#(( l o l

[punymarshmallow]

weeeeeee

[sweetpillss]

Tell me why I have to ovulate so hard my damn jeans are soaked

[dreamersparacosm]

𐙚₊˚⊹ flustered!jk and cheeky!reader 𐙚₊˚⊹

warnings ; talk of sexual activity, reader is flirty as hell

prompt ; in which you give him the proposition of a lifetime.

“You ever gotten road head before?”

And that’s a lot for Jungkook on a Friday night at 2 a.m.

The words leave your mouth like a drunken dare. Slurred just enough to qualify as inadmissible in court, but sharp enough to slice through the silence in his beat up Honda Civic.

He chokes on absolutely nothing — just air, his own saliva, probably the weight of existing too —and the car swerves slightly in response. His knuckles go white on the steering wheel, eyes flicking to you with full-body panic.

“What?” he manages, but it comes out like he swallowed the question halfway down his throat.

You bite your lip, grinning like the brat you are. “You heard me.”

He looks back to the road like it personally offended him, jaw locked, ears turning that very specific shade of holy shit she’s serious pink.

This is fun. Dangerous, maybe. But fun.

You’re curled up in the passenger seat, legs folded under you, a little too buzzed and warm, thanks to whatever was in that last green tea shot. Your dress is bunched high on your thighs, and his hoodie, stolen sometime around drink three, is drowning your frame. You look casual. But your heart is punching the inside of your ribs like it’s trying to break parole.

“I’m just saying,” you continue, tilting your head, “you drive like someone who hasn’t.”

He sputters. “What does that even mean?”

“It means,” you hum, stretching like a cat in the front seat, “you’re so tense. Both hands on the wheel. Ten and two. Obeying the speed limit like it’s a religion.”

“I—” he blinks rapidly, glancing at you again before darting his eyes back to the road. “I’m being safe. You’re drunk. I’m driving you home. Can you say… You’re welcome?”

“I didn’t say I wasn’t grateful,” you tease, smirking now. “I just think you’re overdue for a little character development.”

Jungkook exhales through his nose like he’s been victimized by your words. His grip tightens on the steering wheel, considering it’s the last thing tethering him to sanity. The curve of his jaw flexes under the fluorescent wash of a passing streetlight, and you wonder if he’s actually angry or just short-circuiting.

Probably the latter.

You lean in just a little. Not enough to do anything stupid.

“C’mon,” you say softly, voice lilting, teasing. “Never? Not even once?”

He gulps audibly. You watch the movement of his throat, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “No,” he mutters. “Jesus.”

“Wow,” you say, dragging the word out like sin. “So pure.”

“I’m not—”He shuts his mouth. You watch his knuckles flex again. “That’s not… God.”

You bite your cheek to stifle a laugh. This is better than expected. You’ve been harboring this tiny, stupid crush on him for months. Jungkook with his pretty mouth and shy eyes, always tripping over his own feet around you like you’re some kind of asteroid crashing into his orbit. And now? You’ve finally caught him mid-spin.

He clears his throat. “You’re so drunk.”

“You’re cute when you’re nervous.”

“Stop it.”

And maybe you should stop. Maybe you should let him keep his sweet-boy dignity and drop it, but… where’s the fun in that?

“You didn’t say you didn’t want it,” you reply, the grin blooming slow and wicked across your lips. “Just that it’s never happened.”

The car turns down your street mercifully. You see his shoulders rise and fall with the tension of someone who is praying for deliverance. Or a flat tire. Or spontaneous combustion.

He parks, throws the car in front of your building a little too aggressively, and finally looks at you. His voice is low when he says, “Get out of the car before I say yes.”

You blink. Smile fades just a fraction.

Oh.

So he has a mouth on him too.

You unbuckle slowly, heartbeat in your ears, and open the passenger door. But just before stepping out, you glance over your shoulder.

“Next time, Jungkook,” you murmur, lips quirking. “Hands at nine and three. You’ll need the leverage.”

And then you’re gone, vanishing into the night like a drunken menace, leaving him alone in the driver’s seat, still clutching the wheel like it just changed his life.

part two!

[taoisms]

Vi! who has never given bottoming much thought—you see, she just doesn’t get the appeal really—until she meets you; someone she feels so completely safe and sound with, someone she’d trust with her life and now all of a sudden she’s jolting awake from feverish ‘nightmares’ where you loom over her, half cruel half kind smirk plastered across your face, as you languidly thrust into her, murmuring praises and she feels so warm and hot and overwhelmingly full and—

(+++ she’d be such a bashful bottom initially!! blushing and cursing and groaning and biting her knuckles raw to keep the whines from spilling out, hiding her face in her forearm or your shoulder etc etc) 

send me vi thirsts and i'll give u my hand in marriage

tw: strap usage (vi receiving!)

woof okay like. as much as i stan top!vi (bc rawrrr), i am, at the core, a switch!vi truther. so like, absolutely she would, once she's comfortable enough w someone, bc the concept of surrender is just so foreign to her, but ppl who have been the one constantly Doing the Thing their whole lives, i feel like always crave that kind of surrender, right. so it would take a good few months, but as the trust grows, she'd let her mind wander down that alley more and more, each time pulling back cause a part of her still recoils at the thought of giving up that much control.

still, the night that it happens, her dream starting off in a familiar place -- in your arms, your lips like cinders to the parchment of her skin, but then you're pushing her back, and there's a heat coiling within her (it's been there for weeks but she's never known how to define it, never really leaned in close enough to hear it's name). and the ache between her legs is so familiar, and yet so strange at the same time bc it's not her first time, she knows the wanting for that fullness -- your fingers, your mouth, your tongue (sweet gods you're tongue) but it's nothing like this, right, the feeling of wanting to be stretched out. to feel --

her hips jerk, her mouth falls open, there's a whine twisting its way up her throat and her eyes are squeezing shut, bc why are you looking at her like that, like she's perfect but that you couldn't wait to take her apart. you snap your hips and she keens, biting down on her bottom lip so hard she thinks she tastes blood.

"fuck vi -- so good for me --"

"please -- n-ngh --! pleasepleaseplease --"

"vi?"

"a-ah --!"

"vi! are you okay? hey -- wake up!"

"h-huh?"

she jerks up, her heart a wild clatter of thunder in her chest, her skin flushed, her eyes unfocused till she sees you, hovering above her like in her dream, but unlike her dream, there's no delicate smirk on your lips, only a sincere, mounting worry creasing your forehead as you cup her cheek.

"are you okay? you were moaning in your sleep --" you say, eyes flickering over her face, taking in the dark flush in her cheeks and the uneven pace of her breaths.

vi swallows, a fresh wave of heat cresting up her stomach into her chest as she feels herself clench over nothing, the phantom fullness of the dream receding even as she scrambles to find something to say.

"sorry -- shit -- uh -- it was uh --"

"it was just a dream," you soothe, convinced that she'd had a nightmare and not --

she hisses out a long breath as you lean up to kiss her cheek, her hand coming up to catch yours, her grip strong as it always is, but something about it makes you pause.

"vi? is... everything okay?"

she takes a few deep breaths, leaning back against the pile of pillows. it's only then that she realizes what time it is -- the late afternoon sun slanting orange into the bedroom. right, she'd come into the bedroom for a power nap, and you said you were going to join her in just a few minutes.

she sighs, nodding.

"yeah. everything -- everything's great, cupcake. c'mere." she drags you into bed with her, pulling you into her chest. you settle there after a few seconds of shuffling limbs, pressing your ear to her heart.

"was it a bad dream?"

vi laughs, blinking hard as she tries to rid her vision of the afterimages of you, fucking her open on a strap, gently tugging away her hands as she'd tried to hide her noises.

"uh... no. i mean. it was just --" she swallows, "different."

you look up, your bright eyes curious as she sucks in another breath, blushing.

"but it wasn't a nightmare?"

vi licks her lips, her mouth suddenly very dry.

"uhm... no. not really exactly."

"well, you wanna tell me about it?"

vi bites her lips, swallowing down the kneejerk urge to reject the idea completely. she steadies her breathing and closes her eyes. if there's anything she knows in this life, it's that you'd never laugh at her, never do anything you thought might hurt her.

that you love her, unconditionally. in a way that she's still sometimes unused to being loved. but she's learning. so she figures it can't hurt, and she opens her mouth.

"yeah actually --" she takes a deep breath, "it was a dream about you."

[k-wame]

[koochoos]

[suzukiblu]

WIP excerpt for videogeek behind the cut; “Kara gets to Earth on time and the Kents get a two-for-one special on free kids”. (( chrono || non-chrono ))

Today after doing morning chores and eating lun-chuh on the porch, Pa got out the small white ball and webbed glove and the wooden club for the catching game he likes, and Ma packed away the leftover food from lun-chuh and then set up on the porch with Kal and a little hat to keep the sun out of his eyes and some toys for him to play with and a thick little paper record for herself to read through.

Lun-chuh was a big thick pye full of meat and vegetables and “gruh-vee” instead of the usual sweet fruits and syrup, and a big bowl of “suh-ald” with leafy greens and crunchy nuts and raw vegetables covered in a creamy sauce. After Ma put away the leftovers, she’d come back with a glass pitcher full of a pink drink full of small cuboids of ice and sliced-up fruits–thin cross-sections of one of the yellow segmented ones with the leathery rinds and split halves of the fat little red ones covered in seeds that grow in the garden but also come in the little green boxes made of thick, heavy paper at the market. 

Kara’s never seen Ma put the fat little red fruits in a drink before, but she and Pa buy them at the market a lot, and Kal likes them a lot. They’re already softer, for fruit, but Ma always cuts them up tiny for Kal anyway and makes him a little bowl of them. Kal eats them with his bare hands and gets all sticky and messy and happy and babbles and shrieks about them and usually makes a mess all over himself and the tall-legged little chair with the attached tray that Ma and Pa got for him to eat at, since he’s still too small for the table. Kara worries about the mess and the trouble, sometimes, but Ma and Pa never seem to mind, and they keep buying the fat little red fruits and keep giving them to Kal. 

Kara half-wonders what the little red fruits taste like, but every time she’s tried one, they just tasted hollow and empty to her, and lun-chuh and the pink drink tasted that way too. 

She thinks food used to taste better, before. She’s sure it did, actually, but she doesn’t know if that’s because the aliens’ food just doesn’t appeal to a Kryptonian palate or because everything in the universe just is hollow and empty to her now, without Krypton or their house to go back to. Without their people to go back to; without their world to go back to. 

Without a home for either of them. 

Ma and Pa are so, so kind, but Kara can’t expect them to put up with them forever. Eventually they won’t have the space for them, or the growing season will end, or . . . just–eventually they won’t need another “Kent”, and Kara and Kal will be more of a burden than a help to them, and . . . 

Kal seems to like most of the aliens’ food just fine, but maybe that’s just because he’s never tasted Kryptonian food, and doesn’t know what it should taste like. 

And won’t ever. 

Kara pushes all those thoughts down, and plays Pa’s catching game with him. Ma can’t throw very well, Kara thinks, or maybe just doesn’t like to play, because Pa only ever seems to ask her to. 

It’s not much to ask, she thinks, for how much he and Ma have done for them. Pa seems to appreciate having someone to play his game with, and Kal likes to watch them play it anyway, so . . . 

It’s not that much, no. 

Maybe she can teach Kal how to play too, when he’s bigger. Though he probably won’t remember that he used to like to watch it, given how far from Ma and Pa’s farm and Smoll-Veel they’ll have to be by then. 

He doesn’t seem to remember Aunt Lara and Uncle Jor at all, so why would he remember Ma and Pa? 

Today Pa offers Kara her pick of the webbed glove–which means she’d throw the ball and he’d club it–or the club–which means he’d throw the ball and she’d club it. Or sometimes Pa will toss the ball up and club it himself when it comes back down, so he can hit it harder and Kara can be far enough back to still catch it. Kara’s tried it that way once or twice, but Pa usually can’t run fast enough to catch it either way. 

Well, that’s why she’s a useful “Kent” here, she supposes. Pa’s strong, but she’s still fairly certain he and Ma are both middle-aged, and at least they both seem to be about as physically-fit as a middle-aged Kryptonian would be, she thinks. She doesn’t know all that many Laborers, so she’s not sure, just–

. . . she didn’t know all that many Laborers. 

Kara takes the club, today. Hitting something sounds–better, today. 

And she doesn’t want to throw the ball as hard as she thinks she’d want to throw it, since it’s Pa she’d be throwing it at. 

The pink drink was so pretty, like the kind of fancy thing she’d get at a tea room or a milk bar with her friends after class and they’d all share while making their way through whatever mismatched plates they’d decided to order without even caring about the composition of the meal, but it didn’t taste like anything at all. 

Pa puts on the webbed glove and tucks the ball into it as he heads across the grass plot surrounding the house–the “yurr-duh”, he and Ma call it–and Kara hefts the club and gives it a swing or two, just to familiarize herself with the weight of it again. It’s always been light, but it feels even lighter lately. 

She thinks–well, it’s a good sign, she thinks. It means she’s still getting stronger. And the stronger she gets, the better a Laborer she’ll be, and the better she’ll be able to take care of Kal. She’s been learning how to do more and more of the farm chores, and the more of those she learns, the easier it’ll be for her to find farming work later. Just–the more she knows about how the aliens farm and how their technology works and their language, the more useful she’ll be, and the more employable she’ll be. 

She needs to be as good at this as she can be. She needs to be worth hiring; worth keeping. 

She needs to be so much better than just “good”.