#KICK Riser

[antisexualvaginalbirth]

working 9-5 is actually a god awful schedule

[gutsby]

Who’s Your Daddy?

Pairing: dbf!Joel x Reader

Summary: You and Joel make a mess of things—again.

Warnings: 18+. Unprotected p-in-v. Creampie. Age gap. Breeding kink. Period mishap / mentions of blood (!) Eepy Joel is eepy but always down to hit it raw 🤝 Omitting one tag to avoid spoiling the ending—for complete content warnings, please read this post!

Word count: 11.5k

Read on AO3

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9

Things changed.

You woke up snug in someone’s arms and didn’t move.

You couldn’t blame the warmth or the comfort of the bed—yours was a Twin XL, and your sheets were all tangled through your limbs in crude, haphazard fashion—for why you had. You just did. Like breathing, the decision not to leave this time around was as reflexive as it was freeing.

You buried your nose in an old, familiar neck and inhaled.

Joel.

Don’t go.

Please don’t go.

That voice was childlike and selfish: Don’t leave me here.

For once, you weren’t the one pushing him away; you were begging him to stay and let the scent of him linger on a little while longer in this too-small bed, in this too-cramped dorm, on this too-cold campus in a town over two thousand miles away from the one you called home.

He’d already spent every minute of the weekend here—Parents’ Weekend, of all things. After the initial shock and consternation of his surprise visit wore off and you’d finally had The Talk about what this thing between you was, you’d accepted that Joel loved you. You accepted that you loved him back. And not a second had passed since the end of that night where you didn’t want to be by his side. It hurt to think he’d be leaving you so soon, so of course, he’d offered to extend his stay to Monday.

The motel Joel had booked wouldn’t let him add an extra night, though, so that was how you ended up here: in the confines of your altogether new-and-nice-but-ridiculously-tiny dorm room that you shared with your roommate. Lucky for you, Aly had slept over at a friend’s. Unlucky for Joel, the only bed you had to offer him might as well have been built for a nine-year-old—his hulking frame nearly swallowed the whole thing, and his weight all but toppled the mattress off its risers. You’d only laughed your ass off a little when you saw it happen.

“Me and my old back need Tempur-Pedic, sweetheart,” he’d grumbled in your hair before drifting off to sleep.

“Tempur-Peepaw,” you’d murmured back, and could’ve sworn you felt his grip tighten while you nodded off too.

Now, your gaze was darting to the only source of light in the room—a digital clock between your bed and Aly’s.

5:11 A.M.

Why the fuck were you awake?

Your stomach hurt. Your head ached. You could’ve easily attributed both to the heaping plates of seafood you’d downed with Joel, Aly, and her family the night before. Dallas had picked the last place you went out to eat, and of course, his choice was fucked. While he swore up and down that this was the spot for him and his friends, the rest of you were wary of how hygienic the restaurant’s practices were. You all had felt a little queasy afterward.

But no, this wasn’t nausea you were feeling right now. It was worse, almost. There was a churning in your gut, an airiness in your head, and a searing warmth between your legs, too hot for even your box fan to combat.

You swallowed hard and stared into the darkness.

Were you…

No, no you were not.

No way were you horny at 5 AM.

But you most definitely were.

You hated yourself for it.

You kicked your foot in that muted self-loathing and huffed—you couldn’t move much else with Joel’s body blanketing yours. But you stirred what you could. It wasn’t fucking fair. You knew yourself, and you knew your body, and you would bet a million bucks that this feeling wouldn’t ebb until you’d thoroughly fucked yourself or someone else to a toe-curling, earth-shattering climax. In the next fifteen minutes.

Joel was fast asleep.

Your hands were currently plastered to your sides under the weight of one of the man’s big, tanned, hairy arms, and you didn’t have a hope of moving it more than an inch without waking him. Your gut twisted in despair.

I. WANT. TO. FUCK.

“Shut up,” you silently chided the fiend between your two shaking, slick thighs. And—oh fuck, were they wet.

This was like your own personal hell, not having access to the release you so desperately needed. Not having Joel to roll over with a knowing, crooked grin and a ‘Missin’ me already, honey?’ before a hand dove under the waistband of his boxers to retrieve what you wanted.

No, he needed to sleep.

He had a two-day drive back to Texas, and it would be unspeakably selfish for you to ask for dick right now.

But you needed reprieve from this awful feeling.

You’d rub your legs together. Dull the ache. Take a worn edge of your comforter and hump the thing like the world was ending today. That wouldn’t be weird.

It also wouldn’t be possible, you learned within minutes.

Try as you might to grind your hips and your desperate cunt through cotton without disturbing the man beside you, you quickly realized that the effort was fruitless: you couldn’t make a single seesaw motion back-and-forth without shaking the whole fucking bed. The old thing creaked and screamed worse than the one in the motel.

While need blossomed in your belly and your head swam with unsated desire, your mind hummed with new ideas.

Stupid ideas.

You shifted in place. Joel grunted and hugged you closer. Ordinarily, your heart would’ve melted at the gesture, but in your present bearings, with these pressing urges, you wanted nothing more than to push it straight off. The thought was slowly taking shape in your mind’s eye that maybe you could pull this off—perhaps you could get off without Joel’s noticing if you just…slid down.

If you slunk under his bicep and ever-so delicately pulled your right arm out from underneath his ribs, if you got his leg to stop draping so heavily over your thigh, you could slide down further. Try not to jostle him much.

It was doable.

With the right maneuvering, you could sneak off the bed.

Pleasure beckoned. Success was well within reach when you scooted your butt down the mattress and past the python-grip of Joel’s upper body. Before you knew it, your ass was gliding down, down, down, and then your torso was twisting, your knees shakily planting themselves closer to the foot of the bed. You sat up.

And as soon as you did, the first thing that greeted you through the darkened room was a wide, toothy grin.

“Climb on then, cowgirl,” came Joel’s gravelly invitation.

In the otherwise biting chill of the room, you felt your cheeks burn a hundred degrees. Your stomach flipped.

“You’re supposed to be asleep,” you hissed back.

Those words were followed by a little smack to his arm. Joel took the hit in stride and simply stretched both hands behind his head on the pillow, eyeing you lazily.

“I was. ‘Til you started humpin’ my leg like a dog.”

“I did not.”

Your nostrils flared, and your words nearly rose to a whisper-scream. You still couldn’t make out Joel’s expression in the dark but sensed that it was smug.

“Did too.”

“Did n—”

“Baby, this was what the bed just felt like.”

To illustrate his point, Joel rocked his hips the tiniest bit. With the force of two thrusts, the whole frame screeched like a banshee. It seemed you’d been too horny to hear it.

“That’s not—” you started, voice tight.

“Just admit it. You needed to cum.”

He might as well have stuck his tongue out after.

You would’ve been irked beyond words if you’d had half a mind to channel the feeling. As it was, though, your brain was fried off a fucking need like no other, and your limbs were driven on pure impulse. You couldn’t be bothered to carry on this petty fight with your peri-geriatric partner right now; you needed release. So, hanging your head in shame for no longer than a moment, and working your panties down your legs while you did, you finally nodded.

The movement was slight. You’d only tipped your chin up once before those instinct-driven limbs were clambering quick to straddle Joel’s lap. He was lying supine on the bed, but you couldn’t see much else. You felt his smile stretch bigger as you lowered yourself onto him, though.

He was tired, you could tell. You normally weren’t one to rebuff an offer to have Joel inside you, no matter the hour, but this felt greedier than usual. You felt needy.

Which was why you didn’t immediately reach for the bulge in his boxers when you’d first mounted him.

Instead, you reached to touch yourself.

You were soaked as you’d ever been.

“I— I can get myself off in a minute,” you found yourself stammering out the second your index and middle fingers connected with your wet, throbbing clit.

And it was true. The sensations you felt were so sharp they almost stung, with sparks igniting across your lower half in just one brush against that pulsing bud. You’d scarcely completed one circuit with your fingers when Joel’s hands were gliding up to find your hips, grip firm.

He swiftly adjusted your seat. Made you rub him harder.

Amusement tinged his voice while he mumbled, low:

“Only place you’re gettin’ off is my cock, got that?”

You hated how quickly you nodded in response.

Okay. He was letting you be selfish. He wanted to help quell your thirst, no matter how early it was or how long of a drive he had. That realization only made you wetter.

You were practically dripping between the legs when Joel slid his boxers down and let his cock spring free.

You knew what to do. You didn’t need his assistance, but still, ever the caretaker, Joel palmed your backside with one hand and held the base of his cock with the other. He guided your heat to his tip, and in the dim, dull gloom of your dorm room, you could feel him watching. What his eyes couldn’t see his mouth elucidated in words.

“You ready for me, baby?”

He nudged just the head between your weeping folds and let you take the lead. You whimpered. ���Yes, daddy.”

Desperate as you were, you didn’t wait for the right moment to move. You didn’t bother readying yourself, because you already knew what you needed. You sank down, and your walls parted without protest. You took him in and gripped him tight and all but choked Joel’s length with the soft, hot, and needy clutch of your body.

“Fuck, honey—”

“Feels so good,” you panted, lips parting as he filled you. You rolled your hips and whimpered again. “So— oh—.”

Your words split on a shriek. You hadn’t even meant to let it out, but the stretch of Joel’s girth felt unusually tough. It almost hurt. But, rather than shy away, you leaned into it. You braced your knees and bore down harder, relishing the sting of his throbbing cock as you slid up and then collapsed again. Pleasure surged through your veins.

The bed groaned and creaked. Your motions didn’t slow. Joel grunted, feeling you clench again, and in an effort to curtail his own need, evidently, starting kneading at the flesh of your thighs. He moved them inward, touch soft.

“Hon,” he breathed, tone just as gentle, “you’re soaked.”

You were restless, too. You anchored your knees a little deeper and leaned back, allowing Joel access to the space between your thighs that was sticky-wet with residue. He swept his fingers through your nectar and thumbed at your clit. You whined with hypersensitivity.

You felt delicate everywhere. Joel was so big inside you, stretching your most precious, sensitive parts and making room for himself. He was throbbing. Leaking. Reaching up and smearing your own wetness across your face while a grin no doubt spread across his own—‘There’s a good girl. Ride my cock. Take what you need, baby’—and you could tell he was just as invested in your pleasure as you were, if not more. He relished whatever remnants of your arousal he could find and praised you with it. You wished you could see him while he did it all.

If light wouldn’t allow you that view, you would take matters into your own hands, you quickly decided. Prying your lower half off of Joel with a grunt and a sigh, you squeezed his legs. You patted his thighs, gently.

“Need you closer,” you mumbled. Your hands slid up his front, and you smiled when you felt him snag your wrists.

Joel pulled you up. Kissed your palms. Kissed your cheeks. Drew you into his lips and, at the same time, flipped you over so that he was on top. His shaft was slippery as it bumped and rubbed between your folds, and you couldn’t help but let out a moan into his mouth.

“Where do you want me, sweetheart?” he said, panting.

In answer, you took the base of his cock in one hand and guided it closer to your center. Joel rutted his hips, and his length pushed up—it glided across your lower belly, smearing the plane of skin with your combined fluids.

He was teasing you. Canting his hips as if fucking someplace deep in your cunt. Biting back a laugh.

“You dick,” you breathed out, both a warning and a momentary reprieve from the severity of wanting.

You gripped his cheek with the same hand that had just held his length and drew him closer to your face. You kissed him and wrapped your legs around his hips, knowing the effect it would have. Joel grunted.

And, though you knew it would amuse him to no end to have you begging for his cock, you also guessed that he wasn’t quite as resilient as he made himself out to be. He couldn’t keep grinning forever—the second your legs nudged him back and the tip of his dick notched in, again, he moaned in pleasure. It ended in a whimper.

Joel was just as fucked-out and desperate as you.

You couldn’t see his full expression, but you could sense it would show he was right on the brink, same as you.

You kissed him deeply. You let his length glide back inside your needy cunt, squeezing every inch of the way.

“Gonna cum for daddy now? Make a mess of this cock?”

In a breath, you could tell he was already there. His balls began slapping rhythmically against your ass, and his stomach muscles clenched. Tufts of grey and black in that thatch of wiry hair at his base kept rubbing your mound, prompting you to squirm and beg for more.

“I-I’m close, Joel,” you told him. Your toes curled.

The bed frame all but shrieked beneath the weight of your body and his, now that Joel was on top and delivering thrusts hard and fast. You braced yourself.

If the bed broke, it broke. You’d gladly pay to have it fixed. Explaining the unusual charge on your student account to your dad was a separate question, though.

“Fuck,” you keened, just as a stroke to your most sensitive spot inside had stars flashing before your eyes.

“Right there,” Joel grunted, going again. “Just like that.”

His forearms bracketed your head, and his face was close. His thrusts were relentless. The little tendril of pleasure coiling up through your gut was just then beginning to take root—two more thrusts and it felt fit to burst. Your arms wound around the back of his neck, and your breaths sped up while Joel kept plunging in and out

In and out.

In and out.

“Gonna let me cum inside?” Joel grit through his teeth.

You nodded, braindead as you’d ever felt before.

“Gonna let me breed this pretty little cunt?”

Oh, fuck.

You came. You didn’t have a say in the matter. It simply swelled and flowed and expelled like a water’s stream, coating the front of Joel’s stomach and your own as well. Your eyes rolled, stomach clenched, walls pulsed and squeezed and flooded your whole body with pleasure.

At the tail end of the sensation, and only dimly grazing your present cognition, you felt his spend unload in ropes. They painted your insides and sent your head spinning, half-feral with the idea of him marking you in this risky, forbidden way. You wanted him spurting so far up your body you could taste him in your mouth. Your hips rolled one more time and your lips brushed with his.

“I— I love you. Fuck, I fucking love you,” Joel groaned.

His cum continued to pulse out from his tip.

“I love you, too,” you panted back.

When Joel collapsed, you feared the bed might split right down the middle with the force of it. Dizzy with pleasure, bliss, and more love than you thought was possible for just one person, you didn’t worry for long. You stroked the back of Joel’s head, silently thanked the bed frame for lasting as long as it had, and inhaled the man’s scent.

It was gonna hurt like a motherfucker when he left.

You weren’t going to think about that now.

Instead, you locked your legs tight around his hips and held him as close as you could. The head of his cock nudged somewhere deep inside you, and his face tilted sideways. Joel nuzzled your cheek. He kissed it softly.

“You alright, honey?” he checked in.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” It wasn’t a total lie.

You felt as content as you could be laying between the soaked sheets of your bed with Joel draped overtop. For several minutes, you did just that: laid back and emptied your head of any thoughts of leaving. You hugged him. Buried your face in the crook of his neck and sighed.

Alright, get up.

Go to the bathroom.

It’s 6 AM and you’re about to cry.

Attempting to get out from under Joel and off the bed proved futile—you would’ve had better luck punching a hole through a brick wall—but luckily, he eased up. He let you stand from the bed once he decided he’d doled out a sufficient number of kisses, then you rose on shaky legs.

You flicked on the light. You rubbed your too-tired eyes.

And just as you were about to scour the floor for some clothes and get ready to head outside, you heard a strangled sort of noise from the bed. You paused.

Joel cleared his throat.

“Hey, uh, honey…”

You turned.

FUCK.

Your bed looked like a crime scene. Joel was trying to sit up, though it seemed he wasn’t quite sure where to put his hands, as half the fucking mattress and sheets were all but soaked through with blood. Your stomach turned.

No. No. Your period wasn’t due for another two days. You hadn’t been caught off guard with a bloody mess like this in years. And in front of Joel? All over Joel, from his groin to his chest to his neck to his chin—you’d been touching him a lot in the dark—and now he was looking on at you in muted horror? You didn’t want to know what you looked like. You wanted to hurl yourself out of the window, if it meant you didn’t have to face the repercussions of this. Joel must be disgusted.

“I am…so sorry.” Your words came out mostly muffled through your fingers. Your hands shielded your face.

Before you could think, you were stumbling toward the sink. Your eyes were burning. He’s leaving. He’s leaving now, in an hour or two, and the last thing he’ll have to remember you by is your menstrual blood on his dick.

Just shoot me.

Make it quick.

“Sweetheart?”

Again, Joel’s voice was soft as he approached from behind. You had a hand towel thrust under a spray of water that was slowly going warm, and your bottom lip was clamped between your teeth. Your fingers trembled.

“Baby…” He said it like a harsher-spoken word might fairly split you in two. That only made you feel worse.

You still weren’t thinking completely straight when you yanked the towel out, wrung it once, and then turned to Joel, almost smacking him in the belly with it as you did.

Scrubbing his blood-smeared tummy seemed like the most logical course of action to take in the moment, so that was what you did. It was just that small matter of having your hands shaking so much you could hardly hold the towel that made it tricky. And Joel’s own warm, callused touch closing in over your fingers, squeezing.

“Hey, look at me,” he urged you gently. You wouldn’t, or couldn’t, so he tilted your chin up to his to make you meet his gaze and momentarily halt your motions.

His eyes were far too soft for a man drenched in blood and preparing to take a thirty-hour road trip that day.

The smile was too sweet for someone leaving you here.

“This is so embarrassing,” you blurted out, heart clenching. “I’ve— it’s never happened…like that.”

With a man, yes. On the person you love, even more so.

You were about to try and start scrubbing the blood again, wanting to rid yourself and him of this mess, when Joel’s smile stretched wider. It seemed almost like a grin.

“Honey, you’re fine,” he said, reassuring. Pressing at your wrist again. “It’s just a little blood. We can rinse off in the shower. Wash the sheets. No need to be embarrassed.”

Easier said than done.

Your brow furrowed.

“I’m sorry, Joel.”

The man in front of you took the towel from you then. He tossed the rag in the sink and cupped your likely-blood-smeared cheeks in his hands before meeting your gaze. His palms were warm. His eyes, as usual, were soft. Kind.

“You don’t have to apologize,” he said quietly.

With words like those and a look as serious as his, you couldn’t help but relent. Your muscles relaxed. In the glance you stole toward your floor-length mirror, you might’ve caught a glimpse of your own tousled, bloodied exterior for a second, but that memory didn’t last long.

Joel was reaching for a bigger towel. Wrapping you up. Grabbing another for himself and then nudging you over to the door, where you knew you’d need to sneak out and down the hallway to make it to the communal bathroom. Silently, you cursed yourself for opting to live on-campus that year, but there was nothing you could do about it now. Behind you, Joel secured a bright pink, polka-dotted towel around his hips and tried not to smirk.

“Never thought I’d be doin’ this again,” he murmured.

You shot him a look over your shoulder.

“Sneak out of any other girls’ dorms lately, Miller?”

Joel eyed you right back, undaunted.

“Yeah. About a decade before you were born.”

And neither one of you possessed the sense to control it: you had to laugh, and Joel had to elbow you playfully and tell you to respect your fuckin’ elders, kid, and your amusement only grew as you approached the door. His arm hooked around your neck before pulling your back against his chest. Your giggles turned to squeals as he nipped the skin just below your ear and kissed you in a manner more akin to tickling. You begged him to quit, but the grin on your face said you wanted it. Joel gripped the doorknob in his free hand and was about to pull it back, when the thing jumped forward, at you both.

The door opened, and light from the hallway poured in.

“Wh- oh! Hey. Woah. Hey.”

Dallas Ingram’s eyebrows shot to his hairline, but a smile was as quick to form. He eyed you both—up and down.

And almost as swift as his smirk was to appear:

“Gettin’ busy, huh?”

You stared back slack-jawed, covered in blood, and frankly wanting to die a little bit as your roommate’s brother looked on with the biggest, dumbest grin.

Evidently, your undercover skills needed some work.

Despite your best efforts all weekend, Dallas had come to learn that you and Joel weren’t actually stepdaughter and stepfather by the end of breakfast early Saturday morning, and it wasn’t because his sister had snitched. He’d seen Joel smack your ass en route to the bathroom in the dining hall and swiftly surmised that there was more to the story than either one of you were letting on.

He hadn’t been shocked to find you and Joel in your dorm that morning after Aly had asked him to stop by and pick up her gym bag, but he had seemed relatively intrigued by the blood. He’d asked if you and Joel had been fighting or fucking—or both—and you’d rolled your eyes so hard they’d nearly hit the back of your skull. Joel had looked like he either wanted to deck the kid or laugh with him. You suspected by the smirk that ensued it was probably the latter. His face had still flushed a little bit.

Now you were showered, dressed, decently groomed, equipped with enough tampons and pads to supply a city, and perched in the passenger seat of Joel’s Bronco.

“Take a left in half a mile. Onto Kirkland,” you dictated.

Joel squinted to see your phone screen.

“That ain’t right,” he replied.

He made a pass for the phone. You pulled it out of reach.

“I know where I’m going, Joel,” you said, directing his gaze back to the road. “I’m here every other weekend.”

“I’ve been here, too. You go straight on Prescott, take a right by the bank, keep going past the food trucks—”

“No, no, this is Putnam. You’ve got it all fucked up.”

You pointed out a street sign as if to say, ‘See?’

“That ain’t the same one we saw comin’ in.”

“It is. Open your eyes and maybe we’d—”

“My vision’s just fine, kid. Seriously—”

“Seriously? We’ve been circling!”

“It’s called finding the right—”

“—HERE, RIGHT HERE—”

“That ain’t th—”

“Miller!”

The Bronco barreled right past Kirkland Street, along with the diner the two of you had been trying to find for the last twenty minutes. Every time the navigation on your phone had directed you one step closer to the spot, Joel had insisted that his memory served him better.

It hadn’t.

You missed your turn for what felt like the fiftieth time that day, and you were one wide, jerky U-turn away from just throwing yourself out of the moving vehicle. That was how bad Joel’s navigational skills and your level of frustration were at the moment. Add to that a stabbing pain in your stomach and you were truly ready to jump.

Joel cut the wheel and headed back in that direction.

“‘M’sorry,” he said. He glanced your way, where your knees were pulling up to your chest on a particularly tough cramp, and he reached for you. Squeezed your leg. “I’m sorry. That was on me. I should’ve…listened to you.”

“No shit.”

You winced—in pain and in shame for sounding so mean.

“I mean,” you returned, quickly recovering yourself. “Sorry. I’m sorry, too. I shouldn’t have yelled like that.”

Watching Joel’s side profile, you saw his lips twitch.

“‘S’alright. I like you feisty.”

You bit your tongue.

Sure, he did.

You were just then pulling into the parking lot of your favorite brunch spot in town, and the air outside was cold. The tips of your toes still prickled at the memory of a crisp, frigid trek from your residence hall to the car, and for a moment, you dreaded going inside to eat at all. You wished your body had timed its monthly implosion a little better and your last hour with Joel wasn’t spent in half-agony and agitation, but that was life, you reckoned. With a resigned sigh, you reached for the door handle.

Your boots were back on the floor and about to heave your body out when Joel stopped you in your tracks.

“Wait here,” he murmured.

He motioned for you to stay.

You turned to ask why; the driver’s side door was already slamming shut behind him. Through the windshield, you saw his broad, hunched form round the front of the car. He paused a moment to draw his jacket tighter about himself, and shortly sidled up and swung your door open.

He offered his hand to help you out of the Bronco.

Then, to your surprise, he retracted it even faster.

His eyes had just landed somewhere inside and flashed with recognition, as if remembering something big. Joel reached in, past you, mumbling softly—‘Shit, I meant to give you these earlier. Forgot I even bought ‘em’—and he looked contrite. He opened the glove compartment and tugged out a box. Before you could try and ask what it was, Joel had its contents out. He stepped closer, casting a quick look over his shoulder and frowning.

“Here, why don’t you scoot over? I’m gettin’ you cold.”

He gestured to the wind overhead and moved in nearer like he meant to climb in. You slid across the bucket seat, not entirely sure of what he intended to do, but let him shut the door after himself again and go in all the same.

Shortly, Joel held up what looked to be a heating pad.

His gaze flitted to your stomach, and he nodded once.

“When I first got here you mentioned you were expectin’ your— your, uh…time of the month soon, so I went out and got these. Forgot I bought the pack of ‘em. ‘M’sorry.”

Joel’s frown grew, as if chastising himself. You blinked.

“If you just lift your shirt a bit…maybe tuck it right—” He pinched a belt loop to tug the denim out from your waist. “—under the band here. I don’t know if it’ll stick, but—”

His words trailed off in your mind—you’d caught a glimpse of what was stuffed in the glove box along with the heating pads, and you saw a trove of other items: Advil, chocolate, your favorite trail mix, saltines, jerky, fucking chamomile tea, like he knew exactly what you needed. All because you’d said in passing—actually, right before you’d begged him to finish inside you Friday night—that you were going to be starting your period soon.

And you’d just chewed the poor guy out for his driving.

You blinked some more, not saying a word because you didn’t know what else to tell him, and your throat ached.

Thank you for being sweet.

Sorry I’m so damn mean.

Please don’t leave me.

Slow, steady breaths warmed your cheeks, and a hand tugged your shirt up. Another touch smoothed the heating pad over your belly. Joel wriggled your waistband a second, trying to fit the thing snug underneath it, and all the while, you said nothing.

“I had to text my brother. That’s how clueless I was.”

Joel breathed a laugh. It was soft and sheepish. In contrast to how taciturn you were, he couldn’t seem to keep quiet—like filling the silence with words might make him feel less nervous or awkward about this.

“He’s been seeing this girl, Maria. Well, Tommy’s always been better’n me—much better, I’d say—with, y’know, bein’ in touch with his feminine side, I guess. He’s had more girls than me, friends and girlfriends alike. Anyway, I just needed all the help I could get buyin’ this stuff, and he and Maria gave me advice on what to do. I hope it—”

“Miller,” you cut in.

“Yeah?”

Your breath hitched.

“Have you ever…had a girlfriend?”

The words tumbled out before you could rein them in. Joel had just finished pressing the heating pad flat across your stomach and was pulling your shirt back down when his gaze jumped to yours. For several seconds, it was his turn to be silent, staring at you.

Your insides burned like you’d doused them in kerosene.

“I haven’t…really…” he started again, speaking slow.

Why the fuck were you doing this? Why now?

“Would you…want me to be your girlfriend?”

For whatever reason, your voice cracked.

You hated the sound of that with everything in you, but it was too late to stop the surge of word vomit coming out.

“Even if I’m…mean, and I’m needy, and I— I— I can’t—”

“Sweetheart.” Joel’s expression visibly softened.

“And I can’t show love like a normal person should. I don’t…know how to be good like that. Or receptive to affection. And just knowing that pisses me off so m—”

“You aren’t.”

“What?”

“Mean.”

“Wh—”

“Or needy.”

Joel’s gaze skated from your eyes to your lips, and in a fraction of a second, you could see something threaten to tempt his own. He looked back up instead, smoothed your hair out of your face, and then cupped your cheek.

“Kinda thought you already were my girlfriend, honey.”

It sounded like a confession and a stunt, almost—how could the man be so assured when a reality like that scarcely seemed plausible to you? He was fighting a smile as if he knew something you didn’t. He had to.

“And I love you, you know that?” He said it gently.

You blinked.

You still weren’t used to hearing it.

“You do?” Your voice was small for some reason.

For some reason, it was like you were a child all over again, wishing your father would reach out and hug you sometimes. Approaching adolescence and missing your mother. You’d never felt it, much less heard it from the mouth of someone else in a way that seemed weightless. Joel said it like loving you was as easy as drawing breath.

Then he said it again:

“I love you, sweetheart.”

You said it back, and meant it.

You said it another time while strolling hand-in-hand into the diner. Felt it rumble through Joel’s chest when you took your spot beside him in a booth by the window. Heard it in his tone. Sensed it with his looks. Tasted it on his lips, if only for the briefest of moments while you sat and picked out breakfast together. Your knuckles brushed and your shoulders bumped with damn near every other bite of the meal, but neither of you minded. There was comfort and security in every touch. There was home, and then there was Joel—even though Austin would stay 2,000 miles away as long as you stayed here, he was all you needed to feel safe and content right now.

You didn’t want him to leave.

Back on campus, standing in the parking lot behind the dorms, you told him as much. You hadn’t cared how sad or desperate it made you seem—you were those things—and when Joel hugged you tight, you didn’t regret saying it. He held you close and kissed the crown of your head.

And when it was time for him to leave, you could tell he couldn’t help himself when he leaned down even lower, lips grazing the shell of your ear. Grinning. You felt him.

You heard the words he’d murmured but almost couldn’t believe what he said when he’d said it. You’d discussed it some over eggs and cheesy grits that morning, but still.

It was scary.

Unsettling.

Maybe exactly what you needed, judging by that smile on his face when he finally leaned back and pulled away.

“Just…think about it, OK?” he said, tone encouraging, “We can take this as slow or as fast as you wanna go.”

You nodded that you would.

You knew this could wait.

But still, as you headed back inside and waved the Bronco off for another long spell of time apart—your boyfriend was going home, and taking a piece of you with him—your muscles tensed. Your stomach stirred with uncertainty just shy of a pain, and it wasn’t your cramps that you could reasonably blame this on now.

Your steps were slower; your legs were leaden. The impression of Joel’s last words were still fresh in your mind, and though the prospect was thrilling in some ways, in others it chilled you to your core. While you walked, his words echoed again and again and again:

“I’m ready to tell your dad whenever you are.”

Time passed, and the days wore on.

One minute he’d had you wrapped in his arms, and now you were gone. Every day. It felt like a weight, though nothing, no one, was there, and Joel found himself loathing it more and more with each passing day.

He called your phone more often than he should.

Without a doubt, you had a busy life in college. Finals were drawing close on the horizon, you had at least five different projects and essays and whatever the hell else those fuckass professors decided assigning last minute, and Joel wasn’t too much of a jealous man, but he also craved your time. Your touch. Your voice. When distance deprived him of your presence, he sought any means to be with you, even if it meant looking lame and pathetic.

He was.

He worked evenings. Whenever he saw your name pop up on his phone screen, he’d walk out on just about any task he had and take your call. He kept the old device in his breast pocket just so he could feel you when you did.

Joel Miller was in way too fucking deep, and he knew it.

So, in an effort to curb the fixation, he took to housework during the day. Real, manual labor. It wasn’t for his own home but his granddad’s, and it had been something he’d promised to do for years—him and Tommy both.

The old man had been gone for over a decade now, but the home had stayed in the family. It was in a constant state of disrepair, rarely saw a hint of human life outside of the occasional visit from either brother just to ‘go and check the place out,’ but he and Tommy knew they’d have to do something about it soon. Inspiration just hadn’t struck for what that ‘something’ might be.

Today he was cutting grass. Cleaning out gutters. Pulling weeds—lots and lots of weeds, the sheer mass of which he hadn’t been able to fathom at first glance of the yard.

And he felt a little guilty for just how bad he’d let this place get over the years. The fact that it had taken him an all-out infatuation with a girl he couldn’t get his head or heart off of just to haul his ass over here and work.

Something rustled in the bushes. Joel groaned.

And just as he was about to cup his hands around his mouth and shout, ‘GET THE HELL OFF’A MY PROPERTY!’ you called. He picked right up.

But he couldn’t help the huff in his voice on ‘Hello?’

“Everything alright?” You sounded confused.

“‘M’fine. Just tired of fighting this beast.”

“Beast! What beast?”

“This fuckin’ rat.”

He heard you pause, as if trying to recall when the last time you’d seen a rat yourself, and then you laughed.

Joel momentarily brightened at the sound of it.

“Yeah? Is my big, strong man scared of Stuart Little?”

And then his frown was back. He nearly rolled his eyes.

“I am not,” he returned in protest. He stalked over to the bushes where the sounds had just come from, and he shook a few errant branches. Hard. “Go on, get out!”

“Alright, I’ll go.”

Joel could hear your chuckle through the line. He didn’t need to see your face to know it had broken into a grin.

“Funny. Y’ever consider bein’ a comedian, sweetheart?”

“I’ve toyed with the idea. Now what the hell have you got going on with a rodent on your granddad’s property?”

“It ain’t a rodent.”

Another pause.

“Well, what’s—”

Joel didn’t hear the rest. He’d just shook the bush as hard as he could, and out flew the beast he’d been after. It scrambled on its paws and hightailed it across the yard

“AND STAY OUT!” he yelled after it.

Now you were invested. Your stifled giggling had turned to queries—‘What the fuck are you doing, Miller? What is it?!’—and Joel scarcely had the energy to answer. His back hurt. Hell, it ached. And his knees weren’t doing so hot either. At length, he turned to face wherever that damn critter had gotten off to, and he squinted out into the mid-afternoon sun. It was cold, but his efforts had worn him out. Warmed him up. He’d broken a sweat.

“It’s just…a dog,” he heaved at last.

A little gasp sounded through the phone.

“A puppy?!” you squealed. “Joel, you bastard!”

Joel scowled. He wished you could see it.

“Why am I a bastard? She’s trespassin’.”

“It’s a goddamn dog, Miller! C’mon.”

The man wasn’t sure what he was supposed to say to that. Yes, it was a dog. A yellow blond beast of a thing that tore out and around the farmlands like he owned every acre of it and shit exclusively in his backyard. He’d stomped through four big, soggy gifts of this kind in the last week alone. He was sick of the thing, and determined to find out who she belonged to.

“Is she OK?”

Your voice was soft. Joel had to do a double take.

“OK? ‘Course she’s OK, she’s got a big, pretty yard to drop shits in, a loud and yappy bark to wake the whole—”

“Food, I mean. Has she eaten? Is she coming back?”

Now Joel really had to take a beat. Were you sympathizing with the beast he so despised?

He put a hand on his hip. He winced, instantly, feeling a strain in his back the size of Texas itself. He slowly lowered the hand and started off to the house.

“I don’t think you’re hearin’ me. This creature is ruining my property. My grandfather’s property—just soilin’ it.”

“Because you and your brother have done such a bang-up job of keeping that place fit for human habitation.”

“Hey,” Joel huffed, “I’m tryin’. Been here all week.”

“I know.” You took a second yourself. Probably smiled. “I’m just teasing. I’m glad you’re out there to fix it up.”

Then, before he could reply, you were jumping back in:

“So, what are you thinking of naming her?”

By now, Joel was approaching the back porch. The toe of one boot had just struck the bottom step, all molded, old, and rotten straight down to the tufts of grass below. He halted in place and shifted his phone to the other ear.

He frowned deeply.

“What do you mean, ‘what am I naming her’?”

“All that screamin’ and hollerin’ you’re bound to do while you try and evict this poor thing from your property. Might as well give her a name if you’re gonna yell.”

“You yell at me plenty and rarely use my name.”

“That’s not true. I do use your name.”

“‘Dickhead’ doesn’t count.”

He was walking up the steps now. Hearing them groan and creak beneath the weight of his body and hoping the porch wouldn’t split in two before he reached the door.

“I’m serious, Miller,” you continued, unfazed. “Give her a name. Leave out some treats. Let her get comfortable enough to where you can check her collar, or else pick her up and take her to the shelter. See if she’s chipped.”

Joel didn’t have the heart to tell you that most dogs out here didn’t have little luxuries like microchipping, and the odds of finding this thing’s owner that way were slim to none, but he also just wanted to say something sweet. Ease your mind before changing the topic to more important things—like when you planned on coming home and how he could persuade you to make it a day or ten sooner. He heard the screen door slam shut behind him, and he was heading straight for the sofa. He sighed.

“Alright, sweet pea. Why don’t you think of some names for me, and I’ll start asking around the neighborhood if anyone knows whose she is. How does that sound?”

“I’ll need to meet her first,” you answered shortly.

“What?”

Joel dropped to the couch and kicked off his shoes. On the other end of the line, he heard shuffling, like you were preparing to relax a bit yourself. You cleared your throat.

“Yeah. Can’t fairly name a dog I haven’t even seen.”

“I’ll send you a picture if I catch the little shit.”

“Nope. Gotta be in person. You know that.”

“No, I don’t. And we ain’t keepin’ her.”

“We’ll see about that, dickhead.”

“Honey.”

That last word was both a term of endearment and a warning—‘We are not, under any circumstances adopting this dog.’ For some reason, as he said it, the protest already seemed futile on his lips. Like you weren’t hearing a syllable of what he was saying.

“Okaaaaay.”

“Sweetheart.”

Another warning. Another beat of silence.

Suddenly, his phone vibrated in his grip.

For a second, he was confused. Who the fuck would be texting him other than you? His brother and friends were all serial phone call fanatics—too Boomer-adjacent to use texts as a common form of communication. He pulled his phone from his face and put you on speaker. He swiped his thumb down to snag his new notification.

And nearly choked on the spit in his mouth.

You’d texted him. He’d opened it.

Attached to the message you sent were several different pictures of you, all in various states of undress. They were taken seconds ago, if Joel had had to guess.

“Fuck me,” he groaned.

His cock was already hardening in his jeans. He could hear you stifle a laugh across the line but didn’t care.

“Weird name for a dog, but I’ll take it,” you said.

Mutts were the furthest thing from his mind.

He wasn’t shy to tell you as much as his hand slid down to the button and zip of his pants and undid them both.

“Put on the…the…Face…book,” he muttered, low.

“The what now, Joel?” you cackled back.

“The Face-whatever. Video call. Wanna see your face.”

“FaceTime, Miller. FaceTime.” You were teasing now.

You should’ve known damn well a man as old as him wouldn’t know what the fuck a FaceTime was, but you poked fun anyway. Joel reminded himself to make you pay for that later, and then took his cock in his hand.

He let go to spit in his palm. He grabbed it again.

“Put those pretty tits on FaceTime or I’m tellin’ your old man all the sick, depraved things you’ve been lettin’ m—”

“You’re insufferable, Miller.”

He grinned to himself.

“You love it.”

He knew you couldn’t argue with that. In a minute, he heard you sigh, felt you betray a little smile of your own as you got to shifting around in place again. Preparing.

“I’ve got class in twenty minutes.”

“Won’t need but five, sweet pea.”

His phone buzzed with an incoming FaceTime.

Today was the day.

Well, almost the day.

Tomorrow you came home, but it was close enough to midnight now that Joel could pretend that it was today.

He was seated at a bar, both elbows planted on the sticky wet surface of a tabletop that was rarely cleaned. By now, he knew Mando’s sports bar like the back of his hand, and he could tell when certain staff weren’t around to clean spills. He could smell it, with the stench of a coconut-flavored rum wafting up to his nostrils and invading his brain. It took him back to his college days. Meanwhile, a mob of plastered bachelorettes were gathered six stools down and only getting louder.

“Kill me now,” your father grumbled beside him.

Joel hadn’t meant to say yes when he’d invited him out.

In fact, this was the last thing he wanted to be doing tonight, but your dad was unimaginably persuasive. He’d also offered to pay for Joel’s drinks at the bar, so really, this was just an opportunity to exercise his liver with an old friend, for free. Nothing dangerous about drinking with the guy whose daughter he was secretly dating.

Nothing dangerous at all.

Joel swallowed another draught of his jack and coke and stared harder at the wall of spirits in front of him, like a long enough look might save him from having to talk.

He’d never felt more awkward around his friend in his life. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to die or just confess.

Hey, man, I’m in love with your daughter, by the way.

We’ve been having filthy phone sex for weeks now.

Regular, old fashioned fucking for even longer.

“I need to take a leak,” Joel told him instead.

“Really? That’s your fourth piss in the last hour, Miller,” your father observed, almost clinically. He was drunk. “Sure you ain’t got one of them…UTIs, or whatever?”

The man had a smirk on his face when he said it.

He went on: “Catch a little somethin’ from whatever girl you screwed on vacation a couple weeks back, maybe?”

Of course, he meant the time he’d visited you at school.

Of course, he didn’t know it was you he’d gone to see.

He would, eventually. Not now. Not here. Not with eight of the most obnoxiously intoxicated women flailing limbs and lip syncing to Shania Twain just a dozen feet away.

When Joel returned from his bathroom break—another stupidly long pit stop like the last three taken before it—one of the octet had wandered over. She moved closer to him. Joel had only just slid onto his barstool and ducked his head to drink when a voice broke in, high and shrill.

He ignored her. Like the sound hadn’t even registered for him, he completely disregarded the wasted twenty-something, though it was obvious her eyes were on him.

“Ain’t feelin’ too friendly tonight?” his friend ribbed him.

Your dad didn’t seem to be seeing her either, while her fingers splayed over her hips and she slurred something more about needing some of that Southern hospitality.

Joel could smile. Nod his head.

That should get his friend off of his back.

But the moment he did, it was like a siren went off.

“Why don’t you buy her a drink, Miller?!” the man barked.

And Joel declined. Didn’t even lift his gaze in the girl’s direction and took another sip of his drink, hoping that she would leave. She did, eventually, but only after your dad had bought her and her friends a round of green tea shots, and the group had shrieked with satisfaction. His friend grimaced, but Joel could tell he was also amused.

“Never seen that before,” the man hummed.

“Seen what?” Joel took another swig of his drink.

“Never seen you so disinterested in gettin’ ass, Miller.”

Joel cringed hearing that. Not just on account of you, but knowing how crude your father could get when he was drunk. How forthright and unfiltered he’d become.

“Yeah. Just not that into…that,” Joel finished lamely.

“I’ll bet.”

His friend flitted a look from him, to the bachelorettes, to him once again. He seemed to appraise him in his seat. Then he leaned in closer and bumped Joel’s shoulder.

“Hear the way she screamed when I bought ‘em drinks?” His grin was smug. “Think she’d sound the same if y—”

“Why don’t you do it, then?” Joel said suddenly. He turned toward his friend, then nodded to the group. “Eager as you are to get some tail, go tell ‘em hi.”

He hadn’t meant it to sound so abrupt. His tone was clipped, with an edge that said that he was annoyed with this conversation. Admittedly, he was, but he didn’t need your father asking why. He took a slow, steadying breath.

“Because I’m a taken man, Joel Miller. You ain’t.”

Right.

Right.

Fucking his ex-wife’s best friend was a real special thing. One could only imagine how well that would turn out.

Without thinking, Joel glowered down at his drink.

“Shit. You’re empty,” his friend slurred a little. “Sadie?”

Sadie, the bartender, had their drinks replenished in a second—she knew her regulars and didn’t talk much.

Your dad could learn a thing or two from her, Joel mused.

Then, as if reading his mind and deciding to push his luck even more for the hell of it, the man spoke again:

“Don’t worry, Joel-y. I’m sure you’ll get there someday.”

He was sneering faintly. His breath smelled of whiskey.

“Oh yeah?” Joel shot back. Sharp. “Get where?”

He couldn’t help it.

Too late to channel his own inner-Sadie now.

His companion raised his glass to his lips and smiled.

“A relationship, Miller. With the woman you love.”

“And here I thought you just liked fucking her.”

A silence stretched after he said that, and Joel couldn’t tell if it was his friend taking his time with his cocktail or really resenting his words. He hadn’t meant to be rude.

Well, no, maybe he had.

Maybe he was tired of talking about Helen like that ‘relationship’ they’d had wasn’t the reason his friend’s marriage had gone up in flames decades back and you’d grown up most of your life without a mother. Joel didn’t have the whole story—couldn’t fully gauge what had taken place all those years ago, or why she’d left—but he could guess that this wasn’t the right move for your dad.

Or for you.

Just knowing what he knew, and what he’d failed to do when his friend had first told him, was enough to piss him off. Which was why he went on, futile as it seemed.

“You really think it’s love…with Helen? I didn—”

“Yeah. I do.”

His friend’s reply sounded a little barbed, at last.

There it was. The first tinge of annoyance—a rare sight for a man as indefatigably cheerful as your father—almost made Joel smile. He could see how he really felt.

His friend was clearly drunk now.

As the man’s emotions had a tendency to take wild, arcing swings whenever the drinks had gone to his head, it appeared he was nearly there. He’d eased off on the nonsense about Joel’s hypothetical sex life and directed the discussion inward. Joel could handle these musings.

For the first time, he leaned in closer and spoke lower.

“Last time we talked, you said Helen Foley was a fling.”

His friend’s eyes widened the slightest bit. He swallowed whatever whiskey was in his mouth and shook his head.

“You don’t…Don’t even say that.”

“Say what? That was all you.”

Joel’s gaze goaded him on, and he wasn’t even sure why he wanted to. It felt like the right thing to do, though, given how otherwise tight-lipped his friend had been about his former mistress and the fact that he was flaunting it now. As drunk men often liked to do.

“I never said she was a fling, Miller. I just…”

Another shake of his head, eyes glazed.

“Just what?” Joel pressed.

“I just said I liked her. A lot.”

“You said you liked the sex.”

Joel was being crass. Crude, like his friend had been before. He knew it would provoke a reaction out of him.

And just moments later, Joel’s wish was nearly granted.

Your dad blinked. He cleared his throat and tapped his now half-empty glass on the bartop before peering up.

“You’ve got it wrong,” your dad said, low. Hoarse.

“You said—”

“I say a lot of stupid shit, Miller. You know that.”

He did.

“So what is it then? Is the sex that good that—”

“No.”

“And it wrecked your whole fucking marriag—”

“Don’t,” your dad cut in, again, harsher now than before.

His speech was slowed, sluggish, and palpably agitated. The whiskey had hit his brain. He wasn’t as in control of the words flowing out of his mouth; Joel could see it.

“So you don’t feel guilty at all for cheating with her—”

“Because I loved Helen first!”

In spite of the raucous din of the bar all around them, your father’s voice carried surprisingly fast. Loud. Sadie cocked her head from a sea of new patrons huddling in at the entrance, lifted one brow, and scanned them briefly, as if trying to tell if a fight might be brewing.

It wasn’t. Your dad just got loud when he was plastered.

And once he started something, he had to keep going. Joel was listening, but he had to admit that the drinks were beginning to affect him, too. He set his down.

“What are you talking about?” he asked him.

Your dad dropped his glass with a little more éclat.

“I’m saying,” he started. Pausing to swallow once more. “I knew Helen first. I loved her first. This was before…”

He swallowed again, and Joel could see the effort there.

“…before I ever even met Amy. I swear.”

Amy. Now that was a name Joel hadn’t heard in awhile. It had been mostly an unspoken rule between them both never to bring up his ex-wife’s name, much less mention her like this. But there he went. Six drinks in and he was reminiscing on your mother. Joel felt trouble simmering.

“But you and Amy were married—” he started, slower.

“Exactly eight months before our daughter was born,” his friend grit out. Something like ire flashed in his gaze. “How’s that for one big fuckin’ coincidence, huh, Miller?”

Joel hadn’t even thought about it. He hadn’t known your father or mother back when they were first married—though Tommy had worked with the former, and had been friends with the couple a bit longer than he had.

Joel had only seen the ugly end of the marriage. It never occurred to him to inquire when—or how—it had started, just that it pissed his friend off whenever Amy became a topic of discussion. Mostly, it was in the context of regret

He saw that again, presently.

“Nobody even knew that was a thing because we were…casual. And real private about it, for a little while. Then the pregnancy came outta left field and I thought I was doin’ the right thing, y’know? Gettin’ married and growin’ up and all. But Amy wasn’t ever really in it any more than me. She knew I’d always be in love with somebody else.”

Helen?

Her best friend?

“Then why weren’t you with her?” Joel couldn’t hope to control the fervor that warmed his tone. He was enrapt.

He’d never heard this side of the story before.

His friend shrugged like it was nothing to him.

“Timing. Life,” he answered, duller. “We tried it out for a little while when she was in college, but Helen was so…young. And full’a big notions of gettin’ out of town, doin’ something else and stayin’ someplace else. I didn’t fit.”

He sounded deflated as he said it. He went on.

“I was damn near ten years older than her. I didn’t know the first thing about keepin’ a girl her age interested, or givin’ her what she needed. Had me mad for the longest time— which was why…I guess…” his friend trailed off.

“Amy,” Joel answered for him.

“Yeah. Amy,” your dad confirmed. Something more passed behind his eyes, though Joel couldn’t quite tell what it was. If he had to guess, he would say it was guilt.

The man kept going, evidently emboldened by his present state of intoxication and ready to say the worst. He ground his molars and rolled his lips like there was something bad he was itching to say, and Joel could only stare back. Wishing he was a little more drunk himself.

“I never meant it to be serious, Joel. I was young and dumb and trying to make the girl who rejected me jealous by screwin’ her best friend, and Amy knew it just as well. She knew I was sleepin’ with other people, too.”

His words were coming out quicker now. He planted one hand on the tabletop beside him, but he was facing him.

“Amy and I were both sleepin’ with other people, Joel.”

Then he paused a moment, and Joel wasn’t sure what the man was trying to say. Shortly, it dawned on him.

His eyes widened.

“You mean…?”

Your dad swallowed. Then shrugged. Then looked away, like he was suddenly ashamed of what he’d said. Knowing what it implied for himself, his ex-wife. For you.

“I’m— I’m almost positive she’s mine, there’s just…”

What? A possibility that you weren’t his daughter?

How could the man live with something like that?

Joel’s heart thudded a little louder in his chest. He wasn’t sure why; it just felt like something strange and momentous and bizarre for him to know before you.

Did you know?

“Does she…” He found it harder to finish his sentences.

Your dad’s eyes darted back to his. He blinked rapidly.

“No, no. God, no. I’d never tell her somethin’ like that,” he answered, fast. “It— it don’t even matter now, she’d always, always be my little girl. I just found out years after there was a chance she might be…someone else’s.”

Someone else’s.

Suddenly, Joel didn’t feel like he was fit to be told any of this. He felt like he was intruding. For your father to confess all of this—sharing such heavy news—it was all he could do to keep his blinking and breathing in check.

“See, Helen was never ‘the other woman.’ Amy and I were long checked out of our marriage before we ever split, and we…I mean, I went back. To Helen. I loved her.”

Your father paused again.

“I still love her, Joel. We tried making things work again, back then, too. We’d grown up a little bit. But my divorce was too new, my daughter was too young. It— it just didn’t happen. But now she’s here, and she wants to try again. I want to try again, and see if maybe— I dunno.”

“But then…” Joel thought of you. “Your daughter.”

“She thinks I’m the piece of shit who blew our family up on account of some affair. And I’m fine with her thinking that, if it keeps her from diggin’ into the past and learning her mom and I weren’t— that I might not be…”

Joel closed his eyes a moment. He sucked in a breath.

This was the last thing he needed to learn the night before you were supposed to be coming back home.

How could he tell you something like this? Should he?

It almost seemed as if the walls were closing in, and he was faced with the same dilemma as he had before—cope with a lie or cause more pain by telling you the truth. But now it really didn’t feel like his place to tell. It felt heartless and cruel to even bring it up, and somehow worse if he didn’t. If he withheld the truth from you again

And just as he’d endeavored to get his head around the idea, to try and make sense of it, a new bomb dropped.

“But if she ain’t mine, at least I’ve got an…idea of who the father might be. Silver livings an’ all,” his friend said. The smile he flashed him was as weak as it was sardonic.

“Who?”

“There were a few—rumors, I mean. Nothing for certain. Just heard she was seeing Dave York and Javier Peña…”

Those made sense. Joel knew the guys from work.

“Marcus Pike and that dude who used to live a little ways out of town—Ezra something, I forget. You remember?”

He didn’t.

Joel was racking his brain for names, and the last two sounded familiar, though he couldn’t place their faces.

“Dieter Bravo, that actor guy…Reed Richards—shit, it’s been a minute since we talked to him, ain’t it? Damn.”

Your father kept rattling off names like this was the most normal thing in the world—he’d probably done it often over the years—but with each new pronunciation, Joel felt himself growing sicker. He didn’t want to hear more.

But he’d have to, unless he made up an excuse to leave.

Another bathroom break might do the trick.

Okay, he could slip out easily that way.

Just as Joel was clearing his throat and preparing to make his fifth restroom announcement of the night, he had to stop. He heard another name drop from your dad, and he almost choked. Then he did choke, in a second.

“And Tommy, maybe…”

“Tommy?!”

The lone word punctured the air like a strangled breath—it came from the labor of his own two lungs, at hearing his brother’s name raised in connection with all of this.

What could Tommy have to do with any of that?

“Yeah,” your dad answered, nonchalant at first. Then, seeming to recollect his senses as he realized what he’d said, he smiled sheepishly. “I mean that’s—that’s a long shot, Joel. I heard some whisperings Amy and him might’ve gotten on and hooked up once or twice back then, but it was nothing serious. The odds of him bein—”

“Your kid’s father?!” Joel spit the words out like poison. He couldn’t help it. His heart had jumped to his throat.

He couldn’t be hearing his friend correctly.

He had to have been mistaken with that.

Joel’s brain short-circuited momentarily. It felt like his heart had leapt from his throat to his head and he could sense every sick, throbbing pulse of the thing thrumming sporadically through his skull. It was deafening to him.

Your father was continuing on, but it was hard to hear.

“…Tommy must’ve been, what, twenty-two? Same as Amy. I think they had some mutual friends besides me—must’ve been a casual thing. I don’t think he even knew we were hooking up back then, too. I don’t blame him…”

The man might as well have been speaking French, because Joel didn’t understand the first fucking thing coming out of his mouth except ‘Tommy’ and ‘Amy.’

His brother and your mother.

Having sex? When the fuck had that happened?

There had to be some misunderstanding. No way could his baby brother have done something like that and not…

Fuck. It had been twenty-two goddamn years since then.

What if he didn’t remember?

What if he couldn’t remember?

What if—oh, fuck, there was no fucking shot.

“Don’t look so shocked, Miller.” Your father grinned, and for the first time in a while, through the bulk of this whole conversation, it was genuine. He thought this was funny. “You know Tommy got around back then. Shit happens.”

Then, as if to rib him again:

“What, you scared of bein’ my kid’s uncle or somethin’?”

Joel was ready to throw up.

No, not ready—he was going to retch.

Jack and coke could’ve easily taken the blame for that, but anyone with half a brain and an ability to see the situation for what it was would’ve known better.

Joel knew better.

He had to shake his head. Say something. Otherwise he would be stuck, staring at his friend and looking as if he might spew chunks all over the front of his shirt at any given moment. There was no way you two were related.

“Hey, if you are, I’d say you’d make a damn good uncle anyway. You and her have been close for awhile, right—”

Time to vomit.

Time to leave.

Time to abandon any scant sense of self-respect and simultaneously lose the last six drinks he’d consumed into the closest sink or toilet. The room was spinning.

‘Gotta…piss’ was all he remembered saying. That should’ve been enough. If it wasn’t, well…that was no longer his problem. He was gone in the next second.

In his semi-drunken state, it amazed Joel just how far he was able to disgorge his dinner. As he expected, it was mostly liquid. It was like the second he stepped into the bathroom, all bets were off, and he was heaving like he was on the brink of death. What the fuck was all that?

This didn’t feel real. Wiping his mouth, running the sink, watching the liquid trail down, down, down until there was nothing left for him to see but a concave block of porcelain staring back. Its surface was surprisingly bright, shiny, and slick. It made him want to barf again.

But this was no time for fucking around.

If anyone needed to be spilling their guts now, it was someone else. Joel couldn’t rest until he reached him.

So, pulling out his phone with sweat-damp, noticeably shaky hands, he blinked harder. He focused his gaze. For the first time in what now felt like years, he turned the device on without the intention of texting, calling, or FaceTiming you. He scrolled through his long list of contacts until he reached the name, then winced.

This wasn’t real.

This wasn’t real.

He dialed the number and grew nauseous all over again.

Tommy Miller, answer your motherfucking phone.

[valkyriexo]

Pheromoan | Lee Know

ᑉ³pairing; Best friend Lee Know x Reader

ᑉ³genre; Fluff, Smut

ᑉ³warnings; SMUT MDNI ( not spoiling it but it’s smut just … it’s smut)

ᑉ³Authors Note; A huge thank you to @skzdreamer13 for beta reading—you're the best! 💖 Just a quick heads-up: I switch between Minho and Lee Know throughout this fic, so keep that in mind while reading. Hope you enjoy, and feel free to share your thoughts!

Lee Know’s house was quiet when you arrived, the evening air sending a chill down your spine as you stepped up to his door. You knocked twice, shifting on your feet as you waited. A few seconds passed before the door swung open.

And then....

He just stood there.

He looked frozen in the doorway, one hand gripping the doorknob, the other gripping his phone. His gaze locked onto you, and for a moment, he didn’t move. His fingers twitched slightly, like he’d forgotten what he was supposed to do next. His brows pulled together, eyes flicking over your face like he was seeing you for the first time.

“…Hi?” you prompted, raising an eyebrow.

He blinked once, twice. Then, like shaking himself out of a daze, he stepped back, opening the door wider. “Come in.”

Still a little thrown by his reaction, you stepped inside, kicking your shoes off and setting your bag down near the entrance.

The scent of coffee lingered in the air, strong and familiar.

Just like him.

You turned to face him, catching the way his fingers curled slightly around the hem of his hoodie. His gaze flicked up, meeting yours for half a second before dropping again.

You narrowed your eyes. “What’s with you?”

Minho exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “Nothing.”

Your eyes lingered on him for a moment longer, suspicion taking over. But before you could press further, he turned on his heel, walking toward the kitchen.

You frowned but followed him anyway, watching as he moved around the kitchen with that effortless grace he always had. He reached for a mug, fingers curling around the handle a little too tightly, and you swore you saw the slightest tremor in his hands before he busied himself with the coffee machine.

“You want coffee?” he asked.

“I thought you didn’t like making coffee for other people,” you teased, trying to lighten the mood.

Minho scoffed, keeping his back to you as he poured the dark liquid into a mug. “I don’t.”

A pause.

“But you’re already here.”

Your lips twitched at his halfhearted grumble, but the nagging feeling that something was off didn’t disappear. He was avoiding looking at you, focusing way too much on pouring the coffee, like it required all of his attention. Brushing it off, you leaned forward, resting your elbows on the table as a grin tugged at your lips. 

“Okay, you are not ready for what I’m about to tell you.”

Minho finally turned, setting your mug down in front of you before grabbing his own. He lifted it to his lips, fingers curling slightly around the ceramic. “Yeah?”

“Well,” you continued, already getting into it, “So, you know how Yuna lives in the same apartment building as me, right? Like, literally two doors down?”

Minho nodded slowly, bringing the cup to his lips, blowing softly over the steam. “Mhm.”

“Well.” You leaned in, dropping your voice as if someone might be listening. “I was leaving for work this morning, just stepping out into the hall, minding my business...when bam! Who do I see walking out of her apartment at six in the morning, wearing yesterday’s clothes?”

Minho’s fingers twitched around his mug, but he took a slow sip, his expression unreadable. “Who?”

“And I don’t mean ‘oh, he’s just an early riser, out for a morning stroll’ kind of vibe. No. This man stumbled out of there looking wrecked. Shirt all wrinkled, tie shoved in his pocket, hair a mess......like he’d just rolled out of bed.” 

Minho swallowed hard, then subtly shifted… just an inch. His eyes flicked to the side before returning to his cup.

You didn’t notice.

“And listen,” you continued, waving a hand for emphasis. “At first, I wasn’t even thinking SCANDAL!!! I was just trying to get a good look at this man. Like, good for you, Yuna, finally with a man, you know? I was ready to send a whole ‘you go, girl’ text.”

Minho cleared his throat, barely audible. His fingers flexed against the mug before he slowly lowered it, resting it on the table.

“But then,” you said, dragging it out for effect, “I saw who it was.”

Minho’s grip on his cup tightened.

You leaned in, eyes wide. “Minho.” 

His jaw tensed.

 “.....It was Park Jin-young”

Minho’s nostrils flared just slightly.

“And then—then—he saw me. The second we made eye contact, his entire soul left his body. Like, this man panicked. He froze, looked back at her door like he could somehow undo reality, then speed-walked down the hallway like a guilty teenager sneaking out after curfew.”

Minho finally moved...lifting his cup back up to his face, but instead of drinking, he pressed it against his lips like he needed the heat to ground him.

You kept going.

“And Yuna?” You let out a breathy laugh, shaking your head. “Oh, she was even worse. I caught her peeking through the door crack, wearing somebody’s oversized hoodie.....definitely not hers, by the way.....like she was trying to assess the damage before committing to showing her face.”

Minho’s fingers drummed against the table.....slow, measured taps.

His knee started bouncing.

“She gasped. Like, full-on, hand-over-mouth, eyes-wide, like she just got caught committing treason. And then—do you know what she said?”

He inhaled deeply, pressing the cup harder against his lips, eyes unfocused.

“She had the audacity to look me dead in the eye and say—” You threw up air quotes. “‘It’s not what it looks like.’”

Minho exhaled sharply through his nose. He shifted again, subtly angling himself away from you.

You scoffed, oblivious to his distress.

“Like, girl. It is exactly what it looks like.”

Minho’s fingers tapped against his cup, slow and deliberate. His jaw flexed, then loosened, then flexed again.

“And listen, I know it’s technically none of my business, but JYP? JYP?! Of all people?” You shook your head in disbelief. “I mean, come on. She could have—”

“Are you wearing a new perfume?”

You stopped mid-sentence.

“…What?”

Minho’s voice was lower now, rough, like he was barely keeping himself together.

His fingers curled even tighter around his cup, his knuckles just barely turning white. His jaw flexed, and when he finally did look at you, his pupils were slightly blown, his breath coming just a little too fast.

“Your perfume. It’s different.”

You stared at him, momentarily thrown. That was what he had to say? That was what had him completely zoning out while you were delivering the hottest scandal of the year?

Lifting your wrist instinctively, you sniffed your skin. It smelled like…

....well, nothing.

“I literally wear the same perfume every day,” you said slowly.

Minho didn’t respond right away. Instead, he exhaled. Long, measured, controlled. Then, without another word, he stood up from the table, taking his coffee with him, and walked straight to the sink, bracing his hands on the counter.

You blinked. “Minho? What is wrong?”

He shook his head once, exhaling hard through his nose. “Nothing.”

But his grip on the counter told you it was definitely not nothing.

Was there something on your dress? A stain you hadn’t noticed? You subtly glanced down, smoothing your hands over the fabric. No, everything looked fine.

…Wait. Your breath.

Panic flared in your chest as you clamped a hand over your mouth. Oh, God. Had younot brushed well enough? You discreetly exhaled into your palm and took a quick sniff.

Nothing.

So what the hell was going on?

Minho didn’t turn around right away. Instead, he stayed at the sink, his back to you, fingers curling around the edge of the counter like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth. His shoulders rose with a deep breath—then fell, slow and controlled, as if he was trying very hard not to spontaneously combust.

You frowned. “Minho?”

No response.

You tilted your head, about to push again, when, suddenl, he moved.

Without a word, without even glancing at you, he took a single step to the side. Then another. Then another.

Your eyes narrowed. “........What are you doing?”

Minho ignored you. Another step. Then another. Like he was casually relocating to the opposite end of the kitchen for absolutely no reason whatsoever.

Your brow furrowed as you tracked his painfully slow retreat. He wasn’t even subtle about it. By the time he finally stopped, he was standing absurdly far away—back pressed against the fridge, arms crossed tightly over his chest, coffee cup abandoned on the counter like he didn’t trust himself to hold it anymore.

You stared.

He stared back.

A full five seconds of complete, suffocating silence passed between you.

Then—

“So,” Minho said, voice a little too even, “Yuna.”

You blinked.

“…Huh?”

Minho nodded, as if he was conducting a business meeting and not acting like a man on the verge of a breakdown. “Yuna,” he repeated. “You were talking about Yuna.”

Your lips parted slightly. Then, slowly, you leaned forward, squinting at him. “Are you—?”

“I think,” he cut in, voice clipped, “you should finish your story.”

Your mouth hung open for a second. Then, your gaze dropped pointedly to the ridiculous amount of distance he’d just put between you.

“You want me to finish my story,” you repeated flatly.

“Yes.”

“From over here?”

A single, sharp nod. “Yes.”

You blinked again.

Then, after a long pause—“Okay, what is wrong with you?”

Minho’s jaw clenched. “I already told you. Nothing is wrong.”

You scoffed. “Nothing? You’re literally standing in another area code right now.”

He exhaled, closing his eyes for half a second before forcing them back open. “I’m just comfortable here.”

“Comfortable,” you echoed.

“Comfortable,” he confirmed.

You let out a breath, eyeing him like he was losing his mind. And honestly? Maybe he was. His hands were gripping his own arms way too hard, like he needed to physically hold himself back from something. His jaw was so tight you were surprised it hadn’t cracked.

What the hell was happening right now?

You took a slow step toward him.

Instantly, he stiffened.

You took another.

His back pressed further into the fridge.

Your eyes narrowed. “You’re acting so weird right now.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

Minho inhaled sharply, looking like he wanted to melt into the wall. His fingers flexed against his biceps, then dug in tighter. You swore you saw the tips of his ears turning pink.

“You’re not finishing your story,” he said suddenly, desperate to redirect. “What happened next?”

You tilted your head, suspicious. “You really care that much about Yuna and JYP?”

“Yes.”

A slow blink. “...Minho, do you have a fever?”

A muscle in his jaw twitched. “Finish the story. I'm so interested. ” He said with a deadpanned face.

You raised an eyebrow, watching him carefully. You weren’t sure what kind of internal battle he was fighting right now, but whatever it was... it was serious.

But fine. He wanted to play this game? You’d play.

You took another step forward.

Minho’s eye twitched.

Suppressing a grin, you propped your hands on your hips. “Where was I?”

His throat bobbed. “Yuna.”

“Oh, right!” you exclaimed, feigning excitement. “So Yuna’s standing there, looking guilty as hell, right? And she knows she’s caught, but she’s still trying to act like nothing happened. And I’m just standing there, like—” You threw up your hands. “Girl. What are we doing here?”

Minho didn’t respond.

Because you had taken another step.

And now, the space between you was dangerously small.

You pretended not to notice the way his whole body locked up. “But do you know what the worst part was?”

Minho’s fingers curled tighter. “W-What.”

You leaned in slightly.

His breath hitched.

“She tried to change the subject,” you murmured.

Minho swallowed.

Your lips curled. “Sound familiar?”

Silence.

He was having a crisis.

But it had nothing to do with JYP or Yuna

Because whatever perfume you were wearing, whatever scent was clinging to your skin, was messing with his head.

It was subtle, but there. Just enough to seep into his senses, curling around his thoughts like smoke, making it impossible to focus on anything else.

“You,” he bit out." Are a problem"

You froze. “…What?”

His jaw clenched, nostrils flaring slightly as he looked at you—really looked at you—like he was on the verge of something dangerous. He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. He looked frustrated,like he was mad at you, but not in the way he usually was.

“This—” he gestured vaguely at you, at the space between you, “—this isn’t normal. I don’t look at you like this. I don’t—” His voice faltered, hands curling into fists at his sides. “I don’t think about you like this.”

Your heart stuttered.

Like what?

Minho let out a low, bitter laugh, shaking his head. “But I do, don’t I?” His eyes flicked to yours, something raw and real in them. “I have for a long time.”

Your stomach flipped, your breath catching in your throat as realization started to dawn.

“Minho…”

His name barely made it past your lips before he was stepping closer.

His scent, warm, familiar, ..... and him... wrapped around you, overwhelming in a way that made your pulse jump.

“I thought I could ignore it,” he muttered, voice tight, like the words were being dragged out of him. “Thought I could just—pretend.” He huffed out a short laugh, but there was no humor in it. “But then you show up here, wearing that damn perfume, looking at me like that, and I can’t.”

You felt lightheaded.

Like that?

How were you looking at him?

“I don’t get it,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

Minho’s lips pressed into a thin line. He hesitated—just for a second—then exhaled, slow and shaky.

And then—

“…I like you.”

Your entire brain short-circuited.

“…What?”

His eyes finally met yours, dark, sharp, sincere. His jaw was still clenched, his fingers still curled like he wanted to touch you but couldn’t.

But his voice?

Low.

Graveled.

Deadly serious.

His voice, lower than you’d ever heard it, brushed against your ear as he spoke.

“I like you,” he repeated, slower this time.

Your stomach flipped.

Minho let out a quiet chuckle, breath warm against your skin.

“Still confused?”

You stared at him, heart pounding so hard it hurt.

Minho liked you.

Minho.

Your best friend.

The person who had always been there. Who made fun of you relentlessly but never let anyone else do the same. Who acted like he didn’t care but always, always noticed when something was wrong.

You opened your mouth, but no words came.

Minho let out a slow breath, his expression shifting....something resigned creeping into his eyes.

“Say something,” he muttered.

You didn’t know what to say.

So instead—

You reached out, fingers curling into the fabric of his hoodie.

Minho sucked in a sharp breath.

You hesitated, searching his face, then—

Screw it.

You tugged him forward, closing the space between you. The second your lips met his, he froze.

For a single, breathless moment, he didn’t move….like his brain was still trying to process that this was actually happening. That you had just pulled him in, kissed him like you’d been waiting for this just as long as he had.

A sharp inhale and a split-second of hesitation later... and then his hands were on you. 

One curled around your waist, the other tangling in your hair, pulling you closer like he’d been holding himself back for far too long. His lips pressed against yours, firm and certain, like he was making up for all the time he had wasted pretending he didn’t feel this way.

His breath was warm, his grip just shy of desperate, like he was afraid you might pull away.

But you didn’t.

You couldn’t.

Because Minho kissed like he had something to prove. Like he was trying to carve himself into your bones, make sure you knew exactly what he had been holding back all this time. It was slow, intoxicating, and just a little rough.

And God, he was desperate.

Your back hit the counter before you even realized he was moving you.

And when he finally pulled back, just enough to let you breathe, his forehead rested against yours, his grip on your waist unwavering. His breathing was uneven, lips just barely brushing yours as he exhaled.

You swallowed hard, staring up at him, lips tingling, heart racing.

Your lips parted, your mind racing to catch up, but Minho was already moving…his hands sliding up your waist, his lips ghosting over your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your mouth—

Teasing.

Testing.

Waiting for you to break first.

And God, you were so close.

“Minho,” you whispered, your fingers tightening around the fabric of his hoodie.

He groaned, a low, almost pained sound, before pulling back just enough to look at you in the eyes.

“You have no idea how hard I’m trying to be respectful right now,” he admitted, voice rough, ragged.

You swallowed, heart hammering.

Your breath was still uneven, lips still tingling, and yet Minho was staring at you like he was barely holding himself together. His fingers flexed against your waist, and you swore you could feel the heat of his skin even through the fabric of your dress.

“Say something,” he murmured, quieter this time. “Or I’m gonna start thinking that was a mistake.”

Your heart lurched. A mistake? The way he kissed you, like he’d been waiting forever, how could he even think that?

You shook your head quickly. “No.”

Minho swallowed, his grip on your waist not as confident as before. “No?”

“No, it wasn’t a mistake.”

His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, his dark eyes scanning your face for any sign of doubt.

And he was standing in front of you, looking at you like he wanted to ruin you.

He was searching…waiting…giving you one last chance to stop this before it went too far.

But you didn’t want to stop.

So you pulled him down, closing the space between you in a kiss that was nothing like the first. This one was desperate, hungry, a silent plea for him to understand everything you couldn’t put into words.

Minho groaned against your lips, his control finally snapping as he kissed you back just as fiercely. His hands tightened on your waist before sliding up, fingers skimming over your ribs, your back, pulling you flush against him. The heat of his body, the way he moved against you—it was dizzying.

His fingers dug in just enough to make you shiver before he lifted you onto the cool surface in one smooth motion, stepping between your legs and caging you in with his body. 

The sudden shift sent a gasp tumbling from your lips, and Minho swallowed it whole, his mouth never leaving yours.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he murmured against your lips, his voice rough.

His hands slid down, skimming the hem of your dress before slipping beneath, his fingertips dragging fire up your thighs. Your breath hitched as he gripped them, pulling you closer until your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist. The low groan he let out sent a fresh wave of heat pooling in your stomach.

His lips left yours only to trail lower, ghosting over your jaw, then down the curve of your neck. He paused there, his breath hot against your skin, his hands flexing against your thighs like he was battling himself.

Minho groaned, a deep, guttural sound, his control snapping like a frayed thread.

“You’re dangerous,” he muttered, voice strained, sending a delicious shiver down your spine. His hands continued to trail, and one made its way to your clothed heat.

Your breath hitched as you felt him rub you through the fabric.

Your fingers slipping under his hoodie, nails scraping lightly against his skin. “And what does that make you?”

Minho lifted his head, his dark, blown-out eyes meeting yours.

“Absolutely fucked.”

His eyes locked on yours, and suddenly, everything slowed down.

It wasn't desperate anymore.

It wasn't rushed.

He was staring at you, his eyes dark, his lips parted slightly, and you realized, in that moment, exactly how long he had wanted this.

For months.

For years.

For longer than he had ever let on.

He was looking at you like he had waited forever for this.

"You're sure?"

"Yes," you breathed. Your chest was rising and falling fast, your heart pounding.

"Okay," he murmured.

And then, in one fluid motion, he hooked his fingers under the waistband of your panties and tugged them down.

You shivered, the air cold against your skin, and Minho let out a sharp exhale, his hands trailing down your thighs, spreading your legs wider.

"Fuck," he muttered, his voice rough, heavy.

His fingers slipped between your wet folds, the pressure of his thumb on your clit making your breath catch in your throat.

As he continued his teasing, you could feel yourself giving in, the pleasure clouding your judgment. Your hips rocked against his hand, seeking more, and a moan escaped your lips as he slid a finger inside of you.

The feeling of his fingers inside you, curling up just the way you liked, was almost too much to bear.

"I want to taste you," he whispered, his voice filled with desire. You watched as he kneeled before you, his head dipping between your legs. His tongue finding your clit as his fingers plunged deeper into your pussy. You cried out, your body writhing in pleasure as he licked and fingered you. 

He hummed against your clit as his tongue teased your tight hole.

“oh my fuck.” Your eyes closed tightly as his tounge continued to explored your pussy, darting out to swipe along your folds.

Your moans becoming a melody to his ears.

"You taste so good," he said, his voice muffled

Your hands grip his hair, tugging at his dark hair and forcing his face deeper. It was as if he knews all your sweet spots, as if you had done this before, thrusting his long digits inside of you once more.

He gripped your waist tighter, pulling you closer as he began to thrust his tongue in and out of you, fucking you with his mouth.

You were trembling now, the pleasure almost too much.

It wasnt long before your mouth fell open in a silent scream and your cunt clenched around his fingers, walls spasming as you reached your orgasm and your cum trailed down the expanse of your thigh.

"Fuck, you're perfect," he growled.

But Minho wasn't done with you. Not even close.

"I need you," he groaned, his voice hoarse. "Please."

You couldn't refuse him. Not when he was looking at you like that, with pure, unadulterated want.

He stood up and you could see his cock straining against his jeans, his breathing ragged.

You leaned forward, your lips capturing his in a heated kiss, tongue sliding into his mouth. He moaned against your lips, his fingers tightening on your hips.

You reached down, fumbling with the zipper of his jeans. You managed to unbutton them and shove them down his thighs, revealing his achingly hard cock.

You wrapped your fingers around his length, stroking him slowly, reveling in the sounds he was making.

He groaned, his hips jerking against yours, his breathing becoming more ragged as you continued to tease him.

"Do you want me?"" he said, his voice hoarse.

You lifted your hips, allowing him to position himself at your entrance.

He held your gaze, his eyes filled with desire and want.

You nodded. "Yes."

He pressed his lips to yours, kissing you deeply as he slowly slid his cock between your folds, the tip smearing his precum along your entrance before he pushed in, slow and deep, stretching you out. You gasped against his lips, the feeling of him filling you overwhelming.

He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breath hot against your skin.

“F-fuck,” he groaned, his voice shaking, his hands tightening on your thighs. “You’re... Fuck. youre so tight, baby-”

His fingers dug into your hips, pulling you closer as he began to move, his cock stretching you.

You could feel the heat of his length throbbing inside of you, the friction sending sparks shooting down your spine.

"You feel amazing," he growled, his voice strained.

He was holding back, trying to take things slow, but you needed more.

"Minho..." you whimpered, your body writhing beneath his.

"I'm right here, baby," he murmured, his fingers gripping your hips tighter.

He moaned, his thrusts growing harder and faster. Your fingers gripped his hair, pulling him closer, wanting more.

Your eyes rolled back with each deep slam of his cock into your squelching wet cunt, and your free hand scrambled to cover your mouth in an awful attempt to muffle the loud noises spilling out of your mouth.

"Don't." he grunted. "I want to hear every moan."

Your body was trembling, your cunt clenching around his cock.

"Please, baby," he groaned. "Let me hear you."

You could feel his cock twitch inside of you, the familiar tightening in your stomach as the pleasure built.

""Ahh- Fuck. I'm gonna-gonna n-n-nn"

You could feel yourself nearing the edge, the pleasure threatening to consume you.

His thrusts became harder and faster, driving his cock deeper inside of you.

"Oh my-"

The pleasure was overwhelming, coursing through you, consuming you, sending sparks shooting down your spine and a wave of warmth to pool in your belly.

Your vision blurred, and for a moment, it was like everything was suspended, the world going still.

As you rode the waves of your climax, your body tensed and convulsed, the pleasure crashing over you in waves.

Minho groaned, his body shuddering as he came.

He was still thrusting in and out of you heping you ride out your orgasm. you could see where your bodies were connected and the milky white ring that was forming at the base of his cock.

He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breathing ragged as his arms wrapped around you, holding you close.

You could feel his heartbeat, thudding wildly against yours.

His warmth surrounded you, his arms tightening ever so slightly, as if he was afraid you’d slip away if he let go. Your fingers curled into his hair, nails grazing lightly against his scalp, and he exhaled, the sound somewhere between a sigh and a shudder.

Neither of you spoke for a long moment. The only sounds in the room were your breaths, still uneven, still tangled together.

Minho pressed a slow, lingering kiss to your shoulder before shifting, just enough to look at you. His dark eyes searched yours, and for the first time all night, the usual confidence in his gaze had softened into something quieter.

His fingers traced idle patterns against your skin, hesitant, like he wasn’t sure if he should break the silence.

“…Are you okay?” His voice was low, almost careful.

Your heart clenched. You knew Minho—knew the teasing, smug exterior he put on for the world. But here, now, there was none of that. No walls, no masks. Just him.

His gaze dropped, his fingers flexing on your skin again. “I’ve been trying so hard to pretend I’m fine just being your friend. To act like I didn’t want more.” He let out a soft, humorless chuckle.

Your chest ached. You reached for him instinctively, your fingers brushing against his jaw. “You don’t have to pretend anymore.”

His eyes flicked back up to yours, something flickering in his expression. Hope. Relief.

“Yeah?” he murmured, like he needed to hear it again.

You nodded. “Yeah.”

Minho exhaled, his hand coming up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing over your cheekbone with the kind of gentleness that made your heart stutter.

His lips parted slightly, like he wanted to say something—something important—but instead, he just kissed you. Slow, lingering, like he was savoring the moment, grounding himself in it.

And then, just as slowly, he pulled back.

You swunging your legs a little where you still sat on the counter. Minho reached for his jeans, slipping them on before turning back to you with an unreadable look.

Then—

“…What perfume was that?”

You blinked. “Huh?”

Minho tilted his head. “The one you wore today.”

You frowned, thrown off by the sudden topic shift. “I don’t know? I just grabbed one from my dresser.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “You just grabbed one?”

“…Yeah?”

Curious now, you hopped off the counter and dug through your purse sitting near the entrance and pulled out the small glass bottle. You turned it over to check the label—

And immediately froze.

Oh.

Oh, no.

Minho caught the change in your expression immediately. “What?”

You hesitated.

Then, barely above a whisper—

“…It’s a pheromone perfume.”

Silence.

Minho didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

Then, very slowly—

“You what?”

“I didn’t know!” You held up the bottle defensively. “I just thought it smelled nice! I had no idea—”

Minho dragged a hand down his face. “So that’s why I couldn’t focus today.”

You bit your lip. “…Maybe?”

He exhaled sharply, staring at you like you had just changed the entire trajectory of his life. Then, rubbing his temples, he muttered, mostly to himself—

“This whole time, I thought I was losing my mind.”

You winced. “Uh—”

Minho turned his gaze back to you, dead serious. “You’re never wearing that again.”

You pouted. “But—”

He narrowed his eyes. “I swear to God.”

You grinned, tugging the sleeves of his hoodie over your hands as you hopped down from the counter. “Fine, fine.”

Minho eyed you for a moment longer, then sighed, pulling you into him again, his chin resting on top of your head.

You giggled. “So… does this mean you are obsessed with me?”

Minho stilled for half a second.

You barely had time to react before he leaned in, his lips grazing your ear as he whispered—

“You have no idea.”

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[zepskies]

And the Next

Pairing: Joel Miller x Reader

Summary: He has the ring, but still isn’t sure he should give it to you. Ellie helps him out a little.

AN: Here’s the sequel to Tomorrow, but this can also stand alone!

Word Count: 1.2K

Posted on Patreon: 6/04/2025

Tags/Warnings: Established relationship, Jackson!Joel, fluff, sliver of angst

Ellie tears through the front door like a colt bolting out of a stable, still with that kid energy, disturbing his morning cup of coffee.

Joel jolts in his chair out on the porch.

“Jesus,” he mutters. She just grins.

“Morning,” she says, nodding at him. “Still waking up, one creaky limb at a time?”

He shoots her a wry look. “More like one sip at a time.”

He’s made enough coffee for you, too. It’s waiting for you in the carafe, for whenever you wake up. You’re not an early riser like he is. No, you push off the responsibility of starting the day until you run the risk of being late.

He’s tried to be your alarm clock before, but no matter how gentle, straightforward, or creative his attempts are, you either manage to fall back asleep, or worse, drag him back into the warm comfort of the bed (and you).

So today, he watches the sunrise alone. An early December breeze nips at his cheeks, nose, and fingers. He doesn’t mind. He almost doesn’t feel it, because a low buzz of unrest in his chest keeps his mind busy. His fingers brush along his jeans, around a small ridge and weight in the pocket.

“Saw you coming out of Sasha’s again yesterday,” Ellie says, earning his attention back.

She leans on the porch rail with her back facing the sun. Her grin kicks up into a smirk, especially at the subtle, uncomfortable way he shifts in his seat.

He crosses his arms defensively. “And?”

“And. What do you need to go to the town jeweler for?”

“None of your business,” he says, even if it just makes both of them smile, just shy of laughing. He’s been with you long enough that he’s started to pick up on the shit you say.

“Finally ready to do it, huh?” Ellie asks. Her voice is a little softer, her eyes less teasing, revealing the knowingness and the affection lying underneath.

Joel sighs, but he doesn’t answer. The buzz in his chest swells, reaching the base of his throat.

Ellie sees the familiar scrunch of his brows, and the less familiar hesitance in his eyes.

“What’re you afraid of?” she asks bluntly.

His lips purse. He shakes his head. “Nothin’. It’s just, uh…”

“You know she’s gonna fucking say yes. She fucking knits you socks,” she says. Now at sixteen years old, her mouth hasn’t gotten any better. “And she found you those old man reading glasses.”

Joel just rolls his eyes. He leans backward in the chair to adjust his spine, sighing with an edge of frustration. “I know. That’s what I’m…”

He stops himself, but when he meets Ellie’s eyes again, he knows she understands what he couldn’t bring himself to say out loud. She pushes off the porch and draws in to lay a hand on his shoulder. Reluctantly, he looks up at her.

“If anyone’s earned a little fucking happiness, it’s you, Joel.”

Three weeks later, Christmas morning brings an even more unforgiving winter chill to Jackson. The house is warm thanks to the crackling fire in the living room hearth, but that’s not the only thing making Joel sweat.

His new rifle, your gift to him, lays on its side on the coffee table. His fingers had run carefully, reverently over the initials carved on the hilt: S.M. and E.W. He thinks he’ll add your initials too, tomorrow.

He’s tempted to swipe a hand at the sheen from his brow, but he can’t even move. His ass is plastered to the old couch cushion, his limbs frozen where they rest. He watches you with his breath stilled in his lungs.

You manage to close your parted mouth, your surprise having trembled down your spine like a buttery caress. The ring is a modest, stainless steel band carefully held between your fingertips. In its center lies a smooth turquoise stone Joel found in the river. He'll later tell you that he broke the metal off from an old sink, polished it, and had the jeweler melt it down.

“Wow, it’s beautiful,” you say at last, awed and breathless. But you bite into your lower lip because you’re not sure what it means, other than one hell of a Christmas gift. The man hasn’t said anything since handing you the ring. “Thank you.”

His brows furrow, like he was expecting a different answer. “Uh, you’re welcome…”

He searches your face, the chocolate brown of his eyes confused, and a hint worried.

“Why’re you looking at me like that?” you ask, unable to help a nervous laugh.

“Well, you…I mean…is that a yes?” he fumbles.

Ellie groans and rolls her eyes, covering her face with one hand. You glance at her in confusion now, and back to Joel, who wears a look of embarrassment as heat creeps up his neck.

“Jesus Christ, Joel. Put some effort in,” she mutters at him. When he just glares at her, she points at the ground. “Get down on one knee at least! You haven’t even asked her the fucking question.”

A cross between a gasp and a laugh escapes from your lips as you realize what’s happening. Why Joel now looks so fucking embarrassed and frowny, and a little flustered as he starts to slide himself off the couch and down on his knee—the same one he twisted on a patrol last week. You grab his arm and stop him.

“It’s okay, baby. I get it now,” you giggle. But you also caress his rough, bearded cheek as the threat of tears makes your eyes shine glassy and bright. “You want to marry me?”

You can’t help it. Your voice is laced with a hint of doubt. Not because you don’t know who you are to him, but because you’ve spent most of your life believing you’d never have a family again. You would’ve been content to have this as it is—you and Joel—without a label, as long as you know he’s yours, and you’re his. Today, tomorrow, and the next.

Joel’s arm slides around your waist and brings you in closer, warm and secure. With his free hand, he gently takes the ring from you. He meets your eyes. Despite the lingering embarrassment, what you don’t see is hesitation. When this man makes a decision, it’s made, like the sling of a revolver. Like trying to uproot an oak tree and all its stemming roots.

“I know it’s a bit old-fashioned nowadays,” he says, but you stop him, your hand pressing over his lips.

You lean in to kiss him instead, slow, and with meaning. You comb your fingers through his graying hair with affection, curling some tousled strands behind his ear.

“I like old-fashioned,” you say, smiling against his lips. It makes him smile too, almost like a compulsion. You’ve got that effect on him.

Ellie sighs from her lounge seat. Propping an elbow on the arm rest, she rolls her head onto her hand. The scene playing out in front of her is nauseating, but it doesn’t mean she hates it.

Actually, it’s pretty fucking funny to watch Joel hastily stop you from putting the ring on your own finger. He wants to do it himself, as if to prove he actually knows what he’s doing with you.

He’s fucked this almost all the way up from start to finish, but at least he got there in the end…with a little help.

AN: Tomorrow, and the next. 😉💛 (Yes, I plan to write more for these two. Like I tend to do, go back to their "beginning.")

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[galaxywannabe]

Munch O'Clock

Joaquín Torres x Fem!Reader

Summary: Joaquín comes back from his morning run hungry. He really should just let you sleep, but how else is he supposed to make sure his day starts off on the right track?

Warnings: 18+ contains smut mdni. Joaquín being the goofball boyfriend we all deserve. Reader identifies as a woman and has a vagina but there are no other physical descriptors as far as I'm aware!

Word Count: Roughly 2.5k

A/N: Ahhhh okay! So the idea for this came from this post and my addition to it, and then I said fuck it and gave it my best go! And this is that! Constructive criticism is always welcome, and if you have something nice to say about it or you liked it please let me know! It feeds my soul and keeps me writing! Anyways I'm done yammering your ear off, enjoy!

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Joaquín gets up for his daily run stupid early, like, before the sun is even all the way up early, even on his days off. So naturally, when he arrives back at your apartment roughly 45 minutes after he left it, thoroughly sweating through his cutoff t-shirt despite the early spring chill, you're still fast asleep.

You are decidedly not an early riser, even on the days that you really should be, and accordingly your alarm isn't set to go off for another 3 hours - hours you intend to spend blissfully unconscious, dead to the world. That is, until you're startled awake with a yelp as your boyfriend tugs you by the ankles down to the foot of the bed. 

The transition from sleep to wakefulness is an abrupt one, the peace of unconsciousness ripped from your grasp in the span of a single second, and as you lift your head to meet the rich, brown puppy dog eyes of your boyfriend, you know there's only one culprit responsible. 

“Joaquín, I was sleeping,” you grumble, reaching up to rub the grit from your eyes as his expression turns sheepish.

“I know, mi amor, I'm sorry. You just kicked all the covers off yourself, and you looked so pretty laying there, and then before I knew it…” 

He gives you those innocent eyes again, like it was by complete accident that he ended up kneeling at the foot of your bed, your body dragged down the length of the mattress so your pelvis was directly in front of his face. You sigh, already knowing what's about to happen and resigning to your fate - as if it's such a chore being constantly lusted after by your beautiful boyfriend. 

“Was there something you needed at-” you turn your head to the alarm clock on your nightstand, the glaring red numbers a cruel reminder of the sleep you should be getting right now, “-5:56 in the morning?”

He hesitates for a moment, chewing his lip as he flicks his eyes between your face and the space between your legs, obviously conflicted. You can tell that he desperately wants to ask, but he's not sure if he should.

He really does look guilty for waking you up, and you feel bad as you watch him actively consider suppressing his desire so he doesn't inconvenience you. You were only being grouchy in a playful way, not actually trying to dissuade him.

You reach down for his hand resting on the mattress by your hip, taking it and squeezing reassuringly. “If you do need something, you can ask me, angel. I was just teasing, I won't be mad.”

He looks up at you, his gaze holding yours as if he's searching for the truth in your words. When he finds it, he seems to relax. His shoulders loosen a little, and there's a more obvious glint of excitement in his eyes as he looks back down at the part of your anatomy hidden by the gusset of your little sleep shorts.

He looks so gorgeous right now, even moreso than usual despite the high standard he sets. The sun is starting to rise, soft rays of light breaking through the blinds of your window and reflecting off his deep brown irises, highlighting the desperation there. He's still absolutely soaked through with sweat from his morning run, dark patches in the grey fabric around his chest and armpits from the exertion, and you can smell the musky tang of it from here, sharp and masculine in your nostrils, 100% Joaquín.

Setting off the whole image, the perfect cherry on top to his already devastating appearance, is the backwards baseball cap on his head, a few dark, sweaty curls flopping through the opening in the front and touching his forehead.

The slightly shy smirk he gives you as he finally decides to make his request is absolutely panty-melting, one big hand coming up to grip your inner thigh beneath the hem of your shorts, warm and possessive. “Breakfast?”

You almost let out a groan, but you don't want him to misinterpret it as anything other than completely positive, so you suppress it. Instead you just give him an amused little smile, anticipation fluttering in your gut as you raise one brow skeptically.

“That's what you want for breakfast, Joaquín?”

He nods enthusiastically, his eyes dancing with humor as he bows to kiss the exposed skin of your thigh gently. “Absolutely. I wanna start my day off right, angel. Gotta get in my fuckin’ Wheaties or whatever, so I can go crush the rest of my day.”

You laugh, shoulders shaking at the ridiculousness of that entire statement, your gaze fond even as you roll your eyes. “Is that what you're gonna tell Sam later, when you meet him down at the ring for sparring? That you've got an extra spring in your step because you ate your girl's pussy this morning?”

“If it means you'll let me do it right now, then yes, I absolutely will tell him that,” he answers, the look in his eyes completely serious despite his smile.

Horrified at just the mental image of such an exchange, you shudder, wrinkling your nose but still finding your boyfriend's desperation amusing. “Ew, no, please no, do not tell him that. I'll let you have it, just please don't tell Sam anything about our sex life ever.”

Joaquín’s eyes light up, a dog with a bone as his fingers skate up your hips to hook in the waistband of both your shorts and panties, stopping short of removing them until he has explicit permission. “Yeah? Deal.”

You can't help but snort, completely enamored by both the excited glint in his eye and the way he's willing to agree to whatever the hell you want as long as it gets his mouth on you. If you were a more scheming woman, perhaps you'd use that to your advantage, but as it stands you can never deny him anything when he looks at you like this.

Some days it's hard to believe you have a partner who wants you so badly all the time, but then you have a moment like this one, where he's on his knees by the end of the bed, still soaked in sweat from his workout but too desperate to wait another second, and you know it's genuine. He couldn't fake that pussy-drunk look in his eyes if he tried. 

“Alright then, deal. Go ahead, take what you want. It belongs to you anyways, you know that.”

You'd think you just offered him the keys to the city the way he's looking at you right now, a visible shudder wracking down his spine at your dirty words. He tugs your shorts and underwear down your legs like he's worried you'll change your mind, though over the course of your entire relationship you don't think you've ever given him reason to suspect you would.

The room air is a little cold against the heated, damp flesh between your legs, but in an instant he's so close that his warm breath is there on your skin, chasing away any chill. He looks up at you, waiting like he's giving you one more chance to back out. Like you ever would when there's head from Joaquín Torres on the table. 

“Go ahead, amor, have your breakfast. I think we both could call this a great start to our day, yeah?”

It's all the permission he needs, but he doesn't dive in the way he so clearly wants to, the way a person might be expected to given the slightly crazed look in his eyes. Even in a heightened state of arousal, Joaquín is all about savoring things, especially where you're concerned.

He starts with soft kisses on your plush inner thighs, scattering them sweetly on each side, slowly approaching his ultimate goal. Your legs instinctively part further for him, falling open on the mattress in an involuntary reaction to his touch, and he pats the outside of your thigh in approval as he continues to work his way up, his pace unhurried. 

Even when he gets there, he still doesn't partake quite yet, pausing to take in a slow inhale, a satisfied rumble going off in his chest at the scent of you. You can’t help but let out a small, flustered whimper, a blush rising to your cheeks; having a man be so unabashedly enthralled by your body is simultaneously incredibly flattering and a little embarrassing. There’s no shame on Joaquín’s face, though, just his half-lidded, hazy stare as he turns his eyes up to meet yours, dragging out the moment as you wait with anticipation for him to begin. Jesus.

Your boyfriend’s a bit of a hyperactive guy, always jumping around with boundless energy, but nothing shuts off his brain faster than eating your pussy. That’s not to say that he’s thoughtless about it - he’s not - or that he's not incredibly skilled at it - he definitely is. It’s just that when he’s doing this, it’s all he’s thinking about, and something about that sets every inch of your body on fire every time.

Either unwilling or unable to hold himself back anymore, your boyfriend lowers his face carefully to your center and licks a long, hot stripe from your hole to your clit, collecting the ample moisture you’ve already produced along the way, tasting it on his tongue. You know he makes a noise of satisfaction because you can feel the vibrations spread pleasantly through your skin, but you can’t hear it over the loud gasp that tears from your lungs, nor over your heartbeat thudding in your ears.

This burst of pleasure should not come as a surprise to you - Joaquín has probably eaten you out more just over the course of your relationship than most women experience in their entire lives, and it’s always incredible - but somehow despite their familiarity, his ministrations on your swollen flesh feel brand new. Rather than dipping low again for another taste, he lingers at the top of you, his tongue flicking against your clit this way and that, quick but gentle, careful not to overwhelm you. It’s a nice sentiment, but when he’s on you like this, it’s pretty much inevitable.

As he starts to work on you in earnest, suckling gently at your bundle of nerves and then shifting down to probe at your entrance to give you a moment of reprieve, you hit an infuriating conundrum. As is your instinct when in the throes of passion, you reach down to tangle your fingers in your boyfriend's hair, both to ground yourself and as an outlet for the restless energy thrumming through your veins. But just when your fingertips should be making direct contact with the soft, silky curls at the top of his head, you feel fabric beneath them instead, and you frown. 

An indignant whine breaks from your lips and, god help you, your ever-attentive angel of a boyfriend catches it even in the midst of his favorite activity. His eyes flit up to yours, and his face pulls back just a hair so he can speak without muffling his voice against your folds.

“Okay, querida?” he checks, his voice rough as his tongue flicks out subconsciously to gather some of the nectar shining on his lips.

You're about to grouse and tell him that the stupid damn hat needs to come off, to get it out of your way so you can hold on the way you like, but now that you're actually looking at him you feel indecision rising in your chest. Shit. He looks goddamn incredible like this. His lower face is glinting slightly in the early morning light with your arousal, which is obviously a sight to behold all on its own.

But when you take in the rest of him - the residual beads of sweat from his morning run still dripping down the side of his face, the workout clothes that he's too occupied to notice are sticking to his skin - it's even worse. And that damned hat, as inconvenient as its presence might be, is the most important part of this picture. 

It's just some old cap with the air force logo on it, probably pulled from the back of his closet and plopped backwards over his bedhead haphazardly before he left for his run. But goddamn, something about the fact that he's still got it on as he makes out sloppily with your cunt? It's debauched, it's filthy, and it's so incredibly hot.

Your mind spirals over this observation for several long seconds, wheeling between wanting his hair freed and needing the cap to stay on for the rest of his damn life, but to Joaquín it must seem like hesitation because he starts to pull away with concern. You shake your head urgently, reaching out in panic for the back of his head as if to keep his face back where it belongs. 

“Shit, no- I mean yes, everything is great! Sorry, I just looked down and got distracted by how pretty you are for a second. Please keep going.”

It's the truth, but you decide not to mention the hat specifically in case he gets self-conscious about it and tries to take it off. He quirks an amused brow at you like you're the biggest weirdo on the planet - which is rich given he's the one who literally woke you up just to eat you out first thing in the morning - but he seems comforted by your reassurance, and with a huff through his nose he obliges your request, getting back to work without another word.

As you watch him fall back into his rhythm, that damned ballcap perched tauntingly over his sweaty curls, you resign yourself to gripping the sheets instead to keep you grounded through the onslaught of pleasure, just this once. 

Joaquín makes you come hard on his lips and tongue twice before he's satisfied with his “breakfast”, and then he's dashing off to the shower to rinse off his workout, not even asking you to return the favor like the gentleman he is. As you listen to the water running in the other room, along with the muffled sounds of Joaquín singing off key, you reach your trembling fingertips out for your cell phone.

Despite your whole body still buzzing with the aftershocks of your orgasms, you hastily add about 10 new baseball caps to your shopping cart, making a mental note to order them while he's away on his next mission. Your poor, unsuspecting boyfriend has no idea there's about to be a new staple in his wardrobe, though you have a feeling if he knew the reason, there wouldn't be any complaints.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

[bunji-enthusiast]

Hey Bunji

This is my first time doing a request for you and I was wondering if you could write for Raven reader? For the Invincible show?

And ship them with Mark or Rex if thats not too much trouble?

𝐖𝐢𝐥𝐝 𝐒𝐭𝐲𝐥𝐞

Mark, Rex [seperate] x Raven!Reader

Note // I believe this is the first I’ve ever gotten a request for Invincible so huzzah! I went with headcanons here, hope that’s okay. 💤

Mark Grayson

Mark isn’t used to quiet. After everything—with his dad, the Viltrumites, Earth almost being obliterated twice over—he associates silence with tension, like something bad’s about to happen. But you? You are silence. Calm. Stillness. And at first, it unnerves him.

Then he realizes it's peace. You’re peace. He starts seeking it out—your room, your aura, the soft way you exist without demanding anything. You don’t ask him to be okay. You just sit beside him and let your soul-self settle in the space like it knows he needs to breathe. And for the first time since Chicago, he does.

Mark knows the inner struggles of having to deal with the weight of your father's legacy, Nolan's misdeeds hang over his head constantly; even if it had been lessened overtime, he still gets reminded of it every once in a while. So it at least makes for good conversation of talking about who's father is shittier, your talks about your own father --- Trigon is quite the surprise. But he doesn't diminish his worry for you, and ensures that you get it off your chest if you want to. Shitty fathers are shitty fathers after all, so he gets the confusion when it comes to the switch-ups. One day so kind and gentle, then the other they're ruthless and cold. Fathers are a complete and utter enigma, especially estranged ones, particularly alien fathers.

He’s an early riser now—not by choice, but from trauma. Wakes up with a jolt, sweat-drenched, heart racing. You’re usually already awake, meditating or floating gently above the bed, a soft violet glow casting shadows across the room.

“Nightmare?” you ask, voice like velvet but laced with quiet knowing. He nods. You open your arms and he’s already climbing in. He doesn't cry. Not every time. But when he does, you let him. No judgment. No advice. Just warmth, soul, and that steady pulse of empathic magic that reminds him—he’s not alone.

Being able to actively choose the path of healing and empathy is something he greatly admires about you, and chooses to take on the lead himself, even if his efforts for and across space is continually tested. Mark hates the ache in his bones and constant fighting, he knows his perception of heroism has been easily skewed--but your presence remains a strong pillar in his view of it.

As Invincible, he knows. Mark doesn't judge you for being half-human and half-demon, he himself is a hybrid as well. Even if his powers kicked in way later than expected of the average viltrumite. Mark thinks your amazing for pursing your own goals and constantly on your own path to form an identity uniquely your own, not having to be extension of anyone else, your just... you. Even despite knowing how cheesy that is, but he gets it, and will continue to cheer you on for that. He's that guy in your corner even if you feel like there's nobody else there.

He’s in awe of your powers. Every time you phase your soul-self or bend time around the two of you during high-emotion moments, he’s just standing there like, “Okay, that was sick.”

You once stopped time mid-fight because he was about to get skewered. When you restarted it, he barely dodged, landed a hit, and after the battle you scolded him. He grinned, wiped blood off his lip, and said, “Thanks for the time-out, coach.”

The first time you used empathy on him intentionally? He’d just flown back from a mission, shoulders tight with suppressed rage. You didn’t say anything—just reached out and felt the storm in him. He didn’t realize how close he was to breaking until he felt you soften it.

He kissed you like you were the only thing holding him together. Because you were.

Additionally to the fact about his love towards your spells, if you had ever summoned forth your more demonic form to perform more complicated spells when neccessary; he's just amazed, that's all. Mark knows he hasn't been Invincible as long as other heroes in the field, but he's seen and done alot, so seeing something as dark as you is like a fresh of breath air.

And that you aren't actively out to kill him, which is also nice.

Dancing with you is one of his favorite things to do, just slow and gentle. It's more than anything he's asked for within his life, and it's easy. Enough to simply just let other things in his life melt away and be in the moment with you, even if you two seem to float in the sky. Your hair becomes something akin to that of the aurora borealis when you two dance in the sky, and he loves to watch that happen. It's a gentle light, nice and bright, easy to follow even in the darkest spots.

your tutelage over your book is something else to be sure, Mark knows and learned of it a while long before you two had officially been dating. He has indefinitely learned not to touch it, and left it to your vices. But he certainly can't lie, Mark finds it super cool when your focused with your grimoire.

There are often moments in combat where you two conflict, but you are emotionally-restrained, and that ends up in you lashing out sometimes whilst in combat. You try your best to redirect your lashings against the villiains though, however, Mark does his best to redirect it without hurting you. His guilt weighs immensely when he does make up with you, however you aren't having it and tell him you were much at fault as he was. Though in the end he is relieved.

Both of you have immense gaits of trust, where as you find it difficult to trust anyone. There is an immense similarity in which you both share where you find it even more difficult to forgive said person if they break your trust, it takes effort and time to build a bond with others. Many times of which Mark has agreed with and backed you up on when you both argue with others about some people in certain situations.

You do have a place—modestly enchanted, soundproofed, and black-out spelled so you’re not melting under the sun. Mark jokes it’s like living in a Batcave with plants. He lowkey loves it though. The air smells like sage and lilac. It’s always cool. And it feels safe.

He has a toothbrush there. A drawer. His favorite hoodie is mysteriously missing from his place because you wear it when he’s off-world. It smells like sky and blood and him.

The soul-self curls protectively around his side when he sleeps over. He calls it “the bird blanket” and once tried to draw a dumb cartoon version of it to make you laugh. It did.

When you’re together, you both get to be soft. Mark, especially, lets down his armor with you. He doesn’t have to be Invincible. Doesn’t have to pretend the galaxy isn’t crumbling. He gets to just be… Mark.

You two have a ritual: once a week, you both switch off everything—no patrols, no Cecil, no emergencies unless the literal sun implodes—and you just exist. You read to each other, you float on the ceiling together, you nap under a weightless spell.

He once said, “I love how your magic makes me feel like I’m floating. Even when I’m not flying.” That one stayed with you.

Mark both appreciates and hates how to-the-point you are, while the blunt honesty is something he understands he needs to hear more often, he wishes you could just lie about certain things.

When Mark spirals—guilt, pressure, grief—you don’t tell him to stop. You let him feel. And then you remind him that he’s not his father. You remind him that his rage doesn’t define him. That you’ve seen worse. Been worse. And you’re still worthy of love.

“You’re allowed to fall apart,” you whisper once, when he came home after a near-fatal mission, shirt soaked in blood that wasn’t his. “I’ll hold the pieces. Until you’re ready to be whole again.”

And he does. He lets go. Because if he can trust anyone with that fragile part of him, it’s you.

He never tells you you're too much, even when you struggle to stay grounded in this realm. Even when your magic flares and your emotions flood the room.

“You’re everything,” he says once, voice shaking. “Even when you disappear into yourself, I still feel you. I see you.”

He holds your face like you’re breakable even though you’re probably the stronger one. His kisses taste like stardust and grief and stubborn hope.

And when he tells you he loves you? It’s not loud. Not shouted. It’s whispered at 3AM, against your temple, while the soul-self watches from the shadows. “I love you. I love you so much it hurts.”

Rex Sloan

One word: surprise. It's admittedly something excitable knowing that the two of you are genuinely dating, the effort is definitely there on both ends. There are seldom who know of about you two this way, which is what you preferred, and what he respected.

Rex is a major snark, and a huge joker. Which goes hand in hand with your ability to make sarcastic remarks, and he often bounces of your remarks with an additional joke. He absolutely loves it, and it's often your predominant dynamic when out in the field.

Rex’s idea of “settling down” involves you both living in a high-rise apartment, reinforced with blast-proof walls (because, well… him). You made a few modifications too—enchantments to muffle explosions, floating bookshelves, and an invisible barrier over the windows that filters sunlight so you can actually be in the living room for more than five minutes without feeling like your soul’s on fire.

He jokes about your need to stay inside—“What, you’re not a fan of Vitamin D or chaos?”—but secretly, he loves it. It means more time curled up on the couch with you, wrapped in that massive black throw blanket he swears smells like lavender and lightning.

You’re still, grounded in emotion, darkness, and mysticism. He’s fire and motion, sarcasm and scars. He burns fast and bright, and you slow him down. You still time when his anxiety gets too loud. Sometimes you don't say a word—just touch his wrist gently and pause. Letting him catch up to the world. Or himself.

And when you’re spiraling, overwhelmed by waves of emotion that don’t belong to you, he doesn’t say much either. He doesn’t try to fix it. He just throws a hoodie over your shoulders, tells you you’re still hot even with your soul flickering on the ceiling, and sits by you. Lets you feel. Doesn’t flinch.

He LOVES that you can project your soul-self. Thinks it’s the coolest thing ever. “Babe, babe—can you use the soul-thingy to go see if the pizza guy’s almost here?” You pretend to roll your eyes. You do it anyway.

He also occasionally refers to your powers as “Witchy Vibes” with no disrespect intended. He actually means it as a compliment. He’s fascinated by how effortlessly you tap into the arcane. "You could straight-up Thanos the whole city if you wanted. And you're choosing to love me? Wild."

You’ve both got baggage. He doesn’t always talk about what was done to him, what he lost, how he was made into something meant to blow up. But you feel it—the way his emotions spike and flicker when his past is mentioned. You never push. Just open up your aura, give him a safe place to rest.

You’re used to silence being sacred. He’s not. But over time, he gets it. He starts understanding that your quiet doesn’t mean distance. Sometimes your love is just… gentle gravity, not loud fireworks.

And when he slips up—because he does sometimes—he’s the first to own it.

He falls asleep with his hand loosely curled around your soul-self’s feathers. It calms him more than melatonin or meditation ever could. You don’t tell him it’s kind of adorable, because then he’d never do it again. But you watch him sometimes, the way his breathing slows, and you feel your own heart settle.

He loves kissing your forehead after a battle. “Still in one piece?” he murmurs, running a hand over your cheek. You nod, and he adds with a grin, “Damn shame, you’re so hot when you look haunted.”

He pretends to be annoyed when you use temporal stasis to freeze him mid-rant, but he secretly thinks it’s hilarious. He once spent twenty minutes frozen with a sock halfway off his foot, and you used the time to paint his nails black. He rocked the look for weeks.

You don’t really believe in fate. Not exactly. But there’s something undeniable about the way his chaos and your calm fit together like two halves of a broken sigil. You're his anchor in the storm. And he? He’s the light that flickers in your darkest nights—messy, reckless, human light.

“I’m not easy,” he tells you once, eyes unusually serious. “I talk too much, I break shit, and I’ve hurt people. I don’t… deserve you.”

You look at him, your soul-self swirling behind you, power and pain and purity all wrapped together. “You’re right,” you say. Then you lean in and kiss him, slow and sure. “But you’re mine.”

[limerlove]

mostly sfw, gf!abby.

𓍼ོ ၴႅၴ gf!abby who cooks for you when you’re having a particular rough day. entering your shared home with tears in your eyes, a tremble to your hands you can’t quite shake. she’s there to center you from the madness going on in your brain. stopping at the grocery store on the way home and getting all the necessary measures to make one part of your day much easier.

𓍼ོ ၴႅၴ gf!abby who gives you reassuring back rubs at the end of day. her arms are so strong, so comforting, and all you want is to let them swallow you in welcomed safety. you love how it feels to be held by her. there’s not a thing in the world that can touch you when she’s holding you. it’s when you feel the most loved; being held by her.

𓍼ོ ၴႅၴ gf!abby who reaffirms when you’re not feeling the best. it’s a love language you understand and abby speaks it fluently. at the end of the day, even if hers has been draining, your girlfriend with a heart made of glistening-gold just wants you to know how much she will always love you. the bouquet of your favorite flowers in hand is certainly the cherry on top.

with a blinding light reaching her sky-blue eyes, her temple nudging with yours, as if you are her very own cathedral she finds sweet solace in. abby’s promise coats her tongue as she saturates you with tethered bliss. playfully she asks — need me to kick someone ass? and you almost take her up on the offer. as abby has before, she’s there to reassure you. “today wasn’t great but tomorrow will be better. and even if it isn’t, you always have me. my love is cemented, so intertwined with you, couldn’t remove it if i tried. not even with these big muscles.”

𓍼ོ ၴႅၴ gf!abby who is a huge book nerd. abby would buy novels she believes you would like. any books apart of her collection she already owns she would grab a sticky note and letting the ink spill over as she marks particular parts of the novel you would like. and she wouldn’t be the girl you loved without giving you reasons why. each notation feels deeper, another intimate part of her uncovered. before abby got so bold she would not so subtly bring it up while you cuddled into her frame, the two of you seconds from slumber.

read it to me then, abs. i prefer your voice over mine, soothes me.

𓍼ོ ၴႅၴ gf!abby who travels for work, when she’s away, it’s the most difficult. the nights are a spear to your soul. abby tends to be an early riser, helps her feel more prepared, so she’s been falling asleep before the sunsets. pure exhaustion taking over her body, droopy eyes unable to keep fighting as her raspy voice whispers goodnight babygirl, i love you and she’s dead to the world. deeply, abby sinks into a dreamless sleep and immediately, you miss her. even if she’s only a few hours away, nights without her are ones wasted. so…you leave a voicemail. a small gift that you know will make her smile.

6:30 am.

abby: i love you and your sleepy voice telling me how much you love me ♡ ps. you better be sleeping right now, you sent that at four am.

𓍼ོ ၴႅၴ gf!abby who take care of you the minute she’s back. a week had been long enough and all she wants is to make her beautiful, fucking-perfect girlfriend feel just as good. sweet as strawberries, her favorite fruit to eat, she takes everything you have to offer her. when you spill on her tongue, a reward she’s been thinking about for weeks, nothing has ever felt as good as this. as golden as you.

[magical-reid]

Unspoken Truths

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader (One use of Y/N)

Setting: Modern MCU timeline, Avengers Tower.

Word Count: 1K

Prompt: 46: “Why are you staring at me?” “Because I think you’re beautiful.”

Summary: In the quiet early hours at Avengers Tower, you’re caught off guard when Bucky Barnes, unexpectedly complimenting your natural beauty, makes you question your insecurities. His sincere words begin to dissolve your self-doubt, leaving you feeling seen and appreciated, just as you are.

It was still early in the morning when you stumbled into the kitchen of Avengers Tower, eyes barely open, a yawn escaping your lips. You were dressed in oversized shorts and a baggy shirt, your messy hair in a loose knot on top of your head. The lack of makeup and the sleepiness in your eyes made you feel more self-conscious than you’d like to admit, but it didn’t stop you from heading straight for the coffee machine.

You hadn’t expected to be greeted by anyone at this hour. Most of the Avengers were early risers, but you knew they all had their routines, and this was your time to just exist in peace before the chaos of the day began. You filled your mug with the dark liquid and leaned against the counter, staring blankly at the kitchen island as you waited for the caffeine to kick in. The quiet hum of the Tower was comforting.

You weren’t expecting someone else to be there at this hour. But then you heard it: a low voice coming from the doorway.

"Morning."

You blinked in surprise, glancing over to see Bucky standing in the doorway, his hair a little unkempt, and wearing a simple T-shirt and sweatpants. He was one of the few people who could make a casual outfit look effortlessly good, and you tried not to notice the way his gaze lingered on you.

“Hey,” you mumbled, slightly caught off guard by his presence. You shifted uncomfortably, adjusting your posture and looking back down at your coffee. It wasn’t like you were ashamed of your appearance, but there was something about Bucky’s quiet intensity that made you feel… exposed.

You could feel him staring at you, his gaze heavy on the back of your neck. His presence was always intimidating, but it felt different now—more personal, more lingering. You shifted awkwardly, trying to look anywhere but at him.

“Why are you staring at me?” you asked, trying to mask the insecurity creeping into your voice. Your hands wrapped around your mug a little tighter as you took a small sip, avoiding his eyes.

Bucky’s gaze never wavered. He was leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed, still as quiet as ever. A faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips, but he didn’t look away.

“Because I think you’re beautiful.”

His words hit you like a jolt of electricity, leaving you stunned and unsure of how to respond. Your heart raced a little, caught somewhere between surprise and disbelief. No one had ever said anything like that to you, especially not when you felt like you were looking at your least polished self. You opened your mouth, trying to form words, but nothing came out. It felt as if the air between you had suddenly thickened, the distance between the two of you narrowing in a way that made everything else fade away.

Bucky, noticing your hesitation, seemed to soften, his smile lingering. He took a step forward, though he kept a comfortable distance, and you could feel his eyes tracing your features.

Before you could say anything, there was a sound from behind him. The rest of the team had entered the kitchen, Sam, Steve, and Natasha, all talking among themselves. It was a little distracting, and the sudden noise helped you regain some composure. You pulled your gaze away from Bucky and tried to act casual, but your heart was still pounding in your chest.

“Morning, guys,” you muttered, focusing on stirring your coffee.

“Look who’s up early,” Sam teased, throwing a playful wink in your direction. You gave him a tight smile, still feeling a little awkward, but grateful for the distraction.

“Coffee, huh?” Natasha asked, nodding at your mug. “Good idea.”

Steve, meanwhile, was exchanging a few words with Bucky, but the older soldier was unusually quiet. You noticed him glance at you again when Sam and Natasha started talking about something else. It was subtle, but his attention was unmistakable, and it made you fidget in your seat.

You tried to shake it off, but every time Bucky looked at you, the small flutter in your chest returned.

As the conversation continued around you, you found yourself caught between trying to remain calm and trying not to overthink what Bucky had said. His words echoed in your mind, and despite your usual self-assurance, the insecurity gnawed at you. How could he think you were beautiful? You weren’t even dressed up, and your hair was a mess. It felt like a compliment that was too big, too out of reach, for someone like you.

Finally, after a few more quiet moments, Bucky took a deep breath and seemed to step closer to you, his voice low and steady.

“Hey,” he said, making sure you looked up at him. “I meant it.”

You blinked, still caught in the whirlwind of your thoughts. “What?”

“That I think you’re beautiful,” Bucky said again, his tone firm, but this time there was no teasing, no hesitation. Just sincerity. “Even like this. Especially like this.”

His words hit you harder than the first time, and your chest tightened. It was one thing for him to say it, but another to actually believe it. You felt your face flush, unsure of how to respond, but you didn’t have to. Bucky, as quiet as ever, seemed content to simply stand there, waiting for you to take in what he had said.

The rest of the team continued their conversation, but it was like a distant hum now. Everything faded in the background except for Bucky’s steady gaze and his soft, honest words.

“Thanks,” you whispered, feeling your insecurities start to melt away just a little bit. “I… I needed to hear that.”

Bucky’s smile was small but genuine, and this time when he spoke, there was a softness to his voice that you hadn’t heard before. “You don’t need to hear it from anyone else, (Y/N).”

And for the first time that morning, the weight of your self-consciousness felt just a little bit lighter.

[squidsquidsquidsquidsquidgame]

waking them up with a bj perhaps? 👀

Morning BJ

character: Thanos, Namgyu, Gyeong-Seok, Young il, Gi hun, Dae ho, Min su, Sang woo, Gdragon, Daesung, T.o.p, Mingi, San, Namjoon, Yoongi, jhope, Kim seo wan, Roh jae won, Gong yoo

Summary; You give Em a morning BJ

Warnings: Explicit NSFW content, MDNI,

Thanos

The morning light seeps in through the blinds, golden and quiet. The world outside is still asleep, but you’re wide awake, tucked into the warm space beside Choi Su-bong.

He’s sprawled on his back, one arm behind his head, the other draped loosely over your waist. His chest rises and falls in a slow rhythm, soft breaths brushing past slightly parted lips. The blanket is low around his hips, just barely hiding the shape of morning wood pressing against his briefs.

You smile to yourself.

God, he’s beautiful when he sleeps—unguarded and warm, his usually sharp expression softened into something vulnerable.

Your fingers trail over his stomach, feather-light. His muscles twitch beneath your touch. He stirs, but doesn’t wake.

You dip beneath the covers and let your mouth find the line of his waistband. You press a kiss there, then another, a slow trail leading lower. He shifts again, breath hitching faintly—but still not fully awake.

You hook your fingers into the waistband of his briefs and ease them down. His cock springs free, flushed and heavy, already leaking at the tip.

You groan softly at the sight, at the thought of him waking to this—to you.

You stroke him slowly at first, just enough pressure to make him twitch in your hand. You lean in and press your lips to the tip, kissing him gently before taking him in, inch by inch, letting your mouth adjust to the weight and warmth of him.

He lets out a low, broken sound.

Your eyes flick up—and he’s awake now, just barely, blinking down at you with dazed eyes and parted lips.

“Babe…?” he rasps, voice rough with sleep.

You hum around him, sending a shiver up his spine.

“Holy f—fuck,” he breathes, hips twitching under your hands. “What… what are you doing?”

You pull back just enough to whisper, “Waking you up properly.”

His head falls back against the pillow, a groan rumbling from his chest. “Jesus, you’re gonna kill me.”

You swirl your tongue around the tip and take him in deeper, slow and steady. He grips the sheets beside him, moaning your name like a prayer.

You keep it soft—gentle pressure, lots of tongue, eyes on him the whole time.

“Shit—baby,” he gasps, “you’re gonna make me—”

You hold him steady as he comes undone, spilling into your mouth with a strangled groan, his body arching off the mattress.

You swallow every drop, then kiss your way up his stomach, chest, and neck until you’re beside him again, your head resting on his shoulder.

He wraps an arm around you, still catching his breath.

“That,” he murmurs, voice hoarse and fond, “was the best wake-up call I’ve ever had.”

You grin against his skin. “Good morning, Su-bong.”

Namgyu

Nam-gyu sleeps like he owns the bed—limbs sprawled, blanket kicked down to his hips, one hand resting on his stomach like he was sculpted there. And you? You’re already wide awake, tracing every inch of him with your eyes like a sunrise worshipper.

Your gaze lingers on the outline of him beneath the sheet. Morning wood, as usual. Not surprising—he’s always half-hard in the mornings, and you’ve made it a private game to see just how long you can stare before giving in.

This morning, you lose fast.

You crawl between his legs, slow and deliberate, until your mouth hovers just above the shape pressing up against his briefs.

Your fingers trail along his waistband, and you glance up to find—

Eyes. Open.

Watching you.

And worst of all—smirking.

"Didn’t know you were such an early riser," he says, voice still thick with sleep but dripping with amusement.

You blink. “You're awake?”

"Was. Barely." He stretches like a cat, slow and arrogant, that smirk still tugging at the corner of his lips. “Then I felt your mouth staring at me.”

You roll your eyes, tugging his briefs down anyway. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Too late.”

He’s already hard, thick and leaking, twitching slightly as the air hits him. Your mouth waters.

You lean down, licking a stripe up the underside.

Nam-gyu groans, fingers curling into the sheets. “You gonna be a tease about it, or…?”

“I was going to be gentle,” you say, lips brushing his tip. “Now I’m reconsidering.”

“Are you?” he murmurs, voice dipped in challenge. “Because I think you're desperate for it.”

You shoot him a glare, but your mouth closes around him anyway, slow and steady. His hips jerk and a hiss escapes him.

Your hands press down on his thighs, keeping him still as you suck him deep, your tongue swirling, your eyes never leaving his face.

He looks down at you like you’re his favorite sin.

“You’re so fucking good at that,” he mutters. “Bet you dream about it. Waking me up with that filthy mouth.”

You hum around him, watching his cocky composure start to crumble. He grips your hair, not to guide, just to ground himself.

But then—

His hand tightens.

And he pulls you off him.

“Wait,” he pants, voice a little wrecked now. “Not yet.”

You blink, dazed. “What?”

He leans up on his elbows, eyes dark with something unreadable. “I want to remember this all day. Want to edge on the thought of your mouth on me until I can’t fucking stand it.”

You stare.

He smirks again, smug but flushed. “So unless you want me to come right now and miss out on ruining you later, you should probably stop.”

Your thighs squeeze together involuntarily.

“Or,” you say, breathlessly defiant, “you could come now—and still ruin me later.”

Nam-gyu grins, wicked. “Tempting.”

He reaches down and guides you back, slow and firm, until your lips are against him again.

“Finish what you started, baby,” he whispers. “Let me give you something to taste all day.”

You take him in again—harder this time. Deeper. His moans are raw, his cock twitching on your tongue as he finally lets go.

He spills into your mouth with a ragged groan, hands tangled in your hair, hips trembling.

And when you crawl up beside him, wiping your lips with the back of your hand, he turns to you, eyes hooded.

“I owe you,” he murmurs, lips brushing yours. “And I always pay my debts.”

You wake first.

The room is still dim, the faintest gray light bleeding in through the window. Outside, it’s silent—too early for footsteps or cars. Inside, there’s only warmth. Gyeong-seok’s warmth, specifically, radiating from the shared bed you still aren’t used to.

He sleeps facing you, his features relaxed in a way you rarely see when he’s awake. There’s a crease in his brow even now, but it’s softer. Less afraid.

You trace the curve of his cheekbone with your eyes, not daring to touch. Not yet.

You’re both shy. Two halves of the same quiet coin. Conversations between you are rarely loud or bold—but they’re honest. Patient. Kind.

Last night, he’d fallen asleep with his arm tentatively draped around your waist. Even that had taken him effort. You know how scared he is to overstep.

But you want him.

And more importantly—you want to give.

Your heart pounds at the thought, but your body moves before your courage can falter. Slowly, gently, you shift under the blanket, until you’re lying just a little lower, face level with his chest. His breath stirs your hair. You inch downward more, brushing your hand across his stomach. He stirs faintly, brow twitching, but doesn’t wake.

Not until your fingers ghost over the waistband of his boxers.

A quiet inhale. Then—

“…Y/N?”

His voice is rough, sleep-drenched. Embarrassed. “W-What are you…?”

You lift your head, face flushed. “I—I wanted to… I mean, only if you want—”

He blinks rapidly, eyes wide, already blushing. “You… I mean, I—do you want to…?”

You nod.

He swallows, throat bobbing. “Okay.”

The blanket is a cocoon as you slip your hand beneath it, tugging down his boxers just enough to free him. He’s already hard—morning warmth, maybe—but it makes your heart flutter knowing he’s reacting to you now.

You lean down, hesitant but determined, and press a soft kiss to the tip. Gyeong-seok’s breath stutters.

“Y/N…”

You pause. “Do you want me to stop?”

His hand finds your shoulder, barely touching. “No. Just… please, slow.”

You smile—small, shy—and nod.

You take him in slowly, only as much as you can handle, and wrap your hand around the rest. Your tongue flicks along the underside, tracing veins like they matter. Because they do—he does. You want him to feel seen. Cherished. Desired, in a way that doesn’t make him flinch.

His hips twitch once, but he forces them still. His voice is barely a whisper.

“You feel… s-so warm…”

You hum around him, cheeks burning at the praise. He moans softly, his hand now resting more firmly on your arm.

“Please… don’t stop.”

You don’t. You keep your pace slow, movements gentle, as if saying I love you with every motion of your mouth. His soft noises get more desperate, trembling. You glance up—his eyes are shut tight, mouth parted, face red to the ears.

“Gonna… I think—Y/N—” he gasps, voice cracking.

You let him finish in your mouth, swallowing around him as he trembles, stuttering your name like he’s afraid it’ll break.

Afterward, you crawl back up beside him and rest your forehead against his chest.

Neither of you speak for a long time.

Then—he wraps both arms around you, pulls you close, and whispers into your hair:

“Th-thank you. I—I didn’t know it could feel like that. Safe.”

You press a kiss to his collarbone. “Me either.”

Young il

You wake to the smell of coffee and silence.

No birdsong. No city noise. Just the thick hush of morning and the low gurgle of the machine brewing in the kitchen.

He’s up, of course.

In-ho’s always up first. Has been for years. It’s part of who he is—disciplined, collected, a man who controls every corner of his world before anyone else even stirs.

You drag yourself from the sheets, the chill of the tile floor biting at your bare feet, and wander toward the sound.

There he is. Shirtless, in loose black lounge pants, salt-and-pepper hair still slightly mussed. One hand wrapped around a steaming mug. The other braced on the counter. He doesn’t hear you at first—so used to being alone in these hours.

You pause in the doorway. Watch him.

He’s 54, carved from stillness and history, and there’s something about the way he stands—owned, grounded, unshakeable—that makes heat spark low in your belly.

Quietly, you pad across the floor and sink to your knees behind him.

He startles slightly at the touch—your hands sliding up the back of his thighs, your mouth pressing a kiss just above the waistband of his pants.

“Mm?” he murmurs, looking down at you, brows raised faintly in sleepy surprise.

You don’t answer.

Instead, you tug his waistband down. Just enough.

He watches you. Always watches—those calculating eyes softened only slightly by time and intimacy. You meet his gaze as you take him into your mouth without a word.

He inhales sharply, knuckles flexing around the handle of the mug.

You start slow, mouth warm, lips plush around the base, your hands braced on his hips. His cock is heavy against your tongue, not fully hard yet, but already reacting.

You hollow your cheeks and moan just slightly. The sound makes him twitch.

“You’re not even awake yet,” he mutters, breath threading tight through his teeth.

You pull back just enough to whisper, “I am now.”

There’s a pause.

Then—he takes another slow sip of his coffee, never breaking eye contact.

“Finish what you started,” he murmurs.

That tone—it’s not commanding. He never has to be. His authority is baked into every glance, every measured breath. It’s always your choice.

But still, it makes your pulse pound.

You take him in again, deeper this time, letting your tongue trace the underside, teasing the tip before sinking lower. His hand slips into your hair—just resting there. Not controlling. Anchoring.

He gets harder in your mouth, slow and steady, his quiet grunts barely audible over the distant drip of the machine.

The tension coils tight.

You feel it in his thighs, in the slight tremble of his abdomen, in the way his hand tightens ever so slightly.

“Fuck…” he exhales, barely above a whisper. “Open wider. Look at me.”

You do. You let him see your face, lips stretched, spit glistening on your chin. You hum around him, and his jaw twitches.

“You’re going to make a mess,” he warns, almost gently. “I’m not going to last.”

You don’t stop. You want the mess. You want to be ruined on your knees before the coffee’s even done brewing.

When he finally comes, it’s sudden—a strained growl torn from his chest, his hips twitching forward.

He spills across your tongue, but you can’t keep up—warm, thick release painting your lips, your cheek, even your lashes. You gasp, mouth open, panting as he twitches one last time against your tongue.

You stay kneeling, chest heaving, face a sticky, glorious mess.

He exhales slowly. Looks down at you like he wants to memorize this version of you forever.

Then—he sets the mug down, leans over, and wipes the corner of your mouth with his thumb.

“Come here,” he says quietly. “Before it dries.”

Gi hun

(pre-game gi hun, not morning bj)

He smells like soju and cigarette ash when he stumbles in.

You’re already on the couch, arms crossed, staring at the flickering TV, not even watching it anymore.

Gi-hun kicks the door shut behind him and exhales like he just survived something. Again.

You know the routine. He’ll avoid your eyes. Make a joke. Blame the tracks, or his "bad luck," or some bullshit about needing "one more round" before it’ll all turn around.

You don’t say anything. Not yet.

He finally looks at you, cheeks pink with alcohol, eyes too tired to hold a proper apology.

“I borrowed twenty,” he says. “I’ll get it back next week.”

You flinch.

That was your cab money for work. Again.

He sees it in your face and grimaces like it hurts him too — but not enough to stop.

“You’re mad,” he mutters, sinking onto the couch beside you.

“You keep taking from me,” you whisper.

“I’ll pay you back.”

You both know he won’t.

But you let him lean on you anyway. You always do. His head tips against your shoulder, smelling like failure and the boy he used to be. The one who made you laugh under streetlamps and kissed you like he had nothing else to believe in.

Your throat tightens.

“I miss you,” he murmurs suddenly. His voice is low. Ragged. “The way we used to be.”

Your heart clenches, traitorous and soft.

He doesn’t deserve your forgiveness. He doesn’t even ask for it.

But when his hand slips under your shirt, rough and needy, you don’t stop him.

You should.

You don't.

You pull him in instead — straddling him on the couch, letting his hands grip your waist like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he doesn’t hold on tight.

He presses his forehead to your chest.

“I’m so fucking tired,” he breathes.

“I know.”

You push his sweatpants down. No teasing, no foreplay. You just want to taste something that feels real — even if it’s him.

Your mouth finds him hard already, half from the alcohol, half from the heat of your body against his. He moans low, a sound like regret dragged across gravel.

“Shit, baby—fuck,” he hisses, fingers gripping your hair. “Don’t stop.”

You don’t.

Even though your eyes sting. Even though you’re crying quietly and he doesn’t notice. Or maybe he does, but he’s too far gone to say anything.

You suck him like you’re trying to swallow the pieces of him you used to love. Your throat aches. Your jaw trembles. But the sounds he makes—low, desperate—keep you going.

When he comes, he gasps your name like it’s a confession. Like he almost means it.

He slumps back, ruined and spent, breathing hard. You crawl into his lap and bury your face in his neck.

He doesn’t say thank you. Or sorry.

But he wraps his arms around you and holds you tight for the first time in weeks.

That’s the part that breaks you.

Dae ho

The sunlight barely creeps through the curtain when you roll over and catch sight of him.

Dae-ho sleeps like he’s bracing for a test — limbs gathered close, brows furrowed even in rest, as though part of him doesn’t trust comfort to last.

But his lips are parted, his face soft, his body warm under the blanket you both share.

You smile to yourself and scoot a little closer, heart fluttering. You don’t want to wake him, not really… but the sight of him, bare-chested and relaxed, stirs something deep in your chest — and lower.

You let your hand glide slowly under the sheet, down his stomach, fingertips brushing lightly over the waistband of his sleep pants.

A soft sound escapes him. His hips shift.

He’s already hard. Morning wood — but it still makes your heart skip. You hesitate, just for a second, then slip beneath the covers and settle between his legs.

When your lips wrap gently around the tip of him, he gasps.

“What—hnn?!”

He bolts upright — then slaps a hand over his own mouth, mortified.

“W-wait, you—what are you—? I-I—!”

You glance up, cheeks full, and hum softly around him. His whole body jolts.

“O-oh my god…”

He flops backward against the pillows with a strangled whimper, hands gripping the sheets.

“I wasn’t—prepared—y-you can’t just—”

You swirl your tongue around the head of his cock and he squeaks.

“Okay you can—! I mean—only if you want—oh my god, I can’t think—”

He’s absolutely unraveling. Pink to the ears. Panting like he just ran a mile barefoot in a thunderstorm.

You keep going, slow and steady, sucking him deeper each time, feeling him twitch and pulse against your tongue. His thighs tremble around your shoulders.

“I—I think I’m gonna—nghh, wait, no, no no I’m not ready—!”

You pull back just enough to murmur, “It’s okay. Just let go.”

He makes a choked sound that might’ve been your name — or a garbled prayer — and then he’s coming with a shudder so intense the bed frame creaks. He moans helplessly, back arching, mouth open in complete disbelief as he spills down your throat.

You keep going just a moment longer, soft and soothing, until he whimpers, “Too much—p-please—stop—I’m gonna d-die—”

You pull off with a soft pop, licking your lips.

When you crawl back up to him, he’s still blinking at the ceiling like he’s seen God.

“You okay?” you whisper, nuzzling his cheek.

You laugh and curl up beside him.

He wraps you in his arms, still flushed and breathless. “You’re a menace,” he mumbles.

“I love you too,” you reply, smirking into his chest.

Min su

Min-Su doesn’t move when you wake up.

He rarely does — a featherlight sleeper, but always still, almost like he’s afraid to disturb the space he’s allowed to exist in. You’re the only one he ever relaxes around, and even then… it’s hesitant. Like a gift he’s never sure he’s allowed to give.

You turn over, tucked under the shared blanket, and find him already awake, staring at the ceiling with pink cheeks and parted lips.

His breathing stutters when he notices you watching him.

“You okay?” you whisper, brushing hair from his forehead.

He nods quickly. Then adds, barely audible: “Y-you’re close.”

You smile and press a kiss to his jaw. “I like being close to you.”

He whimpers. Literally whimpers.

You kiss lower, nuzzling down to his chest, then lower still — your hands slipping under the blanket, tugging down the waistband of his sleep pants.

His whole body locks up.

“I—w-wait—what are you—”

“You’re already hard,” you whisper with a smirk. “You’ve been thinking about it?”

His face turns crimson. He looks like he might pass out.

“I-I didn’t mean to! I swear I—ah—!”

You cut him off by pressing your lips to the flushed tip of his cock, licking gently — and the noise he makes is devastating.

“Please—please—oh god—”

You wrap your mouth around him, slowly, careful not to go too fast. He’s already shaking, hands fisted in the sheets, hips jerking like his body doesn’t know how to behave.

“You’re so good, Min-Su,” you murmur between kisses. “So sensitive… you feel everything, don’t you?”

He nods frantically, eyes glossy, mouth open in breathless shock.

You take more of him in, your hand wrapped at the base, tongue swirling under the head — and he whines. It’s soft and stifled and torn from somewhere deep in his chest.

“Nngh—I-I can’t—please, it’s t-too much—!”

“You can,” you murmur, barely pulling off. “You’re doing perfect. Just let me take care of you.”

He whimpers again — then sobs your name as he finally loses it.

His release is sudden, spilling hot and messy into your mouth, his whole body trembling, legs twitching under the blankets. You swallow, then pull off gently, wiping your lips with the back of your hand as you climb back up beside him.

He’s wrecked.

Face flushed, tears in his lashes, hands still trembling slightly.

You kiss his cheek and tuck his head against your shoulder, holding him tight.

“You okay, baby?”

He nods, clinging to you. Then whispers, broken and breathy:

“Y-you’re… amazing. I don’t… deserve you.”

You stroke his hair.

“Yes you do. Every part of you.”

He sniffles once, lets out a shaky breath, and melts against you like soft clay in warm hands.

Sangwoo

The sun hasn't fully risen when you roll over and find Sang-woo already awake.

Not surprising.

He’s lying on his back, eyes open, arm bent behind his head like he’s deep in thought. Even in sleep, his brow knots. Like rest is another form of work for him.

“Can’t sleep?” you murmur.

His eyes flick to yours. He doesn’t smile, but his expression softens. “Didn’t want to wake you.”

You press a kiss to his shoulder, feeling the quiet tension under his skin. He’s always like this in the morning — tight, thinking too hard, like he needs to plan five moves ahead before getting out of bed.

But when your hand glides under the sheet, across his abdomen and lower, that breath he’s been holding slips out in a stutter.

“You don’t have to—” he starts, voice rough.

“I want to,” you whisper.

That shuts him up.

You shift under the blankets, pressing kisses along his stomach, feeling him twitch under your mouth. He’s already half-hard — no surprise. You always suspected his self-control didn’t extend as far as he liked to pretend.

You drag your tongue slowly over the head of his cock, savoring the quiet gasp he lets out.

He fists a hand in the sheet above his head, jaw tight, trying not to show how badly he’s already trembling.

“Sang-woo,” you murmur, your lips brushing his length, “you can let go.”

His breath hitches. He doesn’t answer — but the hand not buried in the sheets finds your hair, his fingers curling just enough to anchor himself to you.

You take him deeper. He groans, low and desperate — a sound he never lets anyone hear, except you.

His hips buck slightly, and you hold him down with a firm hand on his stomach. “Stay still,” you say, mouth full.

He moans.

Every time your tongue flicks under the head, his thighs tighten. Every time you suck him deep, he makes that breathless sound that betrays just how much he needs this — needs you.

And when he’s close, he doesn’t warn you.

He just breathes your name like it’s the only prayer he knows, and then spills hot into your mouth with a quiet, drawn-out moan.

You swallow. Lick your lips. Crawl back up beside him and nuzzle your face into his neck.

His hand finds your back, holding you tightly — no words, just touch.

Eventually, he says into your hair:

“You’re the only thing I can’t predict.”

You smile against his skin.

“That’s why you like me.”

He doesn’t answer. But the arm around you tightens, just enough to count.

Gdragon

You swear, Ji-yong is art in the morning.

Bare chest rising and falling, tattoos inked into soft skin, mussed blond hair falling across his forehead. Even now, tangled in sheets and snoring lightly, he still manages to look unfairly gorgeous.

"Pookie," you whisper, dragging the word out like a tease. "Wake up."

He groans. Rolls over. “Mmm… too early. Five more minutes.”

You smirk. “Okay.”

You disappear under the covers.

He shifts a little, still half-asleep — until your mouth wraps around the tip of him, warm and slow.

“F—uck, wait—!” he yelps, jerking awake.

You hum innocently, tongue swirling, hands gripping his thighs to hold him down.

“Wha—babe,” he breathes, blinking at the ceiling like he’s trying to process reality. “Holy sh—it’s not even—what time is it—”

You take more of him in your mouth, lips stretched around his cock, and suddenly he’s not speaking at all. Just moaning, soft and shaky.

“I’m gonna—god—y-you tryna kill me this early?” he gasps, hips twitching as you suck deeper, wetter, letting drool slip down your chin.

"Pookie," you coo when you come up for air. "You taste so good in the morning."

He whines.

He’s flushed pink now, forehead damp, hand fisting in your hair like he’s not sure whether to stop you or beg for more. You go back down — this time faster, messier — and the noise he makes is straight-up sinful.

“Shitshitshit—don’t stop—I’m so close—baby please—”

You don’t stop.

You hollow your cheeks, stroke what you can’t fit with one hand, and seconds later he’s moaning your name through clenched teeth, thighs trembling as he spills hot and fast into your mouth.

You swallow and crawl back up, licking your lips like you just had the best breakfast in Seoul.

Ji-yong looks wrecked. Hair sticking out in every direction, eyes wide, chest heaving.

“I—I don’t know what I did to deserve you,” he mutters, voice hoarse. “But I’m never sleeping again.”

You grin and snuggle into his side.

“Good,” you murmur, kissing his cheek. “Because I have plans for round two.”

Daesung

You find him curled up on the couch, completely knocked out.

One arm tucked under his head, the other still loosely wrapped around a throw pillow, like he was mid-hug when sleep hit him. His mouth is slightly open, his hair tousled into fluffy chaos, and the blanket you tossed over him earlier has slipped off his hips.

You bite your lip.

Too cute for his own good.

And even worse: his sweatpants are riding low, revealing just enough to spark a wicked idea.

You kneel between the cushions, careful not to jostle him too much, and nudge the waistband lower. He shifts, mumbling something incoherent — but doesn’t wake.

Not until your mouth closes around him.

His whole body tenses.

"Hh—wha…?" he murmurs, voice thick with sleep.

“Shhh,” you whisper. “Just relax.”

His eyes flutter open, unfocused, and then widen as he realizes what’s happening.

“B-baby? W-what are you—oh god—”

You hum around him.

He gasps. His hand shoots to your hair, then stops, shaking.

“I—I was just—napping, I didn’t know—oh god, it feels—”

You hollow your cheeks slowly, tongue curling as you take more of him into your mouth. His hips twitch. His breath stutters.

“Is this okay?” you ask softly between licks.

He nods frantically, voice breaking. “Y-yeah—yes—more than okay—just… I c-can’t believe you—ohhh—”

You work him gently, letting it build, loving every tiny sound he makes — the shy moans, the desperate hitch in his breath, the way he grips the edge of the couch like it’s the only thing keeping him from floating away.

“Dae,” you whisper, stroking the base, lips brushing the sensitive tip, “you’re so easy to ruin.”

He whines — actually whines — and then he’s coming, legs shaking, head thrown back into the cushion as he gasps out your name, over and over.

When you pull back, he’s flushed, trembling, tears threatening in the corners of his wide, overwhelmed eyes.

You kiss his forehead and gently pull the blanket back over him.

“You okay?” you murmur.

He blinks up at you, voice hoarse: “That was… I love you.”

You laugh softly, curling up beside him and tucking yourself into his arms.

“I love you too, Dae.”

'

T.o.p

4:52 a.m.

The car is waiting outside. His suitcase is by the door. His coat’s already on.

But Seunghyun stands in the bedroom doorway, watching you — the way your body shifts under the sheets, the barest curve of your hips exposed, how your breathing deepens when you know he’s staring but pretend to sleep.

“You’re awake,” he murmurs.

You peek one eye open. “You’re not gone yet.”

His brow arches, amused, tired. “Eight minutes.”

You pull the blanket down and stretch lazily, knowing exactly what it does to him.

“You could use those minutes wisely.”

He chuckles, low and warm. “Meaning?”

You crawl to the edge of the bed, kneeling before him. “Let me send you off properly.”

His expression shifts — something unreadable in the early light. “I’ll be gone for a week.”

“Then I’d better make it count.”

You tug his sweatpants down just enough to reveal him, already half-hard, warm and heavy in your hand. He hisses softly as you run your thumb over the head, then lean in and take him into your mouth.

“Ah—fuck, baby—” he groans, fingers digging into your hair like instinct.

He’s always so composed, so refined, even when falling apart. He bites his lip. Breathes hard through his nose. Tries not to moan too loudly even as you take him deeper, hollowing your cheeks with every slow bob.

You glance up. His eyes are dark, locked on you, like he’s trying to memorize this — you, on your knees, mouth full of him, just before he boards a plane and leaves you behind for days.

“God, your mouth,” he rasps. “You’re gonna ruin me right before I go.”

You hum around him, slow and teasing, the vibrations pulling another quiet curse from his throat.

His hands tighten. His hips jerk just slightly — he’s close.

“Let me,” he says suddenly, voice low and commanding. “Let me finish in your mouth. I want to remember that.”

You obey.

You grip his hips and take him deep, ignoring the ache in your jaw as you swallow every inch. His thighs tense. His breath catches.

And then he spills down your throat with a gasp, long and broken — eyes screwed shut, shoulders trembling, his control finally gone.

You swallow it all.

When you look up, he’s already reaching for you, pulling you to your feet, kissing you hard despite the time.

“I’ll miss you,” he says against your mouth. “More than I’ll say.”

You kiss him back just as fiercely. “Then come home soon.”

He buttons his coat. Grabs his bag. Pauses at the door for one last look.

And leaves, still tasting you on his lips.

Mingi

You don’t knock.

The spare key he gave you months ago slides smoothly into the lock, and your heart races as you ease the door open. His apartment smells like him — cedar, cotton, just a faint trace of vanilla shampoo.

You tiptoe inside, leaving your shoes by the door. Your bag hits the floor quietly. It’s still early, barely 6 a.m., but that’s the point.

You’ve been apart for three months. Different time zones, glitchy video calls, too many nights falling asleep alone. You couldn’t take it anymore — you booked the flight, packed the lingerie he likes, and didn’t tell him a thing.

And now, here you are, in his bedroom doorway, staring at him.

Song Mingi, sprawled across the mattress, mouth slightly open in sleep, covers barely hanging on to one side of his body. His tank top’s twisted, and his boxers leave little to the imagination — including the half-chub tenting the front.

You bite your lip. Three months. You missed this.

Quietly, you kneel beside the bed.

He stirs slightly as you pull the blanket away, lips brushing the skin above his waistband.

“Mmnh?” he mumbles, head shifting. “What time—?”

Your hand wraps gently around him through the fabric, and he gasps.

“Wait—what—?” He blinks groggily, half sitting up—until he sees you.

His eyes go wide. “Baby?!”

You smile, already tugging down his boxers. “Hi, love.”

“Mmph—wha—you’re here?! When—ah—!”

Your mouth is on him before he can ask anything else. Warm, wet, hungry.

He drops back to the pillows with a thud, hand flying to your hair, still trying to process this miracle.

“Fuck—fuck, I must be dreaming,” he breathes. “You feel too good—I c-can’t—”

You hum around him, swirling your tongue around the tip before sinking deeper, sucking slowly like you have all the time in the world. He’s already twitching in your mouth, breathing hard, legs tense.

“You’re gonna make me cum so fast,” he moans, flushed and helpless. “Been dreaming about this—about you—every goddamn night.”

You pop off just long enough to whisper, “Then don’t waste it.”

And then you suck him deep again — taking him all the way down, swallowing every inch while your hands hold his hips steady.

He gasps so loud it echoes. “Oh god—that’s not fair—fuckfuck—I’m gonna—”

He comes fast, thick and hot down your throat, groaning your name like a man starved. You stay there, mouth full of him, swallowing until he trembles beneath you.

When you finally crawl up beside him, he’s panting, dazed, eyes glassy.

“You really here?” he whispers.

You grin, brushing his sweaty hair off his forehead. “In the flesh. You didn’t think I’d keep you waiting forever, did you?”

He grabs you and pulls you on top of him in one swoop, burying his face in your neck.

“I’m never letting you go again.”

You giggle, heart full. “Good. Because I’m not leaving.”

San

Choi San sleeps like an angel.

Even now, hair tousled, plush lips slightly parted, lashes resting soft on his cheeks — you’re struck breathless all over again. You missed him like oxygen. Video calls didn’t do justice to the way he smells, or the way his chest rises and falls in real time, warm and solid and within reach.

And you need him.

You slip under the sheets, careful not to wake him yet. He shifts slightly as your fingers brush over his hips — instinctively arching into your touch with the smallest sigh.

You smile. Still such a light sleeper, even after tour fatigue.

But you want this. Want him — before the world steals your moment.

So you press soft kisses down his bare stomach. One by one. Lower, and lower.

When your mouth wraps around him, he gasps awake.

“Hh—mmn? Wha—” His voice is thick, confused, sleep-warm. Then, “Y/N?!”

You glance up, lips still wrapped around the head of his cock. “Hi, baby.”

His eyes go wide. “Y-you’re here? You—wait, this isn’t a dream?”

You hum around him in response — and he whimpers.

“S-Stop, you’re gonna make me cry—oh my god—”

You suck him slow and deep, loving how his body arches, how one hand grips the sheet and the other buries itself in your hair like he doesn’t know what else to do.

His voice cracks when he moans again: “I missed you—fuck—I missed you so bad—”

You speed up just slightly, using your hand to stroke the base while your mouth handles the rest. He’s so sensitive from sleep, and even more from how much he’s craved you.

“I can’t—I’m gonna—baby, please—”

You moan around him, and it sends him over the edge.

He cums with a shaky cry, full of choked breath and broken whimpers, hot and thick in your mouth. You swallow, savoring every bit of him, and only pull off when he’s twitching and gasping your name like a prayer.

When you crawl up beside him, he immediately pulls you into a crushing hug, pressing his face into your neck.

“You’re real,” he whispers.

You stroke his hair. “All yours.”

San sniffles, kisses your collarbone, and mumbles against your skin: “Next time I’m flying to you. I can’t live without your mouth. Or your hugs.”

You giggle. “Good. Because I brought both.”

Namjoon

Namjoon sleeps sprawled across the bed, one arm across his forehead, the covers pushed halfway down his thighs — and you’re not sure how it’s possible for someone to look this good at 7 a.m.

You trace the dip of his hip with your fingertip, featherlight, and he shifts, exhaling a breathy sigh through his nose.

Still asleep.

You kiss down his bare chest, careful not to wake him yet. His body responds anyway — his cock stirring beneath the sheet, twitching as your lips brush just above the waistband of his boxers.

"Mm," he breathes, stirring. "Baby?"

"Shh," you whisper, gently tugging his boxers down just enough to free him.

“Wha—oh,” he gasps as you wrap your lips around the head, slowly sinking down.

He’s thick, hot, already swelling in your mouth. You take your time — lazy licks, slow suction, one hand bracing his thigh while the other strokes what your mouth can’t reach.

Namjoon groans low in his throat, a delicious sound that vibrates through the bed.

“Fuck, angel—what a way to wake up,” he rasps, voice still rough with sleep.

You glance up at him through your lashes. “Don’t stop me, Joonie.”

His eyes are half-lidded, dark and molten with affection and arousal. “As if I ever could.”

You moan around him and feel him twitch in response, the weight of his cock heavy on your tongue. He’s panting now, one big hand finding your hair, but not pushing — just resting, grounding.

“You’re so good to me,” he murmurs, voice reverent. “Every damn time.”

You bob your head slowly, letting saliva drip, making it messier — knowing he loves it when you get needy. When you want him like this.

His hips shift slightly. Not thrusting, just instinctively chasing more of your warmth.

“Baby, I’m gonna—fuck—”

You suck harder, moaning low around him, and that does it.

He spills into your mouth with a broken moan, head tipping back, abs tensing under your palms. You swallow every drop, staying on him until his hips jerk and his hand gently tugs your hair.

When you crawl up beside him, he’s flushed, sweaty, and smiling like you’ve just solved world peace.

“Marry me,” he mumbles into your neck.

You laugh softly, still breathless. “Again?”

He grins. “Every damn day if you keep waking me up like that.”

Yoongi

Yoongi sleeps like he means it.

Curled half under the blanket, his face buried in the pillow, hair messy and mouth soft, breathing even and deep. You watch him for a moment, heart aching with love. You know he doesn’t get enough rest — not really — so it feels a little sinful to wake him like this.

But also perfect.

Because you know what he does when you take your time. When you’re gentle with him. When you love him slow.

You crawl under the blanket and ease the sheets down his hips. He stirs slightly, brows twitching, but doesn’t wake. He’s only wearing boxers, and his cock is already semi-hard — a sleepy, instinctive reaction.

You kiss along his hipbone, featherlight, and whisper, “Good morning, love.”

He groans low, still mostly asleep. “Mm…what’re you doin’…?”

“Just want to make you feel good,” you murmur, pressing a kiss to the tip of his cock through the fabric.

That wakes him up — barely.

“Shit,” he mutters, blinking one eye open as you pull his boxers down. “S’early…”

“Exactly,” you say, and take him into your mouth.

He moans immediately — a low, ragged sound that he tries to smother in the pillow.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “You’re really doing this right now?”

You hum around him, and his hips twitch. He’s already getting fully hard in your mouth, warm and thick on your tongue. You suck slow and deep, wrapping your hand around the base to stroke in time with your lips.

Yoongi breathes out a curse. “You’re gonna ruin me.”

“Already have,” you say, lips brushing his skin as you stroke him slowly.

His hand finds your hair, loose and tentative. Never forceful. Never rushed. He lets you set the pace — because he trusts you. Because your mouth is his favorite kind of worship.

“God, your mouth… so perfect…” he whispers.

You take him deeper and moan around him, tongue swirling as his thighs tense. He’s getting close — you know the signs. The way his breath starts catching. The little noises he makes, soft and desperate and beautiful.

“Baby, I’m gonna—fuck—I’m cumming—”

You stay on him as he spills into your mouth, swallowing him down, holding his hips steady while he groans your name into the sheets. His fingers clutch at your scalp like he’s overwhelmed, barely keeping grounded.

When you finally pull off, he grabs your wrist and pulls you up beside him. His eyes are glassy, still sleepy, but filled with something soft and raw.

“That was…insane,” he mumbles, voice raspy.

“You deserved it,” you say, brushing hair from his forehead.

He buries his face in your neck and murmurs, “Can I nap with my head between your thighs now?”

You laugh, breath catching. “Always.”

jhope

Sunlight spills across the sheets like honey.

Jung Hoseok stirs beside you, brow scrunching slightly as he stretches — his chest rising, muscles flexing, lips parting with a soft groan.

He’s waking up hard, you can tell.

You smile sleepily, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. “Morning, Hobi.”

“Mmm…” He blinks up at you, dazed and warm. “You’re awake already?”

“Was watching you sleep.”

His grin is slow and sleepy. “That’s kinda creepy.”

“You drool,” you tease.

He gasps. “Liar.”

You giggle and press another kiss to his jaw — then lower, to his collarbone… then his chest. He shivers slightly.

“You’re already hard,” you murmur, dragging your fingers lightly down his stomach.

“Mmhmm,” he hums, eyes fluttering shut. “Woke up thinking about you. Always do.”

You slip the blanket down and lean over him, kissing the head of his cock. “Let me take care of it.”

He bites his lip, cheeks pink. “You’re too good to me…”

But he doesn’t stop you — in fact, his hips lift slightly when you slide down to kiss his thighs and take him into your mouth.

He gasps immediately. “Oh—shit, baby…”

You suck slowly, savoring the taste of him, the heat of him. One hand cradles his hip while the other strokes the base of his cock. He’s twitching already, breath coming in short bursts.

“Fuck, your mouth feels so good,” he moans. “You’re… fuck… you’re a dream…”

You pull off just enough to whisper, “Wanna make you cum before breakfast.”

“Greedy,” he teases, then moans again when you swirl your tongue around his tip.

“Just hungry,” you murmur against his skin.

He laughs — then gasps again as you take him deeper.

It doesn’t take long. He’s sensitive in the mornings, all warm and responsive. When he gets close, he grips the sheets and gasps out your name like a chant.

“Gonna—baby, please—don’t stop—”

You don’t. You swallow everything, lick him clean, and look up with innocent eyes that make him groan and cover his face with a hand.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he says, voice hoarse.

You crawl up to kiss his cheek. “What a way to go.”

He laughs, breathless, and pulls you into his arms. “My turn after pancakes.”

Seo Wan

(i just can't imagine this with pookie im sorry!)

Roh jae won

The morning light was just creeping through the curtains when Jae-won stirred beside you, his arm tightening briefly around your waist. You shifted slightly under the blankets, turning toward him. His eyes were still closed, but the little furrow between his brows gave him away. Something was bothering him.

You leaned in and pressed a kiss to his temple. “You’re thinking again.”

“Mmh,” he grunted, reluctant to open his eyes. “Sorry. Just… stupid stuff.”

You propped yourself up on one elbow. “Like?”

He hesitated, then sighed, finally cracking one eye open. “You ever wish I looked... different? Down there, I mean.”

You blinked, taken aback for a moment. “Different how?”

“You know. Bigger. Less—” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Hairy.”

You bit back a smile. “Jae-won…”

“I’m serious,” he muttered, clearly regretting bringing it up. “I know it’s not exactly the kind of thing that looks good in porn or whatever. Just makes me feel a little—”

“Stop right there,” you interrupted, crawling closer under the sheets. “You think I care about that?”

He looked at you sheepishly. “Kinda.”

You tilted your head, pretending to consider. “I mean, it is hairy,” you said with a teasing smile, running your hand slowly down his stomach. “But I kinda like that. It’s manly. Real.”

His breath caught when your fingers brushed over the waistband of his boxers. “And as for size...” You leaned down, lips brushing against his ear. “You fit just right, baby. Every time.”

Jae-won flushed, eyes flickering with vulnerability and heat all at once. You dipped beneath the covers, dragging them over your head with a smirk.

“I’ll show you how much I like you just the way you are,” you whispered, before letting your lips trail lower, pressing kisses to his stomach, then lower still. You could feel him already half-hard, nerves and morning warmth stirring together. Your hand slipped around him, coaxing him fully to life, and despite his earlier shyness, he let out a soft moan.

“You’re seriously doing this now?” he murmured breathlessly.

“Mhm,” you hummed, kissing along his shaft. “Call it... confidence-building.”

And as your mouth closed around him, slow and gentle, his fingers threaded shakily through your hair. Whatever insecurities he woke up with were long gone by the time he whispered your name, his whole body shivering with pleasure under your touch.

Gong Yoo

Gong Yoo looked unfairly good in the morning.

The way his dark hair fell messily across his forehead, the curve of his lips soft and vulnerable in sleep, one arm slung over his head like he owned the bed (and maybe you, too)… It was all too tempting.

You shifted beside him, careful not to wake him too suddenly. The blanket had slipped low around his hips, revealing a toned stretch of stomach and the slight dip where his boxers rode down just enough to tease your imagination.

He twitched a little in his sleep. Maybe he was already dreaming of you.

Grinning to yourself, you leaned in and kissed his chest, just above his heart. Then a little lower. You knew how sensitive he got in the mornings—how slow his voice turned, how flushed his cheeks became when he woke up to your mouth instead of the alarm.

Your hand slipped beneath the blanket, brushing gently over his boxers. He stirred slightly, a low, half-formed noise in his throat.

“Mm… baby?”

“Shh,” you whispered, trailing your lips lower, nuzzling against the waistband. “Just relax.”

He blinked his eyes open, pupils heavy with sleep, then darker as he realized what you were doing. “You’re trouble, you know that?”

“Mmhm,” you hummed, easing his boxers down. “But you like it.”

His cock was already stirring against your palm, heavy and warm. You wrapped your fingers around him, slow and steady, letting your thumb brush over the tip. Then, with a slow breath, you dipped your head and took him into your mouth.

His whole body reacted—hips twitching just slightly, hand finding your hair in a sleepy grasp. You worked him slowly, savoring every reaction. He let out a quiet, groaning laugh, still dazed.

“This is the best alarm clock I’ve ever had.”

You paused only to murmur, “Don’t get used to it.”

He smirked, even as his head fell back against the pillow. “Too late.”

You kept going, letting your tongue swirl around him, building the tension in lazy, delicious waves. It wasn’t rushed. It was indulgent. His thighs flexed, breath coming faster, as you pushed him right to the edge—and then gently over it.

When it was done, you pressed a kiss to his hip and crawled back up to lay beside him, licking your lips with a satisfied little smirk.

He wrapped his arm around you, pulling you in. “You really know how to ruin a man for normal mornings.”

You chuckled. “Just keeping you on your toes.”

[tateypots]

Sunrise

18+ MDNI

Summary: You love the sunrise, but it’s even better with Joel.

A/N: The wonderful @baronessvonglitter made me this beautiful moodboard as part of her 1000 follower milestone celebration and it’s so beautiful it finally gave me the kick I needed to write this little thing that has been sitting in my idea folder forever. So here’s some soft Joel just because.

I wrote this on my phone (and deleted it once by mistake 🤦🏻‍♀️) so there’s probably loads of mistakes!

Warnings: smut, soft Joel, established relationship, unprotected piv, lots of praise.

Sunrise had always been your favourite time of day. A natural early riser, you loved to watch the inky hues of night surrender to the golden yellows and oranges of the dawn as light filtered across the sky. You loved the way the quiet stillness is broken by gentle birdsong, soft and lilting before the bustle of daily life takes over. Another day broken, fresh and full of possibilities.

And ever since you’d met Joel Miller, you’d loved the sunrise even more.

You loved him more than you’d ever thought possible. He was firm and steady, strong but also playful and gentle. You loved his quiet dedication, to his work, his family, to you. He worked ceaselessly to ensure you were all taken care of, and you worked just as hard to make sure he was as well.

Mornings were spent in a rush of preparing breakfasts and lunches, making sure Sarah was washed and dressed, bag packed for school or soccer practice. Quick kisses and I love yous exchanged before rushing out the door. Days spent working or running errands before reuniting for family dinners and movie nights often interrupted by calls about his latest work project.

Even at night Joel was never off duty, often awoken by the patter of small feet, a little voice crying over a nightmare, needing cuddles from her dad to make the fear recede. At other times woken by a phone call, Tommy needing rescuing from whatever risky situation he’d found himself in, or on the really bad nights, bailing out of jail.

But at sunrise, he was just yours. No one’s boss, no one’s brother, no one’s dad. For that brief window you didn’t have to share him and you cherished it.

You got to see him peacefully sleeping as the golden light crept over his prone body, illuminating him in a glow that seemed to emanate from within. You got to take in his features, the beautiful face that you loved so dearly, his brow smoothed, the furrowed lines of his frequent frowns and scowls mere ghosts of themselves. The beautiful lines by the sides of his eyes that crinkled whenever he smiled. His strong aquiline nose that gave him a wise, regal bearing. The plush lips that were soft and plump and felt like heaven against your body. His strong neck, that one freckle you love to kiss and the vein you loved to nuzzle against and feel his pulse, strong and steadying. His strong arms and chest, sculpted by years of hard labour. You’d never wake him, knowing how precious his sleep was.

Yes, you loved to watch him, peaceful and content. The only thing you loved more were the days he awoke himself, pulling you into him with a sleepy groan and a rumbling ‘morning’ beautiful.” When he’d slot those beautiful lips against yours and kiss you like he’d never get another chance. When he’d roll you onto your back and kiss his way down your body, divesting you of clothes and spreading your legs as he went. When he’d rest his head against your thigh for a moment and admire your core like it was a renaissance painting, eyes full of wonder, “prettiest fuckin’ pussy I ever saw, gets prettier every fuckin’ day,” before diving in with his tongue, lapping at you in broad strokes until your hips bucked and you stifled your moans with a pillow. When he’d tease your clit, circling with the tip of his tongue, not enough pressure to get you where you so desperately needed, enjoying the keening and whines you let escape, knowing full well how to get you to abandon your pride and have you begging for him.

“Please Joel - oh fuck! Please!”

“Hmmm, what was that darlin’, I couldn’t quite hear?”

“Joel! Fuck, please baby, I need more, please!!”

“Oh there she is, my good girl asking for what she wants,” he’d respond before sucking your clit hard and laving his tongue over it perfectly, slipping one finger, then another inside you, the pressure of them entering you along with his sucking of your clit enough to launch you into orbit and have you clenching and spilling around his fingers.

You loved the way he’d push down his boxers, the sight of him rock hard and leaking, just for you. You loved the way he’d crawl back up your body and settle between your thighs. The way he’d capture your lips in another desperate kiss, letting you taste yourself on his tongue as he slipped his throbbing cock into the welcoming heat of your body. You loved the way he’d moan into your ear as he sank further and further inside you, savouring every second.

You loved the slow drag of his cock in and out as he languidly fucked you, eyes never leaving yours, enjoying the way the world fell away when he had you like this, like you were the only 2 people in the world.

“That’s it baby, just like that. Gona take my time with you, gona fuck you nice and slow, just like you deserve.”

You loved the deep rumble of his voice in your ear, the way the vibrations made your whole body tingle with delight and he loved the sweet, soft moans you gave him with every plunge of his cock.

“My perfect girl, makin’ such pretty noises for me. Take my cock like a fuckin’ dream baby, like you were made just for me.”

You relish it. These times where he takes you slowly, passionately, no reason to rush. Not a panicked railing, chasing your highs quickly whenever you have a minute to yourselves before someone needs him. Not that you didn’t love that too. The thrill of knowing you could be interrupted at any time. The way his hips batter into yours, the strength of him blowing your mind every damn time. The desperate edge to his voice as he tells you he needs you to come for him, that he needs to feel it.

But like this it feels special. He makes you feel special. The way he moves you can feel every ridge and vein as he fills you up, it feels as though he’s igniting every single nerve of your pussy, the slow build up to something absolutely devastating.

And he never falters, his hips keep pumping in their slow steady rhythm, his stamina almost otherworldly as he soaks in the vision of you, spread open in ecstasy beneath him. It’s a vision that will burn itself onto his retinas until the next time he has you like this. Tucked away and treasured in his mind every time he closes his eyes.

“That’s it baby, doin’ so good for me.”

He loved the way you whine and cling to him, completely lost to the pleasure, to him. The way you look at him as though he is your everything, your whole world. Loved the way you pull him down to you, pushing your lips against his, messy, uncoordinated, desperate as your pussy pulses and drools on him.

“Can feel it comin’ baby, feel it buildin’. Gona be a big one, I can tell.”

And he’d be right. He’d make sure it was a big one. Big enough to have the memory last until the next time, make sure you feel how much he loves you.

And when he dropped his hand between you to rub those perfect circles on your clit, perfected in moments just like this it’s a foregone conclusion. He’d clamp a hand over your mouth to quiet the moans you’d no longer have control of as your body reaches the cataclysmic peak. It’s his favourite thing, the way you clench down on him, the way you shake underneath him, the way your arms wrap even tighter around him, the feel of your scream of pleasure being soaked up by his palm.

And still his hips would pump in that maddening slow rhythm, prolonging your high as long as he can, until you suck in a huge breath and he sees the clouds part from your eyes as you come back to yourself. Only then would he pick up his pace, chasing his own high now that he’d taken care of you. Putting you first, just like he wishes he always could.

His groans are like music to your ears, this is for him. Just for him and you loved the sounds of him losing himself in you.

You’d plant kisses on the side of his face you have access to.

“So good baby, always make me feel so good, always take care of me, I love you so much Joel.”

He’d groan extra loud for you at that and it has your pussy clenching again. You know just how to get him. Hearing you acknowledge how much you appreciate all he does, how much you love him, it’s his Achilles heel. You’d revel in it as his thrusts get erratic.

“Give it to me baby, I need your cum. Please baby, please!”

And he’d be done for. He’d give you anything you asked for. You’d feel it deep inside as his hips finally still. That delicious pulsing heat spreading throughout your core and it pushes you over once more, a smaller, quieter high but no less special.

You loved the way he’d slump on top of you. His energy spent. You loved the quiet moments where you’d just hold each other, no words needed. Peaceful in the golden glow of the morning.

Yes you loved the sunrise. But sunrises with Joel Miller hit different.

Tagging a few people who might be interested, no pressure to read, let me know if you want to be removed. @baronessvonglitter @magpiepills @milla-frenchy @aurorawritestoescape @itwasntimethatdidit40 @lilac-boo @evolnoomym @lamartell @mrs-hardy-hunnam-butler-pascal @axshadows

[cevansbrat0007]

Hey, I do not think I have asked this before, but if I have please ignore it. I have seen on social media where the wife will ask the bf, or husband to leave the room, so they can get changed. I was wondering what would Ari, and, or Andy's response to this be?

Guessing Games

Summary: Ari doesn't like being kicked out of your bedroom. Also be sure to check out Guessing Games: A Fast Car Interlude.

Warnings: Mature Themes, Implied Future Smut, Ari Being A Menace, Brat!Reader, Discussions of Body Image, Manhandling, Discussions of Lingerie, Cursing, Minors DNI

A/N: I think someone actually asked me this a while ago. Maybe. I vaguely remember my answer. However, instead of rehashing that, this is how I think that would go - with a twist! Part my Sweet Renegade Series. Semi-proofread, not beta'd. All mistakes are my own. Likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated. Thanks for reading!

Wisps of steam curl around you as you step out of the shower. Snagging a nearby towel, you take your time drying off before reaching for your favorite body butter, leisurely applying it all over your thirsty skin. Once you’re finished, you carefully don your robe and make your way into your bedroom. 

Of course you’re not the least bit surprised to find your bounty hunter laying on your bed, eyes closed, with one brawny arm tucked behind his head. To the average person it would appear that he was sleeping. But you knew better. 

Last night you’d promised to take a day trip with him to a classic car show that was happening a couple towns over. And, ever the early riser, your man was itching to get on the road. Which meant he was trying to keep a handle on his patience so that he didn’t accidentally piss you off while trying to hurry you along.

The last thing he needed was to be stuck in a car while you pouted for two hours. Having experienced it once before, it was definitely not his idea of a good time. 

“You were in there so long I was beginning to worry you might’a drowned.” Although his tone is deceptively light, there’s no missing the hint of impatience. 

“The hot water felt extra good this morning. Besides, it's not gonna take me long to get dressed.”

“Eh,” he sighs, adjusting his position so that he’s now sitting up in bed, his big body resting against your numerous decorative pillows. “I’ll believe it when I see it.” 

Resisting the urge to roll your eyes, you make a beeline for your closet. You’d already picked out your outfit the night before, which made things a hell of a lot easier. Grabbing one of your more colorful sundresses off the rack, you hold it up to yourself in the mirror.

“Well, that’s certainly a pretty little number.” Ari muses, sitting up a little straighter so that he can get a better look at your dress. “Christ, I already know if I bring you to the show wearing that, every fella in a ten mile is gonna forget all about those damned cars.”

His words make your cheeks heat. Even though you were pretty sure he was exaggerating just a tad, it still made you feel good. But just in case…

“Um…” Turning to face him, you once again hold the garment up to your chest. “Do you think I should maybe wear something else then?”

“Hell no.” He growls, tossing a pillow into the air and catching it with ease. “Let ‘em look. I don’t give a fuck about you showing off those gorgeous legs – as long as you remember you’re coming home with me.”

“Now how could I possibly go and forget a little detail like that, sugar?” You giggle, blowing him a tiny kiss which he then pretends to catch. As gruff and rough-and-tumble as your man could be at times, he also had no problem making you melt.

It was just part of his irresistible charm.

“You’d better not, baby. Otherwise I won’t be held responsible for what happens if I’m forced to throw you over my shoulder and carry you back to my truck.” He gives you a hard look before reaching for his phone, letting you know he’s not kidding.

It might sound crazy, but the longer you two were together, the more you’d begun to realize that there was a small part of you that got off on riling him up. Not all the time, mind you…

But you’d also learned that sometimes pricking your bounty hunter’s temper was well worth whatever punishment would ultimately come your way.  

Clearing your throat, you attempt to refocus on the task at hand. You needed to get dressed rather quickly so that you could spend a little extra time in the bathroom putting on your face. Even though you planned to go for a more natural look today, you still wanted to give yourself enough time to be satisfied with the results. 

However, before you did all that, there was one more thing you had to take care of. And you were better off doing so without the benefit of an audience.  

“Alright, Beast.” You hum, gingerly draping your dress across the end of your bed. “How about you give me a little privacy so I can go ahead and get changed?” 

During your latest social media deep dive, you’d come across videos of women asking their significant others to leave the room while they changed their clothes. Many of the reactions had ranged anywhere from confusion to concern. Although there had been a few who seemed not to care one way or the other. 

And while you were pretty sure that Ari would fall into the first category, there was a part of you that wanted to see for yourself. So what better time to try it than on a day where you already planned on teasing him for the next few hours anyway?

“Huh?” He sets the device on his chest so that he can give you his full attention. 

“Ari.” You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling. “I need you to step out so I can get dressed.”

“Oh. Right.” Your man grunts dismissively before swinging his long legs over the side of the bed. “Guess I’ll be downstairs if you need me.”

‘Wow.’ You think, cocking your head in surprise as you watch him give a brief stretch. You honestly hadn’t expected it to be that easy. Sometimes this man really was something else.

“Wait a minute – hold on.” Ari rumbles, dragging a hand through his shaggy locks. “How come I gotta go?” The roughness of his tone alone is enough to make you want to clench your thighs together.  

“Because I wanna put on my clothes.” You reply innocently, as if it should be obvious.

“And why the hell would I need to step out for that?” The tell-tale tick of his jaw and flare of his nostrils lets you know that he’s not happy.

“I don’t know.” You shrug. “Maybe because I’m not really in the mood for an audience right now?”

“Baby. Swear to God.” He groans, briefly closing his eyes long enough to count to ten. “I have seen every inch of your body more times than I can count. And let me be the first to tell you, it has been the honor of a lifetime.” “I…um…okay.” You hadn’t really been expecting him to say that.

“Which is exactly why you don’t need to hide from me.” Your man continues, gifting you with a dazzling smile. “I love your curves, Bird. Love explorin’ every sweet, soft inch of ‘em every chance I get.” 

“Beast…” 

“I mean, how many men can really say that they’ve actually gone and found the woman of their dreams?” 

The sheer adoration in his eyes is enough to make your heart skip a beat. Unable to hold his gaze, you choose to look away as you work to swallow the lump in your throat. While you weren’t entirely sure what you’d done to deserve someone as wonderful as Ari, you had no plans on letting him go.

Come hell or high water.

“Seriously. No matter how you shake it, I’m a lucky man.” He gently lobs a pillow at you, making you squeal. “And I plan to keep saying it until the day I die.” 

“Jeeze.” You sniff, dashing away a quick tear with your thumb. “You, uh, really know how to boost a girl’s confidence.”

“I only care about my girl and her confidence.” Comes his gruff response. “That’s it. Everyone else can kindly fuck off.”

“Duly noted, handsome.” You tell him, suddenly feeling bashful. “But I, um…” Tamping down a giggle, you try to choose your words carefully. “I’m not kicking you out because I’m ashamed or anything. I’m kicking you out because I bought you a present…for later.” You toss the pillow back at him. It hits square in the chest before falling to the floor. “And I’m not ready for you to see it just yet.” 

“Oh, is that right?” A wolfish grin spreads across his features as understanding dawns. “Go on and lemme see. Give me a little somethin’ to look forward to.”

“I just said it’s a surprise.” You huff, crossing your arms over your chest. 

“If I guess right, will you let me see?” Ari tries again, not bothering to hide his excitement as he launches himself off the bed. 

This man loved watching you walk around wearing nothing but lingerie, almost as much as he loved peeling it off of you.

“No, Ari.” You can’t hold back your laugh as you take a step back. 

“Is it red?” You’re forced to bat away his eager hands when they reach for the belt of your robe. “Maybe with a little ribbon and some silk?”

“None of your business!” You squeak.

“It’s my surprise. Meaning it’s meant for me.” Grabbing your hips, he pulls you flush against his hard chest. “Which definitely, most certainly, makes it my business.“ He buries his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent.

God, he was such an incorrigible menace.

“Be a good boy and go downstairs so I can finish getting ready or we’ll be late getting to the show.” You tell him, squirming in his hold. 

“What about something tight, black, and lacey?” His voice dips an octave as his hands to the globes of your ass, giving them a proprietary squeeze. “I’m thinkin’ with a set of thigh highs and garters. You know - like the ones you wouldn’t let me buy at that shop back in Crendlewood.”

“Guess you’ll just have to wait and see — stop that, damn you!” You cry when Ari begins nibbling along the column of your throat in between teasing kisses, making you giggle. 

“C’mon now, darlin’.” He rasps, his thick fingers digging into your tender flesh. “We both know I’m not gonna last that long.”

“I believe in you.”  

Undeterred, your stubborn bounty hunter decides to change his approach. Abandoning your neck, his advances move lower, leaving behind a trail of goosebumps as he does.

“It’s your fault I already have such a hard time keeping my hands to myself.” He tells you as he nuzzles his nose against the thin fabric of your robe, his warm breath making your nipples pebble. “You can’t just tease me like that without giving me a taste.”

A sharp nip of teeth has you rising on your toes, unintentionally giving him better access to his intended target. Followed by your strangled moan when you feel him release his grip on your ass so that he can undo the ties of your robe - finally revealing your nude body to his heated gaze. 

“Fucking beautiful.” He snarls reverently, making your core spasm. “And all mine.”

“Yes, yours.” You agree, nibbling on your bottom lip. “Later.”

“Now.”

“Beast.” You breathe, doing your best to ignore the slick coating your thighs. “Later.”

Grumbling under his breath, Ari levels you with a glare as he takes a step back. You didn’t have to ask to know that he was currently weighing his options.

On one hand, he really did want to go to the car show – almost as much as he wanted to unwrap you his surprise. At the same time, he also hated whenever you made him wait for a taste of you. It always made him so damned impatient.  

“Fine.” He grunts, his face looking like he just swallowed something supremely unpleasant. “I’ll go. But you gotta give me a hint first.”

“I do?” You reply, sounding both amused and exasperated.

“‘Fraid so. You either give me that or no deal.” Ari crosses his arms over his broad chest, making it clear that he’s not moving until you give him what he wants. 

“Fine.” You parrot, before spinning on your heel to retreat to your closet. “You stay put. I’ll be right back.” 

Tossing a quick glance over your shoulder to make sure he’s not looking, you pull out the gift bag you’d hidden under a pile of blankets. Digging through the tissue paper, it actually takes you a few seconds to find what you’re looking for. Clutching the item in your hand, you return to stand in front of your bounty hunter before handing it over, pressing it into his palm.

It’s a pale pink garter. That came with a matching colored bustier and g-string. A fact that your man would no doubt appreciate later. 

“Well shit, Duchess.” Ari groans, staring down at the lacey scrap of fabric in his hand. “I think I might’ve just changed my mind about this whole darn trip–”

“Nope!” You swiftly interrupt, snatching back the garter. “A deal is a deal, cowboy. Now, out you go.” 

“But what if we–”

“I will meet you in the living room.” Ignoring his protests, you waste no time shooing him out of your bedroom before brazenly shutting the door in his now-pouting face. “Go watch TV or something until I’m ready.”

“This isn’t fair.” Your grumpy bounty grouses, banging his fist against the wall. 

“I promise to make it up to you later.” You tease, allowing your robe to fall to the floor as you begin putting on your jewelry. “I might even let you take a few pictures if you ask nicely.”

“Damn it, baby!” Ari hisses as he finally heads for the stairs, taking them two at a time while he debates the best way to go about dealing with his increasingly uncomfortable hard-on. 

It was going to be a long fucking day, especially now that he’d gotten a glimpse of what you planned to wear underneath that flimsy little sundress. Opening your freezer, he wonders if it’s too early to consider icing his balls. Perhaps he’d be better off waiting until after your road trip. 

“God, I am so fucked.” He mumbles as he fishes out a half-frozen bottle of water before twisting off the cap and taking a sip. “And all because my girl has the nerve to look so goddamn pretty in pink.”

END

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[backmuscles21]

Providing

Tsu'tey x Reader

Summary: Just some fluff about Tsu'tey being a good mate while still being rude to everyone else.

Tsu’tey called himself a provider, he was a provider of many things to many people. He provided for his clan, his family, and his home but he’d never provide for anyone more than you. He prided himself on being the best mate ever and being able to protect you and provide for you. You would tell him constantly that he was the best mate anyone could ask for, it only served to inflate his ego further.

However, one thing Tsu’tey hated, you were so different from him and not just because you were a girl but because you were human still. Now you did have an avatar, you have mated with him before Eywa, but you did want to wait before fully transferring over your consciousness completely. You and Norm enjoyed getting to have a human side still. Tsu’tey hated it, he hated that when you fell asleep you weren’t really there with him. Don’t get me wrong, caring for two bodies is a challenge and sometimes you do wish that you didn’t have to. Tsu’tey hated that sometimes you’d sleep in or something and he’d have to go to the sky people and see you. He also hated when you got sick or something and then you wouldn’t link in for a while, he hated not having you in your avatar body.

Like today, you stayed up really late doing some paperwork and science experiments with some plants and you may have gone to bed at like four in the morning. The Na’vi were early risers for the most part, so when you weren’t up at around nine, Tsu’tey came to you. He walked over to the scientists’ tents and metal home base with his usual scowl on his face. He hated being over here with the humans, he warmed up to the sky people once he got to know you and Jake but he still didn’t love being by a whole bunch of them.

He walked up to the metal door, crouched down to get inside and grabbed one of the breathing masks. He walked into the lab and saw some faces he recognized not that he cared about any of them.

“Hey Tsu’tey,” Norm said as he brought his fingers to his forehead to sign ‘I see you’ which Tsu’tey returned out of respect.

“I’m looking for my mate.”

“She’s in her room.”

Tsu’tey stayed quiet, he didn’t know where your room was or at least couldn’t remember.

“It’s at the back, first right. You’ll see her name on the door.”

Tsu’tey nodded as he headed to your room with the directions given to him. He saw your name on the door, after you showed him how to spell your name and what your name being written out in English looked like, and entered the room. Boy, you were a sight for sore eyes, you had kicked some of the sheets off your body in your sleep. Your arms were raised and your head rested on its side as you lay on your back. You looked so peaceful and so soft, Tsu’tey couldn’t help but smile and brush the back of a finger on your cheek.

You stirred lightly, Tsu’tey placed a hand on your exposed stomach, his hands were so warm. Since Pandora was so hot, you wore next to nothing to sleep, your short shorts and cropped tank top revealed a lot of skin. Tsu’tey wasn’t bothered by it, not to mention he liked to feel your soft and smooth skin. His large hand was the size of your torso, his hand splayed on your stomach dwarfing you compared to him.

He decided to kiss you awake, he kissed your forehead then your stomach. He felt your legs move and watched as your face contorted and you whined as you were being woken from your slumber. Your eyes opened slowly and you looked at the blue giant kneeling by your bed, you smiled at him and stretched. You move to sit up a little and kiss his cheek, he pulls you right off the bed and into his lap. He held you close to his large body and you snuggled into him.

“I missed you this morning.”

“Sorry, I was up late.”

“I told you not to do that.”

“But I was making good headway.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“I’m sorry Tsu’tey, how could I ever make it up to you.”

“Be with me forever.”

“I already am.”

He kissed your cheek and you giggled slightly, he kissed you a few more times as you giggled and squirmed in his hold. His large hands held onto your tiny body as you held onto his much larger and longer arms.

You finally decided to get up out of bed, you stretched and grabbed your water bottle by your bed. You drank the little bit left inside before the sound of you sucking in air through the straw could be heard. You went to leave your room to get more water for your water bottle before Tsu’tey wrapped his arm around your waist.

“Where are you going?”

“Just to get more water.”

“I’ll get it for you.”

“It’s fine Tsu’tey, really.”

“I am your mate and I can provide for you.”

“Do you even know where the water cooler is?”

“I can find it.”

“Well, all the power to you then,” you hand him your water bottle and sit on your bed as he leaves, you knew there was no fighting with him on it.

He leaves your room and walks to where all the scientists are.

“You,” Tsu’tey points at Norm, “where do I find the water to fill this?” Tsu’tey showed him your water bottle he held.

“I can fill it up for you.”

“No, I can fill it myself for my mate.”

“It would probably be easier if I-“

“Just show me where it is.”

“It’s back down the same hallway as the bedrooms, but it will be the room without a door. You see the jug with the water in it. Just push the little handle down.” Tsu’tey didn’t entirely understand but he was nothing if not a good mate.

Tsu’tey went and searched for the contraption the human talked about, once he found what he presumed was the machine, he kneeled down and his large hand held your water bottle and his single finger pushed down on the lever. He felt so silly for doing things this way when he could go out and forge you fresh water with no problem.

He felt too big for this place and really, he was, it was made for at best a six-foot frame, he was like quadruple that. He went back to your room and handed you your water bottle, you had sat up on your bed and Tsu’tey sat on the floor in front of you. You smiled at him and took a big drink.

“Thank you.”

“Anything for my mate.”

[letteremi]

childhood friend!Gojo x fem!reader

warnings: mdni, suguru has left, unhealthy coping mechanisms (shoko), nightmares, angst, hurt no comfort (stay w me now….), nightmares, lowkey depression + self-hatred, swearing

credit goes to @uzmacchiato for the divider!!

part 3 <- part 4 -> part 5 | series masterlist

You wake up choking on your own breath. 

Your fingers scrabble at the sheets, sweat slick on your skin, and the darkness of your room pressing into you like a living, breathing beast. The images from your nightmare cling to you, a revolving door of terrors that feel like they’re shackling you to the prison that is your mind. 

Suguru’s back as he walks away. 

Blood drips down your hands. Yours? Or those you failed to save? 

Curses hissing your name. Snarling into your ear, flecks of spit that stain your face — no matter how hard you scrub, they won’t come off. 

You’re a fucking failure. Useless. Insane. 

You squeeze your eyes shut, curling into yourself like a wounded animal. 

Just breathe. 

In. Out. In. Out. 

Your chest might as well be a fucking balloon about to burst. You wonder if the rest of Tokyo can hear you inhale, and exhale like your life depends on it, and briefly, you kick yourself for being a burden again. 

You throw the blankets off your burning body like the cold can shock you into being normal again. 

But hey. Since when were you ever normal?

Nothing is helping. Nothing is working. 

Your hand moves before your brain can catch up. The phone screen illuminates the gloom, you scroll past Shoko’s number — she’s probably asleep — and you don’t want to bother her. She’s already thrown herself into the art of healing, pretending to be fine, like you can’t see the packets of cigarettes lining her room, the smoke that clings to her hair — no matter how much perfume she spritzes on, how much gum she chews. 

Your thumb hovers over Satoru’s contact.

You shouldn’t. But your fingers are moving before you think, seeking out his familiar comfort. 

> you: meet me at our spot?

You stare at the message, thumbs hovering over the send button like phantoms ready for the go-ahead. 

It feels like too much. Too desperate. 

You hit send anyway. 

The three dots appear almost immediately, almost like he was waiting for your message. 

You shake your head, like the movement will dislodge the treacherous thought. 

> Satoru: on my way

-

You’re already on the rooftop when he gets there. 

The wind bites at your skin, sharp and relentless. Fuck. In your rush to just get out of your bedroom, before the shadows suffocated you, you’d forgotten to slip on your jacket. Beyond the fence, Tokyo stretches out below you in a blur of neon and smog — so alive, so oblivious, while you feel like a half-buried corpse in its glow. 

You always said that the roads and highways looked like futuristic rivers from up here — the buildings, skyscrapers, like technological bushes by the shore.

Dynamic. Electric. Uncaring. 

Shoko stood right beside you then, pointing and commenting on the voltaic high risers. Suguru used to laugh when you said so. Satoru posed endless questions. 

But that won’t happen anymore. 

You hear the door creak open. 

Gojo steps out. In one hand is one of his sweaters, in the other, he holds a pack of sushi. His hair is messier than usual — like it faced the trials and tribulations of the strong breeze tonight, or he had just rolled out of bed. 

You choose to believe the former. Gojo hasn’t slept much since Geto left. Just another thing you share in silence. 

He moves towards you, feet scuffing against the concrete. 

When he stops beside you, he hands you the sweater. The question is on the tip of your tongue — how did he know?

Gojo meets your gaze, and it’s like with one look he’s read your mind. “You’ve been forgetting your jacket lately. Figured tonight would be the same.” 

And despite the pain swirling in your chest, your heart warms. It almost feels like a betrayal.  

As you shrug the sweater on — it smells like him, all citrusy and something sweet, fuck, maybe putting it on was a mistake — Gojo sits on the concrete beside you, waiting for you to join him on the floor. He’s tilting his head back, looking up at the moon, like it might offer him answers no one else can. 

You don’t speak. Neither does he.

The silence settles between you. Comfortable, but heavy. Weighted with tarnished memories and words that will only make you feel worse. 

But you break it first. You always do. 

“Remember when we used to come up here after missions?” Your voice sounds thinner than you meant it to, but then again, that’s always how it sounds now. 

Gojo exhales lightly, lips tugging slightly up. “Yeah. Remember when we got Yaga a shirt with his face printed on it, and he chased us here?” 

You huff out a laugh, and it comes out easy. “Mmm. Shoko bolted the door, and Suguru nearly tripped up the stairs.”

Gojo laughs. Airy and unrestrained, and you think of how long it’s been since you’ve heard him like this. “How does someone trip up stairs?” 

“I don’t know!” You wrap your arms around your knees, pulling them closer to your chest, because the next thing you’re about to say almost hurts to utter aloud. “We’ll have to ask him the next time we see him.” 

Gojo hums in agreement, but it’s short. Clipped. Almost like disappointment and resignation wrapped in a hollow sound. 

Your eyes drift to his profile. He looks almost serene under the moonlight, like an ethereal being. But you know better. You see the exhaustion living under his skin now. You see Suguru’s absence carved into the slope of his shoulders. 

You swallow around the lump in your throat. 

“Do you…” you start, then hesitate. The words fumble around in your mouth, sharp, and unwieldy. “Do you ever think about—”

“About what?” He doesn’t look at you. Just keeps staring into the distance, like if he pretends, everything is just as it once was. 

About Suguru. If he’ll come back (you know he won’t). About you. About how you’ve felt all these years. 

You shake your head. Coward. 

“About…nothing.” You look into the sky too. 

Gojo finally turns to you. His eyes are bright under the moonlight, too bright. 

“Hey,” he says, and his voice is gentle in a way that makes your ribs ache. “Thanks for sticking around.”

Your heart stutters, then slams against your chest so hard it hurts. 

Maybe it was the right moment. The words teeter at the tip of your tongue. 

You love him. You’ve always loved him. 

But then he smiles. That same, easy grin that never fails to take your breath away, and slices you open all at once.  

And then the thoughts leave as soon as you think them. The words wither and die in your mouth. 

It’s selfish to think this way. This moment isn’t about you. 

“Always.” 

And he leans his head on your shoulder. You tense — just a fraction — before you lean your own head on his, just a bit, because it feels like if you lean on him fully, he’ll shatter. But that’s stupid. He’s stronger than that. He’s the Strongest. 

But that just makes you want to shield him more. 

For a moment, you imagine a world where this is enough. Where this closeness is the answer, instead of a punishment for years of words left unsaid. 

You don’t know how long you sit there. 30 minutes? An hour? Two? 

All you know is that staying here any longer would be dangerous. Your eyelids feel heavy. He has that effect on you. And Gojo’s eyes have already fluttered shut. 

If anyone were to ambush you two, you wouldn’t be able to protect him, and that guts you. 

“We should head back,” you say. Your voice is steady. Practiced. 

Gojo tilts his head, eyes blinking open like he’d never been asleep. “I’ll walk you.”

You don’t protest. You let him fall into step beside you. 

When you get to your dorm, he hesitates. You can feel his eyes on you, but you don’t look back. 

“Goodnight,” you murmur. 

“Night.” 

You step inside before you can change your mind, pressing your back against the door once it clicks shut. From the other side of the door, you hear his footsteps retreating. 

His sweater lands on the back of your chair, and you stare at it — the anchor that keeps you from spiralling.

Attempt number four. 

Could you even call it an attempt?

Another grave dug in the garden of your heart. You had so many already. Too many to count. Too many to mourn properly. 

taglist: @bloopsstuff @vynn30 @juliarchiv3s @fushiguroooozzz @lagataprrr @justachillgirllui @arahiraaai @jheneea@chiefsandwichcrown @bakugouswaif @casssiesthings @duckness-spam-acct @momoewn @reree22222 @kodzu-ken @sarcasticintrovertedsoul @unknownw0css @44ina @ginginha @ri-sa20 @nanamisss @ieathairs @bbatzvil @apobangpowrld @onyxxxxqq @youregettingtickled @zurakoofgintama @gris3o @sanchann

[cxvii666]

“nokia”

a mha college au feat. denki k. & hanta s.

“where's the function?" “—where the fuck the function?” “send the addy—” “where the fuck the function???”

wc: 3.7k

part of the hoe cakes - EP

...starting track

↻ ◁ || ▷ ↺

.....

"guess who just got that big cashmoneyyyyy!!!"

denki kaminari, to much surprise of those who don't know him so well, is an early riser.

that's not to say that the blonde's sleep schedule isn't completely out of wack, because it is. late nights that could barely be counted as nights, more like extremely early mornings, are not infrequent to him. most days he's up till 2am on his playstation, or playing minecraft on his laptop, or rewatching the same three movies.

but he's always up before 7am.

fuelled by nictotine, caffeine, (sometimes ketamine), and sheer willpower.

he enjoys getting up with the sun, the quiet of the house at dawn.

it's peaceful in a way nothing else is. he gets to attempt at quieting his mind. sometimes he's downstairs before bakugou goes on his morning run, so he makes the guy his favourite disgustingly green multivitamin shakes, and in return receives quiet instruction, general life advice, and insightful words of wisdom from the other blonde. because they are both calm in a way they're normally not.

hanta sero, on the other hand, is a master of the lay in. you won't see him before 2pm on a regular day, he'll be upstairs in his room, snoozing, snoring, drooling into his pillow, until either his stomach wakes him up and he leaves his dungeon of his own accord, in search of food or an energy drink, or, someone gets sent up to check on him, to make sure he's not dead or something like that.

on this particular morning, hanta had stumbled downstairs just after midday, slightly buzzing because he had finally bought the pair of sneakers he'd been eyeing up for the last week.

he flops onto the couch, a gangly pile of long limbs and messy brown hair, knocking denki on the leg accidentally-on-purpose. denki looks up briefly, over the top of his book, from where he's resting in the corner of the couch and acknowledges his friend with a nod.

"'bit early for you, ain't it," the blonde mumbles, the frame of his reading glasses slipping slightly as he turns the page.

"shaddup." is all he receives from hanta in return, who then takes a swig of his redbull like he's tryna give himself wings.

"dude, did you hear what i just said?" hanta yawns out, lazily kicking his feet up to rest on the blonde's shin, "the bag just got dropped in my bank account."

"what, you finally got that uber eats refund?" denki snorts, eyes still focused on the printed words on the page, he has to finish this chapter now, else he won't pick the book back up for another two weeks.

"don't be funny," hanta laments, thinking of the food that never got delivered, the money that was never returned, "and fuck uber, fuck the government." denki rolls his eyes at the rant he's already heard, "what do they get out of torturing underpaid students, huh? no loyalty in this game."

"what game?" denki replies, nearly at the end of the page.

"the game of life," he drawls back dryly. "you finish that chapter yet? i wanna go for a smoke."

"almost, the mc is pissing me off though, i don't know if i can finish this."

"what's the book?"

"pride and prejudice."

hanta whistles low and long, head tilted as he picks his phone back up to open depop. "damn," he mutters, thumb pausing over a blurry jpeg of a hoodie that definitely doesn’t justify the £85 price tag, "sorry, mister classic literature."

denki doesn't even glance up. he just hums, flipping another page with the careful indifference of someone pretending they’re not rereading the same paragraph for the third time.

they fall into silence — not heavy, just easy — filled only by the soft tap-tap-tap of hanta’s screen and the occasional creak of the old couch when one of them shifts. sunlight slants through the living room blinds, catching on dust motes and the curl of denki’s blonde hair as he leans deeper into the cushions, glasses slipping slightly down his nose.

hanta’s sprawled out beside him, legs stretched halfway off the couch, socked feet resting dangerously close to denki’s side. he’s locked in, zoned out, scrolling through overpriced streetwear resellers hawking one-of-one drops and faded zip-ups from some underground german brand he can’t even pronounce.

the quiet’s broken by the sharp snap of a book closing.

“you got funds for said smoke?” denki asks, voice dry, already reaching for his phone.

“i haven’t picked up yet,” hanta replies without looking up.

“that’s not what i asked.”

“you’re so annoying.”

“i was gonna text shinsou. he came back yesterday, i’m sure he’s got at least an eighth on him.”

hanta stretches, joints popping. “then yeah. tell him i’ll bank transfer.”

denki raises an eyebrow. “so you do have smoke money.”

hanta tosses his phone up, catches it against his chest. “what did i say earlier? the bag got dropped.”

a beat.

denki glances at his phone, brows lifting. “oh shit. it’s the 30th.”

“there he is,” hanta grins, already anticipating it. “and you know what that means—”

“we got paiddddd” denki sing-songs, jumping up just enough to do a half-assed shoulder shimmy.

hanta kills the moment immediately, as he always does, with a well-timed scoff and a raised brow. “we? bro, who’s this we you speak of?”

denki freezes mid-dance, blinking. “we… like, you and me?” he gestures between them helplessly. “that’s, like, basic grammar, i fear.”

“i mean,” hanta says, voice climbing mock-dramatically, “there is no ‘we’, okay? you don’t have to spend all your free time in that stupid stockroom. ‘sero can you come in today?’ ‘sero we need a full size range of xyz’ ‘sero can you take the bins out?’ ‘sero can you close the store tonight and then open the next morning’—NO. fuck that.”

denki snorts, trying and failing to hide the smirk pulling at his mouth.

hanta sees it and narrows his eyes. “unemployed bastard. shut the fuck up.”

“okay, okay, relax, bruh,” denki says, holding up both hands. “you know what?”

“…what?”

“we should go out tonight.”

“are you kidding? i thought we were locking in. don’t you have, like, five assignments due next—”

“no thoughts. only vibes.”

↻ ◁ || ▷ ↺

by 9pm they’re crammed around a too-small, sticky round table in a bar that smells like old wood and spilled citrus. the lighting’s low and uneven, all weird amber glows and exposed wires, and the music is some indie playlist that’s trying a little too hard to be ironic. something with a harmonica plays over the speakers, no one knows the words, but everyone knows the vibe: overpriced, under-cleaned, maybe cool in a way that’s embarrassing if you think about it too long.

denki’s halfway into his second tequila soda, slouched back against the booth with his knees knocking into hanta’s. his eyes are glassy, hair a little damp at the temples, grinning like someone just told him the funniest joke in the world and he’s still recovering.

hanta’s beside him, obviously crossfaded. talking too loud, gesturing too big with a joint in his hand, cheeks flushed pink from a cocktail that had way more liquor than mixer. he’s half on the seat and half off, manspreading shamelessly and knocking into denki every time he tries to make a point.

kiri’s on denki’s other side, balanced on a chair that definitely wasn’t made for his size, nursing a beer that’s already gone warm, launching into some dramatic story about how he “definitely tore something” at the gym last week.

“nah dude, i swear, i was just squatting and something snapped—”

“your common sense,” bakugou mutters from across the table, not looking up from the glass of whiskey he’s been babysitting for the past twenty minutes.

“fuck off, man,” kirishima laughs, clapping him hard on the shoulder, “just ‘cause i’m built different—”

“built stupid,” bakugou corrects, finally glancing up, eyes narrowed like he’s considering whether the redhead needs to be thrown out the window or just insulted more thoroughly.

shinsou’s wedged between bakugou and the wall, hoodie hood up, sipping something dark and bitter with the look of a man who’s about to start dissociating. he hasn't said much since they sat down, just making faces into his glass every time someone raises their voice — which is often.

denki points across the table suddenly, finger wobbling as he focuses on bakugou. “i’m just saying,” he slurs, “you’re, like, objectively the hottest out of all of us, and that’s so unfair because you’re also mean and rich.”

bakugou doesn’t even blink. just flips him off slowly, deliberately, like he’s done it so many times it’s lost all meaning.

“i think i’m the hottest,” hanta says, almost spilling his drink on his lap. ��in a, like, mysterious way. like… the kinda hot that sneaks up on you.”

“you’re hot in a raccoon-at-3am kinda way,” shinsou mutters into his drink without missing a beat.

hanta pauses. considers. “thank you?”

kiri claps him on the back like he just won a prize. “you’ve got that haunted twink energy. it works for you.”

hanta makes a face like he’s been personally victimised. “okay wow, homophobic and accurate. you guys are on thin fuckin ice.”

they all laugh — loud and messy — drawing a few annoyed looks from the couple at the next table over. denki knocks his knee against hanta’s and hiccups once, eyes fluttering closed like the room’s starting to spin just slightly.

then he suddenly lurches forward, forehead thunking onto the sticky wood of the table as he groans, “can we go somewhere else? shinsou, your internship aged you like milk. i feel like we’re thirty-five. i wanna move. i wanna dance. i want fun.”

“then go,” shinsou says, without even lifting his head.

denki doesn’t even hesitate. he’s already got his phone out, dialing with shaking hands and tequila optimism. he holds the phone to his ear like it owes him money.

“this is gonna end badly,” hanta whispers to kirishima, grinning wide.

“denki, babe, what’s up?” mina answers on the second ring, her voice loud with bass and laughter and probably a little champagne.

“where are you? save me. i’m surrounded by clinically depressed men and i need a serotonin shot.”

“club downtown with the girls. music’s fire. drinks are pink. get your ass here.”

“we’re on our way.”

he hangs up like he just solved a crime and slaps his palm down on the table. “mina’s at the club. we’re going. sero, get up.”

“say less,” hanta says, already trying to climb over the bench with the grace of a baby giraffe.

“absolutely not,” bakugou growls, right as kiri fist-pumps with a too-loud, “hell yeah!”

shinsou sighs like he’s dying, then tips the rest of his drink back like it might bring him peace.

↻ ◁ || ▷ ↺

they leave the bar like a storm — noisy, uncoordinated, half-drunk and dramatic. denki’s leading the charge, coat flapping behind him like a cape as he marches toward the curb, phone in hand and eyes bright with mission.

“someone call a ride,” shinsou mutters, already regretting this.

“on it,” hanta announces, immediately opening instagram instead of uber. “wait, no, shit.”

“i’ll do it,” bakugou growls, snatching the phone out of hanta’s hand. “you idiots’ll end up the other side of the fuckin' country.”

“wow,” hanta says, mock-offended, “it’s giving control issues.”

“it’s giving i don’t want to die in a ditch tonight,” bakugou snaps.

kiri’s standing too close to the street, waving his arms. “is this legal if i flag one down like a taxi—”

“it’s a rideshare, bro!” denki yells, exasperated. “you don’t just... wave at random cars!”

“what if it’s the vibe though?”

the car arrives miraculously only five minutes later, a silver prius that has seen better days. they pile in like a jenga tower mid-collapse — kirishima practically sitting on shinsou, hanta in the middle seat with both elbows out like he owns the place, denki leaning his whole body across the row to yell something incoherent out the window. bakugou slams the door shut with unnecessary force and glares at the driver like sorry in advance.

the entire ride is chaos.

denki insists on playing music and ends up blasting a playlist called “feral thot energy.” hanta starts freestyle rapping over it, badly. kiri tries to harmonize. shinsou has his head against the window with the thousand-yard stare of a man who has made several mistakes in life.

“this is the kind of night where legends are born,” denki declares, arm draped around hanta’s shoulder like a drunk prom date.

“it’s the kind of night where someone gets kicked out of a club,” shinsou mutters.

“same difference.”

↻ ◁ || ▷ ↺

the club hits them like a wave — sound and sweat and heat and light. music thrums through the floor, vibrating up through their shoes, a pulsing beat that makes your ribs buzz. everything’s cast in blue and purple and gold strobe. bodies packed tight, the air thick with perfume, alcohol, and cheap fog machine mist.

mina spots them first — she’s glowing, standing on the low couch in a VIP booth like it’s a stage, waving her drink and grinning like she owns the place. she yells something they can’t hear and beckons them over.

they shove their way through the crowd, hands on shoulders, stumbling into strangers. hanta gets distracted by a girl in platform boots and nearly crashes into a server. kiri’s already hyping himself up, bouncing to the beat, dragging bakugou by the wrist with zero shame.

shinsou disappears into the dark like a shadow, muttering something about getting a drink and being “less near all of you.”

denki’s still laughing when he sees you.

his brain short-circuits. just flatlines for a second.

you’re across the room, leaning against the bar with a drink in hand, face lit up in electric violet from the LED strip beneath the counter. you’re laughing — at what, he doesn’t know — and you look good. criminally good. all done up and shining like you were dipped in starlight and eyeliner.

denki halts mid-step, grabbing hanta’s arm like it’s the only thing anchoring him to earth.

"holy shit."

hanta blinks, following his gaze. he spots you instantly. his entire vibe shifts in half a second.

denki’s shoulders stiffen. hanta’s grin tilts, almost smug.

they don’t say a word — but the battle lines are drawn.

denki smooths his shirt down and straightens up, already plotting, because tonight just got way more interesting.

"bro," the brown eyed boy drawls, his normally nonchalant tone cracking, "you’re joking."

"i’m not. she’s here. she’s right fucking there."

they both just stand there for a beat, frozen in place like idiots in a teen movie.

"we knew this might happen," hanta says, knocking back a too-big sip of his drink like it’ll help. "she’s friends with mina. and mina lives here. and we are, unfortunately, also here."

denki groans, scrubbing a hand down his face. "okay but what do we do?"

"we don’t panic," hanta says, clearly starting to panic. "you like her. i like her. classic romcom setup. we wingman each other. bros helping bros."

"that never works."

"you’re right. but i’m already a teensy bit faded, so my judgment is impaired. let’s do it anyway."

they fist bump like absolute morons. it’s unspoken, the truce. the agreement. the absolute guaranteed disaster they’re about to unleash on themselves.

“denki,” hanta hisses suddenly as they're making their way over to the bar, grabbing his friend by the shoulder like he’s about to keep him from walking into traffic. “don’t do the eyebrow thing. it makes you look insane.”

denki freezes mid-step, brow raised just slightly, lips twitching in what was clearly meant to be a smolder but lands somewhere between drunken anime villain and confused raccoon. his bleached hair is slightly damp from the humidity of the club, strands clinging to his forehead, cheeks already pink with tequila and ego.

“what eyebrow thing?” he says innocently, blinking way too much.

“that thing where you raise one and try to smolder. you look like a drunk ferret.”

denki looks genuinely offended. “you’re so full of shit.”

“don’t fight me on this right now,” hanta says, standing tall, long limbs graceful in that lazy way only he can pull off — baggy jeans slung low, silver chain flashing under the neon. “focus. you’re acting like this is a final boss level. relax.”

before denki can retaliate, you spot them.

your grin is immediate — wide, familiar, a little sharp at the edges like you already know something they don’t. you’re leaning against the bar like you own the place, glass in hand, lips glossy, eyes flicking between the two of them like you’re trying to decide who to bully first.

“well, well, well,” you say, raising your drink. “look who crawled out of the sad boy table.”

“we got tired of being emotionally repressed,” denki replies with a grin, already sliding closer. his chain catches the light, and there’s a faint glitter on his cheek like he walked through a cloud of mina’s body spray.

“also the drinks here are pink. i couldn’t resist.”

“pink drinks do hit different,” you concede, tipping your glass to him.

hanta leans in on the other side of you, effortlessly cool, one elbow braced on the bar like he’s done this a hundred times before — because he has. he flashes a lazy smile. “so who’s your friend?”

you glance sideways, and the guy you’d been chatting with is already edging away like a guy smart enough to take a hint. “just someone mina introduced. he’s chill. not as entertaining as you two, apparently.”

they both beam at that — practically glowing.

and for a while, it’s good.

you talk, or more accurately, yell over the pounding bass. denki shoves a round of lemon drop shots into everyone’s hands like he’s on a mission from god. hanta makes a joke about astrology that makes you snort vodka soda through your nose. denki doubles over laughing and nearly chokes on a lime wedge.

you steal one of his fries when a plate of mystery bar food appears out of nowhere, and he acts like you’ve committed a felony. hanta dramatically narrates a fake backstory for the guy passed out in the booth across the room. it’s chaotic and stupid and loud and fun.

until it stops being that.

it’s little things, at first. denki cuts hanta off halfway through a story, correcting him on some inconsequential detail. hanta retaliates by one-upping him on a joke you weren’t really listening to. denki starts leaning a little too close to you. hanta starts rolling his eyes a little too obviously.

you feel it shift — the air getting tighter.

“you always do this,” hanta mutters later, after denki slides into the booth beside you uninvited, legs brushing yours casually like it’s nothing. “you get weird.”

“i’m not weird,” denki snaps, voice rising just enough to make it obvious that he is.

“you’re doing the thing.”

“what thing?”

“the thing where you pretend to wingman but then you cockblock.”

“you literally just told her i cried during Up.”

“because you did!” hanta says, throwing his arms up. “and it was sweet!”

“it was manipulative.”

“you need therapy.”

you stare at both of them, blinking in mild alarm. “are you guys okay?”

“we’re fine,” they say in unison. then glare at each other.

a beat passes. the silence is immediate and awkward.

“i’m gonna go to the bathroom,” you announce, already sliding out of the booth. it’s the emotional equivalent of pulling the fire alarm.

as soon as you’re gone, the mood collapses in on itself like a dying star.

“we’re idiots,” hanta says, rubbing his hand over his face.

“massive idiots,” denki agrees, eyes on the condensation sliding down his glass.

“she probably thinks we’re in love with each other.”

“we are. just not the sexy kind.”

they sit with that. the weight of it. the creeping shame of being two grown men emotionally combusting over a single girl in a bar with glittery walls and a sticky floor.

“you wanna go home?”

↻ ◁ || ▷ ↺

they stumble into hanta’s room just past midnight, extremely early by their standards, shoes half-kicked off in the doorway, smelling like tequila, sweat, weed, and mutual defeat. the walls glow dimly with the soft wash of purple LEDs, casting shadows over the usual mess — a hoodie draped on the desk chair, empty cans on the windowsill, a pair of skate shoes abandoned under the bed.

denki drops face-first onto the mattress with a dramatic groan. “we blew it.”

“royally,” hanta agrees, toeing off his sneakers and collapsing beside him. “like, worse than the Up thing.”

“i’m never gonna hear the end of the Up thing.”

“you cried so hard," hanta giggles out into the silence.

“don’t start again,” denki mumbles into the blanket. “we’re mourning.”

“mourning what? the shreds of our dignity?”

“that. and the fact that we probably scared her off forever.”

hanta snorts softly. “you think she’ll still come over saturday?”

“she said she would.” denki flips onto his back and stares at the ceiling like it has answers. “you invited her, remember? you were all—come hang, it’ll be chill, we’ll do frozen margaritas, good weed and bad movies.”

“yeah, and you added i’ll make nachos and accidentally seduce you with my helpless little golden retriever charm.”

“it’s not a bit. it’s my burden.”

they lapse into silence again, heads lolling toward each other on the bed, limbs splayed out like they’ve just returned from war.

“you think she’s into you?” hanta asks eventually, voice low, a little too casual to be real.

denki’s quiet for a beat. “i dunno. maybe?”

another pause.

“you?”

hanta lets out a long breath. “maybe.”

they don’t look at each other. they don’t need to. it’s not the first time they’ve liked the same person — just the first time it might actually matter.

“we suck,” denki says again, softer this time.

“at least we suck together.”

"that's so gay."

they fall asleep like that — fully clothed, limbs tangled, laughter still clinging to their skin like the glitter they’ll find in the morning.

...end of playback

↻ ◁ || ▷ ↺

prev track ▷ 93 'til infinity

next track ▷ america's most blunted

[mapengen-com]

Baby?

Elisa is sure Ingrid is pregnant.

Elisa had always been an observant child. She noticed things. Small things. Important things. Things that adults thought she would miss.

Like how Mapi always gave Ingrid the last bite of dessert, even when she pretended to grumble about it. Or how Ingrid always reached for Mapi’s hand when they crossed the street, even though Mapi was definitely old enough to do it on her own.

And last night, Elisa had noticed something very, very important.

She hadn’t meant to spy. Really. She’d just woken up thirsty, shuffled out of bed to get water, and on her way back, she saw them on the couch.

It wasn’t meant to be something big. 

Actually, it wasn’t even meant for Elisa to see it. 

But it was late, and they were too lazy to go to bed, too comfortable to leave the warmth. 

Ingrid was lying on her back, already in her sleep clothes, her head on the armrest. Mapi, for her part, was lying next to the Norwegian, half on top of her, eyes closed as Ingrid’s fingers moved against her scalp, head gently on her abdomen.

Elisa then got a VIP view of when Mapi shifted to lift Ingrid’s shirt in a slow, smooth movement before she pressed her face against the warm skin she found there. Before she could even decide on what to do, she noticed how the Spaniard was pressing small kisses all over there. 

She heard Ingrid purr with the contact, her hand not leaving Mapi’s head, closing her own eyes. 

She heard Mapi’s tiny “I love you”.

Elisa had frozen in the hallway, her little five-year-old brain working very hard.

Why would Mapi kiss Ingrid’s belly? Why would she say "I love you" to it?

Elisa knew why. She’d seen movies, after all.

Ingrid was going to have a baby.

She had gone back to bed after that, eyes wide open, thoughts spinning. She didn’t say anything right away, because grown-ups didn’t always like when kids interrupted their time. But the next morning? Oh, the next morning, she was going to get answers.

~

Elisa was usually an early riser, but as she grew older, she started to realize that it was also nice to stay in bed a little longer, getting to curl under the heavy blankets until either Mapi or Ingrid came to get her up. 

But instead of doing it, that morning she got up as soon as her hazel eyes were open. 

Quietly, she padded toward the living room, hoping to get to see if the couple was still asleep on the couch. 

They weren’t there. 

So, obviously, Elisa headed towards their bedroom. 

Their bedroom door was slightly opened.

It wasn’t unusual. They always left a creak open, just in case Elisa needed them and she didn’t have the height to reach for the handle or some sort of thing. It was a habit at this point. 

In very, very quiet footsteps, she walked down the hall and pushed the door just a bit wider open, just enough so she could poke her head and take a look if they were still asleep. 

She wasn’t sure if they were. 

Ingrid was tucked into Mapi’s side, her face half-hidden on the crook of her neck, the tip of her nose brushing against the Spaniard’s pulse point. Her hand was softly holding Mapi in place, and after every other second, she’d move just enough so she could press a kiss to the column of her throat. 

At the same time, Mapi had an arm wrapped around Ingrid’s waist – and Elisa could be sure of it because at some point during the night, they had kicked the sheets down and now they were only covered from their knees down –, tracing soft patterns on the skin she could reach as she once more had pushed Ingrid’s clothes farther away, and her body was clearly leaning into hers.

Elisa immediately stopped in her tracks. 

Sure, they were cuddly and sappy ever since they got together, and Elisa grew up knowing that it was just their way to express love and care towards each other. But that morning her tiny overthinking brain just assumed they were somehow… More.

So, quietly so they wouldn’t notice she was there, she walked back to her room and got herself comfortable under the blankets, already thinking about possible names for her little sibling.

~

For the next few weeks, Elisa didn’t say anything. She thought about it a lot, of course. She wasn’t dumb. Babies took a long time to grow, after all. And maybe Ingrid and Mapi just hadn’t told her yet because it was a secret. Grown-ups had secrets sometimes.

But then it happened again.

It was a Saturday afternoon, and Elisa was lying on the floor, coloring in one of her books while Mapi and Ingrid cuddled on the couch. Mapi was half-draped over Ingrid again, her face buried against her stomach, mumbling something Elisa couldn’t hear. But she did see her press a kiss there.

That was it. That was definitely proof.

Elisa sat up quickly, abandoning her crayons. She climbed onto the couch without hesitation, settling herself between them, and without saying a word, she pressed her tiny hand right against Ingrid’s stomach.

“What are you doing?” Mapi blinked at her, momentarily confused.

Elisa didn’t even look up. Her small fingers splayed out, her brow furrowed as she focused all her attention on Ingrid’s belly. 

“Seeing if the baby’s kicking yet,” she whispered, very sure of herself.

There was silence.

Mapi turned to Ingrid. Ingrid turned to Mapi.

“Elisa,” Ingrid said carefully, tilting her head. “The what.”

The kid finally looked up at them, eyes wide with the kind of certainty only a five-year-old could have. 

“The baby in your belly.”

Silence again.

But then Mapi snorted.

She didn’t even try to hold it back. She laughed, covering her face with her hand, shaking with it. Ingrid, for her part, looked like she had just completely lost connection to her brain.

“What baby, niña?” The Spaniard asked between one breath and the other. 

Elisa huffed, exasperated, as if they weren’t taking her as seriously as they should.

“Your baby,” she said again, patting Ingrid’s stomach for emphasis. “I saw Ma kissing it. And saying I love you to it.”

Ingrid’s mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again.

Mapi, still laughing, finally lifted her head and pressed a loud, obnoxious kiss to Ingrid’s cheek. 

“Oh, my god,” she wheezed. “She thinks you’re pregnant.”

“I…” Ingrid spluttered. “That’s not…”

Elisa looked back and forth between them, her tiny face scrunching in confusion, a fraction of sadness in the middle of all the confusion.

“…There’s no baby?”

“No, Elisa,” Ingrid groaned, rubbing a hand down her face. “There’s no baby.”

“Then why were you kissing her belly?” She looked at Mapi, tilting her head to the side.

“Because I love her,” she said simply, squeezing Ingrid’s waist affectionately. “And I like touching her.”

“That’s weird,” Elisa looked deeply unimpressed. 

Mapi just laughed harder. Ingrid, who was now fully red in the face, sighed dramatically, probably regretting most of her life decisions that led her to that moment.

“You live in a very affectionate household, Elisa,” Mapi insisted again.

“So… No baby?” The kid crossed her arms, still processing this new information. 

“No baby,” Ingrid confirmed.

“…Can we get one?”

“No.”

~

A few weeks had passed, and Ingrid had assumed Elisa had finally let go of the ridiculous pregnancy idea.

She had been wrong.

That night, the three of them were lounging on the couch. Ingrid was stretched out on her back, one arm behind her head in only a sports bra and shorts, while Mapi was draped across her, half on top of her, half sprawled against the cushions.

It was their usual lazy evening routine. The TV was on, but neither of them was really watching. Mapi, being her usual cuddly self, had her cheek pressed against Ingrid’s bare abdomen, but she shifted to press a few featherlight kisses to the warm skiing after a moment. She didn't even think about it, or about what Elisa thought that meant – it was just something she did.

What they didn’t notice was Elisa standing just outside the living room, watching very closely.

Her little eyes went wide.

She didn’t say anything. She just turned and walked away, very slowly, like she had just uncovered some classified information. 

“...Did you see that?” Ingrid asked, looking down at Mapi for a second. 

“See what?” Mapi, still resting her head on Ingrid’s stomach, hummed without lifting her head. 

“Elisa just walked away like she was witnessing a crime.”

That got Mapi’s attention. She lifted her head, frowning. 

“What?”

Before Ingrid could explain, Elisa returned.

This time, she had her tiny arms crossed over her chest, staring at Ingrid’s stomach like it was hiding a huge secret.

Without a word, she climbed onto the couch, squeezed herself into the space between Ingrid and the armrest, and stared.

“...Eli?” Ingrid blinked.

“You lied,” she pointed an accusatory finger at her. 

"Oh my god."

“Told you she wasn’t over it,” Mapi, of course, immediately grinned. She sat up, pressing her fist against her mouth to keep from laughing. 

“You said you weren’t pregnant,” the continued, eyes narrowing. “But you keep letting Ma do that.”

“Because she’s annoying, baby,” Ingrid sighed and rubbed her face. 

Elisa didn’t look convinced. She turned to Mapi instead. 

“Why do you do it?”

“Because I like her,” Mapi was barely able to contain her laugh, hiding it behind her hand. 

“But why there?”

“For fun,” she teased. “It makes her flustered.”

“We are not doing this again,” Ingrid mumbled under her breath, though there was no real bite in her tone.

But Elisa wasn’t done. She sat back against the cushions, tapping her chin like she was deep in thought.

Then, very seriously, she reached out and poked Ingrid’s stomach.

"Eli!" Ingrid yelped, swatting her hand away.

The kid’s expression didn’t change. She just nodded knowingly. 

“I think the baby is still too small to feel.”

Mapi lost it.

She collapsed against Ingrid, burying her face in her shoulder, shaking with laughter.

“Elisa, baby,” the Norwegian insisted firmly, trying to keep her patience. “There is no baby.”

“You can tell me the truth now," she whispered, leaning in conspiratorially. “I won’t tell anyone.”

“There is no truth to tell!” Ingrid tried again, exasperated. “I am not pregnant!”

Elisa leaned back, eyeing her suspiciously. Then, she turned to Mapi. 

“But you’ll tell me if she is, right?”

“Of course, Eli,” she gasped dramatically, pressing a hand to her heart. 

“María!” Ingrid yelled, smacking her shoulder.

Elisa nodded, satisfied. 

“Okay. But I still think there’s a baby in there.”

“I’m moving out,” Ingrid muttered, rubbing her forehead.

But Elisa wasn’t finished. She scooted closer, resting a tiny hand against Ingrid’s stomach, and gently pressed her ear against it.

“What are you doing?” Ingrid asked, horrified at what she could answer.

“Listening,” Elisa said simply.

“For what?”

“Kicking.”

Mapi cackled once again.

“Elisa, please,” Ingrid groaned. “There is nothing to hear because there is no baby.”

“Are you sure?” She frowned, sitting up again.

“Very sure.”

“Really sure?”

“Extremely sure.”

Elisa sighed dramatically and flopped back against the couch. 

“Okay. But if you do get a baby in there, you have to tell me first.”

“Okay,” Mapi grinned. 

“María, please!”

Elisa, seemingly satisfied with this arrangement, relaxed against Ingrid’s side and pulled her knees close to her chest. She was quiet for a few seconds before deciding on what to say. 

“I was gonna be a good big sister…” She sighed. 

“I am going to bed,” Ingrid sighed too.

“Goodnight,” Mapi said sweetly, leaning down to kiss her stomach again.

“STOP DOING THAT!”

“Oh my god,” Mapi wheezed, burying her face in Ingrid’s shoulder. “This is so good.”

Ingrid, meanwhile, was staring at Elisa in sheer disbelief, noticing how the kid seemed to be very much plotting her next argument on why Ingrid had a baby in her belly when she definitely did not. 

“Elisa, no,” she said, shaking her head. “I am very much not pregnant.”

“But you could be!” She insisted.

“Bebé, I love where your head’s at,” Mapi, still having the time of her life, teased as she grinned. “But trust me, there is no baby in Ingrid’s belly.”

Elisa frowned, clearly skeptical. 

“But you were kissing it,” she accused.

Ingrid groaned, running a hand down her face for the millionth time that night. 

“Because we were cuddling,” she said, exasperated.

Mapi, ever the instigator, threw in a mischievous, “It is a very nice belly,” just to watch Ingrid glare at her.

The kid, however, was still not deterred. 

“But maybe the baby is still tiny,” she argued, proving to both women how she somehow managed to get both of their stubbornness summed up in that very tiny kid.

“There is no baby,” Ingrid repeated, her voice a little strained.

“Did you check?” Elisa looked her up and down, then glanced at Mapi. 

That was it. Mapi completely collapsed into laughter again, slumping against Ingrid’s side like she was physically incapable of holding herself up. Ingrid, meanwhile, groaned so dramatically she might as well have melted into the couch.

“Elisa,” the Norwegian sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I think I would know if I was pregnant.”

The child kept narrowing her eyes, then crossed her arms. 

“Okay,” she relented – for now. “But I’d be a very good big sister. I’d build the baby a lot of things with my Legos, and I’d even let it have my bed for the weekends.”

“Only for the weekends?” Mapi asked mid-laugh. 

“There’s no baby!” Ingrid tried, but she knew she was outnumbered in that conversation.

[farmerstarter]

The Bachelors and How They Sleep

hello lovelies! Have some more of my headcanons. These HCs are for a gn! reader. If you have any requests then feel free to send me an ask! Reblogs and likes are greatly appreciated 🌷🤍

Alex:

🏈 Moves a lot during his sleep. But he doesn't outright punch you by accident. You always seem to end up being under him.

🏈 Mumbles a lot too. One time, you woke up to him counting to himself, just like how he counts his bicep curls.

🏈 Wakes up early, just a few moments before you. He says it's because he needs to exercise the first thing in the morning. But it's actually because he felt you move out of the bed and he doesn't like to be alone.

🏈 Gives you all the pillows to make you comfortable. He says it's important for your muscles to get a good night's rest. He ends up hogging the blankets.

Elliott:

🪶 Sleeps like a dead man. He doesn't move at all, save for the occasional turning to the side to snuggle against you.

🪶 It takes him a while to finally succumb to slumber. He says it's because he's used to listening to the waves of the beach to fall asleep.

🪶 Silk pajamas, the man has sets of them. He keeps his hair down while sleeping so you sometimes wake up to your whole face being covered by his locks.

🪶 He's a late riser, mostly because he sleeps late too. He tells you that he writes better at night and he doesn't allow himself to rest until he's finished writing one chapter at least.

Harvey:

🛩️ Sometimes, Harvey forgets to take off his glasses before he goes to bed. Which is why he has so many broken ones that he tries to hide from you by kicking them under the bed.

🛩️ Professional cuddler. He always makes sure you're in his arms or vice versa. He needs to touch you in order to get a good night's rest. Doesn't matter if you two are spooning or if it's just his hand on top of your arm.

🛩️ Snores a lot. Goes "hoooonk mimimimimi hoooonk mimimimi"

🛩️ I like to imagine him wearing those pajamas that's like just a long night gown and those floppy pointy hats. You know the one.

Sam:

🎸 Alex mumbles in his sleep, Sam straight up sings. Usually it's outbursts of the choruses of his songs, sometimes he'd hum the tune out. You have a video of him playing air drums while sleeping. You sent the video to Abigail and Sebastian, and they never let Sam hear the end of it.

🎸 He wakes up super late most of the time. But on the rare occasion where he doesn't, he cooks breakfast and serves it to you in bed. Complete with a flower in a vase and everything.

🎸 Always kisses you before he falls asleep. Straight up drags you to his side of the bed to peck your lips.

🎸 Would take off his shirt to put it on you. He says he doesn't want you getting cold at night and waves you off when you refuse, worried about his wellbeing. "I don'T gEt sicK eaSiLy, Babe," ends up in the clinic to get meds the next day.

Sebastian:

👾 It's my headcanons and I say he moves a LOT during his sleep. So much so that you end up on the floor when you wake up. He refuses to believe that he does that.

👾 His sleep schedule depends on you. He refuses to sleep unless you're already in the house. He doesn't like the feeling of sleeping when he doesn't know you're safe. You'll find him waiting for you on the porch.

👾 Prefers to sleep on the side of the bed where the sun doesn't shine.

👾 Immediately feels it when you get out of the bed. And he wakes up immediately, groggy and needing a few minutes to register where he is. Even if you're just going to get a glass of water, Sebastian would wake up and ask where you're going.

Shane:

🐣 This man says good night to all the chickens in your coop before he goes to bed, I decided.

🐣 He used to get little to no hours of sleep but after moving in with you, he tries to get enough sleep as possible.

🐣 Hugs you in his sleep, all the time.

🐣 He wakes up the same moment you do, sometimes earlier. He gave himself the job to take care of your farm animals so you don't have to work too hard. So he wakes early to get the job done as soon as possible to spend breakfast with you.

🐣 My brother in Yoba, he would wake up in the middle of the night to get a snack. You would sometimes catch him in the middle of drinking cows milk straight out of the bottle in front of the open fridge.