#its national mean girls day!!

[pepprs]

i literally need there to stop being situations circumstances events developments complications and happenstances. for the fucking love of god

[beemovieerotica]

No wonder “gender identity,” understood by well-meaning LGBTQ+ advocates as an abstract feeling, has done such a poor job of justifying sex change. If biological sex is part of a material structure of value, then society has a concrete interest in any potential gains or losses that may result, feelings be damned.

Gill-Peterson tells the story of Robert Stonestreet, a 10-year-old boy who was brought to the Johns Hopkins Hospital for a rare urethral defect in 1915. When the doctors informed his father that the boy had ovaries and should be reassigned as a girl, the man refused, explaining that he already had six girls at home and his son was a great help around the family farm. Of course, Stonestreet was prepubescent. Whatever biological advantage he had over his sisters was the natural spoils of working daily on a farm. The point is that his father’s social validation of his gender was the basically incidental result of an economic calculation about his sex. Twenty-one years later, Stonestreet asked the same doctors to certify him as male so he could wed his fiancée. They refused — one suspects because a marriage with no reproductive potential struck them as dead in the water, especially with the national birth rate at an all-time low. Three days later, Stonestreet committed suicide — the victim of a society that could not make up its mind on how best to make sense of his gender while also extracting value from his sex.

This is the larger historical reason why the anti-trans movement does not want transgender people to receive sex-altering care. It is not clear how, if at all, such people will fit into the division of sex in America.

-Andrea Long Chu

[zyoarchive]

like a tangerine - myg

↠ 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 | yoongi x reader

↠ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 18.5k

↠ 𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞 | roommate au, e2l if you squint, pwp

↠ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | explicit language and sexual content. mentions of alcohol (beer). dry humping, oral sex (m + f receiving), gagging, cum swallowing, throat fuck, fingering, spanking, dirty talk, hair-pulling, unprotected sex, (y/n has an iud, wrap it before u tap it!), rough sex, riding, doggy style, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, creampie. yoongi has blonde hair and a filthy mouth.

↠ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | y/n’s a law student drowning in debt. yoongi's a brooding music major needing a place to crash. forced together in a freezing seoul apartment, will they be able make moving in together work?

--

You’re elbow-deep in the faded cushions of your thrift-store couch, fingers clawing at the seams for any hint of spare change. Dust puffs into the air, catching the dim light of the single bulb flickering overhead, but there’s nothing—no coins, no crumpled bills, not even a stray candy wrapper. Just lint and disappointment. You groan, slumping back onto the floor, the chill of cracked linoleum seeping through your threadbare sweatpants. Your breath fogs in front of you, a cruel reminder that the heater’s been dead for days and your electricity bill is overdue. It’s the brink of winter in Seoul, and the cold is a living thing—sharp, biting, sinking into your bones like a punishment. Outside, the wind howls through the narrow streets around Seoul national University, rattling your single-pane windows, while frost creeps up the glass like spiderwebs. Inside, it’s barely better; you’re wrapped in a hoodie and two pairs of socks, but your fingers are still numb, your nose stinging with every inhale.  

This isn’t how you pictured your senior year. You’re a law major with a 4.0 GPA—top of your class, president of the mock trial team, the girl who aced her constitutional law midterm while half the room floundered. You’ve got a stack of recommendation letters from professors who call you “driven” and “exceptional,” and last spring, you won a university debate competition so decisively the opposing team just stared at you, slack-jawed. But none of that pays the rent. You’re drowning in bills, scraping by on 7,000 won an hour from your cheapskate manager at the convenience store on the south end of campus. The job’s a soul suck: sticky floors, rude drunk students, and the constant beep of the scanner as you ring up instant ramen and soju bottles. You hate it—the stale air, the flickering fluorescent lights, the way your manager hovers over you like you’re about to pocket a candy bar. Between 8-hour shifts and 8 A.M. lectures, you’re a ghost of yourself, barely sleeping, barely eating, barely living. 

You grew up in Busan, the youngest of three, with parents who scraped by running a small seafood stall at Jagalchi Market. They taught you grit—how to haggle, how to smile through exhaustion—but they couldn’t prepare you for this. You moved to Seoul four years ago, starry-eyed and determined to be the first in your family to graduate college, to become a lawyer who’d fight for people like them. Your apartment’s small—two cramped bedrooms, a tiny kitchenette, and a living room just big enough for that small couch—but it was supposed to be your haven. One room’s yours, cluttered with books and laundry, the other a guest room you’ve never had a guest for, its bare mattress gathering dust. You thought living alone would mean focus, independence. Now, you’re not so sure. The weight of it all—school, work, this freezing place—presses down until you can’t breathe. You’ve always been the stubborn one, the kid who’d rather starve than admit defeat, but tonight, with rent due in three days and your bank account at a pathetic, single-digit balance, defeat feels inevitable.  

You sit there, face in your hands, fighting the sting of tears. This wasn’t the college life you dreamed of. Back in high school, you imagined coasting through SNU—late nights at karaoke bars, laughing with a big group of friends, maybe even a cute boyfriend to steal hoodies from. You saw yourself at rooftop parties, sipping cheap bear under string lights, free and invincible. Instead, you’re broke, shivering, and clinging to one solitary lifeline: Namjoon. Your best friend, your rock, the only person who’s stuck by you through this mess. Everyone else faded away—too busy, too far, too caught up in their own lives. But Namjoon? He’s your constant. 

You glance at your phone—11:47 P.M. He’s due any minute to study for your upcoming criminal procedure exam, a brutal 50-question beast that’ll test every ounce of your caffeine-fueled willpower. With a sigh, you haul yourself up, brushing dust off your knees. The apartment’s tight—barely 25 square meters. You shuffle around, tidying what you can: stacking textbooks on the wobbly coffee table that accompanies your depressed, sagging couch, kicking a stray sock towards the hall leading to your bedroom, wiping crumbs off the counter from the half-eaten rice cake you rationed for dinner. The sink’s full of dishes, but you ignore it—too tired, too cold. You’re shoving a pile of case notes into a neater stack when a knock echoes through the room.  

You shuffle to the door, tugging it open against the warped frame. It’s Namjoon. He’s there, towering over you in his puffy jacket, a knit beanie squashing his dark hair, a backpack slung over one shoulder. His dimples flash as he grins, but his eyes narrow when he sees you—pale, hunched, a human popsicle. “Hey,” he says, stepping inside, voice warm as always. “You look like death.” 

“Feel like it too,” you mutter, shutting the door. You’ve known Namjoon since freshman year, when you met in Intro to Legal Studies. You’d been late, sprinting into the lecture hall with a half-drunken coffee and an open backpack, only to trip over his stupidly long legs stretched across the aisle. He’d caught your arm, steadying you, and deadpanned, “You’re a lawsuit waiting to happen.” You’d snapped back, “Sue me then,” and somehow, that was it—friendship sealed. He was a Busan kid too, raised on the coast, all easy smiles and quiet smarts. You bonded over late-night study sessions at the library, swapping stories about salty air and nosy aunties, laughing over burnt ramen when you couldn’t afford takeout. Four years later, he’s still your anchor, the one who drags you out of your spirals.  

He drops his bag on the couch, glancing around. “You okay? You’re... off.” His brows knit, concern creeping in. 

“It’s nothing,” you lie, waving him off. He doesn’t push—Namjoon never does, just watches you with that steady gaze that sees too much. You both settle on the couch, pulling out textbooks and highlighters. The criminal procedure exam is in two days, a gauntlet of search-and-seizure laws, Miranda rights, and case precedents like Terry v. Ohio. You flip to a page on warrantless arrests, reading aloud: “Exigent circumstances allow entry if—” You stop, brain fritzing. Namjoon picks up, voice smooth, explaining probable cause like it’s poetry. You scribble notes, trying to focus, but the cold’s gnawing at you, your fingers stiff around the pen. 

He shivers mid-sentence, rubbing his arms. “Why’s it so damn cold in here?” he asks, breath puffing out in a faint cloud.  

That's when it hits—you crack. The words spill out before you can stop them, voice breaking: “Because I can’t pay the electric bill, Joon. The heater’s busted, my manager’s a stingy ass who won’t give me more hours, and I’m so tired—of school, of work, of counting every damn coin I see just trying to make ends meet.” Tears burn your eyes, hot against the chill. “I’m failing at everything.” 

Namjoon’s face falls, guilt flashing across it. “Shit, Y/N, I didn’t know it was this bad.” He pulls you into a hug, arms tight around your shaking shoulders. You sink into him, his jacket smelling faintly of coffee and pine. “I should’ve noticed,” he mutters, kicking himself. Then softer: “What if you got a roommate? Split the costs?” 

You pull back, sniffling. “I wouldn’t even know where to find one. And honestly? I’m this close to dropping out, moving back with my parents. Just... starting over.”  

He blinks, alarmed. Your parents are saints—kind, warm, always ready with a bow of kimchi jjigae and a spare bed in their Busan flat above the stall. Your mom’s a hugger, your dad’s a storyteller, and you miss them fiercely—their laughter, the sea breeze, and the simplicity. They’d take you back in a heartbeat, no questions, and part of you aches for that safety net. 

“No,” Namjoon says, grabbing your hands in a desperate plea. “You can’t leave. Not now, not senior year. I need you here—we’re supposed to graduate together, pass the bar together. I can’t do this without you.” 

You shake your head, voice small. “There’s no one, Joon. I’m out of options.” 

He pauses, then his face lights up like he’s cracked the code. “Wait... Yoongi. My friend Yoongi. He’s been crashing on my couch for the past two weeks since his lease fell apart. He needs a place, you need a roommate. It’s perfect.” 

You frown picturing Yoongi. You've seen him at Namjoon’s place a few times—quiet, almost cat-like with sharp eyes and an even sharper tongue. He’s not unfriendly just... distant. You remember him from your junior year too, a psychology elective you both took. He’s slouch in the back, headphones on, scribbling beats in a notebook while you sat up front, acing every quiz. Your eyes met sometimes—brief, awkward, charges—but you never spoke. He’s a music major, that much you knew, always lugging around a laptop or a keyboard case, and Namjoon swears he’s a genius. Still, he’s a stranger, mostly. 

“I don’t know,” you say, hesitant. “I’ve barely talked to him. He’s... weird. Quiet. And my parents—” 

“Please,” Namjoon cuts in, clasping his hands like he’s praying. “Just meet him first. Come over tomorrow—we'll eat, hang out, see if it clicks. If it doesn’t, I won’t push. But don’t give up yet.” 

You chew your lip, the idea sinking in. A roommate could save you—rent split, bills manageable, maybe even heat again. That guest room could finally see some use. But Yoongi? Your parents’ open arms tug at you, tempting. Namjoon’s pleading eyes tip the scale. “Fine,” you mutter, reluctant. “I’ll meet him.” 

He beams, dimples deep. “You won’t regret it. Yoongi’s chill, I promise.” You nod, half convinced, as the cold creeps back in, a shiver reminding you how badly you need this to work. 

--

You stand in your tiny bathroom, the air thick with damp chill, staring at the showerhead like it’s a loaded gun. The water’s been ice-cold for weeks—your landlord’s a miser who won’t fix the boiler, and you’re too broke to hire someone yourself. You twist the knob, bracing for impact, and the spray hits like a thousand frozen pins, ripping a gasp from your throat. Your teeth chatter as you lather up with a sliver of soap, the last bar you’ve been rationing for a month. The shampoo’s cheap, a floral scent, and you scrub it into your scalp fast, fingers trembling as the frigid stream pelts your back. You’re in and out in four minutes, a personal record, wrapping yourself in a towel so worn it’s more holes than fabric—a hand-me-down from your sister, like most of your life. Your skin prickles with goosebumps as you dart to your bedroom, the smaller of the two in your cramped apartment. The guest room sits placidly across from yours, a barren box with a bare mattress, a single flickering bulb, and a window that rattles in its frame—useless, empty, a silent taunt of your isolation. 

Your closet’s a mess of thrift finds and sibling castoffs. You dig out a black turtleneck, the wool pilling at the elbows but soft enough, and dark jeans with a frayed hem that still hug your legs right. Your sneakers are scuffed, soles thin as paper, but they’ll do. The crown jewel is your sister’s puffer jacket—navy blue, patched with thread at the elbows, a size too big but thick enough to face Seoul’s brutal winter. You tug on two pairs of socks—one with a hole at the toe, the other mismatched—and lace up, the cold floor biting through anyway. Back in the bathroom, you swipe on makeup with shaky hands: tinted lip balm over cracked lips from the wind, a flick of mascara to coax life into your tired eyes, a dab of concealer under them to hide the shadows of sleepless nights. Your hair’s wet, curling into tendrils at your neck, but there’s no time—or heat—to dry it. You glance at your phone on the sink: 6:38 P.M. Namjoon said 6:30. You’re late. 

You snatch your keys from the counter, sling your threadbare bag over your shoulder, and bolt. You weave past the kitchenette, its sink piled with chipped mugs and a single pot, and the living room, where your sad couch sags under a pile of law books. The door sticks as you yank it open, and the stairwell greets you with a gust of icy air whistling through cracked windows. You jog down three flights, sneakers clomping on warped steps, and burst outside. Seoul’s winter slams into you—bitter, unrelenting, a beast with teeth.  The sky’s a slab of slate, heavy with unshed slow, and the wind howls down the narrow streets of the south end of campus, clawing at your face. Your breath fogs in sharp bursts, crystalizing in the air, and the cold seeps through your jeans, stinging your thighs. You hunch into your puffer, hands jammed in pockets, but it’s not enough—the chill find every seam, every gap, freezing your ears until they ache. 

The trek to Namjoon’s is a mile east, and you’re penniless—no bus fare, no taxi dreams. The south end fades behind you—dingy noodle joints, neon-lit PC bangs, students huddled in scarves—giving way to broader streets lined with skeletal trees. Their branches clatter like dry bones, stripped bare by weeks of frost. Snowflakes start to fall, lazy at first, then thicker, dusting your shoulders, catching in your lashes. The sidewalk’s a minefield of ice patches, gloss under streetlights, and you shuffle to keep from slipping, your sneakers skidding once, twice. Your nose numbs, your fingertips tingle, and by the time Namjoon’s complex rises ahead—a sleek tower on the east side of SNU—you’re a shivering wreck. The glass doors part for you, the lobby a warm cocoon of polished marble, soft lighting, and a doorman who nods absently. Namjoon is a trust fund baby from Busan, his parents flush with shipping money, and this place screams it—nothing like your crumbling walk-up with its flickering hallway bulbs and mildew stench. 

You step into the elevator, the hum of it thawing your bones as it climbs. A long minute ticks by—your reflection in the mirrored walls shows a flushed face, damp hair plastered to your neck—before it finally dings on the fifth floor. You step out, stretching your strides down the carpeted hall to 13E, dragging your feet. Your stomach churns, nerves sparking like live wires. Meeting Yoongi—actually talking to him—feels like walking into a storm blind. You’ve always been anxious, a knot of worry since you were a kid. In Busan, grade school was a nightmare—you'd linger by the classroom door, too shy to join the girls giggling as they played jump rope, too scared to ask the boys kicking a ball if you could join them. Your mom had to bribe you with sweets just to get you to a friend’s birthday party once, and even then, you hid under a table, clutching a juice box, until she dragged you out. Friends were rare, fleeting—your tongue tripped over itself until Namjoon stumbled into your orbit. You’re better now, but new people still twist you up inside. What if Yoongi’s a jerk? A slob? What if he thinks you’re some desperate loser? Your pulse races as you reach his door, raising a shaky hand to knock. 

It swings open fast, and Namjoon’s there, all six feet of him, dimples flashing in a wide grin. He’s cozy—cream cable-knit sweater swallowing his broad frame, gray sweatpants loose and soft, socks with little cartoon dogs peeking out. “Took you long enough,” he teases, voice warm as he steps aside. You shuffle in, and the heat hits like a blanket, radiators purring, chasing the cold from your bones. The air’s thick with doenjang jjigae—earthy soybean paste, sharp garlic, a hint of beef simmering low, curling into your nose and waking your empty stomach. Your brows furrow; Namjoon’s a disaster in the kitchen, once nearly burning his apartment down with a botched ramen attempt. Who cooked? 

His apartment’s a world apart from yours. Open-plan, sprawling, with floor-to-ceiling windows framing the snow-dusted campus and Seoul’s glittering skyline. The living room's plush—a gray sectional piled with fleece throws, a glass coffee table stacked with law books and a stray coffee mug, a flat-screen above a sleek fireplace spitting soft flames. The kitchen’s a showpiece—marble counters, stainless steel appliances, a fridge that hums quietly, not rattling like yours. A monstera plant thrives by the island, its leaves glossy and proud, while your own sad succulent back home rots in a cracked pot. “Yoongi’s in the bathroom,” Namjoon says, nodding toward a hall as he waves you to the kitchen island. “He’ll be out in a sec.” You slide onto a padded stool, the cushion a luxury after your hard furniture, and he leans across, chatting—tomorrow's lecture, the criminal procedure exam, easy stuff to steady your nerves. 

The bathroom door creaks open, and Yoongi emerges. He’s tall—5'10, maybe—looming over your 5’1 frame, all lean angles and quiet menace. His hair’s blonde, a soft, bleached chaos brushing his forehead, framing sharp cheekbones and a jaw that could cut glass. He’s in a black hoodie, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, faded jeans hugging his legs, and plain socks. His eyes—dark, hooded, cat-like—lock on you, unblinking, and your throat dries up. He stares, assessing, and you stare back, words dissolving. Namjoon clears his throat. “Yoongi, this is Y/N. Y/N, Yoongi.” A nod, barely perceptible, then Yoongi slinks to the island, sitting opposite. The food’s spread out—doenjang jjigae steaming in a clay pot, fluffy rice, tangy kimchi, grilled mackerel glistening with oil. You scoop rice, hands jittery under his gaze, the spoon clinking too loud against the bowl. 

Namjoon tries to spark something. “Yoongi, how’s that music project?” Yoongi shrugs, spooning stew, lips pursed. Silence stretches, thick and awkward. Namjoon kicks him under the table—you catch the flinch, the faint scowl. “It’s fine,” Yoongi mutters, voice low, gravelly. “Mixing’s a pain.” You nod, unsure, picking at your mackerel. The meal crawls—Namjoon rambles about law precedents, you murmur agreements, Yoongi grunts or tosses out clipped answers. He slurps his stew too loud, wipes his mouth with his sleeve, picks his fish apart with his fingers instead of chopsticks. Petty, maybe, but it irks you—he irks you. He’s not rude, just... distant, like he’s here but not really. 

Dinner eventually ends, and Namjoon excuses himself for a moment, leaving you and Yoongi alone. The silence is deafening, the fireplace's crackle the only sound as you sit at the island, pushing rice around your bowl. He’s across from you, scrolling his phone, blonde hair catching the light. You clear your throat, desperate the fill the void. “So, uh... did you make this?” You nod at the empty jjigae pot, voice smaller than you meant it to be. 

He looks up, eye flickering to yours, and there’s a beat—a heavy, charged pause—before he answers. “Yeah.” His voice is low, rough, brushing your skin like a touch. “Namjoon can’t cook for shit.” He leans forward slightly, elbows on the counter now, close enough that you catch a whiff of his cologne—something clean, like cedarwood and bergamot. His lips twitch, a smirk that’s gone fast but leaves heat in its wake. 

You snort, caught off guard, and it’s too loud in the quiet. “No kidding. He set off the fire alarm with toast once—smoke everywhere.” Your laugh’s shaky, and his eyes linger, dark and unreadable, tracing your face like he’s mapping it. That smirk flickers again, slower this time, and your stomach flips. 

“Sounds about right,” he says, voice dipping lower, almost lazy. He shifts, stretching one arm across the counter, fingers brushing the edge of yours—accidental, maybe, but it sends a jolt up your spine, nonetheless. “You’re not bad, though. At eating it, I mean.” His gaze drops to you lips for a slip second, then back up, and the air thickens, warm and tight. 

You swallow, heat creeping up your neck. “Uh, thanks? It’s good—really good. Where’d you learn?” Your words stumble, and you hate how they sound—too eager, too soft. 

“Mom,” he says, leaning closer, voice a rumble now. “Runs a store in Daegu. Cooks for the regulars. Watched her enough to pick it up.” His eyes don’t leave yours, and there’s something in them—something sharp, hungry—that makes your breath hitch, makes you feel small in comparison to him. His knee brushes against yours under the counter, a graze that feels deliberate, and you shift, suddenly aware of how small the space between you is. 

“Busan for me,” you blurt, clutching at normalcy. “My parents have a seafood stall. I’m useless, though—burned rice once, got banned from the stove.” You laugh, but it’s tight, and he tilts his head, blonde strands falling into his eyes. He doesn’t laugh back, just watches, lips parting slightly, and the silence stretches taut, electric. 

“Bet you’re not useless at everything,” he murmurs, so quiet you almost miss it, and his gaze drops again—lips, neck, back up—slow, deliberate. Your pulse hammers, and you’re not sure if you’re breathing. Then he pulls back, just an inch, breaking whatever spell he put on you, grabbing his phone again. “Namjoon should be back soon,” he says, casual, like nothing happened, but the air’s still buzzing. 

You nod, dazed, as Namjoon’s footsteps echo down the hall. “Couch?” he calls, clapping his hands. You stumble off the stool, following him, Yoongi trailing behind. The sectional's plush, and you sink in, pulling a throw over your lap as Namjoon sits beside you. Yoongi drifts off—to Namjoon’s room, you assume—leaving you two by the fireplace. The crackle fills the silence. “So?” Namjoon asks, eyes bright, hopeful. “What do you think?” 

You twist the blanket’s edge, grimacing, mind still reeling from Yoongi’s voice, his closeness. “He’s weird, Joon. Quiet—too quiet. That talk just now? Barely anything. I don’t know if I can live with that.” You don’t mention the sudden heat between your legs, or the way your skin’s still tingling. 

He sighs, raking a hand through his hair. “I get it, he’s not chatty, but he’s solid. I’ve known him for a while now—met him at a music shop. My parents have money, yeah, but Yoongi’s regular. His dad's a fisherman, mom runs a corner store. He’s here on scholarships and hustle. Music’s his life, and he’s brilliant at it.” He pauses, voice softening. “You’re my rock, Y/N. Since freshman year, you’ve kept me grounded—pushed me when I slacked, laughed when I needed it. You’re my best friend, and I can’t finish this year without you.” 

Your chest aches, warmth mixing with dread—and something else, something new. “You’re mine too. But Yoongi—it's so fast. Two days, and he’s in my space? I’m freaked out.”  

He shifts closer, resting a hand on your knee. “I know it’s a lot. Look, he’s been on my couch too long. This place is nice, but it’s one bedroom. I’m tired of tripping over his shit every morning. He’ll pay his half, keep out of your way. You don’t have to be buddies, just... coexist.” His eyes plead. “Give it one more day to think. Please.” 

You nod, slow, reluctant. “One day, just one day.” Yoongi’s in Namjoon’s room, hunched over a desk, headphones on, tapping at a laptop—either oblivious or ignoring you. You grab your bag, say your goodnights to Namjoon, and head out. The cold swallows you whole. 

The walk back is a nightmare. Fresh snow is piled thick, blanketing the ground, crunching under your sneakers with every step. The wind’s a howling beast, slashing through your puffer, freezing your hair into brittle strands that whip your face. Streetlights flicker, half-dead in the storm, and the campus sprawls dark and desolate, east to south a slog through swirling white. Your breath stings, lungs burning with each icy gulp, and your fingers curl into fists in your pockets, nails digging into palms to feel something other than numb. You fumble your phone out with stuff hands, dialing your mom. It rings three times before her voice breaks through, soft and crackly, a lifeline. 

“Y/N-ah? Are you okay?” Her warmth cuts through the static, the wind. 

You choke on a sob, snow stinging your eyes. “Eomma, I’m falling apart. Rent’s due, I’ve got nothing—literally nothing. The heater’s busted, I’m freezing every night, and Namjoon’s pushing me to get a roommate. I don’t know if I can do it—I'm so tired. I just... I think I should come home.” 

She’s quiet a long moment, the line humming, and you hear her shift. “Y/N,” she starts, voice thick with worry. "You sound exhausted. Tell me what’s going on—everything. How’d it get this bad?” 

You sniff, trudging through a snowbank, the cold biting at your ankles. “It’s been building. Work’s a nightmare—7,000 won an hour at that shitty store, and my manager cuts my shifts whenever he feels like it. Schools killing me—exams, papers, I’m barely sleeping. And the apartment... it’s a freezer. I can’t afford the electric bill, let alone fix the heat.” 

She sighs, long and heavy, and you can picture her rubbing her temple like she does when she’s stressed. “My girl, I hate hearing you like this. You’re working so hard—too hard, maybe. What’s the apartment like now?” 

“Bad,” you mutter kicking snow off your sneakers. “My breath fogs inside. I’m in three layers just to sleep, and it’s still not enough. The windows rattle, the entire place is freezing. I can’t keep doing this.” 

“That sounds miserable,” she says, voice cracking. “You shouldn’t be living like that, not in your last year. But a roommate... that might be good for you. I wouldn’t look past it so quickly, Y/N.” 

You swallow, the wind howling louder. “Namjoon is desperate for me to stay, I think that’s why he’s so adamant about it, telling me it’s the only way, and I kind of agree. He’s got a friend in mind, and I’ve met him, but... I still don’t know. It’s such a leap, and I’m already hanging on by a thread.” 

She’s quiet again, then softens. “You know we’d take you back in a heartbeat. Your dad’s already been plotting—he's got this idea to repaint your room, teal like you always wanted, says it’s cheer you up.” 

“I miss you both,” you whisper, tears welling, hot against the cold. “It’d be so easy to come home.” 

“We miss you too,” she says, voice thick now. “But listen—it’s your senior year. You’re so close. I never got past high school, married your dad at nineteen, worked the stall since. We made it work, raised you and your siblings, but I always wished I’d had a shot at more. That law degree, that life—you're building something I couldn’t. I know it’s hard, but you’re stronger than you think. Namjoon wouldn’t push this on you if he didn’t care, if he didn’t think it would work. Try it—give this roommate thing a shot. Split the bills, get heat back in that place, and if it crashes, you’ve got us—always. Okay?” 

You nod, though she can’t see, the snow growing thicker. “Okay. I’ll try.” 

“Good girl,” she says, pride warming her tone. “Call me tomorrow, yeah? Tell me how everything goes—I need to know you’re okay.” 

“Okay. I love you, Eomma,” you say, voice breaking as you clutch the phone. 

“I love you more. Hang in there.” The call ends, and you’re alone again, the wind howling louder, snow piling at your feet. 

Your building looms ahead, a squat, peeling relic on the south end. A note’s taped to your door, red ink glaring: Rent due in 3 days or eviction proceedings begin. Panic spikes, sharp and sour. You unlock the door, stepping into a wall of cold—dark, silent, arctic. Strike one. You check your bank account on your phone: 8,000 won. Enough for a single ramyeon pack, maybe. Strike two. You trip over that loose floorboard you haven’t been able to fix, crashing to your knees, pain shooting up your leg. Strike three. Furious, you haul yourself up, whipping out your phone again, texting Namjoon. 

[You, 9:17 P.M.] I’ve made up my mind. Get Yoongi over here ASAP. 

You storm to your bedroom, peeling off your clothes, tugging on the same pajamas you’ve worn all week—hand-me-downs from your siblings, a faded long sleeve with a stretched neck and holes at the seams, sweatpants with cuff frayed to threads. You grab your blanket—a relic from your childhood, yet the only thing that seems to have managed to remain the same over time; thick, soft, warm enough to get you through the night. You wrap it tight around you, curling up on your bed. The mattress creaks, the cold seeping through every layer, relentless. You shiver, teeth chattering, staring at the ceiling where a water stain spreads like a bruise. Sleep feels impossible, and distant dream in this frozen purgatory. This night’s endless, and you’re already spent. 

--

The apartment’s a fragile bubble of warmth, pierced by the hum of space heaters and the faint tang of instant coffee lingering in the air. Two weeks with Yoongi as your roommate have stretched the edges of your sanity, but they’ve also kept the landlord’s eviction threats at bay. Rent’s been paid—a hefty price split down the middle, wired just before the deadline—and that alone is a victory. Seoul’s winter rages outside, a gray beast of snow and wind clawing at the single-pane windows, frosting them until they creak. Inside, the cold is a stubborn guest, slinking through the cracks despite the landlord’s refusal to fix the damn boiler—his last excuse, barked over a staticky call, was “building maintenance costs.” You’d bitten back a curse, teeth chattering, and hung up. But the space heaters, bought with a grudging amount, split between you and Yoongi, glow defiantly in your bedroom and his, their coils a faint orange against the dark. Namjoon’s blankets—fleece throws he’d so graciously gifted to you during the move, dotted with adorable designs like Minions or cartoon dogs—drape your couch and bed, a soft excess you’d never admit your hoard, their weight a shield against the nights when the chill bites the deepest. 

Yoongi’s arrival was a blur of panic and necessity. Namjoon had blinked at your sudden text and rallied him like a soldier to the front. He’d shown up a day early, just a day after your snow-soaked phone call to your mother, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. His blonde hair peeked out from a beanie, a large puffer jacket swallowing his lean frame, a duffel bag slung over one shoulder and a keyboard case gripped tight. “This is it?” he’d rasped, voice rough as gravel, scanning the cramped space—your sagging, depressed couch and bare walls. You’d nodded, nerves raw, and he’d sighed, a low sound of surrender, clearly used to Namjoon’s lavish apartment. He’d hauled his belongings in, carefully tucked away in boxes with muted thuds as they hit the floor of his new bedroom. He’s barely spoken—grunted at the spare key you’d handed him, muttered about the “shitty stairs”—and you’d fled to your room, shutting the door on his quiet unpacking, heart thudding with the weight of a stranger in your haven. By nightfall, the guest room was his, a bunker of blankets and music equipment, and you’d lain awak, staring at the ceiling’s water stain that you’d labeled as being shaped like an elephant, wondering if this was the right decision.  

Two weeks later, it’s not a disaster. Yoongi’s a ghost, slipping in and out with barely a ripple, and you’re too buried in your own grind to mind. Law school is a beast tamed—your criminal procedure exam, the 50-question monster, hit the same day Yoongi moved in, and you’d conquered it. Nights bled into a frenzy of study, hunched over on the couch, highlighters streaking Terry v. Ohio and Miranda v. Arizona as your breath fogged in the unheated dark. The 96% grade, posted last week with your professor’s “outstanding” scrawled in red, felt like a godsend, a lifeline proving you could still climb this perpetual mountain of death. You’d collapsed on your bed that night, one of Namjoon’s many blankets cocooning you, relief so sharp it burned your throat. 

Now, your days are a relentless churn—early morning lectures on constitutional law and judicial ethics, afternoons crafting mock trial arguments as team president, evenings at the convenience store where the floor is tacky with spilled soju and the scanner’s beep drills into your skull. Your manager, a pinch-faced ass, bumped you to 18,000 won an hour after you shoved a tally of your overtime in his face, voice steady despite the tremor in your hands. It’s not much—enough for ramen or a coffee when your eyes droop—but it keeps your account afloat. Sleep is a thief, snatched in five-hour bursts, the space heater’s hum a lullaby against the wind’s howl. Yoongi’s orbit is a mystery, misaligned with yours. He’s gone by dawn—music labs, you guess, or classes—and back late, his door creaking at midnight. You imagine him hunched over that keyboard, headphones clamped on, lost in beats—Namjoon's “genius” label a quiet echo. Sometimes you hear it, a muted thump through the wall, and picture him scribbling lyrics, blonde hair catching the heater’s glow. 

You’ve seen fragments. Once, he sprawled on his mattress, notebook open, pen tapping his knee, eyes half-closed like he was dreaming in rhythm. Another night, he lingered in the kitchenette at 2 A.M., reheating kimchi jjigae, stirring slow, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to reveal forearms taut with quiet strength. He’d glanced at you—bleary from study binge, shuffling for water—and slid a bowl your way, the spicy steam curling between you, wordless. Last weekend, he was on the couch, laptop open, cords snaking across the cushions, muttering “fucking latency” at a glitching track. Music’s his war, fought in solitude, and you don’t ask. He doesn’t tell. It’s your silent code. 

Living with him has been... fine, mostly. He’s clean—bowls rinsed, trash bagged, no mess beyond his room’s controlled chaos. The bathroom’s tidy, his towel hung crooked but dry, and he leaves your rice cakes alone, a respect you note silently. Chores split without fanfare—him on trash, you on dishes—a rhythm that holds. His room is a fortress now, Namjoon’s blankets swallowing the mattress whole, a guitar case propped up in the corner, vinyl records stacked haphazardly—from what you could see: Eminem, Epik High, Ryuichi Sakamoto, and... TWICE? You loved their songs, Fancy had you jamming in your apartment and Rewind had you holding back tears. Never in a million years had you imagined Yoongi being a Once. You often wondered who his bias was. You don’t snoop, and he doesn’t cross your line. It’s peaceful... sometimes. However, Yoongi’s got this infuriating habit—blasting tracks at ungodly hours, loud enough to shred your nerves. It’s not every night, but it’s brutal when it strikes. The third night, 2 A.M., a baseline punched through the wall, rattling your bed, yanking you from sleep. You’d lain there, heart pounding, as synths and warped vocals bled in, relentless. It stopped after twenty minutes, but sleep fled. Two nights ago, 1 A.M., it was slower—moody, heavy—but the volume gnawed at you. Last night, 3 A.M., an hour of jagged snares and distortion, the wall pulsing like a living thing. You’d hovered at your door, anger simmering, but retreated—too awkward to confront him. You’ve hinted—yawning loud, dragging your feet—but he doesn’t bite, and it festers, a quiet thorn. 

Tonight, you’re in the kitchenette, 10 P.M., picking at a bowl of ramyeon, the broth warming your throat. Mock trial prep looms, notes stacked on the couch, but you’re in pajamas—a faded long sleeve and sweatpants. The bathroom door creaks open, and you glance up, chopsticks halfway to your lips. He’s shirtless, fresh from the shower, towel slung low on his hips. Water beads on his skin, dripping from his damp blonde hair down his neck, over collarbones sharp as knives. His chest is lean but cut—muscles taut, abs carved like he’s been lifting more than just dreams, arms flexing as he rubs the towel through his hair, veins threading under pale skin. His V-line dips below the towel’s edge, and your breath catches, utensil clattering against the bowl. He freezes, cat-like eyes locking on yours, and the air thickens—silent, heavy, awkward as hell. You stare, he stares, and neither of you move. His lips part, like he might say something, but he doesn’t. Water drips onto the floor, a soft plink, and you swallow, throat dry, eyes darting to your food. He shifts, grabbing a soda from the fridge, the can’s hiss slicing the quiet. His bare shoulder brushes the counter as he leans there, sipping slow, and you feel his gaze—steady, unreadable—prickling your skin. You scoop broth with your chirirenge, burning your tongue, and he retreats to his room without a word, leaving you flushed and out of sorts. 

You sit, thinking, allowing your food to grow cold when his music starts—loud, inevitable. Bass thumps through the wall, and you groan, dropping your head to the counter. Not tonight. You drag yourself to your room, a blanket wrapped tight around you, and flop on your bed as the track swells—drums, distortion, and a chaotic roar. Sleep’s a distant hope, and you lie there, his shirtless frame flashing behind your eyes, the wall pulsing until it fades an hour later. You drift off, restless, dreaming of damp skin and dark stares. 

The morning is grey and brutal, exhaustion clinging to you like wet clothes. Yoongi’s gone when you wake, his door shut, and you slog through your day—lectures, store shift, and hanging out with Namjoon at a nearby coffee shop—you're basically running on fumes. Back home, you’re on the couch, phone pressed to your ear on speaker. Your friend Hyejin’s voice crackles through, loud and brassy, filling the room as you pick at a rice cake. “... So, I told him, if you’re gonna ghost me, at least have the balls to say it, right? Men are trash, Y/N, I swear.” 

You short, shifting in the blanket enveloping you. “Yeah, well, I’m not exactly swimming in options either. Work’s killing me.” 

The front door creaks open, and Yoongi slips in, arms laden with two grocery bags—nothing heavy, just bulging with a carton of milk, chips, and some greens poking out. His sweatshirt is zipped halfway, hair mussed from the wind, and he glances at you, nodding faintly before heading to the kitchenette. Hyejin’s voice barrels on, oblivious. “You sound wiped, babe. What’s up? You’ve been off for days.” 

You fumble to switch off speaker, thumb jabbing the screen, but it freezes—stupid cracked phone. “Uh, just tired,” you say, voice tight, eyeing Yoongi as he unpacks, silent and methodical. Milk in the fridge, a bag of tangerines on the side you know he’ll be hoarding. 

“Tired?” Hyejin laughs, sharp and echoing. “Girl, you need to get laid. That’s your problem—no good dick in forever. When’s the last time you even hooked up?” 

Your face flames, and you slap the phone harder, but it’s stuck, her voice blaring. Yoongi’s hands pause over a bag of green onion, head tilting slightly, and you want to die. “Hyejin—” you hiss, but she steamrolls. 

“What about that roommate, the blonde one? You said he’s hot, right? Why not just fuck him? Get some stress relief, Y/N, you’re dying out there!” 

Mortification crashes over you, hot and suffocating. Yoongi’s back stiffens, just for a second, then he turns to the fridge, slow, deliberate, a smirk tugging at his lips—small, private, but there. Your hand finally smacks the speaker off, and you choke out, “Gotta go,” ending the call mid-Hyejin's cackle. The silence is deafening, thick as snow, broke only by the rustle of bags as he slides the tangerines into a bowl. Your face burns, red creeping up your neck, and you mumble, “Sorry, she’s—uh—loud,” voice barely audible, cracking with same. He doesn’t look up, just hums—a low, amused sound—and keeps unpacking, smirk lingering like he’s savoring it. You bolt, blanket trailing, slamming the door behind you. You shove your face into your pillow, still blazing, the muffled groan swallowed by cotton as his quiet unpacking echoes through the apartment. 

--

The apartment has turned into a silent battlefield, the air thick with the ghost of Hyejin’s voice echoing in your skull like a relentless taunt. It’s been a week since that call shattered the fragile peace, a week since Yoongi’s smirk burned into your memory as he unpacked groceries with that slow, knowing curl of his lips. You’ve turned avoiding him into a desperate science, a losing fight when you share this cramped, crumbling space—25 square meters of peeling paint and warped floors that creak under every step. You’re hyper-aware of him, attuned to every trace of his presence: the groan of his door hinges at odd hours, the faint thud of his footsteps on the linoleum, the low hum of his heater seeping through the wall like a pulse. It’s suffocating, a constant reminder of the line you’ve crossed in your head, and you don’t know what he thinks—whether he’s laughing at you behind that unreadable stare, pitying your flushed embarrassment, or—worst of all—disgusted by the mess Hyejin’s words dragged into the open. The uncertainty gnaws at you, a splinter lodged under your skin, sharp and persistent, and you’ve convinced yourself he hates you now, that her brash suggestion painted you as a walking humiliation in his eyes. 

Your solution’s been retreat, a coward’s playbook executed with precision. Mornings, you’re up before the sky cracks open, the world still cloaked in pre-dawn purple, tugging on sneakers that scuff against the icy stairwell as you flee to SNU’s lecture halls—constitutional law at 8 A.M., your 4.0 GPA a lifeline you cling to. The cold bites your ankles, the wind whistling through the cracked windows of the south-end building, but it’s better than facing him over coffee. Evenings, you linger at the convenience store, the flickering fluorescents buzzing overhead as you scan soju bottles for bleary-eyed students, the air thick with stale beer and burnt microwave popcorn. You stay late, dragging out the lock-up routine—counting the till twice, wiping the counter until the manager snaps at you to “Go home already”—just to avoid the moment Yoongi’s door creaks open at home. When you finally slink back, you’re a shadow, slipping through the apartment like a thief—door shut tight, pretending the thin wall between your rooms is a canyon wide enough to swallow the tension whole. 

Yoongi’s mirrored your silence—not that it’s anything new—but he’s been retreating deeper into his hermit shell, turning the guest room a fortress you don’t dare breach. He’s more ghost than man now, his presence reduced to traces you can’t ignore. His music’s quieter now, too, a muted pulse seeping through the wall, like he’s tiptoeing around your frayed nerves, testing how much you can take before you snap. You’ve caught glimpses—him peeling a tangerine at the counter, fingers deft as they split the rind, eyes darting away when you shuffle past in your threadbare socks. The citrus scent hangs in the air after, sharp and fleeting, and it twists something in your chest.  

But there’s something new, something odd that’s crept into the routine: Yoongi’s been showering more. A lot more. The bathroom door creaks open at strange hours—midnight, when you’re half-asleep, mid-afternoon when you’re often gone—and you hear the water running for a shorter amount of time than normal, a steady that echoes through the thin walls. You’d want to be mad, to storm in and snap at him for hogging what little hot water your shitty boiler sputters out, but every time you shower, it’s warm, perfectly so, the steam curling around you in soft, teasing wisps. It hits you slow, a realization that sinks in like ice: he’s taking cold showers. Why? The question burrows into you, strange and nagging. You can’t shake it, and it feeds the restless churn in your gut. 

The phone call flipped a switch, and you hate it—hate how it’s twisted your head, turned Yoongi from a quiet, tolerable roommate into something else, something you want. It’s humiliating, the way your mind drifts when you’re alone, a traitor to your pride. Nights, you lie underneath your pile of blankets, your heater humming a low drone, and imagine him—his lean frame pinning you to the mattress, wrists trapped under his hands, his tongue flicking against your clit, sharp and precise, unraveling you with every deliberate stroke. You wonder what he tastes like, how he kisses—rough and demanding, claiming you in a rush, or slow and soft, teasing until you’re begging? The fantasies coil tight, your breath hitching as you press your vibrator harder, chasing release under the blanket’s weight, quiet gasps swallowed by the dark. It’s never enough, the ache lingering, pooling low, and it leaves you frustrated—sexually, emotionally, a tangled mess of want and shame. You wonder if he feels it too, but he’s a wall, unreadable, and you’re too mortified to ask, too afraid of the answer. 

From Yoongi’s side, it’s a different war, one he’s losing in silence. He’s lock himself in his room much more than he did before, the guest-now-his space a scattered mess of his belongings, because facing you feels like stepping on glass—one wrong move and it’ll shatter. That call—Hyejin's loud, brash suggestion—hit him harder than he’ll ever admit. He smirked, yeah, playing it cool as he unpacked those groceries, but inside, it was chaos, a wildfire he couldn’t stamp out. You think he’s attractive? No—hot? The idea sank into him, sharp and heated, a hook he can’t dislodge, and he can’t unhear it, can’t unfeel the way it’s shifted practically everything. He’s been avoiding you too, not out of hate—God, no—but because every time he sees you, his head’s a mess of lewd flashes: you under him, thighs trembling as he drives into you, your lips parted in a moan that’s his name; on your knees, mouth wrapped around him, wet and eager, eyes locked on his. It’s relentless, a reel he can't stop, and he hates how it’s turned him into a horny idiot, his hand wrapped around his cock, fisting himself in the shower more than he has since he was a gangly teenager with no self-control. 

Cold showers, specifically—ice-cold, the water a brutal shock to his system, numbing the heat that flares every time he thinks of you, every time your small figure brushes past him. He stands under the spray, teeth gritted, hair plastered to his forehead, hand working fast, imagining your hands instead—smaller, softer, tracing his skin—your voice, low and breathless, your body pressed against him. It’s you every time—your flushed cheeks from that call, the way your clothes hug your frame, the quiet gasps he’s sure you’d make if he touched you right. He comes quick, shuddering under the icy blast, the cold biting his skin. It’s a fleeting relief, a cycle he’s trapped in, rinsing away the evidence but not the want. He doesn’t hate you—he wants you. Bad. It’s driving him up the wall, a tension he buries under layers of silence and locked doors. 

A week later, four weeks into this strained cohabitation, the tension’s a live wire, sparking at the edges, ready to ignite. Last night, Yoongi had divvied up the laundry—two hampers, one for you, one for him, a silent chore split to keep the fragile peace. You always wash your clothes together, a money-saving trick drilled into you from years of scraping by, cramming everyone into the ancient machine in the basement laundry room with its chipped paint and flickering bulb. You're meticulous about it, cataloging every threadbare piece—two pairs of jeans, faded at the knees; three hoodies, one with a frayed drawstring; 5 pairs of t-shirts and long sleeves, two pairs of sweatpants, and a handful of socks, mismatched and thinning—because losing anything when you own so little stings deep. Hyejin’s words echo as you sort the pile—“You need to get laid!”—and on a reckless impulse, you toss in your one nice thing: a red lace thong, delicate and daring. Maybe Hyejin was right, getting tangled in your sheets might be a good idea, and who knows? It might actually loosen you up a little and get your mind off of you-know-who. 

Yoongi had dropped your hamper off in your room last night, awkward as hell, his frame filling the doorway for a brief, tense moment. He’s barely met your eyes, blonde hair falling into his face, muttering a clipped, “Here,” before retreating like he couldn’t get away fast enough. You’d nodded, throat tight, a flush creeping up your neck, and started your wash routine today, hauling the load downstairs in the dim stairwell, the air damp with mildew. The machine’s groan was a familiar hum as you fed it coins, the clink echoing in the empty basement, and you trudged back up, the cold seeping through your socks. 

Yoongi was assigned to retrieve both yours and his clothes, mindlessly tossing both loads into the same hampers used earlier. He could easily tell your items apart from his, so he didn’t have a single qualm when he dropped everything back off with you.  

You’re folding the warm pile on your bed, the space heater’s glow warming your shins through your sweatpants, when panic hits like a punch. The thong’s not there. You dig through—jeans, hoodies, socks—fingers clawing at the fabric, unraveling the neat stacks, but it’s gone. Your stomach drops, cold and sour, a sick lurch as images flash: the red lace crumpled on the laundry room floor, some grimy tenant picking it up, snickering at your expense; or worse, caught in the machine’s drum, a scarlet flag flapping for the next person to find. Mortification burns, hot and prickly, spreading from your chest to your fingertips, and you rake your hands through your hair, tugging at the roots as your mind races. Did it fall out on the stairs? Land in someone else's laundry basket? The possibilities spiral, each more humiliating than the last, and you’re two seconds from bolting downstairs to check, retracting every step in a frantic hunt, when you freeze, breath catching. Yoongi’s room. What if it’s with him? 

Yoongi’s hunched over his own hamper, elbow-deep in hoodies and sweats, and fabric warm from the dryer, when his fingers brush something soft, foreign, out of place. He pulls it out, slow, deliberate, and freezes—a red lace thong dangles from his hand, the fabric catching the heater’s orange glow like a flame. His breath catches, a sharp hitch, eyes flashing to you in his mind—your face, your body—and a groan rips from his throat, low and wrecked, echoing in the small room. Images flood him, unbidden and vivid. His grip tightens, the fabric bunching in his fist, cock hardening at the thought of you underneath him, the room tilting as desire slams into him, raw and unfiltered. He’s about to shove it back, bury it at the bottom of the hamper, pretend he never saw it, when a quiet knock jolts him upright, snapping him out of the haze. 

“Uh—come in,” Yoongi says, clearing his throat, his voice rougher than he intends, gravelly with the edge of what’s churning inside him—desire, panic, a tangle of heat he can’t unravel. The door creaks open, slow and hesitant, a low groan of hinges that slices through the quiet of his room. There you are—timid, small, framed in the doorway like a deer caught in headlights, your faded pajamas hanging loose on you. The T-shirt's thin, slinging faintly to your chest, and your sweatpants hang low on your hips, cuffs brushing the floor. Your eyes are wide, searching, darting around his cluttered space—blankets in a heap, vinyls teetering by the wall—before they land on the red lace thong handing from his hand. Your face flames, a rush of red blooming across your cheeks, a soft but piercing gasp slipping past your lips, sharp enough to jolt him where he stands. 

He stares, caught, the air thickening into something vicious, heavy with the weight of your locked gazes. His eyes rake over you, slow and deliberate, tracing the lines of your body—down the curve of your shoulder underneath the fabric, the dip of your waist, the way your legs shift nervously, bare skin peeking where the waistband of your sweatpants ends, and the hem of your shirt begins. His gaze lingers on your lips, parted slightly from that gasp, then snaps back to your eyes, wide and mortified but holding his stare. You don’t speak, don’t even breathe for a beat, the silence stretching taut between you, electric and unbearable. Then you step forward, hesitant, the floor cold under your socks, squeaking faintly under your weight as you close the gap. Yoongi’s breath hitches, chest tightening, his grip on the thong faltering as he watches you approach—small, trembling, but determined. Your fingers reach out, shaky and tentative, brushing his as you pluck the lace from his hand, the fleeting touch a spark that sears his skin. He exhales, sharp and unsteady, the air rushing out as you clutch the thong tight. 

You turn to leave, quick and jerky, like you’re fleeing a crime scene, your socks scuffing the floor as you aim for the door. Your shoulders hunch, the T-shirt riding up slightly to reveal a sliver of your lower back, and Yoongi’s eyes snag there, his throat dry, pulse hammering. He opens his mouth—maybe to say something, anything—but before words form, the world plunges into black. The power cuts with a faint pop, the dim glow of his desk lamp snuffed in an instant. Darkness swallows the room, thick and disorienting, the only sound the storm’s distant howl beyond the walls and the ragged edge of your breathing. The cold creeps in fast, a chill the prickles your bare arms, and you freeze mid-step, your silhouette a faint blur against the void. 

Yoongi stands rooted, the sudden black amplifying the thud of his heartbeat in his ears. The air shifts, heavy with the absence of light and heat, and for a moment, neither of you move, the silence a living thing pressing against your skin.  

Then he speaks, voice low, cutting through the dark like a blade. “Stay.” It’s not a request, not quite a command, but there’s and urgency laced in it, rough and unpolished. You hesitate, your outline shifting as you turn slightly, and he can’t see your face, but he feels your uncertainty, the way you’re poised to bolt. “Just—stay there,” he adds, softer, stepping toward the desk where he keeps a flashlight and tealights he grabbed in preparation for exactly this. “I’ll get light.” 

You don’t argue, don’t move, and he hears the faint creak of the mattress as you sink onto it, the sound small but seismic in the quiet. He fumbles in the dark, fingers brushing vinyl sleeves, a tangles cord, until they close around the flashlight’s cold metal grip. The mean flickers to life, weak and unsteady, casting jagged shadows as he sweeps it across the room—the heap of blankets a sleepless mound, you perched on the edge of his bed, knees drawn up to your chest, arms crossed tight over them. Your silhouette sharpens as his eyes adjust, and he can see the goosebumps rising on your arms, the way your breath fogs faintly in the chill. He grabs the tealights a lighter from the desk drawer and moves back, placing them on the window ledge behind his bed. 

The lighter flicks, the tiny flame sparking against the wick of the first tealight. It catches, a fragile glow blooming, then another, until three small flames dance, casting gold over the scuffed ledge. He sits back, cross-legged, the mattress dipping under your weight across from him, the space between you shrinking in the flickering light. The candles throw shadows up Yoongi’s face—sharp cheekbones, blonde hair mussed and falling into his eyes, lips parted as he exhales—and you feel exposed, the thin T-shirt no shield against the cold or his gaze. Your arms tights, a shiver running down your spine, and he notices, eyes flicking to the way your shoulders hunch, the faint tremble in your fingers. 

“You’re cold,” he says, matter-of-fact, and before you can respond, he’s twisting to grab a hoodie from the pile beside his bed—black, worn, the sleeves stretched from use. He holds it out, the fabric dangling between you, and the gesture hangs heavy, an offering laced with something unspoken. “Take it.” 

“I’m fine,” you mutter., stubborn, your teeth chattering faintly as the chill deepens, the room’s temperature dropping fast without the heater’s hum. Your breath fogs more now, a soft cloud in the candlelight, and you hug yourself tighter, pride warring with the cold sinking into your bones. 

“Take it,” he says again, sharper this time, his tone brooking no argument, eyes narrowing as they lock on yours. There’s a demand there, rough-edged, and it pricks at you, but the cold wins out, your resolve crumbling under the weight of his stare and the shiver racking your frame. You reach out, fingers brushing his as you take the hoodie, the contact brief but electric. You tug it on, the fabric swallowing you—smelling of cedarwood, the hem brushing your thighs—and he watches, a flicker of something dark crossing his face as you settle into it, sleeves flopping over your hands. 

The silence stretches, awkward and thick, the small flames creating shadows that act like a fragile barrier. You shift on the bed, the mattress creaking under you, and he leans on his hands, the bedding soft underneath his palms. The storm’s a dull roar outside, snow pelting the windows, but inside, it’s just you and him, the air humming with tension you’ve both danced around for weeks. He clears his throat, the sound rough in the quiet, and you glance up, catching the way his eyes glint in the candlelight, sharp and assessing. 

“It’s been quiet lately,” he says, voice soft, almost casual, but there’s an edge—a thread of intent snaking through it. His fingers flex against the mattress, inching closer, the tips grazing the blanket near your thigh. “You, I mean. Not just the room.” 

You blink, caught off guard, heat creeping up your neck despite the chill. “What?” you say, too quick, your voice wobbling as you tuck the hoodie’s sleeves tighter into your fists, avoiding his gaze. He’s too close, his presence too heavy, pressing against you like a physical thing. 

“I dunno,” he shrugs, but it’s calculated, his shoulders rolling slow, the bed shifting as he leans forward, elbows resting on his knees now, narrowing the space between you. “I just noticed. You’re usually... louder. Moving around, banging shit in the kitchen. Now it’s like you’re not even here.” His tone’s even, but there’s a tease buried in it, a glint in his eyes daring you to bite, to push back. 

“I’m here,” you mutter, defensive, staring at the tealights, the tiny flames blurring as your heart kicks up, thudding against your ribs. “I’ve just been... busy, I guess. School, work, and I’m with Namjoon a lot—you know how it is.” It’s a flimsy excuse, the words brittle, and you can feel him see through it, his silence louder than any rebuttal. 

He tilts his head, blonde strands shifting, and the smirk returns, faint but sharp. “Busy, huh?” He leans closer, his knee pressing firmer against yours now, intentional, the heat of it seeping through your sweatpants. “Is that why you can’t even look at me?” 

You glance up, and he’s closer than you thought—his face a breath away, eyes locked on yours, dark and piercing in the candlelight. “I’m looking at you now,” you say, aiming for defiance, but it comes out shaky, a whisper swallowed by the tension thickening the air between you. 

“Yeah,” he murmurs, voice a rumble. “Took you long enough.” His eyes flick to your lips, lingering, and the room shrinks, the cold forgotten. 

“Okay, so what?” you snap, the word spilling out before you can stop them. “What’s your point?” Your face burns, defiance masking the nerves twisting inside you. 

He doesn’t back off, just watches you, steady and unyielding. “My point,” he says, slow and deliberate, “is that you’ve been avoiding me.” It’s not a question, a statement dropped like a match onto dry grass, and it ignites something in you, a flare of frustration and shame you’ve been choking down for a week. 

Heat surges up your neck, prickling under Yoongi’s hoodie. “No, I haven’t,” you bite back, voice sharp, your denial too quick. “That’s ridiculous.” You shift back slightly, the bed creaking under you, putting an inch of space between your knees. 

“Ridiculous?” he echoes, voice soft but edged, leaning forward more, closing the gap you just made. “You’re out before I’m up, gone ‘til I’m asleep. You’ve barely said ten fucking words to me all week. You call that normal?” 

“I’ve been busy!” you snap, louder now, the words bursting out as you glare at him. “School, work, like I just explained—shit you’d get if you weren’t holed up in here all the time. Don’t act like I’m the only one who’s quiet.” Your voice trembles, anger masking the guilt, and you shove the hoodie’s sleeves up, the fabric bunching at your elbows, too hot under his scrutiny. 

He snorts, a harsh sound, leaning closer, his knee slamming back against yours, a deliberate push. “Don’t pull that. I’m here, yeah, but I don’t fucking vanish. You’re dodging me like I’m contagious—can't even look at me half the time.” His voice rises, rough with irritation. “What’s your deal? You think I’m pissed about something?” 

“My deal?” you fire back, voice climbing, the argument spiraling out of your control. “Maybe I just don’t wanna deal with you staring at me like—like I’m some joke after that stupid phone call! You don’t get to turn this on me when you’ve been a hermit too!” Your chest heaves, and you hate how raw you feel, how exposed. 

He freezes, just for a beat, then leans back slightly, but his voice drops, low and sharp. “A joke? That’s what you think?” His tone’s quieter, but it’s loaded, frustration simmering under the surface. “I’ve been giving you space, not laughing at you. You’re the one running.” 

“Space?” you scoff, incredulous, your voice crackling as you lean forward. “You call locking yourself in here space? I didn’t ask for that—I didn’t ask for any of this!” Your hands shake, and you hate how close he is. “This is all Namjoon’s fault. If I had just move back in with my parents to begin with—” 

“Then why—” he interrupts, voice rising again, his hand slamming down on the mattress, and you flinch. “Why are you acting like I’m the problem when you’re the one who’s been avoiding me?” His eyes bore into yours, dark and furious, and the tension snaps taut, a live wire humming between you. 

“Okay, fine!” you yell, the words ripping out, raw and jagged. “I’ve been avoiding you! Happy now?” You look away, face burning with shame, jaw tight. 

He doesn’t flinch, just holds your gaze when you dare to meet it again, the anger softening into something else—something heavier. “Why?” he asks, voice quieter now, almost gentle, but it’s a blade all the same, cutting straight to the core. 

You swallow, throat dry, the truth clawing its way up, bitter and hot. “Because of the call,” you say, voice small. “What Hyejin said—it's been... weird. I didn’t know what you thought, if you were angry, disgusted, or—” You cut yourself off, biting your lip hard, the humiliation surging like fresh wound, a sour twist in your chest that makes you want to curl into yourself.  

He tilts his head, blonde strands shifting, and his eyes soften, just a fraction, though they never leave yours. “Didn’t think anything bad,” he says, low, deliberate. “Didn’t mind it.” A pause, then softer, a confession slipped into the dark: “I kinda liked it.” It hangs there, raw and unguarded, and your stomach flips. 

“You liked it?” you echo, incredulous, your voice rising slightly. 

“Yeah,” he says, simple, unapologetic. “You think I’m attractive, right? That’s what she said... your friend, I mean.” His voice dips, teasing again, but there’s a hunger underneath, a question he’s daring you to answer, and it’s dizzying, the way he’s peeling you open, like a tangerine. 

“I—” You falter, breath hitching, his proximity scrambling your thoughts, turning them into static. The hoodie’s too warm, his scent too close—a drug you can’t shake—and yet you can’t look away. “She said it, not me.” 

“But you didn’t deny it,” he counters, voice a rumble now. “Still haven’t” His eyes flick to your lips, lingering, slow and deliberate, and the tension shifts, thickens, a palpable thing wrapped around you both. “You’ve been thinking about it, haven’t you?” he murmurs, voice rough. “What she said. Me.” 

Your mouth opens, a denial on your tongue, but it dies there, strangled by the way his eyes darken. “I-I... I don’t—” 

“Don’t what?” he presses, voice a tease, but his gaze is intense, stripping you bare. His knee nudges your legs apart slightly, moving towards where you need him most. “Tell me you don’t want this,” he says, voice dropping to a rough whisper. “Say it, and I’ll back off.” His eyes search yours, dark and intent, flickering with something that mirrors the heat twisting inside you—desire, need, a question he’s laid bare between you. His fingers curl slightly into your thigh, possessive, waiting, and the silence stretches, taut and trembling, your response teetering on the edge. 

Instead of answering him, your lips slam into his with a force that rips the air from the room, a bruising collision born from the weight of all the suppressed desire, every moment you’ve bitten your tongue instead of speaking, every time you’ve turned away instead of reaching out. It’s not soft, not tentative—it can’t be, not after all this time simmering in the space between you. Your hands fist the worn cotton of his hoodie, knuckles whitening as you clutch the fabric like it’s the only think keeping your grounded, pulling him closer until there’s no gap left to close. The kiss is spark flung onto dry tinder, a wildfire roaring to life after too long smoldering in the dark corners of your mind. Your lips press hard against his, insistent and desperate, testing the faint salt of his skin, the bitter edge of the beer he sipped earlier still clinging to his breath—a sharp tang that mixes with something deeper, something raw and uniquely Yoongi that floods your senses and leaves you dizzy. 

He freezes for a heartbeat, his body tensing before you, a sharp inhale hissing through his teeth as if you’ve jolted his from a trance. Then he surges back, a low growl rumbling deep in his throat—a primal sound that vibrates against your lips and sends a shiver racing down your spine, igniting every nerve in its path. His hands clamp onto your hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh beneath the oversized hoodie you’re wearing—his hoodie—yanking you against him with a force that makes the mattress groan beneath your combined weight. The bed creaks sharply, a protest that echoes in the small room as your bodies collide, chest to chest, the heat of him seeping through the thin layers of fabric separating you, warming the chill that’s lingered in your bones for days.  

You move on instinct, driven by a need you can’t name, swinging one leg over his lap until you’re straddling him, your knees bracketing his lean thighs. The shift presses your core against the hard ridge of his cock through his clothes, a sudden jolt of friction that drags a soft, involuntary moan from your throat—a sound you barely recognize as yours, raw and needy, spilling out into the quiet. Your nails rake over his shoulders, catching on the fabric of his sweatshirt as you press yourself closer, your chest flattening against his, the rapid thud of his heartbeat pounding against your ribcage until it feels like it’s yours too. You can feel the tension in his muscles, the way they flex and shift under your touch, coiled tight like a spring begging to snap, and it sends a thrill through you, a spark that catches and flares. 

His hands slide under the hoodie, rough calluses scraping against your bare waist as they roam upward, igniting your skin with every inch they claim. His fingers splay wide, possessive, digging into your flesh with just enough pressure to make you gasp into his mouth—a sharp, breathy sound that he swallows greedily, like it’s fuel for the fire he’s stoking. They travel higher, slow and deliberate, until his palms cup your breasts, the heat of his hands searing through you, thumbs brushing over your nipples in teasing, languid circles. They harden instantly under his touch, a delicious ache blooming as he rolls them between his fingers, coaxing another moan from you—a louder one this time, raw and unfiltered, muffled against his lips, vibrating in the tight space where your breaths tangle. The sensation is electric, a current that zips down your spine and pools low, making you shift relentlessly in his lap. 

The kiss deepens, turning messy and wild—as if it wasn’t already—a clash of need that strips away any pretense of control. Your teeth knock together in your haste, a faint click drowned by the wet slide of your tongues wrestling for dominance, a dance of give and take that leaves you breathless. Yoongi’s mouth is hot, demanding, his tongue curling against yours with a skill that makes your head spin, a slow, deliberate sweep that has you chasing after it, hungry for more. He tugs your lower lip between his teeth, a sharp sting that sends a pulse of heat straight to your core, and you whimper—a soft, broken sound that melts into a groan as he sucks it hard, soothing the bite with a slow, deliberate lick. The taste of him floods you—salt a heat and that faint, bitter edge—and you dive back in, your tongue darting into his mouth, desperate to drown it. 

His grip tightens, one hand abandoning your breast to fist in your hair, fingers tangling in the strands. He yanks your head back, a sudden, firm tug that bares your throat to him, the pull stinging your scalp a drawing a ragged gasp from your lips—a sound that hangs in the air, sharp and vulnerable. Your head tips back, exposing the tender line of your neck, and Yoongi doesn’t hesitate—his mouth descends, lips dragging hot and wet along your pulse, leaving a trail of fire that sears your skin. He sucks lightly at the spot where your heartbeat thumps wildly, a teasing nip of his teeth that makes you squirm in his lap, your hips rocking forward on pure instinct, seeking something, anything, to ease the ache building inside you. 

That movement—unplanned, desperate—grinds you against him, the seam of your sweatpants catching just right on the bulge straining against him. A low, guttural moan tears from his throat, the sound rumbling against your skin as he presses his forehead to your collarbone, he breath hot and uneven against the hollow of your throat. “Fuck,” he mutters, voice rough as gravel, the curse slipping out like it’s been punched from him, and it sends a thrill through you, your own breath hitching in response. You roll your hips again, deliberate this time, a slow, purposeful grind that drags your core over him, the friction sparking pleasure that coils tight in your belly, a heat that spreads like wildfire. His hands snap back you your hips, guiding you, encouraging the motion with a firm squeeze, his fingers digging into your ass through the fabric, anchoring you as you rock against him. 

The movement builds a rhythm—slow at first, tentative, like you’re testing the waters, then faster, more urgent, a desperate cadence that matches the pounding of your pulse. Each roll of your hips presses you harder against him, the heat between your legs growing slick and insistent, soaking through your sweatpants until you can feel it dampening the fabric, a secret you can’t hide. You can feel him—thick, hard, pulsing beneath you—and the thought alone makes you moan louder, a needy whine that echoes in the small room, bouncing off the walls and mingling with the creak of the mattress. Yoongi matches you, his own groans spilling out, low and broken, as he thrusts up to meet you, the cotton soft against your thighs, yet scraping in a way that��s almost too much but not enough. 

Your moans climb higher, a string of needy sounds that spill out unbidden—soft whines, sharp gasps, a broken “Yoongi” that slips from your lips before you can stop it. His response is immediate, a groan that’s half-curse, half-prayer, hips bucking up harder, meeting you halfway, the fabric dragging against your skin in a way that’s rough and perfect. 

You break the kiss, gasping for air, your forehead resting against his as you pant, your breath hot against his swollen lips, mingling with his own ragged exhales. Your eyes—wide, wild, glassy with need—meet his, and the intensity there nearly undoes you, a storm of want brewing behind his own pupils, the dark swallowing the brown until there’s nothing left but desire. “You’ve been fucking teasing me for weeks,” he rasps, voice gravelly, thick with want, his grip on your hair tightening until it stings, a delicious edge of pain that makes you move harder against him, your hips stuttering in their rhythm. “Think I didn’t notice you squirming? All those little looks, avoiding me like I wouldn’t fucking see?” 

“I—I didn’t—” you start, but the lie dies in your throat as he smirks, dark and knowing, and drags you back into the kiss, his tongue plunging deep, silencing you with a claim that leaves no room for denial. Your hands slip from his hair, trailing down his chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heartbeat under your palms as the kiss breaks again, leaving you both panting, lips swollen and slick. The need clawing at you is too much now, and your fingers curl into the hem of his sweatshirt, the oversized gray fabric that’s been brushing against you all night. You tug upward, a silent question in the motion, and Yoongi’s eyes flicker with something dark and eager as his lifts his arms, letting you peel it off him in one fluid desperate pull. 

The sweatshirt hits the floor with a soft thud, and for a moment, you just stare, your breath catching in your throat as you take him in—shirtless, bare, and breathtakingly real beneath the flickering candlelight glow. His chest is exposed now, and your eyes trace downward, drinking in the sight of him—smooth and unmarred, save for the faint flush creeping up his sternum, a soft pink that blooms under the heat of your gaze and the exertion of what’s just passed. His torse narrows into a lean waist, the lines of his body flowing inward like a river cutting through stone. His abs come into view—subtle but undeniable, a not-so-faint six-pack etched into his stomach, each muscle a shallow ripple beneath his skin rather than a deep carve. The muscles flex slightly as he shifts, tightening with every breath, every twitch of his hips still pressed against you, and you can see the faint sheen of sweat coating them, making his skin gleam like polished marble in the low light. A thin trail of dark hair starts just below his navel, barely visible against his pale complexion, leading downward in a sparse, teasing line that disappears into the waistband of his pants, hinting at what’s still hidden. 

You slide off his lap then, your hands dragging down his bare chest one last time, mapping the lean planes of him—the smooth expanse of his pecs, the subtle ridges of his abs, the heat of his skin—before you sink to your knees between his legs, the cold wood biting into your skin a stark contrast  to the fire burning in your veins. Yoongi watches you, breath hitching, hands flexing on the bed as you teg at the waistband of his sweatpants, his hips lifting slightly to help you pull them down along with his boxers, crumpling into a messy pile around his ankles. His cock springs free, hard and leaking, the tip glistening with a fat bead of precum that catches the faint candlelight glow—a slick, iridescent promise of how much he’s been aching for this, how long he’s been holding back. You pause, your breath snagging in your throat at the sight of him—thick, flushed, veins pulsing faintly under the skin, every inch of him straining towards you. Your fingers hover near it, trembling with the weight of anticipation that’s been clawing at you, a hunger that’s sunk its teeth into your core and won’t let go. Then you reach out, wrapping your hand around him—tentative at first, your touch light as you feel the heat radiating off him, the slight give of skin over rigid flesh. His reaction is instant: a sharp, guttural groan rips from his throat, loud and unrestrained, his hips jerking up an inch like he’s already chasing you. 

You tighten your grip, fingers curling around his length, and start to stroke—slowly, deliberately, watching his face twist with every pass. The skin is velvet-hot under your palm, slick where he’s leaking, and you drag your thumb over the tip, smearing the precum in a lazy, teasing circle. Yoongi moans again, a rough, “Fuck,” spilling out as his head tips back, blonde hair spilling into his eyes in a wild, sweaty cascade that glints gold in the dim light before falling into shadow. His chest heaves, a low growl rumbling through it as you lean closer, your breath fanning over him, warm and deliberate. Your lips brush the tip, featherlight, barely a touch, and he shudders hard, thighs tensing under your elbows where they rest, a ragged “shit” groaning out of him as his hands flex on the bed, knuckles whitening against the sheets. 

You part your lips, letting your breath tease him for a bit longer, watching his abs clench, his jaw tighten, the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard. The you take him in—slowly at first, your tongue flicking out to lap at the slit, tasting the sharp salt of him, the heat that floods your mouth as you close your lips around the head. You swirl your tongue, tracing the ridge beneath with a slow, deliberate drag, savoring the way he pulses against you, the way his groan turns into a louder, “Fuck—yes,” his voice cracking on the edge of desperation. You suck lightly, lips tightening as you pull him deeper, inch by tantalizing inch, your jaw stretching to accommodate him as you hollow your cheeks, creating a tight, wet vacuum that makes him hiss—a sharp, needy sound that cuts through the quiet. 

The taste of him intensifies, and you start to bob your head, setting a rhythm that’s wet and sloppy. Spit gathers at the corners of your mouth, slick and messy, dripping down your chin as you take him further, the heat of him pressing against your tongue, nudging the back of your throat with every downward stroke. Yoongi’s hand shoots to your hair, fingers threading into the soft strands with a rough grip—not just anchoring now, but guiding, tugging you down harder as he groans again, his voice gravelly and wrecked. His hips twitch up, a shallow thrust that pushes him deeper, and you gag slightly, the burn in your throat sharp but thrilling as you adjust, breathing through your nose to keep in time with him. 

He gets rougher then, his restraint fraying as his hand tightens in your hair, pulling with a firm yank that stings your scalp and sends a jolt of heat straight to your core. “Take it,” he growls, low and commanding, his hips bucking up again—harder this time, fucking into your mouth with a controlled thrust that has you choking around him, spit spilling over your lips and down his shaft. You don’t pull back—can't, wont—your tongue flattening against him as he sets a pace, deep and insistent, each thrust hitting the back of your throat with a wet, obscene sound that fills the room. He moans louder, letting out a string of curses, “Holy shit, Y/N that feels so—fuck,” each one rougher, more broken, he voice cracking as he watches you, eyes half-lidded and dark. 

Your free hand slides up his thigh, nails scraping the taut muscle there before finding his balls, heavy and tight beneath him. You cup them, rolling them gently in your palm, feeling the way they draw up under your touch. Yoongi’s reaction is rewarding—a deep, shuddering groan tears from his chest, louder than before, his hips stuttering as the sensation hits him. You knead them softly, fingers working in time with your mouth, fondling them with a careful pressure that makes his moans climb higher. The added stimulation drives him wild, his thrusts turning sloppier, more desperate, fucking your throat with a rhythm that’s less controlled now, more primal. Your eyes flick up, meeting his, and the sight of him unravels you—head tipped back, blonde hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, burning with a desperation that’s almost palpable—and it sends a shiver through you, your own arousal pooling low, thighs clamping together as the ache between your legs sharpens into something almost unbearable. 

It’s intoxicating, the way he’s falling apart for you, and it drives you to push him further, to take him deeper. You relax your throat, letting him thrust past the point of comfort, the stretch burning as you gag again, spit pooling and dripping onto his thighs as he fucks your mouth with a grunt. His moans turn constant now, a litany of sound—low growls, sharp groans, broken curses—each one louder, rougher, spilling out as his hips snap forward, his grip on your hair tightening until it’s a delicious ache. He’s losing it, control slipping through his fingers, and you can feel it in the way his thrusts falter, the way his abs clench, a ripple of muscles that signals he’s close. “Y/N—shit, I’m gonna cum,” he growls, voice strained and raw, a warning that’s morphed it’s way into a plea, giving you the change to pull back if you want it. But you don’t—you can’t—doubling down instead, sucking harder, your lips a tight seal around him as you take him as deep as you can, throat flexing around his length. 

You hand pumps the base, fast and slick, working what your mouth can’t reach, while your other hand squeezes his balls just a little harder, rolling them in a way that drags another loud, shuddering moan from him. His hips buck one last time, hard and erratic, and then he’s coming undone—a choked, “Shit,” tearing from his throat as he spills into your mouth, hot and pulsing, thick bursts that coat your tongue, your throat, filling you with the taste of him—salt and heat and raw, unfiltered need. 

You keep going, working him through it, your mouth softening but still moving, your hand stroking slower now as you milk every last shudder from him. His groans turn ragged, breathless, his body trembling beneath you, thigh twitching as he rides out the waves. His hand in your hair loosens, fingers slipping free with a faint tremor, and you pull back slowly, letting him slide from your mouth with a wet, messy pop, spit and cum mingling on your lips as you gasp for air. Your chin’s a wreck, slick and dripping, and you swipe it with the back of your hand, panting as you look up at him, your chest heaving, thighs still pressed tight against the ache that’s screaming between your legs. 

You start to shift, intending to rise, but Yoongi moves faster, his hand snapping to your arms with a grip that’s firm, unyielding, almost bruising as he hauls you up from the floor with a strength that steals your breath. Your knees groan as they leave the cold ground, a soft, startled gasp slipping form your lips as he pulls you onto the bed, dragging you up to meet him in a rush of motion that makes your head spin. His mouth crashes onto yours, fierce and unrelenting, a kiss that’s all teeth and heat, claiming you with a bruising intensity that leaves no room for air. His tongue dives in, hot and possessive, tasting himself on you—the salt and musk of his release mingling with the faint sweetness of you—and he groans into it, a deep, primal sound that rumbles against your lips, sending a fresh wave of heat crashing through your core. 

His hands shove at the hoodie still clinging to your frame—his hoodie, oversized and heavy with his scent—fingers rough and impatient as they yank it up and over your head, the fabric catching on your arms for a heartbeat before you shake it free. It falls to the floor with a muffled thud, and the cold air of the room bites into your newly bared skin, prickling goosebumps across your chest, your nipples hardening instantly under the chill and weight of his stare. You shiver, caught between the shock of exposure and the fire in his eyes, but he doesn’t give you time to adjust—his hands are on you again, strong and commanding, flipping you onto your back with a swift, effortless twist that makes the bed creak softly, the springs protesting under the sudden shift. Your back hits the mattress, the tangled blankets cool and soft against your skin, and Yoongi looms over you, his lean, shirtless frame a shadowed silhouette against the glow of the candles—his bare chest slick with sweat, abs tightening as he braces himself above you, a smirk tugging at his lips, sharp and dangerous. 

“Fucking finally,” he mutters, voice low and gravelly, thick with intent as his hands drop to the waistband of your sweatpants. Hi fingers hook onto the fabric, rough and urgent, yanking your sweatpants and panties down in one harsh, impatient tug that scrapes against your thighs, the material bunching briefly before he rips it free. The cold air hits you like a slap, a shock against the slick, burning heat between your legs, and you shudder, half from the chill, half from the raw vulnerability of being spread bare beneath him. He tosses the clothes aside, the faint rustle of them landing somewhere in the dark swallowed by the pounding of your heart, and his hands find your thighs—his grip bruising, possessive, as he forces them apart, spreading you wide with a strength that makes your breath hitch, your body arching instinctively toward him, open and waiting. 

Yoongi’s head dips low, his breath ghosting over your core first—a warm, teasing huff that makes your hips twitch upward, chasing the promise of contact. His hands dig into your thighs, fingers splayed wide and bruising as he holds you open, pinning you to the mattress with a force that leaves no room for resistance. His lips graze your clit, a fleeting, featherlight brush that sends a sharp, electric jolt ripping through you, arching your back off the bed as a gasp tears from your throat, high and desperate. Then he dives in, his mouth latching onto you with a hunger that’s almost feral, sucking hard on your clit with a wet, obscene pull that makes your vision blur at the edges. The sudden pressure is a shockwave, a white-hot burst that has your hips bucking against his face, a chokes whimper spilling from your lips as your hands scrabble against the blankets, searching for something to hold onto. 

His tongue follows, relentless and greedy, lapping at your folds with broad, messy strokes that leave no part of you untouched, electing a loud cry from you. The wet heat of it drags through your slickness, a slow, deliberate sweep that collects every drop of your arousal, and he groans against you—a deep, guttural sound that vibrates through your core, making your thighs tremble in his grasp. He circles your clit with tight, teasing loops, the tip of his tongue flicking against the swollen bud in quick, precise darts that have you whimpering, your breath hitching in sharp, uneven bursts. The he shifts, plunging his tongue inside you, thrusting it deep into your heat with a rhythm that’s slow but unyielding, fucking you with it as you moan, loud and unabashed. “Oh, shit, Yoongi!” You cry, the words spilling out of you before you can stop them. 

His hands tighten on your hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh there, leaving crescent-shaped marks as he pulls you closer, pressing you harder against his mouth like he can’t get enough. His nose brushes your clit as he buries himself deeper, and your breath hitches, your moans growing louder with each pass of his tongue. He pulls back just enough to suck your clit again, lips sealing around it with a fierce, wet suction that makes your back bow off mattress, a sharp cry ripping from your throat—“Y-Yoongi, please,”—your voice breaking on his name. His tongue flicks against you in response, fast and ruthless, and then his fingers join in—two of them sliding into you, curling deep, stretching you open with a deliberate thrust that makes you feel every inch of his digits, every ridge of his knuckles as they sink inside. 

He pumps them fast, rough, the wet squelch of your arousal loud in the quiet room, mingling with the faint howl of the storm outside. His fingers curl just right, hooking against that spot inside you that sends sparks bursting behind your eyes, and he pairs it with another hard suck on your clit, his teeth grazing you lightly—a fleeting sting that makes you jolt, a whimper turning into a moan. His free hand lifts, hovering over your thigh for a moment, then comes down with a sharp crack, spanking you once—the sound echoing, the heat blooming instant and fierce across your skin. “Louder, let me hear you,” he growls, voice muffled against you, his breath hot and ragged as he dives back in, tongue lapping at you like a man starved. You oblige without meaning to, a loud stream of moans spilling out as your hips grind against his face, chasing the pressure building inside you. 

Your hands find his hair, fingers threading into the sweaty blonde strands, tugging hard—hard enough to make him groan again, a deep, rumbling “mmph” that vibrates through you, pushing you closer to the edge. He retaliates by nipping at your clit, a quick, sharp bite that sends a jolt of pleasure racing through you, your grip tightening as you yank his hair again, desperate and wild. “So wet for me,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, lips brushing your clit as he speaks, the words sinking into you like heat, stoking the fire in your belly. “Been dreaming of this pussy—gonna make you scream.” His tongue dives back in, relentless, swirling around your clit before plunging inside again, fucking you with it in deep, wet strokes while his fingers pump faster, curling harder, stretching you open until you’re trembling and whimpering, thighs shaking uncontrollably un his bruising grip. 

The candlelight dances over your body—sweat beading on your stomach, glistening in the hollows of your hips, a red mark blooming bright and hot where he spanked you, the skin tender and pulsing with every brush of his fingers. Yoongi’s focused, utterly consumed—his eyes flick up to yours, dark and piercing, locked on your face as he drinks in every whimper, every squirm, every broken sound you make. His hair’s a mess from your grip, strands sticking to his forehead, falling into his eyes, but he doesn’t care—his tongue keeps moving, his fingers relentless, savoring the way you’re unraveling beneath him. The pleasure’s sharp, overwhelming, a knife-edge that cuts through you. 

He spanks you again, harder this time, the crack louder, the heat searing across your ass as his fingers curl just right, hitting your g-spot with brutal precision while his tongue flicks your clit in quicks, merciless strokes. You break—screaming his name, “Yoongi—fuck!” The sound raw and ragged, tearing from your throat as your body shatters, clenching tight around his fingers, pulsing hot and wet against his mouth. Your back arches high, hips grinding against him as the climax rips through you, a tidal wave of pleasure that leaves you shaking, trembling, a moaning mess, every nerve alight. He doesn’t stop, lapping you through it with slow, greedy strokes, his tongue dragging out every shudder every twitch, his fingers easing their pace but still moving, coaxing you down from the peak until you’re gasping, oversensitive, tugging hard at his hair to pull him up, your chest heaving as you pant beneath him, wrecked and sated. 

Your chest heaves, lungs burning as you pant beneath Yoongi, your body still trembling from the aftershocks of his mouth on you, his fingers inside you, the oversensitive twitches shuddering through your thighs where they press against the mattress. He pulls back from your core, lips glistening with your slick in the faltering candlelight glow, his blonde hair a sweaty, tangled mess from your desperate tugging, strands plastered to his forehead and falling into his eyes—dark, wild, smoldering with a hunger that hasn’t dimmed. His bare chest gleams with sweat, the lean planes of his abs tightening with each shallow, unsteady breath, his pale skin flushed pink from exertion, collarbones sharp and jutting, a faint sheen of perspiration pooling in the hollow of his throat. He climbs over you, his wiry frame moving with a predator's grace, sweat-slick chest brushing your bare skin as he looms above, caging you in with his arms, the heat of him searing into you like a brand. His mouth crashes into yours, sloppy and deep, a messy tangle of tongues and teeth that tastes of you—sweet and sharp—and him, salt and heat from earlier, a primal mix that makes your head spin. You moan, soft and needy, your hands clawing at his bare back, nails raking down the lean muscle, digging into the taut ridges of his spine as you press yourself closer, your chest heaving against his. 

“I need you, Yoongi, need your cock.” The want between you is raw, reckless, primal—no barriers, just skin and heat—he smirks, and you shift, pushing him back onto the mattress with a surge of strength, the bed creaking sharply as you climb over him, straddling his hips, your thighs once again bracketing his lean waist, knees sinking into the tangled blankets. He groans, low and guttural, as you line yourself up, the head of his cock brushing your entrance—bare, hot, pulsing against your slick heat. He shifts beneath you, one hand reaching down toward the bedside table, fingers stretching for a condom packet in the dim light, but you catch his wrist, stopping him mid-motion. He pauses, eyes flicking to yours, a question in their dark depths, and you lean in close, breath hitching as you whisper, “I want to feel all of you.” His gaze darkens further, a flash of something feral passing through it, and he groans, deeper, his hand falling back to your hip, fingers sinking into the soft flesh there as he surrenders to the moment.  

You sink down slow at first, the stretch raw and intense, a searing burn that splits you open. Inch by thick inch, filling you completely with no layer between you, just the unfiltered heat of him inside. You moan, loud and trembling, your head tipping back as he bottoms out, hips flush against his, the fullness overwhelming, your walls clenching around him instinctively, a tight, greedy grip that makes him groan again, “God, you feel so good—shit.” Your nails bite into his chest, scraping over his pecs, leaving red trails across his pale skin as you start to move, lifting yourself up and dropping back down, the wet slap of your thighs against his steady, filthy rhythm. “Look at you,” he grunts in between each pass of you against his member, “avoiding me for weeks and now you’re practically begging for my cock.” 

You moan, high and desperate, as you ride him, hips rolling with every rise and fall, the drag of him against your walls sending jolts of pleasure sparking through you, your ass bouncing against his thighs with each thrust, and he relishes in the movement of your breasts as you ride him. “Oh, God, Yoongi—” He groans, rough and primal, his hands guiding you, lifting you higher, slamming you down higher, the bed creaking wildly under the force, springs protesting as your pace quickens.  

You lean forward, hands braced on his chest, nails digging deeper into the firm muscle, and he spanks you once—hard—the crack sharp and loud, “Yeah, you like that, don’t you?” The sting blooms hot across your ass, making you moan louder, a broken sound that echoes in the room. He spanks you again, “you like it rough, baby?” You nod in response, the heat spreading like wildfire, and you shudder, your rhythm faltering for a moment as the pain twists into pleasure, your moans climbing higher, constant now, spilling form you with every roll of your hips. 

Yoongi’s groans deepen, his thrusts up to meet you turning erratic, his cock twitching inside you, and he moans, a strained, desperate sound, his abs clenching tight under his sweat slick skin, sweat beading on his brow as he fights the edge. “Fucking hell.” He shifts abruptly, hands gripping your waist, flipping you off him with a swift, strong twist that makes you yelp, a sharp moan tearing from your throat as he pulls out, leaving you empty and trembling, your walls clenching around nothing, slick and desperate. He moves fast, pushing you onto your stomach, “Ass up,” he demands, the bed creaking as he pulls your hips up, forcing you to comply, your knees sinking into the mattress. 

He drives back in with a single, deep thrust, bottoming out in one brutal snap of his hips, hitting every spot, and you moan long and loud, “You feel so good, Yoongi, fuck,” your voice shakes as he fills you again, the new angle letting him go deeper, harder, his cock dragging against your walls with a precision that has your toes curling, your hands clawing at the sheets, tearing at the fabric. He groans, rough and primal, hands gripping your hips, pulling you back onto him with every thrust, the force rocking your body forward, your face pressing into the pillow, muffling your constant moans—high, desperate, spilling from you with every snap of his hips, driving you closer to the edge. 

Your climax builds fast, a tight coil snapping in your belly, every thrust, every spank, pushing you higher, “I’m so close, Yoongi! Gonna cum soon—” you moan louder, a desperate, shuddering sound as your walls start to flutter around him, clenching tight. Your orgasm hits hard, a shattering wave that rips through you, and you scream into the pillow, a raw, broken moan muffled against the fabric as your body shakes, trembling uncontrollably, pleasure crashing through you in relentless surges, your ass stinging, red and raw, your nails clawing at the sheets, tearing holes in the cotton as you ride it out, shuddering, lost in the raw heat of him inside you. 

He feels it, groaning loud and rough, his thrusts turning sloppy, hips stuttering as your clenching walls grip him, and he cries out, “Ah shit, Y/N!” It’s a strained sound, breaking form his chest as he chases his own edge, sweat dripping onto your back, hot and slick. His climax snaps, a guttural moan tearing from him as he spills inside you, hot and deep, pulsing thick and unrestrained, filling you with every erratic trust. His hands pull you back onto him as he comes, trembling above you, breath ragged, breaking into rough sound as he rides his orgasm out, his cum leaking out, warm and sticky, dripping down your thighs. He collapses over you, chest pressed to your back, his weight heavy and grounding, both of you shaking, spent, tangled in the damp, sweat-soaked sheets. His arm drapes around your waist, breath hot and uneven against your neck, stirring the damp hair there. 

The cold begins to seep into the room as the last candlelight flickers out with a faint hiss, plunging you into near-darkness, the only light a thin, silvery glow from the window that softly outlines Yoongi’s lean, shirtless form as he slides off your back and next to you. His chest rises and falls in slow, uneven breaths, a faint sheen of sweat still clinging to his flushed skin, catching the dim light across the sharp lines of his collarbones and the subtle ridges of his abs, now relaxed after the tension of before. Silence settles over you, thick and soothing, like a heavy blanket, muffling the world beyond—the storm outside reduced to a faint whisper against the glass, barely audible over the slowing thud of your pulse. You lie there, breathless and spent, your body heavy with exhaustion, tangled in the sweat-soaked fabric that clings to you, sticky and warm, but there’s a sweetness to it, a comfort in the mess you’ve made together. 

Yoongi shifts beside you, rolling onto his side with a soft creak of the mattress, his movement careful, deliberate, as if he’s afraid to jostle you too much. “Hey, you okay?” he asks, his voice low and gentle, a quiet rasp softened by a thread of concern that makes your chest warm, his breath brushing your cheek as he props himself up slightly. You turn your head toward him, cheek sinking into the pillow, damp strands of your hair sticking to your flushed face, and catch his eyes in the dimness—soft, warm, searching yours with a tenderness that feels like a balm after the roughness. 

“Yeah,” you murmur, voice hoarse from exertion, a small, tired smile tugging at your lips as you meet his gaze, your lids heavy with fatigue. “Wrecked, though—like, can’t-move wrecked.” He chuckles, a gentle, rumbling sound that vibrates through his chest, and his hand slides up to your hair, fingers threading through the sweaty, tangled mess, rubbing your scalp with a slow, soothing touch that draws a faint moan form you, a sigh of pure relief. 

“My favorite kind of wrecked,” he says softly, his tone teasing but laced with affection, his thumb brushing along your temple as he smooths your hair back, tracing the curve of your cheek with a gentleness that makes your heart flutter. His fingers linger, rubbing slow circles against your scalp, easing the faint ache form earlier tugging, and you feel your body soften under his touch, the tension melting away as you sink into the comfort of it. “You’re still warm,” he whispers, his voice barely above a breath, a quiet wonder in it as he leans closer, his lips brushing your forehead in a tender kiss, soft and fleeting but heavy with care. You snuggle into him, ignoring the sweat—his skin slick and sticky against yours, your cheek pressing into the curve of his chest, right above his heart, where the beat thumps steady and slow beneath your ear, grounding you. He pulls you tighter, his hand still moving through your hair, fingers sliding through the strands with a kindness that makes your chest ache. 

“You’re sweaty,” you mumble, your breath warm against his chest, your nose brushing the hollow of his collarbone where the faint musk of him mixes with the salt of his skin, earthy and comforting. 

“So are you,” he replies, his voice light, a smile threading through it, “but I don’t mind—keeps you close.” His hand shifts, sliding down from your hair to trace your skin, fingertips gliding over your shoulder, along the curve of your arm, then back up, featherlight and slow, mapping you with a tenderness that sends a shiver of warmth through you. Your body curls into his, legs tangling, the stickiness of your skin fading under the solace of his touch, the way he holds you like you’re something precious. 

The room grows colder, the air brushing against the skin of your back where the sheets have slipped, but his warmth chases it away, his body a shield against the chill, his chest a steady anchor beneath your cheek. “Just rest, I’ve got you,” Yoongi whispers, and you smile against his chest, the sweat and mess a distant thought under his gentle touch, his fingers threading through your hair and tracing your skin, grounding you in his kindness as you drift, tangled together, sated and held in the quiet warmth of the moment. 

--

Two months later, the late afternoon sun spills through the living room window of your shared apartment, casting a warm golden glow over the mismatched furniture—the sagging couch where Namjoon sprawls, the coffee table cluttered with empty takeout containers, and the armchair where you’re curled up, half-draped over Yoongi. The air smells faintly of soy sauce and fried rice, remnants of the lunch you all split, and the TV hums in the background, some random variety show Namjoon picked out but no one’s really watching. Yoongi’s arm rests lazily around your shoulders, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your arm through the thin sleeve of your hoodie—his hoodie, technically, the faded black one you’ve claimed as your own. His hair’s a little longer now, his grown-out blonde strands brushing his eyes. 

“I missed you today,” you murmur, tilting your head to nuzzle his jaw, your voice soft and sweet, a little pout in it as you press closer, your hand resting on his chest where his heart beats steady under your palm.  

He chuckles, low and warm, tilting his head to meet your gaze, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners with that quiet, gummy smile you adore. “Was only gone a few hours, doll.” he says, his tone teasing but tender, his hand sliding up to rub your hair gently, fingers threading through the strands like they’ve done a hundred times since that night two months ago. 

“I still missed you,” you insist, leaning in to peck his cheek, and he hums, a contented sound, pulling you tighter against him, his lips brushing your temple in return. 

“God, you two are disgusting,” Namjoon groans from the couch, his deep voice cutting through the moment as he flops his head back dramatically, one arm slung over his eyes like he’s shielding himself from the sight. He’s sprawled out in a T-shirt and sweats, lang legs dangling over the armrest, his dimples nowhere in sight as his face twists in mock disgust. “I didn’t sign up for this,” he mutters, peeking out from under his arm to glare at you both, his annoyance palpable. 

You giggle, turning to sick your tongue out at him, and Yoongi smirks, his hand still rubbing your hair as he leans his head against yours. “What, Joon? Jealous?” Yoongi teases, his voice light, and you snuggle closer, your cheek pressing into his shoulder. 

Namjoon sits up, tossing a throw pillow at you both—it misses, landing harmlessly on the floor—and runs a hand through his dark hair, exasperated. “I suggested you crash here, man, because you said you needed a place to stay, not so you could turn my best friend into—into this,” he says, gesturing vaguely at the two of you tangled together, his time a mix of irritation and disbelief. “I swear, if you start jumping each other’s bones right in front of me, I’m moving to Japan. I’ll sleep on the street before I watch that.”  

You laugh, bright and unrestrained, and Yoongi’s chuckle joins yours, his fingers tracing down your arm now, a soft, comforting glide. “Relax, Joon,” you say, grinning, “we’ll save it for when you’re not around.” 

“Yeah, promise,” Yoongi adds, his voice deadpan but his eyes glinting with mischief as he pulls you even closer, his lips brushing your ear just to mess with Namjoon more. He groans again, louder, flopping back onto the couch with an exaggerated huff, muttering, “Should’ve known this would happen—gross, both of you.”  

He grabs the remote, cranking the TV volume up to drown out your giggles, while you and Yoongi stay wrapped up in each other, the warmth of his touch and the softness of his laughter a quiet comfort against Namjoon’s playful grumbling. 

As the day fades into evening, the three of you setting into this new, chaotic normal, a little louder, a little messier, but unmistakably home. 

[wbbpls]

Platonic Plus One

Chapter 6: Paige's POV

word count: 3,253

I tried to make this one a little longer for you guys! honestly pls go thank some of your favorite fic writers that always have the longest chapters bc damn its hard. anyway hope you like it!

Paige had no idea what came over her when she kissed Azzi. There was something about all the almost kisses and Azzi’s stunt in front of that bartender that Paige just couldn’t hold it back anymore.

This is all so fucking confusing because it feels so fucking real. How Azzi looks at her, how she stutters when she gets nervous, how she claimed Paige, and how her dimple seems to pop just a little extra make it feel too real. 

It just doesn’t make sense how Azzi can fake this so easily, but I guess she is really desperate to have her family leave her alone about dating. And of course Jonathon was invited to this wedding. When they dated for a bit and went to prom together, Paige had just started to understand the depths of her feelings. Watching Azzi dress up for someone else and walk away with someone else felt like the world ending. All these years later, he’s back and interested in spending time alone with her Azzi. However, she isn’t really hers.

Paige still has her hand at the base of Azzi’s neck, and the only thing holding her in reality is the feeling of Azzi’s thumbs gently rubbing circles her hips. “You know you can move your hand now, Paigey?”

But she doesn’t want to. “Oh shit, my bad,” Paige replies nervously. Azzi commented on her hand placement as if she wasn't equally touching Paige. If anything, she left her hands on Paige a beat too long after Paige removed her hand. 

Hours filled with laughter, splashing, and swimming went past before they knew it. Jessica and Brandon walk out, and everyone starts cheering. “Hi, everyone!” Jessica smiles and stops by the pool to say hi to the girls. “Hi, bridesmaid!! 

“Hi, bride!”

With a mischievous look, Jessica moves her eyes to Paige and says, “And hello to you, Mrs. Bridesmaid.”

Paige chuckles and wraps her arm around Azzi’s waist. “Hey, Jess, this place is insane.”

“Just wait until you see the spa. Their couple massages are out of this world.”

“Baby, we should go! That would be so nice after being tense from all that running coach made us do.”

“You guys totally should! I’m going to keep doing rounds to say hi to everyone, but let’s catch up later!”

The girls say bye to Jess and fall into a newfound silence as everyone else disperses, unsure how to shift back after their kiss. It hasn’t even been a full day of this, and Paige’s brain is scrambling. So she talks about what she knows best, basketball. “You know I meant to tell you, Coach got all on my ass because I was shooting too many free throws. Who even gets mad at that? Like dude, I’m practicing.”

“He just doesn’t want you to overdo it, that’s all.”

“Nah, Big G doesn’t want me to miss my shots.”

“Okay, fine. Well, I don’t want you to over do it, so at least listen to me.” 

“I’m good, Az, chill.” Paige isn’t good and hasn’t been good for over a month. Of course, Azzi would see that. The pressure of the season, the NIL deals, the growing responsibilities, and the lack of a national championship are closing in on Paige. She knows Azzi wants to help, but right now, the weight of the world is on her shoulders, and if she stops to rest, she knows everything will crumble. 

“I don’t mean anything by it. I just, I don’t know, I hope you know I’m always here for you. That’s all.” The tension in her shoulders almost immediately resolved. If anyone, Azzi would let the ‘Paige Bueckers’ just be Paige, even for a night, despite the flaws and mistakes she carries. 

“I’m sorry, Az. I know you are.” Paige reached out her fingertips to touch Azzi’s. “Hey, you wanna ditch and go watch Frozen?”

Azzi’s eyes brightened immediately.” Yes! Ugh, I miss that bed it was so comfy.” Paige fully grasps Azzi’s hand now and pulls her towards the stairs. “Aight, Princess, let’s get you dried off.” 

Once they got near their chairs, Paige noticed Azzi’s goosebumps and slight shivering. She quickly grabbed the big towel, wrapped it around her shoulders, and opened her arms for Azzi to enter. Azzi smiled sheepishly but took the opportunity to rest her head on Paige’s shoulder and wrapped her arms around her waist. Paige makes sure Azzi is wrapped comfortably in the blanket and rubs one of her hands up and down Azzi’s back. Azzi sighs and leans deeper into her neck. “Mmm, sometimes I forget what a good hugger you are.”

Paige feels chills going down her spine. Not because of Azzi’s sweet words, but because of her lips gently touching Paige’s neck as she spoke. “Well then, maybe you should hug me more.”

“Well, maybe I will.”

“Is that a threat?” Paige smirks down at Azzi.

“It’s a promise.” Without even thinking, Paige kisses Azzi’s forehead. “You ready to go up, Az?”

Azzi softly smiles, and that softness travels up to her eyes. “Yeah, P.” God, this might be one of her favorite Azzi smiles because this smile is only for Paige. Azzi might not be hers, but that beautiful smile is. 

They gather their stuff, and Paige grabs both their bags. As they walk towards the door, Azzi yells over to Katie, “Hey, Mom, we are gonna head up for a nap. Call if you need anything!”

“See ya, girls!”

Paige opened the door for Azzi and watched her walk in. She would open every door for Azzi if it meant less work her favorite girl needed to put in. But honestly, Paige partially does it because it gives her a unique opportunity to appreciate Azzi’s body without her noticing. A key part of Azzi being her sexual awakening was also Paige realizing she was definitely an ass girl. Can you blame her?

====================================

The walk back to their room is filled with laughter and inside jokes. Once they reach their door, Azzi opens it and jumps onto the bed. Man, she’s cute. “Ugh, I love hotel service when they make your bed.”

Paige chuckles as she sets their stuff down. “I’m getting into cozies with or without you, Az,” Paige says as she strips off her shirt. She notices Azzi glancing down appreciatively at her abs for just a moment. 

Azzi dramatically gasps, “You wouldn’t!” Paige just smirks and grabs fresh clothes before heading into the bathroom. She changes into boxers, a sports bra, black sweatpants, and an old, oversized team USA basketball shirt. Opening the bathroom door, she walks to Azzi, pouting in her sleep shorts and a sports bra.

Paige lays down on the best and sighs in relief at the comfort of the bed. She pats next to her to signal for Azzi to come lie down. “What’s wrong, Princess?”

“You!”

“Me? Me what?”

“I wanted to wear that shirt.” Now, Azzi is standing over Paige with her arms crossed.

“It’s my shirt, Azzi.”

“No, it’s my shirt, Paige.” Okay, she might be right there, but that's not the point. 

“You’re really gonna make me change right now? I just got comfy.”

Azzi sits on her knees next to Paige, making her pout even bigger. “C’mon Paigey, please?”

“Ugh, fine.” Paige would give Azzi the shirt off her back, both figuratively and literally, as you can tell. Paige whispers under her breath, “Such a brat,” as she takes her shirt off.

“Hey!” Azzi takes advantage of her vulnerable position and tickles Paige as the t-shirt is over her head.

“Azzi, stop!” Paige started laughing and squirming under her, trying to gain the upper hand. Azzi grabs the t-shirt, giving Paige the perfect opportunity. Paige grabs Azzi’s hips and flips them, straddling her legs over Azzi’s waist and pinning both hands above her head. 

“You are such a brat.” They are both breathless from their tickling match.

“Hmm, but you love me.” Azzi flashes a big smile, moving her hands to lace her fingers with Paige’s. 

Time slows down. “Yeah, I do.” And Paige meant it. Their eye contact is too intense to stay in, yet too intense to leave. Suddenly, Paige is very aware of them both not wearing a shirt and how close their faces are. 

Azzi’s eyes flash to Paige’s lips, then whispers gently, “I do too.” 

No one is here but them. They don’t need to fake anything for anyone. They don’t need to be this close, and they definitely don’t need to be one move away from kissing. Suddenly, she can hear KK in the back of her head again, telling her to be careful. She’ll never tell KK, but she’s right. She can’t lose Azzi because of some stupid feelings. Paige takes in a deep breath and resets. Azzi’s face flashes with disappointment as Paige swings off of Azzi. “Ready for your little snowman dude to sing to you?”

“His name is Olaf, and yes, very much so.” Azzi slips on the team USA basketball t-shirt with a smug face, knowing she won this round. Paige leans back with her right arm resting behind her head while she searches for the movie with the remote in her left hand. Azzi gets herself comfortable, leaning her head on Paige’s shoulder. She already seems sleepy, so seeing how long Azzi even makes it will be interesting. 

Paige doesn’t even like this movie that much. It’s not bad. Her opinion of it doesn't match how often she has seen it. But it became Azzi’s comfort movie, so somewhere along the way, it became Paige’s too.  

Before Olaf could even sing about what he’d do in the summer, Azzi's breathing got heavier, indicating she was either about to fall asleep or already asleep. Throughout the movie, she kept readjusting to get closer to Paige. She wrapped her arm around Paige’s bare stomach and intertwined their legs. Azzi was absenmindidly drawing circles on Paige’s stomach, making Paige sleepy too. 

Azzi’s mumbles wake Paige up the slightest bit as she rubs her back. “I love to cuddle you, baby.” Baby. She just called her baby.

Paige freezes for a moment. There is no way normal best friends say things like that to each other. The line of faking is becoming harder and harder to distinguish, especially as Azzi is slipping out pet names in her sleep. Paige squeezes Azzi a little tighter, appreciating this moment together before falling asleep soon after. 

====================================

Paige wakes up to the sound of Azzi’s phone vibrating on the side table. Paige tries to cover her eyes from the light and block her ears from the noise with her pillow. Azzi leans over Paige to grab her phone and then rests right back where she was. “Hi, Mom, what’s up?”

“Oh shit sorry did I wake you guys up?”

“Yeah, but we should probably be getting up soon anyway. Did you need anything?”

“I was wondering if you and Paige wanted to join Dad, me, and the boys for dinner. Some cute restaurants in the main town are not too far from here.” 

“Sounds good to us. Meet in like an hour?”

“Perfect, see you both then.”

Paige heard the whole conversation but was trying to enjoy her last little bit of sleep. Azzi begins to drag her fingers up and down Paige’s abs. “Wake up, P, we gotta get ready for dinner.” 

“I am ready.” Paige mumbles groggily. 

“I don’t think the restaurant or my parents would agree that sweatpants and a sports bra are considered ready to go.”

“Well, they should.”

“Alright, sleepy, pick clothes for dinner tonight.”

“For me or you?”

“Uh, both?” 

Paige teases Azzi for always stealing her clothes, but in reality, she loves it. Something about it feels so domestic. “Aight, wear those short shorts with the pink crop top.” 

“Yes, ma’am.”

Paige changes into light green pants, a white crop top, and an open black button-up with zig zag patterns. Her sneakers have a small platform, giving her an extra inch over Azzi than usual. She takes her hair out to leave down with a nice wave, knowing Azzi will play with her hair a little extra. 

“Love when your hair is down like that, P. You look so pretty.” God, the power this woman has over Paige is honestly unnecessary. 

“Thanks, Az.” 

“Aww, you’re blushing!”

“What? No! I’m probably just, uh, s-sunburnt.” 

“Sure you are, P.”

“Aight, whatever, let’s go before your dad blames me for you making us late.” Paige grabs Azzi’s hand and pulls her out of the hotel room, leading them to the elevator. Because everything is a competition for them, they race trying to press the button before the other. Azzi makes a lead by pushing Paige against the wall. Just as Azzi was about to press the button, Paige came up behind her, wrapping her arms around her stomach, picking her up and spinning her around. 

Azzi squeals and kicks her feet in the air. “Paige!! Put me down. This isn't fair!” 

Paige stretches her arm out to press the button. “Nah, winning is winning, princess.”

The elevator dings open, and the groosman are packed in there. “Hey, Azzi! Paige!” Jake waves them in. Paige moved her hands from Azzi’s stomach to her lower back to lead her in. The girls say their hellos and shuffle into the center of the elevator. Everyone keeps chatting, but one of the guys, Matt, lingers a little too long on Azzi. Paige should have told her to wear sweatpants and an oversized sweatshirt. 

Jake broke the tension, “Oh, by the way, we are thinking of throwing a party in our room tonight. You guys down?”

Of course, Matt feels the need to chime in with his gross smirk. “Yeah, Azzi, it would be awesome to see you there.” 

Paige can’t stand guys like him, especially when it comes to Azzi. She took advantage of their fake dating situation, wrapped her arm possessively around Azzi’s waist, and ignored Matt. “We’ll both be there. Thanks for the invite, Jake.”

The doors open, and they all make their way out. “We’ll see you guys tonight!” Of course, Azzi is always nice. In the lobby, the Fudds are waiting for them. 

“Took you long enough, Bueckers.” 

“Woah, woah, pause. I was ready. Azzi was the one making us late!”

“Not even true, Paige.”

“You expect me not to believe my own daughter?” Tim crosses his arms, towering over Paige.

“No, sir. Sorry we’re late,” Paige mumbled and walked towards the door. Azzi giggles and leans in to hug her Dad. 

Jon laughs and mumbles, “Simp.”

A van is waiting for them out front, and Paige stands next to the door, waiting for Azzi. She offers her hand for Azzi to take as she steps in, “For you, Princess.”

“Thanks, baby.” 

“C’mon Paige, hurry up, we’re hungry,” Jose grumbles. 

“Damn, y’all are some hangry Fudd’s.”

====================================

After a car ride filled with laughter, they safely arrive at the restaurant, slide into their booth, and order drinks. Katie was the first to break the silence. “Well, this is our first dinner with Paige as the girlfriend, not the best friend. So everyone has permission to interrogate her.”

“Woah, wait, was this a trap?!” Azzi giggles and puts her hand on Paige’s thigh as she tries to apologize through her laughs. 

“Paige, what are your intentions with my sister?” Jon narrows his eyes at Paige. 

“Seriously, dude?”

“Actually, I do have a question, if you girls don’t mind.”

“Sure, Mom, what’s up?”

“Well, I’m curious, Paige. When was the moment you knew you loved Azzi as more than just a friend?”

“Oh man, y’all gettin’ right down to it.” 

“Yeah, Paigey, tell us alllllll about when you fell in love with me.” Paige gulps, trying to calm her heart down. 

“I think the moment it really clicked for me was when you came to visit for my birthday freshman year. Like I had plenty of moments before that I knew I saw you as more than a friend, but when you were there, it felt like everything just fell into place, I guess. And we were all making cookies in my apartment, and you just fit in so easily, watching you laugh and smile with all our friends. That moment, I knew I was in love with you and couldn’t see a part of my life you don’t fit in.” 

Azzi looked at Paige in awe, squeezing her thigh a little tighter as she spoke. “I didn’t know that.” 

“Learn something new every day, I guess.” Paige slipped her hand into Azzi’s. “That was really when it all changed for you? That long ago?”

“Yeah, Az, probably even sooner.” Paige didn’t have it in herself to look Azzi in her beautiful brown eyes and lie. Even if this is all a facade at the end of the day, at least she can honestly say she told Azzi Fudd when she fell in love with her.

After that confession, Azzi was even touchier than usual. She needed some point of physical contact with Paige at all times. When she really got touchy was whenever the waitress came around.

“Is there anything else I can get for the table?” She addresses everyone, but her eyes seem to think only Paige exists. She’s been complimenting Paige or looking her up and down all night. Of course, Paige was oblivious to it, but even Tim caught on to his daughter's annoyance and became the distinct voice for the table. “We’re all set for now, thank you.” 

Just a few minutes later, the waitress returned with another Dirty Shirley, placing it in front of Paige. “This is for you, hun.” 

“Oh, I didn’t order another one.”

“I know, that one’s on me.” The waitress says in a flirty tone and winks at Paige. Azzi’s grip on Paige tightens and Paige hears Jon and Jose say “Oh shit.” She looks between the brothers, Azzi, and the waitress, confused and overwhelmed. 

Azzi leans into Paige, reaching over her to take the drink. “Don’t worry, baby, I’ll have it.” Paige wrapped her arms around Azzi and chuckled at her not-so-subtle hint at the waitress. Azzi looks the waitress dead in the eye as she takes a sip from the straw. The waitress looked uncomfortable and unsure where to go, so she quickly left to address another table. 

“Oooooh, Azzi is jealoooooooous!” 

“Shut up, she was just annoying. Like take a hint.” Azzi rolled her eyes at her brothers, and the conversation naturally flowed to something else. 

“Did you want a taste, Paigey?” Azzi pushes the drink towards her, and when Paige moves to take a sip, Azzi pulls it back and moves her mouth to Paige’s ear. “I never said how you’d get to taste it.”

Paige has never been turned on so fast in her life. Her mouth drops open, and red creeps up her neck while she grips Azzi’s hip. 

Tim must have noticed. “Cat got your tongue over there, Bueckers?” Paige has never been turned off so fast in her life. 

Azzi bursts out laughing at Paige’s frozen and shocked face before she places her head in her hands. Azzi moves her blonde strands out of the way as Paige mumbles, “I shoulda stayed home, man.” 

Azzi leans in with her hand on Paige’s back and whispers, “Well, I’m really happy you’re here, P.”

Paige can’t stop smiling for the rest of the night.

[leah-lover]

Second chances.

Alexia putellas x coach!reader.

Summary: new job, old friends , and memories your tried to forget. Will you be able to dodge the past as you navigate your new job?

“ More news arrived from the RFEF who have promised that they were going through a systematic change after the Luis Rubiales scandal. They have announced this morning the arrival of a new head coach to lead the women’s team in the upcoming euro cup which will be held in switzerland. The 33 years old coach came from the united states where she led her team to victory in the nwsl. Her name may sound familiar to you because she was a part of Vilda's coaching staff until she decided to step away for unknown reasons. Although she has never coached a national team before, the new RFEF president is confident she will heal wounds left by her predecessor mostré tomé and restore the team to its winning ways.” says the reporter on the TV. you were sitting on your couch listening to her talking about your new job with player’s files in your lap. The international break was in 7 days and you needed to get familiar with everyone and have a clear plan of your strategy. 

Being back in Spain brought back so many memories. You haven't come back since everything went down and you quit your job. You swore you would never come back to work with the RFEF however seeing everything unfold in the news you knew that agreeing to come back was more of a necessity than a choice. You loved the girls very much and you knew that they deserved better than what they got and you were adamant on giving them the best. Moreover, the new president was a woman you knew and was friends with. You trusted her and agreed to give her a chance. Besides Barcelona was the best city in the world, you couldn't pass up the chance to come back home. 

As soon as you accepted your position, you contacted old colleagues, ones that you knew you could trust,  and combined them with some of the existing staff that you were 100 percent sure were a safe fit for the new environment you were hoping to achieve and formed your new staff and announced it to the media. The fans were shocked at the amount of changes you made and their comments were very supportive of your decision which gave you a boost of confidence. 

All you were thinking about was this team. You held and attended meetings all day long. You practically lived on your desk but it was all worth it because it all led to this phone call you were pursuing since the day you got to barcelona. You waited in front of your laptop anxiously waiting for your star player to join the zoom call. Shortly after you see her face pop on your screen. 

“ hola.” you say enthusiastically. “ hola.” she replies. She looked much older since the last time you saw her, which was 4 years ago. 

“ Thanks for agreeing to this call. It  truly means a lot.” you say playing with a pen in your hands. 

“ yeah it wasn't easy but i thought why not hear you out.” she replied. 

“ So I am gonna get right to it. I want you to be back in the national team. You are the best center back i know, i want you to be in the te am, and you deserve to have a place in this team.” 

“ I see you haven't changed, you are still as honest as you were but I would have to decline.” responded mapi. 

 “ I am turning things around maria. You know me, you know my story, you know everything. This time is different. I came back to make things different. You watched everything happen in front of your eyes. Do you truly think I could make someone feel the way I felt back then?” 

Mapi stayed quiet, she was perhaps thinking about that night you decided to leave everything behind. The night the idea of las 15 was created. 

“ okay.” you hear her say. “ I will come to this camp.” you are overjoyed “ you wont regret it leon.” 

 Your happiness was cut short because you remembered that you had to do this 2 more times with pina and leila. After 2 very long phone calls you got them to trust you and to agree to the return to the national team. You then drafted the call up list and sent it to your assistant. 

The days leading up to camp went by quickly as your plans of the first steps towards rebuilding were coming to fruition. 

You were sitting in your office when  you heard a knock on the door, it was your assistant coach informing you that the players began   to arrive. A wave of nerves watched over you but that was to be expected. You were a part of this team before and you hoped they would welcome you back with open arms. You were wearing casual clothes so that you won't be seen as authoritarian. You settled for a white t-shirt, black pants and shoes, and you wore your hair down. Your objective was to appear normal and friendly to the members of the team you weren't familiar with. You headed straight for the conference room and waited for the first people to arrive. Shortly after that Irene walked through the door. You were instantly transported back to 4 years ago which is the last time you and the captain have spoken. You closed your eyes briefly to try and get the bad memories away and open a new chapter with the captain. You shook hands and exchanged pleasantries with her and the rest of the barca group but quickly moved on to the other members that had joined. After they were all settled in their chairs you noticed the absence of the person you were most afraid to see, alexia putellas. Before you accepted the job you wrote down a pros and cons list. The first reason you put on the pros was the paycheck and the glory. However for the cons the first thing you wrote down was alexia putellas’s name. Seconds after you thought about her she appeared. She was just as beautiful and charming as you remembered. She immediately came to you but without sharing eye contact with you. She went in to kiss your cheek as a way to say hello and you did too. She still smelled like before and her smell still had a magnetic power over you. She then took a seat next to Irene and you pulled yourself together again and started your presentation. 

“ Hello everybody and welcome. You all heard of me, some of you even were a part of my team when I was working here which feels like a lifetime ago. But in that lifetime this team has risen from the underdog to the most favored and feared team in the world. I am here to continue that legacy and help the team strengthen its roster. But I am also here to create an environment, a culture, and a safe space for you all.  You all are the best in Spain and you deserve to be treated like it. This culture I am trying to create involves no tolerance for homophobia, transphobia, racism, or sexism. I urge you to report any case of abuse or mistreatment from my staff or your teammates. I tried my best to employ people I trust and are advised to report anything that made you uncomfortable.  So Without further or do let's talk strategy.” 

You go over everything you expect from the team and how the strategy is going to change. You then instruct your team to go rest so that training may begin tomorrow at 9 am. 

On their way out you called for the captain to have a word with them. Once the room is empty you quickly say ” so you heard everything i said, i just want to make sure that you two know that i mean Plus the captaincy is going to change. Obviously, you two are the captain and vice. You can come with me with any concern or question about anything.my door is always open.  I am appointing jenni as the 3rd captain.” 

“ That wouldn't go over well with the federation,” said irene. 

“ Well, I don't care. They knew who they hired. Plus I don't play by their rules.” you respond. The captains share a satisfactory look with you although you haven't looked at either of their eyes, then leave. 

Your transition to head coach seemed to be seamless. The players were responding to your advice and strategies. The media seemed to be happy with the changes you made and especially with the arrival of mapi leon. The vibe of the club overall was great, and you were getting comfortable in your new spot. However, it was all about to change at the pro match press conference. The conference itself went great. You and the vice captain answered all the questions given to you without any mishaps. But once the media left and you were left alone with alexia,  you felt yourself suffocating so you quickly got up to leave.  

“ You can't avoid me forever,” said Alexia calmly. 

“ Who said anything about avoiding you?  The conference is done, so I am leaving. If you want to talk to me about anything, my office door is always open.” you say with a cold tone not bothering to look at her. 

“ You don't talk to me like you never do. Besides you won't even look at me." Alexia sounded sad. All you wanted was to take away all her pain but you couldn't. 

“ I talk like this to everybody.” you hear her get up and see her in front of you. Not looking her in her eyes  would prove her point, and doing it would rip you to shreds. You suck it up and look at her hazel captivating eyes. “ Happy now?” you respond. “ We can't continue like this, we have to talk about that night.” 

“ alexia there is nothing to talk about. I forgot everything that happened ,I moved on. I am your coach right now. If you have a concern about anything football related, come to my office.” you were lying straight to her face. You didn't move on or forget what happened. You just hoped your tough girl act would hold with her. 

Game Day was always fun for you but this time around it had a little nervousness attached to it since it was your introduction as the new coach. You started your day witha call from the RFEF board wishing you good luck and re-stating their confidence in you. You revised your strategy, confirmed you starting 11, and headed to the bus so that you would head to the stadium. You decided on a blue suit and let your hair down. You looked both masculine and feminine   which summed up your personality perfectly. 

Once you arrived at the stadium you gave the girls a motivational speech, headed to your seat in the sidelines and waited for the game to begin. You weren't a loud manager. You just sat there, observed the play and took notes. You trusted the girl’s judgment and gave them some autonomy when it came to the style of play which rewarded you with a goal in the 8th minute by aitana bonmati. The 1-0 unset turned into 6-0 by the 76th minute which made you proud of your debut. However it all turned into chaos when alexia putellas fell on the field. You panicked as the paramedics ran to her. You watched  intensely as they examined her and waited for the signal that informed you that you needed a substitution which you got almost immediately. Your heart broke for the recently healed midfielder but you had other things in mind. You called for Teresa Abelleira and subbed her in. The game ended in a 7-0 win. You shook hands with everybody, did an interview but the thought of alexia didn't leave your mind.  As soon as you were done you semi sprinted to the locker room. Once you got there you found irene. 

“ Is it the acl again?” you ask worryingly. 

“ No, it's just a muscle strain and her knee is acting up again.”  you breathe for the first time in an hour. 

“ This is happening because of you.” she says harshly.

“ Excuse me.” you couldnt believe what you heard. 

“ You shouldn't have come back here. You taking this job was a mistake. You have opened up an old wound and this is just the beginning.”

“ I am going to have to stop you right here. First,  I am your boss not your buddy from back in the day so you are going to have to take a step back and show some respect. Second, you have the nerve to talk to me about making mistakes  knowing that you ruined my life not too long ago.

“ She didn't sleep last night. That's why she got injured today. I am worried about my friend.” 

“ You should have thought about your friend 4 years ago.” you say as you enter the medic’s room leaving her behind. 

You found alexia with tape on her knee and achilles. Her eyes were closed so she didn't see you come in and sit next to her. 

“ I am willing to talk about that night this time only. Say everything you need but once I leave this room you are never going to bring it up again.” 

The only way to make it out is through. You thought.

[f1rodrigo]

the mclaren boy mystery | part three

l. norris / o. piastri

summary: in which your boyfriend is a formula one driver for team mclaren and when you finally decide it's time to start hinting to the world, the internet is confused on exactly which driver is your boyfriend. pairing: social media au || lando norris / oscar piastri x reader fc: jazmyn makenna

a/n: honestly i have no clue how long it's been... but I KNOW it's been LONG. and i am incredibly sorry. but wow is it easy for things to just get away from me but i finally got the motivation and want to continue this so here we are! who knows how long it will last but let me not get ahead of myself with any promises. i hope you all are well and enjoy! MWAH <3

part one | part two

sweet relief series | valentine's day

⋆ ˚。⋆୨୧⋆ ˚。⋆ ⋆ ˚。⋆୨୧⋆ ˚。⋆ ⋆ ˚。⋆୨୧⋆ ˚。⋆ ⋆ ˚。⋆୨୧⋆ ˚

liked by oscarpiastri, charles_leclerc and 54,899 others

yourusername keepin it classy 🍸 @/alexandrasaintmleux

view all 1,922 comments

user1 not sure classy is the word i'd use...

⤷ user2 seek help<3

user3 WHEN TWO WAGS MEET UP TO MAXIMIZE THEIR JOINT WAG

⤷ user4 stfusshdf im crying

⤷ user5 the way we don't even know for sure if shes a wag

user6 shes so IT girl i cant

alexandrasaintmleux my girl

⤷ yourusername mwah mwah mwah

user7 oscar in the likes bro im gonna end it all

user8 with alex... charles in the likes... double date...walk with me here

⤷ user9 just cause charles liked doesn't mean he was with them 🤷🏻‍♀️

⤷ user10 fr like his gf is in the post 😭

landonorris text me back maybe

⤷ yourusername desperate much

⤷ user11 WHY DOES HE NEED TO TEXT HER WHEN THEY SHOULD BE TOGETHER??????

⤷ user12 bc she was there with oscar... piastri nation RISE 💆‍♀️

⤷ user13 my jaws on the floor i don't know what to believe anymore

⋆ ˚。⋆୨୧⋆ ˚。⋆ ⋆ ˚。⋆୨୧⋆ ˚。⋆ ⋆ ˚。⋆୨୧⋆ ˚。⋆ ⋆ ˚。⋆୨୧⋆ ˚。

⋆ ˚。⋆୨୧⋆ ˚。⋆ ⋆ ˚。⋆୨୧⋆ ˚。⋆ ⋆ ˚。⋆୨୧⋆ ˚。⋆ ⋆ ˚。⋆୨୧⋆ ˚。

liked by mclaren and 1,282,094 others

yourusername yee... haw?

p.s. a shoutout to @/oscarpiastri for the chugging tips...

view all 3,138 comments

user1 omg ok. can everyone just stay calm.

user2 ARE WE READING THE CAPTION. I REPEAT ARE WE READING THE CAPTION

⤷ user1 great so that'd be a no.

oscarpiastri not sure they boded well seeing as about 5? seconds after that photo there was wine down your shirt... but you're? welcome?

⤷ yourusername …mind ur business piastri

⤷ oscarpiastri hey you dragged me into this mess first

user3 ynoscar nation its been amazing, i think we're nearing our well deserved victory

⤷ user4 LETS NOT GET AHEAD OF OURSELVES

user5 such excellent wag material here guys i NEED to know if she's dating one of them

user7 fuck landoscar DATE ME! LOVE ME!

user8 ynlando nation it feels so over 😪

⤷ user9 WE CANNOT GIVE UP NOW

user10 user landonorris found dead in a ditch

user11 this is certifiably INSANE what do YOU MEAN chugging tips???!?!?!?

⋆ ˚。⋆୨୧⋆ ˚。⋆ ⋆ ˚。⋆୨୧⋆ ˚。⋆ ⋆ ˚。⋆୨୧⋆ ˚。⋆ ⋆ ˚。⋆୨୧⋆ ˚。

liked by mclaren and 1,282,094 others

landonorris 100 stickers, 100 races, and a brand new trophy to add to the mix 🏆❤️

view all 3,138 comments

user1 the writing on the second pic he is so unserious

user2 ur honor i love him 🥲

yourusername special weekend. congrats.

⤷ user3 why am i getting friend vibes

⤷ user4 fr just grasping at straws now huh 😭😭

⤷ user5 no but the periods???? its giving my mom when shes mad at me

⤷ user6 "special weekend" WHAT DO U MEANNNNN

⤷ user7 maybe it has something to do with the 100th race and podium....... 😭

oscarpiastri good job 👏

⤷ user8 maybe landoscar are dating

⤷ user9 CORRECT!

⤷ user10 at least oscar can add an emoji

⋆ ˚。⋆୨୧⋆ ˚。⋆ ⋆ ˚。⋆୨୧⋆ ˚。⋆ ⋆ ˚。⋆୨୧⋆ ˚。⋆ ⋆ ˚。⋆୨୧⋆ ˚。

liked by yourusername, mclaren and 102,761 others

oscarpiastri not our weekend... but the company makes it a bit better. 🇲🇽 here we come!

view all 403 comments

user1 you're joking. you're fucking joking.

user2 THE LAST SLIDE YN IS IN THE LAST SLIDE

⤷ user3 PLUS THE CAPTION??????? its giving soft launch im sorry this is basically confirmation

⤷ user4 but like its really not though

mclaren 🧡🧡🧡🧡

user5 nah am i the only one thinking they're just fucking with us at this point 😭

user6 are we forgetting that there are also two other girls in that picture

⤷ user7 well... yes BUT they've been known to be friends of oscars so its like...

⤷ user8 so its like he posted a photo of his friends! yup!

⤷ user9 no fr like yn is also known to be friends with oscar? its all just internet speculation how is this confirmation

⤷ user10 well we've never got a grid post from lando of yn sooooo

⤷ user11 valid point

user12 on to the next!! keep pushing, we love you<3

⋆ ˚。⋆୨୧⋆ ˚。⋆ ⋆ ˚。⋆୨୧⋆ ˚。⋆ ⋆ ˚。⋆୨୧⋆ ˚。⋆ ⋆ ˚。⋆୨୧⋆ ˚。

landonorris added to their story

⋆ ˚。⋆୨୧⋆ ˚。⋆ ⋆ ˚。⋆୨୧⋆ ˚。⋆ ⋆ ˚。⋆୨୧⋆ ˚。⋆ ⋆ ˚。⋆୨୧⋆ ˚。

yourusername added to their story

⋆ ˚。⋆୨୧⋆ ˚。⋆ ⋆ ˚。⋆୨୧⋆ ˚。⋆ ⋆ ˚。⋆୨୧⋆ ˚。⋆ ⋆ ˚。⋆୨୧⋆ ˚。

⋆ ˚。⋆୨୧⋆ ˚。⋆ ⋆ ˚。⋆୨୧⋆ ˚。⋆ ⋆ ˚。⋆୨୧⋆ ˚。⋆ ⋆ ˚。⋆୨୧⋆ ˚。

liked by yourusername, mclaren and 282,654 others

lando.jpg team mclaren

view all 471 comments

user1 this is adorable

user2 NEW JPG POST AKA MY REASON TO LIVE JUST DROPPED

user3 CAPTION LAST SLIDE OH MY GOD IS THAT YN

⤷ user4 I THINK SO SHE WAS WEARING THAT TOP IN COTA

user5 ynlando has never been so alive holy shit

user6 forget ynlando!! we've got oscar in a jpg post 🥹

yourusername 4life

⤷ user7 im in a puddle of tears

⤷ user8 this feels so much like confirmation guys!!!!!!

⤷ user9 idgaf if they're dating or not either way this relationship is so adorable wtf 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

user10 ynoscar truther clocking in! i pretend i do not see!

user11 i'm going to pass out

user12 he considers her part of team mclaren 🥲🥲🥲🥲

user13 i swear they see us freaking out and are like here’s more content to confuse the fuck out of you even more

⋆ ˚。⋆୨୧⋆ ˚。⋆ ⋆ ˚。⋆୨୧⋆ ˚。⋆ ⋆ ˚。⋆୨୧⋆ ˚。⋆ ⋆ ˚。⋆୨୧⋆ ˚。

⋆ ˚。⋆୨୧⋆ ˚。⋆ ⋆ ˚。⋆୨୧⋆ ˚。⋆ ⋆ ˚。⋆୨୧⋆ ˚。⋆ ⋆ ˚。⋆୨୧⋆ ˚。

part one | part two

taglist:

i know it has been a while so just message me or reply to be removed or added <3333

@landoscar-f1 @urfavnoirette @imsiriuslyreal @geniusalpaca @wadupppp

@tinyhrry @clemmisser @itsprashimusic @leclercdream @eugene-emt-roe

@lozzamez3 @sbrn0905 @ririyulife @not-nyasa @bloodyymaryyy

@ihatetakumi @orangetreekid @ares10156 @susieees-blog

@loloekie @sarx164 @evie-119

@saachiep81 @vicurious28 @awritingtree @callsignwidow

[leclercsainzz]

ILLICIT AFFAIRS PART 2

PAIRINGS: lando norris x gf!reader / tom blyth x fem!reader

TYPE: social media au

WARNING: // cheating implied

part 1 - part 2 - part 3 - part 4 - part 5

yourusername

liked by landonorris, tomblyth and 671,810 others

yourusername: the film is out! ❤️

tagged: @tomblyth

view 5,018 comments

user: seeing it tonight!!!

user: ya’ll see that kiss or??? 👀

oscarpiastri: do i still get those free tickets? 🤔

↳ yourusername: of course!

↳ landonorris: and me?

↳ oscarpiastri: you’re rich, shut up

user: wonder how @landonorris felt seeing his girlfriend kissing another guy like that

user: watched the movie last night and OMG

user: yn, do you prefer buzz cut or long hair on coriolanus?

↳ yourusername: buzz cut all the way!!!!!

↳ user: mother knows what’s up 😌

user: LOVED the movie!!

tomblyth: you’re truly phenomenal! ❤️

↳ yourusername: right back at you, my love ❤️

↳ user: STFU NSPAKSNDBFD

↳ user: @landonorris WHERE U AT, BRO???

user: “love” 😭😭😭😭

↳ user: not just “love” but “MY love” like?? 😭😭

user: watching it tomorrow, cannot wait!

user: her bf is stronger than me bc i would’ve been crying

user: DID YA’LL SEE THE KISS SCENE??? 🫣🫣🫣

↳ user: i was like 😮‍💨

↳ user: he kissed her like she was air 🫠 like the air he needs

user: the way tom’s looking at her in that third slide 😩😩

user: you both killed it, omg!!

↳ user: pov coryo took that personal 🤪

user: SNOW LANDS ON TOP, MF!

↳ user: on top of me, yes!

landonorris: you killed it, pretty girl ❤️

↳ yourusername: 😊

user: the difference between her responds to tom vs lando

↳ user: she’s over here calling tom “my love” while lando just gets some bs of emoji, i CANNOT 💀

user: lando be fighting for his girl’s affection, i swear

user: yn with tom 😩🥰🥰❤️😊😍😌😍😘🥵🥵😍🥰

↳ user: vs yn with lando 😊😊😊😊😊😊😊

↳ user: i feel like she’s definitely in love with tom

↳ user: he’s also in love with her, its so obvious

user: tom NEEDED that kiss in order to breathe, i swear

↳ user: dude he kissed her with so much hunger and desperation had me giggling the whole time

↳ user: convinced that was just tom and yn

user: HAPPY RELEASE DAY YA’LL!!! ❤️❤️🐍

user: you and tom were truly phenomenal as snow and lucy

↳ yourusername: ❤️❤️

landonorris

liked by carlossainz55, yourusername and 698,974 others

landonorris: fun times with MY girl! 😘

tagged: @yourusername

view 5,274 comments

user: he really said, “my girl”

user: is she attending next race??

user: he saw all the yntom shippers so he had to shut them up real quick, honestly as he should!

user: PARENTS ARE BETTER THAN EVER ❤️❤️❤️❤️

user: what about tom? 😭😭 @yourusername

↳ user: girl, bffr

user: idc i’m still shipping yn and tom

user: lando said, “everyone can sit tf down bc she’s my girl”

yourusername: love yaa 😘

↳ landonorris: i love you too ❤️

↳ user: yntom shippers how we feeling??? 😭😭

user: idk why but her comments/replies to lando seem so dry??? like before she’d say the cutest shit ever and now it’s like she just comments bc she has no other choice

↳ user: seems like she’s falling out of love to me

user: @tomblyth GET YOUR GIRL, DONT GIVE UP

user: everyone who is constantly shipping yn and tom need to move on!! she’s literally happy in her relationship with lando

user: are they officially back together??

user: @tomblyth

user: @tomblyth

user: she’s soo beautiful!!! 😍😍

user: lando really said, “if she’s anybody’s girl she’s MINE”

user: ynlando nation rise!!!!!

user: i know she’s clearly happy with lando but her and tom are honestly just the cutest

user: @ everyone who still ships tom and yn

user: not “my” but “MY” 👀

user: he got tired of ppl shipping his girl with someone else

user: mate, you’re stronger than bc the way yn talks about tom is just INSANE! she’s in love with him .. open your eyes

carlossainz55: 🤩🤩

user: the emphasis on the “my” 🤭🤭

oscarpiastri: this is cute or whatever

↳ user: my fav boy

user: wait!! does that mean we will be seeing yn in the paddock again???

↳ user: i hope so!!! 😩😩

user: idk about you all but i feel like her smile/face glows more whenever she’s with tom …….

↳ user: definitely, i agree!

↳ user: that’s bc tom’s her ✨daylight✨

↳ user: shUT uP OMG OMG, YESSS

↳ user: i foUnd my people

user: i missed her, omg ❤️❤️😭😭😭

user: will she be at the next race???

user: i feel like if she’s in love with tom, she should dump him

↳ user: that’s harsh, damn 😭😭

yourusername

liked by landonorris, joshandresrivera and 678,739 others

yourusername: a small bts photo dump:) 💗

tagged: @hunterschafer @tomblyth @joshandresrivera @the.sofia.sanchez

view 6,016 comments

user: hunter’s soo gorggg 😍😍😍

user: “a small bts” but it’s just tom

↳ user: it’s her excuse to post tom 🤣

user: the 6th photo was so unnecessary napaksns

hunterschafer: 😘😘😘😘❤️

user: wovey 🥺

user: yn’s down bad for tom, huh???

user: the chemistry they have on and off the screen is just unbelievably insane, omgg

user: 6th SLIDE??? HELLO??!!? MA’AM??!!?

user: I SHIP I SHIP I SHIP I SHIP

user: lando 💔💔💔💔💔💔

user: her and tom are DEFINITELY more than just friends and ya’ll CANNOT convince me otherwise

↳ yourusername: we’re just friends

↳ user: yeah and i’m jlaw’s daughter, but good try babe

tomblyth: my favorite girl!! ❤️

↳ user: SIR???

↳ user: bitCh what???!? 😳

↳ user: your what????

user: not him calling her his girl, BYE 😭😭😭😭

user: THIS LANDO MF BLIND ASF OMG 😭 iTs cLEAR THAT THERE’S MORE TO THIS WHOLE “friendship” BS

user: tHe 6th slide napaldndnfnc

user: not her posting the lake scene

user: wAit- are they about to kiss in the 6th slide??? bc i don’t remember no kiss in that scene

user: everyone is freaking over the 6th slide but the last one??? HELLO????? the hand on the chin?? 😩😩😩😩

↳ user: i thoUght i was the only one laswowhrbd

user: wovey, my love ❤️❤️❤️

joshandresrivera: love you, loser ❤️

user: their chemistry bro 😮‍💨😮‍💨😮‍💨

user: its the way he’s looking at her in the last pic

user: tom and yn took their “relationship” to the next level

user: patiently waiting for lando’s comment

↳ user: i don’t think he knows what to comment 😭

user: she looks so much happier with tom, i swear

user: yn, be honest, are you in love with tom??!?

user: nah i feel bad for lando, bro 😭😭😭😭

↳ user: bro is clueless

user: lando losing on and off the track

↳ user: 💀💀💀💀💀

user: i genuinely want to know what type of relationship her and tom have cause???? it’s def more than friendly

user: @landonorris

user: i feel like she’s cheating on lando 😬

↳ user: 100%

user: they weren’t acting in the movie 😭 they were just being themselves, i swear

user: lando is one of the strongest soldiers i know!!!

user: i feel so bad for lando 😕😕😕😕

↳ user: he deserves better (me)

user: if you don’t want lando, i’ll happily take him

user: genuine question are they dating?? tom and yn, that is??

↳ user: no, but they might as well be dating atp

user: ya’ll gotta understand that a male and female can be close friends without having to be involved in a romantic way

↳ user: PREACH!

↳ user: there’s a thing called cheating, yk????

↳ user: with the way these two act there’s definitely more going on than just a friendly relationship

imessage

yourusername

liked by carlossainz55, oscarpiastri and 674,836 others

yourusername: NUMBER ONE?!!?!!?????!!!!!??

view 4,946 comments

user: gagged the hater with this one!!

user: your singing had me captivated

thehungergames: ❤️❤️❤️❤️

user: CORIOLANUS >>

user: you were amazing

user: proud of you!!!

tomblyth: you did that!! 🤩

↳ yourusername: no, babe, WE did that!! 👏🏼

↳ user: “babe” 😭😭😭😭

↳ user: ma’am just say yall together atp

user: well deserved

user: singing was phenomenal, omggg

user: that’s what happens when snow lands on top!! 🤩

📌 pinned

user: number one in the world and in my heart ❤️

user: you and tom were absolutely phenomenal

↳ yourusername: 💗💗💗💗

landonorris: you deserve it!! ❤️

↳ yourusername: ❤️❤️❤️

user: lucy gray is stronger than me bc personally i would’ve sat down with coriolanus and talked it out

↳ user: no bc same!!!! 😩 like i can fix him

↳ user: i would’ve ran away with him, idc

↳ yourusername: babes, are we just forgetting that he’s the reason finnick’s dead???? or the fact that he’s crazy???

user: SNOW LANDS ON WHAT EVERYONE??!!?

user: proud of you, my love!!! ❤️❤️

user: not her holding a grudge against snow for killing finnick she’s so real for that LMAOOOO

↳ tomblyth: 😩😩😩

user: the real question is did snow ever love lucy gray??

↳ yourusername: i like to believe so, yes! but he definitely loved power more:(

↳ tomblyth: lies 😑 (i agree)

↳ user: please 😭😭 he’s so unintentionally funny

user: you guys all deserve it, each one of you was amazing!!

user: my snowbaird heart ❤️❤️

user: best movie this year, i don’t make the rules

songbirdsandsnakes: thanks to our favorite coriolanus snow and lucy gray!!!! 🤩🤩🤩🤩

user: the movie was amazing, well done!!

user: I NEED MORE OF SNOW AND LUCY GRAY 😩😩

↳ user: i think we all do!!!

user: well deserved, pretty girl!!!!

carlossainz55: proud of you, yn! ❤️❤️❤️

↳ yourusername: ❤️ thank you, carlos

↳ user: missing this duo 🥺

user: ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

user: you and tom smashed it

↳ user: they took the “smashing” part too serious 🫢

↳ user: you did not 💀

user: my lucy gray 🤩

user: I NEED A PIC WITH THIS CAST AND THE OG’S

↳ user: yn met jennifer, i believe .. but same!!! 😩😩

user: your singing was phenomenal, babe!!!

user: why’d you leave snow at the end??? 😭😭😭😭

↳ yourusername: cause he’s crazy??????

↳ user: he just wanted to talk tho????!!? 😩 all you had to do was sit and talk with him and apologize to him????

↳ yourusername: so he can kill me after????

↳ user: he would do NO such thing

tomblyth

liked by yourusername, landonorris and 684,830 others

tomblyth: it’s crazy to think tbosas is currently number one at the moment! this was such an unforgettable experience and i’m grateful i got to experience it with @yourusername ❤️

tagged: @yourusername

view 5,101 comments

user: I CANT, OMG

user: THE FIRST POST 😭😭😭

user: lando being in the likes??? 👀

yourusername: wouldn’t have wanted it any other way

yourusername: ❤️❤️❤️

songbirdandsnakes: snowbaird lives with you both ❤️

user: you both deserve it!!!

user: you killed it, mate! ❤️

user: they were both phenomenal, i cannot

user: both were incredible leads

user: it’s hard to tell if they’re just affectionate with each other or there’s simply more

user: if they aren’t dating, i NEED them to date 😭😭

user: they’re in love and nobody can convince me otherwise

↳ user: it’s so obvious

user: amazing leads!!!! 🤩🤩🤩

user: not lando liking 😭😭

user: SNOW LANDS ON TOP

user: you were amazing as snow! 👏🏼

user: does lucy gray haunt your dreams, be honest

↳ tomblyth: always

user: phenomenal actor

user: lucy gray or lucy gray??

↳ tomblyth: mhm .. none, i think i prefer lucy gray

↳ user: AS YOU SHOULD!

user: MY CORIOLANUS SNOW!! ❤️❤️ you were AMAZING

user: ya’ll cannot tell me snow didn’t love lucy bc he did

↳ user: he did love her in his own twisted way but he loved power more:((

user: i watched the move like 4 times already

user: if evil why so hot??

user: you and yn were phenomenal as snow and lucy gray

↳ tomblyth: ❤️ appreciate it, mate

user: why’d you betray my boy sejanus like that? 😭😭

user: LANDO IN THE LIKES 👀

↳ user: hes crying in a corner after seeing the first pic

user: they messed with our feelings 😩😩

↳ user: noo frr cause tell me why i was rooting for them knowing damn well how it would all end up 💔

user: i NEED them together

user: they look so good together 😩

user: you can definitely tell they love each other and not just as “friends”

user: well deserved!!! ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

user: in my world snowbaird ended up together and are living happily ever after

↳ user: same!!!

↳ user: snowbaird and yntom

user: i know she’s dating someone but they look so good together, it’s like they are meant to be

imessage

pt3??

taglist:

@geraltwintersoldier @love4josh @dudde-44 @coconut-dreamz @newlifeforus @loxbbg @dakotali @f1footballluvverr @mountmaason19 @poppyflower-22 @magical-spit @nazm145 @nikolaros22 @sincerlymatakorama @36babyg @bucket-of-fanfiction @gyunheat @dakotali @bucket-of-fanfiction @djoenthusiast @nyraahub @miglielia @aleidag1rly (if your user is purple, it’s bc i couldn’t find you)

[burst-of-iridescent]

i keep seeing the argument that katara saving zuko in the final agni kai means nothing because her character arc was completed in the crossroads of destiny, which makes no sense because it's incredibly clear that the ending of CoD is not framed as a triumphant moment by the narrative.

aang's death is the show's darkest moment, and the scene where katara catches and escapes with him only reinforces this hopelessness and despair. she is outnumbered, outclassed and outmaneouvred, saved only by iroh's intervention, and most crucially, the moment where katara revives aang hinges entirely on her spirit water and has little to do with katara herself or her own abilities. even the slight hope that surfaces with aang's survival is immediately undercut by the bleak reminder that ba sing se has fallen to emphasise that this is a retreat, not a victory. all they can salvage from the brink of catastrophe is the chance to live and fight another day, cold comfort in the face of losing the last, greatest stronghold against the fire nation.

take by contrast the final agni kai. the fight with azula highlights every one of katara's strengths as well as her growth and talent as a waterbender: her ability to evade and trick azula displays her intelligence; her use of the materials at hand (the chain and drain) reveals her resourcefulness; her final combat move demonstrates her ingenuity and proves that she has taken to heart the show's most important lesson of learning and drawing wisdom from even the unlikeliest of places.

the emotional crux of both fights is anchored in katara's apparent helplessness and fear (hence the near-identical shots of her horrified face as she watches aang and zuko get struck by lightning), but the difference is that the resolution of the final agni kai is contingent on katara and katara alone. this time, there is no magic water, no allies, no one to turn to for help, only a merciless, prodigious enemy at the apex of her power... and yet, it's katara who proves victorious.

where aang's death and resurrection are an actualization of katara's deepest fears - that by herself she is not strong or brave or skilled enough to protect those she loves, no matter how hard she tries - defeating azula and healing zuko serve as a repudiation of those very same fears, bringing her full circle from the scared little girl who could do nothing to save her mother.

the crossroads of destiny and the final agni kai are intentionally mirrored narratives, most obviously exemplified in the katara-zuko-azula triangulation and the polarity of their respective arcs; thus, where katara could once save aang only with a miracle, she now saves zuko with nothing but her own skill - and in so doing, brings her arc of empowerment to its triumphant completion.

[wosoloml]

From Rivalry to becoming Family || Alessia Russo x German!reader (Frankfurt!Reader)

Summary: When you and Alessia get engaged, you decide to celebrate this milestone with both of your national teams. What starts as a union between two people becomes a beautiful transformation from the rivalry of the Euros 2022 into a bond that feels like family.

a/n: throwback to the most painful day ever as a german. ich hoffe ich habe deine request gut umgesetzt <3 danke für deine worte!! i hope its okay i wrote also about how they got together.

wc: 1,4k | from this request

warnings : nothing just fluff except for mentioning the euros final

"Y/N! Are you finally done?" Alessia shouts through the house for the third time, trying her best to stay patient while waiting downstairs for her fiancée.

"Babe, relax. We won’t be late; everything’s going to work out," I reassure her, descending the stairs to join her.

Four days ago marked one of the best days of our lives.

After two and a half years of dating, Alessia finally asked me to be her wife. And, of course, I said yes.

It all began during the Euros in 2022. Alessia and I couldn’t be more different when it comes to our nationalities. Keeping our relationship private was tough, especially when we faced each other in the final. But at least we knew one of us would be celebrating that night.

The day after the final was when we finally told our teammates about our relationship. Since that day, the rivalry between England and Germany hasn’t felt quite as intense (even though we all know Germany is the better team).

"We’re going to be late if you spend another hour deciding which shoes match your dress," Alessia says, her impatience bubbling over as she watches me.

"I'm done! What do you think of my outfit?" I ask, turning to face her. Alessia’s eyes widen as she takes in the sight of me.

"Wow," she breathes, her expression full of admiration.

I feel my cheeks warm at her reaction. Even after two and a half years of being showered with her compliments, I still haven’t learned how to process them without blushing.

---------

When we arrive at the little beach house, everything is perfectly decorated, but no one is waiting for us. It’s a stark contrast to Alessia’s prediction that we’d be late because I took “so long.”

I can’t help but feel grateful that we managed to arrange this small party to celebrate such a special milestone in our relationship. Playing in different countries makes it difficult to maintain anything resembling a normal relationship, so it means the world that we were able to bring both of us—and all our national teammates—together for this one celebration.

----

The clock struck exactly 3:00 PM when the first guests arrived. Unsurprisingly, it was Alessia’s best friends, Lotte and Ella. My heart swelled with love as I saw how many people cared about Alessia enough to travel all the way to Denmark to celebrate with us.

"Ella! Lotte! I’m so glad you’re here," I exclaimed, pulling them into a tight hug. In the beginning of our relationship, spending time with Alessia’s friends felt a bit awkward—especially since they played for England. But they turned out to be the sweetest people, and I’d never felt more welcomed.

"I can’t believe she finally asked you," Lotte teased, rolling her eyes. "She must have called me a thousand times, asking if it was too early, too late, or what your answer might be. Honestly, thank you for saying yes!"

I couldn’t help but laugh as Alessia came over, resting her hand gently on my back and joining in to greet her friends. Moments like this reminded me just how lucky I was to be surrounded by so much love.

I could hear two loud voices singing and laughing with Alessia, and I immediately knew who had just arrived.

"Y/N, go get your girls before Laura starts drinking all the champagne before nightfall," Alessia teased, flashing me a grin.

"My girls! There you are!" I exclaimed as I rushed over to greet them. "I’m so happy you both are here."

We were used to speaking English with each other, but it still felt amusing, given our shared history.

"I can’t believe my little girl is getting married to the blonde English striker," Sara said, her voice full of mock disbelief. "It’s still unbelievable how you kept it a secret. We all knew you had a crush on her—like, who didn’t? And then secretly meeting her after games... and now here we are. My lovebirds!"

Sara couldn’t stop smiling as she looked at Alessia, her words filled with warmth.

"Okay, Sara, enough is enough!" I interrupted, my cheeks turning crimson.

Alessia caught Sara’s eye and gave me a playful wink, which only made me blush harder.

-----

As time passed, more and more guests arrived, until all of our national teammates were finally here. My heart swelled with love as I watched Leah chatting animatedly with Lena and Mary exchanging tactics with Merle. After years of playing against each other, it felt surreal to see everyone coming together like one big family.

I wrapped my arm around Alessia, unable to stop myself from smiling. It was hard to believe how perfect my life felt in that moment. I was the luckiest woman alive, with the best fiancée by my side. (And let’s not forget—she won Arsenal's Goal and Player of the Month! How could I not feel proud?)

----

My eyes caught Ella as she stood up and cleared her throat, drawing everyone’s attention.

"When Alessia first told me she had a crush on Y/N, I already knew," she began with a soft smile. "Her eyes never lied when she looked at her. It didn’t matter if it was during tactical meetings while we analyzed other teams or when Y/N crossed our path on the way to different games. That same look was always there—an expression full of admiration."

Ella paused for a moment, her gaze shifting warmly between us. "I’ll save the big words for their wedding speech, but what I can already say is this: no one has ever made Alessia’s eyes sparkle the way you do. Thank you, Y/N, for making our Lessi the happiest girl on earth."

Ella fought back her tears, just like the rest of us. I smiled warmly at her, holding Alessia’s hand tightly in mine.

"She’s not the only one determined to make us all cry tonight," I said, glancing over at Laura. My heart immediately swelled with emotion. Laura wasn’t typically one for big words or grand displays of sentiment, so her standing up to speak meant the world to me.

"We didn’t win the Euros," Laura began, her voice steady yet filled with emotion, "but we won something even more special—new friendships. And most importantly, my best friend found the love of her life."

She paused, her gaze flicking between Alessia and me, a gentle smile gracing her face. "Whether it’s singing ‘Sweet Caroline’ in a karaoke bar or cheering for you at the Emirates, know that it’s always from the bottom of our hearts. Alessia, you are the first person I trust completely with Y/N’s heart, and I know it’s safe with you. Here’s to many more memories together. Cheers!"

Her words left the room in a silence filled with love and admiration before glasses clinked together in celebration. I couldn’t stop the tears from welling up as I squeezed Alessia’s hand, grateful beyond words for this moment.

I stood up, taking a moment to gather my thoughts before speaking on behalf of both of us.

"First of all, I need to thank our best friends for making us all cry and for finding the perfect words. You truly know how to touch our hearts. Thank you." I paused, looking around the room, feeling an overwhelming sense of gratitude.

"And we also want to thank all of you for being here today. We know it’s no small feat to find a free spot in our busy schedules, so we really appreciate you making the effort."

I smiled and raised my glass. "Please, enjoy the day, and let’s not drink too much!"

The laughter that followed helped ease the nerves in my chest, and I couldn’t help but feel thankful for everyone here, sharing in this special moment with us.

----

Alessia had her arms wrapped tightly around my waist as we swayed slowly to one of our favorite songs. Despite Leah’s role in music, today’s playlist wasn’t half bad.

"Thank you for spending the rest of my life with me," Alessia whispered softly in my ear, her words sending a warmth feeling through me.

"It’s a pleasure to spend it with you," I replied, my voice shy as I glanced at her. "I hope you liked today."

She smiled at me, her expression full of comfort. "I loved it today."

I leaned in closer "I love you."

May our story continue, forever.

[iznsfw]

Reputation, Or Whatever That Is

IZ Days of Christmas 2023: Day 12 - Jang Wonyoung

IVE's Jang Wonyoung x Male Reader Smut

7,063 words

Categories | daddy kink, brat!Wonyoung, squirting, blowjob, please appreciate Wonyoung's power bottom capabilities

Sorry, Yena is coming out sometime but I wanted to finally write something timely. JANG WONYOUNG WHAT THE FUCKKKKK.

Please bear with the religious metaphors, I have Catholic guilt and Wonyoung reignites it. I'm not sorry for all the other fucked up shit here I'm just ooga boogaing because what the FUCK

It’s a little brighter today than usual. The sun surely knows what's about to happen upon its rising. It has no plans of telling you beforehand, so you’re forced to find out yourself. 

You open Instagram, which is insane because you never bother to look at pictures—much less edited, filtered ones made for meaningless impressions. Your blissful ignorance of online concepts is what would make your fans hate you if they had space in their deluded hearts to. Or maybe that’s your age talking.

But today, clicking on that app is what you do, and that already should have been a sign that something’s not right. The usual run of your universe has gone off course. Who could have made that so?

Coffee. The black stillness that’s pure of sweetness and sugar. That’s supposed to keep everything normal. You sip on it as you scroll through clickbait, fan accounts, edits—

Then you wish you never took that hot gulp at all.

Wonyoung. 

It’s all because of her. 

She stands there from behind your screen, silky hair tangled in those lithe long fingers. She’s looking at the camera like she wants whoever took the time to click on her profile to come over and fuck her right now. Man or woman, poor or rich—it doesn’t matter. What ought to matter though is the fact that she doesn’t have someone’s hands slipped around her waist and pulling her close.

You shouldn’t even be thinking about it.

Usually, she’s dressed in knitted pink coats and miniskirts; looking fashionable but modest, modest but unplain. That’s what everyone loves about Jang Wonyoung: she’s prim, sweet, and the daughter of the nation. 

Now, she’s the ideal girl to take right home and have your wicked way with. Yes, you’d feel guilty since she’s so young, just the little age of nineteen. Still, that doesn’t mean you’d have any regrets. She’s the kind of girl you can’t get away from. You’ll always come back for more.

You’d hate to be so upfront, but there’s no other way to interpret it. 

There’s that fucking denim bra hugging her tiny chest, stitched up so high that her abs are on full display. That little pinch of a waist curves so perfectly right up to her wide hips that invite and invite and invite—

Remember to exhale.

So, yeah. That’s how Wonyoung ruined your day, and you barely had your morning coffee.

A text message from your boss appears. You nearly miss it because of how you’re staring all ogle-eyed at the tempting girl on your screen. Before you even click it, you already know what you ought to do. 

hey, it reads, you need to—

-

—go to Wonyoung, and for such a scandalous photo, she’s chosen a remote but classy hotel only the biggest stars know of to shoot it. 

There’s no going back when you drive like you’re running from the law when you’ll break one if you pull the wrong stunt with her. Your throat’s coiled with an unreleased breath that won’t go away unless you see her. It’s like traveling with the promise of meeting a goddess, and although you’re not religious anymore, you wear very, very close to rediscovering faith.

The hotel is grand—clear marble floors and shining chandeliers—and it’s no surprise. Wonyoung wouldn’t have things any other way. You know that when she’s come to your office to complain about her outfits and brands. 

You go up to the desk with prepared evidence for what you’re going to say. “I’m an associate of your client miss Jang Wonyoung,” you say to the lady tapping away behind her computer, “and I’ve come to visit her.”

Associate? It’s more like mentor. You’re a veteran idol whose efforts inspire the rookies, therefore getting you the responsibility of looking out for Wonyoung. So, father figure, maybe? You wince at that.

She makes a polite sad look, still not removing her eyes from the screen. “I’m sorry, miss Jang doesn’t have—”

Slide your ID card on the counter.

She glances at it, stiffens, then looks up at you. There’s only one of you in the entire South Korea, and although the 1x1 traces back to when you were a bit more youthful, it’s not hard to put two and two together. 

She apologizes quickly and offers you an elevator ride exclusive for VVIPs. Smile. It’s been a while since your last return to music, but everyone knows you here. Everyone knows your power.

Wonyoung’s place is the first room on the twelfth floor, a flinching irony.

Knock. You rap your knuckles three times for good luck and charm, because you’ll need it with her. Jang Wonyoung is everything save an easy girl. You remember the many times she refused to give up a debate on how she’s managed, how she’s styled, how she’s treated. She wants things to go her way only.

“Wonyoung,” you call out. Fidget with the handle of the door that refuses to budge. “It’s me.”

Knock a little more. There’s no eye behind the peekhole or a soft “come in.” You receive only the unlocking of the furnished knob and a welcome that makes you wish this could go the way your morals would want it to go.

The door opens you to a gorgeous suite that’s the supreme of all room tiers. This is the kind that only the richest of the rich are able to attain. Big as a house with a soft carpeted ground, there’s a queen-sized bed before a wide window of the city. Picture frames commissioned by the wealthy hang from the painted walls. All for the fucking aesthetic.

Even you, a star who paved the way for the Korean entertainment industry itself, aren’t used to this type of wealth. 

Find her sitting on the ledge of the window frame. Wonyoung has her hands resting on the sides of the window frame. She doesn’t try at least a stance at nonchalance—no admiring stare at the beautiful view, no worried gaze at her clean fingernails. Her interest is you standing before her like you’re afraid to touch her. She might be right, but it’s not like you’d ever have it in you to admit that.

Even you, a man lusted over by girls and women all over the world, aren’t used to this kind of woman—the kind that eats away at you.

“Wonyoung.” Inside, you feel like the weakest man in the world.

She has this smarmy, confident smile on her perfect lips that tells you that it’s no surprise that you’ve come all the way here for her. No surprise at all. She expected it. Anticipated it, if you will.

Don’t mistake the coquettish float of her lashes for theatrics. No, Jang Wonyoung’s just naturally someone you’d want to fuck, no matter the politics of it. “Yes?”

Her voice is also just that pretty. That’s a large part of why it’s so hard to act professional in front of her when she’s your mentee. Even more so by the fact you’re someone she’s looked up to for the majority of her trainee years, which is already something that would make people’s brows lift.

“Wonyoung.” You let your shoulders rest. “Why are you still dressed like that?”

You know all the dialogue that passes around the general public. Oh, Jang Wonyoung’s so gorgeous! Jang Wonyoung’s even more beautiful in real life! You hate to say you can’t disagree. She’s deadlier in person; her body’s there before the glass like she’s waiting for someone to give in to temptation. That coy simper can ruin careers. It can ruin yours. 

To think it all could be gone because of a nineteen-year-old celebrity with a tiny waist and legs you’d love to have around your head.

“Why are you still dressed like someone from the eighties?” Wonyoung taps her chin, then grins. She’s figured it all out. “Oh wait, you are.”

You’re not taking insults from someone who’s below you in experienced years and power. Unluckily, she’s not taking advice from someone above her or below her.

The step you take towards her, towards the little star seated comfortably waiting for you, feels like a sin. 

“You’re incredibly unprofessional for a girl who’s worked her way up here,” you note. Cross your arms and give her a reprimanding look. 

Wonyoung’s immune to nasty looks, too. She’s been doing this since she was a child. If someone gave her a glare that read all too well of a career assassination, she’d wink the bullet away sweetly. “Hm,” she says contemplatively, “I don’t think you get to say that, honestly.”

Your laugh is blunt and sarcastic. Unbelievable. Wonyoung’s the kindest girl according to the people who work for her, so why is she a rebel in your hands? It doesn’t make sense.

“Look here, we—”

You take three steps closer to her. You’ll keep your little rituals and superstitions to keep yourself grounded. Without them, you’d go insane. 

Then without her having to do anything, she comes nearer, like a doomsday foretold by a ticking clock. Who knows? That clock could be a bomb, and that bomb would set off if you dare to touch her with a trembling fingertip. You’d leave the scene injured. And eventually, you’d die the moment they try to help you, because the deed’s been done.

“Oh, I’m looking, alright,” she chirps. She’s doing what you’ve held yourself back from doing: letting her eyes wander. “And I really, really like what I see.”

You’re someone several awards her senior, and you’re still quite intimidated by her at this moment. She’s so sweet yet so honest—she won’t make up a lie to make you feel better and she won’t hide the truth to make you comfortable. Refuse the truth her eyes locked on your crotch tell. You won’t accept it. It’s not right.

“I’m serious.” Approaching her makes you want to go on your knees and beg the lord for a little saving. Do it anyway. No one will rescue you. That’s what the industry taught you. “You’ve made it all the way up here. All by yourself. There’s gotta be something. What are you throwing it all away for?”

She laughs. Funniest thing she’s ever heard. “I’m not. How am I throwing it all away?” 

“Those posts,” you hiss. Doesn’t she get it?

Before she could ask you what you’re talking about, you whip out your phone. Click on the app icon. It instantly shows you the opened tab containing Wonyoung’s recent Instagram posts. Look at her, wrapped in nothing, not even those curtains—giving the camera bedroom eyes when girls her age shouldn’t be shooting them at anyone or be aware of how to. 

It’s already massed a million likes in under an hour. But you know what people who turn on anyone easily will say, and what they say could blot Wonyoung’s bright future by a lot. A million people around the world have caught sight of the abs she’s worked hard for, her toned back, and just about everything. A loud minority with frisky influences can sabotage her whole reputation.

“These posts,” you continue, shoving the screen into the poor girl’s face, “can take away everything you’ve worked for. All that fame, all that money, you can’t brag about them after this.”

Wonyoung looks on innocently. She stares at the screen with uninterested eyes, then switches them back on you. She looks like such a good girl in that second, with her hands seated beside her and that face so full of sparkling perfection. 

Deception can’t lead you away. 

“So, what’s it gonna be, Wonyoung?” 

Long silence that builds up your frustration. Finally, she clicks her tongue. Gives you a shrug of her thin shoulders.

“You liked it.”

“What?”

She points to your phone. “You liked my post,” she repeats. “It says so right there.”

What the hell is she talking about?

You look at the device you’re brandishing. For a while, you can’t find out what she’s referring to. You can never take a liking to her posts, although if they switch on something you didn’t know you can feel. You’d die before—

The heart. 

Wait.

The heart button below her set of pictures is filled with red.

Your heart pumps faster, a button pushed and played.

Fuck.

You turn to her and open your mouth. No sensible words come out. You swear you didn’t tap twice on her update or take it to a private setting. How did it happen? Worse, even if you say that to her, she’d take it as a pathetic lie.

Wonyoung giggles. It’s a tinkly sound that’s adorable, but you’ve long realized that being cute is not all there is to her. She rises slowly, sets her palms over your blazer-clad arms, and gives you an empathetic face. It’s so condescending that you want to dissolve. 

“I know what men like you are all about,” she tells you. She speaks with a sultriness that makes you feel warm and has bumps appearing in masses across your skin.

She smiles. Her eyes disappear into crescent moons and the dimple appears on her cheek. You’re done for. 

“Come on,” Wonyoung continues, squeezing your forearms. “Here you are, a big old man known for being a good singer or whatever. You’re so popular that the first thing that pops up on Naver is your face. Everything goes right for you, doesn’t it?”

You have no idea where she’s going with this. You’re afraid to even ask. Your teeth grit as her massages grow stronger, harder. 

Something else is, too.

“Then, of course, you see me.” 

Her hand. It’s curling around your wrist and bringing your fingers right around that flawless waist. She closes them there tightly.

It’s so bad that it’s good. You want to keep touching her, maybe slip your gliding fingers down her jeans. Oh, you shouldn’t. You can’t.

“You see me, and you get all hot and bothered. And what’s so funny is I’m not even doing anything. I’m just being myself, you know. Being young and rich… a beautiful girl…” Wonyoung is unbuttoning your shirt and you don’t realize it. “You can’t understand how I’m allowed to be this hot when you can’t even fuck me with a normal conscience.”

It’s all so wrong. You want to shake her by the shoulders and tell her to shut up. But if Medusa has her eyes, Wonyoung has her lips to turn you to stone. They keep opening elegantly to speak the filthiest, most fucked up shit, and you can’t deny anything.

Her eyes are creased with knowing pride. Her youth doesn’t rescue her from being so messed in the head already. Those thoughts don’t go along with such a pretty face.

“That’s why you like to get rough with me. You tell me to watch how I speak, watch how I act. You tell me to stop talking to you like you’re no one. You tell me that I’m such a little brat. But you only do that so you can get to control me. That’s your most fucked up dream, right?”

Her mouth is the tiniest space away from your chin. 

You’re another word away from saving yourself a spot in damnation.

Her finger that scratches a flaw on your blazer beckons you to the fire. “You’re not breaking the law or anything,” says Wonyoung, “so why not break me instead, daddy?”

That’s a deal sealed with a rough kiss.

You grab her cruelly and cover her lips with yours. They’re more amazing than you imagined, soft and competent with how she pushes in deeper, depriving herself of the air she needs the most just to get what she needs just a bit more:

You. 

Your tongues collide and clash, striving to get the most taste. She pulls your blazer off (because fuck professionalism, right?) while she kisses you with a hunger that’s equally mental and physical. It’s not like she’d bruise up if you didn’t get your hands on her yet it’s close to that. 

And, in your case, it’s not like you’re breaking any law. She’s nineteen, not anywhere under the limits you’d kill others and yourself for touching. Nonetheless, you’re much older—by age, she could be your daughter; by career, she’s your junior; by power, you’re much stronger. 

So, it’s still so wrong.

Can’t be when Wonyoung’s fist, firm around your cock, feels so right. 

Can’t be when she lands on the edge of the bed with her lips parted in delight as she watches your dick stiffen under her service. 

“There you go, daddy,” she coos, smirking. “Just get all hard for me, then you can stuff that big thing up in my pussy.”

Her thumb toys with your cockhead. You purse your lips to hold back a groan. Let go of it anyway when her smooth, closed palm rubs your sensitive flesh. She cups your balls lovingly before gliding her teasing fingertips under your length, right up to your tip. The girl knows how to do this; she’s good at more things other than MCing and performing.

Wonyoung hones this skill with firmer pumps, giving you the handjob of a lifetime. Her long fingers are just made to handle dick. Each stroke is perfection that holds and pulls and slides. You’re leaking so much already. 

So you turn into the driver of the hate train, the press that loves getting her bad angles and the articles that slash up her name:

Blame it all on her. 

Because you have here a girl, young and pretty and confident, so of course you have to scrape off your sins and nail them all on her, like a quivering hand to wood.

“You think you’re getting it that easily?” you say. Your moan is squeezed in your throat. “Baby, you’re not even close to it.”

Wonyoung smirks. It’s that self-assured, elegant smile that tells you that won’t work on her. She might be a rookie, but she knows how to play the game. 

She tightens her grip painfully. That’s what you get for trying to one her up. Do that to anyone, just not Jang Wonyoung. Your cry goes unheard as she yanks you rather than jerks you off. Spits on your head for good measure. Wonyoung’s eyes make a connection with your soul and says, Yep, that’s what I’d do if you weren’t my senior. In fact, I’d do it regardless. I’d choke and spit and leave you to die, because a pretty Samaritan is better than a good one.

“You’re really out of touch, daddy.” 

With Wonyoung slathering her drool all over you, you’re forced to teeter on the line between heaven and hell. It burns yet the offer of pleasure leaves you sated.

“You think I’m like the pretty girls out there? Other girls might have broken down and begged you to come back.” 

Your rod is subjected to a brief torrid kiss, then a smile as the wicked girl looks up at you.

She laughs, gives you this smile full of haught and womanly power. “Too bad I’m Jang Wonyoung,” she says, her last words before taking you in.

Yes, it’s too bad she’s Jang Wonyoung. It’s too bad she’s not the other girls who’d kneel for a burning touch of stars like you. She wouldn’t be holding control over you with the power of her lips if she had sanity in that pretty head.

Her plump tiers wrap around you and seize everything, encasing it in softness and wetness. Her tongue, the one she uses as a killer expression for her selfies and Instagram updates, kills you all the same with how it swirls around your skin and tastes you. Trying to pretend the girl wasn’t a pro at this like she is with everything else is useless. She’ll keep proving you wrong and overpowering you.

The whole of your shaft is sucked in, then, when her cute nose is pressed directly to your stomach, she lets out a hummed laugh. You shudder—as much as it makes you feel good, fear grips your muscles and makes them limp. She’s loving how wrong everything is, and you’re not sure if you like it.

Her jaw slacks, and then Wonyoung’s swallowing you like you’re water. Can’t be water when you’re this solid in her throat. You let out a shivering groan. You can picture the bulge in Wonyoung’s neck and it’s the last thing you’d count on turning you on, but they did tell you to expect the unexpected. 

Her saliva becomes excessive, resulting in some dribbles down her chin that help her work her mouth on you. Wonyoung’s drool sheens you entirely and she keeps adding more. On the occasion she pushes her face into your stomach, your cock gets wetter. She does, too. 

“Fuck.” Cussing won’t help deter the onslaught of pleasure. You’re unsalvageable. Say it anyway. You babble meaningless, slurred words and not one gets to Wonyoung. All she can hear is the sound of your quivering moans and her mouth taking you all in.

She becomes less of an idol, less of the elegant princess for the cameras, and instead a fleshlight. However, she reminds you that it isn’t that way with a fierce sneer that stays on at all times. She’s not your girl—she’s Jang Wonyoung, and you’re already incredibly lucky that she chose to go down on you.

All that beautiful hair isn’t of any purpose if you don’t get to touch it, to gather it in a ponytail, to pull on it. Your fingers creep into her brown locks not only to give it a little meaning but also for sanity. 

That isn’t a thing in Wonyoung’s world. She pulls your hand off and slaps it on your side. “No,” she says with a shake of her head. “Daddy can’t touch me, not when he’s pretending that he’s hot shit.”

Her nails bury themselves in your hips. Oh, the manicured talons of a gorgeous monster. Oh, the pain that runs through your sides. Should you run before she devours you? Too late for that.

“Wonyoung,” you breathe, and then ask, genuinely: “What the hell is wrong with you?”

She’s so proper and serene on her shows that not even her most desperate fan would think she’s a terror. They don’t know she’s a girl who likes older, weaker men who’d ruin her if she hasn’t the pretty face and attractively black heart to do them the favor instead. 

“What’s wrong with you?” 

You’d respond if you knew the answer.

Wonyoung rubs her thumb under your dick, sending little sparks aflying. “Why’d you kiss me earlier?” Her lipstick decorates it as a kinder girl would to your face. “Why didn’t you grab my hair and tell me to be a good girl? Why didn’t you leave? It’s not my fault you want to fuck me.”

All these words of destruction and your cock remains standing. It’s a staunch reminder to her that you can say whatever you want and the hard evidence remains. You want to fuck Wonyoung. You want to do it to a rookie who’d turn the story around on you if it ever came out. You want to fuck her so bad it’s borderline pitiable.

“I’m just giving you what you want, daddy.” Her fingers caress your sides. “Trust me, I could be a very good girl if I wanted to.”

You almost didn’t believe that until Wonyoung started to suck you off again. 

Her lips stroke you effortlessly as if this were her pastime. That’s your most accurate guess, because this seamless performance—the one of her mouth working on you with the impression that this whole thing is nothing to her—can’t be a natural gift. The combination of dripping saliva and her soft lips is lethal.

It’s unbelievable how she manages to find all your tender spots. She preys on them, licking and licking until you’re very sure you were going to blow all over her. But you can’t give her that satisfaction. 

You’re very close to doing so though. She’s perfectly sloppy and rough. You glare at her when she lightly teases her teeth on your girth. She winks at you in response. She leaves you breathless in so many ways. 

“Wonyoung, Wonyoung, god—” you whine. It’s so hard to adapt to the girl sitting there with that innocent face and wild mouth that doesn’t dare give up on you. 

Her expressions on camera are always poised. Off camera, there’s this one she flashes you as she shoves her face into your stomach that looks downright evil. Although she’s already fucking you with her throat, Wonyoung partners it with strong suction that’s sure to drain you. 

“Yes, daddy?” She doesn’t pant when she goes up for air, replacing her sucking with her long fingers. 

“I’m really close,” you admit. It’s obvious from your shaking legs. 

Sounds of returned wet suction start to increase. Criticism and compliments prod Wonyoung on. How else would she improve in her idol life? In blowing you? In devouring you?

You realize you’re fitting the cliché. There’s you, an idol whose name is uttered on the daily by both young and old fans, igniting a scandal in the making by fucking a girl beneath you in everything. There’s this expensive suite where stars go for a little precious privacy to do what they want. There’s the two of you doing exactly what you desire: fucking each other. There’s the classic maneater trope with how it’s more like Wonyoung fucking you—she fucks you with her face, fucks you in the head, fucks with your righteousness. Well, fuck.

Wonyoung drools so much that you’re invited to a sea the moment your head pushes past her tongue again. It’s slicker, sloppier, and so much sexier because she’s so completely devoted to your cock. Her hypnotizing eyes trap you and so does her body, tight and tiny—that tummy is flatter than a board and only thin panties hide what her long legs lead to from the bottom.

The only time she stops sucking you is when she darts her tongue side to side with an unhinged pace on your sensitive tip. “Good. Cum in my throat.”

“Shit, god, I can’t—”

Wonyoung attacks you again, and there, in her warm orifice, your plentiful orgasm spends itself. Her throat welcomes you tightly every time. Her hot restricted breaths fan your groin and evokes more semen that spills with no care. 

Your hands ball into fists. Although you’re hot and shaking, you can’t touch her. Why are you following her rules when it should be the other way around? It’s a reversal of roles, a Stockholm’s Syndrome of some sorts whose victim is your cock never wanting to leave from the predatory embrace of Wonyoung’s puckered kiss.

Of course, after she gathers all of your cum in the pool of her mouth, she swallows.

She really could be a good girl.

“Awh.” Wonyoung pouts mockingly. “Daddy, are you crying?”

Touch your face. To your horror, she’s right. The electricity and shock of her continuous blowjob results in a few tears on your cheeks. You haven’t done that in years. Wonyoung is the first one to make you cry like this.

You flush. What more to hide your weakness than anger? “Wonyoung,” you start, then you realize you don’t know what to say, “I—you—”

She smiles. You aren’t going anywhere.

She shoves you to the bed. You’ve reached rock bottom in spite of the softness of the quality pillows. You’ll scrape your way out if not for Wonyoung finishing the job by keeping you there assisted by her legs. They close around you with not even a courtesy false promise of an escape. No negotiation, no coaxes. 

Wonyoung is sitting on your crotch but not on your dick, which is a problem. Which is a solution. Her hands are pinned to your chest while you try not to meet her eyes. It’s a losing game when your runaway glances are met by her grinding hips, silky thighs, and the hard, flexing abs of a perfection of a midriff. 

Her fingers tug on the waistband of her panties before slowly slipping them off. Her pink pussy clear of blemish or hair comes in contact with your length. Up and down she goes, her dancing hips always seeking for more friction. You understand their need because you share the same—Wonyoung’s splayed lips on your member feel heavenly. It’s kind of disappointing that she might as well have climbed her way out of hell.

If she did, she’s the prettiest little devil you’ve ever seen.

“Ohhh, don’t you get it?” Wonyoung asks. She moves so smoothly, you nearly forget she’s humping you rather than dancing. Her soft moan brings you back. It’s the first time you’ve heard it, and you’re melting; it sounds so seductive and innocent in the same breath.

You know her. She knows you. So it’s clear: Jang Wonyoung can be anything—supermodel, actress, dancer—but she cannot ever be innocent. 

Her gorgeous voice is silky when it twists into moans and gasps. Looking down at your crotches meeting and swaying is a better show than end-of-the-year performances. The blowjob and commanding you around must have turned her on by a lot—her flesh is hot and wanton with juices as it slides up and down you.

“You’re not going anywhere, daddy!” Wonyoung giggles. She kisses your nose, then your chest until her lipstick marks you. You burn up with feverish lust after each peck. “Daddy is only Wonyoung’s. And I knew your perfect cock would be mine when I posted those pics. I know men like daddy would do anything for me.”

“Wonyoung.” Breathe again, because you’ll need to after this, so why not do it now? “Why are you doing this?”

You thought her flirtatiousness in your office was just her coyness coming out to play. She’d rest her chin on your desk, suck a red lollipop on some days, maybe run her fingertips over your knuckles. Day in and out, she plays the same game. You didn’t know it would reach this level.

“Because I want to mess you up, daddy,” Wonyoung says. Her tongue swipes at the cavern of your mouth right until she nibbles at your lower lip. Her lipstick peppers your face. “I want to fuck my daddy up so bad he’ll never go a day without thinking of me.”

Swallow. The friction of your sexes is driving you crazy and close to the edge. All the same, you don’t want to make a fool of yourself cumming early for Wonyoung. 

What happened to your dynamics? Your relationship? There wasn’t a romantic one, but it was always you holding the reins professionally and her just being an insistent passenger. Now she’s wrapping that rein around your neck and claiming you for her own. Looks like you have control everywhere excluding the bed.

“That’s it?” you ask. Shut your eyes—just seeing her grind on you with her utterly wet cunt can make you bust. “Your career doesn’t matter to you?”

“I could say the same thing to you.” Wonyoung lifts herself up and flashes that wicked smile again. “But I want to feel this in me before you wimp out.”

You and Wonyoung fall down a bottomless hole of consequence and wrongs but Wonyoung makes sure to bottom out the first time she sits on your dick. She engulfs you whole and traps you there with her soaked, grippy walls that slide all the way down. 

You’d say her pussy has a vise grip, holding onto you like all goes wrong if it didn’t, except you think it has the grip of a vice. Need for her juices that coat you replaces the need for alcohol. Even if you get out of this suite alive, (which is a low possibility), you can see yourself always coming back for more. You could be addicted to anything—smoking, eating, cheating—but it just so happened your vice is Wonyoung.

“Daddy!” she yelps, and from there you can’t count the times she slams her cute butt down your thighs. “Oh my god, daddy!”

Her dainty, cute yells make you throb inside her. Perhaps it’s the kittenish quality of it that turns you on so much. She sounds so appealing, so fucking ruinable that it’s surprising to see that she’s doing the ruining here. Her expression in bed is more animated than the ones she makes onstage—her nearly closed eyes look upwards while her mouth falls open. 

The squeeze of her tight, wet cunt renders your knees weak. It’s a good thing you’re lying down. Wonyoung makes sure you stay that way by penetrating herself with you over and over again. Her being barely a weight on you doesn’t stop you from lying there uselessly. You know better by now not to challenge her, not when each time you enter her vagina is better than the last. Her pussy is slippery and tight, proving to be the smallest and the best fit for your shaft simultaneously. Her hole is too tight and too good. 

“Is this all for me, daddy? Huh?” Wonyoung circles her hips, making you moan, then continues her up-and-down movements. “You’re so hard, you naughty daddy. I know you got a b-boner when you looked at my posts. Now I’m giving you another one.”

You always thought of Wonyoung as justifiably confident yet arrogant. She told you once at your desk that she doesn’t deserve a stylist who only has a four-star rating. She lamented about the lack of competence of her staff preparing her comeback stage. All those you turned down to give the topics of her complaints the benefit of the doubt, but you know she’s right. She doesn’t deserve less when she’s better than the best. She doesn’t deserve less when she knows her place: a royal throne. So you can’t deny that she’s too hot to handle, undiscriminating to you whose connections always have impossibly beautiful women somewhere in there.

She’s so hot that her small breasts bouncing from behind that denim bra and tube top looks appealing. She’s so hot that the heat between her legs grows wetter. She’s so hot that when her soft ass crashes down on you again, you don’t find it a repetitive bore. 

She’s so hot that you’d let the slim, tall girl use you until dusk turns to dawn, even if the curtains behind her are drawn apart and the secret cameras get to snap a photo.

“Shit, Wonyoung,” you say, your core squeezing. “You’re so fucking tight.”

“I bet you’ve thought about this, daddy. You thought that one night, I’ll be so bad that you could book us a whole hotel and fuck me in all the rooms, just like this one. I’m right, aren’t I?”

“Yes, fuck yes.”

“You wanted to open my legs and use my little pussy all day long, huh? Until I’m yours to throw around and do whatever?”

“Y-yes.” Nod. Your face twists—she shouldn’t speak when she’s fucking you because all the filth she says makes you want to blow inside her already. It’s the kind of truth that arouses rather than hurts.

Wonyoung’s riding switches to a rapid intensity that makes you yell. She lets you in so deep to the point that her butt cheeks touch your heavy balls. She’ll drain them for sure; the pace she sets is terrifyingly quick. It seems that she becomes tighter after each bounce, and it’s not helping you hold out at all.

Watch the wildness in Wonyoung’s eyes become animalistic. It makes you all the more certain now of one solid fact: there is something seriously wrong with Jang Wonyoung.

She smirks. “Well, you got it wrong. I’m not all yours, daddy.” She leans down, resting her palms on your shoulders. “You are all mine.”

Her hands might as well be a chained collar waiting to close around your neck. Her devilish simper is supposed to scare you, not turn you on. Somehow, it does both. 

She flicks back her hair as she sits up again. Through it all, her riding doesn’t stop. “This cock?” she asks before slamming her pussy down it with a different kind of ferociousness. Cry out but she shuts you up with a furious kiss. “It’s gonna be my dirty secret. I’ll always go to daddy after my schedules so I can make him cum—over and over again.”

To think that a young girl like her has you at her beck and call is laughable, but there’s no laughing now. As you stare at Wonyoung’s fluid body and her hair bouncing beautifully, you realize she actually can have you for herself. It only took one Instagram post to lure you to her. She sees you’re falling deeper and deeper for her.

She didn’t exactly tell you how to escape.

“You gonna cum, daddy? Is my perfect pussy milking you?” 

You can do nothing except nod.

“Of course, I can feel you throbbing, i-it’s making me lose it,” gasps Wonyoung. Her whines are making you lose it yourself. “Let’s cum together, okay? You can only cum when you feel Wonyoung squirt all over your massive cock.”

She squeezes tighter on top of you when she reaches down to rub her clit. She’s in search of any kind of stimulation: the slap of her ass on your thighs, the upward shoves of your erection, the pulse of her clit. Her moans increase in their whiny girlishness. Their tender vulnerability makes you think she should be the one underneath your body though you’re aware that’s never going to happen. Wonyoung belongs on top, just the same with her name in first place in the list of brand reputation rankings, browser searches, followers.

Once upon a time, you took charge over her. You managed her lessons, her videos, her behind-the-scenes duties. Funny how it’s the opposite now, wherein she jounces on you freely with the domineering message of caution: don’t cum until she does.

And god, is she making that hard. Everything about her is so attractive, from the bounce of her hair to her midriff showing your entering cock to her pretty pink pussy clutching you. What gets you, however, is her face—everyone loves looking at that face. Today, you’re under an aphrodisiac for it: you’re in love with the roll of her eyes as she rides you, the pink on her cheeks, the part of her lips. 

“Fuck yes! Ugh, daddy, you feel so good inside me…” Wonyoung’s core clenches and slides your penis along its textured, sensitive walls. Her gasp is straight out of fantasies. “You’re balls deep, see? Look how your meat’s filling me. My pussy’s going to be so sore after this.” She chuckles. “Wait, who says we’re stopping?”

You shudder. You’re getting very close. Your earlier orgasm still has its effects on you. You’re afraid you’re going to do something you shouldn’t under her bedroom law. She’ll imprison you with her thighs and waterboard you with all the girl cum she promised until you confess that she’s the best fuck you ever had. 

“Daddy’s going to cum so hard he’s probably going to breed me. Then I’ll, oh, I’ll feel it inside my tummy and it’s going to be a scandal. Wouldn’t you like that? Getting to knock up Jang Wonyoung? I can hear you moaning. I think you really like that. I think that’s why you’re thrusting up in me. You want to be a real daddy and make your baby girl a mommy. That’s so fucked up, you know that, right? You shouldn’t be having sex with me, let alone breeding me. But you’re a fucking weak old man, so of course you like that.”

You’re burning up. They’re the signs of what’s to come. If her confident words inspire her young fans, her monologues of lust make you feel like you’re the worst person in the world. Of course, the boner is part of the effect. 

You groan. “Wonyoung, baby girl, please—”

“Oh god, daddy, I’m going to cum!” she squeals. Her emotions control her and tell her to go harder, bounce harder, squeeze harder. She’s pushing past her limits. “Agh, agh, you’re cumming, too, right? Cum for me. You’ll be—fuck, my daddy’s going to make me cum! I’m squirting all over his cock!”

She slams herself down roughly and repeatedly till your lower body’s flooded with her cum. You can’t take it anymore. It feels like dying because you swear you can see stars in the ceiling, stars of lust in her eyes. La petite mort. How poetic, since Wonyoung’s screaming still sounds as beautiful as her singing and speaking. 

Her shouts are close to breaking the windows’ glass. Anyone can figure out what’s happening without the destruction of the pane—the curtains are wide open, letting the world see the youngest icon of the new generation pumping herself onto her co-worker. 

You wonder if there’s actually poor watchers out there seeing you cream Wonyoung’s princess pussy, grab her ass to guide her, and kiss her when she leans down.

Wonyoung tastes the best when she’s squirting.

-

Consequences always catch up no matter what. You can hide under a cloak, in another country, underneath the earth in a secluded bunker and all that won’t help. You’ll be stuck dealing with the outcome, thorns from a rose you thought was too pretty to have some. 

That’s the first thing you remember when you wake up, wrapped in the bed sheets and by Wonyoung’s arms. Someone’s calling you. Bad news: it’s your boss—the ringtone itself sounds angry, too. 

“Hello?” you ask. You can’t help the grogginess of your morning voice, try as you may. If your boss didn’t know what happened, he can perfectly guess from the exhaustion riddling your greeting. 

“You dumb little shit.” You can feel the spittle of your boss’ insult from miles away, cities away, screens away. “You’re lucky I’m friends with the fucking CEO.”

“What happened?”

“Don’t give me that. Some janitor saw you from the wing. I needed to hear it from you: did you fuck Jang Wonyoung?”

Unexpectedly, a veiny hand you remember holding something else grabs your phone. Wonyoung leans against your shoulder wearing nothing as she holds the phone to her ear.

“Why?” she quips, loud and clear. “Wouldn’t you?”

[justinssportscorner]

Ari Waller at LGBTQ Nation:

School officials in Maine stated Thursday they will not comply with the Trump administration’s demands to prevent trans girls from participating in women’s and girls’ sports, instead they will “continue to follow state law and the Maine Human Rights Act.” The U.S. Department of Health and Human Services (HHS) conducted a hasty investigation into Maine’s policy allowing transgender girls to participate in high school athletics. According to HHS, Maine’s Department of Education, the Maine Principals’ Association, and a high school in Cumberland County, Maine, all violated Title IX. HHS cited Greely High School in the Portland suburb of Cumberland because there was a report of a transgender girl competing on the school’s track team who managed to win a track event. HHS sent a letter to the institutions on March 20, telling them that they have 10 days to settle the issue by banning transgender athletes from competing on teams matching their gender identity.  The district issued its letter on Thursday to the community, stating it will not comply with the HHS demand because of Maine’s own laws preventing gender discrimination. The district statement also thanked the community for their perseverance  “To our students: Thank you for your maturity, perseverance, and dedication to learning through these distractions. Please continue to lead the way,” the letter stated. The Maine Principals’ Association also stated they are “bound by the law, including the Maine Human Rights Act, which our participation policy reflects.”

[...] Because HHS threatened to withhold funding if Maine didn’t comply by March 30 means administration officials will have to decide whether to follow through with their threat and, if they do, the state will have to decide how to proceed.  In the spirit of states’ rights, Mills could end up following through with her threat and suing the administration to keep it from overriding state law.

Maine stood tall against Trump’s extortion attempts to make the state abide by his anti-trans directives.

[soldiergf]

just give it what it wants (lottie matthews x travis' sister reader headcanons - requested)

summary: you're travis and javi's sister, and the crash (alongside of the death of your father) has taken a toll on all of you. luckily for you, lottie is there to help.

tw: mentions of death, poverty, reader was previously a stripper in order to make money (pre-crash life)

────୨ৎ────────

if someone told you six months that you’d be the kinda-sorta-girlfriend of the leader of a wilderness-worshipping cult consisting of a group of teenage girls you would probably say “what the fuck?”

which, even now, is still a pretty valid response

your dad was the coach of your school’s soccer team

and when they made it to nationals

naturally, you and your brothers got a free trip to seattle

you were the oldest of the bunch

and although you did spend the majority of the time at parties and getting drunk

you were by far the most responsible

and when the plane crashed and your dad died

of course you were devastated

because despite all his shittiness

he was still your dad

but now it was just you, travis and javi

and the soccer girls

you noticed how, as time went on, travis started getting closer to natalie

you didn’t know her that well, and despite you and travis’ constant bickering

you saw how happy she made him

so nat was good in your book

laura lee was kind, but a little too religious for your taste 

(who prays that much anyways???)

shauna and jackie were way too in love with each other to really focus on anyone else

same with tai and van (although you got a feeling they actually had their shit together)

and misty was just straight up freaking you out sometimes

in fact, besides your brothers, there was only one girl who really caught your attention

lottie was rich, insanely fucking rich, rich enough to afford a whole private plane

but she didn’t seem stuck up or bossy or anything

she was a little weird, sure

always randomly waking up in the middle of the night

just staring out into nothingness

and then there was that moment during the seance

but for the most part, she seemed pretty chill

you remember the first time you actually had a real, one on one conversation

the weather was getting a little bit cooler 

and you weren’t sure how long you guys had been out there

you had spent the majority of your pre-crash life scraping by, trying to find some ways to earn a little bit of cash

whether that was hooking up with guys twice your age or other part-time jobs you can run by

your dad’s job didn’t pay much, but at least it payed

now, you weren’t sure what to do

by now you would have already graduated high school

so at least you wouldn’t have to drop out

but no more college for you

you spent the majority of your days in the wilderness like this

taking a good five minutes just to sit alone and cry

and then go back to your responsibilities 

and one day lottie found you during one of your sulking sessions

while typically you would just tell her (or anyone) to fuck off

you were just too tired

and given the fact that really didn’t have anyone else to talk to about this

(javi was too young, and travis was simply too closed off)

lottie seemed like the best option

so when she opened her arms out for a hug

you wrapped your arms around her waist and starting crying

she was gentle with you, her hands carding through your hair softly

she told you it was going to be alright

and while you’re not exactly sure if you believe her

for now, it’s good enough

until she starts talking all about the wilderness and how its ‘meant to save all of you’

cause honestly

what the fuck???

your father died, you and your siblings might die too

and yet she sees it as a ‘sign’

but when you try to pull out of her arms and get the fuck away

she just pulls you closer

“i didn’t mean to make you upset” she murmurs against your hair

she explains how she just said what you felt

and you know it’s unreasonable to get upset

you know it’s just her way of coping

but still

but what good would fighting do?

you can’t change her opinions

(and maybe a part of you knows. knows how much power she has. how much power she will have. how even if you wanted to leave, you couldn’t because she has the final say)

so you just lie there in there her arms, letting her hold you and press kisses into your hair

eventually y’all head back to the cabin

and you don’t talk again for a couple of days

until one night, you’re half asleep, and you feel something

it’s lottie, shaking you awake

“do you hear that?” she whispers

and no, you don’t fucking hear anything but you’re too tired to say anything 

“follow me” she says, motioning towards the door and outside the cabin

and you know you shouldn’t

you know you should stay and watch over your brothers and get some sleep

you don’t even believe in lottie’s wilderness bullshit

but it’s lottie

so yeah

you follow her

it’s cold outside, really fucking cold, but fuck it’s pretty

even before all this, you never really liked the woods

it’s dirty and cold and just full of trees and dirt

but you never stopped to think how beautiful it is

you can clearly see the stars in the sky

there’s a lot of them

and while you don’t know a single one of their names or meanings or any of that stuff

in that moment it’s the best thing in this fucked up world

“it’s beautiful, right?” lottie says, almost as if she’s reading your mind

���it wants” she whispers into your ear, the hot breath of your mouth burning against your cold skin as she wraps her arms around your waist

and you know damn well what she’s talking about

and you don’t believe her for a fucking second

but either way, you know she’s not giving in

“what does it want?” you ask, just to entertain her

she presses her lips down to your neck and whispers “you” into your skin

and, well, when she puts it like that…

who are you to refuse?

────୨ৎ────────

requested by @mikeymadisonsgf (i know you didn't give me a specific req so i hope u enjoy)

[insomniakisses]

Moon's First Day

Warnings/Nates: Omegaverse Au, Pup!Reader, Mixed Arsenal Pack, Part of Moon and sunshine au.

It was January 2022 and today was your first day at arsenal, your first day meeting the team and the first time on a senior team. Though most importantly at a club in England. At the age of 16, You had recently moved from your home in the Netherlands to a small apartment in London. Your apartment was small, your belongings few and the building wasn’t the safest. But you couldn’t afford much more.

You were full of nerves by the time you reached the training grounds, hands shaking slightly as you signed the contract and took the photos. Then came meeting the team, and your nerves grew tenfold. You had been told they were nice, you had seen their interactions before and come to that conclusion as well. But that was with each other, it didn’t necessarily mean they would be nice to you or even like you.  

Entering the field, you looked around shyly, the team was they’re in the middle of drills and you felt yourself shrink in fear. They were even more intimidating like this, running and tackling with the ball and the sound of chatter and yells made you feel tiny and insignificant.

What you didn’t know was that you were being watched, Viv was stood having a break and drinking her water suddenly realising why she recognised your name when they were told who was joining. You didn’t know each other, though you knew of her of course she was one of your idols after all and you’d be playing with her on your national senior team for the first time this year. Having played for the youth teams prior. Shockingly, Viv also knew of you having looked into you when she saw the new name on the list for the national team. She never realised you’d be at arsenal too. But you were so young, you couldn’t be living on your own in a new county, could you? What parents would allow that?

When the drills were over you were led towards the team, their boisterous and hyper energy stilling when they take you in. The older girls immediately softening, Katie reaching out to tuck some hair behind your ear.

“I didn’t realise we were getting a pup today” she jests, but no one responds their too busy looking at you.

You feel your embarrassment grow at her comment, the girls seem to pick up on the dejected look that flashes through your eyes at her comment. Viv steps forward hand rubbing your back, as she pulls you into a side hug. Shocking both herself and the team at her need and willingness to physically comfort you.

You awkwardly lean into her hold, nodding along shyly as everyone makes their introductions. When its your turn to speak you shyly mumble you name feeling Viv squeeze you tight and they all coo at you letting out relaxing scents as a way to get you to relax.

Leah stealing you away from the comfort of Viv’s hold to run you through some drills though one thought ran through Viv’s mind as she watched you go. Her face pulling into a confused frown as she turned to her girlfriend, “Surely she isn’t staying on her own?”

Beth simply shrugs in response, her face equally concerned as she looks over to you, “Surely not, I mean she’s tiny!” Beth exclaims, laughing in disbelief at the suggestion your parents would have cared so little as to let you move to a foreign country and live by yourself.

-

As training progressed and you settled a little more, you began to become a little more talkative. The flurry of questions from the girls certainly helped that, and it was all going smoothly until Viv asked you a more serious question.

“So where do you and your parents live? The city can be quite daunting for a pup, I’m sure they’ll be picking you up today. I hope its not a long drive?”

All eyes were on you the longer you stayed quiet, an awkward and embarrassed flush painting your face. “I- uh… My parents are still in the Netherlands... I live alone.” was your quiet response a series of outrage following the statement the girls simply not believing or accepting that you could be telling the truth.

Getting up Viv stares at you face serious though concern shines in her eyes, she outstretches her hand to you. “Show us.” It wasn’t a question, and you knew that so with a sigh you took her outstretched hand letting her lead you to her and Beths car, more than sure the others would follow in their own.

The drive was short and tense, you weren’t sure why they seemed to care so much you were fine. Sure, you ran home from the station every night, sprinting up the stairs too scared for the elevator that had seem better days and you locked the door pushing a chair in front of it when you got in. Leaving the lights off for an hour just in case someone followed you, since one time they had. But you were fine.

-

When you pulled up to the apartment building you saw Katie, Caitlin, Lia and Leah stood by their cars waiting for you as you got out of Viv’s. Letting out a shaky breath and an awkward chuckle you led them inside, mentally cringing when your pervy neighbour made a comment on his way to the lift. Not just hearing but feeling the growls that the girls had let out in reply, your small body being pulled into Lia immediately as she glared at the now closed lift doors.

You simply grabbed her hand and gently tugged it mumbling as you led her away, “We should take the stairs… I always do, Safer…”

The girls took in the change of tone when you said the last word, faces hardening at the thought of you staying here longer. That feeling growing when they saw your apartment, it was tiny and very unsafe. Not to mention your lack of food or well… anything. Had you just left and been given nothing?

“Pack your stuff Liefje, you’re moving.” Viv spoke, walking into your bedroom to start gathering your things, her anger growing when she realised you had only a handful of clothes. The other girls noting you only had plastic cutlery and paper plates. You were not okay, not safe at all, but they were here now. They were going to keep you safe and that would start at Viv and Beth’s place.

[xxgoldie]

Congratulations for your 100 followers!

May I request for Lighter (zzz)? As for the alphabets, it's A, J, M, N, and Y!

I hope it's not too much, anywho, once again, congratulations! Hope you have a great day/night <3

thank u sm! ofc lighter nation pulls up first hehehe

main event page - event masterlist

A: Admiration - what's something they admire in a partner? Lighter really appreciates someone patient and caring. Partially this is because its something he really needs; while he's not massively secretive about his past, it takes him a while to truly open up about the details and the way it still affects him, plus he kind of forgets to take proper care of himself, since he's used to viewing himself as a means to other people's ends. But its also because so much of his life has been about violence, so he really admires a shift from that, and feels extra in love whenever he sees that gentle care in you, even if it's not directed to him.

J: Jealousy - do they get jealous easily? what are they like when they're jealous? Lighter is pretty secure in your relationship, so he's not gonna get jealous of your friends, and as long as no one's making you uncomfortable, he's not even particularly fussed if someone else asks you out, just keeping a protective eye on you while you reject them in case they take it badly and he has to step in. THAT BEING SAID, he does get possessive if someone tries to flirt with you, especially if they're subtle enough about it that you don't really notice. Directly shooting their shot is one thing, he can respect that, but those flirty little compliments and lingering touches are encroaching a bit too far on his territory. Suddenly he's glued to your side and his hand seems permanently attached to your waist, if the person doesn't know who he is (or doesn't seem to care), he'll drop it into conversation or take his jacket off so they see his scarred, muscled arms, making eye contact with a look that just screams "i dare you to try". Also, he may not get jealous of people, but he's lowkey the type to get jealous of like. pets and plushies. sees you cuddling your plushies or petting a cat and his thought process is just "aww cute. i wish that were me tbh. wait we're dating, that should be me." and he's well aware its a bit of a silly thought to have so he tries to play it off but the way he glares at whatever's taking up your affection is so obvious. He'll pretend he doesn't know what you're talking about if you tease him about it, so long as it works and he ends up in your arms with your hand threading through his hair.

M: Melt - what can you do to fluster them and make them melt? I've had this headcanon for a while that Lighter likes to tease you a lot so you don't get the chance to try to fluster him first, because it's honestly a little crazy how easy it is. Any sort of heartfelt compliment has him losing his words for moment, particularly if you tell him you feel safe around him. But if you want to see him properly flustered and embarrassed, you just have to be unapologetic and bold about your attraction to him. If he catches you staring, he will tease you about it, but just double down on it (e.g. "enjoying the view?" "oh, absolutely", or "take a picture, it'll last longer" "amazing idea actually" and genuinely pulling out your phone) and you have the upper hand in an instant, his ears go red and he tries to think of something smart to say back but he's short-circuiting a little. Poor guy absolutely cannot take what he dishes out.

N: Nicknames - what nicknames / petnames do they have for their S/O? what are their favourite nicknames for you to call them? He likes most variations of babe/baby, tho he uses baby most often. Also likes to use compliments as nicknames, lots of "hey gorgeous" and "pretty girl / pretty boy". When it comes to what you call him, he particularly likes if you call him "love" or some variation of it, like "my love" or "lover". Also, calling him "my champion" with a pout is like a fast-track ticket to him doing whatever you want.

Y: Yearning - how easily do they miss their s/o? what are they like when you're away? He's the kind of guy to always have his partner on his mind, little things just make him think of you. He's always taking photos of cute animals or pretty sunsets or other things he sees to send to you, and when he runs errands in the city he'll come back with lots of little trinkets and treats for you - he doesn't even actively look for them, it's just second instinct for him to think "oh they'd like this" and pick it up. However, I think it takes a bit longer than most for him to really miss you to the point it's a problem. Like, sure, he would always love to see you even more often, but he gets that sometimes life gets in the way and its quite often his gang duties that are keeping you apart, so it takes a little more for it to start genuinely affecting him. When it does, though, he's basically checking his phone for any messages from you - it's not just that he thinks of you in everything, he's actively looking for random reasons to text you. He'll be extra fierce in fights, trying to wrap everything up asap so he can get back to you. But if the gap really can't be shortened, he instinctively starts bringing you up in every conversation. Your name on his tongue helps fill the void a tiny bit, but it's lowkey just "ow, i hurt my hand!" "(Y/N) has hands..."

[alicedrawslesmis]

(sorry this is from a week ago but) Wait, what's going on right now that's complicated with Amazonian farmers' land rights?

Not farmers, indigenous people

See, recently they put a new law through congress that severely reduces indigenous land to the borders established during the late dictatorship, or immediately post-dictatorship, in 1988. An absolute joke of a border that was dreamed up by some military assholes. People in america may recognize this type of society from the times of westward expansion and think this is a thing of the past because for you guys it is. But here it is a reality. Murder is rampant. The reach of the law is incredibly limited. Government is just too weak and landowners basically run things. THAT'S WHY it's so important to donate directly to the native peoples instead of random NGOs because native people are fucking there and the more power they hold in the land the safer the land will be from agroindustrial expansion.

Well the law was vetoed by the the president and the Supremo Tribunal Federal, aka supreme federal court, labeled it as unconstitutional. Which it is, because our 1988 constitution describes native american land rights in some of its first articles. We thought this would be it for the law

But then the senate (that already overrepresents landowners in rural states) just went along and approved it anyway. I had no idea they could approve something unconstitutional. The progressives and particularly the socialists are fighting this in court. But it happens that for now the legal border is the severely reduced version.

Doesn't mean they'll just give up, because as it happens we don't have any stand your ground laws so even if you own a piece of land, you cannot legally speaking just shoot everyone there. Or attack or threaten them in any way. They'll just have long legal battles individually for the rights to occupy land based on use. Also the Xingu national park, the largest preserved land of the Amazon described as 'larger than Belgium', is being encroached by huge farms that are poisoning their water supply. The border is Visible. I'll try to find video of it but essentially you have a forest and a desert separated by a strict line.

Just last week in the south of Bahia (not the Amazon, let me explain more about the Amazon situation in a bit) Hãhãhãe leadership Nega Muniz Pataxó was shot and killed by an armed militia group that invaded and occupied the Caramuru territory.

View this post on Instagram

A post shared by SOMOS PATAXÓ HÃHÃHÃE (@somoshahahai)

The situation in the Amazon, specifically the yanomami territory in Roraima our northernmost state, aka deep forest, is more dire than average given difficulty of access, sheer size, and government abandonment. It's a place that depends on government aid for medicine. It's land that is being systematically invaded by gold miners, pandemic, toxins from nearby farmlands, wood extraction etc. (wood extration is rampant everywhere tho). Early 2023 saw a massive federal government operation by now president Lula to empty the mines and try to look for where funding comes from. Yanomami land is still being invaded to this day, the struggle is ongoing.

The yanomamis need support right now more than any other. Last year saw a massive heat wave that (well, one, caused a girl named Ana Clara Machado to die during the Taylor Swift concert. This is unrelated but I feel like not enough foreign media covered this, Taylor even lied about it as well.) dried up a lot of rivers, killed a LOT of fresh water animals including an unprecedented amount of pink dolphins. Access that was already hard became damn near impossible without boats. I cannot overstate how many pink dolphins were found dead.

Another technique that landowners use to clear space for farms is to just set things on fire and then occupy the empty land, which they legally can do to land that was naturally burned in a forest fire. It happened that Pantanal, another national park of swampland, was massively devastated by fires last year too

this article is from 2020, the year that the worst fire happened, but in 2023 there was another one. It's been happening yearly now due to a) deliberate action and b) climate change aggravation.

And this is not nearly all. Just off the top of my head. If you speak portuguese I recommend following the APIB or the COIAB on instagram to keep up with the news. The FUNAI is the government branch of indigenous organization, but it's not generally that well liked. Still.

[crimsoncandy04]

Good day! Tomorrow or later I should say because it's already 10:41 pm, it's my birthday! Dec 29, can you please make Scaramouche is obsessed with us? Like OBSESSED OBSESSED, make this as my birthday gift please! 🥹

As you wish. (I can't say no. I'm now bound by birthday law. When the special boy or girl makes a birthday request, one simply MUST comply. This is what the ancient texts state. Otherwise the stars will declare thee an absolute asshole for at least a year.)

Happy birthday! I hope this is to your liking ;) and may you see many more yearly returns after this!

(I really tried. Usually I take a while to write because my inspiration is slow to come and quick to leave. But I really wanted to give you something. I hope this doesn't read as rushed.)

TW: Paimon abuse.

❤️💜🖤❤️💜🖤❤️💜🖤❤️💜🖤❤️💜

Recently a bunch of strange things had been happening to you and Traveler. First a bunch of your supplies had been discovered missing one morning (Traveler had blamed themselves and believed they had probably just neglected to notice some stuff falling out of their backpack while fighting), but a few hours later, both of you were swore you were being followed too (Traveler could recognize human footsteps but every time they tried to turn around and go scout the area for thieves, there was no one around), after that a few days later, you would discover that your favorite sweater had vanished from your tent, Traveler had their tent knocked over completely one night, and even woke up with their clothing sewn into the floor of it the next day.

If you didn't know any better, you'd have guessed a vengeful spirit was stalking you both. And that these cruel and disturbing pranks were its way of exacting revenge.

But that couldn't be possible right?

Thankfully the activity had ceased for a few days after the last misfortune had befallen Traveler, and both of you had hoped that you could rest easy before finally heading to explore the nation of geo for the first time ever!

It was an exciting idea. However, the night before you two were supposed to set off, something happened again and this time it was serious.

Paimon had been hurt.

It wasn't serious thankfully.

But someone had been cruel enough to think that chucking a rock at her head would be funny and after picking up a bleeding and weeping Paimon from the grass, Traveler had had enough and grabbed their sword and said they were going to catch this monster once and for all. They then left Paimon in your care as they left the campsite and headed into the trees. A look of pure unbridled hatred and silent fury in their golden eyes.

And so after that, you spent a little while sitting next to the tiny sleeping fairy inside Traveler's tent and watching over her.

You hadn't been expecting to suddenly hear footsteps outside of your own empty tent across the small clearing sometime later after nightfall.

You became eerily still.

Something didn't feel right.

It was too quiet.

Why was Traveler just hanging around outside?

You slowly got up and headed for the opening in the tent to see if your friend was okay, but just as you were about to pull back the fabric and look out, something in your very spirit made you stop dead.

Call it intuition.

Or a gut feeling.

But something in you was telling you to stay quiet and not let whoever was out there hear you.

So was this a thief?

You instinctively reached for your dagger in the pocket of your coat. You weren't the fighter here. This was true. You were the healer to Traveler's warrior but that's what kept you guys compatible on the battlefield and friends everywhere else.

However that didn't mean you didn't know how to stab someone in self defense if you needed to.

A strange soft yet sinister voice suddenly caught your attention from outside.

"Your friend has gone to play hero again. Leaving you to care for that...thing."

That voice was familiar. But where had you heard it before?

You clutched your weapon tighter.

"They're foolish. Leaving someone like you to care for the injured. Someone who... can't even manage to grasp their weapon properly."

You barely had time to scream before you realized that the voice was in the tent with you. Strong hands moving to cover your mouth and wrap around your waist as you feel someone's cool breath against your ear.

"Don't fight me. I'd hate to start off on the wrong foot by stunning you." The voice cooed in your ear. You had been trying to turn your head and kick. But your attacker sensed your intention and easily knocked you unconscious with one swift strike to your head.

You woke up later laying in a strange bedroom. The scent of incense and a strange perfume filling the air.

You try to sit up but something prevents you. You feel with your hands and discover that you are quite literally chained to the bedframe behind you. A thick metal collar and chain leash secure you in place. You can roll over but that's about it.

"Sleep well?" The same voice from earlier asks. You look around the dim candle-lit bedroom and see a barely illuminated figure standing at the foot of the bed.

"Why did you bring me here? Who even are you?" You ask cautiously. Afraid of accidentally angering your kidnapper in your defenseless state.

"You caught my interest. So I decided to keep you."

"Are you serious? You can't do that! What about my friend? He'll wonder if I'm dead!"

The figure was on you in the blink of an eye. It was then that you finally see him clearly.

A beautiful young man with thick indigo hair and eyes framed by elegant maroon colored eyeliner. He was breathtaking.

And suddenly you almost didn't care that he was sitting on your stomach and pinning your hands on either side of your head.

"Don't talk about those insignificant beings. Never again. from now on only talk about me okay?" You didn't know if this was jealousy or ego from the way he said it but you really didn't wanna push your luck. However, he seemed to misunderstand.

"I wasn't insinuating anything. Traveler is like my sibling-gah!" Suddenly the pale man's hand wrapped around your throat.

"of course it's them. That annoying pest is always ruining things for me. Listen closely starlight, because I'm only going to warn you once..." He leans down and whispers in your ear.

"I better not ever hear that name leave your mouth after today. I don't want to hurt you, but I will if I need to. Don't push me." He then loosens his hold but doesn't pull away entirely.

Instead shifting in his position and laying on top of you before kissing you deeply. You moan a little as you feel him shove his tongue in your mouth and move to spread your legs so he can be between them. His hardness already catching your attention as you feel him grind against you almost roughly.

"relax. Don't be nervous. I promise I'll make this hurt in all the right ways only~" the man teased as he broke the kiss and began to leave small kisses on your chest and stomach.

Why did this feel good? This was a bad man. You didn't even know his name!

You feel him tugging your underwear aside and giving your clit a gentle lick.

It was enough to make you audibly gasp.

"look at you, making just the most disgustingly cute noises~" he gives your clit more attention. Holding your thighs apart as he sucked and licked at your precious nub even as you started shaking.

"ah~ suck harder ~ please mister!" You feel him hum against your cunt as he hears your wanton plea.

"it's Scaramouche sweetheart. Use it." He then continued to tease your pussy with his lips and tongue as you started to feel your insides flutter.

"Scaramouche~ don't stop! Fuck this is amazing...!" You try to squeeze your thighs but scara keeps them forced apart still. You're stuck as you feel him suddenly shove his tongue deep into your pussy. Tasting your soft and moist inner walls as you suddenly cry out. This sensation pushes you over the edge completely and you end up climaxing harder than you ever had in your entire life.

Scaramouche licks the side of his mouth and grins mischievously at you from between your legs. Mumbling something about how adorable you look when at his mercy.

He isn't finished though.

You watch as Scaramouche begins to remove a few layers of his clothes until he gets to his shorts. Easily tugging them down and freeing his cock afterwards. Your eyes widen.

There was definitely a reason he tried to get you excited first.

Scaramouche was huge.

It felt like a threat on your life actually.

Especially when he teased his tip at your entrance and then finally began to slide more of his enormous shaft into you.

You try to say something but he quickly covers your mouth with his hand.

"shh...you can handle it. Relax."

You wince a little as you feel your body struggling to accommodate Scara's dick. Yet once it's finally in, it doesn't feel as uncomfortable. He gives you a few seconds to adjust before pulling nearly all the way back out and then suddenly slamming into you.

It takes him kissing you again to keep you from screaming as both pleasure and pain overwhelmed every inch of your body.

Why? You were so confused right now. This shouldn't feel good yet...

"scara you're too big! Ah~" he doesn't let you finish before thrusting against your sweet spot. HARD.

He has a smug look on his face.

"I knew you could take it. Fuck. You feel better than I imagined~" he groaned as he wrapped his arms around you and began to pound deeper into your aching cunt. Making you practically mewl as you clung to him as well.

"I waited for so long, for just the right moment...and finally after making that bastard leave...I could have you ~" he grunted as he placed another messy kiss on your lips.

You felt both good and bad shivers run down your spine at his words.

It had been him?

Scaramouche had been the one tormenting you and Traveler for the past week? Why?

He seemed to read your mind.

"because you caught my attention. You... interested me. And I decided to keep you. You're not leaving. Don't ever try." He emphasized his words with an almost painful thrust against your cervix.

You moaned uncontrollably as he then did it again and again.

"This body is mine. I'll use it how I please. I'll breed this pretty cunt every day if I want~"

You feel yourself getting close again.

Why were his words turning you on so much?

Fuck you wanted him to ruin you.

He quickened his pace after a few minutes and you knew he was getting close as well.

His possessive gaze fell on your flushed face and bouncing tits and for a second you swore you saw something reminiscent of affection in his eyes. Yet it was quickly replaced by coldness again and lust.

So that was why...?

Scaramouche loved you...

Maybe that was why this was bearable to you.

Did you perhaps feel a little attracted to him as well? You looked at him through watery eyes and felt your heart race upon seeing his piercing gaze meet yours.

Yes. You did like him. At least a little.

Scaramouche finished inside you not long after this realization of yours. You ended up cumming together and after that he went to actually lay beside you for a bit. Pulling you against his chest as he played with your hair and just seemed to get lost in the feeling of you on his arm.

This wasn't so bad.

The bedroom you were locked in was rather spacious and extravagant looking. You were laying upon soft silken sheets and the perfume from earlier made you feel relaxed and comfortable where you lay.

He could have locked you in a basement.

Clearly it wasn't that bad here.

And Scaramouche wasn't bad either.

You hugged him tightly and fell asleep in his arms.

This psychotic stalker may have gone about his feelings the wrong way. But he seemed to not be a danger to you.

And so for now, you reasoned...

That you could love him too.

❤️💜🖤❤️💜🖤❤️💜🖤❤️💜🖤❤️💜