#sending posts from a plane crash

[inmycheckerboardera]

Day 1 of WWWY 2024. 30 seconds of Saturday. Spent the rest of the song actually looking with my eyes instead of my phone.

[inmycheckerboardera]

Another FA here to say I enjoy the days I feel pretty at work just like anyone might. It is NOT a requirement to show up looking good.

Groomed and hygienic? Yes. Full beat and hair perfect? No.

With that said, there are many inequities in the airline business in regards to uniform requirements for women. A common example is the one in which my airline requires a heel to be worn with the uniform dress option while in the airport. This is slowly being changed little by little (such as how high the heel must be/we can wear flats with the pants uniform option). There is definitely a “look pretty for us” standard, but the requirement is just not there.

You people realize the body positivity movement is literally a political movement right. Like it’s a movement that was started to improve the rights of fat people and stop discrimination against fat people. You realize that. It’s not a tea party where everyone just compliments everyone else on their looks.

[tsubasakawanadefenseforce]

rocking back and forth. i need clean versions of all the cgs i need to make another fall out boy edit.

[asakurahaos]

.

[jungkoode]

𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 20

˗ˏˋ DIY bracelets ˎˊ˗

"You were not expecting to really enjoy the MoMA exhibition, but Jungkook looks so interested and in his element that his energy is contagious. Even with a IUD in your uterus staging mutiny, and him trying to evade your questions throguh a DIY bracelet shop."

next | index

⋆｡°✩ chapter details ✩°｡⋆

word count: 10,4k

content: working hours at B&N, books, jk being goofy as usual, subway touches (what was that?), jk's genuine interest in photography, uterus pain, kids asking questions (lmao), jk being bff w boundaries as usual, soft conversations, avoiding certain topics, and making friendship bracelets (ew gay???) (p.s. i'm literally queer, shush it.)

✧ author's note ✧

*descends from the sky on a sparkly cloud of serotonin and unresolved sexual tension* GREETINGS, MY LITTLE PSYCHOTIC DAFFODILS. *ducks the knife thrown at my head* RUDE. *throws it back, it lands in someone’s thigh, probably Jungkook’s*

Okay okay okay okay. *deep breath.*

Hello, my beloved kikizens. If you’re reading this… I’m most likely abroad, roaming the earth like the girlboss nomad I pretend to be on Instagram, while in reality I’m crying over the outline of chapter 23 in the Notes app and eating overpriced airport pastries. Yes. I wrote this ahead of time. Yes. I am the most responsible irresponsible person you’ve ever met. Time traveling author note from Past!Kiki, sending love and ibuprofen to Future!You. Let’s hope the plane didn’t crash because, if so, Fuck Me Up Jungkook is now your responsibility. Please keep him fed and slightly emotionally constipated, just as I left him.

NOW. LET'S TALK. This chapter. THIS CHAPTER. We are entering the land of slow burn intimacy and micro-shifts in character dynamics that make me froth at the mouth. I need to scream about it. I am screaming about it. Nix at Barnes & Noble? A concept. Her choosing a retail job because she wants to save someone the way books saved her??? Yeah okay I'm totally fine, I'm just on the floor sobbing about it in a public bathroom.

AND JUNGKOOK. THAT BASTARD. Being respectful?? Giving her space while still being present?? Letting her lead and following her cues like a man who understands autonomy and emotional nuance??? Jail. Absolute jail. He’s so annoying and so HOT about it. I love writing him because he’s cocky and feral and dumb, but also deeply perceptive and compassionate when it counts. Like okay yes he's a little insufferable, but also, he's the kind of man who listens when you talk about your reproductive health without flinching and I think that's worth something.

Also. Let’s talk about the bracelets. Phoenix and Rogue. Fire-coded losers who pretend they don’t care while making color-coded matching jewelry??? WHO SAID YOU COULD BE CUTE. WHO SAID.

Anyway. This chapter is the beginning of a shift. A very soft shift. We’re not in love yet. We’re not even close. We are in that horrible, confusing, liminal space where friendship might be possible eventually but everyone’s still too scared and too stupid to say it out loud. They’re not friends yet. But they’re getting there. We’re watching in real time as they learn each other’s pressure points—what to push, when to pull back. It’s very ugh my chest hurts but also my heart is fluttering kind of vibe. Which is my favorite thing to write. Obviously.

Now. To talk about me, because I love attention: I’ve only been posting for a few months and I’m already overrun with WIPs like some kind of literary hoarder. It’s a problem. I start stories, then my ADHD bitchass brain says “new shiny idea???” and next thing I know I’m drowning in three AUs, an enemies-to-lovers high school AU I wrote at 3AM, and a secret smutty one-shot I can’t stop thinking about. It’s a whole ecosystem of chaos. But I do want to write them all. I do. I just also want to nap. And read. And rot.

So yeah. I think about y’all waiting for updates more than you know. I stress about it. I chew on it like emotional gum. My Spirk fic hasn’t updated in two months and it haunts me in my sleep. But I’m trying to accept that writing is better done when it feels good, not when I’m spiraling in guilt. So. If I ever start something and it takes me ages to finish, just know I do want to get there. I just move at the speed of depression and distraction.

AND A GENTLE REMINDER: this is a slow burn. A SLOW slow burn. Not the kind where they kiss in chapter 5 and you pretend it’s slow because they didn’t bang yet. No. I mean they will not start catching actual feelings for a while. There will be distractions. Other people, love interests. Awkwardness. Denial. You will watch them flounder. You will scream at your phone. You will think “surely they must realize it now,” and I will look you in the eyes and say, “no. no they do not.” Because the point is the journey. The point is the becoming. Not the kissing. (Okay fine also the kissing. But later.)

We are 20 chapters in, and I am being so serious when I say we are maybe… 20% into the full story. If that. I want to go all the way. From strangers to roommates to fuckbuddies to friends to best friends to oh my god it was you all along. I want to write every beat. Every change. Every stupid, messy, human moment. And yes. We will suffer. You, me, Nix, Jungkook, Yeji, Taehyung, everyone.

So I'd say sorry, but let's be honest, if you’re here right now—chapter 20, still with me—I know what kind of sick little freak you are. Masochist. You're not fooling anyone.

And I adore you for it. Thank you for choosing violence with me. Thank you for loving these two idiots. Thank you for reading. I mean it. So much.

Okay. Enough rambling. Go read. Go cry. Go scream. Tell your friends. Tattoo “Phoenix x Rogue” on your ass if you feel so inclined.

Mwah.

(Shameless reminder to support me on Ko-fi if you like my unhinged writing mess).

Edit because apparently I need to make this clear; my stories are extremely slow paced. This is STATED in the author’s INTRO I EXPLICITLY mention you must READ before delving into any of my works. I am tired of messages complaining about the pacing. You are warned beforehand. You chose to read this knowing it’s going to be slow as hell. Nobody is holding you hostage. If you’re bored, you can leave. I seriously don’t care. I am writing my stories because I crave this type of storytelling where everything is narrated in detail and nothing is glossed over. My readers know that and they choose to stay because they want the same thing. 80% of stories out there are fast-paced. I am catering to the people who want this type of organic development. If that’s not your thing, that’s absolutely fine. But you don’t get to complain and whine about something when there’s 100 fanfics out there you can read instead. You don’t get to come for me or my writing—lest of all my readers. I said what I said.

⋆｡°✩ read on✩°｡⋆

ao3

wattpad

Books have always been your lifeline in a world that feels like it's trying to drown you.

You've loved them for as long as you can remember, though you can't pinpoint the exact moment they became your refuge. It wasn't a dramatic epiphany or a life-changing event. Just a gradual realization that between the pages of a book, you could breathe easier. 

Kafka speaks to the part of you that feels constantly out of step with the world (though you'd never admit that to Taehyung—his smug "I told you so" would be unbearable). 

Murakami paints surreal landscapes that make your own reality feel a little less suffocating. 

And now Donna Tartt, because you're tired of Jimin's scandalized gasps every time you confess to not having read her yet.

You weren't the stereotypical bookworm growing up. No thick glasses perched on your nose, no disdainful sniffs at the mention of pop culture. You didn't turn your nose up at Harry Styles concerts or roll your eyes at school dances. 

But even as you navigated the treacherous waters of adolescence—first periods and friendship fallouts, the constant drama of simply existing as a teenager—books were always there. 

A constant, even if sometimes pushed to the background.

They became your armor when the weight of expectations threatened to crush you. When disappointment hung heavy in the air, threatening to send you away in a chokehold, you'd retreat into worlds made of paper and ink. 

It was easier to face fictional monsters than the very real ones lurking in parent-teacher conferences and college application deadlines.

Now, standing amidst the shelves of Barnes & Noble, surrounded by the comforting smell of new books and possibility, you can't help but feel a sense of belonging. Like you've come full circle. From the little girl who used to hide under her covers with a flashlight, devouring stories long past bedtime, to the woman who's made words her life's work.

It's not always easy. 

Sometimes the words on the page blur together, your mind too full of real-world worries to lose yourself in fiction. 

But even then, the weight of a book in your hands is grounding. 

A reminder that there are always other worlds to explore, other lives to live, if only for a few hundred pages.

Maybe that's why you're here, arranging displays and recommending titles to strangers. 

Because somewhere out there is another person drowning in expectations, desperate for a lifeline. 

And maybe, just maybe, you can be the one to hand them the right book at the right moment—help them with their very own small act of rebellion against a world that sometimes feels too heavy to bear.

Mark hovers nearby as you arrange a new display of bestsellers, lanky frame, loose shirt and baggy pants. He's the one who picked up your application when you and Yeji came in last week—the one with the kind eyes and the nervous habit of clutching his hands together every five seconds.

Blonde, blue-eyed. You’d dare say he’s not bad-looking. For a man.

"So basically," he explains, voice pitched low like he's sharing state secrets instead of retail procedures, "most days you'll either be on register, floor assistance, or shelving. Today you're just shadowing me on the floor."

Floor assistance, as it turns out, is mostly wandering around looking approachable (but not too approachable) and occasionally directing lost souls to the bathroom or the manga section. You're also expected to straighten displays, check for misplaced books, and maintain what Mark calls "the Barnes & Noble aesthetic."

"Which means?" you ask, adjusting a copy of the latest Sally Rooney that's slightly out of alignment with its siblings.

"You know," he shrugs, hands doing that awkward hovering thing again, "like... cozy but sophisticated. Inviting but not cluttered."

You nod like this makes perfect sense, though privately you think it sounds like the kind of bullshit corporate memo someone got paid way too much to write.

"What about recommendations?" you ask. "Do we have any input on displays or—"

"Oh, totally!" His face brightens. "We each get to curate an employee picks shelf. You can start working on yours next week."

That, at least, sounds promising. 

Already your mind is cataloging possibilities—perhaps a mix of classics and contemporary, maybe something unexpected thrown in. Definitely not the usual suspects everyone claims to have read but hasn't.

And just like that, the morning quickly blurs into afternoon. 

Your tasks are the same all day: shelving, straightening, and following Mark around as he points out the minutiae of bookselling. It's mindless work, but not unpleasant. There's something soothing about putting things in order, about knowing exactly where everything belongs.

By the time your lunch break rolls around, you've settled into a comfortable groove. The break room is empty except for you and your sad turkey sandwich, the ancient TV in the corner playing a rerun of The Office. One where Jim is pulling some elaborate prank on Dwight. You find yourself smiling despite the mediocrity of your lunch.

The afternoon passes in much the same way—quiet, uneventful, almost peaceful. You help an elderly woman find the latest Louise Penny mystery. You alphabetize a section of poetry that looks like it's been hit by a tornado. You dust shelves that probably haven't seen a feather duster since Obama was president.

And then, suddenly, it's 5 PM.

You glance at your phone, mildly surprised that eight hours have passed without a single customer meltdown or retail horror story. No one has asked to speak to your manager. No one has tried to return a clearly read book with coffee stains on page 47. No one has even approached you with one of those vague "I'm looking for a book with a blue cover about a thing that happens" requests.

In fact, you've barely interacted with customers at all. It wasn't your turn on register, and most browsers seemed content to wander without assistance. 

It's been... nice. 

Quiet. 

The kind of job where you can disappear into your own thoughts for stretches at a time.

You could get used to this, you think, clocking out and grabbing your bag from the locker. 

Maybe it won't be the soul-crushing retail experience Yeji warned you about. Maybe you've lucked into the unicorn of part-time jobs—one that pays the bills without completely draining your will to live.

Or maybe it's just the first-day honeymoon period, and next week you'll be dealing with entitled parents who think the children's section is a free daycare.

Either way, as you push through the employee exit into the early evening air, you feel a strange sense of… accomplishment? 

Surely, it's not saving lives or changing the world, but you can’t deny it’s satisfying; a day spent surrounded by books, putting things in order, creating small pockets of calm in a chaotic world.

And now, apparently (because God forbid the universe lets you forget) you have plans. 

With Jungkook, of all people. 

The thought should make you anxious.

It doesn’t.

You check your phone and see his text:

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚘𝚗 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚖𝚘𝚖𝚊? 𝚊𝚖 𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 

You scan the street and spot him leaning against a lamppost, scrolling through his phone, looking unfairly good in a simple black t-shirt and jeans. Your roommate. Your sometimes-hookup. Your... friend?

The word still feels strange, but maybe it's time to try it on for size.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚑 𝚒'𝚖 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚠

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚞

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚊𝚜 1𝚜𝚝 𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗 𝚋𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚙𝚙𝚕

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚕𝚢 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚗𝚘 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚒𝚏𝚝𝚢 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚢 𝚜𝚘 𝚒'𝚖 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚠𝚒𝚗

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚠𝚘𝚠 𝚕𝚘𝚠 𝚋𝚊𝚛 𝚗𝚒𝚡

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚞 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚌𝚞𝚝𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚋𝚕𝚞𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚝𝚠

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚊 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚛𝚝 𝚛𝚘𝚐𝚞𝚎

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚒 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚛𝚝𝚜 𝚛 𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚡

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚒'𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚗 𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚘𝚏 𝚞𝚛𝚜

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚘𝚖𝚏𝚐 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙 🙄

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚎'𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚙𝚞𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚌

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚞 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚎'𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚙𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚗𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚕 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛?

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛?

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜𝚗'𝚝 𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚋𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚟

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚝𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚑𝚝𝚘

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚖𝚘𝚖𝚊 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚏𝚘𝚘𝚍?

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚗

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚌𝚘𝚘𝚕

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚊𝚕𝚜𝚘 𝚒 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚞 𝚋𝚝𝚠 𝚒𝚖 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚒'𝚖 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚠

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚊𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚘𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚖𝚎 𝚗𝚒𝚡 

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚛𝚎��𝚒𝚜𝚝 𝚖𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒'𝚖 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗 𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚐𝚘 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚗𝚘 𝚞 𝚠𝚘𝚗𝚝

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑 𝚖𝚎

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚊𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗 𝚞 𝚙𝚑𝚎𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚝𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚙𝚢 𝚊𝚏

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚕𝚢 

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚛

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚝𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚑𝚝𝚘

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚘𝚖𝚏𝚐 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙 𝚜𝚊𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚖𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚑𝚑𝚑𝚑𝚑

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚒 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚞 𝚛𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗 𝚞𝚛 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒'𝚖 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚕𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙 𝚝𝚎𝚡𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚎

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚘𝚔 𝚋𝚢𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚞 𝚒𝚗 𝟹𝟸𝟷

You spot him leaning against the lamppost, scrolling on his phone like he doesn’t have a care in the world. Hands shoved into his pockets, shoulders relaxed, black t-shirt fitting just right—not too tight, not too loose. It’s casual. Effortless. 

And yeah, you’ve seen him in casual before—sweats, pajamas, even that stupid hoodie he refuses to throw out—but this is different. This is casual street Jungkook in the wild, outside the apartment. 

Casual street Jungkook who’s here with you to do something normal and non-sexual and�� friendly.

He looks good. But then again, you already knew that. There’s a reason you fuck him despite his infuriating personality. 

Even when he says things that make you want to strangle him with his own belt.

He catches sight of you approaching and grins, that stupid lopsided grin that’s all teeth and confidence. 

“Hey,” he says, voice light like this is just another day.

You don’t respond. Don’t even look up from your phone as your thumb swipes through apps in search of Maps. 

“We have a twenty-minute ride from Union Square to the MoMA,” you say flatly. “The exhibit starts in thirty-five, so let’s go.”

“Sure,” he says easily, pushing off the lamppost with a lazy shrug. “What line?”

“N, Q, R—whichever comes first.” You finally glance up at him as you say it, but only briefly. Just long enough to catch the slight raise of his eyebrows before he nods.

“Okay.”

And then you’re walking side by side toward the subway entrance like this is normal. Like this isn’t the first time you’ve agreed to spend time together without sex as the unspoken endgame.

The stairs down to the subway are crowded—typical for a weekday evening—and you both swipe your cards at the turnstile without a word. There’s a guy pissing in one corner of the station (because of course there is), and Jungkook widens his eyes in a grimace like he’s trying to wipe away the sight of it. You don’t comment, just keep moving toward the platform like nothing happened.

It shouldn’t feel awkward. It’s never been awkward with him before—not even when things got messy or complicated or downright stupid between you two. 

But now? 

Now it feels like there’s this invisible weight hanging between you, pressing down on every step you take together.

Maybe it’s because he brought up that whole “trying to be friends” thing this morning—friends who have expectations, and expectations lead to disappointment, and disappointment leads to losing control.

Or maybe it’s because now that he said it out loud—now that he put friendship on the table—you can’t stop overthinking every little thing about this outing. 

What does he expect from you? Does he want small talk? Does he want silence? Is this supposed to feel casual or meaningful or something else entirely?

You glance at him out of the corner of your eye as you both stop near the edge of the platform. He’s standing close but not too close—hands still in his pockets, gaze fixed on some ad plastered across the opposite wall. He doesn’t look uncomfortable or tense or anything remotely resembling how you feel right now.

Which makes sense because Jungkook never overthinks anything. He just does whatever feels right in the moment and deals with the consequences later (if at all). 

It’s one of the things that drives you crazy about him—and maybe one of the things you secretly envy.

The train isn’t here yet, so now what? Do you say something? Ask him about his day? Pretend this is normal and fine and not at all weird for you?

“So…” Your voice comes out hesitant—too hesitant—and you immediately hate yourself for it. 

Nice going, stupid bitch.

He glances at you but doesn’t say anything right away, waiting for you to finish whatever thought you’re trying (and failing) to articulate.

“What did… what did you do?” You clear your throat awkwardly, shifting your weight from one foot to the other as if that’ll somehow make this less painful for both of you. “Until… y’know… five?”

His lips twitch like he’s fighting back a smirk—like he knows exactly how much effort it took for you to ask such a simple question—and for some reason that makes you want to shove his head against the next train.

“Not much,” he says finally, his tone casual but not dismissive. “Watched some YouTube tutorials. Tried making sourdough again.”

You blink at him. “Sourdough?”

“Yeah.” He shrugs like it’s no big deal, like baking bread is just a totally normal thing for someone like him to do in their free time. “Didn’t come out great though.”

“Oh.” 

You don’t know what else to say to that—to him—so instead you just nod and glance down at your phone again like there’s something urgent demanding your attention.

But then, as if destiny decided (for once) to make things easier for you, the train arrives with its usual screech of brakes and rush of stale air, saving you from having to come up with any more awkward small talk on the platform.

So you step onto the train together—side by side but not touching—and you can’t help but wonder if this whole ‘trying to be friends’ thing is going to be harder than either of you realized.

Inside Jungkook moves instinctively to the metal bar overhead, reaching up to steady himself as the train lurches forward. You follow suit, your fingers wrapping around the same bar just a few inches away from his.

It’s fine. It’s normal. People share subway bars all the time. Nothing weird about it.

Except your hand shifts slightly as the train rounds a corner, and suddenly your pinky brushes against his. Just barely—a fleeting touch—but it’s enough to make you freeze for half a second.

And… 

You don’t look at him. 

You refuse to look at him. 

Because if you do, you’ll see that stupid smirk he always gets when he knows he’s gotten under your skin, and you’re not sure you can handle that right now.

But then his hand shifts too—like, on purpose?—and his pinky brushes yours again. 

Softer this time. 

Lingering.

Your stomach twists in a way that feels equal parts annoying and… something else you don’t want to name. You glance up at him despite yourself, ready to snap something sarcastic or dismissive or whatever it takes to make this moment feel less charged than it suddenly does.

But he’s not smirking. He’s just… looking at you. Calmly. Quietly. Like this is nothing more than two people sharing a subway bar in a crowded train.

And maybe it is nothing. Maybe you’re just overthinking it because that’s what you do—because every little thing with him feels like it carries more weight than it should.

Still, when his fingers shift again—this time curling slightly so the side of his hand presses against yours—you don’t pull away. 

You don’t say anything either, just let your fingers relax against the bar as the train rattles onward.

It’s small. Subtle. Barely even noticeable in the grand scheme of things.

But somehow, in the cramped chaos of the subway car—with strangers pressed against you on all sides—it feels like the quietest moment you’ve had all day.

You don’t look at him again—not directly—but out of the corner of your eye, you catch the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips. Not cocky or teasing or anything remotely resembling his usual expressions.

Just soft.

And for some reason, that makes your throat tighten all over again.

You never expected to find Jungkook beautiful.

He stands in front of a massive black and white photograph with his head tilted slightly and dark brown eyes narrowed in concentration.

The lightning inside the space makes everything feel way more thought-provoking than it actually is. All you notice, really, is how it deepens the line of his jaw, the slight furrow between his eyebrows. His lips, and how they move silently, like he's having some private conversation with the image before him.

Stupid, handsome motherfucker. Why does he exist in your space?

You've seen him naked. You've seen him laughing so hard he nearly falls off the couch. You've seen him half-asleep and grumpy at 6 AM.

But you've never seen him like this—completely absorbed, genuinely focused on something that isn't getting laid or annoying the shit out of you.

"The composition is fucking incredible," he says without looking at you, gesturing at the photograph. "See how they've used negative space to draw your eye to the subject? And the depth of field is so deliberate—keeps you just slightly off-balance."

You blink, caught off guard by the sudden technical analysis. Since when does Jungkook know smart words?

"You actually know about photography?" It comes out more surprised than you intended.

He turns to you then, one eyebrow raised. "Film major, Nix. Kind of comes with the territory."

"Yeah, but—" You stop yourself, not sure how to articulate that you assumed his interest in film was mostly about looking cool and impressing girls.

"But what?"

"Nothing," you mutter, moving closer to the photograph. "Just didn't realize you paid attention in class."

He snorts. "I maintain my GPA through pure charm and good looks alone. No actual knowledge required."

You roll your eyes, but there's no real annoyance behind it. "Seriously though, you seem like you actually know what you're talking about. It's... weird."

"Weird that I'm not a complete idiot?" He steps back from the photograph, hands sliding into his pockets. "Gee, thanks."

"That's not what I meant."

He shrugs, already moving toward the next piece—a series of distorted portraits that seem to melt into one another.

"I just like this stuff. Always have."

You follow him, curiosity getting the better of you.

"Since when?"

"Since forever," he says, stopping in front of the portraits. "My mom was into photography. Had this old Pentax she used to carry everywhere. Taught me how to develop film in our bathroom when I was like, eight."

His voice always turns weirdly soft when his mom is involved. It makes you pause.

This is the most he's ever shared about his family, you realize.

You're not sure whether to press further or let it go.

Before you can decide, he continues, "These portraits are using multiple exposure. See how the faces blend together? It's like—when you overlay two negatives, you get this ghost effect. The new digital stuff makes it easier, but there's something about doing it on actual film that hits different."

His enthusiasm is... surprising. And weirdly contagious. You find yourself leaning in closer to see what he's pointing out, actually interested in the technical explanation.

"The photographer probably used a really slow shutter speed too," he adds, gesturing at the blurred edges of the subjects' features. "Makes movement look like this—sort of ethereal, you know?"

You don't know, not really, but you nod anyway.

Because his voice picks up speed when he talks about this, his hands do slightly more animated movements as he explains, and there’s genuine passion coloring his words and it’s…

It's... different. Seeing him care about something so much.

"What?" he asks suddenly, catching you staring at him.

You hadn't realized you were. Heat creeps up your neck, and you look away quickly.

"Nothing."

"Nah, you were looking at me weird."

"Just..." You shrug, aiming for casual. "You're a huge nerd, that's all."

He blinks at you, then barks out a laugh. "Wow. I share my vast knowledge and expertise, and that's what I get?"

"Vast knowledge? Your head barely fits in the room as it is."

"That's it," he declares, turning away dramatically. "I'm not explaining anything else. Figure it out yourself, philistine."

You swat at his arm, fighting a smile. "Oh come on, I was joking. Keep nerding out. It's..." Cute? Interesting? Surprisingly not annoying? "...Educational."

He gives you a suspicious look but seems mollified. "Fine. But only because I'm generous with my brilliance."

You snort, following him to the next piece. "So generous."

And it's strange, this feeling—this easy back-and-forth that doesn't have the usual sharp edges.

For a moment, it almost feels like you could be friends. Real friends, not just roommates who occasionally fuck and mostly argue.

The thought is so unexpected that it—

Pain.

Sharp and sudden, like someone stabbing a hot poker into your lower abdomen. Your breath catches, body instinctively curling in on itself.

Your hand flies to your stomach as another wave hits, this one even more intense than the first.

It's the IUD again—has to be. But this is worse than before. Much worse.

You stop walking, one hand gripping the nearby wall for support as you try to breathe through it.

Just breathe. It'll pass. It has to.

It doesn't.

The third wave nearly brings you to your knees, a cold sweat breaking out across your forehead.

Jungkook makes it several steps before realizing you're no longer beside him. He turns back, eyes falling on your hunched form, and his expression shifts instantly from relaxed to concerned.

"Yo, what's wrong?" He's back at your side in three quick strides, voice pitched low but urgent.

You shake your head, not trusting yourself to speak yet. Just need a minute. Just need to breathe.

"Phoenix?" His hand hovers near your elbow, not quite touching. "Hey, talk to me. What's happening?"

"It's—" Another stab of pain cuts you off, and you bite down hard on your lip to keep from making a sound. "It's nothing. Just—cramps."

His frown deepens, eyes scanning your face.

"Bullshit. You look like you're about to pass out."

"I'm fine," you insist. "Just give me a second."

The lie tastes bitter on your tongue, but the alternative is worse.

Admitting weakness? Letting him see you crumble?

Absolutely fucking not.

Your uterus twists again—sadistic little organ—and you clench your jaw so hard you're surprised your teeth don't crack.

Breathe. Just breathe. You've handled worse.

(Have you, though?)

He's hovering now, that frown cutting deeper between his eyebrows, and you hate it.

Hate how his eyes flick over your face, cataloging symptoms.

Hate how his hand lifts halfway toward you before dropping back to his side, like he's afraid to touch you without permission.

"Ibuprofen," you manage, the word strained but determined. "I just need some ibuprofen."

"Nix, you seriously look like you're about to pass out—"

"Ibuprofen," you cut him off, sharper this time. "Seriously. I'll be okay. Just need. Ibuprofen."

You're not going home. Not happening.

You just got this fucking copper IUD on Wednesday—of course it's being a bitch. Three days of cramping is normal, right? Has to be.

And this is your first real attempt at being normal humans together, plus it's his birthday and Yoongi's expecting you to keep him out until eight. Your goddamn uterus is not ruining this.

A particularly vicious cramp rips through you, and you have to bite down on your lip to keep from making a sound. Jungkook notices, because of course he does. His eyes narrow, jaw working like he's physically biting back whatever argument he wants to make.

Finally, he sighs—loud, frustrated, dramatic in that way only he can be.

"Okay."

The surrender in his voice shouldn't feel like a victory, but it does. Even as another cramp threatens to fold you in half.

"Okay," he repeats, softer. "Let me see if I can get you one. Just—wait here, alright?"

He wraps his fingers around your elbow, not gripping, just guiding, and you let him because walking feels like a monumental task right now. .

Focus. One foot, then the other.

There's a cushioned bench a few feet away. A kid sits at one end, maybe seven or eight, swinging his legs and staring at the floor with the bored expression of someone dragged to a museum against his will.

Jungkook walks you toward it, his hand steady on your arm.

"Hello," he says to the boy, voice gentler than you've ever heard from him. "Sorry, my friend over here is in pain and really needs to sit down."

The kid looks up—first at Jungkook, then at you—eyes widening slightly. He doesn't say anything, just scoots over, fingers drifting to his mouth as he continues to stare.

"Thanks, buddy," Jungkook says, helping you sit.

You sink onto the bench, the relief immediate but not enough. It still feels like someone's playing Operation with your insides, fishing out organs with a pair of rusty pliers.

Jungkook lingers for a second, hesitant.

"You sure you'll be okay if I—"

"Go," you grit out, not trusting yourself to say more.

He gives you one last look—concerned, frustrated, something else you can't name—before turning and striding away with purpose, disappearing around a corner.

And then it's just you, the kid, and the agony twisting through your abdomen.

Great. Fantastic. You can't even make it through one normal human interaction without your body staging a fucking rebellion.

Every time you try to—what? Be a decent person? Spend time with someone who isn't Yeji? The universe laughs in your face.

The kid is still staring at you, blue eyes huge in his small face. You force what you hope is a reassuring smile but suspect looks more like a grimace.

"Your face is becoming white," he says matter-of-factly.

"Thanks," you mutter. "I'm aware."

"Like a ghost," he adds helpfully. "Are you gonna throw up?"

Jesus Christ. This is your life now. Being assessed by a tiny human while your reproductive system wages war against the rest of your organs.

"No," you say, though you're not entirely sure that's true. "Just need some medicine."

"My mom says medicine is for when you're really sick," he informs you, kicking his heels against the bench. "Are you really sick?"

Another twist of pain, and you have to close your eyes for a second.

"Something like that."

"Is that man your boyfriend?"

God, children and their questions. No filter, just an endless stream of curiosity with no regard for social niceties.

You should lie.

Should say yes, it would be simpler than explaining the complicated mess that is you and Jungkook.

"No," you say instead. "Just a... friend."

The word still feels strange. Foreign. Like you're saying it in a language you barely speak.

"Oh." The kid looks disappointed. "He looks like a superhero."

Despite everything—the pain, the frustration, the growing concern that the gyno didn't warn you about this level of copper IUD hell—you almost laugh.

Because Jungkook? Oh he would fucking love that. His ego is already the size of Manhattan; the last thing he needs is child-based validation of his supposed heroism.

"More like a supervillain," you mutter.

The boy's eyes widen further. "Really?"

"No, not really. Just a regular person who's..." You pause, not sure how to finish that sentence.

Annoying? Complicated? Stupidly attractive even when he's being insufferable?

"...helping me out."

You press your palm harder against your abdomen, hoping the pressure will somehow counteract the pain. But truthfully, it doesn't. If anything, it's getting worse, spreading from your core outward until your lower back aches and your thighs feel weak.

This can't be normal.

Well, maybe it is.

You've never had an IUD before—what the hell do you know?

Clearly should've read beyond the first page of that pamphlet they gave you, but you were too busy trying not to think about the actual insertion part.

"I have lots of friends," the kid announces proudly. "But none of them are girls."

He wrinkles his nose like this is the most disgusting concept imaginable.

Despite everything—the pain, the frustration, the knowledge that this day is slowly derailing—you almost smile.

"Girls aren't so bad."

He shrugs, unconvinced. "They like stupid stuff."

"So do boys."

"Nuh-uh. Boys like cool things. Like dinosaurs."

"Girls can like dinosaurs too."

He considers this, head tilted.

"I guess. My sister doesn't though. She just likes her stupid boyfriend." The contempt in his voice is impressive for someone whose feet don't touch the floor.

You're saved from further insights into his sister's love life by Jungkook's return. He's walking toward you with a small paper cup in one hand and a bottle of water in the other, his expression still caught between concern and that strange new softness.

"Got you covered," he says, dropping into a crouch in front of you. "They had a first aid station. Ibuprofen and water."

You take the pills and water with hands that shake slightly, downing them quickly.

"Thanks."

He sits beside you on the bench, close but not touching—some sort of distance that feels both considerate and maddening.

You realize now Jungkook is not one to push boundaries. Not when they’re firm, not when you’ve made them clear. Like when you told him this thing between you two stayed between you two and he just accepted it.

"Should take about twenty minutes to kick in," he says, voice low and even.

You nod, focusing on your breathing.

In and out. Slow and steady. Just get through this. You've handled worse.

(Have you, though? Because right now it feels like your insides are trying to claw their way out.)

"We can go home," he offers, so subsided it's almost comical coming from him. "If you want."

"No." The word comes out sharper than intended, and you soften it with, "No, I'm fine. Just need a minute."

He doesn't argue, just nods like he expected this answer.

Of course he did.

He knows you're stubborn, knows you hate showing weakness, knows you'll suffer through just about anything to avoid admitting you can't handle it.

The silence stretches between you, but it's not uncomfortable. Not exactly. It's... waiting. Patient. And you note how his knee bounces slightly, the only sign of restless energy in his otherwise still form.

"Thanks," you say again, quieter this time.

He glances at you, surprise flitting across his features.

"For what?"

"For not..." You gesture vaguely, searching for the right words. "Making it a thing."

His lips twitch, almost a smile but not quite.

"It's your body, Nix. Your call."

Something warm and unexpected unfurls in your chest at that—at the simple acknowledgment of your autonomy, your right to decide how to handle your own pain.

He could push. Could insist on taking you home, on calling a doctor, on making decisions for you "for your own good."

It's what most people would do, have always done, their concern overriding your independence.

But he doesn't.

Just sits beside you, a quiet presence in the middle of this mess, respecting your boundaries even as his knee keeps bouncing with what you suspect is concern he's trying not to voice.

It's... nice. Weird, but nice.

The kid on the bench has gone quiet, watching both of you with curious eyes. His mother appears suddenly, a harried-looking woman with a museum map clutched in one hand.

"Aiden, there you are! I told you not to wander off." She gives you and Jungkook an apologetic smile. "Sorry if he bothered you."

"He's fine," Jungkook says, easy and casual. "Just keeping us company."

Aiden slides off the bench, taking his mother's outstretched hand.

“They're friends," he informs her solemnly. "But not boyfriend and girlfriend."

His mother looks mortified. "Aiden!"

"It's okay," you manage, fighting back a laugh that would probably hurt like hell. "He's just observant."

Aiden's mother drags him away, his sneakers squeaking against the polished floor as he waves one last time.

And then it's just the two of you, sitting in silence on a bench in the middle of the MoMA like you belong there. Like this is normal.

All the while, the pain persists, still twisting through your abdomen.

Jungkook hums quietly—something soft and melodic that takes you a moment to recognize.

John Mayer. Of course it's fucking John Mayer.

Your gaze drifts to the floor, tracing the patterns in the polished concrete as another thought forms, heavy and insistent.

Should you tell him? About the IUD?

He's worried. You can see it in his eyes, the way his fingers tap restlessly against his thigh, the occasional glance he throws your way when he thinks you're not looking.

But he's not pushing. Not demanding explanations or insisting on taking you home.

Because that's not what he does.

He suggests, offers, hints... but never forces. Never demands.

Just accepts whatever you're willing to give, even when it's clear he wants more.

This morning he talked about being friends. About sharing things. About being more than just roommates who occasionally fuck and mostly argue.

Maybe this could be a first step. A tiny gesture toward whatever it is he's proposing.

But also...

Also what if you tell him and he smirks? Makes some stupid joke about how you wanted him raw that badly?

You know how quickly he covers discomfort with humor, how reliably he turns to sexual innuendo when a moment gets too real or too heavy.

And this moment is nothing if not heavy.

But overthinking it is getting you nowhere, and the silence is stretching too long, becoming its own kind of weight.

So you take a breath, summon what little courage the pain hasn't eaten away, and speak.

"I got an IUD." The words come out soft, hushed, almost hoping he won't hear them. "Wednesday."

His head tilts toward you, and you brace yourself. Wait for the snort, the smirk, the inevitable sexual commentary that will make you regret this tiny moment of trust.

But it never comes.

He just sighs softly, a small shrug lifting his shoulders.

"That's good."

Your eyes drift to him, confusion replacing the defensive tension you were building, because what does he mean?

He meets your gaze, then looks back at the photograph on the wall.

“I mean, it's good you're taking care of yourself. Your sexual health." Another shrug, this one smaller. "That's good, Nix."

Something in your chest loosens—a knot you didn't realize you were holding tight.

It's... not what you expected. Not from him.

Not from anyone, really.

"Yeah, well." You shift on the bench, wincing as the movement sends a dull throb through your lower abdomen. "Not feeling particularly great about it at the moment."

His lips quirk, not quite a smile.

"Pain that bad?"

"Like someone's playing Operation with my insides, but they're losing."

A soft laugh escapes him. "Fucking brutal."

"Pretty much."

Another stretch of silence, but this one feels different. Lighter, somehow. The pain is still there, but it's muted now, less all-consuming.

"Copper or hormonal?" he asks, voice casual like he's asking about the weather, not your reproductive choices.

You blink at him, genuinely surprised.

"You know the difference?"

"I do actually pay attention in health class, Phoenix. Plus, you know. Been with people who've had them."

"Copper," you answer, focusing on the question instead of whatever that feeling was. "I had a feeling hormones would mess with me."

He nods like this makes perfect sense. "Those are the ones that hurt more at first, right? Take longer to settle?"

Again, that surprise. "Yeah. How do you know that?"

"My ex." He shifts slightly on the bench, angling more toward you without actually moving closer. "She had one. Copper. Cramped like hell the first few months."

"Months?" The word comes out more alarmed than you intended.

His eyes widen slightly. "Not like, continuously. Just periodically. Mostly when she got her period. It got better though. Less intense over time."

"Great," you mutter. "Something to look forward to."

"Sorry." He winces. "Not helping, am I?"

"Not really, no."

"Do you..." He hesitates, eyes scanning your face like he's checking for warning signs. "Do you regret getting it?"

The question catches you off guard. Not because it's invasive—it's actually pretty reasonable given the context—but because of how genuinely he asks it. Like he really wants to know what you think. Not to judge, just to understand.

"No," you say after a moment. "No, I don't regret it. I wanted it. Chose it. This—This is just the shitty part. It'll pass."

"And this is something you want? Long-term?"

You nod, a little less certain than before but still sure enough.

"Yeah. I like not having to worry about it. Worth some pain now."

"Make sense. That's... smart." He tilts his head, that thoughtful look you rarely see crossing his features. "Planning ahead."

"One of us has to," you say without thinking.

His eyebrows shoot up. "Ouch. Direct hit, Nix."

"Sorry, I didn't mean—"

"Nah, it's fair." He cuts you off with a small laugh. "I'm not exactly Mr. Responsibility."

The self-awareness surprises you.

"You're not that bad."

"I’m not?”

“Okay I take it back.”

He chuckles.

The pain stabs again, sharper this time, and you can't quite hide the wince. His expression shifts immediately.

"Need to move around? Sometimes that helps."

You consider it. Sitting here isn't doing much except letting you focus on how much it hurts.

“Maybe."

"Think the ibuprofen's kicking in at all?"

His eyes scan your face, and you wonder what he sees there. Probably not the composed, controlled person you're trying to project.

"A little. It's not as bad as before."

"That's something." He stands, offering a hand but not insisting when you ignore it and push yourself up on your own. "We could head to the next gallery? Or go back to the one with that series you liked—the urban decay stuff."

The fact that he noticed which photographs caught your interest earlier shouldn't feel significant. It's just basic observation. Nothing special.

But it does. Feel significant, that is.

"Let's try the next one," you say, taking a tentative step. The pain doesn't immediately floor you, which is an improvement. "Slowly, though."

"No rush." He falls into step beside you, hands shoved in his pockets in that casual way he has, like he's completely at ease no matter where he is.

You nod, trying not to think about the surprise dinner. Trying even harder not to think about the stupid Mayer vinyl you bought him and the fact that all his film bros will be there.

"Thanks," you say after a few steps. "For not being weird about the IUD thing."

He glances at you, something almost like surprise flickering across his features before settling into a small smile.

“Nothing to be weird about. It's your body, Nix. Your choice."

"Yeah, but." You struggle to articulate what you mean. "Most guys would make some gross joke or get all squirmy talking about it."

"I'm not most guys."

"Okay pick me boy."

“And here we go again.” He snorts.

“Hey, you’re the one who said that generic ass shit.”

"Uh-uh, so," he says, deliberately casual as you round the corner into the next gallery space. "How do you feel about Mayer?"

You groan, shoving him lightly.

"I knew it. I fucking knew you were humming that shit on purpose."

He laughs, the sound warm and surprisingly genuine.

"Gravity is a classic! You can hate on the man all you want, but you can't deny the music."

"Watch me."

And just like that, you're arguing about John Mayer in the middle of the MoMA, the pain still there but somehow less important than this stupid debate about whether "Your Body Is A Wonderland" is the worst song ever written or just mostly terrible.

It's strange. Unexpected. Almost... nice

Maybe this friend thing isn't completely impossible after all.

New York smells different right before sunset.

The city air mellows somehow. Still dirty, still chaotic, but softer now. Like the golden hour light filtering through the buildings is actually changing the molecular structure of everything it touches.

Or maybe that's just the ibuprofen finally kicking in and making life worth living again. Hard to say.

Your phone pings as you walk beside Jungkook, the busy street full of that weird liminal energy between work day and evening. People rushing home, people headed out, everyone caught in that transitional space of not-quite-done and not-quite-started.

It's Yoongi, his message simple and direct:

𝐘𝐨𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐬🎧: 𝙷𝚘𝚠’𝚜 𝚒𝚝 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐? 𝚂𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚔?

You glance at Jungkook, who's completely absorbed in his own phone, thumbs tapping absently against the screen.

Focused. Unaware.

Perfect.

You send back a quick thumbs up emoji, ignoring the follow-up questions Yoongi's already typing. The less you engage, the less likely you are to give something away.

6:30 PM.

Just over an hour until you need to steer Jungkook to the ramen place for his surprise. An hour to fill without either dying from secret uterine rebellion or accidentally revealing the plan.

You slide your phone back into your pocket and lean slightly to see what's so captivating on Jungkook's screen.

Not that you care. Just curious. Normal curious, not weird curious.

Instagram?

He's editing a photo—one of the abstract architectural shots he took at the museum when you weren't paying attention.

It's actually... pretty good.

The photo highlights the sharp angles of the stairwell, light cutting through the space in a way that transforms something mundane into something almost ethereal.

"You have a photography Instagram?"

He startles, immediately angling the phone away from you with the guilty reflex of someone caught looking at porn in public.

"Yeah, but it's nothing important. Just, you know. Silly stuff."

That's... suspicious. Jungkook doesn't do self-deprecation, not about things he's clearly good at.

He's the first person to brag about his skills, his looks, his whatever. The fact that he's downplaying this is weird.

"What silly stuff?" You raise an eyebrow, trying to peer around his shoulder at the now-hidden screen. "Show me."

"No, seriously, it's no big deal." He actually puts his phone in his pocket, which is basically equivalent to locking it in a vault given how attached he usually is to the thing. "Just a hobby."

"Since when are you shy about anything?" You nudge his arm with your elbow, oddly intrigued by this sudden reluctance. "Come on, I’ll show you mine, you show me yours."

"Not everything has to be an innuendo, Phoenix."

"That wasn't—" You stop yourself, because okay, that did sound suggestive. "Come on, I let you drag me through an entire photography exhibition. The least you could do is let me see your supposed 'silly' photography Instagram."

He's not looking at you now, eyes fixed somewhere to the left, scanning the street like he's searching for an escape route.

Then his face changes, relief washing over his features as he spots something across the way.

"Hey, wanna check that out?"

He points toward a small storefront wedged between a vintage clothing shop and a bubble tea place. The sign reads 'String Theory: DIY Jewelry & Crafts' in quirky hand-painted letters.

"A bracelet shop?" You follow his gaze, genuinely confused by the abrupt change of subject. "Seriously?"

"Yeah, why not?" He's already moving toward the crosswalk, clearly eager to leave the Instagram conversation behind. "Could be fun."

"Since when do you care about DIY bracelets?"

He shrugs, the movement a little too casual to be genuine. "Since right now. Come on, Nix. Live a little."

You narrow your eyes, suspicious of this sudden interest in arts and crafts, but follow him anyway.

 Because in all honesty… The distraction isn't unwelcome—you've still got an hour to kill, and arguing about his secret Instagram account wasn't exactly on your agenda for the day.

Plus, whatever he's hiding must be good if he's willing to make friendship bracelets to avoid talking about it.

You approach the shop, and it is small but bright, walls lined with colorful spools of thread, beads in every imaginable shape and size, and an assortment of charms that range from the typical (hearts, stars, moons) to the bizarre (tiny plastic dinosaurs, miniature food items, and what appears to be a collection of famous dictators' faces).

A twenty-something with purple hair and more piercings than you can count greets you from behind the counter.

"Welcome to String Theory! Let me know if you need help finding anything."

Jungkook nods in acknowledgement, already wandering toward a display of leather cords and metal clasps. You follow, still puzzled by this whole detour.

"So this is what we're doing now? Making friendship bracelets?" You pick up a spool of neon green thread, turning it over in your fingers. "Is this your way of making our friendship official? Should we be getting cards and flowers too?"

He snorts, examining a tray of silver charms with unexpected interest.

"If anyone's getting flowers in this scenario, it's me. I'm high maintenance."

"Yeah, no shit."

He glances at you, that familiar half-smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

“We don't have to stay if you don't want to. Just thought it might be..." He trails off, shrugging again in that way he does when he's trying to seem indifferent.

"What? Entertaining? A good way to avoid showing me your Instagram?"

"Both." He picks up a small wolf charm, turning it over in his fingers. "But mostly I thought it might be fun. You know, do something with our hands that isn't..."

He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively.

"And there's the innuendo. I was wondering how long you could go without making it weird."

"About thirty seconds, apparently." He sets the charm down, moving on to a collection of colored stones. "So, you want to make something or not?"

You consider it.

On one hand, making bracelets seems like a throwback to summer camp or middle school sleepovers—not exactly your usual Saturday night activity.

On the other hand, you've got time to kill, and it's oddly... refreshing to see Jungkook interested in something so innocuous.

Plus, you're still curious about that Instagram account, and maybe if you play along with this diversion, he'll eventually let his guard down enough to show you.

"Fine." You grab a small plastic basket from a stack near the entrance. "But I'm not making anything with your name on it, so don't get any ideas."

"Wouldn't dream of it." His smile widens into something more genuine. "Though I bet you'd rock a ‘Kuko 4-Ever' bracelet."

"I'd rather die, thanks."

You move along the wall, selecting threads in deep blues and purples because they're pretty, not because they remind you of the way Jungkook's hair sometimes looks in certain light. That would be stupid.

"So," you say casually, examining a tray of small metallic beads, "are you going to tell me about this secret Instagram account or what?"

He sighs, the sound more resigned than annoyed. "It's not secret. It's just... separate."

"Separate from what?"

"From me. From Jungkook. It's just a creative outlet, okay? Nothing special."

"But good enough that you don't want to show me."

He looks at you then, really looks at you, and there's something unexpectedly vulnerable in his expression.

"It's not that I don't want to show you. It's just... people get weird about it."

"Weird how?"

"They either think it's pretentious or they make too big a deal out of it." He moves to another display, this one filled with various charms. "It's easier to just keep it separate."

You follow him, curiosity piqued even further.

 Jungkook, who walks around the apartment half-naked without a second thought, who leaves his dirty laundry in the most inconvenient places possible, who has absolutely no qualms about sharing the explicit details of his sex life—this same Jungkook is suddenly shy about his photography?

"I won't make it weird," you offer, surprising yourself with the sincerity in your voice. "Promise."

He looks skeptical. "You make everything weird, Nix. It's your special talent."

"Fuck off." You snatch a small charm from the tray without really looking at it—something circular with delicate metalwork. "I can appreciate art without being weird about it."

"It's not really art. Just photos."

"Of what?"

He hesitates, fingers tracing the edge of a tray.

 "Mostly urban stuff. Architecture. Shadows. Light. Some nature." A shrug. "Just things I find interesting."

"That actually sounds cool."

He glances at you like he's checking for signs of mockery, then seems to decide you're being genuine.

"Yeah, well. Maybe I'll show you. Someday."

It's not a yes, but it's not a hard no either.

You'll take it.

"Cool." You move to the register, where the purple-haired employee is arranging a display of finished samples. "So how do we actually do this bracelet thing? I haven't made one since I was like, twelve."

"You think I have?" Jungkook laughs, setting his basket beside yours on the counter. "I'm flying blind here too."

The employee—Ash, according to their name tag—smiles.

“That's what I'm here for. What kind of bracelet are you thinking? We've got traditional friendship styles, leather wraps, beaded, charm..."

"Whatever's easiest," you say at the same time Jungkook says, "The coolest one."

Ash's smile widens. "How about a leather cord with beads? Simple but looks great."

"Sounds good," Jungkook agrees, emptying his basket on the counter. "Can we work on them here?"

"Absolutely. Let me set you up at the table in the back."

As you follow Ash toward a small workshop area in the rear of the store, your phone buzzes again. You check it discreetly.

𝐓𝐚𝐞🎨: 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢. 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚋𝚢 𝟾. 𝚑𝚘𝚋𝚒’𝚜  𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜.

You glance at the time.

6:45 PM.

Just over an hour left of... this. This strange, not entirely unpleasant detour into something that feels almost like friendship.

You slip your phone away before Jungkook can see, ignoring the small voice in the back of your mind that wonders what other secrets he might be keeping, and why you suddenly care so much about finding them out.

Ash sets you up at a small wooden table pressed right against the front window.

"So, what are we making?" Jungkook asks, already rummaging through his selection of beads like a kid sorting Halloween candy.

You don't answer immediately, an idea taking shape as you run your fingers over the threads and beads scattered across the table. Your eyes catch on the small containers of alphabet beads near the edge of the table, then drift to the vibrant collection of orange, red, and yellow beads in various shapes and finishes.

Perfect.

You pull the alphabet containers closer, fishing out specific letters: P, H, O, E, N, I, X. Setting them in a neat line in front of you, you reach for more: R, O, G, U, E.

Jungkook watches, brows drawing closer together as he pieces together what you're doing.

When recognition hits, he laughs—short and surprised.

"Okay, seriously? You're making Phoenix and Rogue bracelets now?"

You shrug, reaching for the orange, red, and yellow beads, arranging them between the letters.

"What? Hell yeah. We already branded each other, might as well make it something to remember each other by."

"You think I want to walk around with a bracelet that says 'Rogue' on my wrist?"

He looks genuinely baffled, like you've suggested he tattoo your face on his ass.

"I don't care what you do with it." You roll your eyes, already threading through the first bead. "I'm making mine."

He snorts, but instead of arguing further, he actually helps you sort through the letter beads, pushing the ones you need closer. Then, to your surprise, he reaches for the same fiery-colored beads you've been using.

"What?" he says, catching your look. "If we're doing this ridiculous twin bracelet thing, they might as well match."

"I thought you'd go for all black or something."

He shrugs, picking out a particularly vibrant red bead.

"Rogues can be fiery too. Besides," he adds with a half-smile, "these are my colors."

"Your colors?"

"Yeah." He lays out a pattern—red, orange, yellow, just like yours. "Warm tones. Bold. Kind of obnoxious if you use too many at once."

"Sounds like someone I know," you mutter, and he chuckles.

Your fingers work almost automatically, threading beads onto the leather cord. You're not being symbolic on purpose. It just looks nice.

When you glance up, Jungkook is staring at his own pile of beads, expression oddly distant.

He's rolling a small sun charm between his fingers, back and forth, like he's trying to make a decision.

"What?" you ask, because his silence feels weird.

He shrugs, the motion feeling slightly too forced on him.

"Nothing. Just..." He sets the charm down, picks up a red bead instead. "I actually had one of these. A bracelet. When I was a kid."

This feels like something—a small piece of himself he's offering without being pushed.

So you keep your tone light when you ask.

"Yeah? What kind?"

"Leather, like this." He picks up one of the cords, wrapping it around his wrist to measure before cutting it. "With these bright beads my mom found at some market. Reds and oranges, kind of like these. I wore it until it literally fell apart."

"How old were you?"

"I don't know. Ten? Eleven?" He shrugs again. "Young enough that it was still cool, not lame."

"And now?"

His eyes flick up to yours, then away. "Now what?"

"Is it lame now?"

His expression wavers, tightening around the mouth.

"Nah, it's whatever." He starts threading red and orange beads onto his cord, precise and quick. "Just not something guys usually wear, you know? Unless they're trying to be edgy or something."

"Since when do you care about what's 'usually' done?"

He laughs, but it sounds different than his normal laugh—a little hollow, a little forced.

"Fair point."

You work in silence for a few minutes, with some accompanying sounds; like the soft click of beads and the occasional muttered curse when you drop one.

A yellow bead rolls across the table toward Jungkook, who catches it easily.

"Thanks," you mutter as he hands it back.

"No problem." He pauses, looking at the half-finished bracelet in his hands. "I lied, by the way."

"About what?"

"My mom didn't find the beads." He keeps his eyes on his work, not looking at you. "I did. She just helped me put it together because I was too small to handle the clasps."

Something about the way he says it makes your chest tighten—like this isn't just a random childhood memory but something… soft.

Something he doesn't share often.

"That's sweet," you say, matching his tone. "You don't talk about your mom much."

He tenses, and you inwardly curse yourself.

"Not much to say."

That's a lie if you've ever heard one, but you don't push. Whatever this is—this small opening, it feels fragile. Like pressing too hard would make him shut down completely.

"Mine would've hated this place," you offer instead. "Too messy. Too handmade. Not enough structure."

His lips twitch, almost a smile.

"Mine would've loved it. She was always into this crafty shit. Had a whole room full of art supplies back when..." He trails off, shakes his head. "Anyway. How's yours coming?"

The abrupt subject change is obvious, but you let it slide.

"Almost done. Just need the clasp."

You hold up your creation for inspection. It's nothing fancy—just a simple leather cord with 'PHOENIX' spelled out in silver letter beads, filled with the fiery colored ones you picked.

But it looks kind of cool, in a childish, summer-camp sort of way.

Jungkook leans forward to look, his expression warming.

"Not bad, Nix. Very on-brand."

"Let me see yours."

He hesitates, then holds out his own bracelet. It's just like yours to match, with 'ROGUE' spelled out in metal letter beads. But he’s added a small sun charm that catches the light when he moves.

"Shit," you say, genuinely impressed. "Yours is way better than mine."

He shrugs, but you can tell he's pleased by the compliment.

“I have an eye for design. Part of my many talents."

"And so humble, too."

"Humility is overrated." He sets his bracelet down, reaching for the clasps Ash left for you. "Here, let me help you finish yours."

His fingers brush against yours as he takes your bracelet, the touch brief but somehow startling.

You watch as he attaches the clasp with surprising dexterity, tattooed fingers moving deftly, and it’s kind of attractive, really.

How good he is with his hands when he wants to be.

"There," he says, holding it out to you. "All set."

“Wait,” you announce, searching through the charms box.

You swear you had seen a rain charm earlier, and you had briefly snickered at it. But now that he’s wearing the sun charm it feels oddly… like yours needs to have the rain one, just to contrary him.

So you pick it up, add it to your bracelet.

And then you smile at him, show him.

He snorts.

You turn it in your hand. It feels solid, real. A physical manifestation of the nickname he gave you—the one that used to annoy you but now feels almost like a strange term of endearment.

Ash then approaches your table, a small fabric-lined box in her hands.

"All finished? Those look great!"

You both nod, holding up your creations for inspection.

"Phoenix and Rogue," she reads, smiling. "And they match! The fire colors work perfectly for both."

"Yeah," Jungkook says, and you're surprised by the hint of pride in his voice. "Kind of the point."

"Perfect timing, then," Ash says, setting the box on the table. "We're actually starting a new community art project. Would you be interested in contributing your bracelets?"

You frown, confused.

"Contributing how?"

"We're collecting handmade bracelets from customers to create a wall installation," she explains, gesturing toward a corner of the shop where several bracelets are already displayed on a corkboard. "It's part of our five-year anniversary celebration. Everyone who contributes gets a polaroid of their bracelet and a discount on their next visit."

"Oh." You look down at your bracelet, feeling an unexpected reluctance to part with it.

Which is stupid, because what were you going to do with it anyway?

Wear it?

That would be weird.

"You don't have to," Ash adds quickly, picking up on your hesitation. "It's totally optional."

"No, it's cool," Jungkook says, already placing his bracelet in the box. "I like the idea."

You glance at him, surprised again.

"You do?"

"Yeah. Creating something that stays here, becomes part of the place." He shrugs. "Better than it ending up in a drawer somewhere, right?"

There's something about the way he says it—like he's not just talking about the bracelet anymore—that makes you pause.

But then he's looking at you expectantly, waiting for your decision, and you place your bracelet in the box beside his, the matching colors side by side.

"For the record," you say as Ash takes a polaroid of your creations side by side, "I would've worn mine."

Jungkook's smile is slow and surprisingly gentle.

“Yeah?"

"Maybe not in public," you clarify quickly. "But yeah."

"Me too," he admits quietly, and it feels like he's sharing another secret—small but somehow significant. "Don't tell anyone, though. Ruins my image."

"What image? The one where you pretend to be cool but actually know an alarming amount about John Mayer's discography?"

"Exactly that one." He grins, the most genuine expression you've seen from him all day. "It's carefully curated."

Ash returns with your polaroid and receipt, both bracelets now part of the store's growing collection.

"Come back anytime to see them. They'll be here as long as we are."

"Thanks," Jungkook says, taking the polaroid and tucking it carefully into his wallet.

As you step back out onto the sidewalk, the city bathed in the deepening gold of late afternoon, you feel strangely light despite the lingering pain in your abdomen.

You reach for your phone to check the time, only to find your pocket empty.

"Shit," you mutter, patting your other pockets frantically. "My phone."

Jungkook stops mid-stretch.

"You lose it?"

"Must have left it in the shop." You're already turning back toward the door. "Wait here, I'll be quick."

"Want me to—"

"No, it's fine," you say, perhaps too quickly. "Just give me a second."

The bell chimes as you push back into the store, Ash looking up from behind the counter, eyebrows raised in question.

"Forgot my phone," you explain, gesturing vaguely toward the table where you were sitting.

"No problem. Take your time."

You move quickly to the table, eyes already scanning for your missing device.

Three minutes later, you're back outside, phone safely in hand. Jungkook's leaning against a lamppost, scrolling through something on his own phone.

"Got it?" he asks without looking up.

"Yeah."

You slip it into your pocket without checking the time.

"Ready?"

He pushes off the lamppost.

"Lead the way."

You start walking toward the subway entrance, mentally calculating the time. It must be around 7:20 now. Perfect timing to get to the restaurant by 8.

"Hungry?" you ask, as casually as you can manage.

Jungkook stretches again, arms reaching skyward in a motion that draws your eyes despite yourself.

"Starving. What did you have in mind?"

"I know a place," you say, already angling toward the stairs. "Trust me."

And the weird thing is, from the way he falls into step beside you without question, it seems like he actually does.

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© jungkoode 2025 no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[andy-15-07]

Under the Mexican Sun

request sent by @lloydmustache:Pedro x reader, dating for almost a year. They're spending their first Christmas in Mexico with their friends, keeping their relationship as private as possible; yet they get spotted by a few fans once one of their friends posted on Instagram how cheesey Pedro is around her.

PAIRING:Pedro Pascal x reader

WORD COUNT: 964 | requests are open (send requests, I will gladly answer them all)

Pedro Pascal Masterlist

A/N:Hi, I know this fic is a bit late and I apologize but the request was sent recently, I hope you like it

The warm, salty breeze of the Mexican coastline greeted you as you stepped off the plane, your hand instinctively finding Pedro’s. Almost a year of dating, and this was your first Christmas together—a milestone you both cherished, even if you were trying to keep it under wraps.

“You sure they won’t post anything?” you teased, glancing at Pedro as he pulled his cap lower over his eyes, trying to stay incognito.

“I’ll bribe them with tequila if I have to,” he chuckled, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “But seriously, they know the drill.”

Your friends had been sworn to secrecy. The plan was simple: a low-key holiday with close friends, no paparazzi, no public declarations. But you both knew that secrecy and Pedro didn’t always mix well.

The rented beach house was everything you could have hoped for—spacious, with large windows that let in the golden light of the setting sun. The sound of waves crashing nearby became the perfect soundtrack to your holiday escape.

“This place is perfect,” you sighed, dropping your bags and stretching out on the couch.

Pedro flopped down beside you, pulling you into his arms. “Almost as perfect as you,” he murmured against your hair, making you laugh.

The days blended into a beautiful, sun-soaked rhythm. Mornings were spent lounging in hammocks, afternoons exploring local markets, and evenings filled with laughter, music, and just the right amount of tequila. Pedro was effortlessly charming, his usual wit and warmth amplified by the relaxed atmosphere.

But it was the little things that gave him away. The way his eyes followed you when you weren’t looking, the soft touches that lingered longer than they should have if you were "just friends." Your friends noticed, of course—how could they not?

One evening, as you sat around a bonfire on the beach, your friend Maria snapped a candid photo. You were leaning into Pedro, both of you laughing at something he’d whispered in your ear. It was innocent enough, or so you thought.

“Don’t post that,” Pedro warned, pointing a playful finger at Maria.

“Relax, it’s just for us,” she grinned, but the mischievous glint in her eyes said otherwise.

The next morning, you woke to your phone buzzing incessantly. Groggy, you reached over Pedro to grab it, your heart sinking as you saw the flood of notifications.

“Babe,” you whispered, nudging him awake. “I think we’ve been outed.”

Pedro groaned, rolling over to squint at your screen. There it was—Maria’s Instagram story. A quick, blurry video of Pedro wrapping his arms around you, nuzzling into your neck as you laughed. The caption read: When Pedro Pascal turns into a total cheeseball around her.

“Maria,” Pedro muttered, sitting up and raking a hand through his hair. “She’s buying all the drinks tonight.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, even as the anxiety bubbled in your chest. “It’s kind of cute, though. Look at all these comments… they love us.”

“They love you,” he corrected, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Guess there’s no hiding now.”

Later that day, as you strolled through a local market, you felt the first pair of eyes on you. Then another. Whispers followed, and soon enough, a brave fan approached.

“Pedro? Oh my God, can we get a picture?”

Pedro glanced at you, his expression softening. “Only if she’s in it too,” he said, pulling you closer.

The floodgates opened after that. Photos, autographs, and well-wishes from fans who were more excited about your relationship than you could have imagined. And while it wasn’t the private holiday you’d planned, it was perfect in its own way.

That night, back at the beach house, Pedro pulled you onto the balcony, the ocean shimmering under the moonlight.

“I know this isn’t how we planned it,” he whispered, his forehead resting against yours, “but I wouldn’t change a thing.”

“Me neither,” you smiled, your heart full.

And as he kissed you, the world faded away—just you, Pedro, and the love that no amount of secrecy could hide.

The next morning, you and Pedro decided to embrace the newfound attention with humor. Over breakfast, Maria sheepishly slid into her seat, avoiding Pedro’s mock stern gaze.

“So,” he began, dramatically clearing his throat, “about that Instagram story...”

Maria raised her hands in surrender. “Okay, okay! I’ll admit it—I couldn’t resist. You two were just too cute.”

“You’re lucky we love you,” you teased, nudging her playfully.

“Drinks are on me tonight,” she promised, grinning. “Consider it an early Christmas gift.”

That evening, your group ventured out to a local beachfront bar. The atmosphere was lively, filled with music, laughter, and the rhythmic crashing of waves. Pedro kept his arm around you, his thumb tracing lazy circles on your shoulder, a silent declaration of his affection.

As the night wore on, more fans approached—each interaction was met with Pedro’s signature charm and warmth. He introduced you with pride, never shying away from showing how much you meant to him.

“You know,” he whispered in your ear as you danced under the stars, “I think I like being your public boyfriend.”

You laughed, resting your head against his chest. “Good, because I’m not letting you go.”

The final night of your trip arrived too quickly. As you packed, Pedro pulled you aside, his eyes serious but filled with love.

“This year with you has been the best of my life,” he said softly, cupping your face in his hands. “I can’t wait to see what’s next for us.”

“Me neither,” you whispered, your heart swelling with emotion.

As you boarded the plane back home, hand in hand, you knew that no matter where life took you—whether in the spotlight or in quiet, stolen moments—you and Pedro were in it together, for all the Christmases to come.

[cxvii666]

“PRETTY VISITORS”

orrrrr a cousin!bakugou!reader x hanta sero college au

“what came first, the chicken or the dickhead?”

.......

“is blasty… laughing?”

they're at their usual place—the shitty student bar downtown. it's too warm, crowded in that way that feels a little sticky—sweaty shoulders brushing yours, music bleeding through the floorboards, every surface just a bit grimy. the air smells like tequila and floor cleaner, and there's a low red glow coming from the shitty neon beer sign above the bar, blinking like it’s tired of existing.

"who, the hell, is that?"

the words leave hanta’s mouth before he can stop them, quiet and suspicious, as he leans forward slightly, squinting across the crowded bar like maybe he’s hallucinating. maybe they all are.

because bakugou is laughing.

not scoffing. not snorting. not giving one of his usual mean little chuckles like he’s already halfway through insulting your bloodline. no. this is different. this is full-blown, chest-shaking, head-thrown-back laughter. obnoxious. loud. bright-eyed. the kind of laugh that says something has actually made him happy, which. obviously. is fucking terrifying.

denki looks like he’s about to faint. his eyes are wide and glassy, clinging to his drink like it’s a lifeline. his hair’s a little sweaty at the roots, sticking to his forehead in little lightning bolts. kirishima’s frozen halfway through sipping his beer, hand hovering in the air like his brain stopped sending signals to his muscles. lips still pressed to the glass. not blinking.

mina’s leaned up against the high-top beside them, one elbow propped on the high-top, eyes wide and mouth slightly open, pink acrylic nails tapping rhythmically against the sticky surface. she’s staring across the bar with the expression of someone watching a plane crash in slow motion—too fascinated to look away, too horrified to speak. her lipgloss catches the neon like a warning sign.

“nah,” denki laughs in disbelief, clutching his beer like a rosary, “nah, i'm done. this ain’t real. we’re in, like, a weird timeline. multiverse type shit, like the batman that smiles thing, i don't like that.”

“he’s laughing with people,” mina adds, voice flat like she’s reporting a crime.

“strangers,” denki breathes.

“one of whom is…” hanta pauses and squints, makes the mistake of looking again. “…really hot.”

silence.

denki's mouth falls open. kirishima blinks, then glances at mina, who’s already raising one eyebrow like she’s clocked something important. the corner of her mouth twitches. she looks like she’s about to start taking bets. hanta immediately regrets all of his life choices.

“i mean—” he stammers trying to salvage it, hands up, half-laughing like maybe he can charm his way out of it, “not like—i didn’t mean it like that—”

“bro,” denki whispers, dead serious, “start writing your will.”

“you don’t know who that is?” kirishima says slowly, like he already knows the answer but is giving him a final chance to save himself.

“should i?”

“you’re joking.” from mina, the words roll off her tongue slowly, sarcastically.

“oooohhh, you’re so dead,” denki snorts, shaking his head as he picks his drink back up already resigning hanta to his fate. “super dead. we’ll use a hot photo as your memorial post, don't worry.”

and that’s when bakugou finally turns.

just a glance. a lazy wave, barely more than a lift of two fingers. casual, like he doesn’t care who’s watching. but the girl next to him—you—you follow his line of sight. turn your head, easy grin still lingering on your lips like you know exactly what just happened and you think it’s so hilarious. you’ve got this kind of light in your eyes that doesn’t match the low bar lighting, this way of standing like the room’s yours even though nobody gave it to you. your hand is still resting on bakugou’s shoulders.

he lets it stay there.

hants’s stomach does something horrible and fluttery. like a bug in a microwave.

“that’s his cousin,” kirishima says, and suddenly it all clicks. “she moved back from osaka a few weeks ago. they're real tight, apparently.”

“tight?” hanta echoes, disbelieving. “how tight? like—tight enough to make him laugh?”

“she’s the only person who’s allowed to talk to him like he’s not a landmine,” kirishima shrugs. “she’s kinda like him. but funnier.”

hanta can't stop staring. at the tilt of your smile, at the way you roll your eyes at something bakugou says and bump your shoulder into his like it’s instinct. like you’ve been doing it your whole life.

“okay,” he mutters. “but like… she is hot, right?”

denki and mina immediately burst into peels of laughter. hanta just groans, rubbing a hand down his face. the two of them together are always like this. loud, stupid, uncaring of social graces or volume control, they feed off of each others chaotic energy like hyaenas.

"someone wanna clue me in on what's so fuckin' funny?" hanta grumbles, trying to salvage what little dignity he has left.

kirishima takes pity and explains, "“y'know that summer you went home for a couple weeks and we went to bakugou's for that barbeque?”

"yeah..."

“well she was there. midoriya too. and she—oh, i don't remember what she said, but it was something like ‘don't get mad at izuku just because he's thriving and you're probably gonna go bald in the next three years.’”

“no, no,” mina cuts in, still giggling, “it was more like, ‘you’re mad because izuku is still young and pretty and i can literally see your bald spot.’”

“either way,” denki says, grinning, “she’s fucking brutal. i thought blasty was gonna cry.”

“ok. so she’s mean. i can handle mean.” hanta nods, slowly, like he’s trying to convince himself that he's got more confidence then he actually has.

“no, she’s not mean,” mina says, thoughtful. “she’s just…”

“—a bitch?” from denki.

“dude…” kirishima winces.

“denki!!!” mina snaps, rolling her eyes. “what have i told you? you can't say that about girls. oh my god.”

“sorry, sorry,” denki says, hands up. “i meant like... she’s just waaay harsh. definitely too much for our boy sero to handle.”

“ok, that is true.” mina and kiri both nod at the same time, traitors to the cause.

“hey, wait a minute,” hanta frowns. “what’s with this sero hate train? you guys think i can’t pull?”

he says it light, like a throwaway comment. like of course his long-time best friends will disagree.

but it’s quiet for a second.

“you guys want another drink?” mina says eventually, looking pointedly at her glass.

“yeah, if you’re buying.” denki perks up instantly.

“yes please,” from kirishima, too chipper.

“seriously??” hanta gapes. “you guys really think i can’t talk to girls?”

“it’s not that you can’t,” kirishima begins carefully, tone gentle. like he’s trying not to step on a landmine. “because, we’ve seen you. don’t worry.”

“slut,” denki coughs into his drink.

“it’s just—well—you’re a bit—” kirishima tries.

“—you’re a massive dickhead,” mina finishes sweetly, not even looking up from the drinks menu.

“oh fuck off.”

that gets a chorus of fake gasps and offended noises from denki and kirishima.

“you’re gonna swear at a lady? really, sero?” mina doesn’t even blink, just raises one brow.

“well,” he says, mock-dramatic, scanning the table, “i don’t see any ladies here.”

mina jabs a sharp fingernail in his direction. “take that back.”

“all we’re saying is,” denki cuts in, trying to ease the tension, “you’re way too smug about it. girls can smell that.”

hanta raises a brow. “and what do they smell on you, sparky? desperation?”

“electromagnetic sex appeal,” denki deadpans, then flashes a shit-eating grin. “google it.”

“google told me you fried your phone charger by trying to flirt with a vending machine,” hanta shoots back.

mina chokes on laughter. kiri wheezes.

“ok, ok,” denki’s already sliding out of the booth, trying to make a break for it. “shut up. let’s go for a smoke before bakugou comes back and ruins the vibe. hanta, i know you’ve got some zaza in that back pocket.”

"fuck you," hanta grumbles.

"promise?" denki smirks.

hanta throws a crumpled napkin at him. they’re still laughing when they push through the crowd, already forgetting what they were arguing about in the first place.

to be continued.....

sorry y'all this came to me in a post shift nap and i had to write and post it out quick before the inspiration left lol

[mandoalorian]

emerald nights [bucky barnes x f!reader]

synopsis: at the annual congress gala, you’re a vision on congressman bucky barnes’ arm, his heated whispers igniting your skin. in a hidden corner, his possessive touch consumes you, proving you’re his alone in a blaze of forbidden passion.

word count: 1000

warnings: 18+ explicit content, minors do not interact, unprotected p in v, fingering, daddy kink, praise kink, public sex, possessive!bucky, age gap mentioned

author’s note: oh wow, a scheduled post <3 if you guys see this, please picture me laying in the sun drinking margaritas cuz i’m on my vacay. also, guys, i just really missed writing for congressman bucky. ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

masterlist | submit a request

The Annual Congress Gala glittered with ostentatious wealth, crystal chandeliers casting fractured light across the ballroom filled with D.C.’s power-hungry elite. You clung to Congressman James “Bucky” Barnes’ arm, your pulse racing under the weight of countless eyes. You were a vision in the emerald-green gown he’d chosen—a daring, low-cut number that hugged your curves and left little to the imagination. The dress was a statement, a declaration of Bucky’s claim, yet the leering gazes of older politicians made your skin prickle.

Bucky was a force of nature in his tailored black tuxedo, his vibranium arm concealed beneath a sleek glove, its cool metal resting possessively against your lower back. His sharp jaw clenched, steel-blue eyes scanning the room with barely concealed menace. A gray-haired senator, bloated with self-importance, hadn’t stopped ogling you since you arrived, and Bucky’s grip tightened, his fingers digging into your hip.

“You’re fucking breathtaking, baby girl,” he growled low, his lips grazing your ear, sending heat pooling between your thighs. “But these old bastards staring at you? Makes me wanna rip their eyes out.”

You shivered, leaning into him, your hand brushing the crisp fabric of his suit jacket. “They’re just jealous, Daddy,” you purred, voice soft but laced with mischief. “I’m yours tonight.”

His eyes darkened, a dangerous smirk curling his lips. “Oh, you’re mine every night, sweetheart. And I’m done letting these sleazy politicians think they can even look at what’s mine.” His tone was a promise, raw and possessive, and it sent a thrill down your spine.

Without another word, he guided you through the crowd, his hand firm and unyielding on your waist. The gala’s noise—clinking glasses, smug laughter—faded as he led you down a shadowed corridor and through a heavy oak door into a private lounge. The room was all dark velvet and polished wood, a haven from the chaos outside. The door locked with a decisive click, and the air thickened with anticipation.

“Bucky—” you started, but he cut you off, pinning you against the wall with his body, the hard planes of him pressing into your softness.

“Nuh-uh, that’s not my name,” he tsked, voice rough with want. His vibranium hand gripped your chin, tilting your face up to meet his gaze. “You know the rules, baby girl.”

“Sorry Daddy,” you whispered, your voice trembling with need. The age gap between you only heightened the taboo thrill, his authority wrapping around you like a vice.

“Good girl,” he rasped, his flesh hand sliding down your body, bunching the silk of your gown until it pooled at your hips. The cool air hit your bare thighs, and you gasped as his vibranium fingers traced the edge of your lace panties, the contrast of cold metal and your heated skin electrifying. “You’re so fucking perfect, but I can’t stand them looking at you like they could touch you.”

His lips crashed against yours, hungry and possessive, his tongue claiming your mouth as his vibranium hand slipped beneath the lace, finding you already soaked. You moaned into his kiss, the sound swallowed by his intensity as he teased you, fingers circling with deliberate slowness.

“So wet for me already,” he growled, pulling back to watch your face, his eyes black with lust. “You like making Daddy jealous, don’t you?”

“N-no, Daddy,” you stammered, hips bucking against his hand, desperate for more. “Only want you.”

“Damn right,” he snarled, and with a swift motion, he tore the lace clean off, the fabric ripping under his strength. You gasped, but he didn’t give you time to process, his fingers plunging into you with a precision that made your vision blur. The stretch was intense, the cold vibranium amplifying every sensation as he worked you relentlessly, his thumb pressing against your clit in a rhythm that had you trembling.

“Say it,” he commanded, his free hand wrapping loosely around your throat, not tight but enough to make you feel owned. “Who do you belong to?”

“You, Daddy!” you cried, voice breaking as he curled his fingers, hitting that spot that made stars explode behind your eyes. “Only you!”

“That’s my fucking girl,” he growled, his own control fraying. He hoisted you up, your legs wrapping around his waist as he pressed himself against you, the bulge in his trousers unmistakable. The wall was cool against your back, but Bucky was fire, his lips biting and sucking at your neck, leaving marks you’d wear like badges. “Gonna ruin you for anyone else,” he promised, grinding against you, the friction maddening.

You whimpered, clawing at his shoulders, the expensive fabric of his suit bunching under your nails. “Please, Daddy,” you begged, voice raw. “Need you. Now.”

He didn’t make you wait. With a low curse, he freed himself, the sound of his zipper loud in the quiet room. He was thick and hard, and when he pushed into you, the stretch was exquisite, filling you completely. You cried out, head falling back as he set a punishing pace, each thrust driving you higher, the wall rattling with the force of his need.

“Look at me,” he ordered, and you obeyed, meeting his gaze. His eyes were wild, possessive, and the sight of him—older, powerful, unraveling because of you—sent you spiraling. “You’re mine,” he growled with each thrust, his vibranium hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise. “No one else gets to touch you, see you like this.”

“Yes, yes, yes,” you chanted, lost in him, the pressure building until it snapped, your orgasm crashing over you like a tidal wave. You screamed his name, nails digging into his back as your body clenched around him, pulling him over the edge with you. He groaned, deep and guttural, spilling into you with a final, possessive thrust, his forehead resting against yours as you both panted.

For a moment, the world was just the two of you, sweat-slicked and sated, the gala forgotten. He kissed you softly, a stark contrast to the ferocity of before, his hands gentle as he adjusted your dress. “You okay, baby girl?” he murmured, concern flickering in his eyes.

“Perfect,” you whispered, still dazed, a lazy smile on your lips.

He smirked, brushing a kiss to your forehead. “Good. Now let’s go back out there. I want every one of those bastards to see you glowing, knowing exactly who fucked you senseless.”

As you returned to the gala, his arm a possessive anchor around you, the senator’s gaze lingered again. Bucky’s smile was razor-sharp, a silent challenge, and you knew no one would dare cross him. You were his, and he’d made damn sure you both knew it.

———————————

Sebastian Stan taglist: @notreallythatlost @houseofaegon @bunnyfella @sunday-bug @wintrsoldrluvr @maryevm @mcira @monsteraddicts-world @cherriesnmango @positivenergy

Let me know if you want to be added to the taglist <3

[inmycheckerboardera]

[antlerqueensab]

tell me more about travis when you first get back from the wilderness🙏

like post rescue but still young

oh, how i love post-rescue trav ☹️ he's literally my baby idc

i feel like for sure he'd be so focused on constant reassurance, like after everything you two went through in the wilderness, he'd NEED to be absolutely sure everything was okay and that you wouldn't leave. you both do a lot of things together after a month or so of being used to being back in civilization again, so occasional dates, going for drives, going to get food in diners/restaurants, etc. aka, you both can finally be a real high school couple!!

sleepovers are a very common thing. not as much at his house for obvious reasons, but since you still have a full family, maybe even a sibling or two, he likes the loudness. sleeps like a baby the first month or so since you both got used to that cramped hammock and the floor of the attic (since the girls let you two have privacy since you were the only actual couple straight away). so now that you both have comforters and the comfiest bed ever, he's instantly asleep and clinging to you

with school - since you and travis were both juniors when the plane crashed, it would definitely take a while for you both, and the other girls, to get used to it again. the counselors/whoever's in charge in the office would be surprisingly accommodating and let you both take all your important classes together, which actually helps travis a lot. again, he's scared that he'll lose you, even though he knows that you both are okay now

you both would be sooo comfortable around each other with all the shit that you've been through. like, if one of you gets sick, no big deal! you both have seen each other/taken care of each other plenty of times before! if one of you gets a bad wound - where usually either of you would get squeamish - again, no biggie! you both have so many memories/scars from small accidents like tripping over the smallest things, hurting yourselves during a hunt, absolutely tripping out on drugs, all of that stuff. so you guys can be completely yourselves with no problem!

i also feel like showering/bathing together would be a common thing too. not even for sex or anything like that, more of a comfort thing. the lake during spring and summer was a common place to clean up in the wilderness, and both of you would help each other there anyway. so now that you can actually have running hot water and literal endless choices of good soaps and whatever else you'd want to use, it was basically like heaven.

that, and i feel like especially post-rescue, travis would be very big on taking care of you/you taking care of each other. so it's something that he asks for and that he craved. it's something so insanely intimate on different levels, and he has so much love in his heart for you that he just needs to be gentle and reassuring with you in any way he can

༄˖°.🍂.ೃ࿔*:･ please send more asks omg 😭 nsfw or just small thoughts like this, it doesn't matter, i'll write it!!

[memoirofasparklemuff1n]

I KNOW WHAT YOU DID LAST SUMMER | PART 2

AN OBX SMAU

synopsis: the summer after graduating highschool was the dream. after years of tedious hours at school and of nonsensical drama, you are finally an adult, but most importantly? free. or so you thought. after a tragic incident the night of midsummers, the four of you decided to never, ever speak of it again. everything was going to be okay because only those present that night knew the truth, right?

pairing: exbf!jj x kook!reader; rafe x kook!reader

cw: guys, it’s a slasher story so gore & angst (troubled family relationships, violence, breakups, etc.) comes without saying. if you’re not comfortable with that then don’t read, i totally understand.

a/n: we're just going to pretend i posted this on may 23, ok? ok. because life update that absolutely nobody asked for at the end which is lwk a crash out (you don't have to read it lmao; it's not important lol) psa that english isn't my first language y'all so bear with me and i may or may not have proofread... i also queued this earlier so i am not posting in real time if that makes sense

anywayyyy, that's not important atm so drum rolls please!!!

PART TWOOOOOOOOOOOOO

WHO CHEERED? please bear with me, i was going THROUGH IT YALL BUT IM OK NOW (?)

I REALLY HOPE YOU ALL LIKE THIS, I LOVE YOU ALL SO MUCH I CANNOT BELIEVE that even one person is reading this let alone a HUNDRED OF YOU? AND BEING ASKED TO GET TAGGED???? i feel so cool. alright, i need to calm down, i'm an adult

i'm kinda making it up as i go so i guess incoherences might be here and there lol but...

we're so back

may 23, 2025

“ladies and gentlemen, this is the final boarding call for flight a1 234 with service from charleston to kildare. we are now inviting all remaining passengers to proceed to the gate for immediate boarding. please have your boarding passes and identification ready. once again, this is the final call for flight a1 234 to kildare. thank you for flying with us, and we wish you a pleasant journey.”

you took out your wired earphones with a sigh, before gathering your bags and heading towards the counter.

after waiting in line for 10 minutes and boarding the plane, you took your seat in first class. the flight attendant offered you a drink and a snack and you settled for a coke with pretzels.

the flight was supposed to take off at 9 but, of course, it was delayed, finally leaving at around 9:30. you put your earphones on again before leaning back on your seat and took a nap for the rest of the flight.

turbulence woke you up with a panic. your palms began sweating, before sitting up and glancing around with wide eyes.

an appeasing voice tore through the panicked whispers, “all passengers must remain in their seats as we land. these turbulences are normal, so please remain calm.”

easy for you to say.

cold sweat made your shirt stick to your back while you gripped the seat until you heard the pilot say that you had arrived at kildare safely.

thank god.

after wiping the sweat off your forehead, you took a deep breath before turning off the airplane mode on your phone.

you sighed when you saw your mother’s messages, re-reading yesterday’s conversation with a frown. this summer was going to be unbearable. and you didn’t even want to get started about the whispers and rumors that were bound to seep their way into your life.

but what definitely freaked you out the most was that message you had received from ‘unknown’ because this was not pretty little liars. you didn’t know what to do because for one, what were you supposed to say?

call the police and be like, “hey, me and my friends accidentally killed someone a year ago, and we got rid of the body. now someone is harassing me and sending me news articles that could possibly be linked with what we did. please, i need protection.”

be so fucking for real.

the passengers began to evacuate the plane, so you were at the airport for another tedious 15 minutes until you called your mother.

“hello?” your mother’s stern voice came through the line.

“hey, mom. i’m out front by the taxis.”

“alright, i’ll be right there.”

you hung up and put your phone away, pulling your suitcase along until you reached the curb where people were being dropped off and picked up. you suddenly saw a familiar blonde head, but before you could duck out of sight you made eye-contact with a girl you had once been as close as sisters.

sarah’s face turned shocked to overcome with uncertainty before it turned into something like regret and a bittersweet smile. she rushed over and threw her arms around you before you could process the whole situation. the scent of sunshine and salt air along with tropical fruits enveloped your senses. only sarah cameron could smell like sunshine and beaches, but there truly wasn’t another way to describe her.

you broke the hug first, only for her to set her hands on your arms with a small smile.

“it’s been so long since we last saw each other! i can’t believe it, i didn’t know you were coming back.” her warm brown eyes searched your face for answers, but you had long since learned how to not put your feelings on display. to anybody else you looked bored but inside? your mind was filled with racing thoughts and ways to escape the uncomfortable situation.

“yeah, i just finished my first year at unc.”

she let go of your arms and palmed her forehead, “of course! how was it?”

you grimaced, “not my finest moment but,” you shrugged. “at least that’s over with.”

sarah gave you a sympathetic smile before you heard her name being called out. you saw ward calling for her, the rest of her family probably already inside.

“i’ve gotta go, but it was really nice to see you. don’t be a stranger, ok?” she kissed your cheek goodbye and ran to the car before getting in.

a honk brought you out of your daze and you turned to see your mother’s red mustang making its way around the curb. with a sigh, you dragged your suitcase along and put it into the trunk before getting in the front alongside your mother.

your mother was wearing oversized sunglasses that she didn’t even bother to remove. she only gave you a tight smile and a quiet how are you?

“i’m ok, just tired from getting up early. and you?” your tone wasn’t exactly cold nor warm in an attempt to avoid an outburst from your mother.

once she was on the main road, she revved the engine until she was driving 60 miles per hour. “i am well, just worried about you, but i know that now is not the time to discuss this. which reminds me, we are going to have dinner with your grandparent’s monday night at ocean manor. we could go to pick out some clothes in the morning and grab lunch if you’d like.”

your heart squeezed at her words. you knew it was her way of extending an olive branch and if you fucked this up, this summer would be hell.

you plop down on your bed with a sigh, not even bothering to take off your shoes. instead, you kicked them off before turning to your side and looking out the window. from your room you could see the beach and tiny people riding the waves like dolls with their surfboard toys. as a kid you remembered thinking how bad you wanted to be like the cool kids of figure 8 and when you met sarah, well, your dream life had come true.

you remember your first day at kildare academy and how much of a movie-like scene it had been for you, having moved from your hometown at thirteen and being absolutely wrecked at leaving your friends behind. you’d made sure to enter the classroom just when class was about to begin so you could avoid the awkward gawking of the other students when they see a new, unidentified human. the thing about kildare was this: you were either a kook or a pogue but of course there were rankings among the kooks. kook royalty. which you learned the hard way. to them, by being a newcomer you were slightly above a pogue but not enough to be a full on kook. so, when you were assigned to kiara carrera as your lab partner for the rest of the school year, you hadn't realized that your social death sentence had been signed. everyone around you had snickered (apparently they knew something you didn't), a group of the prettiest girls you’d ever seen staring at you with a mix of curiosity and malice. you could tell the blonde girl with the caramel brown eyes with a fresh manicure, perfect hair and makeup along with an iron pressed uniform was the leader, the other two girls looking very much like karen smith and gretchen wieners.

kiara on the other hand… let’s just say she was, well, different. she had a pair of dirty converses, her uniform looked clean but not like she’d tried to make it presentable, chipped blue nails along with chunky bracelets and beachy jewelry. her hair had the prettiest curls you’d ever seen, two small braids framing her face which was adorned with a smile that made you feel like she knew something you didn’t.

seriously, everyone around here was incredibly good looking. did they put something in the water? it was hardly fair.

she peered over her shoulder your gaze landing on the group of girls that had caught your attention earlier, “i see you’ve met the plastics of figure 8.”

oh so it was obvious.

you let out a snort but caught yourself when the teacher looked at you with raised eyebrows. kiara was chuckling next to you, “seriously, on wednesdays they wear pink.” you giggled and for the first time since you arrived, you felt less lonely.

“so, what’s the deal with regina george?” your voice held a mocking tone, and you saw kiara’s eyes light up at your remark. soon after you became great friends and practically inseparable. you shared a lot with her, particularly feeling out of place when you didn’t belong to either side of the island. you could be considered a kook by wealth but not by their societal standards, which also summed kiara up perfectly. with her pogue father and kook mother she faced discrimination by her peers, but more so because of who she decided to spend her free time with and call her friends.

a certain blond came to mind, your heart sinking to your stomach and you sensed a crash out near the corner. your phone buzzed, causing you to nearly jump out of your skin.

your phone fell to the floor with a clatter when you clicked on the cursed link.

body found by local fishermen. you weren't even able to read the rest of the artcile, a cold shiver running down your spine before panic began to set in.

fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck

FUCK

you ran to your bathroom, barely making it to the toilet on time, all the remnants of your previous meal purged out of your body. if only you could expel your sins the same way you wouldn’t be so repulsed every time you looked at yourself in the mirror.

you finally got up when your phone began buzzing frantically from your room. holding yourself up against the wall, the edges of your vision turned a little blurry, shallow breaths ripping through your chest until you fell to your knees near your bed. gripping the edge, you managed to turn and sit with your back against the bed before reaching out for your phone.

great. now i have to see everyone at the goddamn club with their hypocritical questions filled with fake concern and kindness. i’m sure my mother has taken upon herself to uphold the image of her perfect daughter.

and to think that you were once one of them.

exactly. were. because they weren’t murderers like you.

you squeezed your eyes shut, covered your ears, and began rocking back and forth in an attempt to quiet down your racing thoughts, but they only got louder, until it felt like a thousand people were yelling at you, “murderer! murderer! murderer! murderer! murderer! murderer!”

would we like to see rafe in the next one ;lkdsfakjsdflka

he was supposed to kind of pop in, but @inthelibrarybtw told me that it was shit and i was like, just say you hate me. THAT'S NOT TRUE SHE WAS A SWEETHEART ILY BABY IM JOKING <33 THANK YOU FOR HELPING ME

no but i fixed it because what i had written WAS confusing. i forget you all can't read my mind THANK GOD. i don't know why i say that like it's a bad thing LMAOOOO

but idk how i feel about the kook academy part but my mind is so random sometimes that i relive memories in the most incoherent ways so that may show up in the way i write/protray the reader. i need to learn how to be more objective lol but BEAR WITH ME. this may or may not be a self insert 🫦

also THE VOICES LMAOOOOO

i've never heard voices that i know of because if i am crazy then i wouldn't know if everyone around me is a hallucination and this is all made up in my mind and i've concocted every single piece of my life in my head. but then i also remember my life wouldn't be this fucked up if i was making it up and i also am not creative enough to create this world in my brain. jesus fucking christ somebody shut me tf up.

*accepting rafe cameron applications to fuck me stupid.

WHAT? WHO SAID THAT?

anywayyyyy

my beautiful stars: @countryclubwhore (ily <3) @onlyangel-444 (one of the prettiest usernames i've seen) @papercranesandinkstains (my soulmate i fear) @inthelibrarybtw (loml fr) @cokewithcameron (angel) @jaes-last-words (<33) @rafesbabygirlx (in awe with your mind) @ethanthequeefqueen (laughed so hard at your username btw LMAOO) @7-deadly-cats-main (im obsessed with you; am also patiently (key word) awaiting on that rafe dream scene in kms 🫦 NOT ME HARASSING YOU LMAOO IM SORRY ILY) @ewwwitsel (sweet angel) @rockkybbys (i tagged u cuz you asked for another part but lemme know if you prefer not to be <333)

if you wanna be added let me knowww <333

i am also not over the fact that people actually like this, i know i've said this multiple times and i sound incredibly obnoxious but it's still true. i love each and every single one of you and don't be shy to talk to me PLEASEE i promise im a nonchalant, chill, cool girl (...) i might take a bit to respond because i read it and i think i answered in my head or i haven't seen it or genuinely forget or know it's there but because i have no concept of time i realize weeks have passed when i go to answer💀💀 BUT I AM HERE

unsolicited life update: i am ghosting all of my friends (which is really shitty i KNOW) and i'm not proud of it, i just get overwhelmed with so many texts that i procrastinate and then i end up going missing for weeks sometimes even a month soo DO NOT BE LIKE ME!!!! that is one of my biggest flaws and i really really need to do better because they don't deserve that at ALL; if it were the other way around i wouldn't put up with my ass. which i don't cuz like i would leave me if i could because it is EXHAUSTING. like omg, girl it's not that deep but wtv and lwk had a mini meltdown these past couple of days and may or may not have crashed out hehehehe

i will only say that i wish it had been for an interesting reason but no!! my brain just takes these executive decisions on its own because we're a bitch and she's the boss of me unfortunately :)

i also started this internship (?) for school credits at my local public defender's office and let's just say that i am beyond confused 95% of the time and i will complete my 1st week here tmrw. (yes i am supposed to be working as i write this, but shhh) i need to lock the fuck in.

xoxo,

gossip girl

how i felt after saying that (i've never touched a cigar/cigarette in my life) that's also the love of my life because this man awakened something in me at the ripe age of 13. what? who said that?

[tobesolnelyx]

Hiiii, for a one shot, I was thinking about adult!van and reader in an established relationship, they stayed together through the wilderness and couldn't leave one another. Life is not easy, guilt and nightmares making it difficult for both of them, but life is almost peaceful when they're together. They couldn't be more happy, they both like their jobs, somehow happy with what they're doing with their lives. But, recently, reader started to talk less and less to Van, avoiding her gaze, and most of all her physical contact. Van didn't push it at first, not wanting to make reader uncomfortable. But, reader continued to avoid Van like the pest, despite living together, always refusing any sort of physical contact, always managing to avoid talking somehow. Van is starting to get worried, thinking she did something wrong or maybe that reader is going to leave her. And as she goes to confront reader, to understand what's happening she hears noises in the bathroom. The door is slightly open and that's how she sees reader frowning at herself in the mirror, slightly mumbling about negative things. Then Van enters and reader immediately puts clothes back on. Van tries to ask about what happened but reader denies it, saying that everything is okay. But Van is getting more and more worried, she is almost tearful, thinking that it was going to be over for them and that reader was going to leave her. Reader, when she sees Van like this, immediately feels guilty and reassured her before finally explaining what's been on her mind for so long : reader felt insecure about her scars (honestly could be anything you want : the ones she got from the wilderness, in an accident, SH, or even stretch marks, whatever makes you more comfortable writing about) and was disgusted by her own body. Van finds this ridiculous because first of all she loves reader more than anything and also because reader never had a problem with her scars on her face, always kissing them. So, during the next days, Van makes herself a mission : making reader feel better. It could be some nice little comments, soft touches, etc. Could also be during sex and Van worshiping reader's body gently <3

I think it would work as fluff, hurt/comfort and smut if you want to :)!

— i’ll look after you || adult!van x reader 🦊 (post-crash)

a/n: thanks for req! didn’t include the smut part cause i didn’t feel like it. let me know if you want to write soft smut to that anyway. im definitely open to that! it was so fun to write ahhhh

summary: you got too deep in your head. van, as always, is here to help you get through it. hurt/comfort. fluff.

warnings: mentions of self harm, self hatred, standard yellowjackets warnings.

word count: about 2.7k.

It all started years ago, when you finally managed to leave the wilderness behind. As soon as the plane took off, you didn't look back. You didn't even want to.

The problem was, that place was going to haunt you for the rest of your life.

You remember the flight vividly—how terrifying it was. Your whole body shook, cold sweat clung to your palms, and your fingers clutched Van's hand with desperate strength.

Van was always there. No matter what.

So when you felt her fingers lace through yours, squeezing so tightly you thought she might crush your bones, you felt a spark of hope.

A chance, at least, at a normal life.

With her.

Because the thought that Van might not be there was something you never allowed yourself to entertain. Not after everything you had endured together. Not after spending nearly every waking moment side by side, clinging to each other to stay sane—against all odds.

You looked at her.

Everyone was silent then, lost between fear and a fragile sense of relief. The only sounds were the steady hum of the plane's engines and the low murmurs of the rescue crew—speaking as though afraid that a raised voice might shatter the fragile peace and send one of you lunging at them.

Maybe they weren't entirely wrong. You didn't know anymore.

Van met your gaze at last, tired but looser, more at ease than the others. After so much time spent running in circles, after so many days just fighting to survive, she looked as though someone had lifted a crushing weight off her shoulders.

You knew that some of you would never adjust. Would never fit back into the rhythm of the world, would never fully understand what normal was anymore.

But you and Van had each other. And that made you less afraid than the rest.

The first few weeks back were the hardest. Beyond the paparazzi, the nosy journalists, the endless hospital examinations—you simply couldn't find your place around.

Returning home to a place where everything was in its rightful spot was... strange. Running water, warm radiators, soft beds—it was all so horribly normal it made your skin crawl. You couldn't imagine going to college now, or worse—getting a job.

Not when, only a month ago, your teeth had torn through human flesh and dirt had soaked into the marrow of your bones.

It was then that Van, finally discharged from the hospital, announced that you absolutely had to catch up on all the movies you had missed while you were gone.

You agreed—because you couldn't imagine being away from her for long.

Besides, it gave you both something to do. Something to anchor yourselves with, to stop yourselves from drifting too far into the dark corners of your own minds.

Even if it meant rotting in front of the TV, holding hands, and gorging on junk food you hadn't seen in months.

Van preferred being at your place anyway. Her mother was too much. And your parents didn't mind. They were just relieved you had some shred of normalcy left.

You always curled up next to her, watching whatever terrible movie Van had dragged in.

Years later, not much had changed. If anything, it had only gotten better.

You lived together now, as far from Wiskayok as you could manage. Partly because you had always wanted to escape that shithole, and partly because you couldn't bear the sight of the others—wandering the streets like empty shells.

Van had opened a small but sufficient business of her own. You had found a stable job at last. Van's scars had softened with time, and you made sure to kiss each one every night.

Evenings were still spent the same way: curled up on the couch, with cheap snacks and some ridiculous film Van had unearthed.

"Van," you said one evening, grimacing but laughing at the same time. "This movie is terrible. Put on something else."

"Hey," she grinned, wrapping her arm tighter around your shoulders, pulling you even closer. "This is a classic, babe. You can't just call it terrible. It's essential viewing."

"Is it?" you teased, raising your eyebrows. "I think I was a much happier person before this movie started."

Van rolled her eyes but kissed your forehead anyway, smiling that lopsided smile you loved so much.

"Too late," she murmured, pulling back just enough to flash you a goofy grin.

You always slept together. In all the twenty-five years since your return, there had only been a handful of nights you slept apart. Not because you couldn't stand being separated, but because it was easier that way.

Safer.

The unpleasant hum of voices and memories in your head would grow quieter when you were together.

There were nights when one of you would wake up disoriented, unsure of where you were. And every time, you ended up curled up together, wrapped in blankets like some makeshift straightjacket, waiting for dawn. Because after those nightmares, sleep didn't come easily. You had to start over, every day.

There were days when one of you couldn't settle. Restless. Like you no longer fit inside your own skin, like guilt was gnawing an unbearable hole through you.

And when it felt like you were about to shatter apart, the other would catch you—suggest a walk, a stupid conversation, anything to pull you back.

Van knew she couldn't survive without you.

And then, one day, it hit you. That strange, suffocating feeling.

And not even Van's hands could chase it away this time. Her words, for the first time, didn't help.

You felt as lost as you had at seventeen.

If you couldn't live normally, you decided, you would at least pretend. For Van. For what you had.

It didn't work.

Not when you stood before the bathroom mirror in utter silence and really looked at yourself. Suddenly, everything chafed worse than ever. You couldn't just shrug it off as a bad day anymore.

Being queer in the '90s hadn't been easy. And your thighs still bore the evidence—white scars slicing across your skin. Not to mention the marks left from the wilderness itself, in random places, some more visible than others.

You hadn't thought about them in a long time. But now, you couldn't stop.

Especially now, when your body had changed over the years. And for the first time in your life, you wondered if Van might... leave.

So, whether consciously or not, you pushed her away first.

At first, Van thought it was just one of those bad days you both sometimes had. You avoided her—which was strange. You refused to meet her eyes. You always kept some distance between you. You sat farther away on the couch, flinching when she tried to touch you.

Van decided to give you space. Maybe it would pass. After everything you'd been through, how could she blame you?

She told herself it would fade, like everything else.

But she started worrying when you began skipping goodbye kisses before leaving for work. A kiss took seconds. You had always found time before.

Then you stopped letting her touch you at all.

You even started avoiding changing clothes in front of her—something that had never been a problem before. After all, in the wilderness, you had seen each other naked countless times. It had been almost natural.

And yet.

That's when Van truly started to worry. Confused didn't even begin to cover it.

One evening, she decided enough was enough.

She would get through to you, one way or another. She couldn't go back to those dark days. She couldn't keep worrying that you would slip through her fingers and shatter into pieces.

Van felt like she was seventeen again.

You were lying on the bed, reading god-knows-what, and Van barely cared. She walked over, gently tugging the book from your hands. She hoped you'd laugh—or at least smile.

Instead, you stiffened.

Van hesitated—but leaned in anyway, bracing herself on her arms and nuzzling her cold nose against your neck.

You flinched.

And not from pleasure.

Her lips found your neck, her hand sliding down to your thigh.

That's when you started to squirm, trying to gently push her away. Your hands trembled. Your pulse sped up. And suddenly, you felt trapped—like a wild animal.

You almost bolted from the room.

"Not... not tonight, Van," you muttered. You didn't even call her "love," like you usually did. Just her name. Something twisted painfully in Van's gut.

"I'm just... not in the mood," you added, fumbling for excuses. "Maybe another time."

You slipped out from under her, leaving Van more worried and confused than ever before.

And a horrible thought—an ugly, gnawing thought—sprouted in her mind:

Maybe you wanted to leave.

A few days later, after closing up shop, Van decided she couldn't take it anymore. The doubt. The fear. The guilt gnawing at her that she had somehow screwed everything up.

You used to tell each other everything. Why couldn't you now?

Van wasn't about to give up on the life she had fought so hard for. She had everything she had ever dreamed of. And she wasn't going to let it fall apart.

Even if her heart hammered in her chest and her legs shook slightly, she hunted through the house for you.

Finally, she found the bathroom door ajar.

She froze.

You were standing there, pants pushed halfway down your thighs, a loose shirt hanging off your shoulders, examining... the scars?

Van realized you were staring at yourself like you were searching for something that wasn't there.

"Disgusting," you muttered under your breath.

And that was enough.

Van pushed the door open.

You turned to her, wide-eyed, yanking your pants back up and fumbling to button your shirt. She had already seen. But you couldn't bear the thought of her seeing again. Because maybe this time, she would agree with you. Maybe this time, she would see you the way you feared most.

"What are you doing?" she asked softly, standing in the doorway.

You shook your head, forcing the most fake smile you had ever given her.

"Nothing," you said. But the tremor in your voice betrayed you.

Silence stretched between you. Heavy and loaded—like the nights in the wilderness when you spoke of dreams you didn't really believe would ever come true.

Van wasn't about to let it go.

"Okay," she sighed at last, her voice filled with confusion. You bit your lip, guilt gnawing deeper and deeper with each second. "I'm tired of this shit," Van said. "Tell me what's going on."

You clenched your jaw. Lowered your hands. Looked at yourself in the mirror again.

Took a deep breath.

"Nothing's wrong, Van," you lied—and the words tasted like acid in your mouth.

"Bullshit," she snapped. Her voice cracked. She swallowed hard, fists clenching at her sides, eyes locked on yours so fiercely you couldn't look away this time. "You're avoiding me," she said.

You dug your nail painfully into your palm.

"You're avoiding me, and I have no idea why," she continued. "I'm tired of being brushed off. I'm scared to death, and you're just..." her voice cracked again, tears glinting in her eyes. "...you're just pretending nothing's fucking wrong."

"You want to leave me?" she asked at last, a single tear sliding down her cheek.

"What?" you stared at her, stunned. "No. It's not that. I don't want..."

"Then what is it?" she pushed. You had only seen Van cry a handful of times. Knowing you had caused it now made you feel even worse.

And you broke.

"I feel horrible," you said finally, your voice barely above a whisper. "In my own skin. With my body. With the scars..." You shrugged helplessly."I feel disgusting."

Van blinked. Once. Twice.

Then she laughed softly— not because she thought it was silly, but because she couldn't understand how you didn't see it.

"Why didn't you tell me?" she whispered, her expression turning serious as she took a small step toward you.

And when you neither moved nor answered, her hands found your waist, pulling you tightly against her chest. Into a warm, firm embrace. Her fingers slid through your hair, and you felt something inside you shatter completely.

And it didn't even feel bad.

The tears came freely then. You broke down completely in her arms, soaking the front of her t-shirt, your fingers clenching tightly into the fabric as if it were the only thing keeping you grounded. You didn't know what you would do without her. And you never wanted to find out.

"I'm sorry," you sobbed into her shoulder, and she only held you tighter, anchoring you so you wouldn't spiral even deeper. Just like she always had. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to..." The words died somewhere along the way.

Van held you like that for a good half hour. Until you calmed down. Until the tears slowed, until your eyes grew puffy and your lips tasted salty from crying. Until your grip on her softened at last.

She carried you without a word to the bedroom, wrapping you tightly in her arms throughout the night, just like she had done so many years ago. In case you woke up needing her. At least it gave her a few hours to think of a way to fix this.

She listened to the steady rhythm of your breathing, adjusted automatically when you shifted in your sleep, whispered softly in your ear about how much she loved you. Even if you weren't fully awake to hear it.

Eventually, Van found a way. She found a way to fix it.

And that was already more than half the battle won. Because Van was sure of one thing: She wasn't about to let you go. Not after holding you every night for the past twenty-five years.

Van launched a little plan.

It started the next morning, when she made you breakfast and buried you under a mountain of compliments.

"You don't have to say all that," you muttered, trying to wrangle the whirlwind of emotions tearing through your head—guilt, that strange nervousness whenever you tried to believe her.

Van simply sat down beside you at the table and tilted her head until you had no choice but to meet her eyes.

"I think about it every day," she said, a small, genuine smile tugging at her lips. "I think about you—always. Everywhere. I just figured it was time to start saying it out loud."

You stared at her.

Van had always had this uncanny ability to melt people's walls with the sheer force of warmth she somehow carried inside her. You never knew where she got it from. But you were endlessly grateful for it now.

She tucked a stray lock of hair behind your ear, and you had to fight the smile creeping onto your face.

Van hadn't been this stupidly proud of herself in a long time.

Over the next few days, she kept it up. Complimenting you. Sometimes so ridiculously that you couldn't help but laugh.

And it worked. God, it worked.

She didn't slow down either—if anything, she doubled down.

Then, once you started feeling a little better—a little more like yourself—she began pulling you close again during movie nights.

"You're staring," you mumbled one evening, your eyes glued to the TV. The stubborn knot in your chest loosened a little more each day. And every time it threatened to tighten again, stealing your breath away, Van was there to pull you back.

She just hummed, her eyes still fixed on you.

"Is that bad?" she asked softly, her fingers tracing slow, comforting circles on your arm. Then she began planting small kisses along your shoulder, your neck—anywhere she could reach.

You stiffened at first. But you didn't pull away. Not this time.

"I guess not," you murmured at last, tilting your head a little, giving her better access. Her lips roamed up and down, her hands gently massaging the scars on your thighs. And this time—you didn't flinch.

"Good," she murmured against your jaw, pressing another kiss there."Because I love you too damn much not to stare."

[acute-crashout-jeyuso]

The Labubu Uso - Jhea

People I’d openly fight for a Labubu: @spiicii @maineventabbey @acknowledge-reigns @cheappop @isabella-2025 @love4brutality @minteagalaxea

Note: Finally Off today so I’m catching up on all my writing and editing! Anyways hope yall enjoy!!! ❤️😩

Jey didn’t mean to read her screen.

Okay. That was a lie. He absolutely meant to. Rhea had been giggling at her phone for like fifteen minutes straight. Giggling. Like a full-body, shoulders-shaking, kicking-her-feet giggle. He had never seen her act like this. Not even after sex.

So naturally, he leaned in.

“Whatchu laughin’ at, baby?”

Rhea instantly pulled her phone to her chest like it was a state secret. “Nothing.”

“Nah, gimme that.”

“No!”

“Is it another thirst trap of Liv’s? Is Dom sending memes again? Wait—it’s not a Miz thirst edit, right?!”

She glared at him. “First of all, I don’t need thirst edits. Second of all… it’s Labubu.”

Jey blinked. “Who’s Labubu? Is he in NXT?”

“No, dumbass,” she said, already showing him the screen. It was a pastel little gremlin thing with a big head and weird eyes. “It’s this. It’s a collectible toy. They’re monsters. I’m obsessed. They’re hard to find in person though, Popmart keeps selling out.”

Jey stared at the creature. “That thing looks like if Gizmo was on drugs.”

“I love him,” Rhea said seriously, eyes full of joy. “He’s so ugly it’s healing.”

Jey nodded slowly. “You want one?”

Rhea shrugged. “I’ve been trying. But they’re mostly in China. Popmart’s dropping some this weekend at the new store opening. Not that I’ll get one—those lines are insane.”

She didn’t mean it as a challenge. But Jey took it like one anyway.

And within five minutes, he was in the Bloodline group chat like it was DEFCON 5.

Jey: emergency

Jey: y’all busy saturday

Jimmy: depends

Solo: do i need to bring gloves

Roman: who we beating

Sami: is this about love again

Jey: yes

Jey: she likes this little gremlin toy called Labubu

Jey: it’s limited drop

Jey: i need y’all to cause a distraction at the new popmart so i can sneak in and grab one

There was a pause. A long one.

Roman: bet

—

The SUV doors swung open like a heist movie.

Roman stepped out first, sunglasses on, black hoodie pulled over his head like he was hiding from TMZ. Jimmy followed, adjusting his chains like he was about to film a rap video. Solo dragged behind them, already looking like he regretted this.

Sami jogged up from the corner with a Starbucks in his hand and a sign that read: “Labubu Exploits Capitalism—Say No to Greed”

Jey hopped out of the backseat, anxiety through the roof because he was almost certain he was about to commit a felony over a children’s toy.

“Alright,” Roman said, scanning the parking lot like a general. “Operation Little Ugly Dude is a go. Stick to the plan. Distract the freaks. Jey, you get the gremlin.”

“I got it, Uce.”

“Bring it home.”

They stepped into the store like royalty.

Immediately, all hell broke loose.

A pack of teenage girls sprinted toward Roman screaming “IT’S HIMMM!”

Roman didn’t even flinch. He just said “Acknowledge me” and started signing someone’s anime backpack.

Sami posted up by the collectible shelves, yelling into a fake megaphone:

“LABUBU IS A METAPHOR FOR CONSUMERISM! CAPITALISM KILLS JOY! THINK ABOUT YOUR CHOICES—think about your souls!!”

The manager was too busy filming for TikTok to intervene.

Jimmy stood near the entrance doing push-ups in the middle of the floor while yelling “NO YEET!” to distract the Popmart shoppers.

Solo walked over to the Funko POP display and casually shoulder-checked the whole thing to the ground like it owed him money.

Meanwhile…

Jey crept through the aisles.

Sweating. Focused. Stealthy.

He saw it.

There, in the back corner of the shelf—under a “LIMIT 1 PER CUSTOMER” sign—

“THE MONSTERS: Big Into Energy Series”

Labubu.

There was only one left.

He didn’t walk.

He ran.

Arms out. Elbows flying.

Like it was the last parachute on a crashing plane.

His hand gripped the box just as someone else reached for it.

“Back up,” Jey said, not even looking.

“You back up,” a voice growled. “Evolution is better than the Bloodline anyway.”

Jey froze.

Turned slowly.

And saw a grown man in a 2009 Randy Orton “Legend Killer” tee glaring at him with foam venom fangs around his neck.

“Don’t ever disrespect the Bloodline like that,” Jey growled.

The guy lunged.

And the fight was ON.

They knocked over a Pez display. A kid screamed.

Then—BAM!

A cane struck Jey in the back.

“DX FOR LIFE, BITCH!” one grandma shouted, dressed head to toe in neon green and zebra print.

Her friend yanked out a glowstick and snapped it threateningly. “You think y’all run the industry? Suck it!”

Now it was a full-on wrestling royal rumble in aisle 5.

Jey fought bravely, but Grandma #2 knew Krav Maga and the Randy fan kept shouting “ORTON!” while trying to RKO him.

Just when Jey thought he might lose his fingers for a stupid lil monster—

“Excuse me!”

Everyone paused.

A teenage cashier in a Popmart polo stepped into the chaos, holding her iPad like a Bible.

“Mr. Uso was here first. He had the box in his hand before y’all even got here. Back up or I call mall security.”

The Randy fan gasped. “You’d protect him?!”

“Yeah,” she said, deadpan. “He’s hot.”

Jey blinked. “Thank you?”

The grandmas grumbled and shuffled off. One of them yelled, “This ain’t over, Mullet Boy!”

Randy fan flipped him off but retreated, muttering something about 14 world titles.

Jey stumbled to the counter, dropped the Labubu box like it was a newborn, and slapped his card down.

“Swipe it. Fast.”

The cashier nodded. “Good luck, king.”

—

Jey kicked open the door like he just survived The Hunger Games. One shoe missing, hoodie ripped at the collar, glitter from one of the grandmas lip gloss still stuck to his eyebrow.

Rhea looked up from the couch, chewing Twizzlers and watching 90 Day Fiancé.

“You good?” she asked, eyes narrowing.

Jey didn’t say a word.

He just walked—limped—over to her.

Pulled a Popmart bag from behind his back like it was laced in gold.

And with the seriousness of a man proposing marriage, he held it out.

“Don’t say I don’t love you.”

Rhea raised an eyebrow, pulled out the box, and gasped.

“Labubu?” she whispered, eyes wide. “The Big Into Energy one??”

“Yeah.”

“LIMITED EDITION??”

“Yup.”

“THE LAST ONE???”

“Snatched it from the jaws of death.”

She stood, holding it like a newborn, cradling it to her chest like her heart was finally full.

Jey collapsed onto the couch dramatically.

“You don’t even know what I had to go through,” he groaned.

“Oh, please,” Rhea said, examining Labubu’s deranged little face.

“Nah, listen,” he sat up, rubbing his shoulder. “Roman caused a riot. Sami started a fake protest about capitalism. Solo destroyed a Funko POP display. Jimmy didn’t do nothing, he just flexed. I got jumped by TWO grandmas in DX shirts and a Randy Orton fan tried to RKO me over that thing.”

Rhea turned slowly. “Wait. You fought Randy fans… for me?”

He pointed at his chest. “FOR LOVE.”

She stared at him for a beat.

Then tackled him onto the couch.

Hard.

Jey yelped, legs flying in the air as Rhea straddled him with Labubu still clutched in one hand.

“You wanna know what this is?” she growled, waving the box in his face.

“What?”

“FOREPLAY.”

Jey’s eyes widened. “Say less.”

She kissed him like she was trying to win a competition. He moaned against her mouth, then yelped again.

“OW—ow—grandma bruised my ribs, babe!”

“I’ll kiss ‘em better,” she murmured, dragging her lips down his neck. “You really got me Labubu…”

“I love you and I hate myself,” he groaned as she threw the toy on the coffee table and started unzipping his hoodie. “This was twenty-one dollars and ninety-nine cents worth of trauma—”

“You’ll live.”

Labubu watched from the table.

Smiling.

Judging.

Feeding off the horny.

—

48 Minutes Later

Jey barely had time to catch his breath.

Rhea was half-asleep against his chest, one leg thrown over his, her fingers idly tracing his tattoo. On the coffee table, Labubu sat upright next to an empty box of condoms and a crushed Popmart bag like he had seen things.

Jey’s phone buzzed beside him.

He ignored it.

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

“Babe,” he groaned. “My phone.”

Rhea didn’t open her eyes. “Check it. Could be another drop.”

With a grunt, Jey reached and grabbed his phone, and blinked at the screen.

BLOODLINE ☝🏼🩸1️⃣ – 87 Unread Messages

Jimmy: bro i think that grandma wanted a piece of the Uso..

Solo: i may have concussed a child

Sami: just want it on record that i opposed violence and only emotionally destabilized capitalism

Roman: where’s my cut

Jimmy: FOR REAL

Roman: that gremlin was for all of us

Sami: i didn’t even get a sticker

Solo: i saw jey run like his life depended on it

Roman: don’t ever say we never did shit for you

Jimmy: was it worth it

Sami: yeah jey

Sami: was it worth traumatizing a child, humiliating Orton Nation, and initiating blood feud with two elderly DX fans for a 3-inch goblin

Jey took a photo.

Rhea asleep beside him.

Labubu staring into the void.

His bare chest covered in black lipstick smudges.

Popmart bag crumpled like a war flag.

Jey: yes.

Jey: i’d do it again.

Then he locked the phone, placed it face down, kissed Rhea’s head, and whispered to Labubu: “You better be worth it, you little freak.”

Labubu said nothing.

But if he could speak?

He would’ve said:

“Suck it.”

[lam-ila]

Sharpest Tool || Carlos Sainz

Summary: Inspired by Sharpest Tool by Sabrina Carpenter. You admit your issues with your on again off again relationship with Carlos.

Continue Reading: part one, part two, part three

Word Count: 1,590

Warnings: a few swears and an argument between reader and Carlos

please let me know if you find more that i should add

F1 Masterlist

a/n: thank you mel for helping me figure out the ending to this! i had two options and i very much like the one she chose better (which is the one that's in this fic haha)

this is gender neutral. hope you enjoy this! feedback is appreciated

LIKES ARE GREAT, REBLOGS ARE BETTER ♡

You and Carlos were… well you didn’t know. You acted like a couple, you did things like a couple, but you weren’t. You met the whole F1 family, meeting Lando, Charles, and even little Leo Leclerc. You went to a few F1 races in the 2024 season so far, the highlight being the Australian Grand Prix.

The race was just perfect for you and Carlos, and the post-race events were also just perfect. People assumed you were a couple, you felt like a couple, until media day of the Japanese Grand Prix when Carlos stopped texting you.

You two continued like that; sometimes you acted like a couple, you went to his races, then he stopped texting you. You constantly second guessed yourself and your romantic moments with Carlos, but you found yourself going back to himself every time.

You were in one of those times where you and Carlos weren’t talking to each other. You went to the Belgian Grand Prix, then summer break arrived and you hadn’t heard a peep from him. He was all you could think about, even while you sat at your desk at work on a random Tuesday.

Standing up to go on your lunch break, you grabbed your phone and tapped on the screen to check your notifications. You were about to put your phone in your back pocket when your eyes got caught on a text from Carlos.

You rolled your eyes at the soft ‘hey’ he sent, then noticed another text from him asking you if you wanted to go to one of his upcoming races. You quietly scoffed and shoved your phone in your back pocket, walking away from your desk to go on your lunch break.

You were furious. Carlos ignored you for a week and then casually asks you to go to his race? You weren’t sure how to respond. Just ignore him back? Text something snippy? Block him? Answer and say yes?

No. You couldn’t do that. You wouldn’t do that. You told yourself you wouldn’t agree to spending more time with Carlos if he asked again. But you wanted to so badly. You craved his touch, his kisses, his romantic gestures, but you knew it would only end in heartbreak, just like it always did.

You busied yourself with your work for the rest of the day, completely engulfing your mind into it to only thinking about it. You hadn’t thought about the texts that were sent to you by Carlos until later that day when you returned home from work. You crashed onto your couch after changing out of your work clothes and as you were about to open a text from one of your friends, your eyes glanced down at the still unopened texts from him.

You stared at it for a few minutes, contemplating everything about those texts and how you should respond, or even if you should respond.

You know what? Fuck it. You only live once, right?

You opened the texts, immediately bringing up the keyboard and typing ‘i’d love to! i’ll let my work know so i can get a few days off’. You quickly pressed send and turned the screen off before you could give yourself a chance to back out and delete the text. You squeezed your eyes shut, the small amount of time before receiving a text back feeling like hours. Your eyes opened once you felt your phone vibrate due to Carlos’ text that read ‘great! let me know when you find out cariño’.

—————

You managed to get a few days off of work and Carlos flew you out to Zandvoort for the Dutch Grand Prix. He greeted you as you got off the plane with his signature smile and you couldn't help but smile back. You felt like an idiot smiling at his stupid smile and admiring his stupid hair and running into his stupid arms for a hug as he kissed you on the top of your head with his stupid lips. His lips travelled down, pressing a kiss against your forehead, then one against your cheek, then you angled your head to press your own lips against his.

And then there was his stupid voice. Once you parted, with your nose nuzzled against his, Carlos mumbled a low "I missed you, cariño." You leaned forward to capture his lips in another kiss, humming into the kiss in agreement.

The rest of that day was euphoric; you and Carlos spent the entire time in his hotel room and ordered room service, watched tv, cuddled, and soaked the presence of each other in. You woke up the next day limbs tangled with Carlos' and light peaking through the curtains. You both groggily got up after a few minutes of laying in bed together, simultaneously getting ready for media day and taking a few seconds out of your routines every now and then to press your lips together in short, but passionate kisses.

You went through media day acting like a couple, just as you had many times before, but at the end of the day when you entered Carlos' hotel room for the night, you broke. You couldn't act like everything was okay anymore.

"What are we?" you asked Carlos the minute after you took your shoes off upon entering the hotel room.

"What do you mean?" Carlos rebutted, stepping closer to you to meet you in a kiss. Knowing what he was about to do, you placed your hand flat against his chest, stopping him in his tracks about one step away from you.

"This isn't normal, Carlos." You kept eye contact with him, trying to portray your sincerity in your words. He opened his mouth to respond, but you cut him off. "You're lying to yourself if you think we're fine. You know you are." Carlos took your hand off of his chest, holding it in between the both of you and despite how much you knew you shouldn't let him hold it, you let him do so.

"Cariño, you confuse me." You abruptly pulled your hand out of his at his words, take a step back from his to increase the distance between the two of you.

"That's just it!” You started to pace around the area in between the door and the bed you shared with Carlos the night before. “You're either blissfully ignorant or you actually don't realize anything's wrong because we never talk about it!"

“Cariño-”

“Stop calling me that!” You quickly turned on your heel to pointedly look at Carlos. He looked at you, mouth slightly parted in shock, as you stood in front of him, breathing heavily.

"Okay," Carlos cautiously began, not wanting to provoke you even more. "I'll stop calling you that. But I thought you liked when I called you that?"

"I did. But fuck, I'm such an idiot because this has all just been casual for you, right?" you continued before Carlos could answer your question. "Just a casual little on again off again fling. But this has been everything to me. My life has revolved around you. I've used up so many of my vacation days to be at your races. I've cried myself to sleep because of the multiple times you stopped talking to me. I've never been happier while knowing you, but I've also never been in a worse state of mind while knowing you."

You stopped after spewing out your little monologue, waiting for Carlos to respond. You stood in silence for a few minutes, staring at each other in shock.

"I'm done," you stated after Carlos didn't say anything. "I'm done with all of this, whatever this even was." You started to collect your belongings from around the hotel room, refusing to look at Carlos because you knew you'd fall back into his arms if you looked at him.

"Let me at least get you on a flight home," Carlos finally spoke up.

"Fine."

"And text me when you get home. Please. I need to know that you get home safe." He pleaded, eyes not wavering from you hurriedly moving across the room.

"Why?" You stopped in your tracks, still facing away from him.

Because I really do love you.

"You're not going to like the answer."

"Fair enough." You shrugged, leaning down to pick up your bag and shoving your belongings into it. "I'll be waiting in the lobby until you find a flight for me." Walking past Carlos towards the door without sparing another glance at him, you put on your shoes and hovered your hand above the door nob, giving him one last chance to say something.

"Go," Carlos softly lamented. "I'll text you the information once I book one for you. You won't even have to see me."

You left the room without saying another word, slowly and quietly closing the door behind you to avoid anyone in the neighbouring rooms from hearing a loud slam.

Instead of immediately starting to find a flight for you, Carlos sank down into the desk chair that sat next to the bed. His head fell into his hands as he mentally beat himself up. How did he screw up this bad? How did he lose you?

He glanced towards the closed door, debating whether or not he should run down to the lobby to beg for you back. But he didn't, despite how much he wanted to. He couldn't do that to you after everything he put you through.

Maybe he'd earn your forgiveness one day.

——————————

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[faeparrish]

i know some people aren’t really into the idea of a post-rescue 90s timeline but i am not one of those people <3 i feel like it could be just as fucked up and compelling to see the yellowjackets all try to behave like normal people again after 19 months of creating their own religion and cannibalising their friends... 🦦 anyway here’s a few post-rescue timeline things that i’m curious to see explored in season 4:

costumes - we got a glimpse of how the girls used to dress in the pilot and we obviously know how they dress in the future, so i’m really keen see what their styles look like when they’re back home again in the 90s. the costume department in this show is so so good, i can see them doing some fun easter eggs and motifs with this. i can also imagine them really playing with the girls’ styles in terms of signalling who is able to assimilate back into society better, how their clothing may reference their various traumas (for example i can picture shauna reverting back into a style of clothing that is reminiscent of jackie), and also how the younger characters’ styles may start to merge with their older selves a bit (mostly i just wanna see 90s butch van in the real world lol)

yellowjackets’ home life - there are a lot of characters that i am soooo interested to see return to their home environment again, especially as we’ve only really gotten scenes of life before/after the wilderness for lottie and nat. i’m specifically interested in how van and nat will find coming back home because we know they both had difficult upbringings; i’m curious to see how much being away from home has actually coloured their view of it, because they were both desperate to get back by the end of season 3. i can imagine it being a really bleak realisation of like ‘oh shit this is what i fought for… maybe i actually was better off in the wilderness’. i also so badly wanna see what shauna’s parents are like, mostly because the implication of her having two perfectly normal suburban parents is so insane and funny to me. same with tai, in the pilot her parents come across as very loving and supportive, so i’m interested to see how tai behaves around them after coming back from the wilderness. lottie we know goes nonverbal when she gets home and really retreats into herself, so i wanna see what’s going on with her a bit before her parents eventually decide to send her away. i’m dying to see what misty’s parents are like and how she is at home as well. i’m also interested to see travis have to go home without his dad or his brother, and then having to lie to his mum about what happened with javi… ohhh it’s going to be so fucked up i can’t wait

jackie’s funeral - i feel like it has to happen at some point and they will all have to be there and it’s going to be so excruciating and so good. jackie’s parents waxing lyrical about her wasted potential and how adored she was while shauna just sits there seething and guilty and devastated in the pews. also imagine being at the funeral of the girl you all ate after bullying her into sleeping outside, and now you all have to save face by pretending she died in a plane crash. same with the other yellowjackets who didn’t make it actually damn there are a lot of funerals they’re gonna have to relive their trauma and bad decisions through.

shauna visiting jackie’s parents - it’s implied that shauna visited the taylors’ house over the years for things like jackie’s birthday, and the writers have also suggested that shauna used to write in jackie’s diary during those visits (hence why her diary referenced movies that came out after her death). i feel like seeing young shauna back in jackie’s bedroom post-rescue will be so interesting, and it also gives us more opportunities for ghost-jackie scenes which are always fun.

taivan relationship angst - the idea of them being forced back into the closet after nearly two years of being openly together is so so sad. we’ve already seen a glimpse of how they both feel about staying together in the real world (tai is more apprehensive about it, van is less worried), and we know that the yellowjackets become tabloid fodder when they return which adds another level of stress onto tai and van’s relationship. although i don’t personally think they will break up super early into the post-rescue timeline (basing this off the fact that we know they were both at shauna’s wedding and pulled that pen prank together on jackie’s mum), i can see their relationship having a slow crash and burn sort of trajectory. lots of meeting in secret and having to hide from the paparazzi, friction over whether they can be out as a couple, trying to live normal lives again after being so codependent in the wilderness. we know that eventually they do split ways though, so either way im sure they’re gonna make me sad in season 4 :-)

90s tabloid/media landscape - this is kinda jumping off what i said about tai and van but i’m really keen to see how the show tackles the media attention the yellowjackets receive when they return home and how they all handle it. tabloid headlines about cannibalism and reporters trying to manipulate them into talking while the girls have all made a pact to not speak to the press and to protect each other. i can see misty being tempted once or twice, her face in that one post-rescue scene was so telling lmao. interested to see how it affects each of them mentally but also just in their lives generally; whether it’s harder to get a job, that kind of thing. i also want to see how the bad press might escalate and affect the way their community views them, especially with the rumours that start to bubble up and follow them on their return home.

shauna’s wedding - idk how far down the line this is but if we’re going off the wedding photo in their house it looks like shauna and jeff got married very young. i think that whole event would just be a fascinating character study episode on all of them, especially with the girls having to come back together and pretend that everything is normal and fine when it definitely isn’t. also i’m sort of interested to see what the hell happens between shauna and jeff when they get back and how that whole relationship comes up again, because right now i cannot for the life of me picture the younger versions of these characters being together. it could be an interesting contrast between the adult and 90s timeline though, now that jeff has distanced himself from shauna in the present day.

melissa faking her death - so we all agree this was an insane thing to just throw into the list of inevitable events we’ve yet to see happen in the teen timeline yes? i personally have unresolved beef with adult melissa being brought into the show, particularly after what happened with van, HOWEVER i do actually like 90s mel. I’m hoping her storyline this coming season will maybe redeem her to me a little and explain why she ended up at that point, or at least just flesh out her character a bit more in the 90s timeline. i’m also hoping it’ll answer some questions as to how she decides to fake her death in the first place; adult melissa said that when they got back she felt like she wasn’t one of them anymore, so im kinda interested to see why she winds up feeling that way to such an extreme. (also side note but at what point does she meet and start dating hannah’s daughter because that’s another bonkers thing to just toss into the mix of events we’re now expecting to happen lol)

“someone’s trying to hurt you (…) for what you did when you got back” - that line from jackie last season has been playing on my mind quite a bit when thinking about season 4. relating back to my last point i’m wondering if it plays a part in why melissa decided to fake her death. i’m also curious as to whether it was just shauna who did this thing that jackie refers to or if all the yellowjackets were complicit in it? either way it’s clearly still weighing on shauna’s conscience and playing into her paranoia, so i’m interested to see how that pans out in the 90s timeline.

is there something to miss? - one thing i’m soooo fascinated about w this show is whether the yellowjackets actually do wind up “missing” their time in the wilderness once they get back. there’s a lot of themes of them finding freedom in identity, a lack of social pressures and the ability to emote to such extremes without outside judgement when they’re stranded in the wilderness. some of them found purpose in being out there or a new sense of self, and although most of them really wanted to go home by the end of season 3, i’m wondering how much of a shock to the system it may be to actually do it.

pre-crash flashbacks (pls) - this is more of a personal hope than an expectation, but i feel like with a post-rescue timeline comes a lot of opportunities for more pre-crash flashbacks, which are always fascinating. i don’t think we got any pre-crash scenes in season 3, but i feel like with the girls being back home again at some point in season 4 it could definitely be used as a device to compare how things have changed since they got stranded (or how things really haven’t changed, in some cases)

[logansargeantsbabymom]

Practice

Oscar Piastri x Fem!Reader x Paul Aron

A/N: I really wasn't going to post anything on Tumblr for a while and to just use the anger and betrayal I feel inside of me to write as a form of an outlet. I've had this request done for a while but with everything going on I didn't want to post it but I already feel bad to the person that requested it for keeping them waiting for so long and since Oscar won today, I feel like this is an appropriate time.

After posting this, I do not know how long until I post again but know whenever I do decide it is the right time for me (mentally) to come back, I will have lots of stories to post along with writing more.

Again, thank you to everyone who has reached out to me and wishing me well and reblogging that post along with sending requests to other writers asking them to spread the word and to block and report that person, I do see them and I do really appreciate all the support.

Farewell, for now. I will see you all again soon.

Requested (idk where the actual ask went but I did write it in my notes app where I do rough drafts): Please could you do a story Oscar piastri x y/n x paul aron smut I'm dying for the two of them 🔥 @deepestrunawaykitty

SMUT

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It was a hot July Saturday night, and I felt my heart race as I entered the club with my boyfriend, Oscar. The bass pumped through my body, setting the tone for a night of pure, unadulterated pleasure. I wore a tight, black dress that hugged my body in all the right places. my long hair fell loosely and my eyes sparkled with anticipation. Oscar looked dashing as always, his brown hair tussled, and that seductive smirk playing on his lips. He was a Formula 1 driver, and his bad-boy charm had me hooked from the start.

As we made our way through the crowd, hands brushing against each other, the familiar lyrics of Drake's "Practice" filled the room. This was our song, the one that played on repeat during our steamy make-out sessions. Oscar leaned in close, his hot breath tickling my ear as he whispered, "You know what this song does to me, babe. It makes me want to take you right here on the dance floor and show everyone what you're mine."

I felt my core clench at his words, my nipples hardening against the soft fabric of my dress. I loved it when Oscar talked dirty, and tonight, I wanted to give myself completely to him. "Then take me," I purred, pressing my body against his, feeling the hard length of his cock straining against his pants. "I'm yours to do with as you please."

Oscar's hand slid down my back, pulling my body tight against his. With his other hand, he reached under my dress, his fingers teasing the soaked fabric of my panties. "You're so wet already, baby. Who knows, maybe I'll let one of my friends have a taste of this tight pussy tonight." I moaned, my eyes fluttering closed as his fingers found my clit, rubbing slow, torturous circles. "Oh, yes, Oscar," I gasped. "I'm yours to share. Do whatever you want with me."

As if on cue, Oscar's friend, Formula 2 driver Paul Aron, joined us on the dance floor. He was tall and muscular, with a mischievous smile that sent shivers down my spine. "Well, well, well," he said, his eyes roaming over my body. "Looks like someone's ready to play."

"She certainly is," Oscar replied, his hand still working its magic between my thighs. "Why don't you say hello, Paul?"

Paul didn't need to be asked twice. He pulled me against him, his lips crashing down on mine in a passionate kiss. I melted into the kiss, my hands exploring Paul's body as his tongue dueled with mine. I could feel both of their erections pressing into me, and it drove me wild.

Breaking the kiss, Oscar guided me to turn around, pressing my body against the hard planes of Paul's chest. "Such a beautiful view," Oscar murmured, nuzzling my neck. "Seeing your pretty mouth wrapped around my cock while Paul fucks that tight pussy from behind." I moaned, my eyes rolling back as Paul's hands slid up my thighs, lifting my dress. "Mmm, yes, Oscar," I breathed. "I want you both. Please, fuck me. Make me yours."

Without warning, Oscar spun me around and pressed my against the nearby wall, his mouth claiming mine in a voracious kiss. my senses spun out of control as I felt Paul's hands on my waist, lifting me up. I wrapped my legs around his waist as he pressed the length of his hard cock against my aching pussy. "You ready for me, baby?" he growled, grinding his hips against her.

"Please," I begged, my head falling back as Oscar kissed and nibbled on my neck. "Fuck me, Paul. Give it to me hard."

With one swift thrust, Paul impaled me on his thick shaft, burying himself balls-deep inside me. I cried out, my nails digging into Oscar's shoulders as I felt myself stretched around his cock. Paul began to move, his hips snapping as he pounded into me, each thrust hitting me deep and hard.

Oscar's hands roamed over my body, cupping my breasts and pinching my nipples. He kissed and sucked on my neck, marking me as his. "You like that, baby? You like being fucked by my friend while I watch?"

"Yes," I moaned, my head tossing back and forth as pleasure washed over me. "Oh, God, yes. It feels so good, Oscar. Don't stop."

Paul's hands gripped my thighs, holding me in place as he thrust faster and harder, his grunts filling the air. I felt her orgasm building, a coil of pleasure tightening in my belly. "I'm gonna cum," I panted, my fingers tangling in Oscar's hair. "Don't stop, please, don't stop."

As if sensing my impending release, Oscar reached between our bodies, his fingers finding my swollen clit. He rubbed me in slow, firm circles, sending shocks of pleasure coursing through me. "That's it, baby, cum for us. Let me taste that sweet pussy."

And cum I did. With a strangled cry, my body shook as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over me. My juices flowed around Paul's cock, making his thrusts even more delicious. "That's it, take it," Paul grunted, his hips slapping against my ass. "Cum all over my cock, you dirty girl."

As my orgasm began to subside, Paul quickened his pace, chasing his own release. I felt his cock twitch inside her, and with a final, powerful thrust, he filled me with his hot cum. "Fuck, yes," he groaned, his body trembling as he emptied himself inside me.

But the night was far from over.

After a brief respite, Oscar led us to a more secluded area of the club. His eyes were dark with desire as he pushed me against a nearby couch, his lips capturing mine in a fierce kiss. Paul stood beside us, his eyes burning with lust as he watched his friend take what he wanted from my willing body.

Oscar broke the kiss, his breath hot on my face as he said, "Get on your knees, baby. I want your mouth."

I obeyed without hesitation, my heart pounding with anticipation. I knew Oscar loved deepthroating, and the thought of taking him all the way down my throat made my pussy drip. I looked up at him with hooded eyes, my lips parted, as I reached for the belt of his pants.

Oscar undid his belt, freeing his hard length. my eyes widened at the sight of his thick, veined cock, the head already glistening with pre-cum. I licked my lips, leaning forward to flick my tongue over the sensitive tip. "Mmm," I moaned, tasting the salty sweetness of him. "I've been waiting all night for this."

I took him into my mouth, sucking slowly, bobbing my head up and down as my hands stroked his length. Oscar's hands tangled in my hair, guiding my pace as he moaned above me. "That's it, baby, just like that. Take it all."

my lips slid down his shaft, my tongue swirling as I hollowed my cheeks, taking him deeper with each stroke. I could feel his cock hit the back of my throat, and I relaxed, allowing him to slide down my throat. Oscar groaned, his hips bucking as he held me still, his cock buried deep. "Fuck, yes, that's it, take it all," he panted.

Pulling back, I sucked hard, hollowing my cheeks as I swirled my tongue. Oscar's hands tightened in my hair, guiding me in a fast, hard rhythm as he used my mouth for his pleasure. "You love that cock, don't you, baby?" he growled. "You're such a dirty little cock slut."

"Mmm-hmm," I hummed around his shaft, my eyes flashing with desire. "I love it, Oscar. I love sucking your big cock."

Paul stood beside them, stroking his hardening cock as he watched the erotic display. "Damn, that's fucking hot," he muttered. "Seeing her mouth wrapped around your cock is making me hard again, Oscar."

A wicked smile curved Oscar's lips as he pulled me off his cock, a strand of saliva connecting our mouths. "I think it's time for that double penetration I've been craving, don't you?"

my pussy clenched at his words, the thought of being filled by both men at once sending a thrill through my body. I nodded eagerly, my eyes shining with anticipation. "Please, yes. Fuck me, both of you. I want it so bad."

Oscar positioned me on my hands and knees on the couch, my ass raised in the air, my pussy exposed and glistening with my juices. "Ride that cock, Paul," he instructed, his eyes sparkling with lust. "I'm gonna stretch her throat while you pound that tight pussy."

Paul lined himself up, sliding into my wet heat with ease. I moaned, my eyes fluttering closed as I felt myself stretched around his thickness once again. Oscar guided my head down onto his cock, holding me still as he thrust his hips, fucking my mouth hard and fast.

The sensation of being filled at both ends pushed me closer to the edge. I felt Paul's hands grip my hips, setting a brutal pace as he slammed into me. Oscar's cock pumped in and out of my mouth, his balls slapping against my chin. "That's it," Oscar grunted. "Take it, you dirty slut. Take both our cocks."

The sounds of their grunts and my muffled moans filled the room. “So dirty for us, such a slut” Oscar grunted. His words sent me over the edge. I cried out around Oscar's cock as my orgasm ripped through me, my body shaking with the force of it. Paul roared his release, his cum shooting deep inside me as he rode out his orgasm.

With a final, hard thrust, Oscar held my head down on his shaft, his hips bucking as he filled my mouth with his hot load. I swallowed, milking him with my mouth as he groaned my name.

Collapsing onto the couch, all three of us panted, a tangle of sweaty, satisfied bodies. I smiled, my body buzzing with satisfaction. This was definitely a night I would never forget.

—————

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