#4 nations is for flirting

[sirfrogthe3rd]

"If an artist falls in love with you, you can never die."

[heyimkana]

Pillow Talk (3/4)

Read Part 1 | Read Part 2 | AO3 Link

Sequel to Come Home to Me but can be read separately.

Pairing: Sung Jinwoo X Female Reader

Genre: Marriage AU, fluff, smut

Summary: As the hours grow late, your kisses turn deeper, his touches grow more obscene, and by the end of it, his patience snaps and it's about time for you to start a new game.

Content Warnings: face-sitting, constant flirting, endless banter

Word Count: 8K

But… A filthy thought resurfaces, tugging on the corner of his lips. A little poke can’t hurt.

“Jinwoo?” You raise a brow, confused as to why your husband suddenly turns quiet. “Are you all right?”

He smiles saccharine sweet—a mask he uses to cover his devilish grin. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just had some… thoughts in my mind.”

“Thoughts? What thoughts?”

“About our baby,” he answers so effortlessly, leaving it impossible for you to discern through his lies. “I haven’t talked to them today. Would you mind if I say hi real quick?”

The sudden change in his actions confounds you. You really thought your little act of submission earlier was enough to snap the rope that held him together.

Sensing your hesitance, Jinwoo pushes a lock of stray strands behind your ear. “Will you lie down for me, Angel? Please?” His touch, his voice, his gaze—everything is so tender, it almost washes away all of your suspicions. Almost. 

Huh… Your tongue prods your cheek. Guess he has more self-control than I thought. “Sure. They won’t be able to hear you now, though. Not until I’m in my second trimester, at least.” 

“It’s all right. I just want to be close to my baby. Both of my babies,” he teases, a playful twinkle in his eyes as he obviously refers to you as the second, much needier one.

“Cheesy,” you mutter, showcasing a revolted look despite finding hilarity in it. Who thought the sixth national-level hunter, Sung Jinwoo, could act this way behind closed doors? Still, with your eyes narrowed slightly in suspicion, you comply and lift yourself off his lap. You swear you caught a slight hint of mischief fleeting across his face just now, but…

“What?” He blinks, feigning innocence. “Something wrong?”

“No.” Why won’t he just kiss me? Like, actually kiss me? This has been going on forever, hasn’t it?! You wonder, biting back the frustrated sigh before it tumbles off your lips. 

The bed creaks slightly beneath you as you glue your spine to the sheets, watching the ceiling above you with a frown, still trying to figure out why your plan of luring him didn't work before. Have you lost your touch? Your sensuality? Perhaps you should’ve gone all out, just directly seduce him until he caves into his desire—to yours. But that would make you sound desperate, no? 

Submerged in your own thoughts, you fail to notice the fiendish grin embellishing your husband’s face. “Don’t pout, Sweetheart,” he says, recapturing your attention. “I’ll be right back with you in a second.”

“I wasn’t pouting.”

“Sure you weren’t,” he playfully scoffs, his retort carrying a spark of deja vu. 

Jinwoo starts his little game, traversing his way down your body, his smile, tinged with a hint of impishness, stays everlasting on his face. He leaves a trail of fireworks as he maps the valley between your breasts with his mouth, reaching every inch of skin that’s not covered by satin. “Your skin is so soft…” Though he aims to keep it innocent, his tongue peeks out from between thin, rosy lips, tasting your skin fleetingly as if his self-control slipped its leash for a moment. 

He feels your body stiffening at the sensation. “Seems like someone’s a little sensitive tonight,” Jinwoo chuckles, pushing up your gown until it pools just below your breasts, leaving your stomach exposed for his breath to caress. “Kind of reminds me of the way you act during our wedding night. You were so cute, then.” His fingertips feel featherlight on your skin as both desire and adoration pervade his gaze. “Of course, you’re adorable now, too. You always are. But the way you squirmed underneath me that night… The way you gasped and moaned even from the slightest touch… Mmm,” he applies another slow, erotic, open-mouth kiss below your navel, his tongue swirling across the skin. “You were so, so fucking cute, baby.”

The stimulation zings through your entire body, almost robbing a yearning moan out of you. “S-shut up.” A bashful retort is all you can manage as you cast your face to the side, avoiding his gaze. Even the devil himself has never looked as sultry as he was before. “It’s just… It’s been a while.”

He loves it, loves the way you easily get flustered from his lines. “Since what, exactly?”

“You know what.”

“Sweetheart,” he laughs softly at your obliviousness. “I’m giving you a chance to talk dirty to me. Make use of it.”

“I—” you sputter, face aflame. “Y-you know I can’t. It’s embarrassing. Besides, you’re…” You turn mute, stopping a second too late.

“I’m much better at it than you are?” He continues your sentence with a smirk, the silky swirl of his tongue in the hollow of your navel sends fire licking through your veins. You make the mistake of looking down, catching the way his tongue darts out so obscenely to taste your skin. His eyes fixate on yours, as hazy as your own, filled with the carnality he tries to repress. Your stomach flutters in sensation, wanting more, so much more. 

Noticing your stare, he makes a show of it, moaning softly against your skin as he bestows more wet, slow kisses on your lower abdomen, catching flesh between his teeth, and teasing it until a mark blooms. You chew on your lip, your fingers twisting against the sheets. God, I want your mouth on me, you almost plead out loud.

“You’re losing your words, Angel,” he reminds you with a puckish smile, snapping you out of your daze.

“I thought you were gonna speak to our baby,” you glower.

“I am going to. I just wanna play with the bigger baby for a bit before I go to the little one.”

“Get to it.”

His grin grows wider. “Why, afraid you’re gonna start begging if I continue?”

“Get. to. it.”

He chortles softly. Just how adorable can she be, he wonders as he stands on his knees before you. “Open your legs for me, Angel.” When you grow hesitant over his request, Jinwoo playfully rolls his eyes. “I won’t do anything, I promise. I just want to get comfortable. Besides” —he rests his hand on your thigh, teasing you by rubbing circular motions with his thumb—“It’s not like you haven’t spread your legs for me before.”

“God, you’re so—” You sigh in defeat. This is starting to get embarrassing. With a slight sulk on your face, you slowly part open your thighs, watching the way his smirk vanishes little by little as he takes in the view. The way you spread them so slowly as your embarrassment sinks in, the delicate lace of your lingerie, and how it sticks so perfectly to your heat like a second skin, they barely leave any room for his imagination to wander… 

You clasp your thighs together again, squeezing them shut as your eyes turn into slits. “Focus,” you chastise him, despite being flustered yourself.

“I am.” 

“I mean, on the baby!”

Your husband kisses your knee with an amused grin before he pries your legs apart and settles himself in between. “Right, the other baby,” he chuckles, making himself at home, his toned abdomen pressed flat against the bed as he strokes your stomach with a gentle hand. 

As you are only in your seventh week of pregnancy, your belly hasn’t swollen much, the bump nearly nonexistent, especially when you lie down. If it weren’t for your never-ending fatigue and your morning sickness, perhaps you wouldn't have felt pregnant at all. 

“Hey there, kiddo,” Jinwoo greets them with a tiny kiss on your skin. “It’s Daddy speaking.” He splays out his hand over your stomach, smiling tenderly at the small yet growing baby bump. “I heard you’ve been a little too rough on Mommy today. Wanna tell me what’s that all about?” 

He pauses for a second, humming lightly every now and then as if he’s responding to what the baby is saying. “I see. So, you don’t like the food, huh? But, you see, baby, your mommy is trying her best to give you all the nutrients you need. We want you to grow all healthy and strong, so can we cooperate for a bit? For Mommy’s sake? She’s been very nice, you know.” 

His fingers continue to trace shapes on your skin, listening intently at the baby's ‘comeback’. “I know, darling, but you have to understand the pain she’s going through. You’re making her super nauseous and tired all the time, but she won’t even take anything for it ‘cause she doesn’t want her pills to harm you. She loves you so, so much, kiddo, just as much as I love you. So, if you could just tone down your little tantrum over there and let Mommy have some rest, Daddy promises he’ll do anything you want the second you’re out of your little nest.” 

Jinwoo settles his lips on your skin, letting you feel the contour of his smile. Suddenly, he pulls away, making a face as his eyes flicker back to you. “Did you hear that? Our baby just said no. I’m afraid we got a little troublemaker in here, honey.”

You titter at his performance. “Oh, really? Another one?”

“Mm, just like Daddy,” he replies with a grin too sexy to be considered playful. Jinwoo drags his stare to your stomach once more, his voice laced with mirth as he speaks. “Listen, baby. I know it’s still too early for me to say this, but I want you to understand one thing. It’s Daddy’s job to drive Mommy insane, okay? Your job is to look cute and melt Mommy’s heart so she won’t stay mad at me for too long. We need to work as a team, you and me. So, from now on, no more giving Mommy a hard time, okay? Can you promise me that?” 

His little theatrics are so convincing that you can practically hear your baby sprouting their lines back to him. “Good,” Jinwoo utters in satisfaction at their imaginary response. “You’re making Daddy feel so happy right now, baby. I hope you know that your mom and I are so excited to have you. We’re going to spoil you rotten, you know that? We’re gonna take care of you and make sure you’re always safe and loved. It’s still gonna be a while until I can hold you in my arms, but I’ll be counting the days until then. Daddy can’t wait to meet you, Sweetheart.” 

With sweet affection residing in his gaze, Jinwoo lays his head down on your stomach, rising and falling slightly with every breath you take. “I think they like me,” he says after listening for a while, followed by an elated sigh.

“I think that's just the sound of my guts contracting, but okay.” You ruffle his hair, your smile a mix of glee and adoration. “I’m sure they do, honey. They will love you so much and—What are you doing?!” Your voice turns a pitch higher when he suddenly drags his head south, his mouth leaving a string of wet, sensual kisses down your pelvis. 

“Nothing,” he murmurs seductively against your skin, his lashes fluttering against his cheekbone as he toys with his favorite doll. “Just showing my baby some love.”

Which baby?! With shivers born out of every kiss, you find your legs squeezing around him, your fingers gripping the linen beneath you as your anticipation grows. He’s so close to where you want him, yet never close enough. Every time you feel like he's about to taste you where you ache for him the most, Jinwoo moves away, purposefully pushing you to your limit. What was it that he said before? That it was his job to drive you crazy?

“Your thigh’s trembling,” he comments with a hint of cockiness in his tone, pleased with the effects he has on you. “Cute,” he purrs out, diving his head low to suck on the inner side. Gliding his hand up your leg, he keeps your thigh pressed close to him as he grinds his teeth against the skin, teasing you without giving you a chance to escape. “Are you nervous, Sweetheart? Or maybe” —a deep, lewd moan vibrates on your skin as he sucks on your supple flesh, making sure to paint your thigh with his favorite color—“excited?” 

You toss your head back, a whimper slipping out of you no matter how much you try to suppress it. It’s just a little love bite and yet... 

Jinwoo chuckles. “Definitely excited.”

You want his mouth on you. God, it's insane how much you want it, but at the same time, you don't feel like you have the patience to wait anymore. You want to feel him, truly feel him, connected in every way possible, and you know he wants it, too. 

“Jin…” You place one hand in his hair, grasping at his strands. Your intention is still unclear, uncertain whether you want to stop him or urge him to thrust his tongue inside. And should you even be this desperate for him? Fuck, maybe he’s right. Maybe you are needy.

Still with his head trapped between your thighs, Jinwoo circles his fingers around your wrist, guiding your hand down to his face as your thoughts still wage war against one another. As he presses your hand against his cheek, your thumb accidentally brushes against the corner of his mouth. He parts his lips instinctively, his eyes clouded as he looks at you. With a gulp, you push your index and middle fingers inside his mouth, watching him take them all at once, his cheeks hollowing around your digits, enveloping them till his lips brush against your knuckles. Jinwoo keeps his eyes glued to yours; the intensity, the lust swirling inside is unmatched, electrifying you. 

He closes his lids, sucking on your fingers like he’s made for it, groaning softly around them, low and sensual. He looks so submissive like this, a view that’s so rare, you almost feel like you should commemorate it somehow. The moment you slide them away, with his saliva dripping to his chin, Jinwoo dives his head back to your heat, closing his lips around your clit. 

You shudder at the sensation, your legs clenching tightly around him. “Jinwoo—ngh—”

His breathing turns heavy. He only aimed to tease you before, but after catching a glimpse of how adorable and sensitive you look right now, he tosses his plans out the window. “Can I taste you?” he whispers, his gaze almost pleading. Two of his long fingers rub against your folds, eager to spread them apart and fit his tongue in between. “I know you’re not feeling very well today, so I won’t do anything you’re not ready for, but I just… I want to take care of you.” There’s sincerity in his lustful stare, the loving side of him competing against the beast inside. “Let me take care of you. Please? It’s been so long…” It's almost a whimper that crosses past his mouth when he nuzzles his face against your thigh, mouthing his words against your skin. “I want to remember how sweet you are, Angel. Want you to come in my mouth. Will you let me?” 

The filthy words ignite your desire the same way his tender tone soothes your heart. A quiet yes flows past your lips. 

He presses a grateful smile against your thigh. “That’s my good girl.” His fingers begin to work on your panties, sliding them off your legs. “Just lie still for me, Sweetheart. Just relax, and…” His breath falls hot on your core, his eyes gleaming beneath the soft, golden light. Spreading your folds apart, Jinwoo opens his mouth and darts out his tongue. “Keep your eyes on me."

He pushes in without a second to waste, his tongue moving past your ring at once, tasting the sweetness of your core. Your hand returns to his hair as a startled gasp escapes you, tugging against the roots. This time, you don’t want him to stop. He can fuck you later; that can wait. Right now, all you need is to find your release, to come on his tongue the way he craves it. 

“Mmph,” Jinwoo breathes out heavily through his nose, his eyes drooping in rapture the moment you start grinding on his face. He can sense your impatience, your need to take over control, to just use him as you please until you reach your ecstasy. And he knows exactly what to do for you to obtain it.

He breaks away from you, almost robbing a whine out of your lips from the short separation. To your surprise, your husband settles himself on the bed, rolling over to his back and taking your body with him. You land on his chest with a huff, his grip around your waist so possessively tight, his movements rushed as if he were on the brink of his sanity. 

“Get up here,” he nearly growls, his own patience running thin. “On my face, Angel.”

“J-Jin—”

“Now.”

Adrenaline pumps through your veins, causing you to ignore all sense of shame. You crawl up his body, your hips guided dominantly by his hands. You don’t have enough time to memorize how perfect he looks underneath you—trapped between your thighs with his face flushed, his hair disheveled from your frantic hand, his lips red and inviting, glistening with your juice.

He hastily brings you down onto his face, his nails sinking into your thighs as you rub your soaking core on his tongue. “God, baby,” Jinwoo moans, the salacious sounds intermingling with yours in the air. “You're so wet. So sweet for me.” It almost sounds like he's been waiting for eternity to taste you, and honestly, to him, it does feel that way. He’s drowning in just as much pleasure as the one he gives you, just from being used by you.

He pushes your gown to your stomach, and you hold it there, clutched tight between your fingers that have grown white from how hard you clench them. You have a clear view of his face now, his lascivious expression, the way his gaze turns dark and clouded, asking you to give him more.

“Jinwoo—” You land one hand on the headboard for balance, fingers tightened into a fist. “I-I want to please you, too. Let me turn over and—” 

“No,” he finds your clit, and he sucks hard, not letting you break even an inch away from him. 

You almost topple over, your hand sliding down the headboard as a jolt of pleasure shoots through you. “Fuck,” you hiss out, your thighs trembling around him. “S-slow down—ngh—” You haven’t come yet, but you feel overstimulated from how hard and fervent he suckles on your bud. At this rate, you’re going to finish before you can even lay your hands on him. “Jin, please, let me suck you off, too—ah—”

Your husband stubbornly ignores your request, a low growl erupting from the back of his throat as you continue to squirm above him. He tightens his grip on you, sliding his tongue inside, thrusting deep as his nose rubs against your clit.

He parts away when you cry out pathetically, his nails raking down your thighs. “You’re going to stay right here, Angel, right on my face,” he says, his voice rough and demanding. “You’re going to ride me, make yourself feel good with my tongue, and you’re going to let me see your face when you come. That’s what I want you to do for me, Sweetheart, you understand?”

“Jin, I—” 

“Answer me.”

Your breathing turns jagged, your jaw slackening on your face as you have no choice but to give him a shaky nod. “Yes…” 

Satisfied with your response, he urges you to sway your hips again. His mouth feels beyond amazing, so warm and wet, and just so eager to please you. Jinwoo is right. It has been too long since you last did this, and it makes your orgasm build up frighteningly fast. Despite the urge that impels you to pick up your pace, you do the opposite, timidly rocking your hips against his face, afraid that you'll come so soon if you don’t—

But he's not having it. 

“Use me,” his deep voice rumbles against your skin, his grip around your thigh bruising. “Fucking use me, baby, come on.” 

It's threatening to come out, the feral beast inside of him. And he wants to take it slow for you to savor the moment, but he just needs you so terribly. He needs to have your taste in his mouth. He needs to see you come. He knows how desperately you want it.

Fuck. Fuck. You can feel abashed about it some other time. He wants to see you let loose, and you're just aching to let yourself go. You push the hem of your gown inside your mouth, seizing it between your teeth. With one hand still propped against the headboard and another one buried in his strands, you fully rest your weight on him, pressing yourself as close as possible to his mouth. 

And you ride him. Hard and fast.

“Mmph—” Jinwoo grunts loudly as your fingers grab a handful of his hair, keeping him there, where he looks the prettiest with his face drenched in your essence. His gaze grows unfocused as he relishes the sweetness that oozes out of you, lapping on it fervidly as you continue to rub your clit back and forth, stopping only when he sucks on it. He doesn’t let the opportunity go to waste, suckling hard the way you like it until your toes curl in response.

“I’m—I’m close,” you warn him, no longer caring if your orgasm is coming in too fast. You can’t fight it back anymore. “Jin—”

Jinwoo responds with a moan, his eyes shut tight in rapture, eyebrows furrowing as he licks his way to your deepest part. His huge palms cup your behind, kneading your flesh and guiding you to rock your hips faster. Give it to me, Angel, he wants to say, but you’re not letting him do anything but stick out his tongue for you. He grants your wish as much as you’re granting his, breathing heavily through his nose, drunk from your taste.

Your orgasm hits you like waves crashing against rocks, so intense, it leaves you shaking from head to toe. Jinwoo tries to catch his own breathing, his hazy eyes taking in every detail of your face, memorizing every line and expression to recall later when he’s apart from you. You're pretty, so pretty. He wonders if you were made in heaven, designed by God himself to bless his eyes.

He lets you take as much time as you need to gather yourself, showering your thighs with idle kisses, his overwhelming lust reducing to sweet affection. His cock twitches painfully beneath his sweatpants, leaking and leaving a wet splotch on his underwear, yet he pays no heed to it, no matter how much it begs him to seek his own release.

He’s gotten what he wished for. He asked for a sliver of your taste, and you gave him an abundance of heaven bursting in his mouth. He's far from satisfied—he's insatiable, after all—but this is enough to soothe his yearning for you, at least for now.

You remove yourself from him, tossing yourself back to the bed, body drained, heart beating fast in the afterglow. Capturing his face with one hand, you meet his lips in a messy kiss, expressing your appreciation through searing passion. You’re still breathless, quivers residing in your fingertips as you taste yourself in his mouth, your kiss deep but far from consuming.

Jinwoo groans softly, cradling the back of your head as he licks his way inside your cavern, finding a different kind of sweetness that he pines for just the same. By the time he finds the strength to separate from you, lips swollen and glistening red, he rests his forehead against yours, trading small peals of laughter with you.

“My beautiful, beautiful wife,” he sighs, placing another kiss on your temple, his voice so raspy, it almost sounds like a purr. “Look at you looking so satisfied, all because of me.”

“All because of you,” you echo with an enervated smile. “That was… so intense…”

“Was there really any moment in our sex life that wasn’t intense?”

“True,” you titter, drowning too deeply in your bliss to care about the cockiness in his tone. “Oh, you still have a little…” You sweep your thumb across his glistening lips, wiping the rest of your… You can’t even finish your thought, sinking into an endless pit of shame for making a complete mess of his face. But of course, your husband doesn't mind. He welcomes the taste, grateful, even. He’d drink and lap every drop that seeps out of you had he been given the chance.

As if to prove his point, Jinwoo seizes your wrist before you can draw your hand away, pushing the same thumb that you used to clean off your essence into his mouth. He sucks on it, licking your digit clean, his eyes turning half-lidded, seeming almost drunkenly as he holds your stare. He’s so unbelievably, naturally, effortlessly sexy, he should’ve come with a warning.

“T-thank you,” you breathe out, dazed by how lewd he looks just now. “For, umm… You know.”

Jinwoo chuckles, gently pushing stray hairs away from your eyes. “Anytime, love. You were so tense at first; I was afraid I wasn't going to be enough for you.”

“You're always going to be enough for me. More than enough.” You brush your lips against his again, lighter, just another token of your gratitude. “It was just…” You can’t help but turn a little sheepish. “We hadn’t done that in a while, so… I think I got nervous.”

“I know. I’m sorry for not doing that sooner.” He tilts his head slightly to the side, painting kisses across the lines of your palm. “I thought about pleasuring you every day, but I didn’t want to get you all worked up when you were already so tired all the time.”

That's so like you to put my needs above everything else, you think to yourself, smiling fondly at him. “I’ll always have the energy when it comes to doing this with you, honey, you know that.” 

“Not once I’m done with you,” he says, a glimmer of naughtiness returning to his eyes. “But, no, it’s not about you, baby. It’s about me. I’m too afraid that I won’t be able to hold myself back.”

You stroke his cheek, pouting slightly. “I don’t think I’ve ever asked you to hold back. And I never want you to.”

He releases a breath, heavy with desire. You’re unaware of how much your honesty affects him; how it peels the grip he constantly tightens around his restraint. “If I don’t do that, Sweetheart, you’re never leaving this bed.”

But that’s the kind of heaven you yearn for, isn’t it? To be loved every hour, held every minute, fucked deeply every second by a man whose vigor and beauty rival the Gods himself? You refrain from telling the truth, however, choosing to humor him instead. “Then the world will lose their hero.”

“That’s right,” he taps your nose, adoration in his eyes. You look so cute like this, so content and blissful with an air of playfulness in your breath. “So, you better not tempt me, Angel.”

“Hmm… Maybe I should.” You slide a hand up his chest, your tone inviting. “We’re not finished yet, are we? You haven’t come.”

He stops your teasing hand, keeping it still above his heart. It races with need beneath your palm, but he puts a cage over it. “I wasn’t planning to.” It’s a genuine confession, you can tell. “Like I said, I just wanted to taste you. Besides”—Jinwoo flaunts his smirk—“we should finish our last game before we start a new one. You haven’t answered my question, Sweetheart—any of them. I’m curious about you, too, you know. And you haven't been playing fair.”

You frown, so close to jutting out your lower lip in protest. “You still want to play that?” Desperately wanting him to give in, you crawl back on top of him, resting your palms on the bed with his head trapped in between. Your chest, adorned by your nightgown, hovers just a few inches away from his face, giving him the perfect view of your cleavage. “You sure you don’t want to play a different game with me?”

Despite wanting to appear nonchalant, you catch him swallowing his breath at the sight of your breasts, his gaze darkening before he flicks his eyes back toward yours. “Being a bit bold tonight, aren’t you, Princess?” His hand skates up your thigh, slipping beneath the hem of your gown. “And very naughty.” Your lover cups your behind with one hand, his fingers squeezing your bare skin, while the other begins its own journey to your chest. “Want me to take you right here?” He palms one of your breasts, kneading it firmly from over your gown. “Right now?”

Fuck, yes. “Mm, maybe,” you croon, wetting your lip. 

“Don’t do that,” he warns. The sight of your tongue peeking out from between plush lips nearly pulls out a growl. “I’m already hanging on a thread as it is.”

Your eyes droop as your gaze descends to his lips. You bring your head low, your mouth a breath away from his. “I’m telling you to let go,” you murmur seductively, your lips ready to collide once more.

But Jinwoo, as stubborn as a mule, places a finger on them, stopping you just in time. “And I’m telling you to wait, Sweetheart,” he gently says, sitting on the bed while keeping you close. “It will be worth every second, I promise.” 

Honest to God? You’re pissed off and you’re this close to throwing a tantrum like a child, but your annoying, utterly adamant husband merely laughs at the sight, his fingers poking into your cheeks as he grabs you cutely by the face. “Look, you’re pouting again. This is why I love it when you’re being needy. You always make this face and it’s just so”—he releases you just to plant a tantalizing kiss on your chin—“fucking”—his tongue now glides across your lip, an act so sinful, it steals your breath away—“cute.” Jinwoo kisses you, deep and rough, his lips devouring yours, moaning against your mouth as he does it. 

You’re close to celebrating your victory of persuading him when he abruptly stops, breaking away and showcasing an innocent smile as if he didn’t just awaken all the butterflies in your stomach with that single kiss. “You look the prettiest when you cry, the cutest when you pout, and the sexiest when you're angry. Now you know why I can’t stop teasing you, don’t you, Angel? You're just so damn addicting.”

Not letting his words get to your head, you swat his hand away, glaring. “You’re postponing sex just because you want to see me pout?”

“Maybe.” He can't help the little grin that plays across his face, hearing your protest. “But also, you just came a minute ago. I don't want to—what’s the word—overstimulate you.”

“As if you haven’t done that before,” you snort, nearly forgetting your goal of getting him back to bed. You switch back quickly. You still have a little devil to seduce. “Which I love, obviously. And I can come again, you know.”

“Oh, I know you can,” he smirks, nothing but enticing. “I’ll make sure you do. But first, you need to answer my questions.”

“Oh my God, fine,” you groan loudly, tossing your head back in frustration. You stand on your knees on the bed, towering a few inches above him with his thighs caged in between them. “Can we, at least, do that while making out?” It’s pathetic that you ask that, but at this point, you’ll take even the little crumbs of his passion.

“You know I would, but clearly, someone can’t afford even the tiniest bit of distraction, so I think we should leave it right here. For now.” He fixes the strap of your gown with a bemused look on his face. “As much as I would love to make love to you right now, Sweetheart, let’s be patient.” He circles his arms around your waist, drawing you close enough until his breath caresses your chest as he speaks. He looks up, placing an idle kiss right above your heart. “You know how I am, don’t you? I love taking my time with you.”

“Saying that while you’re quite literally poking me with your dick is insane, actually.”

“And that”—he boops your nose, his grin cheeky—“is the other tiny distraction you need to ignore.”

“Yeah, it's definitely tiny. Your dick, that is.”

He rolls his eyes. “Mm-hmm, sure. Now, answer me. If you had to choose one of my features to keep, what would it be? My tiny dick is not an option.”

Perhaps it’s driven by the urgent desire to get this stupid game over with, or maybe it’s because your mind is still gyrating from how warm and amazing his mouth felt on you earlier—whatever it is, your answer slips out before you can put a filter on it. “Everything.”

Jinwoo stops for a bit, his eyes blinking in surprise at how easily and genuinely your reply topples out of your mouth. For a brief moment, you wonder if you should take it back to regain some of your dignity, but after what he’s done to you—for you—you figure he deserves every bit of your honesty. “E-Everything,” you repeat with heat creeping up your cheeks. “I love everything about you, so… I’d want to keep all of them.”

His gaze softens, his smile carrying a sliver of bashfulness that he rarely portrays. Though he’s overjoyed with your reply, he refuses to accept it as an answer. Despite his flirtatious tendencies, your husband remains a humble man, no matter how strong and how wealthy he’s become ever since he established his own guild. Narcissism has never been a part of him, especially when it comes to his looks. He has confidence in his body as he trains his muscles daily, but he feels average on everything else, and that’s why he treats the sweet confession of your affection as merely a compliment, but not the truth. “That’s not a fair answer, Sweetheart. Just one.”

As hard as it is to choose, the answer comes to mind within a heartbeat. “Your eyes.”

Jinwoo arches an eyebrow. “My eyes?”

“Mm,” you nod your head, slightly sheepish now that you need to elaborate further. The hand that you rest on his shoulder glides up to his neck, your fingers grazing against his undercut as you tilt his face backward, taking a clear look at the serene, pretty sapphires that have bewitched you from day one.

“I love how… intense they are, how expressive. They speak more than your words ever could. They’re haunting in the most beautiful way. So powerful that you can make any man cower under your gaze, even without a word. And I love how they turn soft and gentle whenever you look at our daughter. I love how…” You exhale, almost in reverence. Staring deeply into them like this, truly makes you feel grateful that you’re the only woman whose reflection is engraved in his eyes, whose name is etched in his chest. “I love how you make me feel so loved, so wanted, so adored, every time we lock gazes. And I love how they look when you… stare at me like this.”

His heart flutters as he hears you describe his eyes in such a way, never realizing just how much you’d paid attention to them. Hypnotized under your captivating stare, he utters a soft, “Like what..?”

Like you’re aching to take me, every part of me, claim it as yours and devour me until there’s nothing left of me to share with anyone else, but at the same time, to love me in the gentlest way. There's an equal balance of lust and affection in his gaze, the same amount of yearning and obsession. You're not sure how to convey that into words, so when you separate your lips, you say, “Like you… want me so terribly.”

He releases a faint, contented sigh, his eyes offering a new sense of tenderness as he looks at you. “You’re wrong.” Jinwoo tightens his arms around your waist, your body pressed flush against his. “I don’t want you, Sweetheart. I need you. I always do.” He adores the shyness that embellishes your face. “I didn't realize you love my eyes that much…”

You can tell how he, too, turns a little shy over it. Cute. Playing with the baby hairs on his nape, you tease him, “Well, don’t be too pleased about it. I don’t like them that much.”

“Oh? Then how much do you love them?”

“Like a normal amount,” you toss him a grin. “What about you, Husband? Which part of my features do you like the most?”

Jinwoo, so effortlessly, lifts your body and places you back on the bed, your hair strewn on the pillow as he hovers above you. “I love everything about you,” he confesses in a breathy whisper, just as sincere as the words you've spoken before. “I adore every part of you, even those that you try to hide, those that you think don’t deserve to be loved.”

His fingers trace the blemish on your face, the soft scars on your body that you’d gotten during your adventurous childhood days, the stretch marks on your stomach that never truly disappeared after your first pregnancy, and the little dark circles under your eyes from all the sleepless nights. Jinwoo adores all your imperfections, as they are still perfections in his eyes.

“But if I had to choose one, then I’d have to say…” His gaze cascades down your face, his thumb tracing over the shape of your mouth. “This.”

“My… mouth?” You reply a little hazily, your own stare falling to his lips. “Why…?”

“Because I love the way you kiss me,” he whispers, keeping his lips a hair’s breadth away from yours as he gathers what's left of his self-control to finish the rest of his answer. You can almost feel the shape of the words he speaks. “Your lips are a perfect fit against mine. I love how soft they feel, how sweet you taste. And they just look so beautiful, and so damn… kissable.” He bites his own lip, fighting the urge to claim yours. He doesn’t want to give in to temptation just yet. He wishes to douse the curiosity that brims in your eyes, even when your tongue is too shy to speak it. 

“I love the way they move when you talk to me,” he continues in sotto voce, his thumb brushing the edge of your mouth. “I love how gorgeous they look when you smile.” Every cell of his body, similar to yours, begs him to bridge the distance. “And when you say my name… The way these pretty lips look when you say it… It drives me wild.” His hand suddenly roams up your thigh, his fingertips lightly brushing against your core, eliciting a startled gasp out of you. “And that—those cute little noises you make when I touch you. Those beautiful, sweet little sounds…” He sighs longingly, burying his face in the crook of your neck. “God, I feel like I’m losing my mind whenever I’m with you.”

Six years. Six years you’ve been together, yet you still have these effects on him. And his effects on you are even worse.

You’ve forgotten how many times he’s lit your body on fire tonight, merely by his lines. But perhaps it’s not because of the words he speaks, it’s the never-ending desire that coats them. He makes you feel like you’re a prize to be won, a heaven’s gift that he still yearns for, no matter how often he’s tasted you.

“But beyond all that… What I love the most about your mouth is…” He brings himself to your ear, his voice deep and breathy. “What you can do with it.” 

You shiver at the revelation, your heart beating in your throat. The way his lust drips thickly from each word…. He makes the line sound so filthy.

“When you kiss your way down my body… When you wrap your pretty mouth around my cock…” Jinwoo breathes out rather raggedly, getting aroused by the vision. His hips press down on you, slightly grinding against yours as he nips at your neck. “You asked me what ran through my mind earlier when I was on the raid. It was this, picturing you on your knees, your pretty eyes staring up at me, waiting—begging for me to give it to you. I imagined you taking me in your mouth, slowly, deeply, obediently like the good girl you are.” The raspiness in his voice tickles your ear, derailing you from your thoughts. “I wanna fuck your mouth, Angel. Wanna fuck it until you cry. Until you start gasping, gagging around my cock.”

This is new to you, this burning, stimulating sensation that pools in your stomach, the way your body is reacting to him. Jinwoo has never been so… brazen with his words before. He’s a romantic in his nature. Expletives come out sometimes in moments of desperation, yes, but he never really uses vulgar words to describe how he feels. Even when he talks dirty to you, his lines come in praise, sometimes even poetic in a way. You wonder if something within him has snapped from all these games you’ve played, the same way yours is about to. 

“So—so, why don't you?” You breathlessly ask. “I’d let you.”

He lowly groans, trying to rediscover his control. “Yeah?” He asks heavily, his hips still rocking slowly against yours, his hot breath falling on your neck in tatters. “You’d let me?” 

“Yes, I want it.” You nearly plead, your fingers grasping against his bare waist. But then, it dawns on you, all the horror that could happen. “Wait, actually, no, not right now. I mean, later when I don't feel so nauseous anymore.”

Jinwoo stops, looking at you incredulously for a split second before he bursts into laughter. “Yeah,” he chortles, his body vibrating with mirth as he lays his forehead on your shoulder. “Yeah, you’re right. I don’t want you to actually throw up on me.” 

To your disappointment, the sizzling tension between you disperses into nothingness, but seeing him laugh like that, so light and carefree, almost like a little boy, you can’t help but feel warmed by it. A soft smile ornaments your face as you watch him, committing every expression to memory. His laughter eventually recedes, replaced by a tranquil sigh as he looks down at you. “How many questions do I have left, Angel?”

Two, but your impatience tells you to cheat. “One.”

Although he narrows his eyes suspiciously at you, he relents. ”What do you like most about me?”

It’s the easiest question in the world with an infinite number of answers you can say. It would take you forever if you had to list his endearing traits one by one, something that you’d gladly do if you weren’t so consumed by this burning need to have him right now. You decide to say the first word that comes to your mind, the one thing that’s been stealing your attention since the time he kissed you.

“Your tongue,” you answer in a breathless whisper, your mortification sinking in only when it rings back to your ear. His tongue?! You reprimand yourself. Seriously?! It’s not that it’s wrong—his tongue is definitely something else—but to say it out loud?

You expect your husband to burst into laughter again, or worse, act cocky and cheeky about it, but his voice takes on a slightly darker tone, his body heating up above yours. “My tongue, huh?” His voice, low and deep, silences your thoughts at once. “And what exactly about my tongue do you like so much?”

Your face nearly explodes, but knowing how it already slipped out of your mouth, you might as well just tell him the truth. “I…” Your cheeks burn bright, your voice reducing to a murmur. “I love the way you use it when you kiss me.” And when you pleasure me, you want to add, but there’s only so much shame you could endure.

Jinwoo lowers himself to you, his gaze intense. “When I kiss you…” His lean fingers trap your chin, his hooded gaze falling to your lips. “You mean like this?” 

His lips move against yours in a sweet, slow, sensual dance, taking his time, making sure that you feel everything, every detail, every breath he releases that you consume, every movement he makes—the way he parts his lips, the way he parts yours, the way he deliberately drags his tongue from the bottom of your chin to the seam of your upper lip before he pushes in through the aperture just enough for you to feel him on the tip of your tongue, the way he tastes in your mouth, a bit of mint, and a lot of you. Everything fills your senses.

He breaks away to let you catch your breath, a string of saliva connecting the bridge between you. “Jin—“

“Not yet,” he dives back in, turning it up a notch. Each swirl, each glide, each roll of his tongue against yours feels like it’s in slow motion, your toes curling in the sweet torture he gives you. It feels so much more obscene, so much filthier than the ravenous kisses you shared before. He keeps the kiss slow but deep, exploring your mouth the way a yearning man would savor his lover’s last kiss. He breathes heavily through his nose, emitting a soft groan every now and then, addicted to the way you taste.

His previous kisses left you breathless, but this… This leaves you in a haze, so spellbound by his kiss that when he separates himself from you, you can barely remember your name. Your eyes, dazed and hypnotized, follow the way he runs his tongue across his bottom lip, now slick and swollen after being suckled. 

But perhaps, he shares your sentiments as well, because the second Jinwoo draws himself back, his thumb presses down on your lip, tugging it lower to see the sweet cavern inside, his eyes misted with hunger as if he already misses the way you taste.

“Jinwoo—”

“Do you know just how much self-control it takes to not just take you right here, right now?” The huskiness in his voice stuns you, so rough as if he were on the brink of losing himself. His eyes slowly journey back to your own, turning you into a nervous, excited mess beneath him. The intensity of his gaze… The depth… The vivid desire that leaves you gripping the sheets… “You don’t even know how sexy you are to me, do you, Angel? You and your pretty eyes and your little white gown, and these sweet”—he kisses you, lighter than air, yet he still moans softly at the contact—“sweet lips of yours.” His hand slithers to your neck, his fingers caging you, leaving you completely under his mercy. “Think I could just eat you up right now.”

Your heart beats in your throat. “S-sorry.”

He blinks before he releases a soft laugh, his hand leaving your neck to tangle your fingers together. ”Why are you apologizing?” Honestly, you don’t even know why. It just felt like you had to after messing with his sanity so much. Jinwoo, still smiling, applies a gentle kiss to your knuckles. “There’s no need for you to say sorry, Sweetheart. I love it when you make it hard for me to control myself.”

“You do..?” 

"Of course I do,” he presses another kiss, more playful this time. “I love it when you look at me with this look in your eyes. I love seeing you breathless.” He cups your cheek, taking in your features. “I love knowing how much you want me.” 

He can feel your chest rising and falling against his as the tension returns. Your breath comes in short, shallow breaths, his acute hearing catching just how fast your heartbeat grows. He’s close to losing it, even when he plays it cool. “Do you still have more questions you want to ask me?” Jinwoo says, despite his mind already drifting somewhere else. “If you do, then this is your last chance, Angel. I’m afraid I’m starting to get a little… impatient.”

You wish he could just sever it, that last rope that binds him together. And perhaps you can, he’s handing you the knife to do it, after all.

“No,” you breathe out. “No more questions.”

His eyes gleam, his lips curving into a wolfish grin. “Well then…” Without warning, he rolls you to your stomach until you’re pressed flat against the bed. His hips press down against yours from behind, his hand fisting a handful of your hair and he tugs it back, earning himself a low groan. Deprived of your options as you’re being held still, your eyes land on the standing mirror before you, just the way he wants you to. It reflects you perfectly, showcasing how helpless you are beneath him, the pathetic look on your face—so eager to be touched, and the way his gaze turns dark as it meets your own.

Jinwoo whispers in your ear, keeping your eyes locked with his in the mirror as he smirks. 

“Let’s play a different game now, shall we?”

***

Read the alternate/deleted scene here. It's spicier 😁🌶️

[fir-fireweed]

Guess what time it is! It’s time for another RO drop!

Bayram Durmaz (he/him)

The son of the Aydem, the matriarchal leader of Tinebaille, the neighboring island nation. Bayram is 4 years older than you. He has golden-honey skin, light brown eyes, and dark brown, tightly-curled hair that he usually wears back in a ponytail or half ponytail. He is tall and broad, muscular but not toned, with a rounded edge to his stomach and chest. A sprawling, colorful tattoo, the mosaic artwork of his people, covers the entirety of his back.

He is boisterous, bold, and a shameless flirt. With his young sister bearing the weight of succession, he’s been free to explore the islands to his heart’s content, and is familiar with every bay, inlet, and harbor. He is equally skilled at wielding a spear, sailing a ship, and charming hearts.

[everrinsly]

a momager and her silly olympic team vibes.

fake injuries with the bois. fluff. fem!reader. | not proofread.

more olympic team shenanigans | part 1 | part 3 | part 4

more reads!

~~~~~

It didn’t take long for the boys to get annoyed—

"That bastard actually got coddled...like a fuckin' baby!"

"And he was smug as fuck about it too. Like did you see his face?!"

"So he thinks he could flirt after Brazil, huh?"

"Nah, the question is how'd he learn to flirt in Brazil?"

"Wait, Suna, didn't you post a video to Insta?"

"Yeah, it got like 3.8 million views, still going. The shrimp's famous."

"No, wait, how—I thought you captured the most unflattering angle of him?!"

"I did. Fans said he looked hot."

"BRO—"

‌—because one hit to the face and Hinata was getting iced, lap-cuddled, and spoon-fed frozen chocolate ice-cream not by just any manager, but you. You. YOU. The one who have known them since Nationals back in high school. All sweet and soft and so kind—like how could they not want to be doted on by you. With your gentle hands brushing back his hair back and your 'you can have three popsicles instead of two' energy, the rest of the team suddenly became very aware of their own "injuries" (cough cough).

And Hinata? The one you called 'your sunshine'? Yeah, he was totally taking advantage of you, and you didn't even know it. Because you adored him in all his Hinata ways.

All you noticed was Hinata glowing, cheek iced and feet propped on a towel roll like a prince on the bench.

"You look better today, Sunshine," you murmured, brushing a few stands of his hair back.

"I am, thanks to you," he said softly, grabbing your free palm and nuzzling his cheek against it.

Your heart fluttered. His eyes were hooded, looking at you like you were the sun. Like his sunshine. A small smirk playing on his lips (smug as fuck, Bokuto was right).

Your hand freed itself from carding through his hair to press against his forehead. "Mm...did the doctor give you drugs? You seem...different."

He suddenly leaned forward, as best he can, and wrapped his arms around you. His nose in your hair. Your face pressed against his biceps. He pressed a lingering kiss to your temple.

"I'm trying to flirt with you, sweets."

Oh. OH—

(Brazil treated him well).

You unconsciously buried your face in his chest, all flustered and shy. Squeezed his biceps one last time before pulling away to let out a soft giggle.

"How about...less flirting...and more of...letting me apply your soothing balm?"

He pouted, but it was quickly replaced by a knowing grin. "Okay, as long as it's always gonna be you who applies them."

"Always."

So there you were, mid-way through applying the balm on Hinata's bruise—

“Ow.”

You looked up.

Suna was limping across the court like a wounded soldier.

“I think I twisted my ankle,” he said, voice completely flat but somehow convincing. “Definitely need medical attention. And...emotional support.”

You gave him a suspicious look. “Weren't you standing there for the last ten minutes?"

“Exactly. Deadly position. Bad for circulation.”

Before you could respond—

THUMP.

Bokuto dramatically fell backwards onto a mat. “I LANDED WRONG.”

Iwaizumi didn’t even look up from taping a new roll on his fingers. “You tripped on your own shoelace.”

“It was a bad fall, Iwa!” Bokuto whined. “I’m probably emotionally concussed.”

Atsumu swaggered over, holding his arm like it was broken. “I can’t set like this. Might need you to, y’know, gently wrap it. Maybe kiss it better?”

You threw a cold pack at him. “You’re not getting a popsicle, Atsumu.”

“But HINATA got—”

“I was HIT IN THE FACE—” Hinata yelled from the bench besides you, popsicle stick in hand, like a prize.

You cut him off. "Sho—when did you grab another popsicle? I said only three."

He grinned. "When I was hugging you...ice box was behind you."

"HINATA SHOYOU—"

"I know. I'm sorry—I'm sorry, baby."

"BABY—don't fuckin' call her baby!" Atsumu yelled, glaring at Hinata.

You sighed, wanting to laugh at the chaos. Reminds you of high school.

But then, not to be outdone, Kageyama walked up with a deadly serious expression.

“I have a…neck cramp.”

And you blinked. “A neck cramp?”

He nodded solemnly. “It needs…rubbing.”

Iwaizumi, now fuming, snapped, “You want me to bring a massage table for your fake cramp, Kageyama?!”

Komori giggled from the side, taping his fingers like this was the best show on earth. “Ten bucks says Ushijima goes next.”

Right on cue, Ushijima raised his hand. “I have a sore muscle.”

You sighed, exasperated. “Where?”

“…In my soul.”

You paused.

“…That doesn’t even—y’know what? No. No more injured babies. Line up, I’ll evaluate all of you.”

Eight fully grown, elite Olympic athletes formed a line like kids at a daycare.

Sakusa stayed behind, arms crossed, watching the chaos unfold. “You’re all pathetic.”

You turned to him, a small smile on your lips. “Not gonna fake anything to get pampered too, Kiyoomi?”

He met your gaze. Calm. Cool.

“…I don’t need to fake anything.”

Then he held up his hand. A tiny red mark on his knuckle.

“Paper cut.”

Komori fell off the bench laughing.

Iwaizumi groaned into his hands.

And you stared at the entire team, your bag of ice packs dangling from one hand like a mom holding a flip-flop. “You guys are the most dramatic group of grown men I’ve ever met.”

“Your fault for being too nice,” Suna murmured, settling into the bench beside you with a victorious little smirk. He leaned his head against yours.

Atsumu peeked over your shoulder. “So…hypothetically…if I got hit in the face now, do I also get three popsicles?”

You tossed a towel over his head.

[buddierecs]

fake dating buddie fics

all mature rating!!! make sure to kudos/comment on these amazing works :)

keeping score by: arcanaphora "after getting dumped, buck is left with two tickets to a weeklong cruise. eddie steps in to support a friend in need, but complications arise when his friend becomes his fake husband. all's fair in love, war, and trivia" word count: 23k important tags: cruise ships, fake marriage, mutual pining, gay disaster!eddie diaz, first kiss, making out 'cause we belong together now by: smilingbuckley "on a call, buck and eddie meet an adorable little girl that they fall in love with and want to adopt. the only problem? they're not together romantically..." word count: 68k important tags: kid fic, marriage of convenience, slow burn, friends to lovers, getting together, soft!buddie, miscommunication burn the straw house down by: rarakiplin "buck gets stuck in time, has a break down and then, relatedly, a break through" word count: 40k important tags: time loop, angst, car accidents, happy ending all i can see (is you) by: trippedandfell "buck and eddie agree to fake date to win a reality tv show. it goes... well, pretty much exactly how you'd expect." word count: 21k important tags: reality show au, mutual pining, idiots in love, only one bed, gay disaster!eddie diaz for a holiday (and forevermore) by: wikiangela "eddie's sick of personal, intrusive questions about his love life whenever he visits his family, so he starts bringing buck for the holidays as his (fake) boyfriend. he only wants to shut them up, and doesn't expect that the small crush he has on his best friend could actually turn into something more..." word count: 94k important tags: slow burn, friends to lovers, sharing a bed, pre-relationship, soft!buddie, family feels, fluff, pining little lies by: david3096 "chris tells a lie at school and now eddie and buck must give a talk about love and work pretending to be fiances." word count: 62k important tags: idiots in love, mutual pining, christopher diaz is a national treasure, fluff you and tequila make me crazy by: cranberrymoons "in which buck and eddie lose chimney because they're drunk and horny" word count: 1.5k important tags: drunken flirting, season 7, sexual tension, pre-relationship fireflies where my caution should be by: littlesnowpea ".....“there are people on the porch,” eddie says, voice even. “saying they want to meet their grandchild.”" word count: 13k important tags: TW: past child abuse, fake marriage, hurt!evan buckley, emotional hurt/comfort, self-esteem issues, protective!eddie diaz what if i fall in love backwards by: redridingstiles "five times buck and eddie saved each other by pretending to be together and the one time christopher helps" word count: 9.8k important tags: 5+1 things, best friends, protective!buddie, teasing, homophobia, marriage proposal i'd never let you fall and break your heart by: autistic_nightfury "four times buck and eddie pretended to be in a relationship so people wouldn't bother them, and the one time they actually were together" word count: 5.8k important tags: 4+1 things, friends to lovers, holding hands, forehead kissies, getting together, mild smut

[jungkoode]

OFF-LABELS

→ PAIRING : Med Student!Hoseok x F!Reader (Brother’s Best Friend AU)

→ RATING: Mature, 18+, suggestive tones.

→ DATE POSTED: January 30, 2025.

→ NARRATED AUDIO:

→ SUMMARY: You’ve spent four years convincing yourself that your brother’s best friend is just being nice when he remembers your coffee order, quizzes you on neuroanatomy, or lets his touch linger a second too long. Because there’s no way that the golden boy of Seoul National’s medical program might actually be flirting with you. Especially when he keeps saying things that could be perfectly innocent… if only he didn’t say them in that voice.

→ TAGS: second person perspective, female reader, medical school au, brother’s best friend trope, age gap (4 years), pining, touch starved, overthinking reader, confident hoseok, gentle dom hoseok, medical terminology as flirting (lmao), study sessions, domestic moments, innocent (but not really), plausible deniability king hoseok, anxiety, internal monologue, guilty crushes, subtle teasing, emotional edging, gentle manipulation, praise kink undertones, intellectual attraction, competency kink, hand fixation, voice kink, medical intern hoseok, first year med student reader, home setting, casual intimacy, unresolved sexual tension (for now), secret attraction, nervous rambling, self-doubt, intrusive thoughts, anatomy lessons with ulterior motives, competent hoseok, flustered reader, close proximity, accidental touches that aren’t accidents, virgin!reader.

→ CONTENT in this chapter: plausible deniability king hoseok, subtext, dropping slight innuendo with that voice, gentle teasing, double meaning, sexual tension

→ MASTERLIST | TAGLIST REQ | WORDCOUNT: 2.6k

→ A/N: So. Listen. I was out there, freezing my ass off at the bus stop, cursing my life choices because why am I even going to the gym at ungodly hours??? And then—THEN—the bus just had the audacity to drive right past me. Love that. Amazing. Naturally, I did what any rational person would do: opened my notes app and started writing instead of using those 45 minutes to, idk, reconsider my entire existence. And thus, Off-Labels was born. This drabble? It’s about the kind of man who is dangerous in the most insidious way—intelligent, competent, and hiding behind a veneer of plausible deniability like it’s a damn art form. You know he knows what he’s doing to you. You know he’s aware of the effect he has. But can you prove it? No. Because he’s just so nice. So helpful. So unintentionally devastating to your nervous system. It’s honestly sick and twisted and exactly my type. Am I a menace? Absolutely. First installment in what might become a series because apparently I can't stop writing about competent men in medical settings using anatomical terms as foreplay. Will I be taking criticism? Absolutely not. ❤️‍🩹🩺

→ MINI SERIES: NEXT

PLAYLIST

You don’t believe in stories like in books.

Sure, you like to read them—disappear into them, let them pull you under like a riptide until you forget about deadlines and midterms and the existential dread of being a twenty-something who still doesn’t know what they’re doing.

But that’s all they are.

Stories.

Fantasies about tragic, fated loves and brooding billionaires and dangerous men with wings. You like them because they’re not real. Because it’s fun to pretend, for a little while, that you’re the kind of girl who’s got a winged fae warrior at her feet. Or a CEO husband who calls her darling in an office with floor-to-ceiling windows. Or—God forbid—her hot math teacher, who lets her stay after class for extra lessons.

Or your brother’s best friend’s secret hookup.

Not that you’re thinking about that one.

Not that it would even be your case.

You shift on the couch, burying yourself deeper into the cocoon of your brother’s old hoodie. It’s massive on you, the sleeves swallowing your hands, the faded fabric smelling like dust and detergent.

Perfect. The ideal uniform for an evening of doing absolutely nothing.

Your e-reader is dead, so you’ve resorted to flipping through some random paperback you found wedged under the coffee table, something with an aggressively shirtless man on the cover. You’re only half-paying attention, your eyes skimming over the words without really absorbing them.

Caleb should be home soon. Probably. He has class—or he says he has class, but you’re not entirely convinced. He’s in that phase of university where it’s mostly networking and group projects and going out more than actually studying.

Not that you care. He does his thing, you do yours.

A sharp knock at the door pulls you out of your haze.

You ignore it. Caleb has keys. If he forgot them, that’s his problem.

The knock comes again. Then the doorbell rings.

You groan, untangling yourself from the blanket and shuffling toward the door with all the grace of a sleep-deprived goblin. Your hair is a mess, your socks don’t match, and you’re fairly certain you have crumbs on your face from earlier. Good. Whoever’s on the other side can suffer.

Except—

It’s not Caleb.

It’s Hoseok.

Oh.

You freeze, hand still gripping the doorknob, brain buffering at the sight of him standing there, all easy confidence and warm eyes and—why does he always look so put together? It’s unfair. He’s in jeans and a hoodie, nothing special, but it fits him just right, and his hair is slightly tousled, like he just ran a hand through it, and—

Stop.

You force yourself to blink, to breathe, to act like a normal human person.

“Uh,” you say, which is a stellar start.

Hoseok smiles. “Hey.”

He has the kind of voice that makes people listen, rich and smooth, the kind that carries even when he’s speaking softly. Which he is now, like he knows you spook easily.

“Caleb’s not here,” you blurt out.

He tilts his head, amused. “Yeah, I figured.”

Right. Obviously. Because if Caleb were here, he’d be the one answering the door.

You scramble for something else to say, but your brain is blank, completely derailed by the fact that he’s here. In your doorway. Looking at you. And you must look insane—your hair sticking up in weird directions, drowning in a hoodie that is definitely not yours.

And he’s still smiling. Patient. Like he has all the time in the world.

You clear your throat, gripping the edge of the door. “Um. Did you—need something?”

Hoseok shifts, rocking back on his heels. “I was in the area. Thought I’d stop by, see if Caleb was around.” A pause. “And you, too.”

Your brain does an emergency reboot.

You, too.

You, too.

You swallow. “Oh. Right. Cool. That’s—cool.”

His smile twitches, like he’s holding back a laugh.

You want to throw yourself into traffic.

“Mind if I come in?” he asks, ever-polite, ever-easygoing.

You should say no. Caleb’s not here, and even though Hoseok is Caleb’s best friend—and a genuinely nice person, thoughtful and reliable and the kind of guy who remembers your favorite coffee order—something about being alone with him makes your stomach twist.

But saying no would be weird.

So you step back. “Yeah, uh, sure.”

He steps inside, and suddenly the room feels smaller. Or maybe you’re just too aware of him—his presence, the faint scent of clean laundry and something warmer, something mellow. He’s always been like this, always drawn your attention whether you wanted him to or not.

You watch as he shrugs off his jacket, draping it over the back of a chair like he’s been here a hundred times before. And he has, technically, but not like this. Not without Caleb.

Hoseok glances at the book on the coffee table. “Good?”

You stare at it, momentarily forgetting what book it even is. “Uh. Yeah.”

His eyes flick to the cover. His smile turns amused.

Heat floods your face.

"Interesting choice.”

You freeze. A slow, creeping horror slithers up your spine. Because you didn’t even look at the book before picking it up—you just grabbed whatever you had lying around, assuming it was something boring, something safe—

And now Hoseok is holding a novel titled My Professor’s Secret Temptation.

Oh.

Oh, you actually might be sick.

You scramble for something—anything—to say, but the words wedge themselves somewhere between your throat and your rapidly spiraling embarrassment.

Hoseok flips the book over, scanning the back cover with a curious hum. “Didn’t take you for the forbidden romance type.”

You want the ground to open up. You want to disintegrate.

“I—I didn’t even read it!” you blurt out, a little too fast, a little too desperate. “I wasn’t paying attention, I just grabbed something random, and—and it’s not—”

Hoseok glances at you, amused but not in a mean way, just…interested? "Oh, yeah?”

You nod. Aggressively. “Yes.”

His mouth presses into something thoughtful, like he believes you, but there’s still a flicker of amusement in his expression, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with this new information.

“Huh.” He flips through a few pages idly, head tilting. “He’s pretty bold, huh?”

Your stomach drops. “Who?”

“The professor.”

Your soul leaves your body.

You stare at him, mouth opening and closing, incapable of forming a coherent thought.

Hoseok just nods, easy, unbothered. “Some of these lines are intense,” he muses, flipping another page. “Do real professors talk like this?”

You are going to die. Right here. On the floor.

“I—” Your voice cracks. “I don’t know.”

He hums again, like he’s genuinely considering it, then—just as casually as everything else—he looks up and says, “You think he’s hot?”

Your heart stops.

Not in a teasing way. Not in a mean way. Just…like it’s a normal question. Like this is just an easy, natural conversation between two people who absolutely do not need to be having this conversation.

Your mouth opens. Nothing comes out.

Hoseok’s lips twitch, but it’s not a smirk, not a knowing smile—just quiet amusement, like this whole situation is genuinely kind of funny, and he doesn’t think it’s a big deal at all.

“Relax,” he says, closing the book with a soft thump. “I won’t tell Caleb.”

It’s so casual. So reassuring.

Like he really, really isn’t trying to mess with you.

Which somehow makes it worse.

Hoseok sets the book down with deliberate care, spine aligned parallel to the edge of the coffee table like he’s arranging museum artifacts. Your traitorous eyes track the flex of tendons in his wrist—medical resident hands, steady and precise, the kind that’ve probably held beating hearts in ORs. You bite the inside of your cheek until copper blooms.

He glances at the sofa.

You glance at the sofa.

Three cushions. Two throw pillows. Seventy-two inches of fabric that suddenly feels like the Grand Canyon between acceptable and catastrophic.

“Mind if I…?” He gestures to the spot beside your abandoned blanket nest, already moving before you nod.

The springs creak faintly as he sinks into the middle cushion, thighs spreading in that effortless way men do—knees wide, elbows propped, phone balanced on his lap. You sit next to him—two cushions away—and watch his thumb scroll through messages, the screen’s blue light catching the silver ring he always wears on his index finger. Surgical steel, he’d told you once when you’d asked. Sterile. Practical.

Practical.

Practical like the way his left knee now brushes the edge of your blanket. Practical like the faint cedar-and-disinfectant scent of his cologne. Practical like the half-inch of skin exposed when his hoodie rides up as he stretches his arms behind his head.

Don’t look.

You look.

Stop looking.

He shifts, a subtle roll of his hips that has no business being this distracting. The movement pulls the denim taut across his thighs, and you try—really, genuinely try—to keep your eyes anywhere else. The ceiling. The floor. The stack of medical textbooks by the TV. Anything but the way his thumb now absently traces the inner seam of his jeans.

“Told Caleb I’d wait,” he says, tilting his head toward you. The motion makes his throat work—Adam’s apple bobbing, chin catching gold in the lamplight. “Movie night. You’re welcome to join, if you want.”

Your tongue feels like it’s been replaced with felt. “I—I have… readings.”

“Readings.” His mouth shapes the word like it’s fascinating.

“For… neuroanatomy.” You gesture vaguely toward your backpack slumped by the TV stand, half-buried under a sweatshirt you’ve been using as a pillow. “Midterm next week.”

He hums, low and considering. “Limbic system?”

“Hippocampus. Amygdala. All the… emotional bits.”

“Ah.” His smile softens, crinkling the corners of his eyes. “The parts that make you want to throw textbooks at walls.”

You blink. “You… remember?”

“Your first-year meltdown over the cranial nerves? Yeah.” He chuckles, warm and rasping. “You called them ‘twelve little traitors’ and threatened to switch to art history.”

Heat crawls up your neck. You’d forgotten he’d been there that night—Caleb dragging him along for a pizza run, finding you knee-deep in flashcards and tears. Hoseok had quietly made tea while Caleb joked about selling your cadaver lab notes on eBay.

“Still think about it sometimes,” you mutter, picking at a loose thread on the blanket. “Art history sounds peaceful. No one dies in art history.”

“No,” he agrees. “But you’d miss this.”

“Miss what? The sleep deprivation? The existential dread?”

“The way your nose scrunches when you’re trying to memorize Brodmann areas.”

Your hands freeze.

He’s looking at you now—not the performative eye contact of someone making conversation, but the kind that pins you in place. Clinical. Observant. Like he’s cataloging your reaction.

“I don’t… scrunch,” you say weakly.

“You do.” His knee nudges the blanket again. Accidentally. Probably. “It’s cute.”

The air conditioner kicks on. You count the vents in the ceiling. Eight. Eight is a safe number. Eight is not the number of times you’ve imagined him saying that word in different contexts.

Cute.

Cute.

Cute.

Your lungs forget how to oxygenate.

Hoseok’s phone buzzes. He glances at the screen, then sighs. “Caleb’s running late. Some study group thing.”

“Oh.”

“You hungry?”

“What?”

He’s already standing, rolling his shoulders in a stretch that pulls his hoodie taut across his chest. “I’ll make ramyeon. You like the kimchi kind, right?”

You stare.

He’s in your kitchen now, rummaging through cabinets with the ease of someone who’s done this a hundred times. Which he has—game nights, birthday parties, that one time Caleb got food poisoning and Hoseok stayed over to make sure he didn’t choke on his own vomit.

But this is different.

This is him pulling two bowls from the shelf you can’t reach without a step stool. This is him filling the kettle with exactly 500ml of water because he knows your stove runs hot. This is him glancing over his shoulder to ask, “Soft or firm noodles?” like it’s a question that matters.

“Soft,” you croak.

He nods, turning back to the counter. You watch his hands—capable, unhurried—tearing seasoning packets with his teeth. The steam fogs his glasses when he leans over the pot, and he pushes them up into his hair, revealing the faint scar bisecting his left eyebrow.

Bike accident, he’d said when you’d asked. Twelve years old. Thought he could jump the curb like X-Games.

You’d dreamed about that scar for weeks afterward.

“Here.” He sets the bowl in front of you, chopsticks balanced across the rim. “Careful, it’s hot.”

You murmur thanks, staring at the swirling red broth. He sits closer this time—one cushion away instead of two. His knee brushes yours when he leans forward to blow on his noodles.

Accident, you tell yourself. Always accidents.

The TV murmurs in the background, some nature documentary about deep-sea creatures. Hoseok asks about your classes, and you answer in staccato sentences, hyper-aware of the way his sleeve brushes your arm when he reaches for the water glass.

“—and Dr. Park’s lectures are killing me,” you hear yourself say, chopsticks hovering over uneaten noodles. “She goes so fast, and the diagrams…”

“Want me to quiz you?”

Your head snaps up. “What?”

He shrugs, but there’s a glint in his eye—the same one he gets when Caleb challenges him to Mario Kart. “I handled multiple neuro cases last year. Could walk you through the basal ganglia.”

“You’re… busy.”

“Not really.” He sets his bowl aside, rolling up his sleeves. Your pulse thrums at the reveal of his forearms—dusting of dark hair, veins mapping paths you shouldn’t be tracing. “C’mon. Hit me with your worst.”

It’s a mistake.

You know it’s a mistake even as you fetch your notes, even as he pats the space beside him. Even as his shoulder presses against yours, radiating heat through three layers of fabric.

“Okay.” He scans your color-coded flashcards. “First question. What structure connects the hippocampus to the mammillary bodies?”

“F-fornix,” you stammer.

“Good.” His finger taps the next card. “Main neurotransmitter in the substantia nigra?”

“Dopamine.”

“And loss of dopamine here causes…”

“Parkinson’s.”

“Nice.” He shifts, knee pressing into yours. “Now point to your amygdala.”

You freeze. “What?”

“On your head. Show me where it is.”

“I—it’s—it’s medial temporal lobe, so…” You hover a hand near your right temple, acutely aware of his gaze tracking the movement. “Here? Ish?”

His chuckle vibrates through the couch. “Ish.”

“Shut up, I’m trying.”

“Try harder.”

You glare at him. He grins back, all white teeth and crinkled eyes, and something in your chest cracks open.

“Medial,” he says softly, reaching over to adjust your hand. His fingers graze your wrist—brief, clinical, devastating. “Deeper. Protected.”

You stop breathing.

The documentary narrator drones on about bioluminescent jellyfish. Hoseok’s thumb brushes your pulse point.

Accident.

Always accidents.

Then his phone rings.

You jerk back like you’ve been shocked. Hoseok answers with a calm, “Yeah?” while you stare at your knees, pretending your entire nervous system isn’t short-circuiting.

“Caleb’s downstairs,” he says, standing. “Forgot his keys again.”

“Oh.”

“You okay?”

“Fine.”

He pauses, head tilted. For a horrifying moment, you think he’ll call you out—on the shaking hands, the flushed cheeks, the way you’re clinging to a pillow like it’s a life raft.

But he just smiles. Gentle. Endless. “Thanks for keeping me company.”

The door clicks shut behind him.

You collapse sideways onto the couch, pressing your face into the cushion that still holds the warmth of him. Somewhere in the hallway, the elevator dings. Laughter floats up from the parking lot.

Four years.

Four years of this.

Four years of almosts and maybes and don’t be stupid, he’s just being nice.

Your phone buzzes. A text from Caleb:

𝐡𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫: 𝙷𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚘𝚔 𝚜𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚍𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐?? 𝙽𝚎𝚛𝚍. 𝚆𝚎’𝚛𝚎 𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚙𝚒𝚣𝚣𝚊. 𝚆𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎?

You type no with trembling fingers.

The couch creaks as you curl into yourself, knees to chest, forehead pressed against the spot where his ring had left a faint indentation in the upholstery.

Deeper.

Protected.

Somewhere in your medial temporal lobe, dopamine fires for all the wrong reasons.

→ 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓: @cannotalwaysbenight @livingformintyoongi @itstoastsworld @somehowukook

© 𝐣𝐮𝐧𝐠𝐤𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐞 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓.

no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[nanamineedstherapy]

Corporate Jester vs. Himbo Accountant: A Love Story

Or Gojo & Nanami Cosplay Each other

F!Pregnant Reader x Gojo Satoru x Nanami Kento

Previous Oneshot Chapter [Tumblr/Ao3] | Main Series [Tumblr/Ao3]

A/N: When your husbands swap personalities like cursed techniques and you're just trying to read the Wall Street Journal in peace. Enjoy this descent into psychological warfare (ft. Gojo’s accidental competence kink and Nanami’s latent himbo era). No spoilers, but someone does get called 'snickerdoodle' against their will.

It began—like most domestic war crimes—with Gojo talking mid-chew.

“I suffer the most in this marriage.”

Nanami didn’t even look up from his new maternity book. He exhaled through his nose like a man reading GDP collapse stats. “That is the dumbest thing I’ve heard all week.”

Gojo squinted. Powdered sugar clung to his lips. He wiped it off with the sleeve of your hoodie—stretched criminally tight over his shoulders—and pointed at Nanami like a man wronged by both fate and God.

“You don’t understand, Kento. She ignores me for her stupid little video games. She looks at me like I’m a stray dog in heat when I flirt. She sends me TikToks instead of saying, ‘I love you, Toru.’ She doesn’t even call me ‘baby’ unless she’s threatening me.”

Nanami didn’t blink. “That’s because you are a stray dog in heat.”

Gojo gasped. “Take it back.”

“I will not.”

You were curled up on the couch with an English financial newspaper, posture aggressive, eyes fixed. You hadn’t looked up once.

Gojo flailed. “Look at me! I am neglected. Emotionally starved. Withering!”

“I am begging you to never speak again,” Nanami muttered, flipping a page.

Gojo’s voice cracked. “Do you know how many times I’ve tried to cuddle her, only to be met with ‘not now, I’m fighting the final boss.’”

Nanami hummed, unmoved. “You’re exhausting.”

Gojo planted his hands on his hips. “What do you even contribute to this marriage? Huh? Stock tips? Budget spreadsheets? Is that your idea of romance?”

Nanami took a deliberate sip of his nitro brew. “Yes.”

“You monster,” Gojo whispered, clutching his chest like a grief-stricken Victorian widow. “You dismiss my pain. My torment.”

Nanami calmly folded his book and set it aside. “You suffer only from a chronic lack of impulse control.”

Gojo’s eye twitched. “That’s rich. You rage-clean the whole house because your sock drawer isn’t sorted by tax bracket.”

“That’s called being productive.”

“No, that’s called being emotionally constipated.”

Nanami continued to sip his coffee. “And again—what do you contribute, Satoru? Besides decibel levels and credit card debt?”

Gojo threw his arms wide. “Excuse me for bringing excitement! Laughter! Chaos!”

“Oh yes,” Nanami drawled. “A glorified court jester.”

“I AM SO MUCH MORE THAN A JESTER.”

“Are you?”

Gojo narrowed his eyes. Then pivoted to you. “Sweetheart. Who suffers more—me or Nanami?”

You didn’t glance up. Voice flat. “Don’t know. Don’t care. But if you keep talking during market open, you’ll both suffer.”

Gojo turned to Nanami, aghast. “She’s toxic.”

Still sipping, Nanami deadpanned, “that is common knowledge.”

Some time passed.

You eventually got up for coffee and walked into what could only be described as a threat to national security.

Gojo stood in the kitchen. Wearing Nanami’s three-piece suit. The charcoal one. With the tie tied correctly and the glasses perched halfway down his nose like he was about to call HR on someone.

His arms were folded. His spine straight. And his expression—god help you—was blank. Corporate. IRS-core.

“You look… responsible,” you whispered.

“I know,” Gojo replied, voice an octave lower, chest oddly still. “I feel like I should be disappointed in someone named Ethan.”

Then Nanami walked in.

Wearing Gojo’s insufferable bomber jacket. White shirt untucked. Collarbones exposed. Sunglasses pushed up like an exhausted DJ rolling into his 4 p.m. set. His smirk was pure tequila-era.

He leaned in. Whispered in your ear, “I woke up and chose to be your problem today, baby.”

You stepped back like he’d pulled a weapon. “What the actual fuck.”

Gojo adjusted his tie. “I am Nanami Kento.”

“Oh my god.”

“I believe in discipline. Silent judgment. Dying slowly in business casual. My hobbies include complaining about Gojo, making perfect omelets, and pretending I’m not obsessed with my wife.”

“This is offensive,” you muttered.

Gojo-as-Nanami stole your coffee and took a slow sip. “It’s also correct.”

Meanwhile, Nanami dragged out a kitchen chair. Sat in it backwards. Backwards. Like a middle-school PE teacher with a secret past. Smirked. “Morning, sweetheart.”

You choked on air.

Gojo staggered. “No. No, no, no, no—you don’t get to be hot while doing this.”

Nanami tilted his head. “What’s wrong, babe?”

Gojo was close to spiraling. “‘Babe’? Don’t you dare—”

But Nanami was undeterred. “Am I flustering you?”

You sighed, “Kento, I swear to god—”

“My little snickerdoodle.”

You backed away. “Absolutely not.”

“Let me spoil you. Take you out. Buy you a Birkin.”

Gojo was on the floor. Emotionally.

Nanami nudged his sunglasses down. “Let’s be real. I am the superior husband. Ridiculously good-looking. Genius-level talented. And I am so good at sex it’s actually ridiculous."

Gojo whimpered.

You stared, full deadpan. “I have made terrible life decisions.”

Nanami winked. “I know.”

Gojo’s glasses slid down the bridge of his nose. He pushed them up with a single finger. “My love, are you really wearing those pajamas at this hour? Did you eat? When’s the last time you touched grass?”

You rolled your eyes. “I make more in a second than the GDP of three nations. I don’t need to touch grass.”

Gojo straightened his tie. “But as Nanami Kento, I say things like ‘I am a simple man’ while being the most complicated bitch alive.”

“I’m leaving.”

“My love language is passive aggression,” Gojo added.

“I will kill you.”

“And yet you married me.”

“That line doesn’t even land coming from you.”

Gojo sighed. Pinched the bridge of his nose in perfect imitation. “This is my burden, Satoru. Carrying this marriage while my wife refuses to make responsible life choices.”

Nanami pointed at him. “You’re dressed as me and not even whining about lumbar support. Be honest—how’s the herniated disc?”

Gojo squared his shoulders like a TED Talk had just concluded. “My spine is flawless. Unlike your emotional regulation.”

Nanami barked a laugh—full teeth, head thrown back like he wasn’t made of spreadsheets and sex appeal. “You’re standing like a divorced gym teacher in a bar.”

Gojo waved it off. “I am a divorced gym teacher in a bar, except I day-trade.”

Nanami was breaking character because his jaw had already clenched—twice. “Kento,” he said, tone flat. “Answer this honestly.”

“No.”

“Are you capable of admitting I’m your best friend?”

Gojo paused. His hand twitched toward his glasses.

With a funereal solemnity: “I’d rather be shot in the throat by a Nerf gun dipped in cyanide.”

Nanami tilted his head. “Jealous I’m the main character.”

“You’re an emotionally repressed side quest at best.”

Then Nanami kissed your hand.

Gojo straightened his tie. The smirk dropped. “I need to file my taxes or yell at a teenager about not having a 4O1k already. This outfit is cursing me with responsibility.”

Nanami pushed his sunglasses up. “I feel the urge to make an irresponsible purchase and lose IQ points.”

You pulled out your phone. “I need a divorce.”

“No,” they both said. In perfect, synchronized, nightmare harmony.

You stared. “God’s already left. I’m next.”

---

A/N: If you cackled, gasped, or now fear Nanami’s ability to weaponize a backwards chair, yell at me in the comments. (Gojo’s ego needs the engagement. Your wife sanity is already forfeit.)

Previous Oneshot Chapter [Tumblr/Ao3] | Main Series [Tumblr/Ao3]

Next Chapter - Vogue Living: The Strongest's Nemesis Has Fur, a Therapist, & No Chill - [Tumblr/Ao3]

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Beta - @blackrimmedrose

[mapofsouthdakota]

Caffeine, chemistry and Caleb II

(Law student POV pt. 2)

Synopsis: The café was supposed to be just another coffee shop. For a law student who enjoys her morning coffee and a shy newbie still learning the ropes, it should have been nothing more than part of the daily routine… But then there’s Caleb.

Details: 1300 words. Pt. 2! (Spring cleaning is done lol kinda) Non-MC!Reader as the law student. Expect flirting, hot af barista Caleb, jealousy blooming and plenty of banter with the newbie barista. You learn something new about Caleb—and, as always, you and the newbie are in this chaotic little mess together.

Chapters: initial doodle, pilot part 1 (law student), pilot (newbie), part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7, part 8

Tags: @gavin3469 @mipov101 @unstablemiss

Turbulence | Pt. 2

It’s been three days.

Three days. Eleven drinks. Two shaky hands. One minor caffeine-induced breakdown in the library bathroom. And not a single Caleb.

The newbie’s been your reluctant caffeine lifeline. Quiet, sharp, tongue piercing flashing when they talk, salmon-colored hair tied back messily, a silver ring glinting at the edge of their nose. They don’t ask why you keep showing up—mostly because they already know. They catch your glances at the door, your pauses when Caleb’s name is mentioned, your steady descent into coffee-fueled delusion.

They say nothing. But every time they hand you your drink, their eyes say: same hat, different clown.

But today?

Today, you’re done pretending.

You step up to the counter, drop your bag, and level them with a look.

“Okay,” you say, voice flat. “This is not a crush. This is a case study. I just need to know—when does he work? For science. National interest. Closure.”

The newbie blinks, then gives you a slow, unimpressed look.

“You could ask him yourself.”

You open your mouth to argue—just as they glance at their watch, untie their apron, and say under their breath:

“Actually… perfect timing.”

And that’s when the door opens behind you.

You feel him before you see him. The shift in energy. The hum in the air. The ghost of that smirk from three days ago.

Then his voice, warm and amused:

“Hey.”

You turn around.

There he is—Caleb. Dressed in the same soft black shirt, hair slightly mussed, sleeves already rolled like he’s here to work and ruin your life.

He walks past you toward the counter, claps the newbie on the shoulder with easy affection, and ruffles their hair like it’s a normal thing people survive.

The newbie’s whole body goes still.

They turn to you, dead-eyed, mouthing: Kill me.

Then they mutter something about their shift ending and vanish into the back before Caleb can do more damage.

You’re still smiling when he turns around and spots you.

“Oh hey,” he says, tying his apron behind his back, eyes bright with something unreadable. “Didn’t expect to see you this late.”

You shrug, trying to keep your cool. “Guess I’m still unpredictable.”

His grin curves. “You wanna try something weird?”

You blink.

“I’ve been thinking about this drink all week,” he continues, moving behind the counter. “Coffee. With apple juice.”

You stare. “That sounds like a war crime.”

He laughs. “Exactly. But it might also be genius. C’mon—let me make it for you. Worst case, you hate it and I owe you a real drink.”

He’s already reaching for the espresso.

And somehow, you’re already saying yes.

You watch as he works. Veins shifting under his forearms as he moves so precise, so practiced, you’re tempted to file an official complaint with the Department of Hot People Doing Too Much. He talks while he works—voice low, casual, like this is all completely normal. Like he doesn’t know what he’s doing to you.

“Apple juice cuts the bitterness. Adds brightness. Kind of a shock to the system, but in a good way.”

You raise an eyebrow. “That sounds like a tagline for your whole personality.”

He smirks without looking up. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

He finishes the drink, slides it across the counter toward you. The cup is warm, the smell… confusing. Like summer and danger and something that should probably not be consumed without signing a waiver.

“Try it,” he says, watching you.

You hesitate. Not because you don’t trust the drink—but because he’s watching you like this matters. Like your opinion on this weird little experiment is somehow important.

And it shouldn’t feel intimate, but it does.

You lift the cup, take a cautious sip.

It’s—good?

Weird. But good. Tangy, slightly sweet, the coffee mellowed into something strange and spark-bright on your tongue. You blink, surprised.

“Well?” he asks.

You look up at him, lips still on the rim of the cup.

“…This is actually kind of amazing.”

His smile is slow, satisfied. “Told you.”

You lower the cup, trying not to look like you’re about to write an entire thesis on the way he’s leaning forward just slightly, hands braced on the counter like you’re the only thing in the room.

You glance at the drink again, then up at him. “What made you think of it?”

He shrugs, leaning back against the counter. “I just have a thing for apples.”

And that’s when you see it.

The thin chain around his neck catches the light as he shifts—barely visible under the collar of his shirt. It slips out just enough to show what’s been hiding all along:

A dog tag.

And next to it, resting against the metal, a tiny apple charm.

You freeze.

You’ve seen it before. Or maybe you haven’t. Maybe you’ve been too distracted by everything else. But now, it’s all you can see.

Delicate. Meaningful. Not self-gifted. Not accidental.

Someone gave that to him.

And it’s been there. Long enough to be worn down at the edges. Long enough to become a part of him.

You look back down at your drink.

He didn’t make it for you.

He made it because apples mean something to him. Because she made them mean something.

And you hate that it matters. But it does.

You sip again. Slower. Trying not to show your face.

Trying not to wonder if everything about him is already spoken for.

You sit back down at your usual table with the coffee-apple crime still in hand, but your appetite for it has cooled. You pretend to read a paragraph of case law and get through maybe five words.

Because you’re still thinking about the necklace.

The charm.

Her.

Is she like you? Blonde? Quiet? Loud? Prettier? Softer? Did she work here? Was she the one who taught him to like apple juice in his coffee, or worse—did she drink it first?

You’re spiraling, and you know it.

You adjust your blazer. Reread the same line three times.

Across the room, Caleb’s voice drifts through the hum of espresso and indie guitar.

It’s just coffee. He makes drinks. You’re not special. This is nothing.

You take another sip.

…It’s still good. Damn it.

The newbie walks past your table on their way out, shooting you a look that says you okay? without bothering to say it out loud.

You raise your eyebrows in a silent do not even start.

They shrug like fine, but as they pass, they murmur:

“Don’t look too hard at the charm. You’ll drive yourself crazy.”

You whip around to say excuse me?, but they’re already gone. Vanished through the entrance with a pling of the doorbell, leaving you with your overactive brain and that damn necklace burned into your memory.

You try to recover. Get your bag together. Your pride. Your notes.

And just as you’re slipping your laptop back into its case, you hear him behind you:

“Hey, Golden Girl.”

You turn, eyes wide.

He’s leaning against the counter again, arms folded, apron dusted with a bit of cinnamon.

“I’m working the early shift tomorrow,” he says. “Should I make a cup of sin for you again, or… are you too scared to handle it twice?”

There’s that smirk.

That exact smirk.

And just like that, every ounce of composure you rebuilt cracks apart like a dropped glass.

You force a smile. Steady. Controlled.

“Careful,” you say lightly. “Turbulence, remember?”

He flashes that grin, all white teeth and silent challenge. “Trust me. I’m a trained pilot.”

You walk out, smile still frozen on your lips, heart pounding in your chest like a full-on procedural hearing is taking place in there.

And as soon as the door shuts behind you, you mutter under your breath:

“I’m lawyering the hell out of that apple girl.”

——————————————————————————

Part 3

——————————————————————————

Writer’s note: So when I say my drafts are empty, I don’t mean literally—but you’ve successfully squeezed the last half-decent AU I had kinda ready since you wanted the law student with the MC existing. I was just too scared to commit lol. Congrats, you’ve all unlocked the “fine, I’ll post it” hidden achievement on my tumblr. We can always make the MC disappear if you change your mind (said with Colonel Caleb intensity)

I’m honestly amazed (and so grateful) that people enjoy this simple AU of mine—thank you for the comments, likes, and reblogs! Muah!

Let me know if you’d like more, dear reader! I’ll be off doodling my newfound Apothecary Diaries AU in the meantime—before dropping a headcanon for all the boiis later this week, hehe. Okey then, thank you for reading 🫶🏻

[notsodelirious]

Hey, so this is the same anon who requested the sequel of Knight Grayson and Royal GN reader, and I am floating up into heaven with how you wrote EVERYTHING!💙 THE COLOR DETAILS OF GRAYSON’S SUIT YESYESYES, I WOULD ALSO IMAGINE BLACK AND BLUE. I JUST KNOW HE LOOKS GOOD IN ANYTHING!😍

PS, I saw at the bottom that you might write another sequel, and I JUST NEED THEM BOTH TO HAVE A HAPPY ENDING PLEASEEEE😭

HII I’m so glad you loved both parts!! Can I offer you a prequel?

(there’s another ask for a sequel and your request just came first but rest assured, there will be an actual sequel)

synopsis: You flee from a dinner and meet another child as you wander around

notes: SFW <3 also even though this is being posted after the two other parts, this does come a couple of years before the engagement

tags: pre-relationship, forbidden relationship, Royalty AU, Knight!Dick Grayson, 2.1k words, no use of y/n, not edited yet

Part 1 (current) | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

Royal dinners weren’t all that interesting. They were fancy, grandiose, meant to be a fraction in time to parade your best, flare your beautiful blue feathers and strut before you tumbled back into the monotony of everyday. It didn’t matter how lavish your everyday was—royal dinners had to be more.

Always more.

More beauty. More poise. More polite. More mature. More obedient. More docile.

More desirable.

Nothing about you was intended to be distinct. You were to be good, an image , the ideal spawn of the Regents, a great asset. Your older brother had to prove himself a good leader, a natural born, somebody who could lead the nation. But you weren’t promised the crown. You were promised to a second or third cousin.

All of whom were sat around the long table, with their parents, and yours and your aunt and uncles and lords and ladies. It didn’t matter who any of these people were. You didn’t want to be there. You picked at the greens on your plate as dining hall roared around you, peacocks crying about their feathers.

Nobody even noticed when you slipped off your chair—not your parents who were entertaining a guest with their stories or your brother who was flirting with a married lady. You just pattered off silently, disappearing down one of the servant hallways in search of a quieter place to breathe.

Despite knowing the entire palace like the back of your hand, you were cautious at every turn, peering around corners and listening for footsteps. You didn’t want to get caught only to be dragged all the way back into the dining hall. Through every twist and turn, you grew more confident, until you were stepping out into the gardens.

You broke into a full sprint, running towards the glasshouse that sat in the middle of the gardens. It was a butterfly house, that your grandmother, the late queen, had ordered to be made for her son, your father. But neither of your parents had much interest in the delicate insects, so it became your refuge.

You pushed the door open, the heavy scent of flowers and airy warmth rushing over your skin—you were no longer bothered by the stifling air, used to the conditions butterflies needed to survive year-round. You could hear the gentle bubble of the fountain before you could see it, hidden behind tall flowering bushes.

The setting sun filtered through the glass ceiling, the fragmented colours of the bleeding sun dripping in. Some of the butterflies took off as you walked by, not settled enough to lay still.

You walked down the tiled path, humming to yourself softly, skipping from tile to tile. The place was devoid of sound and peacocks, just you, your thoughts and the fountain.

You rounded the corner, only to gasp softly. A boy your age sat on the edge of the fountain, kicking his legs idly as he looked around. He was well dressed, dark locks coifed carefully, the son of a noble family, but the knees of his trousers were dirty and mud was smudged across the russet skin of his cheek.

You took a step back, almost stumbling into a bush, sending a bloom of butterflies into the air.

The boy noticed you and beamed at you, waving as bright blue eyes crinkled.

“Hi!”

You waved back shyly, not quite sure what to say. You never spoke to people your age. Only people older: your parents, your tutors, your servants. All older.

You could only see other children from a far.

“I’m Richard! But everybody calls me Dick. What’s your name?”

You hesitated, playing with the hem of your shirt, feet shuffling on the tiles. Just as you mustered up the courage to speak, a voice cried out.

“Your Highness!” the maid yelled as she rushed up towards you. She cupped your chubby cheeks, moving you every which way to check you for injuries or blemishes. “Are you okay? Did you fall?”

“No, no I’m okay,” you said softly, pulling away from the woman’s grasp and glance at Dick, just soon enough to see the surprise on his face at the maid’s address. You supposed to every random kid who wondered into the butterfly house was royalty.

The maid caught your glance, also looking towards the other child.

She stood, and frowned as she glanced around for a guardian.

“Who are your parents, master?”

“Umm, I live with Bruce Wayne,” Dick explained as he swayed back and forth on his feet. The maid’s face twisted into something of a sneer.

You had heard whispers of the Waynes. You didn’t know much about the head of the house, Lord Wayne, but you did know that he had taken in a child, a small circus performer who had tragically lost his parents during an act. Or at least, that was what Lord Dent said anyway.

“You dirty, little brat,” the maid hissed as she tried to usher you behind her. Dick stumbled backwards, until his legs hit the fountain. Eyes wide and almost teary, he stared up at the angry woman, “What are you doing, talking to-“

“I don’t like that,” you interrupted, your small face scrunching into a frown as you disentangled yourself from the woman’s grasp. You planted yourself in front of Dick, with your chin tilted up—the way your mother did when she found her bath water too cold, or the way your father did when the wine wasn’t sweet.

But this wasn’t sweet wine and warm baths—you didn’t know much of the world but you knew that adults only spoke in that way to people they thought of inferior. You knew that kindness was hierarchically.

And she spoke to Dick like he was the scum of the earth.

“I do not like the way you speak to him.”

“Your Highness, he’s nothing but a-“

“He’s my friend,” you interrupted again. “Do not speak to him like that.”

The maid seemed to roll her words in her mouth, considering them before her face finally smoothed out and she nodded, probably deeming that it wasn’t worth the trouble.

“The king and queen request your presence,” she said softly before turning tail and dashing away.

“I’m your friend?”

You almost leapt out of your skin as you spun back around to meet Dick’s watery but elated gaze.

Your voice suddenly disappears as you nod in confirmation and he rushed forward to hug you. Not knowing what to do, you simply let him hug you, your arms limp at your side. You’d never been hugged before.

You’d never had a friend before.

How did you reciprocate either of those things?

That wouldn’t be the last time you saw Dick. The older you got, the more you were both required to show at events. To show face, to represent the family. A laborious task that got easier over time.

Easier in some aspects.

More uncomfortable in others.

“Well, I say, whoever gets to marry a beautiful thing like you is going to be very lucky indeed,” Lady Vale laughed, the champagne flute in her hand tilting dangerously. One thing you had learned very quickly was that, rich or not, drunk people were drunk. The people who stumbled out of taverns with pretty girls on their arms were no worse than the pompous fucks that drank wine until their faces flushed and they spoke their minds too loud.

You stood and smiled awkwardly, thanking Lady Vale for her uncomfortable comment that made your skin sit weirdly over your bones. Growing up had all its perks but the immediate and looming threat of being shipped off as political agreement wasn’t one of them.

Thankfully, there weren’t any nations at war, or anybody your parents were desperate for an alliance with.

So you remained thankfully celibate.

And at the mercy of drunk women who felt the need to compliment you.

It was an interesting type of hell.

“Honestly! If I was 10 years younger and—“

“Your Highness.”

Your stilted smile immediately brightened as you spun on your heel.

“Sir Grayson!”

Your knight in shining armour stood in his newly fitted uniform, dramatic and regal, befitting of a newly appointed knight.

You had been at the ceremony three months ago. You had insisted actually, arguing with your parents, pulling the odd favour here and there to be able to appear in Lord Wayne’s court for the dubbing ceremony despite the fact you were supposed to be in a foreign country, discussing external affairs.

And now stood in front of you, stood in all the lanky glory of a 20 year old man who was just finding his feet in the world, carrying his own sword at his hip.

Dick offered his arm to you which you took promptly, letting him whisk you away from Lady Vale.

“You looked to be in a bit of trouble, Your Highness,” he smiled as he whispered softly in your ear, making a shiver run down your spine. It would be a very cold day in hell before you ever admitted what effect that boy had on you.

Even torture wouldn’t be enough to pull the words out of your mouth, to make you confess how his smile made your heart skip a beat, and his gentle touch made you melt in his grasp like butter.

You thought at first it was just a passing fancy; that puberty had struck and you had grown attracted to the only person who showed you consistent kindness and empathy.

But as time went you realised that wasn’t the case. Or no longer the case. It didn’t matter because you had a big massive crush on him and nowhere to put it.

“My very own saviour,” you joked as you jostled him little, making him chuckle. Fuck, he was so pretty when he laughed. He was pretty when he did anything. It was infuriating.

“How about we ditch this party?”

You glanced around quickly before you nodded, surprising laughter as Dick practically whisked you off your feet to usher you away. You grabbed his hand as soon as the ballroom was out of sight and lead him down winding corridors.

It didn’t matter how long Dick had been living amongst the aristocracy—the wonder that twinkled in his eyes as you ran through the palace was endearing. Once upon a time, he would have asked you about all the portraits lining the walls but he knew the stories just as well as you did. You lead him around until you were stepping out into the chilly night.

Dick let go of your hand to wrap his arm around your shoulders, pulling you close into your side to ward off some of the chill as you walked briskly through the gardens. The door to the glasshouse creaked quietly as you pushed it open.

The only light to illuminate your path was the moon, full and heavy, like a dollop of cream in the night sky.

“Fuck, it’s really cold,” you mumbled softly, causing Dick to chuckle softly—even in the butterfly house, the temperature dropped enough to have you rubbing your arms for friction and warmth.

“What foul language, Your Highness,” Dick said teasingly as he squeezed your shoulder. You came to a stop before the fountain, listening to its soft gurgle as water bubbled up and cascaded down.

“You won’t tell anybody,” you laughed as you looked up at him and you suddenly wished the moon would disappear so you wouldn’t have to see his face—pretty and open and kind, his face was too gentle for somebody who had seen so many horrors.

You’d never told Dick how much you admired him, for trudging forward, for meeting the world with a smile even when it spat at him and kicked him down. You wished you could, but when you opened your mouth, your words got stuck in your throat.

“You’re right,” Dick said softly, “I won’t tell a soul. I would never.”

“Promise?”

You don’t know what came over you as but you reached up to tuck a lock of hair behind his ear. Subconsciously, Dick tilted his head in the direction of your hand and you cupped his cheek, brushing your thumb under his eye.

You heard his breath catch in his chest just as you craned your neck upwards and his arm dropped from your shoulders to wrap around your waist instead.

The kiss was tender, considerate. You parted almost as soon as your lips met—not rushed, you lingered close, breathing each other’s air as you collected your minds and hearts.

“You won’t tell anybody about this either, will you?”

“I promise.”

You pulled back down for another kiss. Insistent, yearning, an apology for having taken so long. He held you close, as close as he could—you loved him, as much as you could.

The party was long forgotten—whatever ire your parents had in store for you would wait for tomorrow. That night, you became Dick’s—with only the moon and slumbering butterflies as your witnesses, you devoted yourself to each other, a long lasting promise.

•─────⋅☾⊱♰⊰☽⋅─────•

a/n: finally have a beginning <3 last part currently in the process of being written and hopefully will be done within the upcoming week

also genuinely don’t want to exclude anybody who’s been reading this mini-series and doesn’t like nsfw content but i fear unless somebody speaks up, sad angsty sex is up next (still gn tho <3)

[sirfrogthe3rd]

Cool?

Cool

Cool<3

[glamourscat]

the years between us | Nishinoya Yuu x reader

mention of time skip | a bit angsty (?) in the middle | fluff ending | hinata being oblivious | the rest of the team being Noya x reader n1 shippers | I wrote this at 4am but I love it

SNAPSHOT 1

Ever since you could remember, Noya had been a rather peculiar guy. Unapologetically loud, energetic and with a laugh that could fill an entire room with warmth. He wasn’t known for being tall, sure, and maybe not for being the prettiest. But Noya had a way about him. The way he carried himself confidently, yet underneath the bravado, he was almost shy. And there was nothing you liked more than catching glimpses of those rare but heartwarming moments.

Like when you flirted back at his terrible pickup lines. When, during a bus ride after a game, his head rested against your shoulder as he slept peacefully, cozy in your warmth. Or maybe it was the way he used his short height to his advantage just to tackle you.

Either way, every moment spent as one of Karasuno’s team managers felt like a blessing. Filled with laughter, joy, a bit of chaos, but so much love. Love for a specific person too.

SNAPSHOT 2

If Asahi had to pinpoint a moment, he would say it was during nationals. That was it. That’s when he started—well, when he, Daichi, Suga, and Tanaka— began to notice the change in Nishinoya. He was a bit calmer. Too calm for his standards. At first, they brushed it off as tension and nerves. They were playing at nationals, after all.

But then they started noticing more and more. The way his eyes followed a certain manager longer than usual. The way his smile turned almost shy when talking to her. Hell, if he could have, he probably would have giggled and kicked his feet from how giddy he looked. And they had just… never seen him like that before, not with such evident heart eyes.

He was no stranger to getting crushes. To parading around declaring, “I think I’ve found the woman of my life,” only to cut to him drooling over someone else the next day.

This, though, was different.

And it was as clear as the summer sky. Noya had a big, fat crush.

SNAPSHOT 3

Graduation came fast. Too fast. The memories blurred together. Glimpses of Sugawara, Daichi and Asahi coming back to see them and maybe, just maybe, shedding a tear or two, despite being only a year older. 

Glimpses of Kiyoko talking to a very flustered but noticeably more laid-back Tanaka. The two having a somewhat normal conversation. 

And then, them.

Even the old group, Kiyoko included, despite her usual quiet nature couldn’t help but comment.

“Did Noya and Y/N have a falling out?” she asked in her usual calm, collected voice, though a tinge of worry slipped through.

“It’s complicated,” Tanaka sighed softly, his gaze drifting back to the duo who were trying, badly, he should add, to avoid looking at each other.

“Something happened. Even I don’t know the whole story. Noya refuses to open up. I suspect they dated in secret for a while, but it’s unclear. They never confirmed or denied it. But one day… the atmosphere in the gym was tense, they weren’t even talking. Even Coach Ukai was worried. Eventually, she quit being a manager before the season ended.”

SNAPSHOT 4

As the years passed, the once Karasuno High members went their separate ways. Some went to college, others straight into work, some pursued volleyball careers. A few even got married.

Despite the distance, the group never failed to see each other. Not always with everyone present. More than once, if Noya was there, you weren’t. And vice versa. Whether it was fate or a deliberate choice, the others never quite figured out.

But time went on and things changed. Eventually, at some point, you two started showing up at group hangouts at the same time. And once became twice. Twice became thrice.

Things weren’t like before. But they weren’t bad either. And the most perspicacious out of the bunch, was able to pick up on the shift that was happening. 

They had all moved on, met new people, become new people. Yet despite the years, despite looking so much like their younger selves, just a little older, they weren’t who they used to be.

Loud personalities had softened, though they still carried that familiar explosive energy. Quiet and introspective ones had grown more outgoing. But at the core of it all, they were still the same bunch of kids from a school in the middle of the countryside, chasing a dream.

Just without a volleyball this time around. 

And despite the years on their faces, now in their late twenties, things were good. Their shared group chat was livelier than ever.

Especially now.

December 31st. As everyone, whether still in Japan or scattered across the world, sent their early New Year’s messages, one in particular made the chat explode.

From: Noya, 00:20

To: All

→ one attachment

Happy New Year, everyone! From Rome with love. (P.S. She said yes, by the way ❤️)

Attached was a picture of you two, smiling in front of the Colosseum. You were showing off your ring, a hint of a soft fading purple bruise on your neck and cheeks caressed by glistening streaks of happiness.

From: Hinata, 00:21

To: All

“WAIT A MOMENT, SINCE WHEN WERE YOU TWO TOGETHER?!?!?! WHAT DID I MISS, GUYS, WTF.”

© GLAMOURSCAT (all rights reserved. do not share, modify, translate and re-upload my work outside of tumblr)

[cottonlemonade]

Hiii!! I want to send a request but before that ofc i first want to say how i love your works, love how there's another writer for us chubby readers and espc in haikyuu☹️🫂🗣️🫶🏼 i hope you continue to grace us💘🩷

and off to my request if you will 🙇🏽‍♀️ thank you!!!!

for issei, a large *to* medium green apple with a slice of lemon😁

The Coziness Of Storagerooms

word count: 882 || avg. reading time: 4 mins.

pairing: post-time skip!Issei Matsukawa x chubby!Reader

genre: fluff-ish smut

warnings: mdni, nsfw, swearing, also spoilers

request: fluffy-spicy, jealous boyfriend Mattsun

Was he jealous? Absolutely not. Would he shoot the Argentinian captain to the moon or feed him to a business of ferrets when he touched your arm like that to ensure a slow and miserable death? In a heartbeat.

The Seijoh 4 were attending a small benefit gala upon invitation of their former captain. Oikawa and the Argentinian national team were currently in Japan for a tournament and would spend their time greasing palms of potential investors and, theoretically, Issei had been looking forward to tonight - hanging out with his friends in a fancy suit, having good food and most importantly, getting to show you off to absolutely anyone with eyes. When he picked you up earlier he had spent a full five minutes taking pictures of you from every angle, all stunning in your evening gown, perfectly wrapping around your generous curves. If it wouldn‘t have been for Oikawa, he honestly would have just stayed in and ravished you in that dress. Unfortunately (although not surprisingly), you caught the eyes of one of Oikawa‘s teammates and the tall handsome man had been glued to your side ever since. And because his girlfriend was completely oblivious to his advances, you simply laughed along and took his flirting for simple curiosity. Issei really didn‘t want to be that guy that got all macho and marked his territory but… the alternative was watching his gorgeous girl being charmed at the buffet by some other guy and not even realizing it! He shouldn‘t stoop this low. He shouldn‘t turn into some kind of caveman and drag you away. You were strong and smart and could look after yours- did he just touch your ass?! Okay, fuck this, caveman it would have to be.

“Found you.“, a deep familiar voice said behind you. You sighed in relief. That guy was getting way too close for your liking. You turned to Issei, gratefully linking your arm with his.

“You wanna go get some fresh air, baby?“ With a small polite nod to the Argentinian captain you let your boyfriend lead you away.

“Thank you.“, you let out when you exited the large gala hall. You hadn‘t even noticed how stuffy it was in there. Wanting to veer right towards the big glass doors into the venue‘s courtyard you were surprised when Issei instead pulled you to the left and down a corridor.

“Where are you going?“, you laughed, trying to keep up with his long strides while in heels, but the arm around your hips kept you steady.

Issei opened a door here and there until, “Ah, now this looks cozy.“

It was a storage room for extra chairs and tables. Only a bit of moonlight trickled through a small rectangular window near the ceiling, barely illuminating the room enough to make out more than shapes.

“Gee, I wonder what you want to do here.”, you chuckled and let him lift you onto one of the tables.

Trapped between his strong arms on either side of you, you hummed happily when his lips found yours. For a while he only kissed you, getting needier not long after you started.

“Lay back.”, he panted, holding the back of your head so you wouldn’t hurt yourself.

Seeing you all pretty on the table like that fried the last few rational thoughts that were trying to get his attention.

Issei walked to the end of the table and slowly pushed up your dress, disappointed that the dim silvery light didn’t allow him to fully appreciate your panties. But he did grin when his large hand wandered up your thigh and he felt how wet you were for him.

“Mmh, look at you. How perfect you are, babygirl.”

You seemed to expect him to simply pull the fabric aside but he had other plans. After regaining some sense of reality he stopped squeezing your thighs and hooked his fingers into the band of your panties, pulling them off completely.

“Babe, what are you… ah… you can’t just…”, you moaned.

“Why? You don’t need them.”, Issei said calmly, tucking your underwear into his pocket. He pulled you closer to him, leaned down and began to devour you. There was no teasing, no build up, he just. needed. to taste you.

“Ah… oh my god… nghh, ah! Issei! Yes! Oh my god, don’t stop!” The high pitched pleas from your lips made him grip you tighter, his strong fingers digging into your flesh as his tongue pushed and played and flicked every inch of your pussy he could have at once. You reached down to grab his hair, pulling him even closer and he was pretty sure he could die of happiness right now.

With his relentless stimulation it didn’t take long until you came over his tongue. He greedily lapped up everything you gave him, giving your swollen clit a couple more harsh sucks, before standing up.

“Is it okay if I fuck you, baby?”, he asked, still entirely drunk on you.

Issei could just make out that you gave a little nod.

“Use your words.”, he groaned, lifting your ankle to his lips to give it a kiss.

“Yes, please… please fuck me. I need you.”, you managed to breathe out in a desperate whisper.

“Thank you, princess.”

a/n: thank you for the request and your kind words! Y’all are being so cute 🥹✨ this one also got a bit away from me 😂 please enjoy!

[amethystandemma]

Aquaria Macmillan

divider by accio-bagel!

Aquaria Francine Allegra Macmillan (1874-2001) was a pureblood witch who attended Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry during the 1890s. She helped put an end to Victor Rookwood’s schemes by infiltrating the Ashwinders undercover.

Born to Florence and Gideon Macmillan, Victoria grew up in the aristocratic society of pureblood families. She learned from a young age that children were to be seen and not heard, even though she absolutely despised being quiet.

Her mother, who was arguably her best friend, passed away when she was just seven years old. Gideon turned to drinking and rarely left his room. Aquaria did her best to show that the Macmillan family was still strong, but it was difficult to convince anyone when she showed up to every single event alone.

She started Hogwarts where she was sorted into Hufflepuff house. Her academic career was nothing to write home about, but she managed to pass every class with acceptable grades. Mostly, Aquaria spent her time flirting with the male student body in order to fill the hole in her heart. She became known as a shallow party girl.

It wasn’t until her fifth year that things started to change. After witnessing the horrors Victor Rookwood was committing to beasts and humans alike, she decided to put a stop to it (after seeing Ruth Singer wouldn’t do anything.) Aquaria infiltrated the Ashwinders under the alias “Victoria Moonrider” and was able to help bring their operation down from the inside. The process took about three years, so she was unable to finish her Hogwarts education, but she felt that what she did was worth the sacrifice.

When she was done with the Ashwinders, she mellowed out. Realized that she wanted a stable relationship. Sometimes they didn’t work out, but she was trying.

Then, she met Andrew Sinclair.

Her relationship with him was one that she felt whole with. She felt like she could be more than just “the Macmillan party girl.” He made her better, and she bettered him.

When she was 118, she remembered an artifact that her father had lost and was desperate to get it back. She asked her great-granddaughter, Victoria Macmillan, to search for it at Hogwarts as her dying wish.

Biographical Information

Born: January 20th, 1874 Died: July 4th, 1992

Blood Status: pureblood

Marital Status: Married

Nationality: English

Also Known as

Darling (by Florence)

Victoria Moonrider (by the Ashwinders)

Titles

Heiress of the Macmillan Family Fortune

Physical Information

Species: Human Gender: Female Sexuality: Heterosexual

Hair Color: Brown Eye Color: Gold Height: 4'11 Other Distinguishing Features: moles on face

Relationship Information

Gideon Macmillan (father)

Florence Macmillan (mother)

Andrew Sinclair (husband, @girl-named-matty's OC)

Melania Macmillan (younger sister)

Henry Macmillan (son)

Father-in-law

Mother-in-law

Arctus Black III (brother-in-law)

Bella Diggory (daughter-in-law)

Lucretia Black (niece)

Orion Black (nephew)

Winston Macmillan (grandson)

Penelope Macmillan (granddaughter)

Oliver Wood (great-grandson)

Victoria Macmillan (great-granddaughter)

Ernest "Ernie" Macmillan (great-grandson)

Sirius Black III (great-nephew)

Regulus Arcturus Black (great-nephew)

Romance(s): Andrew Sinclair (husband), William Dale (ex-boyfriend), Leander Prewett (one-time-date)

Magical Characteristics

Boggart: her drunken father

Wand -10 3/4 inches -ivy -unicorn hair core -stiff

Patronus: mare

Affiliation

Occupation

Spy

Aristocratic heiress

House: Hufflepuff

Content

None yet

Gallery

[jungkoode]

OFF-LABELS | O8

→ PAIRING : Med Student!Hoseok x F!Reader (Brother’s Best Friend AU)

→ RATING: Mature, 18+, suggestive tones.

→ DATE POSTED: March 3rd, 2025.

→ SUMMARY: You’ve spent four years convincing yourself that your brother’s best friend is just being nice when he remembers your coffee order, quizzes you on neuroanatomy, or lets his touch linger a second too long. Because there’s no way that the golden boy of Seoul National’s medical program might actually be flirting with you. Especially when he keeps saying things that could be perfectly innocent… if only he didn’t say them in that voice.

→ TAGS: second person perspective, female reader, medical school au, brother’s best friend trope, age gap (4 years), pining, touch starved, overthinking reader, confident hoseok, gentle dom hoseok, medical terminology as flirting (lmao), study sessions, domestic moments, innocent (but not really), plausible deniability king hoseok, anxiety, internal monologue, guilty crushes, subtle teasing, emotional edging, gentle manipulation, praise kink undertones, intellectual attraction, competency kink, hand fixation, voice kink, medical intern hoseok, first year med student reader, home setting, casual intimacy, unresolved sexual tension (for now), secret attraction, nervous rambling, self-doubt, intrusive thoughts, anatomy lessons with ulterior motives, competent hoseok, flustered reader, close proximity, accidental touches that aren’t accidents, virgin!reader.

→ CONTENT in this chapter: Failed attempts at normal Friday nights, tequila-fueled bad decisions, drunk texting that definitely crosses lines, deliberately provoking reactions, pink sets making reappearances, and countdown timers that feel like threats (or promises). | drunk texting, emotional provocation, jealousy, possessive behavior, failed rebounds, tequila courage, late night messages, countdown tension, deliberate misbehavior, text conversations, bar settings, alcohol consumption, purposeful disobedience, revenge flirting, provoked responses.

→ MASTERLIST | TAGLIST REQ | WORDCOUNT: 3,6k

→ MINI SERIES: PREVIOUS | NEXT

→ A/N: Sometimes it takes tequila and spite to say what you really mean. This chapter is dedicated to everyone who's ever sent that one text they absolutely shouldn't have (but definitely meant). Also to anyone who's ever tried to move on and realized they're ruined for normal flirting. Special thanks to my friends who had to watch me spiral while writing this - your emotional support and drink recommendations were crucial to this mess.

PLAYLIST

The screen blurs as you stare at his contact—a blank gray circle where his photo used to be. The one of him and Caleb at graduation, both grinning, arms slung around each other's shoulders.

Gone.

Your thumb hovers over the message thread. The last thing he sent stares back at you, clinical and cold:

Hoseok: ��𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚃𝚑𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚍𝚊𝚢.

Three words.

That's all it took to unravel everything—all the heated glances, the lingering touches, the way he'd made you feel seen and wanted and his.

(Stupid. You were so stupid.)

The phone hits the wall with a satisfying crack. You don't check if the screen's broken. Don't care. Let it shatter like everything else.

Because that's what this is, isn't it? He'd played you perfectly—drawing you in with gentle words and meaningless touches, making you question your own sanity until you were desperate for confirmation. Until you were willing to do anything just to prove you weren't imagining it all.

And now?

Now he's gone.

Like it meant nothing. Like you meant nothing. Just another conquest, another game won, another—

A soft knock interrupts your spiral.

"Y/N?" Caleb's voice filters through the door, concerned but not pushing. "You okay?"

You swallow hard, swiping at your eyes. "Fine."

The door creaks open anyway.

Your brother takes one look at you—curled up in your desk chair, eyes red-rimmed, phone face-down on the floor—and something in his expression shifts.

He doesn't ask. Doesn't pry. Just disappears briefly and returns with two mugs of chamomile tea, the kind mom always makes when either of you is upset.

"Scoot." He nudges you over, settling on the floor beside your chair. "Found that terrible rom-com you like. The one with the talking cats."

A wet laugh escapes before you can stop it. "It's not terrible."

"It's horrific." But he's already pulling up Netflix on his phone, patting the space next to him until you slide down to join him.

The tea is too hot and slightly too sweet—he always adds an extra spoonful of honey—but it warms something frozen in your chest. You lean against his shoulder as the movie starts, breathing in the familiar scent of mom’s laundry detergent and that stupid cologne your aunt always gifts him for Christmas.

He doesn't mention how your shoulders shake slightly. Doesn't comment on the damp spot growing on his sleeve. Just wraps an arm around you and lets you hide your face when the tears come faster.

It's going to be okay.

(It has to be okay.)

Your phone buzzes weakly from its place on the floor. You don't check it.

Some things are better left broken.

You stare at your reflection in the bathroom mirror, trying to convince yourself this is a good idea.

Kiara had been insistent—persistent—about dragging you out tonight. "You need this," she'd declared, rifling through your closet with terrifying efficiency. "Fresh air. Good music. Hot strangers who aren't emotionally constipated medical residents."

(You hadn't told her about Hoseok. Hadn't told anyone. But somehow she knew—the way best friends always do.)

The dress she picked is shorter than you'd usually wear, black fabric clinging to curves you normally hide under oversized sweaters. Your legs look longer in the heels she forced on you, and the smokey eye makeup makes you look... different. Older.

Less like the nervous med student who stammers through anatomy presentations.

Less like his Chip.

Your throat tightens. You reach for your phone automatically—to check if he's unblocked you, to see if he's noticed your absence, to—

"Don't you dare." Kiara appears in the doorway, looking unfairly gorgeous in a red dress. She snatches your phone, dropping it into her clutch. "No drunk texting allowed."

"I wasn't going to—"

"Sure." She starts fixing your lipstick. "And I'm not planning to get absolutely destroyed on tequila shots."

You manage a weak laugh. "You're buying."

"Obviously." She steps back, examining her work with critical eyes. "There. Now you look properly devastating." Her grin turns wicked. "Let's go make some bad decisions."

And that’s how you somehow end up in one of those trendy pubs near campus.

Which is, by the way, absolutely packed when you arrive—music thrumming through the floorboards and lighting making everyone look airbrushed.

The bass line manages to drown out the voice in your head that sounds suspiciously like him.

Kiara orders shots immediately. The tequila burns going down, but it's better than the ache that's been living in your sternum for days.

"To terrible men," she declares, raising another glass.

"To terrible decisions," you counter, and the lime tastes like freedom when you bite down.

And three shots later, the edges of everything finally start to blur pleasantly.

The music feels like it's flowing through your veins, making your hips sway without conscious thought. Kiara drags you to the dance floor, her laugh bright and infectious as she spins you around.

"See?" She has to shout over the bass. "This is what Friday nights are supposed to feel like!"

And maybe she's right. Maybe this is better than sitting in your room, staring at your phone, waiting for a message that's never going to come. Maybe this—the plethora of bodies moving around you, the asphyxiating burn of tequila, the way your dress slides against your skin when you dance—is exactly what you need.

You close your eyes, letting the music take over. Let yourself forget about gentle voices and surgical hands and the way he'd looked at you like you were something precious right before he—

No.

Not tonight.

Tonight is for dancing and drinking and pretending your heart isn't still beating in morse code: Ho-seok, Ho-seok, Ho-seok.

(But god, even the bass line sounds like his laugh.)

The tequila makes your phone screen swim as you glare at his contactless profile. The gray circle mocks you—empty and cold like his stupid perfect soul.

"Look at you," you slur at the blank icon. "Not even a picture anymore. Too good for pictures now? Too busy being tall and successful and making people question their sanity?"

Kiara—who apparently managed to grab a mojito at some point—now snorts into her glass. "Honey..."

"And your hands." You jab accusingly at the screen. "Why are they so big? Who gave you permission? Stupid... stupid surgeon hands with their stupid... precision."

"Okay, that's enough." Kiara tries to grab your phone, but you clutch it to your chest.

"No wait, I'm not done insulting his perfect face. Which isn't even here anymore because he's too important for profile pictures apparently." You hiccup. "Probably busy being gentle and professional somewhere else. With his stupid rolled-up sleeves and his stupid honey voice and his stupid—"

"Perfect bone structure?" Kiara supplies helpfully.

"Yes!" You slump against the bar. "It's offensive. His whole... everything is offensive. Criminal, even. We should report him to the medical board for being unreasonably attractive while also being a complete—"

"Asshole?"

"I was gonna say bastard but yes." You squint at the screen again. "Look at him. Not looking at us. With his not-picture. Rude."

Kiara pats your head sympathetically. "Come on, disaster. Let's find you someone who actually shows up in photos."

As if summoned by her words, two guys materialize beside your table. The taller one—dark hair, nice smile, definitely not wearing a white coat or speaking in medical terminology—leans against the bar.

"Can we buy you ladies a drink?"

You open your mouth to decline, but Kiara kicks you under the table.

"We'd love that," she says smoothly. "I'm Kiara, this is Y/N."

"James," the tall one offers. "This is Mike."

Mike waves, sliding onto the stool next to you. He's cute, in a slightly tired way—the kind that comes from hospital rotations and too little sleep.

"Med student?" he asks, noticing your distracted glance at your phone.

"How'd you guess?" you ask.

"The thousand-yard stare," he laughs. "I'm doing my internship at SNU. Just started the emergency rotation last week."

You manage a small smile. Med student, intern—at least he's not a certain first-year resident with surgical hands and a talent for making you question your sanity.

"So," Mike asks, "what brings you here tonight?"

"Emotional devastation," you announce before Kiara can stop you. "Also tequila."

He laughs—a normal laugh, not a honey-dripped chuckle designed to make your knees weak. "Sounds like there's a story there."

"Oh, there's a story." You straighten up, warming to your topic. "See, there's this guy—"

Kiara slaps her hand over your mouth. "Who we are not talking about tonight!" She smiles brilliantly at James and Mike. "How about those drinks?"

You lick her palm until she releases you with a yelp.

"Fine," you concede, accepting the fresh margarita Mike slides your way. "No talking about He Who Must Not Be Named."

"Voldemort?" James jokes.

You snort into your drink. "Worse. He's a doctor."

Mike winces sympathetically. "Ah. One of those."

"Exactly!" You point at him triumphantly. "One of those. With their... their competence and their steady hands and their stupid ability to make everything sound like a medical procedure—"

Kiara kicks you again. "Drinks," she reminds you firmly. "We're drinking and dancing and not thinking about certain medical professionals who shall remain nameless."

"Right." You take a long sip of margarita. "No thinking about names. Or nicknames. Or the way certain people say certain nicknames like they're tasting them—"

"Dance floor!" Kiara announces loudly, grabbing your arm. "We're going to the dance floor now!"

As she drags you away, you hear Mike ask James: "Should we be concerned?"

"Probably," James replies, but he's following anyway.

You let Kiara pull you into the crowd, the bass drowning out your thoughts. It's fine. You're fine.

And if you check your phone one more time—just to glare at the blank profile picture and maybe compose a strongly worded text about the audacity of certain medical residents—well.

That's between you and the tequila.

Definitely not between your bones and Mike as hemoves closer, hand settling tentatively on your waist.

You know he’s being polite about it—know he’s asking permission with his eyes, keeping a respectful distance.

It's nice.

Normal.

Boring.

(No. Not boring. Safe. This is what normal flirting feels like. Not... whatever psychological warfare Hoseok had been waging.)

"You're a good dancer," Mike says, and his voice is perfectly pleasant. No syrupy-thick manipulation. No clinical observations about your hip mobility.

"Thanks." You manage a smile that only feels slightly forced. "You too."

He grins—an uncomplicated expression that doesn't hide any surgical precision behind it. "Want to get some air? Maybe..." He pulls a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. "Take a smoke break?"

You don't smoke. Have never smoked. Would normally launch into a lecture about pulmonary health risks and carcinogenic compounds because you're that kind of med student.

But.

But tonight you're wearing a dress that makes you feel dangerous, and your lips still taste like tequila, and somewhere across the city he's probably being perfect and untouchable and—

"Yes." The word tumbles out before you can stop it. "Air sounds good."

Kiara catches your eye across the dance floor, raising an eyebrow in silent question. You wave her off, letting Mike guide you through the crowd toward the exit.

The night air hits your bare shoulders like a slap, sobering and sharp. Mike leans against the brick wall, offering you the pack with another easy smile.

You take a cigarette because you're drunk and stupid and maybe trying to prove something to yourself. Or to him.

(Everything feels like it's about him lately.)

"Here." Mike cups his hands around the flame, shielding it from the breeze as you lean in.

The first inhale burns—acrid and harsh and nothing like the way his mouth had burned against yours. You manage not to cough, but it's a near thing.

"Not a regular smoker?" Mike asks, amused.

You shake your head, watching the ember glow in the darkness. "First time, actually."

His eyebrows lift. "Shit, really? Should've told me. We could've started you with something lighter."

The concern in his voice makes something in your chest twist. Because it's nice. He's being nice. And you're standing here thinking about someone else's mouth and someone else's hands and—

"Sorry," you blurt out. "I'm kind of a mess right now."

Mike's laugh is gentle. "Yeah, I got that impression." He takes a drag, smoke curling between you. "Want to talk about it?"

"God no." You attempt another inhale, managing not to choke this time. "I want to forget about it."

His eyes flick to your mouth, then back to yours. "I could help with that."

The invitation is clear. Simple. Uncomplicated.

You could do it. Could let this nice, normal boy kiss you against the brick wall. Could replace the memory of bergamot with something softer. Safer.

Could prove that you're not still thinking about gentle poison and cloying praise and the way his fingers had—

"I can't." The words taste like ash. "I'm sorry, I just—"

"Hey." Mike straightens, hands lifting in surrender. "No pressure. We can just talk. Or not talk." He grins. "Or you can keep pretending to enjoy that cigarette while plotting revenge against whatever doctor broke your heart."

A laugh bubbles up—slightly hysterical but real. "That obvious?"

"Little bit." He takes the cigarette from your trembling fingers, stubbing it out. "Come on. Let's get you some water before your friend murders me for letting you smoke."

You let him lead you back inside, grateful for the simple kindness of it. For the way he doesn't push or pry or try to take advantage of your obvious vulnerability.

It's nice.

Normal.

Right.

(So why does it feel so wrong?)

Your phone buzzes in your clutch.

You ignore it.

Some habits are harder to break than others.

The rest of the night blurs into a mess of well-meaning moments that all feel slightly wrong. Mike gets you water, makes sure you're steady on your feet, laughs at your increasingly unfiltered commentary about medical school.

He's perfect.

And that's the problem.

Because your drunk brain keeps cataloging all the ways he's not perfect enough. His hands are normal-sized. His smile doesn't hide anything. When he touches your elbow to steady you, it's just... a touch. No clinical observations about proprioception or balance compensation.

"You doing okay?" he asks for the third time, and his concern is so genuine it makes your teeth hurt.

"I'm fine," you lie, but what you mean is: you're not him.

You're not fine. You're drunk and touch-starved and maybe a little broken, because apparently regular flirting feels empty now. Like eating sugar-free candy when you know exactly how the real thing tastes.

"Want to dance again?" Mike offers, and you almost say yes because that's what you're supposed to want.

Normal girl, normal boy, normal Friday night.

But.

But your skin feels too tight and your head is spinning and all you can think about is how he would handle this—how he'd steady you with those surgeon's hands and murmur something about vestibular dysfunction while his thumb pressed against your pulse.

"I need air," you announce, pushing away from the bar.

Your heel catches on nothing, sending you stumbling.

Mike reaches for you, but you're already righting yourself, muscle memory kicking in as you adjust your center of gravity.

"Excellent compensatory response," you mutter in his voice, then laugh because you're definitely losing it.

"What?"

"Nothing." You wave off Mike's concerned look. "Just... medical student things."

"I get it," he says with a knowing smile. "The terminology gets stuck in your head after a while. My attending at SNU is always going on about proprioception and vestibular function."

Your stomach drops at the mention of SNU. "Which department?"

"Emergency, but we rotate through different services. This week I've been with the surgical team." He shrugs. "It's intense, but the residents are mostly cool."

You nod, wondering if he's ever supervised Mike, if they've worked side by side while you were sitting at home staring at your phone.

He smiles like he understands, but he doesn't. Can't. Because he's never had someone turn basic anatomy into psychological warfare. Never had someone make him question his own sanity with plausible deniability and careful touches and—

"Text me?" Mike's voice cuts through your spiral.

Your eyes flicker down to his hand. He's holding out his phone, expression hopeful.

You stare at it. At his normal, nice, completely uncomplicated contact page with its normal, nice, completely visible profile picture.

"I can't," you say finally, and you mean: I'm ruined for normal now.

His smile is understanding. Kind. "The doctor?"

"The doctor," you confirm, and you hate how your voice catches on the word.

Kiara immediately appears at your elbow—your guardian angel in four-inch heels. "Let’s get some air." She waves to Mike. "Thanks for keeping an eye on her."

"Anytime." He means it too, which makes it worse somehow.

You both make it outside. The night air feels like clarity. Kiara tucks you against her shoulder as you let out a soft sigh.

"He’s nice," she says finally.

"Yeah." You close your eyes, remembering gentle smiles and normal hands and complete lack of medical terminology. "Too nice."

"Oh honey." She strokes your hair. "You're so fucked."

You laugh until you cry, because she has no idea how right she is. How thoroughly, completely, deliberately fucked you've been by someone who knew exactly what he was doing.

Your phone buzzes.

𝐔𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐍𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫: 𝚈𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚝’𝚜 𝚞𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢. 𝙳𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛.

Your heart stops.

“Y/N.” Kiara mutters, glancing down at your screen.

“Give me a second.” You reply, voice slightly slurred.

Because you know that clinical concern. Know that detached tone that sounds like medical advice but feels like ownership.

Your fingers slip on the keyboard as you type:

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜??? 𝚒𝚏 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚘𝚎𝚔 𝚝𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚖𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚞𝚛 𝚗𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚕 # 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙 𝚋𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝙲𝙾𝚆𝙰𝚁𝙳

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚖𝚛 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚏𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚐𝚎𝚘𝚗 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚏𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚢?? 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚞 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚂𝙼𝙰𝚁𝚃

𝐔𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐍𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫: 𝙶𝚘 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚙, 𝙲𝚑𝚒𝚙.

The nickname makes you see red. You practically stab the screen with your thumbs:

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝙳𝙾𝙽𝚃. 𝙲𝙷𝙸𝙿. 𝙼𝙴. 𝚞 𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚙 𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚎𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚞 𝙱𝙻𝙾𝙲𝙺𝙳 𝙼𝙴

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚊𝚕𝚜𝚘 𝚠𝚑𝚢 𝚛 𝚞 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚑𝚐 𝚖𝚢 𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚝????? 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚑????? 𝚗 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 “𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚍𝚊𝚢” 𝚑𝚞𝚑?????

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚊𝚕𝚜𝚘 𝚊𝚕𝚜𝙾 𝚞𝚛 𝚊 𝙲𝙾𝚆𝙰𝚁𝙳. 𝚌𝚘𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝙲𝙾𝚆𝙰𝚁𝙳

𝐔𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐍𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫: 𝚈𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚍𝚛𝚞𝚗𝚔.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝙽𝙾 𝚂𝙷𝙸𝚃 𝚂𝙷𝙴𝚁𝙻𝙲𝙾𝙲𝙺.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚛𝙻𝙾𝙲𝙺.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚞 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎. 𝙼𝚛 𝙱𝚒𝚐 𝙱𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚂𝚞𝚛𝚐𝚎𝚘𝚗 𝙼𝚊𝚗

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚍𝚒𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚖𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚘𝚕?????? 𝚊𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚗 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊 𝚏𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚍

Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again. Your heart hammers against your ribs as you wait.

𝐔𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐍𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫: 𝚆𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞?

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗𝚝 𝚄 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚘𝚢

𝐔𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐍𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫: 𝚈/𝙽.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚘𝚘𝚘𝚘𝚘𝚘𝚘𝚘𝚑 𝚏𝚞𝚕𝚕 𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚎. 𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚢. 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚞 𝚐𝚘𝚗𝚗𝚊 𝚍𝚘??? 𝙱𝙻𝙾𝙲𝙺 𝙼𝙴 𝙰𝙶𝙰𝙸𝙽???

The dots return, lingering longer this time.

𝐔𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐍𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫: 𝙸’𝚖 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝙽𝙾. 𝚞𝚛 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚍. 𝚞𝚛 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚏𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒 𝙷𝙰𝚃𝙴 𝚄

𝐘𝐨𝐮: …𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗𝚝 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚋𝚝𝚠. 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚕 𝚜𝚒𝚣𝚎𝚍. 𝙱𝙾𝚁𝙸𝙽𝙶.

𝐔𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐍𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫: 𝚆𝚑𝚘’𝚜 𝙼𝚒𝚔𝚎?

You grin viciously at the sharp edge in those two words.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚍𝚗𝚝 𝚄 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚔𝚗𝚠𝚘

𝐔𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐍𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫: 𝙻𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗. 𝙽𝚘𝚠.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚘𝚛 𝚠𝚑𝚝????? 𝚐𝚘𝚗𝚗𝚊 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚣 𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚋𝚝 𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚟 𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜????? 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚢 𝚒𝚗 𝚞𝚛 𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚎?????

𝐔𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐍𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫: 𝙲𝚑𝚒𝚙.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝙽𝙾𝙿𝙴. 𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚙 𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚐𝚎𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛????? 𝚒𝚖 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚢/𝚗 𝚗𝚘𝚠. 𝚛𝚎𝚐𝚞𝚕𝚛 𝚢/𝚗 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚐𝚘𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚛𝚎𝚐𝚞𝚕𝚛 𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚛𝚎𝚐𝚞𝚕𝚛 𝚋𝚘𝚢𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚝 𝙱𝙻𝙾𝙲𝙺 𝙷𝙴𝚁

You jab at the send button, chest rising too fast, too unsteady, because fuck him.

Fuck him for watching you from a distance. Fuck him for pretending he wasn’t. Fuck him for texting you when he’s the one who left—for acting like he still has a say in what you do, who you see, how much you drink.

Fuck him for making you like this.

Your fingers curl tighter around your phone, the alcohol thick in your bloodstream, pulse scalding under your skin.

You squeeze your eyes shut, but all you can see is him. That fucking look on his face, like you’d somehow made him the victim.

Like he was the one suffering.

You shove your phone back into your bag, stomach twisting, vision tilting—

And then you pull it right back out.

Because you can’t escape inevitability, even as much as you wish you could.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚏 𝚒 𝚝𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚞 𝚒𝚖 𝚠𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚜𝚎𝚝 𝚛𝚗

The dots appear instantly, then vanish. Your heart pounds as you push further:

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚏 𝚒 𝚝𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚞 𝚒 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚊𝚋𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚔

𝐔𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐍𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫: 𝚂𝚝𝚘𝚙.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚏 𝚒 𝚝𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚞 𝚒 𝚙𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚎𝚍

A long pause. Then:

𝐔𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐍𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫: 𝙿𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝.

Your lips curve, knowing you’ve got him. Even through the alcohol haze, you can feel the shift in his tone—the way the period instead of a question mark betrays his tension. Curiosity. Intrigue.

Attraction.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚞 𝚝𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚖𝚎. 𝚊𝚋𝚝 𝚖𝚢 𝚐𝚊𝚐 𝚛𝚎𝚏𝚕𝚎𝚡

Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again. You press on:

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚢 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚜. 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚊𝚜 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚊𝚜 𝚞𝚛 𝚍𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚘. 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑.

𝐔𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐍𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫: 𝚈/𝙽.

Full name. You’re getting to him.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚞 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚒 𝚐𝚘𝚝??? 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚍𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚒 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚞 𝚗𝚘𝚠???

The response is immediate:

𝐔𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐍𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫: 𝚂𝚝𝚘𝚙 𝚒𝚝.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝???? 𝚐𝚘𝚗𝚗𝚊 𝚙𝚞𝚗𝚒𝚜𝚑 𝚖𝚎??? 𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚖𝚎 𝚊 𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚘𝚗????

𝐔𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐍𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫: 𝙻𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚎𝚡𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗??? 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚞 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚢 𝚎𝚍𝚞𝚌𝚊𝚢𝚒𝚘𝚗????

Another pause. Then:

𝐔𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐍𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫: 𝚃𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚛𝚎.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚑𝚢??? 𝚐𝚘𝚗𝚗𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚌𝚔 𝚖𝚢 𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚕 𝚌𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗???

𝐔𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐍𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫: 𝙵𝚞𝚌𝚔 𝚢𝚘𝚞.

Your thighs clench at the curse. Because this—this is what you wanted. What you want. Him cursing. Him losing it, like you’ve lost it—medical terminology abandoned.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚜𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚎 𝚍𝚛 𝚓𝚞𝚗𝚐. 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚞𝚗𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚏𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚊𝚕

𝐔𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐍𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫: 𝙶𝚎𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚝𝚊𝚡𝚒. 𝙽𝚘𝚠.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚖 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚗 𝚏𝚞𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎. 𝚖𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚕𝚎𝚝 𝚖𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚢 𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚛 𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚔

The response is lightning fast:

𝐔𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐍𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫: 𝙸𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚐𝚘 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝙸’𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚔 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚊𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚙𝚊𝚕.

The threat has your knees wobbling.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚓𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚘𝚞𝚜???

𝐔𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐍𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫: 𝙷𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚕.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚒𝚝

Three dots appear. Linger. Disappear. Your phone buzzes with a location pin instead.

𝐔𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐍𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫: 𝟸𝟶 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚝𝚎𝚜. 𝙳𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞.

You stare at the address, feeling slightly bold. Slightly reckless. Because that’s his apartment. Where he’d almost—where you’d nearly—

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚞 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢

𝐔𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐍𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫: 𝙸 𝚊𝚖.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚍𝚘𝚜𝚗𝚝 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚒𝚝

𝐔𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐍𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫: 𝙲𝚑𝚒𝚙.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚢𝚎𝚜?

𝐔𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐍𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫: 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝟷𝟿 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚝𝚎𝚜 𝚕𝚎𝚏𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚏 𝚒 𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎

His reply makes you, indeed, not want to behave at all.

𝐔𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐍𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫: 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝙸’𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚛. 𝚃𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚕𝚢. 𝚁𝚎𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍𝚕𝚢. 𝚄𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚕 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚗.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚎????

Three dots appear one last time:

𝐔𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐍𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫: 𝟷𝟾 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚝𝚎𝚜, 𝙲𝚑𝚒𝚙. 𝚃𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚝𝚘𝚌𝚔.

You send him a middle finger emoji and watch the dots appear, disappear, appear again.

Let him stew.

You’ve got 17 minutes to decide just how badly you want to misbehave.

(Very badly, as it turns out.)

→ 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓: @cannotalwaysbenight @livingformintyoongi @itstoastsworld @somehowukook @just-reading-dany @sanarin @billy-jeans23 @stuti2904 @chloepiccoliniii @kimnamjoonmiddletoe @annyeongbitch7 @mar-lo-pap @hobis-sprite0218

© 𝐣𝐮𝐧𝐠𝐤𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐞 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓.

no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[calderacitylovers]

Zutara SlowBurn FanFiction: Personal Favs, part II

·        DESTINY IS A FUNNY THING by Megara Pike | Published: 2020-08-21 | 198K Words | 45 Chapters

ATLA Season 3 rewrite, fills in a lot of blanks between canon scenes. From the Southern Raiders to Sozin's Comet through coronation and aftermath. Growing friendships, bonding, being there for each other, a carnival & a cave, epic spirits' appearance on the Ember island, sparring, nightmares, assassination attempts, political ruses, and covert operations. Lovely, sweet. Exciting plot.

 ·        ATLA Book 4: Ashes by elayne_cypher | Published: 2018-10-27 | 306K words | 34 Chapters

This action-packed story picks up right after Ember Island Players and continues well after the war. Zuko is facing many challenges as a new Fire Lord. Romance, tough decisions, rebels, traitors, out-of-body experiences, secret headquarters, angst, teamwork, fire jets. The story has a bunch of OCs.

 ·        Refraction by caroes3725  | Published: 2020-09-09 | 215K Words | 37 Chapters

After breaking up with Aang, Katara needs to figure out her place and role in the patriarchal world. As determined Katara stubbornly bulldozes her way through Fire Nation political scene, her feelings for Zuko grow. Diplomatic visits, Gaang reunion, bonding with Kanna, insights into the life of Caldera city, stuffy politicians, cute correspondence, tropical storm, women supporting women, assassination attempts, personal boundaries. A sweet well-written coming-of-age story with a healthy measure of slow-burn and mutual pining. Katara and Zuko are both POVs, but the story mostly follows Katara. Bonus: Mai is NOT a clingy resentful idiot, but a smart person and a good friend. Some explicit language here and there, a bit of mild smut.

 ·        I Asked You First by halfhoursonearth | Published: 2020-10-03 | 142K words | 22/? Chapters

Ongoing, incomplete. Post Southern Raiders ATLAS3 rewrite. Mostly canon-compliant with blanks filled in between familiar scenes. Zuko and Katara develop a close friendship built on trust and sharing each other’s fears and hopes. Includes mentions of implied child abuse, Lu Ten’s diaries, exploring Avatar Roku’s legacy, sharing a balcony, heart-to-hearts, a hot spring under the stars, an actual date, and artbending. It’s incomplete, but what we have is bliss. Slowburn, mutual pining. Zutara-centric, but also explores the personalities of Team Avatar and their relationships.

 ·        Katara Alone by cablesscutie | Published: 2020-05-31 | 21K words

Katara is not an “unnecessary accessory to a more powerful man”. After the war, she is willing to forge her own path as she turns to people who need her the most on her journey of self-discovery. Features character exploration, correspondence, exploring outback villages of Fire Nation and Earth Kingdom, sweet reunions, and new firebending skills.

 ·        THE PHOENIX AND THE DRAGON - THE COMPLETE SERIES by JasmineTeaLatte | Published: 2021-06-11 | 100K words | 31 Chapters

This story picks up after The Ember Island Players. Zuko and Katara get to know each other during a late-night conversation by the campfire. In this story, you will find healthy boundaries, protective Sokka, a dash of Taang, sparring, funny banter & lots of flirting.

·        HESITATE by tiffaniesblews | Published: 2020-07-11 | 22K Words | 12 Chapters

This story picks up right after Zuko's coronation and spans two years afterwards. Zuko & Katara talk, share a few beautiful moments, write to each other, and reunite for the 2nd anniversary of the war ending. Very sweet, fluffy story about two sweethearts figuring out their feelings for each other.

·        LIKE WE'RE MADE OF STARLIGHT by Naladot | Published: 2021-11-28 | 5K Words

Katara leaves her post as the ambassador to the Fire Nation to take up a new one as the ambassador to the Northern Water Tribe. Her absence makes Zuko realize that he's got an unfortunate crush, which he is determined to keep secret. Unfortunately for him, subtly has never been one of his strengths—especially when he arrives in the Northern Water Tribe and she keeps taking him on what seem to be dates.

·        FIGURE IT OUT by clearascountryair | Published: 2021-12-20 | 35K words | 13 Chapters

After choosing not to kill Yon Rha, Katara rethinks her sense of self and others' perceptions of her. Or,    In which Katara learns that there’s a really big difference between being kissed when you don’t want to be and being kissed when you do. Aged-up 3B/Ember Island AU.

-  I FOUND YOU by that_turtleduck | Published: 2020-11-01 Completed: 2024-02-24 Words: 157,541 Chapters: 28/28

After divorcing Aang, Katara uproots her family and travels to Caldera. There she finds comfort, kindness and support from an old friend. Katara tries to find her footing as an independent political figure. Great story & relationship dynamic of Momtara & Dadko in their early 30s (Ember island, diplomatic meeting, dancing, turtleduck pond, letters). Delicious slow burn with rewarding spicy resolution in the end (explicit open door). Titters on the side of Anti-Aang.

Here’s a link to Part I of my personal favorites.

Here’s a link to Wholesome Zutara Short Stories.

[hy6erion]

thoughts of omar dating reader who works as the man city physiotherapist 😇

𝐎𝐦𝐚𝐫 𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐜𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐩𝐡𝐲𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐩𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐬

𝐎𝐦𝐚𝐫 𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐡 𝐱 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

1. When You First Meet Him

✰ Omar had only just transferred to City, his reputation from Bundesliga and the Egyptian national team preceding him. You didn’t know much about him beyond the basic stats—but the second he walked into the training ground, tall, lean, smiling with that boyish charm and curly hair bouncing with every step, you felt it in your stomach.

✰ Your role as a physio meant professionalism came first. No matter how devastatingly attractive someone looked when they tugged their training shirt over their head, you kept your cool.

✰ Except Omar knew he was charming. He liked to make you laugh during sessions. He’d flirt just enough to test the waters—nothing explicit, nothing that could get either of you in trouble. But he noticed how your ears flushed when he complimented your handwriting on a report. How your eyes widened when he thanked you in Arabic. How you laughed harder when he mispronounced something cheeky in English on purpose.

“Your hands… very soft. Good for pain.”

“You mean good for massage therapy?”

“Yes. That. Or maybe just soft for me.”

2. Early Tension & The Way He Looks At You

✰ The team starts to notice it. Especially Jack Grealish, who teases you mercilessly during warm-ups.

“Ey, doc, you gonna check his groin again or just let Omar flirt his way into another appointment?”

✰ Omar is very respectful of boundaries, but you can tell he adores the small, quiet moments you share. Like when he comes in early just to stretch, and you’re the only one there. Or when he sits quietly post-training with his socks off, flexing his foot, waiting for you to kneel in front of him and press your thumbs into his arch.

✰ He stares at you like he’s watching a sunrise. Not leering. Just soft.

“You always smell like mint,” he says once, catching you off guard. “And every time I smell mint now, I look around for you.”

3. The Moment It Happens

✰ It starts with an injury. A minor hamstring strain after an intense match. You’re the one doing his post-game recovery—cooling gel, gentle massage, stretches. You’re quiet, focused.

✰ He’s watching you again, and for once, you look back.

✰ You both hold eye contact longer than usual. You’re aware of the way your hand is resting on his thigh, just above the knee. You freeze for a second—then he speaks, voice low:

“Do you ever treat players outside of this room?”

“No. That’d be… unprofessional.”

“And if I wasn’t a player anymore?”

“You planning to retire?”

“Maybe. If it means I could take you to dinner.”

4. Sneaking Around in the Beginning

✰ You try to keep it a secret. The staff definitely has rules about dating players, but you argue to yourself that you’re adults, and besides, you waited until you were absolutely sure it was serious.

✰ The first time you kiss is in the back hallway after a match—he’s freshly showered, hair damp, and you’re pinning his bandage properly. He thanks you. You say, “It’s my job.” He replies, “And this is mine,” and kisses you like he’s been waiting his whole life.

✰ Late-night visits to your flat. He brings Egyptian takeout. You make him tea. He kisses your temple while you complain about another ankle sprain from Alvarez.

“You work too much.”

“You run too fast.”

“And yet, you keep fixing me.”

“Guess I’m just waiting for you to break properly.”

He pulls you into his chest. “Too late. I’m already broken for you.”

5. He Adores You, Completely

✰ He shows up to training earlier just to spend more time in the physio room. Even when he doesn’t need anything.

“I pulled something.”

“Where?”

“My heart.”

✰ After a win, he kisses your cheek while the others are celebrating and everyone pretends not to notice. Except Grealish again.

“Hey, hey! Get a room! Or just let me be best man already!”

6. Protective Boyfriend Mode

✰ If another player flirts with you, even jokingly, Omar’s there. He doesn’t get loud or angry—he just wraps an arm around your waist and says something calm and possessive in Arabic, then smiles like it’s nothing.

✰ He worries when you’re overworked, makes sure you eat, even keeps a water bottle for you in his locker.

“I don’t like seeing you tired. Come rest with me tonight.”

✰ You fall asleep on his chest, surrounded by warmth and the scent of his cologne. His fingers trace your spine like he’s memorizing every part of you.

7. Cultural Connection

✰ You start learning more about his Egyptian heritage. You ask questions about his hometown, his family, his favorite meals from home. You try to cook something Egyptian for him once, and even though it’s not perfect, he devours it with a grin:

“You’re the best thing I’ve ever brought to Manchester.”

✰ He talks to his mother about you. Sends her pictures. She sends blessings back. He shows you proudly.

“She said you have kind eyes. That means she already loves you.”

8. Long-Term Possibility

✰ He talks about the future like it’s guaranteed. Not in a possessive way, but a hopeful one.

“When I move to a bigger house, I want a room just for your books.”

“Why?”

“Because I want you in every part of my life. Even my shelves.”

✰ You help him stretch post-game, and he can’t help but kiss your knuckles between reps.

✰ Sometimes, you both sit quietly in the treatment room after everyone’s left. His hand in yours. His head resting against your shoulder.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve you.”

“You pulled a hamstring. That’s what.”