missy reads

[inactive!] just a place to share works that i enjoy! i follow via @an-exotic-writer and i currently write @butterbeerblurbs & @shieldedreams ✨

[ms-reads]

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[INACTIVE UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE!]

note [any fic recs for the respective fandoms will be reblogged in the blogs below instead! hp fics @butterbeerblurbs and mcu/chris evans and characters/tom holland and characters @shieldedreams i also write for fred weasley @butterbeerblurbs + chris evans/tom holland @shieldedreams + i follow via @an-exotic-writer ✨

hello! i’m m / missy and this is a blog where i share the works i love! i think it’s important to show love to the fics i truly enjoy so here is a place where i reblog it and... honestly there’s no filter/it’s very unrefined but it’s the heart that counts (me justifying all my caps lock keyboard smashing). go spread the love!

[tags: harry potter fics]

fred weasley george weasley bill weasley draco malfoy

[tags: others]

steve rogers / frank adler / chris evans peter parker / tom holland taron egerton / eggsy unwin

[tag: replies - aka the writers noticed me screaming about them]

[will update this list if needed!]

[ggukivrse]

JUST THIS… TWICE? | JJK

summary. when you complain to jungkook about your lack of action in the past year, you're not really asking for a solution. but when he casually offers to help, you just can't seem to bring yourself to say no.

after all, what's the worst that could happen in hooking up just this once?

pairing: jeon jungkook x f!reader

genre: friends to lovers, smut, fluff

word count: 8.3k

warnings: more porn but with a tiny bit more plot :0, swearing, explicit sexual content, car sex, kissing, making out, oral (f. receiving), again he’s very cocky but can we blame him, breast play, multiple orgasms, banter and teasing as dirty talk, petnames (baby), jk's actually a menace but lowkey down bad, the ending deserves a warning (i’m sorryy), let me know if i missed anything!

notes: thank you SAURR much to my bae j @tranquilreign for beta reading!! (i’m still giggling at all ur comments pls :3) likes, comments, reblogs, asks and feedback are so so appreciated. enjoy reading my angelss <3

ps. READ PART ONE HERE!!

⌗ masterlist. ⌗ taglist. ⌗ feedback

You wake up to the dull throb of sunlight pressing through your curtains and the sharper ache between your legs.

It's not unpleasant — just a lingering reminder. A hum under your skin, like a bruise you don’t mind touching again and again.

You blink slowly, your eyes gritty from sleep, mouth dry, brain hazy in that half-dream state where everything feels like it could be made up. The heavy comforter is kicked down to your hips, your legs tangled in each other, and for a second — just one — you think maybe it was a dream.

But then you shift, and your thighs protest, and it all comes back.

The couch. His fingers. His mouth. The way he looked at you like he’d already had you a thousand times in his head. The things he said — low, teasing, mean. The things you said back. Your stomach tightens, breath hitching as your body tries to replay it too fast, too much.

You squeeze your eyes shut and will your brain to shut up.

You don’t usually let people sleep over. Not like this. Not in your bed, under your sheets, in your space.

But Jungkook’s always been the exception to things. It’s not new, waking up with him in your apartment. He’s been here for movie nights that turned into sleepovers, for hangovers that turned into late mornings, for heartbreaks that turned into shared pints of ice cream and shit talk.

You’ve seen him in your space more times than you can count. But never like this.

You breathe in slow and exhale even slower, eyes fluttering open. The room is still, the air thick with the kind of silence that begs to be broken but doesn’t quite want to be. You shift again, turning onto your side, and your eyes land on the shape beside you.

He’s lying on his stomach, one arm thrown across your pillow, the other tucked under his chest. The blanket’s halfway down his back, exposing the mess of tattoos curling across his shoulder and the dip of his spine. His hair’s a wreck — pushed off his forehead, flattened in the back — and his lips are parted, soft. He looks young like this. Calm. A little too good for your peace of mind.

You stare at him a moment too long.

And then you very, very carefully roll onto your back again.

You feel like you’re in a minefield. Like one wrong move will detonate something you're not ready to name.

You slept with your best friend.

Not just slept. Fucked.

Fucked him like you meant it. Like you’ve wanted to for longer than you’re willing to admit, even to yourself.

You exhale again. A sharp, quiet puff of air through your nose. Maybe if you stay still long enough, he’ll just keep sleeping. And you can sneak to the bathroom. Or back in time. Whichever’s easier.

You’re not panicking. Not technically. You’re just… thinking. Overthinking. Remembering how you sounded begging him not to stop. Remembering how he looked at you like you were the only thing he’d ever wanted. Remembering how, when it was over, he held you like it meant something.

You feel his warmth next to you, steady and real. His leg brushes yours, his knee nudging slightly against your calf, and your whole body goes still again.

You wonder what he's going to say when he wakes up; if he'll still smile at you like he did last night — like nothing about this is complicated. Like your world didn’t tilt just a little off its axis the second he kissed you back, like he wasn't allowed to and never planned on stopping.

You should feel weird. You should feel guilty. Or ashamed. Or something more than this weird, electric calm.

But mostly, you just feel like you don’t want to move.

His breathing shifts — subtle, but enough that you know he’s starting to wake up.

Your heart trips a little.

He shifts, and the arm he’d slung over your pillow curls slightly in, fingers brushing the back of your hand. He lets out a groggy hum, the noise half in his throat.

You freeze, eyes still closed.

“Mm,” he mumbles, voice thick with sleep. “What time is it?”

You swallow. Your voice doesn’t come right away, caught somewhere behind your tongue. When it does, it’s soft, a rasp. “No idea.”

He exhales. Shuffles a little closer. You can feel the heat of him now, bleeding through the sliver of space that still separates you. A moment passes. Then another. You brace for it — for the tension, the shift, the stammered joke to smooth over the jagged memory of last night.

But all he says is, “Damn. My back hurts.”

You blink, startled by the normalcy of it. “You’re not supposed to sleep like that. You looked like a crime scene victim.”

“Sexy,” he mutters, eyes still closed. “That’s what I was going for.”

You huff a quiet laugh. And weirdly, the knot in your stomach loosens just a little.

Another silence stretches. But it’s not bad. Not heavy. He makes a small sound as he shifts again, propping himself up just slightly on one elbow. You don’t look at him, not yet, but you can feel his eyes on you.

“How do you feel?”

You hesitate.

He waits.

You turn your head slowly toward him, and finally meet his gaze. His hair’s a mess, his eyes still sleep-warm, but there’s something sharper under the surface. Not regret. Not even nerves. Just… attention. He’s watching you the way he did last night — carefully. Like you matter.

You chew your lip for a second. "Sore," you eventually say, voice quiet.

He smiles. “Good sore or bad sore?”

You raise an eyebrow. “You want a Yelp review?”

He shrugs, still smiling. “I mean, if you’re offering. I’d love a star rating.”

You stare at him for another second. Then you snort, burying your face in the pillow. “You’re such a dick.”

“You didn’t mind last night.”

You groan, muffled. “Please don't. It's too early for this.”

He laughs — really laughs — and you feel it wash over you like a warm breeze. He’s not weird about it. Not cagey or distant. And maybe it’s a little disarming how himself he still is. Like nothing’s changed.

Like everything has, but it’s fine.

He shifts again, flops onto his back beside you with a loud sigh and an arm flung dramatically over his eyes. “I don’t think I’ve ever been this hungover and this smug at the same time. It’s honestly kind of impressive.”

You glance at him, lips twitching. “Your ego’s going to explode.”

He peeks at you from under his arm. “Can you blame me? I mean, damn.”

You roll your eyes and toss a corner of the blanket over his face.

But your heart’s still racing.

You don’t know what you were expecting — some awkward shuffle out of bed, a strained goodbye, maybe even him pretending it hadn’t happened. But he’s still here. In your bed. In your space. Making you laugh.

Just like always.

Your fingers brush against his under the covers. Neither of you pull away.

You stare at the ceiling for a moment, letting yourself breathe. Letting the silence settle between you again. It feels different now, not loud with questions or demanding anything from you.

It feels like… him.

And maybe you’re not ready to ask what it means yet.

But for now?

This doesn’t feel like a mistake. Not even a little.

You’re standing outside your office building, arms crossed and scowling.

The sidewalk’s sticky with the leftover heat of the day, and there’s a cluster of your co-workers behind you laughing about something you’re not a part of. Their voices blur into the honks and hum of Friday traffic, and all you can focus on is the time.

Jungkook is two minutes late.

You know how stupid it is — two minutes. But today, even two seconds of anything feels like too much.

You shift your weight from one foot to the other, the back of your neck damp with sweat, the strap of your bag digging into your shoulder in just the wrong way. Your phone sits heavy in your palm. No new messages. No “almost there.” No “sorry, traffic’s ass.”

Nothing.

The week has wrung you out like a wet towel. Every day, some new tiny disaster: deadlines moving without warning, your boss micromanaging you like you’re an intern again, and a meeting yesterday where a client talked over you so many times you wanted to crawl under the table and scream.

You’ve barely slept. Your eyes are scratchy. You snapped at someone in the break room this morning because they made a passive-aggressive joke about your “resting bitch face.” And now, Jungkook is late. On your day. Friday. The one consistent thing in your life.

Every Friday, he picks you up from work.

It started almost a year ago, after a breakup left you crying into your salad at your desk. When Jungkook had texted you to come down that day, you'd expected takeout and tissues. But instead, he’d cranked up the music in his car and driven you to a late-night ramen spot where you ended up laughing so hard you nearly choked on your noodles.

It became tradition. No matter what kind of week you’d had, no matter what mood either of you were in — Friday nights belonged to you two. You didn’t even have to plan anything. Sometimes it was tacos in the car and talking shit about your co-workers. Sometimes it was video games at his place or walking around the city until your legs ached and your cheeks hurt from laughing.

He always showed up. Early, even.

But today, the sun is setting in your eyes, and he’s late.

You tap your foot. Then stop, because that’s annoying. Then sigh loud enough to get a look from a passing stranger.

You grip your phone tighter, squinting down the street. Still no sign of his car. Your thumb hovers over the call button.

Three minutes late now.

Your stomach twists — not from worry, but frustration. Because this — this quiet, unnecessary delay — is the cherry on top of the shit sundae that has been your entire week. And you hate that it’s him. That even Jungkook gets to be a part of the unravelling now.

You lean against the metal pole of the bus sign, letting it bite into your spine. A bead of sweat slips down your back. The sun is way too bright for this hour.

Your phone buzzes.

Finally.

You snatch it up like you’ve been waiting for a lifeline, and there it is:

Kook 🍜: here in a min

You glare at the screen. Then type:

You: You’re late.

Kook 🍜: exactly 3 min. that’s barely anything

You: You’re lucky I’m too exhausted to castrate you.

Kook 🍜: bet you'll still get in the car

You don’t respond.

You just shove your phone back in your bag and take a breath that doesn’t do anything to help.

Jungkook’s car pulls up slow, music low, window already halfway down. He’s in that stupid black bucket hat he always wears, curls pushed out from under the brim. You catch the grin he’s wearing before he even says anything — wide, lazy, like he’s proud just to have found parking.

He leans over and calls out through the window, “Damn. Which poor intern did you kill today?”

You glare at him.

His smile falters a little, but he keeps going, still trying to crack you open like usual. “I mean, you’re kinda glowing with hate. It’s kinda hot. Very—”

“Jungkook,” you cut in, sharp.

His eyes snap up to yours.

You immediately hate how sharp your voice came out. You look away, fingers curling around the strap of your bag.

“Sorry,” you mutter after a beat. “I just… I’ve had a fucking awful week, and I’m really not in the mood for jokes right now.”

There’s a pause. Just the hum of the engine and a soft beat coming from the speakers — some song with a lazy bassline and breathy vocals.

Then he shifts. You hear the click of the lock before he leans over to push the door open for you. “Get in.”

You do. Without arguing.

The cool air hits your face the second the door closes, and you let your head lean back against the seat. He doesn’t say anything right away. Just starts driving, hands loose on the wheel, his bottom lip tugged between his teeth like he’s thinking.

“You wanna talk about it?” he asks eventually, softer this time.

You shake your head. “Not really. Just one of those weeks where everything goes to shit in slow motion. Work, people, the world. My brain. I think I hate everyone.”

He hums. “Cool. We can start a club.”

You huff a laugh, just barely. But it’s something.

He glances at you sideways, like he’s measuring how far he can push. “So when do I get to punch your boss?”

“I’m serious, Kook.”

“I'm serious too! I’ve been doing push-ups.”

You snort, against your will. “You do three push-ups and call it training.”

“First of all, way more than three. Second, the form was perfect. Don’t disrespect me in my own car.”

You smile — tiny, fleeting — but it’s the first time today you’ve felt even remotely human.

“Thanks for picking me up,” you murmur after a second. “Even if you were late.”

“Exactly three minutes,” he says, defensive. “And I was texting you while driving, which is dedication. Illegal, but dedication.”

You glance over at him. He’s wearing his usual all-black like he’s trying to look tough, but the corners of his mouth are soft. His grip on the wheel is loose. Familiar. Like this is just another Friday, like nothing’s changed since last week.

But something has. You feel it.

You clear your throat. “Can we just go back to mine? I kind of want to curl into a blanket and pretend I don’t exist.”

“Nope,” he says instantly.

You blink. “What?”

“I have a plan.”

“A plan?”

“Yep.”

“What kind of plan?”

He just grins, eyes still on the road. “You’ll see.”

You narrow your eyes. “I swear to god, if this ends with me getting roped into karaoke—”

“No karaoke,” he says with a laugh, holding up one hand solemnly. “I promise. You’ve suffered enough.”

You sigh and let your head fall against the window. The glass is cool against your temple, and you let your eyes slip closed for a second. “I’m serious though, Kook. I really don’t think I have the energy to be around people right now.”

“No people,” he assures you. “Just us. Little detour. Nothing dramatic.”

You peek one eye open at him. “You’re being weird.”

“I’m being nice.”

“That’s what’s weird.”

He smirks. “Okay, that’s fair.”

You fall quiet again. The road noise fills the silence, the gentle whir of tires and the low pulse of the bass. It’s soothing in a way, the way riding with him always is.

Your fingers drift to your lap, fidgeting with the hem of your shirt. He doesn’t ask again about your week. He just drives, one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually near the gearshift, fingers tapping to the beat of the music.

You glance at him again.

He looks good when he’s focused but relaxed. The way he hums along to the music without realising. The way the light paints the side of his face gold as it streams through the windshield. You feel it crawl up your chest: that annoying, warm pressure. That thing you haven’t named yet.

That thing you’re starting to feel more often when he’s near you.

And it’s so stupid. So inconvenient.

You stare out the window, try to shake it off.

He turns down a street you don’t recognise.

“Seriously,” you say, finally. “Where are we going?”

He just grins again, eyes still forward.

“You’ll see.”

You’re parked at the top of a hill you didn’t know existed.

Below you, the city stretches out — tiny glints of light catching on glass and metal, and cars threading through the streets like slow-moving ants. It’s not some tourist lookout spot. There’s no crowds, no fences or coin-operated telescopes. Just a dusty turnout on the side of a winding road and a view that makes you feel like the world finally shut up for a minute.

It’s quiet up here. Real quiet. Even the music in the car has been turned down to a soft background hum — just instrumental now.

You’ve got a milkshake in your hands, condensation slipping down the side and catching on your fingers. It’s thick and rich, the kind that takes actual effort to sip through a straw. The sweetness coats your tongue, dulls the bitter edge that’s been living in your chest all week. In your lap is the discarded wrapping of a burger so good you had to ask where the hell it came from.

“I’ve literally never heard of this place,” you say around a mouthful of fries. “Is this one of those ‘secret menu, don’t tell anyone or they’ll kill you’ joints?”

Jungkook grins around his own bite, sauce already on the corner of his mouth. “Maybe. The guy who owns it doesn’t even do social media. Total off-the-grid.”

You nod like that explains the magic burger. “They probably sold their soul to the devil for the recipes or something.”

He laughs, mouth full, and leans over to wipe the sauce off with the back of his hand. “You okay now?”

You pause.

The question isn’t heavy. He doesn’t even look at you when he says it — just stares out at the view like he’s asking casually. But you hear the real version underneath. You always hear it with him.

You take a slow sip of your milkshake before answering.

“Yeah,” you say. “I think I am.”

And for once, it’s not a lie. Your body still feels wrung out, your muscles sore from being tense for too many days in a row, but something about this — about being here, with him, with real food and fake silence and a breeze that smells like clean air and french fries settles something in you.

You glance over. He’s sitting back against the driver’s side door, one knee propped up. His hat’s on the floor somewhere — he'd thrown it off after complaining about the heat — and the curve of his neck is exposed just enough to distract you when you look too long.

Which you are. Looking too long, again.

“So,” you say, casually. “How many women have you brought up here to seduce with mystery burgers and pretty views?”

He snorts. “You’re the first. Most of my dates prefer the classic ‘come over and watch a movie, but don’t actually watch the movie’ route.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Wow. Such effort.”

“Right? I’m kind of romantic like that.”

You toss a fry at him. It bounces off his chest and lands in his tray.

He doesn’t flinch. Just picks it up and eats it. “Thanks.”

You roll your eyes, but you can't help the smile that tugs on your lips.

The air settles into a rhythm again. You chew slowly, the kind of silence between you that doesn’t need filling. It's never been hard, being around him. Even now — after everything — you find yourself slipping back into the easy groove of just existing next to him.

Your phone buzzes in your bag, but you don’t reach for it. You don’t even want to know.

You glance over at him again.

He’s still working on his burger, brows furrowed like he’s trying to solve it. Like he’s mad at how good it tastes.

It should be funny.

It is funny. But your heart stutters instead.

You don’t laugh. You just watch.

The way his lips press together before each bite. The little crease between his eyebrows. His jaw, flexing with each chew. The thick column of his throat when he swallows.

You’ve seen him eat a thousand things in a thousand places. Messy tacos. Gas station snacks. Instant noodles straight from the pot. But somehow, this moment feels different.

Or maybe you do.

Something in you has been tilting all week.

You’ve been tired, angry, brittle with exhaustion. But under it — every time he texts you, looks at you, shows up — there’s something else rising. Warm and low.

You’re not sure when being around him stopped feeling simple.

Maybe it was that night. Maybe it’s been creeping in longer. But it’s louder now. Clearer. It fills your throat and sits behind your ribs and presses up against the edges of your self-control.

He licks ketchup from his thumb.

And you can’t stop staring at his mouth.

He glances up and catches you looking, raising an eyebrow. “What?”

You blink. Swallow. Try to think of something else, anything else, but your body’s already too aware. Too wired.

“Would you hate me if I did something?” you ask, voice low.

His head tilts. “What kind of something?”

“Would you?” you repeat, ignoring his question.

He puts his empty milkshake cup and spare tissues into the paper bag you got the food in, then puts it on to the dashboard of the car before meeting your gaze again.

“You know I could never hate you,” he says, voice casual.

Your pulse stutters.

And before you can talk yourself out of it, your fingers fist in the front of his shirt and you’re moving across your seat, crashing your mouth into his.

It’s not sweet or delicate.

You kiss him like you’ve been holding it back for weeks. Like you’ve hit your limit and there’s nowhere else for the feeling to go. Your teeth scrape his lip. Your noses bump.

He makes a startled sound, hands finding your waist instinctively. You pull back a bit, heart hammering in your chest, and for a beat, neither of you move. He just stares at you — wide-eyed, lips parted — like he’s trying to memorise this exact second.

His mouth opens and closes for a second before his lips are on yours again, chasing your mouth like he needs you to breathe.

Fuck. You weren't actually expecting him to reciprocate.

Then again, you hadn't been thinking at all.

"This is a horrible idea," you mumble.

Jungkook smiles into the kiss. "Mhm. Terrible."

But neither of you stop. You're not sure you could even if you tried. Jungkook's an addicting man, especially when he's kissing you like this.

You grunt into his mouth when your knee hits the centre console, frustrated — not at him, not at this, but at the fucking layout of his stupid car.

You pull back just far enough to say, breathless, “This car is the worst possible place for this.”

He’s panting a little, lips flushed. “You’re the one who launched yourself at me.”

You roll your eyes, shifting your position to try and get comfortable, but your impatience only grows with every second that your lips aren't on his.

“Fuck,” you mutter, pushing your hair out of your face. “This is so—”

“Hot,” Jungkook cuts in, his hand sliding under your shirt to palm your waist. His touch is warm. Steady. “It’s hot.”

You pause. Look at him.

His gaze is on your mouth again and his hand flexes against your skin like he’s trying to stay in control. But you see it — how much effort it’s taking.

And that…

Yeah, that does something to you.

With the help of his hands, your weight sinks down into his lap, both knees straddling his thighs.

The position isn’t comfortable — your head almost knocks the ceiling — but it’s better than before. Your mouths press together again, desperate.

Your tongue slides against his, your teeth catch on his bottom lip, and he pulls you tighter like you might disappear if he lets go.

One of his hands snakes up your back, under your shirt, fingers splaying across your spine like he wants to map it. You grind down against him, slow and deliberate, and his breath stutters.

“Fuck,” he mutters into your mouth. “Do that again.”

You do.

He tilts his head and deepens the kiss, like he’s trying to taste everything you’ve never said out loud. You lose your balance for a second, your body leaning into him, your chest flush with his. His hand slips up to your jaw, thumb brushing along your cheekbone.

You roll your hips again, slower this time, and he breaks the kiss with a gasp, resting his forehead against yours.

“Shit,” he says, voice wrecked. “We can’t do this here.”

“Why not?” you murmur, mouth still grazing his.

He laughs — short, breathless. “Because I’m gonna break the gearshift with my dick if we keep going.”

You laugh too, the sound getting lost between the kisses you press to his jaw, his neck, the line of his throat.

His fingers dig into your waist. “You’re evil.”

You bite his earlobe gently. “You like it.”

He groans, the sound full and needy, and his hands are on your ass, dragging you harder into him, his hips rolling up to meet yours.

You both freeze at the contact.

Your breath catches. His does too.

You pull back to look at him. His eyes are blown wide. His lips are red. His chest rises and falls like he’s run a mile.

His mouth breaks from yours, breath ragged, lips swollen.

“Backseat,” he says, voice a little raspy.

You blink, still breathless. “What?”

He grabs your waist again, eyes dark with lust pooling in his pupils. “Backseat. Now.”

You don’t question him this time.

You clamber into the back with far less grace than you’d like — knees catching on leather, thigh knocking the steering wheel hard enough to make the horn let out a pathetic chirp. Jungkook laughs behind you, but it’s breathless and reverent, the kind of sound that makes you feel seen. Wanted.

You fall into the back seat, legs tangled, heart hammering, your skin hot beneath your clothes. Before you can even fix your hair or adjust your position, he’s climbing in after you.

His body slots over yours, knee between your thighs, hands bracing on either side of your head as he dives back in.

You fist his shirt, tugging him impossibly closer as his mouth breaks from yours and moves lower — along your jaw, down your neck. His lips are soft but relentless, nipping at the skin just below your ear before sucking hard enough to make your hips buck into him.

“Fuck,” you whisper, head falling back. “You’re—god—”

“Still not tired of me?” he murmurs against your throat.

You grip his shoulders, legs falling open to make room for him between them. “Shut up.”

He huffs a laugh against your skin, but he listens. Fingers move to your buttons, surprisingly nimble despite how wrecked he looks. He doesn’t tear anything. Doesn’t rush it. He undoes each one slowly, as if he’s unwrapping a gift he’s been waiting way too long to open.

As each button pops free, his mouth follows — kissing down the newly exposed skin between your breasts, over the curve of your ribs. His hands slide beneath the fabric, pushing it open until your chest is bared, and hooks a finger beneath the centre of your bra, tugging it down and out of the way until you're fully exposed beneath him.

He pulls back to look.

And when he does, he breathes your name.

Low. Like a prayer.

You watch his eyes drag over you, dark and worshipful. One hand cups your breast, his thumb brushing over your nipple in slow, lazy circles while the other grips your waist, holding you steady as your back arches into him.

He leans down again, tongue flicking over your nipple before his mouth closes around it — sucking just hard enough to make your toes curl. Your fingers fly to his hair, anchoring yourself in him as his teeth graze sensitive skin and his free hand teases the other side, drawing a sharp gasp from your throat.

“Kook—” you breathe, hips shifting beneath him, desperate for friction.

His mouth drags away with a wet sound. “Yeah, baby?”

The pet name sounds dangerous in his voice. Too natural. Like it belongs.

You don’t even call it out. You just say, “Need more.”

That’s all he needs to hear.

He drops one hand between your thighs, pressing it there over your pants with firm, maddening pressure. Just enough to make your breath stutter. His mouth is back on your chest, and his fingers start moving — slow at first, then harder, more purposeful, dragging against the seam of the fabric like he knows exactly how to push you to the edge.

He does.

And you’re already spiralling, body burning under his touch, chest heaving, lips swollen, the back seat of his car too cramped, too humid, too perfectly wrong for what’s happening.

But you’ve never wanted anything more.

Your head drops back against the seat, a soft moan catching in your throat as Jungkook keeps working you over through your pants, his fingers circling you like he has all the time in the world and none of the patience to waste it.

“I swear to god,” you pant, “if you don’t get these off me right now, I’m gonna lose my fucking mind.”

He laughs, still panting himself. His mouth presses hot and open to your neck, teeth grazing skin that’s already buzzing. “Bossy tonight, huh?”

“You started this.”

“And I’m gonna finish it,” he mutters, breath warm against your collarbone.

He shifts down your body and you feel him fumble with the button of your pants, tongue poking at the corner of his mouth in concentration.

“I can do it,” you say, breathless. “You’re slow.”

He blinks up at you, eyebrows raised. “Oh? I’m slow?”

You undo the button in one motion, zipper halfway down, and shoot him a sarcastic smile. “There. Congrats.”

He smiles, wide and wicked, and in the next second, he’s got your pants halfway down your thighs, your panties bunched right after. “Cool. I’ll just use my mouth then.”

That wipes the smugness off your face in an instant.

You freeze.

“Kook— wait, no—”

He pauses, glancing up at you from where he’s knelt between your legs, hair falling into his eyes, hands gripping your thighs with intent. “Did you just try and say no to that?”

“I mean…” You squirm, thighs twitching under his touch. “Last time was already— like, I came. A lot. You don’t have to do the whole… y’know…”

“The whole what?” he asks, voice dangerously innocent. “The part where I make you forget your own name with my tongue?”

You glare at him. “Don’t say it like that.”

He smirks, leaning in until his nose brushes your inner thigh. “Say what? That I’m gonna eat you out until you’re dripping into the seat?”

Your whole body jerks. “Jesus— Kook.”

“That’s not a no.”

He presses a kiss to your inner thigh, slow and warm. Then another. And another. Higher. Closer.

“Didn't get to do it last time,” he murmurs. “And I’ve been thinking about it. All fucking week.”

“You think about this?” you ask, trying for teasing, but your voice wavers as his mouth brushes closer to your core.

“Every night.”

Your breath catches.

“Every time I jerked off, it was to the sound you made when I had my fingers in you. You remember that?” he asks, dragging his mouth up until he’s just hovering over you, warm breath ghosting across your heat.

You nod, because you can’t speak. Your fingers are curled tight into the edge of the seat. Your thighs twitch.

“You remember what you said? ‘Please, don’t stop,’” he mimics, voice low and mocking. “But now you wanna tell me to stop this?”

You open your mouth to fire back some bratty reply — but then he presses a single, firm kiss against your cunt.

Your brain blanks.

Your hips buck.

“Fuck— okay,” you gasp, voice breaking.

He grins like he’s won a bet. “Knew you’d cave.”

Then his mouth is on you.

Hot and slow at first — just one long lick from bottom to top that has your eyes rolling back. His hands pin your thighs apart, anchoring you in place as he buries his face between your legs.

His tongue is obscene. Soft and firm in perfect rhythm, flicking over your clit before sealing his mouth around it and sucking hard enough to make your vision blur.

You cry out, hips stuttering up into his face, but he just groans against you.

“Fuck, you’re so messy already,” he mumbles against you. “Is that for me?”

You’re beyond words.

Your fingers snake into his hair, anchoring yourself as he eats you out like a man with something to prove. He moves with precision and hunger, memorising your every twitch, every gasp, every breathless curse.

“God, Kook—” you pant, eyes squeezed shut. “You’re such a fucking overachiever.”

He pulls back just enough to look up at you, chin slick, pupils blown. “You gonna dock my grade if I make you come too fast?”

You glare down at him, chest heaving. “You’re insufferable.”

He presses a kiss to your clit, slow and sharp. “As if it doesn't turn you on."

You can’t argue. Not when he dives back in, tongue sliding over you with maddening confidence, his nose bumping against your clit as he hums.

The pressure builds fast.

Too fast.

And you know it’s coming — the kind of orgasm that starts at your toes and climbs like a fuse to the rest of you — but you don’t care.

You come hard, shaking through it, barely aware of the sounds leaving your mouth. Everything goes white-hot for a second — your grip in his hair, the tremble in your thighs, the pleasure that pulses through you.

You’re still gasping, thighs trembling, when he finally pulls back. His lips are slick, his chin wet with you, and he looks fucking wrecked.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

“You good?” he asks, cocky and a little breathless.

You shoot him a look. “Do I look good?”

He smirks. “You look like I just rocked your shit.”

You scoff, weak but grinning. “You’re so full of yourself.”

He kisses your inner thigh, then leans up, mouth dragging over your ribs as he moves back over you. “Just calling it like I see it.”

Your hands slide under his shirt as he settles above you again, dragging it up over his toned stomach until he gets the hint and peels it off. You press your palms to his chest, warm and solid and slick with sweat.

Then your hand starts moving lower.

Jungkook freezes above you, eyes flicking down to where your fingers are tugging at his waistband. You smirk up at him.

“My turn?”

“Your turn to what?” he asks, voice already hoarse.

You shift, nudging his hips up so you can start pulling his jeans open. “You think I’m gonna let you have all the fun?”

He groans — actual, full-bodied groan — as you work the zipper down and slide your hand beneath the waistband of his boxers.

But the second your fingers wrap around him, he grabs your wrist.

You look up, surprised. “What?”

He’s panting now, jaw tight, brow furrowed like he’s holding on by a thread.

“I can’t.”

You blink. “Can’t what?”

“I— fuck, if you put your mouth on me, I’m not gonna last.” He grips your wrist tighter, not pulling away but not letting you move either. “And I need to be in you first.”

You raise a brow, amused. “What happened to all that stamina you brag about during Mario Kart?”

He glares, cheeks flushed. “That’s different. You don’t suck me off during Mario Kart.”

“Maybe I should.”

“Don’t joke right now,” he grits out, pushing your hand out of his boxers with an almost painful kind of restraint. “I’m serious. I’m already dying.”

You pout, dragging your nails lightly down his stomach just to be a brat. “So needy.”

His eyes narrow, before moving back onto you.

You squeal as he pins your hands above your head, his body crashing into yours, mouth crashing against your neck.

“I’ll show you needy,” he growls, voice thick and dark.

Your heart kicks hard in your chest, and you’re smiling — giddy, wrecked, turned on beyond belief.

“You promise?” you whisper, voice almost mocking.

His hips roll down into yours.

“Oh, baby. I promise.”

The second his hips grind down again, dragging against your soaked heat, you feel your breath punch out of your lungs.

He lets go of your wrists and shoves his jeans and boxers down just far enough to free himself, cock flushed and heavy, already leaking at the tip. You reach for it instinctively, wanting to feel him, stroke him slow just to tease — but he swats your hand away like it’s nothing.

“No,” he growls, leaning in to press a kiss to your collarbone, rough and reverent all at once. “You had your chance.”

You open your mouth to argue, to push his buttons just a little more — but the head of his cock nudges your entrance, and whatever snark you had queued up melts into a gasp.

Jungkook groans under his breath, burying his face in the crook of your neck like the restraint is killing him. “Fuck, you’re so wet.”

“Yeah,” you rasp, gripping his shoulders, nails digging in. “Wonder why.”

He shifts his hips, just a little, dragging the thick head through your folds. Not pushing in yet, but slicking himself up with you. You moan despite yourself, arching into him, your body desperate to be filled.

“You ready?” he mutters, voice ragged.

You look at him — really look at him. His hair’s a mess, stuck to his forehead. His lips are kiss-bruised and red. His abs flex as he holds himself up over you, barely restraining the shake in his arms.

And you’ve never wanted anything so badly in your life.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “Please.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice.

He pushes in slow, thick and stretching, and your breath catches at the burn. Your back arches. One hand flies to the window for leverage, the other fists in the back of his neck.

“Jesus,” Jungkook groans, barely halfway in. “You feel— fuck— you feel insane.”

You laugh, short and winded. “That’s what you said last time.”

“Yeah, and I meant it.”

He bottoms out with a curse, hips flush to yours. For a moment, you both just breathe — heavy and ragged, bodies locked together, the air thick with sweat and want.

His movements are slow at first — just a shallow roll of his hips that drags his cock along every nerve ending inside you. You moan, legs tightening around his waist, heels digging into the backs of his thighs.

“Faster,” you breathe, already twitching around him.

He leans back just enough to watch your face, eyes locked on yours like he’s chasing every reaction. Then he picks up the pace — slamming into you with long, deep strokes that have the car rocking.

You cry out, snapping your hand up to press against your mouth. “Kook— fuck, don’t stop.”

He laughs — laughs, breathless and wrecked. “You think I could?”

Every thrust punches a gasp from your lungs. You can’t think. You can’t do anything but hold on.

He shifts, bracing one knee on the seat and angling his hips just right — and when he hits that spot inside you, your whole body jerks.

“Oh my god,” you moan.

“Right there?” he grits out, sweat dripping down his jaw. “Fuck, I feel it— your pussy’s so fucking tight, you’re gonna— shit— you’re gonna make me come.”

“Thought you said I’d be the one begging.”

He groans, pulls out almost all the way, then slams back in so hard you scream.

“Still wanna be a brat?” he growls, panting.

You nod, grinning through the moans. “Always.”

“Fine.” He grabs both your wrists again and pins them above your head, his body pressing into you harder now, relentless, sweat slicking your skin. “Then you can take it.”

And fuck, you do.

Your second orgasm creeps up on you fast — your whole body tensing as his thrusts get rougher, deeper, desperate. You cry out his name, high and wrecked, and the sound makes him snap.

His rhythm falters. His mouth crashes against yours, sloppy and hot, all teeth and tongue as he chases his own edge.

“I’m gonna—” he gasps, pulling back to look at you, eyes wild. “Fuck— can I—?”

You nod fast, moaning. “Inside. Just do it.”

That’s all it takes.

He buries himself one last time and shatters — groaning low in your ear as he spills into you, body shaking, arms trembling with effort as he holds himself up.

For a moment, it’s just the sound of breathing. Wind through cracked windows. The slow drip of sweat down your temples. The burn in your thighs. The mess between your legs.

Jungkook lets out a choked laugh and slumps down, burying his face in your neck. “Okay,” he mumbles. “That might’ve been the best sex I’ve had in a fucking car.”

You laugh, dazed. “You say that like it’s a long list.”

“Give me some credit,” he says, voice muffled against your skin. “I’m not that trashy.”

You stroke your fingers through his hair, still catching your breath. “We just fogged up every window in your car.”

“Worth it.”

He doesn’t move.

You’re still tangled together, his weight heavy on you, his softening cock still inside.

After a moment, he shifts slightly and lets out a low, satisfied sigh. You can feel the smile against your neck before he presses another kiss there. Then another. And another.

You squirm, half-laughing, half-exasperated. “You’re clingy as fuck after sex.”

“Mm-hmm,” Jungkook hums, completely unashamed. “Deal with it.”

You roll your eyes, still grinning. “You’re like a weighted blanket.”

He lifts his head just enough to look at you, sweaty curls falling into his eyes. “You love it.”

“Debatable.”

He snorts, then finally pulls out, slow and careful. You both groan at the feeling, and you feel it immediately: his cum, warm and slick, already starting to slide out of you.

You shift to reach for your underwear, cringing at the sticky feeling.

“I’ll clean you up,” he says, voice quiet but certain. “When we get home.”

You blink at him. “You don’t have to. Just drop me off—”

“No.” His tone is firmer now, jaw set. “I’m not just dropping you off.”

You stare at him for a beat, surprised by the sharp edge in his voice. Then you glance down pull up your bra and button up your shirt, suddenly very aware of your heartbeat again.

He watches you the whole time, his eyes dragging over your skin like he’s memorising every inch of it before covering it back up. And when you finish with the last button and reach for your jeans, he leans forward and kisses your jaw — soft, almost reverent.

“I mean it,” he murmurs. “Let me take care of you.”

And for some reason, you don’t fight it.

You’re lying in his bed, hair still damp from the shower, the curve of his hoodie soft against your bare thighs. The sheets smell like fabric softener and his cologne, and the room is dim — just the small lamp by the closet casting a low amber glow. There’s a bowl of ramen on the nightstand, still steaming. You’re not hungry, but he made it for you, so you took a few bites anyway.

Outside, the city hums. A car passes on the street below. Somewhere down the hall, the radiator clicks.

It should feel normal. Comfortable. It did feel normal — until maybe twenty minutes ago.

Things were fine when you got here. He’d pulled you toward the bathroom and handed you a towel, that stupid grin still half on his face. He even said something about making noodles if you promised not to pass out in his bed again. You’d laughed. Called him a housewife. Everything felt fine.

But when you came out of the shower, something was different.

He was sitting on the edge of the bed, scrolling his phone like he didn’t hear you walk in. And when he looked up, the smile was there, yeah — but it didn’t fully reach his eyes. You shrugged it off. Maybe you imagined it. Maybe he was just zoning out.

But then it kept going.

Quiet, too quiet. He’d made the ramen without talking. Brought it to you, set it down, and just... sat on the floor for a while, scrolling again, saying nothing. When you asked what he was doing, he just said, “Checking something,” and didn’t elaborate. Eventually he stood, turned on a random playlist, and flopped into the chair in the corner with a bottle of water.

Now he’s across the room, scrolling again, leg bouncing slightly like he’s keyed up and trying to burn it off. He hasn’t looked at you in a few minutes. You watch the light from his phone flicker across his face, the way his brow furrows every now and then, and something in your chest tugs.

It’s not dramatic. He’s not being rude or distant. He’s not treating you like a stranger. But he’s not treating you like you, either — not the way he usually does.

You know him too well not to notice. The way he’s moving isn’t right. Like he’s stuck in his own head. Like there’s something he wants to say but doesn’t know how to bring up.

Or maybe he’s trying not to say something. Either way, it sits in the air between you, subtle but heavy.

You pull your knees up under the hoodie and wrap your arms around them, resting your chin there. Watching him. Waiting, maybe, for him to snap out of it. Say something dumb. Make fun of your hair. Crawl into bed next to you like it’s nothing.

But he doesn’t.

You shift slightly, tugging the hoodie down over your thighs even though it’s already covering you. The ramen’s gone lukewarm on the nightstand.

“Kook?”

His head lifts just a little. “Hmm?”

You hesitate. “What’s going on?”

He blinks, finally looking at you. His eyes are soft. Tired, maybe. Or just dimmer than usual. “What do you mean?”

“You just feel…” You trail off, unsure how to word it without sounding dramatic. “I don’t know. A little off.”

He smiles, and it’s almost convincing. “I’m good. Just tired.”

You don’t push. Not really. You know him. If he doesn’t want to talk, he won’t. And whatever this is — it doesn’t feel sharp enough to cut yet. It just feels strange.

“Okay,” you say quietly.

He glances down, then back at you. “Eat your noodles before they go gross.”

You glance at the bowl, then back at him. “You eat yet?”

He nods. “Earlier.”

You don’t believe him, but you let it slide.

He shifts in the chair, stretching his legs out and resting his head back for a second before sitting up again, like he was about to let himself relax and then thought better of it.

“I’m gonna get some work done before bed,” he says, standing up slowly. “Couple things I need to catch up on.”

You watch him move toward the door, half expecting him to stop, change his mind, come back and say something dumb like he always does. But he just opens it, hand braced against the frame.

His voice is gentle when he adds, “Don’t stay up too late, alright?”

You nod. “Yeah. I won’t.”

He gives you a small smile — soft, careful — and then he’s gone.

The door clicks shut behind him.

You stare at it for a long moment. The hoodie sleeves are pulled over your hands now. The ramen sits untouched. The playlist keeps playing, quiet and aimless in the background.

You let out a soft sigh before reaching over to flick off the lamp.

The room goes dark, soft shadows stretching over the walls. The sheets rustle as you shift down into them, tugging the comforter over your legs, the warmth doing nothing to quiet the noise in your head.

Maybe this is why people don’t sleep with their best friends.

Maybe this is exactly why those lines exist — because crossing them means risking everything else. And maybe you knew that. Maybe you ignored it anyway.

Because it was him.

Because part of you has been circling this for longer than you want to admit.

You close your eyes, breathing slow and steady. The scent of him still clings to the sheets. Still wraps around you like he should be here. But he’s not.

Regret settles low in your chest, dull and heavy. You hate the way it sits there, thick in your ribs, twisting slow in your stomach. You’ve always hated how it creeps in after the fact, when it’s already too late to take anything back.

You shift onto your side and pull the blanket up to your chin. Try to sleep. Try to stop thinking.

He said everything was fine.

You just wish you believed him.

→ read part three here (coming soon — join the taglist for ‘just this… twice?’ to be notified when part two releases)

⌗ masterlist. ⌗ taglist. ⌗ feedback

[roosterforme]

All Bradley Bradshaw, all the time. 18+ only.

Welcome to my masterlist! I’ve got a little bit of everything TG:M around here from short one-shots to long series. I mainly write for Rooster, but the other Daggers have found their way here as well. Take a look around below the cut!

Keep reading

[moonhoures]

first love — series masterlist

[ txt soobin x fem. reader, non-idol!au, college!au ]

nsfw warning; this series contains graphic smut scenes. please do not read if you are a minor!

— part 0.5

synopsis; the story of you and soobin’s first date + kiss. [no smut]

— part 1

synopsis; your boyfriend, soobin, has trouble confessing to you that he’s a virgin. after a loss of communication, some insecurity, and lots of research, he wants you to be his first time as well as his first love.

— part 2

synopsis; now that soobin’s got a taste of you, he wants even more. he has so much he wants to try! good thing his roommate, yeonjun, is out of town for another couple days ;)

— part 3

synopsis; soobin takes you to meet his family for the first time for christmas! things take a turn when soobin gets jealous and needs a reminder of just who you’re in love with.

— part 4

synopsis; it’s you and soobin’s first valentine’s day as a couple, so he wants to make it really special for you. however, something unexpected happens that could change everything for the two of you.

— first love!soobin moodboard

— asks and discussions abt first love

[whcczes]

hush

pairing: fred weasley x ravenclaw!reader

summary: just because someone’s the quiet type, doesn’t mean they can’t pull a good prank.

word count: 549

warnings: mild curse words

requested by: anon

You weren’t his type. Well, at least not his usual type. There was something about you, the way you spent so much time in the library, your soft-spoken nature, which made Fred fall in love.

Now, he’d never talked to you before; he’d never even attempted it. You were in different houses, and he knew your personalities didn’t match in the slightest, so he just admired you from afar. He’d see glimpses of you laughing or telling stories, and wished he could be there listening in.

“Isn’t she beautiful?” he’d say daily, leaving Lee and George to be a bit annoyed. Afterall, they weren’t the ones admiring her every day.

“Bloody hell. Just ask her already! I mean at first I thought it was hilarious, but now I just feel bad for you, mate,” George said, knitting his eyebrows. Lee nodded, looking over at you.

“Yeah, if you don’t ask her, I’ll have to do it for you,” Lee threatened. Fred rolled his eyes, taking a sip of his water. “I’m serious! I’ll tell how deeply in love you are with her, and how you talk about her every day and annoy the hell out of us,” Fred nearly choked on his water. “Fine,” Fred said, to which Lee and George both let out sighs of relief. “I’ll send her a poem.”

-

Fred was never deep. He wasn’t now, and he never would be. It just wasn’t his forte. Still, he wrote the poem like he said he would, and if it wasn’t the worst thing in the world, you don’t know what was.

When you first read it, you couldn’t help but laugh. Lines like “My love for you is stronger than a million ghouls” and “If people don’t see your beauty, they’re fools” were the best sentences out of the whole poem. And when you showed your friends, they were even more amused than you were.

Now, you understood that Fred had tried, and that’s what led you to send him back something on your own. You started with just a small piece of parchment and began writing. When you had finished, you added a special touch and wrapped it up.

The next morning, you watched as Fred got a package delivered to him by an owl so weak that it merely fell over trying to give it to him. Fred alerted his friends of the package’s arrival directly after seeing your name written onto the tag.

You watched as he unwrapped it hastily, his friends waiting beside him.

Everyone knew that Fred and George were the most popular pranksters around, and that gave you the idea of granting one of them a prank of your own. How better to do that than with an enchanted letter?

Fred’s face was splashed immediately with water after fully opening the parcel, leading to his part of the table bursting out with laughter. He looks over at you, his face and hair soaking wet, and out of every possible facial expression or gesture he could’ve given you, he chose to smile. He smiled because he now knew exactly why he was in love with you.

[ms-reads]

asdjalksjdas this was soft and sweet AND I JUST- YUHHHHHH

i love that ending. that last line just

PACKED ME IN THE FEELS ORAIT GOOD DAY YOU AMAZING PERSON

[jtargaryen18]

Steve rogers with size kink (reader is smaller than him) is all i need 😭😭

Thank you for the ask. 🙏🙏🙏

This is something I haven’t tried before so... I hope you like it. 💕

Fill Me Up

Warnings: Size kink, pretty much porn, Steve and reader’s first time.

2.8k

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You pressed a kiss into Steve’s neck as you cuddled together on the couch. You knew you were being a shit because he’d been so absorbed in the movie that you remembered being one of your father’s favorites. Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.

Steve Rogers enjoyed nothing better than a buddy movie. It reminded him of missions with Bucky or Sam. Maybe it reminded him of his time in the army.

Paul Newman’s Butch Cassidy asked Robert Redford’s Sundance Kid, “What’s the matter with you?”

Your kiss lingered over Steve’s pulse, your tongue gently tasting the salt of his skin. His heavy arm tightened around you. His hand spanned your hip, held you to his side.

“I can’t swim,” the Kid muttered.

Butch Cassidy laughed hard before telling his younger partner, “Are you crazy? The fall will probably kill ya.”

As the characters on screen shouted and jumped off the cliff to escape, your arm slid down from Steve’s chest to his stomach. You nipped at his neck lightly with your teeth.

That earned you a muted moan and you grinned into his neck. Steve always ran warm, but more heat was coming off him now.

You enjoyed your movie date nights with Steve. You really did. Here you were all nice and cozy on Steve’s couch. But you’d been dating for a few weeks now and making out on the couch was as far as you ever got.

What did a girl have to do here?

Your hand moved further down. Just a smidge.

Keep reading

[ms-reads]

ladies and gentlebiTCHES CAN WE TAKE A MINUTE??? THIS WAS- MYYYYYY OH MY THIS WAS I LOVEI T. idk how else to put it but i love it >:) being so small against steve, protected and calm and in the next thing just :”) OFF THE RAILS WITH THIS ONE I LOVE IT. 

thank u for sharing this brilliant piece with us. I LOVE ITTTTT!!! CHEF’S KISS ALL ACROSSSSSS!!!

[stargazingfangirl18]

Awww what about Ransom being too hard so you have to use the safe word and he’s really adorable and soft with aftercare? 🥺🥺

Safe Word

Pairing: Ransom Drysdale x Female!Reader Word Count: 1,103 Summary: You use your safe word for the first time. Warnings: Explicit sexual content. Explicit language. Safe word usage. Smut. 18+

A/N: Thank you so much for this request, nonnie, please know that this has haunted my shameless hoe brain since you first submitted it. I needed some soft!Ransom feels and smut, sooo here you go 😘

“Fuck, baby, you feel so good around me,” Ransom moaned, his fingers gripping your hips tighter as he thrust up into you.

You whimpered, burying your face in the crook of his neck as you curled against his chest.

He’d already made you cum twice, which wasn’t hard with you straddling him on the sofa like this. Ransom was bigger than you’d ever had before. Like, ever.

And when you rode him like this? It toed the line of too much. Especially with your cycle coming up. Your body was sore and sensitive, feeling overstimulated, but you could tell Ransom was close and you wanted to make him feel good.

“Wanna feel you cum around me again,” he murmured, thumb returning to your clit. “Love it when you squeeze me tight.”

You gasped, his touch more pain than pleasure at this point, especially when he planted his feet and the rough drive of his hips hit too deep, kissing your cervix on every enthusiastic stroke.

Sobbing, you realized for the first time that you were crying, your face warm and wet from your tears.

Ransom couldn’t see your face though. He thought you were overwhelmed because it felt so good. That you were rigid because you were close to coming unraveled again.

“Yeah, one more, baby, gimme one more.” His thumb pressed harder at your clit, hips rolling up into you without relent, somehow driving even harder.

You broke.

“Lighthouse,” you whimpered, fisting his sweater in your hands as your muscles seized.

Close to his own end, it took Ransom a second to process what you said, especially because you’d never said it to him before. Well, not in this context.

And the way your voice broke around your safe word for a second time had Ransom going absolutely still.

He blinked the sex daze from his brain, the edge of bliss he’d been teasing all but evaporating as he realized you were crying into his neck, shaking against his chest.

“Shit!” He cursed, big hands moving from your hips and hovering over your back tentatively before finally touching you. “Y/N?” He hugged you to his chest, pressing his lips to your shoulder. “Did I hurt you, baby?”

The jerky nod you gave was enough to make Ransom feel like he’d been sucker punched in the gut.

“Okay,” he said quietly, not sure what to do. He shifted, barely suppressing a groan as his cock—still painfully hard—nudged into you deeper, making you whine in pain. “Fuck! I’m sorry! Shit!”

He took a deep breath to try and calm himself, clear his head, being mindful not to jostle you too much.

“Come on, baby, I need you to sit up,” he whispered, running his hand up and down your back. “Need you to climb off, I don’t want to hurt you.”

You were still for a moment, your quiet sniffles making Ransom feel like the biggest asshole ever, a title he usually relished in, especially when it came to riling up his family.

But with you? Like this?

He felt awful.

Still he tried to give you a soft smile as you straightened and rose up over him stiffly.

Ransom couldn’t quite muffle his groan as the warm, tight heat of you moved away, left him feeling cold and unsatisfied.

You all but collapsed onto the sofa beside him, curling into the fetal position, your cheeks glistening with tears.

Grimacing, Ransom tucked himself into the band of his boxer briefs before loosely fastening his pants. He slid to the floor in front of you, hand gentle as he cupped your face.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, feeling embarrassed as he thumbed away your tears. “I tried to wait until you were finished.”

“Jesus, sweetheart,” Ransom huffed, frowning at you. “If I’m fucking hurting you, you need to tell me.”

You flinched at his frustration, hiding your face in the throw pillow beneath your head.

“Shit,” Ransom sighed. “I’m sorry. I’m an asshole.” He ducked close, pressing his lips to your cheek. “I’m sorry.” A kiss to your jaw. “I just...didn’t mean to hurt you. Not like that.” His lips touched your forehead. “Please forgive me.”

You felt another wave of tears rise up, a lump forming in your throat as you burrowed deeper into the pillow.

Ransom sounded truly sorry, even a little distraught, that he hurt you.

And it was just...a lot.

Because as soft as Ransom could be with you—and just you—he was still Ransom.

You choked down another sob, part of you knowing you were likely drowning in your feels because you were PMSing.

And had used a safe word for the first time ever.

And were suddenly and thoroughly exhausted.

“I’m sorry,” Ransom whispered again, pressing soft kisses to your cheek and temple.

Another wave of the emotion washed over you, making your throat constrict even tighter, because you loved this cervix destroying asshole, goddamnit!

Ransom’s hand smoothed down your side, then up again, another flurry of sweet kisses and whispered apologies raining down on you.

Blinking back your tears, you turned to him then, catching his next kiss with your lips, your hand coming up to press against his cheek.

You could feel his relief as he curled around you, hugging you close as his forehead pressed to yours.

“I’m so sorry, baby,” Ransom breathed, his bright blue eyes shining with concern as he met your gaze.

“It’s okay.” You nuzzled his nose with yours. “I know you didn’t mean to hurt me.” You couldn’t help but laugh at his worried pout, kissing it away. “I forgive you, Ransom,” you murmured, giving him another kiss for good measure.

“Wanna make it up to you,” he hummed, smoothing a hand over your head. “How about I run you a bath?”

“How about you run us a bath?” You countered, eyes blinking at him sleepily. Your lips curled. “And I can give you a hand with your, um...situation.” Your gaze dipped pointedly to the front of Ransom’s pants.

He laughed. “Jesus, I fuck you till you cry and you’re still willing to get me off? If that doesn’t scream put a ring on it, I dunno what does.”

A flurry of butterflies erupted in your stomach, muting the lingering pain in your body entirely.

“Joking about marriage?” you gasped playfully. “Yikes. I think I broke Ransom Drysdale.”

Smirking he leaned close, kissing you slowly, his lips pressing against yours as he spoke, “To be fair, I think the asshole kind of deserved it.”

Laughing, you didn’t complain as Ransom smothered you in another round of soft, sweet kisses.

I THINK I BROKE MYSELF WITH THIS SOFT!RANSOM, OKAY?! 😭😭😭

---

Tags will be added in a reblog. If you’d like to be added to my tag list, check out the link in my bio! 

Please note that my work is not to be reposted or published anywhere other than my Tumblr or AO3 account without my permission. Reblogs are most welcome though! ❤️

[ms-reads]

asdkjalkdjas aw this was- it went from hot to straight soft feels after i love it

i love love the personification of ransom in this i just

YES. YES PLS. THIS WAS LOVELY

(YOU BROKE EVERYONE WITH SOFT!RANSOM AND I LOVE IT)

[theycallmebecca]

Drabble: The One-Eyed Cat

This is a little birthday drabble for one of my buddies @badassbaker 

I asked her for a prompt and she asked for Frank Adler and something about Fred possibly disappearing? So here goes nothing!

Title: The One-Eyed Cat Pairing: Frank Adler x reader Rating: PG Warnings: n/a

You’d been living in the small beach cottage (or shack, depending on how you were feeling about it that day) for a couple weeks when the one-eyed cat showed up and made himself at home in your living room.

You’d found it odd, of course, but he had the markings of a much loved cat and he had a collar with no tags on it. Given how comfortable he was and the fact that you loved cats, you didn’t mind really, especially since you were pretty sure his owners would be looking for him before long.

Sure enough, you woke up the next morning to the sound of persistent knocking on your front door.

Keep reading

[ms-reads]

NAWHHHH this was so sweet!!! hahaha i love love love it!! this was such a warm-soft read :”)

[theycallmebecca]

Aww thank you ❤️

[ms-reads]

[stargazingfangirl18]

For ransom drabbles or oneshots imagine...Taking care of a sick Ransom? Even though he’s usually a jerk to you...

Under the Weather

Pairing: Ransom Drysdale x Reader Word Count: 2,434 Summary: Ransom is sick, and you’re sent by Harlan to take care of him. Warnings: Explicit language.

A/N: How about some Fluff Friday, friends?! I absolutely loved this ask, so thank you, nonnie! Hope you enjoy this ❤️

“What are you doing here?”

You couldn’t even be offended at Ransom’s question or the scowl he wore when asking it.

Not when his greasy hair was sticking up every which way, he had bags under his eyes you could use for grocery shopping, and his nose was as red as your sweater.

You eyed the way he wore his (probably expensive) throw blanket as a cape and grinned up at him from his front doorway.

“Your grandfather sent me over to take care of you.”

Even three days into the flu, Hugh Ransom Drysdale smirked as he gave you an obscenely slow onceover. “Oh yeah? Now he’s lending out his sexy little assistant? And how, exactly, are you gonna take care of me, kitten?”

Ah, that didn’t take long. It was an art form really, the way this man could wield his asshole superpowers.

You didn’t even get a chance to glare at the annoying nickname he insisted on calling you, because Ransom had a coughing fit.

Once he finished, he groaned, holding his head with one hand while using the other to dig some tissues from the pocket of his hoodie to wipe his runny nose.

You made ew face as he then proceeded to blow his nose, a few times.

Ransom somehow managed to sound more stuffed up as he glowered at you in misery, “What are you looking at?”

“I’ll let you know once I figure it out,” you turned his smirk on him as you gently shoved your way inside his home.

Huffing, Ransom closed the door behind you before slowly following you into the kitchen. He hefted himself into one of the stools and slumped across the granite isle, watching you.

You busied yourself with unloading your reusable grocery bag.

Ransom’s eyes flickered over the various groceries, cold medicines, tissues, and, well now, that was a nice surprise. He smirked at the bottle of expensive scotch, reaching for it. “This from Harlan?”

You frowned at the liquor, nodding. “He insisted I bring over ‘Thrombey NyQuil.’”

Ransom snickered at your air quotes.

He nodded at your grocery haul. “And all that? I’m not really in a Gordon Ramsay kinda mood.”

Your hands fell to your hips as you stared at him. “Have you ever actually used this kitchen, Hugh?”

He smirked. “Sure have. I have very fond memories of this counter and an enthusiastic blonde.” He patted the granite beside him with a wistful sigh.

You rolled your eyes.

“And how many times do I need to tell you to call me ‘Ransom,’ Y/N?”

“At least a few more, Hugh.” You began opening and closing his cabinets before glancing at him with a hopeful look. “I don’t suppose you can point me in the direction of your pots?”

His eyes twinkled. “No, but I can and am excited to point you in the direction of my emergency stash of condoms - the drawer next to the fridge.”

You sighed, an exhale of longsuffering. “Your grandfather is paying me overtime to be here, so not even your disgusting personality will ruin it for me.”

“I’ll double your overtime if you ditch kitchen duty and come naked cuddle with me.”

Your eyes narrowed, but then Ransom started coughing again, and you couldn’t help but grin.

He groaned, dropping his head in his hands, looking pathetic.

“Have you showered?” you asked. “It will probably open up your sinuses and help with any body aches you may have. And, ya know, hygiene in general is your friend.”

Ransom shot you a dirty look. “You saying I smell bad?”

“I wouldn’t know. But you look like you smell bad.”

You yelped as he tossed his snotty tissues at you. “Don’t be a dick!”

“You started it. You’re supposed to be taking care of me, not mocking me.”

“I can do both,” you winked, turning away to rummage in the cabinets some more. You gave a triumphant cheer as you unearthed a large pot and lid. Another stroke of luck as you found a cutting board and began to rinse the produce you bought.

“What are you making?”

“Turmeric chicken orzo soup.”

“God, you must hate me,” Ransom muttered, leaning his elbow on the counter and planting his chin in his hand to watch you.

You laughed. “It’s delicious. Has a bit of a kick. I bet you’ll feel amazing by tomorrow.”

It was quiet for a few minutes as you cleaned and diced your way through all the veggies. Before moving to prep the chicken breasts, you glanced up to find Ransom dozing.

You sighed, rounding the counter. “Hugh,” you hesitated before touching the back of your hand to his forehead. You hissed at how feverish he was. “Have you taken any medicine?!”

Ransom blinked dazedly, leaning into your cool, soft touch. “Hmm?”

His weight began to slump toward you. You pressed your hands to his chest, gently pushing him back into his seat. “Hugh.”

“Don’t call me that,” he whined, rubbing his eyes tiredly.

You sighed. “Fine…Ransom.” You tensed just saying it, resisting the urge to glance around to see if anyone else had heard. “You should go lay down for a bit. Then shower. Then the soup will be ready, and you can eat.”

“That sounds like a lot of work,” he grumbled, shivering. “And I’m so tired, Y/N.” Those pretty blue eyes of his blinked sleepily a you.

It was strange seeing Ransom Drysdale so vulnerable. So unlike his usual cocksure self.

You were both pleasantly surprised and creeped out as fuck.

You moved to the fridge and retrieved a pitcher of water, digging around in the overhead cabinets until you found the glasses. Pouring a tall glass of water, you reached for the strongest cold meds you brought and popped out two capsules.

“Take these,” you told Ransom, moving to stand in front of him.

It was a testament to how shitty he felt, that Ransom didn’t argue, didn’t even make a quip or gross innuendo. He just downed the pills and half the glass of water.

“Come on, to bed with you,” you gently grabbed his arm and directed him to the bottom of the stairs. Then you paused. “Wait, have you changed your sheets or cleaned up since you’ve been sick?”

Ransom blinked at you.

“Right,” you snorted. “Why don’t you crash in the guest room? Once the soup is on, I can change your sheets upstairs, okay?”

“Rather you’d be spread out on my sheets,” Ransom mumbled.

“Excuse me?” Now you did glare, crossing your arms over your chest.

Ransom coughed pathetically, making his baby blues go big and wide.

Your annoyance evaporated as amusement took its place. “You must have been such a handful growing up.”

His lips twitched, and then another coughing fit overcame him. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, this is the worst.” He sniffled, wiping his nose before shoving his new collection of snotty tissues into his pocket. “My throat feels like it’s on fucking fire.”

“Go take a nap,” you said firmly, pointing down the hall to the guest room. “If you’re not awake by dinner time, I’ll come get you.”

Sighing, Ransom shuffled past you. He got halfway down the hall before turning back to you. “Y/N?”

“Yes?”

“Can you make grilled cheese to go with the soup?”

Your belly fluttered at Ransom’s sweet tone and Disney princess eyes. The reaction was so unlike your normal urge to kick or strangle him that you fidgeted, glancing away. “I’ll see what I can do.”

He sighed again, throwing you one last forlorn look before disappearing into the guest room.

“Dammit,” you muttered to yourself, moving back toward the kitchen.

You figured dealing with a sick Ransom wouldn’t exactly be a walk in the park.

What you didn’t count on?

Enjoying taking care of him so much.

It was a couple of hours later and you were just taking a tray of chocolate chip cookies out of the oven when you heard the downstairs shower kick on.

You grinned.

Ransom must have taken your smelly jibe to heart.

The ego on that man...

You turned and checked the soup that was simmering on low heat. You took another taste smiling. This stuff was good. You were excited to have it for dinner.

You were assembling some soon to be grilled cheese sandwiches when you caught movement from your periphery.

Glancing up, you saw Ransom emerge from the hallway, in nothing but a towel slung low on his hips.

Your eyes widened, jumping from his hair—wet and slicked back—to his face, to the broad, rounded slope of his shoulders, and further down still to his glorious pecs and the dark hair that covered them. You swallowed as your traitorous gaze delighted in the way his impressive six-pack framed his happy trail, which disappeared beneath a fluffy white towel that your brain was declaring the enemy.

You wondered what lay beneath that towel.

And if it was as glorious as what rested above it.

“I feel like maybe I should charge admission for the show, kitten.”

Ransom’s voice had you jumping, your face growing warm as your eyes shot up to his face.

Of course, he was smirking at you, the smug prick.

“Dinner will be ready soon,” you squeaked as you quickly turned away and busied yourself with heating some butter in a pan for the grilled cheese.

You could feel Ransom watching you for a long moment, and then you heard his quiet chuckle before the stairs creaked with his ascent.

A while later found you and Ransom sitting at his small dining table for dinner.

He was thankfully (and disappointingly, chirped your traitorous brain) dressed in flannel pajama pants and a long-sleeved henley. The thin cotton shirt kept shifting and pulling against the bulge of his biceps whenever Ransom moved, and you found it difficult not to stare.

You were shaking yourself from another careless oogle when you realized Ransom was staring down at his steaming bowl of soup with eyes narrowed in suspicion.

Laughing, you nudged his leg with your foot under the table. “Just try it, you big baby.”

Ransom’s narrowed gaze shot to you briefly before he lifted his spoon to his mouth. He slurped up his first taste of turmeric chicken orzo soup, and his eyes widened in pleasant surprise.

Your look was haughty as you awaited his response.

“It’s not awful,” he said at last, eagerly scooping up another spoonful.

“You’re welcome, Ransom,” you said airily. “So glad you like it. Oh gosh, please stop with the gratitude, it’s embarrassing.” Smirking at him, you indulged in your awesome soup, watching in amusement as Ransom gleefully separated his grilled cheese halves.

One bite of the oozy, cheesy goodness had him moaning his pleasure.

“Jesus Christ, this is so good,” he hummed, licking melted cheese from his fingers. “Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve had grilled cheese?”

“Not a regular option on the menu o’ Linda?”

Ransom snorted. Loudly. “Are you shitting me? Bread? In the Drysdale residence? She’d go into cardiac arrest, the maniac.”

You couldn’t suppress a giggle. Your eyes flickered up and you froze.

Ransom was smiling at you. Not smirking. Not sneering. No devious intent on plain display.

Just a warm, open smile that made your heart skip a beat.

Uh oh, you were in so much trouble.

You quickly dropped your eyes to your dinner, busying yourself with eating instead of oogling the Thrombey sitting across from you.

Once your plates and bowls were cleared (and you just had to tease Ransom at requesting seconds of your soup), you told him to go rest in the living room while you cleaned up.

He didn’t argue, and you smiled after him as he whipped his throw blanket from the back of the sofa and settled it around his shoulders once more.

Once you finished cleaning up, you moved into the living room with some more cold meds, water, and a plate of cookies.

Ransom looked torn between interest in the cookies and exhaustion as he slumped against the couch cushions.

“Tuckered out already, Drysdale?” You teased, leaning over him to test the warmth of his forehead once more. You frowned, “Hmm, I think your fever may be creeping up again. Time for another dose of the good stuff.”

“Soup?” Ransom asked hopefully.

“You have leftovers for tomorrow,” you smiled. You sat beside him, passing over the cold meds and water.

He took them without argument, sniffling as he pulled the blanket tighter. “Fuck, I haven’t felt this shitty in a long time.”

You hummed in sympathy, stretching your feet out in front of you as you reclined against the sofa beside him. “The flu usually only lasts about a week. You should be in the clear soon.”

“You gonna stay with me till then, kitten?” Ransom asked around a yawn. He rolled his head toward you. “Take care of me?”

Turning to meet his gaze, you shrugged. “That was Harlan’s request,” you murmured, breath catching as Ransom reached for your hand.

You swallowed as his thumb gently brushed over your knuckles. Then he was lifting your hand to his face and pressing your palm to his feverish cheek.

He sighed happily at the coolness of your touch, leaning into it like he couldn’t get enough.

You watched as his eyes fluttered shut, feeling a faint pull of envy at his ridiculous lashes as they settled against the pale slope of his cheek.

“You should go to bed, Ransom,” you whispered, thumb brushing against his soft skin.

“Not yet,” he mumbled. “Wanna stay out here, with you.” He shifted closer as he stretched out, and suddenly Ransom’s head was in your lap.

You went stock still, a swell of panic rising just as quickly as a wave of giddiness. You teetered between the two for a moment before your hand slowly touched Ransom’s hair, like you couldn’t help yourself.

He hummed in content at the contact, and your fingers began to move of their own accord, gently raking through the glossy strands.

Butterflies the size of pterodactyls flapped around in your stomach, but you didn’t move beyond the soft petting. You didn’t make a peep.

You just continued to play with Ransom’s hair as he dozed against you, enjoying the quiet moment together.

It was sudden, the realization - that even if you weren’t getting paid overtime for this, even if Harlan hadn’t called in this favor, you think maybe, somehow, you would have found yourself here, with Ransom, eventually.

A/N: I actually really loved this, and that sweet ending?? And our sick, soft boi, 🥺 let me love you!

P.S. Exquisite heart divider by the talented @whimsicalrogers 🙏

---

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Tag lists are open - please message me to be added! 😘

---

Please note that my work is not to be reposted or published anywhere other than my Tumblr or AO3 account without my permission. Reblogs are most welcome though! ❤️

[ms-reads]

“You were both pleasantly surprised and creeped out as fuck.“ HAHAHA IM SORRY I JUST LOVED THIS LINE. cracked me up and i just loved how everything panned out. LOVELY!!!!

[stargazingfangirl18]

The Blues

Pairing: Ransom Drysdale x Reader Word Count: 504 Summary: You’re sad. Ransom is soft. Warnings: Soft sweater daddy. AU.

A/N: I was sad last night and wanted some soft!Ransom, so this is total Siri self-service, but at least I share, right?!

“Hey.”

You barely heard him over the high volume of your Sad Like Whoa playlist.

It wasn’t until Ransom was snapping his fingers in front of your face that you blinked back to awareness, pressing pause on your music as you tugged your earbuds from your ears.

He was looking at you, hands on his hips and brows furrowed.

Keep reading

[ms-reads]

i wanna give you the BIGGEST hug

this was soft and just i love it. short and soft. yes.

[malfoysstilinski-deactivated202]

three’s a crowd | DRACO MALFOY (smut)

Draco Malfoy x Reader

SUMMARY: draco and y/n fuck in the common room and when blaise interrupts, draco can’t find it in himself to stop. 

REQUESTED: omg could i please request a rough slytherin reader x draco smut where they almost get caught like someone walks in but they make it seem like they’re just spending time together but draco edges her as he continues the conversation hehehehehehe

WARNINGS: smut, public sex, choking, slut shaming, hair pulling, oral receiving (both male and female), multiple orgasms, overstimulation, degradation kink, probably more. 

A/N: this is my 2nd time writing this bc tumblr deleted it the first time. hope it’s worth it! 

MASTERLIST

An hour ago, the Slytherin Common Room had been bustling with life; members of the green-coloured house roaring the lyrics to their favourite songs and tipping back as many shots of Fire Whiskey as they could without throwing up. It had been a grand day to be a Slytherin, as today was the day that they had beaten the Gryffindors in a Quidditch match, and all thanks to your boyfriend, too.

The two of you had spent most of the night sat on the leather couch, you with your back to the arm and your legs draped across his lap, your head resting on his shoulder and glasses of alcohol in his hand. With a snap of the fingers, Draco had either Crabbe or Goyle topping them up like it was their full-time job. And all night, members of Slytherin had been coming up to congratulate Draco on being able to knock Potter out of the way just in time to catch the Snitch and win the game. 

Each time he’d smirk or chuckle, running a lanky hand through his pale hair and messing it up even further. It was already quite disheveled from your hand remaining in it all evening, gently scratching his scalp and absentmindedly combing through his silky blond locks as you used your other hand to raise your glass to your lips every now and then. 

Now, however, your glass was empty and everybody had seemed to call it a night, leaving the two of you alone in the Common Room, still buzzing from the alcohol and enjoying the quiet company of one another. You found that with Draco, you could sit in silence for hours and still understand each other completely. 

So when his large hand brushed your thigh where you dress was riding up, you knew what he wanted. Draco’s ring was cold against your skin as he ran it up and down your smooth thighs, even dipping underneath your dress a little but never going as far as your panties. You were growing wetter and wetter with every advance he made, but your boyfriend wasn’t watching you, his head was leaning back on the couch as he stared at the ceiling. 

Keep reading

[ms-reads]

BRUHHHHHHHHHH

HOT DAMNNNNNN SIR MAAM ANYBODY THIS WAS JUST- CAN WE TAKE A FACKEN MINUTE THIS WAS- NAHHHHH THIS WAS- IM SORRY I STILL CANT FIND THE WORDS BUT THIS WAS

THIS WAS IT. THIS WAS- YUHHHHH ok im sorry but i cant describe how good this fic is i just- my GOD

[fredshufflepuff]

nyctophobia || d.m ✧˖*°࿐

summary: you have a fear of the dark.

warnings: gn!reader, comforting draco AH

word count: 898

Keep reading

[ms-reads]

i LIVE for comforting draco. i just do. no questions or clarification needed.

i love how this was written. its so sweet yet so simple and delicate. i LOVE THIS. THIS. IS WHAT I LOVE. THANK U GOOD DAY

[theycallmebecca]

Drabble: The One-Eyed Cat

This is a little birthday drabble for one of my buddies @badassbaker 

I asked her for a prompt and she asked for Frank Adler and something about Fred possibly disappearing? So here goes nothing!

Title: The One-Eyed Cat Pairing: Frank Adler x reader Rating: PG Warnings: n/a

You’d been living in the small beach cottage (or shack, depending on how you were feeling about it that day) for a couple weeks when the one-eyed cat showed up and made himself at home in your living room.

You’d found it odd, of course, but he had the markings of a much loved cat and he had a collar with no tags on it. Given how comfortable he was and the fact that you loved cats, you didn’t mind really, especially since you were pretty sure his owners would be looking for him before long.

Sure enough, you woke up the next morning to the sound of persistent knocking on your front door.

Keep reading

[ms-reads]

NAWHHHH this was so sweet!!! hahaha i love love love it!! this was such a warm-soft read :”)

[fairyevans-deactivated20220120]

⤳Brownie Kisses

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* word count; 1.1k *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

➥ [frank adler x fem!reader]

[a/n; seriously, i need to marry frank adler NOW, my soft baby

-

you were new to the neighborhood, and everyone was extremely friendly.

especially the adlers’.

you couldn’t lie, frank was drop-dead gorgeous, and you didn’t mind a little eye-candy on the daily.

and you could tell you caught his eye, because he began parading shirtless, pretending to do garden work, or offering to wash your truck even if it was squeaky clean.

so a day like any other when he brought mary home from school, you grabbed your fresh-made tray of dessert and headed towards their house with a rapidly beating heart.

Keep reading

[ms-reads]

I SWEARRRRRR i had to re-find this fic bc i read it at night and i forgot to like it and the next day i kept SEARCHING for it and now i can reblog it to have it on here iTS JUST

i love this. it’s so- UGHHHHHH. bc i can totally imagine frank being like this and the way he’s just :”) likes the reader but is hesitant bc he doesn’t feel good enough and i just-

MY DUDE. I LOVE IT. I WILL GIVE U ALL THE BROWNIES IN THE WORLD U DESERVE ONLY THE BEST BROWNIES THANK U FOR SHARING THIS GEM

[waitimcomingtoo]

Innocent Until Proven Guilty

Pairing: Peter Parker x Reader

Synopsis: when the Avengers notice signs of Peter having a girlfriend, they suspect he’s not as innocent as he seems

Masterlist

“Hey Pete the treat.” Tony greeted Peter as he passed him in the hallway. “Have you seen my screwdriver with the orange handle?”

“Oh, yeah.” Peter remembered. “I used it to fix my web shooters. It’s on my desk in my room.”

“Mind if I grab it?”

“Would you listen if I said no?” Peter asked, assuming he knew the answer?

“Nope.” Tony smiled at how well Peter knew him. “I’ll go get it.”

Keep reading

[ms-reads]

HAHHHHH THIS IS GOLDDDDD

i loooooooooove this. LOOOOOOOVE. a classic read :”)

[salazarslytherin]

happy days (f.w x gn!y/n)

requested: nope! send in your own requests here!

summary: in which fred takes y/n on a special date

cw/tw: like maybe 0.5% angst, 99.5% fluff

word count: 2.9k

🃛 masterlist!

a/n: i'm pretty sure reader is gender neutral in this one! i made sure not to use any pronouns or prominent mentions to y/n's body or anything. i really hope y'all like it, i don't really ever write fluff so i hope it's good! please leave a comment, like or reblog to help boost xx

“Jump!”

“What?! Are you insa-”

⚔︎.

It was probably a bad idea to be doing this. Actually, it was most definitely a bad idea to be doing this. But when has a ‘bad’ idea ever deterred the infamous Fred Weasley? In fact, the thought of anyone calling one of his ideas ‘bad’ just spelt encouragement in Fred’s mind.

You’d learnt that lesson two months into meeting the Weasley twins, and it’s only engrained itself in your mind further since. There’s never been a point to try to dissuade Fred, it’s best to just go along and hope the ride isn’t too bumpy along the way. After dating Fred, these bad ideas had expanded themselves to different categories- risky places to be intimate, weird ways to cheer you up with confessions of love, and dangerously stupid dates.

The last category was where today’s bad idea landed.

⚔︎.

Three days ago, Fred had the “most ingenious, marvellous, uniquely exciting date idea Hogwarts has ever seen!” He’d disappeared in the middle of lunch, dragging George along with him, mumbling to himself, “I can’t believe I didn’t think of this sooner!”, leaving you confused, sat alone in the Great Hall.

“Where are they going?”

Harry, Ron and Hermione popped up behind you, seating themselves down in the twins’ now deserted seats.

“I have absolutely no clue.”

Keep reading

[ms-reads]

ASDKLJAKLDJAS AW :”)))) THIS WAS- THIS WAS ABSOLUTELY PERFECT!!! i love love love the way fred was written and i admire the interactions :”) his lil’ antics too!!! AND THE DATE. PERFFFFFFFFF. askdjas im in a pool of my emotions now thank u.

im happy. but also i want this to happen. faaaaaak.

anyway thank u for sharing ur work!!! GORGEOUS AS ALWAYS!!! <3

[whisperlullaby]

How about “Meeting their gaze after throwing a coin in a wishing fountain.” For Frank Adler

Hi friend! I wrote you a little something for this prompt I hope you enjoy it.

Make A Wish

Pairing: Frank Adler x reader

Words: 717

Summary: after a bad break up you happen upon a wishing fountain and a persistent little blonde girl.

Warnings: mentions of a break up but it's basically fluff.

A/N: thanks to my wonderful beta @river-soul for looking this over and the solid ending. As always minors DNI. Enjoy the fluff!

Keep reading

[ms-reads]

.......man now i need to make a damn wish at a fountain now where the hell did i put my FRICKEN COIN I WANT TO MAKE A WISH AND HAVE FRANK ADLER ON THE OTHER SIDE FFS

((this was short and sweet and i love every part of it))