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synopsis: miya atsumu felt a lot of emotions in everyday life, but it wasn’t until he fell for his friends with benefits that he felt overwhelmed by them. he was in deep, and there was only one way fix his issue.

cw: frat boy!atsumu. friends with benefits, suggestive oral themes. smut. female!reader. 0.7k wc. ignore typos ❤︎

a/n: 4 my lil’ nonnie! i took a different approach with this fic + it became longer than anticipated. i hope you enjoy it !!

“can i touch you?”

miya atsumu was a man of many talents—whether it be his academic talent or his athletic talent, the man had a lot to offer. he was smooth with words and knew exactly how to win someone over, and perhaps that’s why he was so well liked by everyone on campus.

but there was more to him.

more to him that others didn’t see; refused to see. a person behind the typical frat-boy façade, a human. someone with basic needs, someone with deep complicated feelings.

there was more to miya atsumu than his road to fame and glamorous life. it wasn’t all about volleyball or reputation. he enjoyed it—he truly did—so he tried not to complain, but there were times he couldn’t help but hate every second of it.

“you taste so goddamn good.”

there were no if, ands or buts. he truly knew the reasoning behind his sudden switch in emotions; the trigger of it all. there was only one reasonable explanation and the more he thought about it, the more it made sense.

it wasn’t as if he could tell anyone though; the frat-boy persona he had taken on being his only personality trait to those around him. there were only two people he truly felt safe opening himself up to, free from no judgement and destined good advice—his twin brother who was miles away and the very source of the problem.

yes, the source of the problem; you.

“tell me i’m yours.”

“you’re mine, pretty boy. all mine.”

miya atsumu found himself with problems frequently but they were usually things he could easily handle—but you. oh, you. you were different.

it wasn’t long after meeting you that he found his way into your bedroom, laying under you eagerly and awaiting your command. it was as if his tail were wagging at just the look of you; sitting above him as if it were a throne, riding him like there was no tomorrow. he was infatuated by you. he was devoted to you.

that’s was his problem.

he will never turn down the opportunity of friends with benefits with someone who treats him so well. there wasn’t many people who really understood him, expecting him to take control and use his weight against them—no. that wasn’t miya atsumu.

miya atsumu is the guy who’d push you into a bathroom and beg on his knees to kiss your cunt. miya atsumu is the guy who would cum at just the slight tug of his hair. miya atsumu is the guy who would do anything and everything just to be … yours.

his eyes always belonged to you when you walked into the room, the curvature of your hips and the gloss atop your lips forcing his heart to beat harder. the cough within his sentence as he spoke to another was hard to ignore as his mind kept wandering back to you.

“i love you.”

he didn’t mean to pull your roughly into the bathroom as you flirted with another man. he didnt mean to lift your skirt up, ass against the counter with your glistening folds on displace. you were memorizing—enchanting.

if anyone could see the masterpiece before him, he was sure they’re understand him.

pressing his nose against your clit, his tongue devoured you. fingers curling perfectly as you gripped his hair, eyes wandering up before him as if you were a goddess sent from above. a goddess he was sworn to protect, sworn to satisfy.

“i love,” you breathed, eyes clamping shut as you felt the upcoming peak, “i love you too.”

the release surged throughout your body, electric shooting through your legs as they shook against his shoulders. the stars collecting in your eyes distracting you from his sudden halt, his body slowly standing up and watching you with widened eyes.

“do you mean it?”

“huh?”

“do you,” his hands stayed against your hips, closing the gap between your body with his and pressing his forehead against yours, “do you really love me?”

“yeah. i love you, ‘tsumu.”

the breathe he held in was released with a large grin, lips meeting yours quickly and peppering all against your face, wrapping his arm around you with tiny giggles.

“i gotta tell ‘samu!”

[ masterlist ✮ taglist ]

Sublime 🌼

Tooth and Claw | Masterlist

Jungkook x Reader | One Shot/Drabble Collection | werewolf!au | 13k+ words

⇒ Sympathetic to the plight of the werewolves your kind have culled to near-extinction, life as a human informant has never been one of safety. However, when you catch the eye of an alpha, your situation only grows more perilous.

Tooth and Claw (Tumblr / AO3)

Moonsent (Tumblr / AO3)

Mark of the Beast

Gums and Paws

introducing the sunshine, stanley barber ☼

i am going to talk about this yoongi for the rest of my life,thank you.

I'M FUCKING D E A D

Y’ALL WHO DID THIS!?!?

taehyung’s hands are such an art for @taeyungie ♡

jungkook is so stunning

ERLKÖNIG

Inc: Malleus (/Reader later on), Reader/Prefect, Lilia, Silver, Sebek, Ace, Deuce, Grim, and a lot of fae who should not be in this dimension yet somehow are. Wc: Roughly 9k (Currently sitting at chapter 2/23). Warnings: Violence, reference to war, kidnapping, rituals that fae allegedly did in mythology (wild), psychological horror, body horror (not until much later), and the boys are fighting... a lot. Relies heavily on ancient Celtic and Welsh lore (Tam Lin, Thomas the Rhymer, and Oisin I owe u my life) Summary: Your first encounter with the fae was not in Twisted Wonderland, but rather on the coast of a village your grandmother once lived in—where stones bit into your bare feet and the water poured into your lungs as you were pulled to a world so different from your own. It was by cunning alone that you managed to escape, having since pushed those memories aside. But the fae do not forget—not even when you cross dimensions once more—and as Beltane looms, the time for collecting is near.

Chapter 1 (Prologue) below the cut. Check out the work up to chapter 2 here!

I saw their starved lips in the gloam,

With horrid warning gaped wide,

And I awoke and found me here,

On the cold hill's side.

-  La Belle Dame sans Merci, Keats

19??, Dunhill, Ireland. October.

There is an unsettling truth behind the superstitions we hold. After all, why else do we face horseshoes upright, or close our blinds when the sun begins to set? We did not learn to play mute when we hear our names get called at night for no reason, nor did we discover on a whim that blackbirds circling are harbingers of ill outcomes.  

Your grandmother was a woman of superstition. Because she lived in Dunhill, Ireland, you very rarely had the opportunity to see her growing up. This didn’t mean that you weren’t occasionally shipped out to arrive at her doorstep for a few weeks at a time over the summer months.

Your memories of her appearance are mostly flashes of the few moments you saw her. Knotted joints on her body, silver hair hidden behind a headscarf she always wore, and the way her shoulders would stoop with each shuffling step she took. What you remember more vividly was the way she acted when the two of you went out. Her trembling hands—Parkinson’s, you think your parent may have mentioned—would always press an iron nail into yours to put in your pocket before you departed.

“They like to wait on the coastlines,” she had murmured when you asked why she gave this to you. “And they’ll like you the most.”

She would not offer any further information, nor would she let you out until the nail was securely tucked away. Despite how slowly she would move on your many walks along Benvoy Beach, you never once failed to miss the way her sharp gaze would always be fixated on the unruly seas beyond.

She dies when you’re ten years old. Her funeral is a vivid affair. Your grandmother’s humble home has been transformed into a centre of traffic within a matter of hours since her passing, barely giving your family a moment to breathe despite catching the red-eye flight earlier that day. People you have never seen before shaking your small hand and offering their condolences. The strong fragrance of unknown flowers and cheap perfume fills each room, suffocating out any last semblance of your grandmother that may have still lingered. It feels more like they’re spitting on her memory than honouring it. You know your grandmother—she is, was, a quiet woman, and not one for all this pomp and circumstance.

Perhaps this is why no one notices when you sneak out and down the rocky hills.

You slip on several rocks and scrape up your hands really good by the time your feet hit the familiar sandy beach below. With the way the sun is beginning to set, the waters seem to be a wine-red color, swirling in their chaotic fervour to reach the earth you stand on. You pause to take several breaths before kicking your shoes off and stepping forward into that hungry sea.

Your parent will be furious at you for dirtying up your formal garb, but this isn’t at the forefront of your mind right now as your eyes slide shut and you stretch your arms wide. You feel the wind rush along your body and the fragrance of salt overtake you as you spill your grief into the vast waters, letting it mix and swirl into that abyss for a moment of catharsis.

It’s when the wind carries the scent of something pungent that your eyes snap open again. The foulness is brief, and for a moment you write it off as simply a byproduct of the ocean, until it returns again stronger than before. It smothers the brine and has your head turning to look around for the source. You look over your left shoulder at the empty beach around you. The sun continues to set, and your gaze tracks the path of a gull flying overhead before you look over your shoulder once more.

This time, someone is waiting.  

There is an unsettling truth behind the superstitions we hold. The reason why we are scared of things that try to look like us, why we try so hard to ward them off, is because we know that anything that wants to be like a human certainly has no good intent in their heart. This is the case for the figure you see standing on the beach.

They’re wearing the same dark funeral garb you had seen the others in your grandmother’s home wearing. A wide-brimmed hat sits upon their head to conceal most of their features, although you can see scarlet hairs peeking out, and their hands appear to be clasped behind their back as they stand stoically ahead. Despite the winds that bite at your cheeks, not a single scrap of fabric on the figure’s body moves. It’s as though they’re cut from a painting and placed in real life.

You both observe each other in silence. You can feel your body locking up as your mind chants to you wrong, wrong, wrong, over and over again like a mantra. Your right hand drifts down to your pant pocket—you did not take a nail with you before you left the home.

They like to wait on the coastlines, and they’ll like you the most.

Your breath catches in your throat.

The figure smiles—black, sharp, and not quite human. 

Something in your gut tells you to run and you, even as a rebellious child, do as you’re told. Your body twists around to scramble towards the rocks as your feet slip in the wet sand. You completely discard grabbing your shoes in your haste to get away, fully accepting the agony that the stones ripping into your soles will bring as consequence.

You don’t get very far. Whatever is on the beach with you is far quicker than you will ever be. Within moments of you turning, its cold fingers dig into your shoulders. You scream—cry—as the figure leans down and the pungent aroma of rotting fish emanates with each breath it exhales. You thrash and twist in its grip until you face each other, and you lock eyes with her.  

She looks exactly as she did the last time you saw each other. Same knotted limbs, same silvery hairs, same stoop of her shoulders.

She stares down at you. The wind whips the loose strands of her hair around her face, and her eyes are the cloudy blue of the dead as something begins to claw in your mind. You watch as her thin and cracking lips form the syllables to your name—but it’s lost to the roar of an ever-cacophonous sea. The ground surges up around you, wrapping thorns—thorns? —around your legs. They bite into your skin, draw ruby gems from beneath your frigid flesh, and when you lift your head again, your grandmother merely continues to wear her blackened smile at the sight.

You cry out once more, but just like your name, your pleas are stolen away by the winds.

Everything lasts all but a few moments before the sea finally reaches what it has been clawing for. 

♡

I didn’t ask for it.

               But you’re embracing it now, aren’t you?

namjoon + naver x dispatch

breathtaking