#can you tell what I’m thinking about right now?

[rafesangelita]

…SHERIFF!RAFE X FARMER’S!DAUGHTER!READER AU

⋆𐙚₊˚🍺⊹♡

SHERIFF!RAFE X FARMER’S!DAUGHTER!READER who spend a lottt of time in the back seat of his cop car. they have an age gap that would raise all kinds of alarm if the people of the small town they resided in ever found out. sheriff!rafe is beefy, his muscles bulging through every shirt he wears. farmer’s!daughter!reader is too busy raising hell all around town in hopes that someone calls the police station so rafe can handcuff her and get her act cleaned up. “you can’t just go actin’ a fool whenever you feel like screwin’ i mean it!” he’s pulling her underwear up her thighs as she lays face down against his leather seats, completely fucked out. “whatever you say, dad.” rafe is groaning at her words as he uncuffs her. “yeah? i oughta’ take you home right now then and let him know about all the trouble you been gettin’ into.”

SHERIFF!RAFE X FARMER’S!DAUGHTER!READER who go on their dates in the next town over so they don’t run the risk of being caught by any locals. farmer’s!daughter!reader who teases rafe all the time, calling him an ‘old man’ and saying he’s a perv for entertaining her antics. “there’s a motel not too far from here.. just ‘sayin.” there’s a hint of a smile playing on her lips, the older man in front of her looking unamused. “you’re suggesting that i take you to a motel and you’re callin’ me a perv? get outta here.” despite his faux disinterest, they end up checking into the said motel for the night, his stomach slapping against her clit as he fucks her into oblivion on the dingy mattress of the cheap room. sheriff!rafe who actually knows farmer’s!daughter!reader’s father very well, both of them going all the way back to their high school days.

SHERIFF!RAFE X FARMER’S!DAUGHTER!READER who can’t stand each other sometimes. rafe is scolding her, telling her that she shouldn’t be wearing those ‘godforsaken’ shorts of hers since it draws a lot of the wrong attention. “you’re just mad because jj maybank is wondering what color panties i have on..” she’s leaning into the window of his cop car, his jaw clenching as he eyed the scruffy looking blonde who stood not too far away, shot gunning hot beers with his friends. “mad at the ‘maybank kid? please, darlin’ he’s a joke.” she’s laughing at his words, getting close to his ear before whispering; “i’m glad you think so, because i’m about to go over there and tell him i’m not wearing any..” that sets rafe off and it isn’t long before he’s slamming jj down against the hood of his car and arresting him for underaged drinking..

SHERIFF!RAFE X FARMER’S!DAUGHTER!READER who are such polar opposites, even they don’t understand how they work together. sheriff!rafe has a rough exterior, seemingly cold, closed off and never smiles, whereas farmer’s!daughter!reader is dancing on tables in bars she shouldn’t even be at, and being a little minx to see how many free drinks she can get out of the regulars. so much so, that rafe started patrolling around town at night so he could stop her from doing something stupid. and of course, without fail, he’s getting a radio call saying there’s been a report of a quote, unquote ‘young woman resisting arrest and assaulting an officer.’ and rafe is arriving onto the scene almost immediately, cursing under his breath when he see’s her being held down by at least four of his men in uniform.

SHERIFF!RAFE X FARMER’S!DAUGHTER!READER who eventually have to get serious with one another, both of them knowing that what they have is anything but casual. sheriff!rafe who doesn’t know how to go about it, so he decides it’s best to just be blunt. “so uhm— what do ‘ya say to moving out of your pop’s and living with me instead?” farmer’s!daughter!reader is staring at him from across the table at their favorite diner. “what?” she’s frozen, holding her knife over her plate of fluffy pancakes. “are you serious?” rafe is nodding as he takes a cigarette out of his pocket, placing it between his lips. “yeah, but this rowdy act of yours needs to stop. m’not gonna have you actin’ reckless if i’m the one taking care of you.” he doesn’t have to tell her twice before she’s nodding, throwing her arms around the grumpy sheriff before pressing kisses to his cheek.

[olive-main]

oooo if you’re interested would love to see your take: reader is Azriel’s mate, nobody knows. The inner circle keeps trying to set him up with females (including Elaine & Gwyn). They like reader but don’t view her as an option for being his partner. Lots of angst, she’s hurting, she overhears them saying she’s not an option for him. Up to you what happens for her and Azriel. Loved your last story, and that you wanted more angst ideas!! And if this isn’t what you’re looking for, all good!

Between Us Alone

Pairing: Azriel x Reader

Summary: Azriel’s mate overhears a conversation that shakes her confidence in their hidden bond, but he reminds her that love, even in shadows, is unbreakable.

Wc: 1.2k

A/N: Annndddd welcome back to our regularly scheduled programming. This time I come with the gift of some fluff (with angst ofc bcs duh—who do y’all think I am?) Enjoy the happy endings while they last…..evil laugh

——

The corridors of the House of Wind were quiet, save for the faint hum of conversation that drifted from Rhysand’s office. You’d gone looking for Azriel, hoping he might steal away from his “boys’ night” early and join you at your shared apartment.

A secret, the two of you. Hidden in plain sight. Quite fitting for Rhysand’s spymasters.

It was exhilarating at first—the quiet smiles across rooms, the fleeting brushes of hands, and the stolen glances when no one else was looking. But there were cracks now, small fissures of insecurity that made you wonder if keeping the bond private had been the right choice.

Your footsteps slowed as you neared Rhys’s office, voices clear now, though you didn’t mean to eavesdrop. You were about to knock when you caught the sound of Cassian’s boisterous laughter.

“Oh, come on, Az,” Cassian said, his tone teasing. “You’ve been spending all that time with Gwyn. Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it.”

“Gwyn’s sweet,” Rhysand added. “And she clearly enjoys your company. You’d make a good pair.”

Your heart clenched painfully, the words hitting you like a physical blow.

Azriel’s reply was quieter, almost unreadable. “Gwyn is a friend. I’m not looking for… that.”

Cassian scoffed. “You say that now, but it’s been centuries, Az. When was the last time you even tried to let someone in? Gwyn’s perfect for you—kind, strong, clever. She gets you.”

“She’s not the only option,” Rhys said smoothly. “There are others. Nesta’s mentioned a few priestesses who would be good matches.”

Cassian nodded in agreement. “There’s also Y/N.”

You pressed your hand to the doorframe, your breaths shallow as you heard Cassian say your name.

“No, I don’t see them together. They rarely speak to each other outside of missions and a few shared words at dinners.” Rhysand says with a shake of his head as if the thought of you and Azriel together was the most unlikely thing he could think of.

You shouldn’t have stayed, shouldn’t have listened, but you couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. They didn’t mean to hurt you—you knew that. You’d always been on the periphery of their circle, a friend but never a true equal in their eyes. Azriel’s shadows had been your sanctuary, his quiet love a solace you cherished.

But to hear them speak so casually, as if you weren’t even a possibility…

Azriel’s voice cut through, firm and unyielding. “I don’t need you to play matchmaker. I can handle my own life.”

“You’re avoiding the question,” Cassian said, clearly amused.

“Drop it,” Azriel snapped, his tone brooking no argument.

The room fell silent after that, but the damage was done. You turned and fled, the ache in your chest twisting tighter with every step.

—

The space you shared with Azriel was small but cozy, tucked away in a quiet corner of Velaris where no one thought to look. It was your haven, the only place you could truly be yourselves without prying eyes or whispered questions.

But tonight, it felt suffocating.

You sank onto the couch, wrapping a blanket around yourself as the doubts clawed at your mind.

This charade was necessary. You both knew that. If they ever found out you and Azriel had been together for months—years, now—it would complicate everything. Not just for him, but for you.

As Azriel’s partner, you worked in the shadows as he did, your work as vital and delicate as his own. Secrecy was second nature to you both, and you’d agreed early on that revealing your bond—to anyone—was too risky.

You’d thought you could handle it. But moments like this, when they talked about Azriel’s love life like you didn’t exist, like you weren’t his, made you question how much more you could endure.

You told yourself it wasn’t Azriel’s fault. He hadn’t encouraged them. He’d even told them to stop. But the weight of their words lingered, stirring fears you’d tried so hard to bury.

What if they were right? What if Azriel deserved someone like Gwyn, someone who could stand beside him without the need for secrecy?

You didn’t hear the front door open, too lost in your thoughts to notice the familiar sound of Azriel’s footsteps until he was standing in front of you.

“Something’s wrong,” he said immediately, his hazel eyes scanning your face. His shadows swirled around him, restless and sharp. “What happened?”

You shook your head, forcing a smile. “It’s nothing. Just tired.”

His brow furrowed, and he crouched in front of you, his hands resting gently on your knees. “Don’t lie to me.”

The sincerity in his voice nearly broke you. You looked away, your throat tightening as you tried to hold back tears.

“Y/N,” he said softly, tilting your chin up so you had no choice but to meet his gaze. “Tell me.”

You hesitated, the words sticking in your throat. But you couldn’t keep it in any longer.

“I went to Rhys’s office,” you admitted quietly. “I was going to find you, but… I heard you all talking.”

Azriel stiffened, his jaw tightening. “What did you hear?” He already knew. There was only one part of the conversation that could’ve had you so distraught.

You swallowed hard. “They… they were trying to set you up with someone. Gwyn, mostly. Rhys mentioned others.” You laughed bitterly, the sound hollow. “They said I wasn’t even an option.”

Azriel’s eyes darkened, his shadows curling tighter around him.

“They didn’t mean it to hurt me, I know that” you added quickly, seeing how Azriel was ready to go back and pummel his brothers. “They don’t know about us. But… it still hurt.”

He exhaled sharply, standing and pacing the room. His hands curled into fists at his sides. “They had no right—”

“They care about you,” you interrupted. “They want you to be happy. And maybe they’re right. Maybe you’d be better off with someone like Gwyn. Someone who—”

“Stop.”

The word was a command, sharp and unyielding. Azriel crossed the room in an instant, kneeling before you again. He took your hands in his, his grip firm but gentle.

“Don’t you dare doubt this,” he said fiercely. “Don’t you dare doubt us.”

Tears spilled over, and he reached up to brush them away, his touch achingly tender.

“You are my mate,” he said, his voice breaking. “You. Not Gwyn, not anyone else. You are the only one I want, the only one I will ever want.”

“But they—”

“They’re idiots,” he said flatly. “I’ll deal with them. But don’t let their ignorance make you doubt what we have.”

You searched his face, finding only unwavering certainty in his eyes.

“I love you,” he said, his voice softening. “More than I thought I was capable of. And I don’t care if they don’t see it. I see it. I feel it.”

A broken laugh escaped you, relief washing over you like a tide. “I love you too.”

He pulled you into his arms, holding you tightly as if he could shield you from the world.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I never wanted you to feel like this. I thought keeping the bond private would protect us, but if it’s hurting you—”

“It’s not,” you said quickly. “Not really. I just… I needed to hear this. To hear you.”

He pulled back just enough to press his forehead to yours. “You’ll never have to doubt me again.”

——

Aren’t they just so sweet *sigh*. Thank you for reading <3

Requests are still open ;)

[stxrslutrestored]

SILENT TREATMENT

pairing; rafe cameron x sweetie reader

summary; even after your little confrontation, rafe continues to neglect you, so when he tries to give you his affections, you decide to give him a taste of his own medicine, little do you know how well that may end for you

content; body worship, oral (f receiving)

authors note; re upload! part 2 of waiting for you

last night was good, you wake up feeling relieved, happy to have finally resolved your issue with rafe. you can’t wait to spend time with him today. you roll over when you feel him stir, a smile pasted on your lips, “mornin’ rafe,” you grin, hand coming up to caress his sleepy face. he looks so pretty in the mornings. 

a little smile creeps onto his lips as well, his eyes peel open and he meets your loving gaze, “hi sweetheart.” 

you move to cuddle closer to him, but to your surprise he sits up. you sit up too, but don’t follow him as he gets out of bed and grabs his clothes. 

you tilt your head in slight confusion, but you keep smiling, “where you goin’? we only just woke up.” you’re dreading the next sentence to come out of his mouth. 

he nods absently, “yeah uh.. I just—” he points to the door over his shoulder, “got some work to do.” his voice trails off, and before you know it, he’s walking out the door. 

son of a bitch. 

you sit there for a few minutes in the company of your own silence. you can’t believe it. you’d had a whole fight last night, he’d acknowledged that he was prioritising work too much, and now, at seven in the morning, with no deadline, he’s gone back to it. without paying you a single glance at that. 

you get over it, sure, you are totally over it. you spend the day with yourself, but you can’t help but be peeved the entire time. in the evening you make yourself a meal, only yourself, one portion. rafe is nowhere to be seen, so why should you cook for him?

when he comes downstairs you are on the couch watching the tv with your meal in a tray on your lap. he walks over to the kitchen where the empty pot lies still on the stove. upon opening the lid of the pot and finding nothing his face falls, “you didn’t cook for both of us?” he asks, brows furrowed as he speaks to the back of your head. 

“I didn’t know you wanted food.” you say, “been workin’ all day, didn’t even know if you were gonna come down.” you take another mouthful of your meal.

“what am I supposed to eat?” his face contorts in slight frustration. he looks like a kicked puppy. he hadn’t had to actually think about what to get for dinner for ages, you’d always taken care of it.

“I don’t know,” you put a sickly sweet twinge in your voice, “you could get takeout… or cook. do you know how to do that?” you know it’s a bit of a mean comment but god dammit you’re hurt. he’s hurt you and you will hurt him back until he realises how shitty he’s treated you. 

it continues all week. the snarky comments and disregards of each other. rafe keeps to his work and you keep to yourself. 

you both ignore it with great passion. neither of you caring to acknowledge all the feelings, knowing that when you do, it will be a turmoil that you just don’t want to face.

of course it has to happen, and in a turn of unexpected events, it’s rafe who initiates the conversation. 

you’re just getting into your night clothes when he enters the room, speaking your name. he leans against the doorframe to talk to you. “you look nice.” he says bluntly. 

you smile, but you don’t look up at him, “thankyou.” you slip your nightdress on and then stand to walk over to bed. 

he sighs and meets you before you can sit down, “uhm.. d’you wanna.. maybe do something..” he asks, it’s awkward, he barely ever has to ask, normally it just happens. his hand rests on your hip. 

you shrug, “I don’t know.. I’m pretty tired actually.” you tell him, looking up at him, and yet it’s not an intimate eye contact like it should be right before you climb into bed with him.

“come on.” he murmurs, “let’s just.. be together y’know.” he smirks tentatively, rubbing your hip now, but you don’t return his energy. 

“no. I think I’d rather just go to sleep. you can lie with me if you want.” you make to move past him but he stops you, holding you back. 

“no.” he raises his voice slightly but quickly corrects his tone. “no— no you’re- you’re ignorin’ me.” he pulls you in front of him, his head cranes down just a little bit to keep your gaze. “I know why. okay— I get it but— I- I can’t make it up to you if you don’t let me.” 

you shake your head, “I don’t know what you’re talking about rafe,” you speak so matter of factly, “I just wanna go to sleep right now.” 

“no. no.” he pushes you back, “let— lemme make it up to you.” he speaks, frowning in upset, “I can show you I- let me show you that I’m sorry okay.” 

you furrow your eyebrows, it’s not like rafe to speak like this, he’s never sorry for anything he does, he believes every action he takes has a purpose and that nobody has a right to complain about them. rafe saying sorry is basically him admitting he’s completely and utterly pussy whipped. 

you stay sceptical though, “mhm. what are you gonna do to show me rafe? fuck me? again? for the one hundredth something time in our relationship?” you raise an eyebrow.

rafe stutters, thoughts faltering as you call out the plan he thought to be impeccable. “I’m- I’m not just gonna fuck you.. okay I- I-”

“you’re what? gonna make love to me? touch my innocence? be intimate—” the agitation in your voice starts to come through, you do just want to get into bed. 

his hands come to your shoulders, but the touch is gentle, not firm or commanding like it normally is. he hesitates for a moment and then makes a decisive noise. suddenly he’s lowering all the way to his knees, hands still firm on your shoulders.

“I- I love you okay.” he looks up to you, blinking away the tears forming in his eyes. his hands pull at your nightdress, tugging it off and discarding it to the floor. his hands run down your body. 

“love this body,” he says, “love you. love you so much.” he kisses your lower tummy, maybe in an effort to hide his now falling tears. you didn’t think your silent treatment would provoke such an emotional reaction from him.

“rafe…” you frown, hand coming to the back of his head as he looks right back up to you. you think about telling him to leave it because you feel bad, but then you realise that this despair in him could get you something good, and so you decide to be selfish. “show me.” you tell him, “show me how much you love me.”

rafe’s head lowers and he begins to move down your body. he starts to place wet open mouthed kisses on every spot that his face passes and his hands follow after. he works his way all the way down until he’s kissing just above your pussy. 

“god.” he exhales, “gonna— gonna show you okay.” his hands come up to support your hips as he brings his face down again and his open mouth comes into contact with your most sensitive spot. 

you seethe a breath, legs weakening from the contact but his grip on you is strong and he keeps you upright as he begins to move his mouth. 

he kisses and sucks with ease, tongue swirling around your clit. you have to hold back surprise at the fact he’s so good at this, you’re not sure he’s ever eaten you out before. 

he lets out little murmurs and breaths that seem to send vibrations through your entire body. you have to throw your head back in pleasure, you feel so good.

rafe comes back for a breath, pulling away with a pop. his lips and chin are glistening with your wetness, he looks up to you with wide eyes and swollen lips. 

“do you believe me.” he asks breathlessly, he looks so desperate. so desperate. you take sympathy on him, his hurt puppy look, those wide sad eyes.

you nod, “I believe you. I know you love me.” you smile down at him. he lets out a breath of relief, a smile forming on his own shiny lips. 

he keeps your gaze for a moment and then he goes back down, now with a newfound energy that just makes it so much better. with his face still buried in your pussy he makes to turn you around so that you can fall back onto the bed. you realise now, that you are in for a good night.

[lovieku]

TRUE LOVE ⋆ 정국

when you and jeon jeongguk's paths cross again, you question if having a crush on the school's emo and alternative boy was really just a phase, or if it was true love after all.

⋆⁺₊❅. 5/6 from christmas & chill

pairing tattoo artist!jk x fem reader

genre fluff, smut, grumpy & sunshine, somewhat f2l

warnings jk 24 | oc 24, jk thinks he’s too cool for love, oc suffers from a chronic case of “i can fix him”, she eventually does, oc simps HARDDD and jk only pretends to be unaffected, yea he’s a bit of a dick sometimes but he’s also Very funny, brief description of panic attacks, male masturbation, kissing, idk what else to add i just rly rly love them and will think of them for the entirety of xmas season

word count 10.2k

author’s note hi lovies 🩷 it’s my last time with c&c 🙁 i’m kinda emotional omg… it’s been such a fun, warm and lovely week, and i love each one of you for showing endless support to this project <33 i’ll keep trying to not disappoint… please tell me if you like this!!! thank u always and always 🩷 luv u <3

banner by the gorgeous @awrkive ⊹₊⟡⋆

On the first day of December, your path crosses with thee Jeon Jeongguk’s after enough years for your brain to trip slightly before recognising him. But it would have been impossible not to—there’s likely a whole, well-preserved section of your thinking organ dedicated to that mortifying phase of high school, when your hormones turned life into an endless internal tug-of-war.

The moment your eyes widen at having him stand in front of you, you’re yanked unceremoniously into the past, brought back to buried, locked and left to gather dust feelings that have your teenage self’s screams echoing within you in a chorus of delight and cringe.

Jeongguk, on the other hand, is simply following his duties as a tattoo artist. When he catches sight of you next to his appointed client on such a breezy day, the cold December air starting to find its space even in the confines of his studio, he only nods his chin upward at you in slow recognition.

It’s awkward, at first. Only because you make it.

You’d volunteered to accompany Eunbi, your best friend, to get her first tattoo as an early Christmas self-gift. Your mission was clear: support her, hold her hand if the pain became unbearable (though you’re probably the least dependable person when it comes to making clarity in situations of panic, as seen right now), and be the first to bask in her excitement as she finally sees what she’s always pictured to be inked on the skin of her forearm. A blue whale tattoo, large enough to make you wince just thinking about the needlework.

You’d never go through something like that. Never.

And that’s exactly what’s showing on your face when you’re met with Jeongguk’s full sleeve of tattoos, leaving you rooted to the spot.

You’d always known him to be the different kid, the quiet one with forced sharp eyes that canonically listened to alternative rock and glared at anyone who dared approach, whether to tease him or befriend him. He’d convinced himself that no one could ever understand him.

See, you’d instead fooled yourself into thinking you were the exception. That you did understand him.

Fourteen-year-old you had gone through some weird phases, and the one that resurfaces now at the vision of his adult self is the one centered entirely around him. You unashamedly had the biggest crush on Jeongguk. To you, he was mysterious and edgy—in an effortlessly cool way.

You’d tried everything. Offered him your lunch more times than you were left with any for yourself. Even cut your bangs to have them fall over your eyes to mimic his fringe, dyed a strand in blue, overhauled your wardrobe to align with his back-and-grey one. None of it worked. He never noticed.

But, thinking of it now, there’s no way he didn't. He definitely did. How could any boy turn a blind eye to a lovesick girl’s heartfelt Valentine’s letter, a hopeless romantic girl who almost cried on the spot when she got rejected? Jeongguk just chose to willingly ignore it.

These are all valid reasons as to why your functions seem to slow down in his unexpected presence. And you’re not going to deny nor fake that his calm, almost detached demeanor doesn’t flow through your body and right to your left eye, making it twitch with a slight tremor.

Yet, you must also admit that your teenage self was onto something. Jeongguk has changed drastically but he’s also stayed the same. You think fourteen-year-old him would be proud of where he is right now. Two piercings on his lower lip and one on his eyebrow, intricate ink tracing up his muscled arm, his… muscled arms. Wow. And then, his studio. His own studio, a place for him and his passion, one that he made into his job. That’s undeniably cool.

Maybe just not cool enough for you to be gaping like an idiot as he moves with purpose, adjusting your friend’s arm to position the stencil he had prepared, perfectly fitting in the space she had chosen. His muscles flex with every shift, and it’s impossible for you to go past that with the way the black beater he’s wearing is loose on his torso, but still clinging on his chest.

Eunbi notices, of course. You don’t have time to feel embarrassed and in return she doesn’t even try to hide her amusement when your usual chatter dries up entirely, only gulping obnoxiously noisily and alternating that with nervous silences. Jeongguk, too, catches on.

He’d always known you as obnoxious and noisy. In, huh, a good way. Or whatever.

Jeongguk just agrees that you were (and probably still are, if the pastel yellow skirt softly flowing down your legs paired with a cozy cream sweater and the full toothed grin you shoot at your friend are any indicators) the pinpoint embodiment of his opposite. You’ve always been talkative, smiley, and friendly, eager to help and to receive help, not in the slightest ever turning down the opportunity to blabber on, and on, and on.

Honestly, Jeongguk doesn’t think he ever truly listened to a single word of your rambling back in the day, especially during those times when you’d bounce up to him and launch into enthusiastic rants about obscure alternative bands he himself hadn’t even heard of. He respected the hustle, though. He’d always wondered where you found the time and energy to immerse yourself in music like that.

He much preferred when you were less trying so hard to be him and mirror his tastes, more when you gave up on impressing him and simply stayed true to yourself, the girl whose heart belonged to Justin Bieber and One Direction. Truthfully, he fucked with them. Not that he’d ever admit it, of course. His quiet, brooding image wouldn’t survive that revelation.

What he respected the most was your resilience. After all the times he rejected you and your awkward blurts of confessions, you still didn’t think it was enough of a reason for your villain origin story to take off, and instead remained the same frustratingly positive ray of sunshine you’d always been.

Now, as Jeongguk works on the tattoo in front of him, the very design that caused all these long-buried memories to rise back, his dark eyes flick toward you sitting on a stool in a near corner every now and then, a hint of confusion in his expression each time you take more than five seconds to reply to his small talk.

It’s just, you’re a bit taken aback. Since when does he do small talk? The foreign smoothness with which Jeongguk handles interactions is so far removed from the sullen boy you used to know. You’re not prepared for this version of him. It’s disarming, to say the least.

Enough time has passed for you to settle into the odd scenario, your current best friend and your long-standing high school crush in the same room. Slowly but surely, your curiosity sparkles again, and the signature tendency to let thoughts tumble out of your mouth unchecked returns to you naturally.

“Ouch, that looks painful.”

Jeongguk snorts, eyes trained on Eunbi’s arm as he glides the tattoo needle with precise strokes that have his brows pinching and the tip of his tongue peeking out from the corner of his lips, a habit you remember from the past but one you’ve never found quite so distracting before.

Still, he multitasks and responds without missing a beat, “Wanna try?”

Wow. This is, like, the longest conversation you’ve ever had with him. It spurs you on to do anything it takes to hear more of his voice, the sound of it definitely deeper than the shy tones you struggled to coax out of him ten years ago.

That is probably why you literally lie, “Hm. Maybe. I was thinking of getting one actually. In the future.”

Eunbi chokes on her spit, her chest coughing with the sudden, blatantly fake revelation, and Jeongguk promptly pauses, lifting the needle from her skin as his tattooist reflexes kick in. While your friend apologizes between a clearing of her throat and sinks back into the chair, she doesn’t keep from glaring at you, her expression screaming What the hell are you doing?

You deadpan. You’ll explain everything later and it’ll all make sense. And you know this will inevitably end up being added to the list of the many embarrassing facts she knows about you and threatens you with when she wants to go clubbing and you don’t.

Jeongguk uses the brief interruption to glance up at where you’re perched in the corner of his peripheral vision, just to square you up and down with a skeptical arch of his brow, “Really?”

You scoff, smoothing out the creases on your skirt as if the fabric is somehow responsible for the lie you just told, “Is that shocking?”

He hums, returning to his work with the buzz of the needle filling the studio again, his voice padded the more he gets closer to Eunbi’s forearm, “I just find it hard to believe such a princess like you could handle any pain.”

You gulp.

What you’re getting from this conversation is that Jeongguk has always had an idea of who you are in his mind all along. That he’s always perceived you in some way. As much as your inner fourteen-year-old is swooning at the attention, gobbling up each of the tiny crumbles he’s giving you, it doesn’t sit right with you. What exactly does he think of you?

“Test me.”

He shrugs, eyes fixated on the shade he’s perfectioning with black ink, “Busy now.”

“I’ll go pay for mine. I saw you have one last free spot today,” you announce, the words tumbling out with more confidence than you feel. You’re already on your feet before the sentence is fully formed, betraying the fact that your nosy tendencies had gotten the better of you earlier. You’d discreetly glanced at his appointment book when Jeongguk and Eunbi were finalizing her tattoo details and negotiating the final price at the desk.

He hums, head tilting slightly, “And I wanted to spend it bumming around.”

“Too bad. You’ll have to postpone that.”

You walked into this studio swearing you’d never let a needle even brush you.

Now you’re stretched out on a leather bench, Jeongguk leaning over you with a stencil in hand, gloved fingers moving with careful precision.

The design you’d chosen came from his portfolio—a delicate illustration of two butterflies in motion, their soft threads intertwining. You’d flipped through countless pages of bold skulls and intricate linework before settling on this.

The spot you’d chosen for the tattoo was the flat, firm plane between your breasts. It wasn’t a conscious decision, just a place you’d always liked. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that nature hadn’t exactly blessed you in the cleavage department. Subconsciously, perhaps, you thought that adding something there might give the illusion of more.

“Tehe,” you can’t stop the breathy giggle that escapes as the cool paper brushes against your skin. Your hand is pressed to your bra, holding it in place as best you can, though the situation feels so surreal it’s hard to focus on anything but the ridiculousness of it all.

Jeongguk glances up at you with a glare that’s more exasperated than angry before returning to the delicate task at hand, “What’s funny?”

Your voice wobbles, “I just— I tend to laugh during serious moments.”

“Oh. Weird.”

“Sorry.”

With a small sigh, he smooths the stencil, and once it’s transferred he hands you a square mirror, waiting for your approval. You nod, the butterflies now perfectly poised in their eternal dance, and Jeongguk doesn’t waste a moment.

The buzz of the needle fills the room as he leans closer, one gloved hand resting on the upper part of your chest to steady himself. He’s mere seconds from beginning the inking process when another laugh bubbles out of you.

Jeongguk sits back abruptly, dropping his pen onto the metal tray with an audible clink. Tilting his head, he levels you with a look of thinly veiled irritation. “I really can’t work if your chest keeps moving.”

“Sorry,” you blurt again, turning your head to face the wall. You clamp your lips together tightly, mentally scrolling through every sad memory you can conjure. Think of something awful. Your childhood dog dying. Okay, maybe not that sad—

“You haven’t changed a bit since high school. Always smiling like you live surrounded by flowers and rainbows,” Jeongguk’s mutter vibrates against your chest, warm breath fanning over the cold skin, distracting you from your no-giggling mission.

The unexpected observation has your brows furrowing in a mildly offended frown, and banter is ready on your tongue. “You’re just the same too, Gguk. The emo boy who thinks he’s too cool for a smile.”

“I’m not an emo boy. The fuck,” he scoffs, kissing his teeth and murmuring more of his indignation under his breath.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night. I can teach you.”

The whirring needle glides across your skin with a slightly firmer touch, making you hiss softly under your breath. He seems unbothered by the reaction, and instead bothered by your words, “Teach me what.”

“How to smile a bit more,” you reply, your voice laced with mockery as you keep your gaze firmly fixed on the wall. The smirk playing on your lips is triumphant; he walked right into your little jab, hehe.

Your mind is already racing, piecing together the beginning of a sarcastic rant about how his perpetual scowl probably contributed to his mysterious high school persona. For the sake of his ego, you won’t add how it worked in his favor, how more than one girl (your own self) found his untouchable vibe completely irresistible.

Even though, thinking back, he looked ridiculous. His big, round, slightly scared-of-the-world eyes truly didn’t belong with the heavy black eyeliner.

But before you can get a single word out, Jeongguk straightens his posture, pulling away from your chest. With a practiced motion, he tosses one of his gloves onto the counter behind him, his expression cool and indifferent. “It’s done.”

“Done?!” you exclaim, tilting your chin down to look at your chest. You go slightly cross-eyed trying to catch a glimpse of the design now inked onto your skin. Forever.

“Yes.”

“I didn’t even feel it.”

Jeongguk seems equally done with small talk, transitioning into a professional explanation of the tattoo’s aftercare step. His tone is calm but clipped, and you can’t tell if it’s his usual demeanor or just reserved for you. He also hands you a small tube of cream of which you’re not sure the use of, too enthralled by the vision of his colored sleeve this up close.

And still laying on the leather bed, you almost reach to trace one of the many lines with your finger before he interrupts, “You can pay with Yoongi at the entrance.”

Clearing your throat, you sit up, brushing imaginary dust off your skirt as Jeongguk turns his back to you, his focus already back on cleaning his tools. You still are not over, “Thank you, Jeongguk. Can I— huh. Can I get your number?”

He pauses mid-motion, just long enough for the silence to stretch thin and taut. Turning around to study your features, he stares you up and down with knitted brows and a hostile kind of confusion painting his expression. “… For what exactly?”

“In case anything happens with the tattoo.”

Jeongguk stills for a second, eyes narrowing slightly, then turns back to what’s keeping him so occupied with a noncommittal grunt, “Huh. Sure. Yoongi has my business cards at the desk. You can ask him. Have a good day.”

With Eunbi practically dragging you out of the room, you don’t have the chance to say anything more, though your chest burns with indignation. It’s not that you expect him to fall over himself at the chance to catch up, but the sheer indifference is maddening.

Should you pretend you don’t care either? You could. But really, who are you fooling? You still have those old diaries buried somewhere in your closet, their pages crammed with his name written in looping, lovesick cursive. That little girl in you never truly died.

On the fourth day of December, you finally text him. It’s about your tattoo, of course. There’s not much else to say to him, but when his only reply to your picture of the healing process is a yellow thumbs up, you find your fingers hovering over the keyboard. Words start forming before you’ve fully processed them, and before you know it, you hit send.

You [3:39 p.m]: btw u still friends with kim tae?

jeongguk [3:42 p.m.]: Yes

jeongguk [3:42 p.m.]: He’s my best friend

You [3:43 p.m.]: ohhh, cool

jeongguk [3:45 p.m.]: You want his number?

You [3:46 p.m.]: no… i’m good with yours ☺️

You can’t help but giggle at how his typing bubbles appear and then fade for a whole minute, biting your lower lip with a sheepish grin, savoring the silent victory. You’re doing this for your fourteen-year-old self, who would’ve squealed at the thought of making Jeon Jeongguk flustered. But you’re a different girl now. You’ve changed. No man could ever reject—

jeongguk [3:48 p.m.]: If there’s nothing else about the tattoo then 👋

“Hmph,” your frown is so pronounced that you feel your chin aching and your wrinkles prematurely deepening. Well, this is not the first time you come face first with his sour antics. Only now, you’re prepared.

You [3:48 p.m.]: yall hanging out soon? let me join

jeongguk [3:49 p.m.]: Why lol

jeongguk [3:49 p.m.]: He barely even remembers you probs

You [3:50 p.m.]: who would not remember me

jeongguk [3:50 p.m.]: The only thing i’m now remembering about you is how I couldn’t stand your ass

You gasp, hand coming up to brush against your parted lips. With a huff, you hastily click at your keyboard, “Mean. Sent. Ugh.”

On the sixth day of December, your persistence pays off, and you find yourself at a random bar you’d never been to before, seated with both Jeongguk and Taehyung.

Between Jeongguk’s cigarette breaks—forcing the three of you to brave the cold outside—and brief moments in corners of the cramped place where the music feels muffled against the walls, you manage to catch up with Taehyung. The rest of the time though, the noise inside is so deafening that it makes any kind of meaningful conversation impossible.

Even more when a random girl slides into the booth next to him, capturing his attention entirely, leaving you and Jeongguk in paradoxical silence.

The tattoo artist has been glued to his phone with his head down for the last 20 minutes, and now you alternate between observing his side profile, roughened by the piercings and a more defined jawline, and analysing the weird dynamic that is beginning to form between Taehyung and the girl, sitting in front of you.

Alone with your thoughts and, well, the pulsating music, you feel yourself getting unreasonably closer to symptoms you know all too well, that threaten to have you spiraling. You shake your head, forcing it to stop. There’s no reason for anxiety to visit you at such an inconvenient time.

But of course, the little voice in your head starts listing all the totally valid motives why this is indeed the perfect time for it to visit you.

The bar feels suffocating on your skin.

Your dress clings too tightly.

The couple facing you is shamelessly close to making out.

Jeongguk sighs in visible boredom.

You shouldn’t have come. Hell, you shouldn't have suggested it in the first place. A smarter version of yourself would have brought Eunbi for balance, for comfort. But in your foolishness, you thought this could be an opportunity for you and Jeongguk to catch up. Instead, you feel foreign to him, foreign to this pub booth, and the air begins to feel foreign to your lungs. You’ve never liked bars, clubs, or places with loud music.

You sniffle, looking down at your lap. Then up at the ceiling. Then around the room. It keeps spinning and booming with volume that only adds to the feeling of helplessness. Quick, quick, quick.

What are five things that you can see?

Five. Your gaze falls on Taehyung and the girl, their lips and tongues clumsily entangled as they laugh between sloppy kisses. No help there. The air catches harder in your throat.

Four. Your empty glass, its smudged rim a reminder of the single drink you had, now sitting uncomfortably in your stomach.

Three. Your scuffed heels, their tips worn to the nub despite your best efforts to hide it with a marker.

Two. The swirling lights above the bar, dizzying as they flash brighter and brighter.

One. Jeongguk’s tattooed hand on your thigh.

His fingers dig into the skin, shaking you alarmedly, with a force you’ve never known from him, not even when it came to stopping your shaking stomach as you were laying on the studio’s leather bed.

Head snapping up to face him, you’re met with a perfect resemblance of how you must look right now. Wide eyes, knitted brows, nose flaring and exhaling, and you try to follow the movements of his mouth, but they jumble together annoyingly in your brain. You lean closer, narrowed orbs still fixated on his lips to try and read them. Are… you… ok—

“___, you’re scaring me. Hey, hello? Are you okay?”

Jeongguk moves from your thigh to your shoulders, jolting you gently but firmly from the fog that is threatening to cloud up your brain. The sudden clarity hits you, but you still stumble forward, your weight toppling over his chest. With it, your head dips rapidly, hurtling toward the sharp edge of the table, and before Jeongguk knows it his instinct snaps and he catches you promptly.

The next steps blur together. You vaguely register the boy next to you standing up and pulling you along with him, his broad shoulders supporting one of your arms while his inked one secures around the small of your waist, holding you firmly against him.

Then, it’s nothing but brief flashes. Jeongguk pressing a water bottle to your lips. Sitting you down on the stairs outside the pub. Holding your hair back as you double over, emptying the contents of your stomach onto the pavement. Cracking a smile to make you laugh, showing off his tattoos in exaggerated detail like it’s the grandest tour of your life. Opening the door to his car and gently easing you into the passenger seat, ensuring the seatbelt clicks into place.

Inside his car, you slowly feel your senses come back to you.

At a redlight that you recognise as the one near your apartment complex, you muster a small and hoarse thank you. Jeongguk only hums low, eyes fixated on the road and fingers drumming lightly on the steering wheel.

Before a sheepish smile can make its way on your lips and spread across your face, your head twitches back as your brows furrow. Your thoughts suddenly catch up with you, “Hey, how do you know the way to my flat?”

His gaze briefly flicks toward you in annoyance, then back to the road. “You literally just told me.”

“Oh.” A beat passes before you giggle softly. “Don’t remember.”

Jeongguk mutters something intelligible under his breath, and next thing you know he’s turning down your street and slowing in front of the building that matches the number you gave him. Given your current state, he begins to question if that is even the right one.

“This one!” You point at the tall front gate with an almost childlike excitement, back shifting slightly from the seat as your grin stretches wide. Jeongguk grimaces. Why the fuck do you look like you’ve been reuinted with your home after years apart, as if you weren’t there just a couple hours ago?

“Right. Huh, you good with going back on your own?”

“Yes. I’d hate to bother you further. I’m sorry for this, I… was getting better, I guess.”

The sad confession doesn’t land with the weight it should, softened by the smile painted on your lips and the chuckle you let out as if it were nothing. Jeongguk’s eyelid twitches, unsettled by the unnecessary happiness that always seems to drip from you, even when it doesn’t belong.

“‘S okay. Have a good night,” he awkwardly bows his head, waiting for you to exit the car. When you stay still, he clears his throat, adding just to fill the silence, and perhaps because he means it, “Huh, and make sure to rest a lot.”

You take a moment, maybe longer than you should, to study his features up this close. You particularly fixate on the way his eyes dart everywhere but never land on yours. Then, with your signature toothy grin, you bow back and open the car door, leaving with a string of thank yous, and get home safe, and I’ll text you, and please, reply to me, and bye.

Jeongguk has to fight a smile of his own.

On the tenth day of December, you realise you want him. Even more badly than your fourteen-year-old self ever did. Which is frankly insane.

You don’t know if it was the natural way he looked after you during your episode, or his dry sarcasm as he actually started replying to your random updates throughout the day.

But no, it was definitely the selfie he sent you after what he said was a long day. Messy hair, tired eyes, a hint of a smile. You’d struggled to even gulp down your saliva when the picture popped up in your chat, and maniacally stared at it with eyes glued to the bright screen before sending one of your own. He had replied with Cute. followed by Your hair pin is cute.

That is why you find yourself facing… Yoongi? If you remember correctly. The guy at the front desk of Jeongguk’s studio.

You beam at him, and what you’re met with instead is a confused stare. You inhale, “Hi. Is Jeongguk in?”

Yoongi scratches his head, muttering, “He’s busy with a client.”

“Oh. It’s okay,” you wave off his concern. “Can I wait here?”

The boy hesitates, looks unsure the more your interaction develops, and he glances between you and the empty waiting area. He relents with furrowed brows, “Sure… Huh, It’s a back tattoo, so it’ll take him a while.”

You shrug and plop yourself onto the leather sofa, seemingly unfazed, “I like waiting.”

Crossing your legs, you take in the studio’s atmosphere, eyes drifting to the dark walls lined with framed artwork and certificates. You spot Jeongguk’s name on many of those.

For the next fifteen minutes, you try distracting yourself by flipping through the stack of tattoo magazines on the coffee table. You wince at inked heads, faces, butts, and even… more private parts. Deciding this world is definitely not for you, you slam the book shut.

By the time an hour passes, you’re fighting a battle with your lack of sleep. The third yawn you manage to stifle, but the fourth escapes before you can stop it. Yoongi, seated at the desk, doesn’t bother hiding his unimpressed stare. Still, he’s polite enough to offer you a glass of water, a coffee, or even a chance to join him for a cigarette break.

You decline all of it, though your throat does feel dry.

Maybe you should have planned this with a bit of rationality. Or at least gotten more sleep. Now, your every blink is slower, eyelids batting to shut and taking longer to flutter open again. Hm, this feels nice. You’ll just let them rest for a bit longer. And longer. And a bit more.

The next time you open your eyes, Jeongguk’s face is inches away, his warm hand resting firmly on your arm. You jolt upright with a startled yelp.

“Jeongguk.”

He raises an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth quirking up in an unmistakably mocking smirk. “Hey. You don’t have a bed?”

You sit up, forcing Jeongguk to step back and straighten to his full height. Your neck cranes upward to glare at him, brows furrowed in what you hope is an intimidating glare, though you sport a pout that is all but menacing, “Shut up.”

He clicks his tongue, turning back to round the desk and fiddle with the appointment book, clearly unbothered. You take the moment to rub your eyes—only to remember, too late, that you’d worn makeup. A quick glance around reveals how much has changed since you last let your eyelids flutter open. The lights in the studio are dim, the hallway is dark, and every door is shut. Yoongi is nowhere in sight. It’s just the two of you in the deathly quiet space.

You gasp, pressing a hand to your parted lips, “Did I fall asleep? I'm so sorry. I was probably really tired from yesterday.”

Jeongguk hums, focus still locked on the book in front of him, eyes narrowed. He doesn’t look up, doesn’t ask why you came here in the first place, and doesn’t acknowledge your apology. Ugh. This is humiliating.

Before you can stand, you feel something heavy draped over your body. It’s a jacket. Definitely not yours, since you never took it off. At least not consciously. No, this is a worn black leather one on which his scent lingers. You tug it closer, puzzled, and then look up at him, holding it out. “Did I steal this in my sleep?”

Jeongguk scrunches his nose, “Ew, are you a sleepwalker?” Locking the till, he strolls over to you and plucks the jacket from you, casually slipping it on. “No, I put it on you. Wanted to see how long someone could feel safe enough to pass out in my studio. Thinking of turning this place into a daycare. I’ll have you play in the morning, get some lunch, nap time...”

There’s a beat of silence in which his sarcasm lingers in the air, and you stare at him, unamused. He shrugs, smirk unwavering.

You huff, “I regret coming here.”

“Yeah, why did you come here?”

Smoothing down your pink wool sweater, you stand up to stretch with zero shame. Then, fluttering your lashes at him, you assert with a smile, “You’re coming with me to the Christmas markets. This Sunday.”

Jeongguk groans like the idea physically pains him, “Oh, I would fucking hate that.”

Ignoring him, you zip up your puffer jacket and rock on your toes, “Pick me up at seven, okay?”

He glares, unimpressed at your excitement, before heading toward the entrance and pulling a hefty set of keys from his pocket, “I don’t even remember where you live.”

You hurry after him, following him outside and shuffling closer in your coat at the cold air hitting you. Watching as he locks the door and pulls down the rolling shutter with its red-and-black skull graffiti, you chirp, “You’ll have to text me for that.”

Jeongguk rises up again, giving you a slow once-over. He seems distracted by your hair before snorting, “You’re talking like I’m the one who spent their afternoon napping in my studio just to drop this bomb and leave. Couldn’t you just text me this?”

You shrug innocently. He sighs, reaching out for you, “Do you need a ride hom—”

“Bye!”

You spin on your heel and skip off in the opposite direction before he can let his own greeting out, waving a gloved hand behind you. Jeongguk stays where he is, arm still held out.

Do you even have a car? He hopes so—it’s freezing out.

With another sigh, he shakes his head and tugs his jacket tighter around himself. Why are you so fucking weird?

On the fourteenth day of December, your arm is looped tightly through Jeongguk’s as you stroll through the Christmas markets, burying your face further in your scarf to shield against the icy air, and with each few step you gasp at things that the boy next to you finds utterly unimpressive.

You stop at nearly every stand, eyes glowing with the warm Christmas fairy lights strung all around, effortlessly picking up conversations with the vendors and melting even the most stoic faces with the scrunching of your nose at every grin and the exaggerated nods following descriptions of their crafts.

Through all of it, Jeongguk remains put at your side, his arm linked with yours and a subtle pout on his lips. When you tease him about it, he simply shrugs, and you figure it’s just his natural expression. You find that oddly endearing.

He still humors your enthusiasm, offering low hums or murmured praise whenever you exclaim you’ve finally found what you’ve been searching for everywhere, and he offers to pay every time, the gesture so casual that he doesn’t seem bothered by it in the slightest.

When you bow to the nth seller, clutching yet another bag of sweet treats tightly to your chest, Jeongguk exhales and resumes slow walking beside you, “I don't like these places.”

You glance up at him, fluffy hat almost slipping off before he promptly secures it back on your head with a gesture so smooth you hardly notice it. You instead wonder, “Then why are we here now?”

He slips his hand into his pocket, “Because you threatened me.”

“With a really good time.”

“If this is your version of a good time, you might as well kick me in the balls. That probably feels better.”

You gasp, halting in your tracks to glare at him. When he lets a small chuckle topple out of him, you think you might forgive him. No, you’re more than sure with the way his smile lingers. You sheepishly look away, muttering, “Don’t tempt me, emo boy.”

“I’m not—”

“Oh yes, you are,” you interrupt, snapping your face back to his. Clearing your throat, you prepare your best imitation of him, exaggerating a frown and lowering your voice, “I’m so different, I hate Christmas.”

Jeongguk scoffs, pulling you tighter to him when a scooter unexpectedly zips past you. You yelp, instinctively shuffling closer to his arm. He continues the conversation casually, unaffected, “That’s the worst impression of me I’ve ever heard. And also, I never said that.”

Releasing the breath you held for a moment too long, you uncertainly keep your slow stroll going, only narrowing your orbs at him, “It’s written all over your face.”

“I love Christmas.”

The admission is small, his voice soft and almost reluctant, like it pains him to reveal something so simple and obvious as loving Christmas. When you lean your chin on the puffed arm of his jacket, he doesn’t look down at you, his gaze fixed ahead, guiding the two of you through the chaos of the busy street.

You chirp, your steps stumbling, “Really?

Only then he shifts his attention to you, steadying you with his other arm wrapping around your figure in what seems like a hug, before he lifts you up by the neck of your coat and retreats just enough to face you. His lips press into a straight line as he nods, a flicker of vulnerability in his eyes the more he stares in yours, “Yeah, really. I just don’t like… crowded spaces.”

You can’t help but think back to what happened just a week ago. The exact reason why the spirals in your brain wouldn’t stop twisting and tangling is now slipping from his lips in a voice that quietens as he seems to grasp the delicacy of his own confession.

He doesn’t like the way you’re looking at him. Drawn-up brows over wide and sparkling eyes—the only part of your face visible beneath your scarf—stare at him with something too tender, too focused, that makes him uneasy. He turns his head to the side, the tips of his ears red not only from the cold, and pulls you along toward another stand, an almost nervous distraction.

It’s your turn to frown. Maybe the one that’s permanently plastered on his face tonight isn’t just a reflection of his usual sullen demeanor. With a knot tightening in your chest, you can’t help but feel like you dragged him into something he truly hated, and that he wasn’t just pretending to.

What if this isn’t just your evil inner voice talking? What if this isn’t just overthinking, but the factual truth of your current reality? He’s hating every second of this but still enduring it because— you catch your breath with a long and strained inhale, because—

“Hey, dimples. You okay?”

Jeongguk moves to stand in front of you, his hands settling gently on your shoulders, a stance eerily reminiscent of that night you were just thinking back to. He nods at you, “Breathe with me, hm?”

You find yourself quickly adjusting to his comforting aura, drawn in by the reassurance in his eyes trained on you, never wavering, watching closely as you begin to mirror the measured rise and fall of his chest, your breathing gradually syncing with his until the tightness in your chest starts to ease.

When you feel your feet touching the ground again, you offer a small, apologetic smile. “I’m okay. Sorry. Just…” You quickly scan your surroundings, eyes landing on a colorful stand, “Wait here a second, okay?”

Jeongguk lets you slip away, fingers twitching slightly at his sides. He takes a few hesitant steps closer, careful not to crowd you but unable to tear his eyes away from your next actions, how your grin comes back on your lips with unpracticed ease, lighting up your face as easy talk flows between you and the seller. A few coins trade hands, and soon you’re holding two churros, their chocolate-dipped ends threatening to drip onto the ground.

You don’t hesitate, biting into one of them before it has the chance to make a mess, and with a quick nod of your head you motion for Jeongguk to follow. He does so, only after taking the churros from your hands, and letting you seek his warmth again with an arm snaking under his. He’s only letting you do this because it’s fucking cold, no other reason.

You walk, and walk, guiding him along until you find a quieter corner, away from the bustle, where you two stand isolated from the rest. The dim lighting casts a softer glow, and the distant hum of chatter and music fades into a gentle background noise.

Glancing up at him, you flash a playful smile before leaning in to bite another chunk of the churro he’s holding, your laughter spilling out as he grimaces in exaggerated disgust and pulls the sweet out of your reach. You settle onto a nearby bench, patting the empty spot beside you invitingly.

Jeongguk is unsure of what this means. He takes slow steps towards you, handing you your churro—which you take eagerly, already chewing on it—before tilting his head back in mild confusion, “But… you wanted to visit the markets.”

You shake your head, your bug eyes meeting his as you speak around a mouthful of sugar and chocolate, “There’s no point if you’re not going to enjoy it.”

The look you’re giving him is one he’s seen countless times before—familiar, and annoyingly reminiscent of ten years ago. It’s the same look that, he’s convinced, is solely responsible for making his knees weak and his fingers jittery, no longer something he can blame on the cold. You’re unbelievably frustrating.

He clicks his tongue, looking away, “You’re fucking weird.”

You giggle, humming, “If weird is a synonym for whipped, then sure.”

He has to fight the twitch of his lips. Fakes a gag instead. You chuckle louder. Only then, he hints at a smile, “C’mon. Let’s go check out some other stuff.”

“But—”

He interrupts, pulling you up by your forearm, “I’m hungry.”

The next hour you spend wandering around is made of Jeongguk’s small, imperceptible ways of cracking: his pout less prominent, more replaced by lips pulled into a tight line or in a mildly pursued scowl as you ask him which beanie looks better—the pink or purple one; his so evident sarcasm as he comments on how the old vendor was totally flirting with you, or when he mockingly adds to your over-the-top excitement every time you spot a dog. All in all, he’s more relaxed. More himself.

You then find yourself standing in front of the churros stall from earlier, the warm scent tugging you closer. Without hesitation, you ask the lady behind the counter for another four churros—this time with extra sugar. You add two thank yous.

To fill the waiting, you pick up casual conversation with the woman, until she pauses mid-sentence, wrinkled hand coming to rest over her heart as her gaze flits between you and Jeongguk, her crinkled eyes lighting with a sudden fondness and a quiet, content smile finds its space on her chapped lips, “You two look perfect together.”

Jeongguk snorts, “Oh, we’re not—”

“Thank you, auntie!” You chirp, and your grin is so wide it squeezes your eyes into crescents. You accept the first churro she hands over, biting into it and talking through it, “These are delicious. Is the recipe a secret or can you share it with me?”

The woman laughs, clearly flustered by your energy, and leans in with a conspiratorial expression, though she gives in pretty soon, “It is a secret, but… Oh, c’mon. A pretty lady like you deserves to know.”

You burst into chuckles, joined by auntie’s own rolling and carrying a contrasting warmth to the cold air. Jeongguk, for his part, stands slightly to the side, observing. You still cling to his arm, even as the vendor reaches over to gently smooth her fingers through your curls, complimenting the way they frame your face. You roll your eyes, feigning exasperation, but there’s a dimpled smile stretching on your cheeks that gives you away.

Before you leave, the lady points to Jeongguk, voice growing earnest, “You, handsome. I can see you’re a good guy, so you probably don’t need my advice. But treat her right, yes?”

Jeongguk stills for a second and stumbles over an awkward nod, managing to force a smile that has you stifling a laugh under your scarf. You tug him away with a cheerful wave to your new friend, promising her you’ll come visit again before Christmas.

Once you’re at a safe distance, he mutters, “Why did you not tell her that we’re not together?”

You tilt your head considering his question, “It’s not like she knows us. She looked like she adored you. I didn’t want to ruin that for her. Maybe seeing a young couple like us really means a lot to her.”

Jeongguk observes how the more you explain, the more you’re convincing yourself as much as him, eventually solidifying your reasoning as you nod, muttering some more under your breath. He scoffs, looking away to hide his lips twitching.

When he turns back he’s frowning, though it doesn’t quite match the way he lets you hook arms again, your pastel pink bag hanging from his shoulders. Still, he sulks as though the mere thought of your observation has him shivering, and not with the cold, “We’re not a couple.”

Jeongguk barely gets to let his unnecessarily petty comment out before you drag him with an unusual strength over to another stand, his voice not even touching your ears, “Oh, let’s go over there, Gguk!”

On the twenty-first day or December, you send him a picture of your tattoo.

You had been talking non-stop ever since your… date? Or was it just a hangout? Whatever it was, it’s been a week, and Jeongguk finds himself smiling at a fucking screen too many times a day for his linking. It’s irritating. Even brings his phone with him to the bathroom in case you text him. Not because he cares. No, it’s practical. What if you ever had an emergency and he was the only one who could help?

Most of the time it’s just you sending TikToks, but he clicks on the links with the same urgency he’d reply to a genuine plea for help. He doesn’t really want to think of the reason why.

Now, this picture—it catches Jeongguk off guard.

It doesn’t even look like it’s about the tattoo. Not really. It feels like an excuse, a flimsy pretext for you to show yourself to him. The tattoo—the one he himself inked—is there, yes. But it’s not at all the main focus of the photo that tightens his grip on his phone.

You’re wearing a thin, pink tank top with delicate lace trim, the straps barely clinging to your shoulders. Your fingers hook under the neckline, tugging it down just enough to expose the tattoo nestled between the soft curve of your breasts. The angle of the shot is deliberate, he can tell. Your back arches slightly off what he assumes is your bed, and your face is cropped out, save for your glossed lips, full and slightly parted, catching the dim light.

Jeongguk blinks, hard. Then again. His throat bobs as he swallows thickly, the low light of his phone screen doing little to soften the image burning itself into his mind. His eyes dart upward, scanning his surroundings, just to make sure everything is in place. The shop is empty, the door is closed, the hum of quiet settles over the space.

Looking down, the picture still stares back at him paired with a single message.

Annoying [11:39 p.m.]: do you think it’s healed? idk about this stuff, need your help 🥺

He’s not stupid. He knows exactly what this is. He alternates between the photo and your words, jaw ticking and tightening more with the seconds flowing.

It’s almost cruel, the way you’re testing him like this. He tries to push the feeling down, to reject the buzz of heat pooling low in his stomach. You know him well enough to be aware that he won’t reply to something like this. A stupid, unnecessary message. The tattoo is healed—he told you that a week ago, clear as day. There’s no reason for you to ask again.

What’s the purpose of this?

He gets a distorted idea when he shifts uncomfortably in place, the dull ache tightening his pants almost unbearable now.

Jeongguk groans and locks his phone, tossing it onto the counter as if that will put an end to this. He tries to refocus on his tasks, the last ones before he clocks off. Cleaning needles, tossing used stencils.

But his heavy balls keep sending desperate, silent prayers to his brain, to please let them have this. Just this once.

It’s been a bad day. Two of his appointments canceled last minute, leaving him to sit around bored. The last client showed up drunk and wouldn’t stop trying to flirt with him. His coworkers were loud and distracting, and to top it all off, the heater broke, leaving the studio freezing cold.

It’s been such a bad day.

So, would there be any harm? It’s not like anyone will know. Not you, not his friends. He’s the only one that will. And he’s far more willing to live with this dirty secret rather than with his hard dick straining achingly in its confines.

Jeongguk abruptly snatches up his phone again, unlocking it to the same picture that caused him to brush the device aside just minutes ago. He lets out a shaky breath, thumb hovering over the screen. You won’t get no reply to him. But if you knew what he was up to right now, you would probably geek. Tease him, with your warm smile that digs dimples in your cheek, hopping on your toes to poke at his chest playfully, with those perfectly manicured hands of yours.

“Shit,” his free hand is already pushing the jeans down along with his boxers, and he drops his weight onto the nearest stool as he grips at the base of his thick cock, eyes devouring the image of you in the empty chat.

He doesn’t zoom in. That would feel too shameless. But he finds it oddly better like this. Is it weird that your text, so innocently worded, is turning him on? That the simple idea of you needing his help is enough to have his hips jerking?

What could you possibly need his help for? Fuck. The different ideas that pool his mind have him squeezing harder at his stinging tip.

Jeongguk focuses on your dainty hand, slim pointer finger snaking under the collar of your flimsy shirt to show yourself to him, and your small boobs spill from the sides with a delicious, soft swell. He hisses when he pictures that same hand working on him instead, his warm mouth stuffed with your stiff nipples, visible through the sheer material.

He can’t help the loud groan leaving his lips, wrist flickering up and down in a motion that feels sloppy way too soon, hips jutting up to fuck into his tight fist. Throwing his head back, he sees you even behind closed eyelids.

He pictures your delicate figure sprawled on his bed, long lashes batting up at him as you sheepishly hide with your cheek to your shoulder. Can clearly make out how you’d sit on his lap instead, unsteady breath fanning over his lips, using his long shaft to make yourself cum. The whole time, he sees the tattoo on your chest, the one that is forever on you, eternally a reminder of him.

When he lets his head topple forward again, his bright screen still stares at him, only because a new message pops up in the chat. He startles, and his cock throbs in his hand.

Annoying [11:52 p.m.]: oh, and i miss you.

“Oh, fuck,” the curse is strained through a loud whine, and only followed by more of his full moans filling the room. His brows knit as his hand moves rapidly, palm collecting the precum spreading embarrassingly fast on his tip and rolling it down his length.

He focuses on your parted lips, the soft curve of your breast, your hard nipples begging to be sucked and spit on. Your last text has flashes of your bug-like eyes staring up at him seizing his mind.

That’s what undoes him. He’s delirious as he lets out his every sound, freely, unchecked, not caring about how loud he is, whimpering as he gets closer to his climax. When he thinks of those eyes locking with his, kneeling before him, eager and willing to swallow his every drop, he cums. Hard.

Jeongguk pumps everything he can out of him, and it’s messy—spilling over his hand, staining his clothes, pooling on the floor. His chest heaves with the effort, and the sensation of abandon he feels is so pleasurable, energy drained but leaving him with a lightness that threatens to make his cock hard again.

Fuck. He can’t afford that happening if you’re not the one attending his needs. This won’t be enough, not until it’s you. He’s insatiable.

Jeongguk needs to hear your voice.

It’s an instinct, and he bends to it. He’s careful, making sure not to tap on the FaceTime option, because if you were to see him right now it’d be glaringly obvious.

When he looks to the side, he catches a glimpse of his reflection in the long mirror, and he visibly grimaces at the way his cheeks are flushed, the pearls of sweat coating his forehead causing his bangs to stick uncomfortably to the skin.

Guilty doesn’t even begin to cover it.

With the phone to his ear beeping to eternity, he hesitates, contemplates ending the call before you can answer. But just then, you do.

“Jeongguk! Is everything okay?”

Your voice is familiarly soft, but there’s a trace of concern. Blinking, he brings the device closer again and gulps thickly when he can make out your panting breaths. He clears his throat and puts on his best nonchalant act, “Huh— Yes. Why wouldn’t it be?”

“I don’t know… You just never call. Or text first. This is weird. You sure you’re okay?”

Oh. Is that really what it is like?

Jeongguk never realized this was how he came across—so detached that a simple phone call feels out of character. Your naive honesty hits him square in the chest. God, he needs to get better at this. The irony stings: he just fucking jerked off to your picture and the simple thought of you, while you’re on the other side thinking he’s just a careless piece of shit who doesn’t even know how to call.

The long stretch of silence registers in his brain, and he coughs to buy time, “Yes, I’m sure. I— huh,” he thinks of stuff you usually ask to keep the conversation flowing. Not out of courtesy, but out of genuine interest, the curiosity that makes people want to open up. He’s still not used to that. Still finds it weird.

“How… How was your day?”

It must be equally weird for you because it takes you a longer beat to reply. In that quiet moment, he clenches his eyes shut and feels his jaw tick with shame. And embarrassment. And this icky feeling that makes him feel too mushy for his liking. Hell, what is he doing? He’s never been like this, he’s not supposed to be like this.

But you recover quickly, as you always do, and you smooth over the moment. Fix it all for him like you were born to be just that. Make him feel like he fits in ways that have him exhaling shakily.

Jeongguk senses a foreign drumming in his stomach, and it’s warm but odd, and he loves it but he doesn’t want to.

On the twenty-fifth day of December, cheekily under a mistletoe, Jeongguk realizes he wants you. There’s parts of him that probably knew way sooner. But the parts of him that didn’t, fighting tooth and nail to suppress the mere thought, are just now finally surrendering.

Jeongguk has always found you admirable, back in high school. You had this determination to you. Not only when it came to him. It shone particularly when you catered to others, always finding ways to help, to mend, to offer yourself with nothing less than a fully toothed smile.

But he’s also always thought you two were—and still are—too different to work. He can’t be what you want, let alone what you deserve: someone who can match your enthusiasm and unwavering smiles, your frustrating positivity; someone who sees the world the way you do. No black, no grey, no shades in between. Just bright, hopeful white. Blinding white.

It’s the white making him dizzy, shifting his perspective, having him believing the opposite of what he’s always known. Pushing to be a little more egoistical, deceiving himself that he’s right for you. Because he wants to be. He oh, so selfishly wants people to know he’s the one who finally gets to have you, the one gifted with such a light, unfairly deserving of all the love you carry into every room you walk into.

Just a few days ago, during another one of your increasingly frequent phone calls, you asked him what he was doing for Christmas. He could have lied, come up with something on the spot.

But with how you so easily, and always coax the truth out of him, he let it slip. He told you he’d be alone, words subtly heavy. But they didn’t have the chance to even drop their weight before you were already inviting him to your friend’s party, insisting that he would be the most welcome.

And he’s here, and he sits beside you, and every time you laugh you lean your weight over him, and the room vibrates with the energy you fill it with, and each one of your friends is so enamoured with you, and for reasons he can’t fully understand it fills him with a sense of pride that shouldn’t belong to him. But it does, and it comes with so many other feelings.

You don’t push him to talk. You never force him into the spotlight when he takes a step back, quietly observing, choosing to stay in the background. Because you read him like it’s in your nature to do so, your soul seems to intuitively melt with his, and it intertwines in such a tight knot that he feels it constrict his throat. He knows he’s still alive because his heart is beating, just a little faster with each time you flash your dimples at him.

“Dimples. What are you doing, hm?”

Now, he’s in front of you, a small smile on his lips as you stand on your tiptoes, trying to dangle the mistletoe over both your heads. You’re struggling just a little, your hand unable to reach high enough, and the fake plant awkwardly brushes his hair, the tickling sensation causing his nose to scrunch. You laugh.

Looking up at your swinging movements, you lose your balance for the slightest second. Jeongguk’s hands move instinctively, catching you promptly by the waist to steady your body. But even after that, he doesn’t shift, his warm palms stilling. And when you face him, he’s closer and his chest brushes against yours. From this proximity, he witnesses the Christmas lights painting a galaxy of their own in your orbs.

You beam, “What does it look like? We have to kiss now.”

Jeongguk stares in your expectant eyes, brows wiggling and all. The more his mouth keeps in a straight line, the more the wiggling slows. You eventually come down from your tiptoes, letting the mistletoe fall to the side, tilting your head.

He snorts, looking away briefly to hide an embarrassingly wide grin behind his hand. When he turns back to you, your pout is enough to have him scrambling to meet your gaze.

“On one condition, though.”

You chirp, “Yeah?”

He licks his teeth, reserving you with a smug look, “Admit that you were scared to get your tattoo.”

Your smile vanishes in an instant, your expression falling into mock offense. With a dramatic roll of your eyes, you turn on your heel, pretending to walk away from him. Pretending, only because you know he won’t let you. And you’re proven right when his fingers wrap around your arm, tugging you back with enough force to spin you into him. Suddenly, you’re pressed so close you can feel the heat radiating from him. Your chin nearly touches his chest as you glare up at him, narrowed eyes meeting the mischievous glint in his.

He bites a smile, lips twitching, “C’mon, princess. You wanted to act all tough and shit, but I could feel you shaking.”

Your scoff is loud and incredulous, “You’re such a bitch.”

He only shrugs, “You want my kiss, no?”

“Oh my god,” groaning, it’s your turn to face the side to hide a grin, “Are you always this cocky?”

His chin tilts upward slightly, and you can tell he’s enjoying this, “Say it.”

You whip back around to meet him with a seriousness he hardly ever sees on you, and you even clear your throat, channeling every ounce of the determination he knows you for, every drop of resolve that makes you you. “Yes. I was scared shitless, Jeongguk.”

Foreign excitement brims out of him, not before his eyes widen just a fraction, and his nose scrunches the more he leans closer to you, inches from you, swinging side to side with exaggerated mockery and a grin splitting his face, “See! I knew—hmph.”

There’s no other second to waste.

The condition has been met, and now all the requirements for you to claim what you were promised, your reward, are there. Even more when kissing him means catching him mid-taunt and silencing whatever teasing remark he had ready.

Your lips touch his in effortless ease, breaking the air as they press together. It’s tentative at first, almost uncertain as you feel Jeongguk remain still.

But it doesn’t take him longer to move, mouth molding against yours in a sickeningly sweet hug, tasting each other with quiet curiosity, taking your time to adjust and melt, instructing your bodies to imitate the dance.

Your arms lock around his neck, his stronger and tattooed ones circle your waist, and the way you click together feels so right, almost too perfect, so perfect it scares you. When you arch yourself further into him, even the non-existent space between you unbearable, he accompanies the motion with his wide palms gliding along your back, squeezing you into him, feeling the curve of your hips.

The soft whine that scratches your throat and vibrates against his lips betrays you, along with the useless effort to contain the intensity of what you’re feeling. The emotion disarms you, the sound gasping in your chest, but in Jeongguk’s arms it feels safe to let go.

On Christmas day, you crown a youthful fantasy, the kind you’ll look back to even when you’re older. Jeongguk feels like he’d be the right person to stand by you to do so.

When he reluctantly detaches from you, his face keeps at a safe distance that’d allow him to go back and taste you, not before resting his forehead on yours and whispering, “Merry Christmas.”

You giggle. “Merry Christmas, Gguk.”

[beloveds-embrace]

what if duchess!reader is kidnapped... just thinking..

I love your thinking 👁️👁️ fyi writing heavy action is not my thing at all as I’ve found out while writing this 💀 CW: sexual assault (not rape)

Dukedom au masterlist

The day had started like any other. You’d awoken to the soft, warm light filtering through the curtains, greeted by the warmth of your bed and the quiet hum of the household waking up around you. You were the only one still in bed; Johnny and Simon wake up the earliest every day, then Kyle, then John, and you deduce that you must’ve not had much to do on your agenda if they had let you sleep in.

Your heart sighed, happy. They cared for you so much, you adored them.

Everything was normal from then on. You showered and dressed, had breakfast with Johnny and Kyle, got stolen kisses from Simon and John.

Everything was normal.

Safe.

Until it wasn’t.

The memory of how it all happened is fragmented- too fast, too sudden. You’d gone to the gardens for a stroll, accompanied by one maid and a single guard, a routine walk to clear your mind, get some fresh air in such nice weather. But the ambush was swift. Shadows that hadn’t been there before moved, voices hissed sharp commands, and then- pain. A sharp, stinging pain at the back of your head before everything went dark.

When you awoke, you were bound. Cold stone walls and floors surrounded you, damp and suffocating, the air stale with the scent of decay. The faint flicker of candlelight illuminated the room, but no one was there at first. You couldn’t even tell how long you had been out. Fear threatened to choke you, but you forced yourself to breathe. To think.

John, Simon, Kyle, Johnny- they’ll save you. They will. That thought kept you from truly panicking, even if your heart thundered against your chest and your body trembled, tears in the corners of your eyes.

The news hit John like a thunderclap. His ears rang, and he almost didn’t believe the words at first.

“She’s gone,” Kyle reported, his usually calm demeanor shattered. His fists were clenched, slammed on John’s desk, and his voice shook despite his best efforts to remain steady. “The guards- dead. The maid survived, but barely. It was an ambush. Everyone is tightening up the security right now, but- they’ve taken her.”

John didn’t stop to ask questions. Orders were barked, search parties sent out, guards work at hard. Simon was already armored and saddling his horse before John had even finished speaking. Johnny abandoned his kitchen entirely, storming out with sleeves rolled up, his eyes sharp and lethal in a way no one had ever seen before. And Kyle was barely holding himself together in his anger, but there was a fire burning behind his eyes that promised hell for whoever dared lay a hand on you.

None of them stopped to think. None of them cared about anything other than getting you back.

You weren’t sure how long you’d been there, cold and the ropes digging into your skin painfully when the door creaked open.

The man who entered reeked of sweat and desperation, and his grin made your stomach churn. It took strength not to gag as he neared you, grimy fingers grabbing your chin roughly. “The Duke will pay handsomely for you,” he sneered. “And if he doesn’t… well, I’m sure we can find other uses for you.”

The smirk that (dis)graced his face then alarmed you, even more so when he reached to rip off the fabric of your dress, around your collar.

You flinchd, terror clawing at your throat. The tears rolled down your cheeks then, and yet he only laughed, his rancid breath wafting over your face.

“Wonder how much he’ll pay for you, eh?” He mused. “Pretty face and probably a pretty cunt too, don’t think the Duke will let ya go that easily.”

You forced yourself to speak calmly, even if your voice trembled. Shame clawed at you, at his words and the way he talked about you. “You won’t get a single coin from him,” you said, steadier than you felt. “He’s a man who doesn’t bargain with scum.”

The chair you’d been tied to groaned as you threw your weight sideways suddenly, toppling it over and surprising him just long enough for you to maybe- just- knock him out, something to get his hands off you-

But you didn’t have to.

Because then, there was shouting. The door burst open, and the first thing you saw was Simon’s familiar, towering frame filling the entrance. Blood smeared his armor, and his eyes through his mask- normally sharp and calculating- were wild with rage.

“Don’t you fucking touch her.”

The sounds of swords clanging rang out from outside, and your captor crumpled to the ground before he could even react and you were so glad it was too dark for you to see his blood coating Simon’s sword; the smell alone had you gagging. Though it was forgotten as Simon rushed to cradle you.

Then they were there- all of them. John’s hands shook with rage as he knelt beside you, pulling at your bindings with urgency. Kyle hovered just behind him, dagger stained, and Johnny was at your other side, pressing his hands to your face, whispering reassurances even as his voice wavered.

“You’re safe, love. We’ve got you. We’ve got you.”

The ride back home was quiet, save for your stressed weeping. They didn’t ask questions- not yet. Instead, they focused on keeping you warm, wrapped in John’s coat as Kyle’s arms held you steady in the carriage. Johnny never stopped touching you, even if it was just to brush his fingers against your hand.

They did not stop your tears; they let you sob it all out, as much as possible. The fear, the panic, everything, and you simply clung to them.

It was only once you were home, surrounded by the familiarity of your rooms and you were calmer, that the questions came.

“Are you hurt, my love?” John asked first, his voice gentle but commanding. “Did they…” He couldn’t even finish the question, his throat tightening.

“No,” you said quickly, voice hoarse, reaching for his hand. “They didn’t. I swear it.”

Relief flooded his face, but it was fleeting. Kyle had already left to prepare a bath, and Simon stood by the door like a sentry. Johnny sat at your feet, eyes locked on yours.

“Ye need to eat,” he suddenly said, as if being reminded. His face softened when he caught the way your lips twisted. “I ken ye probably have no appetite, but ye gotta hold something down, lass.”

They didn’t leave you alone that night. Not even for a moment, and they were the ones to help you shower and dress. They held you close, touches gentle, soothing. Simon’s dogs were there, as well, napping by the fireplace.

And when you woke up in the middle of the night, trembling from the remnants of fear, it was Simon’s voice that soothed you.

“You’re safe, darling,” he whispered against your hair, arms wound around you like a cocoon of safety and security. “No one will ever touch you again.”

You believed him. You did. And yet- you still clung to him, to all of them, desperate for any touch that would remind you where you are.

And they were all too willing to soothe your fears (they needed it as much as you did, anyways).

[moonstruckme]

Hey Mae!!! I saw that the requests were open so I thought I would request something but if I misread it or something then please ignore this!

I was wondering if you could write something with reader not used to being taken care of? Like they have always taken care of others and have never had the opportunity to be taken care of so when someone else does they feel the need to do something for them in return? I was thinking of maybe Remus for this one? Or maybe a poly! Ship but you can write whoever you want!!

I understand if this is not a topic you would like to write about but I just love your writing and thought I would give it a try. Thank you for reading this anyway and I hope you have a wonderful day/night!

(Sorry it’s such a long request)

No you were right lovely! Thanks for your request :)

roommate!Remus x fem!reader ♡ 625 words

You pad into the kitchen, blanket around your shoulders and half-dissolved lozenge tucked into your cheek, to find the sink clear of dishes yet again. Guilt grows like winding vines around your ribcage. 

You put on the kettle. Stand over it as the steam starts to rise, breathing in the thick air and imagining you can feel the pressure in your sinuses lessening slightly. You make a cup of turmeric tea with honey for yourself, and English breakfast for Remus, stirring in a tiny bit of sugar the way he likes. You’re careful to keep it well away from you and your potential contagious-ness while you carry it upstairs. 

You knock softly in case, but Remus is awake, as you knew he’d be. 

“Morning,” he says, looking up from his book with a smile. The sight of him, sleep-rumpled and happy to see you, is almost too much. His eyes flicker down to the mugs you’re carrying, eyebrows lifting. “For me?” 

“Mhm.” You pass it to him, ignoring his soft tutting when you turn it in your grip so the handle is facing out towards him. 

“Thanks, sweetheart,” he says warmly. He blows steam off the top, honeyed eyes on yours. “I should be the one getting up to make you tea, really. How are you?” 

“I’m okay.” You shrug, taking a sip of your tea. The heat dissolves your lozenge faster, double soothing for your throat. “And you’ve done more than enough already. Sorry about the dishes.” 

Remus’ expression clouds with confusion for a moment before he realizes what you’re talking about. “Oh, I don’t mind. I wouldn’t be doing dishes if I was unwell, either.” 

“Thanks for doing them for me,” you say softly. Or you try to, but it ends in a rasp, your throat contracting against a cough that doesn’t form. You clear it embarrassedly. 

Your roommate’s brows bend with sympathy. “Don’t worry about it,” he tells you. “It’s really no problem. You don’t need to bring me tea just because I did a few of your dishes.” 

“I want to make it up to you.” 

His expression softens. “There’s nothing to make up, love. It’s not a debt that needs to be repaid.” 

You frown, chewing your lozenge. “At least let me make you breakfast. Is there anything you’re craving?” 

“No.” Remus smiles at you. Not quite confused, almost disbelieving. “You don’t need to make me anything. You should be resting.” 

“I’ve been resting.” You sniff, wincing at the pain it sends through your head. You’ve been either in bed or on the couch for days, and meanwhile Remus has been cleaning up your messes, keeping quiet so you can sleep, and bringing you soup from that place you like down the street. 

“It’s my turn to help now,” you say. 

“It’ll be your turn when I’m poorly and miserable.” Remus sets a hand to your forehead, humming disapprovingly. You use every scrap of willpower you have left not to melt into his bed. “Listen to me, alright? I don’t mind looking after you. It’s not transactional. I washed your dishes because they were there and I had the time, and—” He gives you a playful look. “—because I know that if I were up all night coughing, I wouldn’t want to worry about dishes. Okay?” 

His eyes hold yours. You feel perhaps the most out of it you have since this illness came on. Drunk, almost. “Okay,” you capitulate. 

Remus smiles. “Thank you. So you can stop trying to think up ways to get even.” He picks up his tea. “I can see that head of yours working. Leave it alone, it’s going through enough.” 

You smile back, caught. “Thanks for all your help.” 

“Don’t worry about it, love.”

[katsu28]

operation mistletoe

pairing: oscar piastri x reader

summary: all it takes is one meddling lando norris and some mistletoe at the mclaren holiday party for oscar and yourself to admit your true feelings for each other. (2.2k)

a/n: day two with osc! enjoy <3

“I don’t know why you won’t just tell him.” 

Lando is currently laying spread eagle on your kitchen floor, tossing a padel ball above his head while you shove a packet of popcorn into the microwave for your movie night. 

His question is out of the blue, but you know what he's talking about. Lando is wondering why you won’t tell a certain Aussie you both work with that you have feelings for him.

He’s been wondering for a while now, bordering on a year since you’d accidentally let it slip to him—almost half the time said Aussie has been part of McLaren. 

You scoff. “Have you sent it into the barriers too many times? That’s literally the worst idea I’ve ever heard.”

“But why?” He presses, sounding exasperated. You can’t see him around the island counter, but you can imagine that squinty eyed, scrunchy nosed look he always gets when he doesn’t understand something. You’ve seen it almost overwhelmingly often in the few years you’ve been friends. 

“First of all, we work together. If I tell Oscar that I like him and he doesn’t like me back, I’d never be able to show my face at MTC ever again,” You reason, searching for a bowl to put the popcorn in once it's done. 

It’s actually something you’ve put quite a bit of thought into when weighing the pros and cons of telling Oscar about your feelings. 

“I’d have to find a new job, but that might take forever, so I’d have to move back in with my parents until I find one—if I find one—and I’m pretty sure my mum turned my bedroom into a yoga space the moment I’d left for uni, so I’d have to move into the basement. And then the job I find might not even be around here, so I’d have to move back out of my parents’ place and find another place to live, and you know how expensive things are in some cities! I’d have to find roommates, and I don’t really fancy living with strangers somewhere I don’t know.” 

Lando has taken a seat at the counter when you turn back around with the bowl in your hands, staring at you with the most unimpressed look you’ve ever seen gracing his dumb face. 

“I reckon you’re overthinking things just a smidge,” He says flatly. He thinks you’re being dramatic. You’d call it brainstorming possible worst scenarios. 

You scowl, dumping the freshly popped kernels into said bowl before shoving it towards him. “You don’t know that.” 

He shovels a mouthful of it into his mouth on your way to the couch, sprawling out the length of it with his socked feet in your lap. “I’m pretty sure he fancies you too.” 

“Did he tell you that?” You raise a brow, swatting his feet off you. 

“Well, no, but I’m very perceptive.” 

“I saw you once say excuse me to a mannequin in a race suit at MTC because you weren’t paying attention to where you were going.” 

“Oi, fuck you!” Lando huffs, donkey kicking you lightly in the thigh. “You promised you’d never bring that up again. All I’m saying is that you should just man up and tell him flat out.” 

“I should what?” 

“Shit, I mean—well. Woman up? I guess?” He wonders, squinting one eye shut. “I dunno, really, but still. You never know how he’ll react. Could turn out mint.” 

“Can we not talk about it anymore? Please?” You groan, letting your head tip back against the cushions. “I just feel a little pathetic right now.” You feel Lando pat your head. 

“You’re not pathetic. Love just sucks,” He says sympathetically. “But sure, we don’t have to talk about it right now.” 

-------

True to his word, Lando doesn’t bring it up for weeks. In hindsight, you should’ve taken it as a sign of him planning something, but you’ve been busy with other things. 

Nothing happens until the McLaren holiday party, right after the FIA awards in Rwanda. Someone yells your name from afar as you’re going for a second drink, and when you turn to see who it is, you spot Lando waving wildly at you, gesturing for you to come over. 

Before you can even say anything when you approach, he grabs your hand, dragging you down the corridor. He walks and walks and walks, still not saying a word despite your constant badgering. 

Finally, he stops and takes you by the shoulders, maneuvering you a few steps to one side, forward a few steps. Then he nods once, backing up with his hands out in front of him. “Do me a favor, just wait right here for a second.” 

“What? Lando, what’re you—”

“No, no, no, this is important, I promise. Just stay there. Maybe close your eyes too if you could, that’d be mint.” 

Despite your confusion, you oblige, squeezing your eyes shut. You hear his footsteps retreat, but then nothing for a suspiciously long time. Had he just stuck you here and run off like an absolute wanker? 

A shoulder bumps yours before you can jump to any more conclusions, and it startles you. 

“What the hell is going on?” You question, frowning. Nothing but silence. “Lando? Are you there?” 

“Erm, nope. Not Lando.” 

Fuck. You know that voice. That voice makes your heart do a stupid tap dance against your rib cage every time you hear it.

Your eyes fly open to meet an extremely familiar pair of brown ones. Oscar’s eyes. Oscar is standing right in front of you, looking just as confused as you feel. 

“Oscar!” You exclaim, feeling your face flame hot. 

You can’t help the surprise seeping into your voice. To see him there isn’t something you were expecting at all, and it certainly doesn’t help that he looks extremely handsome, almost glowing with happiness fresh off the end of a successful season for the team. The blue suit he has on clings to him in just the right ways, and his cheeks have a pink flush to them.

“Hi,” He says awkwardly. You aren’t quite certain what to do at the moment, or what even is happening right now. “Do you know what’s going on?” 

“I don’t, actually. Lando just told me to stay here and that he’d be right back,” You admit.

Oscar lets out a noise of acknowledgement from the back of his throat. “Yeah, same, he told me it was something important. I’m not sure where he went, though.” 

He brings up a good point. Where had Lando gone?

Your phone buzzes in your hand at that moment, Lando’s name flashing across the screen when you glance at it. “Hang on, he’s just texted me,” You inform Oscar, angling your phone towards him as if whatever the message says will explain everything. 

Lando: Look up. 

Both of you look up at the same time, and what you see makes your heart drop into your ass. 

A sprig of mistletoe dangles from a haphazardly tied piece of string attached to the beam above. 

That fucker. You’re going to kill him. You’re actually going to kill Lando Norris. 

“Is that—that’s not mistletoe, is it?” Oscar squints up at the tiny plant, tilting his head. 

“It is,” You sigh, fighting the urge to go find Lando and strangle him with your bare hands. “I want you to know I’ve had absolutely nothing to do with this. It was all your idiot teammate.” 

Oscar laughs a little bit, shoulders shaking. “No, I know it’s all him. He thinks he’s hilarious.” 

“He sure does.” 

“I don’t think anyone’s ever told him he’s not,” He replies. Then he shifts on his feet, reaching up to run a nervous hand through his hair. “You look really nice, by the way. Been meaning to tell you that all night, but there’s so many people here I couldn’t find you. Until now, it seems.” 

All night. Oscar has been looking for you all night, just to tell you that you look nice. He’s making it really hard not to fall for him a little bit more. 

“Thank you, Oscar. You clean up well too.” 

He looks down at himself, rocking back and forth on his heels a little. “You think so? I didn’t know if the two shades of blue were too much.” 

“No, they look great. Really.” 

A sudden silence blankets the two of you, and you hate it. You wish you were better at holding conversation, but with Oscar, all your thoughts seem to go right out the window. 

“We should go—” 

“D’you want to—” 

“Sorry, sorry, you first,” You insist, pressing your lips together. 

“Sure, yeah. I was just, uh, asking if you’d maybe want to…y’know.” He glances up at the mistletoe, then back to you, and if you aren’t mistaken, he looks a little hopeful. “We don’t have to if you don’t want to, of course. I’m not—I wouldn’t force you or anything. I just…yeah, we could, if that’s something you’d be into.” 

“Oh!” You blink at him owlishly, completely caught off guard by his suggestion. Oscar wants to kiss you. Is this real life, or has Lando just played the ultimate cruelest prank on you?

“Tradition-wise, and all. I heard you’re cursed with bad luck for years if you break it,” He adds hastily, rubbing at the back of his neck. 

“Definitely wouldn’t want that.” 

“Definitely not,” He echoes, bobbing his head. What comes out of his mouth next is entirely out of the blue. “Did you know the word mistletoe comes from two Anglo Saxon words? Mistel, which means dung, and tan, which basically means branch.” 

“No, I did not know that! That’s…very interesting,” You say enthusiastically, teeth digging into your bottom lip to quell the laugh threatening to spill out. If it were anyone else, you’d think it was quite weird, but Oscar’s word vomit is strangely endearing. 

“I’m sorry, I don’t know why I said that. It’s disgusting, and you didn’t ask. Erm, wow, I’m—” 

“Oscar.” 

“Yeah?” He squeaks, pale cheeks rosy with embarrassment. 

You push forward instead of saying anything else, pressing your lips against his briefly. It’s a split second kiss, but it’s all you can manage without feeling like you’re doing something monumentally stupid. Still, it’s enough to send a zip of something thrilling through your veins. 

When you pull back, Oscar’s eyes are wide, and immediately you think you’ve made a mistake. You open your mouth to blurt an excuse, an apology, anything, but he speaks before you can.

“Will you go out with me?” You falter at the sudden question, totally caught off guard, and it seems to make him panic. “Oh. Oh no. Did I get this completely wrong?” 

“No! No, you didn’t,” You say quickly, reaching out to take his hand. His shoulders slump in relief, fingers already tightening around yours. “I’d love to go out with you, Osc.” 

“Thank god, or this would’ve been really awkward,” He sighs. “Looks like Lando did something right today.” 

“For the first time in his life, probably.” 

“In all fairness, I don’t think I would’ve had the balls to ask you out otherwise,” Oscar admits sheepishly. You hum your agreement. It turns out Lando being a nosy meddler of a friend has its benefits sometimes. “Think we should thank him or something?” 

“Definitely not. His ego would get way too big.” 

Lando looks entirely too smug when the two of you return to the party, eyes immediately zeroing in on your joined hands. “I take it the mistletoe went over well?” 

“I dunno what you’re talking about.” You shrug casually, glancing over at Oscar to see him do the same. 

“Alright, fine. Be like that. You’re welcome, by the way. I expect a mad good Christmas present from both of you this year, I hope you know that.”

Oscar blinks. “But I already got you a set of tea towels.” 

“Ugh, spoiler!” Lando huffs, shoulders slumping. “Also, what are we—fifty? I mean, tea towels! Really, Osc?” 

“You said yours were ugly!” 

You make an offended noise from the back of your throat, furrowing your eyebrows. “I got you those towels for secret santa two years ago, you asshole.” 

“You did? Jesus, you two really are meant for each other,” Lando snorts, shaking his head. 

Oscar just grins over at you, giving a little tilt of his head as if to say great minds think alike. 

“By the way, we’ve got to get onstage soon, so if you’d stop making goo goo eyes at each other so we could get a move on, that’d be great.” 

“Oh. Alright.” Oscar’s smile fades as his gaze flicks back to you, seemingly displeased that he has to leave you so soon. “D’you mind if I…” 

“Go on, bring out the trophy. I’ll be right here,” You assure him, stepping in to drop a chaste kiss to his cheek.

Once they’re onstage little while later, Oscar’s already found you in the crowd, and as they lift the impressive trophy high in the air, he’s only looking at you, beaming so unbelievably bright it might just rival the sun. You smile right back at him, the pride you have both for this team and the two boys onstage just barely contained. 

This night marks the start of new beginnings, both for McLaren and for your relationship with a certain Aussie. And just like the 2025 season, you’re excited to see what next year will hold. 

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[misseverandever]

I CAN READ THIS, AND I WILL! LET’S GOOOOOOO!

omg was not on my 2024 bingo that I’m actually gonna read Melinda’s set for Anya

FRIST CARD: FOUR OF CUPS (the past)

that’s symbolizes Anya past implicating on her present, the cart indicates a need to experiences something new that brings joy and fills this empty space, something we see in our little girl eyes and i’m happy to see she’s doing good cuz in the past she certainly was a person that spends their days with their head down.

SECOND CARD: DEATH (the present)

The upright Death tarot card symbolizes transformation and the beginning of something new. It represents closing a chapter, leaving past experiences behind, we can think about Anya maturing and liberating from the trauma! Well in relationship (anya question) suggests the relationship may be stuck in a stagnant or unproductive dynamic, what we definitely can see, she tell his mother that he bullies her

THIRD CARD: THREE OF SWORDS (hidden influences)

The unseen problem huh? There’s a lot of them, well Donovan, Twilight, Operation Stixs… etc etc….

Whenever this card appears in a reading, it indicates conflict, disappointment, and misunderstanding (Well that’s definitely is the case), maybe Damian is definitely gonna be sad about why her approach to him, we know this is real cuz Damian already say before about people approaching him just because he is a Desmond and we know Anya have the same goal, but no worries is gonna be difficult but it can be resolved (they need to talk about this) !!!!

FORTH CARD: THE STAR (ANYA)

The Star in the upright position symbolizes hope, inspiration, and peace for the future. BUT is in the reversed position, so Anya reflects the feelings of hopelessness, confusion, and doubt as her navigate life's challenges and question circumstances. We see Melinda like that, and surprisingly Anya feel empty for her!

(So cute Anya being the star)

FIFTY CARD: TEN OF PENTACLES (the influence of others)

What kinds of external influences are dominating the situation? Well all of them! This card is important because it influences how others close to the Querent feel about the situation. AND GUESS ITS ALL RIGHT! This is a very positive card, and its positivity indicates that the path of challenges and difficulties has already been traveled, and now is the time to reap what is deserved. INNN THE RELATION WAAAAY (remember Anyas question not just because you know… i’m a shipper) is gonna be an harmony between them, whit a lot of happiness, cuties!

SIXTH CARD: ACE OF CUPS (what Anya have to do)

We see he is receiving, It’s often represents sadness, loss, and frustration, signaling difficulty in connecting. We know Damian is a difficult person, Anya have to deal with his feelings, is an important thing to do cuz if she don’t, they will not be together.

SEVENTH CARD: THREE OF WANDS (final results)

This last card is important because it takes into account all the six previous cards in its response. Here, we have an indicator of what the final resolution to the problem will be.

In this spread, the energy here is one of movement, so Anya cannot (and will not) stay still and she cannot try to handle everything alone.

The card indicates complicity, true love, and a strong connection. Sooo don't worry, as the frendship is real, and they will overcome it together.

SHE KNOWS!

SORRY MY ENGLISH IS KINDA BAD SO CAN YOU GUYS PLEASE FORGIVE ANY ERRORS IN THE TEXT? I was so exited to reed this, if you need tarot read dm me 🫶

[goldfades]

blurb based of joes frustration at the end of the game pretty plzzzzz

it’s not the first time you’ve seen him like this, jaw tight, eyes stormy, the weight of a thousand unspoken words pressing against the set of his mouth. but tonight feels different. sharper, maybe. rawer. his shoulders slump as he sinks onto the edge of the couch, the post-game silence clinging to him like an ill-fitted coat.

you don’t say anything at first, because what’s there to say? you know better than to try and fill the cracks with empty words—he’d see right through you anyway. instead, you linger in the doorway, arms crossed loosely, studying the way his hands rub at his face, frustration bleeding through the spaces between his fingers.

“rough one,” you offer finally, voice quiet, testing. it’s not much, but it’s something.

he doesn’t look at you, just shakes his head in that way that’s less no and more don’t even start.

“joey—”

“not tonight.” his voice cuts across the room, low and strained, and it stings more than you care to admit. not because he’s angry—it’s not the first time the aftermath of a loss has made him short—but because he won’t let you help carry the weight. he never does.

you hesitate, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. you could leave him to stew in his own misery, give him the space he seems to want so badly.

but then again, that’s never been your style.

you push off the doorframe, making your way toward him despite the tension crackling like static in the room. the air feels heavier with every step, but you don’t stop until you’re standing right in front of him. he still doesn’t look up, but you can feel the heat of his frustration radiating off him, see it in the way his leg bounces like a drumbeat he can’t silence.

“i’m not trying to fix it,” you say, your tone soft but steady, letting the words settle between you. “i just don’t want you sitting here drowning in it alone.”

his hands drop to his lap, and finally, finally, his eyes meet yours. they’re tired, bloodshot, and edged with something sharp enough to cut. “i don’t need a pep talk,” he mutters, his voice a low rasp. “i know what went wrong. i don’t need anyone telling me how to feel about it.”

“good thing i’m not here to give you one,” you reply, easing yourself down onto the couch beside him. close, but not too close. it’s a delicate dance, one you’ve learned to navigate over time. “but i am here. whether you like it or not.”

his gaze flickers to you for a moment, a brief flash of something softer breaking through the storm before he looks away again. he leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, head dropping into his hands. “it’s just… god, it’s so fucking frustrating.” the words come out ragged, pulled from somewhere deep and aching. “i know we’re better than this. i know i’m better than this. but tonight… it felt like nothing i did was good enough.”

there’s a beat of silence, heavy and loaded. you let it hang there for a moment before leaning back against the couch, your head tilting slightly as you watch him. “you ever think that maybe it’s not all on you?”

his head snaps up at that, and you can see the protest forming on his lips before he even says a word. “it is on me,” he argues, voice sharper now, cutting through the quiet. “that’s my job. that’s what being the quarterback means. i’m supposed to lead, supposed to—”

“supposed to be perfect?” you cut in, raising a brow.

the question hangs in the air like a challenge, and for a moment, he just stares at you, his jaw working like he’s trying to find the right words to throw back at you. but then he exhales, the fight draining out of him just as quickly as it flared up.

“it’s not about being perfect,” he says finally, quieter now, almost like he’s trying to convince himself. “it’s about…” he trails off, his hands running through his hair in a way that makes it stick up in every direction. “fuck, i don’t know. i just hate losing.”

“i know.” your voice softens, the sharp edges smoothing out as you reach over to nudge his shoulder gently with yours. “but it’s not just about tonight, is it?”

he doesn’t answer right away, but the silence says enough. you know how he gets—how the losses pile up in his mind, not just the ones on the field but the ones in his own head. every missed pass, every fumble, every moment where the weight of the world feels like it’s on his back. it’s not fair, but he carries it anyway, like he doesn’t know how to do anything else.

“you’re allowed to be mad,” you say eventually, your voice low but firm. “you’re allowed to be frustrated, to hate losing, to feel like shit about it. but you don’t have to shoulder all of it alone. that’s what i’m here for, joey.”

he doesn’t say anything, but the way his shoulders drop just a fraction tells you he’s listening. you reach out, your hand finding his on the couch between you, your fingers brushing lightly against his knuckles. it’s a small gesture, but it feels like enough.

for now, at least.

his hand shifts on the couch, brushing against yours for just a second before he grabs it. firm, almost desperate. it’s a small move, but it catches you off guard—joe’s never been one to reach out like this, not when he’s all wrapped up in his head. but then he’s tugging you toward him, his grip strong enough to make it clear he’s not letting go anytime soon.

he doesn’t say a word as he pulls you into his arms, burying his face in the crook of your neck. the hug is tight—bone-crushing, really—but you don’t mind. if anything, it tells you just how much he’s been holding back.

“i hate this,” he mutters against your skin, his voice muffled but no less raw. “i hate feeling like this. like i let everyone down. like i’m not good enough.”

“joey…” you start, but he shakes his head against you, cutting you off before you can say anything else.

“just—let me get it out, okay?” his words come fast, tumbling over each other like they’ve been bottled up too long. “the offense couldn’t get going. the o-line was all over the place. and me? i was fucking useless out there. missing reads, throwing late… i don’t know what the hell was wrong with me tonight.”

you don’t interrupt, don’t try to argue with him or tell him he’s being too hard on himself. you know better than to try and fix it for him, not when he’s like this. instead, you just hold him tighter, your hand moving to his back to rub slow, soothing circles.

when he finally pulls back, it’s only to sink down onto the couch, pulling you with him until you’re lying back against the cushions. he rests his head on your chest, his weight pressing into you in a way that feels grounding, like he’s letting himself find a moment of peace in the chaos.

your hands move without thinking, running up and down his arm in that slow, rhythmic way you know he likes. it’s a small thing, but it’s enough to make his breathing even out, the tension in his body easing bit by bit.

“it’s not all on you,” you say quietly, your voice breaking the quiet that’s settled over the room. “you know that, right?”

he doesn’t answer right away, and for a moment, you think maybe he’s fallen asleep. but then he shifts, turning his face into your shirt, his voice muffled but steady. “i know. i just… i can’t help feeling like it is sometimes.”

“you don’t have to carry it all, joey,” you murmur, your fingers tracing idle patterns along his arm. “that’s why you’ve got a team. that’s why you’ve got me.”

he doesn’t respond, but the way he relaxes against you says enough. and as the silence stretches on, the only sound his slow, steady breathing, you let yourself hope that maybe, just maybe, he’ll let himself believe it, too.

↳ make sure to check out my navigation or masterlist if you enjoyed! any interaction is greatly appreciated !

↳ thank you for reading all the way through, as always ♡

[chrissturnsfav]

Following the anon i sent so I was thinking that singer!reader has always struggled with loving her like thighs and stomach or smt but hear me out if you’re comfortable with it maybe some mentions of self harm like

A scenario

So reader and Chris are laying in bed cuddling or some shit and he’s like tracing his fingers up and don on her thighs and he notices her scars orrr

They’re laying and he compliments her and she goes on a rampage of how she’s not and how ugly her stomach is or smt

⋆.˚✮ rapper!chris knows how to make singer!reader feel pretty

tw: mentions of body image issues

you're sat on the edge of the couch in chris' big living room, scrolling through photos on your phone. your gaze lingers a little too long on a paparazzi picture of yourself from last weekend, your legs prominently featured. a familiar wave of self-doubt washes over you, and before you can stop yourself, you mutter under your breath, "fuck, my thighs look huge."

chris, who’s been freestyling under his breath while jotting down lyrics in his notebook across the couch, freezes mid-bar. his head snaps up, and his eyes narrow, like he can’t believe what he just heard.

"hold up, what'd you say ma?"

you glance at him, trying to play it off. "nothing, forget it," you mumble wearily as you shake your head.

"nah, nah, we ain't doin' that." he gets up, his notebook abandoned on the coffee table, and strides over to you. "what’s this bullshit 'bout your thighs?”

you sigh, trying to avoid his gaze, but chris crouches down in front of you, his icy blue eyes locking onto yours.

"they’re just... big," you mumble. "like, bigger than they should be."

chris scoffs like you just insulted his entire existence. "bigger than they should be? mama, stop fuckin' wit me right now."

you try to laugh, but it’s weak. "i’m serious, chris. i see all these girls online with these slim legs, and then there’s me. i just feel...i dunno...out of place, i guess."

he sits beside you, shaking his head, still looking like he’s offended on your thighs’ behalf. "you’re trippin'. hard. have y'seen yourself? like, really looked at y'self? 'cause if y'did," he says, reaching out to lightly squeeze one of your thighs, "you’d know your thighs are perfect. thick, pretty, sexy as hell—are you serious?"

your cheeks heat up, and you roll your eyes, but he’s just getting started.

"y'know what your thighs say to me?” he continues and smirks a bit, leaning in. "they tell me you're perfect, tell me y'got the full package. tell me you’re built like a model, and that i’d be a dumbass not to appreciate you."

you can’t help but laugh at his over-the-top delivery, and he grins, knowing he’s getting through to you as he brushes his fingers lightly over the smooth skin on your thigh.

"listen baby," he starts, using his free hand to gently cup your jaw and turn your face to his, "i know the world tries to tell girls all this bullshit 'bout what they’re supposed to look like, but lemme tell you sum'n real: you are it for me. all o'you. those thighs you’re trippin' over? they’re one of my favorite things 'bout you."

he moves his hand down to your knee, his thumb drawing little circles. "so stop comparin' yourself to edited pictures on the internet, aight? you’re real, 'n you’re beautiful, 'n if anyone’s got a problem wit' that, they can see me 'bout it."

your chest feels lighter, the weight of insecurity lifting under his unwavering gaze and heartfelt words. you smile, finally meeting his eyes.

"okay," you whisper.

"okay?" he teases. "that’s it? after i jus' dropped the most fire compliments of all time?"

you laugh again, swatting his arm. "thank you, chris. really."

"'course," he says, pressing a sweet kiss to your forehead. "now stop geekin', i gotta go write a verse 'bout how my girl’s got the finest thighs in the game."

you roll your eyes, but your smile lingers long after he’s returned to his notebook on the other side of the couch.

𝗮𝘂𝘁𝗵𝗼𝗿'𝘀 𝗻𝗼𝘁𝗲: i'm not comfortable writing about self harm, so i hope this was good!

thank you for reading!! <3

tags: @sturnobsessedwh0re , @idrk2292 , @mattsbrat , @ribbonlovergirl , @swagalicious260 , @sturnhyyhblog , @matthewsroses , @mattsdemi , @emely9274 , @frankoceanfanpage , @ifwdominicfike , @marrykisskilled , @strnilolover , @cayleeuhithinknott

@chrissturnsfav ™

[queerdaisyjane]

oh sweetie, it’s so cute that you want to fuck me and think I’ll unlock you so you can, just because it’s Christmas and we’re on vacation. No sweetie, today is a big day for you. Go put on your sexiest little panties and meet me back here with your buttplug and lube bottle and I’ll tell you more. Excited? You should be. Ok are you ready? Lube your little boipussy first, darling. Get your fingers way deep inside and stretch your little hole open a bit. Now slowly but firmly force your largest butt plug into your sissy anus. Concentrate on how it feels as it stretches the tightest part of your anus, that inner ring. Pause and let it rest there a bit. Oh don’t cry babe; I know it’s hurting you. That’s the fun part for me! It will start to feel good in a minute.

Can you feel it now? How the pleasure will spread through you, radiating out from your tightest part of your anus? Pull the plug out and shove it back in a few times. Imagine it’s a big hard penis attached to a tall, dark, and sexy man. I know that’s what you truly desire, to give yourself completely to a man, to be his gay little sissy princess, his boiwife. Fuck yourself with the plug as you imagine it while I tell you the next part of the secret.

You know I’ve been fucking Marcus all the time we’ve been married. Yes, I know I gaslighted you relentlessly to make you think you were crazy, playing the innocent wifey. But you were right all along—I never stopped fucking my ex, even when we got married. When you came home and I seemed extra wet and excited for your little whiteboi peepee, four inches hard on a good day, it was because you were just fucking his black cum back into me. Couldn’t you smell it down there? His jizz smells so manly and rank to me, but I guess I’ve been trained by him to be super aroused by his scent.

Anyway, his brother Jamal is going to get out of prison soon and needs a place to stay. And Marcus’s lease is up on the apartment too babe. Yes, I told you it was a pied à terre for when i worked late, but really I was just sleeping there with Marcus. Yes, you paid for the very bed I, your lovely wife, fucked him in.

So here’s what I’m thinking. You’re going to sign over everything to me. Yes, every single thing. Then I’m going to divorce you, which you won’t contest, and Marcus will move in here. He will be my man and take your place in my bed. No i’m not marrying him! Do you think I’m an idiot? He’s just somebody to fuck. I’m done with men forever. Jamal will take the guest room and you will start to date him and sleep with him as his girlfriend. What do you think, sissy soon-to-be-ex hubby?

Well I don’t know sweetie, he’s been in prison, so I don’t really know much about him, other than he’s Marcus’ older brother. I know he played pro football for awhile but got busted for spousal abuse and was sentenced to four years away in a maximum security facility. Yes, she had to go to the hospital with multiple injuries but she didn’t die. She refused to press charges so he received a very light sentence, considering what he did to her.

Anyway, he’s had a little sissy whiteboi prison wife these past few years and decided he wanted to continue with one when he got out. Marcus showed me the poor boi’s picture. Jamal got him on HRT and starved him for months until he was the size and shape of a high school cheerleader. Problem solved! You’ll be Jamal’s next project. You can support him and all of us with your straight job earnings and you’ll do double duty when needed with Jamal’s clients, either as a drug mule, or as a tribute whore entertaining his business associates. I wouldn’t be surprised if he wants you to start on hormones too, babe. You’ll pay for your own feminization, of course.

Jamal is also part owner in a strip bar and runs an escort service from there, so I’d at least try to act as if I was very happy about the arrangement if you don’t want to work in a brothel for the rest of your short, sad, drug-addled life. Oh sweetie, don’t cry, I’m sure if he’s anything like Marcus, Jamal will have a magnificent penis that he can stuff in your all your holes anytime he wants.

[renku]

Princess

「 Scenario smut - Yeseo x Male Reader 」

A/N: This is just pure BFH. Yeseo is just... yeah, many of you know it.

So no proofreading and edits at all. The other fic is still ongoing by the way. Happy Holidays to all!

~~~

It was a warm heat; a pair of thick flesh residing on your own, eyes glued to yours while Yeseo removes her cashmere crop top. A sight to behold—her silky hair dragged up by the motion. Perky, aroused tits reaching its perfect state. Oh, oh, she knows you want ‘em but she doesn't how you crave for those buds. Lastly, her intoxicating scent mixing into bloodstream, flowing at the right places. You can’t wait, but you have to. Being needy would be the last thing you’d show to this princess.

“Fuck, you’re making me crazy, princess,” you remarked, almost whispering the words with your face just centimeters away from her.

She smiled. Just smiled. As if she knew, and she does. Yeseo knows how to be minimalistic—low effort but extraordinary results. “And here too,” she replied, unzipping your pants to release her favorite toy from its constraints.

“Did this ‘good boy’ missed me?” she asked, an unnecessary question that somehow displayed her power over you.

“Why don’t you sit on it to know the answer, princess?” you responded, making sure she won’t have her way. Yeseo’s too dangerous. Especially when she’s fired up. And right now, the fire within her burns with such intensity that you’d never dare to put out. Only she can do it, by satisfying her wants.

“Don’t move an inch. Let me do it my way. Your princess’ way.”

Yeseo reached beneath her skirt, undoubtedly pushing her panties to the side to reveal her awaiting wet and dripping pussy. She grabs your already raging shaft and aligns it with her sweet entrance.

With a slow and steady movement, Yeseo patiently drops herself with your cock. Eating those inches with her warm and slick walls.

“Fuck...,” you grunted, shutting your eyes as you almost lift your head up to conceal the pleasure rapidly consuming your entire body.

“So big... so warm... all for me,” Yeseo noted in full ecstasy. She reached for your lips with hers to initiate a quick make out with her tongue invading yours in an instant.

In doing so, that sinful body of hers starts to grind on that small couch you have. Muffled moans became a series of vibrations in your mouth. Your hands can’t stay idle. They wander all over her upper torso, all those nerves in your fingertips doing its job to feel her soft and delicate skin.

Yeseo breaks the kiss. “Oh, oh- ah, yes! Ah, fuck! So deep!”

“Moan for me, princess. Tell me how you feel good by riding my dick. Let me hear it.”

“Yours is the best! Ah- I- I can’t stop! Make me cum with your huge cock! Oh, God!”

“So- so tight! Damn it!”

Her pace continues to rise with each second passing. She’s not like this before. Maybe Yeseo’s getting used to it. Should you be glad? Don’t know for sure. But the build up inside your groin can’t be ignored. Her tightness also is killing you. She’s close, too.

“Cumming for me, princess?”

“Ye- yes! Just a bit more! Fuck! I’m close!”

“Good, cum with that slutty pussy of yours. Take all my cum!” you exclaimed.

“Breed me! Please, claim my pussy! Claim it till it's full of cum!”

You didn’t move a bit the entire time. All of the work was from Yeseo. She wanted it. You just want her to experience things. Explore. Figure what works for her and what isn’t. She insisted to all of this. It’s a fact that makes you less guilty and not to think about it too much. You had a good time and the same goes for her. And that time tonight is about to reach its conclusion—pleasurable conclusion.

“Yeseo, I’m cumming!”

“Me too, I’m cumming! Don't hold back!”

“It’s coming! Ah!”

There it is, the climax. Ropes and ropes of semen filled Yeseo’s walls. Her walls convulses as she reached the promised land but also making sure not a drop of cum will escape from her cunt.

The highs from the sex slowly declines, and both of you came back to your senses.

“Amazing.”

Catching her breatg and drenched in sweat, Yeseo happily responded biting her lower lip, “Yeah, you’re the fucking best.”

[wandascosmic]

just maybe (9)

wanda maximoff x fem!reader

part nine of 'you belong with me' series

summary: basically a wanda series inspired by jim and pam from the office

word count: 3193

tags: swearing, playful mention of sex, an office fire drill, best friends to lovers, idiots already in love to lovers, reader having an insane amount of self-control as always, jealousy jealousy from our favorite sokovian

taglist: @reginassweetheart @rroyale-109 @marvel-posts

part 1 part 2 part 3 part 4 part 5 part 6 part 7 part 8 part 9

“Shield Industries, this is Wanda,” Wanda introduces as she answers the receptionist's phone. Upon hearing the voice, Wanda furrows her brows. “Sure, can I ask who’s calling?” The person responds with their name. “Just a second.” Wanda turns to hit a button on the phone. 

Suddenly, your phone begins to ring. “Y/N L/N,” you state, picking up the call. You laugh, hearing that it was your current almost girlfriend. “What, how did you get this number?” You mock with a grin. “Stalker,” you shake your head. 

Wanda’s not sure how she feels as she watches the happy expression on your face from her desk. You seem content with Valkyrie, but something about her just made Wanda feel uneasy. She’s come to the conclusion that she’s probably just protective of you, since you’ve always been her best friend, and since knowing you she had never really seen you in any serious relationships. She simply cared for you, a lot. 

“So we’re still on for lunch?” you ask Valkyrie. “Are you meeting me here? Okay. Great. See you later. Bye,” you finish with a smile, hanging up. 

You were about to get back to work when Wanda calls out to you from across the room. “Hey,” she says, causing you to turn your head towards her, and gives you a small smile. “You can just give her your extension.” 

“Sure,” you nod, before returning to the papers on your desk. 

Wanda frowns. 

***

There was a deafening loud sound reverberating through the entire office. The smoke detector, of course. 

You sigh. You just wanted to get through the day uninterrupted, not including the lunch you had planned with Valkyrie. And, of course, spending as much time as you could with Wanda. Just one normal day, please.

And right on time, Sam begins to shout. “Okay, people, this is not at test! Everybody make your way to the exits!” He calls out. 

“Do not panic!” Tony yells alongside him. “Everyone, just get up from your desks, arms at your side!” 

“This is not a drill, move quickly, everyone, this is a paper company, come on!” Sam screams at the top of his lungs, rather dramatically. If you weren’t at a risk for being set on fire, you would’ve had a witty sarcastic remark ready on the tip of your tongue for him. “This whole place is a tinder box, it’s ready to blow!” 

You’re making your way out the exits, when suddenly Wanda immediately runs towards you and meets the rhythm of your stride, holding your hand. 

You give her a confused look. “Nat says we should have safety partners,” she responds with a shrug. 

“I didn’t hear that–” you begin to say.

“Clear out, stat!” Sam interrupts, sprinting past the two of you and clearly out of breath after screaming out fire safety laws for the past 10 minutes. 

Forgetting your previous statement, you turn to the brunette beside you once you’ve both made it safely to the parking lot outside. “Please tell me we can prank Sam after this,” you tell Wanda, bringing out a huge grin on her face.

“Oh, for sure,” she responds immediately. “In fact, I’m drafting up about 5 plans right now in my mind.” 

You laugh. “Of course you are, Maximoff.” Wanda squeezes your hand in return. 

***

“Okay, you know what?” you call out to the people around you. It had been ten minutes, and you were thoroughly bored of standing around. “I think Wanda and I are gonna set an agenda around here.” 

Wanda nods with a grin. 

Clapping your hands together lightly, you call towards the rest of the office staff. “Can everybody gather up, please? Important announcement.” You say. “I think this is a perfect opportunity for all of us to participate in some really intense,” you pause, “psychologically revealing conversations.” 

You give Wanda a look to finish the rest of your announcement. “So,” she turns to face the crowd. “We’re gonna be playing Desert Island…” 

“”Who Would You Do?” you continue, making Wanda snicker. 

“And, “Would You Rather?”” Wanda finishes. 

“Would You Rather,” you agree. 

You’re about to start the first game, when suddenly, the fire trucks pull in and the firefighters run through the office crowd to get into the building. 

“What’s up, guys, long time no see,” you greet slightly, making Wanda smack you playfully on the arm. “What?” you laugh. 

She rolls her eyes in response. “You’re a dork.” 

You stick your tongue out at her in return, and turn back to the crowd once all the firefighters have made their way through. 

“Okay, so, first, three books on a desert island,” you look around, trying to pick the first person to go. “Nat,” you point. 

Nat squints her eyes suspiciously at the interaction in front of her first, before answering. “The Hunger Games, and a Russian dictionary, to make sure I’m not out of practice.” 

“Okay, you have one more book though,” you say. 

“Rather not,” Nat responds. 

“Okay,” you say with a shrug, and turning towards your best friend. “Wanda, next person?” 

Wanda nods, looking around to pick the right person. “Peter!” she says. 

“Oh,” Peter responds shyly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Um, Death by Black Hole, Nonlinear Dynamics and Chaos, and one of the scientific journals I read a while ago but I can’t remember the name.” 

“Alright, that’s pretty cool,” you say. 

“No, it’s not,” Sam retorts immediately. “If he burned them, he would only be warm for like seven seconds. Question, is there firewood on the island?” 

“I guess,” you shrug. 

Sam scoffs. “Then I would bring an axe. No books.”

“That’s actually pretty practical, Mr. Sam,” Peter squeaks out. 

“Peter, you don’t need to agree with the guy,” you reassure. “I never do.” 

Peter nods, shifting his weight on his feet instead. 

You look at Sam once more. “You can’t bring an axe, Sam. Just books.” 

Sam narrows his eyes at you. “Fine, then. Physician’s Desk Reference.”

“Nice. Smart.” 

But unfortunately, Sam continues. “But hollowed out. Inside, waterproof matches, iodine tablets.” Wanda turns to you with an expression that tells you she’s trying not to laugh. You roll your eyes playfully in response. “Beet seeds, protein bars, NASA blanket, and, in case I get bored, Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone. No, Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban.” Wanda finally can’t help herself and lets out a small snicker. “Question, did my shoes come off in the plane crash?”

***

Unfortunately, the books don’t last very long since it appears that people don’t read too much in the Shield Industries office. However, you’re definitely remembering Wanda’s answer for her next birthday. 

“Okay, DVDs, five movies, what would you bring?” you ask the crowd. 

Bruce immediately raises his hand. 

“Yes, Bruce?” 

Bruce starts naming all of his guilty pleasure movies, and you and Wanda look at each other while struggling not to laugh. 

“Wow,” you whisper quietly to her as Bruce continues naming his choices. 

“Well, I kind of like–” Wanda whispers one of the movies to you through her quiet giggles. 

“Wanda, you’re misinterpreting this,” you tease gently. “These are desert island movies, you know? Not guilty pleasure movies. These are the movies you’re gonna be watching for the rest of your life! Forever!” 

“I take it back,” Wanda grins, facing you. 

“Unforgivable,” you shake your head. 

“I take it back!” Wanda wraps her arms around yours. 

***

“Wanda,” you turn to the brunette so she’s facing your front. “Your turn, five movies, go ahead.” 

Wanda groans, looking at you with a hopeful expression on her face. “Does it have to be movies? What about sitcoms?” she asks excitedly. 

You hum thoughtfully. “What do you guys think?” you turn to the rest of the staff.

“To be fair, I don’t think Maximoff has seen a single movie in her life, so for her, it should be allowed,” Nat says. 

“Hey!” Wanda says, slightly offended. “I’ll have you know, when I first came here, Y/N took me to see a bunch of your classic American movies.” 

“Oh, did she now?” Nat responds back sarcastically. 

“Okay, come on, guys,” you say past the slight blush in your cheeks. “No need to be hostile. Wanda, go ahead and name your top sitcoms you’d bring to the island.” 

Wanda immediately forgets about the interaction with Nat and starts naming her favorite shows. “Okay. The Dick Van Dyke Show, of course, I Love Lucy, Malcolm in the Middle, Bewitched, Family Ties…Wait, can I bring one more? I love–” 

“Sorry, Maximoff,” you cut off with a grin, causing her to frown. “Five per person, max.” 

“But-” she tries.

You shake your head. “Play by the rules, Wanda. Play by the rules.”

“I’m gonna get you back,” she says, narrowing her eyes and crossing her arms tightly. 

“Don’t doubt it,” you respond cheekily. “But, I’ll get you a donut later to make up for it. How about that?” 

Wanda nods, satisfied with your answer and moves to stand next to you once more. 

***

“All right, moving on to the main event, Who Would You Do?” you announce.

“Present company excluded?” Bucky asks. 

“Um, no,” you shake your head. “Not necessarily.” 

Suddenly, a chorus of “Wanda” is heard from the entire crowd, and you look at the recipient seeing how uncomfortable she looks. 

“Okay, um, how about I finish explaining the rules first? Let me explain first–” you try to ease Wanda’s embarrassment, but suddenly, you’re interrupted by something you could have never anticipated. 

Well, who could ever anticipate Sam’s…colorful personality. 

“Everybody Hurts” by REM has begun to blast from Sam’s car, and you look to see him slouching completely lifeless in his driver’s seat.

You try your best to continue past the music. “Yeah, so we’ll get right to— you know what? I’ll be right back. Steve, can you take over for me? Thanks.” 

You run off in the direction of Sam’s car, ready to confront him with Wanda trailing beside you. 

“Sam?” You ask through the open window. Sam simply turns up the music in response. “Sam! Come on, Sam, use words.” 

Sam turns off the music aggressively. “Why didn’t I go to business school?” he asks angrily. 

You furrow your brows in confusion. “Who goes to business school?” you ask, looking over at Wanda who shrugs at you in response. 

“The intern,” Sam says venomously. 

“Peter? He does?” 

“Yeah,” Sam responds scornfully. “It’s all him and Tony talk about now. Tony saw a stupid yellow business school book in his car, swiped him from your game, and now Tony’s completely obsessed with him.” 

Wanda looks at you before speaking, “you know, I bet Peter thinks to himself, “I wish I were a volunteer sheriff on the weekend.”” 

You bite your lip to hold back your laugh. 

“He doesn’t even know that I do that,” Sam rolls his eyes. 

“You should tell him,” Wanda says. 

“Oh, yeah, Wanda. Right. That’s gonna help things, just talk it out,” he scoffs. “I hope the war goes on forever and Peter gets drafted.” 

“Sam,” Wanda states gently.

“What?” you mouth to her through a smile.

She shakes her head at you with an equally amused grin. 

Sam puts his head into his hands. “Fine, I’m sorry I said that. I didn’t— just part of me meant it, okay? Besides, he’d end up being a hero, anyway.” 

You duck your head slightly to hold in the laugh that’s dying to come out. Wanda starts to smile too, looking away slightly to prevent being obvious. 

“You know what you should do,” you say past your grin, an equally amused expression on Wanda’s face. “You should quit.” You cover your mouth with the top of your fist slightly to hide your smile. “And then,” you turn to face Wanda, “that would stick it to both of them.” 

Wanda bites her lip tightly, trying her best to prevent from bursting out into laughter alongside you.

“No, Y/N, I’m not gonna quit,” Sam says completely monotone. “Then Peter wins.” 

“Yeah, you’re right,” you agree, facing Wanda who’s eyes are sparkling with amusement.

Sam puts his hand on top of both yours and Wanda’s, giving you both a grateful expression. “Thanks, you guys. I just need some alone time.” 

“Okay,” Wanda says softly, slowly backing away from the car. 

“Everybody Hurts” starts blasting again from the speakers, and Sam rolls up the window, slouching once more. 

You and Wanda slowly walk back to the group together, laughing loudly together as you finally release the pent-up hysterics you had both been trying to hold back. 

“God, he makes it so easy,” you exclaim. 

“I know,” Wanda grins. “But, we’re definitely still pranking him! I’m so looking forward to it, I have so many ideas I need to share with you. But, you know, after he gets over his breakup with Tony,” she starts giggling again. 

“I can’t wait, Maximoff,” you start snickering loudly alongside her once more.

But suddenly, your moment is cut short, as the source of your unhappiness makes its way in front of you two, and you both stop laughing slightly. 

“Hey, guys, what’s going on?” Vision asks, immediately slinging his heavy arm around Wanda’s shoulders.

“Nothing much,” you respond, shrugging as you put your hands in your pockets, feeling a bit out of place. 

“Hi, Vis,” Wanda says with a smile. 

“Can I hang with you guys for a bit?” Vision asks you both. “The warehouse guys can really be jackasses sometimes, you know?” 

You included, you think to yourself. 

But if he makes Wanda happy, then you’re happy.

***

Much to your secret dismay, you and Wanda have joined the group once more, along with her fiancé. 

“Come on, guys, you know the rules of the game, it’s called “Who Would You Do?”” Steve says in a bit of a frustrated tone. 

“Oh!” Tony claps his hands together. “Awesome, I play this game with my friends all the time. Where are we?” 

“Um–” Steve says. 

“Vision!” Tony points to the new company. “Who would you do?” 

“Oh, I got it!” Vision responds, and Wanda smiles lightly to herself. “What’s the name of that girl who’s always wearing black and has a huge bitch face? The red head?” 

Wanda’s face falls.

“My name’s Natasha,” Nat responds curtly, crossing her arms. 

Vision leans down to face Nat. “Hey, Natasha! I’m Vision, nice to meet you.” 

“You’re a dick,” Nat says simply, immediately leaving and making her way to her car.

Wanda looks down at her feet, feeling uncomfortable. 

“Hey?” you whisper to Wanda. 

Wanda hums in response. 

“Look at Sam,” you tell her, pointing to the figure in the red car, now going back and forth between banging his forehead onto his steering wheel, occasionally letting out honks, and banging his head agains the roof of his car. 

Wanda lets out a laugh, bringing her hand to her mouth in shock. She turns to look at you. “He’s gonna inflict brain damage or something.”

“Well, then he’ll have opened up a whole new world of pranks for us,” you shrug. 

Wanda grins, her spirits lifted from before. 

“Y/N!” Tony calls out. “You’re next. Who would you do?” 

“Um,” you pause. “Steve, hands down. You know, he’s got that cuddly thing going on, and because he’s prehistoric we could just watch bowling after.” 

The group laughs at your joke, Wanda included. 

***

The people playing the games had slightly splintered since Sam had run out of his car in an effort to find Tony’s phone, inside the burning office building, and in his words, simply to make him happy. A couple people got bored, and a few others decided to wait by the door of the building just to make sure Sam got out safely. 

Wanda was surrounded by a few of the female staff, who had decided to continue the game. 

“Definitely Y/N,” a bunch of them said simultaneously. “She’s really cute, and funny.” 

Wanda crossed her arms tightly across her body. 

“What about you, Wanda?” Jean asked. 

“Um,” Wanda looks around. “Probably Steve, too. For the same reasons as Y/N. He seems really nice.”

You’re on a phone call with Valkyrie, walking around the parking lot aimlessly. “Hey, where are you? Oh, good. Yeah, we’re just here, we’re playing Desert Island, five movies.” 

***

Sam had finally reconciled with Tony, after finding out the culprit of the fire, was unfortunately Peter’s cheese quesadilla. The boy looked horrified, and you tried to give him a reassuring look in an unfortunate situation. 

Suddenly, you were met with the sight of a silver car pulling into the parking lot, seeing it was Valkyrie through the windows. 

You walked up with a smile as she parked, rolling down the window to strike up a conversation. 

“Hey,” you greeted, smiling as you leant down to talk to her, her immediately grabbing your arm flirtatiously. “How are you?” 

“I’m good,” she answered, planting a kiss on your cheek. “It’s good to see you.” 

“It’s good to see you too,” you responded, smiling. 

“I’m hungry,” she says, referring to your lunch plans. 

“You know, I am too,” you agree. 

“Oh!” Valkyrie realizes, stepping out of the car. “I have been thinking, the whole way over, and I have my answers,” she shuts the door to the car. 

“What answers?” you ask. 

“For the desert island,” she says, leaning back against the car door. 

“Oh, right!” you say excitedly. “Come on.” You grab her hand and lead her over to the rest of the staff. 

“Ladies and gentlemen, gather ‘round, we have one more participant,” you announce. “Be polite,” you say, before turning to Valkyrie. “Desert island, five movies, go.” 

“Okay,” Valkyrie smirks. “First, Legally Blonde.” 

And suddenly, you’re met with the sound of Wanda’s laughter, as that was the guilty pleasure movie Wanda had told Y/N she liked when Bruce had announced it, only for you to tease her in response. 

Unfortunately, after Valkyrie has announced her movies, the crowd had mostly dissipated, and you turn to her apologetically. “Sorry, there was a bigger crowd last time, but you know, great movies,” you say, scratching the back of your neck slightly. 

“Don’t worry,” Valkyrie says, grabbing your arm and running her hand up and down your sleeve. “Wanna just go to lunch?” 

“Sure,” you agree. “Where are we going?” 

“I’m in the mood for Thai, does that work?” Valkyrie responds, getting into the driver’s seat. 

“Yeah, for sure,” you say, closing the door for her before making your way to the passenger’s seat. 

And Wanda narrows her eyes, ‘cause she knows you absolutely hate Thai food. 

Scoffing, she turns back to Vision, and grabs him by the collar before firmly connecting their lips.

You frown at the sight in front of you, and turn your head away.

“You okay?” Valkyrie asks, noticing your expression as you close the car door at your side. 

“Hm?” you respond. “Oh, oh, yeah, I’m fine. Don’t worry.” You reassure, giving her a small smile past the ache in your heart. 

“Okay,” Valkyrie agrees, giving you a small kiss on your cheek before driving off. 

[little-jana]

"Good Girl"

Pairing: postprison!Spencer Reid x reader

Genre: steamy, 18+, fluff, no smut

Warnings: kissing, Spencer calling reader a good girl

Words: 3.4k

Summary: Spencer giving Reader a lot of compliments and one of them makes her blush a lot.

Spencer had been different since prison. Not entirely in ways the team would notice—he still rattled off statistics, quoted obscure literature, and beat everyone at chess. But when you’d known someone as deeply as I knew Spencer, even subtle shifts felt monumental. He was sharper now, his edges honed by experiences no one should have endured. But when it was just the two of us, in those quiet, stolen moments, he softened.

That’s why I stayed by his side tonight instead of joining the team for drinks. Spencer had waved off the invitation, saying he needed a quiet night, and when I hesitated to leave him alone, he’d asked me to stay. It wasn’t much—a shared meal and a chess game in his small apartment—but to me, it felt like everything.

“I can’t tell if you’re planning your next move or plotting my demise,” Spencer said, leaning back in his chair as he watched me.

“I can do both,” I said lightly, though the truth was, I’d been staring at the board for so long because I had no idea what to do.

He smirked, tilting his head slightly. “You’re stalling.”

“I’m thinking,” I corrected.

“You’ve been ‘thinking’ for six minutes and thirty-two seconds.”

“Are you timing me?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

“No, but I glanced at the clock when you stopped moving your hand after your last turn.”

“Of course you did,” I muttered, my eyes flicking back to the board. “Not all of us have an IQ of 187, you know.”

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. The soft light from the lamp behind him highlighted the sharp planes of his face, and for a second, I forgot what we were talking about.

“You’re better than you think,” he said, his voice low.

“Better at chess, or better in general?” I quipped, trying to deflect the heat rising in my cheeks.

Spencer didn’t answer right away. Instead, he studied me, his hazel eyes unblinking and intent.

“Both,” he said simply.

My heart skipped a beat, but I forced myself to focus. This was just Spencer being Spencer—kind and honest to a fault. It didn’t mean anything. Not really.

Finally, I made a move, sliding my bishop into place. I looked up at him triumphantly. “Your turn, genius.”

Spencer’s eyes flicked to the board, and he moved his queen with a casual grace that made my stomach sink. “Checkmate,” he said softly.

“What?” I leaned forward, scanning the board. He was right. Of course he was right.

“How?” I groaned, sitting back in my chair. “I was so careful!”

“That was a good game,” he said, his tone genuine. “You lasted longer than usual.”

I rolled my eyes. “Gee, thanks.”

“No, really,” he insisted. “Your defense has improved. That last move was smart.”

“Then how did I still lose?”

His lips quirked into a smile. “Because I’ve been playing chess since I was four, and you’ve only been playing for—”

“Three months,” I finished for him.

“Exactly,” he said, his smile widening. “But you’re learning fast. Good girl.”

The words hit me like a freight train. My cheeks burned, and I ducked my head, pretending to fiddle with the edge of the table.

“Something wrong?” Spencer asked, his voice tinged with concern.

“No,” I said quickly, my voice higher than usual. “I’m fine.”

“You’re blushing,” he observed, tilting his head.

“I’m not,” I lied, even though I could feel the heat spreading down my neck.

His lips twitched, like he was fighting a smile. “You’re a terrible liar.”

“I’m not lying,” I said weakly, avoiding his gaze.

“Hmm,” he hummed, his tone teasing now.

Desperate to change the subject, I stood and grabbed the empty takeout containers from the coffee table. “I’m going to clean this up.”

Spencer followed me into the kitchen, leaning against the counter as I tossed the containers into the trash. His presence was a tangible thing, and I could feel his eyes on me as I wiped down the counter.

“Good,” he said softly.

I turned to face him, confused. “Good what?”

“Good technique,” he said, nodding toward the counter.

My cheeks flamed again. “Are you just saying that to mess with me?”

“No,” he said, his expression softening. “I mean it. You’re good at a lot of things, but you never give yourself credit.”

I swallowed hard, my heart pounding in my chest. “I think you’re overestimating me,” I said quietly.

Spencer stepped closer, his gaze never leaving mine. “No, I’m not,” he said firmly. “You’re smart, capable, and one of the kindest people I’ve ever met. You’re… amazing.”

My breath caught in my throat. The sincerity in his voice, the intensity in his eyes—it was overwhelming.

“Spencer…” I trailed off, unsure of what to say.

He reached out, his fingers brushing against mine. The touch was so gentle, so careful, it made my chest ache. “You don’t believe me, do you?”

I shook my head slightly. “It’s not that… I just don’t see myself the way you do.”

His brows furrowed, and he tilted his head slightly. “You should. Because I’m not wrong.”

The silence between us stretched, thick with unspoken words. I felt like I was standing on the edge of something, and for once, I wasn’t afraid to fall.

“You’re doing it again,” he said softly.

“Doing what?”

“Doubting yourself,” he said, his voice laced with a quiet kind of sadness.

I opened my mouth to argue, but the look on his face stopped me.

“You’re a good girl,” he said, his voice low and steady. “You just don’t know it yet.”

My cheeks burned, and I looked down, unable to meet his gaze.

“Hey,” he said gently, tilting my chin up with his finger. “Don’t hide from me.”

“I’m not hiding,” I whispered, though the words felt hollow.

“Yes, you are,” he said, his voice soft but firm. “And you don’t have to.”

Before I could overthink it, I stepped closer, closing the small distance between us. “Spencer…”

“Yes?”

I hesitated, my heart hammering in my chest. But then his eyes softened, and I knew. I knew he would catch me if I fell.

“I want to kiss you,” I said, my voice barely audible.

Spencer's lips curved into a small, surprised smile. “You do?”

I nodded, my cheeks flaming. “Is that… okay?”

His eyes softened, a mixture of surprise and something deeper—something that made my heart race. “It’s more than okay,” he said quietly.

I barely had time to process his words before his hand cupped my cheek, his fingers feather-light against my skin. He was so close now, his breath warm against my lips. For a moment, we just stood there, suspended in time.

And then he kissed me.

The world fell away.

It started soft, tentative—like he was afraid I’d disappear if he moved too quickly. His lips brushed against mine once, twice, each touch careful and reverent. It was everything I hadn’t dared to hope for: tender, consuming, perfect.

But then I leaned in, my fingers clutching at the front of his cardigan, and something shifted. The kiss deepened, and Spencer’s hand slid from my cheek to the back of my neck, pulling me closer. His other hand rested lightly on my waist, steadying me as my knees threatened to give out beneath me.

The softness gave way to something bolder, more urgent. His lips moved against mine with a fervor that left me breathless, and I couldn’t stop the small gasp that escaped me. Spencer stilled for a fraction of a second, as if startled by the sound, but then his grip tightened ever so slightly, and I was lost all over again.

He tasted like peppermint tea and something uniquely Spencer, and I never wanted it to end.

When we finally pulled apart, I was dizzy, my head spinning in the best way possible. Spencer rested his forehead against mine, his breath coming in short, uneven bursts.

“That was…” He trailed off, his voice unsteady.

“Amazing,” I finished for him, my voice barely above a whisper.

He chuckled softly, the sound warm and intimate in the quiet of his apartment. “Yeah. Amazing.”

My cheeks flushed, but this time it wasn’t from embarrassment—it was from the way he was looking at me, like I was the only thing in the world that mattered.

“I’ve wanted to do that for a long time,” he admitted, his voice low.

“Really?” I asked, my heart swelling at the thought.

He nodded, a small, shy smile playing at his lips. “But I didn’t think you felt the same way.”

“Spencer,” I said, shaking my head with a soft laugh. “How could I not? You’re… you.”

His brow furrowed slightly, like he was trying to puzzle out my words. “I’m not always good at recognizing when people care about me,” he said quietly.

“Well, I care,” I said firmly, my hand still clutching the front of his cardigan. “A lot.”

He smiled then, a real, unguarded smile that made my chest ache in the best way. “I care about you too,” he said softly.

For a moment, neither of us spoke. The air between us was thick with unspoken promises, the kind that didn’t need words to be understood.

Spencer’s hand slid from my waist to my hand, his fingers curling around mine. “You’re incredible, you know that?”

I looked away, flustered. “You’re just saying that.”

“I’m not,” he said, tugging me closer. “You’re smart, kind, and strong. And you’re a good girl.”

There it was again, the phrase that sent my heart into overdrive. My cheeks burned, and I bit my lip, trying to suppress the shy smile threatening to break free.

“You really like saying that, don’t you?” I teased, though my voice came out softer than I intended.

“Only because it’s true,” he said, his thumb brushing over my knuckles.

The sincerity in his voice, the way he was looking at me—I couldn’t take it. I hid my face in his chest, my fingers curling into the fabric of his cardigan.

“You’re impossible,” I mumbled against him, though my tone lacked any real heat.

“And you’re adorable when you’re flustered,” he replied, his voice filled with gentle amusement.

I tilted my head up to look at him, narrowing my eyes in mock indignation. “You’re lucky I like you.”

His smile widened, and he leaned down to press a soft kiss to my forehead. “I’m the lucky one.”

---

After we settled onto the couch, Spencer pulled a blanket over us, his arm draped around my shoulders as I rested my head against his chest. The quiet hum of the world outside seemed so far away, replaced by the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

“Spencer?” I asked softly, my voice breaking the comfortable silence.

“Hmm?”

“This is real, right?” I tilted my head to look up at him, my eyes searching his face for any hint of hesitation.

He glanced down at me, his brows furrowing slightly. “Of course it’s real. Why would you think it’s not?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted, my cheeks flushing. “It just feels… too good to be true.”

Spencer’s hand came up to cradle my face, his thumb brushing lightly over my cheek. “It’s real,” he said firmly. “I’m real. And I’m not going anywhere.”

Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes, but I blinked them away, focusing instead on the warmth in his gaze. “Promise?”

“I promise,” he said softly, pressing another kiss to my forehead.

And in that moment, with his arms around me and his words echoing in my heart, I believed him.

[onehundredelevven]

I love what you did with Toji during y/n’s birth. Could I maybe request one where y/n breaks the JJK men’s hand from the labor pains? I’d love to see their reactions lol I feel like Nanami and Sukuna would take it like a champ but Satoru and Toji’s voice would crack 😂

U ask, I give

---

Chaotic labor room scenarios for the JJK men.

cw. JJK men being chaotic and Satoru's dramatic arse, and broken hands

---

Satoru Gojo

“Babe, you’re doing great—OW, OW, OW!”

Satoru’s voice cracked like glass as you crushed his hand with a strength you didn’t know you had. He winced, his signature cocky grin wiped clean off his face.

“Are you seriously whining while I’m the one giving birth?” you snapped, glaring at him through your contraction.

“I think you just shattered my bones,” he whimpered, blinking back tears like a kicked puppy. “Do you hate me that much?”

“Right now, yes!”

He pouted dramatically, but when he looked down at you, sweat on your brow and pain in your eyes, his expression softened. “Alright, alright. Crush my other hand if you have to. I can survive for you and the kid.”

You didn’t hesitate to grab his other hand as another contraction hit. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you!”

☆☆☆

Suguru Geto

Geto didn’t even flinch when your grip tightened like a vice. If anything, he just smiled down at you with that calm, reassuring presence he always carried.

“Do you want me to get you some ice chips?” he asked, his voice completely steady despite the audible pop from his knuckles.

“ARE YOU EVEN HUMAN?” you screamed, half in agony, half in disbelief at his composure.

“I’ve been through worse,” he replied coolly, brushing your hair out of your face. “Though you are quite strong, I’ll give you that.”

You let go of his hand, panting through the contraction, and saw his fingers twitch slightly. “Doesn’t that hurt?”

“Only a little.” He smirked. “But it’s nothing compared to what you’re doing right now. You’re amazing, you know that?”

☆☆☆

Kento Nanami

Nanami’s hand was practically vibrating under your grip, but he sat stiffly beside you, not a single wince or grunt escaping him. The man was a fortress.

“You can… let go if it hurts,” you offered between labored breaths.

“Don’t worry about me,” he said firmly, though the sweat beading on his forehead betrayed him. “Focus on yourself.”

Another contraction hit, and you let out a guttural groan, clamping down harder. This time, Nanami’s jaw tightened, and his free hand gripped the armrest of his chair hard enough to leave marks.

“Okay, maybe I’ll need a splint later,” he admitted, voice as calm as ever.

☆☆☆

Ryomen Sukuna

“You call that a squeeze?” Sukuna barked out a laugh, sitting beside you like this was all a walk in the park.

“I hate you,” you hissed, crushing his hand harder out of pure spite.

“Go ahead, brat. Try harder,” he taunted, his grin widening as you gave it your all. “You’re going to need more than that to—”

CRACK.

His smirk faltered, his eye twitching as he pulled his now-clearly-broken hand back. “...You’re lucky I love you.”

“Shut up and hold my hand again!”

“Yeah, no.” He offered his other hand instead, still smirking through the pain. “I’ve got two. Let’s see if you can break them both.”

☆☆☆

Toji Fushiguro

“AH, SH—” Toji’s yell was cut short as your grip sent a sharp pop through his knuckles.

“Toji, don’t you dare yell louder than me right now!” you growled.

He bit his tongue, gritting his teeth against the pain. “Alright, fine, but damn, woman. How are you this strong while pushing out a kid?”

“Because I have to deal with you every day,” you snapped.

Toji let out a strangled laugh, his voice wobbling. “Tch, fair enough. Just... don’t tell the kid their mom broke my hand, alright?”

[russo-woso]

My Santa || Alessia Russo x reader

Request | Masterlist | Prompt list

Summary You and Alessia have to secretly put the presents out without waking your daughter

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

“Ready for bed, bubba?” You asked your four year old daughter, your fingers brushing through her wild curly hair as she sat curled up on the sofa in between you and your wife.

“Santa’s gonna come but you have to be asleep first.” Alessia added, rubbing Lola’s back.

“Cookies and milk.” Lola pointed out, remembering how you’d told her that Santa needed his cookies and milk.

“That’s right, bubba. Me, you and mummy go do it now?” You asked, Lola nodding tiredly.

“Come on then, bubs.” Alessia whispered, picking her up and rubbing her back.

You couldn’t help but make love eyes at alessia.

She was so good with Lola, just how she was when Lola was a baby.

You had Lola when you were 20, and in complete honesty, she was a result of a drunken hookup.

When Lola was three weeks old, you’d taken her on a walk.

You’d sat down on a bench, taking in your new life as a mother when a ball ended up rolling into Lola’s push chair.

“Hi, I’m so sorry about that. I didn’t wake them did I?” A woman had said, bending down to pick up the ball.

“No, she’s a deep sleeper.” You joked, peering down at Lola who was still dead to the world.

You finally made eyes contact with the woman.

Long blonde hair, and the bluest of eyes.

“Alessia.” The woman introduced, holding out her hand.

“Y/N.”

Well… I don’t think there’s much more to tell.

You and alessia hit it off straight away, quickly becoming a small family.

Alessia loved Lola so much, and on your wedding day, you’d surprised alessia with adoption papers, legally making Lola hers.

Lola had always been Alessia’s just as much as she was your daughter, hence why you loved seeing the two of them together.

“What’re you staring at?” Alessia asked with a playful smile, noticing your eyes set on her and Lola.

“I’m so thankful I decided to go on that walk four years ago.” You replied, getting up and kissing alessia gently.

“Me too, baby. Look at us now, a family.”

“A family.” You repeated, watching Lola take a few cookies out the pack and put it on the plate.

“Gonna pour the milk, Lo?” Alessia asked, handing the milk to Lola.

“Mummy help!” Lola exclaimed as the milk went everywhere.

Alessia sprung into action, grabbing the carton from Lola before sighing, realising the mess from the milk.

It had gone everywhere.

“I sorry mummy and mama.”

“It’s okay, bubba. Look how about you and mummy go to bed and I’ll clean this up.” You said, Lola nodding.

“Goodnight, mama. Love you.”

“Love you too, baby girl. Remember to go to sleep straight away otherwise Santa won’t come.”

“I will, mama.”

—

It took a good while to properly clean with milk up and when you finally sat down on the sofa to relax, you heard footsteps coming down the stairs.

You turned to the door, finding alessia dressed in a full Santa costume.

“What is this?” You said in between laughs.

“It’s a special occasion. It’s the first Christmas Lola actually knows what’s happening and I wanted it to be special for us too.” Alessia explained, your heart melting at her reason.

“Oh, lessi. Thank you.” You whispered, enveloping her in a hug before placing your lips on hers. “Oh my god, I just kissed Santa.”

“You did indeed.” Alessia laughed, pecking your lips a few more times.

“Santa, can I eat the cookies for you?” You asked

“Of course, dear. I’ll eat the carrots then, shall I?” Alessia replied, playfully rolling her eyes.

After eating the cookies and drinking the milk, you and alessia made your way to the Christmas tree.

Slowly and quietly, you put present after present under the tree.

You both laid the final present down together, the only present that had a nice neat bow on it.

Inside, containing a shirt with the words ‘big sister’ written on them.

When asking what Lola wanted for Christmas, she replied with one thing, a baby brother or sister.

You and alessia looked at each other, knowing you could happily make her wish come true. You had been planning on adding another family member anyway.

So, you were so excited to see Lola’s face when she undid that present in the morning.

Alessia fell to her knees, lifting your shirt up before kissing your stomach gently.

She stood up, kissing your lips. Your lips moved effortlessly against hers, moving perfectly in sync.

The clock now read midnight, it was officially Christmas.

You and Alessia stood in the middle of the living room, In each other’s arms.

“Merry Christmas, lessi.”

“Merry Christmas, love.”