#idk how to put it i just really like the way this looks

[thedevilsoftruth]

Ok ok ok hear me out - feral Bucky who is exhausted and grumpy and mad at everyone and can only be soothed by his mouth on your tits and his dick in your pussy…and it starts with just cockwarming but he cums and then he cums again and AGAIN cause super soldier and ohhhhh extra fat bonus points if he REALLY wants to put a baby inside you with all that super soldier cum

(I’m so sorry, I’m ovulating😭)

Ough anon I am OBSESSED with this request. I'm pretty sure I'm like... The guy you go to when you want breeding Bucky fics. Idk I just write them a lot and idk why lmao. Funny you mention this because I am ALSO ovulating. I'm an absolute freak, I hear the words 'bucky' and 'breeding' and 'breast play' in the same sentence and I cum running faster than the fastest man on earth. But here you go, baby. I got a little carried away when writing it (sorry I made it congressman bucky btw I'm not sure how on board you are with that being apart of it)🤭 enjoy!!!

Stress relief

Congressman! J. B. Barnes x Afab! reader.

Sum: Bucky had a tough day at work. So what does he do to help with the stress? Give his pretty girl a baby. 💜

Smut tags: light impact play kink, cock warming, heavy breast play, breeding kink, degrading, name calling (slut) overstimulation, mentions of reader ovulating, squirting, the theme is cum. (Restrain me please) Not beta read!!

W/c - 1.6k

Song recommended: Cherry Pie (I need a freak) by Insane Clown Posse.

I do not consent to my work being reposted or translated on ANY website. Reblog and comments are always appreciated and encouraged, however.

MDNI!!! I am NOT responsible for what you find on the internet!!

[ my request box is open. PLEASE see my pinned post for more information regarding my request rules. ]

He'd been so angry all day. He'd been stomping around and huffing like he was an angry toddler who has just been denied their favorite treat. Everyone and everything was pissing him off. You could it was bad when he had yelled at an aide that morning. But now, he had his only down time until he had to work again stupid ass early in the morning. His way of relieving his stress? Calling you to his study to keep him warm while he signs paperwork he's supposed to get turned in the next morning. It started out simple; just you sitting on his cock and keeping your mouth shut so he could focus like he asked. Until he started rutting into you like a caveman with his hands on your hips and his mouth on your tits.

You were wearing one of the tank tops you normally wore to bed, expect this one was baby pink and was worn thin, so brushing his hand over your breasts felt like he was touching your actual skin. He wasn't one for pink, but fuck, it looked so good on you. How he could complain when it felt so good to suck your pretty pink, swollen nipple into his mouth while he came into you for the second time in the past thirty minutes.

You were squirming on his lap, his hands gripping bruises into your skin as his lips pulled on your nipple. Little tiny whimpers left your mouth as his tongue flicked up your bud, the thick, milky hot cum from his last load dripping from your over-stuff cunt. His mouth left your breast with a wet pop, and he brought his flesh hand up to take your flesh into his hand, his pussy-drunken eyes admiring the way you spill out in his hand. You moaned loud as he dipped his head back down and licked a thick strip up your other breast with his fat tongue. His beard was brushing your skin in the most perfect way possible, and the sensations just got even better when two thick vibranium fingers began circling your throbbing clit. A loud gasp left your mouth, and your back arched into his mouth as if begging for more.

"Sensitive?" He asks as if the answer isn't directly in front of him. You nod weakly, and press your hand into his chest, your fingers brushing his red wine tie.

"Baby," you whine, your voice pitched and making his cock twitch inside you. "Can't take anymore. Too much."

He looks at you like you just said the stupidest fucking thing he'd ever heard.

"Don't care." He grunts, big hands moving to cup your ass as he stands up and pulls you with him. Your mind short circuits and you panic as he begins heading towards the door.

"You told me you were ovulating just two seconds ago. You don't get to back out of things like that. Not after I've had the day I'm having." He tells you, throwing you down onto the bed, his hands already scrambling to tear your tank top off your body. He's crowding you into the headboard, barley giving you any space to breathe as he's instructing you to put your arms up. The tiny thing slips off your body easily, and Bucky's face twists into a sick, twitched sadistic smile as your tits bounce free.

"Spread your fuckin' legs." He says, leaning down to suck on your neck eagerly. You gasp and your hands fly to his chest.

"Bucky..." You breath. He slaps your breast with a metal hand, the impact of it leaving you gasping and shocked. Your skin quickly reddens where he struck you, and a beautiful light sting prickles up your flesh.

"Open." He says darkly and low, tapping your thigh. You gulp hard and obey, shaky legs hesitantly spreading open in front of your perfect lover. He growls when you do so, looking down between your bodies. He sits up and gives his angry red cock a few pumps with his fist. Your thighs nearly clench together at the sight, but you know better than to disobey him.

"Such a good fucking girl." He growls slapping his cock against your messy cunt, making you whimper. He runs his already leaky cockhead up and down your aching clit a few times before he finally sinks himself into you, all with a loud, gutteral groan that makes your pussy flutter.

"Always take me so good like the perfect little slut you are for me." He mutters through gritted teeth, pulling his hips back a bit before he slowly sunk into you. When he bottomed out, it was with a very loud moan that could be heard from the outside of the house.

"You gonna take it? Hmm?" He grunts, pushing so deep into you that you swear it makes you black out for a moment. "Gonna let me fill you up and breed this sloppy, pathetic little cunt?" His pace quickens, his hips snapping into yours at a perfect rate and precision that has your eyes fluttering shut and your hands gripping his forearms like you need it to survive.

"With the amounts of times you've cum in me, I'm sure you already have me bred." You spit under your breath, almost angrily and out of spite. He smack your breasts again and you yelp.

"What was that?" He inquired, his voice low in that tone that told you he was mad and feeling mean. You gulp and scramble, shaking your head.

"N-nothing." Is all you say, your eyes widening at him in fear. He laughs at you, cold and dark.

"That's what I thought."

He grips the headboard then slams into you, his cock brushing and kissing against every single part of your pretty pussy that makes you squirm. You put your hand on his chest, your back arching and your mouth falling open in a silent 'o' shape. Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him into you impossibly deeper and making the both of you moan.

He leans down and takes a pebbled nipple into his mouth once more, and your body cannot stop the way your legs shake around his hips or the loud cries and whines that leave your mouth.

"Bucky," you whine, wrapping your arms around his back and clawing at his skin with long fingernails. He groans into your skin as he kisses the peak of your breast, his eyes rolling back in pleasure at the sensation. "Dont stop, baby. Please--oh fuck, feels so good."

He looks up at you and pulls his cock out of you a few Inches before he slams back into you.

"Yeah?" He pulls back from your breasts and taps your clit with a metal finger before he rubs harsh circles into it. Your legs fly into the air Instinctively before they fall back down onto his waist. Your fingernails dig deeper into his back. He rubs harder, and the walls of your pussy squeeze him hard.

"Ohohoho." He laughs cruelly. "That's the spot, inn'it, sweet girl?" He continues circling it, going faster by the second--all along with his cock fucking into so deep, and you swear you see god for a minute.

"Yeah, yeah. Gonna fuck--cum--ah!! Shit!" You nod along, but right as you're telling him about your impending orgasm, you cut yourself off as you come crashing onto him hard and fast. The walls of your cunt clamp down on him like they're scared he's going to run away, and hot cum comes spurring out of you wildly. The milky liquid squirts onto your lovers pelvis, and he moans like he was the one cumming.

"Holy fucking shit, babydoll." He groans, his head lulling back as he slowly, deliberately starts thrusting into you again. He slaps your pretty pussy a few times with his flesh hand before he really starts picking up speed again.

"Gotta fucking fill you up again after that one." He says, giving you one harsh thrusts that hits your cervix. You scream and your eyes roll into the back of your head your hips shaking uncontrollably at the overstimulation. He holds you down with a metal arm.

"Nuh-uh. You stay right fucking there, slut." He slurps messy kiss from the back of your ear to the crook of your neck. "Pretty pussy needs to be rewarded with a warm, thick load after cumming all over me like that, don't you agree?"

You whine, your pussy making pathetic little squelching sounds as he pumps sloppy, fast thrusts into you. The wet, lewd noises have your head spinning and your pussy fluttering at how fucking obscure it is. All you can do is nod along to whatever he says, though you're too fucked out to even know what you're agreeing too.

"Good fucking girl." He praises, his cock slamming into you hard. "Gonna get you so nice and round and--fuck!" He cuts himself off when his cock twitched sweetly before thick, hot ropes of his seed start flooding into you. His hands shoot down to the backs of your thighs, and he lifts your your legs a little so he could watch himself drip into you.

"Good god," he swears under his breath, his mind going blank at the milky ring forming at the base of his cock. "If only you could see this." He chuckles, nudging his hips forward and making you whine loud.

"Bucky---"

"Shh, baby, let me fuck it into you. Gotta make sure it sticks." He hushes you, leaning down to kiss you hard as he slowly rolls his hips forward, fucking his cum up and into you deeply.

[geddyqueer]

tidbit tuesday

since the people asked. idk how quickly i'll finish this but here's some 8x17 reaction fic:

"I was homeless," Buck says, as the light turns green. "When I was younger."

He feels, rather than sees, Tommy's gaze linger on him briefly before he takes his foot off the brake. "When you were traveling?"

"Yeah. And for a while in LA, too. Like—I was sleeping inside, but I didn't have a mailing address for a long time. And then I was couchsitting. And then I lived with five other guys, and then I squatted at Abby's for a few months after she ghosted me."

Tommy releases a long breath at that. "The green apartment?"

"Yeah," Buck says.

"Did you ever find a pair of black Chelsea boots? Size 12? In a closet or something? I never got those back from her."

Buck turns to look at him. He's focused very hard on the road. "Were they Red Wings?"

Tommy nods.

"Yeah," Buck says. He remembers the way they were molded to someone else's feet, the way they chafed at his ankle bone, but that they carried him along through the loneliest days back then. "I wore them into the ground."

He realizes, as Tommy bursts out laughing, as he bursts out laughing too, that this is the first time they've actually talked about Abby since the night they broke up. Not like they've had time, in the intervening months. Maybe they'll have time now.

"I'm glad someone was wearing them," Tommy says, when he finally catches his breath. "I'm glad it was you."

He turns onto Bedford Street and slows down.

"The loft was the first place I ever lived that was really mine," Buck says. "Other than the old Jeep, I guess. I lived in that for a couple years. Sometimes I'd find short term rentals, but usually I just slept in the car."

Tommy's hand makes its way across the center console, open and inviting, and Buck slots his hand into it. They're pulling into the long stretch of empty street parking in front of the next house, now. It doesn't look like Eddie's here, but Tommy leaves the driveway empty anyway.

"This place felt like mine for a little while. Not—not anymore."

"Whatever I can do to make my house feel like home, Evan," Tommy says. "For as long as you want to live there. Even if it's just a week, or for—I don't know. Just say the word and I'll do it, okay?"

"What if I want a bunch of flamingos in the front yard?"

"Plastic ones, I hope," Tommy says. "I can't afford to put in a flamingo pond right now."

"But you would do that?"

"If I had the money, and you really wanted it, then yes," Tommy says.

"I don't think I want a flamingo pond," Buck tells him. "Not right now, at least."

"We can table it," Tommy says, and he gets out of the truck.

Buck sighs, and squares his shoulders, and heads once more unto the breach.

[joshujin]

can’t wait no more

🔞 18+, minors do not interact • masterlist • submit a request

your pov • soonyoung’s pov ⇣

soonyoung has been best friends with you for 10 years now—in love with you for almost all of that time. one way or another, those 10 years end tonight.

♫ darl+ing svt pairing: soonyoung x fem!reader word count: 11.6k (i don't want to talk about it) tags: best friends to lovers, idiots in love, a lil miscommunication, angst, happy ending, soonyoung pov, flashbacks cw: smut - possessiveness, unprotected piv (pull-out method. v irresponsible piv. don't be like these two), reader loses virginity, spit, oral f. receiving, fingering, mention of choking, mention of masturbating, soft vanilla smut, probably a little hornier than the other pov bc this is a MAN after all a/n: happy @citruscheol birth!!! ٩(ˊᗜˋ*)و to celebrate this momentous occasion, i ofc had to honor her request for a soonyoung pov of we can be all we need. you don’t really need to read that before this one; after all, they are essentially the same fic. BUT! i recommend you do bc it will make this version more enjoyable + easier to understand. and y’know what, i literally had to drive myself bat shit crazy and completely alter my brain chemistry to write this. like. there isn’t enough grass in the world that i can touch to return back to normal. and idk if i can ever look at hoshi the same ever again, so the least you can do is read both ok ㅠㅠㅠㅠ kidding ofc pls do what you want haha. either way, i think you’ll enjoy whichever one you want to read! as far as smut goes, same thing as last time: i marked where the smut starts and ends, but this courtesy is for adults who don’t want to read explicit material. minors should not be interacting at all pls!

soonyoung has been avoiding you. he knows you know it because you’ve asked him multiple times now if anything was wrong, and every time, he’s lied to you and told you everything was fine. everything wasn’t fine. it hardly felt like anything was fine, actually.

because you just blew out your candles, you’re 30 now, and his time has officially run out. he can’t blame anyone other than himself, though, and he knows it. he had seven whole years to tell you, and instead, he foolishly thought if he just continued to love you the way he’s always loved you, you would simply see it yourself. you would see how hopelessly in love with you he is. 

you didn’t. for whatever reason, his showering you with lavish gifts, vacations, and fancy meals didn’t strike you as odd for a friend. or the way he was constantly wrapped around you or leaving kisses on your forehead whenever he had the chance. or the fact that it’s been nine fucking years since he went on a date or slept with anyone. he’s fucking priestly at this point.

and he doesn’t do it just so you’ll get the hint. he does it because that’s how he loves you and that’s how he’s always loved you. but maybe that’s the issue: you think this is just how he is as a friend because he’s been this way ever since he met you. but you couldn’t be more wrong. 

soonyoung has never even felt inclined to treat anyone outside of his family the way he treats you. as far as he’s concerned, everything he does for you are just things he watched his dad do for his mom his whole life. you’re not even aware that the way he loves you is supposed to be reserved for whoever becomes his wife.

and he’s been so happy to give you all of that even if it meant you never saw him the way he longed for you to. it fills him with pride to know that your expectations are higher because he’s loved you so well—that you know exactly what you deserve because he’s always tried to give you exactly that.

at least, up until a few weeks ago, when the horror of the truth really started settling into his bones: you weren’t going to fall in love with him by the time you turn 30. and without even really realizing it, he started distancing himself from you, deluded into thinking it would be easier to let go if he just put a little space between the two of you. he knew it was hurting you just as much as it was hurting him, and he knew you didn’t deserve it.

it’s against his hardwiring to do anything that hurts you, and it’s reflected in how terrible his life has become in just a handful of weeks. his apartment has been filthy; the only reason it was ready for your party was because he paid the housekeeper double to come even though he wasn’t scheduled to clean for another week. his work is fortunately still fine, but he spends whole days with horrible brain fog, hardly understanding or even hearing anything anyone says to him. he hasn’t seen any friends—mutual or otherwise—because he spends all his free time in bed or drinking himself into a sobbing mess.

that’s all he can seem to do these days, is cry over you. 

soonyoung steps out into the balcony attached to his bedroom, leaning against the sliding door once it’s closed. he cranes his neck to look up toward the midnight sky, and takes a deep breath. it doesn’t help keep the tears at bay. he keeps his head tilted up. 

he knows you don’t deserve this. he knows you’re hurting and that you feel him slipping away. he saw it. just now, just before you blew your candles out, he saw the way the joy and life immediately fled your eyes when they landed on him. he wonders what you saw. did you see the apathy he was desperately forcing? did you see how sad he was at all? 

because he is. he’s the saddest he’s felt since you told him you would rather be on vacation with someone you were in love with seven years ago. someone who wasn’t him. maybe he’s even sadder now. at least back then, he was foolish enough to hope you would change your mind. at least back then, he had time on his side.

now, it’s over, and now, it’s time to give himself a fair chance to move on. you don’t deserve what he’s putting you through, and it’s true for him too. he doesn’t deserve what he’s put himself through for the last decade. 

countless nights you fell asleep at his place, countless times he wished he could gather you up in his arms and carry you into a bed you shared. all the times you told him you loved him and he desperately wanted to beg you to repeat it, even if it was just so he could pretend you meant it the way he needed you to mean it. whole weeks spent overseas on all kinds of vacations, time he spent daydreaming that this was what a honeymoon with you could feel like.

it all adds up to a decade of putting his heart on the backburner so he could allow himself to continue loving you.

soonyoung scoffs at himself when the tears refuse to stop welling in his eyes. he shakes his head and steps forward, resting his forearms against his railing and staring at the blackness in front of him.

part of him hates the version of himself from seven years ago that thought making this stupid promise was a good idea. what good can come from not loving you? but the reason he’s stuck to pulling away and holding you at arm’s distance is because that version of himself somehow knew the pain would grow more and more, year after year.

he can’t do this for the rest of his life—can’t just keep making room for more heartache the older he gets. you’re 30 now, and even though you insist you’re fine and have no desire to date, he knows you’ll get restless soon. and when he thinks of you finally deciding you want to have a boyfriend, he wants to vomit. when he thinks of some other asshole’s hands on you, his lips on yours—when he thinks of you sighing anyone’s name but his, he gets near homicidal over something that isn’t even real. at least not yet.

soonyoung doesn’t want to wait for that to happen. he doesn’t want to wait for you to hate him for being unable to share you—and he won’t be able to share you. he also doesn’t want you to have to face the pressure of having to choose between a best friend and a boyfriend. 

instead, he’d rather you start to hate him slowly, over time. he’d rather you allow him his space and not even realize you hate him for slipping away and leaving you behind—not until it’s years later, when you hear his name in passing, and you think, he just left, and you tell yourself it’s fine because your life is better without him anyway.

it hurts you now, but it’ll hurt less later. it’ll hurt less for both of you to endure this silence now, rather than fight until there’s nothing but resentment.

the door behind soonyoung slides open forcefully and slams closed a moment later. he flinches, looking over his shoulder to see who entered his room and ready to tell them to get out. when he sees you, though, he turns back away, trying to discreetly wipe his eyes.

“what are you doing?”

he quietly clears his throat, hoping he doesn’t sound too worn when he speaks. “just needed some air.”

“no.”

you say it in that tone that always scared him a little. it’s when he knew you were about to get your way. he wasn’t interested in doing the whole fighting thing with you; he just gave you whatever you wanted the moment this voice came out of your mouth. it always drew a smile out of you and it made his life easier.

this is about to be the one and only time he can’t let you have your way.

“what are you doing?”

soonyoung squeezes his eyes shut, like that will help him brace himself against the conversation he has to have with you.

this was coming, he tells himself. you knew this was coming. she was never just going to let you go without an explanation.

“why are you ignoring me?” you ask, voice cracking. it takes everything in him to stay where he stands and keep from wrapping his arms around you, apologizing, and begging you to stop crying. “why are you avoiding me? why are you acting like i’m not your best friend?”

soonyoung opens his eyes and almost laughs. best friend. he doesn’t know when the term became so derogatory to him. anyone would be lucky to be in your life, let alone be your best friend. he hates it anyway.

he’s your best friend. you’re not his. he would never dream of calling you that—at least not without calling you the love of his life first. his most beloved. the woman he would give anything to marry. on the totem pole of things he wants to call you, best friend is at the bottom.

“because you’re not,” he says honestly. he immediately regrets it when he hears the small whimper that escapes you. “at least, i don’t want you to be,” he adds, hoping it will soften the blow of what he just said.

“what are you saying?” 

soonyoung feels so tired and sad and heartbroken. he hangs his head a little as he takes a deep breath.

“what are you saying, soonyoung?” you repeat when he doesn’t answer immediately. patience was never your strong suit.

when he’s sure he’s not going to start sobbing upon turning, he finally faces you, and even then, he can’t bring himself to look you in the eye. if he does, he doesn’t think he’ll be able to do this.

“do you remember your 23rd birthday?” he asks, gaze fixed on the stain on his balcony where you dropped a smoothie and he insisted you leave it instead of cleaning it. he forgot to do it himself and now he has a permanent reminder of how whipped he is for you.

“siquijor,” you basically spit at him. he feels your walls coming up. he feels your defenses getting ready, and he knows you’re aware of what he’s about to do. “what about it?”

siquijor. the best and worst trip of his life.

“i think i’m drunk,” you announced, words slurring so badly, soonyoung was convinced anyone else wouldn’t be able to understand what you were saying.

“what?” he asked sarcastically. “no way. what makes you say that?” 

soonyoung loved being sober when you were drunk like this. he loved hearing and seeing all the silly shit you’d never say or do sober. most of all, he loved taking care of you. he loved pretending he meant something more to you and this was just another boyfriend duty of his—making sure his drunk girlfriend was happy and hydrated and safe, and that when she woke up, she had a lineup of hangover cures at her disposal.

you answered with the gnarliest burp. he burst into loud laughter, grateful the beach was far enough away from any rooms that the two of you weren’t disturbing anyone.

after a few moments, he realized you weren’t laughing along, simply leaning back on your elbows in the sand, smiling softly at him. he did what he does best: he pretended. he pretended you were just a lovesick girl staring at someone she yearned for. he pretended you wanted him just as badly as he needed you. he pretended you were in love.

“penny for your thoughts, you drunkard?” 

you giggled, slipping off of your elbows and laying all the way down. he joined you, both of you looking up at the sky. it was different here than it was back home. it was quiet and warm and there was no light to disrupt the view of the stars. he loved that he was seeing something like this for the first time with you.

“my thoughts are worth more than a penny.”

he snorted. even drunk, you were a brat. “nickel?”

“nice try. a hundred bucks, buddy.”

“ha!” he shouted. “never mind, keep your thoughts to yourself.”

“soonie!” you half whined, half burped. he made a face of disgust at you. he thought he did a good job of hiding how endeared he was.

“gross.” soonyoung sighed, turning back to the sky. “fifty.”

you giggled. “deal.” there was no way in hell you were going to remember he owed you $50. “i’m thinking… i am having the best time of my life.”

his heart swelled knowing he did well for your birthday celebration.

he let his head loll to the side, watching you. you had your hands folded politely over your ribs and your legs were crossed at the ankles, your feet swaying side to side like there was a song playing that only you could hear. if soonyoung concentrated hard enough, he thought he could hear it too. it sounded like what he imagined his love for you would if it were a song.

you smiled at the stars like you were talking to them. 

“i’m so happy,” you said. “best birthday ever, soonyoung. best month ever. thank you. i love you so much.”

“you’re welcome, y/n,” he said, voice coming out barely above a whisper. “i love you too.” so god damn much.

you turned to look at him when he said that, your smile fading naturally the longer you looked at him. “i…” you trailed off, frowning a little before you continued. “i think… i think i feel lonely, though.”

he mirrored your frown, immediately bringing his body closer to yours. he rested a hand on top of yours. “what’s wrong?”

you opened your mouth but before you could start speaking, you were suddenly crying. 

“y/n?” he sat up, bringing you up with him. “what’s wrong, baby?” his eyes widened at the slip-up, but you were too drunk to notice, frantically wiping the tears that kept streaming down your face.

“i’m so happy,” you breathed, hand still in his. “this is everything i’ve ever wanted. this is everything i could ever dream of having.” 

your words were still slurred and with the addition of the crying to your inebriated state, you’re hiccuping badly as you speak. 

“then why are you crying?” he asked. “why do you feel lonely?”

“this is what i want from y—from…” you hiccuped again. “this is everything i want from someone i’m in love with.”

he felt his heart drop into his stomach, and he couldn’t help the way his hand stiffened in yours. he pulled away.

“oh” was all he could bring himself to say.

what else was he supposed to say to that?

“i’m in love with you. please let me be the one that gets to give this to you.”

“please love me.”

“please don’t break my heart like this.”

he couldn’t say any of it.

“i want you to want… i want…” you kept hiccuping, and despite feeling like his heart was breaking into smithereens, soonyoung found it in himself to rub your back comfortingly. “i want—” you cut yourself off with another hiccup.

“shhh.” it came out in a daze. the sky looked darker. the stars looked duller. the water wasn’t as bright anymore. “it’s okay. it’s okay.” he didn’t know if he was telling you or himself. “it’s okay.”

soonyoung pulled you into his arms, still rubbing your back as he tucked your head under his chin. he didn’t bother trying to find the right words to tell you; he knew you probably wouldn’t remember any of this. so he allowed himself to feel heartbroken as you wept and hiccuped until eventually, you fell asleep.

and when you did, it was his turn. he silently cried until the sun came up, and when it did, soonyoung gathered you up in his arms and carried you back—only as a friend, to a bed you’d never share.

“it hurt,” he says, tears finally beginning to stream down his face.

soonyoung never shied away from crying in front of you; he did it kind of often. but there’s something especially humiliating about it now. he’s wrapped up in his sadness, and it’s suffocating him, making it hard to speak. he thinks if he does, he might choke on his grief.

“it hurt more than anything i’ve ever felt, y/n,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. he isn’t sure if you heard him, but he can’t bring himself to repeat it.

your hands close over his, where they hold the lapel of his jacket around your shoulders. he doesn’t even know when he took it off to put it on you. loving you was exactly like that—an instinct he didn’t have to think twice about. loving you was just something that happened without his knowledge or permission.

“soonyoung,” you call his name, high and desperate. your defenses have come down. you’re not using that scary voice on him anymore. you’re not bracing yourself. he thinks you should be. “that’s not what i meant. i—”

“it’s okay,” he breathes, so many tears in his eyes, he can barely make out the shape of you. he blinks rapidly to expel them. “i’ve had time to—”

“but if you would just let me ex—”

“there’s nothing to explain,” he interjects softly, eyes coming to you now that he can properly see past his tears. “i stayed around, didn’t i?”

your fight falters and you stop trying to talk over him.

“i stayed for seven more years. if i needed you to explain, i would’ve asked the second you woke up sober.”

your shoulders fall and he knows the rest of your fight has dissipated into the night. the next question you ask almost breaks his resolve. “only seven?”

the question comes out small and quiet and defeated, and soonyoung feels his lips tremble. he rolls them between his teeth to stop himself from telling you something he doesn’t want to say: no, of course not only seven. you’ll have me wrapped around your finger until the day i die.

he takes his hands back from under your hold once he’s absolutely sure he won’t say something that would disappoint the version of him that sat on that beach in siquijor, swearing that he wouldn’t let himself feel that heartbroken in the next decade of his life. 

“i didn’t mind waiting seven more years to see if you would ever return my feelings,” he says instead of answering you, fully aware of how badly his voice wavers as he speaks. “my friends, they told me i was insane for letting my 20s go to waste like that. but to me… if i still got to be around you, still give you experiences and love that made you feel like that’s what you deserved from someone you actually were in love with, then… i can’t see the issue in that. i’d happily wait seven more years. because even if it was seven years of the same longing—and even if it was seven years leading to nothing more, it was still seven years of me being able to show you how well i could…”

he swallows the lump in his throat and fails. he shakes his head and just says what he should’ve told you seven years ago.

“how well i could love you. how much i do love you.”

you look dumbfounded, and if this were any other situation—if soonyoung didn’t feel like he was actually fucking dying—he thinks he’d make fun of you. your eyes are the widest he’s ever seen them, and your mouth is parted like you’re poised to say something but you don’t even know what.

“soonie—” you start.

he doesn’t let you finish. he can’t. he’s so close to ending this—to doing the worst thing he’s ever going to have to do—and if he lets you finish, he’ll lose the courage to walk away.

“i told myself… while you slept in my lap on that beach in siquijor, that if by the time you turned 30, we still hadn’t moved past… this…” he can’t stand the look of horror on your face as you start to process what he’s saying. he looks at the sky behind your head instead. “then, i wouldn’t spend my 30s torturing myself anymore. i’d let you go.”

you don’t let even a millisecond pass before you practically scream: “i don’t want you to let me go!” at him so forcefully, he flinches. “i don’t want you to let me go, you stupid idiot! if that’s what you’ve been doing the last, few weeks, ‘letting me go’—” you make exaggerated air quotes with your fingers and a face that tells him you think he’s ridiculous. it catches him so off-guard, he almost laughs. “—then knock it off!”

you slap his chest to each word to punctuate your point. 

“wh—?” he brings his arm up reflexively to defend himself.

“what i meant to tell you, it came out wrong,” you inform him. his arms slowly fall back to his side as he listens to you as closely as he can. “i didn’t even mean to tell you anything, but if drunk me outed me like that, i need you to know that’s not what i meant.”

the words came out of your mouth in a rush like you thought soonyoung wouldn’t let you say them if you took too long. when he doesn’t say anything in the brief silence, you take a deep breath, obviously trying to steady yourself.

“i was lonely. i was really lonely,” you admit, seeming to remember the feeling more than you did the actual conversation. “and yes, it was because i enjoyed that vacation so much and yes, it was because i wished i could have it with someone i was in love with, but i was having it with someone i was in love with!”

everything in soonyoung’s body tenses, like his own defenses are coming up—like this is some kind of joke and his body is preparing to be laughed at. because you just said you were on vacation with someone you were in love with in the philippines… but you were on vacation with him in the philippines… 

his body braces itself.

“i just meant i wanted it to mean more for both of us,” you continue, hands waving erratically between you to drive your point home. “i wanted to be on vacation with you!” 

your brows furrow and your lips thin as you helplessly fight off a wave of tears he knows is pushing to be released. he knows that when you’re too emotional—whether it’s sadness, joy, rage—you cry, and once you do, you end up blubbering for so long, you usually end up asleep at the end of it.

but still, you bravely fight it off, obviously determined to tell soonyoung what you need to.

“but you as my boyfriend! not you as my best friend! there’s no one else i would’ve wanted to be with, soonyoung!”

he’s glad his body is stiff enough to keep his knees from immediately giving out under him. because all soonyoung wants to do now is fall to the floor and cry. cry because he never thought you’d say these words, because he felt like he was getting back something he lost on the beaches of siquijor, because the two of you wasted a decade dancing around each other instead of just fucking saying something.

“do you think i’ve been single our entire friendship for fun?!” you shriek the question through tears. “do you think it’s fun being the 30-year-old virgin who’s never even kissed anyone?! because it’s not!”

you whined about this often early on in your friendship, but eventually the complaints petered out, and he would drive himself crazy wondering if it was because that changed—if someone else had taken those firsts.

did it happen? 

she would tell me.

right?

no, i’m still a dude. that’s weird, she’d probably tell a girl.

no no, i’m her stupid ass best friend. she would tell me!

oh my god, would she tell me?

what if i just die?

and so the cycle would go. he knows it wasn’t any of his business and that if you had lost those firsts to someone else, that was your prerogative, but still, he feels relieved to hear that isn’t the case.

and he knows he has no right to—not when you haven’t had the proper conversation to hash things out yet—but he suddenly feels an overwhelming possessiveness for you. because he waited for you. no one was ever going to make him stray away from you, so he waited for you—never expecting, just hoping. sorely hoping. and now he knows you waited for him too, and now… now, all he can think about is making you his. all soonyoung can think about now is giving you all the things you abstained from in the hopes you’d have it with him of all people.

it’s what you deserve, isn’t it? for waiting? and isn’t he in the business of giving you what you deserve? his hand twitches, begging him to reach for you and kiss you stupid.

“but i didn’t want anyone else! i wanted you!” you point at him almost violently, and his heart grows too big for his chest. “you waited seven years, but i waited ten! TEN, soonyoung! do you—”

his willpower can only withstand so much. at the end of the day, soonyoung is just a man who’s pathetically in love with you, and hearing you say you wanted him—hearing you confirm you waited your entire friendship just for the chance to have him and be with him and only him—it completely undoes his entire being.

soonyoung’s mouth is on yours before his brain can fully process what’s happening. he feels the shock on your lips for only a moment before you’re moving. despite it being your first kiss, you respond quickly, your body knowing exactly what to do with soonyoung’s like it’s second nature.

you taste like tears and champagne, and even with all the extravagant dinners he’s taken you on and the places around the world you’ve traveled to together, this is the best thing he’s ever tasted. 

soonyoung thinks he’s happy to stand here, kissing you and tasting you and listening to your cute, little breaths against him forever. but then your hands start exploring him—his hips, his waist, his chest, before wrapping around his neck and bringing him in to kiss you even deeper. and he knows immediately that all the strength he mustered up to deal with tonight is gone. the moan that comes up his throat is loud and bordering on obscene, but you smile upon taking it into your own mouth, as if you’re feeding on his desire. as if you love the taste of it.

soonyoung doesn’t wait after that. he can’t wait after that. without letting your lips separate, he guides you back into his room, careful to keep you from tripping over the threshold and all the crap he left on the floor when he was busy having his pity parties.

he lays you in his bed gently, thankful that even though it’s unmade, he at least had the housekeeper wash his sheets. he lays on top of you, trying not to let his weight crush you, but when you wrap your arms around him, you press him to your body as close as it can possibly go, and after he releases his entire weight on you, you hold him like even that still isn’t close enough.

it’s all so much. after spending so long hoping you’d one day want him even a fraction as much as he wants you, tasting the excitement on you and feeling the adoration in your hands as they feel every surface of his body they could reach—it’s so much. 

it wears down his self-restraint. 

you don’t seem to mind, though, because when he runs his tongue along your lips, asking permission for more, you open your mouth immediately. and when his tongue slips in and meets yours, the moan he gets back is so loud and uninhibited and hot, he feels it in his dick.

you giggle a little, and though you recover quickly and continue trying to make out with him after that, the sound delights him enough that he stops to look at you. your makeup is tear stained and your eyes are still a little red, but you look worlds different than you did just a few minutes ago. there’s no tightness in your smile, no devastation in your eyes, no anger furrowed into your brows. when he looks at you this close, he realizes he’s never seen you this happy, this excited, or this light—like you’ve been relieved of a burden that was too heavy for you. but really, the most different thing about you now is that you just look like you’re his.

“what’s so funny, hm?” he asks, resting his forehead on yours. at the start of this night, he didn’t think he would ever hear you giggle again. 

“nothing,” you claim, even though your voice still has traces of amusement somewhere in there. your hand snakes up into his hair and starts scratching his scalp. he hums at the sensation. “i love you, soonyoung.”

he lifts his forehead to look at you. it’s his millionth time hearing you say that. it’s the first time he’s hearing it in the context he’s wished to hear it for the last decade. 

you love him. you love him. you love him.

“i’ve always loved you,” you announce unabashedly. “from the very start.”

in retrospect, the proper thing to do would’ve been to tell you he loved you too—so much that he didn’t even know how to process it well enough to attempt to put it into words. but instead, he pushes himself off you, slightly ashamed that your confession made his dick go from semi-hard to rock hard in record time, but insanely elated (and painfully and obviously turned on) at the idea of you having spent your entire friendship loving him just as much. 

when he sits back, his pants uncomfortably pull against his erection, and he winces, glancing down at it and silently scolding it to stop embarrassing him and have some goddamn decorum. 

he clears his throat and looks back at you, where you’re now propped up on your elbows, smiling at his crotch like it’s already yours. it ruins him.

soonyoung is going to tell you he loves you. and sure, you already know because he already did, but now he gets to tell you knowing you feel the same. so he’s going to tell you, and he’s going to say it over and over and over again, but once he does, he gets the feeling that he won’t want to stop at just kissing you.

he knows it’s probably a lot—to go from what you were to… this, and on top of that, lose your first kiss. and even though you made it clear that he’s the only reason you even remained a virgin, he doesn’t want to assume you’re ready to do something as big as have sex for the first time tonight too.

soonyoung wishes he could be a bigger person than the horny teenager he feels like right now. he wishes he could stop this for the both of you and insist on having a conversation first before things get any further like a proper adult would. but you want him and you love him, and it’s driving him absolutely fucking crazy, and if he gets any harder, his dick is going to start hurting.

“how far?” he asks, his voice so pathetically needy, he wants to die. “i don’t want you to feel rushed or pressured. i just…” he falters, trying to find a way to say this without making it sound like it’s all he wants from you. “we wasted so much time.” not a great start. “and i—”

“all the way,” you say, a coy smile on your lips when you interrupt him. his pants stretch even tighter. 

it’s clear he was worrying for nothing; from the way you look at him, he knows you understand what he’s desperately trying to say and failing. 

he watches you with heavy-lidded eyes as you lay yourself back down and wrap your legs around his torso, doing nothing when your already short dress rides all the way up to expose you. 

“please,” you add on so sweetly, he groans. he won’t be lasting long at all tonight.

soonyoung rests his hands on your thighs, thumbs instinctively rubbing circles into the soft skin there as he tries to take a moment to process everything in front of him. he knows if he doesn’t, the excitement will paint over his memories with zero remorse, and all he’ll remember is that it happened—not what he said, did, or heard. and this is absolutely something he needs to remember. 

he has to remember the way your knees quickly and easily fall apart and away from each other at his touch—almost like they’re sighing in relief at his arrival. he has to remember how your lower back arches and your pelvis wriggles underneath his fingertips before he’s even really done anything to you. soonyoung’s gaze rakes over your figure, taking note of every, little thing he can, when finally, they land on something that lays his fears to rest. 

because there is no way he’ll ever forget the moment his eyes found the space between your legs. he stares at you now—right on the spot where your panties are already drenched with your arousal. soonyoung doesn’t care how overwhelming his excitement is right now; there is simply no possible way his brain will be able to gloss over this no matter how many years pass: the moment he saw physical evidence of just how much you craved him and needed him. how much you’ve deprived yourself of him.

and now, he gets to give you anything and everything you want from him.

his hands begin to travel up your thighs, goosebumps following the trail of his fingertips. he stops just shy of your cunt, trying to breathe deeply enough to calm his thunderous heartbeat. if he gets too lost in this, he’ll cum in his pants, and he will never forgive himself. 

he stares hard at your desire, just barely able to keep from screaming when he realizes the dark spot is slowly growing the longer he sits there, unmoving. you squirm under him, and his hands involuntarily squeeze in response. your thighs are plush in his grasp, so full and beautiful, your flesh is forcing its way into the spaces between his fingers and turning white from hard he grips you.

don’t fucking cum right now, you loser, he thinks hard to himself. you cannot cum before anything happens during your first time with y/n. he exhales deeply and slowly. i will literally kill you if you cum right now.

he’s so tempted to look you in the eye just to see if you’re struggling even a fraction of the amount that he is, but he knows eye contact with you right now will just set his progress back. 

when he’s mostly confident he won’t immediately finish in his pants, he has to swallow the idiotic smile that threatens to take over his entire face. finally, soonyoung gives in and he moves. just one finger, pressed against the part of your panties that sinks just a tiny bit more than the rest—right where he plans to be in the next few minutes, stuffing you full as far as he’ll go. 

as soon as you feel his fingertip brush against your entrance, your hole pulses like it’s trying to clamp around something bigger than his finger that isn’t there. he feels some of the control he has on that pathetic smile of his slip, and as if it’s an avalanche, the rest of his control comes crashing down. without thinking about it, his finger sinks the tiniest bit deeper as he drags it up your slit, the wetness from your panties catching on his skin ever so slightly.

when his finger finds and presses on your clit, you begin uncontrollably writhing and gasping beneath him, and his eyes tear themselves away from your cunt long enough to finally meet your gaze. you look at him with so much lust and love and longing—all of it so loudly desperate—he completely loses track of where his finger is and what it’s doing. all he wants to do is latch his lips onto yours again and say what he should’ve at least ten times by now: that he loves you.

so instead of rubbing your clit until he teases your first orgasm out of you like he planned to, he removes his hand from your center so that he can lean forward and kiss you senseless. but as soon as his touch leaves you, a strangled whine forces its way up your throat and past your lips, making him laugh immediately. 

“what?” you ask, your eyes narrowing at him. it should invoke fear in him, but he’s too endeared for that. “why are you laughing?! did i do something embarrassing?”

soonyoung scoffs as he brings himself over you. “‘embarrassing’? no, baby.” he rolls his eyes. “your neediness is not ‘embarrassing.’ it’s fucking hot.”

you turn the prettiest shade of pink. “shut up.”

he grins. “gladly.”

soonyoung kisses your nose, enjoying the shade of pink it turned under your blush. then, he kisses your lips, just for a moment so that he can lean back and look you in the eye when he says:

“i love you. i love you so god damn much, i thought i was going to die having to leave you.”

he knows it’s dramatic, but he was convinced that’s exactly what was happening to him not even an hour ago. the thought of doing life without you by his side made everything look and feel so colorless and dull and boring and ugly. dead was as good a word as any to describe what his life would look like without you. 

“you’re not leaving me,” you say so matter-of-factly, the smile it brings to his face hurts his cheeks. he was so dumb to think he could; even if he had all the strength in the world to end your friendship, you would’ve never let him off the hook that easily. 

“i’m not,” he says. 

soonyoung gets to work covering you in as many kisses as humanly possible, his lips pressing against your mouth, jaw, neck, collarbone—wherever you have skin, his lips are all over it. your gasps and moans reach a fever pitch, and he figures it’s time to stop making you wait. 

“you tell me if you want to stop, okay?” he asks, lips brushing against your ears as he speaks. “and we’ll stop, no questions asked.” 

you nod so eagerly—so obediently—he can’t help but smirk. his tongue darts out to lick your lobe and bring it between his teeth to nip at before he starts kissing his way down your body. 

“you sound so pretty,” he tells you as you continue to make sure he knows exactly how good you feel. all moans and groans and whispered begging. “exactly how i imagined you’d sound.” his lips graze your already hard nipples through the fabric of your dress and he earns another loud whimper. “fuck, even better actually.”

he pulls your dress down and off one shoulder to expose the breast he was just teasing, and when he sees you bare, he hangs his head, letting his forehead meet your chest as he grunts loudly. 

what is my life? he thinks to himself. this is literally insane.

soonyoung flattens his tongue against your nipple, and you inhale sharply, your hips immediately bucking up. he doesn’t realize his eyes have fluttered closed until he opens them to look at you and make sure you’re okay. from the way your eyes roll into the back of your head and your mouth hangs open in dazed ecstasy, he thinks it’s safe to assume you’re okay.

“soonyoung.”

god, his name sounds so good when you say it, especially when you say it like this.

“fuck,” he grumbles against your tit. he swears his dick is throbbing from how hard you have him.

“lower! please, god, lower!” you order him. 

“whatever you want,” he breathes against your skin. 

but he’s not moving before he has the chance to leave a tiny, little something that can lay claim to you—something only he and you will see. he presses his hand against the side of your breast, groaning at how full you are in his palm. he leans down and bites into the flesh just above your nipple. your hips jerk up as he sucks on the spot just long enough that he knows it will stay a few days. he smiles when he releases you, the hickey already turning a beautiful purple. 

“pretty,” he mutters. he wants to cover you in them. he kisses the mark gently before removing the other strap of your dress. 

with the bottom of your dress completely ridden up and the top half bunched around your waist, you’re almost completely naked, and already, soonyoung can hardly refrain from jumping off his bed and running around the room screaming.

fucking breathe, bro.

he gently lifts your hips up and off the bed so that he can slip both your dress and your ruined panties off your body in one go. once he does, all the refraining he’s been doing tonight comes to a brusque end. 

“oh my god!” he shouts, burying his face into your clothes and groaning into them. “i can’t believe this is my life right now, oh my god.” 

soonyoung presses your clothes against his eyes so hard, he thinks he should see stars, but still, all he can see are your perfect tits and your bare, glistening cunt and the sensual look in your eyes like they’re all forever burned into his retinas. or maybe his eyes are open?

he blinks and brings your clothes down just enough to be able to take a peek at you. nope, the image of your naked body in his bed are definitely just burned into his eyeballs. 

“oh my god, i really have you naked in my bed right now, oh my god oh my god oh my god.” he probably says it 20 more times. he’s not sure. 

“soonyoung!” you berate his behavior the way you always do. he smiles into your dress because even as everything is literally changing before his eyes… nothing has. you’re still his best friend, pretending to get mad at him for being silly. he knows from the fond way you look at him that you aren’t mad at all. “focus! come on, you’re just teasing me now. please.”

“okay, okay!” he says, voice muffled by your dress. “i’m so sorry, i’m not trying to tease you, i swear. i just…” he stammers, unable to stop the whole bunch of nothing that comes spilling out of his mouth. “i’m—just, i—it’s just, like… what?” the question comes out as a laugh. “y’know?” 

you raise an eyebrow at him and he realizes he isn’t really sure what he’s asking you. 

“like, what the actual fuck?” he adds like that will help explain. 

you groan. “it’s crazy how quickly you go from sex god to loser.”

soonyoung feels his face immediately fall into a glare—one you’re used to seeing whenever you two bicker. “you know…” he says, eyes narrowed at you. “my favorite thing about you has always been your patience.”

he throws your clothes aside, hands going to his shirt to begin unbuttoning it. 

“good thing i have a lot of it then,” you claim. your bratty smirk falls right off your face as you watch him slowly undress. 

“right.”

when he shrugs his shirt off and lets it join your clothes on the floor, your eyes widen like you’re seeing him shirtless for the first time. your eyes sweep up and down his torso, your chest heaving as you begin to breathe harder, and it almost makes him shy—almost makes him want to hug himself and jokingly tell you to stop ogling him like a piece of meat. but he also enjoys it more than anything. 

so many times you’ve been half naked together, wearing swimsuits at the beach or at the pool, and although he’s relished having your eyes on him before, this feels different. you stare at him shamelessly now, making no move to avert your eyes the way you used to. this is where he would make a joke to lighten the mood—to give you an out from a situation you might feel caged in by. 

this time, he just allows himself the space to revel in this feeling of being adored. 

“wait,” you say suddenly when he stands up off the bed and his hands start undoing his belt. you crawl over to him, completely naked, and he thinks he might have a heart attack watching you on all fours like this. 

“change your mind? it’s fine if you do,” he assures you, already fastening his belt before his dick can get any more ideas about where the night is going. 

“no,” you laugh as you rest your hands on top of his. “i’m not going to change my mind, soonie.”

you sound as sure as he does about this. it relaxes him immediately. you smile at him before you press your naked body against his, tangle your hands in his hair, and bring his face down to lock lips with you again. he holds you delicately as your tongues slide against each other—different from how he’s pressed, tugged, and groped at you tonight. he forces himself to be gentler. he forces himself to slow down and enjoy the feeling of being in love with you openly. 

he says as much. “i love you. oh my god, i love you. holy shit.”

“don’t start with the loser behavior again, please,” you mutter against the kiss. he wants to laugh, but he doesn’t dare leave your lips. “but i love you too.”

soonyoung doesn’t think he’ll get tired of hearing it. the past 10 years of his life have led up to this moment. it will take so much more than that for him to ever get used to the feeling of you telling him you love him.

he rests his forehead against yours and smiles. “i’m so happy.”

“me too, soonie.”

he watches as your hands leave his hair and travel down his chest, taking their time to trace every line and curve of every muscle. you finish the job of undoing his belt and unbuttoning his jeans, and that’s about all he can take before he decides it’s time to stop holding back. 

before you can even touch his zipper, he grabs your face and kisses you roughly, tongue twisting with yours immediately. he kisses you like he’s held his breath for 10 years and you’re air. you kiss him back the same, exact way. 

he finishes undressing, kicking his pants away and wasting no time picking you up, your legs wrapping around his waist as he does. his cock twitches violently once it’s sandwiched between you and his stomach, and he has you laying back in his bed in mere seconds. 

our bed, a voice in his head reminds him. a bed we can share. if you want.

when you tear yourself away from him to catch your breath, your eyes immediately go south, and he doesn’t have to follow your gaze to know what you’re gaping at. 

“see something you like?”

you don’t even pretend to hear what he said. “uh, what?”

it inflates his ego to unprecedented levels, but he doesn’t gloat and annoy you the way he usually would. mostly because his laughs are cut off with your frantic begging. 

“soonyoung,” you whisper so suddenly and seriously, he freezes. “put it in me.”

the order catches him by so much surprise, he laughs even harder than before. “i can’t just put it in you.”

you shove him and he pushes off the bed to put some space in between you. he looks at you, amused. “what?! what do you mean you can’t just put it in me?” you sound the most offended he’s ever heard you. “is that not how sex works? you put that in me? like… over and over again?

“baby, please,” his laughs are bordering on uncontrollable wheezing. “you’re making this so unsexy.”

“you made it unsexy first!” you complain. “put it in me, soonyoung!”

he wants to keep pretending that this is incredibly unsexy, but this exchange, however goofy, is just making him want to fuck you even more. “stop saying that!”

“why?! you keep making me wait!” 

the way you complain and beg makes soonyoung briefly forget that you’re losing your virginity, and he isn’t letting that happen without proper foreplay first—without getting at least one orgasm out of you.

“pu—”

before you can tell him to put it in you again, he presses his hand against your mouth. “okay!” he says, raising his voice to drown out your muffled pleas. “okay! shhh. relax, and i will. alright?” your eyes widen and he feels a burn in his stomach when he sees the submission in them. you nod. “good girl.”

you moan into his hand and grind your hips up into his. 

“oh, you like that?” he asks, smirking. all you do is squirm more. 

he releases your mouth, and when you stay silent on your own accord—so willingly compliant—he thinks there are a few things he’d like to try in bed later on down the line.

soonyoung plants a wet kiss on your lips before he rests his hand against your neck, eyes watching as you swallow underneath his fingertips. he thinks you look pretty like this: bare throat adorned by his fingers. he has a passing thought to ask you if you would ever be into being choked, but there’s no fucking way he’d do that during your first time having sex. he lets the thought go, making note of it for a later time. 

“so pretty,” he says, finger tapping your lower lip. when you take his finger into your mouth all the way, sucking it and releasing it with a pop, he has to spend a few moments reminding himself he can’t cum already. “jesus christ…” he sighs. he needs to move fast or he will be embarrassing himself tonight. “let me know if i do anything you don’t like, okay?”

you nod quickly—impatiently. your enthusiasm stutters when he doesn’t immediately “put it in” like you’ve been begging. you frown as he pulls away again, but when he settles with his head between your legs, your tune changes immediately. 

“oh.”

soonyoung has dreamed about this moment for so long. he’s had obscene, vulgar thoughts about you—thoughts he would touch himself to. he’s spent an embarrassing amount of nights moaning your name while vigorously grinding into his fist, and all it took for him to cum was the thought of tasting you. he didn’t even have to think about fucking into your pussy or how wet you would be or how warm you would feel—all he thought about was eating you out until you came all over his face, and that would do it for him. 

if he was looking to get a quick orgasm, maybe release some frustration from a day spent hanging out with you, he’d just rub one out in the shower. but if it was one of those nights he was tossing and turning, thinking about how much he loved you and how much he wanted you to be his, he’d throw his blankets off, grab a bottle of lotion, a box of tissues, and sometimes, when he was feeling especially depraved, his favorite photos he’s taken of you. there was something about looking at photos no one else has seen of you—no matter how ordinary or innocent—that turned him on.

his daydreams always started with getting you sinfully wet. yes, with your own arousal, but with his spit too. he’d massage it into your clit, mixing the both of you and your pleasures together until your hips are bucking and shoving your needy cunt in his face. then, he’d give in and lap your clit gently and the first taste would send his eyes rolling into the back of his head. he would try to stay cool and composed, but realistically, he knew tasting you would send him into a frenzy. 

he’d already be close by this point in his fantasies, whining and groaning, his phone and photos of you long forgotten because he has to squeeze his eyes shut to keep from coming before he could finish playing everything out in his head.  

because soonyoung couldn’t cum before his favorite part: when he would imagine shoving his face as far in between your legs as he could, extending his tongue as far into you as humanly possible. you’d say his name the way no one has ever said his name. you’d pull at his hair until he was sure you were permanently damaging all of his follicles. sometimes, he’d immediately cum after this. other times, he’d be able to at least get to the part where he starts fucking you with his fingers. 

on lucky days, he would reach the end of his dreams. by this time, he’d be feverishly tugging on his cock, a mess of sweat and whimpers of your name as he thought about you squirting all over his face. he would drink you up like it’s the fucking elixir of life. you would make the filthiest mess of his face—chin dripping, cheeks sticky, lips swollen and covered in you—and he would thank you for it and beg for more. of course, more would never come because he would make a mess of his own hand after that. 

he always felt like a pervert after—always felt so guilty picturing his best friend like this and doing something so dirty with you in mind—but the next night would come and the next night and the next, and he couldn’t think of anything else. anyone else. 

and as lewd and impure and delicious and downright euphoric as his fantasies were, nothing could have prepared him for how much fucking better the real thing would feel. how much better the real you would taste. 

by the time you cum on his face, not once but twice, he knows this is something he can do for the rest of his life. he would never even need you to fuck him or blow him or give him a handjob; all he literally needs is to devour your cunt any time you’d grant him the privilege to and he’d be a happy man for the rest of his life. 

you’re still panting, chest heaving from your orgasms, when soonyoung climbs up over you once more and wraps his arms around your waist, kissing, nipping, licking, and whispering i-love-yous from your collarbone and up until he reaches your lips. he kisses you lightly just in case you don’t want to put your lips on him after he just ate you out, but when you deepen the kiss and hug him even closer, he thinks you might actually like the taste of you on his mouth. 

“soonie,” you eventually whisper against him. 

“mmm?” 

you say something that he’s been wanting to hear for a decade. you confirm something he’s been desperately searching for signs of for your entire friendship. “i want to be yours. i want to be yours so bad.”

he stops peppering you with kisses and watches you carefully, like this all might still be a hallucination that will fade if he gets too lost in the moment. but you remain where you are, looking at him with as much love as he imagines he’s always looked at you. tears gather in your eyes, some escaping the corners. he catches every single one that does, pressing it back into your skin with his finger. 

when you give him a small smile to tell him you’re okay—that these are just tears of happiness—he leans in, presses his cheek to yours, and promises you, “then i’ll make you mine.”

just being inside you is enough to make soonyoung want to cry. he does his absolute fucking best not to because you already are and he doesn’t want you to think of anything other than yourself and your pleasure during your first time. but he wants to cry as he buries his face into your neck and slowly pushes into you, only moving whenever you say it’s okay to.

when he woke up today, he did it with swollen eyes from a night spent crying over you. he tortured himself all day, thinking about how every last time he had with you was the last and he didn’t even know it—the last laugh he heard, the last smile he saw, the last time you bickered with him, the last time you told him you loved him. he steeled himself to face your tears or your screaming or whatever else you did to him when he ended your friendship. 

at the start of the day, soonyoung was preparing for his life to be over—for you to take every good thing he’s ever had and felt with you when he forced you to walk away.

now, he’s fully buried inside you, forehead resting against yours as you both struggle to adjust to the overwhelming feeling of each other. it’s when you tell soonyoung that after 10 years, there’s nothing that will change your mind about him, that he finally moves. 

“oh fuck,” he breathes as he starts rolling his hips, cock dragging in and out of you in an astonishingly seamless fit. “your cunt is perfect.”

you bloom at the praise, and you don’t shy away from returning it, chanting his name over and over again, whispers of how good he feels wherever you can fit them in between—how good he is for you, how he was made for you. 

“y/n,” he gasps. he tries to tell you that if you keep saying his name like this—like he’s yours—he’s going to cum inside you. but all that comes out is: “oh my god.”

and all you say is “soonyoung” again and again and again. he’s never put any thought into his birth-given name, but tonight, he decides it’s his favorite string of letters. he never wants to hear you say anyone else’s name. he never wants anyone other than you to say his name. it’s yours and yours alone. 

at some point, he can tell you can handle even more, and he pushes up off you, using the headboard as leverage as he pounds into you harder and rougher, rhythm becoming erratic and frenzied. the noises that come out of your mouth are so nasty, he’s on the brim of losing it. 

“oh my god. look at you,” he pants, his sweat dripping from his face, his neck, and his chest onto you. a drop lands on the corner of your mouth, and without hesitating, your tongue darts out to lick it up, and he groans.

it’s too much: your neediness, your obedience, your eagerness. your tits—one sporting his hickey—bouncing wildly as he fucks you at a brutal pace. your unbelievably tight cunt, sucking his cock in so desperately, near-strangling it and refusing to let him go. 

“so fucking perfect,” he tells you. 

you make it clear that you’re not lasting long—that your third orgasm is on the horizon. it’s a bittersweet realization; on one hand, he’s relieved because he’s been holding his own orgasm off since his tongue met your clit. on the other, he never wants to stop fucking you. 

but this is just the start, he tries to remind himself. this is just the first time, and there will be so many more now—now that you’re his and he’s yours. 

your voice rings loudly in his ears again. i want to be yours so bad.

his voice is hoarse when he asks, “do you feel like you’re mine yet?”

you nod frantically, pussy squeezing tightly around him like the thought is pushing you even closer to finishing. “yes, god, yes. yes!” 

“say it,” he demands, eyes never leaving yours. he can’t look away when you look like you would say or do anything for him. 

“i’m yours,” you say immediately. “soonie… i’m yours, soonyoung.” his name comes out in a tortured whimper. 

“i never want to hear another name come out of your mouth ever again,” he declares. “ah, fuck, holy shit. you feel so fucking good, baby. just for me, huh? oh fuck.” his orgasm is begging to be released, but he refuses to let up until you reach yours. “you’re mine. and i’m yours.”

you barely finish agreeing and calling soonyoung “mine” when your pussy is suddenly and violently quivering around him, pulsing and throbbing as you ride through your third orgasm of the night. the feeling of your climax squeezing around soonyoung is unreal, and he pulls out just in time to avoid coming inside of you, painting your beautiful, soft skin with his bliss. 

it feels like it lasts forever, the spurts of white splattering you. he thinks he could get hard again when you let your mouth hang open and catch some of him on your tongue.

“holy shit,” he breathes when he’s tugged himself dry, leaning back and trying to catch his breath. he feels drops of sweat sliding down his body everywhere, his muscles burning deliciously. 

soonyoung looks down at you and is pleased to see you covered with him: his cum, his sweat, his spit. he made good on his promise. if you don’t look like his right now, he has no idea what you look like.

“c’mere,” you whine, reaching for him with grabby hands when you have no energy to sit up and actually take hold of him. 

he smiles and leans in to kiss you, before retrieving a towel from the bathroom to clean you both up with. 

for the rest of the night, you two stay tangled up in each other’s arms and talk about when you fell in love.

you: when you first met him. 

him: when you first walked into the room.

neither of you know if the other is telling the truth or if you’re just trying to win the i-loved-you-first competition (you’re both telling the truth). 

you talk about what the future looks like. you decide you don’t know for sure, but one thing you’re confident about is that you’ll be facing it together. one thing soonyoung is sure about is that he’ll be making you his wife.

you ask if you can make your anniversary two days from now so it doesn’t land on your birthday. soonyoung asks if you can make it two days prior so that he can forget that he was trying to leave you on your 30th birthday. you agree. 

you both run through every big moment either of you can remember being so hopelessly in love with each other, it hurt and what the other person was thinking at that moment. for every memory of yours soonyoung can remember, he’s able to tell you he was suffering just as much as you were. the same is true for you. for every memory he can’t remember, he feels like a kid, giggling and kicking his feet in bed with you hearing about how you were equally, pathetically down bad for him.

your birthday party is long forgotten, traded for an intimate night getting to know each other in drastically different ways than you did as best friends. soonyoung feels like he’s meeting you for the first time again—a privilege he never thought he would be afforded ever again. aside from learning what you liked from your time in his bed tonight, he learns a lot.

like for one, you actually are very into physical affection, something soonyoung thought you didn’t like displaying since you were constantly shoving him away; you just avoided it because it exacerbated your feelings for him and blurred the lines too much for you. in fact, you stay burrowed into his side the entire night, whining any time he moved a tiny bit away, even when it was just to adjust his position or reach to turn off the lamp. you love playing with his hair and tracing little patterns on his chest (he thinks one of the things you traced was your names together). you constantly thread his fingers with yours and when you get tired of that, you still keep your pinkies linked.

he learns you love hanging out at his apartment more than you like the fancy dinners. you feel the most at home with him when you’re actually home with him. you tell him your favorite nights are when you’re in charge of placing a food delivery order at his place while he unwinds from his workday, showering and changing (and unbeknownst to you, probably jacking off in the shower to make sure he doesn’t accidentally get hard while you two hang out). you say it feels like you’re his wife and this is your home too. the sentiment is enough to make him tear up, and you, of course, tease him mercilessly once a fat teardrop lands on your head.

by the time the sun is rising, soonyoung realizes you both have rewritten siquijor in the confines of his bedroom. all the miscommunication (or absolute lack thereof) and the pain and heartbreak have been replaced. from where you two lay in bed, he watches the sun’s rays start to reach into the sky, turning it stunning shades of orange, pink, purple, and blue, and for the first time in seven years, he doesn’t cringe away from it and the feelings of loneliness it used to bring. he doesn’t feel heartbroken all over again like he used to.

this time, the sun rises, and soonyoung feels so ridiculously happy. you quietly watch the sky with him, and he thinks you know what he’s thinking of as you continuously trace hearts, one after the other, never-ending, into his skin.

“it’s a new day,” you say quietly.

“it is,” he agrees, his heart full. “it’s a new day, and i love you even more than i did yesterday.”

you hug him tighter to you even though there is literally no space between you.

“i love you, soonie.” you yawn. “is it time to say good night?”

“it’s morning, baby.”

“no, we didn’t go to sleep. it’s definitely still night.”

he grins and doesn’t bother arguing with that logic. he moves to get out of bed, but you immediately lock your arms so he can’t. he snorts. “i’m just going to pull the curtains so we can sleep.”

you sigh like it’s still an inconvenience, but you release him all the same. “fine. you should get, like, a remote for them or something. isn’t that what rich people do?”

he rolls his eyes as he gets up and closes the curtains, bidding the sunrise—the best of his life—a farewell for now. “rich people stay rich by not buying things they don’t need, baby.”

“i don’t think so,” you disagree, arms opening again for soonyoung to lay back in.

“you know what, whatever you say,” he says as you kiss all the skin you can reach from where you hug him. he preens at the feeling. “you’re always right.”

you hum, smiling against him. “good boyfriend.”

“soon-to-be husband,” he mutters before yawning.

you giggle the same way you have been every time he’s corrected you tonight. “soonie-be-husband.”

he scoffs. “boo,” he heckles you. “bad! get off the stage!” you laugh harder, and it coaxes a soft smile out of him as he watches you.

“best friend” doesn’t seem like such a bad title in this moment anymore. he thinks he gets it now that he’s able to call you even more than that; it’s such an honor to be able to be both your boyfriend and your best friend now. it’s such an honor to be able to build something more on a foundation of friendship as strong as the one he shares with you.

when the laughter subsides, you both sigh, sinking into the bed further and getting comfortable.

“good night, love of mine,” he says, kissing the top of your head.

“mine,” you repeat like you can’t get enough of the sound of it. “yours.”

soonyoung smiles and his eyes flutter closed with exhaustion, thoughts bleary but still painted with you and the last 10 years as he starts to drift off to sleep. if this is what he gets to have now, whatever pain he withstood and however much time he wasted is nothing to him—just a moot point in the story you’ll both tell for years to come.

he dreams of you two in siquijor that night, this time both of you sober and wrapped in each other and in love, with the rest of your lives ahead of you.

bonus (performance unit group chat):

[jupiterpiss]

GIYS GUYS GUYS GUYS GUYS GUYS GUYS IMAGINE IMAGINE IMAGINE WITH ME! Let’s hold hands in a circle please and let me say something real thoughtful about our Irish lad Remmick.

Btw.. I wrote this at 3:54 a.m.. and I had an exam the next day.. so, I promise there is a shit ton of mistakes in here just.. JUST DONT LOOK AT THEM OKAY GUYS

Slight gore and NSFW below the cut!!

Remmick with a werewolf reader. Her family.. a long long LONG heritage of wolves that date back to who fucking knows when, made a deal with the Choctaw in order to have peace between them. Because before they would hunt them, or more so both groups would hunt each other, and eventually they found that harmony would do much better than anything. Especially cause they hear whispers of something inhuman.. unnatural lurking its way in the shadows, that feasts on the blood of the innocent and burns under the brightness of the sun.

They both make a deal to never associate with vampires, and to instead protect the land from them and to protect each other. There was strength in numbers. And both groups are amazing at just keeping to them selves when need be, aside from helping against danger— both really don’t fuck around with evil shit. They’re good.

But Remmick doesn’t give TWO SHITS!! Bro doesn’t not give a FUCK and aside from the fact that he never messed around with werewolves before cause uh duh.. he comes across one, a young woman— freshly riped, beautiful. Has the stars of the night twinkled in her eyes, the soft winds in her words and the warmth of the sun in her laugh. She holds life he’s never seen before.. and he wants that pussy NOWHHHHHHH

So he literally won’t leave this poor girl alone, he comes every night to her doorstep, pleading to be let in. That doesn’t work, and so he thinks coaxing her with sweet words and a charming smile might.. nah. She doesn’t fuck around like that.

BUT!! She doesn’t close the door.. and once his freaky ass stops drooling at her doorstep and instead he just talks.. really talks and listens, is when he actually falls a bit deeper. At which that point on the man is in love. Plain and simple. Before he wanted to be burrowed in between her thighs.. and he still really wants that but he also thinks he might want to lay with her after. Trace her features, softly hum to her, maybe even idk cook dinner for her? Love on her?

It’s how she speaks of her experiences, her memories, her family— this fondness, this gentle nature she holds. As if she cradles each story with her hands, and places them gently into his lap. Something for him to hold as well. She radiants love, really. And when he speaks back his own stories, of Ireland, of his people, the memories slipped away in the crevices of his mind.. she listens. Just as he does.. she really listens. Gives her own questions, comments on little things, holds his own memories with the same care that she does hers. And something about it just.. RAHHH it changes the dude ya know.

But don’t let that little snippet of joy fool you.. he WILL be ravishing that POOOSAYYYY lemme say that cause dude.. when the full moon calls, and she starts to switch into something mean. Cruel, hairy and tall, pure rage and festering hunger— well he’s a bit scared lol. At first.. like he sees her bones break and her flesh tear as it makes way for fur.. and a snout.. and some claws with sharp teeth it almost puts his own to shame. It’s fucking terrifying. But it’s later on.. when the moon is no longer full, she’s far from home, her appetite for flesh is gone, and all is left is a naked frame of a woman with blood painted across her skin.. she shows up to where he says he lives. Some part down by the road, near North Carolina apparently. She’s real fucking far.

And real fucking naked and she can’t just walk home bloody AND naked so she just.. decides to go to his house. Cause.. well.. he’s all that will probably help right now.

But she shows, still smothered in sweat and blood of someone or something else that she can’t quite remember.

He pratically DROOLS at the sight of her, damn near falls to his knees begging her for some of that causeeee ur saying this fine assssssss woman, covered in blood that just mauled a shit ton of wildlife and maybe a small village of people somewhere.. is at HIS doorstep.. naked as the day she was birthed.. on top of the fact that she trusted him enough to GO THERE??

That man is really fucking annoying lemme just say that cause he gets her in there, nice and cozy, before he starts tracing his way up her legs, between the skin of her thighs.

He keeps sweet talking her.. all like “yer’ good now, baby. Safe here’ with me”

And gives her some old washed out robe of his, something from far before her time, which she sits in, still bloody.

He makes her a small snack of some sort, wild berries and random stuff outside, all edible. Puts them together clumsily, presents it before her on a small plate.

She tried apologizing for yesterday night. How horrific the sight must’ve been.. which is ironic given how he’s literally a vampire but wtv.. and he’s just like “Girl, you could’ve torn the flesh straight off my bones— still would’ve allowed you in.” Which is like… okay?? Weird? Why would u do that.. but there’s a part of her that grows almost dizzy with that knowledge, that even if she were to tear him tf up.. he would still be happy as a fucking peach.

It’s not too long before he’s eating her out like come on guys.. let’s be honest. It wouldn’t take much.

He’s going to town, straight crazy style. He’s fucking that shit UPPPP okay? He’s spitting on her clit, licking his name into her, lightly nipping at the skin of her thighs.

She’s no better, she’s moaning and huffing, pushing at his shoulders as an attempt to get him to just back the fuck off cause hello?? She already came four fucking times she thinks she’s good but he literally won’t stop. And she’s sobbing on the table he placed her on, spread out like a god damn meal, open and bare and still bloody cause lord knows he wouldn’t want her to wipe it off.

And it’s fucked ip cause… well.. she sorta broke the deal. The deal her parents engraved into her head, warned her about. About how vampires are tricky bastards, how they only take and never give. She thinks of this as he rips out another orgasm from her, legs shaky, breath hitched and face wet with tears.. she really gets it now.

And given how he kisses slowly back up her again.. and how he gives a small smile before lightly brushing a tear away, eyes tracing over her features, giddy as a young boy with a school crush.. she’s starting to think he’ll never not take from her again.

[elliesglock]

AMARI LIVE ANALYSIS

okay hey bitches. again redoing my analyses so today we're doing on of my ogs. THE amari live. now this live is packed with details that are not super visible but if you pay attention you'll get rewarded. a lot of anons have asked me to put time stamps in my analyses so i shall from now on.

live begins and we see the arrangement of the beds. ice and ines on the bed, amari on the floor in front of the bed, and paige/azzi laying on the second bed. i wanna start off this analysis with one of my more delusional theories. lemme preface and say i have no idea who's room this was but in my head it was either p or azzi's. why do i believe this? in the beginning in the back you can say azzi's under the covers with her bonnet on. and in azzi universe that's bed time wear. she looks completely relaxed and it seems that she's obviously sharing this room with someone else. it could be paige's as well but either way azzi looks comfortable like as soon as they leave and end this live she'll STAY in that bed and probably not sleep 👀. either her and paige are gonna cuddle because they're already in that mode in this live or they're gonna spend some more time off camera before they have to go to their own rooms. just a little theory of mine, i'll prob come back to this a few times when i'm mentioning things that could prove this.

this whole live you can kinda tell azzi's still in that sleepy mode and every time p yells she looks way closer to a meltdown. not that dramatic but she looks so over it at times. which i get because this whole live paige is up and down, yelling, screaming acting like an ipad kid over lebron. and amari WILL not stop being messy with the comments which azzi is listening to and really not fucking w. at 5:53 we see paige yelling and screaming as usual, but when she goes back to the bed she's facing azzi and almost looking like she wants to lay on her. and she kinda does for a second imo. azzi prob gave her a face after she was yelling and she decided to calm down and cuddle her to say sorry for a second. the way her body language is when she sits down is almost like she's checking up on azzi cause her WHOLE body is turned to her when she sits down and her eyes are on her. usually turning your body towards someone shows a preoccupation with them. and when she lays down her leg comes up and her hips shift almost like she's rolling or laying on azzi 🥀. i'm so sorry girl ik that hurts. and lemme just say before i blow up the way they are acting this whole live is so coupley and IM OBSESSED. azzi getting annoyed, p being touchy as a sorry, paige rolling and laying all over her knowing she'd get yelled at if they weren't on camera. it's so coupley. during this time, amari's ass is so messy and reads out a comment that says "amari has a bf and paige has a gf." and i like to acknowledge ice because she can't hide her face and unfortunately becomes evidence all the time for pazzi nation. she very quickly goes "PAIGE DOESMT HAVE A GF" not even acknowledging the amari part. now it's hard to differentiate if it's because she sees a couple in front of her and paige's girlfriend and guiltily tries to lie terribly by just blurting that out, or if paige and azzi aren't together yet and she don't want anything to be started saying that...me personally i don't think pazzi were every acting different with or without the labels. so the second theory kinda doesn't matter to me. pazzi has always acted like a couple even when they weren't together, that was their problem. they were invested and from first glance had intimate tendencies while not being together. idk it's whatever yall wanna think about it i would love to hear your opinions. to me ice sounds really guilty and like she's trying to hide something. after this 6:11 p starts talking to az really softly for a moment and it might be her checking up on her again. that's how i feel. i feel like she's focused on her and talking to her to keep an eye. we know p's very perceptive to azzi and also protective.

also during this ice and amari but seem tense and start watching the camera, most likely because p and a are doing something in the back. 6:43 paige and azzi aren't involved in the convo between ice and ines, they're having their own convo most likely little spat. paige goes "azzi....are you serious? we can't do that." paige reveals that azzi wants her to play a game after ice kinda starts staring at them. it's such a cute thing to argue about. azzi wants to play with her girl and paige is like babe but lebron's on. 7:00-7:05 it seems like paige calms down and goes back to being occupied with azzi during the commercial breaks because as soon as the game comes back on she jumps from the bed and tells everyone to lock in. jus so domestic that when she's not watching she just wanna lay and talk to her girl. even though her girl wants her to play a game during lebron's legacy game. now if paige didn't wanna look nonchalant for the camera she'd DEF fold and play with az. who can resist? 7:22 now why tf this girl go back to azzi and kinda look like she sits on top

of her and starts teasing her. paige sorta starts cooing at her and almost sounds like she says "she so cuteeeee" maybe making fun of her pouting, and azzi responds "don't laugh at me" in a VERY pouty voice so idk the streets are saying p was smiling and teasing az for being pouty. idk how to describe it but p seems like teasy flirty in this live. i wanna say dom but im not trying to get sniped so teasy flirty it is. her energy gives she wants to squeeze azzi's cheeks and make fun of her for how cute she is. she acts like this when she gets back to the bed and it almost seems like she leans down in azzi's face and teases her some more. maybe azzi is still pouty but gets blushy? u can hear a little smile in azzi's voice. 7:25 ice clocks it and looks over probably seeing pazzi being cuddly and close to one another. so when amari looks back, ice looks at her as a sort of warning. therefore, amari shifts herself so she's covering pazzi. that just tells me they looked close enough to almost kissing each other or they were being flirty and ice wanted to make sure they were covered from cameras view. paige eventually locks back in and goes back to watching but i find it so cute she was obv very invested in the game but MUCH MORE invested in her girl at the end of the day. ice is still a little nervous obv because anytime paige moves she looks back to make sure she doesn't have to signal amari again. ice i can read ur mind pookie.

8:53 azzi says move! she's so over her but that's her girl and she's gonna stick beside her. guess all those apology cuddles from p went out the door the minute p stood back up cause paige doesn't even care anymore 🥀. 10:53 azzi says shush i'm trying to hearwhen p is talking. at times like this i feel like azzi is the only one who can talk to p like this cause ive never seen p BE QUIET when she's told to be quiet. like she don't even listen to geno but by god she's going to listen to her girl. mouth shuts too quick and ines almost seems like she wants to laugh at her parents. paige looks like a kicked puppy and keeps looking back at azzi afterwards. she's like bae you always let me yap whatttt 💔. but azzi is just princess to everyone cause she says be quiet EVERYBODY quiets down oooo that's a bad bitch. paige knows she got a baddie too cause she always listens to az. somebody in the comment says "yall afraid of azzi? nobody even on that bed with her..." which is so true because not even clingy ass PAIGE is with her so she knew her girl meant business. (16:14) amari is talking about the comments and saying how when azzi said shut up they all did. and paige pipes up (cause she's also the only one allowed to do this) and says because of lebron not because of azzi! u sure about that twin? ur voice is shaking a bit. also she was screaming when lebron was on so YES obv you shut up because of azzi u damn liar. final moment, we get the legendary moment where amari is being messy AGAIN (this is becoming a theme) where she reads and says "Paige someone is going to take you out to breakfast" and azzi is over ittttttttt. she said take my girl where??? she says "better not" in this tone that can be so easily spotted as jealousy. she genuinely is not fucking w the idea of someone having dates or wanting her girl at all. jealous azzi agenda come home we miss you in this drought. she's gotten more subtle with her menacy behavior but she will NOT allow anyone to hit on paige and ive always felt if someone tried to hit on her she'd be blunt asf and say that's my girlfriend btw.

kinda not edited at all sorry guys i'll go back and edit it. but it's longer than my original, happy reading! lmk your thoughts

[pukefactory]

could we maybe get ena with a reader thats just... really chill and openly affectionate/loving with her? both pre and during a relationship with her?? idk if you've seen this one meme that goes something like "me doing whatever my goth gf tells me to do" with this guy sat in the middle of what looks like a summoning circle or w/e but thats been me with ena lately ghjdsgmds-- like okie dokie whatever you say gorgeous <333

•☽────✧˖°˖ LOSE YOUR HEART ˖°˖✧────☾•

★ Summary: A Compilation Of Headcanons Featuring Salesperson ENA X A Very Calm And Affectionate Reader

★ Character(s): Salesperson ENA (ENA: Dream BBQ)

★ Genre: Headcanons, SFW

★ Warning(s): None - Completely Safe!

★ Image Credits: @JoelG

☆ You don’t flinch when ENA bites into a piece of “Toast of Knowledge” and starts foaming at the mouth. You just pat her on the back like, “Good girl, get that enlightenment,” while everyone else screams. She blinks at you, spittle on her chin, eyes wide and alight with glitching devotion. “Do I look possessed?” “Yeah,” you say, brushing the crumbs off her. “Stunning.” She nearly combusts.

☆ When ENA starts going off about market value and decision funnels, most people nod politely and phase out. You nod enthusiastically and keep her talking. You lean forward with an unshakeable gaze, propping your chin on your palm as if she’s serenading you. “Wait wait, go back—what was that about vertical segmentation?” She glitches mid-sentence. Reboots. Coughs out a heartsick “You’re listening?” Always. With her, you always listen.

☆ She once had a mini breakdown after getting stuck in a loop in the Lonely Door, ranting, crying, threatening to strangle the Genie with a tax invoice, and you, unfazed, just walked up and gently cupped her cheeks. “You’re doing amazing, sweetie.” She went completely silent. Her Meanie side twitched like it’d short-circuited. She walked into the wrong room five times after that.

☆ Before dating, you followed her around like a very calm duckling. Not in a creepy way—just always there. Helping her pin her cap back on when it blew off. Holding her suspenders out so she could slip into them easier. Letting her poke at your aura with her weird hand because “your vibes are off-specification.” “Yeah, I get that a lot,” you said, sipping tea. “You’re welcome to recalibrate me, though.” Her heart did a little lurch before Meanie screamed.

☆ You never question her cryptic, sometimes chaotic orders. “Stand very still while I throw this cheese at the moon.” “Of course, darling.” “Lick this coin. It might be cursed.” “No problem, my love.” “Put your foot in this puddle and don’t ask why.” You’re already halfway in, smiling at her like she’s the only god you’ve ever prayed to. She says she’s never felt more powerful. Or more in love.

☆ The first time you casually called her “gorgeous,” she stopped mid-sentence and stared at you like you’d just introduced a new word into her codebase. “Was that…meant for me?” “Mhm. Want me to say it again?” “…No. Wait. Yes. Wait—don’t. Actually—” You did. You called her beautiful, radiant, ineffable. She dropped her megaphone and forgot how to use her legs. You caught her with ease, murmuring, “There she goes, the love of my life.”

☆ When she had a full-on manic episode mid-quest, jumping on a table and yelling out a number of obscenities—you just clapped from the side. “That’s my girlfriend! Get ‘em, babe!” Your encouragement only made her louder. Louder and worse. And she said she’s never felt more supported.

☆ Post-relationship, ENA sometimes tries to pick fights just to see if you’ll react. “You FOOL! You DINGDONG! You SATIN-FLAVOURED SIMP!” You wrap her in a hug mid-rant and kiss the side of her glitched-out face. “I love you.” “…I was trying to instigate conflict.” “You’re adorable when you’re mad.” She shorted out like a toaster in a bathtub.

☆ When ENA’s darker forms emerge—green-cracked face, leaking blood, shaky limbs—everyone assumes you’d run. Instead, you just step in closer. You wipe her face with a soft cloth, steady her broken body against yours. “I’m not scared of you, baby,” you whisper. “You can fall apart all you want.” She claws at your shirt like a lifeline, stammering with both voices, “Please don’t go—I’m not charming right now—!” You kiss her cracked forehead. “You don’t have to be.”

☆ She once stared at you for ten full minutes while you folded laundry. No chaos, no meltdown, just this wide-eyed reverence. Finally, in a very small voice: “…How do you stay so calm?” You shrugged. “I’ve got you. Why wouldn’t I be?” She went quiet. The next day, she came back with a hundred stolen coupons, a box of frogs, and a locket with your picture in it. “THIS IS LOVE,” she declared. And you nodded. “Okie dokie, whatever you say, gorgeous.”

[dollypopup]

honestly? I think Antonia and Luke are really cute together

Now, let it be known I am NOT a shipper, and I'm not following her or digging into anything. Everything I know is basically through osmosis when people tag stuff about it in the spaces I actually follow, and I think shipping real people who I will never know is weird and invasive, so let's get that clear

however, considering the narrative they've shown us, they seem like a pretty healthy couple. As furious as people get about them (and honestly, it's JUST because Antonia isn't Nicola, and thus many fans can't project onto her the way they do with Nicola), I think it's sweet that they turn work events into dates. I don't see what people are spouting about how she's 'fame hungry' or 'using him'. The woman was wide-eyed at BOSS. When they walked out of the car, she seemed entirely floored. And who wouldn't be? You're being subject to constant flash photography and tons of people demanding things of you. But they showed up, had a good time, and then went back to eat pasta in bed. At his other work events, like BAFTAs pre-party or the actual ceremony, they seem to make a time of it. Cuddling up, holding hands, giving cheek smooches.

I mean. . .come on. She's coming with him to a work event. No matter how glamorous it may look to us, it's still a work event. A work event in which she will often be left on her lonesome. But she gets dressed up and she comes with him and she makes a time of it. They get their pictures taken as a couple professionally, wear cute clothes, eat nice food, and hold hands. That's sweet!!!

Whilst I do not know her, what I DO know is what she's faced, and this woman stuck around through horrible vitriol from the fanbase, constant misogyny, insults about her body, her work, her very existence. They attacked her on her personal instagram pages, went after her family, made up malicious rumors about her, misgendered her, body shamed her. She watched what felt like the whole world want her boyfriend with another woman. She's a civilian. This is not a celebrity who is accustomed to fielding that kind of situation.

But she stayed.

That is capital L Loyalty, okay? Like, she must really, genuinely like him. And I'll be real: I'd stick it out for Luke, too, I mean, the man is a gem, but if this isn't baptism by fire, I do not know WHAT would be. People talk about 'oh, where are the real ones? There are no more real ones anymore'- I think she's a real one. As a woman who dates other women, if she put up with as much as Antonia did, and decided to stand by me? You don't let go of her. That's pretty rare.

Because what has she actually gotten out of the whole situation? Is she suddenly rich? Getting all these jobs? Has magazine covers and exclusive interviews? No. She seems to be making her life out of her own merit for the most part. I mean, people make fun of her being a working dancer and model picking up the less glamorous gigs, but what is that BUT making her life of her own merit? That's what most dancers DO. No, mostly what she's gotten out of it all is abusive commentary and a need for a much more private life- but on the other hand, she got a relationship with him. If that's not devotion, idk???

But even if she DID get a few gigs from his connections- so what? What would be SO wrong with that? There's no proof she has, but why would it be horrible? That's what networking and making connections IS. Luke's known for giving his loved ones a hand. He's been given one from them, too. This is a man who couchsurfed in his best friend's apartment, bartending to make ends meet. He knows what it's like to go without, so why would it be such a bad thing for him to help out someone he cares about? I'm not saying he has, but after everything she's had to deal with, yeah, I think she's well within her rights to be cheesing on a red carpet getting her face smooched for the world to see. Good for her! All things considered, they seem like a couple who spends a lot of personal time together, vacations, date nights, running errands, who make the most of the situation they're in. They're loved up, happy, hot people attending events together. Most couples are significantly worse in real life.

idk, from where I'm sitting, people have made all these assumptions to build their meanspirited narrative on. This idea that Luke is so hungry for fame, and so Antonia is, too. But I think @rainybraindays put it best.

"They are not "begging for the camera" they're attractive, and hes popular so photographers at these events know they can get a good deal on their work that features them. Theres no nda or blackmail, they're just a more lowkey couple, likely because neither seemed to be really searching for the fame, shes just dating a guy she cares for, and hes just pursuing his passion and hit big"

People are so harsh and critical of these two. First it's 'he wouldn't claim her!' (like luggage. the misogyny of it all) Now it's 'ugh, she's everywhere'. First it's 'she's evil and using him' then it's 'what he's put that poor girl through!' but the reality is, no matter those criticisms and bullying, they're happy with each other, and they've decided their relationship is pretty serious

And honestly they're really cute together

Fight me

[justseedee]

My guesses for the ghouls in the next episode

( see this post for context)

First and foremost, I'm going to assume that Kaito, Romeo, Zenji, and Jiro are out since they already participated in an inter-house mission.

Second, it would make sense that they'll pick one ghoul from each house (excluding one). I believe the main (irl) purpose of inter-house missions is to pad out the characters that tend to get somewhat neglected in their regular missions.

So that's the logic I'm going with (^-^) with a sprinkling of wish-fulfillment

Frosthiem

My Guess: Luca

My Reasoning: The last Frosthiem episode was very Jin and Tohma-centered AND we even got some Kaito "backstory". We haven't had much other than surface-level interactions with Luca throughout the other episodes. Also, I'm super obsessed with this man's life and family and I just want to know wtf is up with them

Vagastrom

My Guess: Sho

My Reasoning: MAINLY because it seems like they're trying to spread out who we get paired up with in each mission and last time we were with Leo for most of it. And we got Alan's backstory in the Vaga episode and tidbits of him in the Frosthiem episode. Sho is still kind of a mystery in terms of alignment and he's also pretty flirty in a super chill teasing kind of way. Plus that thing Alan said about Leo knowing how to act in certain situations feels like it was a setup for something and I hope this is it lol (also Frosthiem/Vagastrom drama with him and Luca)

Sinostra

My Guess: Ritsu

My Reasoning: Same as the last one. Romeo was automatically out and we spent most of the last episode with Taiga soooo it makes sense I guess

Jabberwock

My Guess: Ren

Hotarubi

My Reasoning: Haru has been fucking everywhere it feels like. Genuinely it feels like he's one of the guys we know (or at least can infer) the most about. As much as I wish I could say Towa he's too much of a wild card to be put in a situation where his crush will have to be around a bunch of other guys. Especially if Ed is one of them. Like he straight up tried to poison Ren, possibly out of jealousy (look up Ren's Affinity lines if you don't know what I'm talking about) (and let's not forget the Ren/Sho one-sideded beef)

My Guess: Haku

My Reasoning: We got Subaru scraps last time and it ended with a cliffhanger, and honestly I doubt this is going to be the episode where they'll be like "Oh yeah BTW this is why he wanted those scissors 🤪". Plus why would they frame it like (yes I'm still on this shit) a dating show and not put one of the flirtiest ghouls in it?

Obscuary

My Guess: Ed

My Reasoning: I really really REALLY wanted to say one of the other two but this is starting to feel like a "season finale" episode and Ed just has too much insight to NOT show up and stir the pot. That and if there's going to be SIX ghouls i don't think that would be something Rui would want to do (for curse reasons). Then again the yearning in this episode would be insane if they do go with him. As for Lyca, I think he's still too oblivious to his feelings for MC for him to be a viable choice here v(•_•)v

Mortkraken

My Guess: This is the house that's getting left out.

My Reasoning: Yuri and Jiro cannot be separated for too long or else Jiro could die

Vagastrom and Jabberwock were sooooo hard for me for no reason other than me having to decide between who I WANTED to be there and who it would MAKE SENSE to be there. I think I made it work though.

Also, it occurred to me about halfway through how funny it would be if it was just all the Captains (sans Yuri, thats my call and I'm sticking to it) and it ended being like a pick your favorite house type of deal idk

[supremefloof]

tbhx pokemon AU, pt. 4 - Enlighter/God Eye, Miss J

More Yap, explanations, extra imgs below cut

"A constant collector of information, this Pokémon is very smart. Very strong is what it isn’t." - Blipbug, SwSh pokedex

I went into this with the idea that most people, especially people in cities, just logically can't deal with a full six creatures. This is different for Heroes of course since battling is more important for them.

However, even Heroes often keep unevolved pokémon with them/don't have a full team. NOBODY ON THE PLANET in this AU will EVER see a standard meta VGC team for as long as I breath, I promise. No, Not Even X.

funnily enough, these two were the easiest to decide on for some reason. Qi Shi could've easily had a full team!

Qi Shi's pokemon, as seen here: Rotom, Inkay, Blipbug -> Orbeetle, Seviper. The little black critters are not pokemon but the Spotlight Org's drones! I really liked the idea that the robots in ep.4 look like miniature Rolycoly! there's no reason for this it just sounded like fun. look at it :D

Miss J: Meowstic-F, Klefki! she keeps them in Luxury Balls; she seems like she puts a lot of effort into her appearance. Klefki is always polished and Meowstic is always groomed!

all her underlings are terrified of that Meowstic.

Meowstic, Seviper, Inkay courtesy of @cedarwrought

Enlighter probably starts off with Rotom and Blipbug. picks up Inkay somewhere along the way, and Seviper around when he starts getting obsessed with investigating Nice. (he's different in ep.6... something happened to him in those 5 years...)

oh and blipbug -> dottler -> orbeetle

Rotom helps with all those techy things! Orbeetle and Rotom together are responsible for the Moon decoy.

idk if he should bring Inkay to the episode 4 fight, it just seems a bit too cute. However, a Malamar would eat him alive 😭he is never evolving that thing

maybe Spotlight pretends to be his Inkay instead of an octopus

I had an idea about the Spotlight Organization controlling Zygarde to some extent. not the whole thing, just a chunk of it?

dunno about this, thematically for SO and Enlighter it doesn't make sense - the only thing I could think of that's related is that Zygarde is meant to bring balance. so maybe if SO is balancing Trust with Fear or something. but its also like, about the environment, which SO is def not about. However, the point of this idea is that they can lend Enlighter a Zygarde 10%!

the color scheme matches perfectlyyyy. im a sucker for matching colors...

Zygarde 10% also breaks apart after a short while, like how Qi Shi's new drip stopped working for some reason. so that would be the random bs that lets Lin Ling win (+ GE's seviper getting... sidetracked), although it would be stacked against him anyways.

unrelated notes:

pleaseeee new episodes make genesect for yang cheng make sense some how im weirdly invested into the "reasonability" of the pokemon in this au. like i could just stick him with pikachu and call it a day but noooo the lore has to fit and stuff. my brain demands it.

for the first time in a while I used over half of my webglazes in a week? I've been super focused on drawing stuff lately because of tbhx and the amazing tumblr community <3. glaze your artworks!

what is up with pokemon sizes. you're telling me blipbug and orbeetle are the same size? why is seviper over EIGHT feet tall??

prev

[angellekookie]

Hate it when a piece of fiction resonates deeply with ne and makes me reflect on my life and stuff 😪

Just kidding I live for that.

Now Aqua, I have thoughts- so many so that I'm not really sure how I'll put them together.

The first is that there's a friend of mine, we talk a lot about writing and how if you look deep enough at what's written, you get to see fractured bits and pieces of the author woven in. Always, it will be there- either in a small, subtle way or something bigger. More obvious, and harder to miss.

This is one of those works.

I absolutely loved the dynamic between Mc and Yoongi. Their care and their caution (but not really? Like the caution was there but less about dancing around the other and more about dancing around themselves? A lot of rambling, sorry😅) that they have for each other, how they understand each other, the barely contained lust- ok full disclosure, it doesn't feel right calling this list between them. Every touch was a conversation, even if they never understood it right away.

There was also some dialogue that I couldn't get over. You published this and honestly I can't even pretend to be casual about it.

Not to get emotional on main, but a lot of the times I get the urge to hide away when I feel like I don't really deserve the love my friends and family would give. The urge to really shut myself away is there constantly, always. But these words felt... idk the assurance? Like the literary version of things I try to remind myself of when I feel like an imposter in a space where logically, I know I don't need to earn.

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

“You don’t have to be okay for me to want to be here.”

I may have sobbed a little here at this. Thank.

“You just… made it a little easier to stay.”

You don't even know how much I needed these words, Aqua Glossdebut, you don't. And thank you.

Like your writing means something just by existing.

"I’ve wanted to get between your thighs and just live there. I love you, and I love your pussy, and I’m gonna make you come so hard you forget every single bad day you’ve ever had.” — full disclosure that this is here becaause i fear i got too emotional on main so we're gonna deflect and say it's solely here for me to say men use to yearn like this *insert men don't yearn meme and a girl staring out the window ✨️wistfully✨️*

An edit cause i couldn't stop thinking about it: But the way MC feels shitty on a Tuesday and is essentially this meme:

But then she gets her good news on Wednesday? Aqua? AQUA?!!!!

Anyways, this was a good read. A great read. Thank you for sharing 🫂

Btw it felt like this to read and also second hug is yours. I know I say it always, but I do mean it always that I'm sending hugs. Please receive with awesomeness.

best laid plans | MYG

✧ PAIRING: yoongi x f!reader

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

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

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

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

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

✧ WORDCOUNT: 13.6k words

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I wasn’t ready to commit to tuna.”

“Fair.”

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

You awkwardly step in opposite directions after that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Does it look like it?”

It doesn’t. Neither do you.

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

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

“Uh. Yeah, sure. Thanks.”

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

He eats. You slurp noodles.

And eventually, inevitably, you glance sideways.

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

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

“Yoongi.”

You nod. Don’t offer yours yet.

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

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

“Didn’t mean it like that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod. You do know. 

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

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

“That actually sounds kind of nice.”

He snorts. “It’s not. But thanks.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

✧

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

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

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

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

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

Yoongi.

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

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

“So you just… showed up?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah?”

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

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

“So why did you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You shrug. “It was something.”

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

But you don’t move.

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

You lean in and kiss him.

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

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

You kiss him again. And again.

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

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

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

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

“I won’t.”

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

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

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

✧

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s nearly midnight when your phone buzzes.

Yoongi: You up?

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

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

You: i am. what’s up?

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

You: is this a booty call

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

Yoongi: I just want to see you

Yoongi: Is that okay?

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

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

You: yeah

You: come over

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I like you,” he says quietly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re not the only one,” he says.

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

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

“Fuck,” he gasps. “You’re so—fuck.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You bury your face in his neck. 

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

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

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

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

“I have a question,” you say.

Yoongi blinks, cautious. “Shoot.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

That sobers you a little.

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

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

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

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

“So… uh… want me to suck your dick?”

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

“...Right now?”

“No,” you say dryly. “Next Thursday.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not even a little.”

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

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

“Fuck—” 

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

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

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

You hum around him. That does it.

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

“Shit, shit—I’m—fuck, baby, fuck—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You glance at him, then away just as fast.

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

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

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

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

Or try to.

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

What the fuck was that?

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

It’s what came after.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You okay?” he asks.

You sigh and sit down. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Silence. 

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

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

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

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

How can he be so sure?

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

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

You know he’s good with his hands.

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

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

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

Why?

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

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

Maybe.

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

It scares the shit out of you.

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

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

Then his arm moves and his pinky finger nudges yours.

A small thing. Stupid. Barely anything.

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

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

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

Two people letting themselves be wanted for a while.

You hook your pinky around his.

Just this, you think. Just this is fine. 

✧

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

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

There’s a pattern now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He turns around.

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

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

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

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

“You eaten today?” he asks, gently.

You shake your head. “Not really hungry.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You didn’t have to—” you start.

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

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

Halfway through, he glances over at you.

“You wanna watch something dumb?”

You nod.

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

The opening credits roll.

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

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

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

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

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

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

✧

You still haven’t put a name to it.

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

But then the takeout came, and the moment passed.

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

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

You make out. A lot. 

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

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

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

Because outside the bubble, your life is still a mess. Rent’s overdue. Work is torture. You haven’t written anything in over a year and you haven’t figured out how to be proud of yourself again, not really.

But inside it—when Yoongi’s mouth is on yours, when he texts you ‘Made extra ramen if you’re hungry btw’ like that’s not the most romantic shit anyone’s ever said to you, you feel steady.

But, like anything else, it comes with its own set of issues.

The thing about not fucking is that it used to be about not wanting. A lack of drive. A lack of spark. A lack of time or energy or libido or options.

But now? Now, it’s something else. Because you have the option. 

Now, it’s starting to feel like a crack in the glass. Like every time you grind against his thigh with your hips twitching and your breath shaky, or every time he pulls your shirt off and buries his face between your tits but doesn’t go lower, the crack gets a little deeper. And you’re both pretending not to see it.

Because the truth is: you want to fuck him.

You desperately want to fuck him.

You think about it constantly. The way his fingers curled inside you that first night, the soft, filthy way he talked to you, the way he looked down at your face when you sucked him off like he was watching a goddamn miracle unfold.

You think about how he’d feel inside you.

You ache with it.

But you don’t bring it up. Because once you do, once you have sex, it’s not a bubble anymore. It’s real, something with expectations.

And you know yourself, you know how you get. You��ll start needing more. Wanting more. And Yoongi, sweet and quiet and lost in his own way, will become another thing you don’t know how to manage. Another thing you don’t know how to keep.

You’re scared of that. Of ruining it. Of letting your body talk you into something your heart might not be strong enough to carry.

So you kiss him like you’re dying, but when his hands drift to your waistband, you laugh, too high-pitched, and pull away. Pretend you’re tired. Or hungry. Or something, anything. Any excuse not to cross that final threshold. Yoongi never pushes. He just nods, catches his breath, and helps you back into your shirt like a gentleman.

But you feel the tension growing. Between your thighs. In your chest. In the way you wake up soaked and aching after every sleepover, body clenching at nothing. In the way your kisses are starting to come with more teeth. With soft little growls in your throat you didn’t mean to let out.

Tonight, he’s at your place again. It’s late. You both know he should’ve left hours ago, and the crack is splintering even further, faster than you realize.

You’re straddling Yoongi on the couch, your knees bracketing his hips, your mouth fused to his. Your hips are rocking down, slow and aimless at first, but building. You can feel him getting hard beneath you, feel the press of him through his sweats as you drag your clothed pussy over him like your body is starving.

Yoongi groans into your kiss. His hands grip your thighs, fingertips twitching. But, like always, he doesn’t push. He just lets you move, lets you grind down on him with that ragged little gasp in your throat, lets you take what you need without crossing the line you’ve both carefully danced around for weeks.

Except tonight, something’s different. You’re different.

Because when he tilts his head and mouths at your neck, hot and slow, and mutters, “you’re gonna make me come in my fucking pants,” you snap.

Completely.

You pull back just enough to look at him, breathing hard, eyes wild. “I want to fuck you.”

He blinks. Catches up slowly, like he’s not sure if he imagined it.

“I want you to fuck me,” you amend, a little louder. Desperate.

Yoongi just stares at you for a moment, mouth parted, chest heaving. His hands tighten on your thighs. 

“You sure?” he asks, voice rough.

Once you say yes, it happens fast. 

Yoongi’s hands are everywhere. Gripping your hips, your waist, sliding up your back to tug your shirt over your head. He peels it off and tosses it somewhere behind you, eyes locked on yours like he’s giving you one last chance to change your mind.

You don’t.

Your bra’s off next, fast, and he curses the second your tits are bare, like he can’t believe this is happening. Like he’s been thinking about it for weeks too, and now that it’s real, he doesn’t know where to start.

So he starts with his mouth.

He palms your breasts and groans low in his throat, then leans forward and takes one into his mouth like he needs it—hot tongue flicking over your nipple, lips sucking gently before he bites, just enough to make you gasp. His fingers find the other, circling and pinching lightly.

“Fuck,” you whimper, arching into him. “Yoongi—”

You grind down on his cock again, still half-dressed from the waist down, the friction sharp and unbearable. You’re soaked. You can feel it. Your panties are useless at this point, clinging wetly to your folds, and you’re half a second away from tearing them off yourself if he doesn’t move faster.

“Condom,” you breathe. “Please. Where—?”

“Yeah—fuck—yeah, hold on.”

You scramble off his lap at the same time he stumbles off the couch, both of you half-laughing and swearing under your breath. He digs through his bag on your floor, frantic, muttering, “I swear I had one—fuck, wait—yes.”

He holds it up like a prize, and you don’t even give him the chance to rip it open before you’re tugging your shorts and panties down in one go, stepping out of them and crawling back onto the couch.

Yoongi stops cold, stares at you for a second.

Hair messy. Chest heaving. Legs spread. Eyes hungry.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, tearing the foil open and shoving his sweats halfway down his thighs with shaking hands. His cock bobs free, hard and flushed and so ready, and your mouth actually waters.

He rolls the condom on with practiced ease and climbs back over you, settling between your legs like he belongs there. Like he’s done it a hundred times in dreams and is finally allowed to touch.

He presses inside you slowly, inch by inch, and the stretch knocks the breath from your lungs. You’re soaked, but it’s still so much, been too long, and you cling to his shoulders with a gasp.

Yoongi groans, forehead dropping to yours.

“Jesus, you’re tight,” he rasps. “Fucking wet.”

You whimper, hips already rolling up to meet him. “Been wanting this,” you whisper. “Needing this—”

“Yeah?” he murmurs, voice shaking. “You gonna let me give it to you?”

“Yes, please—”

And then he starts to move. Just the brutal press of his hips to yours, every thrust deep and deliberate and filthy, like he’s trying to bury himself somewhere he won’t be able to crawl back from.

Your head tips back against the couch, eyes rolling up, mouth falling open on a gasp that barely sounds like a real word. He’s got one hand gripping the arm of the couch behind your head for leverage, the other wrapped tight around your thigh, keeping you pinned wide open beneath him as he fucks into you.

“Fuck, Yoongi—fuck—”

“You like it, baby?” he growls. 

You whimper, nodding helplessly, your hands scrambling up under his hoodie to claw at his back, his sides, anywhere you can touch.

Your skin’s on fire. Your thoughts are gone. All you know is the sharp, perfect drag of his cock, the sound of your soaked cunt every time he slams into you, the guttural noises he makes when your walls flutter around him.

“You feel so fucking good,” he groans, eyes squeezed shut, jaw clenched. “Tight little pussy just gripping me—shit, baby, I can’t—”

His pace stutters for half a second, like your body is pulling the soul out of him.

You cry out when he hits deep—too deep—and he groans, pulling your legs higher around his waist to get the angle just right.

“There,” he growls when you shatter under him, thighs shaking, cunt clenching so hard he nearly loses it. “Fucking cum.”

You come like you’ve lost control of your body. Loud, legs locked, nails in his back. It hits hard and fast and doesn’t stop, rolling through you in hot, humiliating waves. Yoongi hisses, desperate now, chasing his own end, rhythm starting to break.

“Gonna fill you up,” he pants, even though the condom’s there, even though it’s just a filthy fantasy, and you sob at the idea of it. “Fuck, I wish—wish I could come inside you—fuck—you’d let me, wouldn’t you? Let me ruin you for anyone else—”

“Yes,” you gasp, not even sure you mean it, but it sounds right. Feels true.

That’s all it takes.

Yoongi groans like it’s been punched out of him, hips jerking as he comes hard, cock twitching inside you, face buried in your neck as he spills into the condom.

You both stay there, gasping against sticky skin through the aftershocks. He kisses your neck once. Then again. And again.

“Holy shit,” you breathe, dazed. “I think you just rearranged my internal organs.”

Yoongi laughs. “Cool. I was aiming for your soul.”

The couch cushions are half off the frame, your legs still trembling where they’re spread open around his waist. Yoongi pulls out slowly, careful, and your body aches from it, clenches down involuntarily, already missing the stretch. 

He ties off the condom, looks around for somewhere to put it before settling on the empty takeout bag from earlier. Pulls his sweats back up.

You sit up with limbs like jelly, not bothering to put your underwear back on just yet, and run a hand through your hair. Your thighs are sticky. Your lips are swollen. You feel fucked out and raw and wrung clean.

Your body is so satisfied.

Predictably, your brain is a different story.

You glance over at Yoongi. He’s slouched against the other end of the couch, head back, eyes closed. His hair is damp at the temples, chest still rising and falling like he hasn’t quite come back to himself yet.

He looks gorgeous.

You want to kiss him.

You also want to run.

That tight, itchy feeling—the one you’ve been avoiding since you first let him touch you—comes roaring back. You just crossed the line. You fucked the one good thing in your life that wasn’t tangled in expectations. That didn’t ask anything from you.

You broke the bubble.

He opens one eye and glances over at you.

“You okay?”

You nod. “Yeah. Just…” You trail off. Shrug. “That was intense.”

Yoongi huffs a soft laugh. “Yeah. You think?”

You stand. Your legs are still shaking.

“I’m gonna, uh… go pee,” you say, already heading toward the bathroom. “Before I die.”

He doesn’t stop you. Just nods, eyes following you for a second before he looks away.

You close the door and sit on the edge of the tub. Breathe.

You want to feel good. You do feel good. But also… you feel like maybe you’ve fucked up. Or you’re about to. Or like this is going to change something that shouldn’t be changed.

You think about what you’ll say when you go back out there.

You think about whether he’s getting dressed. Whether he’ll leave. Whether he should.

You think, I don’t want this to become another thing I have to recover from.

✧

When you finally open the bathroom door, the light feels harsher than it should, and your skin’s still warm from the shower you didn’t really want but took anyway. Just to delay, to think, to scrub away the sweat and the way his hands felt on your hips and the way your body sang for him.

You step into the living room wearing clean underwear and a fresh shirt. Your face is bare. Your hair is damp. Your expression, despite your best effort, is a little too tight.

Yoongi looks up from the couch, where he’s still sitting, this time in his sweats and hoodie again, elbows on his knees, fingers idly twisting the hem of his sleeve.

His eyes meet yours. He doesn’t smile, but his gaze softens. Immediately.

“Hey,” he says, quiet.

You nod, cross your arms. “Hey.”

He watches you for a second, then leans back, patting the space next to him.

You hesitate, but you lower yourself onto the couch anyway. Not quite touching, not quite distant. A safe middle. 

“Wanna tell me what’s wrong?”

“I’m fine.”

“Okay,” Yoongi says, disbelieving. “Then why do you look like you’re trying to figure out how to ghost me while I’m still in your apartment?”

You wince, staring at your knees. “I just—I didn’t mean for this to turn into, like… a thing.”

He nods slowly. “Okay.”

“I mean, we’re not, right? A thing?”

You look at him now, really look. Your heart’s racing. Your stomach’s twisting. You’re not sure what kind of answer you want.

Yoongi looks back at you for a long moment. Then he leans back again, scrubbing a hand through his hair.

“I don’t know what we are,” he says. “I wasn’t trying to make it anything.”

You swallow hard, because part of you thinks that should make you feel better. Instead, it just makes your chest ache. You were the one who let him in, even when you swore you wouldn’t. You’re not trying to make him feel like he’s the one at fault here. It’s you. It’s always you.

“But,” he adds, eyes flicking to yours again, “I like you. I care about you. And if we’re fucking now, yeah, that’s gonna mean something to me. Even if we never put a label on it.”

“Doesn’t that make it worse?” you ask, voice thin. “If it means something?”

Yoongi doesn’t speak for a long while. You sink into him without meaning to, thigh to thigh, arm to arm. You don’t really know why.

He exhales, slow and deliberate, and says, “Can I tell you something?”

You nod against his shoulder.

“I wasn’t supposed to be at that convenience store,” he starts, voice shaky in a way that makes you sit up, just slightly. “I mean, I didn’t have a reason to be anywhere. But that night… I think I was sort of… walking around to see if I’d change my mind.”

You still. Your heart trips over itself, because that could mean a lot of things. Because you know, just by the tone of his voice, that he means the worst. 

He keeps going.

“I’d been thinking about it for a while. Not in a loud way. Not even like a plan. Just… wondering. If things would be better. Easier. If I just stopped. Just disappeared.”

You don’t interrupt. You don’t breathe too loud. You just listen.

“And that night, it felt close. Like maybe I was ready. Like maybe no one would notice.” He lets out a shaky laugh. “I hadn’t talked to anyone in a couple days. I didn’t even brush my teeth before I left the house. I just started walking.”

Your eyes sting. You try not to let it show.

“I stopped at the store because I thought—fuck it. One last shitty sandwich. One last can of cold coffee.” He huffs. “Really poetic, right?”

You let out a breath. “Yoongi—”

He shakes his head. “I’m not telling you this so you’ll feel bad. Or because I think you saved me. You didn’t. You just… made it a little easier to stay.”

You’re crying now, because god, you didn’t know, but you know. You know how it feels to always have that in the back of your mind, to convince yourself that there would be relief in giving up. Letting go. 

He turns his head toward you now, not quite meeting your eyes, like he’s still unsure if he’s allowed to say all this out loud.

“I still think about it. Sometimes. Not all the time. But… it comes back. When it’s quiet. When I’m alone too long. But since that night, it’s been easier knowing that someone gets it. That I don’t have to pretend I’m fine all the time.”

He finally looks at you, and it’s not a dramatic, sweeping kind of moment. There’s no soft lighting or music swelling. Just his tired eyes, and your tired heart, and the shared weight of knowing what it feels like to want to give up—and choosing, for whatever reason, not to.

“Maybe that’s all this has to be,” he says. “Not a love story. Not some perfect, clean thing. Just… two people who don’t always want to be here, making it a little easier for each other to stay.”

You can’t speak. You nod, and your eyes blur, and Yoongi presses his forehead to yours like it’s the only way he knows how to say thank you for seeing me.

✧

Days later, things aren’t better—not in the way people usually mean. Your life is still a mess. His is too. 

But something’s changed. Settled.

He lets himself in now. Doesn’t knock. Kicks his shoes off like he lives there, shrugs his hoodie off and drops it somewhere near the couch, grabs two cups and fills them with whatever’s in your fridge.

And you let him.

You sit next to each other, thigh to thigh, flipping through shows you won’t finish. You kiss during the commercials. You fall asleep with his hand on your waist.

You still haven’t said you’re together. You still haven’t said what you mean to each other. But when you’re quiet for too long, he looks up from his phone and asks, “Okay?”

And when he’s too quiet, you ask, “Wanna stay the night?”

And when you both lie awake in the dark, not talking, not moving, you think: I’m still here.

And so is he.

✧

It starts with scraps. Half-sentences in your notes app. A phrase here, a sentence there. Something you jotted down after Yoongi left one night, when your chest felt like it was holding more than usual and your bed still smelled like his shampoo.

Then it becomes a little routine. You open your laptop without the usual dread. You stare at the cursor blinking in a half-finished document and think: maybe I can.

It’s not for meant to be published. It’s not for anyone but you. But it’s something.

One night, Yoongi finds you sitting on the floor with your laptop on your thighs. You’re so focused, you don’t even hear him come in.

He just watches for a second, quiet.

“Writing?” he asks eventually, and you jump.

“Jesus—” You slam the laptop shut on instinct, and he raises both hands in surrender, shoulders shaking with laughter.

“You don’t have to show me,” he says, setting down the drinks he brought. “But… that’s new.”

You shrug, embarrassed. “It’s nothing. Just… stuff.”

Yoongi sinks to the floor beside you. “You haven’t written since we met.”

“I haven’t written in a long time.”

He doesn’t ask why not. He already knows.

Instead, he leans his head on your shoulder and says, “I’m glad you’re starting to again.”

He doesn’t push. He doesn’t ask for details. He doesn’t ask to read it. He just sits with you, there on the floor, eyes closed. Like your writing means something just by existing.

You open the laptop again.

You keep writing.

✧

Yoongi is sitting cross-legged on your bed while you type, cradling a cup of tea you made him because he clearly needed something to do with his hands. 

You can tell he’s nervous. He’s got that look on his face like he’s about to say something serious but is trying not to scare the shit out of you. It isn’t working.

“So,” he says, after a long stretch of silence, “I have a friend.”

You glance up from your laptop, blinking. “Amazing.”

Yoongi huffs. “Kim Namjoon. He’s an old friend. College. We used to mess around with production stuff, back when I thought I was gonna be a genius producer with a Grammy by 25.”

You smile a little at that, set your laptop aside. “What’d he say?”

Yoongi hesitates, fingers drumming softly against the side of his mug. “He got some seed money. Not much. Just enough to rent a space, get a couple of half-decent mics, some gear. Says he wants to start a small label.”

Your stomach does a little flip. Not because you’re worried. Not yet. But because of the way he’s saying it. Like he’s trying not to want it too much.

“He wants me in on it,” Yoongi continues, staring down into his tea. “It’d be three of us, working in a basement, surviving off cup ramen. Maybe getting a local artist to sign on eventually.”

You exhale. “That sounds… really fucking cool.”

Yoongi finally looks at you. He’s smiling now, just a little, but it’s tight at the edges. “Yeah. It does.”

“And?”

He shrugs, but it’s not a real shrug. It’s that shoulder-lift people do when something matters too much. “And I don’t know. I don’t know if I’m ready to give a shit again. I don’t know if I’ll fuck it up. I don’t even know if I still have anything to say.”

“You do,” you say, instantly.

His jaw flexes. “Yeah, well. Maybe. He’s starting soon. Wants me to come by next week. Just to mess around with some demos, get a feel for it again.”

You nod slowly. Try not to let the ‘what if’s start swirling. What if it pulls him away? What if he leaves? What if this tiny, fragile thing you’re building—whatever it is—gets buried under a dream he's only just remembered how to want again?

But you don’t say any of that.

Instead, you say, “You should do it.”

Yoongi searches your face for a long time, hesitant, like he’s trying to catch you in a lie. 

“Yeah?”

You reach over and take his mug, set it on the nightstand. You curl into his side, your face pressed to the crook of his neck.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “I think maybe… we’re both starting to remember how to want things again.”

You feel him breathe out. Slow. Unsteady.

But he nods.

✧

Yoongi doesn’t stop texting. He still sends you memes, voice notes, the occasional photo of his workspace—a cramped basement room with exposed pipes and cords spilling out over his desk, coffee-stained notebooks piled next to a MIDI keyboard.

But he’s not around as much.

The nights you used to spend together—half-draped over one another on the couch, kissing during reruns, sleeping side-by-side without labels—are fewer now. Sometimes he falls asleep at the studio. Sometimes he doesn’t respond until 2 a.m., when you’re already asleep.

It’s hard. You won’t lie to yourself about that. You feel the absence like a low-grade fever. Always there, dull but insistent.

And there’s still no word for what you are. No boyfriend, no girlfriend. Just… you, and Yoongi. And this thing you’ve built together, quiet and warm and undefined.

But when you do see him—when he walks through your door smelling like coffee and sweat and work—you can see it on him. The spark. The momentum. The low, buzzing joy of trying again. Of wanting something bad enough to bleed for it.

He’s tired. But he’s tired for a good reason, now.

And that makes you want to try, too.

So you keep opening your laptop. Not just to scribble down half-formed ideas, but to finish. You sit with the mess of it, the aching in your fingers, the voice in your head that says ‘why bother’—and you write anyway. You dig up old stories, rework scenes that used to make you cringe. You find your voice again, piece by shaky piece.

Sometimes, late at night, you send him snippets. Just to say, look. I’m doing it, too.

And he always responds, eventually. Usually something like:

Yoongi: Fuck yes

Yoongi: Proud of you

Yoongi: Also the studio toilet flooded again. I’m going to kill Joon

You laugh. You keep writing.

It still hurts sometimes. Missing him, wondering what all this means. But now the hurt is paired with movement. With hope.

✧

Eventually, you finish something.

It’s not perfect. Not even close. There are typos and sentences that feel like strangers to themselves, and places where the ending is still a little jagged and wrong. But it’s done.

A full manuscript. Your name at the top. Your words, your voice, your pain and hunger and stupid hope wrapped into a whopping 112 pages.

You think of Yoongi when you submit it with an application to a graduate school program. A program you’ve read and re-read the description for more times than you care to admit. You don't know if it’s good enough. If you’re good enough. But for the first time in a long time, you do it anyway.

And then you don’t tell anyone.

Maybe it’s selfish, but you want the hope for yourself. Just for a little while. You want to keep it quiet and sacred, untainted by expectations or well-meaning encouragement or the crushing weight of what if it doesn’t happen. You just want it to be yours.

You keep seeing Yoongi, of course. When he can. When he’s not tangled up in late-night meetings and studio sessions. You see each other in stolen hours, sleep-heavy kisses, lazy dinners eaten on the floor.

But lately, even those small moments feel bigger.

And then one night, you get a text.

Yoongi: You home?

You are. You say yes.

He shows up ten minutes later, breathless, hoodie damp from trying to dodge light rain, cheeks flushed with joy. Real joy. The kind that lights his whole face from the inside out.

“I had to tell someone,” he says the second you open the door. “I had to tell you.”

You let him in, confused but smiling all the same. You’ve been doing a lot of that lately. “What happened?”

He doesn’t even sit. He paces back and forth, rakes a hand through his hair, practically vibrating.

“We signed someone,” he finally says. “Tentatively, but, this artist from Busan, she’s insane, she’s so weird and good and her voice is like—fuck, I don’t even know how to explain it. But Namjoon loved her. We all did. And she said yes. She said yes, to us.”

You blink, stunned. “You—Yoongi, that’s—holy shit!”

He grins, wide and unguarded, and you’ve never seen him like this before and it just makes you so fucking happy. You’re up on your feet before your brain catches up. 

You hug him tight, breath caught in your throat. Because he’s shaking a little, and he smells so good, and this is what he looks like when he’s proud of himself. When he’s living.

You pull back to look at him, hands on his jaw.

“I’m so proud of you,” you whisper.

And Yoongi’s expression shifts. Softens. Deepens. He takes a breath. 

“I love you,” he says.

Like it’s not sudden. Like it’s been sitting on his tongue for weeks, waiting for the right moment to fall out.

“I just—I do. And I didn’t want to say it while things were still messy, or early, or whatever. But this is what I wanted. That night, at the convenience store. This. You. Someone who gets it. Someone who doesn’t fix me but lets me stay. And I love you.”

Fuck. There it is. 

You don’t speak right away. You reach for him instead. Pull him back in. Rest your forehead against his and let yourself feel it. All of it.

And then, soft and steady, you say it back. 

“I love you too.”

✧

It’s not frantic, not this time. 

Not messy or rushed or born of need. It’s slow, reverent, deep. Yoongi’s hands cradle your face like you’re something fragile, something he’s terrified of breaking now that he knows what you mean to him. His thumbs stroke your cheeks. His breath catches when you tilt your head and kiss him harder but just as slow, open-mouthed and aching.

You walk him backwards toward the bed. He lets you. He goes willingly, grinning against your mouth like he can’t believe this is happening again, that you’re his, and that this time, it’s not just comfort or heat or distraction. It’s love.

He sinks onto the mattress, and you climb over him, straddling his lap, kissing him again and again, hands tangled in his hair, grinding down against the hard line of his cock through his sweats.

But then he pulls back. Barely. His hands settle on your thighs. His eyes are dark and shining and hungry.

“Let me eat you out.”

Your breath catches.

“I—what?”

Yoongi licks his lips. “You don’t get it,” he says, too far gone to filter it. “I’ve been wanting to. Since the night I fingered you against your fucking door, I’ve wanted to get between your thighs and just live there. I love you, and I love your pussy, and I’m gonna make you come so hard you forget every single bad day you’ve ever had.”

You stare at him, slackjawed.

Then you exhale, soft and wrecked, and whisper, “Okay.”

Yoongi repositions you onto your back, gentle, lips back on yours. His hands slide down your body like he’s mapping out every inch. He tugs your shirt off, unhooks your bra, kisses down your neck, your chest, your ribs, like he has all the time in the world.

And then he pulls your shorts down. Your panties too.

He groans when he sees you. Like, actually groans.

“God, baby. Look at you.” He kisses your inner thigh, drags his nose along the crease, eyes flicking up to yours. “So fucking pretty.”

And then he licks into you.

You cry out, sharp and sudden, because it’s so much. He’s warm and wet and greedy, tongue flat against your clit, then pointed and precise, then everywhere, like he can’t choose, like he doesn’t want to.

He moans against your pussy like he’s the one being touched. Like he could cum just watching you feel good, because of him.

“Yoongi—shit—” Your hands fly to his hair, thighs trembling, already shaking, already close.

He wraps his arms under your thighs, holding you open, keeping you grounded, mouth working you over like he’s worshipping you. He sucks on your clit, gentle but firm, and you arch off the bed.

“I’m gonna come,” you warn, voice breaking. “Fuck, Yoongi—”

He groans, messy and eager, never once letting up. And then you do.

You come hard, thighs clamping around his head, hands in his hair, eyes rolled back. It’s hot and overwhelming, your body jolting and twitching, his name a broken whimper on your tongue.

He keeps going until you push him away, overstimulated and trembling.

“Jesus,” you breathe.

He grins, climbs back up your body, presses his mouth to yours without hesitation. You taste yourself on his tongue.

“You love me,” he murmurs, like it’s the best thing he’s ever been told.

You nod, dazed. “I do.”

He kisses you again.

“You’re gonna let me do that every day, right?”

You laugh, breathless. “If you keep doing it like that, yeah. I might not survive, but yeah.”

You let Yoongi kiss you for a while, slow and soft and full of so much love, but eventually, you push at his shoulder. He pulls back instantly, eyes wide and brows furrowed.

“Lie down,” you murmur. “Let me take care of you.”

Yoongi blinks, lips swollen and wet. But he lets you push. “Baby—”

“You’ve been working so fucking hard,” you say, crawling into his lap, straddling his thighs. “Let me ride you. Let me make you feel good. Please.”

Whatever protest he might’ve had dies in his throat the second you reach down and palm him through his sweats. He’s hard—has been since he had your pussy on his tongue—and he groans, low and helpless, as you slide your hand beneath the waistband.

You stroke him slow, loving, watching the tension bleed out of him with every pass of your fist.

“Fuck,” he whispers, eyes fluttering shut, hips twitching into your touch. “Feels good.”

You smile. Kiss his chest as he fumbles for the condom in his wallet.

When you finally sink down onto him, Yoongi lets out a groan. His hands fly to your hips, gripping hard, eyes squeezed shut, jaw clenched so tight you can see the tension in his neck when he leans his head back.

“God—” he gasps. “Fuck, baby, you—”

“I know,” you breathe, grinding your hips in slow, careful circles. “I know. Just relax. Let me do this for you.”

You ride him slow, deep, dragging his cock through your tight, wet heat over and over. Every inch of him feels like it was made for you, thick and perfect and pulsing inside you, your cunt already fluttering from how good he made you feel earlier.

Yoongi can’t keep still. His fingers squeeze your thighs, your hips, then your waist, like he can’t decide where to hold on. Like he’s barely holding on at all.

He opens his eyes to look at you and whines, higher than he probably meant to. Because you’re riding him like you love him. Because your tits are bouncing with every slow roll of your hips, and your face is flushed, and your eyes are locked on his like there’s nowhere else you want to be in the entire fucking world.

It springs him into action.

He sits up, wraps his arms around you, mouths at your tits like he’s starving. He sucks at one nipple, then the other, licking and kissing and biting softly like he can’t stop, like he needs to touch you.

“Yoongi,” you gasp, fingers tangling in his hair.

He moans into your chest. Hands moving down to your ass, guiding you up and down on his cock in that same slow, dirty rhythm, like he wants to make this last forever.

“Can’t even think,” he pants. “You feel so fucking good—too good—fuck, I love you—”

You ride him harder, faster, your hands on his shoulders. Your whole body shakes with how good it feels to be full of him, to see him like this—wrecked, undone, yours.

“I’m so close,” you whisper, hips stuttering. “Yoongi—”

“Come for me,” he begs. “Please, baby, come on my cock, wanna feel it.”

You do.

You fall apart in his arms, gasping his name, pussy clenching around him so tight it nearly rips the orgasm out of him too. You’re shaking, sweating, still grinding through it as he buries his face in your neck, groaning your name, fucking up into you just a little, just enough—

He comes with a low, broken ‘fuck,’ arms locking around your waist, cock pulsing inside the condom. He’s so loud, so needy, and god, you’ve never loved anyone like this.

You collapse against his chest, both of you breathless and slick with sweat, still joined, still trembling.

And Yoongi holds you like he never wants to let go.

✧

You stay like that for a while, pressed to his chest, his arms strong around your back, the rhythm of his heartbeat still racing under your cheek. The room smells like sweat and sex. Yoongi’s hand is stroking slow lines up and down your spine. 

He hasn’t said much since you both came down, but the silence isn’t uncomfortable. Just full.

You’re the one who breaks it.

“I did something,” you admit.

Yoongi hums, not missing a beat in the way his fingers trace over your skin. “Yeah?”

You nod against his chest, then force yourself to sit up, just enough to look at him. His hair’s a mess. His eyes are half-lidded and lazy, but sharp with attention the second he realizes you’re serious.

“I applied to grad school.”

Yoongi blinks.

“For writing?” he asks.

You nod again, heart hammering. “Yeah. An MFA. I submitted a portfolio. Finished something for the first time in forever. I would’ve told you sooner, I just—” You shrug. “I didn’t want to jinx it.”

His mouth opens. Then closes. Then opens again, like he’s still processing.

And then he grins. Slow. Genuine. Gums showing and eyes shining.

“Holy shit,” he breathes, sitting up and grabbing your face in both hands.

Your eyes sting. “I don’t even know if I’ll get in. It’s probably stupid—”

“It’s not,” he cuts in, firm and quiet. “It’s not stupid. It’s huge.”

You try to look away, but he keeps your face in his hands, thumbs brushing your cheeks, grounding you.

“I’m so fucking proud of you,” he says. “Seriously. I’ve watched you try so hard to find something again, and you did it. Whether or not you get in doesn’t matter. You tried. That’s fucking everything.”

You bite your lip, blinking fast. Yoongi kisses your forehead, then your nose, then your mouth.

“Thanks for telling me,” he murmurs. “I’ll keep it safe.”

And you know he will.

For the first time in a long time, the future doesn’t feel so terrifying.

✧

The email comes on a Wednesday.

You’re not expecting it. You’ve nearly forgotten the timeline, pushed it into the back of your mind like a daydream you didn’t want to get too close to. You’ve been telling yourself not to hope too much. Not to want it, even though you do. Badly.

It hits your inbox around 11:42 a.m., and you stare at the subject line for a full minute before you open it. And then—

You’re in.

You read it twice, then two more times. It still doesn’t feel real. You read the phrase We’re pleased to inform you like it’s in another language. Like it’s not something anyone was ever supposed to say to you.

Then you laugh. A startled, breathless sound that turns into something half-sobbing.

You call Yoongi.

He doesn’t pick up on the first try—he’s a busy man these days—but he calls back two minutes later.

“Hey, baby. What’s—?”

“I got in.”

There’s a long pause.

And then, softly, “what?”

You swallow hard. You’re pacing your kitchen now, barefoot and trembling. “I got in. Grad school.”

“Holy fuck.”

You laugh again, breathless. “I know.”

“Holy fuck.”

“I know! Yoongi—”

“You got in,” he says. “You fucking got in.”

He sounds like he’s smiling. Like he’s trying not to cry. You’re trying, too.

“I’m so proud of you,” he says. “So fucking proud of you. I’m gonna lose my mind.”

Your throat tightens. “I don’t know what to do now.”

“Come to the studio,” he says instantly. “No one’s here today except me. I’ll order food. I’ll roll a joint. I’ll kiss you a lot. Do some very dirty, celebratory things to you on the desk, if you want.”

You’re already grabbing your keys. “Okay. Yeah.”

“Meet me out back.”

When you get to the studio, he’s outside. Leaning against the back of the building, waiting. The joint is already rolled, tucked neatly behind his ear, and he’s got that look on his face—that slow, lazy grin.

“You,” he says, pushing off the wall the second he sees you. “Fucking you.”

You don’t say anything. Just drop your bag on the cracked concrete and launch yourself into his arms.

He catches you easily, wraps you up in him—hoodie and warmth and the faint smell of cigarettes and detergent and Yoongi. His arms curl tight around your waist, and he lifts you slightly off the ground as you bury your face in his neck.

“You got in,” he murmurs again. “You really—baby, you did it.”

You nod against him, laughing and sniffling all at once. “I did.”

He sets you down but doesn’t let go. Just pulls back enough to kiss you. Once. Twice. Then a third time, slower. Deeper. Like he’s trying to memorize this version of you—buzzing and breathless and so fucking proud of yourself.

When he finally pulls away, he grins and taps the joint behind his ear.

“Celebration?”

You nod. “God, yes.”

He lights it. Takes a drag, passes it to you, and you both sit on the loading dock out back, knees bumping, fingers laced, smoke around your heads. The sun’s low in the sky. It’s chilly, but you don’t feel cold. Not with his hand in yours.

And everything’s… okay. Not fixed. Not perfect. But better.

Because loving Yoongi didn’t save you, and you didn’t save him. You still have bad days. Panic attacks. Guilt. Long, unbearable silences you have to claw your way out of. He does, too. Life is still life.

But he holds your hand through it.

And when things are good—like now, like this—you feel it in your bones: you love him. You fucking love him.

You lean into his side, head on his shoulder, and you think:

I can do this. I can live this life. 

Especially if he’s in it.

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[sleepychenle]

wc: 643. genre: fluff, crack. tags: platonic!!!!!!, chenle is 15 yo and has a cute little crush. ft hyuck. [a/n]: this is clearly not the freaky fic i said i was going to post‼️ this has been sitting in my drafts since before i even thought about making a writing blog. idk, i thought it was cute. masterlist

this was the first day of your trip to the beach.

you finally found a good position to start reading: chest flat against the blanket you put over the warm sand, arms propping you up and next to you, a little tent covering your belongings from the sun.

everything was peaceful until you feel a ball hit your back. you turn around to see a boy smiling sheepishly. his smile drops as he notices you look older than him, and almost stuttering he says: “i am so sorry”

you suppress a chuckle, trying to appear intimidating. he looks like he’s barely 15 years old. how cute. you sit up while the ball bounces away. “were you playing basketball?” you say a little confused. “well, yeah” he says ponting to his curry jersey with a proud grin. “where do you score though?” “you don’t want to know, really…” he looks away from your narrowed eyes as he scratches the back of his head, hoping he wouldn’t have to explain.

another boy approaches you two, with the ball in his hands. “hey, you almost did it this time!” he says excitedly. “shut up, haechan” the first boy replies clenching his teeth and sending him glares. “what are you talking about, haechan?” you say smiling.

he now looked scared, but he knew he couldn’t lie. “we were trying to score… on your tent” he says lowly, praying for you not to hear him. “oh thank you, haechan, for telling me” you don’t stop smiling… as if you were going to kill him, he would say. but he couldn’t care less… every time he heard your name go through your lips, he shivered.

meanwhile chenle just stood there, wanting for you to call his name too. “my- my name is chenle… by the way” he speaks up. you look at him for the first time in a while. “oh, we are saying our names now…” you say amused. “i’m yn. i hope you find another place to score from now on… chenle” and just like that, his eyes opened widely.

he wasn’t expecting you to actually say his name. he didn’t know how to explain what he was feeling, but he sure knew he wanted to experience it a thousand times more.

for the rest of the summer, he purposely suggested to play basketball near your usual spot. he didn’t want to throw the ball directly at you like the first time, but he definitely wanted it to fall near you.

and when that happened, he shouted “i’ll go get it!”. he never really bothered to see if anyone else was going to catch it, no one ever wants to.

whenever it was time to get it, his eyes would go straight to you, gaze lingering for a moment before running back to his friends.

it didn’t take long for the other boys to realize it wasn’t the ball chenle wanted to catch every time it bounced away—it was your attention.

🏷️: @lyvhie

[snail-day]

hi hi hi snail!!!!

i have a big question for you sorry if you've already answer it!!

how do you think, out of yandere man, who would infantilise the reader the most and in which ways?

idk i just had a really weird random thought that some of them could be really dramatic during your period, insisting that you need special care like massages/stretches and etc with which they will of course help cause they believe you are too silly to know such things and cant be trusted to do them properly on your own (we all know where it ends tbh...)

thank you in advance with each of your post i fall in love more and more with your blog (and platonically with you (with your consent))🌹

❄️

mwah mwah mwah

Love you ❄️ anon!!! Apologies if this is bad. 😔 im a bit blind right now but this invaded my thoughts more than I'd like to admit.

TW: Infantilization, slight smut, period care (in his way), Humiliation, Yandere behaviors.

This is so Nanami coded but!! He doesn’t infantilize you by calling you baby names or dressing you in frills (though he does sometimes pat your head a little too often, acting like you’re a particularly slow student who finally got the answer right). He does it by removing your choices (isnt that so sweet?), and making it feel like he’s doing you a favor.

It starts with your period, sure. You're tired. He gets it. So let him handle dinner tonight. Let him draw the bath, pick your clothes, rub the cramps out of your belly with slow, circular movements while chastising you about how you always try to push yourself too hard.

Nanami doesn’t trust really most menstrual products. He’s read too many clinical papers, knows exactly how common TSS is and how poorly most products are regulated. He doesn't like the idea of anything being inserted unless it's medically necessary, or unless he’s the one putting it there. (You always get so squeamish when he tries to put the tampons in)

Tampons? Too invasive for yourself to do and you won't let him do it. Claiming its gross. So what if he's licking his fingers afterwards. Its you. Menstrual cups? Never, too foreign. Pads? Uncomfortable, messy. Sometimes they're bleached. What if you get a UTI? No. It’s all too much risk.

So, he handles it.

He doesn’t forbid you from using them. Not exactly.

He just starts leaving alternatives on your side of the bed. Softer, organic pads folded neatly in a linen pouch. Washable, reusable, gentler for your skin. No dyes. No fragrances. “Better for your pH,” he murmurs softly. “Less risk.”

He always says it so calmly. So kindly. And it’s hard to argue when he’s already drawing your bath, one hand stirring the water to check the heat while the other rests briefly on your waist, keeping his silly girl beside him. You don’t even notice how often you stop making your own decisions.

He insists on helping with cleanup. Always has. Not in a humiliating way, at least not in his eyes. Gentle touches. No fanfare. Just his hands and his voice and the faint scent of sandalwood as he kneels between your legs, work sleeves rolled up.

“Looks like you bled yourself again,” he says softly, more observation than complaint. “No, baby, they don’t make heavier ones (they do). Just let me take care of you, okay?”

His breath brushes against your damp ruined panties, and your thighs tense without meaning to. You can almost see the need in his eyes at the bloody mess you made.

“Sit back,” he murmurs. “I’ve got it. You just look pretty for me.”

His thumbs hook the sides of your panties, sliding them down with ease, his fingers grazing your skin with just enough pressure to make your breath hitch. He steadies you with palms braced gently on your hips, firm enough to say stay still. His eyes flick up to your face, reading every microexpression as his hands return to the mess between your thighs.

But it’s never just that. You know that now.

Because the moment your breathing changes, the second your thighs twitch or your voice falters, he notices. Doesn’t stop.

“Sensitive today, aren’t we?” he hums, wiping you clean with slow, gentle movements. Not cruel. Not teasing. Just... aware. Like he’s logging each reaction, committing it to memory. His fingers linger, just slightly. Press a little firmer. Trace lower until you're bucking into his palm.

“You’d rush this,” he says gently, brushing along your skin with the cool damp towel. "It's why I need to take care of you"

He shifts to sit more comfortably, one hand stroking along your inner thigh while the other continues cleaning you, soft cloth passing over your folds, too tender to be neutral. Then he sets it aside.

“Are your cramps bad?” he asks, thumb beginning to draw slow, soothing circles over your clit. The tone is so sincere it makes your stomach twist. Like he really wants to know. Like he’s trying to ease them for you, and not get you wet.

But the pressure deepens. His thumb shifts lower, brushing against your slick entrance. His breathing stays calm, even as yours slips into something needy and short. When your hips buck, reflex, nothing more, he catches them with one large hand and holds you still.

“Oh?” he murmurs, low and thoughtful. “Is this helping... or am I making it worse?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer. He’s already kissing your belly, then your hipbone. His mouth brushes the plush curve of your inner thigh, reverent and hungry all at once. His other hand strokes your skin, thumb ghosting over the softest part of you like he’s trying to memorize the way it twitches.

“You’re not in the right state of mind to take care of this properly,” he says at last. And his voice is so calm, even now. Even with his face buried so close, his breath making you burn.

“Not when you’re like this,” he adds, lips brushing your skin.

Slow, precise strokes of his fingers dipping inside, testing what makes you gasp, what makes your walls flutter, how you pulse around nothing. He’ll edge you with just enough skill to make your belly tense up, to dull the pain into something soft, flushed, wet. Then he’ll ease off.

“This is what you need,” he says, curling his fingers inside you as you pant out needy whines, hips twitching. “Not pills. Not pads. Not anything foreign inside you.”

And then he pushes in deeper. One finger. Two fingers. Three if he feels like you're ready.

Slow, deep. Curling gently inside. Then maybe more. His mouth. His cock. Something thicker. He’s already cleaned you. You’re already in his care. What difference does it make now?

“You poor thing,” he whispers. “You never know what’s good for you until I show you, do you?”

But then it never stops there.

He orders your groceries. He tracks your supplements. He installs a cycle app on your phone but shares it to his own device too.

And if you argue?

Nanami never raises his voice. He doesn’t fight. He just tilts his head and asks, “Why would you want to take unnecessary risks?” Or worse, he’ll go quiet, disappointed. A quiet so heavy it makes your chest ache. Makes you feel guilty. So how could you not give in?

Because you know he’s not doing this to be cruel. You know he’s doing this because he loves you. Because he doesn’t trust you to care for yourself, not because you’re weak, but because you don’t value yourself as much as he does.

He’ll pick you up early from work without warning. You say, “You didn’t have to,” and he kisses your cheek and answers, “But I did.”

He’ll reorganize your closet to make sure only comfortable things remain. “You looked so uncomfortable in that skirt. I got rid of it.”

He going to control your world without ever admitting it’s control. It’s just what you need right now. Just until you’re better. Just until you can be trusted not to neglect your own well-being. At least thats what he keeps telling you.

[twoa-plus]

every once in a while i have a brief little flash of an scp phase & i wanna scream a little abt 049 bc maybe . perhaps there is someone out there who gets what im sayin

049 is and always has been my fav bc he’s a weird little freak and i love weird little freaks. but i feel like i’m kind of alone in how i view his weird little freakiness. a lot of content with this character revolves around him being Cool and Dark and Mysterious - which to some extent he is !! his design and voice and the fact nobody knows wtf his problem is are all very neat & interesting . however. i feel like a lot of people either disregard his actual personality in favor of aesthetics, or overcompensate & exaggerate his personality to a degree where it’s no longer true to the character

i feel like the former is more common & is most of his depictions atp - people see a Spooky Doctor character who wears all black and has a voice like his and go “ah yes he must be this super mysterious apathetic quiet cool guy” when he’s ,,, not? like the mysterious part i get but he isn’t like that on purpose, & everything else just . isn’t true? like, i wouldn’t say he’s an extrovert by any means but he does clearly take at least some enjoyment from talking to people every once in a while & is a very animated speaker*, & he’s pretty easy to read emotionally - he might not be a super touchy-feely type, but you can tell when he’s feeling a certain way abt something

*i can’t bring this up without this i love this bit it is everything to me

like idk i’ll admit 049 is a difficult character for me to really put into words but hopefully this makes sense so far? like he doesn’t really fit into the archetype he’s constantly getting shoved into - there’s a lot of contrast between his external presentation & the actual content of who he is as a person, and it’s smth i really like abt him & also think is a really neglected part of his character. a lot of people write him not as a Person but as like a generic slasher villain & i think that is very unfortunate

anyways, i also mentioned people overcompensating on this, & what i mean by that is like. people making him Overly silly. y’know focusing way too much on “i am the cure” jokes & making him out to just be some funny crazy guy etc etc u know what im talking abt . i’m sure i don’t really need to explain much why i’m not particularly fond of this it just sucks a lot of the fun out of him, i think it’s way more interesting to go down the path of “he genuinely knows something the foundation doesn’t.” also i think a lot of these depictions of his character can end up falling into the category of horror that’s just “haha look at this mentally ill guy isn’t that scary” which is obv bad for its own reasons & is just. boring tbh. again this is difficult to put into words but hopefully u get it !! he’s way more compelling as a character (& a horror monster !!) if u take him seriously & don’t just disregard him as crazy

idk i just feel like with 049 people either don’t take him seriously at all (boring) or they think he needs a completely different personality to be a serious character (also boring). Who He Is As A Person is probably my favorite part of his character (it makes him fun to dissect & play around with !!!) & is also something that’s consistently tossed aside in favor of either spookiness, silliness, or sex appeal, & there are very very few depictions of this character that i actually like because of this. am i alone on this

[nebrasska-alasska]

this may sound really weird. because it’s not related to anything from your fics, per say, but more real life related. HOW do you get into a good dental school. or just like. how do you get on their radar. next chapter in my life is coming up and i want answers from something that isn’t google ai or a random article 💔

genuinely any advice will be very much appreciated and taken into consideration- my entire family is business and law and i’m the only one so far looking into this feild

Oh man, there is so much to say! And I am the only dental/healthcare person in my family so I totally get it. Warning in advance to anyone else reading: this is not at all Sonadow-related (sowwy :3 ) and is very very long (sowwy pt. 2 :P )

But okay! I think the first order of business is determining what a "good" dental school is. Assuming you are in the States, there is no official ranking list for the 60ish dental schools there are. You might find the average GPA of the matriculating classes and rank them that way, but that isn't accurate because it is skewed towards the state schools. If you have a super high GPA and have multiple options to choose from, people tend to attend the cheapest school they get into, which is almost always the one offering in-state tuition. Not necessarily saying that private is better, but ignore the average class GPAs when you compare schools because it truly doesn't mean anything.

No, the best way to determine what a "good" program is (and tbh, all programs are good if you get your degree), is to find out what they will offer you in terms of clinical experience. And the best way to do this is to look and see if the dental school offers specialty residencies. This is super important because if you go to a school that has any of the nine specialty programs (such as endodontics, oral surgery, orthodontics, prosthodontics, etc.), they will get priority on cases. All the hard stuff will go straight to them, and you will not get as much experience as a result. My school had no specialty programs, so us dental students got to do everything of every level of complexity since we didn't have to share with residents. So basically, look on the website to see if the schools you are applying to have post-grad residents or not. You will get more experience at schools without those tryhard yahoos.

Assuming you are in undergrad, there are four major things that dental schools look at on your application. Ranked in importance, it's GPA, DAT score, Extracurriculars/Volunteering, Shadowing Experience at dental offices. I could sit here and spit numbers at you about GPA, but honestly I don't know what's considered "competitive," because I was NOT competitive in this category. My GPA kinda sucked. 3.55 overall and 3.17 science. Booooo booooo stoopie booooooo. (I compensated for this by being super involved in extracurriculars and being the president of multiple clubs, one of them being for a service frat that allowed for me to get a bunch of volunteer hours.) In addition, I had a decently competitive DAT score which helped. A lot of schools have a minimum DAT score cutoff of 17 for any of the categories, but obviously aim higher (max is 28-30 depending on the scaling of each individual test). Imo being at or above 20 is very solid and will put you on any school's "radar," so to speak. I had an academic average score of 21, and here was my breakdown (just so you can see the stats of someone who got accepted):

Gen Bio: 19

Gen Chem: 17

Orgo Chem: 18

Math: 22

Perceptual Ability: 25

Reading Comprehension: 28

As you can see, I hated chemistry. Anyways. That's not the point.

BECAUSE THE MOST IMPORTANT THING (AND THIS IS IN ALL CAPS BECAUASE IT'S THAT BIG OF A DEAL) IS SUBMIT YOUR APPLICATION ON TIME. I don't remember the timeline, but I think it opens in May for you to start filling out, and then you can maybe submit it on the first of June or something like that, idk I would look it up. Basically, you can't fully submit it without your DAT, so make sure you take it early summer or during the spring semester before you intend to apply! I took my DAT in late august, realized that with my score I didn't have to take a gap year, and then ended up submitting my application end of September/early October.

DON'T DO THAT!!! DO NOT. DO. THAT!!!

Many of the schools I had applied to were already done with their interview cycle by that point!!! It's a miracle that I got two interviews!!! Everyone I told my application story to was shocked I got in!!! Submit your stuff on time to give yourself the rest of the summer to take care of the secondary application stuff they send you, so that you can start receiving interview invites in the fall. And trust me, they will roll in, as long as you submit it early!!!

Another random thing, but don't waste your time applying to state schools unless you're either from that state, or from a weird state with no dental school like North Dakota where you know they have some special consideration for you. I'm pretty sure most state schools prefer state residents who intend to stay in that state, so it'll be a waste of your time and money to apply to a state school where you don't live. I'm from California and our two state schools are stupid competitive, so I think I only applied to private schools. So just keep that in mind!

Lastly, unless you've already declared your major, embrace the things you enjoy. Make sure you get your prerequisite coursework done (and you can see what these courses are on the websites for the dental schools you're considering applying to, they're all slightly different), but also study stuff you actually like! I was a Biology and English double major, and I really think those two things helped me "stand out." It was certainly a unique combination!

This was a huge dump of info, but if you want more info you can DM me, such as what school I went to and what requirements we had to do. It was a lot, and my program is known for producing good clinicians (research on the other hand, we're pretty lacking in tho lol), but yeah I really can't recommend my school enough! I feel really prepared.

(Also sorry if telling you my stats was kinda weird. I just feel like I am a really good example of someone who got in for something other than just numbers, and that if even my goofy ass could get in, you can too! Use my mediocrity as inspo LMAO)

Okay dental dump complete, peace out HAHA

[n0t-evenhere]

Hayyy buddy it's ✂

So I was running errands and I was wondering how would Ray act to running really long errands?

So I'm talking like going to go get grocerys, cat and dog food clothes stuff like that and Ray treats MC to buying stuff and MC pleases Ray with sex and I'm talking most roughest sex going for hours without air conditioning stuff like that

Bye bye ✂

I 100% think he’d love it! My biggest headcanons, (idk if someone knows or asked) but his biggest love language is Quality time! Any chance he can take to see you and hang with you is a yes. Long grocery shopping here you walk down every isle? Yes please! Browsing, all of it. Ray pampering you with gift, yea, he’ll do that. You find a really nice blouse, heck yea.

MC: *trying on a blouse* “what do you think Ray?”

“Mmm, I like that one.”

MC: “you’ve said that about the last three. Do you actually like them or…no?”

*smiles softly.* “Sweetie, everything looks good on you that you’ve picked out so far looks good on you. You have a good sense of what looks good on you.”

MC: *smiles* “when you put it that way, makes sense. I just want to buy one though I think. My paycheck had a bit extra.”

“Really? Star, you have to be joking. I’ll buy them for you.”

MC: “what? No, no, no, you don’t have to do that for me”

“I know, it’s not out of obligation. I just want to.”

The intimacy isn’t required but he’ll happily take it.

[lunatic-fandom-space]

Ive been rewatching vrains and ive only gotten up to episode 87 so idk for sure, but I remember the stuff with lightning and jin the same way and yeah, its such a shame that its like that. Alternatively to what you said, if you wanted to go down a route where lightning was initially well-intentioned in his own fucked up way, maybe when he caused jins breakdown he was doing it with the logic of "being here and being aware of his situation is causing him to suffer so I'll do whatever I can to shut his awareness down and thatll be better" or something like that. Maybe the implication is that before the Ignis developed their personalities they were these purely logic-driven beings, and that could show the issues with 'pure logic' and how acting without consideration for emotions can cause major problems

100% agree with all the free will stuff, I feel like even though they say that free will is the thing that makes the Ignis truly living beings, free will as a theme is not really explored with the kind of depth that it should be. I also feel like theres not enough of a distinction made between the Ignis and the other super advanced AIs that exist in this world. Like, Roboppi is obviously not the same as the ignis but the way I see it, thats mostly because they werent made in the same way (like bohman and haru arent really ignis either) but in terms of cognitive ability, theyre functionally on par with humans just like Ignis are, theyre just less experienced, kind of like a child. Or I guess a better way to put that would be, I feel like theres not enough attention drawn to the fact that ignis and other AIs which are supposedly less advanced are so fundamentally similar

On a similar note, this is something that Ive been thinking about a lot recently, I feel like theres not enough attention drawn to the similarities between humans and ignis beyond the free will and maybe their capacity to form connections and feel things. Its like, the thing that makes humans different from other animals is our ability to not be 'controlled' by our feelings and bodily instincts the way that animals often are; we just work a bit different psychologically and that puts us on a level above animals (which is a very human-centric way to think about it obviously but you know what i mean). The Ignis were meant to be next level and they basically position themselves as such because they dont have physical needs – which kinda makes sense because like, if the thing that puts humans above animals is our ability to ignore our physical needs and excercise 'true free will', then Ignis should be even better because they dont have physical needs to ignore in the first place, but theyre not. And thats because otherwise theyre psychologically literally the exact same as humans and you can see that very clearly when you look at the virtual worlds they build to be their homes. Like, why do they build buildings to act as their homes when theyre in these virtual worlds which they made an have full control over? They dont have bodily needs so they dont need a bed, a bathroom and whatever else you have in a house, and they dont need the protection that a house would offer them because again, these are their own worlds that they have full control over, theres nothing in them that could be a true danger to them; the need that these homes fulfill is a purely psychological and irrational one - one that they inherited from humans. Thats so interesting to me and it kills me that they never really do anything with that!

Also yeah, its wild that we never really get any pre-lost incident backstory stuff for Yuusaku, especially considering that bit during his duel with Spectre where he was like "If the lost-incident traumatized you then you probably had a good life before being kidnapped" and its like, idk, did he have a good life? I guess we'll never know

yuusaku has so many reasons to be so mad at dr kogami but one that i feel is underrated is that he ended up making it his life mission to destroy the ignis after all that. like, imagine you got kidnapped as a child to this facility where you got tortured with electricution and starved alongside six other kids all so that this fucking guy can create a sentient ai to evolve humanity and he succeeds in doing that, but then he watches some simulations that foretell the ai bringing doom upon humanity and he completely changes his mind about it just like that. I would be so mad!! like DUDE. you tortured me for half a year straight when i was SIX to make your stupid ai bitches and then you just go "oops, teehee nevermind, this was a bad idea" because of some ai-generated prophecies??? i would strangle him