this is an absurdly bad photo of me but oh well

Word for Word (M)

Originally posted by jeonbase

“Less talking. More fucking. Yeah?”

Part 1 | Part 2

3.4k, smut, jungkook/reader, friends with benefits au (+ college + fuckboy)


Jeon Jungkook is a fuckboy through and through. If you look at all his social media photos, all you see are countless images of him sandwiched between two girls, his muscular arms wrapped around their shoulders. Two different girls in each picture, never the same. Most of the photos are dark, dimly lit party scenes with the flash in their eyes, but sometimes there are filter-saturated beach pictures in which Jungkook’s shirtless and hugging girls in bikinis.

(Quite frankly, at times you weren’t really sure who to be jealous of: Jungkook or the girls. Both looked really fucking good. But it’s not like you were really Instagram stalking him and actually cared about his pictures or anything. Totally not.)

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Out of the Frying Pan (22/?)

Killian nodded, handing his own jacket to the attendant next to them before turning back towards Emma and staring at her like – what had Ruby called it? – like she was the goddamn sun. His mouth opened slowly, like he wanted to say something, but couldn’t remember the words and his eyes flashed, lingering for a moment on the very prominent necklace before drifting down to her waist and back up to her face.

Emma’s stomach tightened slightly at the look – not wholly unexpected, but absolutely uncharted territory. She’d never been looked at like that – not like she was just wanted, but like she was loved. Or something absurd.

That was absurd.

AN: I continue to love all of you and your reaction to this story and it’s pretty much keeping me sane in a very not-sane real-life. A very particular shoutout to @laurnorder who read this chapter at work without realizing what happens in this chapter. That’s the real beta MVP. 

Hanging out on Ao3 and tag’ed up from start on Tumblr

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dazzle me pink on the kitchen floor

i promised em i’d write an amnesia au so of course instead of doing that i went back and rewrote an older fic concept. oops. very shortly Post Florida, because I love these two kids

Gina’s purse has spilled all over the floor.

Which sucks, but that was her own bad aim – seriously, what is up with her today – dropping it too close to the edge of Amy’s kitchen counter and watching in mildly disinterested horror as it scraped off the edge and plopped onto the floor, its contents skittering everywhere.

The photo isn’t anything special, which is why Gina’s taken to keeping it at the very bottom of her purse. It makes its home underneath her two burner phones and three makeup bags and Dina Lohan’s face lotion, and that one scarf she likes with the angry flamingos on it. Of course, keeping it stuffed at the pit of her purse is probably why it’s now gotten crumpled at the corners, but Gina thinks that a little paper-creasing is worth her reputation.

Except the picture’s on the floor, now, between an ancient tube of lipstick and her hairdryer, and Jake’s hands have very visibly frozen in the middle of helping her clean her things off the floor.

She’d shown up at Amy’s – at their apartment on impulse, telling herself it was because she wanted to tease Amy about how she’d have a hard time keeping her clothes colour-coded and arranged by date purchased now that she was living with an actual human disaster. She’s not sure how much of that is actually true – maybe fifteen percent, the satisfaction derived from Teasing Amy Santiago (a spectator sport if there ever was one) very much present – only Amy isn’t actually there, and she turns her copy of the key in the lock and is faced with Jake’s back as he trips around the kitchen, looking simultaneously foreign and as though he was somehow born for the express purpose of fitting seamlessly into Amy Santiago’s cramped kitchen nook.

Their kitchen nook, Gina corrects herself. They’ve moved in together now. It’s all adult and official and everything.

Which is great, because not only does it mean that her sort-of little brother is no longer being hunted by a crazy criminal madman who wanted to string up his fingers as decoration, she also has a whole new arsenal of things to tease them about, now. The problem is, she’s gotten so used to sleeping on Amy’s couch (because her own apartment was boring, okay, and Amy’s was always where everyone was at and it always ended up being too late to go home anyway and – maybe a little so that she could make sure Amy was okay, it’s not like she wanted her company or that it was sometimes overwhelming to lay all alone in the dark and think and –)

She can’t quite describe the funny emptiness that she felt in her own place, but it wasn’t loneliness.

As if.

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