#stickers of your sneakers

[deedala]

"Danced too much, nearly fell off the stage.”

Beloved music nerd Ian from None The Wiser by @loftec

[dilf-docs]

Give Me Coffee, Utah Love

sleazy!joel 'mullet' miller x younger fem!reader

summary: on the run and looking for a fresh start, a cheap gasoline coffee and to-do list slipping from your bag later, you (have lost your mind and) consider this stranger's proposition.

warnings: 18+ (minors dni), age gap (52/25), pwp, p. in v., fingering, (one) pussy spank, degradation kink, lwk breeding and exhibition kink, nasty filthy sex, public sex, one joke about kys, strangers to ???, pulled an all nighter for this yey me (its 3am and my alarm sounds at 4:10 lol) so forgive me if i made any spelling mistake, i wanna see ur comments/reblogs bc i crashed out so bad i feel like i deserve it

word count: 4,060 words

side note: that one girl who doesn't play abt snl. okay but who works harder? the devil, a7estrellas or me, that only needed two pedro snl sketches and is acting like a yuppie in the 80s doing cocaine on a bathroom after work bc WOW so many new content. yes, men with mullets should die but this is pedro! song of choice for this piece is queen of the gas station by sleazy dilf patroness lana del rey. also up next, renaldo inspired one shot to celebrate the snl 50 series! (update: read it here)

You liked driving at night.

There was simply something about the eerie silence, the shadows casting upon the streets, barely touched by the headlights and the moon, the quiet hum of the radio and the slow shift of your hands on the wheel.

You liked driving at night, but today, it feels off.

Just this morning, you had looked at your house one last time. It still had that white paint on the porch, that had faded due to the sunlight, and those scrapped stickers on what had been your childhood room's door.

He had tried talking some sense in to you, claiming all your life was there, in Arizona. With him. But Phoenix had started to feel like a prison and he was your warden. So you snuck at dawn when no one would notice, like a criminal. Very fitting.

The sun hadn't touched yet the kitchen where you ate when your feet balanced off the chair and now graced the floor in a lazy manner, eating cereal with marshmallows first and now, just about three days ago, just oatmeal, because it seemed like what a grown up would do.

But in many ways you were still the same kid who was too shy to raise her hand in class because she couldn't find her voice, bound to be forgotten among much louder and brigther kids. Yet he had seen you.

So you stayed: put up with dances where he would spin you until the world was reduced to a blur, and the quiet home life in town-- kids running around and barbecues on the summer seemed like a good ending. You dreamed of a truck and a garden, and the few friends you made all seemed to share the same vision. Except for one.

When Dorothea came back from New York, eyes too wide and smile too bright, she seemed like a different person. In many ways she still was the same girl with an accent who had shared her sandwhich with you during recess, but her words now carried ambition and her gaze seemed awoken by a purpose you couldn't find but on the road that drove out of town.

But folks kept her at arms length. The amusement in her smile was infectious as a disease, and with whispered stabs they would talk behind her back. Your friend bore a scarlett letter for wanting more.

You had never wanted more; compliant might of be your second name. But when you'd see her walk by your house, shorts above her knees and that city girl strut with her sneakers against the hot asphalt, you were envious, and Williams seemed so small and dull.

Who does she think she is? he would say, and you'd nod your head, despite the secret admiration hidden in your eyes.

Suddenly, the red truck sounded stupid and the married life with kids could wait.

We could wait, you had said outloud.

He had laughed, like you just told a joke. It was on surprise, but it felt cruel.

Why? like he couldn't understand you-- as if you spoke on a different language. What is there to wait for?

You took your decision that day.

It started slow, by wearing skirts that rode up with the wind, blaming the lack of clothes on the heat. Then with the nicotine between your lips, the forbidden act making clouds that escaped your red lips. Or wearing the other make up Dorothea taught you, now holding hands with her as people whispered she had tainted your naive soul too. He caught your new smell, and spoke harshly about not wearing clothes that made other men turn to eat out the sun-kissed skin of your legs, because you'd turn too, gaze defiant and full of mischief, but that he didn't know. Might as well wear nothin'. But he cried with his face buried in the same uncovered legs, saying he hated to see you like this; he didn't recognize you.

It was easy then.

One day you packed your bags and took the car you'd been given as a graduation gift, leaving town with what seemed a lifetime stashed in the backseat.

You left a note for your parents, neatly placed on a bed you wondered when you'd sleep again in, if you were ever to be back. To him, who you now just start to wonder if you ever really loved or just accepted because it's what there was and nothing more, you hadn't left a note nor explanations.

He wouldn't understand anyways.

Just the promise of what could've been, shining in the middle of your bed.

You had been driving non-stop, afraid like a fugitive who was being chasen. Sometimes, you'd take stops on the road and pulled out a pen and a book, despite your fingers itching from driving and your urgency to check the phone you'd been to coward to turn on to see the wake of messages your disappearance might have sparked.

There was a sting somewhere outside the ache of your bones or the flutter of your tired eyes, and it cried for home and longed for the life you always envisioned for yourself. But it also felt like a second skin you couldn't quite wash off with the cheap soap and cold water of the motel you had crashed in a couple of hours ago.

You didn't want to live in suburban desert dreams back at Williams. You wanted to feel alive.

It's nightime when the little peep sound jolts you awake. You had been driving in auto-pilot; your car needs gas and you needed rest.

Its probably ten at night, and according to your map, Utah isn't that far. It's a fresh start: a place where no one knows your name or your whole life, for the matter.

Your car comes to a stop under faded neon lights in the middle of the road. There's a truck parked next to your car, the guy inside the convenience store, and that's about it. You're filling your tank while suppressing a yawn, when a movement across your station catches your eyes.

The only other customer, a man old enough to be your dad. He's staring at you, leaning against his truck, arms crossed while the biceps flex with the position, tense. Even from your place, you can see how the veins pop here and there, making you gulp on instinct.

The smoke of his cigarrette gets lost in the neon hues and starry sky. Doesn't he know you're not supposed to do that at a gas station? Yet, his lack of care and recklessness picks your interest.

(Hey! The last time you had human contact was about a day ago and after seeing only roads, asphalt, desert and mountains, you deserved a little treat to entertain yourself)

"Like what you see, doll?" sporting the most sleazy smile you'd ever seen.

Something about him was as alluring as uneasy, the nervous tremble of your hands but the warmth between your legs speaking of said conflicting emotions. You pretend to be invested on the task of filling your truck (the reason you're here, after all) but the way your body burns, begs, to look again is humilliating. So you do, but he isn't there anymore, althought his truck is.

"You know, wearin' a dress like that at night isn't a good idea for'a girl like you"

He appears from seemingly nowhere, making you jump. Your heart flutters and you clench at nothing with the sound of his deep voice, low, akin to a rumble or a thunder. It's laced with diversion, and the not so subtle way he eats you out with his eyes like a starved man, wolfish grin on display as he leans now against your car, makes his intentions all the more clear.

"Why?" you feel oddly bold, instead of scared. Maybe it's the lack of sleep, because why the hell would you be flirting in a gas station, at night, entertaining an old and slighlty creepy albeit attractive man when you had been engaged less than a day ago?

"The weather" he appears nonchalant, balancing the cigarrette like a toothpick between his chapped lips. "Or men"

"Bold of you to say that while wearing that" you poke fun at his outfit, which consists of some shorts, worn t-shirt and a vest. He's sporting the tall socks and slippers combo, dressing like a grandpa but he pulls it off alright. "Also, men? Like who, you?"

He laughs, the sound sprouting rich and grave from his chest. It makes you dizzy. Yup, let's blame the lack of sleep again.

"Well, look at that. Sure got'a mouth on ya', doll" he gets closer, and his scent floods your nostrils. Wood, gasoline, musk, sweat and burnt ciggars. "Just takin' care of you. Say, how about ya' warm that shaky frame of yers? This place has sum coffee goin' on. Shit, but it works"

He could poison your drink for all you care, but all his teeth are on display and he's got a dimple. Also, you're fighting your fluttering eyelids in here.

"Y/n" it's your way of agreeing while extending your hand.

Instead of shaking it, he pulls you even closer and kisses it, his warm lips brushing your cold hand. You shiver at the contact, and it may be the way his firey auburn holds your gaze while doing so or how big his hands feel, both your mind and heart racing.

"Joel" he says, and then that same calloused palm finds its way to the soft part above your ass in your back, guiding you to the store.

Inside, it smells like cheap coffee and grease. You clutch your bag tighter, and choose a table as the stranger pays for your coffee, or well, Joel.

"There ya' go" and he places the hot brown liquid in front of you.

Now that he's closer and under the yellow-ish lights, you take a better look at his face. His eyes, which mock the drink in front of you. His hands, that seem to almost swallow the small cup with their size, and then his hair. God, alright. He sported a fucking mullet of all haircuts. And boy, wasn't it embarrassingly attractive? Your eyes fall towards his beard and mustache, grays sprinkled across them. But your mind and eyes alike went back to the thought of feeling the slightly greasy looking hazel strands, calling for your touch.

"Gonna take a sip or what?" and he smiles. You don't know if it's in diversion by your doze-off or because he knows why.

You had never felt this hot and bothered. Hell, not even normal hot. He had never made you feel like this, and now some fucking random skanky man was getting your panties on a twist in the middle of the road.

"I-I'm going to the bathroom" you manage to squeak out, running for your life.

Inside the stall, you splash some water into your face, as if trying to make you react. Get yourself together, you tell your reflection in the mirror, but then you're fixing your hair, and as you reach for your red lipstick you realize you left your bag back at the table. Fuck.

You get out, only to find your bag weirdly sprawled on the seat, the handles centimeters away from falling to the floor. Then, he, who you only see his sturdy back and broad shoulders, crouched down, like he's reading something, althought Joel doesn't seem the type of guy who chooses to read in his free time.

"Joel?"

And then you see it: the tiny notebook you had been scribbling on the road, looking even smaller on his grip.

Your To-do list.

It may sound stupid, but a week before leaving, you bought it: the last memory of your town and the start of your new life. At twenty-five, the concept may sound a little stupid with what you've written, but you felt your new life deserved to have space for some of those dreams or fleeting thoughts you had during class written down.

And now fucking Joel was reading it.

"Wow, doll. Ya' sure are full of surprises" he chuckles, flipping through the pages. What sounds better: killing him or yourself? Hmm, maybe throwing the burning coffee at him would suffice.

"Give me that back" you extend your rigid hand, voice clipped.

The stupid trail of decisions catches up to you. Why had you trusted a stranger that had oggled you right in front of your face? You're too starved and horny to think straight, clearly, because now he's mocking you while your face burns with red shame.

"Saved your bag from fallin' when ya' rushed outta da seat. Then this lil' thing came out" he stops on a page. "Skinny dipping. And'ere I thought you're a good girl"

"Shut up and give me that" you seethe.

"Wow, doll" Joel chuckles yet again. "don't get yer panties in a twist. If ya' wanted so, jus' ask"

You scoff at his boldness. "Excuse me?"

"Ya' heard me" he gets up from his seat, body towering over yours.

Was it hot in here? Why was your body warm all of the sudden? Was it the coffee? No, you hadn't even take a sip. Joel searches before looking at you again with a content gaze and an ugly smug grin, like he's used to having his way.

"Sex with a stranger" then searches for other, the sound of the pages the only other sound in the room, still not overpowering the one of your heart, echoing in your ears. "Sex in a bathroom"

He closes the little book and hands it back to you. You take it with force, ears burning at their tip. "So?"

"Funny" he muses. "I can help you with both"

Your head drops back against the cold wall as Joel's lips find your collarbone.

This was stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Of all the decisions you've made in your life, this one is either the worst or the best. Fuck, you hadn't even arrived at Utah and could cross two things from the book.

His kiss is rushed, rough and sloppy, sucking on your lips so hard you feel them swollen and bruised. Joel's tongue then pokes inside your mouth, to taste your insides and all of you more deeply, content with the savor of your sweet mouth and gloss smeared across his own. It isn't often that he gets a chance like this: sure, casual sex is like breathing for him at this point in life, where he's made it too far without building a home for a wife. But now, here? You, this pretty young thing, the small whimpers coming out of your lips, how you squirm under his frame and groping hands that travel through a body he can't get enough of. Shit, he ain't young anymore but he's painfully hard and can't stop his task despite his aching joints and age. Joel just wants to taste all of you forever, despite the shit place and rather funny circumstances:

You both, strangers, in an dirty dark alley behind a gas station, about to fuck.

He's pressing his knee tightly between your thighs, the same one you had spotted before thanks to his shorts. His strong grip pins your hand above your head, rendering you immobile under his weight, that presses over you. Shit, you should be thinking this through and running away, but the complete submission and reckless choice makes it all the more hot.

Your throat works up soft, needy noises and Joel marvels at the sounds.

"Keep 'em comin', doll. Wanna know I'm makin' you feel good"

His lips leave lazy wet trails across your skin. The skirt of your dress is raised by his leg and pressed knee.

"Hmh, Joel-" you needily whimper.

"Shh" he swallows a moan with his mouth, "but jus' for me, doll. Keep it low, will ya'? Or want the whole place knowin' what a dirty slut ya' are? Fuckin' with da first stranger that looks yer way?"

You had never been degraded, less thought it would turn you this much on.

"Joel" you whimper his name.

He groans into your mouth, lewd tongues tangling and tasting the messy kiss with fiery passion and hate. Your fingers fist into the thick material of his vest, nails about to ruin it, but by the way his eyes darken and he smiles, Joel might be into it.

The man pulls away for breath, a string of saliva connecting you two.

His hand gropes your ass and then moves to your exposed inner thigh.

"What'a dirty girl" your fingers hook into his worn-out jeans, tugging the peaking waistband forward to you. His weight and chest push into you, "so wet and eager for this dick, you cockhungry whore"

To prove his point, his thick fingers rub your clit through the material of your panties. You tilt your head back in pleasure at the newfound sensation, and he takes the chance to mark your exposed neck and collarbone, making you moan his name when he sinks his teeth on the skin.

"All 'tis for me?" and his fingers fingers slink down to trace your folds again. Your back arches, breasts pressing against his chest. You dig your nails on his broad back, making him hiss with pleasure as you grab for support.

His rough digits slide and push your sticky panties aside, then plunge inside your pussy. You whimper quietly, the squelches of your pussy swallowing his fingers the only sound in the dark, aside from the busy road ahead. The calloused pad of his thumb circles your sensitive nub, pressing and massaging as his lips travel down to the valley of your tits.

"Wanna free this bad girls and taste 'em" he pulls down your dress, mouth practically watering at the rosy soft skin. "Fuck, doll. No bra? Ya' were lookin' for this, ain't you? Makin' the job easy. I'm just'a lucky man"

He wants to see how they bounce with each thrust, eyes darkening with the shade of lust.

"I- Fuck"

Joel's fingers thrust in and out at with a rapid pace and delicious movements you had never been pleasured before with. Now, when he curls them? That nearly sends you over the edge, reaching a spot you had never known existed.

"S'tight" he groans at your clenching warm sticky walls, fingers slowing but still moving as you ride out your high, drenching him in your liquids.

"Found sum sugar for that shit tastin' bitter coffee, eh?" he takes his own fingers on his mouth and sucks on them with a rather obscene gesture, taking them out with a loud pop. His tongue licks what's left off, and you whimper at the lewd image. "Yer too sweet, doll. Can't get 'nough"

Your arms wrap around him, as Joel rolls his hips, seeking friction to relieve him of the uncomfortable strain against the denim.

"Ready to take me in, doll? I'll just warn ya' somethin'" his free hand unbuckles his belt and tugs down the jeans and boxers down, dick in display: hard, and leaking with precum. He drags his teeth against your ear, and his hot breath ghosts over you with coffee and ciggars. "See that? Think ya' can take it?"

The tuft of sweaty hair leading down to his length has you salivating, and your fingers wrap around him before you realize it. Joel winces at the touch.

"Like a champ" and you swear his erection throbs in your palm, head angry and needy.

What a gentleman.

He doesn't wait for more words, teasing your moist folds with his tip before he's inside, buried to the hilt, rough fingers steady bruising your hips as he thrusts you up against the wall. You look up at the flickering lampost, wondering how did you ever made it here and what the hell are you doing, his groans deep inside your ear as his head is buried in the crook of your neck, labored breaths against your ablazed skin. For a moment, he looses the spot and favors looking at you, to take in the sight infront of him: mouth slightly gaped open, eyes lidded, and fingers desperately digging into his back. You're fucked out of your mind, but so is he.

"Like what you see?" you mimick his words from earlier. He lets out a dry and labored chuckle.

"I do"

He snaps his hips, and you're not sure what is it that creaks, too many things happening outside (the cars, the whiff of gasoline, the nocturnal wind). Joel soon takes up an erratic pace. He's so deep in you, his balls slams into your pussy with each thrust he forces into you.

You should start writing more things on that notebook if they would become true and as good as this. Earn a ridiculous sum of money for free, for example.

Joel grunts, hands busy holding you against the wall, but he so badly wants to play with your bouncy tits, so you let out a yelp when his wet tongue rolls over the skin, mouth then sucking the skin until it's bruised, kissing lazily around your hardened nipples until teeth bite on them.

He's going insane; should go more often late night driving if he'd end up fucking pretty naive sweet-tasting girls behind alleys.

His cock fills you so perfectly it doesn't take long before your walls are spasming around his cock, and you're about to cum for a second time, before on his fingers now over his girth inside of you. Joel can sense it, so his filthy mouth goes for it:

"Go on, doll. Show me what yer made of"

You fall apart with a sharp cry, face buried into his shoulder with a bite to muffle it.

He groans as the pleasure rolls through you. "Milk me dry, c'mon. Take all of ma' seed like the slut ya're" Joel speaks while moving inside you, deeper and quicker, aching for release. Then he's pulsing, cumming with a harsh grunt. "Don't waste a drop, doll. I know you're considerate jus' like that"

His hands slide down to your waist, his long hair drenched, sticking to his forehead. There's the silence of the night and your breaths as you try to compose yourselves.

"That's a good girl" while softnening cock still inside you.

"See? Told you: took you like a champ" you pant, trying not to think of what lead you to now, just focused on the high. "I like to keep my promises"

Joel laughs, but its a soft sound; light. It caresses your chest like a wind chime.

He then pulls out, your folds a mess and his dick coated with your juices. "Shit, look at ya' hungry pussy, doll. Wore me the fuck out"

You help him pull up his pants, looking at the socks while you contain a laugh. Then you think again and the alley pulls you out of your post sex haze. Yeah, filling those two checkboxes in your To-do list will feel good as fuck, but:

Now what?

"Joel?"

"Hmh?"

He pulls up your dress to cover your tits when the wind brushes through the alley, with a weird softness to him, then fixes your panties, giving your clothed pussy a weak slap that sends a shiver through your body.

"Thanks for the treat. I'ont remember orderin' desert"

You laugh as you push him off your body, refusing to meet his eyes. This is the second man who has seen you naked, and while definitely not good at words, his wolf-like hunger in his brown eyes and needy mouth besides the hard dick have said more than enough. Besides, it's a little late to be embarrased but you're still trying to process this wild huge leap you took to celebrate the start of your new life.

"Drive safe" you mutter, starting to walk away, thinking how the hell you'll survive the two hours left in the orad with such a sticky pair of panties and sweaty body.

"Where you goin'?" his deep voice stops you before you've reached the end of the alley.

"Utah" you answer in a beat, heart beating dangerously fast.

The same sleazy smile from the first time you saw him adorns his handsome face, all teeth in display.

"Really, doll? Well, lucky you" he lights up a cigarrette, trail of smoke condensing in anticipation. "'Cause that's jus'bout where I'm headed"

cr: divider @kodaswrld / gif @a7estrellas

[pookalicious-hq]

no. 1 fan ... sukuna ryomen x reader

˚₊‎‧♡‧₊˚ - since when did sukuna ryomen have a girlfriend? and why is she so cute (and absolutely perfect for him)? tags: basketball!au, fluff, swearing, sfw <3 masterlist

The gym lights caught on the glossy surface, a faint shimmer bouncing with every shift of motion. Tiny flecks of glitter sparkled like distant stars, the edges glinting silver against the stark backdrop of the jersey. A burst of pastel pink contrasted sharply, the soft hue radiating a kind of innocent charm that felt entirely out of place.

It was a detail almost too small to notice—yet somehow, it drew eyes in, an odd juxtaposition against the chaos of the pregame atmosphere. The gym was alive with the sound of sneakers squeaking on polished wood, players stretching, and the low hum of excited chatter from the stands. Sukuna Ryomen, lounging casually in the middle of his team’s warm-up drills, was the last person anyone expected to have such a thing plastered on his shoulder. But there it was. My Melody, a sweet little bunny holding a basketball.

Satoru was the first to spot it, of course.

“Aw, how cute, Sukuna-chan. Didn’t know you were into Sanrio like that.”

Sukuna turned, narrowing his eyes at the playful teasing in Satoru's voice. “The fuck are you on about now?”

Satoru just pointed, smirking as all eyes followed his gesture. "Your cute little stowaway there."

And there it was—bold against the red and black of Sukuna's jersey, a sticker of My Melody, holding a basketball positioned perfectly as if to dunk it. It was so out of place, yet it felt strangely fitting. Its innocence danced in stark contrast to Sukuna's menacing aura, and the sweetness of the bunny somehow managed to coexist with the intimidating presence of the player.

Sukuna glanced at the sticker and then smirked, barely able to suppress the grin tugging at his lips. His eyes softened just slightly, knowing exactly where it came from.

“Guess it’s not that bad,” he muttered under his breath.

No one knew who had put it there, but there was no mistaking it—Sukuna wasn’t bothered in the slightest. In fact, the more he thought about it, the more it made him smile.

“He’s so weird, I swear,” Satoru muttered, squinting across the gym floor as he slouched against the edge of the bench. The air around them crackled with energy, the squeak of sneakers on the polished hardwood floor echoing through the arena as players warmed up. The thudding sound of basketballs bouncing, the low hum of excited chatter from the crowd, and the faint whistle of the referee adding to the chaos all buzzed around them.

Suguru, already feeling the weight of Satoru's nonsense, pinched the bridge of his nose. He tried to focus, pushing away the mounting noise as he geared up for the game. "Satoru, shut up. He’s literally just smiling."

"Exactly!" Satoru gestured with both hands, his voice carrying over the cacophony like a loud bell ringing. “I’ve never seen him... like this. It’s unnatural!”

Suguru flicked Satoru lightly in the forehead, the sharp sound of his fingers connecting with the skin cutting through the background noise. “You’re lucky he can’t hear you, idiot. Besides, he’s allowed to smile. It’s not a crime.”

“It’s so creepy, though!” Satoru rubbed his forehead dramatically, leaning back against the bench. His voice was exaggerated, filled with playful disdain. “I’ve never seen him so... soft. Gross. Eugh. What happened to the demon we all know and love?”

The gym seemed to buzz even louder as the players amped themselves up, a couple of them tossing passes back and forth with fast, sharp movements that made the air feel electric. Sneakers squeaked and slid across the court, some heavy breaths echoing as bodies shifted into the final preparations for the game.

Suguru, however, was still fighting for some semblance of focus, trying to shut out Satoru's ridiculousness as his mind sought that familiar pregame calm. He tried to breathe in rhythm with the ambient noise—the rustling of the crowd, the sharp claps of teammates slapping each other on the back—but Satoru just wouldn’t let up. "It’s because his girlfriend’s watching today," Suguru said casually, as if the thought didn’t even require a second glance.

Satoru snapped his head toward him so fast it almost looked like he was about to knock over the water bottle on the bench. “He has a girlfriend? How do you know?”

“Yuji told me about her yesterday,” Suguru said, brushing it off as if it were nothing. He wasn’t quite sure how to process the idea of Sukuna with someone so... normal, so he pushed it to the back of his mind, letting his thoughts return to the game.

“What about me?” 

Satoru’s stomach jolted, heart skipping in his chest. “Jesus—fuck, Yuji, you scared me!” he exclaimed, clutching his chest as if Yuji had just jumped out from behind him in a horror film.

Suddenly, Yuji’s face popped up right next to them, grinning widely with that unapologetically boyish enthusiasm. “Oops, sorry! I just heard my name and wanted to make sure you weren’t shit-talking me! Haha!”

The two seniors exchanged a look—Suguru, contemplating the comment, and Gojo, mildly entertained—but as usual, the latter barrelled straight past it. “Anyways, we were just wondering about Sukuna-chan’s little girlfriend. She’s here?”

The sound of basketballs slamming into the backboard reverberated loudly around them, rattling the floor beneath their feet as a player went for a dramatic dunk across the gym. The high-pitched swoosh of a net followed. Yet, the small chaos of the game only seemed to amplify Yuji's carefree nature, his laughter infectious.

He gave a single enthusiastic nod, expression lighting up with pure, uncontained excitement. “She should be! She just called to say she found a seat.”

The three of them turned toward the crowd, scanning the packed bleachers. It was almost impossible to pick out individual faces among the sea of fans, but they didn’t have to wonder for long why Yuji could find you so easily.

“There!” Yuji pointed, practically bouncing on his heels.

All at once, they saw you.

You weren’t loud or over the top, but there was something about you that drew attention, like a light you couldn’t help but turn toward. Your eyes sparkled with a warmth that didn’t belong in a crowd this rowdy, your face alight with unguarded joy. You leaned forward, effortlessly engaging the little girl beside you in a cheerful conversation, hands animated as you gestured toward the court.

The little girl giggled, clutching a handful of skittles you must have shared. It wasn’t just the candy; it was the way you leaned in, nodded attentively, and treated the child like her words carried the secrets of pandora’s box. The moment was so natural, so disarmingly sweet, that even Suguru had to admit he could see the charm.

“She’s just... giving away candy to kids?” Satoru blinked, eyebrows raised as though the sight was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever seen.

Suguru’s smile slowly turned into a gape, crossing his arms. “And apparently making everyone within a ten-foot radius feel like they’ve won the lottery. What a menace.”

“She’s adorable,” Satoru hissed, ignoring the sarcasm. “There’s no way Sukuna convinced someone like her to date him. I mean, look at her!” He gestured dramatically, nearly toppling off the bench.

“She’s smiling, not performing a miracle,” Suguru deadpanned. “Relax.”

“But that’s what’s weird about it!” Satoru insisted. “She’s the sunshine’s asshole, and he’s... I don’t even know what he is, probably just the asshole part.”

The three of them continued to watch as you apologized to a student who stumbled near you, even though it was clearly no fault of your own. You placed a steadying hand on their shoulder, offering a bright, reassuring smile that seemed to melt the poor kid’s embarrassment on the spot. A moment later, you turned back toward the court, your attention zeroing in on the players warming up.

Then, a laugh as melodic as an orchestra bubbled from your lips, captivating everyone within a 20-foot radius.

Heads turned—not just Sukuna’s, but several others, curious to see who’d spoken. Sukuna, however, didn’t seem fazed by the sound. He stood with his arms crossed, eyes scanning the court like a predator waiting for its prey. A mere glance from a teammate was enough to send them scurrying in the opposite direction, but when he caught sight of you, his posture seemed to relax just slightly. His gaze softened, and for a brief second, he didn’t look like a demon—he looked... content.

“Holy shit,” Satoru muttered, leaning closer. “He’s smiling again. Suguru, this is unnatural. I don’t think I like it.”

Suguru sighed, rubbing his temples. “You’re just jealous someone actually loves him.”

“Jealous?” Satoru scoffed. “Please. I’m too fabulous to be contained by one person. It’s just—look at her! She’s pure, and he’s... him. Do you think she read his terms and conditions properly?”

Yuji, meanwhile, was grinning ear to ear, his chest practically puffed out with pride as though her presence was his personal achievement. “Do you get it now?” he asked, turning toward the two seniors.

“Get what?” Gojo drawled, still squinting at her like she was a science experiment.

“Why she’s perfect for him,” Yuji said simply.

Satoru opened his mouth, undoubtedly ready to argue, but Suguru cut him off with a raised hand. “You know what? He’s got a point.”

For a moment, even Satoru was quiet, his gaze drifting back to you. You were now laughing, your head tipped back slightly as the little girl beside her showed off her Skittles-stained tongue. The sound was bright, full, and utterly unrestrained—like you’d never learned how to hold back your joy.

Satoru sighed, flopping against the bench in defeat. “Okay, fine. She’s perfect. Whatever. But I still don’t get how he landed her.”

Suguru chuckled. “Maybe she sees something in him you don’t.”

“Oi, loudmouths—and Suguru. Get your asses moving.”

The voice that rang out was unmistakable: Sukuna, cutting through the chatter with his usual no-nonsense tone.

“Sir, yes sir!” Gojo saluted.

“God, I hate you.”

“Love you too, Captain!”

The gym was buzzing with the typical pre-game chaos, but Sukuna’s attention was elsewhere, drawn by the familiar warmth cutting through the din of the crowd. His gaze swept over the stands, and it didn’t take long for his eyes to land on you.

There you were—unmistakable. Even in the sea of faces, your presence stood out. The way your eyes sparkled when you caught his gaze, the playful curve of your lips as you gave him a wink.

Then, as if the universe had granted him a brief moment of peace in the chaos, you blew him a kiss. A simple gesture that made his chest tighten. He of course caught it effortlessly, bringing a hand to his heart in mock reverence, but it was the next movement that caused something unfamiliar to flicker inside him.

Without missing a beat, his hand dropped to his shoulder, tapping the My Melody sticker with a subtle grin. The gesture was small, almost imperceptible to anyone else, but to Sukuna, it was his unspoken reply to you affection.

The smile lingered on his face for just a moment longer before he wiped it away, a smirk taking its place as he stood tall, ready to head out onto the court.

Deleted scene:

“ARE YOU KIDDING ME? THAT WAS ALL BALL! OPEN YOUR GODDAMNED EYES.”

Your voice sliced through the gym like a whip, sharp enough to make heads turn. Conversations stuttered, sneakers skidded to a stop, and even the referee hesitated for a beat before remembering he was supposed to be an authority figure.

On the court, Sukuna barely reacted—barely. His stance remained firm, shoulders squared as he glared down the ref with the same look that had sent weaker opponents scrambling. But for a fraction of a second, his eyes flickered to the stands, finding you instantly.

His girl.

You were on your feet, fury blazing in your eyes, hands clenched into fists at your sides. The tension in your stance screamed protective, and fuck if that didn’t do something to him.

The gym erupted as the ref made it official. Technical foul on number 20 - Sukuna Ryomen.

“Oh, come on,” you groaned. “A tech? For what? Looking too scary? Boohoo.”

Satoru’s whistle cut through the noise as he turned to Suguru, his grin lazy but amused. “Oh, this is fun. You ever see someone go feral for Sukuna before?”

Suguru hummed, watching Sukuna carefully. “Not like this.”

“That’s what I’m saying,” Satoru mused. “Usually, it’s just people going feral at him.”

Yuji snorted. “Right? And he’s actually letting her.”

Which was the weirdest part. Sukuna hated when people stuck their noses in his business. If this were anyone else—even a coach—he’d have shut them down with a glare and a stay the hell out of it.

But with you?

He was letting you bark at the ref, letting you take up space in his fight.

And even worse?

He liked it.

Whistles blew. The opposing team’s bench erupted into cheers, and the ref signaled for free throws.

“Bullshit,” you muttered, arms crossing tightly over your chest.

“Damn,” Satoru mused from the sidelines, still watching you with newfound amusement. “She’s got more fight in her than half the guys on the court.”

Suguru hummed in agreement. “And he’s actually letting her.”

Yuji grinned. “Ah, shit. She’s really gonna go off.”

And he was absolutely right.

Because as the opposing player stepped up to the free-throw line, your voice rang out again—clear, unwavering, and loud enough for the entire gym to hear.

“Oh, come on! You’re calling that a foul? What, is Sukuna just supposed to breathe and get penalized now? Maybe we should just wrap him in bubble wrap and call it a day!”

Scattered chuckles rippled through the stands, but you weren’t joking. You knew how people saw him—how they wanted to see him. A villain. A monster. A player too aggressive for his own good, a walking technical foul waiting to happen.

They didn’t see the discipline. The precision. The sheer skill it took to dominate the court the way he did.

They didn’t see him.

The ref shot you a warning look, but you only lifted your chin, undeterred.

“Terrible call,” you sang again, just loud enough for Yuji to hear.

“Yeah,” he called back with a chuckle. “But that’s just how it is for him.”

You exhaled sharply, frustration curling in your chest. “It’s not fair.”

Yuji just smiled. “He’s used to it.”

That didn’t make it right.

Back on the court, Sukuna set his stance, waiting for the rebound. He should have been focused—should have been calculating his next move—but instead, his gaze slid sideways, just for a second.

You were still standing. Still fuming on his behalf.

His lips curled.

The first free throw went up. The ball arced high, hit the rim—bounced once, twice—then rolled out.

The crowd erupted into noise, but you? You smirked.

“S’what you get for being weak,” you muttered under your breath, knowing damn well the shooter couldn’t hear you.

Sukuna did.

And though he didn’t turn, didn’t acknowledge it outright, something about the way he held himself shifted. Shoulders looser. Jaw unclenched.

He wasn’t alone in this.

You had his back.

And for a guy who’d spent most of his life being the villain, that was a weird fucking feeling.

The second free throw went in, but it didn’t matter. The moment the ball was inbounded, Sukuna was a force of nature, tearing down the court with single-minded determination.

And if, after scoring on the very next possession, he just so happened to glance toward the stands—seeking you out, locking eyes for the briefest of moments—well.

That was nobody’s business but his own.

And yours.

a/n: he's a huge red flag but i can't help but romanticize him... anyways sorry its been a while

mwah <3

[roosterforme]

California Autumn | Rooster x Reader

Summary: Bradley was drawn to you the minute you moved onto his street. You seemed to bump into one another everywhere, and each time he saw your smile or heard your laugh, he knew he had to ask you out. He wasn't expecting the answer you gave him, just as you weren't expecting to wish he could be the man for you.

Warnings: angst, fluff, adult language, mentions of accident/death, guardianship of child

Length: 3500 words

Pairing: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Female Reader

Check out my masterlist for more

Early September was brutal in southern California. Each day seemed hotter than the one before it, and even the smallest bit of yard work was enough to leave Bradley sweaty and miserable. He stood in the middle of his front yard, eyes closed, thinking about how beautiful autumn was in Virginia when he was a kid. He leaned against the handle of the rake, picturing a pumpkin patch, a corn maze and all the things he would never find in San Diego.

The sound of something bigger than a car coming down his quiet side street had him cracking his eyes open against the Saturday afternoon sun. A U-Haul lumbered to a stop in front of the house across the street and one door down. The engine settled to silence, and he craned his neck to get a better look. The property had been sitting there with a red and white SOLD sticker over the realty sign for what seemed like months, and now it would appear as though he finally had a new neighbor.

Bradley dropped the rake and had to lunge to grab the handle before it clattered against his stone pathway. The woman who climbed out of the truck, hopping down onto the street in some beat up sneakers, was beautiful. The sun seemed to illuminate her from the inside, and now Bradley was setting the rake down softly as she walked around the truck and slid the back open. It was filled with furniture and boxes, and he watched as an avalanche nearly flowed out as she tried to move one item.

"Shit," he grunted, running across the street as he wiped his dirty hands on the hem of his undershirt. "It looks like you could use a hand," he called out, hoping he wouldn't scare you when he came up behind you just in time to catch a dining chair that was teetering above your head. Then the neatly stacked boxes started to give out as well, and his left hand went to steady them.

You were ducking slightly, preparing for the worst when Bradley realized your back was pressed against his chest. If he moved, there would be a lot of broken furniture to contend with. But then you glanced at him over your shoulder as you stood to your full height, eyes wide and lips parted in surprise.

If you looked beautiful from across the street, then you looked stunning up close, trapped between his body and the truck. "Welcome to the neighborhood," he mumbled like an idiot, but he was rewarded by the smile that curled along your lips.

"Hey, you're pretty good at being neighborly," you replied, gesturing to his right hand holding the chair and his left securing the stack of boxes. His heartbeat quickened at the sound of your voice and how close you were as you told him your name and asked which house was his.

"I'm Bradley. The white cottage across the street." He nodded toward his mess of a front yard with his chin. "I moved in about six months ago." 

What he didn't mention was the fact that he often still felt like a bit of an outsider in town, even though he attended all the neighborhood potlucks and still had some blond in his hair from hanging out on the local beaches all summer. At the moment, all he could do was fight the urge to tell you how pretty your eyes were.

"And you like the neighborhood?" you asked, fully facing him now with a smirk on your face.

He shrugged the best he could without moving too much. "I might like it better now."

Your eyes widened a bit before you ducked your head, looking up at him with a surprised smile like you couldn't quite believe what he'd just said. And that's when Bradley heard another vehicle pull up behind him. "That would be my friends. Here to help me unpack."

He wanted to joke that it looked like you needed all the help you could get with your furniture avalanche, but he heard several voices calling your name and rushing over to help. He was invited to stay, but when he was finally able to safely back away without anything falling, he realized four other people were there to help you out.

Your eyes were still focused on his as he started to back away. "I'll see you around?" you asked before chewing on your lip.

"I would count on it," he confirmed, turning back toward his house so you could get settled into yours.

But he did hear one of your friends ask, "Who is he?"

"Bradley," you replied, just barely loud enough for him to hear. "From the white cottage."

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

After that first encounter, he saw you everywhere. You were pulling into the parking spot next to his Bronco when he came out of the grocery store. When he asked how you liked your new house, it sparked a conversation about hardwood versus porcelain tile flooring, and Bradley's ice cream was completely melted by the time he got home.

Then there was the day you bumped into him coming out of the salon next to his barber, and he complimented your colorful nails at the same time you told him his haircut looked nice. He blushed, and you smiled before turning toward your car, glancing back at him a little expectantly. 

Then he ran into you at the farmer's market where you were buying vegetables for the upcoming neighborhood potluck. You asked him what he thought you should make.

"Well, I'm the wrong person to ask," he replied, feeling a little lightheaded as his brain begged him to ask you out on a date.

"Why's that?" you asked, placing your hand on your hip while you held up a head of cabbage. "You're a picky eater?"

He shook his head and took a step closer to you. "The exact opposite. I love food. I will eat literally anything that is edible."

Your bright laughter cascaded across his skin as your head tipped back. The expanse of your neck looked smooth and perfect, and Bradley wanted to have your permission to put his lips there. And that was a startling thought since nobody had really caught his attention like this since he was first stationed in San Diego. Nobody made him feel like he was at home in his house before you started waving to him whenever you saw him outside.

"I guess it makes sense that you love food," you told him with a smile. "You're a big boy." Your gaze drifted down along his shoulders and chest before you started to look a little embarrassed. "I... yeah... I think I'll just grab whatever looks good and take it from there. See you on Friday night?"

"Yeah," he grunted as you walked toward an eggplant display. He would see you on Friday night. And he would be prepared ahead of time to ask you out.

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

"No," you gasped. Bradley recognized your voice and turned around to face you in Mrs. Diaz's kitchen. "That's what you brought to the potluck?" You sounded appalled, but you were clearly smiling as you looked at what he was holding.

"I told you I liked to eat food, not that I knew how to cook anything."

"Bradley," you groaned, shaking your head at the bag of chips and jar of salsa in his hands. "This is bad. Next time, I'll prepare two dishes so you can pretend you made one."

His heart skipped a beat at the idea of handing you things in his kitchen and watching you make something as nice as the lasagna you were holding. "It's useless," he replied with a frown. "After six months of bringing restaurant style tortilla chips and medium salsa, nobody would believe I cooked anything."

Once again, your laughter had him ready to drop what he was holding and reach for you. He had to ask you out tonight. It had been weeks already since you moved in, and you were definitely giving him a green light. He could think of a dozen different restaurants he wanted to take you to, and maybe you'd like the artsy little movie theater.

But he watched you get swept up in conversation after conversation, and then the opportunity slipped away when you ducked away from everyone to answer a call. You had a concerned look on your face with your phone pressed to your cheek, and then you were rushing out of Mrs. Diaz's house and along her front path before you disappeared from view.

Suddenly it was well into October, and he'd barely seen you at all. There were a few mornings that felt cool enough to coax him to buy some pumpkins for his front porch. He thought about taking one over to your house as an excuse to finally ask you out, but he figured you must be pretty busy right now. Maybe work got a little crazy. He tried not to imagine that someone else had asked you out and that was the reason why you were so scarce.

"Damn," he grunted when he drove his Bronco past your house on his way to get some takeout for dinner on a Saturday night. He just couldn't stop thinking about you. Why didn't he ask you out that first day when he saved you from your dining chair? He ran his hand over his face and groaned, parking in front of the restaurant and yanking his keys from the ignition. If he'd just asked you out that day, maybe he'd be picking up twice as much food and sharing it with you tonight.

A minute later, when he turned to leave the restaurant with his bag, he could not believe his luck. You were walking inside. "Hey."

You glanced up, and for the briefest second, you smiled at him like you always used to. "Bradley." But then your smile started to fade away slowly, and he would do anything to bring it back.

His heart was pounding, and his brain was screaming at him, so he squared his shoulders and did the only thing he could do. "Hey, if you're free tomorrow night, I was thinking maybe you and I could get dinner? Or hit up the movie theater on Pomona? The seats are uncomfortable, but they show some indie stuff which could be fun. Or maybe another night might work?"

The air was silent except for the muffled sound of food being prepared in the kitchen behind him. Your eyes looked so sad as you shook your head and pressed your lips together. "No. No, I'm sorry, Bradley."

Well, fuck.

He backed away from you until he bumped into the wall, and then he focused on getting to the door. "Right," he replied after he had a few more feet between your body and his. "Well, I'll see you around the neighborhood."

For the first time since he moved to California, the air outside was too cold. There was an uncomfortable knot in his stomach as he glanced over at your car. He shivered miserably as he saw the shadow of someone waiting in your passenger seat. Then he drove home and ate alone in his kitchen before going to bed.

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

Bradley tried his best not to think about you. One day last week, when he saw your front door swing open, he waited to step down from his porch so you wouldn't have to wave awkwardly to him. And yesterday, for lack of anything better to do, he bought more pumpkins, and he waited in his driveway to unload them until you carried all of your groceries inside your house. 

Today was Halloween, and he spent over an hour carving some of the pumpkins to look like soccer balls before dressing in his usual costume. Handing candy out to the neighborhood kids and trying to guess what they were dressed as sounded like fun. He was determined to have a good night, even if he did have to angle the folding chair on his porch so he was facing slightly away from your house. He would enjoy himself no matter what.

Bradley lit the candles inside his pumpkins and dropped down into the chair with a bowl of candy as the afternoon sky turned dusky. It didn't take long until a toddler dressed as a witch made an appearance with her dad, and Bradley had a good laugh when she reached for three pieces of candy.

"Trick or treat!" shouted three kids dressed as the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.

"Where's Raphael?" he asked as they collected their candy. 

Leonardo laughed and said, "Nobody wants to be Raphael. He's the lamest one."

"I would have to agree," Bradley replied, about to help himself to a piece of candy as they started to run to the next house.

But then he saw you. And you weren't alone. You were dressed as a soccer player, complete with knee socks and a soccer ball, and you were accompanied by an approximately ten year old kid who looked a lot like you. He was also dressed as a soccer player, and he smiled at Bradley as he said, "Trick or treat."

Bradley stood up, still holding onto the bowl of candy so the child could make his selection while he got a better look at you. "Hey."

"Hi," you replied immediately, looking from his mustache to the whistle around his neck and back up to his visor. "Are you seriously dressed as Ted Lasso?"

"I always dress as Ted Lasso," he told you, and he was rewarded with a smile that made him want to follow you around the neighborhood like a lost puppy. 

"Of course you do," you said, letting your gaze drift toward the child who was currently looking closely at the soccer ball pumpkins while holding onto a Snickers bar. "Somehow you match with us."

The boy looked up at Bradley and asked, "Did you carve these yourself? They look pretty good."

"Yeah," he replied, wishing he actually had taken the time to drop a pumpkin or two off on your porch. "I have perfected the soccer ball technique, kiddo."

The kid nodded but said, "You need to call it a football."

Bradley found himself agreeing. "You're completely right. It's only proper."

When the kid turned back to explore the rest of the pumpkin display a little more, Bradley took a step closer to you. "I didn't know you had a son," he said softly.

Your eyes were alert, scrutinizing his expression as you said, "His name is Max. He's almost ten."

"He looks like you."

You went silent for a few seconds, fiddling with the soccer ball in your hands. When you finally spoke, you were looking at Bradley's feet. "I knew you didn't know about him. I mean, you did ask me out after all." You laughed even though nothing was funny and finally looked up at his face. Then Max started to walk back the way you and he came, and you followed him. 

Bradley called your name. When you turned back, he said, "To be clear, I would have still asked you out if I'd known."

And then you looked so sad again.

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

To Bradley's amazement, the weather finally cooled to the perfect temperature in November, but he found he didn't want to be outside as much. It was a shame, because if he stood in the middle of his yard and closed his eyes, he could almost imagine he was in Virginia. 

One Friday after work, he cleaned the slightly rotten pumpkins from his porch and dragged his trash bin to the curb. Your front door was open, and he paused to see if you or Max happened to walk past it before heading back inside his empty house.

There was another potluck tonight, but he just didn't even feel like going. He had the usual chips and salsa on his kitchen counter, but he had no desire to socialize with the neighbors. He was about to change into gym shorts and surrender to a cold beer and a basketball game on TV when there was a knock on his door.

When he glanced through the front window, he saw that it was you, and his heart seemed to drag him toward the door. He was turning the knob before he thought better of it, and he was met with your wide eyes and a crock pot in your hands.

"Hi. Bradley."

"Hey." He swallowed hard before he said your name, and your lips turned up into a soft smile. "Is that for the potluck?"

"Yeah," you said, reaching out to hand the crock pot to him. "Well, I actually made it for you to take. Max and I will be bringing lasagna again."

Whatever Bradley was holding smelled so good, his stomach started to growl. "I can't take this. Nobody will believe I made it," he murmured, nudging at the lid with his thumb.

"It's a spicy buffalo dip," you replied, smile growing. "I literally made it with chicken from a can. I'm pretty sure you could trick them into thinking it came from your kitchen. You can even take your tortilla chips, too."

His fingers tightened on the handles when you took a small step closer to him. This was agony, being so close to you when he really wanted to touch you, but knew he couldn't. He whispered your name at the same time you looked up at him and started talking. 

"Max isn't my son. He's my nephew. But I'm his legal guardian now." Bradley's lips parted, but you shook your head and quickly added. "The night of the last potluck, I got a phone call that my brother and his wife were in a car accident. They both died before they reached the hospital. I had to pick Max up from soccer practice that night, and he's been with me ever since."

Tears were welling up in your eyes as Bradley tried to shuffle your crock pot to one hand. He knew how badly this kind of thing hurt from his own childhood. "Shit. I'm really sorry the two of you are going through this. But Max is lucky he has you." When you nodded and shrugged, you looked resigned to the way things were. "I'm also pretty sure Max prefers it when you call it football. Not soccer."

You laughed, maybe in spite of yourself, but Bradley still loved how it sounded. You briefly glanced over your shoulder toward your house and swiped at your tears as you said, "He absolutely does. He also keeps asking me about Ted Lasso across the street and his football pumpkins. I told him you're nice."

Bradley's heart had him dragging his feet closer to you, holding onto the warm pot of buffalo chicken dip for dear life. "Is that so?"

You nodded and stared at Bradley's chest for a few seconds before meeting his eyes again. Your lips parted several times before you whispered his name, and he leaned in a bit closer. After a few seconds, he started to step back, but your hand settled lightly on his shoulder, stopping him. Before he could react, you closed the remaining space, pressing your lips to his in a tentative kiss.

It was over almost as quickly as it started, and Bradley was ready to drop to his knees and beg you for more. But you were rambling now, and he was trying his best to focus. "I wanted you to ask me out so badly. But then everything changed, and I had to tell you no. Max has a lot he still needs to process, and I don't really have time to date someone who just wants to mess around with me."

For the first time in many weeks, Bradley felt lighter than air. He reached out with his free hand and let his knuckles trail gently along your cheek and down to your softly parted lips. "I'm forty years old. I'm kind of over the messing around stage," he promised. And then you were kissing him again.

The three of you walked to Mrs. Diaz's house together that evening. Bradley carried the crock pot, you carried the lasagna, and Max carried the tortilla chips. The conversation was mainly focused on how badly Max wanted to learn how to carve a football pumpkin.

Almost a year later, Bradley was standing in his front yard, smiling at the SOLD sticker placed on a realty sign in front of your house. It made sense to have you and Max move into the white cottage with him, because the porch was bigger. It was the perfect size for an elaborate Halloween display.

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

Thanks for reading this angsty yet fuzzy little fic. I hope your Halloween is sweeter than Bradley Bradshaw. Thanks @beyondthesefourwalls and @thedroneranger

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[prael]

Day 2: Covered

IVE An Yujin x male reader smut

words: 6,374 12 Days of Praelmas Masterlist

They said you could have been special; you would argue that you are.

Destined for greatness. A bright future. Whichever other way they wanted to express it.

The thing is, not everyone is cut out for the centre stage, and that's okay. You still get to do what you love, surrounded by people who share the same passion and work just as hard. Sometimes in life, you are the backup dancer in someone else's story. Sometimes, you literally are the backup dancer.

Yujin however, Yujin is the star. The one the world adores. The one that everyone around her seems to orbit.

You're just another face in her gravitational pull. You're on the stages and you're in the videos but no one remembers your name. There's probably an edit on Weverse somewhere with a sticker on your face. It's fine though. You've long made your peace with it.

You refuse to let that take away from the fact you spend so much time with An fucking Yujin. You've seen her in every single state, every emotion. She likes her 5 am coffee black and her mid-day one with ice. Yujin loves it when you massage her shoulders after practice and hates it when you play the same song twice in a row. However, the thing she loves above all else (and this can never go public) is having you on your knees—serving her like the queen you know her to be.

That's her secret. It's one you bear—one you're fine with keeping.

The final shoot is tomorrow, and today's practice is over but you know better than to follow everyone else out of the studio. You wait and you linger, and when the room clears out and you're sure everyone has left, you kneel and you wait. Sure enough, she notices and a smile creeps onto her face.

You don't bother to look up. Instead, you stay kneeling, waiting, knowing she's going to make her way over to you.

She does.

You hear her soft footsteps approaching and see the shadow fall over you as she stands there, looking down at you. You look up, slowly, eyes trailing up the length of her legs, over the expanse of her bare thighs and then just as you reach her hips, her fingers slip into your hair. She tightens her grip and yanks your head back so she can stare directly into your eyes.

"Did I say you could look at my legs?"

You gulp, feeling the tug on your hair and the way it makes your scalp burn. Your throat is dry, mouth parted and eyes wide. "No," you respond.

"Then what are you looking at?"

"I'm sorry," you quickly apologise, your hands clenching into fists and relaxing again as she tugs harder, her grip unrelenting.

"Sorry isn't good enough," she scoffs. "Why do I always have to teach you a lesson?"

You open your mouth to speak but the words die in your throat when she shoves you to the ground and kicks her leg out, planting her foot on your chest.

"Take off my shoes, don't talk."

You rush to comply, untying the laces of her sneaker before slipping it off. Yujin switches foot and you obediently repeat the action, putting the shoe beside the first one. You know that you can't allow your eyes to linger, but her bare legs are right over you and it takes all your self-control to look away.

"Socks," Yujin mutters.

You take a deep breath, knowing exactly what she wants you to do. You're slow to reach out, placing a hand on her ankle. She lets you, allowing you to gently lift her leg and slide her sock off, dropping it to the ground beside her. Your hand slides higher, caressing the soft skin of her calf, tracing the contours of her muscles. You're almost distracted until Yujin clears her throat, glaring down at you.

You nod, sliding the second sock off her foot and letting that join the first. You don't know where to look, her skin is right in front of you, begging to be kissed. Her eyes are boring into you, demanding all your attention.

"I don't know if you deserve it," she hums, lifting her foot. She drags her toes over your chest, the ball of her foot pressing down just beneath your collarbone.

"Deserve what?"

"To taste me," she laughs. "Don't think I didn't notice how distracted you were today. Don't think I didn't notice you staring at me."

"I wasn't—"

"Don't lie," she interrupts. "It's a bad habit."

You're so hopelessly disarmed. Lying underneath her on the hardwood floor of the studio with your body burning. She's so beautiful, and it's not fair. It's not fair how the universe created someone who can ruin you so easily and look so effortless doing it.

"You're lucky it's recording today tomorrow. You know what that means."

Like any other day before a big something, Yujin has a need for a release. It's a tradition at this point. The days leading up to something are so full of stress and excitement that it all gets too much and the only way for her to relieve herself is to use you.

You nod. You know exactly what it means.

She lowers her foot, and you feel her toes brush against the crotch of your shorts. You suck in a breath as she rubs up and down the fabric, pressing into you. She's watching your reaction, watching the way you bite your lip and clench your fists.

"You've been bad today. Distracted. Not focusing. Do you think you deserve this?"

"No," you shake your head.

"I don't think you do either." She removes her foot, stepping back.

It's torture. You clench your eyes as hard as your fists, desperate not to act out of turn.

"But you know what I want," she continues as you dare to open your eyes and look up. She's staring at you, hands on her hips. "You know what to do to get back on my good side."

You nod. Of course, you know. It's not the first time you've found yourself on the floor beneath her. You sit up on your knees and shuffle forwards. Her shorts are black and loose. Your fingers slip into the waistband and you tug them down slowly, sliding them over the curve of her ass, past the smooth, glowing skin of her thighs and down to her ankles.

You take a breath. You're so desperate. So hungry. She's wearing the laced panties you like. The ones you bought for her and left in her bag. They hug her so tightly that she seems to be straining against them. Her ass looks perfect, her thighs thick and inviting and her cunt...you can see the outline of her folds. The thin material barely covers her. She knows how much it affects you.

"You're staring again," she huffs, pushing her hand into your hair once more and tugging roughly.

"I can't help it," you whimper.

Her fingers twist and you feel the burn in your scalp once more as you wince in pain. Yujin's hand moves from your hair, dragging down the length of your neck and around to the front of your throat. Her hand squeezes gently, thumb and index finger digging in just below your jaw.

"You can. You will."

You gasp, her grip is tight and you can't breathe, your eyes watering with the pain and the pleasure that it brings. She leans forward, her breath hot against the shell of your ear, her grip tight. You're trembling, shaking with the effort of holding back.

"Beg me," she whispers.

"Let me taste you. Let me kiss you. Please, please let me—"

Her grip on your neck tightens, cutting you off. Your words dissolve into a whimpering mess and your eyes roll back in their sockets as your body melts into her. Her touch, her words, her everything has such an effect on you that it takes you to another world. The only thing that exists is the two of you.

"Pathetic," she scoffs, her lips brushing your ear. "You'll do anything, won't you?"

"Yes," you moan, and you mean it.

"Good," she says as she pushes you away and you collapse back against the ground. "Now make me feel good, will you? I'm sick of waiting."

Yujin steps over you, her legs on either side of you and she pulls the laced underwear to the side, lowering herself down until she's hovering just over your mouth.

She looks ethereal like this, the lights shining down on her. The goddess of your dreams, the star of your story.

"Please, let me—" You don't even need to finish your sentence, Yujin sinks down, pressing her pussy onto your lips and you open your mouth to lick at her. A mouth full of pussy, the taste of her arousal hitting your tongue. She grinds down, the soft skin of her thighs pressing in on either side of your face, trapping you. You lick again, tongue flat against her, licking up from her entrance and over her clit. She grunts and her hips buck forward, grinding her pussy down harder on your lips.

"More," she pants.

And you give it to her. Your tongue laps at her, teasing her clit. Her hips roll and you feel the slickness between her legs growing and it's all over you, coating your face as you desperately reach for her thighs. She slaps your hand away.

"Did I say you can touch?"

You struggle to shake your head between her legs.

"So keep them down."

Your hands go back to your side and she groans in approval, grinding harder and faster, using you like she knows she can. This is so Yujin, to use you like she's nothing but a toy for her to play with. You don't care, you'll do whatever she wants.

You're lost in the moment, your tongue licking, tasting and teasing as you desperately try and find the rhythm she's moving in. Her thighs tighten around your head, trapping you there. You cut shapes across her clit with your tongue and you feel the shuddering of her legs as she whines. She loves it when you write her name with your tongue. The letters spelling out An Yujin.

It's all it takes for you to be consumed by her. She's in your system and all you want to do is make her feel good.

Even the powerful, composed, elegant, Yujin has to succumb in some form to the pleasure. She's been riding you with so much poise and posture. Her back is slightly arched, so above you is just the beautiful expanse of her upper body—clung to by a sweat-soaked white shirt. She's running her hand across her chest, her fingers twisting a nipple as she works herself into a frenzy on you. Her head rolls, her hand moves to the base of her neck and she moans.

She basks in the light shining down on her, and it's a sight to behold. The way it glistens on her skin. The sweat runs down her chest. Her hair, her face. The way she looks when she's so completely in the moment.

"Fuck—" she gasps and her thighs tense around your head.

You're trapped and you're struggling. Your face is covered in slick and your mouth is filled with her taste. You feel like you're suffocating and all you can think is that this is how you want to die, with Yujin all over you. Yet you know there's more to come. She starts to crumble. The poise fades and she leans forward, slamming the palm of her hand against the floor.

She hunches as she rides harder. She's fucking down onto your face. Grinding her pussy on your lips and your chin, chasing the ecstasy that she needs. She's so close you can feel it in the way she trembles. You hear it in her moaning, her whines. She's there. Right there, on the cusp. 

And how you wish you could take hold of her. Grip her juicy ass in your hands and push your mouth against her cunt and fuck her with your tongue. You'd do it. You would. Your hands twitch at the thought. Your fingers curl into the floor instead. There will be no marks on Yujin's perfect skin from your fingers right now. You keep them clenched and do as you're told.

"Fuck—" She grunts, her thighs trembling. You can't move and you can barely breathe. All you can do is lick at her and let her ride you like a toy.

It's enough. Yujin cries out and her back arches, her head falling backwards. She comes and it's the most glorious sight, watching her body tense as her thighs tremble, clenching around your face. She grinds, rubbing against your tongue as she draws it out. It's messy and loud. She's panting, her chest heaving and she moans, rocking her hips and gasping.

It's like the tension washes out of her body and she sinks down, relaxing against you. She sits on your chest, looking down at you, a satisfied smirk on her face. You try to smile back but all you can manage is a dopey grin as you struggle to catch your breath. She's beautiful like this. Her eyes shine bright, the light behind them twinkling. Her skin glows and she looks like a work of art. A masterpiece.

"You did well," she praises, reaching out to touch your face, stroking her fingers across your cheeks, "you always do well for me, don't you?"

You nod. "I'd do anything for you," you say, and you mean it.

"I know you will." She shifts her hips, her thighs clamping down around your face again, restricting your air. Yujin laughs. "You'd let me suffocate you if I told you to."

And you would. You really would.

"But, I still have use for you," she tells you as she dismounts. Yujin relaxes on the floor next to you, her head propped up on her elbow.

You take a breath and roll over to look at her, still gasping for air. She smiles, reaching out and cupping your face with her hand, thumbing the wetness of her from your cheeks. You're a mess, covered in her, and her eyes tell you how much she loves that sight. How much she enjoys the power of having you like that.

Yujin leans over, her lips grazing over yours. The kiss is so light it makes you shiver. A complete contrast to what you've just experienced. She walks this balance so perfectly. The rough and the gentle, the affection and the torment. She's the best at both and she plays with them like an instrument.

"Do you like me?" Yujin blinks innocent eyes and it's a trap that you fall right into.

"Yes. You know that I do. I like you a lot."

Yujin grins. "Do you like my body?" She shuffles closer, looking down at you a little more. "Do you want to fuck me?"

You gulp, your mouth watering as your eyes wander over the curves of her figure, the way her nipples press against her shirt, the way the hem of it has risen, exposing her midriff and how she plays with the lace of her panties on her hip. You're so hard that you're aching and she knows that. You want her, you need her, you'd give anything to feel her.

"Yujin," you whimper. "Please."

"Do you deserve to fuck me? After being so bad today?"

"I can make up for it. I'll do anything—"

"I bet you would," she hums. Her hand reaches out, sliding over your shorts, her fingers grazing over the obvious bulge. "You want it that badly?"

You nod and you're desperate.

"You want to be inside me?"

"Please, Yujin," you whimper.

She grins, tugging at the waist of your shorts and slipping her fingers under the waist. "You want to grab my ass while I ride you like the toy that you are? Do you want me to bounce on your dick, hm? The one that belongs to me?"

You bite your lip as you nod fervently, watching the way her eyes shine and the corners of her lips twist. Yujin lets out a soft laugh at your desperation.

"Then worship me." She pulls her hand away from your crotch and places it on her hip to pose. "Show me how much you like my body."

Yujin rolls onto her back, throws her hands above her head and bends a knee as her other leg stretches out. She looks so perfect, so inviting. So you climb to your knees, looking over her as she relaxes. There's a natural arch to her body between her shoulders and her ass that leaves a sliver of light between the small of her back and the floor. She's an art piece. Like a statue carved from stone, sculpted and designed to be admired. A creation so beautiful and elegant.

And you're on your knees for her, kissing up her outstretched leg. Your hand traces over her thigh. You're slow, taking your time. The skin beneath your lips is so soft, so smooth, so delicate. You don't deserve her. Your lips press into the path your hand paves up her body. Gentle kisses of appreciation on the thigh you adore so much.

"Yujin—" you breathe the words hot onto her skin. A lick, to taste the sweat from her body, a kiss, to mark the spot. A honey-laced laugh rings in the air. "You're so beautiful," you murmur.

Your mouth presses against her hip, tongue trailing over her skin. Your fingers lip up under her tight-fitted shirt. She's so warm. Her body feels like it's burning and her breaths are heavy.

She looks down the length of her body to watch you as your hand slides up, pushing her shirt with it. Your lips graze over your stomach, tongue teasing and tracing over the defined lines. You're in awe of her. She's perfect, and she knows it, but you still want her to know that she's appreciated. That she's worshipped, admired, adored, lusted for, and wanted.

"I know I am," she laughs, "but tell me more."

"An Yujin," you breathe the name into her skin as you kiss your way to her chest, your hand sliding further up her body until the palm of your hand rests on the softness of her breast. "No one is like you," you whisper as you squeeze the mound in your hand, feeling her body beneath you, feeling the way it moves when your hand does. "You're so flawless."

She moans softly when your fingers pinch her nipple. "Keep going," Yujin hums.

"You're stunning," you continue, looking up at her face as you kiss across her chest to the other breast, your hand still fondling. Your mouth hovers over her nipple and your eyes flicker up to meet hers as you lick over it. She gasps and you lick again, teasing and flicking over it. "You're the most decadent, alluring thing I have ever laid eyes on."

"I'm your fantasy?" Her hands move to the top of your head, her fingers twisting into the strands of your hair as you lick, sucking her into your mouth again, teasing her with the flat of your tongue. You suck and she lets out a sharp hiss of a moan.

"My fantasy," you breathe the words against her chest. "You're my dream."

Her hips lift, pushing against you and the growing ache of your erection. The friction, the heat, the feeling of her—it's so good. She grinds, rolling her hips and rubbing against your cock, smirking at the way you whine, your eyes fluttering.

"You want to cum," she taunts. "Don't you?"

"Yujin," you moan her name again as her fingers twist tighter in your hair. Your hips roll down to meet the grind of her body and your mouth finds the crook of her neck. You inhale the scent of her. You're surrounded by Yujin. It's dizzying. She's everywhere. The smell of her, the taste of her on your tongue and lips, the feeling of her skin on your hands, under your body, the sight of her, the sound of her voice. Everything is Yujin, and you can't think of a better world to live in. "I want you," you tell her. "I want to be inside you, I need you."

"I know what you need," she hums. Yujin's hands tug on your shirt and you sit back and pull it off. Her palms press against your chest, pushing you to lie back on the floor. You watch her and the grace with which she moves, kneeling over your waist as she peels her own shirt over her head and tosses it to the side.

Your eyes are all over her body. Yujin's hands run over the softness of her skin, and she cups her tits in her hands, rolling her thumbs over her nipples, her eyes locked on yours as you watch. Her body is a wonderland. There's no part of it that you haven't seen. No inch of her skin you haven't touched or tasted. You know every crevice of it, every mark and blemish, every imperfection. You know them all and you love them. They're the most perfect imperfections you've ever seen.

She knows the power that her body has over you, the control it gives her. Yujin knows how to wield that weapon, how to make it into the sharpest sword, and how to cut you with it.

"Fuck me," you plead, the words escaping your lips in desperation. "Yujin, please."

"You beg so beautifully for me," she smiles, her fingers sliding under the waistband of your shorts. "Lift your hips."

And you obey, lifting them from the floor. Yujin's fingers tug at the fabric, pulling them down your thighs. She smiles at the sight of you, hard and leaking. Yujin's hands slide over your bare thighs. You're exposed, and the feeling of the cool air hitting your skin sends a chill up your spine. Her palms slide up until she wraps one around the base of your cock and her touch sends a shiver through your body. Yujin strokes up, slowly, twisting her hand on the upstroke. Your hips buck at her touch and she grins at the way your cock twitches, the precum leaking across the back of her hand as she reaches the top.

"You're so needy," she says as her hand glides back down. Your eyes are wide, watching every move she makes as if your life depended on it. "I like it," she tells you.

"I'd do anything—"

"I know you would," Yujin laughs, cutting you off. She shuffles forward on her knees until her thighs press on either side of your waist, caging you between her. The way she towers over you, with that look in her eyes that says you belong to her. "You're my toy, aren't you?"

"I'm your toy."

"That's right." Her hand squeezes tighter around the base of your cock as she lifts her hips, hovering just over you. You don't know how long she's going to keep you waiting, you never do. It could be seconds, it could be minutes. She has a sadistic streak that you've never understood and it's always a game of how desperate can she make you before giving in to your begging. "And who does this belong to?" she asks.

"You. Yujin. It belongs to you," you breathe the words, your fingers curling into the palms of your hands.

"That's right, it belongs to me. This cock," she strokes up again. "It's mine. Isn't it?" Yujin's fingers trace up, circling your tip.

"It's yours," you whimper. The desperation has you whining.

"It is," she laughs, and it's a sound that makes your stomach twist into knots. She squeezes you and lifts her hips just a little, enough for you to feel the heat of her body. You feel her thighs squeeze against you as she grinds her pussy on the underside of your cock, dragging the length of you through her folds and over her clit.

Instinct dictates that you bring your hand to her hip, but you know you can't just take hold of her, not unless she's given the go-ahead. You clench your hands tighter, biting your lip to hold in your frustration, your desperation.

Yujin's hips rock against you again, grinding down and using your cock to get herself off. You can feel the slickness between her legs. You can hear the wet sound it makes. She's using you, and she's loving every second. It's the sound you know too well. She's getting herself off. The feeling of her is intoxicating, and your cock is throbbing, twitching as it slides against her pussy, hitting her clit. The moans from Yujin's lips tell you exactly what it's doing to her. How much she loves the way it makes her feel.

You can't touch. You can't take control. All you can do is lie back, your head tipped back against the floor as your fingers grip in vain at the floor, struggling to keep them from reaching out for her. Yujin's body moves like silk in the wind, and you know she's so close. The sound of her, the feeling of her. She's riding the edge, grinding down, the tip of your cock catching on her entrance as she teases you with every move.

"Yujin—" you beg her name as your head falls to the side, eyes clenched closed.

"What?" Her voice is thick with lust and you feel her hand on your chin, gripping your jaw, her nails biting into your cheeks. She turns your face and forces your eyes open to watch the way she moves. "You want to be inside me?"

You can only nod in reply, feeling her fingers tighten around you, squeezing. She grins, leaning over and you feel the breath of her laughter on your neck. Her lips brush your skin. Her teeth nip, biting down on your shoulder, making you wince. Yujin's hips roll forward, and the tip of your cock catches on her entrance. She holds there for a moment, a silent torment of anticipation as your mind swirls and your stomach flips. And then you feel the heat, her warmth as she slowly pushes herself onto your cock. You watch with a hitched breath, your heart hammering in your chest. You feel her. She feels you.

The breath you'd held rushes out, a gasping moan, the feeling of being enveloped by her body. The tight warmth as Yujin sinks all the way down. Her pussy grips your length, squeezing tight and you can feel the way it flutters, the way it grips, the way it clenches around you. Your eyes meet hers, and you can see how much she enjoys having this effect on you. How she loves the way you react, the sounds she forces you to make, the way you squirm and gasp beneath her. She owns you. Completely. Utterly. Irrevocably.

Her hands press down on your chest, and she starts to move, rolling her hips, circling, lifting up just enough that she can feel you slide in and out of her. You can feel it all, you're aware of every movement she makes. How she grinds her clit against your body on the downstroke, the way her hips tilt to find the right spot, the way she moans when she hits the perfect angle. The way she moves when she finds the right pace, the perfect rhythm. It's everything and all at once.

"You feel so good inside me," Yujin purrs. She leans back, placing a hand on the top of your thigh. Her body is open to you. She's exposed. The panties she still wears are pulled to the side, her breasts bouncing with every move of her body, her stomach tightening, the soft skin pulled taut as her abs clench. She's a sight, a beauty to behold and a treasure to worship.

"Yujin, please," you breathe the word into the space between the two of you. It's not enough, you need to touch. You have to. But you're trapped and she's in charge. "Let me touch you."

"No." It's simple, the way she says it. It's like she's not even thinking about the effect she's having on you like she doesn't even realise what she's doing to your sanity. She rides you like a toy, her hips moving, grinding down, her thighs squeezing and relaxing as she works. You can only whine, lying back against the ground. You watch as she takes what she needs from you, her hand slipping down her stomach and to her clit, circling quickly as her moans fill the room. "This is my cock," she breathes, "and I'll do what I like with it."

"Yes," you hiss as your hips push upwards, your hands balled into fists at your sides. You're so hard it hurts. It aches and it throbs, and all you can do is lie back, trapped beneath Yujin and her powerful thighs. "Yujin—" you breathe, but the words stick in your throat.

Her eyes are dark, the lust-filled pools staring down at you as you lie back, completely helpless and at her mercy. Your cock twitches and she gasps, her hand on her clit, rubbing furiously, chasing her release. She's getting closer and closer with each passing second and it shows in her face. Her brow creasing, lips parted and eyes fluttering.

She's fucking herself on your dick. Yujin is using you to get herself off and you love every second of it. The feeling of her walls gripping you tight, squeezing, her body clenching around you. The way her thighs tense and shake as she moves. Her moans, her gasps. Her eyes are on you, watching you watch her.

Yujin gasps and her body shudders, her pace quickening, her fingers circling faster, rubbing frantically at her clit as she chases her orgasm. You know how close she is, and all you can do is watch her face as she gets closer and closer. Her body is shaking, trembling as the wave builds inside her. Her moans get louder, and more intense. Her fingers work harder, and you feel her tightening, the walls of her pussy squeezing down, and then she cries out, her head tipping back, her body arching, her chest pushing out as she rides the waves of her orgasm.

It's beautiful. The way her body reacts to it all, the way she looks when she comes undone. Yujin moans your name and it sends shivers up and down your spine. She looks ethereal like this. A deity to be admired. A queen on her throne.

She's beautiful. She's breathtaking. She's Yujin.

When the waves stop crashing, Yujin collapses onto you, her body limp and spent. The warmth of her body pressed against you feels like heaven and your cock is still inside her, pulsing, aching, begging for its own release.

"I don't know if I should let you cum," Yujin pants in a whisper, her face pressed against your shoulder, the hot breath on your skin sending shivers down your spine. "Could just leave you here like this. All hard and frustrated. Aching. You'd probably go home and get yourself off thinking about me."

She's right. Of course, she's right. You would.

"Or maybe you can show me just how much you appreciate me," she breathes, pushing herself up, hands on either side of your head. "Would you like that?"

"Anything," you tell her. Your hands twitch, desperate to reach up to her. "You know I would."

"I know." She smirks and sits up. Her hips lift until you feel your cock slipping out of her, her wetness dripping onto you. Yujin's fingers trace over the mess she's left, smearing it on her fingertips before bringing it to your lips. You know what she wants. She doesn't even need to ask.

Your mouth opens and she pushes her fingers between your parted lips, letting you lick them clean. You suck her fingers and her eyes watch you, a glint of something dangerous shining. She pulls them out slowly, dragging the tips over your bottom lip. "Good," Yujin breathes the word as she climbs off of you and turns around.

The curve of her ass is a beautiful thing to see. It's soft, smooth, plump. She catches a glance at you staring, a smirk tugging on her lips. She plants her hand against her ass (a harsh reminder that feeling it yourself requires her permission) and squeezes the flesh before letting out a laugh. It's all a game to her.

"You're going to show me, by cumming for me. Cumming on me." She settles back onto the floor, gracefully lying back into a pose. "You have two minutes. Two minutes to show me how much you love my body." She runs a hand from her chest all the way to her hips and you watch, entranced by every movement she makes. Yujin laughs again. "Well, what are you waiting for?"

The words kick you into action and you scramble to your knees and shuffle towards her. She laughs at the sweet, sweet honey sound that makes you melt. Your hand wraps around the base of your cock, the wetness from Yujin's pussy coating it, slick and smooth as you slowly stroke your length. You stare at her, watching the way her chest rises and falls with each breath, the way her fingers trace up and down the skin of her thigh, the way her tongue darts out to wet her lips.

It's intoxicating. You're drunk on Yujin, high off of her beauty, and you're addicted. There's no going back. You're hers, completely. Your fist tightens around your length and your strokes quicken. The feeling of it is so good and your cock is still throbbing from being trapped inside her. You can feel the lingering heat of her body on your skin. The scent of her, the taste, the sound. It's everywhere. Surrounding you. Enveloping you. Engulfing you. Consuming you.

"Two minutes," she hums the reminder, her fingers sliding between her thighs. Yujin's fingers slide over the panties she still wears. "Two minutes to make yourself cum for me. To make a mess of my body."

"Yujin," you whimper her name like it's a prayer. The sound of her voice, the sight of her body. The knowledge of what you've done, of what you've experienced. You've been inside her. You've had the taste of her on your tongue, the sound of her in your ears. Her pussy is still dripping and her thighs glistening. You're still so hard that you're aching, and all you can do is stroke yourself. All you can do is pump your hand and feel your fingers glide up and down your shaft.

Your eyes flicker from the smooth, warm, inviting skin of her chest to her pussy and back. You've tasted her. You've felt her. You've felt the way she grips and clenches, the way she feels. The sound of her when she cums.

"I don't know if you can do it. I don't know if you can cum." Yujin teases and she knows how to play you. "One minute."

"Yujin," you moan her name again and again as you feel it building. The pressure. The heat. Your cock twitches in your hand as you stroke. The sensation of the wet heat, the friction, the knowledge that Yujin is beneath you, but you're hers to command, to control. It's too much and it's everything. You feel it in your core, a twisting, coiling, winding tension that's threatening to snap.

"Do you want to cum on me?" Her voice breaks through the fog. "Do you want to mark my body with your cum? Make a mess of me?"

She throws her hands above her head, stretching out her body and presenting herself for your load. "Thirty seconds," Yujin warns, the hint of danger on the tip of her tongue.

"Yujin—" You can only whisper her name as you stroke. Hard and fast, gripping and twisting. You're so close. Right there, standing on the precipice.

"That's it. Be a good boy for me," she praises. "Show me how much you adore me."

"I—I—" Your words die in your throat, a gasping, breathless moan. You're cumming, the tension snaps and it's all too much. The pleasure rushes over you like a wave. You're drowning in it. You're suffocating. Your hips stutter, thrusting into your fist, pumping your length as you feel the hot spurts of your cum painting over Yujin's perfect, beautiful skin. The first spurt splashes across her breasts, the second spattering across her stomach and chest. Her laughter fills the room. She loves this, seeing the way she's ruined you.

Your body shakes, your hand slowing as the final drops fall from your cock to the expanse of Yujin's body. Your mind swims as you struggle to breathe. Your head spins and your vision is blurry. She's laughing, her fingers swiping through the cum, rubbing it into her skin. Her hands roam all over her body and you're entranced. Your body feels like jelly as you collapse, slumped onto your side on the floor beside her.

"Good boy," Yujin purrs, her hand sliding over her stomach and down between her legs, rubbing at her clit with your cum. She's smearing it everywhere, all over her pussy, her fingers slipping between her folds and then back to her clit. It runs over her chest, dripping down the side of her tit. Her breath hitches and you watch, mesmerised by her. "Such a good boy."

"Yujin," her name falls from your lips as if you've lost all other words, the way a prayer is uttered, reverently and devotedly. "I—"

She laughs again. It's light and playful. "I know. I'm the best, right? You're so lucky."

"Yes." It's the only thing you can think of to say. You are lucky. So unbelievably lucky.

[tumble-tv]

There’s word (very strong and big word) that Donald Trump is going to start mass deportations on Tuesday, January 21, 2025.

He wants any immigrants, no matter how long they have been a citizen of the USA, to be deported either out of the country as a whole or into what are basically concentration camps. They’re starting in Chicago, Illinois. The US Immigrations and Customs Enforcement (ICE) has started raiding homes and families in California. Here’s some information.

When it comes to spotting an ICE agent, look for these:

Weirdly neat/well kept hair (shaved heads, side parts, military burs for men; low buns, high ponytails, close cropped bobs for women)

Oversized jacket (long and bulky outerwear makes it easier to hide tools/equipment without being suspicious)

Both hands in pockets

Many undercover agents/cops buy cheap plain clothes off the racks so they aren’t seen in their own clothes. This can make their outfit seem awkward

Sweatshirts with the hood up

Sports apparel (warm up jacket, sweats, etc) with non-sports clothes (jeans, cargo shorts)

Cargo pants/shorts (usually full of items like their badge, flashlight, taser, pepper spray, backup handcuffs, zip ties)

Military or hiking style boots, sometimes chunky sneakers (extra points if none of it matches anything in their outfit)

Outline of a gun in their pants/shirt (easy to see when bending, leaning, or raising arms) (NO NOT SAY ANYTHING)

Overly friendly

Overly inquisitive

“How old are you” and “what do you know about this happening” are both red flags, along with generally odd and personal questions

Don’t fit in

Mismatched pairs in public spaces (usually cops do these things in pairs. They don’t talk to each other or acknowledge each other much, if at all)

DO NOT SAY ANYTHING UNTIL YOU ARE 100% SURE

YOUR BEST BET IS NOT TO SAY ANYTHING UNTIL THE SUSPECT STARTS ACTING OFF AND GETTING PUSHY

COPS ARE NOT OBLIGATED TO TELL YOU THAT THEY ARE UNDERCOVER

COPS CAN AND WILL LIE TO YOU

SCREAM “LA MIGRA” AT THE TOP OF YOUR LUNGS

For protesting:

N95 masks

Respirator/gas mask if you have access to one

Water water water water water (I hate to say it, but disposable one use bottles are best here. If it comes to it, you need to be able to drop and run.)

Snacks

Eyedrops (teargas is a bitch)

Goggles (I bring my old snowboarding goggles)

If you are wearing a t-shirt or have exposed skin, put on fake tattoos. If you are brought into something and they say you were there, showing a picture of you with the tattoos, show them where that tattoo would be and how there’s nothing there. How would you get rid of a giant flower on your forearm in 2 days anyways?

Hide your hair. I tuck my hair into my beanie since it’s short. If you have longer hair, try to do the same or tuck it into your shirt.

Power bank

Chargers

Helmet. Any is fine, my personal choice is a skating helmet since they’re rounder and can take more damage

Hand sanitizer

Gloves (either to keep your hands warm or simple nitrile exam gloves, both work)

Bandanas. Somebody might need one for their face or hair, maybe you need to get dirt off somebody’s face, maybe somebody got injured. They’re great for anything and everything

Cash (try to stick to cash, your card can be tracked)

Medications if you take them. If you get arrested or happen to somehow be away for longer than expected after the protest, it’s always good to have emergency meds

FIRST AID ALL THE FIRST AID (Tourniquet, Quikclot, chest seal, trauma shears, gauze, bandages, duct tape, and all the usual stuff you’d have in there)

Good shoes

Spare socks. Trust me.

As much covering clothing as you can handle. Plain jeans, plain hoodie, plain t-shirt, keep yourself as anonymous as possible

Photocopy of your ID

Sunscreen

Make sure your clothes have pockets

Do not wear contact lenses. If tear gas is used, that will make everything so much worse. Wear your glasses or go blind.

If you use mobility aids, cover defining features. Logos, brand names, colors, stickers, all of it. Take some old plain t-shirt and tie it around your wheelchair’s backrest. Wrap your wheelchair frame in cling wrap, then duct tape, or plain black self adhering medical tape. Cover stickers on your cane or crutches the same way. Electric chair? You have a little more work, but you can do it. Same idea. Walker? Same thing. Cover. It. All.

If you are bringing a bag, make sure that bag is as plain as possible. No pins. No patches. No keychains.

Scarf if you have one

Write a reliable phone number (of someone who is not at the protest with you) on your body. On the off chance you get arrested, that is your emergency contact.

Pocket knife.

Pepper spray/mace

Anything you can throw. Soup for my family.

IF YOU CAN, LEAVE YOUR PHONE AT HOME

IF YOU HAVE TO TAKE IT WITH YOU FOR WHATEVER REASON, TURN OFF LOCATION SERVICES ON ALL APPS AND TURN OFF BIOMETRICS (FACE ID AND FINGERPRINT) SO YOU CAN ONLY UNLOCK YOUR PHONE WITH YOUR PASSWORD

MAKE SURE SOMEBODY KNOWS GENERALLY WHERE YOU ARE

I do not want to scare anybody, but this is what life is right now. That man does not care how long you have been a citizen of this country. If you are not white, cisgender, heterosexual, Christian, and male, you are seen as less than by men in power. You are not less than. You are a threat to them, and they are scared. Keep it that way.

Here's the link to my post on what to bring in terms of first aid.

If you cannot attend protests, that’s fine. Do what’s best for you. Simply reposting information helps.

[s-4pphics]

the art of chasing. (e.w.) part I.

synopsis: how to: lose a lover.

word count: 9.5K

warnings: bratbaby!ellie who’s a math prodigy :), baby!oc who’s not but craves approval, SARAH IS ALIVE, mentions of: ANGST, time jump, joel is everyone’s dad — adoption, dead parents, narc parenting, internalized homophobia, outward homophobia, enemies to ?, idiots to ?, alcoholism, ellie’s a hopeless romantic, so is oc but she doesn’t know it, rebellious teenagers, FLUFF :)

a/n: heyyy. this idea came to me very randomly in january and i’ve been drafting it since then. it’s a two parter with a possible intermission but idk we’ll see. also, i hit 4k followers? thanks THE FAWK?

BYEEE

Since age ten, you’ve hated Ellie Williams.

You were naive like most children; too bright-eyed and bushy-tailed to manage, running amuck and causing any wreckage you could with your pudgy little hands. You lived to explore, much to your father’s dismay. He’s a stickler with too much sense, exactly like your irritating, speckle-faced classmate. Stubborn with an ego large enough to topple mountains. 

The first time you met her, you’d been sobbing at the sight of blood on your skin. 

You weren’t the fastest runner on the playground, but your classmates knew to never play hide and seek with you. You’d squeeze into the smallest crevices of your school's hallways and sit until recess was over and you were crowned the winner by your classmates when the bell rang. Your victory streak felt everlasting, three months of invisibility, it seemed until one day, a boy approached you — Jesse, a few inches taller and annoying, made it a challenge to discover your hiding spot. Younger you accepted any competition with grace, even moreso when Jesse’s friends bet that he’d pay you if he failed to complete the challenge… Your dad was very confused when you returned home with twenty bucks and a bag of Warheads that Friday. You don’t gamble, but what’s a little reward for upholding your legacy as the Best Hider? Your tactic was masterful, and while your classmates failed to find you, your piggy bank grew in size. 

For the first term of fifth grade, recess was yours. Students of all grade levels were on a manhunt for you after lunch. The excessive searches got so bad that they limited your 10 second head start to 5, then 3, and even then, you were never caught. 

Until Ellie. 

You decided to switch it up one day: instead of going to your go-to hiding spot — in between the two giant pillars that separated the first and second grade classrooms — you decided to rush back towards the cafeteria and wait by the lunch tables. Call it hiding in plain sight. No one ever returned there after they finished eating; They were too busy pushing each other down the slide or searching for you on the field. 

Your fall could’ve been caused by anything: an untied shoelace, your mind moving too fast for your feet, a crack in the blacktop. All you recall was laughing maniacally one second then sobbing harshly with a bloody knee the next. It barely hurt from your adrenaline, but blood had always freaked you out. You searched for anyone — a supervisor, a teacher, another classmate — but your cries weren’t loud enough to draw attention. 

No one was a witness except the freakishly smart nerd that sat at the back of the classroom. 

Ellie had been alone at the lunch tables, dirty sneakers kicked up with a sticker book in hand while she watched you cry completely stoic.

When you finally noticed her sitting there, you hoped your teary eyes would push her to get you some help, but when she squatted beside you with a taunting glance and pitying hand on your shoulder, you knew she sucked. Sucked really badly.

“That’s what you get for cheating. Everyone knows the lunch area’s off limits during recess.” 

And then she hollered over Jesse and all his loser friends, exclaiming that she found you and everyone owed her whatever rewards they planned to give you. From that point on, you hated her. Whenever she spoke in class, won a tetherball match with her man hands, laughed too loud, you returned home with a chip on your shoulder and the urge to swing on her. Not only did Ellie take your money and treats, she dimmed your glory. The crown on your head was placed onto hers in a heartbeat, title going from Best Hider to Best Seeker, and all it took was one accident. Ellie swiftly became your obsession after that. How could such a loser loner be that snarky? Losers are often desperate for any form of human contact, so why wasn’t she? Everyone thought she was the coolest person ever yet she didn’t care. Her routine stayed the same: silently sit in class and obnoxiously be the smartest person in the room then walk exactly 20 feet in front of you when the day is over. 

You’ll never forget the disgusted churns in your gut when you discovered she lives right across the street from you, and apparently had since you both were in kindergarten. If anyone at school found out that you religiously watched Ellie ride and fall(once) off her skateboard for a month straight, they’d probably group you too together for being the wackiest bitches in the neighborhood. 

It’s been five years since that day by the lunch area, and still, Ellie’s mission of making you feel like gum stuck to the bottom of her shoe rages on. Every test, every presentation, every spelling bee, every race, she shows you up without breaking a sweat while you drag behind her using every bit of willpower you have left, and still, it’s never enough. She surpasses you in ways that almost seem impossible, your brain can barely grasp it. 

She’s still mechanically organized, even as a teenager. On honor roll and a dickface. Isn’t high school the time to find yourself and not be a loser? Talk to boys and get a job and start driving— 

“You look psycho. She’s not thinking about you. Give it a rest.” 

Your best friend’s right as always, but your glare doesn’t get any softer. In fact, it hardens when Riley scoots directly in front of your vision so your eyes are on her and not Ellie. 

“If I killed someone, would you help me hide the body?” You say, exasperated. 

“No, bitch I wouldn’t,” she rolls her eyes, “You’re risking life in prison because she ruined the curve for our biology test?” 

“She gotta 98. I dunno how campus isn’t up in flames right now. All these bitches are weak,” you shove a carrot in your mouth, “my dad’s gonna kill me.” 

“I’ll come to the funeral.”

“That’s not funny. You know how he is! He’s gonna blow a fuse when my grade gets posted.” 

Riley’s eyes shadow with sympathy. “Maybe you can ask for a retake? Mr. Johnson’s not as fucked up as—“

“Ms. Robinson.” You and Riley both shudder in disgust. Your first bio teacher had it out for you so bad, it seemed. Last semester was stupid rough because of her pop quizzes and accusations of cheating. If she hadn’t fell down the stairs and broken her hip, you’d be on academic probation by now. 

“I’m not reliving that, Jesus… Are you comin’ later? Everyone’s asking where you’ve been.” 

Every reminder that you're locked in your room while your friends cause ruckus throughout the town is like a knife to the chest. “Tell 'em I'll seem them inna month,” you smile sarcastically, “I can’t go anywhere until I get my D up in math… and English—“

“Bitch how do you have a D in English when we speak it everyday—“

“I know, okay, I hate essays! My brain can’t… I can’t sit there and write for too long. I feel like I’ll start going crazy looking at those little ass words! I needa stress reliever bad.” 

Riley pouts and reaches for your hand, “I'll find you one and send it to your place, promise.” 

“Maybe you shouldn’t. My dad might set it on fire to taunt me.” You snort, but Riley doesn’t. She never does when you talk about your dad. The sad look she always gives makes you uncomfortable. Your gaze falls onto your tray when she squeezes your hand. 

“If you need to stay with me, you can. You know that, right?” 

“… Yeah. Thanks.” 

Riley’s a wishful thinker. Her family’s the sweetest: always inviting you over for holidays, her birthdays, sometimes your birthday when your dad deems you undeserving of celebration. They embrace you openly, and you’re forever grateful for their warmth, but the peace you experience in her household always ends in tears when your dad picks you. He’ll scream at you until his voice goes hoarse for running away even though you always ask for permission before going anywhere. The grudge he held onto after you snuck out one time in junior high weighs both of you down. 

Your father doesn’t trust you, and sometimes when it’s late and you hear delirious mumbling in the hallways, you question whether or not to trust him. 

The bell pulls you from your thoughts, and for once, you’re grateful that lunch is over. Riley’s gentle aura has a way of disarming you. You’re always unprepared whenever you trek the stairs to your porch; exposed and vulnerable. 

Riley allows you to wallow in silence all the way back to class. Your academic reputation was never stellar, but you always believed you were smart enough to make it into college and find your purpose, but every year that passes, your attention span suffers, and no one understands how draining it is except you. You were naive to think you’d be able to confide in your dad about something like that. 

Riley gives your hand one last squeeze before sliding through the door next to yours. Annoyance stabs in your spine when you catch Ellie already sat at the front of the room with her stupid fucking glasses and notebooks and sharpened pencils laid neatly on her desk. It’s like she lives her life to taunt you, force you to remember that you’ll never be as clever as she is. You’re sick just looking at her. 

You fall onto your designated seat in the last row, the last bits of students clabbering in just as the second bell rings. Mr. Thomas is already scribbling a bunch of Xs and Ys on the board and attendance hasn’t even been taken. It’s one of those days, one of frantic note taking while you attempt to catch all the information he throws at you while Ellie glides through the lesson like knives through butter. 

“Just like we reviewed last week, everyone! A point is a solution to a system of equations—“

You’re betting you won’t have a wrist by the end of class. What use are your notes if they end up looking like chicken scratch? You should know all of this, you’ve read these lessons so many times, so why’re you blanking when the question comes back to you?

“If we plug (3, 6) into our equations, will we have a solution?” Mr. Thomas points directly at you. It’s a simple yes or no question, and in retrospect, the equations aren’t that fucking hard but you can’t do it. Why can’t you solve this? 

Y and X and equal signs mock you all across the white board. Just guess! There’s a 50% chance you’ll get it right. A betted yes is still a yes, anyway! 

Exactly how a betted no is still a no. You’re fucked. 

“Um…”

Say anything! Who gives a fuck if it’s wrong or right or whatever! So what if you can’t do algebra! When you leave here, you'll be so extraordinarily incredible at your job that you won’t need any of it! Most of the things you learn in school all go to waste anyway! 

“… No?” You answer meekly, and your teacher’s eyes brighten. 

“Correct!—“

Thank God, I thought I was gonna die— 

“—Can you explain how?”

Oh, fuck my life

“Um… well… Uh…”

Your face burns from the stares of your classmates and your teacher and God himself. You stumble over your answer, saying a bunch of shit that you can hardly understand, all while the light in Mr. Thomas’ eyes slowly distinguish. 

“I’m… not sure, Mr. Thomas.” 

You swallow the lump in your throat when he gives you a pitying glance before asking, “That's alright! Does anyone wanna help our friend out?” 

And of course, Ellie’s hand flies up just to spite you, and your efforts crash and burn. 

“Yes, Ellie?” 

“If 6 is Y, then the equation has to equal 6. 2 times 3 is 6 but adding 1 makes it 7. So no…” 

“We don’t have a solution.” Her tone is so secure it strains in your ears. You might as well stand at the front of the class and let everyone shoot you with spitballs. That’d be less humiliating. 

“Great job, Ellie! So that means—“

Frankly, you don’t give a shit what it means, you just want to leave. Be anywhere but here. Being home would actually feel more safe, despite the small voice in your mind claiming that’s a fallacy. 

Class drags on and so does your writing. Whatever burst of energy you had at the start of class has been wrung to hell, finishing with a whopping one and a half pages of notes. Better than yesterday. Small victories. 

After what feels like ages, the bell rings, and students disperse to wherever they're supposed to be. You throw your backpack over your shoulder, your feet carrying you even faster towards the door when the Devil speaks. 

“—Thanks, Mr. Thomas. See you!”

“Bye, Ellie! See you tomorrow.” 

She makes it to the door before you, already vanishing into the crowded hallways before a calm timbre yanks you back. You spin with the brightest smile. “Yes, Mr. Thomas?” 

He stares disapprovingly, and you groan, “Can I go, please? I’m gonna be late—“

“I’ll write you a slip. I need to talk to you.” 

Your lax demeanor masks the pounding in your chest well enough. Mr. Thomas crosses his arms over his chest before sighing, “what’s going on with you? You’re not usually this…”

“What, stupid?” You tort humorlessly. 

“No! Not at all… Distracted, I suppose, but never stupid. Don’t say that again.” 

“C’mon, Thomas, everyone knows it, it’s not a big deal. Some people are smart and some are dumb. It’s just how life goes.” 

“There’s no such thing as a dumb student. Everyone learns at their own pace. That’s how life goes.” He scolds, “Do you need some extra tutoring—“

“No, actually, I don’t, thanks.” 

He sends you a look that’s very father-like and you almost vomit, “I want to see you succeed, that’s why I’m here. There’s so many resources available that could be of use, yet you never take them. Why is that?” 

You shrug in agitation, “I don’t know, Mr. Thomas. I’m trying, okay? I can handle whatever distractions I have on my own.” 

“You know some of your friends can tutor you, right? It doesn’t have to be some strict meeting with a teacher. Some students in here are tutors. Ellie’s on a roll with—“

“Can we not discuss how much smarter my classmates are than me? I'd really appreciate it.” 

He sighs disapprovingly, “That’s not my intention and you know it. There’s no shame in asking for help from people around you.” 

“Is this a therapy session?” 

“No, but the semester’s almost over. If you don’t pass your midterm and your final, you’ll fail the class, and you’ll be stuck with me for another year.” 

You scoff at the insinuation of your demise, “Wow, thanks so much, Mr. Thomas,” His gaze turns sorrowful — pitying. Your feet already carry you towards the door. “Don’t worry about that slip by the way!” 

You ignore the calls of your name before getting shoved into the ocean of students. There’s only one more class you have to sit through and you’re fucking free. Ellie’s not the only one you should look out for. Even teachers are becoming biased pests.

Just when you thought the walk home from school would be peaceful, mainly due to the fact that Ellie was nowhere to be found — not twenty feet ahead or behind you. You hoped her dad’s car got stuck in the open trench by the gas station. 

But no, she’s already made it home — to your home, squatted beside her stupid blue bike with a flat tire, tirelessly reviving her ride with a pump that looks awfully familiar. She’s practically blocking the entire walkway. Your day cannot get any fucking worse. 

You stand in front of her in annoyance, “Can you move?” She doesn’t reply, barely acknowledges you. 

“Hellooo, Earth to dickhead, I’m trying to get home.” 

“Go around.” She nods towards the street.

“What, so I can get hit by a car?” 

“Hopefully.” 

“Go away! You live over there!” Your finger jabs to her dungeon. “You could’ve pumped your own goddamn tire away from my domain!” 

“I don’t wanna walk all the way back.” 

“Back where?”

“To your house. Your dad let me use your guys’ pump.” 

Red alarms sound in your head. Your dad allowed the enemy into your dominion? Rage explodes within you when playful green eyes pan over your entire form. 

“That bothers you?” 

“You bother me. I hate your guts and I always will. You know what you did to me.” You stomp around her worksite. Before you can kick your front door in, she hollers at you. 

“I don’t actually, but alright. Make sure to let Thomas know.”

Your head whips in her direction, gaze searing trails of fire onto the sidewalk. 

“What does Thomas have to do with anything?” 

Ellie shrugs nonchalantly, “He emailed me earlier. Asked me to tutor you. Said you could use some extra guidance.”

She uses your shock to her advantage, pins you where you stand before rising to her full height. Her dirty fucking shoes pan through the dead grass of your yard. 

“If you wanna flunk, keep doing what you’re doing. Stay up all night and read until your eyes bleed only to forget everything the second you get to class because you’re scared of being wrong,” her teeth shine underneath the afternoon sun, “nobody’s rooting for you, not even yourself. I’m your last shot at making a comeback. I’ll get you that C if you want it. All you have to do is say please.” 

Flames of humiliation engulf you from head to toe. Never in your life have you had a stranger degrade you this strongly. Insults from family are always painful but after a certain point, you grow used to hearing what they don’t like about you. Ellie doesn’t know anything about you yet she’s reading you like that stupid scientology novel she always has in her backpack. 

You don’t even have the wind to tell her to go fuck herself before yanking the front door open and flinging yourself inside. It slams when you fall back against it and you swear you hear scoffing from outside. 

“Hey.”

Does he not notice your distress or is he simply uncaring? “… Hi, dad.”

“How was school?” 

“Fun.”

“Sounds like it. I made pizza.” Little does he know, food is the last bit of your worries. 

“Thanks.” 

“Mhm.”

“Dad?” 

“Yeah, hun.”

Am I a disappoint? Do you regret having me? Do you like me… I know you love me, but do you like me?

“… Did you buy some more hot honey?” 

“Course, baby. On the counter.”

“Thanks.”

He nods at you before refocusing on the match. That’s as much conversation you’ll get from him until tomorrow. You reheat your pizza silently, mind focused on the fucking aggravating genius right outside your doorstep. You don’t want to be in range when she gives the bike pump back. The both of them might team up to demean you together. 

Days like today remind Ellie why she misses her skateboard. Twelve-year-old her must’ve been in denial or incredibly lost when she begged Joel for a bicycle. 

She hardly ever rides it anymore, it just sits in the corner of the garage collecting dust and cobwebs, but nostalgia hit her harder than usual today. Could be due to the change in weather, the cold always takes her back to those family getaways in the mountains. Not a day goes past where she doesn’t think about that deer she found laying in the snow when she was eight. 

There aren’t many moments where Ellie gets to decompress: she’s always busy, drowned to the knee with novels and notebooks and annotation assignments or helping a classmate proofread their final papers. She doesn’t remember the last time she got home and simply wasted away doing nothing. There are parts of her that envy students who have that privilege, but every time her schedule slows for any reason, she grows antsy and her fingers twitch with eagerness to solve something. 

That’s why she pulled this stupid bike out of the garage. She assumed taking a lap or two around the block would pass time, but she hardly made it down the driveway before her front tire started stuttering. 

Why the hell did she think asking your dad for that pump was a good idea? Not that Ellie cares if you do or not, but it definitely wasn’t her smartest moment. She’ll get you one of these days. Catch you when you least expect it and press about your fucking issue with her because, frankly, she’s been confused for half a decade. 

Not that you’d ever care, but you’re not Ellie’s cup of tea either. You’ve been the same since you were five: loud and reckless with unpredictable mood swings. You just… do shit, and Ellie despises nothing more than people that just do shit; Your brain runs on impulse. You never see the world past your little bubble, and there’s a reason why people are so prone to pop it for you. Every move you make feels spiteful, especially if Ellie catches you in the act. You’re always there, staring at her, watching her with conviction. She’s provoked every time. 

It's gotten easy to ignore your bombarding personality. You’re ignorable, but you got her out of character today. She hates stooping down to your level but you took her there once again, and she’ll resent you for that like always. 

She feels hollow knocking on your front door. Her brain won’t stop replaying what you said and what she said and this is why she loathes interacting with you. 

The door opens and she realizes she was holding her breath. 

“Hey, Ellie! Your bike alright?” 

“Yeah, I uhh… yeah, sorry,” she extends the pump and your dad accepts it graciously, “Thanks.” 

“Anytime… Hey, you have class with my daughter, right?” 

A few every year. It sucks. She nods. 

“How’s she doin’? She looked real down today.” 

Yeah. Because she sucks. “I’m not sure. I don’t really pay that much attention to be honest.” 

“Of course, ‘cause you actually do what you’re supposed to in class! I wish she was more like you!” He’s laughing but Ellie’s not, hiding her discomfort with a stiff smile. 

“Thanks again,” she points towards the bike pump before shifting away from the door, “have a good night.” 

“You, too!” He grins, “if you see anything outta the ordinary, don’t hesitate to let me know!” Ellie nods with a stiff wave. Her feet couldn’t carry her off your porch fast enough. 

The door shuts, and Ellie releases the second breath she’s held since speaking to you. There’s an icky feeling in her stomach, distaste in her mouth, but she can’t pin where from. Her bike wheels whine the entire walk back to her house. 40 feet suddenly feels like 10 miles. 

She uncaringly drops her bike beside her dad’s truck before entering the house. 

“Is the alien invasion upon us?” 

Ellie’s replies dryly, “Could be.” 

“I’ll be damned! Come in here for a second, Ellie. I need your help with somethin’.”

She sighs before reluctantly entering the kitchen where Joel leans, practically bent over the counter with a rubber-gloved hand shoved down the drain. 

“Compromising position.” 

“Shut up, c’mere… I may or may not’ve dropped a fork in here ‘n I can’t reach it…”

“Dude, again?” Ellie grabs the lone rubber glove that rests on the counter. 

“Don’t give me that! I’ve had enough shit-talkin’ from Sarah.”

Ellie’s eyes go sparkly, “She here?”

“Not yet, kiddo. She just called earlier, she misses you.”

“She didn’t call me.” Ellie pouts. It’s weird, to go from living across the hall from somebody for so many years then only seeing them twice a year if that. When Sarah left for college, Ellie was devastated, excited, anxious, sad all over again. She’s everything Ellie desires to be: intelligent, talented, tall, pretty. In some ways, Sarah’s filled the vacancy that was reserved for Ellie’s mother. Joel’s a great parent and she loves him to death, but he’s not a girl, and there will always be something that he simply doesn’t understand no matter how hard he tries. Sarah will always be Ellie’s greatest blessing. Home is home — home is comfort, but without Sarah… there’s an emptiness in these four walls that fit the shape of her perfectly. Joel feels her absence, too. Ellie notices his longing whenever she catches him searching Sarah’s old room when they’re folding laundry.

“Compromising position.” Joel mocks when Ellie’s smaller hand shoves inside the garbage disposal in search for the missing fork. She throws him a middle finger and he laughs, deep and hearty. 

“You’re quiet today.” He says suddenly, and Ellie stiffens a bit, eyes glued onto clean stainless steel. 

“Always quiet, old man.” 

“Well, yeah… something’s bothering you. What happened?” 

“Just school stuff, nothing crazy.” She definitely won’t, and she partially blames herself for her own damning. You seemed so upset before you slammed the door in her face. It didn’t matter if you were on your last legs, ever since middle school, you’ve always gotten the last word, and Ellie’s always caught scrabbling for a rebuttal. 

Joel hums. Ellie nearly chokes on air when he inquiries, 

“What, you gotta girlfriend?” 

“What the hell, no, of course not, are you serious—“

“Damn… I was kiddin’ but I think you actually might, you’re all cherry-faced! What’s her name! Is she coming over for Christmas!—“ 

Ellie pulls the butchered fork free from the disposal with all her strength before tossing it and the glove on the counter. Joel’s hysteria weighs his shoulders down,  wiping the joyful tears from his eyes. 

“I’m going to bed.” Ellie states stoically. 

“AWW, C’MON! IT’S NOT EVEN 6 YET!” She rolls her eyes when his wheezing starts back up. 

Ellie leaves trails of fire all the way up the stairs, Joel’s giggly apologies and begs for her to come back silencing when her door shuts. Her palms find the caves of her eyes. Her body betrays her, brain pleading to climb underneath her mattress and sleep away the stress of today while her fingers itch to craft or sketch or repair anything. 

… She should’ve been nicer to you. Fuck. 

Her thoughts leap from point A to B: go apologize, help you pass math, go your separate ways for the rest of forever. But you could’ve been nicer to her, also. Why won’t you just be nice? 

Ellie goes against her better judgement and nearly sprints to her window. When she yanks her blinds down just enough to peep through, she locates the glass that guards your room. 

She swears she’s not some fucking weird pervert. She’s just checking to see if you’re alive and ripping up your favorite posters like you always do when you’re mad about something. But there’s no movement from your end and it’s dark where you stay. Are you sleeping? Are you on your phone? Are you… 

Did she make you sad? 

Anger is different — that comes about as naturally as being happy for you, but she hasn’t seen you cry since elementary school. Why does her heart start thrashing when she envisions your red eyes and tear-soaked pillow? Ellie doesn’t like you but she doesn’t want that. Maybe she desired to see you crack when you were little but that was because… 

Ellie doesn’t fucking know what she felt at the time. Agitated that everyone liked you so much, annoyed at how loud you laughed in class. Envious of your light. You were so bright — annoyingly so, shining your blasphemous rays everywhere, blinding everyone in your vicinity. There’s no way you’d give anyone the power to dim your shine.

That aggravating feeling blooms in her chest when she thinks about the amount of times she’s tried to do just that, and something tickles in her throat. It’s too thick to swallow down and she takes that as a sign. Enough sight-seeing for today. 

She plummets face first into her mattress, groaning in annoyance when her cheeks catch flame. You drive her insane. You and your adorable fucking nose. 

Just when she thinks she’s calmed down, knocks echo from outside her door. 

“Kid… Can I come in?” 

Ellie’s tempted to say not right now, but she forces herself up to open the door for him. Sorrow flashes in Joel’s vision. “M’sorry, kiddo, ‘bout earlier. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.” 

“You didn’t, today just sucked.” 

“Talk t’me.” He implores gently. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I just…” Ellie shrugs lamely. Why is it so easy to talk to him about everything but you? “I don’t wanna talk about it right now. I will, but not now.”

He sighs, and she knows he’s concerned, but he doesn’t pry. “Okay, baby—”

“Can I have a hug?” Ellie coughs to mask the crack in her timbre, and Joel embraces her without hesitation. His hold is strong and it brings her solace. For the time being her mind silences, and shoulders aren’t as tense. 

Hold onto this until tomorrow. 

Until she sees you again. 

School has always been predictable. 

You come in, you sit for hours and run for one, and you leave with nothing, everything, and the little specks in between. You knew math would be a little awkward after your conversation with Mr. Thomas — you expected him to call on you more often to answer questions or say your name obnoxiously loud during attendance, but the patronizing never came. You took it as him sparing you until the following day until you received an email from him during your last period asking to speak with you. Much to your mistake, you accepted. 

Never during your entire high school career did you think that you’d be stuck getting scolded by your favorite teacher with Ellie Williams sitting right next to you. What a turn of fucking events. 

“You’re not spending another year with me. You’re going to do better,” Mr. Thomas’ tone is gentle with a sharp edge, but it’s not degrading, “my friend here is willing to help you get to where you want to be. I feel this will be beneficial for both of you.” 

Your teacher gestures to Ellie who’s annoyingly fidgety: messing with the loose strings from the slits in her jeans. You’re doing a stellar job at keeping your distaste in check. No need for another scolding. 

“Tell you what. If you pass the midterm, I’ll throw a pizza party.” 

“I hate tomatoes.”

“… Then we’ll have a to-be-determined party.” 

“Hooray.” You grab your stuff and stand, slinging your bag over your shoulder, “anything else, Thomas?” 

“Yes. Be nice to each other. We’re all friends here.” For once, his statement is for both of you. It’s a little comforting. At least you’re not the only one being corrected for adjustment. 

“Let’s go.” You say to Ellie who follows in your lead. You’re already out the door before she can finish saying her goodbyes. 

You only slow when rushing feet pitter from behind. When Ellie catches up, neither of you speak. You guess you don’t have to. She’s only scheduled to study with you for an hour anyway, there’s no need to waste it on pointless conversation. 

You only set one boundary. 

“Can we study at your place?”

Ellie pauses before nodding. The silence upholds the entire walk to Ellie’s house. She takes a deep breath before unlocking her front door. “My dad’s working, so… yeah. It’ll actually be quiet when we’re studying.” 

You say nothing. You set your backpack on the kitchen table to grab your math book and pencils. Ellie takes a seat beside you with her own notebook, opening it to the lesson from today. 

“Midterms are usually easier than finals, there's not as much to remember, so… um, what area are you struggling in?” 

An insecure itch squiggles in your nose and you scratch it. You shrug and play with your eraser. 

“We can do,” she flips through her pages, “x,y solutions if you wanna, just to start. They were from Thomas’ review the other day.” 

Your cheeks heat at the memory. Suddenly there’s thirty pairs of eyes on you all over again. “Sure, Ellie.” 

“Okay.” She turns to a fresh page before scribbling and her handwriting is perfect. The equation is familiar and easy. You were half expecting her to give you some crazy shit to kick off. She slides her notebook beside you and you don’t hesitate to input the values. You allow her to examine your work with a dry mouth. 

“That’s right.” 

Goosebumps rise on your skin and your cheeks go warm and you don't know why.

“Uh, good job, I’ll give you something harder.” 

She adds another equation onto the page for you to complete but you’re not paying attention. Ellie’s hands are very large. She’s always had freakish man hands but the definition in her veins is much more prominent than in sixth grade. What the fuck? Her pencil looks like a needle in between her fingers. They look so out of place on her dainty wrist, not that you care. 

“Uhh… hello.”

“What.”

“You can do it now. Solve it.”

“… Okay.” 

The question in front of you is the same format as the first one, but the numbers are bigger and there’s even more letters and addition signs and your chest plummets onto the hardwood. Your eyes anxiously find Ellie’s who stares back in confusion. 

“What’s the matter? Need help?”

You swallow and almost choke from the dryness. You just did this problem. The structure is the same, the process of solving is the same, but you're too focused on how Ellie’s going to react to you messing up. She’ll probably brag about how it’s not that hard and berate you about how you’re not that stupid. Perfectionists like her — like your dad are ruthless. Their superiority complex makes them yell and scream insults at you because you’ll never be where they are. You'll never be a match for their genius and in turn, they choose to resent you. 

So you wait for the low blows, the hollering, the threats of punishment. You wait and wait but she doesn’t say anything until she does. 

“Hey… you okay?” 

“What do you think, Ellie?” 

Tension pulls at her brows, “what do you mean?” 

In hindsight, she’s done nothing wrong up until this point, she's staring a little too hard for your liking. She’s the only one here, you have no choice but to give her the spotlight she loves so badly. Anything to get it off you.

“This is probably fun for you, watching me fuck up in real time. Is that why you agreed to do this for me? For an ego boost?” 

Why does she say your name like you’re hurting her? She’s never sounded so wounded; always prepared to strike back whenever you give her unfiltered attitude, retaliating until she’s blue in the face and you’re storming off in the opposing direction. 

“I don’t care if you mess up. I’m here to help you, why don’t you get that?”

“Because when have you ever given a shit if I do well or not? I’ve been a delinquent since we met, why are you so interested now?”

She scoffs and tosses her pencil in annoyance. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” 

“What the fuck are you talking about?” 

“Apparently I’m the only one that missed the memo of hating your guts. News fucking flash, I don’t and I never did. Whatever shit you made up about me in your head isn’t my problem to fix,” she closes her notebook with more force than necessary, “if you don’t want my help then tell Thomas so he can get off my back about it. Find somebody else to teach you or don’t or whatever, I don’t care anymore.” 

...

… Oh.

It could be the way she’s staring at you: eyes stern, self-assured and her voice heavy, a bit deeper than expected when she’s aggravated, and the spots on her face compliment the red hot that burns in her cheeks, but you have very little — actually nothing to say, and it’s not for the reason you expected. You’re stunned into silence, and that confuses her: she half-expected you to take that pencil you hold and stab her through the neck, but you don’t. You don’t storm off, you don’t talk shit, you just sit and examine her face with a faraway look she’s never seen from you before. 

“What?” She implores when you stare too long for comfort, and there’s a lengthy, tender tug in your chest. 

You’re positive the end of the world is coming in the next ten seconds. None of the Earthly shit you’ve experienced will matter in the afterlife and the world you know will cease to exist and you’re thankful for that. You don’t think you’d be able to live any longer with the knowledge that you viewed Ellie in an incredibly different manner during her winded, angered dialogue. There’s a weird fluttering sensation in your stomach and your heart sits at the base of your throat. It waves over your body with an unfamiliar intensity and all you can do is gawk at the girl who took your breath.

“I— I’m…”

“You’re what? What’s wrong with you?” 

“I’m… I think I should go.” You’re already shoveling your things into your backpack, and Ellie’s insanely puzzled. 

“Wh—“

“Sorry. I just got lightheaded all of a sudden,” you sling your back over your shoulder before neatly pushing the dining chair in. You’ve never pushed in a chair in your life. 

“Are you… are you good? Do you need me to walk you back?” 

Her concern makes your tummy burst into flutters, “I'll be fine. Same time tomorrow?” You force down the dreaminess in your voice as Ellie follows close behind. 

“Um… okay? I guess, I thought you—“

“I think we should start over.”

It’s almost comedic how far Ellie’s eyes bulge from her skull. Why do you feel so featherlight all of a sudden? “Let’s forget today ever happened and start fresh tomorrow? Is that cool?” Never once in your life have you cared if Ellie was cool with any of your plans. Who are you right now? 

“I — well, yeah… cool, I guess. Are you sure you’re okay? You’re acting really fucking weird right no—“ 

You squeeze the lone book closer to your chest. “I’m fine, trust me. Goodnight.” 

When you open the door, Ellie’s dad is on the other side struggling to find his keys in his work bag. He smiles down at you in surprise. 

“Hey, kid! It’s been a while, how’ve you been! How’s dad?” Only Ellie notices the wavering looks he shares between you and her. You smile, “been good, dad’s fine. I was just heading out. Thanks again, Ellie.” You say one last time before politely brushing past Mr. Miller, leaving Ellie to simmer and question what the fuck you took before you got here. 

When you're finally out of sight, Joel gives Ellie a knowing look, and she almost throws up from giddy nerves. Or full fleshed anxiety. Whichever ones worse. 

Is it possible to lose your mind before its fully developed?

You knew something was off when you set an alarm for five-thirty in the morning to get ready for school despite getting two hours of sleep in, yet still, you felt rejuvenated. You freshened up with your favorite body wash, plucked your brows, did a facemask, wore something that wasn’t the prior evening's pajamas. For the first time in your life since elementary school, you were excited to start the day and be productive. You don’t know why. 

Purposefully ignoring your change in attitude due to your neighbor is your favorite pass-time. 

You’re not sure what the hell happened to you at Ellie’s house, but it definitely solidified that you’re clinically insane. Delusional enough that whenever she meets your eyes in class your breathing pattern goes wonky. She nodded at you in greeting during English class and you nearly fainted. What the fuck has happened to you? 

Ellie was everything you detested less than 48 hours ago and now she’s leaving you with unrest that isn’t entirely displeasent. It makes you warm and tingly like a cup of warm tea on a cold morning. That’s not what you expected forgiveness to feel like, but it’s nice. Comforting. 

You didn’t see Ellie during lunch, and much to Riley’s confusion, you were disappointed. You and Ellie are nowhere near friends, but you’re trying, and she seems to be receptive to your efforts. In her own little geeky, awkward way. Might as well show your appreciation. She’s helping you out after all. 

After years of depending on Riley for emotional stability, you could use someone new.

So you wait perched up against the front of the school for your tutor. The anticipation makes you jittery, pacing across the small grass plain, kicking lone rocks, telling yourself to calm the fuck down because you’ve walked home with her since you were nine only this time around you’re not seperate but together—

“Sup.” 

You whip around at the call of your name, “hi.” You’re cheesing, can’t help it. Forgiveness is a great feeling. Ellie barely smiles back but it’s a start. 

“Um, we’re still at your house, right?” 

“Mhm, why, wanna go to yours?” 

“No!” 

Ellie flinches, and you scramble to recover. “I mean… I’d rather not, sorry. I’d just… rather not.” 

She eyes you skeptically before relenting. “… Okay.” 

“Shall we?” You gesture to the path to your neighborhood, but before you can lead the way, a hand clamps around your bicep, firm and stilling with something softer. You can’t move, and you don’t want to, the only proof of life being the constant palpitations in your ribcage. 

“Are you listening?” 

Nope. “Sorry, what?” 

“I asked if we’re, like… I don't know, good? Are we okay? I don’t know what’s happening, you’ve been so…” Her sentence trails, unsure of how to describe the arc you’re on. The arc of forgiveness. 

“Ellie… I forgive you for what happened in fifth grade. And everything after.” 

She squints. “What?” 

“I forgive you… I’m just hoping you forgive me, too?” 

“Uh… yeah… I forgive you, sure.” And she wears it so well. Her dirty shoes don’t bother you as much anymore. Joy thrums from the deep workings of your heart. “Friends?” 

“… Sure?” 

“C’mon then, friend. We got some math to do.” You squeal and throw your arms around her. She tenses but doesn’t push you off. 

You hold her the entire walk, and some time during, she relaxed into you. 

Ellie never thought she’d fall victim to an alien abduction and end up trapped in another dimension with a nice you, but she’s here, and surprisingly, she’s enjoying it. The one secret she’ll never tell. 

She’s not sure where this switch up came from, and honestly, she’s scared to find out, but she can’t help but be drawn to the shyer, timid side of you. Whenever she encourages or applauds your efforts on paper, your eyes go wide and glossy, and her heart squeezes in delight. 

There are times when she’s speaking, like now— light introductions about graphing parabolas, where she catches you mindlessly glancing over her features. She didn’t mind it initially — merely assumed that staring was your studying tic, but the longer she teaches, the deeper your gaze becomes, and the more uncomfortable she grows, even more than her disappointment whenever you look away. 

“Does that make sense?” She finally croaks when she finishes her graph, and you nod like you have no idea what she just said but simply can’t be bothered. She can’t help the upturn of her lips. 

“Can I test you?” She asks, and her heart thumps when your lashes flutter. She doesn’t wait for your response before creating a function table on the spot — albeit more complicated, but she needs to see if you’re progressing. 

When you take the pencil out of her hand and start scribbling, she can’t help but stare now. She watches you work silently, eyes cascading over your focused vision, each twitch of your nose, how you bite your bottom lip in thought. You erase and correct whatever mistake you’ve written and Ellie can’t the tiny smile that rises in her cheeks. Recognizing that something could be wrong is a telling sign of improvement. The kitchen is suddenly awfully warm. 

You exhale before setting the pencil flat on the table and sliding Ellie the graphing paper. 

“Don’t be nervous.” She comments when you start fidgeting with your eraser. 

You scoff, “can’t help it.” 

Ellie rolls her eyes before scanning your work. When she notices the messy erasing on your graph lines, she snickers — she’s not grading you on how perfect the lines are but that didn’t stop you from fixing them at least seven times. 

“What, I failed?”

“Nhm… it’s correct actually. Impressive.” 

“Impressive. What are you, 50?” You mock playfully. 

“Shut up, people see graphs and start pissing themselves, you did good.” 

“I was one of those people.” 

“And now you’re not, just needed a little elbow grease.”

“Elbow grease! You are 50, good God almighty.” 

Ellie scoffs. “Elbow grease isn’t an old saying! It’s used in every hard-working context.” 

“Oh, brotherr—“

“Shut up!” You and Ellie’s laughter blend together. The rest of your lesson resumes with such and Ellie couldn’t be more grateful. 

Time passes with delight, and before either of you know it, Joel is unlocking the front door while Ellie helps you organize your books. Neither of you notice his observing, and he’s thankful; Ellie would probably throw a fit if she caught him lurking, but he can’t help the glee he feels whenever Ellie laughs, and she's in hysterics with every joke you crack. Out of all the students that have visited the house, you’re the only one that’s garnered such a reaction out of his daughter. She's usually serious in a school-related setting, but you encourage her benevolence. 

“Hey Mr. Miller!” You wave and Ellie sighs. 

“Hey, kid… how’s the lesson going?” 

“Fine. We just finished.” Ellie says with the hopes that he’ll relocate so she can walk you out without hassle. 

“I think I’m getting smarter, Miller!” 

“You were already smart.” He charms, and you blow a playful raspberry. Your bag strap rests on your shoulder and Ellie leads you to her front door. 

“We should do something fun, Ellie.” Her and Joel’s ear perk at the same time at your invitation. The two of you cautiously eye the older man who scurries into the living room. 

“… Like what?” She’s suddenly nervous, eyes flitting wherever yours aren’t. 

“I don’t know, but I’ve been grounded and I’m bored. If I show my dad some of the work we’ve been doing he’ll probably let me off! Do you like arcades?” 

A noise reminiscent of a heart monitor flatlining blares in Ellie’s head at your inquiry. You’re asking her to spend time with you outside of school? She fucking loves arcades but she can’t say that because her jaw’s on the floor. 

“… Ellie?” You say, and she nods stupidly, but that doesn’t soothe the small flash of dejection in your eyes. “You don’t have to go. I was just asking.” 

“NO!” 

You flinch away from her and Joel hollers for Ellie from the living room to check in. 

“I’M FINE!” She screams before looking at you, “Not no, I mean yes… I mean I’d love to! I’d love to go to an arcade,” her lips snap shut before she allows a with you to escape, “They, uh… there’s one not too far from school. We can just walk there after.” 

When you smile, her heart throbs. Every time you smile at her, the organ cracks open in her chest to leave a spot just for you. She’s already plotting her own academic bribery so your dad can release you from confinement. 

“Cool. I’ll ask Riley if she wants to come.” 

Ellie’s mind whirs at the mention of a third. Riley’s nice; you all share English together, and though she and Riley don’t speak often, she never fails to give Ellie kutos on her writing skills whenever they peer edit. Riley is nice. She shouldn’t feel so disappointed that you’re bringing a friend on your…

She’s too ahead of herself. She was stupid enough to think that you’d wanna go on a date with her after a decade of bickering bullshit. That’s a result of swallowing down your crush for years out of fear of being rejected. She doesn’t even know if you like girls. She doesn’t know if you like anyone. If you do, you never disclose it. 

“… You good?” 

Ellie blinks rapidly, “Yeah, m’good, sorry. That sounds fun.” 

With your phone already in hand, you say, “gimme your number.” You don’t comment on the shakiness in Ellie’s voice when she recites her digits. When her phone dings on the table, you mumble, “Text me, okay?”

“Yeah… promise.” 

Is this flirting? Ellie doesn’t know — granted, she couldn’t tell the difference between right and left with a compass at the moment, but the fuzziness in her head is enough to convince her that your smile is more than friendly. Or she’s fucking delusional, could be one or the other. Both or neither. Regardless, she really doesn’t want you to go—

Wait, what. 

“Night,” you say so softly she almost misses it, and she replies just the same. When the door clicks shut, Ellie’s forced to sit with the irreversible concave you’ve left in her chest. Her head rests against the door to gather herself, long enough to garner the attention of her dad. 

“Somethin’ you wanna tell me?” 

“I don’t think want is the right word.” 

Who wants to come clean about their repressed infatuation with their sorta friend? Certainly no one sane, but Ellie hasn’t felt normal since the beginning of the month. 

When she finally picks herself up, she finds Joel propped against the wall with his arms folded, an inquisitive look in his eye. You’ve piqued his interest. Fuck. 

“We’ve never really talked about those lessons.” 

“Nothing to talk about.” 

“… Alright.” He sighs in mock defeat, “you know I won’t push you, but Christmas is ‘round the corner and I think it’d be best to plan somethin’ for your new frie—“

“I think I like her.” 

It’s said with such anguish; a fear of unrequited affection that slammed into her out of the blue, but it’s unrepairable now. Her next breath wobbles and Joel’s by her in an instant, large hands cradling her scorching cheeks. Her eyes water in embarrassment so she keeps them glued downward. 

“C’mon now, darling, look here.” Joel encourages softly, and Ellie reluctantly matches his gaze, a lone tear sliding down her cheek. He doesn’t hesitate to catch it with his thumb. 

“Whatever you’re feeling is a hundred percent normal. I’ve never seen you like this about somebody, it’s meant to be.” 

“… What if she doesn’t like me?”

“I don’t think that's the problem, baby. She goes all doe-eyed when you’re explaining… quantum theory or whatever the hell—“

Ellie can’t hold her laugh, and her shine cracks Joel’s smile even wider. 

“Wanna call Sarah?” He suggests gently, and Ellie nods.

“C’mon, we got some story to tell.”

Two weeks until your incoming doom. Or midterms if simplified. Fuck.

The closer the day gets, the more anxiety-riddled your lessons with Ellie become. Your new friend is incredibly reassuring, especially after you nearly toppled her to the ground in celebration of your D turning into a D+ after your last 3 assignment postings. Not only did you complete your math homework by yourself, but your answers were correct without cheating. 

Your dad told you ‘good job’ during breakfast this morning and you cried on the way to school. Happy tears. Accomplished tears. He finally thinks your efforts are worth something. 

… Maybe even worth a trip to the arcade? 

You don’t discuss your tutoring sessions with him that often, but he’s aware that Ellie’s aiding you to success. You know he respects her — sometimes you think more than you, but whatever — so maybe, just maybe, he won’t be against pausing your punishment for one night. 

You use your text threads with Ellie as an emotion stabilizer on the walk home. Fried memes and screen recordings of her Roblox fights are doing wonders for your thrashing heart. You can see your home and your dad’s truck in the driveway. 

Each step up the porch stairs is torture. 

You’re not shocked to find your dad on the couch eating popcorn. It’s routine at this point, and somehow, that makes your nerves worse. 

“Hey, hon. Hungry? I made mac and cheese.” 

Your stomach growls as if commanded. 

“Um… can we eat together?” 

His eyes unglued from the television and fell onto you, widened with shock at your proposal. Neither of you remember the last time you ate at the same table. 

He pauses before mumbling.

“Of course we can.” 

Something kick starts within your dad; he’s up and setting the table with a nice cloth and decorative plates, the fancy golden forks and spoons that are reserved for guests that never show, thick napkins, all with the dish of crusted mac and cheese set in the middle. 

You both have washed up and changed, in fresh pjs and clean hands. Your dad eagerly fixes your plate first. 

“How was school, honey?” 

A pang hits deeps in your chest at the empty memory. It’d been your mother’s birthday and you and your dad had planned a celebratory dinner for her. The same exact meal; mac and cheese, broccoli, and chicken, then pie for dessert because she hated cake. Served the exact same way every year until it was no longer necessary. 

“Great.” Because for once, school is great. School is cordial. 

“I checked your grades.” 

Your chest plummets but you reach for your fork to mask it. You’re aware of where your grades lie due to your obsessive reviewing. 

“My grades aren’t accurate, not yet at least,” you begin rambling in efforts to appease, “there’s still assignments that haven’t been graded yet—“

“You’re making a comeback. Good job.” 

… Shit. 

Two praises in one day? The only time you’ve felt this accomplished was when you’d ridden your scooter for the first time without eating dirt. He bought you ice cream after. 

You were seven. It couldn’t have been that long without some form of encouragement. 

Could it?

“I actually wanted to talk to you about that.” 

“M’kay.” 

“You know Ellie’s been tutoring me, and uh, she’s really good at it. Obviously...” 

He’s nodding but his eyes are piercing. 

“I… I thought I’d thank her. I’m on a really good track because of what she’s been doing and… yeah.” 

“How are you going to thank her?” 

You swallow down any hesitance. 

“The arcade after school. Her… her ‘n me. And Riley.” 

“And Riley.” He repeats detachedly. 

The fire in your cheeks is enough warning that this was a mistake. 

“When were you planning on going?” 

“Um… Friday night.” 

“What time.” 

“After school.” 

“And when would you be back?” 

“Um… it closes at 8… so 8:30?” 

His gaze drops down to his untouched plate, then yours. He relishes in the silence while you decay right in front of him. 

“Seven.” 

“Huh?” 

“Be home by seven.” 

Your chest flurries with excitement and appreciation and everything you haven’t felt for your father in so long. 

“Thank yo—“

“I need you to understand something.” His sternness crushes your smile. 

“This isn’t some pass for you to go behind my back and do bullshit. The second you get home, the routine is back. You go and study with her and come back here. No funny shit, do you understand me?” 

“Yes.” 

Your meekness doesn’t satisfy him. “Do you understand me?” 

“I understand, dad.” 

He nods once before grabbing his fork. 

“Eat your food.” 

[hy6erion]

I have an idea for a bbno$ one shot ! maybe reader could be meeting him during a game convention or a music festival being a bit oblivious about who he his and just hanging out with him at an after party where they can get closer 😉

𝐏𝐥𝐚𝐲 𝐢𝐭 𝐂𝐨𝐨𝐥

𝐁𝐛𝐧𝐨$ (𝐀𝐥𝐞𝐱 𝐆𝐮𝐦𝐮𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐚𝐧) 𝐱 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

✰⍣..𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐦𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐚 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐭 𝐚 𝐠𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐟 𝐢𝐭- 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐨𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐬 𝐚 𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧 𝐚𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐳𝐞 𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐛𝐞 𝐚 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫.

𝐚/𝐧: 𝐢 𝐝𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐚𝐜𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐡𝐞'𝐬 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐥𝐫.

The convention floor buzzed with life—neon lights flickering, game soundtracks overlapping in a chaotic symphony and bursts of laughter from groups crowded around different booths. The air smelled like a mix of energy drinks, popcorn, and the faint whiff of sweat from people who had probably been in the same spot grinding out a game demo for hours.

You navigated through the crowd, adjusting the strap of your bag, which was already stuffed with free merch and an unnecessary number of stickers you’d impulsively picked up. It was your first time at this gaming convention, and while you’d planned to check out a few panels, the main goal was just to soak in the atmosphere. The venue was massive, and you’d already gotten lost twice trying to find the indie game showcase area.

That’s when you nearly walked straight into someone.

“Oh—my bad,” you said, stepping back quickly before you could full-on crash into them.

“No worries, I wasn’t looking either.”

The guy in front of you grinned easily, adjusting the round sunglasses perched on his nose—indoors, for some reason. His outfit—a loose-fitting graphic tee, baggy pants, sneakers that looked both expensive and effortlessly cool—gave off an effortlessly stylish but laid-back vibe. He had the air of someone who either belonged here or was too famous to care.

You went to step around him, expecting the usual awkward shuffle when two people try to pass each other at the same time, but he mirrored your movement. You both paused.

“Alright,” he mused, tilting his head with a smirk, “we can do this the easy way or the fun way.”

You let out a short laugh, stepping aside again. “Let’s go with easy. I get the feeling you’d win if we started dancing.”

“You never know,” he said, sliding his hands into his pockets. “You here for the whole weekend?”

There was something about the way he casually started a conversation—like he half-expected you to recognize him. He did seem familiar, but you couldn’t quite place him. Maybe a streamer? A YouTuber? Someone who had one of those faces that made you second-guess yourself?

“Yeah, first time here. Figured I’d check it out.”

“Good choice,” he said, nodding like you’d just made a life-altering decision. “I’ve been to a few of these, but this one’s got solid energy. You play?”

“A little. More casual, though.”

“Same,” he admitted, then leaned in slightly, lowering his voice like he was sharing a secret. “Terrible at competitive stuff, but I like pretending I know what I’m doing.”

That made you laugh. “That’s half the fun.”

He grinned. “Exactly.”

Somehow, the conversation didn’t stop there. Instead of walking off in different directions, you ended up drifting through the convention together, bouncing from booth to booth. You competed in a chaotic rhythm game that neither of you were particularly good at, browsed through an artist alley where he playfully tried to convince you to buy the most ridiculous prints, and stopped for overpriced snacks.

“Alright, serious question,” he said, tapping his fingers against the table while you both waited for your drinks. “If you could only play one game for the rest of your life, what would it be?”

“Oh, that’s evil,” you groaned, pretending to think hard about it. “Probably something open-world. I need options.”

“Solid choice,” he said, nodding approvingly. “I respect that. Now, if you say something cursed like Flappy Bird, we’re gonna have to fight.”

You snorted. “I feel like you’ve got some deep, unresolved trauma with Flappy Bird.”

“I don’t wanna talk about it,” he said dramatically, shaking his head.

The conversation was effortless, laced with teasing and playful banter. It was easy, and despite how chaotic the convention was, you barely noticed time passing.

When evening rolled around, he glanced at his phone and then at you. “There’s an after-party happening nearby. You should come.”

You hesitated. “I don’t know… I don’t really know anyone here.”

“Well, now you know me,” he said simply, flashing a charming grin. “And I’m excellent company.”

You eyed him. “Bold claim.”

“Not a claim,” he shot back. “A fact.”

Something about the way he said it—so effortlessly confident—made you cave.

—

The after-party was at a sleek lounge not far from the convention center. Despite the upscale setting, the atmosphere was relaxed, neon lights washing everything in soft blues and purples. A DJ was already spinning a set, a few people dancing in the middle of the floor while others gathered in booths and along the bar.

Alex had introduced you to a few people—some industry folks, a couple of musicians, even a streamer you vaguely recognized—but he never strayed too far from your side.

At some point, the two of you ended up outside on the balcony, leaning against the railing. The night air was cooler out here, crisp and refreshing against your skin. Below, the city stretched out, lights flickering in the distance.

“Alright,” you said, crossing your arms with a teasing look. “You seem way too comfortable in a setting like this. Either you’re a social butterfly, or you’ve got a secret identity.”

He smirked. “What, you think I’m a spy?”

“I don’t know, Alex,” you mused playfully. “You’ve got the sunglasses. That’s suspicious behavior.”

He laughed, shaking his head. “Nah, I do music.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Like… producing?”

“No. Rapping.” He watched your reaction closely.

You blinked. “Wait, for real?”

“You really don’t know who I am, huh?”

You shrugged. “Should I?”

Instead of looking annoyed, he grinned wider. “Damn. That’s kind of refreshing.”

“Now you’re making me feel bad,” you said, laughing. “Like, should I be googling you right now?”

“Only if you wanna ruin the mystery,” he teased, taking a slow sip of his drink. “But nah, I like this. You’re not treating me any different. Usually, people either try too hard or get weird about it.”

You considered that for a moment before smirking. “I mean, I can start acting weird if you want.”

“Oh? What would that look like?”

You dramatically widened your eyes. “Oh my god. Alex. I can’t believe it’s you.” You grabbed his arm. “I need a selfie. Autograph my forehead. Oh my god, I’m literally shaking.”

He cracked up, tilting his head at you. “Okay, that was alarmingly good. Kinda scary.”

“I try.” You took a sip of your drink, meeting his gaze over the rim of the glass. “But in all seriousness, you’re fun to be around. Even if you’re secretly famous.”

He shot you a finger gun. “That’s what I like to hear.”

The conversation stretched on, the playful flirting escalating. At one point, he leaned in a little closer, voice lower, smoother.

“You know,” he mused, tilting his head, “I might need to kidnap you for all my future events. You’re making this way too fun.”

“Oh?” You raised an eyebrow. “And what’s in it for me?”

He smirked. “Well, obviously, you get my stellar company. That’s a once-in-a-lifetime deal, you know.”

You laughed. “Wow. So generous.”

“Exactly,” he said, nudging you lightly. “So what do you say? Stick around a little longer? I feel like I haven’t properly impressed you yet.”

You met his gaze, considering it for a moment before smirking. “Alright, Alex. Let’s see what else you got.”

And just like that, the night was far from over.

[amyzworldds]

honestly the jeonghan losing 14th member fic you just posted got me thinking

like imagine if this time it was cheol that lost her 💀

Title: Night Market Chaos

Masterlist | Part 2

Seungcheol takes Y/N to his hometown on Seventeen’s day off, where her chaos—overpacking, pampering his dog Kkuma, and stickering his car—spirals from a midnight ice cream run to a night market. Pairing: Seventeen (tired leadernim Scoups) x 14th member Genre: Fluff, Humor

Months had zipped by since Y/N’s Tokyo cat-and-dog fiasco, and today was a rare day off for Seventeen. Most members had scattered to their family homes—Jeonghan lounging at his parents’, Hoshi probably terrorizing his siblings with tiger impressions, and Woozi hoarding Coke Zero in peace. Y/N, though, was stuck at the dorm, her globe-trotting parents off on some romantic world tour, leaving her under Seungcheol’s watchful eye. He’d decided to drag her to his hometown rather than risk her torching the dorm solo. “Leave her alone?” he’d muttered to himself earlier. “She’d burn it to ashes—or adopt a zoo!”

Inside her room, Y/N was packing like she was moving to Antarctica for a year, not just crashing at Seungcheol’s parents’ place for three days. Two bulging suitcases sat open—one stuffed with clothes, the other a chaotic explosion of chips, candies, trinkets, and—inexplicably—dog toys and a bag of premium kibble. She hummed happily, tossing in a pack of gummy worms, oblivious to the storm about to hit.

Seungcheol poked his head in, expecting a sensible duffel bag, and froze. “What in the—Y/N, what are you doing?!” he barked, startling her so badly she dropped a bag of sour candies, which burst open and scattered across the floor like colorful shrapnel.

“Coups oppa!” she yelped, clutching her chest. “Don’t sneak up like that—I almost died!” She grinned, recovering fast, and hoisted a suitcase. “Look, I’m ready! This one’s full of chips and candies—your parents are gonna love me! I’m their snack angel!”

Seungcheol’s eyes widened as he peeked inside—Doritos, Skittles, gummy bears, a rogue chocolate bar melting into a sock. “My parents don’t need a sugar coma!” he said, snatching the bag and dumping it on her bed. “What’s all this other junk?!”

Y/N beamed, undeterred, and yanked out a handful of dog toys—squeaky bones, a rubber ball, even a tiny tiara. “These are for Kkuma! Your dog’s gonna adore me more than you! Check this out—premium kibble, cute dresses, and hair clips! She’ll be the fanciest pup in town!”

Seungcheol stared, jaw slack. “Kkuma doesn’t need a wardrobe! She’s a dog, not a Barbie! And why do you have enough food to feed a pack for a month?!”

“Because I’m winning her over!” Y/N declared, holding up a frilly pink dress. “She’ll love me best—sorry, Coups oppa, I’m the new favorite! Plus, I’m prepared for anything!”

He rolled his eyes so hard they nearly fell out. “Prepared for what? We’re staying three days, not three years!” He rifled through her other suitcase—jeans, hoodies, a sparkly skirt, five pairs of sneakers. “Why do you have half your closet in here?!”

Y/N laughed, twirling a trinket-laden keychain. “What if your mom and dad love me so much they beg me to stay forever? ‘Oh, Y/N, you’re our daughter now—don’t leave!’ I gotta be ready! Plus, Eomma and Appa adore me—you know it!”

Seungcheol groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. She wasn’t wrong—his parents did adore her. As the youngest with only a older brother, Seungcheol’s family had no daughters, so they’d latched onto Y/N like she was their long-lost princess. She called them “Eomma” and “Appa,” was in their family group chat (where she sent daily memes), and got spoiled rotten—homemade meals, extra blankets, even a stash of her favorite snacks at their house. Last time they’d called, his mom had asked, “Where’s Y/N-ie? Tell her to visit soon!” while his dad chimed in, “She’s more fun than you, Cheol-ah!”

“Yeah, yeah, they love you,” he grumbled, tossing a candy bag back at her. “But you’re not moving in! Three days—no trinket invasion, no dog fashion shows. Are you ready or what? I need to load the car—I’m driving, not hauling a candy store!”

“Ready!” she chirped, zipping her bags with a flourish. “But I’m keeping the dog stuff—Kkuma’s my VIP! And if Eomma and Appa adopt me, you’re stuck with me forever!”

“They won’t,” he shot back, grabbing a suitcase. “And if they try, I’m disowning you all!”

“They’d pick me over you!” she teased, lugging the other bag. “I’m cuter—and I come with snacks!”

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

The car ride was a comedy of errors. Y/N insisted on shotgun, her trinkets jangling as she fiddled with the radio, blasting Seventeen songs and singing off-key. “Coups oppa, sing with me! ‘Hot, hot, hot!’”

“No!” he barked, swatting her hand from the volume. “I’m driving, not auditioning!”

“Boo, you’re no fun!” she pouted, then gasped, digging into her bag. “Oh, I forgot—I got Kkuma a bow tie! She’s gonna slay!”

“She’s a dog, not a runway model!” Seungcheol groaned, but a smirk tugged at his lips. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously lovable!” she corrected, dangling the bow tie in his face. “Admit it—Eomma and Appa will crown me their princess by day two!”

“Day two, I’m locking you in the garage,” he muttered, swerving to avoid her flailing trinket hands.

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

The car hummed along the highway, Seungcheol gripping the wheel with the focus of a man determined not to let Y/N turn his hometown trip into a disaster movie. She’d already commandeered the radio, belting “HOT, HOT, HOT!” off-key until he’d threatened to duct-tape her mouth shut. Now, she sat in the passenger seat, suspiciously quiet, rummaging in her small backpack with a smirk that screamed trouble.

Last week, Y/N had stumbled across a TikTok trend—girls plastering their dads’ or boyfriends’ car dashboards with glittery, girly stickers: hearts, stars, unicorns, the works. She’d cackled at the screen, plotting her own twist. With no boyfriend and her parents off gallivanting, she’d turned her sights on her ultimate victim: Seungcheol. She’d gone full chaotic gremlin, ordering a stash of stickers online—sparkly nonsense, plus custom ones with her face and “Y/N THE QUEEN” in bold pink letters. They’d arrived just in time, hidden in her bag like a glitter bomb waiting to detonate.

They hit a drive-thru—Y/N had whined nonstop about her burger cravings, “Coups oppa, I’m starving! My stomach’s eating itself—get me a burger or I’ll haunt you!” Seungcheol, desperate for peace, pulled up to the window, rattling off their order: “Two burgers, fries, a Coke—make it quick, she’s driving me nuts!”

That’s when Y/N struck. With Seungcheol distracted, she whipped out her sticker sheets, grinning like a supervillain. “Time for art!” she whispered, peeling off a glittery heart and slapping it onto the dashboard with a satisfying thwack. Then a star. Then a custom “Y/N THE QUEEN” sticker—her tiny face winking up from the console. She giggled maniacally, sticking faster, a sparkly invasion spreading across the pristine black interior.

Seungcheol finished ordering—“No pickles on hers, she’ll riot!”—and glanced over, expecting Y/N to be scrolling her phone. Instead, his eyes nearly popped out of his skull. The dashboard was a glittery warzone—hearts, stars, and her smug little face staring back at him in triplicate. “Y/N, WHAT THE HELL?!” he bellowed, pinching his nose so hard he looked like he might implode.

She froze, mid-stick, a unicorn dangling from her fingers, and flashed a proud grin. “Look, Coups oppa! It’s my masterpiece! Your car’s a Y/N shrine now—cute, right?”

“Cute?!” he wheezed, voice hitting a pitch only dogs could hear. “You turned my car into a Barbie dreamhouse! Get those off—NOW!”

“Nope!” she chirped, dodging his swat and slapping a sticker on his cheek—a glittery “Y/N” sparkling under his eye. “You’re part of the art too! Smile, oppa—it’s trending!”

Seungcheol’s glare could’ve melted steel, but Y/N was unstoppable. She plastered stickers like a madwoman—dashboard, steering wheel, even the gearshift sprouted a winking Y/N face. He shook his head, muttering, “I can’t stop her. She’s a sticker demon. Why me?!”

The drive-thru worker handed over the food, peering in with a smirk. “Nice decor, man,” he said, eyeing the glitter explosion. Seungcheol snatched the bags, growling, “Don’t encourage her!”

Y/N paused only to grab her burger, munching happily as she stuck a rainbow on the passenger door. “Mmm, burger’s good—stickers are better!” she mumbled, slapping a “QUEEN Y/N” onto the window with a ketchup-smeared finger.

“You’re insane!” Seungcheol roared, peeling the sticker off his cheek—only for her to replace it with a sparkly cat. “Stop it! This is my car, not your scrapbook!”

“Too late!” she cackled, burger in one hand, sticker in the other. “It’s a Y/N-mobile now! Eomma and Appa will love it—Kkuma too!”

The dashboard was a lost cause—every inch glittered with hearts, stars, and her face, the passenger door now a mosaic of unicorns and “Y/N THE QUEEN.” Seungcheol’s hands twitched on the wheel, visions of peeling it all off dancing in his head, but Y/N’s glee was contagious—and infuriating. “You’re cleaning this up when we get back!” he snapped, burger untouched as he mourned his dignity.

“Nah, it’s permanent!” she teased, sticking a final “Y/N” on his forehead mid-bite. “You’re my canvas, oppa—deal with it!”

He swerved, nearly spilling fries, and yanked the sticker off, tossing it out the window. “That’s it—I’m locking you in the trunk with your dog toys!”

“Try it!” she laughed, smearing ketchup on a heart sticker and planting it on his arm. “You love me too much!”

“Love’s a strong word right now!” he bellowed, but a snort escaped—her chaos was absurdly endearing, even as his car screamed “Y/N” from every angle.

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

Seungcheol’s parents’ house, once a peaceful haven of quiet dinners and sensible decor, had morphed into a full-blown Y/N shrine within hours of their arrival. The living room? Trinket central—her glittery charms dangled from lamps, her bunny plushie perched on the couch like a throne. The kitchen? A Y/N feast zone, where his mom bustled around, cooking up a storm of her favorites—spicy tteokbokki, kimbap, and a towering stack of japchae. Not a single dish was Seungcheol’s beloved galbi or kimchi jjigae. He slumped in his room, joystick in hand, muttering, “At least I can game in peace while they worship her.”

Downstairs, chaos reigned. Y/N had Kkuma in her clutches, the little dog decked out like a pageant queen—pink frilly dress, sparkly hair clips, even a tiny tiara teetering on her fluffy head. “Kkuma, my princess!” Y/N squealed, smushing the pup’s face with kisses so aggressive Seungcheol’s dad had to duck flying drool. “You’re my VIP now—sorry, Coups oppa, she’s mine!”

Kkuma yipped, tail wagging like a metronome on overdrive, and didn’t even glance at Seungcheol when they’d walked in. Normally, she’d barrel into his legs, but this time? Straight to Y/N, who scooped her up like a long-lost soulmate, cooing, “Mama’s here, baby! Did you miss me?!” Seungcheol had stood there, arms crossed, muttering, “Traitor dog—I raised you!”

Now, at the dinner table, the real comedy unfolded. His mom piled Y/N’s plate high—tteokbokki spilling over the edges, japchae forming a noodle mountain, kimbap stacked like a Jenga tower. “Eat up, Y/N-ie!” she beamed, spooning more onto the pile. “You need energy for all your fun!”

His dad joined in, plopping a fish cake onto the heap. “Our girl’s gotta stay strong—look how cute she is, Cheol-ah!”

Seungcheol stared at his own plate—two measly kimbap rolls and a sad spoonful of soup—and whined, “Hey, I’m the real son here! Where’s my food?! You’re burying her in japchae while I’m starving!”

Y/N grinned, mouth full of tteokbokki, sauce smeared on her chin. “Eomma and Appa love me more, oppa! Accept it—I’m the golden child now!”

“Golden child?!” Seungcheol sputtered, nearly choking on his soup. “You’re a gremlin they adopted five minutes ago! Mom, Dad, I’m your actual kid—feed me!”

His mom laughed, patting Y/N’s head. “Oh, Cheol-ah, don’t be jealous! Y/N-ie’s our little princess—she needs pampering!”

“Pampering?!” he yelped, pointing at her plate. “That’s a food avalanche! She’ll explode, and I’ll get, what, crumbs?!”

His dad chuckled, tossing Y/N another fish cake. “She’s more fun than you, son—look at her with Kkuma! You just sit there brooding!”

“Brooding?!” Seungcheol wailed, flailing his chopsticks. “I’m resting! I dragged her here to save the dorm from burning down, and now I’m the bad guy?!”

Y/N swallowed a kimbap roll whole, grinning like a Cheshire cat. “Face it, Coups oppa—Eomma, Appa, and Kkuma picked me! I’m the MVP!” She leaned down, smooching Kkuma—who’d parked herself at Y/N’s feet, tiara askew—right on the snout. “Right, my queen? You love me best!”

Kkuma barked, licking Y/N’s face, and Seungcheol threw his hands up. “Unbelievable! My own dog’s defected! I’m calling animal control—she’s brainwashed you, Kkuma!”

His mom swatted him with a spatula, laughing. “Stop it, Cheol-ah—she’s adorable! Look at that dress—she’s never been this fancy!”

“Fancy?!” Seungcheol howled, eyeing Kkuma’s pink monstrosity. “She looks like a rejected idol costume! Y/N, take that off her—she’s embarrassed!”

“She loves it!” Y/N shot back, clipping a glittery bow onto Kkuma’s tail. “She’s slaying—way better than you in that boring hoodie!”

His dad snorted, nearly dropping his chopsticks. “She’s got you there, son—Kkuma’s got more style now!”

Seungcheol groaned, sinking into his chair. “I’m living in a nightmare. My parents, my dog—everyone’s Team Y/N!”

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

Upstairs, he’d retreated to his room, the sounds of Y/N’s laughter and Kkuma’s yips echoing through the house. He fired up his video game, muttering, “Finally, some peace—let them spoil her ‘til she bursts.” Deep down, though? He couldn’t stay mad. Y/N’s chaos lit up the place—his parents’ faces glowed with joy, and even Kkuma’s over-the-top outfits were kinda hilarious. She was his little sister, stickers and all, and her antics—however maddening—made every room a circus he secretly loved.

Downstairs, Y/N staged a “fashion show,” parading Kkuma around the living room, his mom clapping like a proud stage mom. “Next look—Kkuma in sparkly clips!” Y/N announced, pinning a rhinestone barrette to the dog’s ear.

“She’s a superstar!” his dad cheered, snapping pics. “Cheol-ah, come see this!”

“I’m good!” Seungcheol yelled back, but peeked out his door, snorting at the sight—Kkuma strutting like she’d auditioned for Seventeen. “Ridiculous,” he muttered, but a grin crept up. “She’s gonna demand a solo next.”

Dinner ended with Y/N sprawled on the couch, Kkuma on her lap, his parents fussing over her like she’d hung the moon. Seungcheol shuffled down, plopping beside her with a fake scowl. “You’re a menace—you stole my family!”

“And your dog!” she teased, booping Kkuma’s nose. “Admit it, oppa—you’re obsessed with me!”

“Obsessed with locking you in a closet!” he shot back, but ruffled her hair, laughing. “Fine, you win—just don’t sticker the house next!”

“No promises!” she sang, pulling a glittery “Y/N” sticker from her pocket and slapping it on his forehead.

His parents howled with laughter as Seungcheol flailed, “Get it off! I’m not your canvas!”—but it was too late. The Y/N takeover was complete, and his once-quiet house was a riot of love, chaos, and one very fabulous dog.

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

Midnight draped Seungcheol’s parents’ house in a rare hush—well, almost. The guest room, now Y/N’s chaotic domain, glowed faintly with the light of Seungcheol’s laptop, which she’d “borrowed” earlier with a “Pretty please, oppa? I forgot mine!” His parents had already turned the room into her personal palace—new fluffy blankets, a bunny-shaped pillow, even a plush bunny sleeper they’d bought “just for their Y/N-ie.” Her clothes spilled out of suitcases, trinkets jangled from the bedframe, and Seungcheol had surrendered, muttering, “As long as she leaves me alone to game, she can sticker the whole room for all I care.” Spoiler: she’d already slapped a glittery “Y/N” on his laptop lid.

Y/N, wide awake in her bunny sleeper—ears flopping over her face—was sprawled on the bed, binge-watching some drama on the laptop, cackling at the screen. “This guy’s dumber than Hoshi trying to cook!” she snorted, but her stomach growled, cutting through her giggles. She paused the show, peering around the too-quiet house. The living room lights were off, the silence eerie—no Kkuma yips, no parental chatter. She shuffled to the big window, pressing her nose to the glass. The moon hung huge and glowing, practically begging her to step outside.

“Oh, it’s perfect,” she whispered, eyes sparkling. “No people, big moon—prime midnight vibes! I need ice cream—now!” Her mind raced—night walks were her thing, a secret joy where the world felt hers alone, and food tasted like freedom. She glanced toward Seungcheol’s room, then back at the moon, gears turning. “He’s always grounding me for sneaking out with the others—Dino, Hoshi, Jeonghan—but I’ve never dragged him out! He doesn’t get why it’s so fun!”

A devilish grin spread across her face. “Time to enlighten Appa Coups—by force!” She tiptoed to his door, her bunny slippers squeaking faintly, and peeked in. There he was, hunched over his gaming setup, headset on, muttering at the screen—“Die, you pixel jerk!”—oblivious to her plotting. She plopped onto his bed with a dramatic bounce, making him jump.

“What now?!” he snapped, pausing his game and spinning around, eyes narrowing at her bunny-eared silhouette. “It’s midnight—go sleep, gremlin!”

Y/N grinned, unfazed, and leaned in with her best puppy eyes—big, watery, weaponized cuteness. “Coups oppaaaa, let’s go outside! The moon’s huge, the air’s crisp, and I’m starving for ice cream! You’ve never come with me at night—you don’t get why I love it! Come on, just once!”

“No way!” he barked, turning back to his screen. “I’m not sneaking out like some delinquent—you’re grounded from that life, remember? Swing incident? Tokyo cats? I’m not risking it!”

“But that’s the point!” she whined, flopping onto his pillow like a dying fish. “You’ve never seen why I do it! The world’s different at night—no fans, no chaos, just us and the vibes! Ice cream tastes better at midnight—I swear it’s science! You’ll love it!”

“Love it?!” he snorted, mashing buttons. “I love sleep—and not chasing you through the streets! Go eat leftovers or something!”

She sat up, dialing up the drama, clutching her bunny ears like a tragic heroine. “Leftovers?! Oppa, you’d let your poor little sister starve? I’m wasting away—look at me, skin and bones!” She pinched her perfectly healthy cheek, pouting harder. “You don’t understand ‘cause you’ve never tried it! One walk, one ice cream, and you’ll see—please, please, pleeeease?”

Seungcheol groaned, headset slipping. “You’re not starving—you ate half the kitchen at dinner! And stop with the eyes—I’m immune!”

“Immune?!” she gasped, scooting closer, eyes now glistening like she’d rehearsed this in a mirror. “You’re breaking my heart, oppa! I’m your baby sister, your pride and joy—don’t you wanna bond with me? What if I trip outside alone and die ‘cause you said no? You’ll cry at my funeral—‘Oh, if only I’d gone for ice cream!’”

“Die?!” he sputtered, spinning to face her fully. “You’re not dying—you’re a cockroach, you’d survive a nuclear blast! And we’re not bonding over a midnight sugar run!”

She smirked, sensing his defenses cracking, and unleashed her secret weapon—gaslighting. “Oh, I get it—you’re scared! Big tough Coups oppa’s afraid of the dark! What if a stray cat jumps you? Or a moth? You’d scream like a baby!”

“Scared?!” he roared, nearly toppling his chair. “I’m not scared—I’m sane! You’re the one who’d adopt the cat and sticker it to death!”

“Prove it then!” she challenged, hopping up and tugging his arm. “Come with me—just ten minutes! Ice cream, moon vibes, and I’ll shut up all night! You’ll thank me when you taste how magical it is!”

He shook his head, muttering, “She’s insane—certifiable,” but her puppy eyes drilled into his soul, and her logic—twisted as it was—wormed in. “Fine!” he barked, yanking off his headset. “Ten minutes, one ice cream, and you’re done—no whining after!”

“YES!” she squealed, fist-pumping so hard her bunny ears flopped. “You won’t regret it, oppa—I’m your midnight guru now!”

“I already regret it,” he grumbled, grabbing a hoodie as she bounced to the door. “If Mom and Dad wake up, you’re explaining this!”

“Deal!” she sang, already plotting. “Wait ‘til you see the moon—it’s basically my spotlight!”

They snuck downstairs, Y/N’s slippers squeaking like a broken toy, Seungcheol hissing, “Quiet, you loud disaster!” She just grinned, tugging him outside into the crisp night air. The moon loomed huge, bathing the empty streets in silver, and Y/N twirled, arms wide. “See? Isn’t it epic? Now—ice cream hunt!”

He trudged after her, muttering, “Ten minutes, then I’m dragging you back by your bunny ears!”—but a tiny smirk betrayed him. Her chaos was infectious, and deep down, he was curious if midnight ice cream really did taste better. Another hilarious misadventure was underway!

[hoseoksluna]

CENTURY | myg

pairing: boyfriend!idol!yoongi x f. reader 

genre: smut

word count: 3.6k

summary: when yoongi needs inspiration for the song he's been working on, you're not hesitant to help him.

taglist: join | cp: wattpad, ao3

warnings: idol yoongi working in his studio being all stressed out is a warning on its own, he's also immensely hot and calls himself oppa (god help me i am a weak girl), mentions of a nasty punishment, yoongi is kinda mean, and a little bit horny, clit spanking *heart eyes*, oral sex (f. receiving), praise kink—usage of stickers, raw sex.

note: my god, this was a drag at first but because i feel sm better today, i finally finished this and i feel myself returning to the hoseoksluna that i was before i got sick. :( this was fun to write today omg. yoongi is absolutely delicious in this and i can't wait to start writing smoke 3 after this. my babies, enjoy this smutty one shot. i love you. spam my inbox, i miss you! give me a warm welcome, please. MWAH.

Habitually, singing for him was your escapism. You’d close yourself up in a bubble, withdrawing from the surrounding gray world, and you’d slink away to a realm brimming with vivid colors. In his songs, you could be anyone. A figment of his imagination that had more life in its veins than you ever had the taste of. You’d forget, for hours upon hours, about the anguish of your daily life and mental issues that would trouble you and, taking his hand, he would take you to Neverland, watch over you, then take you home. 

This time, however, he didn’t take you to that fantasy land. 

He took you somewhere darker. 

The energy in his lab was potent with something that tickled you ever so gently when you stepped inside. A dusky room with an even heftier, crepuscular layer of vexation. You could feel it thumping beneath your skin after it grazed you with its fingertips, weaseling its way in, settling, stilling. Your boyfriend didn’t turn around when he heard you shut the door, nor when your tights-clad feet paddled on the floor, as absorbed as he was in his work. No shoes inside the Genius Lab—that was the first rule, one you were disciplined enough from him to remember, even if someone woke you up in the middle of the night. 

You paid a great price, once upon a time. 

You had walked in with your Nike’s when he called you over, wet and smeared with the snow from the winter’s artwork outside. Despite the fact you rubbed the soles on the mat in the building of his workplace long before you strutted all the way to his studio, there were still little snowflakes that clung to your sneakers. It was your first time there and Yoongi seemed to have forgotten to let you in on the rules. And once he saw the mess you made, he told you off. 

Kissed you quite roughly. 

Made you promise to never do that again, playfully. 

Sank you to your knees and bent you over those melting snowflakes. Spanked you so hard that he engraved the first rule of the Genius Lab into your system. 

No shoes inside. 

Then, he patted your head. 

Gave you a silver star sticker, resembling the snowflake, for being such a good girl that learns well. 

You had stuck it on the table right beside his laptop, an etched memory that you recollected every time he’d invite you over. 

It’s what he’s mindlessly rubbing with his fingertip as you walk over to him, another winter later, embedding your digits into the ebony night of his hair, the long strands so satiny and sleek. Yoongi gazes up at you from his computer, pale violet flecks adorning the skin beneath his weary, yet ever so trenchant eyes, and you pout at the sight of him. There must be something wrong with the process of his album-making and he’s determined to fix it. 

Yoongi takes off his headphones, wraps an arm around your waist. You’re wearing a little black dress for him with a low neckline that uncovers everything private as he leads you to sit down on his lap, greeting you with a raspy hello and a kiss that tells you he needs you more than his own countenance lets on. 

You linger in the close proximity, peppering his mouth with tiny kisses that make him visibly relax—his shoulders slump against his chair and he lifts your knees, placing them in the snug crook between his side and his arm, his hand spreading forest fire down your calf, stopping at your ankle, swathing it with those flames. 

You cease your kisses, overcome with his body heat, and butterflies zap you in your tummy when he continues to kiss your mouth with those sweet little pecks. 

Prolonging the last kiss, he peers down at you with the world’s most affectionate adoration and you blush. You’ve tasted the dulciness of all the seasons with him, and yet it feels as though you’ve just started dating. His love has long made its home within you, but you can still sense its freshness in your bones. 

It will never get old. 

“I love these, baby,” he husks, his eyes growing more lidded in the heated, cozy atmosphere guarded by the fire of his body, and he drags a hand up and down your leg, spreading his admiration on the nylon of your tights that he speaks of. “You came just at the right time.” 

He nuzzles his face in your neck while he paws at your feet and you soften, brushing your fingers through his hair. You think he needs to get out of this place and breathe in some fresh air for his brain to recuperate and be filled with the flimsy, ivory sparks of inspiration. 

It’s snowing outside. 

It always seems to be when he invites you to his secret spot during the winter months. 

“What’s wrong, hm?” you ask, requiring the specifics in order to help him as much as you can. “What is it this time?” 

Yoongi grumbles nonsense in your neck, the sound muffled and indecipherable, and you laugh, softly, lifting his head. 

“I literally didn’t catch a word you said,” you whine, squishing his cheeks, and Yoongi feignedly sobs, scrunching his eyes shut. You laugh, wiggling his head, encouraging him to tell you what made him darken the energy of his studio so devastatingly. 

He inhales a deep breath in and takes his hand to your bum, fondling it. “I miss your pussy.” 

You burst out into obscene laughter, wiping a hand down his face. “Be fucking serious.” 

Yoongi chuckles, but then breaks into false little sobs all over again. “The melodies aren’t working together, I can’t transform the ideas in my head into this song and I just miss your pussy so bad. I wanna eat it.” 

So that’s the source of that dark energy in the lab. 

He’s horny. 

He wails into your bosom, deepening your laughter that melts into an endearing coo. One that lifts his head and makes a grin blossom on his pale face, a dab of color rushing to the surface. 

A pretty lotus flower, opening for you. 

You poke a finger into his cheek, your heart constricting at the cute way your nail makes a round dent in that flourishing flesh. “I thought you called me over because you wanted my vocals.” 

Yoongi squeezes your bum, sucking in a breath. “I did. I wanted to finish the melodies so I could record your voice, but shit fucking happens. I thought we could write the lyrics together.” 

You bite your lip, finding the idea mesmerizing, and your chest clenches, a certain longing for it forming inside. A light flickers in Yoongi’s abysmal eyes at your reaction—and you wish you could fix this situation for him, remove the block and replace it with a creativity of your own. 

An idea pops into your mind, abruptly. 

You widen your eyes, your smile growing, little by little. Yoongi straightens, his features mirroring yours, and the picture hope paints upon his countenance only drives your idea forward. 

“What?” 

“Oh my god, Yoongi.” You clasp a hand over your mouth. “What if we write the lyrics first and just hum random melodies, see what fits best?” 

He thinks about it, tilting his head. And then destroys the realm that your little idea created. 

“I’m sorry, baby, but that never works with me. I know artists that do that, but whenever I tried, I just reached a dead end,” he mutters and you pout, furrowing your brows. He lets you soak in it for a little while before he shakes his head. “I have a better idea.” 

Yoongi pushes his laptop to the side and lifts you up into his arms as if you weigh nothing, setting you down in place of it. He moves his chair forward. Spreads your legs. Kisses the inner of your thigh and you fall back, your palms landing on the ivory keys of his keyboard and creating a soft music that raises his brows. 

“Do that again.” 

You smile and lift your hand, dropping it on the same notes that you did by accident. He looks over to see which ones you played and he kisses the front of your thigh before he reaches over for his notepad and pen, writing it down. 

“You’re my little angel, I swear,” he says without taking his eyes off of his writing, then he extends an arm behind you and finishes the melody with a certain ease that causes him to relax even more—and your smile to deepen in your face. 

You blush, feeling like that winged creature—assigned to his side to help him. 

“I brainstormed some lyrics the other day,” Yoongi mumbles and begins to stare you down with an intention that coils in your gut, your heart quickening its rhythm. “How about you bounce off of it, make up some lyrics while I eat you out? I can play the melody for you that we just made.” 

Your mouth parts, your throat drying. Warmth pools in your core, the idea of Yoongi playing on the keyboard while he does something so intimate to you bringing you down to an abyss of madness. He hands you his notepad after he flips to the page with the lyrics he mentioned. Your eyes skim over his neat, black handwriting, the random words that could string together a sentence if there was a little work put in it. 

But how are you supposed to focus in those circumstances? It’s not just his dick that makes you braindead—it’s his tongue that does it in the first place. 

“What do you say, baby?” he persists, dipping down and scattering kisses along that sensitive part of your thigh, his breath wafting over your core as he switches to the other one, spoiling it with those same wet kisses. 

You catch a glance of his shining tongue and that does it for you. 

Your heart thumps, violently—and your pussy drools. 

“Fuck, Yoongi.” 

That does it for him, too. 

He goes to rip your tights right in the middle, but you yelp, stopping him. 

“No, don’t rip them. They were expensive and they’re my only pair for the winter.” 

Yoongi gives you a look, cocks his brow. “Why didn’t you say? I could buy you some.” 

You clamp your mouth shut. You don’t like to use his money to buy yourself personal stuff because you have a job of your own and you’re able to take care of yourself, but lately, with prices rising and the rent growing more expensive, there’s little from your paycheck that you could spend on things like these. And you still need to save up for way tougher times. 

“I could never ask you to do that, are you kidding?” 

Yoongi’s gaze darkens. “Who said you couldn’t?” 

You open your mouth to argue with him, but only a yelp comes through when he swiftly tugs the waistband of your tights over your bum and up your legs, lifting them in the process and folding you in half. 

You’re sure he’s ripped them. 

You’re fucked. 

You lean back, landing once again on his keys and at this point he laughs, darkly, telling you which notes to write down and with a shaky hand—you do. 

“You’re getting so many fucking stickers today.” 

Your heart stops its feral beats and you gaze down at him with a tormented look, your brows furrowed, eyes lidded and cheeks flushed. Yoongi bites his lip and gets his sheet of silver little stars. 

He peels one out. “This one's for you coming at the right time.” He sticks it to that one side of your inner thigh that he left unkissed, the sticky part latching to your skin without a hint of a problem. “And this one’s for your smart little brain.”

He sticks it to the bone right across your cunt, smoothing it out with his thumb that then begins to travel and crosses the distance to the soaked center of your panties. Yoongi sucks in a breath as he peers down at the outline of your flesh, parting your thighs a little to gaze up at you through his lashes. “You have two tasks,” he rasps, brushing his lips across your clothed, dampened flesh. 

You grip the table beneath you, letting out a whiny sigh, squeezing your eyes shut. 

“Pay attention.” 

A simple, low order and you pop them open, breathing out in staccatos. He runs that thumb over your clit, puts a little pressure over it. You bite your lip, straining your ears, but the faint pleasure makes it a little bit difficult for you. 

“I’m gonna rub this clit and you don’t get my tongue unless you tell me the name of the store, where you’re getting new pairs of tights from today.” He focuses on your nub, circling it with soft grazes that he knows they get you riled up nice and fast, needy and drenched. It’s what he does when you’re watching a movie together and wind up not knowing how it ends. “And once you come for me, you get another sticker for being such a good girl. Is that clear?” 

Your lungs heave and your mind spins, your brain cells shrinking with your arousal. You lick your lips. Wetness stains your panties even more. “And the other task?” 

He slaps the side of your thigh, making you jump. “I asked you a question, did I not?” 

Such abrupt meanness. Other times, it would get you going, but today it’s not something that you’re really feeling. Maybe it’s due to the fact that you’re ovulating and you need the gentleness that he’s more than capable of giving you. 

You drift a hand down his face, stopping with your thumb at his lips, tracing the upper line. So soft, so puffy. “Be nice to me, Yoongi.” 

His eyes round and a glint perches itself on the top of his chocolate irises. Yoongi sets your feet on both of his armrests. Leans his head against your thigh, looking up at you with a tender half smile. 

“Is that an order?” he asks, flattening his fingers across your clit and strumming it, the pleasure heightening and you sink your teeth into the bottom pillow of your mouth, your body following the wave of the delight he provides you, rolling. 

“Yes. Be nice or no pussy.” 

He gasps, lowly, his smile transforming into that smirk of his that has the tendency to weaken you through and through. “You wouldn’t do that to me.” 

Your heart throbs and you love it. “Yes, I would.” 

You go to close your legs and sit up, but he stops you. “Okay, fair enough.” 

Oh, that solid calmness of his, perfumed with his horniness. You grin, pleased. “Will you be nice?” 

Yoongi licks over the bare skin of your thigh, rubbing his face in it. “I’ll be an angel like you if you do the tasks.” 

You roll your eyes. A quid pro quo. Fair enough. 

“Okay, be an angel to me then and come here,” you purr, aware of the fact that he got you into this mirrored maze of his horniness and you love it, delight in it, which is the sole, unabashed reason why you tug the back of his head down to your cunt, holding him to you. 

Yoongi opens his mouth just at the right time, licking over your clothed clit and moaning. But then he fights against your hold and spanks your pussy, smiling playfully up at you while biting his lip. 

You jump, whimpering. 

“I didn’t hear you say the name of the store,” he retorts, rubbing, properly, your bedewed nub with slow, agonizing circles. 

Fuck. 

Your breathing quickens and you scramble your blank brain to remember any store that has the least expensive tights. You say the name of the first one that pops up. 

Yoongi doesn’t like your answer, though. 

He spanks your clit, gently. 

“Think again. I’m not buying you anything that will last you for a day. Don’t play me.” 

You can’t help the heavy smile rising on your face, your cheeks heating up so much that they ache. And it helps you, his bull-headedness on buying you high-quality garments that are worth the money, to fight—like he did against your hold—your deeply imprinted independence and utter, shyly, with little hiccups, the name of the store that will keep your legs warm throughout the unforgiving Korean wintertime. 

“That’s it, baby. Good girl. Let Oppa take these off now.” 

Your stomach flips at the title. You’ve always been obsessed with it—as it, without fail, provoked your independence and slowly transformed you into the mindset of a little girl, taken care of by someone stronger, smarter and older than her. All while keeping it intact. 

Yoongi knows you can do everything on your own. And he supports it. But it doesn’t mean he’s not willing to give you a hand. 

The same hand he now uses to bring your panties to the waistband of your thighs near the back of your knees, dragging it down that skin. He spreads your cunt with both of his hands, gasping lowly at the sheen that greets him and magnetically pulls him in. 

He kitten licks your clit and your elbows tremble, giving out on you—another melodies wafting through the air that make him chuckle into your pussy, engraving vibrations that encourage you to lean back all the way and take what he gives you. 

“Write that down, can you do that?” he asks, and when he hears you clicking his pen, he tells you which notes those were. You scribble it down, messily, your hand quivering and painting an obscure picture in his notepad as he begins to suck on your clit in intense waves. You shudder, terribly, the lines of his own pen dark, long and disordered like you. 

You give in, moaning so loud that he intones with you. 

And what you never expected—the tones of your noises provide him with an inspiration he cannot miss. Withdrawing with a wet chin and stealing his pen from you, he jots it down, propping the notepad on your thighs, smiling at the picture you painted. 

Writes something else down, too, while you quiver for him, waiting for his tongue. 

He kisses your thigh, ravagedly. “Sing these lyrics.” 

Taking it from him, the words blur on the paper because he sinks a finger inside your heat, curling it to that spot that he favors, fucking you with a fast motion that unables you, completely, to let out a sound colored by his geniality. 

“Come on, baby. Sing for Oppa.” 

You cry out, clenching your muscles—scream as he latches his mouth to your clit, flicking it with the tip of his equally genius tongue. 

The lab spins, not just your mind. 

“I can’t—I can’t. Oh my God, Yoongi, fuck,” you drag out the curse word, the notepad falling out of your hand and plopping onto the ground. 

Yoongi hums, delighted, sucking on your nub so vivaciously that your orgasm nears. As if sensing it, he adds another finger in. Validates the incoming of your splendid explosion by making quick, little, deep sounds that lead you to that peak. 

You grasp his hair, tightly, humping his mouth. From your own spill screams that fade into soft moans, resplendent of the notes he liked so much and he fucks your hole faster. Pulls out his mouth just a little, flicking your clit from side to side—and you realize he did it so he can watch you come for him. 

Come for your Oppa. 

And you do. With a squeak, one that fades to a legato, tender moan of his title. With an eye contact that freezes time for a century. And, suddenly, just like that—it’s just you, him and the winter. 

Snowflakes that ache to seep into yours and his cheeks. 

Yoongi growls. His male pheromones spill out of him like liquid that washes over you and you get a sticker. 

Right in the center of your mound. 

And he fucks you into wintry oblivion, a snowstorm that swaddles you closer and closer to him. The table rattles, key notes sound out, the slapping of skin conjures ideas in the magnificence of his brain. And then he comes. 

With a final stroke and a rope of his cum all over the sticker near your pleasured cunt, he resumes the time. 

But both you and him are newly constituted by that winter-kissed century, chiseled by it and irrevocably changed by it. 

Yoongi cleans you up and dresses you. You find out he didn’t rip your tights and you give him such a soft, endeared look for it that he coos, chuckling, and pats your disheveled hair, smoothing it down. He kisses you once he fixes you up and, grabbing his keys, phone and wallet, he drives you to the mall, to that exact store you mentioned, to buy you a myriad of tights to last you for a half of a century, grazed and fondled by winter. 

And he leads you back to the studio, besprinkled with the snow’s affection, where you watch him create a song out of your pleasured voice, sampling one of your favorite oldie’s tunes that you end up yanking him up to his feet to dance with him to it. The raspy voice of Ray Charles envelops Yoongi’s hands as he guides your hips and he kisses you until the late night hours. 

And in those late night hours, he watches you, like the angel you are, as you sing the poetry he wrote with your help. 

Neverland doesn’t exist anymore. Not for you at least. 

The darker place he took you to is one breathing with the gesture of helping your lover. Warm, moody and timbered. The licks of flames and the earnestness of a love that depends, without fear, on the other person. 

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖࣪ divider by kthice ⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖࣪

𓂃 ౨ৎ LOVE-KISSED BABIES: @tkslovechild, @jjk7k, @parkinglot-nights, @bethvar, @Sexytholland, @yoongibaybee, @crystaleah,@fennecnco, @lil-kpopstan, @euphoricmyth, @jungkoock, @cinmmongirl, @hobiberrystuff, @kam9404.

© 2024 hoseoksluna, all rights reserved.

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[swiftiethatlovesf1]

Their little sunshine p.1

Heyy guys, I hope you enjoy this Alex x reader x Lily, I have planned more parts for this story so I hope you enjoy it :)

If you want to read more stories of mine here's my masterlist.

The first time Alex Albon met his new physio, he nearly did a double take.

The Williams garage wasn’t exactly the most colorful place—navy blues, whites, and the occasional streak of sponsor red dominated the scene. But she stood out like a soft splash of pink against it all. It wasn’t just her outfit, though her pastel compression top and perfectly coordinated sneakers were a stark contrast to the usual sports gear around. It was the way she carried herself—bubbly, warm, and utterly radiant.

"Alex!" she beamed, bouncing slightly on the balls of her feet as he approached. "I’ve been waiting to get my hands on you—well, not like that, obviously, but you know what I mean!"

Alex chuckled, a little taken aback by the sheer enthusiasm radiating from her. "I think so?"

She grinned, unfazed. "Don’t worry, you’ll love our sessions. I promise I’ll take the best care of you!"

He wasn’t sure what to expect, but as soon as they started, he realized she wasn’t just all sunshine and chatter—she was good. Her hands were gentle yet firm, her instructions clear but never harsh. And more than anything, there was something about her presence that made it easy to relax.

For the first time in a while, physio sessions didn’t feel like just another part of the job. They felt… comfortable.

It didn’t take long for Alex to start looking forward to their sessions. She had this way of making even the most mundane exercises fun—humming pop songs under her breath, sticking tiny smiley face stickers on his water bottle when she thought he wasn’t hydrating enough, or dramatically gasping when she found a particularly tight knot in his shoulders.

"You’re so tense, Alex!" she scolded one day, hands pressing firmly into his back. "It’s like you’re storing all the stress of the paddock in here."

"Maybe I am," he joked, eyes fluttering shut as her thumbs worked out a particularly stubborn knot. "You’re a miracle worker, though."

She preened at the compliment. "I am pretty great, huh?"

Even Carlos, ever the skeptic, eventually gave in.

"You’re actually magic," he muttered one day, rolling his shoulder after a session. "I don’t know what you did, but I feel like I just slept for a week."

She beamed. "Told you I’d take care of you!"

For Alex, though, it wasn’t just the skill—it was her. She was the kind of person who lit up every room she walked into, and as the season dragged on, with its relentless travel and stress, she became a safe space.

One particularly rough weekend, after a frustrating qualifying session, Alex found himself in the physio room earlier than usual. She glanced up from where she was organizing massage oils, instantly noticing the tension in his posture.

"Tough one?" she asked gently.

Alex exhaled. "Yeah."

She didn’t push him to talk about it, didn’t try to force positivity onto him. Instead, she simply patted the massage table. "C’mon, lie down. Let’s get some of that stress out of your system."

As her hands worked through the knots in his shoulders, he felt himself slowly relax.

"You know," she mused, voice light but comforting, "you’re allowed to have bad days, Alex."

He hummed, eyes closed. "I know."

"Good," she said simply. And somehow, it was exactly what he needed to hear.

It wasn’t until a few races into the season that Alex finally introduced her to Lily.

"You have to meet my girlfriend," he told her one afternoon, stretching out on the massage table as she worked on his legs. "I swear, you two would get along so well."

She blinked. "Wait, what?"

"Lily," he clarified, sitting up from the massage table. "You two would get along so well."

Her lips curled into a smile. "That’s a bold claim."

"I’m serious!" Alex insisted. "You’re both, like… nice. And you make people feel comfortable. And you have this whole cute aesthetic thing going on."

She giggled. "Are you calling me cute, Albon?"

He rolled his eyes. "Just meet her, okay?"

The opportunity came during the Monaco race weekend. After a long, exhausting day in the paddock, Alex invited her to dinner with him and Lily.

She arrived in a soft pink sundress, her hair tied up with a matching ribbon. And the moment she stepped into the restaurant, she was met with a bright, familiar grin.

"Oh my God, you’re adorable!"

The greeting came from none other than Lily. He, stood up from his seat to introduce you to each other but before he could even respond, you had already reached out to hug her.

"You’re so pretty!" you gushed.

"You’re so pretty!" she shot back, already feeling like they had known each other for years.

Alex, watching them with an amused smile, shook his head. "I knew this would happen."

It was instant. Over dinner, they fell into an easy rhythm—talking about everything from skincare to travel to their shared love for making fun of Alex.

"So, how’s he as a physio client?" Lily asked, smirking slightly.

"Oh, such a baby when it comes to deep tissue massages," she teased, making Alex groan.

Lily laughed. "That checks out."

By the end of the night, they had already exchanged numbers, planning a shopping trip for the next free weekend.

And just like that, she wasn’t just Alex’s physio anymore—she was part of their little circle.

A ray of sunshine that fit right in.

Part 2

[deansbeer]

friendship in the sun ・ BABY!DEAN WINCHESTER. ៸៸៸ 𝐍𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐆𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 ! ♡ library

୨୧ synopsis. you meet baby dean at the playground and share your snacks, and unknowingly become his first real friend.

୨୧ warning(s). fluff | slight angst | mentions of neglect (fuck john winchester) | implied emotional burden | light apprehension (baby!dean was nervous he'd be left out) — i might have missed some warnings, so do let me know !

୨୧ word count. 1.1k

୨୧ kari notes. currently sobbing over this and what bree is sending me about what is to come soon for starlight … my chest physically aches (is that even possible + i hit my vape too hard earlier) and feels so SO heavy rn. do not hate me i promise it does have some cuteness to it <3

the sun is warm against your skin, the air thick with the scent of freshly cut grass and melting popsicles. kids are running across the playground, screaming and laughing, their sneakers kicking up dust from the wood chips beneath the swings.

you're in the middle of a game of tag, your legs pumping as you run, breathless and giggling, dodging outstretched hands. the world is simple, bright, and full of endless fun—until you hear a small voice behind you.

"can i play too?"

you turn around and see a boy, about your age, standing a few feet away. he's got short blonde hair, green eyes that are wide and hopeful, and a pair of scuffed-up sneakers that have clearly seen better days. he looks a little nervous, like he’s expecting you to say no.

but you love making new friends.

"yeah!" you beam, nodding excitedly. "you can be it first!"

the boy grins, the nervousness melting off his face, and before he can say anything else, one of the other kids taps his arm and yells, "tag, you're it!" before sprinting away.

he lets out a genuine laugh and takes off running after them, and just like that, he's part of the game, part of your world.

you find out his name is dean.

as you both climb onto the swings, kicking your legs to go higher and higher, he tells you about his baby brother, sam.

"he's two," he says proudly, gripping the chains of the swing as he leans back, letting the wind rush past his face. "he's real small, but he's super smart. like, i think he’s gonna be a genius or somethin'."

you smile at that, loving the way his face lights up when he talks about his little brother.

"i have a baby sister," you tell him, slowing your swing down until your sneakers drag against the dirt. "she's really tiny, though. like, just a few weeks old. my mom says she can be a handful sometimes."

"bet she cries a lot," dean says, wrinkling his nose.

"yeah, but she's cute," you shrug. "sometimes i help my mom with her. i hold her bottle and stuff."

dean looks thoughtful, like he's tucking that information away for later. like maybe he'll try that with sam next time.

after a while, you start to feel tired, so you reach over and grab dean's hand, tugging him toward the bench where your mom is sitting. she's got your baby sister on her shoulder, gently patting her back, and she smiles when she sees you.

"you hungry, sweetheart?" she asks, already reaching for your pink lunchbox—the one with flowers and disney princess stickers all over it.

you nod, plopping down on the bench, and pat the spot next to you. dean hesitates for a second before sitting down, his little hands resting awkwardly in his lap as he watches you open your lunchbox.

"look what i got!" you say excitedly, pulling out each item one by one. "fruit snacks, a pudding cup, cookies, and—" you pause for dramatic effect, "a peanut butter and jelly sandwich!"

dean watches you with a small pout, his lips pressing together as his stomach rumbles. he looks away quickly, like maybe if he ignores it, you won't notice.

but you do notice.

"what was that?" you ask, tilting your head.

"nothin’," he says quickly. "you're probably hearin' things."

you frown, glancing at your sandwich before looking back at him. he's trying to act like it's no big deal, but at six years old, you already have enough intuition to know.

he probably doesn't eat much at home.

you don't say anything about it, though. you just take your sandwich—cut into two perfect triangles—and hold one half out to him with a small smile, a gap where your front tooth used to be showing.

"here, you can have this one."

dean's eyes widen slightly, and he glances around—like he's making sure no one, especially his dad, is watching—before reaching out and taking it.

"thanks," he mumbles, looking a little shy, but also really, really grateful.

you just nod, opening up your pudding cup while he takes a bite of the sandwich.

after a moment, you pull out your cookies and push them toward him, too.

"you can have some if you want."

dean looks at you like you just handed him the best gift in the world, and after another quick glance around, he takes one.

you both sit there, swinging your legs, eating peanut butter and jelly and cookies, and passing your red gatorade-filled pink sippy cup back and forth. most kids might think it's weird to share a drink, or to drink out of something so pink, but dean doesn't care.

he just likes being here with you.

likes that, for once, he doesn't feel left out.

the sun starts to dip lower, casting golden light over the playground, and your mom calls for you to start wrapping it up.

"five more minutes!" you call back, grabbing dean's hand and pulling him toward the jungle gym.

you both squeeze in as much playtime as you can, climbing, laughing, chasing each other around—until a deep voice cuts through the air.

"dean!"

dean stops in his tracks, his little shoulders going stiff. you turn to see a man standing near the parking lot, holding a small toddler in his arms. sam, you guess.

"c'mon, kid, we gotta go," his dad says, adjusting sam on his hip.

dean looks at you, a little disappointed, but you just smile and take his hand again.

"let's go."

you walk with him toward his dad, your fingers still laced together, and when you reach them, you let go just long enough to lean in and press a tiny kiss to dean's cheek.

"bye, dean!" you chirp, giving him a big, toothy grin before running back to your mom.

dean just stands there for a second, blinking, his face suddenly very warm.

he doesn't even realize he's touching his cheek until his dad makes a noise—something halfway between amusement and impatience.

"c'mon, romeo," john mutters, shifting sam in his arms as he turns toward the impala.

dean frowns, his stomach sinking as he trudges behind him.

"gonna need you to watch sam tonight," john says, not looking back. "got a routine hunt to do."

dean doesn't say anything.

he just glances back—just once—to see you climbing into the backseat of your mom’s car, your baby sister still nestled against her shoulder.

you catch his eye and wave.

he waves back.

and then he climbs into the impala, sam curled up against his side, already half-asleep.

the warmth of your hand still lingers in his.

the taste of peanut butter and jelly still sticks to his tongue.

and for the first time in a long time, he thinks maybe—just maybe—he might have a real friend.

៸៸៸ special tags. @titsout4jackles @daylighted @bluemerakis @beausling @aileenunfiltered @honeyryewhiskey @figthoughts @dollyfiles @starzify @ultravi0lence14 @soldiersgirl @sunsbaby @abox-of-rocks @whisperingdaze @eepwtf @chris444evr @deanswidow @voidsuites @jasvtsc @cowboysandcigarettes @stereotypicalbarbie

[vigilante-3073]

Pretty In Pink

James Wilson x Female Reader

Summary: House is curious about Wilson's newly formed relationship with the head of the Pediatrics Department.

TW: Mentions of infidelity, questioning.

House sat in the clinic, loud music and sound effects echoing from the speaker of his Gameboy as he played his video game. A young boy sat on the examination table, kicking his scuffed up sneakers boredly as his mother stood beside him. The boy had an ear infection. It was a rather nasty case, but a treatment of antibiotics would resolve it pretty quickly.

The diagnosis was definitely not something House needed assistance with, but he had some questions for the head of Pediatrics.

Doctor L/N had been hired just over two years ago and had recently started seeing Wilson romantically. Wilson refused to give House any details about their relationship and he decided that he would find out for himself.

"What exactly are we waiting for, Doctor?" The patient's mother asked, crossing her arms as she shifted on her feet.

"A consult," House replied without looking up from his screen.

"But I thought it was just an ear infection, is it something worse?" The mother asked.

"Maybe... That's why we're waiting for the consult," House said.

A gentle knock sounded on the door before it opened and Doctor L/N stepped into the room, "Ah, Doctor L/N, how nice of you to join us," House said, tucking his Gameboy into his pocket.

"Hello, I'm Doctor L/N. What seems to be the problem?" She asked, using some hand sanitizer before making her way over to the boy and his mother.

"How was your date? Wilson was stingy with the details," House questioned.

"I don't think this is the most appropriate place to be discussing this, House," She said, sending the young boy and his mother a reassuring smile.

"Oh, don't worry about them, they're fine," House assured.

"We can talk later, House," She said, turning her attention to the young boy, "What seems to be the problem?" L/N questioned.

"Oh, he has an ear infection," House stated, "Just needs some antibiotics," He continued.

"You called me to consult on an ear infection?" Y/N asked incredulously.

"No, I wanted you to tell me about your date with Wilson," House said.

Y/N sighed, pulling her prescription pad from the pocket of her lab coat. She removed a sparkly pink pen from her pocket and wrote out an order on the script.

"I wrote you a prescription for antibiotic ear drops. You pull the earlobe up and back before putting the drops in. The ear should be kept upwards for five minutes after giving each dose," Doctor L/N said, tearing off the slip and passing it to the mother.

"Thank you so much," The woman said.

"It's my pleasure. Oh, and I have some stickers that you can pick from for being so brave today," L/N said, pulling out a variety of brightly colored stickers from her pocket and holding them out in front of the boy.

The boy smiled widely, eyes scanning the stickers before taking a superhero one, "Mom, look," He said proudly, holding up the sticker.

"Come to my office when you're done your clinic hours," Doctor L/N said softly to House.

"But you already made the trip down, it would be cruel to make a cripple travel all that way," House argued.

"You have more patients to see and I'm not helping you weasel your way out of clinic duty. Come and see me later if you want to talk," L/N smiled, making her way out of the room and closing the door.

...

House made his way through the halls of Princeton-Plainsboro on his way to L/N's office. Doctor L/N was an incredibly kind woman who was amazing with her patients, which is probably what drew Wilson to her in the first place.

But House didn't like to share his toys, especially when it was unclear who he was sharing them with.

House banged the handle of his cane on the door to her office, "Come in," She called from inside.

House opened the door and stepped into her office, "Miss me?" House asked, closing the door behind himself before making his way over.

"How was the clinic?" L/N asked without looking up from her patient file.

"Amazing, I'm saving the world one runny nose at a time," House replied sarcastically, sitting down in one of the black leather armchairs in front of her desk, "Comfy," He mused.

His eyes flickered around her office, the shelves were lined with photographs and a few pink trinkets. One corner of the room contained a variety of children's toys and craft supplies along with a small table.

The room was warm and inviting with pink items in every corner. Now that he thought about it, House had never seen the young woman wear anything other than various shades of pink.

The original tip-off to House about Wilson's new relationship with the head of the Pediatrics Department was a blush pink tie he had bought for himself.

People could be so easy to read sometimes.

House's eyes finally returned to her figure, not at all shocked to see the pale pink dress that she had been wearing underneath her lab coat.

"Big fan of pink?" House questioned rhetorically, tapping his cane on the floor in front of his chair.

L/N closed the patient file, setting her pink pen on the desktop as she looked up at him, "What can I help you with, Doctor House?" She asked.

"You and Wilson," He stated, bright blue eyes scrutinizing her from across the desk.

"We've been on six dates and there will most likely be more," L/N said.

House narrowed his eyes, "What do you like about him?" House asked.

"He is the kindest man I've ever known. He's smart, handsome and a complete gentleman. And he's devoted to his work," L/N replied.

"Do you see a future with him? Marriage? Kids?" House asked.

She smiled, "I'd like to think so, somewhere way down the road, but I can't speak for Wilson," Doctor L/N said. House nodded as he processed her reply, shifting his cane in his grasp.

"Do you have any other questions for me, Doctor House?" She asked.

"Did you know he's been unfaithful before?" He questioned, watching her facial expression closely.

"I did, yes," L/N nodded.

"But you're still with him? Most women your age would run the other way from a guy with a history of infidelity. You're young, pretty and smart. You have options... So, why settle for him?" House asked.

She huffed a laugh, "There's no settling when you care about someone, House. You take them for who they are and decide to love them anyway, faults and all," L/N said.

"Why are you answering my questions?" House asked, "You could have told me to kick rocks and avoided this altogether, but you didn't," He stated.

"You're his best friend, House. If I'm going to be a part of his life, I have to be okay with you being a part of it too," L/N said with a small smile.

House stared at her for a second, "I like you," He said.

A soft knock sounded on the door before it opened and Wilson poked his head into the office. His brow furrowed slightly in concern when he saw House sitting in front of her desk.

"Is everything okay?" Wilson asked, stepping into the room and closing the door behind himself.

"Yep, we were just having girl talk," House said, standing up from his seat and walking over to the door.

"She's all yours," House said, stepping out into the hallway and limping off in the direction of his office.

"Did he say anything I should be concerned about? Because I can easily arrange a date that is so amazing that you would be willing to forgive my awful choice in friends," Wilson said.

L/N smiled, shaking her head, "He was actually pretty sweet," She replied.

"I knew he must be sick, that doesn't sound like House at all," Wilson joked with a smile.

"He cares about you," Doctor L/N said, standing from her chair and making her way over to him.

"In his own messed up way? Yes," Wilson said, wrapping his arms around her waist when she was close enough.

L/N wrapped her arms around his neck, fingers toying with his hair, "I really like you, James," She said.

"Good, because I really like you too," Wilson replied, leaning in and pressing a gentle kiss to her lips. He pulled away after a moment, staring down at her lovingly.

"Do you still have time for lunch?" L/N asked, hands sliding down to adjust his pale pink tie instinctively.

"For you? I have all the time in the world," Wilson replied.

[anakin-kenobis]

Biker Boy - !biker Eddie Munson

As requested by my girlie anonymous friend, who gave such a great idea, here it is!! I used the details as an excuse to make this short story spicy 🥹

Summary: You and Eddie are friends with benefits. Whenever he has the chance, he always gives you a ride and everytime you hear the engine and him revving, your body goes crazy. You have a kink he doesn't know, so maybe it's time to finally get the word out.

Warnings: oral sex, fingering, cursing, fluffiness. +18 DNI

Word count: 2k.

His engine was revving in the distance as you heard the roar of his motorcycle approaching your neighborhood. As you're just finishing getting ready, the sound of his vehicle makes your heart do a flip, it's always automatic. The anticipation of watching him riding his machine always made its way in. You run to the front door as soon as he pulls over on your sidewalk.

You watch as he leans his bike to one side and dismounts gracefully, your stomach sinking from the view. Clad in his black leather jacket, Eddie was wearing ripped jeans - as always -, white sneakers and leather gloves. Oh, the leather gloves. They certainly did things to you.

You and your friend became closer over the past months, then you had the greatest idea of becoming friends with benefits. Something your friends didn't quite understand because you both decided you'd be exclusive to each other. Robin would always say it kinda gives away the term, because you wouldn't date other people.

The metalhead had his face hidden under the helmet, only showing the end of his hair and his big brown chocolate eyes. Everything just sends shivers down your spine. As soon as he got rid of the helmet, his hair flung revealing a mop of tousled curls. His dark green motorcycle had fat tires, decorated with a silly amount of stickers of every kind; bands, movies, games. 

He had a gin, although he wasn't the biggest fan of a party. He promised he would only go because it was Steve's, and because his friend got into college. 

"Hey sweet thing," he greeted you with a small kiss on your forehead. You gave him some space to get inside your house, leaving the helmet on the coffee table and taking his jacket off.

"It'll be a couple of minutes, just finishing my makeup". He only then noticed how pretty you were looking. You were wearing a tight black dress, brown boots and your hair was perfectly sat on a ponytail.

"You look too stunning to wear makeup," Eddie responded and you chuckled.

"Always such a gentleman". You took that opportunity to finally give him a proper kiss as he sat on the armrest of your couch. But then your eyes caught a glimpse of his hands still wearing the gloves.

Approaching him, you wrap your arms around his neck as he uses his right hand to tug on your waist while the other one goes to your face. The way the fabric sticks to your skin makes you immediately stiff your entire body and you've barely reached his lips, leaving only a few inches close to them.

When Eddie hears your light but recognizable moan, he looks at you lifting his eyebrows. You're almost making a fool of yourself but fuck that, you liked his hands in gloves. He didn't know that, because you never actually bothered telling him you had an actual kink. It's not like he never asked, he was always pretty curious to know your deepest secrets about your sex life.

"That was quick," he joked and you tried not to laugh at his taunting.

"Shut the fuck up". As you retorted him, you gave him a wet but already forwarded kiss, sliding your tongue inside his mouth. He tasted like cherry from the candy ball he usually eats after smoking. The tobacco smoke was lingering on his entire body, as well as his cheap perfume you love.

Eddie slid his hand down your body and gripped your hips before loosening his touch, threatening to remove his gloves. You desperately held his hands and shook your head. He tried to comprehend just what the hell you wanted.

"Keep the gloves," you begged. The man was barely existing and yet you were feeling like you were turning into jelly just at the thought of the leather touching your skin.

He smirked and raised his eyebrows, teasing you. "These? Huh". The way he reacted to it gave him an idea you haven't thought of yet, and still he was already light-years ahead of you. Eddie firmly grasped your waist and swung you, making you sit at the exact spot he was sitting.

He assaulted you with his feral tongue, liking yours and pulling your lower lip between his teeth. Boy, did he become another man after that. Using his left hand, Eddie started sliding it down your body, making sure to hold the curve under your breast, pressing his fingertips on your waist, reaching the hem of your dress.

The kiss became sloppy as soon as he slowly lifted it to your hip. Thank God you always chose a good lingerie. This time it was a thin, soft, lace pantie he was about to pull to the side. Before he did his main show, the curly haired metalhead squeezed your thigh and ripped a small mewl from your mouth against his.

His tone became husky and his cherry breath hit against your skin. "It's a shame I can't feel how wet you are right now. But I'm guessing you're soaking already". You whined by the feeling of his middle finger opening your folds, rubbing your wet skin with tenderness first. Eddie was always gentle, sometimes he rushed things, but you were headed to a party, so this one had to be fast.

Without warning, he made his way with his middle finger into you and you tightened your walls against his gloved digit. "Oh, fuck, Eddie". You cried out, your lips were parted. You were too busy to actually kiss him, but he was also focused on something else as well.

"Jesus, baby. You're so dirty," he breathed out against your ear. Eddie stuck his index finger to your cunt, along with the other, and the leather surely made it feel different from anything else.

His pace was calm, but the minute he felt you were used to the dressed fingers, he started to speed up, curling both, so they would hit your perfect spot. You're having a hard time breathing in and out, his thumb was rubbing against your swollen clit with so much desire.

Quickly, you unbuckled his belt and unzipped his jeans, facing his fat cock throbbing against his boxer. From your position, you could choose between just jerking him off or eating him whole.

You decided you would suck the life out of him. You started giving him wet kisses around his arousal, his tip, and his balls. It made him hiss, throwing his head back.

"Fuck, sweetie," he pleaded, working his fingers in a sweet, but fast motion. Eddie felt the back of your throat hit the tip and he almost stuttered, it was always hard for him to hold back his moans. He never actually lasted more than five minutes because you had the most fuckable mouth.

Bobbing your head up and down, you could still whine with his cock in your mouth, giving him a full lick as well. Your living room was quiet and the only sounds that could be heard was from his finger pumping and your moaning, along with the sucking.

Eddie was focusing on rubbing your clit ever so slowly, while his fingers worked harder and faster inside you. He used his plump lips to keep them on the top of your head, while pulling a handful of your hair with his free hand.

You didn't have boundaries at this point. You were both so close and so intimate, you would even fuck on a balcony, if you had one. Alone in a room, you were free to use your hands and your mouth deliberately. Just like now.

Almost gagging on his length, you made sure to grip on his cock, hollowing your cheeks making enough pressure for him to gasp so loud, he almost fainted. "Oh God, I'm gonna cum," he cried.

You never left the smirk on your face because you knew how good you were with your mouth, and he was always reassuring you. Eddie, on the other hand, was trying to not break down from your blowjob, keeping his fingers curled hitting your spot. It didn't take longer for your walls to start clenching around him.

He gripped your clit with his thumb, rubbing it faster, sloppy movements as he started to feel his own pleasure hitting the roof. You felt his cock twitch inside your mouth and you kept your pace, bobbing your head, until he released his juices down your throat.

Eddie loved seeing how you always swallowed him until the very last drop of it. He squinted his eyes closed, relishing every ounce of your saliva on his throbbing skin. "Fuck, you're so good," the metalhead whispered.

Not so much behind, you felt him pinching your clit while using only his middle finger inside you, watching as you bucked your hips, rocking them against his digits. "Ah, Munson". Using his last name as a resource to help you reach your own climax always worked and he knew that, he never complained.

As you throw your head back against the back of the couch, Eddie assaults your neck, nibbling on the skin, feeling your walls throb and clench around his gloved finger. "Yeah, cum for me baby girl". He always alternates his pet names towards you, so you would never know what would come next.

Your entire body squirmed around his fingers, your clit became too sensitive to the touch and your cunt closed tightly on his finger. You felt too weak on your knees and you were thankful for sitting on the couch, even though Eddie was still holding your neck.

You felt empty as soon as he removed his fingers from you and your stomach flipped. God, you felt so needy sometimes.

He zipped his pants back and pulled the belt. "You made such a mess on my glove, sweet thing".

"Good thing you have another one for us to use at the party". You respond as you fix your dress and walk to your bedroom.

You missed his reaction to your statement and he put on his glove back. It had your taste and your smell, he might as well use it as his accessory.

Ready and outside your house after a quick pornography, you stood at the side of his sleek vehicle, ensuring your safety before hopping on his bike. Next to his machine, he handed you the helmet, reaching out gently guiding you through the process.

Eddie always made sure to strap on it, so it wouldn't fall off your head during the ride, not too tight and not too loose either. "Thank you, handsome".

You swung your leg, hopping on the back of his bike, watching as the sky was casting a lavender hue over the quiet street of your neighborhood. You heard his revving and your heart jumps in, you loved it when he did that.

Just when he screeched the tires on the floor, you held your arms around his waist, placing both hands on his stomach. He loved driving too fast and he knew you hated it. Most of the time he would just speed up just a little to taunt you.

Approaching a red traffic light, Eddie slowed his vehicle, smoothly stopping as he supported both of you with one foot on the ground. As always, he turned his head slightly, resting his hands on your thighs, rubbing your knees with his gloved fingers.

You're thinking he didn't even bother to not wear the glove he used to fuck you, and you didn't know if you were actually more turned on or just feeling really repulsiveness. Either way, his endearment towards you always caught you off guard, he's too used to resting his hands on you at every fucking red light.

You smiled in return and just enjoyed his warm and steady touch, while you leaned your head against his back. As the light became green, he left his grip to hold the handlebars, speeding up the engine.

Eddie pulled up at Steve's house, the loud music was banging from a boombox inside his backyard. Before you both got inside, you reached for his wrist, gently squeezing his arm. He stopped by your side, brows furrowed.

"I'm not kidding about the glove, you better keep it clean", you pecked his lips quickly, before ringing the bell. You didn't expect him to be so close to you before responding.

"This time I'll use a special guest". You turned your head slightly, only to watch him licking his lips, teasing you. Eddie as a biker had you at his mercy, on your knees. 

[things-for-your-little-mindset]

eeee do you think you could do something along the lines of bunny age regressor? If not that’s totally okay!!!

@sunflowerandsunshinebaby

things for your Bunny regressor ! ( 🐇 )

Snacks & Drinks

Bunny-Shaped Sandwiches Carrot & Cream Cheese Roll-Ups Berry Bunny Parfaits (yogurt, granola, and fresh strawberries) Carrot Cake Muffins Bunny Tail Popcorn (Mix with white chocolate and mini marshmallows) Cheesy Carrot Puffs (Mini cheese puffs) Bunny Veggie Cup (Carrots, celery, lettuce) Mini Rice Cakes with Honey Carrot Apple Juice Strawberry Milk Warm Chamomile & Honey Tea Vanilla milkshake

Outfit ideas

Fluffy Sweater + Leggings

Any bunny-print hoodie or hoodie with bun ears!

Onesie

Flowy Dress + Knee Socks

Overalls + Bunny Shirt

Pinafore Dress with a turtleneck

Pastel Pajama Set

Fleece Nightgown

slippers

Bunny ear headbands

Soft mittens or paw gloves

Pastel sneakers or Mary Janes with bunny socks

Fuzzy bunny tail keychains or charms for bags

Carrot shaped hair clips and charms!

Activities

Bunny Hop Race – Hop around like a bunny and see how far you can go! Picnic in the Garden – Bring bunny-approved snacks like carrot sticks, fruit, and sandwiches. Nature Walk & Flower Picking – Explore like a curious bunny and collect pretty leaves and flowers. Digging & Playing in the Dirt – Pretend to be a little burrowing bunny and dig in soft soil or sand. Bunny Ear Tag – Play tag but hop around like bunnies instead of running! (To be played with friends!) Coloring Bunny Pages – Use soft pastels and gentle colors to fill in bunny-themed pictures. Make Bunny Crafts – Cut out bunny ears, draw bunny faces, or make little pom-pom bunnies! DIY Bunny Plushie – Sew or glue together a tiny bunny plush friend Bunny Sticker Journal – Collect and organize bunny-themed stickers! Cuddling with plushies -- a wonderful activity! Jumping on a Soft Surface – A small trampoline or even a bed can be fun for bouncy bunnies! Crawling & Exploring – Set up a little bunny burrow using pillows and blankets. Carrot Hunt Game – Hide toy carrots (or real baby carrots!) and go on a little scavenger hunt. Bunny yoga - Try gentle stretches like sitting bunny pose and reaching your paws up!

Games

Rabbit roleplay games on Roblox

Bunny haven app

Usagi Shima

Tunnel Town

Bunnybuns

Tsuki adventure

Animal Jam Play Wild

Minecraft -- challenge yourself to live underground!

Songs & Playlists

Youtube video by Bleeding Bunny Youtube video by Rino's play Youtube video by Aestheticdelic Playlist by hxllokitt1 playlist by silly Playlist by Charlie

[miirohs]

piercing [y.j.i]

pairing: Tattoo Artist!Yang Jeongin x Reader wc: 0.8k cw: n/a an: the choker pics bro.... the way these choker pics have a grip on my fucking psyche is insanity. yang jeongin stop please. for my sanity.

“You ready for this?” Jeongin asked, back to you as he rearranged his materials. 

The lights above you shone brightly, illuminating the surroundings of the little room, little stickers and doodles slapped all over the blue-gray and beige walls. 

You observed him from your seat on the examination table, eyes flitting over his neck, tracing the flowers down his back until they disappeared under his white tank top. 

The jacket he had been wearing sat abandoned next to you, shrugged off as soon as you were in the room alone. When he turned around, you averted your eyes, pretending to be looking at the worn fabric.

Watching you, he spoke again, slower this time as you hadn't responded to him the first time.

“Are you sure you wanna go through with this baby? I can’t promise it won’t hurt,” He warned, pulling his gloves on and ripping a packet open with his teeth, “and it’ll be pretty sore for the first couple hours.”

“It’ll be fine,” you answered, looking down at your scuffed up sneakers. You were already slightly regretting it, and you weren’t even 10 minutes in.

“Hey- hey look at me? You’re doing great, just hold still for me, yeah?” He deftly grabbed your chin with his hand, forcing you to make awkward eye contact with him as he moved your head side to side. You watched him, tapping his pen against his dimples.

“What kind of piercing did you want again babe?” Pen in hand, he paused to look at you, expectant.

“A- uh, a helix, I think?” 

He nodded in response, messing with his lip piercing as he tried to mark down the area on your right ear. He always did that. Fiddled with his lip ring when he was nervous.

“Did that hurt when you got it?” You pointed to the lip ring.

“A little. I’d say recovery was worse in my opinion,” he stated matter-of-factly, letting go and handing you a mirror. “Does the placement look okay to you?”

“Yeah, it looks great-“ You said, giving it a small glance before turning back to his ring, reaching out to run a finger over it. It wasn’t cold, surprisingly.

“You didn’t even look at it,” He groaned, flustered as he grabbed your face again to double check.

“Hey! I’m not the professional here,” You mumbled, trying to pull down his hand from your ear, “but I think it’s fine right where it is!”

“Okay then,” He said, a little flustered, turning away from you to grab whatever was on the cart, “if you’re sure, I can start right now.”

Your stomach dropped as he held a packet, inching closer to you. It was almost as if he was treating an injured animal.

“Can you please hurry up, you’re making me nervous,” you peeped, shaking slightly.

“Just stop moving,” he said nonchalantly, needle tip pressing against your helix.

As it pushed through, the pain flared, earning a whimper from you. It was very brief, fading into a dull yet prominent throbbing in your upper ear as he inserted the cool metal.

“Looks like you did it,” he whispered, running a finger over your knuckles as he held you, “good job.”

“Y-yeah,” you winced, watching as he discarded the needles, running you through basic procedures as you reached up to grab the piercing spot.

“and if anything happens- hey, are you even listening?” You blinked, finding him looking at you quizzically. His hand was wrapped around your wrist, pulling it down.

“I just told you no touch! You’re supposed to keep that area clean while it heals!” He whined, pinning your hand to the table as he brought something to your ear.

You grinned, pulling him in by his choker, lips smashing into each other.

The metal was warm, tasting of something artificially sweet as you caught your teeth on it, tugging on it.

He hissed into the kiss, yet pressed even deeper.

“Yeah, I’ll just check to see if one of our piercers other than Felix is available- Oh!” Chan had the door wide open, foot halfway in as he stared at the both of you.

“What. Are. You. Doing?” Chan yelped, hands over his eyes as if you had done something offensive in front of him.

“Hey, I was just giving him the kiss i owed him!” You giggled, earning another whine from Jeongin as Chan stepped out, obviously embarrassed.

Through the crack of the door, you could make out him whispering: “please hurry up and finish if you will.”

“I think we have to go now,” You whispered, and he trapped you in between his arms, leaning against your ear.

“This isn’t over.”

“I doubt it is,” You smirked, tracing his arm as you let go, prancing out of his room, “I’ll see you later Innie.”