aren’t better—not in the way people usually mean. Your life is still a mess. His is too. 

But something’s changed. Settled.

He lets himself in now. Doesn’t knock. Kicks his shoes off like he lives there, shrugs his hoodie off and drops it somewhere near the couch, grabs two cups and fills them with whatever’s in your fridge.

And you let him.

You sit next to each other, thigh to thigh, flipping through shows you won’t finish. You kiss during the commercials. You fall asleep with his hand on your waist.

You still haven’t said you’re together. You still haven’t said what you mean to each other. But when you’re quiet for too long, he looks up from his phone and asks, “Okay?”

And when he’s too quiet, you ask, “Wanna stay the night?”

And when you both lie awake in the dark, not talking, not moving, you think: I’m still here.

And so is he.

✧

It starts with scraps. Half-sentences in your notes app. A phrase here, a sentence there. Something you jotted down after Yoongi left one night, when your chest felt like it was holding more than usual and your bed still smelled like his shampoo.

Then it becomes a little routine. You open your laptop without the usual dread. You stare at the cursor blinking in a half-finished document and think: maybe I can.

It’s not for meant to be published. It’s not for anyone but you. But it’s something.

One night, Yoongi finds you sitting on the floor with your laptop on your thighs. You’re so focused, you don’t even hear him come in.

He just watches for a second, quiet.

“Writing?” he asks eventually, and you jump.

“Jesus—” You slam the laptop shut on instinct, and he raises both hands in surrender, shoulders shaking with laughter.

“You don’t have to show me,” he says, setting down the drinks he brought. “But… that’s new.”

You shrug, embarrassed. “It’s nothing. Just… stuff.”

Yoongi sinks to the floor beside you. “You haven’t written since we met.”

“I haven’t written in a long time.”

He doesn’t ask why not. He already knows.

Instead, he leans his head on your shoulder and says, “I’m glad you’re starting to again.”

He doesn’t push. He doesn’t ask for details. He doesn’t ask to read it. He just sits with you, there on the floor, eyes closed. Like your writing means something just by existing.

You open the laptop again.

You keep writing.

✧

Yoongi is sitting cross-legged on your bed while you type, cradling a cup of tea you made him because he clearly needed something to do with his hands. 

You can tell he’s nervous. He’s got that look on his face like he’s about to say something serious but is trying not to scare the shit out of you. It isn’t working.

“So,” he says, after a long stretch of silence, “I have a friend.”

You glance up from your laptop, blinking. “Amazing.”

Yoongi huffs. “Kim Namjoon. He’s an old friend. College. We used to mess around with production stuff, back when I thought I was gonna be a genius producer with a Grammy by 25.”

You smile a little at that, set your laptop aside. “What’d he say?”

Yoongi hesitates, fingers drumming softly against the side of his mug. “He got some seed money. Not much. Just enough to rent a space, get a couple of half-decent mics, some gear. Says he wants to start a small label.”

Your stomach does a little flip. Not because you’re worried. Not yet. But because of the way he’s saying it. Like he’s trying not to want it too much.

“He wants me in on it,” Yoongi continues, staring down into his tea. “It’d be three of us, working in a basement, surviving off cup ramen. Maybe getting a local artist to sign on eventually.”

You exhale. “That sounds… really fucking cool.”

Yoongi finally looks at you. He’s smiling now, just a little, but it’s tight at the edges. “Yeah. It does.”

“And?”

He shrugs, but it’s not a real shrug. It’s that shoulder-lift people do when something matters too much. “And I don’t know. I don’t know if I’m ready to give a shit again. I don’t know if I’ll fuck it up. I don’t even know if I still have anything to say.”

“You do,” you say, instantly.

His jaw flexes. “Yeah, well. Maybe. He’s starting soon. Wants me to come by next week. Just to mess around with some demos, get a feel for it again.”

You nod slowly. Try not to let the ‘what if’s start swirling. What if it pulls him away? What if he leaves? What if this tiny, fragile thing you’re building—whatever it is—gets buried under a dream he's only just remembered how to want again?

But you don’t say any of that.

Instead, you say, “You should do it.”

Yoongi searches your face for a long time, hesitant, like he’s trying to catch you in a lie. 

“Yeah?”

You reach over and take his mug, set it on the nightstand. You curl into his side, your face pressed to the crook of his neck.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “I think maybe… we’re both starting to remember how to want things again.”

You feel him breathe out. Slow. Unsteady.

But he nods.

✧

Yoongi doesn’t stop texting. He still sends you memes, voice notes, the occasional photo of his workspace—a cramped basement room with exposed pipes and cords spilling out over his desk, coffee-stained notebooks piled next to a MIDI keyboard.

But he’s not around as much.

The nights you used to spend together—half-draped over one another on the couch, kissing during reruns, sleeping side-by-side without labels—are fewer now. Sometimes he falls asleep at the studio. Sometimes he doesn’t respond until 2 a.m., when you’re already asleep.

It’s hard. You won’t lie to yourself about that. You feel the absence like a low-grade fever. Always there, dull but insistent.

And there’s still no word for what you are. No boyfriend, no girlfriend. Just… you, and Yoongi. And this thing you’ve built together, quiet and warm and undefined.

But when you do see him—when he walks through your door smelling like coffee and sweat and work—you can see it on him. The spark. The momentum. The low, buzzing joy of trying again. Of wanting something bad enough to bleed for it.

He’s tired. But he’s tired for a good reason, now.

And that makes you want to try, too.

So you keep opening your laptop. Not just to scribble down half-formed ideas, but to finish. You sit with the mess of it, the aching in your fingers, the voice in your head that says ‘why bother’—and you write anyway. You dig up old stories, rework scenes that used to make you cringe. You find your voice again, piece by shaky piece.

Sometimes, late at night, you send him snippets. Just to say, look. I’m doing it, too.

And he always responds, eventually. Usually something like:

Yoongi: Fuck yes

Yoongi: Proud of you

Yoongi: Also the studio toilet flooded again. I’m going to kill Joon

You laugh. You keep writing.

It still hurts sometimes. Missing him, wondering what all this means. But now the hurt is paired with movement. With hope.

✧

Eventually, you finish something.

It’s not perfect. Not even close. There are typos and sentences that feel like strangers to themselves, and places where the ending is still a little jagged and wrong. But it’s done.

A full manuscript. Your name at the top. Your words, your voice, your pain and hunger and stupid hope wrapped into a whopping 112 pages.

You think of Yoongi when you submit it with an application to a graduate school program. A program you’ve read and re-read the description for more times than you care to admit. You don't know if it’s good enough. If you’re good enough. But for the first time in a long time, you do it anyway.

And then you don’t tell anyone.

Maybe it’s selfish, but you want the hope for yourself. Just for a little while. You want to keep it quiet and sacred, untainted by expectations or well-meaning encouragement or the crushing weight of what if it doesn’t happen. You just want it to be yours.

You keep seeing Yoongi, of course. When he can. When he’s not tangled up in late-night meetings and studio sessions. You see each other in stolen hours, sleep-heavy kisses, lazy dinners eaten on the floor.

But lately, even those small moments feel bigger.

And then one night, you get a text.

Yoongi: You home?

You are. You say yes.

He shows up ten minutes later, breathless, hoodie damp from trying to dodge light rain, cheeks flushed with joy. Real joy. The kind that lights his whole face from the inside out.

“I had to tell someone,” he says the second you open the door. “I had to tell you.”

You let him in, confused but smiling all the same. You’ve been doing a lot of that lately. “What happened?”

He doesn’t even sit. He paces back and forth, rakes a hand through his hair, practically vibrating.

“We signed someone,” he finally says. “Tentatively, but, this artist from Busan, she’s insane, she’s so weird and good and her voice is like—fuck, I don’t even know how to explain it. But Namjoon loved her. We all did. And she said yes. She said yes, to us.”

You blink, stunned. “You—Yoongi, that’s—holy shit!”

He grins, wide and unguarded, and you’ve never seen him like this before and it just makes you so fucking happy. You’re up on your feet before your brain catches up. 

You hug him tight, breath caught in your throat. Because he’s shaking a little, and he smells so good, and this is what he looks like when he’s proud of himself. When he’s living.

You pull back to look at him, hands on his jaw.

“I’m so proud of you,” you whisper.

And Yoongi’s expression shifts. Softens. Deepens. He takes a breath. 

“I love you,” he says.

Like it’s not sudden. Like it’s been sitting on his tongue for weeks, waiting for the right moment to fall out.

“I just—I do. And I didn’t want to say it while things were still messy, or early, or whatever. But this is what I wanted. That night, at the convenience store. This. You. Someone who gets it. Someone who doesn’t fix me but lets me stay. And I love you.”

Fuck. There it is. 

You don’t speak right away. You reach for him instead. Pull him back in. Rest your forehead against his and let yourself feel it. All of it.

And then, soft and steady, you say it back. 

“I love you too.”

✧

It’s not frantic, not this time. 

Not messy or rushed or born of need. It’s slow, reverent, deep. Yoongi’s hands cradle your face like you’re something fragile, something he’s terrified of breaking now that he knows what you mean to him. His thumbs stroke your cheeks. His breath catches when you tilt your head and kiss him harder but just as slow, open-mouthed and aching.

You walk him backwards toward the bed. He lets you. He goes willingly, grinning against your mouth like he can’t believe this is happening again, that you’re his, and that this time, it’s not just comfort or heat or distraction. It’s love.

He sinks onto the mattress, and you climb over him, straddling his lap, kissing him again and again, hands tangled in his hair, grinding down against the hard line of his cock through his sweats.

But then he pulls back. Barely. His hands settle on your thighs. His eyes are dark and shining and hungry.

“Let me eat you out.”

Your breath catches.

“I—what?”

Yoongi licks his lips. “You don’t get it,” he says, too far gone to filter it. “I’ve been wanting to. Since the night I fingered you against your fucking door, I’ve wanted to get between your thighs and just live there. I love you, and I love your pussy, and I’m gonna make you come so hard you forget every single bad day you’ve ever had.”

You stare at him, slackjawed.

Then you exhale, soft and wrecked, and whisper, “Okay.”

Yoongi repositions you onto your back, gentle, lips back on yours. His hands slide down your body like he’s mapping out every inch. He tugs your shirt off, unhooks your bra, kisses down your neck, your chest, your ribs, like he has all the time in the world.

And then he pulls your shorts down. Your panties too.

He groans when he sees you. Like, actually groans.

“God, baby. Look at you.” He kisses your inner thigh, drags his nose along the crease, eyes flicking up to yours. “So fucking pretty.”

And then he licks into you.

You cry out, sharp and sudden, because it’s so much. He’s warm and wet and greedy, tongue flat against your clit, then pointed and precise, then everywhere, like he can’t choose, like he doesn’t want to.

He moans against your pussy like he’s the one being touched. Like he could cum just watching you feel good, because of him.

“Yoongi—shit—” Your hands fly to his hair, thighs trembling, already shaking, already close.

He wraps his arms under your thighs, holding you open, keeping you grounded, mouth working you over like he’s worshipping you. He sucks on your clit, gentle but firm, and you arch off the bed.

“I’m gonna come,” you warn, voice breaking. “Fuck, Yoongi—”

He groans, messy and eager, never once letting up. And then you do.

You come hard, thighs clamping around his head, hands in his hair, eyes rolled back. It’s hot and overwhelming, your body jolting and twitching, his name a broken whimper on your tongue.

He keeps going until you push him away, overstimulated and trembling.

“Jesus,” you breathe.

He grins, climbs back up your body, presses his mouth to yours without hesitation. You taste yourself on his tongue.

“You love me,” he murmurs, like it’s the best thing he’s ever been told.

You nod, dazed. “I do.”

He kisses you again.

“You’re gonna let me do that every day, right?”

You laugh, breathless. “If you keep doing it like that, yeah. I might not survive, but yeah.”

You let Yoongi kiss you for a while, slow and soft and full of so much love, but eventually, you push at his shoulder. He pulls back instantly, eyes wide and brows furrowed.

“Lie down,” you murmur. “Let me take care of you.”

Yoongi blinks, lips swollen and wet. But he lets you push. “Baby—”

“You’ve been working so fucking hard,” you say, crawling into his lap, straddling his thighs. “Let me ride you. Let me make you feel good. Please.”

Whatever protest he might’ve had dies in his throat the second you reach down and palm him through his sweats. He’s hard—has been since he had your pussy on his tongue—and he groans, low and helpless, as you slide your hand beneath the waistband.

You stroke him slow, loving, watching the tension bleed out of him with every pass of your fist.

“Fuck,” he whispers, eyes fluttering shut, hips twitching into your touch. “Feels good.”

You smile. Kiss his chest as he fumbles for the condom in his wallet.

When you finally sink down onto him, Yoongi lets out a groan. His hands fly to your hips, gripping hard, eyes squeezed shut, jaw clenched so tight you can see the tension in his neck when he leans his head back.

“God—” he gasps. “Fuck, baby, you—”

“I know,” you breathe, grinding your hips in slow, careful circles. “I know. Just relax. Let me do this for you.”

You ride him slow, deep, dragging his cock through your tight, wet heat over and over. Every inch of him feels like it was made for you, thick and perfect and pulsing inside you, your cunt already fluttering from how good he made you feel earlier.

Yoongi can’t keep still. His fingers squeeze your thighs, your hips, then your waist, like he can’t decide where to hold on. Like he’s barely holding on at all.

He opens his eyes to look at you and whines, higher than he probably meant to. Because you’re riding him like you love him. Because your tits are bouncing with every slow roll of your hips, and your face is flushed, and your eyes are locked on his like there’s nowhere else you want to be in the entire fucking world.

It springs him into action.

He sits up, wraps his arms around you, mouths at your tits like he’s starving. He sucks at one nipple, then the other, licking and kissing and biting softly like he can’t stop, like he needs to touch you.

“Yoongi,” you gasp, fingers tangling in his hair.

He moans into your chest. Hands moving down to your ass, guiding you up and down on his cock in that same slow, dirty rhythm, like he wants to make this last forever.

“Can’t even think,” he pants. “You feel so fucking good—too good—fuck, I love you—”

You ride him harder, faster, your hands on his shoulders. Your whole body shakes with how good it feels to be full of him, to see him like this—wrecked, undone, yours.

“I’m so close,” you whisper, hips stuttering. “Yoongi—”

“Come for me,” he begs. “Please, baby, come on my cock, wanna feel it.”

You do.

You fall apart in his arms, gasping his name, pussy clenching around him so tight it nearly rips the orgasm out of him too. You’re shaking, sweating, still grinding through it as he buries his face in your neck, groaning your name, fucking up into you just a little, just enough—

He comes with a low, broken ‘fuck,’ arms locking around your waist, cock pulsing inside the condom. He’s so loud, so needy, and god, you’ve never loved anyone like this.

You collapse against his chest, both of you breathless and slick with sweat, still joined, still trembling.

And Yoongi holds you like he never wants to let go.

✧

You stay like that for a while, pressed to his chest, his arms strong around your back, the rhythm of his heartbeat still racing under your cheek. The room smells like sweat and sex. Yoongi’s hand is stroking slow lines up and down your spine. 

He hasn’t said much since you both came down, but the silence isn’t uncomfortable. Just full.

You’re the one who breaks it.

“I did something,” you admit.

Yoongi hums, not missing a beat in the way his fingers trace over your skin. “Yeah?”

You nod against his chest, then force yourself to sit up, just enough to look at him. His hair’s a mess. His eyes are half-lidded and lazy, but sharp with attention the second he realizes you’re serious.

“I applied to grad school.”

Yoongi blinks.

“For writing?” he asks.

You nod again, heart hammering. “Yeah. An MFA. I submitted a portfolio. Finished something for the first time in forever. I would’ve told you sooner, I just—” You shrug. “I didn’t want to jinx it.”

His mouth opens. Then closes. Then opens again, like he’s still processing.

And then he grins. Slow. Genuine. Gums showing and eyes shining.

“Holy shit,” he breathes, sitting up and grabbing your face in both hands.

Your eyes sting. “I don’t even know if I’ll get in. It’s probably stupid—”

“It’s not,” he cuts in, firm and quiet. “It’s not stupid. It’s huge.”

You try to look away, but he keeps your face in his hands, thumbs brushing your cheeks, grounding you.

“I’m so fucking proud of you,” he says. “Seriously. I’ve watched you try so hard to find something again, and you did it. Whether or not you get in doesn’t matter. You tried. That’s fucking everything.”

You bite your lip, blinking fast. Yoongi kisses your forehead, then your nose, then your mouth.

“Thanks for telling me,” he murmurs. “I’ll keep it safe.”

And you know he will.

For the first time in a long time, the future doesn’t feel so terrifying.

✧

The email comes on a Wednesday.

You’re not expecting it. You’ve nearly forgotten the timeline, pushed it into the back of your mind like a daydream you didn’t want to get too close to. You’ve been telling yourself not to hope too much. Not to want it, even though you do. Badly.

It hits your inbox around 11:42 a.m., and you stare at the subject line for a full minute before you open it. And then—

You’re in.

You read it twice, then two more times. It still doesn’t feel real. You read the phrase We’re pleased to inform you like it’s in another language. Like it’s not something anyone was ever supposed to say to you.

Then you laugh. A startled, breathless sound that turns into something half-sobbing.

You call Yoongi.

He doesn’t pick up on the first try—he’s a busy man these days—but he calls back two minutes later.

“Hey, baby. What’s—?”

“I got in.”

There’s a long pause.

And then, softly, “what?”

You swallow hard. You’re pacing your kitchen now, barefoot and trembling. “I got in. Grad school.”

“Holy fuck.”

You laugh again, breathless. “I know.”

“Holy fuck.”

“I know! Yoongi—”

“You got in,” he says. “You fucking got in.”

He sounds like he’s smiling. Like he’s trying not to cry. You’re trying, too.

“I’m so proud of you,” he says. “So fucking proud of you. I’m gonna lose my mind.”

Your throat tightens. “I don’t know what to do now.”

“Come to the studio,” he says instantly. “No one’s here today except me. I’ll order food. I’ll roll a joint. I’ll kiss you a lot. Do some very dirty, celebratory things to you on the desk, if you want.”

You’re already grabbing your keys. “Okay. Yeah.”

“Meet me out back.”

When you get to the studio, he’s outside. Leaning against the back of the building, waiting. The joint is already rolled, tucked neatly behind his ear, and he’s got that look on his face—that slow, lazy grin.

“You,” he says, pushing off the wall the second he sees you. “Fucking you.”

You don’t say anything. Just drop your bag on the cracked concrete and launch yourself into his arms.

He catches you easily, wraps you up in him—hoodie and warmth and the faint smell of cigarettes and detergent and Yoongi. His arms curl tight around your waist, and he lifts you slightly off the ground as you bury your face in his neck.

“You got in,” he murmurs again. “You really—baby, you did it.”

You nod against him, laughing and sniffling all at once. “I did.”

He sets you down but doesn’t let go. Just pulls back enough to kiss you. Once. Twice. Then a third time, slower. Deeper. Like he’s trying to memorize this version of you—buzzing and breathless and so fucking proud of yourself.

When he finally pulls away, he grins and taps the joint behind his ear.

“Celebration?”

You nod. “God, yes.”

He lights it. Takes a drag, passes it to you, and you both sit on the loading dock out back, knees bumping, fingers laced, smoke around your heads. The sun’s low in the sky. It’s chilly, but you don’t feel cold. Not with his hand in yours.

And everything’s… okay. Not fixed. Not perfect. But better.

Because loving Yoongi didn’t save you, and you didn’t save him. You still have bad days. Panic attacks. Guilt. Long, unbearable silences you have to claw your way out of. He does, too. Life is still life.

But he holds your hand through it.

And when things are good—like now, like this—you feel it in your bones: you love him. You fucking love him.

You lean into his side, head on his shoulder, and you think:

I can do this. I can live this life. 

Especially if he’s in it.

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[azzibuckets]

i’ll always be your number one fan [pazzi]

paige bueckers x azzi fudd

summary: unedited rambling mess of my ideas inspired from the natty and 2025 wnba draft night (aka the best day of our lives)..more to come later perhaps

masterlist

April 7, 2025

Paige has known her girlfriend for almost a decade now. Even before they started dating, she’d always been attuned to her best friend in every way. If Azzi opened her mouth, she could probably guess what she was about to say. When Azzi looked upset or sad or tired, Paige was always the first to pick up on it and put a smile on her face.

But this? This is the first time in all these years that Paige has no fucking clue what Azzi is doing. It had started the day after the championship; they’d woken up in bed, still starry eyed from the events of the night before.

Paige rubs her forehead, her head aching from last night’s shots. Fresh memories of confetti and screams and smiles and tears and a trophy come flooding to her all in an instant, and she blinks dazedly. “Am I dreaming?”

She feels a pinch in her side, followed by sharp nails digging into her skin, and she groans. “Nope, not dreaming,” Azzi teases, before rolling on top of her to straddle her hips.

Paige’s hands find strong thighs, her fingers automatically going to rub the soft skin there. She gazes up at her girlfriend, awe in her eyes. Azzi has bags under her red rimmed eyes, and her shirt is rumpled with sleep, but she still looks like something out of a movie. “Now it definitely feels like a dream.”

Rolling her eyes affectionately, Azzi grabs the championship cap from the nightstand. With a sleepy grin, she places it haphazardly on her head before sliding her hands down Paige’s chest to her abs. They kiss each other, languid and slow, until Paige has to pull away. “We can’t,” she groans. “We have media in like, twenty minutes.”

And usually Azzi is the one to keep them on schedule, to drag Paige out of bed and force her to start getting ready, but this time, it’s like the younger girl doesn’t even hear her. She continues kissing Paige’s jaw, teeth and tongue making a mess of spit that Paige so badly wants to indulge in.

“Az,” she gasps when Azzi suckles on a particularly sensitive spot. “We really gotta go.”

Sighing, Azzi nips at her ear before pulling away. She sits on the bed, tired, as Paige get up and ambles to the bathroom, flipping on the lights.

Paige gives the younger girl a foamy, toothpastey grin when she walks in a few minutes later. Azzi silently grabs her own toothbrush and joins her, one hand wrapping around Paige’s waist as her chin finds her shoulder.

Paige scrunches her nose as they make eye contact in the mirror. “Baby, you’re getting toothpaste on my cheek.”

Again, Azzi ignores her, hand clenching even tighter on Paige’s shirt, and the blonde sighs, resolving herself to the fate of washing her face instead of detaching herself from her girlfriend’s grasp.

It’s like that for the rest of the week. On the plane ride home, Azzi gives Kaitlyn an approximate 24 minutes of peace before she’s forcing her to switch spots. As soon as she sits down, she’s immediately curling into Paige’s side; and the blonde isn’t by any means complaining, but Azzi has never been the clingier one, so it leaves her wondering just a bit.

When the team is chilling in one of their rooms after a hectic few days, finally enjoying some down time together without cameras shoved in their face, Azzi is in Paige’s lap, hands playing with the baby curls at the nape of her neck as the rest of their teammates gag and mimic shoving fingers down their throat. Even as they’re just chilling by themselves, Azzi’s head is always on Paige’s shoulder, or finding an excuse to hold hands or run her fingers through her hair.

It all comes to a halt on Thursday, though, when Azzi suddenly finds every excuse to avoid Paige. She rolls out of bed before Paige does, changing her clothes and leaving the room before the blonde is even awake enough to check her phone. She locks herself in her room, claiming the need to study and catch up on work, her responses to Paige’s texts few and far in between. At dinner with the girls, she’s quiet. It’s a sudden change from how she’s been all over Paige the past few days, and it’s safe to say that the older girl has no idea what’s going on.

“Are you mad at me?” After a thorough search of nearly half the campus, Paige has finally found Azzi in Werth.

Azzi doesn’t turn from where she’s shooting at the free throw line. “Why would I be mad at you?” Her voice sounds off, almost shaky, but Paige attributes it to her being out of breath from her workout.

“My key card doesn’t even work anymore.” Paige tosses it to the ground. “Isn’t that crazy?” she laughs.

Azzi still refuses to turn around, eyes laser trained on the hoop. It’s only when she sniffs that Paige realizes. “Are you crying?”

Azzi sniffs again, which doesn’t help her point, and her next shot resembles more of an angry chuck at the back board than her usually effortless swishes. “No.”

“You’re definitely crying.”

“I’m not.” Azzi shoots again, and it’s an airball this time. She curses.

“It is pretty hard to see through tears,” Paige says grimly.

“I’m not crying.”

Paige’s hand grabs her shoulder, but she still refuses to look at her. “Turn around, then.”

“Leave me alone, Paige. I’m trying to shoot.”

“Azzi, look at me.”

Azzi’s hand finds her chest and pushes her away. “Paige, I wanna be alone.”

The older girl finally takes a step back, breathing hard. “I’ll leave if you want me to,” she says quietly.

“Good.”

Paige swallows the hurt. “But I’m leaving in two days. For good. And I don’t think you wanna waste away the little time we do have together.” When Azzi stays silent, she adds, “And I don’t want to, either.” Her hand bridges the space between them, thumb stroking the back of her neck lightly. “Come on, Azzi. Talk to me.”

“A week ago we were watching game film.” Azzi finally turns around, and her cheeks are wet with tears. Paige’s stomach starts to hurt; she hates seeing her cry. As carefully as she can, she wipes the tears away with the sleeve of her sweater. “That’s all we could think about. Winning the next game. And I guess I was so focused on that that I didn’t have time to process the fact that you’re actually leaving.”

“Azzi.”

“And I just - I know so many people do long distance. But I- I’m so used to seeing you every day. And knowing you’re so far away? That fucking hurts, Paige, because I already miss you so much and you’re still here.” Azzi looks away, blinking back more tears.

“Az-,”

“Paige, this is our life for the next few years,” Azzi interrupts. “Until our rookie contracts are up. And I know it’s gonna be worth it, fuck, you’re always worth it, but it’s just so goddamn hard.”

“Az.” Paige presses a kiss to her forehead, lips trembling as she resists her own onslaught of tears. “Why didn’t you tell me this instead of avoiding me? I wish we could’ve talked about this earlier.”

“Because every time I look at you I feel like crying,” Azzi responds dryly. “We just won a national championship and you’re about to get drafted. Crying’s a bit of a mood ruiner.”

Paige sighs. She bumps her nose into Azzi’s, trying to elicit a smile from the younger girl. “It is gonna be hard,” she agrees. “And we’re both gonna hate it. But we’re gonna be racking up our flight mileage and seeing each other as often as we can, yeah? Facetimes every single day, and if you fall asleep and forget I’m gonna be texting every damn person on the team to knock on your door and force you to answer my calls.”

Azzi finally smiles, and Paige grins triumphantly. “And we’re gonna be at each other’s games, wearing each others jerseys,” she continues, “you’re gonna come down and visit and meet all my new teammates who are gonna love you because you’re so sweet and funny and kind but also hate you because they’ll be so sick of hearing me talk about you all the damn time.”

“P-,”

“My turn to speak,” Paige cuts her off. “And you’re gonna be at my table at the draft, because you’re my best friend and I want you there. Okay?”

“Paige, your siblings-,”

“They’re too young to really remember anything anyways,” Paige justifies. “You’ve been by my side through it all and I am not fucking going to the W if you’re not there with me, alright?”

“You’re so dramatic,” Azzi scoffs, but the only thing Paige can really focus on now is that Azzi is smiling instead of crying.

“Cuz I love you,” Paige says. “And you love me.”

“I do love you.” Azzi smiles bigger this time, dimples and all, and it’s worn and familiar and to Paige, it’s everything.

“Then that’s all that matters, right?” She gives Azzi a quick kiss before tugging on her sweaty shirt. “Come on. You left me in bed this morning and I wanna cuddle with you before we sleep.”

April 14, 2025

Paige loves to talk.

She doesn’t know why, but her mind seems to be constantly running at 100 miles per hour, always coming up with something to yap about. It’s not like she doesn’t like the quiet - she enjoys it every so often, having some time to think in silence. But the outgoing, extroverted part of her always pushes her to fill the silence, to speak her wandering thoughts out loud, no matter how silly.

But now?

Paige is speechless. At a loss for words. Or more fittingly, incapable of forming coherent thoughts or words.

She’d been tapping away at her phone, a little overstimulated by the sheer amount of texts wishing her luck in the draft (as if she’d needed it). That, combined with the hundreds of message from last Sunday that she still was painstakingly responding to, along with all the other notifications flooding her email and social medias, had been keeping her busy.

But as soon as the door had clicked and she’d looked up, all the noise in her head had just silenced.

Honestly, her eyes didn’t know where to start. At first, they’d gone to Azzi’s hair, the most noticeable difference of the night. Her usual curls were gone, replaced by silky smooth waves that rippled tantalizingly across tan shoulders. Licking her lips, Paige’s eyes shifted down to the bronze of her skin, the black folds of her dress teasing the open expanse of bronzed collarbone and cleavage. Fuck. Paige squeezed her eyes shut, willing the feelings in her body to go away for at least another six hours.

Her manifestations failed to work, because as soon as Paige opened her eyes, this time taking in the pretty plump pink of her girlfriend’s lips combined with the flutter of her long, dark lashes, she knew she was putty.

“You paid Brittany extra this time, didn’t you,” Paige accused.

Azzi, probably expecting something a little sweeter to come out of her best friend’s mouth, squinted a little. “The fuck?”

“This- this,” Paige is sputtering, and Azzi smirks as she begins to realize the full effect she’s having on the blonde. “This is-”

“Use your words, baby,” Azzi laughs, and she makes it across the room in a few steps. Her eyes flick down to scan the sparkling fabric of Paige’s suit as her hands lightly play with the lapel.

“We don’t have long.” She’s barefoot, and Paige is in platform shoes, so she has to tip-toe to press a kiss to her girlfriend’s mouth. “I asked them to give us a sec.” One hand cups Paige’s cheek as the other runs lightly through soft waves of blonde hair. “You look so pretty.”

“Not as pretty as you.” Paige’s mouth finds Azzi’s again, and they both smile into the kiss and come away giggling like little kids.

“Whatever,” Azzi brushed away the compliment, but the light bush in her cheeks give her away. “I just wanted to tell you that I’m so proud. And I love you. And you’re gonna get drafted number one and everyone in Dallas is gonna go out of their fucking minds.” Azzi plants a gentle kiss to the tip of Paige’s nose, trying to be careful about not messing up her makeup. “New home, but same you, yeah?”

Paige’s eyes soften. “You know my home is wherever you’re at.”

“Fuck outta here with that cheesy stuff,” Azzi grins, and they both laugh again. “But seriously. I love you. You know I’ll always be your number one fan.”

Paige grabs Azzi’s hands, entangling their fingers. “Thank you.” She gives Azzi a hug then, and it’s so sudden that Azzi is caught by surprise. She feels her girlfriends bury her face into her shoulder. Smiling, Azzi tightens her hold on her waist and inhales the scent of perfume. It’s unfamiliar but floral and rich, and Azzi tries not to get emotional at the thought that this might be their new normal: not recognizing each others scents. “I’m gonna miss you.”

“Don’t cry, Az. Your makeup artist’s gonna kill you.” Paige lightly pushes her shoulder. “Save the tears for later.”

Someone knocks on the door, and they both turn with heavy sighs. The handle turns, and Paige steals one last kiss before the door opens and they separate with longing glances.

༉‧₊˚✧

Paige has had to limit herself on the drinks tonight. As the woman of the hour, it probably wouldn’t be the best idea to get blackout drunk, especially considering how freely the alcohol had been pouring for the last week and the fact that her poor liver could only take so much after working double overtime.

Azzi, however, didn’t really give a fuck. Her girlfriend had just gotten drafted as the number one pick, and what the hell? She was a national champion - the most outstanding player at that. So fuck it, she was getting drunk.

“P,” she slurs. “I can’t find my Wings hat.”

Paige steadies her waist with her hands, trying to be as appropriate as possible but finding it incredibly difficult to do when Azzi’s in such a short little dress. “It’s alright.” She takes the cap off her own head and puts it carefully on Azzi’s, doing her best to keep her bun in pristine shape. “You can have mine.”

“You won’t miss it?”

Paige chuckles and brings Azzi in closer, scanning the room before brushing her lips inconspicuously across her cheek. “I got plenty more where that came from, baby, don’t worry.” Her hands sidle lower, grazing Azzi’s ass, but she gets pushed away before she can make any good progress.

“Nah, you were trying that shit on the orange carpet too,” Azzi laughs.

“Number one pick can’t touch her girlfriend?” Paige teases. “Who you tryna wear this tight ass shit for then, huh?”

“Greedy,” Azzi reprimands. “You know you’ll get it later.”

“Exactly. Later. That’s too late,” Paige emphasizes.

Azzi throws her arms over Paige’s shoulders. “My girllll,” she says. “A fucking Wing. And number one. ‘M so proud.”

“Thank you, Azzi.” Paige doesn’t know why, but compliments from Azzi always turn her into a flustered mess, and she can do nothing but say thank you and duck her head.

“You getting all shy now, huh?” Azzi slurs knowingly, poking Paige’s cheek.

Paige flicks away her finger, shaking her head as her reddening cheeks betray her. “You’re tripping.”

“Nah. Definitely not tripping.” Azzi yawns. “Okay. Lemme go walk around and flaunt.” She taps her cap. “My girl’s number one, baby.” Then she’s off, a giggling mess, hips swaying in the glittery dress.

Paige’s chest tightens with the bittersweet feeling of it all.

[kxsagi]

Me Me I REALLY LIKE THE WAY YOU WRITE ABAKSJAJAJA I LOVE IT SO MUCH JWBWKAKAKQ OF COURSE LOVE YOU TOO 🫶🏻🥺💖💝um... I want ask for the bllk boys' kids to say that the kid admires someone other than them, or their cute little daughter to say that she wants to marry their coworker in the future and not her dad.

“𝐝𝐞𝐥𝐮𝐥𝐮 𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐧”

a/n: AHHHHH THANK YOU SO MUCH I LOVE YOU TOO FOREVER AND ALWAYS BAE 💖🤞🙈 HOPE YOU LIKE IT

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

isagi yoichi

“i wanna be like uncle rin! he’s sooo cool!” 

he blinks. then again. then he goes completely still like he’s buffering. “… uncle rin?” 

suddenly he’s on his knees, hands on his son’s shoulders, eyes wide with hurt. “but– but i taught you how to dribble.” 

“yeah, but uncle rin doesn’t even smile when he scores, that’s sick.” 

oh the betrayal. 

isagi dramatically flops face-first into the couch like a shakespearean widow. his son is confused. you’re trying not to laugh. 

later, he’s training harder than ever. 

“love, i’m gonna reinvent my image. cold. emotionless. lethal.” 

“yoichi–” 

“don’t call me that. call me dad, but like rin.” 

he sulks until your son tells him, “i changed my mind. i wanna be like dad when i grow up.” 

“say it again.” “i wanna be like dad.” “LOUDER.” “DAD!!!” “THAT’S MY BOY!!!” 

itoshi sae

“i’m gonna marry uncle nagi when i grow up!! he’s cool and plays games with me!!” 

he literally just stands there, blinking slowly like a cat. you can almost see the disappointment on his face render in 4k. 

“nagi? seishiro nagi? he’s a man-child.” “he lets me sit on his shoulders when we play tag!” “he can’t even tie his own shoes.” 

he immediately texts nagi in the group chat: [10:24 AM] sae: you’re banned from my house [10:24 AM] nagi: ?? [10:25 AM] sae: you’re corrupting my daughter [10:26 AM] nagi: idk what that means but she’s fun [10:27 AM] sae: blocked. 

the next time nagi visits, sae is stone-faced and stiff, holding his daughter in his arms the whole time like a guard dog. 

“you can’t marry nagi,” he mutters in her ear. “why not, daddy?” “… he doesn’t believe in taxes.” 

she ends up saying, “then i’ll just marry daddy!” 

he smirks at nagi. “good choice.” 

itoshi rin

“i wanna be just like uncle kaiser!! he’s awesome and has gold and blue hair and funny teeth!!” 

rin is offended. not surprised. not confused. offended. 

“funny teeth? funny teeth? they’re normal white straight teeth. and it’s not even a natural blue. he dyes it.” “he said his hair is made of sunbeams!!” 

rin scoffs and mutters under his breath: “this is your fault.” you: “… how is it my fault?” “you’re the one who let him meet kaiser in the first place.” 

he starts showing his son his highlight reels. “watch this. i broke his ankles once. made him cry. it was beautiful.” 

your son just goes, “yeah, but uncle kaiser smells like candy.” “that’s hair bleach, dumbass–” you slap his arm. 

rin sulks for the rest of the week. 

eventually, your son switches to, “daddy’s the coolest,” because rin bribes him with blue raspberry popsicles. desperate times. 

kaiser michael

“i wanna marry uncle ness!! he’s so cute and has pretty eyes and he always gives me snacks!” 

dead silence. 

kaiser slowly turns his head toward you like he’s possessed. “… did she just say ness?” 

he crouches down to your daughter’s height, fake smiling. “baby, you don’t wanna marry ness. he gets nosebleeds when he’s nervous.” “so? he said i’m his special princess.” “he says that to me, too!” 

he storms into practice the next day. “ness. you. stop giving my daughter snacks. stop calling her ‘my little cinnamon drop.’ i will report you to child services.” 

ness is sweating. “i was just being nice!” 

kaiser squints. “you’re trying to steal her from me.” 

he starts sabotaging ness by hiding all his hair products before games. 

later that night, your daughter cuddles up next to kaiser and says, “daddy, you’re the best boy in the world.” 

he melts instantly. “yes, baby. ness who?” 

kunigami rensuke

“i wanna marry uncle shidou! he lets me ride on his back and he roars like a lion!!” 

kunigami chokes on his protein shake. “SHIDOU?!” 

your daughter’s giggling in a princess dress and plush heels, swinging her feet as she talks about how “uncle shidou’s soooo funny and strong and he said i can be queen of the jungle if i want!” 

he immediately texts shidou: [3:03 PM] kunigami: stay away from my daughter [3:03 PM] shidou: lol why [3:04 PM] kunigami: she said she wants to marry you [3:04 PM] shidou: LMAOOO sounds like a skill issue 

he turns to you in complete distress. “how the hell am i supposed to compete with someone who barks for fun?!” 

kunigami starts taking your daughter to the gym with him. “this is the weight room. muscles are cooler than barking.” “but uncle shidou said barking is powerful.” “uncle shidou also drinks ketchup packets like juice. he is not a good role model.” 

she ends up picking kunigami again after he buys her a lion plushie and names it “sir roars-a-lot.” 

bachira meguru

“i wanna be like uncle reo! he smells like flowers and lets me play dress-up!” 

bachira freezes mid-spin, his son piggybacked on his shoulders. “what did you just say?” 

“uncle reo is sparkly. i wanna be sparkly, too!” 

bachira gasps like he’s been stabbed. “am i not sparkly enough?! what about all our monster drawings?!” “uncle reo has glitter. and nail polish.” 

bachira pulls you aside. “babe. we need to up our fashion game. we’re losing him to rich people glam.” 

next thing you know, he’s bedazzling his shin guards and showing up to school pickup in eyeliner and gold studs. 

reo just sips his smoothie like, “i win.” 

later, your son returns to his senses. “i changed my mind. dad’s sparkly and cool.” 

bachira cries a little. “my son. my heir. my glitter boy.” 

mikage reo

“i wanna marry uncle nagi ‘cause he’s super smart and he naps with me!!” 

“... excuse me?” reo’s eye is twitching. 

he just dropped a whole paycheck on matching father-daughter outfits for family photo day. he’s the best dressed man in kindergarten pickup history. and this is the thanks he gets? 

“uncle nagi doesn’t even pay taxes. i do your hair. i cook your snacks. i pay your tuition!” 

you’re like “reo, baby, breathe.” 

reo lies like “no. i’m fine. i’m just gonna lie here. like a broke peasant. because apparently money means nothing anymore.” 

he tries to outdo nagi by turning every activity into a glam bonding moment. “let’s go get spa treatments, princess. daddy’s paying. the whole mall. just for us.” 

your daughter, sipping her juice box: “but uncle nagi bought me gummy worms…” 

reo’s heart is breaking. 

he wins her back when he gives her a glittery tiara and says, “you’re my little heiress.” 

“can uncle nagi give you your own kingdom? didn’t think so.” 

nagi seishiro

“i wanna be just like uncle isagi! he works hard and never naps!” 

“huh???” 

nagi stares at his son like he’s never seen him before. “you… want to be conscious all day?” 

your kid nods eagerly. “uncle isagi said hard work is everything!” 

“gross.” 

he texts isagi: [9:08 PM] nagi: stop brainwashing my son [9:08 PM] isagi: i just said sleep is important but dedication matters [9:09 PM] nagi: he said naps are for losers [9:10 PM] isagi: YOU said that about water breaks in training 

nagi sulks the whole day and refuses to get out of bed. he lays on the couch with his hoodie over his face like a moody sea slug. 

you try to cheer him up: “baby, don’t be sad.” 

“i got replaced by someone who voluntarily wakes up before 10 AM.” 

but he wins his son back by saying: “fine. guess i’ll nap alone…” “NOOO DAD, WAIT, I’LL NAP TOO!!” 

shidou ryusei

“when i grow up, i wanna be just like uncle sae! he’s so cool and serious and smart and he never yells like you do!” 

shidou is frozen. mouth slightly open. one eye twitching. “… like who.” 

“uncle sae!! he’s amazing!! he has pretty eyes and he talks so calm and he said my drawing was ‘not bad.’ that means he likes it, right???” 

you watch as shidou physically short-circuits. because like, yeah, he gets it. he knows. he’s been mentally writing fanfiction about that man since the first time sae insulted his haircut. 

but this??? this is betrayal. 

“you wanna be like sae? what’s next, you gonna start ignoring people on purpose and wear turtlenecks???” 

your son nods proudly: “i already practiced my death stare in the mirror!!” 

shidou dramatically collapses on the couch. “this is the worst day of my life. my own flesh and blood… defecting to team itoshi.” 

you’re like “baby, aren’t you literally obsessed with sae?” “YEAH, BUT THAT’S DIFFERENT.” “how.” “i’m allowed. he’s mine.” 

he drags his sulky self to practice and corners sae like: “yo. i need you to stop being hot and mysterious around my kid.” sae: “i literally said two words.” “exactly. you’re too powerful.” 

later that day, your son tells shidou, “don’t worry, daddy. i’ll still visit you when i’m famous like uncle sae.” but then his son adds, “but i won’t marry him! he’s too busy!” 

and shidou perks up immediately. “good. ‘cause if anyone’s marrying sae, it’s me.” 

he immediately earns a “what 🧍” from you and his son. 

karasu tabito

“i wanna be like uncle aiku when i grow up! he’s soooo cool and all the girls like him!!” 

karasu freezes in the middle of brushing his teeth. spits. turns around. stares. 

“… what did you just say.” 

“uncle aiku said when you grow tall, you get girls.” 

“he did not.” 

karasu immediately bends down and rants to his son like he’s talking to a guy at the bar: “look, man. i know aiku seems cool, but he’s like 90% hair product and fake confidence. you wanna be a real man? do taxes. take multivitamins. own tupperware.” 

“but uncle aiku said abs are better than taxes.” 

“yeah? i say abs are lies.” 

he goes to work the next day and yells across the locker room: “HEY AIKU. STAY AWAY FROM MY KID.” 

aiku: “what’d i do??” 

karasu: “you’re poisoning his mind with your tall energy and hair gel!” 

to win his son back, karasu starts saying “no cap,” “rizz,” and “chopped.”  his son: “dad, please stop, you’re embarrassing me.” karasu: “see? i’m cool again.” 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[tojisteddy]

pervyroommate!Soap has you riding his face for the very first time.

cw: 1.2k words, dark content, 18+ mdni, smut with tiny plot, noncon/dubcon, Soap being invasive/perv, fingering, face riding, cunnalingus, nipple play, light degradation, age gap (Soap 28, reader 24). Soap’s a bit of a bully (I like that), pet names (Bunny, bonnie,) naive!reader.

No, you didn’t mean for this to happen.

Yes, he did ask you such a crude thing while he sat at the foot of your bed like a dog as you finished up the last braid on your head. You were watching a movie, Soap was notorious for barging into your room to sit and watch. It didn’t matter what you had playing, Soap would get on your bed (or around your room), like he owned the place (and he did, particularly) squish one of your stuffed animals with all his might to see it reinflate, Louie the pink bear to be exact, and about an hour into your comfortable silence, say some crazy shit.

“Mind sittin on ma face?”

You simply blinked. Once, twice, and then got up from your bed, putting your hair products away.

“You’re shitting, aren’t you?”

You’d been roommates for a half a year. You’d been used to Soaps— let’s say, very odd tendencies.

A fuckin pervert to say the least.

He liked to look at your tits, likes to come behind you and squeeze on them, give your ass a slap, peek and watch you change, steal a few bras and panties he’d known you rubbing your swollen clit in. How he knew that? Don’t ask. At first it made you squeal, angry, hit at him as hard as you could (which was hard, you were heavy handed). He was an odd fellow, but he paid all the bills besides your half of rent, would even cook for you and didn’t mind doing it as long as he got to keep up with his antics when he came home from his missions.

So fine. Whatever. You’d stick it out. He was a good roommate for the most part, a little probing wouldn’t hurt.

But the more he did it, the more he invaded your space, you couldn’t help but squirm, scurry away with the growing wetness in your underwear, your nipples getting hard just from his being beside you.

Two weeks ago, you were fresh out the shower after a long day of school and work. Just going to the drive to get something to eat, you were in an oversized shirt and panties, curls every which way. Soap wasn’t here you could roam in peace.

It was when you finished, right as your plate hit the sink, Soap walked in, sat his keys in the bowl next to yours, eyes immediately scanning around your shared dark apartment, then at you who stood ever so beautifully under the stoves overhead light.

The ends of his lips curved.

Shit.

“Johnny, seriously. I’m tired.” You begged, stupidly taking a step back into the counter. Wrong move stupid.

“But ye look so sexy, bunny, is this all f’me?” Teasing, he took a few steps forward mushing you into the counter. You wish you’d been smaller, you would’ve been able to escape this, the feel of his fingers slowly grazing against the curve of your waist, he bends down, takes a nice whiff of you. Vanilla and honey, the exact body wash he’d been using up just to remind himself of your smell. So sultry on you. His hand went up, up, up, to your oh so perfect tits. God he loved them, would probably pray to them if he could. His finger brushed against your already hardened nipple and you shuddered.

How pretty. And then he groped it, slowly kneeding, and you tried to hold it back. Not let your toes curl, but he heard the moan behind your bitten lip, like music to his ears. He stepped into your parted legs, one hand holding you still while the other trailing down, past your abdomen and then he feels the little wet patch on your white panties. He groans, God, what a sight.

“Fuck, ye been desperate this whole time, huh? Been achin?” His smirk is evil, conniving.

You whine a no, no! But he dips his hand under the waistband of your panties, fingers going through your sopping folds.

“Why are ya soaked then? Hm? Need someone te touch ye here-“

“-I don’t-”

“—Ooooh but look at how wet you are,” and he thrusts one finger inside, he coo’s, “Ye need it lass, don’t worry, I’ll help ya.”

You can’t help but throw your head back, mewling as he works his finger inside your cunt, your hips grind against him on their own, more, more, more— “Yeah, go on, hump ma hand like the little slut ya are.”

His breath hitches, thrusting his finger inside you like he’s the one who needs to get off. Needs to see you shatter against him, your hardened nipples brushing against his military uniform from how close he was. Your gummy walls tighten around him, mumbling a string of curses as the pit in your stomach grows. Soap growls, “Sweet jesus, there ye go Bonnie.”

His fingers were fat and calloused, curling just when you needed them, he pulled an orgasm from you. Legs twitching as your foot stomped at the ground, moaning like a fool. He pulled his fingers out, lapping up every bit of cum that fell into his hands.

He patted the apple of your cheek lightly, “Good work baby.”

Soap didn’t do anything after that.

Didn’t even acknowledge that he finger fucked you in your kitchen. He didn’t touch you either. Just went to and from work, he’d greet you proper, ask if you needed anything or wanted to watch a movie together. You obliged, still skeptical of the whole situation. Till you ended up here.

Soap, still watching while you cleaned off your bed, a bulge in his pants, patiently waiting for your answer.

“Not jokin Bunny, want ye on ma face. Need it. Just this once.”

Once, your ass. That what he promised when he first started touching you. He just needed to feel once to calm down. And then he’d calm down.

And then you think back to how the past two weeks, which was full of peace and solitude.

Did this man— did he need to do the most vulgar things to leave you the hell alone?

Your eyes squinted at the bastard. Laughing out of shock, at how ridiculous this whole situation was.

Maybe you had to take a chance.

Just this once. Just this singular time. It couldn’t hurt.

You ended up straddling his chest, Soap practically salivating at your oozing pussy, hands gripping your hips. You were hovering.

“I-I think I might too heavy.” You stuttered, hand pressing behind you, at his stomach. Trying to remove yourself. “Cannae be too heavy, come on.” Johnny’s eager, too eager that he yanks you forward so your precious pussy is right in his face. He breaths against your folds and you squirm, more precum dripping between the inner pink of you pussy.

“What if you break your neck?”

“Don’t bloody care lass! Sit.”

You gulp.

Whimpering as your cunt meets his mouth. Soap doesn’t hesitate to make out with it. Flattening his tongue to taste everything you have to give. Sucking your clit and lightly nibbling at it.

“Oh f-fuck,” you moan, Soaps a fucking mess. Brown locks sprawled out on the bed, his blue eyes dark as ever and hooded. Your cum all over his mouth, glistening in your juices. But your hovering still, just enough so your over his mouth is on you, but you won’t sit.

He grunts, giving your ass a slap, “Swear to Christ, [+], if ye don’t sit, I’ll eat ye till ya can’t stand tomorrow.”

Was that a promise?

Johnny doesn’t even give you a chance, just wraps his muscular arm around you hips, and forces you to sit on his face. You cry out a moan, head spinning as he works his tongue into your hole. He moans at the taste of you, plopping you up and down and then moving your hips backwards and forward. You can hear his lips smack every time his mouth connects to your folds. His hands found your breasts, giving them a nice squeeze through the cloth and then rolling your nipples in his hand. Pulling at them till they’re achingly hard. Groaning when he felt your little hole squeeze around him.

“Jo-Johnnyyyy!” You whine, finally not caring what happens, gripping at his hair and grinding yourself down further. Your heavenly thighs lock him down and he lets out a pathetic moan, letting your clit rock against the tip of his nose as he ate at you like Jesus at the last meal. Your juices slouching everywhere with every movement against his face.

From his chin, to his nose, and back, swiveling your hips as the butterflies in your stomach began to build.

“Awww, wee girl just missed me. Shit, ‘nd I missed ye too, so fuckin sweet little thing.” But Soaps not talking to you, he’s talking to your cunt. Utterly pussy drunk, he gives your pussy a nice smack with two fingers, droplets flying down his chest. “What messy fuckin girl, gotta clean ya- mmph!”

You feel it, the way your eyes roll back, your legs shuddering, and you try to get out of his grasp because you feel too good being devoured like this, Johnny whines. Gripping your hips so hard they could bruise and sitting you back down where you belonged.

“Cumming- I’m cumming- hngh-“ with a gasp you let go.

Johnny only hums, letting you clench around his tongue, sucking every last drop out of you while you cry out. You swivel your hips on his mouth, rubbing his nose into your pulsing clit.

He lays you down, licking his pink now glossed -with your cum- lips, head still in between your thighs, “Fuck, made me all pretty Bunny.”

And Soap had to pray, pray to god that he got everything on that little camera he had hiding in your room that you haven’t found yet.

He’d be needing it later.

a/n: I’ll probably end up doing a headcanon of this cause pervy!soaps reader (and him) run my mind. Also reader matching his freak lollll.

most recent masterlist

[tqlepatia]

⋮ ⌗┆FA$$HION KILLA .ᐟ ( PART II )

— OLDER ! RICH ! SEVIKA × MODEL ! MOTHER ! READER ( HCS ) —

౨ৎ - 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒' : " Here it iss !! I writed 2 times and tumblr deleted 😓 but thank God i have a big patience and writed it again, — angst, baby blues implied, and a lot of fluff (･ω･) . ".

𖹭 - Sevika knew she wanted to marry you the second she saw you doing shoots for the bridal collection of Vivienne Westwood, specially on the last dress.

𖹭 - "How would you feel about keeping one of those dresses?" You didn't understand until she pulled a ring from her blazer pocket, unmistakably the one that once belonged to Sevika's mom.

𖹭 - When you walked through the aisle, Sevika let herself cry a little in front of people, for the first time in years.

𖹭 - Honeymoon in Italy. You both barely left the room, too busy making love all day and night.

𖹭 -Sevika bought a new property-lush land, a greenhouse, a marble kitchen filled with cookbooks.

𖹭 - You started sleeping in, missing fittings without guilt—You stopped walking for a season, turned down four campaigns, and didn't feel bad about it.

𖹭 - You began documenting your domestic life privately-film photography, garden photos, table settings.

𖹭 - At night, Sevika would read the newspaper while you journaled on the sofa around the left side of the pool, while sometimes looking at the sky full of stars, sometimes she would stop reading a bit to massage your legs.

𖹭 - You started feeling the difference in your body- heavier breasts, longer naps, sudden cravings.

𖹭 - Sevika notice before you did, She held your hand the moment the test turned positive, barely blinking, just whispering "Okay."

𖹭 - Your bump showed faster than expected, and so did the press commentary.

𖹭 - Many brands of luxury tried to get a piece of the cake, trying to surf on the hype of one of the biggest supermodels being pregnant, sending gifts 24/7.

𖹭 - You began being tagged in "before/after" photos on Instagram, which led you to delete the app and all your social media.

𖹭 - She rubs your back when you throw up and kisses your hair even when you smell like ginger, massage your feet, make your breakfast with help of chefs.

𖹭 - She kissed every new stretch, every soft swell. "You're making something holy", " isn't so graceful that you are bringing another life to this world?" she whispered in soft nights.

𖹭 - Time to time, you realise how much your image was built over validation and numbers everywhere; your height, your weight, how many calories you consumed per day, your number of followers, or even how many runaway shows you got to.

𖹭 - You spent most days on the terrace in robes, drinking ginger tea, reading books about motherhood, so did sevika.

𖹭 - She took over the kitchen. The first time she made soup, she FaceTimed her aunt. You sat on the counter and laughed for twenty minutes at the story of Sevika's short childhood.

𖹭 - Your baby came fast. The labour was simple, you felt bad about the mother beside your room that screamed for hours after you finished your labour, and Sevika was there, holding your hand the whole time, crying as you screaming of pain.

𖹭 - She held the baby first. Then she gave the little girl to you like an offering, the little one was identical to Sevika's baby pictures, for a moment, you thought that the photos had materialised inside your womb.

𖹭 - You bled for weeks, and no one told you how lonely it would feel. The world celebrated the baby but forgot the woman who brought her into

𖹭 - You loved your baby. But sometimes, when the crying didn't stop, you had to put her down and sit on the floor, whispering "Please, please, please."

𖹭

- 𖹭 - 𖹭 - You stayed off the runway for five years. Not because you couldn't. But because you refused to miss her first laugh, her first tantrum, her first step, and all these things.

Some nights, you sat outside on the garden steps and asked the stars for forgiveness for not being glowing, grateful, or the best mom that your daughter deserved.

𖹭 - You and Sevika barely fight, but now you're in a bad mood almost all the time due to the lack of sleep and tiredness, you and she started having little fights till... they weren't little anymore. "I gave up My LIFE for this baby, Sevika! And what did you give up? Nothing! So don't tell me what to do with my daughter." After the fight, she kept silent and slept in the living room.

𖹭 - You cried almost all night that day, at midnight you went to see her awake with the strong brightness of the TV illuminating her face, by your expression she already knew that you were feeling guilty for the words so sharp as a knife earlier. "Lie here love, sleep on my lap, then we'll go to the bedroom, okay?"

𖹭 - Sevika posted photos rarely. The back of your baby's head. You're stirring soup. You asleep against her chest. Always faceless, always sacred, like the world doesn't deserve to see you and your baby.

𖹭 - Your child giggles uncontrollably when Sevika blows raspberries on her little and soft belly, and Sevika grows a habit of treating her like royalty. Some days, the little girl even chooses Sevika’s clothes for work.

𖹭 - The photo Sevika took of you sleeping with the baby on your chest became her phone background for a year ( she changed it for a photo when the little girl took her first steps, you looking at her like this 😮 )

𖹭 - The hate comments stopped mattering when you saw your child run to you, arms open, calling you "mama" and climbing into your lap.

𖹭 - Your daughter painted your nails with Sevika one lazy Sunday. She chose pink. Sevika let her paint hers too. The mess stayed on your hands all day.

𖹭 - You caught her once sitting on the nursery floor alone, staring at the toys. You asked what was wrong. She said, "I never had this. Not even close. I didn't know what it looked like until now." You kissed her temple and told her, "Now you're building it. That's the point." She didn't say anything, just pulled you into her lap and held you like she was grateful you ever existed.

𖹭 - When the fashion house begged you back, you almost said no. Until you looked at your daughter and thought, She should see what it looks like when her mother chooses herself, too.

𖹭 - You worked out until your legs shook, counted almonds, cried over a single croissant, habits thay you got when was just a teenager looking to follow your dreams career, and they're back. But you weren't chasing beauty, you were begging to feel like yourself again, before the world carved judgment into your skin. Sevika found you on the bathroom floor once, scale beneath your feet, and said, "No body is worth this war." But you were already deep in it.

𖹭 - You practice your walks again, more than satisfied when you notice that you still remember perfectly how you used to walk, that was already a part of you, was engraved on your brain—in a way you never forget

𖹭 - The first show you did after five years, you cried backstage. Sevika stood behind the curtain, hand on your shoulder. "You never stopped being a goddess," she said.

𖹭 - After the runway, you went straight home. You didn't want the afterparty. You just wanted to kiss your baby's forehead and check if she was fine.

𖹭 -Interviews started pouring in. You declined most. Until one day, you said yes. It was in your garden. Just two chairs, tea, and wind. The interviewer asked, "How are you so calm now?" You said, "Because I stopped needing approval, the only one I need is from my daughter."

𖹭 -You told her about the hate, the body talk, the way motherhood was romanticized and weaponized all at once. You and the interviewer cried. Not because you were broken. But because healing had finally arrived, The clip went viral. Not for drama. For its stillness.

𖹭 - Sevika watched the interview ten times. "You looked like the woman I fell in love with," she said with a big smile kissing your forehead

𖹭 - Every night, Sevika kissed you like it was the first time. Because in your softness, she found her strength, too.

𖹭 - You started hosting dinners with no phones. Just stories, music, and laughter. You read poetry again. You began to write your own.

𖹭 - When storms hit, Sevika insists you all sleep in the same bed. "Just in case," she says. In case of what, you're never sure. But you never fight it. You like the way she tucks the baby between you two, how her arm curls around both of you like you're precious cargo. You fall asleep to the sound of rain and Sevika's breath, like the world could end and you'd still be safe.

౨ৎ - 𝐓aglist ; @prettyinpink69 , @abbysdollie , @marieeeluvsyou , @littlelovelunette , @madzorwhatever , @zvmbitegirl , @salsalsusu , @kataranda.

[slut-for-slutty-fictional-men]

saw you were looking for requests!!

ive been thinking of how lando would be sooo gentle with a reader who hasnt ever been loved properly like he would absolutely spoil her till the end of the world even if she refused

like he'd get her favorite flowers and take photos of her all the time and tell her he loves her 24/7

omg yes, I love this! He would be so sweet and caring without even thinking about it! I wrote this pretty quick, but I'm pretty happy with how it turned out.

Like You Deserve

Pairing: Lando Norris x Reader Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Soft Romance Warnings: Mentions of past emotional neglect, low self-worth, crying, healthy relationship dynamics, tooth-rotting fluff Word Count: ~1200 Summary: You’ve never been loved like this. Not gently. Not completely. Not without strings or apologies. But Lando? Lando loves you like it’s the easiest thing in the world — and slowly, impossibly, you begin to let him.

Masterlist

The first time you cried in front of Lando, it was over something stupid.

At least, that’s what you told him.

It had been a long day. One of those heavy, dragging ones where everything feels just slightly off. You got the wrong coffee order. Your boss snapped at you. Someone bumped into you on the train and didn’t say sorry. Nothing huge, nothing tragic — just little paper cuts you’d bled from quietly.

And then you got home, and there they were.

Peonies. Your favorite.

A bouquet in your favorite color, sitting in a glass vase on the kitchen counter. No note. No announcement. Just waiting.

You stared at them like they might disappear if you blinked.

And when Lando came in from the other room — curls damp from a shower, hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows — and smiled at you like you mattered, you burst into tears.

He crossed the room in seconds. “Hey—hey, love, what’s wrong?”

You shook your head. Covered your face. You didn’t want him to see. You didn’t want to ruin the moment. You didn’t want to need this as badly as you did.

But he didn’t get frustrated. He didn’t sigh, or say you were being dramatic, or ask if you were hormonal.

He just wrapped his arms around you, warm and firm, and said softly:

“I’ll get you flowers every day if it means you cry like this less.”

You laughed — wet and broken — into his chest.

You’d never been loved like this before.

Not gently.

Not without earning it first.

You try not to talk about your past much. It’s messy. It makes people uncomfortable.

But Lando notices things.

He notices how you flinch a little when he raises his voice — even if it’s just from laughing too loudly.

He notices how you apologize three times for interrupting him, even when you didn’t.

He notices how you never ask him for help, even when you’re clearly overwhelmed.

And worst of all, he notices how surprised you look every time he does something thoughtful.

“Stop acting like I brought you the moon,” he says once, when you gasp at the takeout he brought after your long shift.

You smile tightly. “Sorry. I’m just not used to this.”

“To being fed?”

“To being… seen.”

He doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t look away.

Instead, he cups your jaw, brushing your cheek with his thumb. “Then get used to it, love. ‘Cause I’m not going anywhere.”

He starts taking photos of you when you’re not looking.

You notice it one morning, scrolling through his phone while he’s in the shower. A whole album labeled with your initials — filled with candids.

You sipping coffee on the balcony. You in one of his hoodies, asleep on the couch. You laughing at something off-camera, head thrown back, eyes bright.

You look beautiful in all of them.

You don't recognize yourself.

When he comes back in, towel around his shoulders, he sees you looking.

Your voice is small. “You keep pictures of me?”

Lando blinks, confused. “Course I do.”

You set the phone down like it might burn you. “I just… no one’s ever done that before.”

He crosses the room. Presses a kiss to the top of your head. “Then they were idiots.”

One night, weeks later, you break.

Not in the loud, dramatic way. Not like glass shattering. More like a hairline crack that finally gives way under pressure.

You’re lying in bed, curled into his side, his fingers playing absentmindedly with yours. Everything should feel perfect. Safe.

And still, you ask:

“Why do you love me?”

Lando’s hand stills.

You almost wish you could swallow the question back down. But it’s out there now. Ugly and trembling and raw.

“Sorry,” you mumble. “Forget I said anything.”

“No,” he says, firm. “Don’t do that.”

You can’t look at him. “I just don’t get it. I’m a mess. I’m anxious. I second-guess everything. I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to be—”

“Stop.”

His voice is low, but not angry. Just steady.

He tilts your chin so you have to meet his eyes.

“I don’t love you in spite of those things. I love you because of who you are.”

You blink, throat tight.

“I love that you care too much. That you remember the name of every mechanic on my team. That you leave me little notes when I travel. That you’re still soft after everything life’s thrown at you.” He swallows. “I love you. Full stop. No conditions. No fine print.”

You’re crying again.

This time, you don’t try to hide it.

And when he kisses you, slow and reverent, you let yourself believe — just for a second — that maybe you’re not too hard to love after all.

You stop apologizing so much.

You start texting him first.

You let him buy you flowers without flinching.

You even let him take a photo of you on your bad hair day, after whining for a full ten minutes about how awful you look.

(He posts it anyway — captioned, “Cutest human alive, don’t fight me.”)

And when he tells you he loves you — casually, easily, every day — you finally start saying it back without fear.

Because he never makes you earn it.

Because he says it like it’s your name.

Because he means it.

Later that night, you’re tucked into the passenger seat of Lando’s car, the city lights flickering past like fireflies. His hoodie swallows you whole — sleeves too long, hood up, wrapped around you like a second skin — and your legs are folded beneath you, socked toes pressed to the leather seat.

The radio’s playing softly. Something nostalgic. His hand finds yours without looking.

He does that now — reaches for you without needing to think.

And you let him.

Your fingers settle into the spaces between his, perfectly matched. His thumb rubs gently across your knuckles, slow and soothing. You watch the motion like it might slip away if you blink.

“I think I’m starting to believe you,” you say after a long stretch of silence.

His eyes flick to you, quick and warm. “Believe what?”

“That you love me.”

The smile that blooms across his face isn’t wide or showy. It’s quiet. Soft. Reverent, almost. Like he’s been waiting to hear that from you.

“I’ve never said anything truer,” he murmurs.

You turn your head, studying him in the warm dashboard glow. One hand on the wheel. One hand in yours. The same boy who brings you flowers without a reason. Who kisses your shoulder in passing. Who sees you.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve you,” you whisper, voice barely a breath.

Lando squeezes your hand. “You don’t have to do anything, love. You deserve it just by being you.”

You blink fast, throat catching. He doesn’t look away.

“Let me keep showing you, yeah?”

You nod, heart thudding hard. “I’m not going anywhere.”

And for the first time in your entire life, you believe it.

A/N: i really loved writing this, felt very healing (I need therapy lmao) anyways please send me requests! I love reading yall's ideas! also feel free to ask me any questions if you want hehe :)

[bullet-prooflove]

The Rose: Michael "Robby" Robinavitch x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989 @flyinglama @yousigned-upforthis @oklahomapeach @queensland-lover93

Companion piece to:

Lipstick (NSFW) - It's love at first blow job for Dr Robby.

Crisis - Robby has a bad day.

ASMR For The Soul - Robby doesn't sleep when you're not around.

Bunny - Robby discovers you've been keeping secrets.

Something To Complain About (NSFW) - You ignite the ire of Robby's neighbour with your bedroom noises.

Noise Cancelling - Robby discovers his neighbour keeps a spreadsheet of your antics.

Poolside - When Robby's had a really shitty day he always ends up whereever you are.

The Betting Pool - Robby discovers that his collegues have been taking bets on his relationship.

Fifty Shades of Robby - Robby's collegues see the truth of his relationship when they find your Instagram.

Dumb Bitch - Robby exhibits his protective side when another man steps on his territory.

Stop Compressions, Start Compressions - Robby loses everything in the aftermath of Pittfest.

24 Hours - Robby refuses to leave your side in the aftermath of the shooting.

Saftey Rail - Abbot gets real with Robby when he finds him on the roof.

Baby, It's Gonna Be Alright - Robby wonders if he's fucked things up with you for good.

Exorcism (NSFW) - Robby and you finally find a way to be honest with one another.

There’s a rose taped to Robby’s locker.

Not a real one.

But one made of tangerine coloured paper, meticulously folded through origami. His fingers trace over the delicate petals before he carefully removes it, wrapping the tape around the stem so he doesn’t tear it.

The soft scent of the ocean clings to the paper, flooding his senses. There’s a light citrus element to it that he can only attribute to the woman in his life, the one he married last year on the beach.

It’s your wedding anniversary today and he’d taken a shift because you’d been away at lifeguard camp getting those last few hours signed off so that you can become a fully qualified assessor for the city.

He opens his locker, tucking the rose inside before checking his watch and frowning. He hadn’t expected you to be back in the city until later on tonight.

“Allegra still here?” He asks Dana as he returns to The Pitt, pumping the antibacterial dispense and spreading the gel over his hands.

“In the breakroom.” Dana says distractedly as she sorts through the files in front of her “I think she has a little something for you.”

“Colour me intrigued.” Robby murmurs as he grasps the door handle. The two of you aren’t supposed to be doing gifts until tonight and he’s wondering what’s led to this impromptu visit.

When he opens the door there you are sitting at the table, looking as stunning as ever. Your time at camp has given you a pretty glow that seems to radiate from you. It has Robby’s cock stirring in his scrubs because it’s been over a week since the two of you last laid eyes on each other and his body intimately remembers the fun you got into the morning before you left.

His gaze falls to the small silver gift box with the navy blue ribbon perched on the table front of you. You smile as you push it towards him and fuck, it feels like sunlight chasing away all those dark nights without you. “Happy anniversary.”

“I thought we were doing presents later.” He says, his lips brushing over your temple before he takes up residence in the  seat beside you.

“I couldn’t wait any longer.” You tell him as his fingertips tugging at the artfully crafted bow, unravelling it.

He lifts the lid on the box and his breath catches. His chest grows tight, an ache of emotion blossoming in the centre as he swallows hard against the lump in his throat. His eyes sting as he tries to blink away the salt that threatens to leak down his cheeks, his palm rubbing across his bearded jawline.

“Really?” He questions, his fingertips tracing over the tiniest set of yellow baby booties he’s ever laid eyes on. “This is really happening?”

“Yea Robby.” You say, taking his hand and pressing his palm to the space where his child resides. “You’re going to be a father.”

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