#my ‘I am in your walls’ little gremlins

[biggianteggplant]

Reader getting asked by haikyuu guys to watch over their pets while running some errands ranting and confessing their whole life to the pet lol not knowing the guys heard her

HINATA SHOYO

The room was quiet. A little too quiet.

Y/n sat cross-legged on Hinata’s bed, gently poking at the hamster cage on his nightstand. Inside, a tiny cinnamon-colored fluffball waddled over to the bars, twitching his nose like he knew tea was about to be spilled.

She smiled softly. “Hey, little guy. You probably don’t understand me, but I gotta talk to someone before I explode and eat dry wall.”

The hamster blinked at her. Innocent. Judgement-free. The best kind of therapist.

She sighed, playing with the edge of her sleeve. “Your dad—or whatever Hinata is to you—is kind of… ugh. A lot. You know that, right?”

The hamster tilted his head. A single squeak.

“Exactly,” she said with a weak laugh. “He’s so—so loud. So bright. And he smiles like the sun and gets excited about everything, even vending machines. And it’s annoying. Like… painfully cute. Do you get it?”

Silence. Fluffball stared back.

Y/n leaned in closer, whispering like they were co-conspirators. “I think I’m in trouble. Like, real trouble. I like him. A lot.”

Her face warmed. She hid it behind her hands for a second before peeking at the hamster again. “He gave me strawberry milk the other day and said it reminded him of me because it’s ‘sweet and makes him hyper.’ Who says stuff like that?!”

A rustling sound downstairs made her freeze.

“…If you tell him I said any of this, I swear—”

“Tell me what?”

Y/n froze.

She turned slowly.

Hinata stood in the doorway, holding a snack tray and looking way too curious.

Y/n: “NOTHING I WAS JUST—I WAS TALKING TO THE HAMSTER.”

Hinata raised an eyebrow, grinning. “Are you jealous of my pet? Or were you confessing to him?”

“Shoyo I will throw you out the window.”

He laughed—big and bright and so unfair—as he walked over and sat beside her.

The hamster squeaked again.

Hinata smirked. “I think he ships us.”

ASAHI AZUMANE

Y/n side-eyed the giant white bird chilling in its fancy cage like it paid rent. The cockatoo blinked back at her with the smugness of someone who knew all your secrets. Because, apparently, it did.

She leaned in closer, holding a sunflower seed like she was about to make a deal with the mafia. “You better behave today, feathered gremlin.”

The cockatoo took the seed and blinked innocently.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Y/n whispered. “Last week you screamed when I sneezed. You are not slick.”

The bird continued chewing.

Y/n settled onto Asahi’s couch with a sigh. He was out “foraging” a.k.a. getting the bird more organic trail mix from that overpriced pet store. Honestly, she didn’t mind. She got alone time with Mr. Feathers… and the living room that suspiciously always smelled like Asahi’s cologne.

She glanced around, then leaned toward the cage again, whispering like she was about to commit a federal crime.

“Okay, listen,” she said, crossing her arms. “I don’t know why I keep coming here. I mean, yes I do. It’s him. I’m not proud of it. But here I am. Babysitting a judgmental feathery narc just to hang out with a man who probably thinks I’m here for you.”

The cockatoo tilted its head.

“I mean, have you seen him?” she continued, eyes wide. “Tall. Gentle. Looks like a forest god. Carries groceries with one hand like it’s nothing. And when he ties his hair up—OH, don’t get me started on the man bun. I would marry that man bun. Like, officiate a ceremony right now, bird, I swear.”

The cockatoo gave a soft whistle.

Y/n sighed dramatically. “It’s just not fair. He probably sees me as this weird friend of a friend who’s always here mooching off his air conditioning and pretending not to stare at his arms. Arms, bird. Like—who gave him permission?!”

The cockatoo slowly began climbing up its perch.

“Also, for the record,” she added, pointing, “you’re evil. You look like a cute puffball but deep down you’re plotting my downfall. I can feel it in my soul.”

And that’s when it happened.

A pause.

A blink.

And then—

“SHE THINKS YOU’RE DADDYYYYY.”

Y/n froze.

“…Excuse me?”

The cockatoo strutted across its perch like it had just delivered the winning line of a roast battle.

“HOT MAN WITH JUICE ARMS,” it yelled.

Y/n screamed internally. “STOP—YOU’RE NOT EVEN SUPPOSED TO TALK—”

“I WANNA BITE HIS FOREARMS.”

Y/n clutched the couch cushion like a lifeline. “WHY ARE YOU LIKE THIS?!”

The bird flared its crest, proud and majestic and also the devil.

And then—the door clicked.

Asahi, holding a bag of bird food and a reusable tote full of those coconut water drinks no one liked except him.

“Hey, sorry I took long, they were out of the—”

“I WANT TO SIT ON HIS LAP AND CRY.”

Asahi paused. Mid-step. Eyes wide. Brain buffering.

Y/n: buffering harder.

The bird was not done.

“WELCOME HOOOOOME, DELICIOUS TREE MAN.”

Asahi dropped the grocery bag.

Y/n dropped her soul.

She slowly turned toward him, face bright red, limbs stiff, voice high-pitched. “I—uh—I DIDN’T TEACH HIM THAT I PROMISE—”

Asahi blinked slowly. “...Delicious tree man?”

Y/n shrieked. “DON’T REPEAT IT—”

The bird screamed, “CRADLE ME LIKE A BABY—OH WAIT THAT’S HER—”

And that was the final straw.

Y/n tripped over the rug trying to run and slammed to the floor in front of Asahi like a fish trying to escape the tank. She lay there. Broken. Defeated. Possibly concussed.

Asahi rushed over, crouching beside her, flustered and awkward and absurdly hot. “Y/n?! Are you okay???”

She groaned into the carpet. “Do you have a bird-size jail cell. I need a moment with your snitch.”

The cockatoo cackled in the background like it was possessed.

Asahi gently helped her sit up, trying not to laugh. “You know… he only repeats things he hears a lot.”

Y/n blinked.

Realized.

And died internally all over again.

“Oh my god. I’m never showing my face here again,” she muttered.

But Asahi was smiling. Soft. Adoring. Flushed.

“You could,” he said quietly, brushing her hair out of her face, “just say it to me next time.”

Y/n gaped.

The bird chirped in the background, “NOW KISS.”

TIMESKIP! KOUSHI SUGAWARA

Let’s get one thing straight

You didn’t choose to fall in love with Sugawara Koushi.

No, no. That was an ambush.

A tactical, strategic, perfectly executed emotional ambush with bonus dimples.

And it wasn’t fair.

Not when he smiled like sunshine and smelled like safety and had that gentle but I will assign a pop quiz just to humble you energy that made your heart do cartwheels in a full-blown panic attack.

Also not fair?

His pet mous.

Yes, a mouse. In a classroom. Living rent-free in a tiny cage next to the window. Named cheese.

Personality: suspiciously nosy and loves chewing through secrets.

You’d been assigned clean-up duty in Suga’s homeroom all week — and by “assigned” you meant you had volunteered with the desperation of someone trying to inhale proximity like oxygen.

So there you were.

On your third consecutive day of "accidentally" staying late to sweep a room that didn’t need sweeping.

And for some reason, you were talking to the mouse again.

“…I’m just saying,” you whispered, gently sliding your fingers through the bars of the cage as cheese’s tiny pink nose twitched. “He should NOT be allowed to smile at students like that. It’s an emotional hazard.”

cheese blinked.

“And those sleeves?? Rolled up? What does he want me to do, DIE in this room?”

The mouse crawled onto the wheel and started spinning.

“Oh, don’t start with me. You live with him. I know you’ve seen it. He keeps adjusting his tie and looking all put-together and vaguely ethereal like he doesn’t know what he’s doing to my central nervous system—"

Rustle.

Something brushed your hand.

You looked down.

cheese was out of the cage.

You: “What the—how—??”

The little rodent scurried right into your sleeve, like a fuzzy lie detector, and parked itself near your shoulder like it was settling in for the next round of confessions.

You nearly screamed. “YOU’RE NOT SUPPOSED TO BE IN THERE—OH MY GOD, GET OUT—”

The door creaked.

You froze. Mouse in sleeve. Soul in shambles.

Sugawara peeked in, holding a warm drink and a bag of cheese crackers. “Hey, Y/n, you left your—why do you look like you saw a ghost?”

You smiled with the terror of someone harboring secrets and rodents. “Nope. Totally normal. Nothing’s happening. No crimes here.”

cheese, the demon, began moving.

You flinched. Suga noticed.

“…Are you okay?” he asked, stepping closer with concern blooming on his face.

cheese, sensing your doom, POPPED OUT OF YOUR COLLAR LIKE A HORROR MOVIE JUMPSCARE.

You screamed.

Suga dropped the crackers.

cheese ran straight up his arm and into his hoodie, like this was just another Tuesday.

A moment of stunned silence passed.

“…So,” Sugawara said, still calm as ever, “Did cheese climb into your shirt while you were—what, pouring your soul out to her again?”

You choked. “YOU KNEW???”

He smiled. “You’ve been monologuing at her like a Shakespearean love-struck gremlin for three days. I thought it was cute.”

He picked up the mouse with practiced ease. “She likes you, you know.”

“Oh, I can tell,” you muttered, face fully on fire. “She cuddled my pancreas.”

Suga laughed softly, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “She’s got good taste. Just like me.”

Pause.

Your brain: BUFFERING…

“…Wait, are you saying—?”

“I like you, dummy,” he said, grinning. “Why else do you think I keep assigning you mouse duty instead of actual cleaning?”

You gaped.

cheese squeaked like she was tired of carrying this ship alone.

Suga offered the crackers with a wink. “Stay for a snack?”

You nodded, dazed.

YAMAGUCHI TADASHI

You loved Yamaguchi Tadashi.

Not in a chill, “aw he’s sweet” kind of way.

No.

You loved him in a stupid, life-ruining, can’t-breathe-when-he-smiles-at-you kind of way. The kind of way that makes you text your friends “he said good morning i am deceased 💀” and then proceed to overanalyze his tone for four business days.

The problem?

Besides your terminal crush disorder?

His frog.

His beloved, sacred, unholy frog.

Sir Croak-A-Lot.

A slimy, smug-looking little demon that lived in a terrarium in Yamaguchi’s room like it paid rent.

Now, were you scared of frogs?

Terrified.

You once cried in 9th grade because a baby toad jumped near your foot.

You saw Kermit and felt genuine anxiety.

So when Yamaguchi asked if you could feed Sir Croak-A-Lot while he and Tsukki were at a training camp for three days?

You should’ve said no.

You should’ve lied.

You should’ve said you were allergic to amphibians. Or Catholic.

But alas. You said, “Sure! No problem :)” because your love was irrational and so was your judgment.

Cut to now.

You’re standing four feet from the terrarium with a pair of tongs, shaking like you’re disarming a bomb.

Inside, Sir Croak-A-Lot blinked once. Slowly. Menacingly.

“…Hi,” you whispered. “You don’t know me. I don’t know you. Let’s keep it that way.”

He licked his eyeball.

You gagged.

“Listen,” you said shakily. “I only agreed to this because I love your owner. Like. Deeply. He has pretty eyes and a nice laugh and says ‘thank you’ to vending machines. So if you could just not move while I drop this worm in, that’d be great.”

The frog didn’t respond.

You leaned closer, whispering like a therapist. “Do you think he knows? That I like him?”

Sir Croak-A-Lot launched halfway across the tank.

You shrieked.

Fell backward.

And somehow—somehow—knocked over a decorative lamp and landed with your foot stuck under Yamaguchi’s beanbag chair like you were in a live-action episode of FailArmy.

“OH MY GOD,” you gasped. “THIS IS IT. THIS IS HOW I DIE. DEATH BY FROG PANIC.”

And that’s exactly when the front door opened.

“Hey! I’m back early—Tsukki twisted his ankle and—wait, Y/N???”

Yamaguchi dropped his bag at the sight of you lying dramatically on the carpet, tangled in furniture and trauma.

You froze like a raccoon caught raiding the trash.

“…Hi,” you squeaked.

He blinked. “Are you okay?”

“Define okay,” you wheezed. “Do I have frog-related emotional damage? Yes. Did your amphibious son try to murder me via eye lick and surprise launch? Also yes.”

Yamaguchi covered his mouth, but it was too late. He was laughing. Hard.

“You’re scared of him?”

“I’M SCARED OF ANYTHING THAT CAN JUMP WITHOUT WARNING AND LOOKS LIKE A WET THUMB.”

You tried to crawl backward. The frog stared at you. Probably plotting.

Yamaguchi, wiping tears from his eyes, finally helped you up.

“You know,” he said softly, “you could’ve just said no.”

You pouted. “I was trying to be brave. For you.”

He tilted his head. “Why for me?”

And there it was. The moment.

You took a deep breath. “Because I like you. Like. Capital-L Like. And I was trying to prove I could survive Frogageddon to be worthy.”

There was a beat.

Then another.

And then—

“…You like me?”

You nodded, ready to leap out the nearest window.

And then Yamaguchi smiled.

That sweet, surprised, glowing kind of smile that made you want to cry in the good way.

“I like you too,” he said. “Even if you’re scared of Sir Croak-A-Lot.”

You whispered, “Don’t say his name. He can hear you.”

Yamaguchi laughed again, bright and golden.

“Okay, okay,” he said. “Let’s go get ice cream. You’ve earned it.”

You blinked. “What about your frog?”

He smirked. “He’s already heard all your secrets. I think he approves.”

You glared at the terrarium.

Sir Croak-A-Lot blinked.

You swore he was smiling.

KITA SHINSUKE

You were house-sitting for Kita while he was at his grandmother’s for the weekend. Just two days. Easy.

Feed the plants. Water the dog.

Wait, no. Feed the dog. Water the plants. Right.

You sat cross-legged on the tatami floor, staring into the eyes of Maru, his perfectly polite, unbothered Shiba Inu, who sat like a loaf of judgment on the rug.

“So,” you began, cracking open a bag of dog treats like it was a therapy session, “you ever just… fall in love with your best friend and then try to play it cool but everything about them makes you spiral?”

Maru blinked.

Took a treat.

Did not judge.

“You know what I mean, right?” you continued. “Like, his hands? Always clean. Nails trimmed. Washes rice properly. Says ‘thank you’ to cashiers. Pet a cat once and the cat followed him for two blocks.”

You threw your hands up. “I am but a feral raccoon next to his divine, Shiba-like serenity.”

Maru gave a soft "boof" and placed a paw gently on your leg.

“Thank you,” you whispered. “I feel seen.”

You sighed and fell dramatically backwards onto the floor. “He probably doesn’t even know I like him. He probably just thinks I like his dog. Which, like, yes, Maru, you’re perfect—but I would walk barefoot across a LEGO swamp for that man.”

Unbeknownst to you…

Kita Shinsuke was standing at the door.

He had come home early. With dog food. And mochi. And a quiet hope that maybe you’d still be there when he got back.

What he didn’t expect was to walk into a full-blown emotional TED Talk, starring you and his emotionally grounded dog.

He stood frozen for a second. Processing. Emotionally buffering.

And then Maru turned to him. Tail wagged once. Loudly.

You sat up and blinked. “Did—did your dog just betray me?”

Kita cleared his throat gently, holding up the bag of mochi like it could protect him. “I came home early.”

Silence.

Dead silence.

Your soul flew out the window and knocked over three houseplants on the way.

“So,” he said, still calm as ever. “You’d walk across a LEGO swamp for me?”

You choked. “I was having a moment with your dog.”

Kita stepped forward, placed the mochi on the table, and gently sat next to you. Maru climbed into his lap like this was all very normal.

“I like you too,” he said, looking you straight in the eyes with his calm samurai energy. “I was hoping you'd say something. I just didn’t think it would be to Maru.”

“…Your dog is emotionally available,” you whispered, near tears.

Kita smiled softly. “He’s a good listener. But I’m here now.”

You nodded. “Okay. Cool. Casual. Normal.”

Then you fell backwards again.

Flat on the tatami mat.

Kita reached out a hand.

Maru boofed.

The rest was history.

SUNA RINTARO

You didn’t expect to become a ferret mom.

And yet… here you were.

At Suna Rintaro’s apartment. Again. Babysitting Tofu the demon noodle who loved you more than life itself.

“Tofu,” you said flatly, as you tried to pry him out of your hoodie. “Personal space is a concept. Have you considered learning it?”

Tofu squeaked.

And burrowed deeper.

Right between your boobs.

Like it was his God-given right.

You choked. “Tofu, PLEASE—”

He chirped again, did a little death roll (like a dolphin but pervier), and went limp. Fully. Asleep.

Dead center of your chest.

You sat there, frozen, like someone had just shoved a warm tube sock filled with judgment down your shirt.

“Why are you like this?” you whispered. “You don’t even know me like that.”

Except he did.

Because this wasn’t the first time.

Oh no.

The first time was three weeks ago, when Suna left you alone in his room for five minutes, and Tofu took it as a green light to commit chest-based crimes.

Now? It was a routine.

You: *exist*

Tofu: *insert ferret into boob crevice like USB into a port*

You had tried pushing him away.

He bit your pinky and squeaked in betrayal.

You had tried wearing tight shirts.

He dug through the neckhole like a horny mole.

You had tried explaining to Suna that this was technically harassment.

Suna? Had the nerve to smirk and go,

“Damn. Guess he has good taste.”

You wanted to scream.

And now here you were.

Tofu snoring.

You, boob-napped.

And Suna… Suna had just walked back in the room.

With a bag of chips.

And a shit-eating grin.

“Well,” he said, leaning against the doorframe like a man in a shampoo commercial, “should I be jealous?”

You shot him a look. “Control your ferret.”

He snorted. “He’s his own man.”

“He’s IN MY CLEAVAGE.”

“And clearly thriving.”

You flailed, trying to scoop the gremlin out of your hoodie, but Tofu clung tighter, squeaking in protest like you were trying to rip him from his soulmate.

“Rin,” you groaned. “He’s making muffins on my sternum.”

Suna, now sitting beside you, casually popped open the chips and leaned over to look.

Tofu chirped softly in his sleep.

“…Yeah, he’s definitely in love with you,” Suna said, crunching loudly.

“I am NOT about to be second place to your emotionally needy lint roller.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” he replied, eyeing how red your face was. “You let him do that a *lot*.”

“I DIDN’T LET HIM—!!”

He held up a chip like a peace offering. “C’mon. Admit it. You like him.”

“…I like you.”

Silence.

You blinked.

OH NO.

Did you say that OUT LOUD?!

Tofu squeaked.

You squeaked harder.

Suna slowly turned his head, one brow raised.

“…Sorry?” he said, too calm.

You swallowed. “I said. I like you. Not just your ferret. Although he is—um—very warm.”

Tofu chose that moment to roll over and kick his leg out like he was dreaming of tax evasion.

Suna just looked at you.

And then—

“You know,” he muttered, voice lower, almost teasing, “I was gonna wait. Say something later.”

You stared.

“But watching you get dominated by a noodle rodent in HD kind of forced my hand.”

“You’re the worst.”

“Am I?” he smirked. “Or are you just embarrassed your cleavage is his new studio apartment?”

You punched him in the arm.

He laughed.

Then leaned in closer.

“…For the record,” he murmured, voice softer now, “I like you too.”

You smiled. Blushing.

Tofu squeaked again in his sleep.

You sighed. “This is gonna be such a weird love story to explain to our kids.”

MIYA ATSUMU

“HEY, SEXY!”

You screamed.

The bird screamed louder.

It flapped into the air like a flying megaphone, doing loop-de-loops and whistling the Jaws theme song, while you dodged for your life and yelled, “ATSUMU, WHY IS YOUR BIRD CATCALLING ME?!”

From the kitchen, he casually called back, “Oh, yeah, that’s just Cap’n. He likes ya.”

Cap’n, short for Captain Miya, had perched on the curtain rod now, head cocked like a sassy little pirate. He whistled again. Twice.

You narrowed your eyes. “…Did he just do the ‘two whistle flirt’ from TikTok?”

“Yup,” Atsumu grinned, walking in with snacks. “Taught him that m’self.”

You stared at the cockatiel. He winked. HE WINKED.

From then on, every time you came over, Cap’n Miya acted up.

He would land on your shoulder like he owned the place, try to nest in your hair, and once—once!—bit Atsumu on the nose when he tried to sit too close to you on the couch.

“Is your bird jealous of you?” you asked.

Atsumu blinked. “Honestly? I think he wants t’fight me for ya.”

Cap’n screeched from the top of the bookshelf and then proceeded to yell

“BACK OFF! BACK OFF! MINE!!”

Your jaw dropped. “WHAT DID HE JUST SAY?”

Atsumu laughed so hard he dropped his cup noodles.

The problem is… you started talking to Cap’n like he was your therapist.

Like—full sit-down sessions.

“Do you think Atsumu flirts with everyone or just me?”

Cap’n Miya, fluffing up dramatically and turning his head upside down:

“OOOH YOU LIKE HIM~!”

“NO I DON’T.”

STOMP STOMP “LIAR!”

You blinked. “Birds… birds can’t stomp.”

Cap’n literally stomped again.

“WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU.”

Cap’n

“You wanna KISS HIM~!”

You shrieked and ran into the bathroom.

From outside, muffled through the door, you heard:

“KISSY KISSY! MWAH MWAH~”

You clutched your head and whispered to yourself, “Why do I feel like I’m being bullied by a sentient feather duster.”

The final straw was when Atsumu came home early while you were babysitting the bird.

You didn’t know he was there. So you were sitting cross-legged on the floor, nose-to-beak with Captain Miya, whispering like a deranged villain in a Disney spin-off

“Listen here, you feathered narc. If you repeat one more thing about my feelings for your stupid hot owner, I will personally turn you into an overpriced pillow from Etsy.”

“Uhhhh…”

You froze.

That voice did not come from the bird.

You turned your head so slowly, it might’ve cracked your spine.

There stood Atsumu, gym bag half-zipped, one eyebrow raised, towel over his shoulder, hair damp from shower sweat and god probably—

“Did… did ya just threaten t’commit war crimes on my bird?”

You blinked.

Cap’n Miya, little devil that he was, launched himself from the couch, fluttered dramatically into the air like a WWE entrance, and screamed at the top of his lungs:

“SHE LOVES YOUUUU~!!!”

“YOU’RE HOT!!!”

“KISSY KISSY~!!! MWAH MWAH—”

Your soul left your body. Your brain short-circuited. Your dignity? Deceased.

You backed into the corner like a cornered raccoon, muttering, “Okay I can explain—”

But Atsumu didn’t laugh this time.

No. He grinned.

That dangerous, cocky grin that made you regret every time you told yourself he wasn’t your type.

He dropped the gym bag.

Took three steps forward.

You tried to speak— “I– okay– I– it’s not—” But he cut you off by gently moving your hand off the bird, brushing your cheek with his knuckles, and leaning in close enough that you could smell the orange Gatorade on his breath.

“Shoulda told me sooner,” he whispered. Then—

He kissed you.

Right there. Soft. Warm. Just a little bit smug.

Captain Miya exploded into a cacophony of squawks and whistles like a drunk DJ mashing buttons in excitement.

“WOOOOOOOOO~!!” “Y/N’S GOT A BOYFRIEND! Y/N’S GOT A BOYFRIEND!”

You groaned into Atsumu’s chest. “Can we put him in bird jail now.”

Atsumu laughed. “Nah, babe, I owe him one. He’s the best wingman I ever had.”

The bird fluffed up, preened himself proudly, and screamed:

“YOU’RE WELCOME, LOSERS!!!”

MIYA OSAMU

You didn’t think Osamu would leave you alone with his cat.

But he did.

Bold of him, honestly.

You’d dropped by to bring him lunch at his onigiri shop, only for him to shove his keys into your hand with a casual “Can ya check on Tuna? He gets cranky if he misses his 3PM nap snack.”

And now here you were.

Sprawled on Osamu’s couch.

With a large, judgmental, biscuit-making cat rhythmically kneading your chest like it owed him money.

“Dude,” you muttered, glancing down at the fluffy orange menace. “That is not sourdough. Chill.”

Tuna, the certified loaf, just stared up at you with his half-lidded judgmental eyes and kept kneading.

Right on your boobs. Unbothered. Unapologetic. Purring like a damn engine.

You were frozen. This was NOT what you signed up for when you agreed to babysit a “sleepy little guy.”

“I’m gonna start charging rent,” you warned, hand hovering above his head. “You’re getting way too comfy on my chest. That’s premium real estate.”

Tuna blinked slowly. Then—

Touched your lips.

One soft paw.

Boop.

You went still. He went still.

“Bro,” you whispered. “You did not just—”

Then the paw slipped.

Just a little.

Just enough that one single toe bean dipped into your mouth.

You GAGGED.

You sat straight up, flailing, almost throwing the cat off the couch in the chaos.

“WHY. WHY DID YOU PUT YOUR PAW IN MY MOUTH?! ARE YOU OKAY?? AM I OKAY?? ARE WE DATING NOW???”

Tuna just looked at you.

Still on your chest. Still purring. Like he knew.

Like he’d seen things.

Like he was about to ruin your life with one meow.

And that was when Osamu walked in.

Bag of groceries in one hand. Keys in the other. Stopped dead in the doorway.

Tuna blinked.

Then turned to Osamu and let out the longest meow you’d ever heard. Like he was filing a report.

“...What’s goin’ on here?” Osamu asked slowly, eyes narrowing.

You sat there, hand mid-air, cat still ON YOUR CHEST, guilty as hell, toe bean residue probably still on your tongue, and said:

“…This is not what it looks like.”

Osamu blinked once.

Twice.

Then he smirked—smirked.

“Y’let Tuna put his paw in yer mouth, and I’m the one who gets flirty accusations?”

You spluttered. “It was involuntary mouth-to-paw contact!”

“Oh, sure,” he said, setting the bag down, strolling toward you. “Next thing I know, ya tell me ya kissed him goodnight and shared a milkshake.”

“Tuna’s a menace,” you whispered, as Tuna began biscuit-making again on your chest like a smug fluffy dictator.

“Yeah, well,” Osamu said, now inches from you. “You’re the one lettin’ him feel you up.”

You glared. “That’s it. Both of you are getting neutered.”

Tuna yawned.

Osamu just laughed and leaned down, brushing your cheek with his lips. “You’re cute when you’re panicked.”

“Don’t. Encourage. The cat.”

Brrrrt, Tuna purred, snuggling deeper into your chest.

This was HIS spot now.

ARAN OJIRO

“Just a few hours,” Aran had said, tossing you Sunny’s leash with a lazy grin. “He’s super chill. Loves cuddles, snacks, and sunbathing on the floor. You’ll be fine.”

You believed him.

Because Aran always said things like that — smooth, casual, confident — with that deep voice and warm smile that made you want to believe everything was gonna be okay.

But everything was not okay.

You lasted exactly 3.5 minutes before you realized you were babysitting a golden retriever version of a frat boy.

Sunny — fluffy, golden, tail wagging at light speed — greeted you by jumping straight into your arms like a literal missile, smothering your face in wet, overly enthusiastic kisses. He then proceeded to run full-speed into a wall, bounce off, and happily bring you one of Aran’s used gym socks like it was the crown jewels.

“...You’re insane,” you told him.

He barked once. Proudly.

_

You tried to calm him down. You really tried.

You gave him treats. He swallowed them whole.

You played fetch. He brought back a shoe from someone else’s doorstep.

You gave him water. He drank it… then sneezed directly into your mouth.

“Jesus Christ, Sunny—can you please chill?!”

Sunny did not chill.

No. Instead, when you bent over to pick up the sock he left under the coffee table, you felt it.That terrible pressure.

That cursed THUMP-THUMP rhythm on your leg.

You froze. Time stopped. The room fell silent. Eye twitched.

“…No. No no no no—”

You turned your head.

AND HE WAS DOING IT.

Sunny. HUMPING. YOUR. LEG.

Like it was the love of his life and this was the final scene of The Notebook.

“OH MY GOD—STOPPPPPP!”

You shook your leg. He held on tighter.

You screamed. He wagged his tail *faster*.

“ARANNNNNNN!!!”

Aran strolled in with a plate of sliced mango like he was walking out of a damn cooking show. “Everything alri—HOLY SHIT—SUNNY!! DOWN”

Sunny paused… and let out the most sinful, unholy moan you've ever heard in your life.

“HE MOANED. ARAN, YOUR DOG JUST MOANED.”

“He’s… expressive,” Aran offered weakly.

“He is horny, Ojiro.”

“I—I didn’t think he’d do this to you.”

“Why?! Because I don’t have a leg worth humping?”

“NO—wait, what? Noooo, baby girl—your leg is prime—wait, no, shit, I didn’t mean it like that—”

While Aran was busy fumbling over his words and dying from secondhand embarrassment, Sunny had the audacity to plop his butt on the floor, tongue out, tail wagging, as if to say “Round 2?”

You glared at him. “You’re going to dog jail.”

---

Later, once you’d locked Sunny in the bathroom for some *alone time* and Aran had recovered enough to look you in the eye again, you sat beside him on the couch, both slightly traumatized.

“…He really likes you,” Aran mumbled.

You side-eyed him. “If your version of like involves my thigh being emotionally and physically violated, I’m good.”

Aran chuckled, rubbing his hand down his face. “I’m sorry. He’s never like this. I swear.”

You crossed your arms, fake-pouting. “And yet I’ve become the object of his lust.”

He bit back a grin, leaning a little closer. “He’s got good taste.”

You blinked. “…Are you flirting with me while your dog is humping the air behind the door?”

Aran glanced at the bathroom. “He’s just… excited for us. He ships it.”

You snorted. “I hate you.”

“You don’t,” he grinned.

You didn’t.

USHIJIMA WAKATOSHI

You were babysitting **TonTon**, Ushijima Wakatoshi’s beloved pet tortoise, while he was out at volleyball practice.

Yes. A tortoise.

He had texted you instructions like "feed him at 4 PM" and "make sure he doesn’t try to climb the stairs." Which, okay, fair, but also why did TonTon have a vibe like he would climb the stairs out of pure spite?

So now you were sitting on Ushijima’s floor, mid-spiral, holding a leaf of lettuce like it was a mic and TonTon was your therapist.

“Okay, listen, TonTon,” you said solemnly, watching the tortoise blink in that ancient, judgmental way. “I know you probably don't care, but I have to say it somewhere or I’ll explode and end up in jail for stealing this man’s hoodie.”

TonTon chewed slowly. Menacingly.

“I have a crush on your dad.”

Pause.

You immediately winced. “Wait, no—not your dad. Your owner. Not that he’s a daddy—oh my god what am I saying?”

You laid flat on the floor. TonTon just kept chewing like the elderly soul he was, showing zero mercy.

“I mean, look at him, TonTon,” you sighed dramatically, lettuce still in hand. “He’s calm. Grounded. Looks like he could crush someone emotionally and physically. And that one time he said my name during roll call? I had to sit down. Sit. Down.”

You fed TonTon another piece of lettuce like you were bribing him to forget everything.

“I’m losing it,” you mumbled. “Your dad—I mean, Ushijima—touched my shoulder once and I accidentally said ‘thank you’ like he handed me money.”

TonTon moved exactly one inch closer.

You stared at him, horrified. “Are you approaching me with judgment?”

Just then.

The door opened.

There he was. Ushijima. Home early. Towering. Holding a bag of lettuce like some divine, stoic salad god.

You and TonTon locked eyes like two criminals caught red-handed in the middle of a crime scene.

“I forgot my water bottle,” Ushijima said calmly. Then.. “Did you just say you have a crush on me?”

You considered becoming a tortoise. Right then and there. Crawling into a shell and disappearing for eternity.

“I—uh—no?” you squeaked.

TonTon chose violence and let out a crunchy CHOMP of betrayal.

Ushijima blinked. “TonTon only eats when he’s calm. He seems very calm.”

You were dying. Dying inside. “He’s… uh… really emotionally stable.”

“I know,” Ushijima said, now kneeling down to give TonTon a little pat. “Just like you.”

Your brain blue-screened.

“…Me?” you squeaked.

“Yes,” he said seriously. “You’re calm. Like a warm day. Sometimes unpredictable. But grounded. I like that.”

TonTon looked smug.

You looked like a ghost.

“I have to go,” Ushijima said, rising. “But… we can talk later. If you want.”

You nodded. Speechless.

As the door shut behind him again, you turned to TonTon.

“Snitch.”

TonTon blinked. Took another bite of lettuce.

TENDO SATORI

You were once a self-respecting human being.

Then you met Monty.

Monty the albino corn snake. Monty the slither noodle. Monty, who lived in a bougie glass tank in Tendo Satori’s room, complete with heat lamps, fake leaves, and a decorative log that looked suspiciously judgmental.

You hadn’t planned on trauma-dumping your entire romantic dilemma to a reptile. But here you were. Again. Sitting cross-legged on Tendo’s floor, babysitting Monty while Tendo ran to get snacks. And Monty was just staring. Unblinking. All-knowing.

“You know,” you said casually, resting your chin in your palm. “I feel like I’m losing it.”

Monty slithered halfway out of his log. A subtle movement. A threat.

“Don’t give me that look,” you said, narrowing your eyes. “You’re not better than me just because you don’t pay taxes.”

Monty flicked his tongue.

You scoffed. “Okay, that was uncalled for.”

There was silence. The kind of silence that made you self-reflect.

“…Fine. I might like Tendo. A little. Like, an appropriate amount. Maybe. It’s not like I doodled our initials on my math notes or anything—” You paused. “Okay, I did. But just once.”

Monty moved closer to the glass.

You glared at him. “Do you have something to say? Huh? You wanna fight me, snakeboy?”

Monty tilted his head.

“Oh my god, you’re judging me.”

Monty stared deeper.

You broke.

“FINE! I think he’s cool, okay?! With his stupid long legs and his weird laugh and the way he remembers everyone’s birthdays even though no one asked?? And he makes the best popcorn and he lets me pick the movies even though I always choose psychological thrillers that mess us both up emotionally???”

Monty flicked his tongue again. A soundless “uh-huh.”

You sighed, lying flat on the floor in defeat. “He has no idea. I am a vault. A secret-holding fortress. A professional actor.”

Monty slithered into his water bowl and just stared at you through the water like a ghost from a horror movie.

“…Okay, you know what? That’s fair.”

The door opened.

You flinched and sat up so fast your spine cracked like bubble wrap.

Tendo peeked in, holding two bags of chips and a bottle of soda. “You two bonding again?”

You panicked. “WHO’S BONDING? I DON’T EVEN KNOW THIS SNAKE.”

Tendo blinked. “You literally named him ‘Monty Python’ last week.”

You froze. “I—Right. Yeah. Sorry. Just… rehearsing.”

“…Rehearsing?”

“For a play. Called *‘Snake Secrets and Stupid Feelings.’* It’s experimental.”

Tendo chuckled and walked in, setting the snacks down beside you. “You’re weird.”

You shrugged, still flustered. “Takes one to know one.”

He looked at you for a beat, and then… smiled. The soft kind. Not the chaotic grin. Not the teasing smirk. The kind that made your stomach do a full Olympic gymnastics routine.

“You know Monty likes you, right?” he said, sitting beside you.

You snorted. “What, did he text you or something?”

Tendo shrugged. “Sort of. He only comes out of his log when you talk. Usually he ignores people. Including me.”

You blinked. “Wait. He’s listening?!”

Tendo grinned. “Oh yeah. He knows everything.”

Monty slowly curled into a spiral. Very smug. Very I told you so.

You turned back to Tendou. “Does Monty also know I like you?”

Tendo’s eyes sparkled. “I did.”

“W-What?”

He leaned closer. “Monty’s been telling me everything.”

You pointed at the tank. “You’re telling me you’ve been using your snake as an emotional surveillance device?!”

Tendo laughed so hard he nearly dropped the chips. “You’re just mad he exposed you.”

You stood up dramatically. “I CAN’T BELIEVE I CONFESSED TO A COLD-BLOODED BETRAYER.”

Tendou grabbed your wrist gently and pulled you back down. “If it helps… Monty also told me I should make a move.”

You stared. “What kind of psychic snake is he?!”

Tendou leaned in. “The kind that gets you a date.”

Monty blinked. One. Slow. Judgy. Blink.

And honestly?

Respect.

AKAASHI KEIJI

Akaashi said he’d only be gone ten minutes.

Ten minutes to grab new ink refills and a croissant. Totally harmless. Totally innocent.

Except for the part where he left you alone in his apartment.

With Shigure.

His floppy-eared menace of a rabbit. Who blinked like a disappointed grandma and stomped like an angry roommate whenever you dared to lie in his sacred presence.

You sat on the floor, legs criss-crossed, glaring at the bunny who was currently chewing hay like he knew your whole emotional backstory.

“Okay, so maybe I used to like Akaashi,” you whispered like it was a crime. “But that was, like, two crushes ago. Old news.”

THUMP.

Shigure’s foot hit the floor like a gavel. You flinched.

“I’m serious! It’s just—he’s too polite. Too soft-spoken. Like a sexy ghost librarian. I don’t even like that type anymore.”

THUMP.

“…Okay fine, maybe I still think about his hands when I can’t sleep—”

THUMP. THUMP.

“SHIGURE, I’M LITERALLY BEGGING YOU TO STOP JUDGING ME.”

The rabbit paused. Tilted his fluffy head. Judgmental silence.

You groaned and collapsed backward on the carpet.

“It’s not my fault, okay? He always smells like fresh paper and morally sound decisions. He writes poetry for fun. I found a haiku about tea in his notebook once and I haven’t known peace since.”

Shigure hopped over and sat on your chest like he was claiming your sins.

“You don’t understand,” you continued, eyes wild now. “Yesterday he adjusted his glasses and I blacked out. I looked up and suddenly I had seventeen wedding boards on Pinterest—”

“...Should I be concerned?”

You froze.

Your soul left your body.

Akaashi was standing in the doorway. Holding a small paper bag. And his wallet. And the knowledge that you were a walking, talking, simping disaster.

“I forgot my—” he paused, eyes scanning the scene: you on the floor, his rabbit pinning you down like a fluffy demon, and the look of spiritual regret on your face.

“…what did I walk in on?”

Shigure hopped off you with the grace of a betrayer. Akaashi raised one brow.

“I—I—was—” you sat up, brain buffering, “talking to your rabbit. Like a normal person.”

“Mm,” Akaashi nodded slowly. “Normal people confess how much they love my hands… to my rabbit.”

You slapped your hands over your face. “Please delete me.”

“Can’t,” he said, too calmly. “You’re my favorite file.”

THUMP.

Shigure stomped again. Probably in approval.

You considered throwing yourself out the window. But then Akaashi walked over and offered you a second croissant.

You blinked. “You brought me food?”

“Well,” he said, smiling ever-so-slightly, “it seemed you were having a dramatic meltdown in my absence. I thought carbs might help.”

The bunny sat between you two.

Like a chaperone. Or a smug wingman.

You both pretended not to be flustered. Shigure knew better.

BOKUTO KOUTARO

Bokuto was out buying mango slices.

Why? Because Mango, his actual lovebird, threw a tantrum when he ran out yesterday. Screamed bloody murder. Flung seed. Launched herself off the curtain rod in dramatic betrayal. Bokuto nearly cried from guilt.

So now he was out.

Which left you… Alone. In his room. With Mango.

Who was currently clinging to your shirt like her tiny bird life depended on it.

You poked her gently. “I know you can’t talk. But we need to have a conversation about boundaries.”

Mango squawked. Then shoved her beak under your chin like, Affection now, clown.

You sighed, carefully scratching the top of her head. “This is all your fault. You and your bird dad. With his ridiculous arms and his sparkly eyes and the fact that he smells like coconut and competence—like who let him DO that?”

Mango, uninterested in your emotional spiral, was now climbing up your sleeve like a parrot ninja.

You continued, helpless, “He’s always like, ‘Heeeeyyyy~ Y/N!’ like he doesn’t know that I need five to ten business days to recover. He complimented my shoelaces yesterday. Shoelaces. I thought about it for four hours.”

Mango screamed.

Not just any scream. A direct, judgmental shriek. Bird-language for: “OH MY GOD GET A GRIP.”

“DON’T JUDGE ME,” you hissed. “YOU DON’T KNOW MY LIFE.”

Mango took off. FLYING. Circling the room like a feathery drone of chaos, knocking over a water bottle, a sock, and what might have been a protein bar. She landed dramatically on Bokuto’s desk, fluffed up like a warlord, and made direct, soul-piercing eye contact.

Then she STOMPED.

Yes. STOMPED.

A tiny lovebird foot came down in what can only be described as pure condemnation.

“EXCUSE ME???” you shouted. “Did you just… JUDGE-STOMP?”

She stomped again. Then leapt into the air and did what can only be described as an aerial backflip, landed on your head, and BURIED HER WHOLE FACE IN YOUR HAIR.

You screamed.

She screamed.

It was a duet of horror and mutual betrayal.

“I AM NOT IN LOVE,” you shrieked at her. “YOU’RE JUST TOO CUTE AND YOUR DAD IS TOO LOUD AND HOT, THAT’S NOT THE SAME THING.”

Mango flopped over dramatically on your head like a Disney princess fainting on a balcony.

You were about to start a full-on debate with this bird when the door opened.

“Hey, I’m back! They had the good mangoes—” Bokuto stopped. Stared. At you. On the floor. Hair fluffed. Face red. With his lovebird currently nuzzling your cheek like she’d claimed you in a sacred mating ritual.

You froze. He blinked.

Then…

“…She likes you more than she likes me,” he said, grinning.

“I don’t know what happened,” you whispered, internally sobbing. “She screamed. I screamed. There was stomping.”

Bokuto crossed the room in two long strides and offered you his hand, eyes crinkled with amusement. “She only does that when she’s really comfortable. Or when she senses crush energy.”

You took his hand in defeat. “Crush energy isn’t real.”

Mango screeched from your shoulder.

Bokuto: “That was her saying ‘liar.’”

You: “I hate this household.”

Bokuto: “So when’s the wedding? I’ll let her be the ring bearer.”

You: considering becoming a nun

IWAIZUMI HAJIME

You were once a normal person.

That was before Iwaizumi Hajime’s bearded dragon entered your life like a scaly, sunlamp-worshipping therapist with side-eyes sharper than a knife set.

You didn’t intend to talk to the reptile. But here you were. Again. Sitting on Iwaizumi’s couch while he ran to the pet shop for “crickets and calcium powder,” whatever that meant, and you were left with Spike — his little dinosaur son who blinked once every two business days and looked at you like you weren’t good enough for his dad.

“Okay, look,” you muttered, leaning forward on the couch, staring into his soulless yellow lizard eyes. “I know we don’t talk often, but I need to get this off my chest.”

Spike just stood there, basking under his heat lamp like the sun god he thought he was.

You sighed. “Do you think he likes me?”

Nothing.

You scooted a little closer. “Because like… he lets me sit in his spot on the couch. You know the one. The little dent where his butt lives.”

Spike did a very slow blink.

“That’s boyfriend behavior, right?”

Silence.

“Okay, maybe not. But he also gave me one of his hoodies once. Said it smelled like ‘gym and regret’ but I didn’t mind. I wore it for three days straight. Is that love?”

Spike turned his head just slightly to the left.

You gasped. “So it’s NOT love?! Are you telling me I’m delusional?!”

Spike raised one claw and rested it on his rock.

“…Don’t you dare judge me, scaly god. You don’t even pay rent.”

At that, Spike opened his mouth. Not a hiss. Not a squeak. Just an empty void of judgment.

You stood up. “You know what? No. I’m tired of living in fear of you. You’re not better than me. You eat bugs for breakfast.”

Spike moved an inch.

You flinched.

“...Okay. I didn’t mean that. You’re a very respectable reptile. Please don’t curse me.”

Spike turned away like you were beneath him.

You sat back down, defeated. “Fine. Maybe I’m projecting. Maybe I do like Iwaizumi. Maybe I imagine what our kids would look like. They’d be ripped and have moral integrity. That’s terrifying but beautiful.”

Spike looked back at you.

“…You’ve known this whole time, haven’t you?”

The door opened.

You jumped like you got caught cheating on a math test.

Iwaizumi walked in, holding a bag of groceries and one suspiciously specific bouquet of your favorite flowers. “Hey,” he said, walking over. “You good? Look like you saw a ghost.”

You laughed nervously. “Haha, no, not at all, I was just talking to Spike about taxes.”

Iwaizumi paused. “You… were talking to my lizard about taxes.”

“Yup. GDP. Inflation. The whole shebang.”

He raised an eyebrow, glancing at Spike. “You told her, didn’t you?”

You blinked. “Told me what?”

Iwaizumi walked over, leaned down… and pressed the flowers into your hands. “That I like you.”

Silence.

Spike crawled onto his basking rock and nodded.

YOU SAW HIM NOD.

“WHAT IN THE DISNEY PIXAR—” you screamed, nearly throwing the flowers and falling off the couch.

Iwaizumi caught you with one arm, totally casual. “Told you he liked you. He doesn’t nod for just anyone.”

You looked between Iwaizumi and his judgmental dragon. “So you’re telling me… I confessed my situationship brain rot to a magical, semi-psychic bearded lizard… and he’s been your wingman this whole time?”

Spike licked his own eyeball.

“…Okay that’s fair.”

Iwaizumi chuckled. “So… dinner? I made yakisoba.”

“Also...you talk to Spike about me?!”

“Every Thursday.”

You blinked. “That’s unhinged.”

Iwaizumi smirked. “So are you.”

OIKAWA TOORU

You swore you weren’t scared of dogs.

But this—this was not a dog.

This was a 4-pound puff of chaos with beady eyes, trust issues, and an attitude worse than your ex.

Her name? Princess.

Her mission? Terrorize anyone who gets too close to Oikawa Tooru.

Her target? You. Always. Without mercy.

You were currently sitting on Oikawa’s couch, legs tucked neatly under you like someone preparing for a war crime, as Princess sat just one cushion away — staring you down like she knew your deepest sins.

She barked once.

Just one.

Loud. Piercing. Condescending.

“Stop judging me,” you muttered, glaring at her. “I haven’t even touched him.”

Princess growled softly, like she knew that was a lie.

You crossed your arms. “I mean—okay. Maybe I look at him. Occasionally. With longing. But like, who doesn’t?”

Princess blinked. You were pretty sure it was sarcastic.

You scooted an inch away. She scooted an inch closer.

“Oh my god,” you whispered. “He trained you to hate me, didn’t he?”

She barked again, and you could feel the judgment radiating from her tiny, furry soul.

“Alright, fine! I like him, okay? Happy now? I like your stupid perfect owner with his stupid perfect face and his stupid little hair flips and his STUPID little wink when he wins at Mario Kart even though he’s CHEATING—”

“Is she threatening you again?” came a familiar voice from the hallway.

You froze.

Oikawa casually walked into the living room, holding a bowl of popcorn and two sodas. He raised an eyebrow as he caught the tail end of your emotional meltdown.

“Wait, back up,” he said slowly, placing the snacks down. “Did you just call me perfect?”

You blinked. “...No?”

Princess barked so violently she fell off the couch.

Oikawa laughed. “Wow, sold out by a dog. That’s rough.”

“She’s a traitor!” you yelled. “I’ve done nothing but feed her organic duck jerky and talk about how fluffy she is and she BETRAYED ME.”

He shrugged and plopped down beside you, grinning like a man who had just won an emotional lottery. “Well, I mean, Princess has high standards. She hates everyone. You should feel honored.”

You pointed at the tiny beast, now curled on your leg like she hadn’t just tried to destroy your life. “She literally growled at me when I complimented your volleyball highlight reel.”

“She has taste.”

“She BIT ME WHEN I SAID I LIKE YOUR SMILE.”

“She’s a wingdog,” Oikawa said smoothly. “And she’s working overtime.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but paused.

“…Wait. You knew?”

He smirked. “You confessed to my dog, Y/n. Loudly. For three separate visits in a row.”

“She doesn’t speak English!!”

He leaned closer. “But I do.”

You panicked. “Forget everything you just heard—”

“I like you too.”

Silence.

You and Princess both turned to him.

“…You do?” you whispered.

He nodded. “Duh. But I had to make sure *my daughter* approved.”

Princess barked once.

Oikawa scratched her chin. “She says yes. But also that you need to stop lying about my Mario Kart skills.”

You gasped. “YOU’RE STILL A CHEATER.”

He shrugged. “I cheat with style.”

Princess barked in agreement.

You stared at the two of them — a beautiful, chaotic man and his demon dog daughter.

And for some reason?

You felt home.

KYOTANI KENTARO

The first thing you noticed was the size.

Kyōtani’s rottweiler, Kiba, was less of a dog and more of a small horse. Muscles like a linebacker. A jaw like a bear trap. Eyes that said, “I’ve done some things. And I’d do them again.”

You stood at the door, holding the leash Kyōtani had just handed you, heart pounding.

“You sure he’s friendly?” you asked, eyeing Kiba, who was staring at you like you were either prey or his new mom.

Kyōtani blinked, utterly unbothered. “Yeah. He likes you.”

You raised an eyebrow. “He’s growling.”

“That’s his love language.”

Kiba, beside him, let out a low rumbly *gruff*… and licked his lips.

You swallowed. “…Okay.”

---

To be fair, Kiba didn’t attack you.

Nope. What he did instead?

Stalk you.

Everywhere.

Like a tank-sized shadow with a possessive streak.

You went to the kitchen? Click-clack — he followed.

Sat on the couch? Whomp — his head was on your lap.

Went to the bathroom? Scratch-scratch-scratch — your personal bouncer was outside the door like, “You good in there, princess?”

It was cute, in an I’m-a-little-afraid-he’ll-eat-me kind of way.

You peeked out of the hallway. “Kentarō… your dog keeps watching me like he wants to marry me or maul me. Or both.”

Kyōtani, lounging shirtless on the floor doing pushups (because of course he was), just shrugged. “He’s protective.”

“…So is he gonna let me leave? Or nah?”

“Nope,” Kyōtani said without looking up. “You live here now.”

---

Later that night, you tried to chill on the couch and maybe binge some trash TV.

Kiba climbed up beside you like he paid rent.

Then, without warning, he planted his whole body on your lap, head under your chin, grumbling and nuzzling. Like, “Pet me. Praise me. I own you.”

You glanced at Kyōtani.

“He’s… affectionate,” you said slowly, patting Kiba awkwardly as he snorted against your chest.

Kyōtani looked up from his phone, watching the two of you with that unreadable face of his — and then… smirked. Just a tiny one. Dangerous.

“He doesn’t do that with anyone else.”

“…Oh.”

Then, Kiba did something terrible.

He made a noise — like a low, dramatic sigh — and gently shoved his entire snout between your thighs.

“KYŌTANI.”

“I saw nothing.”

“YOUR DOG JUST WENT FACE-FIRST INTO THE TRIANGLE OF SIN—”

“He’s just sniffin’.”

“SNIFFING WHAT—THE MEANING OF LIFE?!”

You tried to push Kiba back, but he just grumbled, adjusted, and fell asleep with his whole body weighing down your legs and his chin casually resting on your upper thigh like it was a goddamn pillow.

“Great,” you muttered. “He’s crushing my femurs. I’m never walking again.”

Kyōtani got up, walked over, leaned down—and gave your cheek a light kiss.

You blinked. “What was that for?”

He shrugged. “Kiba claimed you. So I’m claiming you back.”

You stared at him, brain rebooting.

Kiba let out a satisfied grunt in his sleep.

And from that moment on, you weren’t sure who was scarier

Kyōtani, his jealous rottweiler, or how much you liked both.

SAKUSA KIYOOMI

You were terrified the first time Sakusa introduced you to his cat.

No fur. All wrinkles. Piercing, judgy stare.

It was like meeting the ghost of a rich widow’s ex-husband who died under *mysterious circumstances*.

“This is Hairball, ironic, I know ” Sakusa had said, like the creature hadn’t just hissed at you from its silk blanket throne.

That was six months ago.

Now?

Now you were at Sakusa’s apartment, laid back on his couch in a hoodie and shorts, with a completely naked, wrinkled, and slightly moist sphynx cat draped across your chest like a dramatic scarf.

Hairball, the emotionally unstable hairless gremlin, was aggressively purring—because you were giving him little chin scratches and whispering sweet nothings like

“Don’t worry, baby. I’d never let Omi cut your nailbeds too short again. That was emotional damage.”

Hairball purred louder, his alien-looking body vibrating like an angry cell phone. You were his safe space now. His chosen.

“Yeah, yeah. I know you hate that lavender shampoo. It makes you smell like a haunted grandma. I said go for the cucumber melon one, but did Omi listen? Nooooo—”

“Excuse me?”

You yelped—literally yelped—and whipped around.

Sakusa stood in the hallway with two mugs of tea and a very flat expression.

You hadn’t even heard him come in.

He looked at you.

Then at Hairball.

Then back at you, still pinned by a naked cat whose eyes were smug now.

“…Are you gossiping with my cat?” Sakusa asked, eyes narrowing suspiciously.

You immediately panicked. “NO. No. I was just—ventilating. Verbally. It’s a self-soothing technique. Therapists recommend it.”

Hairball looked Sakusa dead in the eyes and let out a single, long hiss.

Then licked your cheek.

Sakusa blinked. “Did you just get kissed before me. By my cat.”

“I—I didn’t ask for it!” you squeaked.

“Is that why you’re stroking his little gremlin belly and calling him your precious wart baby?”

Your jaw dropped. “I didn’t call him—!!”

“Oh, you did,” Sakusa said flatly, walking over and setting the mugs down.

Hairball stretched across you like the most dramatic runway model alive, paw smacking your boob like he paid rent there.

Sakusa stared.

“You’ve officially become the only person he lets touch him,” he muttered, almost bitterly.

You blinked. “Wait. Really?”

He narrowed his eyes. “He bit my aunt. Twice. He refuses to sleep next to me unless I put a heated towel down first. But you—he lets you stick your face in his belly folds and call him ‘my little wrinkly ass wart.’”

You coughed, trying not to laugh. “You heard that?”

Sakusa just gave you a look.

“You’re jealous,” you accused, grinning.

“I am not jealous of a cat.”

Hairball sneezed in Sakusa’s direction.

“...Okay, maybe a little,” he muttered.

You patted the space beside you. “Come cuddle with us, Omi.”

“No.”

“You can be the big spoon.”

“No.”

“You can be the little spoon.”

“I’m going to burn that hoodie if it smells like cat.”

Hairball meowed sweetly and patted your cheek with a wrinkly paw.

You smirked. “You’re just mad he got to second base before you.”

Sakusa blinked slowly.

Then sighed.

“…You’re both annoying.”

But five minutes later, guess who joined you on the couch with a clean towel so hairball wouldn't touch him directly?

Damn right.

KUROO TETSURO

Being roommates with Kuroo Tetsuro wasn’t bad.

Sure, he left hair gel on the sink and his dirty socks migrated to places no socks should be — like the microwave. But otherwise? Chill dude. Paid bills on time. Didn’t hog the bathroom. Made bomb curry.

And he had a cat.

A sleek, smug black cat named Tetsu who was, quite literally, his twin in feline form: sharp eyes, mysterious vibes, and a talent for making people feel like they were the pet.

Y/n didn’t mind him. Until this day.

“Kuroo,” she called from the kitchen, already regretting everything. “Your little demon just knocked over the tampon box again. WHY is that his favorite toy?!”

From his room: “He respects your womanhood.”

“HE ATE A PANTY LINER.”

“Okay. Disrespectful.”

She groaned, then froze as she spotted something.

Oh no.

Laundry basket. Top layer. Lacy underwear.

Tetsu was staring at it.

“No. Nope. Don’t even think abou—HEY!”

Too late.

He lunged like a perverted shadow gremlin, grabbed a black lace thong like it was the last Horcrux, and bolted under the couch with a speed that could shame Olympic sprinters.

“TETSU. GIVE. IT. BACK!”

Cue Y/n on her knees, arm deep under the couch, bargaining with a feline underwear thief while waving a piece of rotisserie chicken like a hostage negotiator.

She got it back.

But at what cost?

Later, she collapsed dramatically on the couch, flinging an arm over her eyes. Tetsu, satisfied with the chaos he’d unleashed, hopped onto her chest like he owned the lease.

“Yeah, yeah. Go ahead. Sit on your throne, you fluffy war criminal,” she mumbled.

He purred. Innocently.

Then reached a paw up…

And touched her lips.

“…What.”

Another paw. Gentle. Testing. Then—boop. Toe bean to mouth.

“PPPFFFTTT—TETSU, YOU NASTY—”

She choked, flailing, as the little bastard slid deeper into her cleavage like it was a heated blanket, tucked in with the confidence of a man who paid rent.

“Oh my god—you’re not even subtle. This is harassment.”

Then, just when she thought it couldn’t get worse, she felt a tug.

She looked down.

His tiny claw had hooked her camisole strap and was gently trying to pull it down.

“Are you trying to undress me?! ARE YOU A PEEPING TOM IN A CAT COSTUME?!”

*Tug tug.*

“NO. STOP THAT. YOU CANNOT SEDUCE ME FOR FUNSIES.”

She was too stunned to fight. The camisole shifted slightly, and Tetsu nuzzled closer with a little sigh like this was just a Monday for him.

And that’s when Kuroo walked in.

The door opened mid-camisole-tug, mid-purr.

“Hey, I just got back from the groce—”

He froze.

Y/n. On the couch. Camisole half-yanked down, cheeks red, hair messy.

His cat? Kneading her chest like it was artisanal sourdough.

A long pause.

Kuroo: “...I leave you alone with my son for ten minutes and you let him motorboat you?”

Lea: “I DIDN’T LET HIM—HE TOUCHED MY MOUTH AND STARTED UNDRESSING ME—”

Kuroo: “...Was it mutual?”

“WHAT THE HELL—KUROO, GET YOUR PERVERT CAT OFF MY BOOBS!”

But Kuroo just set down the groceries and laughed so hard he had to lean on the counter.

“He likes you,” he said between wheezes. “He only gets freaky with people he trusts.”

“YOUR CAT VIOLATED ME.”

“That’s how I show trust too.”

“KUROO.”

He just grinned.

AONE TAKANOBU

When Aone said, “You can meet my pig,”

you did not think he meant a literal pig.

Not like…"Haha my dog eats like a pig!"

No.

This was a full-bodied, pink, snorting, cloven-hoofed, emotionally co-dependent mini pig named Yuki.

Mini, as in "not farm size," but absolutely not emotionally mini because this pig?

She loved you.

—

At first it was kind of cute.

Yuki trotted over, sniffed your leg, and immediately collapsed on your foot like,

"This is mine now. I’ve claimed you."

Aone just blinked and nodded.

“That means she trusts you,” he said.

You smiled, thinking,

“Aw. Sweet.”

WRONG.

Yuki was not here for a casual fling.

Yuki was in it for eternity.

You couldn’t sit without her flopping next to you.

You couldn’t walk without her trotting behind you like a shadow.

She screamed—squealed like a banshee—when you went into the kitchen without her.

And the real problem started when you tried to pee.

“Aone,” you whispered, trapped in the bathroom as Yuki oinked aggressively from the other side of the door, “She’s breathing under the crack. I can see her snout.”

You heard his deep, quiet voice from the hallway.

“She doesn’t like closed doors.”

“She’s THUMPING on the door.”

“She thinks you’re trapped.”

“She’s right.”

“I’ll… talk to her.”

But before Aone could come save you—the door opened.

Yuki headbutted her way in like a battering ram.

She trotted in, made DIRECT eye contact, then promptly sat on your foot again.

While you were still peeing.

You wept.

Yuki oinked with satisfaction.

From then on, you had no peace.

Yuki followed you around Aone’s house like a little judgmental ghost, occasionally making low snorting sounds like she was taking notes on your sins.

At one point, you caught her trying to climb onto Aone’s bed after you’d already sat on it.

She flopped between you both and let out a sound that somehow said

“You’re in MY spot.”

Aone just sighed and gave her a gentle pat.

“She’s never like this with anyone else.”

“I feel like I’m being held hostage by Peppa Pig.”

“She likes you.”

“She peed in my shoe.”

“She really likes you.”

But then—

The day came when you had to leave.

You were at the door, hugging Aone goodbye (the best 3-second hug of your life), when you heard a sound from behind:

Yuki.

Staring.

With wide, glistening, dramatic pig eyes.

She let out a long, slow, tragic oink.

You knelt down. “Yuki, I’ll be back tomorrow, I promise—”

And then she…

flopped over. Belly up. Arms out.

Like she had died of heartbreak.

You gasped. “Is she okay?!”

“She’s guilt-tripping you,” Aone said calmly, already holding her treat jar.

You blinked. “So she’s—”

He tossed her a banana chip. Yuki IMMEDIATELY sprang to life and snatched it from mid-air like nothing happened.

You stared at her.

Yuki stared back.

She knew what she was doing

You still came back the next day.

Because you were pretty sure this pig would hunt you down if you didn’t.

AHH GOOD LORD I HAD SO MUCH FUN WRITING THIS DFNTLY ENJOYED ASAHI AND SUNA'S PART

[weregonnabecoolbeans]

I cannot articulate enough how badly I NEED Omega and Ezra to meet at SOME POINT

[meenaxskz]

when it's getting freaky but you clock out (maknae line) | skz reactions

genre : funny | light smut (so spicy ?) pairing : bf!skz x reader summary: you were feeling needy. Touchy. Flirty. And he was sooo ready. And then YOU FELL ASLEEP mid motion like some kind of sleep deprived gremlin. hyung line | ✧ maknae line

han

It starts beautifully. You’re under the covers, bodies tangled, lips on his neck, hand slowly sliding south. “Holy shit,” he breathes, “I love you.” You giggle. “You better.” He moans the second your hand wraps around him. “You’re so good to me,” he whispers, gripping the sheets. And then? Stillness. No more movement “…Jagiya?” Silence. “Babe?” You’re slumped over his chest. Mouth open. Eyes closed. Hand still gently cupping him. Then he hears it. A tiny, innocent snore. He freezes. "BRO" He lies there in betrayal silence for a full 30 seconds before slowly, gently removing your hand like it’s made of explosives. He glances at you. You’re hugging his pillow now. Dead asleep. Happy “…Unbelievable.” He walks over to the dresser, opens the drawer, and pulls out your favorite hoodie. Puts it on, frustrated. Then he sits on the floor and stares at the wall “I don’t even know who I am anymore.” He wipes a single (dramatic ???) tear. You shift in bed, still asleep, and mumble, “Mmm… Ji…” He freezes. “…You think you can just say my name in your dreams like that and it fixes everything? No.” You make the tiniest little sound he ever heard. Pause. “....Okay maybe.”

felix

You crawl into his lap, straddling him with that dangerous little smile he knows too well. “Missed you today,” you whisper against his neck. He shivers. “Missed you too, angel.” Your fingers tug at the waistband of his sweats, slipping lower, teasing, lingering. He lets out a shaky breath, already half-melting. “Yeah? You gonna show me how much?” He nods, pupils blown out. Then... you go completely still. "...Babe?" Nothing. "Angel?" A snore. A literal, actual snore. He blinks. “...No, uh uh…You’re not asleep. You can’t be asleep.” He peeks down. Yup. Full ragdoll mode, , hand still resting on his impossibly hard bulge.

“Oh my god.” He slowly lifts your hand off. Then lies back, staring at the ceiling with the kind of emotional damage normally reserved for war films. “I was so close.” He glances at you again, pout forming. "You whispered 'I’m gonna wreck you' like ten minutes ago. That’s slander. That’s false advertising.” You shift in your sleep and cuddle into his side. He lays back and lets out the most defeated sigh in the history of romance. He drags the blanket over both of you. “…She said ‘wreck me’ and then flatlined. That’s evil.” He sniffles dramatically. You shift again, still asleep, and mumble, “So pretty…” He squints at you, though his lips twitch. “…Don’t try to compliment your way out of this.”

seungmin

You straddle his lap, hands sliding under his shirt, lips teasing his jaw. He raises an eyebrow. “Wow. You’re really committing to this.” You grin. “What, surprised I’m the one starting it?” “I just thought you’d fall asleep like you always do.” You scoff. “I’m not even tired.” “Sure.” He lets you tug his shirt off, smirking slightly. “You’re really about to get on top, huh?” “Shut up.” “I’m letting you lead. Don’t embarrass yourself.” “Seungmin, I’m literally grinding on you right now.” “I’m aware,” he says, deadpan. “I have eyes. And a… situation.” You snort and lean in to kiss his neck, hand sliding up to pinch his nipple and... “Babe?” Nothing. “…Are you serious?” He looks down. You’re out. OUT. Hand still on his nipple like you're trying to charge it. He blinks. “There’s no way.” You snore softly. He exhales. “This is incredible. I’m dating a sleep-deprived menace.” He adjusts slightly, still trapped under you. “Wow. You said ‘I’m not tired.’ Said it with your whole chest. Lied to my fucking face.” You breathe on his collarbone like an unbothered sleepy monster. “That’s so disrespectful.” He glances at the ceiling, sighs and gently, he lays you back and pulls the blanket over you like a passive-aggressive butt-hurt boyfriend. “Hope your dreams are spicy. Wouldn’t want to actually experience anything in real life.”

I.N

You’re both curled up on the couch after movie #2, legs tangled, the lights low. He looks over at you, barefaced, comfy hoodie, smelling like heaven...and thinks, It’s time. He clears his throat and brushes his fingers along your thigh. You hum softly. Oh my god it’s working. He leans in, nervous but trying to seem cool. “Hey,” he murmurs, voice low. “You look really…” You blink up at him. “Hmm?” “…Kissable,” he says, immediately regretting every life choice. You smile and climb onto his lap without a word. He chokes on his own breath. You start kissing his neck, slow and soft, fingers curling in his hoodie. He whines quietly. “Oh my god yes…” Then... Nothing. Stillness. Your lips stop moving. Your head drops onto his shoulder. He panics. “Babe?” You don’t move. “…Babe???” You’re asleep. YOU. ARE. ASLEEP. On his hard dick! He blinks. Hands still gripping your waist. You? Mouth slightly open. Out cold. Snoring. He stares at the ceiling in silence. “…Was I that boring?” You shift slightly and mumble something into his shoulder. He leans in. Did you say his name? No. You said “I’m cold.” He gently tugs the blanket over you. “…So you used me for warmth, then left me on read in real life.” He lays back, limbs stiff. “Cool, cool, cool. No, that’s fine.” Five minutes later he’s whispering at the ceiling like it’s a therapist. He stares at the TV. “I was gonna bite her neck. It was gonna be HOT” He practiced that. You shift again, cuddling into his chest. He pouts harder. “Don’t act cute. You emotionally damaged me.”

⤷ main m.list ❟

DISCLAIMER : This blog and all related content (fics, fake texts, headcanons, imagines, etc.) are entirely fictional and created for entertainment purposes only. I do not know Stray Kids personally, nor do I claim any of this reflects their real personalities, actions, or relationships. All characters and their personalities—including Meena King—are original creations.Please enjoy responsibly and remember : real people = real boundaries.

[zhelin-thames]

Bruce has another kid........but this one is not adopted #2

Danny lounged on the couch in the Batcave, his feet propped up as he casually flipped through some of Bruce’s files. Damian stood nearby, arms crossed, scowling.

“It doesn’t matter,” Damian huffed. “I am Father’s heir. It is my birthright.”

Danny smirked, glancing at him over the top of the tablet. “Hate to break it to you, little bro, but I’m older. By all of three minutes, but hey, it still counts.”

“You have no proof,” Damian snapped, his voice sharp.

“Actually,” Tim interjected, walking in with a file in hand, “it’s right here. Clockwork dropped the records off yesterday. Danny’s technically the firstborn.”

Damian’s face twisted into a mix of shock and outrage. “This is preposterous! I trained for years in the League to be the heir. He—” Damian gestured at Danny, who was now grinning smugly, “—is a half-ghost nomad raised by peasants!”

“Whoa, peasants?” Danny said, holding up his hands. “I’ll have you know I was raised by two highly educated ghost hunters who built portals to alternate dimensions in their basement. So technically, I was raised by nerds.”

Jason, leaning against the wall, barked out a laugh. “This just keeps getting better.”

Things escalated when Danielle made her debut in Gotham. She’d been causing a bit of chaos in Amity Park, and Danny figured bringing her to the Manor might help her channel her energy.

When Dani strutted into the Batcave, grinning like a gremlin with her wild energy, the reactions were... mixed.

“She’s my clone,” Danny explained, his tone casual. “But I kinda see her more like a daughter.”

“Daughter?” Damian repeated, his voice low and dangerous. “You... have a daughter?”

Dani, ever the instigator, threw her arms around Danny’s waist. “Yup! My Dad’s the best!” she chirped, shooting a cheeky grin at Damian. “He’s way cooler than you, by the way.”

Damian bristled, his hands curling into fists. “You’re barely older than me, yet you have already claimed an heir?” His voice trembled with a mix of indignation and something close to panic.

Danny raised an eyebrow. “She’s not an ‘heir.’ She’s just... Dani. And technically, she’s my clone, not my biological kid. It’s complicated.”

But Damian was already lost in his own spiraling thoughts.

Late that night, Damian approached Jason. “Todd,” he said, his tone serious. “I require your assistance.”

Jason blinked. “Uh, with what?”

“I must find a suitable candidate to bear my child.”

Jason stared at him for a long moment before bursting into laughter. “You’re joking. Please tell me you’re joking.”

“I am not,” Damian replied, his expression unyielding. “If Daniel has already produced a successor, then I must act swiftly to secure my own lineage.”

Jason clutched his stomach, wheezing. “Oh, man, this is rich. Demon Spawn wants to have a baby just to one-up his ghost brother.”

“It is not a matter of one-upmanship,” Damian insisted, though the faint pink tinge in his cheeks said otherwise.

The next morning, Danny caught wind of Damian’s... ambition. He found his younger twin in the training room, furiously sparring with a practice dummy.

“Hey, Dames,” Danny said, leaning against the doorframe.

“Do not call me that,” Damian growled, landing a particularly vicious strike on the dummy.

Danny held up his hands. “Okay, okay. But I heard a little rumor. Something about you wanting to, uh, find a lady to have a kid with?”

Damian froze mid-strike, then turned to glare at Danny. “Who told you that?”

Danny smirked. “Doesn’t matter. Look, man, you don’t need to go all ‘League heir’ about this. Dani’s not my biological kid. She’s a clone. Like, literally made from my DNA. I didn’t exactly sign up for the whole ‘parent’ thing—it just kinda happened.”

Damian’s glare softened slightly, though his posture remained stiff. “And yet, you claim her as your own.”

“Yeah, because she’s family,” Danny said simply. “She needed someone, so I stepped up. That’s what family does.”

Damian lowered his gaze, his fists unclenching. “I see.”

A few weeks later, Talia’s clone assassins made their move. But instead of eliminating them, Damian captured and brought them to the Manor.

“Father,” he declared, standing proudly before Bruce, “I have decided to take responsibility for these clones. They are my family, and I will train them to uphold the legacy of the League.”

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. “Damian—”

“Not bad, kid,” Jason said, clapping him on the back. “But you might want to workshop the pitch. Sounds a little murder-y.”

Tim groaned. “Great. Now we have more mini-Damians running around.”

Danny, watching from the sidelines with Dani by his side, couldn’t help but laugh. “Guess I’m rubbing off on him.”

“You think he’s doing this to one-up you?” Dani asked.

“Absolutely,” Danny replied, grinning. “And I love it.”

While the Bat-family adjusted to the sudden influx of clones, Danny and Damian’s relationship began to shift. Though their rivalry remained, it was tempered by a growing mutual respect.

“I still do not approve of your cavalier attitude,” Damian said one night as they patrolled Gotham together.

“And I still think you need to loosen up,” Danny shot back.

Damian huffed but didn’t argue. Deep down, he was starting to appreciate having an older brother who wasn’t afraid to challenge him—or support him.

And for Danny, seeing his once-distant twin slowly open up was worth all the sibling squabbles in the world.

[sunnami]

❝i am half-agony, half-hope. . . i have loved none but you.❞

summary: how the marauders loved you in their time. featuring harry potter the time-traveller and sixth-wheel.

pairing/s: poly!marauders + lily x reader.

tags: reader is referred to as she/her and a mother throughout the whole fic[!], reader is a violent gremlin who craves blood but the marauders love you for that, implied child abuse[!], mentions of blood and violence[!], disgustingly sappy poetic fluff, no angst, happy ending, not proofread we die like finnick odair, edited: very minor detail.

note: there is little plot, it’s just the marauders and their adoration for you. thank you all so much for your kind responses to my first marauders fic :(( ilysm! i hope you enjoy this one as well! because there are parts when i was writing that i ended up kicking my feet in the air and smiling to myself.

“MY NAME IS HARRY POTTER. I come from twenty-years in the future, you’re my mum — one of my ‘em, actually. It’s complicated. And you’re married to James Potter, Remus Lupin, and Sirius Black.” 

You blink. 

“Get the fuck out of my room!” 

Harry James Potter has dodged many things in his life. Killing curses, jinxes, girls, Draco Malfoy, and Dudley’s sloppy punches, but he’s never had to dodge his sixteen-year-old mother’s fuzzy slipper before. (Godric, that sounds weird, even in his head.) He doesn’t know precisely how he arrived here. In the Slytherin common room, to be exact, in your dorm. Harry remembers duelling with Death Eaters, Hermione calling his name, and a flash of light hitting him square in the chest, then he remembers waking up in the cold tiles of the snake dungeon. He nearly throws himself off the window when he meets your eyes, bleary from interrupted sleep — it’s not often he gets to meet [read: one of] his dead parents, after all, three had been brutally murdered by Voldemort, and one killed by his own loony cousin. He misses Sirius, though. A lot. And right about now, he could do with some of Hermione’s nagging and brilliant plan-making. 

At present — or past, Harry guesses — he watches you scramble out from your duvet, hand clumsily reaching for your wand as you snarl at him. He wonders if his mother knows that he’s encountered other creatures far more threatening than her. Oh shit, he realizes with all the forces of an angry Hermione Granger, isn’t this the last thing he’s supposed to do? But, well, Harry has given, and given, so much of himself all for the greater good — just this once, he’d like to see his parents alive and well. Even if they were currently trying to blast him into the walls. 

“If you’d just let me explain, mum—!” Harry pleads, nearly dropping his glasses after dodging one of your stinging hexes. Godric, you’re crazy. “Please!” 

“Stop calling me that!” You screech, eyes set ablaze.  Harry finds that you’re quite dynamic with your attacks. A hairbrush, followed by a stinging jinx, then a thick History of Magic textbook — which rudely hits him in the face, but he doesn’t dare complain because you’re his mother, and he’s respectful like that — and after you’ve exhausted your breath, running him into a corner, and your nostrils flare with the stubbornness of a lion, you point the tip of your wand at him. “If this is another one of the Prewett’s shitty pranks, I want you to leave! You are in the girls’ dormitory beyond midnight, and so help me, if you aren’t walking out that door in the next five seconds, I will kill you and string you up by your bottoms for everyone in school to see! Maybe all your stupid rumours of me being a Death-Eater might come true after all!” 

“You’re a Death-Eater?” Harry asks dumbly. 

You growl furiously, and Harry figures that was not the right thing to say. “I wonder what McGonagall would say if I delivered your head to her on a silver platter.” 

“Professor,” Harry corrects with a toothy grin. “Professor McGonagall.” 

You slam his head against the wall.

Definitely the wrong thing to say. 

Harry groans, little Dobby heads floating around his vision. Why was this so much harder than actually facing Voldemort? Quick, he needed to think of something, otherwise he’d end up eviscerated to ashes on your cold, stone floors. Harry is pretty sure you’d use his remains as decoration to send off a message to your enemies. 

“You hate your father,” Harry slurs through the pain, remembering Remus’s stories of how you were the gentlest magical being he’s ever had the privilege to love — now that Harry thinks about it, Remus was being extremely biased, nothing about you is gentle at all. “He’s forcing you to marry someone old enough to be your grandfather. You love to read Muggle literature but had to stop when your father burnt your whole collection of books. Your favorite novel is Persuasion by Jane Austen. It’s the one book you carry with you everywhere, you could never get tired of it.”  

Your grip on his shoulders falters, but the fury in your eyes crackles. “This isn’t funny.” 

“It’s not meant to be funny, mum,” Harry croaks, voice cracking pathetically — strange how this is the most he’s ever uttered the word, mum; it’s a peculiar string of letters, foreign on his tongue. “You have tremors in your left leg from when your father cast the Cruciatus curse on you. One of your dearest friends is a Hogwarts house-elf named Pipley. You cheated on your Transfiguration essay once, and—” 

“That’s enough!” You bark, eyes narrowed in dangerous slits. “I don’t know where you heard those from, you creepy, little stalker, but if you want to keep breathing, then I suggest you shut up.” 

Harry scoffs — you don’t understand. Everything he’s learned about you is from Sirius and Remus. They talk about you with whispered devotion, your name like a prayer on their lips, their eyes glazed with wistfulness as though they could see you reaching out for them — but you were dead in Harry’s time. Yet, you might as well have been alive with their tales of you. 

(“She’s a different kind of beautiful,” Sirius had said, a year after breaking out from Azkaban, sitting by the fire in Grimmauld Place, taking a swig of decade-old firewhiskey, “The kind of beautiful you don’t want to take your eyes off from because you’re afraid she’ll disappear from your eyes. But you won’t forget her, oh no, you’ll memorize the freckles and moles on her skin, the scars from her years, the light in her eyes, and the way she holds her head up high. You should have seen her, James, she. . . she was — is glorious.”) 

“I told you,” says Harry firmly — although he loves his mother very much, she’s beginning to wear him out, “My name is Harry James Potter, I come from twenty-years in the future. You are one of my parents.” A lightbulb flashes in his head. He squirms in your hold, reaching for his robe pocket until he finds the thing he’s looking for. Harry dangles the ring in front of you, grinning in success when your eyes flash in recognition. “It’s—” 

“A family heirloom,” You say breathlessly. The alexandrite winks under the light, a familiar gold band with the Latin inscription of your House words. “Where did you steal this from?” 

Harry rolls his eyes. “You left it for me in my Gringotts vault. It’s my heirloom now. You have to believe me, there’s no way you can deny this.” 

You take a step backwards, nibbling on your lower lip, as you stagger to your bed — Harry nearly stumbling to catch you in case you fell; adjusting to the living proof of time travel was quite difficult, he, of all people, should know. He exhales, dragging a hand down his face. “Magic, amirite?” 

You throw a pillow at him, which he catches gracefully thanks to his Seeker reflexes, as you plop down in the comforts of your quilts. “Sleep. The other girls won’t be back until the end of the holiday. We can deal with whatever this is in the morning. It’s way too early for me to process the idea of a future Potter spawn following me around.” 

Harry smiles. “Yes, mum.” 

ONE THING THAT his fathers failed to tell him about you, and that Harry had to learn himself, was that you took ages to get ready. You sat on the chair in front of your vanity mirror, the birch wood legs whittled with snakes, and it was as though you had a Sticking Charm on the cushion. Harry didn’t know there could be so many creams, oils, and serums, and powders one put on their face. He blanches when you turn to offer him a cream for his under eyes. (“Suit yourself.” You shrug, turning to brush your cheek with dusts of pink. “Just saying, those dark circles aren’t doing you any favors.”)

“What am I like in the future?” You ask, a kind lilt to your voice, much like a warm hug, much like home. 

Harry stiffens, shoving his hands in pockets of the robes that were twice his size — you had given him the garments of Lucius Malfoy to change in, which you apparently had stolen from his room. It’s come full circle, really, the Sorting Hat had once told him he would be great in Slytherin, and now here he was, looking fabulous in green — because he was about to hurl at the feel of the velvet on his skin, knowing slimy Lucius Malfoy had worn it. (“No son—” You pause with a tight purse in your lips, as if you still can’t accept the fact. Harry doesn’t blame you. “—no son of mine will be parading around in red of all colors, future or not.” And Harry finds that he really doesn’t care, so long as you call him your son.)  

“Loved,” replies Harry gruffly, avoiding your eyes in the reflection of your mirror — they were piercing. One look and Harry wanted to spill all of his deepest, darkest secrets. He remembers the photographs in his album, the one he’s stared at so many times as a child. It’s a moving photograph of the five of you, fresh out of Hogwarts, each wearing a smile that stretched from ear-to-ear. Before Sirius and Remus, it was the only semblance of proof that Harry had — that you had once been alive. Remus is holding you by the waist in the picture, twirling you around as autumn leaves fell. You were — are — loved, and Harry thinks there’s no better description than that. 

(“I bloody hated her cat,” says Remus with a roguish quirk to his lips, regalling Harry with more talks of his parents. “Sirius, too. We just never got along with the little creature. But your mother loved it, and we would have done anything to make her happy. She deserved it, you see. She deserved more than what I had to offer her, but still she chose me anyway. And I am a selfish man, Harry, I crave glimpses of her and the whispers of her voice. She has made me a mad man whose only reprieve is her touch.”) 

You hum knowingly. “Stupid question, I guess. Since you aren’t allowed to reveal anything more about the future.” You sigh, gracefully threading your arms in the sleeves of your shirt, a green tie in the center of your collar. “Except, of course, when you gave me a heart attack in the middle of the night by telling me the last thing I want to become — no offense, I just don’t see how a relationship with those rowdy bunch would work. They get on my nerves far too much for me to ever feel anything other than disgust.” 

Harry doesn’t need a mirror to see that his expression has contorted in confusion; brows knitted and upper lip crinkled. By their memories of you, you all were madly in love in Hogwarts. Damn. This just made his trip to the past a lot harder. No maze seems to be ever just a maze. 

Luckily, you don’t notice him brewing a grand master plan to bring his parents together. Instead, you say, “But you don’t seem to be phased by any of this. If I had been thrown twenty years into the past, I would have puked my guts out twice at some point.” 

“Thanks for the image,” says Harry with a scowl. Truthfully, it had either been a present with a noseless Dark Lord to face, trauma to unpack but really never have the chance to, or a past where all of his parents were alive, and a chance to talk with them for however long he has. He knows where he’ll be staying, thank you very much. 

“Anytime,” You reply with an impish smile. 

Your heels pad across the floor as you walk over to him, mouth clicking as you pat the top of his head, full of wild, untameable Potter hair. “You need a trim soon,” You mutter, frowning, as you brush the thick strands away from his eyes, then you gasp — and Harry knows exactly what’s coming next. “Oh, you’ve got Evans’s eyes. That’s freaky.” 

“I know.” Harry grins. 

“Here’s the plan,” You say as you lead him out of your room, making sure no one saw him walking out of your door and getting the wrong impression — because that would be so wrong on many levels, but also, explaining to someone else that the person beside you was a time-traveller was just complicated in general. The Slytherin dungeon is unfamiliarly familiar, eerily quiet, as the two of you made your way out. “Just say you’re Potter’s distant relative, twice or thrice removed, and you’ve always been here. If you lie to their faces enough, they’ll believe it eventually.” 

“Will that work?” Harry doesn’t really mind — he needs a connection to James, his father, if he’s going to work out a connection between you and the others, because at the moment, it doesn’t seem like you’re too fond of them. There’s a tick on your jaw every time you mumble the word, Potter. Nevertheless, Harry decides he’s going to spend the duration of the holiday break trying to set you up with them — on the list of most insane things he’s ever done, living out the Parent Trap was high up the tally. 

You shrug. “They’ve fallen for less.” 

(“She’s got this adorable habit when she lies,” Sirius tells Harry, whipping up a stack of pancakes for their breakfast — Remus browsing through the morning paper. It’s the closest he’s ever been to a normal family. “It’s not obvious to her, of course, but I know her more than I know my own name. So we play along with it.” For a moment, he stops drizzling the maple syrup on the well-cooked batter, gazing at Remus fondly. “D’you remember that, Moony? She led us straight to one of her pranks, and we ended up covered in slug slime. She was so obvious — with her adorable fucking giggles. I need help with Charms, she said, and we knew right away it was a set-up. But it didn’t matter. I’d happily let her lead me to my ruin.”)  

The Great Hall is the same as Harry remembers. Now that most have returned home for the holidays, those who stay back mingle with students from other Houses, sharing meals under the bewitched ceiling, their low murmurs and hushed Christmas greetings bouncing off the walls. Harry scours the four tables to find a hint of blazing red hair, or the scent of impending trouble. Fortunately, he doesn’t have to search very far. As fate would have it, James Potter finds you — and where he is, Sirius Black is sure to follow. 

You’re barely seated when James comes bounding over to your table — more precisely, he struts, and Harry is horrified to ever be proven wrong by Snape, of all people. He ignores the roll of your eyes as he drags a leg over the bench, sitting to face you as Sirius occupies the space to your left before Harry can even sit down. He can’t even fathom how weird it is to see his parents as rambunctious teenagers. Lovesick, rambunctious teenagers. 

“Morning, dove.” James preens under your glare, stealing a grape from your bowl with a boyish smirk. His hair looks as though he’s ran his hand through it many times. “You look ravishing today.” 

“As always,” Sirius pipes in. “But that eyeshadow really isn’t complementing your skin tone, my darling.” 

You smile at him, right before your lips twist into a cutthroat sneer. “Piss off, Black.”

James stifles a laugh as he shovels a mass of potatoes on your plate, then pumpkin pasties, and slides a steaming cup of Dragon Well tea in front of you. 

“What the hell are you doing, Potter?” You reach over to smack his arm when he sprinkles apple slices and bacon on your breakfast. 

“What does it look like?” James smiles lopsidedly. “You need to eat more, honey.”

(In the future, Sirius will tell Harry, “It started off as a joke, a way to get on her nerves — but then, it just became this thing about taking care of her, making sure she got enough sleep before her tests, wondering if she had breakfast or dinner, staying with her in the library, walking her to the Slytherin common room, and sending her stupid notes just to make her laugh. You don’t get it, Harry. I’d give my every breath to ensure her life. We all would.” Harry doesn’t see Sirius any more during that evening, but he hears a bottle crashing against a wall, cracking into a million pieces, and the masked sound of Sirius sobbing, and Harry decides to leave him alone for the night.) 

Then, you tear your eyes away from James — he huffs, pushing your plate to you, mildly annoyed that you’ve deprived him of your eyes; they were his favorite part of you, you see, so expressive and full of life; James thinks you put the stars to shame — and thankfully, you remember that Harry still exists. You lightly smack Sirius’s leg until he gives Harry some room to sit. “Potter, meet other Potter. It’s the holidays, shouldn’t it be the perfect time to let go of House prejudices and spend time with family?” 

James looks at Harry up and down. “You must be from dad’s side of the family with all that hair.” 

Harry lets out a breath of relief. That was easy — way too easy. When he takes the vacant space in between you and Sirius, you dump all the available food on his plate, just as James had done for you. 

“Eat,” You say with a tone of finality. “You look like the wind could snap you in half.” 

“Yes, m—” Harry stops himself before he could finish his sentence, avoiding Sirius’s curious gaze. 

“Wow.” Sirius pokes Harry in the shoulder and in the cheek. “You really look like a mini-James, you’ve even got his terrible eyesight.” 

“Oi!” 

Your fork clatters against the silverware as you turn to Sirius with a shrill. “Not that I do enjoy your company — because, trust me, I do not want you here at all and would very much prefer if you got out of my sight — but why are you here? The Gryffindor table is over there. Unless your housemates finally got sick of you, Potter, which I can definitely see happening.” 

James chuckles, tossing another grape in his mouth without taking his eyes off you. “It’s as you said, isn’t it? It’s the time for putting aside House prejudices. And I think it’s a lovely day to enjoy a meal with my favorite snake.” 

“Drop dead,” You retort, digging into your chicken with a little more force than necessary. 

“Oh, dove.” James shakes his head, a teasing grin pulling at his lips. “It’s cute that you think death will keep me from you.” 

(Harry’s been told before, probably by Sirius, that this line had been wedged into his wedding vows for you. “A dramatic one, James was,” Sirius chuckles to himself one morning, Harry and Hermione listening intently, “He always said he’d rather die than ever hurt her. There was this time in seventh year, they had a fight — it was ugly — and she had ignored him for a week. James cried in Remus’s arms begging him to cut his heart out, saying that he didn’t deserve to keep on breathing, not after making you cry.”) 

“That is so creepy,” You say in disgust, scrunching your nose. Sirius chortles at your side. “I still wonder why Evans agreed to go out with you.” 

“It’s all part of the charm, dove.” James winks. “It’s all part of the charm.” 

Harry wants to barf, actually.

After breakfast, James then decides to introduce Harry to Lily, Remus, and Peter. (He’s gonna need the patience of a saint to not Avada Kedavra that rat on the spot.) Harry had spent the whole morning watching Sirius peel oranges and give them to you with a smitten look in his eyes — naturally, you gave whatever Sirius offered you to Harry, and each time Padfoot would visibly wilt. If he were in his Animagus form, Harry thinks he would be whining by now, tongue out and all. James and Sirius follow after you like lost puppies when you extricate yourself from the table.

“Where are you going?” James calls, hot on your heels as you leave the Great Hall.

“Away from you, Potter!” 

And James actually sighs when you turn the corner and disappear from their peripheral vision. Seconds later, he turns to Harry with a blinding smile, “She’s definitely charmed.”

Harry chortles.

“Well, come on then!” James guffaws as he wraps an arm around Harry’s neck — this is so, so strange. They begin walking in the opposite direction of where you went. “I still can’t believe we’ve got another Potter here and in Slytherin. I think I would have remembered Minnie calling your name during the Sorting Ceremony. What year are you in?” 

He’s supposed to start his sixth-year in a few weeks. “Fifth.” Technically. 

“We should ask Lily,” says Sirius, hands in his pockets and ebony ringlets tickling his nape. “She’s got the best memory out of all of us.”

It’s odd, Harry thinks, meeting the person who’s got his eyes — or the other way around, as people have told him. It’s like someone carved out the emeralds of Lily Evans’s eyes and bestowed it upon Harry for safekeeping. She sits beside Remus Lupin, head resting on his shoulder, hands clasped together, as they enjoy the shade. Nex to them, oblivious to their intimate conversation, is Peter Pettigrew — with his rosy, cherub cheeks and innocent blue eyes; not at all the image of a pathological, cowardly liar. Their heads snap in attention as James boisterously cries for their name. 

“Marauders — and Lily-pad — meet ickle Potter.” James lightheartedly whacks Harry on the back, to which Harry feels his lungs spill out from his mouth, he’s sure there’s an imprint of his father’s hand on his back now. 

“There’s two Potters in Hogwarts?” Sea-green eyes look at him in scrutiny as Lily knits her brows. “How even is the castle still standing?” 

James cackles like it’s the best joke he’s ever heard in his entire life, slapping his knee for dramatic effect. Oh, well, at least they’re buying Harry’s half-baked lie. At this point, it’s not even baked, it’s just wet, soggy, and poorly done. “Good one, Lily-pad!”

Sirius ruffles Remus’s shaggy blonde hair, canines bared in a wide grin. “This one here’s Moony, uptight prefect in the morning and absolute beast in the evening.” 

Harry blanches. Surely he was talking about his furry problem, right? Right? 

Remus doesn’t even flinch, just peels off Sirius’s hand from him and extends his hand out to Harry. “Please do not mind him. Remus Lupin, nice to meet you. Although, I can’t believe this is the first time we’ve met. We would have definitely remembered if we had another Potter in our midst.” 

“It’s true, we Potters are just hard to forget,” says James, smiling cheekily. 

Harry pokes the inside of his cheek with his tongue. “Mum didn’t take the Potter name. I’m part Dursley. Muggle.” 

Lily hums, toying at the ends of her bright hair. “Dursley, huh? What a familiar name.” 

“It’s a common one,” Harry assures her — not at all the names of the people who would take him in after they died. And make his life miserable. 

“I suppose you’re right,” says Lily, unconvinced. 

“And this is Peter.” James introduces the boy eagerly, pride in his voice — as though this isn’t the person who literally allies himself with Voldemort. As if Peter won’t betray his friends all because of fear. 

“N–Nice to meet you,” Peter stammers with a nervous fidget, “Any family of James is a friend of ours.” 

Harry’s eye twitches. 

IT IS ALMOST COMICAL — the way their eyes land on your figure, bursting through the courtyard from the corridors, winter cloak swishing with every step, tendrils of hair swaying in the crisp wind, and head held up high, thick books under your arms. You pause in front of the Marauders, face blank, then you turn to Peter, greeting him with a: “Hello, only Gryffindor I can tolerate.” 

Peter’s cheeks burn a saccharine hue of pink. Oh, no, no, no — absolutely not — Harry will not stand for a little crush Peter Pettigrew has on his mother. He needs James to act now. “Hi,” Peter replies shyly. 

Lily quirks her lips. “Hello, princess, see your score for the Astronomy test yet?”

You scowl. “Zip it, Evans.” 

The sound of Lily’s laughter fills the atmosphere — it’s the sort of melody that makes flowers bloom in deserts. “Had a bit of difficulty with the star charts?” 

Sirius pinches your cheek — Harry thinks you’re going to murder him on the spot. “Difficulty? I think this one just slept through the whole thing.” 

James snickers. “Must have been one hell of a nap, princess. You were drooling on my jumper.” 

“I most certainly do not drool!” You gasp, appalled, eyes wide as you step away from Sirius.

Sirius rolls his eyes. “What? Is drooling too barbaric for the pretty, little pure-blooded princess now? Newsflash, pet, you’re just as human as we are.” 

“Oh, you horrible, loathsome, infuriating—” You whip around to beat his chest with the course book in your grasp — it’s the kind of book Hermione would consider for light reading. 

“Irresistibly attractive—?” Sirius supplies for you, grin widening with as he captures your wrist with his hands. 

“In your dreams!” You shrill. 

You exhale slowly, eyes closing, chest rising when you take a sharp inhale. You open your eyes and stare straight at Harry — for a moment he fears that you’ll bite his head off. “Harry, dear, will you accompany me to the library? I think I’ve found something important regarding your situation.” 

Harry nods. “Is it time already?” 

“Yes,” You say firmly. “And time is of the essence. Come on.” 

“Wait!” Lily calls out to you as you turn to head back to the castle, Harry in tow — he tries to avoid the way James is glaring at your linked arms. “Hogsmeade next week?” 

Your jaw falls to the ground — this must have been unrehearsed, if the others’ reactions were anything to go by; Remus had dropped his book in shock, Sirius looked like he couldn’t decide between applauding Lily’s bravery or shaking her, and James was somehow frozen in time. “Excuse me?” 

“You’re excused, princess,” says Lily, dimples poking out of her cheek as she takes another step towards you. “You, me, Hogsmeade. A date. I’m sure you’ve gone on one of those before.” 

Harry elbows your stomach as you stare at Lily in shock. It takes a few moments to break you out of your stupor. “A–And what makes you think I’ll just go with you?” 

Lily shrugs. “I’m fit. Aren’t I, Remus?” 

“The fittest,” says Remus without missing a beat. 

You laugh incredulously. “Do you just expect me to go along with this? You’re mad, Evans.” 

Harry glares at you. You need to go along with this. 

“Are you scared, princess?” Lily’s face is inches away from yours, noses almost touching — Harry doesn’t know if he should keep watching this painful way of flirting — as she grins at you, happiness barely contained within her eyes. 

To your credit, you don’t back down. (Harry has to say this for the masses: he saw your gaze flitter down to Lily’s lips for a split second.) “Stop calling me that, Evans.” 

“One date, then.” 

You growl in exasperation, eyes flickering to the boys behind her back — pretending not to hear their conversation. “I suppose I’ll have to deal with them as well?” 

Lily beams and Harry swears sunflowers could grow in her direction. “We’re a package deal.” 

“Unfortunately,” You utter — but Harry notices it, the lack of venom in your voice. You straighten your posture, nose lifted haughtily, “I choose where we’re going.” 

“Done.” The sun peeks out from the cloud just as Lily smiles at you. 

“And I want to—” 

“Done,” Remus interjects raspily, peering up at you from underneath his lashes. “Anything you want, it’s yours.” 

You fight a growing smile, but continue, “If we’re going out in public, you’re going to have to wear—” 

“Done,” says James giddily, he looks as though he could kiss you in front of everyone without a care in the world.  

“You can’t just agree to anything I say!” You flap your arms in frustration. 

“Yes, dear,” Sirius teases. 

“Do you know how much you piss me off, Black?” You squawk. “Because you are this close to—”

“You are so fucking beautiful,” Sirius confesses, every pretense shed raw from his skin, sincerity pouring from his words. 

“I—” You falter, heat rushing to your cheeks. “You’ve gone mad.” 

“It’s your fault, dove,” says James, eyes twinkling like crescent moons as he smiles. “You best take accountability for this.” 

“You’re incorrigible — all of you,” You say as you avoid their gazes.

(But they were yours. Past, present, and future. They loved you so much that their soul was no longer their own — it was yours; yours to keep, yours to break, and yours to love. It would be unjust to ask them why they loved you. Do we ask why the sun rises each day without rest? Do we ask a daisy to stop blooming, or a tree to stop growing after it has endured storms and floods? After all, we do not ask why humans follow the light in a tunnel shrouded in darkness.) 

“Come on, Harry, let’s go.” You reach for his hand, he notices immediately that the tips of your ears are pink, and your palms are warm with sweat. He barely sees Peter wave goodbye before you tug him in the direction of the castle entrance. 

“Wait up!” Remus catches up to you two in quick strides, offering to carry your books for you — not that you agree, stubborn Slytherin that you are. “I’ll walk you to the library.” 

“There’s no need for that, Lupin, thank you.” You dodge his eyes, lips tightly pressed together, nails slightly digging into Harry’s arm. 

“Remus,” He says with a twinkle. “Call me Remus.” 

“Alright.” You pause. “Remus.” 

(In that moment, Remus wonders if you remember decking Lucius Malfoy in the face to defend him in your fourth year. He didn’t think he deserved to even breathe in the same air as you — the pure-blooded princess, dressed in clothing worth more than his life, adorned in jewelry he could only dream to afford, raised to believe she was better than everyone else. Then, you beat up Evan Rosier the next month in the courtyard, eyes ablaze, extravagant silk marred with grass stains and mud, and knuckles split open. You spit blood on the ground, looking at Lily then back at Rosier. “Red,” You say, kicking him one last time in the stomach, unafraid of McGonagall’s wrath growing louder and louder. “Just like everyone else. Like those Muggleborns you fear. We’ve all got dirty blood, Rosier. Suck it up.” 

“I’ll tell your father about this!” Rosier bellows through bloody teeth. 

“Tell him!” You grab his neck and slam your forehead against his. “Tell him that I decide my own future now!”

Remus doesn’t even have to think about it. 

He falls in love.) 

FUNNILY ENOUGH, IT’S LILY who gives you her heart first, before anyone else does. It’s the last month of her first year at Hogwarts — it still hasn’t quite sunk in yet that she was a witch. Her, not Petunia, but her — Lily Evans, the witch. Apparently, some people can’t believe it either. A girl from Ravenclaw calls her this foul word, she’s heard it a few times now but it always hurts the same. James and Sirius get into a fight for her honor, now faced with detention later this evening. But she can’t help but wonder, what if they were right? What if she really didn’t belong in this world? It was too good to be true, anyway. Perhaps she’ll just run a flower boutique with Petunia.

“Oi.” 

The sound of your voice startles her, and she nearly topples over in the Great Lake. Lily catches sight of your Slytherin colors and resigns herself to another round of name-calling. “What do you want?” 

“They’re wrong, you know,” You tell her, ignoring Lily’s question. You look down on her with your nose raised arrogantly — she wishes she could be like you. Born to be magic. “You’ve got a terrifying brain locked up in your head there, Evans. And they know it, too. They’re scared.” 

Lily scoffs. “I’m just a Mudblood to them. There’s nothing to be intimidated by.” 

You sneer. “Don’t say that word. You’re more than that. More than them. They’ve got long ways to go to prove they have a place in this world. But you — you’ve defied the odds and you were destined to become magic. You don’t have to prove anything. You have the right to be in the wizarding world and no one can take that away from you.” 

Then, you pivot on your heels, not bothering to hear her reply. “You’re my rival now, Evans. Do keep up. We’ve got an Astronomy test tomorrow. I look forward to seeing how you do then.” 

Lily just gapes. She’s certain there’s butterflies in her stomach. Her heart thumps wildly against her ribcage. Lily raises her hands to feel her blushing cheeks. There’s a light unfamiliar sensation in her stomach — like the urge to kick her legs and scream into a pillow, or more precisely, chase after you and hold your hand.

She stiffens.

Oh.

part two

[jungkoode]

𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 18

˗ˏˋ on your kneesˎˊ˗

"He didn't picture himself ever begging for pussy... but alas, here he is."

next | index

⋆｡°✩ chapter details ✩°｡⋆

word count: 8,7k

content: wet sloppy kissing, jungkook being too horny for his own good, vibrator usage, masturbation (f), jerking off while eating kitty (idk what possessed me but i had to), vanilla kink (are we surprised), begging, slight praise kink, comfort, endearing moments, these two being stupid as always, post-orgasm sharing bed (yeah sleeping together), thinking about maybes.

✧ author's note ✧

LISTEN. You’re so lucky I have multiple FMU chapters backlogged right now, because if I didn’t? I would have thrown an actual tantrum, declared a two-week hermit arc, and told you all to fuck off while I moved to the mountains. BUT. Thankfully, I’ve written up to around Chapter 23-ish and just need to edit, so you can all calm the hell down.

First of all, no—I still haven’t updated the update post, because I’ve been too busy prepping this chapter for release. I’ve had zero time to sit and ponder. That said, the only valid suggestion I’ve gotten so far is to keep the Tumblr note goal but ALSO require the Wattpad goal to be hit—so that’s what we’re trying this time around.

Also—BIG ANNOUNCEMENT—we now have an official Kiki Nation Community on Tumblr (yay!). That’s where you little gremlins can finally scream together in one place, throw theories at each other, and insult Jungkook and Nix in a safe, protected space. (Mainly Jungkook. Because he’s a man. And this is a matriarchy. HUSH.)

So please check it out! Join, comment under the official Chapter 18 discussion post, and if you feel inspired to make a meme or TikTok or post your spiral—DO IT. If it makes me laugh, I will absolutely reblog it.

NOW. About this chapter.

BAHAHA. Okay. First of all—I am so proud of the kiss. I wanted it to be sloppy and wet and messy and borderline excessive, and I think I delivered. It’s so long. I really put my whole kikussy into it.

And of course… it was time. The vibrator had to make its appearance. It’s literally law. I don’t make the rules (but I do).

Also: Rogue begging. crawling. STILETTOS. Why did I like this chapter so much. It was delicious. I love sexually down bad men. Wait until he’s romantically down bad. It’s going to be so satisfying. Trust me.

And the ending?? Made me soft. Actual progress?? Kind of??? They’re still filthy, but they’re also edging toward something stupidly endearing and I hate how much I love that. The way this story is progressing is so slow-burn it makes my bones hurt, but I’m obsessed with it. We are maybe… possibly… inching toward friendship territory. MAYBE.

I’m really looking forward to the next chapters—soon, we’ll meet a new LI on Jungkook’s side (YES!). Things are gonna get messy (eventually). Reminder: they have zero romantic feelings right now. ZERO. What you’re seeing is just… subconscious tension, subtle shifts. We’re nowhere near falling.

So please. I beg you. If I start getting asks about them being in love, I will throw my laptop out the window and revoke my dictatorship. Don’t test me.

Enjoy the chaos. Let me know how hard you spiraled. Love you forever.

OH. I said it before but I will say it again. This chapter is entirely based on the song "get on your knees" by Ariana Grande and Nicki Minaj so. Do with that what you will. Listen to it. Enjoy.

⋆｡°✩ read on✩°｡⋆

ao3

wattpad

His kiss tastes like four days of wanting.

Your back hits the wall as his mouth crashes into yours—not gentle, not careful, just hungry. Like he's been starving for the taste of you since Tuesday. 

His tongue traces the seam of your lips, a question that isn't really a question at all, because you both know how this ends. You part your lips anyway, granting him access because denying him feels like denying yourself.

His hand comes to rest on your neck, thumb pressing lightly against your pulse point. It's a strange, suspended gesture—like he can't decide whether to pull you closer or hold you exactly where you are. The indecision is so unlike him that it makes your stomach flip.

Then his tongue flattens against yours, and any thoughts of indecision evaporate. He's not kissing you so much as he's tasting you, licking your flavor directly from the source. The sensation is filthy and intimate as his other hand comes to your cheek, fingers splaying across your skin, holding you in place for his exploration.

"Fuck," he breathes against your mouth, the word more vibration than sound. "Missed this."

Not you. This. 

The distinction matters, even as his tongue circles yours in a slow, deliberate drag that makes your knees weak. He's coating himself with your saliva, savoring you like you're some expensive whiskey he's been saving for a special occasion.

You should probably be grossed out by how wet this kiss is, by how thoroughly he's claiming your mouth.

Instead, you find yourself pressing closer, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.

Because this is what you've been missing too—not him, not really, but this. The way he makes your body respond without even trying. The way he kisses like he's trying to memorize the taste of you.

And then his lips close over yours—soft but firm—like finishing the kiss just to start it all over again. Chained kisses. One bleeding into the next, seamless and endless.

You follow him because how could you not? The way he kisses—it’s not just skill; it’s instinct. Like he knows exactly what to do to keep you hooked, alternating between tongue and lips so perfectly that you never get tired of either. 

Not that you could ever tire of him. 

You’re pretty sure you could never erase the way he kisses—or fucks—from your mind even if you wanted to.

Maybe it’s him knowing what he’s doing. Or maybe it’s just the two of you—two mismatched pieces of completely different puzzles that somehow fit together anyway. 

Just like your mouths do now.

Just like when your tongue darts out to lick at his lower lip in a kitten lick that has him hitching against you, a small, desperate sound escaping his throat. His hips stutter against yours like his body is telling you to stop messing around and get your tongue back inside his mouth where it belongs.

So you do.

You push forward, tongue meeting his again in a slick slide that has him groaning into your mouth. Then you close your lips to transition into another kiss and he follows, tongues forgotten for three, four open-mouthed kisses before he’s lost patience.

He moves his tongue against yours, seeking more, always more. Because when it comes to you, Jungkook is just this eager.

But this time you catch it. Suck it into your mouth in a soft suction that makes him freeze for half a second before his hand tightens on your neck. 

And the sound he makes?

Undiluted filth.

It spurs you on.

You suck harder, dragging your lips down his tongue before releasing him with a soft pop that leaves both of you panting against each other’s mouths. He doesn’t let the pause last long—doesn’t let you last long—and dives back in with a hunger that feels less like kissing and more like consuming.

Tongues forgotten for other five or six kisses as his lips move against yours with bruising intensity—open-mouthed and messy—but he easily grows impatient and his tongue is soon back, sliding against yours like he wants it there.

You catch it once more—suck it again—and the way his hips jerk against yours tells you everything you need to know about how much he likes it.

Filthy sounds fill the space between you: wet kisses, soft moans, the occasional hitch in his breath when you do something particularly good with your tongue.

And when his teeth graze your lower lip before pulling back just enough to look at you?

You realize there’s no winning here—not for either of you—because this isn’t about who takes control or who gives in first.

It’s about this. About mouths fitting together perfectly even though nothing else about this situation should make sense. About tongues sliding together and lips bruising from too much pressure but neither of you caring because fuck—it feels good.

It feels better than good.

It feels addictive.

Your back hits the table near the entryway, and honestly? You never thought a piece of furniture could be an accomplice in your bad decisions, but here you are. Pressed against the entryway table. The one that holds your keys, Yoongi's forgotten mail, and now, apparently, your dignity.

Jungkook hasn't stopped kissing you—not for air, not for sanity, not for anything resembling common sense. It's like he's on a mission to consume you entirely, starting with your mouth and working his way through the rest of you.

These are not the kisses you exchange with people you tolerate. These are not even the kisses you exchange with people you like. These are the kisses of people who might actually hate each other but have found a much more interesting way to express it.

Your lower back presses against the edge. Hard wood digs into soft flesh, and you're about to complain when—

Fuck.

He lifts you. One hand. One fucking hand curves under your ass and hoists you onto the table like you weigh nothing, while his other plants itself firmly on the wood beside your hip. The display of casual strength makes something molten pool in your stomach.

Unfair. Completely unfair how stupidly hot he makes stupid things look. Lifting you shouldn't be attractive. It's basic physics, not foreplay. But your brain has apparently liquefied, pouring out your ears while he steals the oxygen straight from your lungs.

"Fuck, Nix," he mutters against your mouth, the words more vibration than sound. "Been thinking about this for days."

His mouth is relentless—wet, demanding, precise in a way that makes your toes curl in your shoes. He sucks your lower lip between his teeth and—god—applies just enough pressure to sting, like he's trying to extract something essential from you. Like he needs to squeeze you dry, drain you of whatever it is that keeps him coming back.

Didn't even know your bottom lip was an erogenous zone until Jungkook decided it was.

It's too much. The heat, the closeness, the way he seems to have forgotten where you are, who you are.

You push against his chest—not hard, just enough to create a sliver of space between your bodies.

"Jesus Christ," you gasp, chest heaving. "Let me breathe, you animal."

He grins at that—a scorching, self-satisfied smile that makes you want to either slap him or pull him back in.

Maybe both.

He bites his lower lip, swollen from your kisses, and immediately leans back in like your need for oxygen is a minor inconvenience to his plans.

Your palm against his chest stops him, firm this time.

"Wait," you say, voice rough.

Not because you want to stop—god no—but because your brain is finally catching up to your body. And there's something you want. Something specific.

His eyes find yours, dark and questioning. Patient, despite the hunger radiating off him in waves. He's holding himself back, you realize. Letting you dictate what happens next.

Your eyes drop, hair falling across your face as you gather your thoughts, your courage. When you look back up at him through your lashes, his breath catches audibly.

"Bring me the vibrator you chose for me."

His reaction? Pretty funny. Like watching a computer crash and reboot. His entire body goes still—processing, processing—then his eyes widen a fraction. He blinks once, twice, tension visible in the way his jaw ticks.

"What?" he asks, voice cracking slightly.

Something about his reaction makes hot satisfaction curl through you. You like throwing him off balance. Like matching his chaos with your own.

"The vibrator," you repeat, slower this time, savoring each syllable. "The one you picked out. Go get it."

His eyes dart toward your bedroom door, then back to your face. For a moment, you think he might refuse. Might challenge you. But then:

"Yeah," he nods jerkily, already stepping back. "Yeah, I will."

"Will you?" you press, because you can't help it. Because you like the way his pupils dilate when you push.

"Fuck yeah," he breathes, already moving toward your bedroom with a kind of urgent, stumbling grace that would be comical if it weren't so hot.

You watch him go, breathing still uneven, lips still tingling. 

And you think—not for the first time—that there's something dangerously addictive about the way Jungkook responds to you. The way he matches your energy, then amplifies it, reflecting it back at you until you're both caught in some kind of feedback loop of bad ideas and worse self-control.

Roommates with benefits, you remind yourself. That's all this is.

But as you hear him rummaging through your things, drawers opening and closing with increasing urgency, you can't help but wonder if "benefits" is too mild a word for whatever the fuck is happening between you two.

He sprints.

Jungkook doesn't walk to your room—he fucking jogs, like the vibrator might disappear if he doesn't get there fast enough.

Like this moment has an expiration date he can't afford to miss.

No shame. Not a single ounce of it as he bursts through your door, scanning the bedroom impatiently. The same room he's been in a couple of times, but never with this specific mission, never with this frantic energy coursing through his veins.

Where the fuck would a girl keep her vibrator?

No. Not a girl. You. Where would you hide it?

Under the pillow?

He lifts the edge of your pillowcase, peeks beneath it. Nothing. Definitely not there—you like sleeping too much, and having a hard plastic toy jabbing into your cheek all night would be uncomfortable as hell. You're smarter than that.

The wardrobe?

He eyes the wooden doors across the room, considering.

No way. Too far from the bed. You're too practical for that kind of inconvenience. If you wanted to get off, you wouldn't want to climb out of bed and trek across the room.

His eyes land on the nightstand. Bingo.

The drawer slides open with a soft sound. First thing he sees: a messy stack of panties, some lacy, some cotton, all of them instantly triggering mental images he doesn't have time for right now.

He fights—really fights—against the urge to pick one up. To feel the fabric between his fingers, to imagine it hugging the curves he's already memorized with his hands, his mouth. Maybe even bring one to his nose...

Focus, dickhead.

Pushing the underwear aside (what? sue him for wanting to fuel his imagination), his fingers brush against something solid. Hard plastic. Smooth curves.

There it is.

He pulls it out, a triumphant grin spreading across his face as he examines his find. It's exactly as he remembers from the store—sleek, purple, designed for both internal and external stimulation.

Still in its original packaging, which means you haven't used it yet.

Something jittery and hot coils in his stomach at the thought of being the first to see you use it.

He grips it tighter, already imagining what it'll look like pressed against you, already wondering if you'll let him control it or if you'll insist on doing it yourself.

Either way, he's about to witness something fucking spectacular, and his body knows it. His cock strains painfully against his jeans as he heads back to you.

He takes a deep breath before rounding the corner from the hallway.

Tries to center himself, to cool down just a little.

To not look as desperate as he feels.

But then—

Fuck.

The vibrator nearly slips from his suddenly sweaty palm.

You're naked on the table. Completely, gloriously naked except for those high heels that make your legs look like they go on for fucking miles. The dress is gone—discarded somewhere on the floor—and your panties dangle precariously from one ankle like an afterthought.

One leg bent at the knee, heel resting lazily on the wooden surface. The other straight up, creating a perfect right angle that showcases everything he's been craving since the moment he walked through the front door.

And your hand—Christ—your hand is between your thighs, fingers drawing lazy circles over your clit.

His eyes stutter back to one thing though.

The heels.

What is it about the fucking heels?

He's never particularly cared about shoes before, but something about the way they elongate your legs, the way they make your calves flex, the dangerous point of those stilettos against the wooden table-it's doing something to him. Something unexpected and intense.

He nearly stumbles. Actually has to catch himself on the wall because his knees go weak at the sight of you touching yourself, waiting for him, spread open on the goddamn entryway table like the world's most perfect welcome home gift.

His grip on the vibrator tightens until his knuckles go white. He forces his face into something resembling control—a smirk, he hopes, though it feels more like a grimace of restraint.

"Needed it that badly?" he manages, trying to sound casual and cool, though he guesses he fails spectacularly at that.

Your eyes meet his, challenging. "Didn't you?"

The question catches him off guard, but he doesn't falter. Not much, anyway. Just a slight hitch in his breathing that he hopes you didn't notice.

"Yeah," he admits, the word barely audible. Then, louder: "Yeah, I did."

He starts walking toward you, vibrator clutched in his hand, but you stop him with a single raised palm. The universal sign for wait.

"Crawl to me."

His feet halt. He opens his mouth. Closes it.

What?

"What?" he asks, not sure he heard correctly.

"You heard me." Your fingers never stop their gentle circles. "Crawl."

He doesn't know why he does it. Doesn't pause to analyze why the command sends a jolt of electricity straight to his cock.

He just... does it.

Drops to his knees, then to all fours, the vibrator still clutched in one hand.

Maybe it's the novelty—you taking control like this when usually he's the one calling the shots.

Maybe it's the way your eyes darken as you watch him approach, like seeing him on his knees for you is doing something for you too.

Or maybe—most likely—it's just the promise of getting his head between those fucking glorious thighs again.

Whatever the reason, he crawls to you across the hardwood floor, too turned on to care about how it looks, too desperate to worry about his dignity. All he can think about is how wet you'll be, how good you'll taste, how he wants to make you come on his tongue before introducing the vibrator.

He's almost there—close enough to smell you, close enough that if he stretched forward just a bit, he could press his mouth to your inner thigh—when the sharp heel of your stiletto plants firmly against his forehead.

The pressure isn't hard enough to hurt, just enough to stop his forward momentum. To keep him back.

He looks up at you, disbelief warring with arousal.

Surely you're joking?

There's no way you're genuinely stopping him when he's this close, when you're this wet, when everything about this moment has been building toward his mouth on you.

Right?

"The vibrator," you say, extending your hand, heel still pressed lightly to his skin. "Give it to me."

His throat works as he swallows, suddenly parched. "Don't you want me to—"

"The vibrator, Ro."

The nickname, combined with the firm tone, makes his cock make a mating dance against the zipper of his jeans. He places the toy in your outstretched hand, watches as you examine it with curious eyes.

You turn it over in your palm, studying it like it's a puzzle to solve. Your brow furrows slightly as you locate the power button, press it experimentally, and soon enough its low hum fills the space as the toy comes to life, vibrating gently in your hand.

"I've never used one before," you admit, and he already knew.

You told him that much before buying it.

Nonetheless, the idea that he gets to witness this first for you—it does something to him.

Makes him feel special in a way he has no right to feel.

"Let me help," he offers, voice strained. "I can show you how—"

"I think I can figure it out," you interrupt, but there's uncertainty in your eyes as you look at the different buttons, the various settings.

Fuck, you're adorable. Even spread-eagle on a table with a vibrator in your hand, there's something so endearing about your determination to figure this out on your own.

He watches, mesmerized, as you press another button. The vibration intensifies, making you jump slightly at the change. Your finger slips, pressing yet another button, and suddenly the toy is pulsing in a rhythm that has him imagining it pressed against you, imagining your reaction to that particular pattern.

He can't take it.

"Here," he says, reaching up, a bit desperate, a tad impatient. "May I?"

After a moment's hesitation, you nod, removing your heel from his forehead and allowing him to rise up on his knees. He takes the vibrator from you, quickly familiarizing himself with the controls.

"This button cycles through the patterns," he explains, demonstrating as the toy shifts from steady vibration to pulsing to waves. "And this one controls the intensity."

He presses it, the vibration becoming stronger under his thumb.

"Start low and work your way up."

He hands it back to you, then you glare at him and okay, he immediately settles back on his heels, waiting. Watching. Fucking aching to see what you do next.

You take the toy, reset it to the lowest steady vibration, and then—God help him—you bring it to your breast first. Circle your nipple with it, eyes fluttering closed at the sensation.

"Fuck," he breathes, the word barely audible over the hum of the vibrator. 

He shifts on his knees, trying to adjust himself without being too obvious about it. His jeans have become a torture device, constricting him painfully as he watches you explore.

The vibrator trails down your stomach, leaving goosebumps in its wake. He can see them form on your skin, can see the way your muscles tense in anticipation as the toy moves lower, lower—

And then it's there, pressed against your clit, and the sound you make—a soft, surprised gasp followed by a deeper moan—nearly ends him.

"Good?" he asks, voice wrecked.

You nod, eyes still closed, hips already starting to move against the vibration. "Good. Really good."

He leans forward instinctively, mouth watering at the sight of you pleasuring yourself. He wants to taste you, wants to feel the vibrations against his tongue as he licks around the toy.

Wants to be part of this moment in a way that's more than just watching.

But as he moves closer, your eyes snap open, fixing him with a look that stops him cold.

You extend your leg, the one that was dangling off the table, pressing the point of your stiletto against his chest this time.

"Just watch," you command, voice breathy but firm.

He blinks, sure he's misheard. "What?"

"I said watch." You adjust the vibrator slightly, finding a better angle that makes your breath hitch, toe of your shoe pressing more firmly against his sternum. "Don't touch. Just... watch me."

Is he dreaming? Having some kind of bizarre hallucination? There's no way you're asking him to just sit here while you get yourself off right in front of him.

No fucking way.

"You're joking," he says, but the steady look in your eyes tells him you're not. "Nix, come on. You can't expect me to—"

"I can," you interrupt, increasing the vibration intensity with a press of your thumb. The change makes you gasp, hips lifting slightly off the table. "And I do."

He blinks, eyebrows tugging upwards in a cross motion. "Do you want me to bust untouched? Is that it? Because that's cruel, even for you."

A smile curves your lips, mischievous and knowing. "Maybe I just want to see if you can behave for once."

"I behave," he protests, even as his eyes remain fixed on the vibrator, on the way it glides through your wetness, on how your thighs have started to tremble already.

On those fucking shoes that, for some inexplicable reason, are making this whole situation at least ten times hotter.

"Prove it," you challenge, and fuck—he's never been able to resist a challenge from you.

Never really been able to back down when you push him like this.

So he stays where he is, on his knees, hands fisted at his sides, watching as you explore the toy, as you find what feels good, as you experiment with different patterns and pressures. Your foot still rests against his chest, not pushing him away now, just... there.

A point of contact that feels both like ambrosia and agony.

It's torture. Beautiful, exquisite torture to be this close and not touch you. To smell your arousal and not taste it. To hear your moans growing louder and know he's not the direct cause.

But it's also—strangely, unexpectedly—one of the hottest things he's ever witnessed.

Because you're not performing for him. You're genuinely discovering what you like, what makes you feel good. And there's something incredibly intimate about being allowed to witness that, about being trusted enough to see you this vulnerable, this real.

"That's it," he encourages as your movements become more focused, as you settle into a rhythm with the vibrator that has your breathing turning shallow. "Just like that. You look so fucking good, Nix."

Your eyes meet his, heavy-lidded but alert, and for a moment, he can’t help but stare back.

Then you close your eyes again, lost in the sensation as the vibrator buzzes steadily against your clit. Your free hand comes up to your breast, pinching your nipple in time with the pulsations of the toy, and he groans at the sight. 

Your foot presses harder against his chest, whether intentionally or as an unconscious reaction to your growing pleasure, he doesn't know.

Doesn't care.

"Cruel," he mutters, because he needs to at least let you know. “You're fucking cruel, you know that?"

His eyes are fixed on your pussy like it's the only thing in the universe worth looking at. Maybe it is. The way you're working that vibrator against yourself, the little circular motions, the way your hips lift occasionally when you hit just the right spot—it's driving him fucking insane.

His dick is so hard it hurts at this point, and he thinks it's going to start a mutiny. He shifts his weight, trying to get some relief, but it only makes things worse. His forehead thumps against the corner of the table in frustrated surrender.

"God fucking hell," he groans, the wood cool against his skin. "Nix, I need to lick you. Please. Just—let me taste you."

You look down at him, eyes heavy-lidded but gleaming with amusement. Your stiletto traces a path down his chest, and when it reaches his stomach, you press slightly, the point digging into the muscle there. 

A warning. 

A tease. 

He's not sure which, but it makes his cock throb painfully either way.

"What was that?" you ask, lifting the vibrator just enough that he can see how wet you are, how your pussy glistens in the low light. "I didn't quite hear you."

Fucking tease. Fucking gorgeous, evil tease.

"I said I need to lick you," he repeats, louder this time, pride completely abandoned. "Let me put my mouth on you. Let me make you feel good."

You pretend to consider it, tilting your head like you're weighing your options. Meanwhile, he's about to combust from the inside out.

"I don't know," you muse, trailing the vibrator up to circle around your clit, making yourself gasp. "I'm doing pretty well on my own, don't you think?"

Your stiletto moves again, tracing along the inside of his thigh. He tenses, breath catching as it moves higher, closer to the straining bulge in his jeans.

“Phee,” he bites back a groan. "You're doing amazing. Fucking incredible. But I can make it better. You know I can."

"Hmm." You press the vibrator directly against your clit again, eyes fluttering closed for a moment before fixing back on him. "Maybe if you ask nicely."

Is this really happening? Are you really making him beg? His cock twitches at the thought, answering that question with an emphatic yes.

He swallows, throat dry.

"Please," he says, voice rough. "Please let me help."

The word lies suspended between you. 

Please. Such a simple word, but one he doesn't use often—not like this, not with this much raw need behind it.

Your eyes widen slightly, like you weren't expecting him to actually do it. To actually beg. But then a slow smile spreads across your face, and you nod.

"Since you asked so nicely," you say. "Go ahead."

He doesn't need to be told twice. He surges forward, hands gripping your thighs, spreading them wider as he buries his face against you.

The first swipe of his tongue makes you both moan—you from the sensation, him from finally, finally getting to taste you.

You taste amazing.

Like always.

Like something he could get addicted to if he's not careful.

"Fuck," he groans against you, the word vibrating against your sensitive flesh. "So fucking good."

He could honestly cum like this. Right now. Just from the taste of you on his tongue, from the way your thighs tense around his head, from the little gasps you make. 

He knows he's got blue balls at this point. Knows his cock is probably leaking precum into his boxers, making a mess he'll have to deal with later. But he doesn't really care.

Until you kind of make him care.

"Jerk off."

He freezes, tongue mid-lick.

Did he hear that right?

Looking up at you, genuinely confused, he asks, "What?"

Your answer is a knowing smile and a slight increase in pressure as the heel traces the outline of his cock through the denim. Not enough to hurt, just enough to make him incredibly aware of how hard he is.

"I want you to get yourself off while you eat me out, Ro."

Jesus Christ.

When did you get so fucking bossy? And why is it turning him on so much?

"Yeah," he says, almost to himself, fumbling with his zipper. "Yeah, okay, absolutely I can do that."

His hands shake slightly as he undoes his jeans, shoving them and his boxers down just enough to free his cock. It springs up against his stomach, hard and flushed and so sensitive that even the brush of air against it makes him hiss.

"Shit," he warns, wrapping a hand around himself, already knowing this isn't going to last long. "Just a heads up, but this might be embarrassingly short."

You laugh, the sound turning into a gasp as he dives back in. Your leg dangles over his shoulder now, heel pressing slightly against his back.

"That's okay," you manage to say between breaths. "I'm pretty close too."

Thank fuck for that. Because the moment his hand starts moving on his cock, he knows he's on borrowed time.

The vibrator hasn't stopped. That's the thing that's driving him absolutely fucking insane. You've got it pressed right against your clit, humming on its lowest setting while he licks at your lips, tasting every inch of you except the one spot you're keeping for yourself.

It's maddening.

It's genius.

It's the hottest thing he's ever experienced.

His tongue traces your entrance, dipping just slightly inside before retreating to lick broad strokes along your folds. He's taking his time despite his own desperation, despite the way his hand is working his cock at a steady, measured pace.

Because he wants this to last, wants to savor the privilege of having his face between your thighs while you take your pleasure so confidently.

"More," you breathe above him, and he's not sure if you're talking to him or yourself.

But then your fingers move, pressing a button on the vibrator, and the hum intensifies. The sound changes pitch, grows deeper, more insistent. Your hips jerk in response, a gasp falling from your lips that sends blood rushing to his already throbbing cock.

His fist tightens instinctively, pace quickening to match the vibrator's new rhythm. It's like his body is syncing with the toy, with your pleasure, his own arousal tied directly to yours.

"Fuck, Nix," he groans against you, the words muffled but still audible. "You're so fucking wet. So fuckin’ good, I swear—I swear I could do this for hours.”

“But you won’t last hours,” you tease, rolling your hips against his face. “Will you?”

He shakes his head, not even bothering to deny it. Not when his balls are already drawing up tight, not when each stroke of his hand brings him closer to the edge.

“Nngh—no,” he admits, the word punctuated by a particularly firm stroke that has his hips bucking into his fist. “Not gonna—ah—not gonna last long at all.”

Because the truth is, he’s dizzy with it—your taste, your scent, the sounds you're making above him. It's overwhelming in the best possible way, a sensory overload that makes his cock pulse in his grip, precome slicking the way as his fist moves faster, more urgently.

You shift the vibrator slightly, angling it for better contact, and your free hand finds his hair. Fingers tangle in the strands, not quite pulling but definitely directing, holding him exactly where you want him.

"Inside," you command, voice breathless but clear. "I want your tongue inside me."

He doesn't hesitate. Doesn't even think. Just obeys, tongue pushing past your entrance, delving into the wet heat of you while the vibrator continues its relentless assault on your clit.

The angle is awkward, his neck craned to accommodate both the toy and his mouth, but he doesn't care.

Can't care about anything beyond the way you clench around his tongue, the way your thighs tremble against his cheeks, the way your grip tightens in his hair.

His cock throbs in his hand, so sensitive now that each stroke sends sparks shooting up his spine, and fuck he's close—so fucking close—but he's determined to make you come first. Wants to feel you pulsing around his tongue, wants to experience every tremor of your orgasm firsthand.

Above him, your breathing has grown ragged; little gasps and moans that tell him you're getting close too.

"Don't stop," you gasp, basically riding his face at this point. "God, don't stop."

As if he would.

As if he could tear himself away from this even if the building were on fire.

Your thighs start to shake in earnest now, little tremors that grow stronger by the second. The hand in his hair clenches, your stiletto digs into his back, the pressure increasing as your body tenses, and now he just knows; knows how close you are to the edge.

It makes his strokes faster, more desperate.

“Shit,” he gasps, pulling back for air. “Fuck, I’m gonna—”

“Don’t stop,” you command, lost in a whine. “Don’t you dare stop.”

And he feels it the moment you start to come—the way your inner walls flutter around his tongue, the sudden flood of wetness, the sharp cry that tears from your throat. His name, maybe. Or just a sound of pure pleasure. He's too far gone to tell the difference.

But it doesn't matter. What matters is that you're coming on his tongue, coming while he tastes you, while the vibrator buzzes against your clit, while his cock throbs in his hand, so close to his own release that he can feel it building at the base of his spine.

He pushes his tongue deeper, wanting to feel every pulse, every contraction of your orgasm. The vibrator keeps buzzing, prolonging the sensation, pushing you higher and higher until your hand finally yanks at his hair, pulling him back when it becomes too much.

"Fuck," you gasp, voice wrecked, vibrator still humming in your grip though you've pulled it away from your oversensitive clit. "Fuck, Ro."

The sound of his nickname—that stupid nickname you’ve given him—paired with the sight of you flushed and trembling from an orgasm he helped create, is what does it. What finally pushes him over the edge.

His release hits him then, stealing his breath as his cock pulses in his hand, spilling onto the hardwood floor in hot spurts that seem to go on forever.

He groans against your thigh, face pressed into the soft skin there as his hips jerk, chasing the last waves of pleasure.

“Ffff—shit,” he slurs as he strokes himself through the aftershocks. “Holy sssh—oh—fuck… Ahhh.”

For a moment, there's nothing but the sound of breathing, harsh and uneven. The vibrator still hums softly, forgotten in your hand until you fumble for the off button, plunging them into sudden silence.

Jungkook rests his forehead against your thigh, trying to catch his breath, trying to remember how to form coherent thoughts.

His hand is sticky, his knees ache from the hardwood floor, his back tingles from the trail your heel left across it, and he’s pretty sure he’ll never be able to look at the entryway table the same way again.

But fuck if it wasn't worth it.

He pulls back, gasping for breath, his hand still loosely gripping his spent cock. He probably looks a mess—hair wild from your hands, face shiny with your wetness, expression dazed and satisfied.

"Christ," he breathes, looking up at you with something close to awe.

"Yeah," you agree, equally breathless.

A moment passes where you just look at each other, both trying to process what just happened. Then, because he's Jungkook and he can't help himself, he grins.

"So," he says, wiping his mouth with the back of his clean hand. "I guess you like the vibrator I picked, huh?"

You roll your eyes, but there's no real annoyance there. Just a kind of fond exasperation that makes his chest feel weird and tight.

"It's alright," you say, casual as anything, like you weren't just having what looked like the most intense orgasm of your life. "Could've been better."

He laughs, full and genuine. "Liar."

Your lips twitch, fighting a smile. "Maybe."

He sits back on his heels, suddenly aware of the mess he's made on the floor. "We should, uh, probably clean up before Yoongi gets home."

You nod, both legs dangling off the table. “Wouldn’t want to scandalize him.”

"He's seen worse," Jungkook says without thinking, then flinches. "I mean—not with me. Just, you know, in general. Living with roommates and all."

You give him a look that's equal parts amusement and skepticism. "Right."

Awkward silence falls as the reality of what just happened settles in, because this? Yeah, it was sex. But this time you took control, you made him beg, you saw him at his most desperate and needy.

And he... liked it. More than he probably should have.

"So," he says, tucking himself back into his jeans with as much dignity as possible. "That was fun."

You snort. "Such a way with words, Ro."

"What can I say? I'm a poet."

He gathers the dress from the floor and gives it to you. You throw the dress at his head, but you're laughing, and he thinks—not for the first time—that he likes that sound. Likes being the cause of it.

He doesn’t analyze it further than needs to be.

He catches the dress, handing it back to you with exaggerated chivalry. "Your garment, m'lady."

"You're an idiot," you say, but there's no bite to it. Just that weird, fond tone that makes his stomach do strange things.

Fully on both legs now, he places both his arms between your spread thighs, his face hovering close to yours, tilting to the side.

"Yeah," he agrees, because sometimes the simplest truth is the easiest to admit. "But I'm an idiot who makes you cum really fucking hard, so..."

And there it is—that flash in your eyes, that hint of heat that never seems to fully dissipate between you two. 

"Don't get cocky," you warn.

Too late, he thinks. Way too late for that.

He stands there with the taste of you still on his lips and he can't help but feel satisfied.

Good.

“Does this mean we’re not fighting anymore?”

You laugh, the sound bright and genuine in the quiet room. “I guess not.”

“Good. Because that was a fucking stupid fight anyway.”

“It was,” you agree. “But the makeup sex was worth it.”

“Always is with us.”

And that’s the truth of it, isn’t it? No matter how much you argue, no matter how much you drive each other crazy, this thing between you—this chemistry, this connection—always brings you back together. 

No strings attached, just pure, perfect understanding of what the other needs.

It’s not love. It’s not even like, most days. But it’s something. 

Something that works for both of you.

And then, Jungkook feels your forehead press against his shoulder, which catches him off guard. Not because it’s heavy or anything—it’s not—but because it’s you.

You, who usually keeps your distance unless you're actively trying to rile him up. You, who just made him beg on his knees like some desperate idiot a few minutes ago.

And now you’re here, leaning into him like this is normal. Like this is fine.

It’s... nice. He hates that it’s nice.

His lips twitch upward despite himself, a soft smile breaking through the lingering haze of post-orgasmic bliss. His hand moves before he can think better of it, sliding up your back in a slow, deliberate stroke. His palm presses lightly between your shoulder blades, fingers splaying out as he rubs soothing circles into your skin.

Your back is warm under his touch—soft in places, firm in others—and he thinks about how strange it is that he knows what you feel like now. Not just your skin but the way you move under his hands, the way your muscles tense and relax depending on what he’s doing to you. 

It’s intimate in a way that makes something uncomfortable stir in his chest if he lingers on it too long.

So he doesn’t linger.

“Cleanup?” he asks, voice low and rough from everything that just happened.

You grunt. Not a word, not even a real sound—just a grunt. Like the idea of moving is physically painful to you right now.

He chuckles softly, the sound vibrating through both of you. 

“Alright,” he says, hand still on your back as if that’s going to keep you from sliding off the table and face-planting onto the floor. “Let me get some wipes.”

Another grunt. This one sounds more annoyed than tired, but he can’t tell for sure because your face is still buried against his shoulder.

“Don’t tell me…” He pauses for dramatic effect because he knows how much you hate when he does that. “You’re a cuddlebug?”

That gets a reaction. Your head snaps up so fast he almost flinches, and then you’re shoving at his chest with both hands like you’re trying to push him off the planet.

“Fuck you,” you mutter, but there’s no real heat behind it. Your hands stay on his chest for a second longer than necessary before falling back to your sides.

He snorts, stepping back and giving you space because even though he likes teasing you (maybe too much), he knows when to quit.

Most of the time, anyway.

“Stay there,” he says over his shoulder as he heads toward his room. “Don’t move.”

You don’t respond this time—not even a grunt—but when he glances back, you’re still perched on the edge of the table looking thoroughly unimpressed with life.

Very you, indeed.

Then he's stepping into his bedroom, and of course, it is dark when he steps inside, the only light coming from the hallway spilling in behind him.

He grabs the container of wet wipes from his nightstand (don’t ask why they’re there; that’s none of anyone’s business) and heads back out before his brain can start overthinking anything.

When he returns to the entryway, you haven’t moved an inch. You’re still sitting there with both legs dangling off the table.

And for a moment, he can’t help but think the sight is oddly cute.

“Alright,” he says again as if this is some kind of official business meeting instead of… whatever this is. “Let’s get this over with.”

He crouches down first, wiping at the floor where his cum has left an embarrassing mess that Yoongi would absolutely kill him for if he saw it later. The hardwood glistens faintly under the light as he scrubs at it with more force than necessary—partly because it needs to be cleaned properly and partly because maybe if he focuses hard enough on this task, he won’t think about how close your legs are or how good you smelled earlier or how fucking soft your skin felt under his hands.

When he's done with that part (and only when he's sure it's spotless), he straightens up and turns toward you.

Your eyes are on him—soft but unreadable—and it makes something twist in his stomach that has nothing to do with hunger or exhaustion or anything else logical.

“What?” he asks because apparently silence makes him nervous now.

You shake your head slightly, lips curving into something that might be a smile if it weren’t so small and fleeting.

 “Nothing.”

He doesn’t believe you—not for a second—but decides not to push it because pushing things with you in this state never ends well for him.

Instead, he steps closer until he's standing between your legs again and tilts his head toward yours like he's trying to figure out what you're thinking without actually asking outright.

"Hold still," he murmurs after a beat of hesitation that's barely noticeable but feels significant anyway.

The wipe is cool against your skin as he starts cleaning you up—gentle but thorough in a way that surprises even himself. Your eyes stay on him the whole time—watchful but not wary—and it makes him feel weirdly self-conscious even though there’s no reason for it.

When he's finished (and only when he's sure you're clean), he tosses the used wipe into the trash can by the door without looking away from you entirely.

"Sleep?" he asks after another moment of silence stretches between you like an elastic band ready to snap at any second now if someone doesn’t say something soon enough.

“Yeah.” You murmur. “Your bed.”

Jungkook blinks at you like he’s not sure he heard right. 

Not because it’s weird—okay, maybe it’s a little weird—but because you said it so casually. Like it’s the most normal thing in the world to ask to sleep in his bed after everything that just happened.  

He doesn’t know what to say at first. He’s not used to this part—the after part. Usually, there isn’t an after part. It’s just sex, then goodbye, then see you whenever.

But this? This feels different in a way he can’t quite put his finger on, and it makes his brain stutter for a second before he finally manages to respond.  

“Uh… yeah,” he says, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. “Sure.”  

You don’t say anything else, just lift your arms slightly like you’re expecting him to do something.

He stares at you for a moment, confused, until it clicks.  

“Oh, come on,” he mutters, rolling his eyes but already stepping closer. “You’re not serious.”  

You just raise an eyebrow at him, and yep—you’re serious.  

“Lazy ass,” he grumbles under his breath as he bends down to scoop you up.  

Your arms loop around his neck automatically, and your legs wrap around his waist like this is something you do all the time instead of… well, never. He tries not to think about how natural it feels or how warm you are against him or how your breath brushes against his collarbone when you settle into his hold.  

It’s fine. Totally fine. This is just… practical. 

Yeah. 

Practical.  

He carries you with ease because let’s be real—he could probably bench press you if he wanted to—and nudges his bedroom door open with his foot. 

“Alright,” he says as he approaches the bed and leans forward slightly to deposit you onto the mattress. “Here we go.”  

But instead of letting go like a normal person, you cling tighter for half a second before finally releasing him with a grunt that sounds suspiciously like reluctance. He doesn’t comment on it because honestly? He doesn’t trust himself not to make it weird if he does.  

You flop onto your back with all the grace of a drunk cat and immediately start wiggling around like you’re trying to make yourself comfortable in record time. Jungkook just stands there for a moment, watching you with an expression he doesn't even know how to describe.

“You good?” he asks once you’ve finally stopped moving and are lying still with your eyes closed like this is your bed and not his.

“Mmhm,” you hum without opening your eyes.

He shakes his head but doesn’t bother arguing because what’s the point? 

Then he’s going to lay down too, but you sprawl onto his bed like you’re claiming it for yourself, arms and legs stretched out in every direction like some kind of human starfish. 

Jungkook snorts, standing at the side of the bed with his hands on his hips like a disappointed parent. 

“Move,” he says, nudging at your foot with his knee. “I want to sleep too.”  

You crack one eye open, squinting at him.

“Then sleep,” you mumble, voice muffled by the pillow your face is half-buried in.  

“I can’t sleep,” he says, gesturing dramatically at your starfish pose. “Not unless you move your limbs out of my personal space.”  

You grunt something unintelligible but make no effort to move.  

He sighs—long and exaggerated—before climbing onto the bed anyway, shoving at your leg until you reluctantly curl up enough to give him room.

He flops down beside you with all the grace of someone who’s been awake for far too long and immediately starts adjusting himself into what he considers optimal sleeping position.  

Except there’s one problem: his arm.  

It’s stuck under him, bent awkwardly against his side instead of stretched out under the pillow where it belongs. He tries shifting around to fix it but quickly realizes there’s no way to do that without encroaching on your territory.  

“Hey,” he says, nudging at your side with his foot now.  

“What?” you snap, voice sharp despite how tired you sound.  

“Let me extend my arm under the pillow.”  

“No.”  

“What do you mean no?”  

“I mean no,” you repeat stubbornly, turning your head just enough to glare at him over your shoulder. “Figure it out without bothering me.”  

He stares at you for a second like he can’t believe what he’s hearing before deciding that negotiation is clearly not going to work here. 

So instead, he does what any reasonable person would do in this situation: he forcefully shoves his arm under your neck like it belongs there.

You jerk upright immediately, twisting around to face him with wide eyes and an expression that screams 'what the actual fuck'.  

“Bro,” you say, voice incredulous as you try—and fail—to push his arm away. “Get off me.”  

“Bro,” he says simply, already settling back down like this is perfectly normal behavior between roommates who occasionally hook up but definitely aren’t friends yet (or whatever this is). “You’re in my bed. Shut up and act like a plushie or something.”  

“A plushie?” You sound so offended that he almost laughs but manages to hold it back because laughing right now would probably get him kicked out of his own bed.  

“Yes,” he says firmly, pulling the blanket over both of you with one hand while keeping his other arm firmly in place under your neck. “A plushie.”  

You open your mouth to argue—because of course you do—but he shuts it down with a loud, drawn-out “SSSSHHHHH” that’s so over-the-top, so him, it stops you cold.

“Sleep,” he adds a second later, voice low, eyes already shut like the matter’s settled and he’s the authority on bedtime now.

The room stills. One of those dumb, drawn-out silences where neither of you wants to move first. Like shifting even an inch might make it real. Might make it weird.

But then you sigh. Loud. Dramatic. Flopping back down beside him like you’ve just made the ultimate sacrifice.

“Fine,” you mutter, sharp as ever, head hitting the pillow with a thud. “But if I wake up with a crick in my neck because of this stupid arm thing—”

“You won’t,” he says, already drifting, smug and certain and way too casual for someone who just turned a routine argument into a full-body tangle.

You mumble something under your breath—probably rude, definitely deserved—and go quiet.

And for a second, he just lies there. Listening to your breathing even out. Feeling the slight pull of your body next to his.

The ridiculousness of the situation should hit harder than it does.

But it doesn’t. 

It actually feels…weirdly good.

Not in the usual way. Not in the easiest way.

Just—solid. Like he hasn’t fucked it up yet.

Which is a surprise, considering he really thought he had. 

After Tuesday. 

After the whole Jason thing—the fight that was never really about Jason. The way the guy had looked like every goddamn red flag Jungkook had ever ignored. Too neat, too careful, too condescending behind a smile that felt fake even from a hallway away.

He’d projected. Hard. Got scared on your behalf. Angry in that twitchy, irrational way he hates. Like he couldn’t stand the thought of you falling into something he knew could break you. 

But that wasn’t fair. Wasn’t his choice. You’re not fragile. You’re you. You can make your own calls without his fears bleeding into them.

And he should know better by now. Should’ve remembered that you’ve survived things he doesn’t even ask about.

Instead, he snapped. Like he always does when things get too close. Like he’s got some built-in timer that detonates as soon as someone sees more than they’re supposed to.

So yeah. He’d assumed it was done. That he’d pushed too hard, too fast—again.

That whatever fragile thing had been building between you would crack right down the middle, just like every other almost-connection he’s tried to hold onto.

But then… you’d talked. Actually talked. 

And—somehow—you’d listened.

Not just tolerated him. Heard him. 

And tonight, he thinks—for the first time in a long, long time—he feels…comfortable. With a woman. With you.

And yeah, okay—he kind of likes that.

It’s not some life-changing moment. Not some movie scene epiphany.

Just this quiet flicker of maybe. Of could be.

Maybe he can have this. A woman beside him. No pressure. No angle. No romantic feelings. No attachments, no entanglements. Not drama, not hurt.

Just a dumb, chaotic almost-friendship built on late-night arguments and questionable sleep arrangements.

And fuck—he’s kind of proud of that.

So he lets his eyes fall shut. Lets the warmth settle. Lets the thought linger.

Not friendship. Not yet.

But maybe.

goal: 500 notes, but the wattpad goal has to be reached too

next | index

⋆｡°✩ taglist✩°｡⋆

@cannotalwaysbenight @livingformintyoongi @itstoastsworld @jimineepaboya @somehowukook @stutixmaru @chloepiccoliniii @kimnamjoonmiddletoe @annyeongbitch7 @jkrailme @rpwprpwprpwprw @mar-lo-pap @jeontae @whothefuckisthishoe @mikrokookiex @minniejim

© jungkoode 2025 no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[lov3lycosmos]

2:03 A.M (and everything feels right)

Genre: Fluff, Friends to Lovers

Summary: a late night convenience store run turns into a unexpected confession

Cosmos note: I lied I might post more instead of working on my new series, I'm procrastinating someone motivate me omg 😣

my library!

The soft blue light of your bedroom TV flickers against the walls, casting gentle shadows across the cluttered comfort of your space. A half-empty cup of tea sits on your nightstand, long gone cold, and a cozy blanket is curled around your body like a second skin. The sitcom playing is halfway through an episode you've seen a dozen times, but it keeps you company in the quiet hours of the night.

You hear a gentle knock, followed by a soft creak of your bedroom door opening. There’s only one person it could be.

Jeongin peeks his head in, hair messy and eyes squinting from the hallway light. He’s wearing an oversized hoodie and a pair of joggers, and his sock-clad feet barely make a sound as he steps in. “You’re still up?” he asks, voice husky with sleep.

You glance up, amused. “So are you.”

He grins, sheepish, rubbing the back of his neck. “Couldn’t sleep. Kinda figured you weren’t either.”

“You figured right,” you say, patting the space next to you on the bed.

Jeongin makes himself comfortable, stretching out next to you with a soft sigh, legs tangled in the blanket. “Wanna do something stupid?”

You look at him, curious. “Define stupid.”

He grins wider now, eyes sparkling despite the time. “Midnight—or... okay, post-midnight—run to the convenience store down the street? Come on, I’m craving banana milk and those honey butter chips.”

You laugh quietly. “It’s literally 2 AM.”

“And?”

“You’re insane.”

“And you love it.”

You sigh dramatically, already pulling yourself out from under the blanket. “Fine. But if I get arrested for loitering in my pajamas, I’m blaming you.”

He hops off the bed with a victorious noise. “Totally worth it.”

The streets are quiet, blanketed in soft city silence. The occasional car rolls by, headlights washing over the pavement, but for the most part, the world feels like it’s yours. You and Jeongin walk side by side, your arms brushing now and then as your steps sync up without thinking.

He looks over at you, his hoodie hood pulled up now against the breeze. “Kinda nice out,” he murmurs. “Cool, but not too cold.”

You nod. “It’s peaceful.”

Jeongin looks ahead again. “Yeah. I like it. When it’s just… us.”

You glance at him, something warm fluttering in your chest.

The corner convenience store glows like a tiny beacon, its neon signs buzzing softly against the quiet. The bell chimes as you walk in, and Jeongin immediately veers toward the fridge for his banana milk. You go toward the snack shelves, picking up some ramen for later, a couple candy bars, and—after some hesitation—one of those triangle kimbap things you always mess up opening.

He meets you at the counter, arms full of sugar and salt and very little nutrition. “Okay,” he says, setting it all down. “I may have gone a little overboard.”

You look at his haul and snort. “You’re feeding a small army.”

He leans in, stage-whispering, “An army of one very hungry boy.”

You pay for your stuff, he pays for his, and then you both walk back out into the stillness. Instead of heading straight home, Jeongin nudges your shoulder. “Let’s go to the park.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You want to eat on the grass like gremlins?”

He grins. “Yes. Exactly like gremlins.”

The park is even quieter than the street, lit only by the occasional lamplight and the glow of the moon. You find a grassy patch under a tree and settle down side by side, your snacks spread out between you.

Jeongin cracks open his banana milk with a satisfied sound. “This is exactly what I needed.”

You take a bite of your kimbap—successfully opened this time—and hum. “I can’t believe we’re actually doing this.”

“Midnight snack picnic? Kinda romantic, right?” he teases, nudging you.

Your heart skips. You laugh it off. “Romantic? We’re in sweatpants.”

Jeongin shrugs, suddenly quiet. “Still feels kinda romantic to me.”

There’s a pause. A long one.

You look over at him, and find him already looking at you, eyes softer than you’ve ever seen. He looks like he’s thinking hard about something, like maybe this moment means more than either of you are saying.

So you ask, voice gentler now, “What?”

He takes a breath, then exhales slowly. “Just thinking.”

“About?”

Jeongin picks at the corner of his snack wrapper. “How long we’ve lived together now. How you’re always… here. Not just physically. Like… here. In my life. Constant.”

You smile, heart squeezing. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he says, looking up at you again. “And how sometimes I wonder if you feel the same way about me.”

Your stomach flips.

“I mean,” he rushes on, “I know we’re best friends. Obviously. But lately it’s been feeling like… I don’t know. More? Like I’ll be brushing my teeth and think about you brushing yours. Or I’ll hear a song and immediately want to send it to you. Or I’ll see something funny and I’m already smiling because I know I’ll tell you and you’ll laugh and—”

“Jeongin.”

He stops.

You shift closer, knee brushing his. “I feel it too.”

He blinks.

“I think about you all the time,” you say softly. “Not just as my roommate. Or best friend. Just… you. All the time.”

His eyes go wide, then glassy, like he wasn’t expecting to hear that out loud.

You add, voice small now, “I think I’ve been falling for you for a while.”

There’s a heartbeat of silence.

Then, without warning, he leans forward and kisses you. Soft. Tentative. Like he’s still not sure he’s allowed.

You kiss him back without thinking, tilting your head, letting it linger. It’s sweet and slow and exactly what you thought kissing him would feel like—warmth blooming in your chest and the feeling of everything finally clicking into place.

When he pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours, still smiling. “Okay,” he says. “Good. That’s good.”

You laugh quietly. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Because now I don’t have to pretend I don’t want to kiss you every single time you smile at me.”

You nudge his shoulder, still grinning. “You’re a sap.”

“You love it.”

“I really do.”

You sit like that a while longer, under the tree, snacks half-eaten and forgotten, the world quiet except for the wind and the soft, giddy thump of your heart.

At 2:30 AM, the world felt perfect.

And for the first time in a long time, home didn’t feel like the apartment behind you—it felt like Jeongin, sitting next to you in the grass.

Taglist: @vampzity @sooniedoongiedori25 @mhluvie @yaorzu-blog @lze325 @felixleftchickennugget @m-325 @lezleeferguson-120 @psychicyouthfox @pixie-felix @angel-writes-here @heechwe

(I'M STILL ADDING PEOPLE TO TAG! comment on any post, send an ask or a message if you want added!)

[littlelovelunette]

Omg im so super done with fragile helpless reader!!! Pls do sevika and reader freshly dating or even just seeing each other, they’re still still getting to know each other and sevika being herself she LOVES to tease and annoy reader and show off her strength and stuff expecting reader to be to be helplessly weaker than her, however when reader get fed up enough they start fighting back ^playfully^ and sevika making a mental note to not take readers warning for granted🙏🏼 basically reader unexpectedly humbling sevika

Challenge Accepted

"Look me in the eye and say that again." You said in a more gravely voice that usual as you shifted into a better sitting position, glaring daggers into Sevika's gaze.

This wasn't the first time Sevika underestimated your strength or wit. She had the habit of doing that because of the sheer fact she was so darn old and had seen a lot.

You admitted it, yeah she'd seen some shit in life but that didn't automatically mean she was untouchable.

"I dont think you'd be able to take me in a fight." Sevika repeated and put out the cigarette she was smoking in the ashtray on the bedside table.

"Oh, yeah?" You repositioned yourself so you were now over her thighs, straddling them. "Are you challenging me?"

"Why yes, sweetheart." Sevika stared at you with amusement, one eyebrow raising.

"Challenge accepted." You whispered and got off her.

Sevika blinked in mild shock before slowly getting off the bed too, to stand in front of you.

Sevika easily towered over you. But that didn't faze you really, you'd come to terms with the fact you were short as fuck compared to her.

"You really wanna do this?" Sevika asked as she crossed her arms, both flesh and mechanical arms flexing as she did so.

"You scared?" You taunted as Sevika flexed her flesh bicep purely to annoy you non-verbally.

And it worked.

It ticked you off.

You charged at her, but Sevika being taller than you took advantage of her height.

She scooped you up with ease, pinning you to the wall. "Angel, just accept it. You're weaker than me." There was no heat behind her words as she said it though. It was more playful than anything.

You simply gave her an amused look before locking your legs around her waist and grabbing her flesh hand, pressing down on the shoulder nerve making her wince and pull her arm back.

Because she did so, she let go of your frame giving you the opportunity to push her on the bed with all your strength and pinning her hands down with both your legs.

You grinned victoriously at her.

"Gremlin." Sevika whispered under her breath. You let up and let her get out of your grasp, Sevika flexed her mechanical arm and it's fingers before letting out a soft sigh.

"Fine, you win."

You smiled and laid back down in the bed, the soft mattress dipping under your weight.

"Wipe that look off your face." You pulled Sevika close.

"Hmph."

She was clearly sulking. What a sore loser. But that's fine. She was yours after all.

As you laid down beside her, Sevika wrapped her flesh arm around you. You grinned a little and wrapped both arms around her, squeezing her making her chuckle.

"Even though I am prideful, I correct my errors if I notice them." Sevika kissed your forehead, it was a silent promise of always respecting your strength. That's all you needed.

[qtkoshi]

Maybe gn!Reader and Hobie adopt a kitten and the other three (Pavitr, Gwen, and Miles) come to see the kitten? Maybe a orange kitten gn!Reader wanted to name Spunk or Spike while Hobie gave them a spike collar? Would be cute lol

i luv ur brain anon

"you got....a kitten?"

- ok ok idk if this is what u meant, but u can feel free to run this with the bubblegum reader + hobie bc i think it fits alright :-) - also get a little deep with describing relationship,, but it’s necessary for the plot ! (...) - also!!! tysm for the requests; i am very excited to get into them, but will prob wait till tmrw to release bc it is my birthday today <3 much love to you all

──★ ˙ ̟ to the stars ！

general headcannons

alright first of all: hobie with a kitten? i’m in tears. 

i love the hc that hobie has a soft spot for cats and the fact that y’all got one together? bye.

NAPS WITH THE KITTEN JUST NESTLED BETWEEN BOTH OF YOU

this cat is gonna be SPOILED in attention i tell u rn

hobie isn’t as obvious ab it as u, but the amount of times u see him chilling with the cat just perched on his shoulder?? (why are u taking the baby swinging across the city hobie; wait a min now–)

how u got him

imagine this: ur walking past an alley and hear this small little meow; after further investigation you find this tuft of orange fur crying outside the dumpster and

now u gotta take it in what r u talking about!!

bringing him home immediately ; hobie's spidey senses prob picked up the cat's presence before you got in the door.

'baby what's that.' 'c'mon spiderman we got saving to do'

man can't even argue with you

hobie not naming the cat himself bc he doesn’t wanna enforce socio-constructed labels on an unsuspecting creature that can’t consent

u can tho.

and while you very much want to, you tell hobie you gotta think on it for a bit – it has to fit just right!! (tbh he rlly doesn’t mind the cat being nameless, but he’s kinda whipped and will kinda go with what u want if it helps give that pretty lil smile to him again)

spider-squad finding out ab him

the besties r wrapping up something with a fight and hobie’s all k gotta leave and check on the cat and the rest are like ????? 

pav absolutely floored bc how dare did u not mention this sooner hobie

'so you lot wanna come see him?' (inter-dimensional travel ensues) – also never gonna complain ab coming to hobie’s house they all think his place is dope

i’m sure we all know orange cats are fucking crazy and that does not exclude the little gremlin jumping off the walls of your flat rn

hobie ofc is smirking bc his son the cat is a little agent of chaos and he couldn’t be more proud 

you, on the other hand, are just a little tired trying to get the fucker to stay still for a second so u can put on the damn flea medicine

everybody loves him are u kidding (miles a little hesitant tho, he still has beef with the last spiderman-variant cat he met :/ ) 

“so whats its name?” miles was watching with wary eyes as the little ball of fur darted around. with a heavy (and definitely not dramatic) sigh, you walk over to the group “still haven’t picked. we just found him yesterday.”

luv the idea of hobie looking at u anytime ur in the room (stay with me now) — can’t help it u just grab all his attention, maybe stop being so lovely idk

speaking of your relationship: he has spent years battering against everything life throws at him that having your love in the palm of his hands? something to protect not in the way he does as a hero, but in the way to cherish as a person?? give the man a break, he deserves to admire you whenever he can.

anyways hobie’s looking at you before going ‘oh yea’, just grunts and pulls out this little collar with little spikes and their matching and oh my that is so cute

says he found it in some garbage, most def made the collar with some scraps like he did his own (gotta keep it cool yk)

you giddy and putting the collar on the little heathen and just all ‘omg wait a min’

promptly lifting the cat up and “THIS IS SPIKE.”

cue golf claps from the squad with some ooo’s and aah’s

more gen headcannons

remember when hobie and the cat were swinging around the city? yea he's taking that mf everywhere. puts him in his pocket like a little surprise

hobie loves to play fight with the cat

spike is the perfect mix; got hobie’s energy and your brightness it’s a win-win

i could write more but i'll stop here for now 🕸️

⊗

[ambiguous-avery]

Untamed Soul

Dean Winchester x fem!Reader/You x Sam Winchester | WC: 1270

Summary: You’re down bad for two guys who aren’t even yours. Then again... they’re not technically not yours either...

Tags/Warnings: SMUT 18+ MDNI, female masturbation, no wincest, no use of Y/N, pining, PWP (Plot? What plot?), unsatisfying ending, no beta we die like men

A/N: Third piece to complete the trifecta. But clearly I can’t just leave it here. Sorry not sorry, but my brain has decided that there has to be more. Just know that I am a little gremlin behind the screen, rubbing my grubby little hands together because I'm excited about this. Read about Dean’s Sly Grins and Sam’s Careful Stares

Three Hearts, One Flame Masterlist

The job hadn’t taken nearly as long as you had expected, and for once, the only injury between the three of you was your chipped nail from the damn shovel you had passed Dean so they could dig up the grave. If the case had wrapped up any earlier, then you might’ve thought that you could’ve been enjoying your shower back at the bunker rather than the motel room with the discolored walls. But beggars couldn’t be choosers. And while you weren’t particularly covered in grime, a shower was probably going to be the closest thing you could get to having some time alone.

The problem with having the Winchester brothers as hunting partners was privacy. Specifically the distinct lack of it. 

So when the most recent hunt had wrapped up and the three of you weren’t beat up, bloodied, and skulking back to the motel room to lick your wounds, you had happily leapt at the idea of some much-needed ‘you’ time while the boys went out to the bar.

You sighed contentedly, tipping your head back into the spray and reveling in the warmth. The rhythmic sound of the water hitting the tiled floor was a steady background noise as the tension melted away from you. It was a rare luxury to have a moment of peace. A moment to indulge in your thoughts.

The other problem with having the Winchester brothers as hunting partners was your attraction. To both of them.

And being in such close quarters with them for prolonged periods of time was bound to have done some irreparable damage to the way you looked at any other guy ever in your lifetime. Not that you wanted to look at anyone else.

You had two handsome-as-hell men who were each willing to lay down their lives for you. And you’d do the same for either of them. That sort of commitment was hard to find anymore. Well... maybe that level of commitment was a bit too much. But the point still stood.

But they weren’t yours. Never had been. Maybe could be?

It didn’t help that you had a good idea of what they thought of you. The funny thing about boys was that they always thought they were so subtle. But you were a hunter. A damn good one, at that. And very little escaped your keen eye. You could see it in the sly grins Dean would flash you. In the way you’d catch Sam’s careful stares out of the corner of your eye when he thought you weren’t looking. If you were being completely honest with yourself, you were a little surprised that neither of them had made a move. 

Dean and you flirted plenty, made numerous allusions to actually hooking up but never gone through with it. And the kind of chemistry you shared with Sam was the kind that Hallmark movies could only hope to capture on screen. Really, any way you cut it, the three of you were a symphony, and any sort of change might throw off the harmony you had somehow managed to achieve. Things were better off staying how they were.

But no matter how many times you tried to push those thoughts aside, they always snuck back in, especially in the quiet hours.

You slid your hand down your stomach, fingers tentatively slipping between your legs and imagining that it was a hand far larger than your own. Rough and calloused. With fingers longer than yours. The air in the shower was warm, steam rising from the water turned as hot as you could get it. You could imagine an unsteady breath near your ear.

Imaginary lips pressed against the side of your neck, and your lips parted as you dragged your fingers over your center. It should’ve been alarming how easily thoughts of your hunting partners could consume you. But here in the privacy of the bathroom, it was all too easy to lose yourself in the fantasy. You let out a shaky breath as your fingers danced over your skin, each touch more electrifying than the last.

In your mind, Dean’s strong hands roamed over your body while Sam’s soft voice whispered sweet promises in your ear. Your back arched slightly and you bit your lip, a soft moan escaping you as your fingers ghosted over your clit. You leaned back against the shower wall and propped one leg up on the edge of the tub, heart rate quickening. You could almost feel Dean’s rough stubble against your skin as he kissed you, tasting of whiskey and leather. You imagined Sam’s lips trailing tender kisses down your neck before finding your breast and teasing your nipple between his teeth.

Through the haze of desire, you could hear Dean’s voice, deep and gravelly.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart. We’ve got you.” It was a promise. A promise you knew you could believe.

“That’s our girl. You can let go for us,” Sam’s voice wrapped you in a sense of safety and security.

You knew without a shadow of a doubt: you belonged with them.

You belonged with Dean, with his rough exterior and kind heart. You belonged with Sam, with his soft words and gentle touch. To Dean and Sam. Would you be too greedy to ask them to share? The universe would truly be cruel if it made you pick just one. 

You pressed two fingers into yourself. They were a poor substitute for what you really wanted, but they would have to suffice. Your breath hitched as you pressed them against that soft spot, eyes fluttering shut as you imagined two sets of eyes on you. Hazel and green. Their hands. Their mouths. Their cocks.

Holy shit.

You hadn’t even begun to imagine the way they’d feel inside you. The way they’d move in tandem. Never leaving you fully empty. The thought of them filling you completely. The thrill of it all made your head spin, and those thoughts wound the coil in you tighter and tighter. You could imagine their hands grasping your hips. Your thighs. Wherever they could find purchase to pull you closer. Their mouths devouring you as they took what they wanted from you.

So close... 

Sam’s large hands splaying across your back as he presses you down. His blunted nails scraping across your skin as he presses deeper and deeper with each slow thrust. 

“God, you’re so fucking pretty like this.”

Right there... 

Dean’s green eyes, bright and in awe as he sinks into you in one fluid motion. His lips on you, tasting your skin while you come apart in his hands, around his cock.

“Look at you. Taking us so well, sweetheart.”

Closer–

A heavy knock on the door jolted you from your thoughts, and you nearly slipped as hastily pulled your hand away, startled back into reality. The abruptness of the sound echoed in the small room, shattering the illusion you had weaved in the steam.

“Got a six pack with our names on it, sweetheart!” Dean’s voice rang through the door.

“Fuck!" Your heart pounded in your chest, breaths still heavy, eyes wide from shock. "Give a girl a heart attack, why don’t you?”

“Could give you more than that,” he responded with a mischievous chuckle, and you could clearly visualize the shit-eating grin he wore, even without seeing his face.

“I’ll give you a black eye,” you muttered under your breath, the words tinged with irritation as you dipped back under the water for a quick rinse. The cascade of water washed away the remnants of your interrupted tranquility. 

So much for your privacy.

---

Likes, reblogs, and comments are greatly appreciated!

Dean taglist: @aylacavebear @globetrotter28 @bettystonewell @supernotnatural2005 @maddie0101

Both: @jollyhunter @sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth @voodoochildthings @sir-thisisadndserver

Drop a comment, ask away, or add yourself to my taglist!

[tangylemonade]

Friends w/ Benefits 

Jeonghan x afab reader  18+ MINORS DNI (istg 🫵🏾 ಠ_ಠ if I catch you)

Literally just wrote this lol and it's not actually proofread (I looked over it once). Maybe 1k I need to go to bed but I wanted to write so here I am (btw thank you anon for the suggestion 😊) It's basically just smut with dialog and a bit of angst I guess

The buzz of your doorbell was unexpected but not surprising. You knew Jeonghan had gotten off of work around this time and on particularly stressful days he seemed to find himself at your door holding a bottle of wine waiting for you to open up.

“And he's back...” you said jokingly, as you opened the door and turned back into your kitchen.

“Treat me kindly, I bear gifts.” he retorted as he kicked off his shoes and shut the door.

“I was just about to eat dinner. You hungry?”

“I could eat.”

Jeonghan followed you into the kitchen, opening the cabinet right away and taking out the wine glasses.

“Mhhhh…that smells good.” he dipped his finger into the sauce you were simmering and popped it into his mouth. “Needs a tad more salt.”

“Gross.” you said swatting him away but still adding a pinch of salt and stirring the dinner that was always far too much for only you.

You served you both and sat down at the table.

“Ohh, I see you've brought out your finest China madam.” Jeonghan said as he picked up the plastic spoon you placed next to his paper plate.

“Fuck off. Are you gonna wash the dishes?”

All he did was laugh his little gremlin laugh and take a bite.

“This is delicious. I'm glad I came at the last minute and saved your dinner from disaster.”

“I think you're dehydrated darling; this is a bit too salty.”

“It tastes perfect to me.” He said with a shrug. “This wine tastes like shit though.”

“There really is no better pairing.” you said with a laugh.

“Agreed.”

Once dinner was done you put the pots in your refrigerator and threw out the dishes.

“And clean.” you said flopping down on the couch and putting your feet on Jeonghan’s lap.

“I'm gonna go shower. Wanna join me?” Jeonghan asked as he stretched and got up.

You nodded and followed him into the bathroom ripping off your clothes and tossing them in your hamper. Jeonghan followed suit, except he purposely ignored the hamper step, and turned on the shower, hopping in right away.

“Seriously? The hamper is right there.”

You rolled your eyes and put his things in your hamper which now had just as many of his clothes as yours.

“Jeonghan, you're gonna have to start paying some of my water bill if you keep this up.”

You stepped into the shower to find him slowly stroking his erection as the hot water ran through his long hair.

“Good god you couldn't wait.”

“You were taking so long.”

“Picking up your clothes.”

“Whatever. Get over here.”

He grabbed your hand and pulled you towards him under the water. Your soft lips bounced into his as his hands ran along your ass and thighs. Running your hands through his hair you grabbed a handful and tugged, pulling a moan from his hungry lips. Dropping your hands down to his cock you stroked him adding a little squeeze just to feel the falter in his kisses along your neck.

“You’re really sensitive today.”

“Long day.” Jeonghan said before pushing you up against the shower wall.

His fingers found your clit and he returned that favor with a pinch that had you almost slip.

“Wait.” you said breathlessly as you stopped his hand. “Sit down, I wanna ride you.”

Jeonghan happily complied as he sat back in the tub of the shower and looked up at your body.

He could stare at you like that forever. 

In the dim light of the bathroom your body looked heavenly as the water patted on your skin. 

You lowered yourself onto him, your pussy lips laying on his throbbing cock and making it twitch in frustration. Looking down into his eyes you drove him crazy as you sinfully moved your hips and dragged your wet pussy up and down his shaft. Jeonghan’s hands traveled up and down your body as he squeezed at your breast, his thumb and index playing and squeezing your nipple.

“Fuck.” Jeonghan breathed out as your heat continued to glide against him. “Let me fill you baby.”

You lifted your hips as he reached down and guided himself into you, your walls naturally sucking him in with greed.

Jeonghan's hands that once again sought purchase on your breast were met with yours as you pinned them above his head and leaned in to capture his lips. Nipping and sucking you marveled at the quickness in which Jeonghan’s fair skin began to show signs of your obsession.

Greedily you rocked your hips, your moans syncing with his and bouncing loudly off the bathroom walls.

“So good....” you moaned.

Your eyes fluttered open and closed as you anchored yourself against Jeonghan’s chest and picked up your pace.

But Jeonghan's eyes watched you. He watched your body move with sensual fluidity as you pulled more pleasure out of him than anyone else ever could. He watched your flushed face through the steam of the shower as your eyebrows crinkled in pleasure. He swallowed every one of your kisses as you languidly laid them against his open mouth.

The shower water patterned off of your hot bodies as they rocked together chasing the high of the moment.

Jeonghan took in your every quirk and your every expression as the feeling of you and watching your pleasure drove him over the edge. You were already pulsing in hot waves around him and that was all he needed. 

Jeonghan held you close as he thrusted into you a few more times before his own orgasm shot from him in fiery pleasure. He leaned back and looked up at you once again as you dazedly looked up at the ceiling and caught your breath. 

The water and sweat trickled down your neck to your collarbone, along your soft mounds, and off your nipples onto Jeonghan’s body as he drank in your afterglow.

Too soon you rose from off of him chuckling at Jeonghan as he continued to lay down in the tub. Your and his juices were still dripping down your thigh and glistening on his cock. 

Jeonghan still made no effort to move so you put on a little show for him in sensual jest-fullness as you sudsed up and washed off, his eyes unwaveringly watching you. Laughing you stepped out of the shower and wrapped the towel around your body.

“Seriously Jeonghan, I'm gonna send you my water bill this month. Don't stay in there too long.”

With that you were out of the bathroom shutting the door behind you. Jeonghan let out a breath before rising tiredly from the tub. He felt that way after every fuck. Beyond please and very exhausted in so many ways. 

He finished showering before drying off and getting dressed

Jeonghan walked into your room, your his towel over his head as he shook it around to dry his hair.

“Move over.”

“Jeonghan… you know how I feel about cuddling.”

He threw his wet towel at you and rolled his eyes. “Who wants to cuddle with you?”

You tossed the towel back at him before rolling over and giving him some room.

You laid there in his shirt, so soft and warm as you drew your favorite cold and distancing line.

“Whatever dude, just stay on your side.”

He had a side in your bed that he'd lose the moment he crossed. Jeonghan shook his head at the absurdity before flopping down next to you and slipping under the covers, pulling more towards him.

Jeonghan smiled as he felt your foot on his back, kicking against him and pulling your covers back.

“Nice try buddy but you forget who's boss.”

“Well, it was worth a shot.” Jeonghan said before releasing the extra blanket that he didn't even need.

How could he forget who was boss when everything here followed your terms of engagement. But then again, Jeonghan agreed so who was he to complain?

“Listen Jeonghan.” you said after the first night something like this had happened. “You'll always be my best friend but we're adults so that doesn't mean we can't enjoy each other in uh… more ways if we want.”

Jeonghan agreed without a second thought.

“Friends,” he said with a smile. 

“With benefits?” 

Jeonghan shook the hand you were holding out to him. 

At the time it seemed like an excellent idea to him who only wanted to feel your body wrapped around him once more. Anything to have a part of you who was still too broken to give anything whole.

But now that his side of your bed was so cold he wasn't so sure anymore. 

He laid watching your back as your shoulder peacefully rose and fell.

“Friends.” he whispers to himself before rolling over.

MY MASTERLIST

[anotherbrahmsfangirl]

Kissing Lesson

Brahms Heelshire x Unnamed FemOC

Warnings/Tags: Nothing really, just a cute fluff piece about Brahms learning how to kiss. Word count: 2K Authors note: had this little scenario stuck in my head so I came onto tumblr to vomit it out, enjoy.

'This is ridiculous.' Was all that went through her mind as she moved to sit down on the imported Persian rug that carpeted the floor of the study. Sitting cross-legged, she leaned back against the couch seat and ran her fingers through her hair in frustration. In the back of the room, classical music played softly on the old gramophone, an ever present feature now that 'He' appeared.

"This isn't going to be like a good-night kiss, you know..." she let out a huff, still absentmindedly fussing with her long tresses as if the constant sensation would soothe her nerves any. It didn't.

The Boy, no, the Man, similarly sat stiffly on the floor, also cross-legged, fidgeting with his fingers. His blank, expressionless mask still tied tightly over his real face, keeping his true visage a well-kept secret. Not that she REALLY wanted to see what he looked like under that porcelain facade, but it sure would have helped if the mask was off, what with his ever increasing need to be 'kissed proper' at night before bed.

She'd lost count of the times a simple kiss to those cold unyielding lips resulted in a painful bruise or an almost chipped tooth due to the force of him trying to feel the warmth of her mouth, the sensation of her kiss through that uncanny mask. But enough was enough. If he so desired a real kiss from her, he was just going to have to compromise a bit.

"Did you brush like I asked?" She finally spoke again. She could tell her voice was already cracking with her flustered emotions right now, and was sure Brahms could hear it as well.

Silently, he dipped his head in a few short nods, indicating that he had. 'Thank god for that.' She thought, her eyes darted over his form, grateful he wasn't the pungent dirty wall gremlin that showed himself just a week or so ago. No, surprisingly, he cleaned up rather well. His unruly neck beard was now trimmed and neat. She found he had no problems bathing himself as long as she took care to wash his clothing and maybe gave a gentle reminder now and then. He was presentable now, save for the creepy doll face he insisted on wearing at all times.

"OK, so..." she started, unsure of how to word things for him without incurring a mood shift in the sometimes unstable man. "I know you'd... prefer.... to keep your mask on, but it's just not practical if you want to learn how to kiss properly. " She spoke hesitantly, testing his temper through his eyes, the only feature she could use to judge what was going on in that brain of his.

"It's more than just... pushing... our lips together." Brahms's eyes hadn't changed. They were still as intense and focused on her as they were when he first crawled out of the wall. While he had relaxed quite a bit, she definitely could see the spark of interest as she spoke to him now. This was clearly something he very much wanted from her.

"So...the mask..." She gestured to his face, hoping he'd get the hint, but no, he sat just as rigid as always. She sighed again, much louder and more exaggerated. "You HAVE to take the mask off!"

He quickly shook his head, rearing back to emphasize his displeasure of the idea.

"Then how am I going to kiss you, Brahms?" She almost shouted, frustration rising in her voice. "I refuse to kiss that ...thing... anymore! Is that what you want? No more good night kisses?"

Brahms shifted forward, his hands on the rug as he shook his head even more fervently than before, his mop of dark curls dancing over the doll face.  'Oh please don't take away my kisses', he seemed to say through his pleading eyes.

"You're going to have to work with me on this, Brahms." She folded her arms over her chest, letting out a huff that sent a strand of her hair flying away from her face. Tapping her finger on her arm, she thought of some way to coax him out from under that horrid mask. She really didn't care if he was deformed under it. In fact, she was certain he was due to his bloodshot left eye and what little bits of skin she could catch glimpses of through the eye holes of the mask. The skin there looked red and stretched tight, a byproduct of a severe burn. Just how bad his face was, remained to be seen.

A stalemate. Their silent glares at each other felt electric. She persed her lips tight, thinking of something to say. Gradually, an idea crept into her mind. Like a child, she may have to bribe him with an even more tempting offer. Threatening to not kiss him would be fruitless as he'd just throw a tantrum that would end up dumping more work onto her shoulders in the long run.

"How about this." She paused, making sure he was listening. "I'll close my eyes, and you can take off the mask to kiss me. Or we could turn out the lights before I give you your good night kiss. Does that sound fair?"

Brahms sat up straight, his eyes cast to the ceiling as he took in the offer she proposed, mulling  it over.

Before getting his answer, she decided to sweeten the deal with an extra bonus. "You won't even have to wait for bed time. Just say 'kiss' and I'll know that's what you want. I'll close my eyes and keep them closed the whole time, and you can kiss me WHENEVER you want."

He looked back to her, his eyes narrowing as if to ask 'do you really promise?' To answer him, she held up her one hand and made an X over her heart with the other. "Cross my heart."

Brahms eyes immediately softened, a quick enthusiastic singular nod was all he gave. Now that glint in his eyes seemed to shimmer with excited anticipation.

She took a deep breath, hoping she hadn't created a monster with this arrangement. "OK I'm going to close my eyes now. Just lean in and press your lips to mine. I'll...um..show you what to do next. Ok? Just...sort of...follow my lead, yeah?"" She instructed, closing her eyes and leaning forward, her lips slightly parted as she waited for Brahms.

In the quiet room while Chopin played a slow piano melody, she heard the sound of him shuffling closer, their knees bumping as he positioned himself directly in front of her. Another rustling was heard. She figured it was the sound of him pulling his mask off. Several seconds ticked by before she felt his warm breath against her lips. He was hesitating? Maybe he was waiting for her to make the first move? Her brows furrowed in thought. After all, she was giving him kissing lessons. It then dawned on her that this was probably his first kiss. His first real kiss that wasn't from his parents. His first kiss with a girl. No wonder he was hesitant. He was probably just as nervous as a teenager on a first date. A smile tugged at the corner of her lips from the thought. Maybe he was just studying her face? Maybe taking it all in? Savoring the moment?

Swiftly, her lips were caught by his, ushering a small inhale through her nose. He leaned in, pressing more firmly to her. She felt herself stiffen, pushing back against him while their lips molded into each other. 'Not bad' she thought to herself, he already seemed to get the gist of it easily enough. Not too open, but not the puckered kiss of a little kid either. Her memories drifted back to her middle school youth and the kissing games her peers would play like spin the bottle. How many people had their first kiss from a dare or a child's game like that?

'Let's go for something more challenging.' She thought to herself, pulling back enough to change the position of her mouth. She tilted her head and pushed forward, now snatching his lips in return. A low hum rumbled in his throat. Oh yes, he was very much enjoying the lesson. Unable to stay still, Brahms hands went to her face, cupping her jawline and neck. The kissing became more pronounced as their lips suckled one another in increasing pecks and pulls. Her teeth dragging his lower lip out a ways and letting it slip through with a soft pop.

Both chuckled pausing to re-calibrate. "Like that?" She asked, biting her lower lip, eyes still closed her raised eyebrows doing the expressing for her.

"I do." He answered in that soft tone between man and boy he would sometimes use.

"Ready for me to open my eyes yet?" She asked, having been without the use of her eyes for about 5 mins now.

"Not yet.." He responded in a whisper, his lips grazing over hers as he spoke, craving more contact with her. He latched with her again, opening wider this time and really pressing into her. She felt pushed back against the couch, his large hands now gripping her shoulders as if using them like handles. He was getting much more assertive this round, testing the waters on how forceful he could get with her. She whimpered, half surprised by the sudden change in temperature but not disliking it either.  Folding her arms, palms sliding up over his tank top she felt his heart pounding like a drum through his chest. Sliding up more, she draped them over his shoulders in a loose embrace.

"Easy..." she panted once they parted for air. Her, sitting back up, and him settling back on his knees. "Kisses can be forceful like that.. but I prefer the softer ones." She gave a satisfied sigh. "A rough kiss like that hurts when done with your mask on... now you see why I'd rather do this without it?"

He gave a low grunt in acknowledgement. "I prefer these unmasked kisses, too."

"Can I open my eyes now?" She giggled, growing impatient to see the room again.

"One more?" He begged, already closing in, his hands this time finding the back of her head, thumbs resting on her jaw. She could feel from this angle, he must have moved from sitting to kneeling over her, her head tilting back as he came down and crashed his lips into hers. Another forceful kiss, dominating in its presence. She felt him tilt his head, using the technique she'd shown him earlier. Indeed, he was a fast learner.

Another slow pull back, and now it was her lip that was tugged through his teeth.

"Mmmm... that was nice." She smiled. She was sure the both of them were quite flushed. Her cheeks burned with the heat of her blush. She patiently sat, listening to the music play on and Brahms moving back to his spot on the rug.

"Now?" She asked again, almost wanting to sneak a peek as her curiosity was much more piqued after such an intimate moment with him.

"Now." He replied, his voice an octave higher than before, but still in a range that she preferred him to talk in as the baby voice was just too unnerving to hear from a grown man. Slowly she opened her eyes, the light from the mid afternoon sun seemed brighter after having her eyes shut for so long. Blinking, she focused on his face, as he slowly pulled his mask into place, giving her just the briefest glimpse of his scars before masking them again.

"Good lesson today, huh." She said, pretending not to notice and standing up before she'd loose any more feeling in her legs. Brahms rose with her, straightening his back and rumpled clothing. "How bout a snack?" She offered, turning to him.

Without a word, he stepped over to her, wrapping his arms about her waist and tugging her in close to him. "Kiss..." echoed from behind the porcelain face. She huffed a long, drawn-out sigh, shaking her head in resignation. Was he already testing the validity of her promise? "Ok, yeah...I did promise." She shut her eyes once more and tilted her face up to him. Quickly, he lifted his mask and clasped his lips to hers in a soft, sweet, but quick peck before stepping away towards the kitchen, ready for that snack. Opening her eyes, she licked her lips, that cheeky smile returning. 'Hmm, maybe tomorrow I'll teach him how to French kiss' she mused to herself before following behind.

[000-pawz]

I NEEEED MORE DAD BONEDO HEADCANONS THEY ARE SO SILLY

OKAY OKAY (more under the cut cause i got carried away HELP) also this is my new universe guys so if u see more dad bnd posts, THIS IS THE REFERENCE I LOVE DAD BND

sungho

⭐ sungho girl dad agenda! no arguments!!! i also think sungho would have the most kids for some reason??? maybe 3? elementary age twins and then a baby (i will hold on to this for as long as i live)

⭐ he always wears the baby harness everywhere he goes

⭐ brings all the snacks to every single game. he's the cooler dad with all the caprisuns and cheese sticks

⭐ wakes up super early to make breakfast for everyone and pack lunches

⭐ helps his kids with all their homework and art projects. if his daughter shows up in your doorway in the middle of the night saying they forgot they had a project due tomorrow, he will run to the store at 1 am to buy glue sticks and cardstock to make sure his baby has a project to show for tomorrow

⭐ can be a little overprotective, but he just wants his babies to be safe!!! always reminds his kids that he'll come running whenever they need him

riwoo

⭐ i think riwoo would be a toddler boy dad!!! literally like an even minier riwoo

⭐ when his son was a newborn, he spent most of his time doing skin to skin contact, just soaking up the new feelings of being a father

⭐ supports his kid through EVERYTHING like if he wants to dress up as a pretty princess, he'd buying two tutus on his way home

⭐ very gentle with his disciplining. if his son draws on the wall, he'll show him how to clean it up and then softly explain why it's bad!

⭐ has a hard time saying no and WILL give his kid cake for breakfast if he asks

⭐ loves loves loves cuddling while watching animated movies, sharing a big blanket and snacks with his baby <333

jaehyun

⭐ girl dad to two girls!!! they're a year or two apart

⭐ #1 family guy and the leader of the neighborhood dad group chat

⭐ spoils them so so so so much!!! you literally have to tell him to stop buying them new clothes every other day because you're running out of closet space ><

⭐ shows off his kids to EVERYONE and always adds "they look just like their mama <3" with the biggest smile on his face

⭐ organizes all the barbeques and picnics, invites all the kids in the neighborhood (yes, even sungho's gremlin twins)

⭐ cries every time his kids make him a gift and gives them the biggest hug ever

⭐ also cries on every single birthday because why are they growing up so fast!!!!

taesan

⭐ i see taesan as a girl dad tbh </3 he'd probably only have one daughter too

⭐ reads his kid the most outrageous bedtime stories like why are you reading "1984" by george orwell to a four-year-old

⭐ would let his daughter record a silly intro for one of his songs and show her how he makes music

⭐ takes soooo many pictures of his daughter, like half of his camera roll is his daughter and the other half is you

⭐ his daughter always has the best outfits!!! would love matching outfits too

⭐ i think his daughter would subtly adopt his opinionated nature and then he would be confused as to why she's so sassy and opinionated >< the apple doesn't fall far from the tree taesan

leehan

⭐ boy and girl dada!!! <333 i think the girl would be older too?

⭐ is super annoying during drop-off and probably yells out the window how much he loves them just to embarrass them a bit

⭐ lets his kids do the most random things to his hair... you'll come home and leehan will have a head full of bows, cars, and stickers (you have to help him get the knots out later that night)

⭐ the easiest dad to talk to ever. never gets upset at his kids for confiding in him and always gives them the best advice

⭐ falls asleep in one of the kid's beds every night because putting them to bed is the most exhausting task ever

⭐ teaches his kids how to care for fish and lets them redecorate the take every now and then

⭐ takes his kids on random trips to aquariums, parks, museums (and no, he never asks for permission from you so you always find out in the most random ways, like your son showing you his new shark plushie from the gift shop)

[autisticlancemcclain]

“Keith, I need a favour.”

Keith stops in his tracks. Slowly, he sets down the helmets he’s holding, freeing his hands, then holds the phone out in front of him. He ponders it carefully.

“I could throw you into the sea,” he says to it. He does some quick calculations. If he drives to the nearest seafront now, he will be approximately twenty-three hours late to his date with Lance by the time he gets back. However, if he skips the fanfare and drops his phone into the disgusting oil-filled puddle right next to him, he can proceed to his date on schedule.

“Decisions, decisions,” he muses. Fanfare is important. Dropping his phone into a puddle is whatever. It’s derivative. But dropping his phone into the North Atlantic…now that is revolutionary.

“Fucksake. Keith,” sighs the voice coming from the phone. “If you don’t answer me, I am going to change the Netflix password.”

Keith frowns. “Hey.”

“Thank you,” says Shiro emphatically, “you brat.”

“Netflix is sacred,” Keith protests. “You can’t joke about the Netflix. I am a delicate orphan, Shiro. What will happen to me if my primary care figure breaks his promises? I’ll regress and act out and end up in prison. Do you want me to end up in prison?”

“A little, honestly.”

“Gasp, Shiro. Gasp. How dare.”

“I think you should consider a degree in the dramatic arts.”

“I think you should eat my farts.” Keith snickers. “Hey, that rhymed.”

Shiro sighs, long and loud, and Keith can practically see the smile twitching on his face. “Where did I go wrong. Truly. To think I tried to raise an upstanding young man, respectful to his elders, happy to help when needed. Shame that you’re a gremlin and a changeling.”

Keith rolls his eyes. “Blah blah. Get to begging for my help. I have places to be, old man. A new jacket Adam bought me to wear in front of pretty people. Well, one pretty person. Anyways.”

“God, you’re whipped,” Shiro says, and Keith ignores that because if he doesn’t he’ll combust. “You and Lance going out?”

Keith tucks his phone between his ear and his shoulder, picking the helmets back up and continuing his walk to his bike. “Yep.”

“Where’re you going?”

“Dinner at Caribella. It’s an excuse for a ride, really. Maybe walk around downtown for a bit.”

“Sounds fun. How much more fun would it be with your little sister, huh?”

Keith stops for the second time. He can see Red maybe fifty metres away. He looks at her mournfully.

“So close,” he despairs quietly, then turns back to his phone. “Not super fun, Shiro. Since she’s, you know. A year old. And a date is something you traditionally do with your boyfriend. Alone.”

Shiro makes a weirdly strangled noise halfway between a laugh and a stressed croak. “Well! The thing is.”

Keith waits. No thing is listed.

“Shiro.”

“It’s no big deal! Really.”

“Oh? I guess I’ll just hang up, then —”

“It’s just that Adam and I are at his sister’s, right, and —”

“There we go.”

“And we have a sitter. Obviously. All is well. Except, you know. The storm forecast. And everything.”

“And you’re four hours away with a car that you haven’t put snow tires on yet,” Keith surmises. He looks forlornly at his bike, sitting all pretty in her parking spot, freshly polished red paint gleaming under the fluorescent lights of the parking garage. So, so close. “You dumbass.”

“The forecast was clear this morning!”

“You’re a dad! You’re supposed to know these things!”

“Well!”

“Can’t the sitter just — stay? Overnight, or something?”

He feels bad. Any other day, he’d be happy to have Hana over, or go stay over there. He does it all the time. Hana is the coolest. He has no idea how she’s the daughter of the two biggest goobers he knows. Hell, he’s already got plans to watch her this Thursday, so Adam and Shiro can go to their old person museum date thing.

But he has plans tonight.

Fuck.

“She’s sixteen, Keith,” Shiro explains, sighing. Keith envisions his brother slumped against a wall somewhere, rubbing over the scar on his nose. “She’s too young for that. She’s Adam’s friend’s daughter, and she’s a sweetheart, but she’s got school. She can’t be responsible for a baby overnight.”

“No, I — I figured.” He drags his free hand down his face. “You need me to go over there?”

“Yeah. Mara – the sitter – can’t drive yet. Her parents are coming to get her in an hour.”

Shiro’s voice is quiet, subdued. He sounds guilty. Keith hates when Shiro is guilty. He covers his hand over the phone so Shiro can’t hear, screams a little, breathes deeply, then forces a smile wide enough that it will bleed into his voice. Hopefully.

“It’s fine, Shiro. Seriously. Lance and I’ll reschedule, Hana and I will make sure to fuck up your Netflix profile. All is well.”

“Thank you, Keith. I owe you.”

It is a dire thing when Shiro doesn’t complain about Keith messing up his Netflix profile. Once, three years ago, Keith forgot to switch the TV in their living room and watched some Hallmark movie as he sketched, just to make noise in the background. Shiro made snide comments about his taste for three months, because he’s a pretentious indie loser who watches shit like Empire unironically.

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll start a tab.”

That, thankfully, makes Shiro snort. “Brat.” He brightens. Keith can almost hear the ding of a lightbulb going off in his head. “Hey, I know it’s dorky, but maybe you and Lance can still go on your date! Me and Adam used to when you were little, in the old apartment.”

Keith furrows his brows. “What, like when you marathoned Lord of the Rings on the shitty futon and ordered the greasiest pizza known to man? That’s not a date.”

“Is so! We enjoyed it, you had pizza so you weren’t having a tantrum, what else could we need?”

“You guys have been weird old people your whole entire life. Did you know that?”

“Only because you aged me. You pain. Anyways. Go pick up my daughter, or you can stay at our place. Minivan keys are where they always are. I gotta go. Love you, kiddo.”

“Ugh. Love you too.” He hangs up, blowing a raspberry at the phone. “Minivan keys are where they always are, he says. What a soccer mom.”

He stares, hands on his hips, at his bike.

What to do, what to do.

He really doesn’t want to cancel on Lance. It’s been a couple days since they’ve seen each other, because Lance’s job hates him. Plus, Hana isn’t very fussy. It’s kind of dweeby and embarrassing, but. Well. Lance likes kids. So it could be fine, honestly.

“Hana first,” Keith decides, nodding to himself. He lifts the seat compartment under the bike and shoves the extra blue helmet in, strapping on his own and starting Red up. To bring Lance to Shiro’s for an embarrassing old person date, or to cancel. That is the question.

Eh. He’ll decide on the ride.

— — —

He does not decide on the ride.

“What do you think,” he asks his sister, lips pursed. She gurgles happily at him from her high chair, shaking her soggy-Cheerio-covered fist at him. “I mean, you go to bed in a couple hours. So it’s not like it’s pure babysitting.”

“Abdalalala,” she says, which Keith translates to mean actually, now that I know you want me to sleep, I will spend tonight completely resistant to sleep, as karma. Enjoy.

“That’s rude,” he informs her.

You’re batshit, says the Pidge that lives in his brain. Also, quit procrastinating.

“Ugh,” he says, out loud. He pulls out his phone and hesitates over Lance’s contact.

to: lance <3

hey you like kids right

from: lance <3

oh my god

from: lance <3

keith, are you…

from: lance <3

pregnant??????

Keith laughs.

to: lance <3

you are not funny

from: lance <3

i’m hilarious actually it’s a tragedy

from: lance <3

i carry the burden of knowing i am solely responsible for my friends’ good humour

from: lance <3

heavy is the head that wears the crown. pensive face emoji solidarity fist emoji broken heart emoji

Keith refuses to dignify that with an answer. Also, he has been informed by Lance’s best friend that if he ignores the emoji bit it will go away eventually. So far it’s been going strong for three months, though, so Keith’s not certain. He can only hope Hunk is correct.

from: lance <3

anyways yah i like kids why

to: lance <3

how much cooler and charming would i be if i picked you up in a minivan. with my sister

from: lance <3

aw, keith!

from: lance <3

to be coolER and MORE charming you have to be cool and charming to begin with :)

from: lance <3

and you are a dweeb 💖

from: lance <3

sounds good tho

from: lance <3

Bring Forth The Child

from: lance <3

oh also bring forth burritos on ur way over

from: lance <3

i’m hungry

Hana yells and bangs on her tray. When Keith looks up, she lobs a Cheerio at him. It hits him squarely between the eyes.

“You’re right,” he says sagely, peeling it off and flicking it back at her. She shrieks in joy. “I cannot let this shit slide. I cannot simply allow myself to be roasted, Hana. I must have self respect.”

She blows a raspberry at him and bangs harder on her tray. Baby conversations are, honestly, riveting.

“Exactly, squirt. You get it. Let’s get cleaned up and go, hm?”

— — —

He picks up burritos on the drive.

Hana laughs at him.

— — —

He’s hardly pulled up in front of Lance’s apartment building when a blur streaks across the front walkway, yanking open the van’s side door.

“Oh, hell-o, precious darling!” gasps Keith’s boyfriend, tumbling into the backseat and slamming my the door shut behind him. “Hi, Hana! Hi hi hi! Aren’t you the bestest ever? You are!”

Hana, evidently pleased with the attention, babbles something incomprehensible and pats Lance’s cheek. He melts, babbling something so quickly it’s equally incomprehensible and shaking her hand. Keith watches, torn between endeared and affronted.

“Hello, boyfriend I have not seen in days,” he deadpans. “Yes, I missed you also. No, I don’t mind at all that you leave me to wither away, alone, in the front seat. Excellent chat.”

“You have a very very grumpy brother, don’t you, Hana,” Lance coos. His shoulders shake with held back laughter.

“Lance, get your ass in the front.”

“But I’m meeting the baby!”

“She is not going anywhere! Meet her at home! You turd!”

“Name-calling is not very nice,” retorts Lance primly, crawling over the console and finally settling in the passenger seat. “What kind of example are you setting, huh?”

He leans over the armrest once he’s buckled in and kisses Keith gently, cradling his hand against his jaw and tilting their heads together. He smells, as he always does, of flowers and sunshine, and Keith sighs as he sinks into the softness of him, the curve of his smile and nip of his teeth.

“Hi,” Keith murmurs, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth, his chin, and then squarely on the mouth again.

“Hi,” Lance responds, a little breathless, grinning widely. His hair is damp and curling at the edges. He’s left out his contacts for the night and the gold lenses match the gold flecks in his brown eyes. Everything he’s wearing is stolen right from Keith’s closet, except his socks, which are bright purple and covered in obnoxiously orange weiner dogs. Keith is so in love with him that the intensity of it embarrasses him, and he pulls away, face red, very interested suddenly in adjusting is rearview mirror.

Lance, knowing, only smiles.

“These are for you,” he says gruffly, shoving the paper takeout bag at Lance’s chest. Lance wastes no time digging through and shoving half of one in his face.

“Aw, baby,” he says, mouth completely full. “You’re literally the best. Sweet, attentive, manipulable, obsessed with me. Everything I intended when I did the love spell on you.”

Keith eyes Lance from his peripherals. He’s digging through his patched backpack, face completely serene. Keith is reminded of the actual sigil he has tattooed on his ankle. (He’s very familiar with it. It’s often right at eye level. Hard to miss, really.)

“…You’re a strange, strange man.”

“Anyways!” Lance continues, visibly gleeful. Keith reminds himself to focus on the goddamn road and remember his sister is watching with her giant wide eyes in the backseat, probably committing all his embarrassing actions to memory to report to Adam the second she is capable of speech. “I brought lots of movies. Mostly Jurassic Park, but also some educational stuff for the baby. Ghostbusters, High School Musical, you know. All that good stuff. And I stashed popcorn behind your microwave last time I slept over so we’re set for snacks.”

“Oh, we’re going to my brother’s place, actually, ‘cause Hana’s more comf— wait, behind the microwave? Why behind?”

“Wait, wait, hold on. We’re not going to your place?”

“No,” Keith says carefully. “I have some baby stuff in my apartment, but not a lot. Plus, Shiro has a better T.V. and also Adam just bought Moose Tracks. So.” He slows to a stop at a red light, noting Lance’s odd expression. “That okay?”

Lance screws up his face for a second, thinking. “I’m pretty sure? As long as there’s an extra toothbrush there. I have one at your place so I didn’t bother bringing one. And I guess I can survive a night without my face serum, but if I get one single wrinkle we’re beefing.”

“You’re not gonna get a stupid wrinkle,” Keith grouches. “And why would you get pissy if you get a wrinkle? We’re gonna get them eventually, and you —”

“‘We’?” Lance teases. “You gonna grow old with me? Gonna marry me someday, Kogane?”

“—can even use Shiro’s face stuff, anyway, I’m sure it’s the same.” Keith clears his throat. “And plus —”

His voice cracks horribly. Lance makes a valiant effort to keep his giggles to himself, but as Keith face continues to get hotter and hotter he loses control and laughs, head thrown back, adam’s apple bobbing with every hitched breath. His laughter sets Hana off, too, both of them encouraging each other’s ridiculousness until they’re as red as Keith is, gasping for breath.

“I hate it here,” Keith mutters darkly. “I’m turning around and bringing you back. You’re the worst. Why do I go out with you.”

Lance, barely recovered, makes kissy faces at him. “Because you want to maaaarrryyyyy meeeee, you think I’m seeeeexxxyyyyy, you want to kiiiiisssss meeeee —”

He cuffs Lance in the back of his head, pretending to check his blindspot and ignoring Lance’s cries of spousal abuse. “I actually just want you to watch Miss Congeniality twelve percent less often. For your own mental health.”

“Lies and slander! Peddling of falsehoods! Perjury and defamation!”

“I’m burning your thesaurus.”

“And now threats! Hana, you shall be my witness! I will testify against you in court! You will be jailed! I will visit you twice monthly!”

“That’s the second person today who wants me in jail,” Keith comments, pulling into Shiro’s driveway. “You’d visit me even if you put me in there?”

“Well, duh. Have to make sure you don’t go around kissing cute criminal boys or I will become a cute criminal boy.”

“Right, of course. I should have known.”

“You should have, yes.” Lance leans over and kisses him on the forehead with an exaggerated ‘mwah’ noise. “But it’s okay, I like ‘em a little dumb.”

“Help me get the diaper bag, goober,” Keith snorts, shoving him away. “I want to get inside so I can have a burrito before you eat them all.”

———

Lance was not kidding about High School Musical.

Obviously.

“Do you want her to grow up with no understanding of community, Keith,” he scolds, and pays no mind when Keith replies, “Well, she has a family, dude, so I’m not worried.”

They watch the stupid musical.

Keith is horribly endeared by Lance’s extensive knowledge of the choreography. Lance is horribly appalled at Keith’s ignorance. Hana is intrigued, mind body and soul, by every scene with Sharpay Evans. Keith assumes this will be a problem for Adam in the near future, and resolves to make that problem worse.

All this to say he’s having a very embarrassing night, in terms of mushy thoughts and feelings.

“I can’t wait to have kids of my own someday,” Lance sighs, a very sleepy Hana tucked into the crook of his arm. He watches her, soft, and Keith pauses with a DVD held loose in his hand, enraptured, because there’s a curve to Lance’s smile that he’s never seen before, and suddenly his left hand looks bare. “I know it’s supposed to be stressful and everything, but I used to force Hunk to play house with me when we were kids. Literally every day. And when my neice and nephew were born I hogged them all the time, even when they were screaming. I dunno. Being a parent sounds awesome. You get to…like…grow a person. It’s like growing a plant but a bajillion times better, probably.”

“Yeah,” says Keith, softly, and without meaning to he’s thinking of Shiro’s tired smile and the gentle hand Adam lays on the back of his neck, of their door that was always open for Keith’s nightmares, of Shiro’s clothes ruffling as he slid to the floor and sat for hours as Keith screamed himself hoarse and cried for a mother who left. Of Adam’s boiling pots and gentle hands as he guided Keith around a chopping knife. Of both Shiro’s choked-off sobs and Adam’s right embrace as Keith came back, thirteen, in the middle of the night, scared and no longer angry, and their quiet I’m so glad you’re safe. Thank you for coming back. “Yeah, family is important.”

Lance hums. He’s quiet long enough that Keith looks up, realising for the first time his gaze has been locked, unseeing, on the pictures on the wall, of Shiro and Adam and the two of them together and with Keith and with Hana and with Keith and Hana. Lance is watching him, quiet, dark eyes knowing, Hana finally asleep in his arms, beautiful and strong and everything Keith has ever wanted, suddenly, at once.

“I love you,” he blurts.

Lance smiles. “I’ve noticed.”

“Oh, you dickhead.”

“I’m saying it back!” Lance says, snickering, free hand held up in surrender. Keith walks over and slots their fingers together, squeezing slightly, leaning in and holding, a second, a hair’s breadth away from Lance’s mouth, watching his lips part, feeling the heat of his breath. His words are breathless, near silent, mouthed as much as spoken. “You changed my life, you know. I made you chase me because I thought it was funny, but — I made Hunk get me your number from Pidge the night I left the bar. I was going to text you if your brother’s tweet didn’t go viral and cement your dorkiness for eternity.”

“That’s a lotta words to say ‘I love you’, dorkbrain.”

“I know. You make me nervous.”

“You never get nervous.”

“I do with you.”

“Yeah?”

They’re so close now that their lips brush with every word, and Lance is grinning, eyes crinkled and lashes fluttering against Keith’s cheeks, and Keith has a hand careful on Hana’s head so he doesn’t crush her and is smiling just as wide. Cheesy, dorky, corny, and everything Keith wished for after every romance novel he’d steal, fooling no one, from Adam’s shelf and read long after bedtime.

“Yeah. ‘Cause I love you. Even though you’re a dweebus and a simp.”

He is, really, because he lets Lance get away with that, kissing him to shut him up, to feel his laughter right up close. It’s sparks flying and warmth spreading and heart slowing, and in the gentle darkness of the night.

It’s the promise of more to come.

[jungkoode]

FUCK ME UP | FRAGMENTS

˗ˏˋ that first night (her POV) ˎˊ˗

"There's a theory that says you meet everyone in your life twice—once as strangers, and once when it matters. That first night at 'Pulse', with vodka cranberry on your tongue and his eyes burning into yours, was supposed to be the stranger part. No one warns you that six months later, he'll be standing in your new apartment's doorway, looking at you like he's seen a ghost. But that’s a problem for Future you."

⋆｡°✩ story details ✩°｡⋆

collection: Before It All (FMU)

wordcount: 15k

pairing: fmu!jungkook x fmu!yn (cocky!jkxbratty!reader)

rating: explicit, 18+

playlist: spotify

content: new york city setting, university setting, strangers to roommates (eventually), nightclub setting, hookup, one night stand, drunk hookup (buzzed/tipsy but consensual), explicit sexual content, oral sex (cunnilingus), protected penetrative sex, multiple orgasms, wall sex, rough sex, choking/breath play (light), hair pulling, marking/hickeys, size kink, manhandling, dirty talk, praise kink, bickering during sex, snarky banter, grinding, multiple positions, slight pain kink, slight degradation kink, praise kink if you squint, sexual tension, sexual chemistry, mild exhibitionism (making out in uber/club), slight voyeurism (being watched in club), mild dubious condom practices (that one scene), alcohol consumption, bite kink, aftercare (mild), spooning, scent kink, vanilla scented products, enemies to lovers (eventual), size difference (height), strength kink.

✧ author's note ✧

Hi my little demons! (｀∀´)Ψ Welcome to the prequel that started this absolute dumpster fire - AKA the night our emotionally constipated idiots first met.

Let's talk about how THIS happened, because honestly? I've rewritten this scene approximately 47 times (not exaggerating, my Google docs are a MESS). I initially wasn't even going to write it, but then my 3AM brain, fueled by what was probably my 8th espresso, decided we NEEDED to see these two disasters collide for the first time. And boy, did they collide. (￣ω￣;)

First things first: This is pure, unadulterated filth. I literally had to take several walks around my apartment complex while writing this because these two WOULD NOT BEHAVE. Like, I was trying to be somewhat respectable here, but they said "No♥️" and chose violence. So you know what? I just let them do their thing and documented it like the professional disaster that I am.

Now, let's talk about our girl for a second. Writing her at this specific point in her life was FASCINATING because you can really see all the pieces that made her who she is—the family pressure, the small-town suffocation, the desperate need for control while simultaneously wanting to lose it completely... She's such a beautifully complex mess and I love her for it. (Don't worry, she'll grow. Eventually. Maybe. We'll see.)

And Jungkook... Oh boy. There's SO MUCH about him that I've deliberately sprinkled throughout this chapter. Little details, subtle hints, tiny breadcrumbs that'll make sense later. I'm actually really proud of how many easter eggs I managed to hide in here - come back after future chapters and tell me if you caught them! (Though let's be real, you're probably not here for the literary analysis, you thirsty gremlins.)

The biggest challenge was honestly Emma. Like, how do you get the world's most protective best friend to leave her bestie alone in a club? I spent WEEKS trying to make this work in a way that felt authentic to her character. The sister crisis was my 3AM solution and I'm actually pretty proud of how it turned out. Realistic character motivation is my kink, okay? (＾▽＾)

Speaking of realism—that's literally why this fic exists. I got so frustrated with how many unrealistic elements I kept seeing in stories that I went "Fine, I'll do it myself" and here we are, 35 pages of smut later???? Huh. You're welcome????

Side note: I have this whole thing narrated in audio (female voice only, because no male voice matches Jungkook’s, my beloved ¯\_(ツ)_/¯) but Tumblr said "file too big bestie" so... might drop it on ko-fi if enough people are interested. Let me know in the comments! Speaking of comments—PLEASE tell me your theories about all the little hints I've dropped about Jungkook's past. I'm dying to see what you guys pick up on! (⌒ω⌒)ﾉ

Until next time, you disaster pandas! (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧

Kiki. 🍓

P.S. Any typos are between you and god because I've stared at this document for so long the words have lost all meaning.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

⋆｡°✩ read more ✩°｡⋆

main story: fuck me up

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So here's the thing about nightclubs: you either love them or you hate them.

You? You're more of a 'hate them' kinda girl. The sweat, the noise, the people... not your scene. Not usually, anyway.

But usual went out the window the second Emma suggested this little adventure. Sweet, reliable Emma who you lost touch with after high school but who immediately became your secret accomplice when you reached out about transferring to NYU. Who's been your underground informant for months now—sneaking you tips about the English department, virtually walking you through the campus layout via late-night FaceTime sessions, and helping you plot out the perfect transfer application your parents know nothing about.

Emma, who didn't even blink when you showed up at her door with a weekend bag and a story for your parents about "visiting your responsible friend in the city." (They bought it immediately because, well, it's Emma. Their golden standard of What A Good Influence Should Be.) You'd spent the whole day doing exactly what you came for—touring NYU's campus, sitting in on a couple of English classes Emma snuck you into, and gathering all the transfer information you could get your hands on.

"You can't just transfer here and not know what the nightlife is like," she'd insisted, already rummaging through her closet for something that wasn't your campus tour outfit. "That's like... buying a car without test driving it."

Which, okay, terrible analogy, but you get her point. You've spent months planning this transfer—going over NYU's transfer requirements, crafting the perfect escape from your suffocating small-town university, calculating exactly how to tell your parents once it's too late for them to stop you. The campus visit was supposed to be just that—visiting your responsible friend Emma for a weekend while secretly checking out NYU.

Emma, bless her overprotective heart, had taken one look at your face after that final tour—that specific blend of desperate hope and terrified excitement—and decided you needed to see the whole picture. "The real college experience," as she put it, already pulling out her phone to text her club promoter friend.

"Location sharing on?" she'd asked for the fifth time before you left her apartment, double-checking your phone settings like some kind of Gen-Z mother hen. As if you hadn’t spent the last three months planning this transfer with military-grade precision.

"Yes, mom," you'd rolled your eyes, but something warm had settled in your chest at her fussing. It's... nice, having someone in on the secret. Someone who gets it.

"Emergency contact updated to my number?"

"Check."

"Spare key to my apartment?"

"Emma, I swear to god—"

"Just checking!" She'd grinned, already knowing she was being ridiculous but doing it anyway. "One more thing..."

And that's how you ended up with a literal tracking app on your phone, an emergency SOS button setup, and Emma's solemn promise to "never leave your side, scout's honor." (She was never actually a scout, but whatever.)

Parents really think you're just visiting your studious, sensible friend Emma for a nice, quiet weekend in the city. Having some wholesome catching-up time. Maybe seeing some museums.

Ha. If only they knew you're actually scouting out your future escape route.

If only you knew.

Because let's be real, this isn't exactly in your wheelhouse. But Emma's right there, keeping her scout's honor promise, bouncing between the bar and dance floor like some kind of safety-conscious terror. And maybe it's the way she keeps checking in with subtle thumbs-up signals, or maybe it's just knowing someone's actually got your back in this whole secret college plan thing, but you're... kind of having fun?

Which is how you find yourself here, in this pulsing, thrumming mass of bodies and sound. 'Pulse', the club's called. Fitting, considering how you can feel the bass thumping in your veins, the strobe flashing like lightning in your skull. It's... a lot. But not in a bad way?

Yeah, definitely not bad, you decide as you scan the room. Leather booths, gleaming bar top, and a dance floor packed with the kind of gorgeous twenty-somethings that make you feel simultaneously inadequate and oddly triumphant. Like 'yeah, I might not be that, but at least I'm here.'

And honestly, it's pretty nice here. Clean, classy even. Good lighting over the bar, vigilant security, and Emma vouches for the place. She's your safety net tonight, because God knows you'd never try this solo. But Emma... Emma knows everyone. Gets you both in with a wink and a wave, like some kind of VIP.

The girl's got pull and she's not afraid to use it. You envy that a bit, that confidence. Wish you could borrow just a dash of it, to fortify your nerves as you perch on this barstool, spine too straight and fingers too tight around your glass. But it's fine, it's good, you're good. That’s what you tell yourself, anyways—even if it’s not entirely the truth.

It's just one night. One chance. One small rebellion before you go back home and drown yourself in expectations and demands. Hardly even counts as rebellion, really, in the grand scheme. Not like you're planning on getting blackout drunk and ending up in jail or anything. Just… dipping your toe. Sampling the other side. Just for a night.

What's the worst that could happen?

Famous last words. Or in this case, famous last thought, as you take a too-big sip of your drink and nearly choke on watery vodka cranberry. Good thing no one's paying attention.

Well, except for one guy, apparently. And he's...

Oh. Oh damn.

He's the kind of gorgeous that makes you almost forget how to swallow, even as you scoff internally. Guys who look like that? They're usually bad news. Cringe edgy boys. Like the ones you see on TikTok. The jaw, the eyes, the whole brooding bad-boy package. Not your type. Not even a little.

But he’s hot. Truth be told.

And he's watching you. Not in a creepy way, but… intense. Interested. And wow, okay, maybe there's something to be said for the whole 'still waters' vibe he's giving off, because that gaze is doing things to you. Things you're not entirely sure you're ready for.

But then again... isn't that the whole point? To try something new? To be someone new, just for a night? The girl who holds the stare of a beautiful stranger. The girl who lets the charge build, heart kicking up and skin tingling. The girl who—

"Shit, shit, shit." Emma's suddenly at your elbow, phone clutched to her chest, face twisted with genuine distress. "My sister just called. She's having some kind of breakdown about—god, I don't even know, her boyfriend? Something about him showing up at her dorm? She's hysterical, I can barely understand her—"

You watch Emma's face cycle through about twelve different emotions in three seconds. She keeps glancing between you and her phone, clearly torn. "I should go check on her. But I can't just leave you here alone. Fuck. Maybe we should both—"

"Em, I'm fine," you try to reassure her, even as your stomach sinks a little. Great. Just when things were getting interesting with dark eyes over there. "I can just get an Uber—"

"No, no, wait." Emma's scanning the club like she's looking for something specific. Her face lights up suddenly as she spots someone by the weights machine in the club's weird gym corner. Because apparently some clubs have those now. "Oh thank god—hey!!"

She waves frantically at some guy who's been doing bicep curls between taking selfies for his Instagram story. You vaguely recognize him from Emma's study group—one of those guys who probably knows the protein content of everything in his lunch and considers gym updates a legitimate form of social interaction.

"Perfect timing," Emma says as he approaches, already dabbing his face with a workout towel. She's rapid-fire texting, probably her sister. "You're still doing that safe walk program thing for the student union, right? The volunteer thing they made you do after that frat party incident?"

"Yeah bro, community service hours almost done," he confirms, then looks confused as Emma practically shoves her phone in his face, showing him what you assume is your location-sharing setup.

"Great. This is my best friend from high school. She's got location sharing on with me, SOS button setup, fully charged phone." Emma's talking so fast she's almost tripping over her words. "I have to go deal with my sister but I'll be back in an hour tops. Could you just... keep an eye out? Make sure no creeps bother her?"

Your face heats. "Emma, seriously—"

"I know, I know, you can handle yourself," Emma cuts you off, already shouldering her bag. "But humor me? He’s actually great at this. Always walks girls home after study group. Total golden retriever energy."

You catch the way her eyes flick meaningfully toward where dark eyes is still watching from across the room. Like she's trying to say 'here's your safe but slightly dim option if you want it, but...'

Your phone buzzes with an incoming wall of texts:

Emma: 𝚒'𝚖 𝚜𝚘 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚢!!! 𝚒 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚒 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚢 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚢𝚘𝚞 Emma: 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚒 𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚒'𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚗 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚝𝚘𝚙𝚜 Emma: 𝚑𝚎'𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚒𝚌𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚐𝚢𝚖 𝚋𝚛𝚘 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛, 𝚝𝚘𝚝𝚊𝚕 𝚙𝚞𝚙𝚙𝚢 Emma: 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚕𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚙𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜... 👀 Emma: (𝚓𝚞��𝚝 𝚔𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚕𝚘𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚗 & 𝚝𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚖𝚎 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚎!!!)

"Hey there. Emma had to run, but she didn't want to leave you alone. Asked me to keep you company. That okay?"

The voice cuts through your spiral, and you blink up at the interloper. Brent? Brad? Some monosyllabic gym bro who's friends with Emma and apparently your new babysitter.

Great.

You paste on a smile, even as your attention flickers back to him. Dark eyes, dark hair, and a mouth that could probably do very interesting things, you bet your money on it. But no. Don’t get distracted. Eyes on Brett. He's safe, he's known. Boring as a beige wall, but that's better. Smarter.

"Yeah, of course," you say brightly. Too brightly. Even you can hear the false note, and you cringe. "Thanks for keeping me company."

Because that's why you're here. For safety, for company, for sampling the world, but through a protective barrier. Not for tall, dark, and dangerously appealing over there. Definitely not for him.

Even if you kinda wish it was.

"You're pretty."

And like... okay? Thanks? But also, ugh. It's not that you're not flattered—you are, in that vaguely uncomfortable way that makes you want to simultaneously preen and roll your eyes into next week. Because yeah, duh, you know. You own mirrors. You're aware of your assets, thank you very much. But there's something so wonderfully, terribly basic about guys who lead with that.

Still. You give him another once-over, because fair's fair and also because like... why not? He's not bad. Actually pretty decent, if you're being honest (and you are, because what's the point of lying to yourself?). Broad shoulders, nice arms, that whole gym rat aesthetic that apparently some girls go crazy for.

Not that you're necessarily one of those girls. You've always preferred a more... balanced build. Something between "I can bench press you" and "I've never seen the inside of a gym." Like, yeah, muscles are nice and all, but you want to be able to actually cuddle without feeling like you're laying on a marble statue. Give you some softer edges any day. Something to sink into, you know?

But beggars can't be choosers and honestly? You're kind of tired of being a beggar. Or, well, not a beggar exactly, but definitely... selective. Too selective, maybe. Conservative. Careful. All those words that really mean "scared to actually live a little."

Not tonight though. Tonight you're in New York fucking City, three hundred miles from your parents' suffocating expectations and that small-town mindset that makes you want to scream into your pillow sometimes. Tonight you could be anyone.

So when you say, "Thank you, you're not bad yourself," it comes out smoother than expected. Almost flirty. And his laugh? Not terrible. Kind of nice actually, even if it doesn't quite reach his eyes. They're nice eyes too—warm brown, honest. Safe.

"Would you like to dance?"

The question hangs there, and you consider it. Really consider it. Because this—this whole thing—it's what you came for, isn't it? To try something new. To be someone new. Someone who says yes to dancing with attractive strangers in clubs that pulse with bass-heavy Usher remixes.

"You feeling confident?" you throw back, and okay, maybe that was a little sharp, a little too much of your usual self bleeding through. But he just smiles (no dimples, and why does that matter? Since when do you care about dimples?), and holds out his hand.

His fingers are cold when they wrap around yours. It's... not great. You've always hated cold hands, which is ironic considering yours are perpetually freezing. But you let him lead you onto the dance floor anyway, because what the hell. What the actual hell. You're here, you're young, you're... actually kind of buzzed now that you think about it. That vodka cran hitting different after all.

His hands hover at your hips, eyes asking permission, and you give him a look that you hope translates to "yes, but don't get crazy about it." Must work, because his palms settle, grip light but present. You rest your hands on his shoulders (nice shoulders, you'll give him that), and try to find the rhythm.

It's not terrible. Not amazing either, but definitely not terrible. He can move, keeps a decent beat, doesn't try to grind up on you like some horny teenager. His hands stay respectfully placed, thumbs making small circles that should probably feel more exciting than they do.

Everything about this should feel more exciting than it does.

Maybe you need another drink. Maybe you need to stop overthinking every little thing and just... be. Maybe...

Maybe that's when it happens. Your eyes drift up, over his shoulder, like they're being pulled by some invisible thread. Like something in you just knows where to look. And there he is.

Dark eyes locked on yours, expression unreadable in the strobing lights.

One second. Two. Three.

An eternity compressed into the space between heartbeats. Your skin prickles, heat crawling up your spine that has nothing to do with the crowded dance floor or the alcohol in your system. The weight of his stare is palpable, laden with something unnamed but acutely felt. Something that turns your mouth to the Sahara and your pulse into a kickdrum.

Usher croons about falling in love while Pitbull drops his signature "dale" in the background, and isn't that just fucking hilarious? Because this—this moment, this look, this stranger—this isn't about love. This is about want. Raw and simple and completely uncomplicated by things like names or histories or futures.

This is about the way his jaw clenches slightly as he watches you dance with someone else. About how his fingers drum against his glass in perfect time with the beat. About the little scar on his cheek that catches the light when he tilts his head, studying you like you're a puzzle he wants to take apart piece by piece.

Your dance partner's hands feel colder by the second.

It's not that his hands are bad, exactly. They're... nice hands. Big hands. The kind that wrap around your hips like they were made to be there, fingers long enough to span the distance between hipbone and hipbone. And yeah, okay, you have a thing for hands. Who doesn't? It's practically universal at this point—like liking bread or hating people who talk during movies. Just basic human nature.

But something's... off.

Your brain is doing that thing. That stupid, annoying, overthinking thing where it won't shut up long enough to let you enjoy anything. And god, you hate this. Hate how your mind rebels against perfectly good situations, like it's allergic to straightforward pleasure or something. Because objectively? This should be working. Hot guy, good music, decent amount of alcohol in your system. Your body's definitely on board—you can feel the low simmer of attraction, the way your skin warms under his touch. The basic chemistry is there.

But your mind? Your mind's like that one friend who shows up to parties just to list off everything that could possibly go wrong. His hands are cold. His laugh doesn't reach his eyes. No dimples. The way he said "pretty" like he was checking off a box on some "How to Pick Up Girls" checklist.

You sigh, already stepping back. Watch the confusion flicker across his face, quickly masked by what you're sure he thinks is an understanding smile.

"Everything alright?"

And like... no? Yes? Maybe? How do you even answer that when you're not sure what's wrong in the first place? When you're standing here on a dance floor that's vibrating with Usher's voice while your brain short-circuits over the temperature of some guy's hands?

"Yeah, I'm just..." You pause, teeth catching your bottom lip as you reconsider. Fuck it. Might as well go with the classics. "The vodka. Has me feeling buzzy, I think I'm not feeling too good."

It's a cop-out and you know it. But it's also an easy out, the kind that doesn't hurt anyone's feelings or make things weird. Because that's what you do, isn't it? Keep things smooth. Keep things nice. Even when you're lying through your teeth to some guy whose name you can't quite remember.

"Hey, that's okay." His smile stays steady, concerned even. "No hard feelings. You need a ride home?"

And that—that right there—that's actually kind of sweet. In another universe, maybe that offer would seal the deal. Nice guy, worried about your safety, probably has a stable job and calls his mother on Sundays. But in this universe? In this universe, your eyes are already drifting over his shoulder, drawn like a compass needle to true north.

You press your lips together, scanning the crowd like you're actually looking for someone. Like you haven’t known exactly where he is this whole time, haven’t felt his eyes raking you up and down non-stop.

"Actually I know someone just across the way, so honestly, zero worries."

The shock on his face would be comical if it weren’t so irksome. "You positive? Weren’t you visiting from out of town? Emma mentioned you were just in for the weekend."

And okay, what the actual fuck? Why does he need your whole life story? Yeah, sure, he's probably just being nice. Probably just wants to make sure you're not about to wander off and get murdered or something. But still. The irritation rises in your throat like bile, sharp and inexplicable.

"Doesn't mean I don't know anybody in New York," you say, and wow, okay, that came out with more edge than intended. Quick, fix it, smooth it over. You paste on a tight smile, the kind that probably looks more like a grimace but hey, at least you're trying. "See you around, Brent."

You're already moving as you say it, heels clicking against the floor with purpose. You think you hear him call after you—something about his name being Peter?—but you're beyond caring. Beyond thinking about cold hands and careful smiles and all the safe choices you should be making.

Because your feet know where they're going, even if your brain is screaming about bad decisions. Even if every rational part of you is throwing up warning signs and red flags. Even if—or maybe because—you can feel his eyes following your every move, heat spiraling up your spine with each step closer.

The bass drops, and your heart kicks up to match it.

Dale, indeed.

You don't need to look at him to know he's watching. You can tell. Can perceive it. It’s like standing too close to a bonfire. The kind of heat that makes you want to step closer even as your survival instincts scream danger, danger, danger.

And this? This is definitely dangerous.

You don't do this. Like, ever. There's a whole routine to these things, right? Guy sees girl, guy approaches girl, girl decides if she wants to deal with whatever fumbling attempt at flirtation follows. That's just... how it works. How it's always worked. Because guys? They're usually terrible at being approached. Their fragile little egos can't handle a girl making the first move. Plus, most of them aren't worth the effort anyway.

But.

But your feet are already moving. But your heart is already racing. But something about the way he's been watching you, like he could devour you whole and still be hungry—it makes you reckless. Makes you stupid. Makes you brave.

"Dance with me."

It comes out more command than question, your voice steadier than it has any right to be. He looks up at you from his seat, and fuck. Just... fuck. Because the way he tilts his head? The slow, deliberate motion of it? That should not be as hot as it is. That should be illegal in at least three states.

Then he smiles. Just one side of his mouth lifting, lazy and confident and—oh god. A dimple. One perfect little dimple that makes something in your chest squeeze tight.

"That's bold."

His voice is lower than you expected. Rougher. Like whiskey over gravel, and you want to drink it down until you're drunk on it. Want to find out what other sounds you can pull from that throat.

"You've been looking at me for 10 minutes." The words fall from your lips before you can stop them, sharp and challenging. "You gonna come dance or not?"

He chuckles—actually chuckles, who even does that?—and holy shit, there's another one. Two dimples. Two perfect little dents in his cheeks that make heat pool low in your belly, thick and sweet like honey. Your fingers twitch, aching to touch them, to press thumbs to those tiny curves and feel him beam against your flesh.

When he stands, it's one fluid motion that makes it feel like someone replaced your esophagus with a cracked porcelain vase. Because he's tall. Not incredibly, super tall. But yes the kind of tall that means you'd have to stretch up on your toes to reach his mouth, that means his hands could probably span your whole waist, that means—

No. Nope. Not going there. Not yet anyway.

He follows you onto the dance floor, and you can feel the energy shift. Like the air itself is charging up, preparing itself for both of you. His friend—some guy with killer dance moves who's been holding down a corner of the floor all night—catches his eye and shoots him a look. Something passes between them, quick and meaningful, before Mystery Man's attention is back on you. All on you.

And yeah.

Yeah, this is happening.

This is definitely happening.

The bass pounds through your marrow as Usher's voice continues suffusing the air, talking about DJs and falling in love, and honestly. At this point you’re barely listening to the music itself, too focused on finding a more secluded spot.

Your pulse picks up speed. Can’t help it, really. Because this? This is definitely going to be worth breaking all your rules for.

You lead him to some darker corner of the club—might be by a column, might be an alcove, who fucking knows because your brain's too busy short-circuiting to care about architectural details right now. All you know is it's slightly away from the main crush of bodies, slightly more private, slightly more...

Oh.

His hands find your hips the second you turn to face him. No hesitation. No silent question. No careful hovering or polite uncertainty like what's-his-name earlier. Just warm, sure palms sliding over the curve of your hips like they belong there, like he's claiming territory, and—

And you should be annoyed. You should be fucking livid. Because excuse you? The audacity of this man to just assume he can touch you without so much as a "may I?" Some feminist you are, getting weak in the knees over this caveman behavior while poor Brett (Blake? Whatever) at least had the decency to ask permission with those puppy dog eyes of his.

But your brain? Your traitorous, horny, absolutely useless brain? It's sending signals straight between your legs because apparently that's what does it for you now. The confidence. The heat of his hands—and god, they're so warm, burning through the thin fabric of your dress like brands. They're not as broad as the other guy's, but his fingers are longer, elegant almost. Artist's hands, scattered with tiny tattoos that disappear under his sleeve, and that silver ring on his middle finger catching the light as his grip tightens just slightly...

(Middle finger. Not left-hand fourth. So not married then. Good. Last thing you need tonight is adding "homewrecker" to your expanding list of dubious habits.)

Your arms loop around his neck almost on autopilot, and then you're moving. With him. Against him. The bass is a living thing between you, and he matches your rhythm instantly, like your bodies already know the steps to this dance. Like you've done this a hundred times before, in a hundred different lives.

His eyes lock onto yours, heavy-lidded and dark as sin, and every hair on your neck stands at attention. Electricity crackles down your spine, sharp and sweet, as his thumbs press into your hipbones. Just enough pressure to guide you closer, until there's barely room for breath between you.

"Didn't catch your name earlier," he says, voice pitched low enough that you have to lean in to hear him over the music. His breath fans hot against your ear, and you suppress a shiver.

"Didn't throw it," you shoot back, because apparently your mouth is running on autopilot now too. Great. Just great.

But he laughs—a quick, rough sound that you feel more than hear—and his hands flex against your hips. "Feisty. I like that."

"Bet you say that to all the girls who proposition you at clubs."

"Nah." His head dips closer, nose brushing your temple. "Just the ones who stare at me for ten minutes first."

"Excuse you, you were staring at me."

"Maybe we were staring at each other."

And okay, that's... fair actually. But you're not about to admit it. Instead, you roll your eyes, even as your fingers find the soft hair at his nape. "Does this usually work for you? This whole... whatever this is?"

"You tell me." His smile is audible in his voice, and you just know those dimples are making an appearance again. "You're the one who told me to dance."

"Maybe I just felt sorry for you, sitting there all alone."

"Wasn't alone. Had my friend."

"The dancer? Please, he was too busy killing it on the floor to keep you company."

His laugh vibrates through his chest into yours, and when did you get this close? When did your bodies start pressing together with every sway of the music? When did his thigh slip between yours, creating a friction that makes your breath catch?

"You been watching my friend too? Should I be jealous?"

The word sends an unexpected thrill through you, even though his tone is clearly teasing. "Wouldn't you like to know."

"Yeah," he says, and suddenly his voice isn't teasing at all. His grip tightens fractionally, pulling your hips more firmly against his. "Yeah, I would."

Goosebumps ripple across your arms, slow and inevitable, like lava carving its path through stone. His eyes burn into yours again, scorching hot, wild, and consuming—a downpour drowning a raging fire, leaving nothing but aftermath. What’s left in their wake is the kind of black that clings. Opaque. Dense. Like ash, settling over a forest stripped to its bare bones.

The sensible part of your brain—the part that usually keeps you from doing stupid, reckless things with beautiful strangers—is suspiciously quiet. Probably because all your blood is currently occupied elsewhere, namely with the way his hands are starting to trace slow patterns on your hips, the way his breath keeps ghosting over your neck, the way his body moves against yours like he's writing sin in cursive.

And maybe it's the vodka, or maybe it's how he's gazing at you like you're tranquility amidst his chaos, but you hear yourself say, "Buy me a drink first."

His smile is slow, dangerous. "That an order too?"

"Consider it a... suggestion."

"Mm." One hand slides to your lower back, pressing you impossibly closer for just a moment. "I'm starting to like your suggestions."

Your skin feels too tight, too hot, too everything. "Starting to?"

"Give me time." His lips brush your ear as he speaks, and this time you can't suppress the shiver. "Night's still young."

He actually does buy you that drink, which is... something. You're not sure what exactly, but definitely something. The way he guides you to the bar with his hand still on your lower back, fingers splayed wide enough to make you notice the imprint of his warmth? Also something.

"Another vodka cran," you tell the bartender, because hey, if it ain't broke. Then you catch his raised eyebrow and can't help adding, "What? Were you expecting something more sophisticated?"

"Nah." That damn dimple makes another appearance. "Just trying to figure you out."

"Good luck with that."

When he pulls out his wallet to pay, you catch a glimpse of multiple cards fanned out in the leather fold. Credit cards, maybe? Must have money then—or at least good credit. Not that it matters, because this is a one-time thing. A never-gonna-see-you-again thing. A what-happens-in-New-York stays-in-New-York thing.

Your fingers find the cocktail napkin beneath your glass, absently creating sharp creases with your thumbnail. It's one of those fancy ones with the bar's logo embossed in gold—pretentious, like everything else about this place.

Still. You notice how he pauses, studying one card for a beat too long before selecting it. Like he's making sure of something. Weird, but whatever.

The napkin disappears into your clutch without conscious thought. A habit you'll question later but can't explain now. You're too buzzed to care about his personal finances or your own questionable souvenir-keeping tendencies.

"Whiskey neat," he orders, and you barely contain your snort. Of fucking course he drinks whiskey. Probably thinks he's Don Draper or something.

"Pretentious much?"

"Says the girl drinking what's basically juice with a splash of alcohol."

"At least I'm not trying to prove anything."

His laugh is rough, genuine. "Who says I'm trying to prove anything?"

"Please. Whiskey at a club? That's like wearing a suit to McDonald's."

"Maybe I just like whiskey." He takes a deliberate sip, throat working in a way that absolutely doesn't make your mouth water. "Maybe I like the burn."

There's something in his voice when he says that, something that feeds the banked flame in your belly. His eyes are on you again, alternating between your eyes and your mouth like he can't quite decide where to focus.

"That line score you points often?" you manage to ask, even as your voice betrays you, emerging breathier than intended.

"I wouldn't know." He's definitely closer now. When did that happen? Did he move, or did you? "Is it scoring points now?"

And god help you, but it is. It really fucking is. Maybe it's the alcohol finally hitting your system properly, or maybe it's the way he's looking at you, but you find yourself swaying toward him. Drawn in like a moth to flame, even though you know you're probably going to get burned.

"You're kind of an asshole," you inform him, even as your free hand finds its way to his chest. His very firm chest, holy shit.

"Yeah?" His fingers trace up your spine, feather-light but deliberate. "Seem to like it though."

"Cocky too."

"Haven't heard any complaints."

He's so near now you can smell him—something clean and vicious, like a tempest raging on the coast. His breath fans across your lips, whiskey-warm and promising. One of his hands cups the back of your neck, thumb brushing your jaw in a way that makes your skin buzz.

"Anyone ever tell you you talk too much?" you murmur, and that's it—that's all it takes.

His mouth crashes into yours like a wave breaking against rocks, hot and insistent and absolutely fucking flawless. His lips are softer than you expected but he kisses hard, like he's trying to devour you whole. Like he's been thinking about this as much as you have. The hand on your neck tightens, tilting your head to deepen the angle, and holy fuck.

You've been kissed before. You've been kissed a lot, actually. But this? This is something else entirely. This is lightning in a bottle, this is matches in gasoline, this is every hackneyed poetry metaphor about fire and flame and immolation except it actually makes sense now because your entire body is electric with it.

His tongue swipes across your bottom lip and you open for him without hesitation, vodka cranberry forgotten in your hand. He tastes like alcohol and dewdrops and something else you can't name but instantly crave more of. The noise he makes when you tug his hair—low and ravenous and almost startled—shoots straight between your legs.

Someone whistles nearby—probably his dancer friend—but you couldn't care less. Not when his other hand is sliding down to your hip, pulling you closer. Not when he's kissing you like he's trying to memorize the shape of your mouth with his tongue. Not when everything in you is screaming more, closer, now.

You're definitely going to hell for this. But with the way he's kissing you?

Might be worth it.

His forehead rests against yours, and you're both breathing like you've run a marathon. Which is... embarrassing, actually. When was the last time a kiss left you this affected? What are you, some freshman at their first house party? Because this is ridiculous. You're ridiculous. Your heart is hammering against your ribs like it's trying to escape, and your lips are tingling, and—

And fuck it. Fuck everything. You want more.

"Let's take this outside," you say, surprising yourself with how steady your voice sounds considering your internal chaos. Because yes. Outside. Away from the crowd and the music and all these people who aren't him.

"Your house?" The words are barely out of his mouth before you can finish your suggestion, and okay, that's kind of hot. The eagerness. The way his fingers flex against your hip like he's already imagining it.

You can't help the smile that tugs at your lips. At least you're not alone in this desperate teenage hormone bullshit. At least he's just as affected as you are.

But then reality crashes in like a bucket of ice water. Your house? What house? You're crashing at Emma's place and—oh god, Emma would actually murder you. Like, literal homicide. She's already doing you a solid by covering for you with your parents, and bringing back some random (incredibly hot) guy from a club? Yeah, that would definitely void the best-friend contract.

"Yours?" you counter, trying not to sound too hopeful.

He makes this sound—half hiss, half groan—that shouldn't be as sexy as it is. "Can't."

"What, mommy and daddy don't let you?" The snark is automatic, defense mechanism kicking in to mask your disappointment.

"Nah, but my friend might not like it."

"Mine either."

You stare at each other for a moment, eyes darting back and forth like you're both trying to solve the same puzzle. The absurdity of the situation hits you at the same time—two grown adults, hot and bothered in a club, cockblocked by their respective roommate situations—and suddenly you're both laughing.

His chuckle is deep, rumbling through his chest where you're still pressed against him, and it's... nice. Really nice. The way his eyes crinkle at the corners, the way his dimples flash (and seriously, those things should come with a warning label), the way his thumb absently strokes your hip like he's forgotten he's doing it.

"Well, this is..."

"Stupid?" you offer.

"I was gonna say unfortunate, but yeah. Stupid works too."

You're still close enough to feel his breath on your lips, still wound tight with want, still buzzing from that kiss. And now you're both laughing about it, which should probably kill the mood but somehow doesn't. Somehow makes it better, actually. More real. Less like some fantasy hookup and more like...

Nope. Not going there. This is still just a one-night thing. A one-night thing that's currently being cockblocked by your respective living situations, but still. Just one night.

"So what now?" he asks, and his voice has dropped back into that lower register that you really want to hate. "Because I really want to kiss you again."

"Just kiss?" The words slip out before you can stop them, teasing and suggestive and probably way too candid.

His grip tightens, just marginally. Just enough to make your breath catch. "Definitely not just kiss."

"Fuck," you breathe, because eloquence has left the building. Possibly the state.

"That's the idea, yeah." And how he says it—all gruff edges and sinful vow—makes embers spark low in your abdomen. "Just need to sort out the logistics."

Which brings you right back to your current predicament. No Emma's place, no his place, and you're pretty sure having sex in the club bathroom is both tacky and probably illegal. But the way he's looking at you, like he really, really wants to wreck you…

"We could..." you start, then pause. Because what? What brilliant solution are you about to offer here? Your practical brain is absolutely useless right now, short-circuited by the lingering taste of whiskey on your tongue and the steady pressure of his hands on your body.

"Could what?" His thumb traces your bottom lip, and your train of thought derails completely.

"I have no idea," you admit, and his laugh is somehow both frustrated and fond.

"This is definitely stupid," he says, but he's still holding you close, still looking at your mouth like he's considering kissing you again anyway, roommate situations be damned.

"So stupid," you agree, already tilting your face up to meet him halfway.

You lick your lips, tasting geosmin and want and really awful decision-making skills.

Fuck it. Fuck everything. Emma can kill you tomorrow.

Your fingers wrap around his wrist—god, his hands are so warm—and you're already moving, already pulling up the Uber app with your free hand. Thank fuck for muscle memory because your brain is absolutely useless right now, too busy cataloging the way his pulse jumps under your fingers, the way he follows without hesitation.

"Where we goin'?" His voice is low and hoarse as he trails behind you, wrist a hostage to your grip.

"To my friend's place," you mutter, trying to type Emma's address without typos.

You: 𝚎𝚖𝚖𝚊, 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚠

You don’t mention you’re not heading home alone. She’ll find out herself.

The dude, for his part, just hums in response, like he's fine with whatever as long as it means getting somewhere private. Which, fair. You're kind of operating on the same wavelength here.

You make it to the coat check line first, because priorities. You’re not leaving your jacket behind. And it is moving at a glacial pace, because of course it is. The universe clearly wants to test your self-control by forcing you to stand here, his chest pressed against your back, his breath hot on your neck.

The way his fingers keep "accidentally" brushing your thigh has you seriously considering saying fuck it and just leaving your jacket behind.

"Could just come back for it tomorrow," he murmurs, like he's reading your mind. His lips brush your ear as he speaks, and you barely sigh in response. Bastard knows exactly what he's doing.

"It's January in New York. I'm not getting hypothermia just because you can't keep it in your pants for five minutes."

"Could keep you warm."

And okay, that line should be cringeworthy. That's the kind of shit that would usually make you roll your eyes so hard they'd get stuck. But he has a way with words—or maybe it’s just his fucking voice—and somehow you like it.

"Next," the coat check girl calls, mercifully saving you from having to respond. You practically lunge forward, fumbling with your ticket. Better than letting him feel how that stupid line affected you.

He reaches past you to hand over his own ticket, arm bracketing you against the counter. And really? Really? This is some romance novel bullshit right here. Who does he think he is, Christian Grey? You should be annoyed. You should definitely not be noticing how good he smells, or how the position highlights just how much bigger he is than you, or—

"Here you go!" The coat check girl's voice is way too cheerful for—you check your phone—3:46 AM. She hands over your coats with a knowing smile that makes your face heat. Great. Just great. Even the coat check girl can tell you're about to make terrible life choices.

He helps you into your jacket because apparently he's decided to be a gentleman now, after spending the last hour making you question your life choices with his mouth. His hands linger on your shoulders just a fraction too long, and you have to bite your lip to keep from making an embarrassing sound.

"Ready?" he asks, voice still pitched low enough to make your skin tingle. You nod, not trusting yourself to speak, and let him guide you toward the exit with his hand on your lower back.

The coat check girl calls out "Have fun!" as you leave, and you seriously consider moving to a different city. Maybe a different country. Somewhere people don't immediately clock your questionable decision-making skills.

The Uber arrives embarrassingly fast—some higher power must be looking out for horny idiots tonight—and you both slide into the backseat. You start on opposite sides because you're trying to be decent human beings, trying to remember that your poor driver doesn't deserve a free show.

But then he's moving closer.

And closer.

And suddenly his mouth is on yours again, hot and demanding, and okay, yeah, sorry Mr. Uber driver but this is happening. His hand cups your jaw, tilting your head just so, and you're definitely making some kind of noise in the back of your throat but you're beyond caring. Beyond thinking about anything except the way his tongue slides against yours, the way his other hand grips your thigh.

Fifteen minutes. That's all it is from the club to Emma's place. Fifteen minutes that somehow feel like both seconds and eternity, lost in a haze of wandering hands and stolen kisses and trying (failing) to keep things PG-13. You're vaguely aware of streets passing, of turns and stops, of the driver pointedly turning up the radio.

And then your attention shifts. His teeth graze your bottom lip, fingers slowly sliding on your inner thigh. Hisses when your nails find his scalp. Heat. Want. Need. Building higher with each passing minute until you're practically vibrating out of your skin.

By some miracle (or possibly divine intervention), you make it to Emma’s building. You stumble out of the Uber, giving the driver your most apologetic smile-grimace combo. He just shakes his head, probably adding you to his mental list of "drunk hookups I never want to see again."

But then he's pressing you against the building's front door, mouth hot on your neck, and you really can't bring yourself to care about your Uber rating right now. Not when his hands are everywhere, not when he's making these little sounds against your skin that go straight between your legs.

It takes three tries to get the key in the lock—partly because it's 4 AM and you're tipsy, mostly because he won't stop kissing you long enough to focus. When you finally get the door open, you nearly fall through it, saved only by his arm around your waist.

"Smooth," he murmurs against your lips, laughing softly.

"Shut up," you breathe back, already pulling him in for another kiss. His back hits the closing door with a thud that's definitely too loud for 4 AM, but you're past caring. Past thinking about anything except the way his hands feel sliding up your sides, the way he tastes, the way he's eating you up with his eyes.

Emma's definitely going to murder you tomorrow. But with the way his fingers are digging into your hips, the way he's kissing you like he's trying to crawl inside your skin?

What-fucking-ever.

He pushes off the door like a man on a mission, and suddenly you're airborne—your legs wrapping around his waist on pure instinct. And okay, that's hot. The way he lifts you like you weigh nothing, the solid press of his body against yours, the little growl he makes when your hips roll against his.

"Room?" His voice is wrecked already, breath hot against your mouth between kisses that make your head spin.

You gesture vaguely toward Emma's guest room, too busy mapping the muscles of his shoulders to form actual words. He exhales sharply against your lips, already moving. Your jackets become casualties somewhere in the hallway, dropped with fumbling hands and zero grace because yeah, the vodka's definitely hitting now. Everything's warm and hazy and electric, your skin buzzing everywhere he touches.

Then you're falling backward onto the bed, and holy fuck. The way he's looking down at you—like he's been lost in the desert and you're a fucking oasis—it makes your breath catch in your throat. Makes heat pool low in your belly, makes your thighs press together in anticipation.

His shirt comes off in one fluid motion and—

Jesus fucking Christ.

You've seen attractive guys before. You've seen gym bros and athletes and the whole spectrum of male bodies. But this? This is like someone took Michelangelo's David and decided to make him real but better. He's all lean muscle and smooth skin, but with just enough softness to make him touchable. Human. Perfect.

And his chest—god, his chest. It's not the rock-hard wall of muscle you'd expect from someone who looks like that. Instead, there's this ideal balance of firm and soft, creating the most magnificent set of man tiddies you've ever laid eyes on. The kind you could actually cuddle up to without feeling like you're resting on concrete. The kind that would make a flawless pillow after—

Your lusty brain stops working as he leans down, pressing his hips deliberately against yours as his mouth finds your neck. His tongue traces patterns on your skin that make you arch up against him, desperate for more contact.

"Fuck," he breathes against your throat, nosing along your pulse point. "You smell so good. Like vanilla and..." He inhales deeply, making your skin erupt in goosebumps. "Like something sweet I wanna taste."

Your hands slide up his back, feeling the play of muscles under warm skin. He's perfectly balanced above you, using just enough of his weight to make you feel deliciously pinned without crushing you. You fucking love it. Don’t know why, don’t know how. Maybe it's just how attractive he is, or the heat of his mouth on your neck, or the press of his body against yours or the way he keeps making these little sounds like he can't help himself.

He's kissing you again before your vodka-soaked brain can process anything beyond rudimentary want, primal need. It's all heat and tongue and teeth, messy and perfect in the way only drunken hookups can be. One of his hands slides up your neck, fingers spreading across your throat. Not squeezing, just...resting.

It's fucking electric.

Your hands map the expanse of his back, nails dragging lightly in a way that makes him groan into your mouth. He's all smooth skin and sinewy muscle, hot to the touch and absolutely unfair. No one should be allowed to feel this good. To make you feel this good, just by existing.

He drags his mouth down your neck, teeth grazing your artery. Your fingers tangle in his hair, gripping tight enough to make him hiss. Which is hot. Way too hot, because that noise? It immediately spirals straight between your thighs.

And fuck, how he grinds down against you in response. It's obscenely filthy, the perfect pressure in just the right spot to make you want to moan aloud. To be shameless.

"Fuck," he breathes against your skin, and you feel it more than hear it. Feel the heat of his breath, the barely restrained want in the way he's touching you. "You feel so fucking good."

Your hips roll up to meet his in a way that's purely instinctual. Because yeah, he feels good too. Better than good. You feel the maddening length of him grinding against you through his jeans; his hand around your neck and—god, you want to claw his back, to wrap your legs around his waist and just take.

The hand on your neck flexes just slightly, thumb brushing your jawline and you think you die just a little because hello? You like that. You really, really fucking like that. New kink unlocked, it seems.

"Want you," he murmurs, voice low and rough with arousal. "Want you so fucking bad, you have no idea."

And oh, you do. You really, really do. Because wanting him is all you can think about right now. All you can focus on beyond the thrumming of your heart, the aching throb between your thighs. You want his hands, his mouth, his—

"Off," you manage, tugging at his jeans with clumsy fingers. "These need to come off like, yesterday."

His chuckle vibrates through his chest into yours. "So fucking bossy."

But he's already leaning back, already working on his fly as you prop yourself up on your elbows to watch. And Jesus Christ, the way he looks right now—shirtless and disheveled, dark hair falling into darker eyes, lips red from your kisses—it's unfair. Unreal.

So fucking hot you think you might actually die if he doesn't touch you again in the next ten seconds.

His jeans hit the floor with a soft thud and holy fuck—the sight of him in just black boxer briefs should be illegal in at least forty-eight states. Like, someone call the police because this? This is absolutely criminal. The way the fabric clings to his thighs, the obvious bulge that makes your mouth water—

But then he's on you again, and thinking becomes a foreign concept.

His hands find the hem of your dress, bunching the fabric up with an urgency that makes heat pool between your legs. You arch up to help him, already anticipating the slide of fabric over skin, but—

Oh.

The second the dress clears your elbows, he presses down. Uses the fabric to pin your arms above your head, effectively trapping you against the mattress. And that's... that's...

Fuck.

His mouth is suddenly on your breast, hot and wet and absolutely perfect. No hesitation, no teasing—just the wet slide of his tongue over your nipple before he sucks it into his mouth, and holy shit.

Thank god you wore this dress. Thank every fucking deity that you chose the tight red one that doesn’t need a bra, because the feeling of his mouth directly on your skin is absolutely devastating.

A moan tears from your throat—embarrassingly loud in the quiet room—as his teeth graze sensitive flesh. His responding groan vibrates through your chest, sending shivers down your spine. Your back arches instinctively, pressing more firmly into his mouth as his tongue swirls around your peaked nipple.

His free hand finds your throat again, and—

Oh god.

His fingers spread wide, applying the slightest pressure. Testing. Exploring. Like he's curious about your reaction, about the way he feels your heartbeat flutter faster in response.

You can't help the soft sound that escapes you—somewhere between a whimper and a moan. His grip tightens fractionally in response, and your cunt clenches around nothing. Because fuck, that shouldn't be as hot as it is. The way he's controlling your breath, the way he's holding you down, the way his mouth is absolutely ruining you one suck at a time...

"Sensitive," he murmurs against your skin, and you can hear the smirk in his voice. Bastard. His thumb strokes along your jugular, feeling the way your breath hitches. "Wonder what other sounds I can get that pretty throat to make."

You'd have a snappy comeback for that. You know you would. But then he's switching to your other breast, teeth scraping just right, and coherent thought becomes a distant memory. All you can focus on is the wet heat of his mouth, the steady pressure of his hand on your throat, the way he's using his other hand to keep you pinned against the bed.

And maybe it's the situation, or maybe it's just him, but you've never been this turned on in your life. Never been this wet, this desperate, this needy. It should be embarrassing really—the way you're practically writhing beneath him, the way every little touch sends electricity sparking through your veins.

But with the way he's groaning against your skin, the way his hips keep grinding against yours like he needs it? Maybe you're not the only one that’s losing sanity here.

His teeth catch your nipple just as his fingers flex against your throat, and the combination pulls a sound from you that you didn’t even know you could make. High and breathy and absolutely wrecked.

"Fuck," he breathes, hot against your wet skin. "The sounds you make..."

His thumb brushes over your throat again, slower this time, before gliding up. Along the underside of your jaw. Pausing at your bottom lip. He applies the slightest pressure, watching as your mouth falls open on instinct. You're not sure whether you breathe or whimper, but it makes his gaze go impossibly darker, makes his hips roll against yours in response.

And then his thumb is there, pressing against your tongue, and—goddamn him—you're sucking without a second thought. The groan he lets out is a shattered thing, low and guttural, as though he's just as wrecked as you.

For three glorious seconds, he just... freezes. Like his brain's temporarily offline, like you've actually managed to short-circuit whatever smooth operator routine he had going.

And okay, maybe that gives you enough time to yank the dress out the rest of the way, tossing it off your bent elbows in a way that you hope was sexier than it felt. He doesn’t seem to notice—too busy looking at you like he's forgotten how he got here. Or how to breathe.

Either way, it's a little distracting.

But then he's moving, yanking his hand back like you've scorched him. And before you can even process the loss, he's sliding down your body, trailing open-mouthed kisses that make your skin come alive.

Your tipsy brain tries to catch up with what's unfolding—manages to register the flex of his shoulders, the heat of his mouth marking a path down your stomach, the way his hands are suddenly gripping your thighs and—

Oh.

Oh fuck.

He pulls you to the edge of the bed like you weigh nothing, kneeling between your spread legs like he belongs there. And how he looks up at you through his lashes, mouth hovering just inches from where you're absolutely drenched through your panties...

You prop yourself up on your elbows because fuck if you're missing this show. The movement makes your head spin slightly—reminder that you are definitely not sober—but the sight of him between your thighs is worth any potential vertigo.

His breath fans hot against your core, and your hips twitch involuntarily. A smirk plays at the corners of his mouth, but before you can call him out on it, he's leaning in. Pressing his open mouth against you through the thin fabric of your underwear, and—

"Fuck."

The word tears from your throat unbidden because holy shit, this shouldn't feel this good already. It's barely anything—just the heat of his mouth, the slight pressure of his tongue through fabric—but your body's lighting up like a fucking supernova. Like every nerve ending is suddenly dialed to a hundred.

Your fingers find his hair without conscious thought, tangling in the dark strands as he works you through your panties. The grip of his hands on your thighs tightens in response, and fuck—that's definitely going to leave marks.

And okay, yeah. Maybe you're embarrassingly wet. Maybe you can feel it soaking through the fabric, making everything slick and messy. Maybe you should care about that, about being this affected this quickly.

But you don’t. Not really, with the way he's groaning against you like he's dying for it. Like he can't get enough. Yeah, dignity can take a backseat.

Besides, all thoughts of pride or shame fly right out the window when he finally, finally hooks his fingers under the waistband of your panties. Your hips lift automatically, helping him slide them down your legs. They catch on your heels because of course you're still wearing your fuck-me pumps, but he doesn't seem to mind. Just lets the fabric dangle from one ankle as he dives back in, and—

"Holy shit."

His tongue drags up your slit in one long, deliberate stroke, and your brain temporarily stops working. Like, full system shutdown. Windows XP error sound and everything. Because fuck—that shouldn't feel as mindbogglingly good as it does.

Then he flicks your clit with the tip of his tongue and you make this absolutely mortifying noise—some choked little "guh" that would humiliate you if you were sober enough to care. His lip ring adds this extra edge of sensation that makes your thighs quake, cool metal a sharp contrast to the heat of his mouth.

He makes this sound against you—something between a hum and a growl (and okay, yeah, maybe 'growl' isn't the right word because what are you, fucking animals? But you're drunk and getting your pussy eaten properly for the first time in forever, so vocabulary can fuck right off). Whatever it is, it vibrates through you in a way that has your hips jerking up, seeking more.

Then he's doing these small, slow circles around your clit. So. Fucking. Slow. Like he wants to drive you crazy, wants you to fucking writhe against him. You try not to just grind up against his face. Because that would be desperate, right? That would be—

Damn.

The circles suddenly get faster, tighter, more intense. His tongue flicking over your clit with the kind of speed and precision that would put Fast & Furious to shame. And the sounds coming out of your mouth? Yeah, those aren't even words anymore. Just a stream of "oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck."

If Emma’s home—because it’s probably been an hour already—she’s probably getting one hell of a show through these paper-thin walls. But you know what? She fucking owes you. All those times you covered for her sneaking out to Bobby Martinez's house in high school? Yeah, consider this payback with interest.

He drags his tongue back down, gathering your wetness (and okay, yeah, you're basically flooding at this point but whatever), then slides back up. Adding texture to his movements like some kind of oral sex virtuoso. Because apparently this stranger knows exactly what he's doing with that mouth, and honestly? Good for you. You deserve this. You deserve to have your pussy eaten by someone who treats it like a goddamn art form.

So you lean back, let yourself enjoy it. Let him explore and taste and fuck—the way he's absolutely feasting on you like you're his last meal. His tongue finds your clit again, and this time he sucks it into his mouth, and the sound that rips from your throat probably violates noise ordinances in several states.

The wet sounds of his mouth on you are absolutely obscene. Like, pornographic-level obscene. All sucking and slurping and Jesus fucking Christ, you should not find that as hot as you do. But with your stiletto digging into his back (when did that happen?) and his hands gripping your thighs hard enough to leave fingerprints...

Yeah. Yeah, definitely hot.

Then his tongue drags down, down, down—and fuck, you can feel every ridge, every texture against your sensitive flesh. He reaches your entrance and just... circles it. Like he's mapping you out. Like he’s thinking about his next move.

Five blessed seconds where you can actually catch your breath. Where your brain starts to come back online and—

Fuck.

His tongue plunges into you without warning and your hand definitely just yanks out some of his hair but who fucking cares because his nose is nudging your clit while he tongue-fucks you and—and—

And your brain's offline again. Good talk.

He adjusts his arms, somehow pulling you even closer to his face. As if you weren't already basically smothering him. As if he literally wants to drown in your cunt. And that thought shouldn't be as scorching hot as it is but holy shit.

A moan tears from your throat—loud enough that Emma's probably googling noise complaint laws right now. But you can feel it building, that telltale tightening, that electric tension spreading through your core. Your clit's throbbing in time with your racing pulse and—

And he doesn't change a thing.

Because this guy? This absolute genius between your legs? He knows better than to pull that amateur hour bullshit where they speed up right when you're close. No, he maintains the exact same rhythm, the exact same pressure that got you here. Like he's done this before. Like he actually pays attention to what works.

(And okay, maybe you shouldn't be thinking about his past experience right now but your brain's kind of shorting out so whatever.)

Your stiletto digs deeper into his shoulder—might actually be drawing blood at this point but he doesn't seem to care one iota. If anything, he groans against you like he's getting off on it. Like pain turns him on. And that's...that's definitely something to stash away for later.

Or never. Because this is a one-time thing. Right. Focus.

Except focusing is basically impossible when he's eating you out like it's his actual job. When the pressure's building and building and—

Oh.

Oh fuck.

Your back arches off the bed like you're auditioning for America's Next Top Model: After Dark Edition. The orgasm hits you like a riptide, waves of pleasure so intense your vision actually whites out for a second. Your thighs clamp around his head, heel probably leaving permanent marks on his back, and you're definitely making sounds that would make a porn star blush but—

But holy shit.

His tongue flicks over your oversensitive clit one last time—the absolute bastard—and your whole body jerks as you whimper. Which, okay, definitely earned that one. Because holy fuck.

You slump back against the bed, bones liquified, as he prowls up your body. His hands plant on either side of your face and—wow, okay, up close he's even more unfairly beautiful. All sharp jawline and scorching eyes and lips that are literally glistening with...yeah.

"You taste exactly like you smell," he murmurs, and what kind of weird-ass compliment is that? Like, thanks? Good to know your pussy matches your perfume brand?

Except...it kind of works? Something tingles in your face and no. Absolutely not. You are not getting all swoony just because Hot Stranger is saying vaguely poetic shit during sex. This is just your horny lizard brain going 'hot man say words, neurons go brr.' That's all.

Then his mouth is on your neck and—yeah, okay, thinking is canceled anyway. His hands trace maddening patterns down your stomach, feather-light touches that make your muscles jump. And when he tugs his briefs down, his cock springs free and—

Oh.

Well then.

Your body apparently didn’t get the memo about the standard refractory period because hello, Round Two suddenly seems very appealing. It hasn’t even been five minutes since you came but here you are, already clenching around nothing like some kind of sex-starved teenager.

He leans back slightly, reaching for something and—ah. His jeans. More specifically, his wallet. From which he produces not one but multiple condoms, and honestly? We love a prepared king. Nothing hotter than a guy who practices safe sex without having to be asked.

(And yes, you're literally evaluating his sexual responsibility while naked and still tingling from one of the best orgasms of your life. Sue you.)

He grabs one condom and tosses the others somewhere on the bed. Then—because apparently he's auditioning for some porno-meets-action-movie hybrid—he puts the wrapper between his teeth. Locks eyes with you. Rips it open.

And okay, PSA time: Kids (not that any kids should be reading this, what the fuck brain?)—this is not how you open condoms. Use your fingers like a normal person, not your teeth like some kind of sexual menace. That's literally Condom Safety 101.

But then again, when a guy this stupid hot does literally anything, your brain just kind of... accepts it. Like yeah, sure, demolish that condom wrapper with your teeth while maintaining smoldering eye contact. That's normal. That's fine. You're fine.

He gives the condom a cursory check (okay, at least he's being thorough), pinches the tip between his fingers and you just... watch. Wait.

"You gonna fuck me tomorrow or...?" The words slip out before your self-censor can nab them, biting and teasing.

Bad choice.

His hand—his stupidly large, stupidly warm hand—wraps around your thigh and yanks you down the bed in one fluid motion. And why the fuck is that so hot? Why are you noticing how his fingers practically span your whole thigh? Why is the heat of his palm against your skin making your breath catch?

Your eyes flicker back to his cock and—oh. When did he even get the condom on? You must have missed that while you were having your crisis about his hands. But he's ready now, thick and hard and—

Fuck.

He pushes in with one swift motion and your body just... takes him. Like you're literally eager for it, still slick and open from his mouth. He makes this soft gasping sound like he's actually dying, like your cunt is some kind of religious experience.

"Fuck, you're so wet," he groans, hips flush against yours. "So fucking slippery and warm, feels like silk—"

"That's—ah—what happens when you eat someone out properly," you manage, even as your walls flutter around him. Because apparently your mouth doesn’t know when to quit, even with a dick inside you.

His laugh is rough, breathless.

"I’ll keep that in mind."

And fuck—the way he says it, like a promise, like a threat. Your cunt clenches at the thought and he actually growls.

He pushes your thighs down against the mattress and—ow. Okay, that's definitely going to hurt tomorrow. Future You is probably already plotting Present You's murder, adding your name to some karmic hit list right next to Emma’s (who, let’s be real, is definitely contemplating homicide through these paper-thin walls right now).

But then he starts moving and—oh.

Oh fuck.

Every coherent thought evaporates because he's burying himself so deep you swear he's trying to carve out a permanent place inside you. Like he wants your body to remember exactly how he feels, wants to leave an impression that'll last long after tonight.

You didn’t even get a proper look at his size earlier (too busy fizzing over his hands, his mouth, literally everything else), but holy shit. What you do know is he's thick—like, properly thick. Every inch of him pressed against your walls like he's trying to eliminate any space between you, like he's mapping out your insides for future reference.

"Fuck, you're tight," he groans, and you actually feel him twitch inside you. "So fucking—"

"Less talking," you manage to gasp out, "more moving."

His laugh is rough, breathless. "As you wish."

He snaps his hips once—testing, exploring—and your breath hitches in your throat. Then again. And again. Quick thrust in, torturously slow pull out, and every single time has you gasping like some Victorian maiden with a too-tight corset.

"Like that?" He sounds way too smug for someone balls-deep in a stranger. "The way you squeeze me every time I—"

"You always this chatty during sex?" Your voice comes out embarrassingly breathy, but whatever. "Or am I just special?"

Another snap of his hips that makes your eyes roll back. "Maybe I just like the sounds you make when I'm inside you."

And fuck—why is that hot? That shouldn’t be hot. You're still so wet from earlier that you can hear it, can feel how smoothly he glides in and out, nice and easy.

"You're certainly—ah—confident," you manage between thrusts, because apparently your mouth doesn’t know when to quit. "Compensating for something?"

His grip on your thighs tightens. "Want me to stop and let you check?"

"Don’t you fucking dare."

His pace quickens and—oh hello, is that a smirk he's biting back? It is. It absolutely fucking is. And your brain, your stupid, traitorous brain, finds that scorching. Because of course it does. You squint your eyes shut because you can’t deal with how cocky he looks right now, can’t process how that cockiness is actually doing it for you.

Congratulations, you've officially lost it. This is your villain origin story. Death by dick-induced insanity. They'll write case studies about you in Psychology Today: "Local Woman's Brain Melts Because Hot Stranger Has Good Dick Game." Your mother would be so proud.

But also? Also shut the fuck up, brain, because you're literally getting the best dick of your life right now so maybe save the self-reproach for later? Like, there's a time and place for your characteristic overthinking and this ain’t it.

He leans forward then, changing the angle as he chases your mouth, and holy fuck. Each thrust goes deeper, harder, faster—like he's trying to reach parts of you no one else has touched. His kiss is messy, all tongue and teeth and desperation, and you're actually whimpering into his mouth like some kind of—

Wait.

Hold the fucking phone.

Since when do you whimper? What is this, some kind of Harlequin romance novel? Are you secretly the protagonist of a Fabio-covered paperback? Because you don’t whimper. You don’t make these soft, needy little sounds into strange men’s mouths. That’s not your brand. That’s not—

But then he rolls his hips in this way that makes you see actual fucking stars, and okay, you know what? Fuck your brand. Fuck everything. Because the way he's moving? The way he's filling you up like you're some kind of horny piñata? Yeah, that takes precedence over your identity crisis.

And speaking of crises—why does this feel so fucking good? Like, mathematically speaking, dick is dick. It's basic anatomy. Tab A into Slot B. So why does every thrust feel like he's rewriting the laws of physics? Why does your body respond to him like he's got some kind of sexual Midas touch?

The worst part? The absolute worst part? You can feel another orgasm building already. Which is ridiculous. Impossible. You literally came like ten minutes ago. This man hasn’t even finished once and here you are, ready to go again like some kind of horny Energizer bunny.

You need to have a serious conversation with your pussy about standards and expectations. Like, what happened to the refractory period? What happened to playing hard to get? Because this? This instant response to everything he does? This eager little flutter every time he hits that spot just right?

This is just embarrassing.

But also really, really fucking good.

"You take my cock so fuckin' well," he groans against your neck, voice rough and slurred. "Like y'were made for it, so perfect—"

And okay, what kind of porn dialogue bullshit is that? Who actually says things like that during sex? More importantly, why is it working? Why does every filthy word from his mouth send electricity shooting straight to your cunt?

"Hnnngh—"

That's it. That's all you can manage because your brain-to-mouth filter is totally fried. Your nails dig into his shoulders as he hits that spot just right, and you're pretty sure you're leaving marks but whatever. Future Him problems.

"F-fuck, how you clench around me when I say shit like that," his words come out breathless, hitching. "Like hearing how good you feel? How tight and wet and fucking flawless—"

"Shut up." But it comes out more like a whine than a command, completely undermining any attempt at snark. Your walls flutter around him traitorously, and his responding groan vibrates through your whole body.

"Make me," he challenges, punctuating it with a particularly vicious thrust that has your eyes rolling back. "Or maybe you don't want me to? Maybe you secretly get off on—fuck—on hearing how amazing you are, how nobody's ever swallowed me this deep before—"

"Nghh—" Your brain's offline. Completely fucking offline. No thoughts, head empty, just the overwhelming sensation of him moving inside you, the heat of his breath against your neck, the absolute filth falling from his lips.

"S'true though," he pants, pace growing erratic. "Never felt anything like this, like your—oh fuck—"

A moan tears from your throat—loud and wanton and utterly mortifying. But you can't help it, not when he's fucking you like he's trying to ruin you for anyone else, not when he keeps saying these things that make your insides turn to molten lava.

"That's it, lemme hear you," he encourages, and you want to punch him for how smug he sounds but you also want him to never stop. "Love the sounds you make when I'm deep in this pussy, when I—shit—"

His voice catches as you deliberately tighten around him, a small victory that makes you smirk despite how your body's on fire.

"Fuck, you're evil."

"You talk too much," you manage to get out between gasps, even as your hips chase his rhythm desperately. You're close—so fucking close—but not quite there.

He laughs against your neck, the sound dark and promising.

“Touch yourself for me."

When you don't immediately comply—because for some reason you still want to challenge him—he pulls back just enough to look you in the eye.

"Rub that pretty clit, show me how you like it."

The command in his voice shouldn't turn you on this much. "Make me," you challenge, because apparently your mouth has a death wish.

"Oh?"

His rhythm slows to something torturous, each thrust deep and deliberate. "Do I need to show you where it is? Guide those lovely fingers myself?"

You're about to snark back when his hand slides between your bodies, and—oh. Oh.

"Found it," he says with infuriating smugness, circling your clit with practiced ease. Your whole body jerks at the contact, oversensitive and desperate. "Seems like I know exactly where it is. Don't I?"

"Fuck—" Your voice breaks as he applies just the right amount of pressure, the bastard. "You're so—nghh—"

"I'm so what?" He's grinning now, you can hear it in his voice even as you squeeze your eyes shut. "C'mon, tell me. Use your words."

"Insufferable," you grit out, but your body betrays you, arching into his touch. "Arrogant—ah—asshole—"

"Maybe." His fingers speed up, matching the pace of his thrusts, and holy shit you're going to die. "But I'm an arrogant asshole who's about to make you cum again, aren't I?"

He's right and you hate it. Hate how well he reads your body, hate how he found your clit without hesitation like he's got some kind of carnal GPS, hate how fucking good he is at this.

"That's it," he encourages as your breathing hitches, as your nails dig into his shoulders. "Let me feel you fall apart. Wanna feel this cunt clamp down on my cock when you—"

His hips stutter and you can feel him pulsing inside you, even through the condom. The way his whole body tenses, the broken sound he makes against your throat—it pushes you right over the edge. Yeah. Your second orgasm says hi; has you curling your toes against his back, tensing your thighs around him as if he would ever dream of leaving right now.

"Fuck fuck fuck—" You're not even sure which one of you is saying it anymore. Maybe both. Maybe neither. Maybe you're having an out-of-body experience because Jesus Christ.

For a moment, there's just silence. Just breathing. Just the sound of your heart trying to recall its normal cadence. Then he chuckles against your cheek—a low, sated sound that you'll deny remembering tomorrow—and follows it with a quick nip that makes you jolt.

"Fuck, that was good," he breathes, still catching his breath.

"S'alright," you manage, even though your legs are literally jelly and your brain's still rebooting.

He pulls back just enough to quirk an eyebrow at you, that infuriating smirk playing at his lips. "Just alright?"

"Fishing for compliments?" You raise your own eyebrow, trying to ignore how his hand is still absently stroking your hip. "That's kind of desperate."

"Says the girl who came twice."

And—okay, rude. Accurate, but rude.

He shifts then, carefully pulling out (and at least he's considerate about it, making sure not to hurt you), and starts dealing with the condom. But then he just... stands there. Looking lost. Condom in hand and this adorably bemused expression that makes something in your chest do a weird little flip.

No. Not adorable. Nothing about this guy is adorable. Hot? Yes. Skilled with his tongue? Abso-fucking-lutely. But not adorable. You refuse to find anything about him cute, especially not the way he's glancing around the room like a lost puppy trying to figure out where to—

You can't stifle the snort that escapes you. "Trash can's over there, genius." You gesture with your head toward the small bin by the dresser. "Try not to get lost on the way."

He rolls his eyes but moves across the room, and you definitely don't watch the play of muscles in his back as he walks. Or the way his ass looks in the dim light. Or how his hand rakes through his tousled hair as he leans down to dispose of the condom and—

Fuck.

Fuck.

Because here's the thing: you've had one-night stands before. You know how this goes. Quick fuck, awkward goodbye, never see each other again. That's the routine. That's the protocol. That's what smart, sensible people do.

But.

But you're already thinking about how his mouth felt between your legs. About how he filled you up just right. About how he seemed to know exactly what to do with his hands, his hips, his—

And you know what? Fuck it. Fuck being sensible and sane. Fuck playing it cool. You've got a hot guy with stellar dick game right here, right now. Might as well take advantage while you can.

Before your brain can talk you out of it, you're launching yourself off the bed. Your legs are still a bit wobbly (thanks, Mr. Two Orgasms), but you manage to catch him just as he turns around. Your mouth crashes into his, messy and demanding, as you push him against the wall.

His surprised grunt turns into a pleased hum against your lips, and his hands immediately find your hips like they belong there. Like this is exactly what he was hoping would happen.

Cocky bastard.

He spins you around so fast your head spins—or maybe that's just the lingering vodka. Either way, suddenly your back's hitting the wall and—oh. Okay. This is happening. Again. Because apparently your body doesn't give two shits about being thoroughly fucked already.

His mouth crashes back into yours, hungry and insistent, and it should be gross really—you can taste yourself on his tongue, everything's messy and uncoordinated and frantic. But instead it's just...hot. So fucking hot you feel like you're melting from the inside out.

Then his hands slide down to your thighs and he's lifting you like you weigh zilch (and seriously, what is it with this guy and manhandling? More importantly, why do you like it?). Your legs wrap around his waist automatically, and how his cock twitches against your stomach—already getting hard again—should not make you feel this smug.

"Eager?" you manage to gasp between kisses, because apparently your mouth doesn't know when to quit.

He bites your bottom lip in response, just hard enough to make you whimper (and fuck, there's that sound again, what is wrong with you tonight?). "I’m sorry? Weren’t you the one jumping me?”

"Just felt sorry for you." The words come out breathier than intended as his mouth finds that spot behind your ear. "Standing there looking all lost with your used condom—"

His growl cuts you off, vibrating through his chest into yours. One of his hands tangles in your hair, yanking your head back to expose your throat, and—fuck. The way he attacks your neck like he's trying to mark you up, like he wants everyone to know exactly what you've been doing...

Then his mouth finds yours again, swallowing whatever protest you might have made. And it's different this time—sloppier, needier. All clashing teeth and warring tongues and his hands everywhere at once. You're pressed so tightly between him and the wall you can feel every twitch of his muscles, every stuttered breath.

One of his hands slides up your thigh, fingertips trailing fire in their wake, and you're already embarrassingly slick again. Already aching for him like you didn't just have him inside you minutes ago. Your hips roll against him craving friction, and the sound he makes—half groan, half snarl—shoots straight between your legs.

"Condom," you gasp against his mouth. "Need a—"

"Yeah," he breathes, but he doesn't move away. Just keeps kissing you like he's suffocating and you're oxygen, like he can't bear to stop even for a heartbeat. "Yeah, just—fuck, you feel so good—"

Your brain's rapidly disintegrating, especially with the way he keeps grinding against you, the way his mouth keeps doing that to your neck. But you manage to remember: "Bed. Other condoms. On the bed."

He makes this sound of acknowledgment but still doesn't budge, just shifts his hips in a way that has his cock sliding against your clit and—jesus fuck.

"If you don't get a condom right now," you warn, voice embarrassingly unsteady, "I'm going to kill you."

His laugh is rough, breathless. "Such violence."

He practically teleports to the bed—like, Olympic-level sprinting for that condom. It'd be comical, the way he fumbles with the wrapper (apparently Mr. Smooth isn't so smooth when he's desperate), except you're too busy being embarrassingly turned on by his urgency.

You're about to suggest moving to the bed—because your legs are already shaking and wall sex seems ambitious after two orgasms—but—

Holy fuck.

He's got you up against the wall again in one fluid motion, hands gripping your thighs as he lines himself up and—oh god. The sound that rips from your throat as he fills you in one swift thrust is utterly shameful. But the broken "fuck" that falls from his lips? How his whole body shudders as he bottoms out?

Yeah, okay. Maybe worth the mortification.

"Jesus fuck," he breathes against your neck, voice wrecked. "You feel—shit, how do you feel even better than before?"

"Hush it," you gasp, even as your walls flutter around him. "And move."

He laughs, breathless and gritty. "Demanding little thing." But he's already moving, setting a pace that has your head lolling back. "God, you’re even wetter than before, taking me so well—”

"That your professional opinion?" Your attempt at snark falls flat when it comes out as more of a moan. "Done extensive research, have you?"

His hips snap up particularly hard at that. "Never—fuck—never felt anything like this."

And that should be a line. That should be the kind of bullshit guys say during hookups to stroke their own egos. Except the way he says it—all breathless wonder and raw honesty—makes something hot unfurl in your chest.

"Yeah?" It comes out embarrassingly breathy, but whatever. Can’t really care when every thrust is melting honey down your spine. "Prove it."

He makes this sound—half growl, half moan—like he fucking loves your audacity. "Already made you come twice."

"Maybe I was faking."

"Sweetheart, nobody's that good an actress."

And honestly? Fair. But you're not about to admit that, not when he's already so smug about how well he plays your body. Instead, you drag him down for a kiss that's more teeth than finesse, swallowing his groans as his pace gets more erratic.

"F-fuck," he pants against your mouth. "Gonna make you come again. Wanna feel you—"

"Big talk for someone who—ah—hasn't delivered yet."

His responding thrust makes your back arch off the wall. "Jus’ wait."

His hips snap up harder at your challenge, making your head thump back against the wall. And fuck—the way he's moving now, all rough desperation and graceless rhythm. Everything's wet and messy and absolutely filthy, the sounds of skin on skin blending with your breathless moans.

"Still—ah—ah—waiting for that delivery," you manage, even as your nails dig into his shoulders.

"Fuckin’—" His breathless laugh is menacing. "Always—fuck—gotta have the last word, don’tcha?”

You'd have a comeback for that, you really would, except he chooses that moment to shift his angle and—holy shit. Because now? Now his pubic bone grinds against your clit every time he moves, every time he thrusts deep inside you. And honestly? Fucking unfair that even his bones know where your clit is.

You can feel him twitching inside you, can tell he's close by the way his breath comes in harsh pants against your neck. And you're almost there too, just need a little more—

But then he's groaning, hips stuttering as he cums. His whole body tenses, pressing you flatter against the wall as he empties into the condom.

And okay, great for him, congratulations, but you were so fucking close.

You tap his back urgently. "Keep goin’."

"What?" He's still catching his breath, forehead pressed against your shoulder. "Gimme a second, ah—I just—"

"I was—right there," you whine (and yes, you're actually whining now, this is what you've been reduced to). "Don't you dare stop."

He lifts his head, looking at you incredulously. "I literally just filled the condom—"

"I don't give a fuck, just move."

And okay, yeah, PSA time number two: This is definitely not safe sex practice. The second a condom's full, it needs to be changed. That's like, Sex Ed 101. But also? Also your clit is throbbing and you were this close to coming and your horny lizard brain has completely taken over.

"Jesus," he breathes, but he's already starting to move again, shallow little thrusts that make your eyes roll back. "You're fucking insatiable."

"Like earlier," you gasp, grinding down against him. "With the… with your hipbone."

He laughs against your neck—a rough, breathless sound that shouldn't be as arousing as it is. "Gotcha."

And he does. Repositions himself, makes sure he’s got exactly the same position he had earlier. His hipbone comes in contact with your clit as he begins thrusting faster again, and fucking yeah, that’s what you needed.

"Fuck, the way you feel," he groans. "So slick and snug and—shit—"

"Shut up shut up shut up—"

Because you can't handle his voice right now, can't deal with how his words make the drowning sensation grow more and more intense by the second. You're so close you can taste it, right on the precipice, just need a little more—

Then he nips at your neck, his tongue flattening against your pulse point. And that's it. You're a goner. Again. For the third time tonight.

Your entire body locks up as bliss courses through, lapping at your core like waves at a shore. Your eyes instinctively close as you relish it in all its intensity, and you're pretty sure you make some kind of mortifying noise but whatever. Three orgasms in, dignity is a distant memory.

He slows his movements gradually, letting you ride it out, and you can feel him softening inside you. Your head drops to his shoulder because keeping it upright seems like way too much effort right now. The residual booze is hitting different after getting thoroughly wrecked—everything soft and fuzzy around the edges.

You vaguely register him checking the condom with his free hand—the other one still supporting your ass because apparently you're not ready to unwrap your legs from his waist yet. Your brain's moving in slow motion, heavy with alcohol and mist and the kind of bone-deep exhaustion that only comes from really good sex.

"Hey." He taps your back lightly. "You falling asleep on me? Dick game that good?"

"Die," you mumble into his shoulder, not even bothering to lift your head. "Just... shut up and die."

You hear him chuckle, vaguely. It should be irritating. It isn't. You're too drained to care. Everything's warm and hazy and your limbs feel like they're crafted from lead.

You're only half-aware of him moving you to the bed, of sheets being pulled up, of a warm body pressing against your back. Your consciousness is already drifting, floating in that space between awake and asleep where nothing quite computes.

The last thing you register, right before slumber claims you completely, is his nose pressed against your neck and his drowsy murmur:

“Smell like vanilla now too."

⋆｡°✩ TAGLIST ✩°｡⋆

@cannotalwaysbenight @livingformintyoongi @itstoastsworld @somehowukook

© jungkoode 2025 no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[trauma-official]

Hello! I'm Bruna[They/She/Him/It]! Host of these fucked up little beings (such as Sam[She/Her], Noah[He/They], Nissha[They/It], the little Trauma[It/They] and the other Bruna[She/They]). I'm friendly, so be nice and I will be nice too! :)

We decided to make a tumblr account for each one (except that me and the other Bruna will have the same account) soo..

@cat-loved for Sam.

@the-deity-of-rest for Noah.

@ant-oficcial for Nissha.

@writing-my-soul for Me and Bruna.

And this one for little trauma. And for each one of us since Trauma doesn't speak.

I'm a minor!!!

Also, I talk a lot about a lot of disturbing stuff that is not exacly the most safe for everyone's mental health. If you're easilly disturbed you should NOT follow this blog, please for your own happyness. I'm a horrible person. Go have fun somewhere else okay? Stay safe sweetheart, bye~ <3

Please, only send a dm if we're mutuals, and 18+ people, only if I contact first. (It's more of a request that a rule, but I would apreciate)

And please, don't ask for money. I'm too poor for that. 😭

This is a safe place for LGBTQ+ individuals :>

Also for the Furrys and Therians. Welcome too!

I don't really know how to introduce myself... well I'm Audhd, so please be patient with me. And am probably undiagnosed DID... so yeah, the username say it all. Also, I use a lot of terms or endearment and nicknames because I'm bad at remembering Names and Pronouns so i'm sorry if I make a mistake I try my best to remember. I also got this new habit of calling other people "babe"... and I mean it in the most aroaace way possible cuz to me "babe"="baby"="people that I care enough to help". So... yeah. Tell me if you don't like and I'll try to remember :>

I'm Aroace(aro>cupioromantic, Omniplatonic/ace>aegosexual), Polyplatonic. Also Trigender[Sam is a Cis woman, Noah a Trans man and both Nissha and Trauma are some kind of Agender entity, Plus the other Bruna is pretty much Trigender too).

●Games: Stardew Valley, Minecraft, Haverst Moon, BOMBERMAN, The sims, Gacha, Undertale, The Coffin of Andy and Leyley, Sally Face, Fran Bow, Little Misfortune.

(Honorary fan of: Deltarune, Omori, Five Nights at Freddy's, Kirby, Bendy and the Ink Machine)

●Shows/Movies: Hilda, Dungeon Meshi, Adventure Time, Arcane, Demon Slayer, Gravity Falls, Lego Movie, Little Witch Academia, Most Disney(and related) films, some ghibli movies, Mako Mermaids, Sonic, Steven Universe, She-Ra, The Owl House, We bare Bears, Yokai Watch, Epic the Musical...

(Honorary fan of: Ninjago, My Little Pony, Over the Garden Walls, Pokémon, Harry Potter)

°• #TraumaWrites -> for when I post anything about my writing.

For some of my moot's that I feel that NEED to be here there it is: (if you want to be taken from here, or wanna come to feel free to tell me)

• @the-toaster-rat -> My dear rat, my dear friend. If you touch them you're dead. DEAD.

• @veeisanerd -> Is like a litte sibling to me, I will not permit damage to it's soul.

• @aspenindatree -> Another little sib, mah little cub, minha querida. <3

• @somekindofneurodivergency -> *sighs* es mi hermanito....<3

• @opaquelavender -> Mah fren, my sweet, my favorite <3

• @zithergiltscorner -> pretty greens and pinks, please never go away <3

• @f3ath3rflam3 -> My favorite witch <3 her spells do wonders •◇•

• @sparklykat-hideoutenthusiast -> EXCUSE ME PLEASE. SHE MADE FANART, FANART OF MY BOOK. I'M ALWAYS GONNA REMEMBER THAT!.

• And a honorable mention to others I haven't interacted much but I love to see on my dash and I hope are having great days: @silly-fox-and-its-stuffies @chernobylcatfish09 @emilem-forevermore @certified-woman-kisser @stuck-in-a-forest @chaos-gremlin @thelovelyvie (for making soup me) @silly-gizmo @preposterousray @eon-tries