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buckysleftbicep · 22 hours ago

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bent and bruised (1) 𐙚 b.b

pairing: new avengers!bucky barnes x fem!ex-hydra!reader

warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors dni, dark themes, winter soldier!bucky, dub-con/non-con themes, unprotected sex, creampie, ptsd, a whole, whole lot of angst

summary: you were built by HYDRA to please the soldier—then left for dead. years later, bucky sees your face again. but no amount of time can erase the way you once whispered his name through tears. inspired by this request

word count: 4.4k

author's note: hi my loves! i am finally back with another series! it took me a whole day to get this up and i hope you guys will love it as much as i do! i am so excited to do up this series and i would love to hear your thoughts! i love ya guys and please stay safe out there! ❤️

series masterlist

The room hummed with stale tension and recycled air, the kind that clung to your skin no matter how long you’d been inside.

It was too clean, too sterile—like the whole place had been scrubbed raw of personality. No windows. Just steel, flickering monitors, and the faint tang of ozone bleeding from exposed wires somewhere in the walls.

Overhead, the fluorescent lights buzzed in that maddening, uneven way, stuttering against the matte black of the long conference table. Weapons were laid out in clinical precision—pistols, serrated knives, a few modified explosives lined up like surgical instruments.

The projection screen threw ghostly glows across their polished surfaces, and somewhere in the corner, a feed flickered with static before cutting back to drone footage of the mission site.

Unnerving silence settled between Valentina’s clipped sentences, the kind of silence that had weight behind it. Anticipation. Or maybe dread.

The compound was quieter than usual, Yelena wasn’t talking. Ava wasn’t pacing. Walker hadn’t cracked a joke in at least five minutes, which was practically a record. Even the air felt heavy, like it knew something the rest of them didn’t.

Bucky sat at the far end of the table, half-shadowed, arms folded tight across his chest.

He looked relaxed. He wasn’t.

The leather of his jacket creaked faintly every time the fingers of his vibranium hand twitched—just enough to betray the restlessness he didn’t bother to show.

He hadn’t spoken yet. Didn’t need to. He could feel it—like static crawling beneath his skin. Whatever Val was leading up to, it wasn’t just about the mission.

It was something else. He never liked waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“Infiltration’s scheduled for 0400,” Val said finally, breaking the silence with a sharp tap of her pointer against the digital display. A red dot blinked, pulsing like a heartbeat on the map.

“You’ll drop half a click from the perimeter, make entry through the north access shaft here. It’s still mostly underground—remnants of an old HYDRA stronghold, retrofitted for black market manufacturing. Radiation cloaking, signal dampeners, camo tech. Nothing simple about it, but manageable.”

The map shifted, highlighting the tunnel system in pale blue.

“You go in quiet, plant charges along the assembly line, tag the shipments, get out clean before the buyers show up.”

“And what exactly are they shipping?” Ava asked, her tone clipped. Her fingers tapped against the armrest, but not out of nerves—calculated.

Val lifted a brow, pleased by the question. With a click of her remote, the schematic changed. A plasma rifle rotated slowly in high-definition detail—sleek, brutal, and unmistakably advanced.

“Reverse-engineered Stark tech,” she said, voice razor-edged. “Plasma rifles, miniaturized arc pulse grenades, destabilizers. It’s genius work, honestly. Someone in there knows what they’re doing. These prototypes could down a jet with a single discharge. They’re selling to buyers who make AIM look like a fucking Etsy page.”

Yelena let out a low whistle. “And here I thought tuesdays were boring.”

John leaned back, tossing a small knife between his hands with lazy disinterest. “So we blow it to hell. Make it loud.”

Val shot him a pointed look, all warning and no warmth. “Clean,” she said again. “Surgical. No mess, no headlines. We’re not making a scene.”

That was when it happened.

Her mouth curled, just slightly. A new edge slipped into her voice.

“And,” Val continued, drawing the word out just enough to shift the air in the room, “you’ll be joined by a new agent.”

That got everyone’s attention.

Yelena arched a brow and leaned forward on her elbows. “Oh god, Don’t tell me it’s Walker’s twin.”

Walker snorted. Didn’t even glance at her. Just flipped her off mid-spin of the blade.

Val chuckled. “No. She’s one of mine. Freelance up till now. Ex-mercenary. Former ghost. One of the best I’ve ever worked with, she's efficient, lethal, tactical as hell. I’d say she rivals even you, Barnes.”

The room tilted—just a little.

Bucky didn’t move at first. Barely a reaction. Just a subtle shift in the line of his shoulders. His jaw ticked. Nothing more. But his eyes locked on Val’s, a flicker of something unreadable burning deep beneath the surface.

“Okay, now I curious,” Alexei said, reaching for a protein bar from his jacket pocket like the team wasn’t just a fucking step from a horror movie.

Val didn’t say anything.

The screen changed. And time fractured.

Name: (Y/N) (L/N) Gender: F Born: 1941 Recruited: 1963 (HYDRA OPERATIVE) Status: Cryo Recovery — Completed Subjected to: Experimental Super Soldier Serum (1963, Switzerland, Geneva Facility) Current Role: Active Operative

Your file blinked across the screen in clean, bureaucratic lines. But it was the photo that struck like a bullet to the ribs.

You. Alive.

Not the way Bucky remembered you—not exactly. You looked older now, as you should’ve. But it wasn’t the years that aged you. It was something else. Something far worse. Your expression was empty—neutral, professional, cold.

But your eyes… Fuck. Your eyes.

They were still the same shape, glassy, still the same damn colour, still framed by lashes he remembered fluttering closed against his jaw, his throat, the cold table beneath you as you had locked your legs around him.

But they were different too.

Sharper now. Harder.

Like glass that had been shattered, then put back together without the intention of being whole. A reconstruction, a warning.

You’d seen the worst of humanity. He knew you had.

Because you’d seen him. You had seen the soldier.

Bucky’s throat dried, his pulse thudded loud in his ears. For a second, the rest of the room faded. No Val. No briefing. No mission.

Just your face, twenty feet tall on a screen that didn’t understand the weight of what it displayed.

His vibranium fingers clenched into a fist against his thigh.

Because before the blood, before the years, before everything—

He remembered you being shoved into his cell. He remembered what they made you for. Him.

Geneva, 1963

The restraints clicked loose with a mechanical hiss.

The sound echoed like a countdown, bouncing off the concrete walls of the cell—sterile and dim, soaked in shadow and the sharp tang of metal. The air in the room was cold, almost painfully so. It reeked of antiseptic, dried blood, rusted bolts, and fear.

It was always cold, always humming, always watching.

He sat motionless in the center of the room, body lit by the faint glow of overhead lights buried in steel mesh. His breathing was even. Controlled. Programmed. Like the rest of him.

There were voices still murmuring in the back of his mind—Russian syllables sharp and precise like scalpel cuts. Orders etched into the bone.

The Soldier didn’t blink.

Didn’t move.

Not until the door opened.

It wasn’t loud—just a low, hydraulic groan—but it might as well have been an earthquake. The room shifted with it. Tensed. And then you stumbled in.

Barefoot.

A paper-thin robe hung off your shoulders, barely tied, the cheap fabric fluttering like the wings of something dying. Your skin was pale beneath the harsh light. Translucent and cold.

You had been trembling—not dramatically, not childishly, but with a quiet, contained sort of fear. The kind that sat behind your eyes like a scream you weren’t allowed to voice.

Your breathing was shallow. Your arms wrapped tight around your middle like maybe you could still keep something for yourself. Dignity, perhaps. Sanity.

He could hear your heart skipping.

Thud. Thud. Skip. Thud.

The Soldier's head tilted slightly.

You didn’t speak. You weren’t supposed to. He of all people knew that.

Another set of footsteps followed behind you. Louder. Confident. Casual in that way only men who enjoyed this part could be.

Your handler stepped in, gloved hands tucked behind his back, expression amused—like this was just another thursday night for him. He smelled of aftershave and smoke and arrogance.

“She’s new Soldier,” he said, like he was introducing a piece of meat. “Fresh out of the chair. ты полюбишь ее (you'll love her)."

The Soldier’s eyes tracked him, no reaction. Just coiled stillness. The quiet before a storm—or before something breaks.

The man stepped behind you, took a fistful of your hair, tilted your head back with casual cruelty. His other hand held a gun. Not raised yet—just dangling. Just there.

He pressed the barrel to your chin.

“You were modified, my dear,” he said, voice slick, smiling like this was a joke between old friends. “Tailored just for him”

You blinked back a tear and Bucky remembered how you tried not to move, tried to not let the tears slip.

But he saw it, god, he always saw it.

“Our Soldier here,” the handler continued, “is very effective when he’s satisfied. But lately—” he leaned in, lips brushing your ear, “—he’s been a little… what do you say? wound up.”

He dragged the pistol slowly down the column of your throat.

“Don’t worry. You’ll do just fine,” he whispered, then slapped your cheek—not hard, but just enough to make your teeth clack. Just enough to remind you that your body didn’t belong to you anymore.

It belonged to him.

Your lip trembled. You flinched. But you didn’t cry out.

The handler smirked, pleased with himself. Then he shoved you forward. Hard. You stumbled toward the metal table in the center of the room, hands catching on the edge. It was freezing beneath your fingertips.

“Strip,” he said.

You froze.

There was a pause—barely two seconds—before he raised the gun again, pressing the muzzle to your throat.

“Я сказал, черт возьми, разденься.” (i said fucking strip)

Your hands moved without your permission. Wooden. Shaking.

The knot on the robe came loose in one tug. The fabric slipped from your shoulders like it had been waiting to betray you. It crumpled around your feet.

The cold hit instantly. Like knives.

You stood there—naked, spine taut as a wire—while the handler looked you over like you were nothing. Just skin. Just parts. A means to an end.

Behind you, the Soldier stood.

The restraints had fallen from his wrists minutes ago. He hadn’t moved until now.

But he did now.

Silently. Predatory. Like a tiger stalking its prey—measured, patient, deadly in its grace. There was no urgency in the way he moved. No rush. Just inevitability.

Each step echoed, booted and deliberate, closing the space between you until the scent of steel and gun oil and winter settled over your skin like a second prison.

You turned, barely.

Your eyes met his—wide, glistening, pleading. A silent cry for mercy, for recognition, for something human. But what stared back at you wasn’t mercy.

His eyes were cerulean—stunning, almost unnaturally bright. A shade of blue that might have once held the sky, the sea. But now, they were stripped bare. Cold and hollow. Like frost on glass, beautiful only because of how dead they looked beneath the surface.

There was no spark behind them. No flicker of recognition. No trace of the man he’d once been almost twenty years ago before HYDRA wiped him clean.

As if the color remained only to mock you—brilliant, vivid, human—in a face that had long since forgotten how to be.

You made a sound. Soft. Fractured.

“I-I… please—”

The door behind you slammed shut.

The locks engaged. One by one. Click. Click. Click.

You were alone.

No—worse. You were with him.

The Soldier said nothing. Not a grunt, not a breath—just a slow, deliberate advance. Each step was measured, silent, lethal. Until his chest hovered a hair’s breadth from yours, the heat of him a violent contrast to the chill in the room.

Up close, you could see it—the constellation of scars across his chest, old and precise, carved into him like tally marks. Not injuries. Not history. Inventory.

His metal hand rose, unhurried, as if pre-programmed, the plates catching the light in glinting, surgical flashes. It wasn’t a caress—it was an assessment. He gripped your jaw with cold, steady fingers, tilting your face as if cataloguing you.

Not a woman. A directive.

Then, without a word, he shoved you back.

Your spine struck the edge of the table with a dull, metallic thud. The bite of cold steel sank into the soft flesh of your thighs, shocking enough to draw a gasp from your lips.

His hands were on you in the next breath—both of them now. Flesh and metal. One rough, the other unfeeling. They clamped around your hips, dragging you into place with bruising force.

His hand moved with the cold precision of routine—sliding down your waist, between your thighs, parting you like it was nothing more than protocol. A function, a command.

There was no softness in the touch, no pretence of seduction. Just the calloused drag of flesh and steel against trembling skin, searching for an opening, finding it.

He didn’t pause. Didn’t kiss. Didn’t whisper.

He just pushed inside.

No warning, no mercy.

You gasped—loud, broken—your back arching sharply as the brutal stretch hit you all at once. He was thick, unforgiving, too deep in a single thrust that tore a cry from your throat before you could swallow it down.

It had hurt, not in the way pain was supposed to make you feel alive. In the way it emptied you. In the way it made your eyes burn.

The air left your lungs in a ragged choke as your hands scrambled along the table, trying to hold onto something, anything solid.

But there was nothing to brace against. Just cold steel and the shuddering rhythm of your body being rocked by a man who wasn’t a man anymore.

He groaned low, a sound scraped from the chest of something feral. Not passion. Not need. Just release. His hips snapped forward, brutal and mechanical, burying himself deeper with every thrust—hard, fast, relentless.

The table beneath you scraped against the concrete floor, metal screaming in protest, matching the ache building between your legs where he kept driving into you without care.

You clenched around him without meaning to—instinct, panic, maybe some misplaced hope that it would ease the burn.

It didn’t. If anything, it made him move faster, more ragged, like your body’s reaction was fuel. His pace stayed wild, uncalibrated. There was no rhythm, no escalation. Just motion, just violence, just function.

Your nails dug into his back. Deep. You clawed without thinking, dragging jagged lines down skin that didn’t bruise, didn’t bleed. You needed to feel something. Needed him to feel something. But he didn’t even flinch.

Still, he didn’t look at you, he didn’t speak, he didn’t stop.

He took you like he was built to, like this was your only purpose. His grip bruised your thighs. His hips slammed into yours over and over, until your sobs bled into the sound of flesh hitting flesh, too soft to echo, too raw to ignore.

Your body had given up on resisting—it simply endured. And the worst part was that he never lost control. Not once. Every movement was calculated. Efficient.

When he came, it was with a final, forceful thrust, burying himself as deep as you could take him, hips stuttering with brutal impact.

His breath flared hot against your neck—shallow, sharp—but he didn’t make a sound beyond that low, choked groan. His release filled you in waves, thick and unforgiving, and he stayed there, seated inside you, unmoving.

You expected him to pull out.

He didn’t. Instead, he just stayed.

You blinked up at the ceiling, dazed, your body aching in too many places to name. And then, something shifted.

He moved—barely.

The fingers of his metal hand rose, brushing your hair back from your damp, tear-streaked face. It wasn’t kind. It wasn’t deliberate. It felt… automatic. Like some trace echo of the man he’d been, long before all of this, had flinched to the surface. A reflex. A ghost of care where none should have existed.

You didn’t think. You just leaned forward, lips trembling, and kissed him.

Soft. Desperate. Human.

It wasn’t about affection. It wasn’t about desire. It was survival. The kind of kiss you gave a weapon in the hopes it might remember it once had a heart.

He didn’t kiss you back. But he didn’t pull away, either.

Bucky jerked back to the present like he’d been shocked.

A breath caught in his throat, too late, too loud. His fists were clenched beneath the table—metal fingers biting into flesh, the cool of vibranium digging into his palm.

For a second, he couldn’t remember where he was. Not really. Everything around him had gone flat. Colourless. The voices around the room blurred into a low, warbling hum, like sound underwater. Just static and noise. White walls and ghosts.

His jaw was locked so tight it ached. Sweat beaded along the nape of his neck, cold against the collar of his shirt. He could feel it rolling down his spine in thin, uncomfortable rivulets. His skin itched like memory.

No one had noticed. Not yet.

Val’s voice kept going, sharp and indifferent. She was pacing in front of the screen now, still debriefing. Her heels clicked against the floor, a rhythmic metronome against the pulse pounding in Bucky’s ears.

“She went off-grid for years,” Val was saying, her tone too casual, like she wasn’t talking about someone’s stolen life. “Cryo-freeze probably scrambled most of her memory—hell, we barely know what happened to her during that period. The files are a fucking jigsaw puzzle. But she’s clean. She’s loyal.”

Loyal.

He nearly laughed. Bit down on it so hard his tongue pressed into his molars.

She didn’t know. None of them knew.

Val tapped her remote again. The screen dimmed, your face fading into black. The mission map reappeared. But he could still see you—burned into the back of his eyes like an afterimage.

Every line of your face. That expression. The way your mouth had been pressed flat, neutral, like you hadn’t been torn from time. Like you weren’t a bleeding wound in his memory.

Val turned back toward the table.

“And she’ll be joining your team,” she said smoothly, “starting tonight.”

Silence.

Then her gaze found him—pinning, expectant.

“You okay, Barnes?”

He forced himself to move.

Just a blink. A breath. He straightened his spine with mechanical precision, muscles flexing against the weight in his chest. His lips parted, but the words didn’t come right away. They stalled. Caught. Died somewhere in the back of his throat like smoke.

He swallowed it down.

“I…” he cleared his throat, low and quiet. “Yeah. No issue.”

No issue.

The lie settled bitter on his tongue. Metallic. Like blood.

There was every issue.

Because the girl he had once touched without mercy—the one who had gasped beneath him, shaking, cold, silenced by fear and force—was alive. Real. Breathing in the same air he was. Walking somewhere above their heads in this building.

And if the universe had any cruelty left in it—and it always did—you remembered.

God, maybe you remembered everything.

Maybe you remembered the cold metal table. The way he’d gripped your hips like you were something disposable. Maybe you remembered the weight of his body bearing down on yours with no tenderness, no humanity.

Maybe you remembered the sharp sting of the floor against your knees. The sound of your own breathing hitching against his shoulder. Your name reduced to nothing. Your voice swallowed by silence. The tears that had trailed down your cheeks when you thought no one was looking—except he had been. He always had been.

Maybe you remembered the way he hadn’t stopped.

The way he hadn’t spoken.

The way he hadn’t cared—because HYDRA had taken that part of him and burned it until only the weapon remained.

He’d fucked you like you were a tool to be used, like you were part of the mission. And when it was done, when his seed was leaking from between your thighs and your fingers had gone limp against his skin, he hadn’t pulled away.

He had just stared. Like he couldn’t understand what had just happened. Like part of him—some distant, buried part—could.

And maybe that was the worst part of all.

But… there had been one night.

One fucking night.

Late, in the middle of another mission cycle. He wasn’t fully reset. Not yet triggered. Just… quiet. Breathing. Blinking. Human, for a few stolen hours.

And you had touched him—not because you were forced to, but because you chose to.

Your fingers slid into his hair like you were anchoring yourself to something real—something still breathing beneath all that silence.

The strands were damp with sweat, thick and soft between your fingers, and you clutched them not with control, but with need. Gentle, but trembling. A desperate touch dressed up as tenderness.

You pulled him closer. Not rough, not forced—just certain. Like your body knew something your mind didn’t have the courage to say aloud.

His face hovered just above yours, his breath hot against your cheek, uneven now. Slower. Like for one stolen moment, the programming had fractured and something human was leaking through the cracks.

You tilted your head, lips barely brushing his ear—featherlight, sacred. Like a prayer.

And you whispered it.

Not Soldier. Not Asset. Not the name HYDRA had soldered into him like metal to bone.

You whispered, “James.”

Soft. Breaking. Yours.

Like you knew him. Like you remembered. Like some piece of the man still buried inside him might crawl toward the sound of it and stay.

He had cum that night too. But not because HYDRA told him to.

Because he wanted to.

Because you were soft, and you had kissed him, and for one second, the world had felt quiet. Real.

And fuck—

Some part of him wanted to believe that you remembered that.

That buried beneath all the violence, beneath all the tears and orders and years of cryo and blood, you remembered that there was one moment—just one—when he wasn’t a monster.

When you had invoked that one emotion he thought was long gone. Love.

Even if he didn’t know what the hell love was supposed to feel like anymore.

The meeting dissolved slowly.

Chairs scraped against the floor in discordant, screeching notes as the team stood. Screens powered down with mechanical hums, one by one, the mission data fading into darkness.

Someone cracked a joke—probably Alexei—but Bucky didn’t hear it. The sound passed through him like wind through a ruined building. His gaze lingered on the now-empty monitor, as if your photo might flicker back to life one last time.

But it didn’t.

You were gone again. Until you weren’t.

Val was already talking to Ava, pulling her aside, issuing last-minute adjustments. Walker yawned and stretched like they were heading to a sparring match instead of a black ops infiltration.

Yelena glanced over her shoulder at Bucky, something in her look almost—almost—curious. But she didn’t press. No one did.

He hadn’t moved.

He waited until the room cleared out.

Until the buzz of the briefing dulled into silence and the last bootsteps disappeared down the hallway.

Only then did he breathe.

It came out shaky. Shallow. Wrong.

His now vibranium hand flexed at his side, joints creaking softly in the cold air.

The adrenaline had faded, but the weight in his chest hadn’t. It was heavier now. Anchored deep. He rubbed the back of his neck with his flesh hand, dragging his fingers through his hair like maybe he could dig out the thoughts still looping in his mind.

But they stayed. They always did.

He finally stood.

The chair groaned beneath him, echoing in the empty room like a warning.

Bucky moved on autopilot, one boot in front of the other, out the door and into the corridor. The halls were narrow, dimly lit, the walls humming faintly with the energy of the facility.

Security cameras tracked his movement, but he didn’t care. He knew these halls well. Too well. They never changed—no matter the country, no matter the decade. Metal walls, low ceilings, air that smelled like oil and old wiring.

It reminded him of HYDRA. Everything did tonight.

He walked past the tech lab, the weapons vault, the intel room—every step tightening something behind his ribs. And then he reached the gear room.

Inside, it was quiet. Cold. The lockers were lined in rows, half-open, half-forgotten, each one a sealed little coffin of someone's war.

He opened the locker slowly. The door creaked on its hinges. Inside: his gear. Gloves. Boots. Custom tactical vest. The knives he preferred—weighted, balanced, perfect for close-quarters.

The gloves were folded carefully on the top shelf. Next to them was a file folder someone had left—probably more mission data. Or maybe your file again. It didn’t matter.

He didn’t touch it.

Instead, he sat down on the bench beside the locker, elbows resting on his knees, head bowed forward like he could hold himself together with posture alone.

And for a moment, just one moment, he allowed it to crack.

His eyes fell shut. His hands trembled. Not violently. Just enough that he had to lace his fingers together to keep them still.

You were alive.

After all these years. After all that pain. After cryo, after war, after HYDRA, after everything—they’d kept you frozen, tucked away in some forgotten chamber while the world moved on without you.

He wondered if it had hurt you to know what year it was. He wondered if it would hurt more to see him again.

Because what was he now?

Just a reminder of everything that had ever gone wrong. Of every scar on your body you hadn’t deserved. Of every night you’d cried into a concrete floor, trying to convince yourself that the Soldier wasn’t a real person. That he didn’t feel it. That he didn’t want it.

But he had.

He had wanted you. Not in the way HYDRA demanded. In the way that made his hands softer, just once. In the way that made him linger too long inside you, not because he was ordered to—but because he couldn’t bear to leave.

That was the part he never forgave himself for.

That flicker of love that bloomed in the middle of a crime scene.

It wasn’t pure. It wasn’t good. But it was his. It was the only real thing he’d felt in decades that he was tortured. And it was with you.

He opened his eyes. Swallowed hard.

Somewhere upstairs, you were being debriefed. Checked. Cleared. Suited up in your new uniform, maybe. Maybe Val was smiling that smug little smile of hers as she handed you your new orders.

Maybe you were asking about the team. Maybe you’d asked who was leading it.

And maybe, just maybe, Val had said his name.

James Buchanan Barnes.

And maybe that name meant something to you.

Or maybe it didn’t.

Maybe you’d look him in the eye tonight and feel nothing. Maybe you wouldn’t recognise him at all.

But Bucky had the feeling—deep, raw, gut-level—that when your eyes met his again, something would break. In you. In him. In both of you.

And whatever broke… it wouldn’t be fixable.

Not this time.

He stood. Slowly. Gathered his gear without ceremony. Buckled his knives to his thigh holster. Pulled on the gloves.

Every movement felt heavier than the last.

The next time he saw you, it would be face-to-face. On mission. Under pressure. With blood in the air and history in the room like a second skin.

He didn’t know what would happen. He just knew it had already started.

a/n: i am starting on chapter 2! and gosh, i am so excited already! i hope you love it and if you do, please drop a comment or a reblog, i am forever grateful for your support <3333

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wonnieaura · 2 years ago

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Getting your life back in 2024 (leveling up to the max)

♫₊˚.🎧✩｡

In 2024, leveling up your life involves a holistic approach to personal growth. Start by setting clear, achievable goals in various aspects of your life—career, relationships, health, and personal development. Cultivate a growth mindset, embracing challenges as opportunities to learn and improve.

1. **Define Your Goals:** Clearly outline what you want to achieve in different areas of your life. Break down larger goals into smaller, actionable steps.

2. **Continuous Learning:** Invest time in expanding your knowledge and skills. Read books, take courses, attend workshops, and stay curious about the world around you.

3. **Health and Wellness:** Prioritize your physical and mental well-being. Incorporate regular exercise, balanced nutrition, and sufficient sleep into your routine.

4. **Mindfulness and Self-Care:** Practice mindfulness to stay present and reduce stress. Incorporate self-care rituals into your routine, ensuring you take time for activities that bring you joy and relaxation.

5. **Build Strong Relationships:** Cultivate meaningful connections with friends, family, and colleagues. Invest time in building positive and supportive relationships.

6. **Financial Literacy:** Improve your financial knowledge and habits. Set a budget, save, and invest wisely to secure your financial future.

7. **Career Development:** Set professional goals, seek opportunities for growth, and stay adaptable in the ever-changing job market. Network and build a strong professional support system.

8. **Embrace Change:** Be open to change and view it as a chance for growth. Adaptability is a key skill in navigating life's uncertainties.

9. **Time Management:** Organize your time efficiently. Prioritize tasks, minimize distractions, and create a schedule that allows for both productivity and relaxation.

10. **Gratitude Practice:** Cultivate gratitude by reflecting on the positive aspects of your life. This mindset shift can enhance your overall well-being.

Remember, the journey of leveling up is ongoing. Regularly reassess your goals, celebrate your achievements, and stay committed to continuous improvement. As you evolve and grow, you'll find that your life becomes more fulfilling and aligned with your aspirations.

#beauty #fashion #hyper feminine #light feminine #pink moodboard #pink pilates princess #soft moodboard #that girl #beautytips #confidence #2024 #leveling up #best version #girlblogger #girlblogging #blogger #pink blog #advice blog #study blog

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aryadelvich · 5 months ago

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Love, Hate Thing - Luigi Mangione x Reader

It's always like that between you and him, constantly competing, you hating him for being so good, and Luigi hating you for never giving him rest. You couldn't stand each other.

Also thanks you for your comments, likes and reblog 🥹🫶 It’s warm my heart

I want to thank Spotify for accompanying me for this story ;)

Here’s an Updated Masterlist

Luigi leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his broad chest, his piercing green/brown eyes narrowing at you like you'd just declared war. His curls fell slightly into his face, and he pushed them back with a practiced flick of his hand.

You smirked, leaning forward on your elbows, your own gaze never wavering.

"And here I thought you were paying attention in class. Guess not. Maybe if you spent less time flexing your abs for the cheer squad and more time studying, you'd actually keep up."

His jaw tightened, but there was something else in his expression—something that made his usual cocky grin falter for half a second. He recovered quickly, though, flashing that signature smile that made half the campus swoon.

"Funny. I don't recall asking for your opinion on how I spend my time. But hey, if you're so obsessed with my abs, maybe I should start charging for the view."

You swear, if this guy wasn't built like a Greek god, you'd have punched him by now.

But you didn't punch him. Instead, you rolled your eyes, shoving your notes into your bag with more force than necessary.

"Don't flatter yourself, Mangione. Your ego's already big enough to fill this entire lecture hall."

He laughed, low and deep, and it grated on your nerves.

« Whatever you say, Y/N. But I'm gonna win the debate competition." He trailed off, letting the implication hang in the air between him and you.

It's been two years consecutive that he wins this competition, and you knew that it's was your chance to prove yourself and for the same occasion humiliate him.

You stood abruptly, slinging your bag over your shoulder.

"Good luck catching up," you said, your tone dripping with sarcasm. "You're gonna need it."

As your walked away, you could feel his eyes on you, burning into your back like twin lasers. What the hell is his problem? You thought, your heart pounding for reasons you refused to acknowledge.

You've been at each other's throats since freshman year, competing for top marks in every class, trading barbs whenever you crossed paths. It was exhausting, infuriating... and somehow, weirdly exhilarating.

Two Weeks Later – Debate Competition

The auditorium buzzed with anticipation as the final round of the debate competition began. The topic? "Is capitalism inherently exploitative?"

You stood at your podium, pulse steady, determination burning in your chest. Across from you, Luigi leaned against his own, exuding the same infuriating confidence he always did. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing his forearms, and he had that smug little smirk like he'd already won.

Not this time.

The moderator signaled for the debate to begin. Luigi started, his voice smooth and authoritative.

"Capitalism has lifted millions out of poverty, fostering innovation, competition, and economic growth. The free market incentivizes efficiency, rewarding those who work hard and contribute to society."

You let him talk, feigning disinterest as you twirled your pen between your fingers. When it was your turn, you took a deep breath and smiled.

"That's a nice fairy tale, Mangione. But let's talk reality. The wealth gap is wider than ever, workers are exploited for profit, and entire industries thrive on underpaying laborers while CEOs collect bonuses the size of small countries. If capitalism really rewarded hard work, explain why nurses barely make a livable wage while hedge fund managers get rich moving numbers around on a screen."

Luigi narrowed his eyes. "That's an oversimplification. The market adjusts itself. When a system is inefficient, it evolves—industries that fail to provide value either adapt or collapse. Competition forces innovation. If wages are too low, businesses will struggle to retain talent, and the market will naturally push salaries higher. Government intervention only distorts this balance, creating inefficiencies that harm long-term economic growth. The reality is, capitalism isn't perfect, but no other system has produced the same level of progress and opportunity."

"So you're saying child labor in sweatshops is just an inefficiency that'll 'fix itself'?" you responded smoothly.

A ripple of murmurs ran through the audience. Luigi hesitated—just for a second. His sisters, sitting with his parents in the front row, exchanged glances. You caught the small, proud smile on your own mother's face.

Game on.

You pressed forward, dismantling his every counterpoint with cold, hard facts. Every time he tried to regain control of the debate, you had an answer waiting. And for the first time since you'd started competing against him, he had nothing left to say.

When the final vote came in, the judges's decision was tight. But You won.

Luigi stared at the results, lips parted slightly, as if trying to process what had just happened.

"You okay there, Mangione?" you teased, stepping closer. "You look a little... shocked."

He blinked, then let out a slow exhale, running a hand through his curls.

"Huh," he muttered, shaking his head. "Didn't think I'd live to see the day."

You grinned, savoring the moment. "Better get used to it."

"You know," Luigi's voice was calmer now, lacking its usual teasing edge, "I didn't lose because you were better than me."

You turned, arching a brow. "Oh? So what, you tripped over your own ego and face-planted into defeat?"

He let out a short chuckle, shaking his head before meeting your gaze. But this time, there was no smug grin, no hint of competition—just honesty.

"I lost because I didn't even believe what I was saying."

You blinked, caught off guard. "What?"

Luigi sighed, leaning against one of the tables. "I've defended ideas in debates before. Won every time. But today? I couldn't bring myself to mean it."

He ran a hand through his curls, his lips pressing into a thin line.

"I know how messed up the system is. I know that no matter how much you try to justify it, it does exploit people. And the second I started talking, I realized I didn't have the same fire I usually do."

You crossed your arms, studying him. This was... unexpected.

"So, what? You're telling me you lost on purpose? »

"Of course not," he scoffed, shooting you a look. "I gave everything I had. But when you're up against someone who genuinely believes what they're saying? Someone who can argue with conviction? You don't stand a chance."

A slow smirk tugged at your lips. "Sounds like an excuse to me, Mangione."

He rolled his eyes. "Oh, shut up.”

You took a step closer, tilting your head. "You know, the whole point of oratory is to convince people, even when you don't believe in what you're saying."

Luigi's gaze flickered with interest. "So you're saying you could argue for capitalism and win?"

You shrugged. "Maybe."

He huffed a laugh, shaking his head. "That's terrifying."

You grinned. "That's debate"

For a moment, there was silence. The usual sharp tension between you had shifted into something else—something quieter. He watched you with an unreadable expression, and for once, you didn't feel the need to break the moment with a snarky remark.

But then he smirked. "Enjoy your victory while it lasts, Y/N. Next time, I won't go easy on you."

You scoffed. "You didn't go easy on me. You just lost."

His smile faltered for half a second, then he laughed under his breath. "Right. Keep telling yourself that."

Before you could respond, your little sister, darted right past you, running up to him.

"Are you Luigi?" she asked, eyes wide.

Luigi crouched slightly to her level, flashing a grin. "Depends. Are you the little sister who's probably way smarter than your big one?"

Before your sister could answer, you grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her back.

"Don't talk to him," you told her, voice mock-serious. "He's a racist."

The conversation halted. Luigi's jaw dropped slightly. His sisters, standing a few feet away, whipped their heads toward him. His mother gasped. Your own mother smacked your arm.

"Y/N!"

You snorted, unable to hold in your laughter. "Relax, he's not actually racist. He's just annoying."

Luigi sighed in relief. His father gave him a skeptical glance, and one of his sisters muttered, "For a second, I was about to disown you."

"You're not funny," Luigi grumbled at you, shaking his head.

"You laughed, though."

"Absolutely not." He said with a smile on his face.

"Mm-hm. Sure."

You turned to introduce your mother properly to his family, but out of the corner of your eye, you caught something—Luigi watching you. Not with his usual smirk. Not with irritation. Just watching.

— Summer Break —

The sun hung high over the camp, casting warm golden light over the rows of cabins and the dense forest surrounding them. You adjusted your staff T-shirt, feeling the heat seep into your skin as you made your way toward the main hall for the pre-opening staff meeting.

You had applied to work here months ago—decent pay, free lodging, and a summer spent beside the beach and the soft breeze of summer.

Or so you thought.

The moment you walked into the meeting room, your body froze.

Leaning casually against one of the tables, arms crossed over his chest, wearing the same staff T-shirt as you, was Luigi.

His curls were slightly damp, probably from the heat, and he looked up just in time to see you enter.

For a moment, the room went silent.

Then, in perfect sync:

"No way."

You both said it at the exact same time, staring at each other in disbelief.

Luigi let out a short laugh, shaking his head. "You're kidding me."

"I should be the one saying that," you shot back, still processing the sheer misery of the situation. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"Volontarisme, obviously." He gestured at the staff badge hanging around his neck. "What, you think I came for the fresh air?"

You groaned, dragging a hand down your face. The other counselors were already watching with amused expressions, whispering to each other.

One of the senior staff members, a woman named Maya, clapped her hands together. "Alright, I take it you two know each other?"

Luigi smirked. "Oh, we go way back."

You shot him a glare before turning back to Maya. "We're at the same university, don't know him."

"Right," Maya said, clearly entertained. "Well, you'll have plenty of time to work on your teamwork skills this summer."

Luigi grinned, and you immediately regretted every life choice that led you here.

— Three weeks later —

It had been three weeks since the summer camp started, and somehow, you and Luigi had mostly managed to stay out of each other's way.

Until today.

The staff had been assigned to deep-clean the common areas before the next wave of campers arrived. You were already in a bad mood from scrubbing floors when Maya, ever the troublemaker, sent you and Luigi to restock cleaning supplies in the storage room.

The small, cramped storage closet filled with bleach, detergent, and every cleaning product imaginable.

"Just grab what we need and get out," you muttered as you pulled open the door.

Luigi, of course, took his time. "Relax. It's not like the camp's gonna collapse if we take an extra minute."

You rolled your eyes and grabbed a mop from the shelf. "That attitude is why you lost the debate, by the way."

Luigi snorted. "Oh, we're bringing that up again? Please, you won because I was morally conflicted."

"You lost because I was better than you."

"And yet, here we are, stuck working the same job," he pointed out, raising a brow.

You were about to fire back a retort when the door shut behind you.

Then, the distinct click of the lock turning.

Silence.

You whipped around. Luigi reached for the handle, twisting it. Nothing. He tried again. Locked.

He let out a sharp exhale, then turned to you, scowling.

"You couldn't keep the damn door open with your big ass?"

Your eyes widened.

Then, without thinking, you grabbed the nearest spray bottle and chucked it straight at him.

"Are you serious right now?!" you snapped as he barely dodged it. "We're trapped in a closet full of BLEACH, and you're blaming me ?”

Luigi ran a hand through his curls, clearly trying to keep his temper in check. "I'm just saying, maybe if you didn't take up half the doorway—"

"Finish that sentence, Mangione. I dare you."

He shut his mouth.

You let out a slow breath, pressing your fingers against your temples. "Unbelievable. I'm going to die here. With you."

Luigi scoffed. "Oh please, if anyone's dying first, it's me. You'll probably suffocate me before the lack of oxygen does."

You turned to glare at him. "That can be arranged."

A dozen ideas flashed through his mind—one in particular involving you and a rather strategic seating arrangement—but he wisely kept that thought to himself.

"I didn't say it was your fault—"

"Oh, shut up, Mangione." You pressed your forehead against the door, willing it to magically open.

No luck.

From the other side, you heard faint laughter.

The air between you shifted slightly. The usual sharpness of your arguments was still there, but being stuck in a cramped space with him suddenly made it feel... different.

Closer.

Too close.

You cleared your throat, stepping away from the door. "Let's just find another way out before we die of chemical inhalation."

Luigi smirked, that irritating confidence returning. "Scared of being trapped with me, Y/N?"

You shot him a glare. "Terrified."

His chuckle was low and amused as he crossed his arms. "Don't worry. I'll protect you from the scary cleaning supplies."

You could hear the faint click of his tongue, the sound of him shifting slightly behind you. His body grazed yours, and you felt a shiver run down your spine.

You reached for your phone, only to realize it wasn't in your pocket. Of course. You'd left it in your bag. "Do you have your phone?"

"No," he admitted, his tone clipped. "Left it in my locker."

Silence fell between you, heavy and suffocating. The room was cramped, the shelves stacked with supplies pressing in on all sides. You could feel the heat radiating off him, his presence impossible to ignore.

You pressed yourself harder against the shelf, hoping to put some space between you and Luigi, but it was useless. He was right behind you, his chest nearly brushing against your back.

"Can you not stand so close?" you snapped, trying to keep your voice steady.

"I would if I could," he said, his voice annoyingly calm. "But there's literally nowhere else to go."

The room was suffocatingly small, and the faint scent of his cologne wasn't helping.

"Well, stop breathing down my neck," you muttered, hoping the irritation in your tone would mask the way your heart was hammering in your chest.

He let out a quiet laugh, and you could feel the rumble of it in the air between you.

"I'm not breathing down your neck," he said, his voice dipping lower, "but you do seem tense. Nervous, even."

Your jaw tightened as his words sank in, your irritation bubbling to the surface. You turned your head just enough to glare at him over your shoulder, but immediately regretted it. He was too close. His face was inches from yours, his dark eyes locked onto yours with a mix of amusement and something else you couldn't quite place.

"Back off," you hissed.

"Sure," he replied smoothly, "as soon as we figure out how to open that door."

You rolled your eyes and turned back to the lock, ignoring how your hands shook slightly as you fiddled with the knob. The silence stretched between you, heavy and thick, until you felt him lean in closer.

"Are you always this stubborn, or is it just when I'm around?" he murmured near your ear, his voice low and teasing.

Your breath hitched, and you bit the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from reacting. Instead, you glared at the lock as if it were the source of all your problems.

"Are you always this insufferable, or is it just with me?" you shot back.

He chuckled again, soft and infuriating. "Maybe I just like seeing you flustered."

Your grip tightened on the handle as your heart raced. You weren't flustered. No. That's exactly what he wanted, and you weren't going to give him the satisfaction.

"Don't flatter yourself," you muttered, shoving the handle harder in a desperate attempt to break free.

But in the back of your mind, as you felt his warmth against your back and his calm, steady presence behind you, you weren't sure if you wanted him to move away after all.

And then it happened. You felt it.

A subtle shift against your lower back, a hardness you hadn't anticipated. Your breath caught in your throat, your body instinctively stiffening. No. This was not happening. Not with him.

But it was happening. You could feel him—every inch of him—pressed against you. His breath hitched, barely audible, but you heard it. A soft, involuntary sound that sent a jolt through you.

Neither of you moved. Neither of you spoke. The silence stretched on, thick with tension, and you were hyper-aware of every tiny movement. His hardness pressed more insistently against you, and you couldn't stop the way your body reacted.

Without thinking, you shifted slightly, just enough to feel him more fully against you. His breath caught again, and you heard him swallow hard.

"Y/n," he whispered, his voice strained.

You didn't respond. Instead, you did it again, this time more deliberately. You rubbed against him, feeling the way he tensed behind you, the way his breath came in shallow bursts.

"Fuck," he muttered under his breath, his hands gripping the shelves on either side of you. You could feel him struggling to stay still, to resist the pull between you. But it was too late. You'd already crossed the line.

You pushed back against him again, your heart pounding in your chest. This was wrong. He was your rival. Your enemy. And yet, the way he was reacting to you—the way his body responded to every move you made—was impossible to ignore.

He groaned softly, the sound sending a shiver down your spine. His hips moved against you, almost unconsciously, and you could feel the heat building between you.

"You're not... stopping," he breathed, his voice barely audible.

"You want me to stop?" you shot back, your tone defiant.

“No,” he said between two moans.

He let out a low, guttural sound, his body pressing harder against yours. You could feel the tension in him, the way he was trying—and failing—to hold back.

And then it happened. He came.

You felt it—the way his body trembled against yours, the way his breath hitched, the way he let out a soft, almost pained moan. His hands gripped the shelves tighter, his body shuddering as he spilled into his pants.

The room fell silent again, the only sound the ragged breaths escaping both of you. You stood there, your back still pressed against him, your mind racing.

"Fuck," he muttered again, his voice rough and filled with frustration.

You didn't respond. You couldn't. Your body was still humming with the tension, the heat, the way he'd reacted to you.

And then, finally, he spoke again. "This doesn't change anything," he said, his voice low and firm.

You turned your head slightly, just enough to see his profile in the dim light. His jaw was clenched, his expression hard. "No," you agreed, your voice steady despite the turmoil inside you. "It doesn't."

But as you stood there, still pressed against him, you couldn't help but wonder—was that really true?

You hesitated, your heart pounding in your chest as you felt the heat of his body against yours. His breath was warm on your neck, and the tension between you was almost unbearable. But something in you resisted—this wasn't the time, and he wasn't the one who got to decide when things escalated.

Not like this. Not with him.

You took a deep breath, then stepped back, breaking the contact between you. The sudden distance felt cold, like you'd ripped off a blanket in the middle of winter. Luigi blinked, his expressive face flickering with surprise before it settled back into that infuriating smirk.

"What are you doing?" he asked, his voice low but laced with curiosity.

"I'm not doing anything," you shot back, crossing your arms over your chest. "You're the one who got us stuck in here. So, figure out how to get the door open."

He raised an eyebrow, that smirk widening. "Oh, so now it's my fault? I seem to recall you were the one who followed me into the lab in the first place."

Your cheeks flushed, but you refused to let him see how much his words affected you. "I didn't follow you. I had work to do. You just happened to be here."

"Sure," he said, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "And I just happened to get locked in here with you. Totally a coincidence."

You rolled your eyes, turning away from him to examine the door more closely. "Just fix it, Luigi. I don't have time for your games."

He stepped closer, his presence looming behind you. You could feel the warmth of his body again, and it took everything in you not to lean back into it. "What if I don't want to?" he murmured, his voice so soft it sent a shiver down your spine. "What if I think this is... convenient?"

You whirled around, glaring at him. "Convenient? Are you serious right now? We're locked in a lab, Luigi. This isn't some romantic comedy. This is a safety hazard."

He chuckled, the sound low and smooth, like it was meant only for you. "Romantic comedy, huh? So, you do think about us like that."

"I think you're delusional," you snapped, though your voice wavered slightly. "Now, either you figure out how to open this door, or I'll start yelling for help."

Your heart was racing now, and you could feel your resolve starting to crumble. Why does he have to be like this? You clenched your fists, trying to steady yourself. "Luigi, I swear, if you don't back off—"

"If I don't back off, what?" he interrupted, his voice dropping to a whisper. "What are you going to do about it?"

You spun around, ready to snap at him again, but the look in his eyes stopped you. There was something there—something raw and unfiltered. It wasn't just arrogance or amusement. It was... truth. And it terrified you.

"Why are you doing this?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

He didn't answer right away. Instead, he reached out, his fingers brushing against your arm. The touch was light, almost hesitant, but it sent a jolt of electricity through you. "Because I can't help myself," he admitted, his voice rough. "Because every time I'm near you, I can't think straight. And I hate it."

You stared at him, your breath catching in your throat. "You hate it?"

"Yes," he said, his hand moving to cup your cheek. "But I also can't stop."

His thumb traced a slow, deliberate path along your jawline, and you felt your resistance melting away. This is a bad idea, your brain whispered, but your body didn't seem to care.

"Luigi..." you started, but he cut you off, his lips crashing into yours with a hunger that took your breath away.

For a moment, you froze, unsure of what to do. But then your body took over, your hands tangling in his hair as you kissed him back with equal intensity. It was messy, it was desperate, and it was everything you'd been trying to avoid.

He pressed you against the door, his body pinning you in place as his hands roamed over your waist, your hips, your thighs. You gasped into his mouth, your mind spinning as the world around you faded away.

"You drive me crazy," he murmured against your lips, his voice heavy with need. "You know that, right?"

You didn't respond. You couldn't. All you could do was hold on as he deepened the kiss, his fingers digging into your skin like he was afraid you'd disappear if he let go.

And then, just as suddenly as it had started, he pulled away, leaving you breathless and wanting.

"I... I've never done that before," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Luigi..." you whispered, your voice trembling.

He stared at you, his chest rising and falling rapidly. "We shouldn't do this," he said, though his eyes said something entirely different.

"Then why did you start it?" you asked, your voice barely audible.

He hesitated, then stepped back, running a hand through his hair. "Because I'm an idiot," he admitted, his tone laced with frustration. "And because I can't stay away from you, no matter how hard I try."

Your heart skipped a beat, and for a moment, you were at a loss for words. What do I do now?

Before you could answer, he turned away, pacing the small room like a caged animal. "This is a terrible idea," he muttered, mostly to himself. "You're my competition. My rival. This is only going to complicate things."

"You're the one who kissed me," you pointed out, your voice steadier now.

He stopped pacing and looked at you, his expression a mix of desire and resignation. "Yeah, I did. And I'd do it again if you let me."

Luigi's words hung in the air, heavy and undeniable. "I'd do it again if you let me." His eyes burned into yours, daring you to make the next move. The lab felt impossibly small now, the air thick with tension and the faint hum of the fluorescent lights overhead. Your heart raced, torn between the logical part of your brain screaming that this was a terrible idea and the part that wanted to see just how far he'd go.

You stepped closer, your breath hitching as his gaze followed you. His lips parted slightly, as if he was about to say something, but no words came out. Instead, he just watched you, his expressive face betraying a mix of anticipation and doubt. You reached out, your fingers brushing against the hem of his hoodie, and felt him tense under your touch.

"You're not going to stop me, are you?" you murmured, your voice low but steady.

He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. "Do I look like I want to stop you?"

That was all the confirmation you needed. Your hands moved to the waistband of his short, fingers fumbling with the button and zipper. He didn't help you, but he didn't stop you either, his hands hovering at his sides, he wasn't sure what to do with them —much like you. It was the first time you had ever been this close to a man. When you finally got the zipper down, you glanced up at him, and for the first time, you saw a flicker of vulnerability in his eyes.

"Don't overthink it," he said, his voice rough but soft.

You didn't. You pushed his jeans down just enough to free him, your fingers wrapping around his length. He let out a sharp exhale, his head tipping back slightly as you began to stroke him, — tasting his previous cum — slow and deliberate. His hands finally found their place, one tangling in your hair while the other gripped the edge of the lab table behind him.

"Fuck," he muttered under his breath, his voice strained. "You're not playing fair."

You smirked, your lips brushing against the tip of him before you took him into your mouth. His grip on your hair tightened, his hips twitching forward instinctively, but he stopped himself, letting you set the pace. You could taste the salt of him, feel the way he hardened further as you worked him with your tongue and lips. His breaths came in shallow gasps, and when you glanced up at him, you saw his eyes dark with desire, his jaw clenched as he fought to stay in control.

"You're—" he started, but his words cut off into a groan when you hollowed your cheeks, taking him deeper. His hand in your hair tightened again, not painfully, but enough to make your scalp tingle. "Oh, you're good at this."

You pulled back slightly, swirling your tongue around the tip before looking up at him. "You sound surprised."

He let out a breathless laugh, his chest rising and falling rapidly. "I shouldn't be. You're good at everything."

The compliment sent a thrill through you, and you returned your attention to him, sucking harder this time. His hips jerked forward, and he cursed under his breath, his fingers flexing in your hair. "Careful," he warned, though there was no real threat in his tone. "If you keep doing that, I'm not going to last."

You hummed in response, the vibration making him groan again. His free hand found its way to your shoulder, gripping it tightly as if he needed something to ground him. You could feel him trembling under your touch, his control unraveling with every stroke of your tongue, every flick of your lips. He was close—you could tell by the way his breathing hitched, the way his thighs tensed under your hands.

"Wait," he said suddenly, his voice strained. "Wait, I—"

You didn't stop. Instead, you took him deeper, your throat relaxing as you swallowed him down. His grip on your hair tightened almost painfully, but you didn't mind. You wanted him to lose control, to let go completely. And he did. With a low, guttural groan, he came, his body stiffening as he spilled into your mouth. You swallowed, your lips still wrapped around him as he rode out the aftershocks, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

When you finally pulled away, he slumped back against the lab table, his chest heaving. His hand fell from your hair, and he ran it over his face, letting out a shaky laugh. "Fuck," he said again, his voice hoarse. "That was—fuck."

You stood up, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. He looked at you, his eyes still dark but softer now, almost tender. "You're insane," he muttered, but there was a hint of a smile on his lips.

"So I've been told," you replied, your voice teasing.

He reached out, his fingers brushing against your cheek. "Come here," he said, his tone softer now. You stepped closer, and he kissed you—tasting himself—slow and deep, his hands tangling in your hair again. It was different from the first kiss—less frantic, more deliberate, as if he was trying to convey something he couldn't put into words.

You could feel his heart pounding against your chest, his breathing ragged, and it only made you want him more.

When you finally broke apart again, you were both panting, your foreheads pressed together.

"So... what now?" he asked, his voice barely audible.

You hesitated, your mind racing. What was next? You were still rivals, still the same people we'd been five minutes ago. And yet, something between you had shifted, something that couldn't be undone.

Before you could answer, the sound of footsteps outside the door made you both freeze.

"Hello? Is anyone in there?" a voice called from the other side.

Luigi and you quickly pulled apart, your faces flushed, as the door swung open. One of the other counselors stood there, looking confused.

"Oh, there you are! We've been looking for you two," they said, oblivious to what had just happened.

"Uh, yeah. We got... locked in," Luigi said, his voice uneven.

"Right. Well, come on, we need you out here for the next activity," they said, turning and walking away.

Luigi glanced at you, his expression unreadable. "So... next time we're alone—"

"Next time," you interrupted, your voice firm. "We finish what we started."

— Sunset —

The air was thick with the scent of pine and campfire as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple. The camp was alive with laughter and chatter, but your mind was elsewhere. Luigi. The memory of his lips on yours, his hands trembling against your waist, lingered like a phantom touch. You couldn't shake it. The rivalry had always been intense, but now it felt like something else entirely.

You found yourself wandering in the beach, where you can heard the sound of the waves and feel the breeze against your skin. The faint sound of rustling leaves caught your attention, and you turned to see Luigi standing a few feet away. He looked nervous, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his shorts. "Hey," he said softly, his voice almost lost in the rustling of the waves.

"Hey," you replied, your heart pounding in your chest. There was something about the way he looked at you, a mix of vulnerability and determination, that made it hard to breathe. "What are you doing out here?"

He took a step closer, his eyes never leaving yours. "I wanted to talk to you. About... earlier."

You crossed your arms over your chest, trying to steady yourself. "What about it?"

He hesitated, his gaze flickering to the ground before meeting yours again. "I've never done that before. Kissed someone, I mean."

Your breath hitched. You knew he was a virgin, but hearing him say it out loud sent a jolt of electricity through you. "Neither have I," You admitted, your voice barely above a whisper.

He stared at you, his eyes wide with surprise. "Really?"

You nodded, feeling a blush creep up your cheeks. "Really."

There was a moment of silence, the tension between you palpable. Then, without warning, he closed the distance between you, his hands reaching out to grasp yours. His touch was warm, his fingers trembling slightly as they interlaced with yours. "I don't want to stop," he said, his voice low and rough. "I want to know what it's like. With you."

Your heart was racing now, your mind a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions. You wanted it too, wanted to feel him, all of him, but the rivalry that had always defined your relationship was still there, lurking beneath the surface. "What about this?" You asked, gesturing between him and you. "This... thing between us. Is it just about competition?"

He shook his head, his grip on your hands tightening. "No. It's not. It's never been just about that. Not really."

You searched his eyes, looking for any hint of deception, but all you saw was honesty, raw and unfiltered. "Then what is it?"

He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. "It's... I don't know. Something more. Something I can't explain."

You didn't need an explanation. You could feel it, the pull between you and him, the way your bodies seemed to gravitate toward each other without conscious thought. You stepped closer, your chests almost touching, and tilted you head up to look at him. "Show me," you whispered.

His breath hitched, and for a moment, you thought he might pull away. But then his hands were on your face, his lips crashing into yours with a hunger that took your breath away. The kiss was different from the one in the supply room, deeper, more intense. It was like he was pouring everything he had into it, every ounce of his longing, his desire, his need.

You responded in kind, your hands sliding up his chest to grip the sides of his face. Your tongues clashed, the taste of him intoxicating. He groaned, the sound sending a shiver down your spine, and his hands moved to your waist, pulling you flush against him.

Breaking the kiss, he looked down at you, his eyes dark with desire. "Are you sure?" he asked, his voice strained.

You nodded, your own voice shaky. "Yes."

He hesitated for only a moment before scooping you up into his arms and carrying you deeper into the tent. You could feel the soft sand of the ground beneath you, and he gently set you down, his body hovering over yours.

"I've never done this before," he admitted, his voice trembling. "I don't know what I'm doing."

You reached up to cup his face, your thumb brushing over his cheek. "Neither do I. But we'll figure it out together."

He nodded, his eyes closing as he leaned into your touch. Then slowly, almost reverently, his hands began to explore your body, tracing the curve of your hip, the dip of your waist. Every touch sent a spark of electricity through you, your breath hitching as he moved lower.

His fingers fumbled with the button on your shorts, and you helped him, guiding his hands until the fabric slid down your legs. His eyes widened as he took you in, his breath coming in short, uneven bursts.

"You're beautiful," he whispered, his voice filled with awe.

His hands were tentative at first, exploring the curves of your body with a reverence that made your breath catch. And then he was kissing you again—starting at your collarbone, trailing down to your stomach, lower and lower until you felt his breath between your legs.

You tensed, your heart pounding in your chest. “Luigi,” you whispered, your voice trembling.

He looked up at you, his eyes blazing. “Trust me,” he said, his voice steady.

And you did. You trusted him enough to let go, to surrender to the waves of pleasure that crashed over you as he began to explore you with his mouth. His touch was hesitant at first, unsure, but quickly grew more confident as he learned what made you gasp, what made you arch your back.

“Where did you learn this?” You managed to say, your voice breathless. “In a book, uh?”

He paused, looking up at you with a smirk. “Maybe,” he said, his tone teasing. “Or maybe I just know what you like.”

You laughed—a soft, breathless sound that was quickly swallowed by the sensations coursing through you. His tongue was relentless, his hands gripping your hips as he brought you closer and closer to the edge.

You reached for him, your hands trembling as you undid his belt and slid his pants down. He was hesitant at first, his movements unsure, but as your bodies pressed together, skin against skin, a sense of urgency overtook the two of you.

He positioned himself between your legs, his eyes locked on yours.

"Are you sure?" he asked again, his voice barely audible.

You nodded, your heart pounding in your chest. "Yes. Please, Luigi."

With a shaky breath, he entered you, the sensation both strange and exhilarating. There was a moment of discomfort, a sharp sting that made you gasp, but he paused, his eyes filled with concern. "Are you okay?" he asked, his voice strained.

You nodded, your hands gripping his shoulders. "Yes. Please keep going."

He did as you asked, moving slowly at first, the friction between you building with each thrust. The awkwardness began to fade, replaced by a pleasure that was unlike anything you has ever felt. His movements became more confident, his body pressing against yours with a rhythm that had you gasping for air.

"Luigi," you moaned, his name slipping from your lips like a prayer. His hands gripped your hips, his touch firm but gentle as he moved inside of you. The tension, the rivalry that had always driven you, seemed to melt away, leaving only raw, unfiltered passion.

He leaned down, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that was as desperate as it was tender. Your tongues tangled, the taste of him mingling with the sensation of his body moving against yours. The world outside ceased to exist, the night fading into a blur of sensations and emotions.

You could feel the pressure building inside you, a coil of heat that threatened to unravel at any moment. His movements became more erratic, his breathing ragged as he whispered your name against your lips. "I'm close," he gasped, his voice filled with need.

"Me too," you replied, your hands clutching at his back. The tension inside you snapped, a wave of pleasure washing over you as you cried out his name. He followed soon after, his body tensing as he found his release, his voice a low, guttural moan against your neck.

For a moment, you lay there, your bodies tangled together, your breaths mingling in the cool night air. Then slowly, he pulled away, his eyes meeting yours.

"So... that just happened," he said, a small smile playing at the corners of his lips.

The reality of what you had just done began to sink in, your cheeks flushing with a mix of embarrassment and exhilaration. “I’ve never tough it will be with you." you replied, your voice barely above a whisper.

— End of summer back to university —

Back at university, it was as if nothing had changed. You still argued in class, still traded barbs at parties, still acted like you couldn't stand each other. But behind closed doors, in the privacy of Luigi's dorm room, it was a different story.

His room was small and cluttered, with textbooks piled on the desk and posters of his favorite bands peeling off the walls. But to you, it was your sanctuary. The place where you could let go of the act and just be with him. You'd sneak in late at night, careful not to be seen, and he'd be waiting for you, his lips claiming yours the moment the door clicked shut.

Tonight was no different. You were lying on his bed, his arms wrapped around you as you traced circle patterns on his chest. His heartbeat was steady beneath your fingertips, and the room was filled with the soft sound of his breathing.

"We can't keep doing this," he said suddenly, his voice cutting through the quiet.

You froze, your hand stilling on his chest. "What do you mean?"

"I mean..." He sat up, running a hand through his hair. "I don't want to hide this anymore. I don't want to pretend like I don't love you when we're around other people.”

Love. The word sent a shiver down your spine. You'd both danced around it, never saying it out loud, but hearing it now made your stomach twist with both fear and longing.

"I don't care what they think," he said fiercely, his eyes locking onto yours. "I love you. I want the whole world to know it."

You shook your head, sitting up to face him. A smile tugged at your lips as your heart pounded in your chest. His words hung in the air, heavy and undeniable.

"You mean that?" you asked softly, searching his face for any hesitation.

He didn't waver. "Of course I do."

Relief and warmth flooded through you, and without another thought, you cupped his face in your hands, leaning in until your foreheads touched.

"Then let's tell them," you whispered. "I love you too."

A large smile appeared in his face.

"No, I love you." He bids.

"Don't start a competition again..."

"Because you'll lose." He adds his smile still on his face.

Thanks you for reading all this ! If you have a request just ask I will do my best ! Which you all the best ! Love.

#luigi mangione #free luigi #luigi #luigi mangione fanfiction #luigi mangione x reader #luigi mangione smut #luigi mangione x yn #luigi mangione college #luigi my beloved #enemies to lovers #summer love

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szhmidty · 6 months ago

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The California insurance thing is adding on to my established belief that insurance is inherently a bad mitigation for any risk that affects large swaths of the population who will very likely need it at some point.

The point of insurance is for the collective to pay an affordable regular fee, and the few who are affected by a given risk are compensated. Ideally, the EV of insurance would be 0, but in practice the EV is negative, but since we are broadly risk averse* we want it anyway.

But that only works if the fee is affordable and the risk is low. Fire insurance in California was a bad idea because everyone was at a major risk, the full cost of premiums would have been immense. California made it worse by making it illegal to charge for the real cost, but even if they hadn't, the premiums would have simply ballooned and many people would have been priced out of insuring their homes, and would still be in this situation.

Similar thing happens with healthcare. Everyone wants their insurance to cover everything, including very common, every day medications for long term medical problems. Needing my ADHD medication isn't a risk, it's not at the tail end of the probability distribution. My insurance shouldn't cover it, because covering it means that the company has to raise everyone's premiums, and raising the premiums prices people (myself included) out of being able to afford insurance for actual tail risks that could ruin their lives.

"But I need my ADHD medication to live a good life, it would ruin me to not get it" yeah, I hear you, same here, but insurance is just a bad system for dealing with that. It just isn't a risk, it doesn't fit well with the "small affordable fee to avoid unlikely disaster" model. If insurance pays for everyone's lifetime medications, then it has to raise premiums by the average of the cost of everyone's lifetime medications, and everyone breaks even, except now insurance is just more expensive and some people are priced out.

I think anytime insurance starts to sail out of the price range of the target demographic, it's a sign that something is deeply wrong and some intervention, likely government intervention, is needed. If people can't afford the fire insurance, it's because the fire risk is way too high and your forest management strategy should be overhauled. If people are struggling to pay their health care insurance, their insurance probably covers way too much because too much of every day health care is also out of reach of people.

Insurance companies aren't the good guys, you have an adversarial relationship with them. They will try to screw you over and lie to you and scam you and all the rest. But you can't get blood from stone, and you can't get a policy of "pay me money if my home built on top of kindling burns down" without paying for it somewhere, and instead of getting mad at the insurance company you should probably start asking why your home is built on kindling.

*Or, well, more complicatedly the full cost of some disasters is much worse than than strict accounting cost. Losing your home is far more destructive than losing the market price of the home's value, because it means spending weeks to months homeless and opening you up to other risks.

#this is not a new thought by any means #sometimes i just think about like #insurance covering yearly dental checkups #something that everyone should get every year #which means the cost of the check up is priced into the premium #meaning im just paying for my check ups as well as a bunch of middle men in between

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lunarjimin · 7 months ago

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𝐒𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐓𝐔𝐀𝐑𝐘 - Jeon Jungkook

Synopsis - After a long day at work, you come home, still feeling sick and in need of rest. Luckily, your boyfriend knows exactly how to take care of you.

Pairing - boyfriend!jungkook x female reader

Genre - established relationship, unhealthy amount of fluff, very little angst if you squint.

Tags - slice of life, mentions of low-self esteem issues and insecurities, subtle hints of self-loathing, soft!koo hours, oc and jungkook are too altruistic for anyone's liking (but we all love a compassionate couple), jungkook offers oc so much reassurance that it's sickening, mentions of low-key making out, overall oc and jk are full on domestic and adorable.

Word Count - 4.5k

Ratings - PG-13

It's finally the weekend and you huff a big sigh of relief as you unlock the door to your shared apartment with Jungkook, eager to unwind from all the stress work has put you through throughout the week, you head straight to the kitchen to grab some snacks as you are starving.

Typically, your ideal weekend would involve a movie night with Jungkook, but that’s the last thing on your mind since you've been sick for the past few days, leaving you with little to no energy for getting out of bed and facing the day.

Lately, things have been quite stressful for you—not just because you’re sick, but also due to the overwhelming and unpleasant environment at work.

You recall the time your manager belittled you for working at a slower pace on an upcoming project your team was handling. It felt utterly ridiculous because you were putting in your work, even while being sick and getting ridiculed despite your best effort left you feeling irked and resentful of the workplace culture.

This is why you absolutely hate, even despise, the corporate industry: it’s the same everywhere, regardless of your niche. The toxic work culture, the myth of the nine-to-five working hours when you're expected to stay back until half past seven and the fake smiles that mask subtle criticism from coworkers—none of this fools you. Unfortunately, this is the only way to survive in this profession.

You only need to hustle a few more years to achieve some financial stability, after which you can quit your job and invest in the stock market or maybe even start a business of your own. Although the said “few more years” feels like forever, you have no other practical alternative if not for this.

You're a patient person; you credit yourself for that. You might not be as patient as you should be when you travel by conveyance that gets stalled, but you're patient enough to wait a few more years to get stable and resign from your job, huffing out a breath and pushing these thoughts aside as you head to the living room, turning on the television and picking up the show where you last paused.

Settling onto the couch, you exhale, feeling every bit of energy visibly draining away from you, you’re not really proud to admit that you have such a weak immune system even a relatively small flu can leave you feeling completely wiped out (like a mess).

You try to shake your mind off it by focusing on the show you started, reminding yourself that it’s futile to dwell on things you have no control over, especially since there’s nothing that can be done.

As you’re getting cozy on the couch, you hear the soft creak of your front door opening and you don’t really need to look to know who it is.

It's Jungkook, who enters your shared space, removing his shoes and socks, glancing at you from the doorway.He flashes you his typical eye-crinkle smile, which you faintly mirror, while he takes off his coat and hangs it on the nearest rack, you look at him for a moment longer before shifting your attention back to the show."

How was your day?" Jungkook asks, stepping forward and moving to stand right behind you. Gently placing his hand on your forehead, checking your temperature to see if you’re feeling any better than you did before, caught off guard by his random gesture, you turn to see him gazing at you with a raised brow, clearly waiting for your response.

“Just the usual—a bit hectic here and there, but on the whole, it was alright I guess.”, you answer with a slight shrug before focusing back on the television.

Humming in response, he notices that your temperature still hasn't dropped down, taking a mental note to prepare you a hot bowl of soup later.

Joining you on the couch, he turns to watch the show you’re occupied with. As you both get snuggly, you instinctively shift closer, resting your head gently on his shoulder.

Jungkook stretches his arm out, giving you more space to get comfortable prompting you to settle against him.Your body feels so calm and relaxed around him, melting in his touch. Oh, how much you could get used to this every day. Everything feels so peaceful and you wish you could stay like this forever, but as the moment stretches, you notice him settling in a bit too comfortably.

"Not going to shower?", the question slips out on impulse, watching him get cozy on the couch. It's not that you mind; matter of fact, you’d love it if he chose to stay with you right after a weary day at work. Still, you think he might need a proper shower to feel renewed.

"Not yet. I just don't feel like taking one right now—maybe later, if you don't mind?" he probes, pulling you into his arms even further so you're almost half-lying down on the couch.

Of course, you wouldn’t mind and you’re certain Jungkook knows that too. You were just a bit concerned since Jungkook is the type who never skips a shower, whether it's after a workout or even just after doing the dishes. He always protests, saying he feels unclean as soon as he finishes any chore.

You just asked out of intrigue.

“Of course I don't mind, Kook. It's just that I'm not used to seeing you rest right after coming home from work, since you usually head straight to the shower,” you state plainly.

“That’s right,” he mumbles, pressing a gentle kiss to your nape as he continues, “I usually wouldn’t, but I just feel like cuddling with you right now.”

“Well, come to think of it, I don’t think I��m too opposed to the suggestion,” you say, pondering on it while feeling a tickle as he nuzzles deeper into your neck and rests there.

Jungkook looks up at you from where he’s lying and as you lock eyes, you both burst into a fit of laughter, finding the whole scenario amusing.

It feels peaceful like this—just another day with your boyfriend, in your shared space, being all domestic and silly.

Eventually, silence falls over as you both laze in each other's arms, with the only sound in the background being the show running on the television and you find that you’re not really focused on the show anymore; all you can think about is how at ease you feel being curled up next to Jungkook, noticing that he has grown muscles over the week; you can tell by how bulked up his arms feel as they're wrapped around you.

One thing you're more than sure of is that Jungkook is a fitness freak and has always been one. He injects (figuratively) any fancy sport implements he comes across and is always best at what he does.

You don't envy him, although you wish you could be as dedicated to working out as he is, never missing out a single day, but you’re not quite there yet. You only manage to work out on days when you’re not too tired or worn out, which usually falls on weekends.

Snapping out of your thoughts, you feel Jungkook carefully remove his arm from your back, trying not to disturb you, as he gets up and heads to the bedroom. You figure he might have finally decided to take a shower.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ ✧･ﾟ: *✧

You’re close to dozing off when Jungkook comes back into the living room after a while, dressed in a black oversized tee matched with gray sweats. He looks pretty with his damp hair, water collecting at the ends, threatening to drip.

Lounging on the couch beside you, Jungkook sighs, you guess he must be tired as well. “Are you tired?” you question, noticing the heaviness in his eyes as he leans back.

“Kind of,” he waves off dismissively. At times like this, you wish he weren't so guarded, Jungkook has always been like this, prioritizing his close ones over his happiness and willing to sacrifice his comfort just to please those closest to him.

His compassion often borders on altruism, leading him to put others before himself—a trait well-known to those who know him well (you).

You find this really ironic, particularly coming from you, who parallels Jungkook in certain attributes (altruism being one of them).

All of a sudden, you sense Jungkook sneaking his arm around your side, pulling you in by your waist as his scent hits you—a strong musk with a subtle hint of cinnamon, the fragrance of his cologne, your favorite. You think that you might actually combust this way.

You feel a deep sense of contentment. No matter how chaotic your life can be, Jungkook makes you feel better and helps you keep grounded at the end of the day. This is your home. He's your home and without him, you think that this place would just make for a house, you certainly don't mind lying in his arms, sprawled down with no care, even wishing you could stay like this forever if it meant feeling at home with him.

Maybe it's the intense emotions built up throughout the week taking over you, or perhaps it's the mood swings making you unpredictable, or maybe it's the exhaustion lingering; whatever the feeling is, it feels strangely soothing.

Something about laying in the arms of your lover after a grueling week feels so intimate it's unexplainable. You like it though, making you feel all dizzy.

As you gradually feel exhaustion setting in, you're suddenly jolted by a cough rippling at the back of your throat. Fuck, can’t you just relax in peace? It seems like luck is not on your side right when you try to get cozy with your boyfriend. Perfect, seems like just what you needed.

“Are you alright?” Jungkook asks, his gaze fixed on the side of your face with concern.

You’re unable to answer him as your cough intensifies struggling to clear your throat, you groan out your response, “I’m fine, just the cold taking a toll on me. Don’t worry, Kook,” voice coming out more groggy than intended as you assure him, though you can tell from the look on his face, that it's clear that he isn’t convinced.

“Kook,” you try again, emphasizing his name, trying to make it clear that you really are fine.

Sighing out long he gives up. “Alright but if I hear you cough one more time, we will take a trip to the doctor.”

“You know I hate swallowing pills, right? I’d get a shot injected rather take those pills,” you whine. Fuck this, why can't you be like your healthy self again?

A trip to the doctor is the last thing you would need right now. You'd rather doze off in your bed with a prolonged flu than swallow the pills you're being prescribed.

You try to calm down, despite still feeling very weak, but that's alright; all you want to do is rest and take it easy and your peace is abruptly stripped away by yet another coughing fit, leaving you struggling to contain it in.

You really don’t want Jungkook worrying over something as trivial as this mild fever, as a result, your eyes start watering the more you try to suppress it and you don't think you can hold it in any longer. Coughing more intensely, you jerk your whole body forward, feeling more frail than ever.

Jungkook looks at your side with an expression which morphs concern as your cough continues, clearly worried about your condition.

This was supposed to be a perfect date night with your boyfriend, but unfortunately, you caught the flu and your body couldn't handle it well and the last thing you would want is for your boyfriend to pity you. Great, it just happens to be your misfortune, isn’t it? Things always turn into mishaps right when you think you're in a better place in life and you hate it.

Warm tears trail down your cheeks before you know it, overwhelmed by the emotions you’ve bottled up all week, breaking down in front of your boyfriend feels downright humiliating. This wasn’t how things were supposed to go—everything should have gone well, but somehow, it all took a turn for the worse.

You're unable to stop the full-blown breakdown as you're now sniffling in the middle of the hiccups. It's embarrassing to say the least.

“Hey, look at me,” Jungkook shakes your shoulders to get your attention, but his words go unheard.

“Baby, look at me, please,” he tries again by placing a finger under your chin and lifting it up to make you face him.

As soon as you meet his gaze, you start breaking down, wailing aloud. Why does everything feel so overwhelming?What was supposed to be a relaxing date night has now turned into a disaster.

You're unable to stop from crying when Jungkook pulls you into his embrace as you bury your face in his chest, soaking his fabric with your tears. You can't help it, but he doesn't seem to mind, gently drawing circles on your back, trying to comfort you.

Gradually, you try to calm down as your sobs ease and you gather yourself sniffling in his shirt.

"Are you feeling any better?" Jungkook looks down at you with genuine worry.

Not really having the energy to speak, you quietly hum in response, letting him know that the breakdown left you feeling a bit better.

“Alright, just wait for me here. I'll be right back, okay?” Jungkook says, looking at you, waiting for a response.

“M'kay,” you nod meekly, watching him get up, turn off the barely-watched show and make his way to the kitchen.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ ✧･ﾟ: *✧

Jungkook returns after a while with a ladle and a bowl of soup, along with a plate full of air-fried breadsticks, setting them on the living room counter.

Plopping down on the couch, he looks at you, gesturing toward the table near you, “Have some. You’ll feel a lot better,” he mutters, grabbing a breadstick from the plate, and dipping it into the mustard sauce before taking on a bite.

Your gaze softens as you look at him. At moments like this, you feel deeply loved, as if you receive more than you give. Jungkook makes you feel cherished, filling your senses with warmth.

Although, you feel guilty knowing you're making him care for you, even when he's already feeling drained, you're still thankful for him, you realize you're not so different from him. He always puts others' needs before his own, just like you do. Jungkook has always been a big empath, and so have you; maybe that's why you two got emotionally connected—sharing similar interests and values.

You try your best not to burden him with what you see as trivial concerns, but you forget that those who care about you are always willing to help.

You tend to overlook the fact that you are not merely an obligation to your loved ones but instead a priority.

Taking the bowl of soup from the table, you start eating, smiling to yourself because he made your favorite—French onion; you're thankful to have found a man who gives you more than you ever asked for—it feels surreal, but you're not complaining.

Glancing his way, noticing him staring right back at you as you bring the ladle to your mouth, slurping the soup in an obnoxiously loud manner while keeping your eyes locked on his.

Jungkook is the first to look away, bursting into laughter as he finds your actions comical, seeing you mirror his laugh.

You look his way again and speak up, “You want some?”

“Not really,” he shrugs, shaking his head.

“You know that I love you, right?” you question all of a sudden, not really expecting an answer.

“I really do,” you affirm, needing to get it off your chest.You've always been this way—confessing at random times, during random occasions, with words of affirmation as your dominant love language.

“I know and I love you too, you're too precious not to be loved,” he says, smiling cheekily right after confessing.

It warms your heart to know that Jungkook is always there to offer reassurance, whether in subtle or obvious ways. Although you take pride in not seeking external validation, when it comes to Jungkook, even the slightest compliment makes you dizzy and you can’t help but blame him for it.

Shaking your head, smiling to yourself as you dig in with the soup. “You know, I don’t always say this, but I’m really grateful to have you as my partner.”

It's not that you don't express your gratitude for having him as your boyfriend at all, but you don’t say it as often as you think you should. You know that Jungkook needs to hear how thankful you are to have him in your life, just as much as he reassures you whenever you need it the most.

Junkook smiles, his eyes crinkling with sincerity. Humming, he replies, “You know what? I could probably say the same about you.”

You look sharp at him, puzzled as you question, “Probably?”

“Mhm, yeah, probably,” he shrugs as he says, with a hint of mischief.

Carefully reaching your hand down on the couch, fishing and grabbing the nearest object—a heart-shaped cushion—and you aim it right at his face, but he's quick, catching it with a laugh and placing the pillow back down.

Scratching at the back of his nape he laughs at you as he speaks up, “How are you feeling now? Better than before, I hope?”

You can tell that he sounds a bit anxious, unsure if you're really feeling better, you sigh, “A lot better, actually, thanks to you and your bowl of soup,” you deadpan, rolling your eyes at him while offering a fake smile.

He chuckles, clearly amused. “I'm seriously asking you, babe. I just hope you're truly more at ease now.”

“What do you think, Kook? Of course, I am. Nothing can happen to me as long as my boyfriend has my back,” you tease, giving him a playful nudge.

He shakes his head, amazed at how quickly you’ve bounced back to your usual self and visibly feels a sense of relief as he lets his shoulders relax. “And now my favourite brat is back,” he states.

“Jungkook!” you scoff as you exclaim, clearly knowing that he's trying to get a reaction out of you by calling you a brat, not that you mind.

Finally finishing the bowl of soup as you place it down the counter, you feel there are things you need to get off your chest—thoughts that have been weighing on you as you try to speak up, “I’m sorry for spoiling your weekend with all this. I know it should have gone as planned, but I’m really so—”

You’re cut off mid-sentence when a sauce-dipped breadstick is suddenly shoved into your mouth as you shriek, bringing your hands to your mouth and wiping off the remains while munching on the piece shoved inside.

“Save it. That apology might come in handy when you accidentally slip up and get ridiculed by your moron of a boss.”

Jungkook always gets bitter when it comes to your job. You've told him multiple times how your manager treats you and your coworkers with no regard for professionalism, which makes him have a sour spot for your boss, often calling him names. Although it’s worth a laugh to hear him call your boss a moron, you're grateful he holds back and doesn’t take it any further.

“I don't like it when you invalidate your feelings like that, Y/N and I’m sure you’re aware of that,” he says, searching for your eyes.

“Yes, our weekend didn’t go as planned, but we’re still able to relax and chill as usual. So, I’m not sure why you feel the need to apologize for something you’re not to blame for,” he lets out a sigh, lowering his gaze and shaking his head. It feels disheartening for him that you feel the need to apologize, believing that you have ruined the night for him.

It’s ironic to see someone as upbeat as you think this way, though he’s no stranger to your struggles with low self-esteem. “You know, I really wish you could see yourself the way I see you.”

“How so?”, your response comes out weaker than you intended, overwhelmed by the way he looks at you.

He looks your way, amused, doubting that he could ever put it into words, so he chooses to show you instead, just how grateful he truly is. “You really wanna know?”, as he probes, inching closer to you.

You simply nod, unable to find the right words to speak.

Jungkook lowers himself to your level and stops right before your lips are about to touch, looking at you with your eyes closed, waiting for him to make a move. he takes it as consent and gently leans in, brushing his lips against yours, testing the waters before diving in, deepening the kiss with such intensity.

You're quick to move your lips as soon as he finds yours. The intensity of the kiss makes you feel as if you're burning up, not in a fleeting or shallow way, but with a deep, longing passion.

Moving your hands to the back of his head, you twirl your fingers in his hair while kissing in sync—his slightly damp hair feels so soft, almost like a newborn’s and you smile at that thought.

Jungkook is quick to slip his tongue into your mouth as you part your lips and gasp in surprise, as he intertwines with yours kissing you more deeply, his hand curls around your waist locking you in, while the other gently caresses the side of your face, brushing aside the strands of hair that have fallen across it.

You're the first to pull away, placing your hands against his chest to keep him still as you gasp for breath.

Letting go reluctantly, his heavy gaze staying on you while he pants for breath and leans in to steals one last kiss—a soft peck—on your parted lips.

You narrow your brows at him, trying to appear stern, which only makes him just return you a sheepish smile.

“You kind of taste like caramelized onions,” Jungkook breaks the silence, teasing you about the kiss.

“Jungkook!” you exclaim as you physically gasp feigning offence, giggling and playfully shoving him by the chest.

He pouts, sulking at you.

“That’s so mean! Of course, I taste like onions—I just had the soup you made!” you say with a hint of annoyance.

He casually shrugs, cocking a brow.

You can’t help but chuckle, realizing how fond you’ve grown of him over the years, being with Jungkook feels instinctive, like something you’ve become so habitual with.

“You know, I was so concerned for you a while ago when you were constantly coughing,” he brings up.

You smile knowingly, seeing him back to his usual self. “Yeah, I knew, your face said it all.”

“Am I that predictable?” Jungkook asks, knitting his eyebrows with a scrunched nose, looking puzzled.

“Hm, you kind of are. It’s hard for you to hide your expressions,” you reply with a knowing look. “But honestly, I felt bad making you work right after you came home tired. It just made me feel guilty.”

“That’s part of my duty as your boyfriend. There’s no need to feel guilty. I’m more than happy to be here for you and you know that very well Y/N,” Jungkook says with a sincere tone. He’s willing to do anything you ask for and more; deep down, he still feels like he hasn’t done enough for you.

Words can't fully express how grateful you are to the universe for bringing someone like Jungkook into your life. He embodies what it means to be a gentleman and you don't think you can picture yourself with anyone else but him. “I know, but sometimes it's really difficult dealing with my self-worth issues,” you tell him honestly.

“That's exactly why I think you should see yourself through my eyes,” he replies, his gaze softening as he looks at you gently. “You’re everything I could ever want and more, I hope you know that,” he says sincerely as your smile comes off weak.

“It’s hard for me to believe that someone would want me with as much passion as you do, especially when you’re much more good-looking”, you try not to break down as your voice cracks and your throat feels tight talking about such a sensitive topic. “I’m not saying I don’t believe you, Kook, but it takes everything in me not to bring myself down every single time. It’s really hard dealing with all of my insecurities.”

Jungkook feels devastated hearing this. He’s aware of the issues you’re struggling with but never really realized how deeply rooted they must be, which makes him question his role as your partner as his conscience gnaws at him, filled with the fear of failing to be a better partner for you, knowing how you feel. He knows it’s not entirely his fault, but the guilt simmers inside him, threatening to overflow the more he thinks about it, to him, you deserve the world and so much more.

“I surely understand that; while I might not know exactly how you feel, I get the sense of it babe and I want you to know that I’m here for you—no matter what you need, I'll always be right here.” Jungkook places his hands on either side of your face, drawing you close and gently kissing your forehead.

“Let’s just not focus on this right now, alright? I don’t want you to worry about it too much unless you really want to talk about it?” He looks at you with slight distress, unsure of what you’re thinking. Whatever it is, he hopes you’ll share it, reassuring you that he’ll listen attentively, easing the weight of your feelings.

You nod in agreement, suggesting that you don’t want to discuss this any further, especially not now, after everything you’ve been through this week, you smile instinctively, seeing him look concerned and finding an odd sense of comfort in it.

You know Jungkook well, maybe a little too well than anyone else in his life. While you might normally share your concerns with him, you’d rather let it be and take some time to rest now.

It’s not that you don’t appreciate his support, but you’re simply not in the mood to talk about it right now, although his ways of reassurance always feel the best, making you want to listen to him even more.

You don’t think you’ve ever felt this kind of sense of belonging with anyone before. It feels like everything has fallen into place just as you’ve always wanted, despite the chaos in your life.

“What’s on your mind?” Jungkook asks, seeing you lost in your thoughts.

You pause for a moment, staring at him unsure what to say as you blink swiftly, taking a deep breath letting out a sigh.

“Nothing, I’m just tired,” you utter, as you stretch and yawn involuntarily, covering your mouth with the back of your hand.

“Right, I’m tired too. Let’s just cuddle like this for a while, yeah?” Jungkook mumbles as he pulls you closer, resting his chin on your shoulder and gradually closing his eyes.

You smile as you nod, feeling him move closer to your neck and place a gentle kiss as you let your body relax, you feel so safe like this, with his soft breaths calming your nerves. At moments like these, all your worries seem to fade away.

Maybe getting sick doesn’t seem so bad if Jungkook is the one taking care of you. Eventually, it’s only with him that you feel safe and at home, he's your sanctuary at the end of the day.

A/N : It's officially my first fan-fiction? ficlet or drabble? whatever you guys name it! although as much as i'm excited to publish this, i'm equally nervous too and forgive me if there are any errors cause i didn't proofread it. I would really appreciate any feedback or comments about my work, hope you guys had a good read <3 xox.

tmi: this piece of work was purely self-indulgence until it wasn't when I decided to turn it into an actual fiction, even though this basically lacks any plot and the struggle it took for me to figure out how this blog works is a rant for another day (😭).

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