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jungkoode · 3 months ago

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𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 19

˗ˏˋ redefining stances ˎˊ˗

"You have always put people in different categories: friends, dating and fucking. And the idea of someone redefining that makes your chest twist inwardly, because that's just not how it works. Never has."

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⋆｡°✩ chapter details ✩°｡⋆

word count: 15k

content: parental expectations, inner monologue, anxiety attacks, body reactions, redefining terms (friendship), fights, communicating (kind of...), subtle propositions, blowjob, handjob, embarrassment and insecurity / self-doubt (f), guiding (m), orgasm, cumming on face, hanging out plans.

✧ author's note ✧

WHEEEEEEW. okay. hi. hello. greetings. blessings upon your crops.

So first of all, I must humbly report that the new goal system (Tumblr and Wattpad having to align like twin stars) is working beautifully. It gave me a luxurious (dare I say scandalous) nine-day window to edit, tweak, breathe, and cry. And I only did one of those things on the floor (take a wild guess). I’m keeping it for now, besties. Let’s see if it continues to save me from myself.

Now. This chapter. Yeah. She’s 15k. And I would say “I don’t know how that happened,” but I would be lying through my teeth. Ask Koopsy. The BJ scene alone was 3k at one point. And then I had time. And we all know what happens when I have time. I rewrote it. And suddenly it’s eight. I regret nothing. It’s unhinged but like… in a deliciously purposeful way.

I especially loved dragging some vulnerability out of our girl—Y/N’s still that stubborn “keep it all inside or die” kind of girlie, but you’ll see her starting to leak, emotionally. And the way Jungkook isn’t being mocking when she cracks a little? When she masks her insecurity and he just sees her? HELLO. I giggled. I kicked my feet. I twirled my hair.

Also?? This chapter really digs into how fundamentally opposite they are when it comes to emotional frameworks. Like, Y/N hears “friendship” and sees expectations, accountability, people expecting her to care back. Hard pass. Meanwhile Jungkook is like “let’s label this so we can safely not fall.” LMAO. It’s giving defensive strategies 101. It’s giving textbook avoidant-anxious overlap. It’s giving both of you need therapy immediately and maybe a hug.

BUT. You’ll also see a little growth. A spark. A whisper of a maybe. She doesn’t fully shut down. She doesn’t say “no.” She’s simmering. And as someone with trauma? That simmer is progress. That’s real. That’s human. That’s our girl doing her best with a backpack full of emotional grenades.

Anyway. This is your 4x VERY slow emotional slow burn reminder. If you’re here hoping they’ll acknowledge feelings soon—first of all, who are you? Second of all, no. Third of all, this is not a customer service inbox. You don’t get to file complaints. You get to suffer. That’s the deal.

Enjoy the chapter, scream in my inbox, or join the crying circle on Tumblr where the rest of Kiki Nation gathers to chant “girl what the hell” in unison.

Welcome if you're new. Godspeed if you’ve been here.

Kiki out.

⋆｡°✩ read on✩°｡⋆

ao3

wattpad

Pancakes smell like rain and roses and a home you can't go back to.

The smell is soft at first, curling around the edges of your consciousness as you blink against the morning light filtering through the blinds. Warm and familiar, it drags you back—not to this kitchen, not to this apartment, but somewhere far away. Somewhere softer. Somewhere safer.

Pancakes always smelled like home. Like rainy mornings where the sky was a patchwork of grays and blues, stitched together by streaks of silver rain that blurred the world outside the window. Mom would hum as she worked, her voice low and steady, blending with the sound of batter hitting the pan and the hiss of butter melting into golden pools.

She never measured anything—not really. Just a spoonful here, a dash there, warm milk poured straight from the carton into the bowl without hesitation. She’d laugh when Dad complained about her ‘eyeball method,’ but he never said no to her pancakes. Not once.

The kitchen always smelled alive on those mornings—like butter and sugar and coffee mingling in the air, weaving through the faint floral scent of the potted roses Mom kept near the window. She swore they dulled the smell of food, but they never did. The pancakes always won, their buttery sweetness overpowering everything else until it felt like you could taste them just by breathing.

You loved those mornings. Loved how they made the house feel lived in for once—like more than just walls and furniture and people passing each other on their way to somewhere else. On rainy days, it felt like home. Like something worth staying for.

Maybe that’s why pancakes were your favorite. Not because of how they tasted (though they were always perfect—soft and fluffy with just enough sweetness to make you grin through a mouthful), but because of what they meant. Because they were more than breakfast; they were a memory stitched together with rain and roses and laughter that echoed long after the plates were cleared.

You close your eyes now, letting the smell wash over you like a wave, pulling you under until all you can think about is that kitchen—the one with the chipped tiles and mismatched chairs where Mom would stand with batter-stained hands and Dad would sip his coffee too loudly just to annoy her.

And for a moment—for one fleeting second—you’re there again.

Home.

The problem with perfect memories is they're usually lies.

And then it's gone.

The mirage of home evaporates like morning dew on grass, leaving behind the acrid aftertaste of something that never really existed. Not like that. Not with the softness your mind painted over the jagged edges.

Those pancake mornings? They always came with conditions.

‘Straight A's this semester, honey? Pancakes on Sunday!’

‘Piano recital went well? Let's celebrate with breakfast tomorrow.’

‘SAT prep finished early? I'll make your favorite in the morning.’

Always a reward. Always a transaction. No matter how much vanilla extract Mom added to the batter, you could still taste the expectation underneath—bitter and metallic, like pennies on your tongue.

Makes sense why you can't enjoy things without earning them first. Why everything has to be deserved.

The scent wafting through the apartment shifts now. No longer just butter and sugar and rain-soaked roses, but something sharper. Something that stings the back of your throat and makes your stomach twist.

Guilt.

Because who the fuck resents pancakes? Who looks at a mother standing over a hot stove, humming while she makes your favorite breakfast, and thinks: this isn't enough?

You do, apparently.

You who had everything—the nice house, the private school, the parents who ‘just wanted what was best.’ The ungrateful daughter who still squirmed under their touch, who counted down the days until college like a prisoner marking time.

You don't have the right to feel trapped by love. You know that.

People would kill for what you had. For parents who showed up. For a home without holes in the walls. For pancakes on Sunday mornings.

So entitled. So privileged.

The voice in your head sounds like Mom when she's disappointed—soft and somehow, sharp at its core. She never raised her voice.

Never had to.

Just that quiet, ‘I expected better from you,’ that cut deeper than any scream.

Your teeth grind together, jaw clenching so hard it aches.

There's a pressure building behind your eyes, hot and insistent, but you refuse to let it out.

Not over fucking pancakes.

Not over the way Dad would look at your report card before he looked at you.

Not over the way Mom rescheduled your life without asking, because ‘Yale doesn't accept students who waste time on sketching.’

Not over the way they both pretended your opinion was valued while systematically stripping away every choice that mattered.

‘We're just guiding you. We're just helping. We're just doing what parents are supposed to do.’

The smell of pancakes is suffocating now. Cloying. Sweet in a way that coats your tongue and makes you want to scrape it off.

And still, there's that whisper, that insidious little thought that's been following you since you left: Maybe if you'd been better—more grateful, more deserving—it wouldn't have felt like a cage.

Because that's the real fucked-up part, isn't it? You miss them. Miss the security of those Sunday mornings. Miss knowing exactly what was expected, even as you chafed against it.

Miss feeling like someone cared enough to map out your entire life, even if they never bothered asking which direction you wanted to go.

The guilt surges again, stronger.

What kind of monster resents safety? What kind of daughter hates being loved?

The kind who runs away to New York and still wakes up in the middle of the night, heart racing, thinking she's late for a lesson she never wanted to take.

The kind who changed her major three times before settling on English, just because it was the one subject Dad thought was ‘impractical.’

The kind who buys her own groceries and pays her own rent and still can't shake the feeling that she's doing everything wrong. That somewhere, someone is keeping score, and you're failing.

The kind who smells pancakes and wants to cry.

Not because you miss home.

But because part of you is afraid it's following you here, to the one place that was supposed to be yours. Just yours. With no expectations attached.

The smell is coming from the kitchen. Someone is making pancakes in your kitchen.

And you don't know whether to smile or scream.

Your fingers clutch your phone, because the pressure building in your chest has to be channeled somewhere.

The numbers glare back at you, accusatory.

8:00

Panic bubbles out of you.

Late. You're late. You're always fucking late. Dad's voice in your head, that disappointed sigh. ‘Time management reflects character, dear.’

You bolt upright, heart hammering against your ribs, and then—

Nothing is right.

The sheets aren't yours. Too dark, too soft. The wall is wrong—black, with one accent wall in deep red that you've definitely never painted. There's a carpet beneath your feet when you swing your legs over the edge. Your water bottle isn't where it should be. Your clothes aren't where you left them, you’re naked.

This isn't your room.

This is Jungkook's room.

Jungkook's bed.

And suddenly last night comes rushing back in fragments that make your skin heat up.

Not the usual—not the snarky comments across the kitchen table or the silent treatment when you're pissed at each other. Not the avoidance of the last four days where you both pretended the other didn't exist.

No, last night was... talking. Just talking. Both of you just... existing in the same space without trying to burn it down.

And then—

Jesus Christ.

You press your palms against your eyes, but that doesn't stop the memory. Him between your thighs, making those sounds like he was the one getting pleasure from it. The way he looked up at you, eyes almost black in the low light. How he touched himself while tasting you, like he couldn't help it.

And then after, when you both should've retreated to separate corners to lick your wounds and rebuild your walls—you didn't. You fucking climbed into his bed. Told him to stay. Like it was nothing. Like it was normal.

What the actual fuck is wrong with you?

You can't even blame alcohol. Two glasses of wine over the entire evening doesn't equal drunk. Doesn't equal stupid decisions. Doesn't equal... whatever the hell last night was.

So what was it?

You drag your hands down your face, feeling the heat in your cheeks.

Are you really that easy to disarm? One decent conversation, one night where he's not being a complete ass, and suddenly you're sleeping in his bed like some kind of...

Like what? Not a girlfriend. Not a friend with benefits, because friends actually like each other.

Just... a girl who got confused. Who let her guard down. Who maybe wanted, just for a night, to not fight everything and everyone.

Including yourself.

You grab one of Jungkook’s discarded black T-shirts (oversized ones, because he thinks he’s cool or something) and some clean boxers to entertain your thoughts.

But it’s no use.

Your fingers dig into your scalp, tugging at your hair. You want to bang your head against the wall until these thoughts scatter, but then you remember—again—that it's not your wall. It's his. This entire space belongs to him, and you're the intruder here.

Except he didn't say no, did he? When you suggested, he didn't really hesitate. Much. Just huffed, carried you and then plopped right next to you. Like maybe he wanted it too.

And for one brief, stupid moment last night, curled up in sheets that still smelled like him, you thought… maybe this could work.

Maybe you could actually be friends.

Real friends.

The kind who talk about shit that matters. Who know things about each other that have nothing to do with sex or power plays. The kind who don’t pretend silence is neutrality and eye contact is war.

But friends means caring. And caring while fucking is a road that leads straight to complication city, population: you, crying on the bathroom floor at 3 AM wondering why you weren't enough.

Fucking is one thing. Dating is another.

Being friends? That’s a whole different monster.

And you’re not naïve enough to believe people can safely be all three at once—not without bleeding somewhere.

Sure, people who date usually start as friends. And yes, most people who date also fuck.

But you?

You don’t date. You detonate.

And Jungkook? He’s got matchsticks for fingers and a mouth that knows exactly where your fault lines are.

So, no. He doesn’t get to be all three. Doesn’t get to orbit your life from multiple angles. Doesn’t get to slip into your day like heat and leave like regret.

He’s not dating material.

But he is fuckable. Dangerously, addictively, ruin-your-life fuckable.

So that’s where he stays. Logically.

You check your phone again. Still 8:00 AM. But it’s Saturday, which means—

Your new job. Barnes & Noble. 10:00 AM.

The panic recedes, leaving behind a hollow sort of relief.

You're not late. You have time. Two whole hours to figure out how to look Jungkook in the eye without thinking about his mouth between your legs or the way his voice sounded when he talked about his ex or how he looked when he seemed actually, genuinely concerned.

Two hours to rebuild all those walls that somehow, without you noticing, started to crumble.

You're not sure it's enough time.

The heel of your palms dig into your eyes as you let out a sigh that feels like it's been trapped in your chest for days.

Fucking pancakes. The whole place reeks of them, sweet and buttery and—

Pain slices through you, vicious and unexpected.

"Fuck—"

Your body curls in on itself automatically, a reflex you can't control. It feels like someone's taken a rusty knife to your insides and decided to twist. Your hand flies to your lower abdomen, pressing against it like that'll somehow help. Like you can hold yourself together through sheer force of will.

The IUD. Has to be.

It's been nagging at you for days now. Little pinpricks, the occasional twinge that made you wince but was easy enough to ignore.

But this? This is something else entirely. This is your body throwing a full-scale revolt.

You sink back onto Jungkook's bed, chest doubling over toward your knees.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Just like Mom taught you, back when panic attacks would hit in the middle of the night before big tests. Back when your chest would get tight and the world would spin and everything felt like too much.

‘In through your nose. Hold for four. Out through your mouth.’

‘Good girl. That's my good, brave girl.’

The memory of her voice is so clear it's almost like she's here, sitting next to you on this bed that isn't yours, in this room that smells like someone else. Guiding you through the pain like she always did. Always so calm. Always so sure.

Even when you hated her methods, you never doubted she knew what she was doing.

The pain ebbs, receding like a tide that's bound to come back. It leaves you empty and oddly fragile, staring at the dark gray carpet between your bare feet. The urge to slide back under Jungkook's covers is almost overwhelming. To just hide there until the world feels less overwhelming.

Something soft and warm brushes against your ankle.

Griffin looks up at you with those unblinking amber eyes, his tail a question mark behind him. He makes that little chirping sound that's not quite a meow, more like he's asking if you're okay in the only language he knows.

"Hey, buddy," you murmur, reaching down to scratch under his chin where he likes it best.

He leans into your touch, purring loudly enough that you can feel the vibration through your fingertips.

Such a simple thing. Touch and response. Need and fulfillment. No conditions, no expectations. Just connection.

It makes your throat feel tight in a way that has nothing to do with pain.

Griffin bumps his head against your palm, demanding more attention. Typical. Exactly like his owner—always taking more than he's given.

The thought makes you snort softly.

You stand, slower this time, wary of another attack from your rebellious reproductive system—yet nothing happens. Small mercies.

When you open Jungkook's door, the smell of pancakes hits you like a wall. Rich and sweet and somehow wrong. Not like home. Not quite. Different ingredients, different hands.

And there he is. In a fucking Sonic the Hedgehog T-shirt and matching pajama pants. Hair a mess, like he styled it with a fork and an air fryer. Flipping pancakes like he’s got his life together.

Standing in the kitchen with his back to you, shoulders moving slightly in time to whatever's playing through those expensive headphones. Completely in his own world. Completely unaware that you've been having an internal crisis in his bed for the past twenty minutes.

Completely, infuriatingly normal. Like last night changed nothing.

Maybe it didn't. For him.

Maybe it didn’t. For you.

Or maybe it did.

You sigh, dragging yourself toward the kitchen because someone needs to make sure he doesn't burn the whole fucking place down. The security deposit is half yours, after all.

Jungkook doesn’t show any sort of acknowledgement, headphones clamped over his ears, head bobbing so violently you're genuinely concerned it might detach from his neck.

Like his brain doesn't have enough problems already without the potential concussion.

Now that you're closer, you can actually hear him—not just humming, but full-on rapping? along.

Or trying to.

The tinny leak from his headphones gives you just enough to recognize that god-awful song that's been all over TikTok lately.

Gang Baby, NLE Choppa.

Of course that's what this idiot listens to while making breakfast.

He spots you in his periphery and doesn't miss a beat, turning just enough to start mouthing the lyrics directly at you. His eyebrows do this ridiculous waggle when he gets to the part about let me B-A-N-G and let me fuck some.

You curl your lip in disgust, which only makes him snort and rap more enthusiastically.

"Real classy, Rogue. Nothing says 'good morning' like misogynistic garbage at—" you check your phone, "—8:12 AM."

He pulls one side of his headphones away from his ear.

"Sorry, what? Couldn't hear you over this absolute banger."

"I said," you position yourself next to him at the counter, peering at whatever he's mixing in that bowl, "you have the musical taste of a horny fourteen-year-old who just discovered his dad's Playboy collection."

"Hey, don't hate. NLE Choppa is a lyrical genius."

"Oh yeah? What's next on your sophisticated playlist? 'Me So Horny'? Maybe some 'My Neck, My Back'? Real breakfast ambiance."

"Those are classics," he grins, completely unashamed. "But I reserve those for special occasions. Seduction purposes only."

"Has that ever actually worked on anyone with more than two brain cells?"

"You tell me, Nix." His voice drops half an octave, eyes flicking down to your lips for just a second before he turns back to his bowl.

You make an incredulous sound.

“What the fuck are you making, anyway?"

"Protein pancakes, babyyyy!" He drags out the word, lifting the spatula like it's a trophy.

Your face must show exactly how you feel about that because he laughs.

"What? Gotta maintain these gains."

The fucking idiot actually flexes then, one arm curling up while he continues to stir with the other.

You swat at him, connecting with his bicep.

Firm. Solid. Warm.

You pull your hand back like you've been burned.

"God, you're so fucking stupid."

"Stupid hot, maybe."

You ignore that, moving toward the coffee maker. The one thing in this apartment worth waking up for.

"Ah ah," he tsks, reaching behind him. "Already made you some."

You pause, watching as he passes a mug over to you.

Your mug. The dark blue one with the chip on the handle that somehow ended up being yours even though you can't remember buying it. Steam curls from it, carrying the rich scent of coffee—strong, with just a hint of hazelnut.

Exactly how you like it.

You bite the inside of your cheek, wrapping your fingers around the warm ceramic.

“Thanks," you mutter, the word almost painful to push out.

"So," he says, pouring batter onto the griddle, "you're eating some pancakes, aren't you?"

You purse your lips, hesitating.

On one hand, protein pancakes sound like something a gym bro invented to justify eating dessert for breakfast.

On the other, your stomach reminds you it's been empty since those chips you inhaled around midnight.

"Come on," he pushes, "you need protein to maintain that ass, Nix."

Your jaw actually drops. "Excuse me?"

"What?" He grins, ducking his head when you swat at him again. "I'm just saying, would be a pity to throw that to waste. You've got an amazing—"

"Ughhhhh, okay! I got it!" You cut him off before he can finish. "I don’t wanna hear it at this hour. I'll eat your stupid pancakes, my god."

He looks far too pleased with himself, flipping a perfectly golden pancake like he thinks he’s an actual chef or something.

"They're not stupid, they're nutritionally optimized."

"Is that what your protein powder labels call them? The ones with the half-naked bodybuilders flexing on the front?"

"Hey, don't judge my fitness journey."

"Oh, I'm judging everything about you, Rook. It’s my whole brand.”

He just chuckles, sliding the first pancake onto a plate and pouring more batter. The domesticity of it all is somehow ridiculous.

It feels too normal. Too easy. Like you've done this a hundred times before.

Like maybe you could do it a hundred times more.

Dangerous thought. Very dangerous.

You take a long sip of coffee, letting the bitter heat scald away whatever the hell that feeling was.

Jungkook slides a plate toward you, two perfectly golden pancakes stacked and steaming.

And honestly; they actually smell... decent. Not like the protein chalk you expected.

"Bon appétit," he says with a ridiculous flourish of his hand. "Try not to fall in love."

"With you or the pancakes?" You grab a fork from the drawer, sitting on one stool and poking at your breakfast suspiciously.

"The pancakes.” He says with a smirk, joining you in the adjacent stool. “I’m too much for you to handle.”

You roll your eyes, taking a reluctant bite. Fuck. They're good. Like, actually good. Not gritty or chalky or tasting vaguely of chemicals like most protein-enhanced food.

His smug grin tells you your face has already betrayed you.

"Don't," you warn, pointing your fork at him.

"Don't what?" He leans forward, one elbow propped on the table. "Don't mention how your eyes just rolled back in your head? Or don't point out that I'm right about something, and that's clearly causing you physical pain?"

"Don't be insufferable before 9 AM." You take another bite, speaking around it. "I haven't had enough coffee to deal with you at full throttle."

"What about last night? You seemed pretty happy dealing with me at full throttle then."

"Seriously? We're doing this now?"

"Doing what?" He stabs his own pancakes with his utensil. "Having breakfast? Talking? Being... you know, normal?"

"Normal. Is that what we're doing?"

"Well, yeah. I mean, last night was..." He shrugs, taking a bite of pancake. "Nice. You know? We actually talked. Didn't try to kill each other. Maybe we could do that more."

Oh god. This is exactly what you were afraid of. This weird, awkward morning-after attempt to redefine things.

He's going to want to put a label on it now, isn't he?

Turn your convenient arrangement into something messy with expectations and feelings and other terrifying shit.

Friends. Or friends with benefits or whatever stupid idea he’s about to come up with.

No. Absolutely not.

"We talked," you say carefully. "We also fucked. Let's not make it weird."

"How is it weird to suggest we could be, I don't know, actual friends?"

And there it is.

"Friends." You stab at your pancake with more force than necessary. "Right. Because that's what people who've seen each other naked are. Friends."

"I mean, yeah? Friends who fuck. It's a whole thing. People do it all the time."

You look up at him, fork frozen halfway to your mouth.

“And how's that worked out for you in the past, Rogue? These fuck-buddy friendships of yours—all solid, drama-free arrangements, were they?"

His eyebrows furrow. "I'm not suggesting we start braiding each other's hair and sharing deep dark secrets. Just saying maybe we don't have to pretend we hate each other 24/7."

"I don't hate you," you say automatically, then immediately regret it.

He scoffs. "Progress."

"Don't get excited. I don't like you, either."

"Sure you do." He grins around a mouthful of pancake. "You like parts of me, at least."

"Your modesty, definitely. That's my favorite part."

"Not what you were saying last night."

You throw a napkin at him. It flutters pathetically halfway across the space between you.

Stupid napkin. Stupid Jungkook.

“Can we just—can we just eat? Without dissecting our relationship status?"

"What's there to dissect? We live together. We fuck sometimes. We talk sometimes. We don't hate each other. Seems pretty straightforward to me."

"Nothing's ever straightforward. Sex is one thing. Friendship is another. Put them together, and it's a disaster waiting to happen."

"Why? What's the issue? You really think if we start being decent to each other, suddenly the whole arrangement falls apart?"

"No, I think if we start being 'decent' to each other, suddenly there are expectations. Suddenly I'm supposed to care if you're having a bad day, or listen to your problems, or worry about your feelings when we're fucking."

"Wow. The horror." He rolls his eyes. "God forbid you acknowledge I'm a human being and not just a convenient dick."

"That's not what I meant—"

"Then what did you mean? Because from where I'm standing, it sounds like you think I'm too fucking stupid to understand boundaries. Like I'll immediately start writing your name in hearts or some shit just because we've upgraded from roommates to friends."

"I didn't say—"

"I don't want to date you, Nix. I don't want to be your boyfriend. I just thought it might be nice to not act like we're in some cold war every time we're in the same room. But if that's too much emotional labor for you, fine. We can go back to pretending the other doesn't exist unless we're naked."

The sting of his words surprises you. Why do you even care? This is what you want—no messy emotions, no expectations. Just the convenience of living together and occasionally hooking up. Clean. Simple.

Except now it feels anything but.

"You're twisting what I said."

"Am I? So you're not freaking out about the terrifying prospect of actually being friends with the guy you've been sleeping with?"

"I am not freaking out." You are absolutely freaking out. "I just think it's... cleaner. If we keep things the way they are."

"Cleaner." He snorts. "Right. God forbid anything in your life gets messy."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"It means you've got your shit locked down so tight you're about to snap in half." He stands up, grabbing his mug of coffee. "You think I don't see it? How hard you try to control everything? How fucking terrified you are of anything that doesn't fit into your perfectly organized boxes?"

Your grip on the fork tightens. "Oh, please. Tell me more about myself, Rook. You've known me for what, one month? Clearly you're an expert."

"I may not know shit, but I see enough. I see you'd rather cut someone out completely than risk them having any kind of power over you.”

"Fuck you," you spit, but it comes out weaker than you intended.

Because he's not wrong, and that's the worst part.

"Yeah, we've established that part works great." He drops his plate on the sink and it clatters noisily. “Look, forget it. You want to keep pretending we're strangers who occasionally fuck? Fine. Works for me. Less work anyway."

"That's not what I said." You stand up. "I just don't see why we need to redefine everything. Why can't we just... let it be what it is?"

"Because I don't even know what the fuck it is! Am I your roommate? Your fuck buddy? That guy you hate but tolerate because the rent is cheaper split three ways? What the hell am I supposed to tell people when they ask about you?"

"Why are people asking about me?"

"Jesus Christ." He throws his hands up. "That's what you focus on? Not the point, Phoenix."

"Then what is the point? Spell it out for me, since I'm clearly too stupid to get it."

"The point is, I talk to you more than I talk to most of my actual friends. I see you every day. I know how you take your coffee and what you look like when you come. So excuse the fuck out of me for thinking maybe, just maybe, we could drop the whole 'we're just roommates who tolerate each other' act and admit we might actually be friends."

You stare at him, chest tight with something you can't name.

Can't or won't.

This is exactly what you've been avoiding—this messy, complicated conversation that blurs all the neat lines you've drawn.

"I don't do friends with benefits," you finally say, voice quiet, your plate joining his. "It never works. Someone always ends up hurt."

"Who said anything about hurt? It's not that deep, Nix. We're not in a fucking rom-com."

"No, we're in real life, where things get complicated and messy and people have expectations they don't even realize until they're disappointed."

"The only expectation I have right now is for you to stop overthinking everything for five seconds."

"I'm not overthinking. I'm being realistic."

"You're being paranoid. And kind of insulting, if I'm honest. Like I'm some lovesick puppy who can't handle a casual arrangement."

“I’m paranoid? That’s rich coming from you, Ro. Real fucking rich."

His eyes narrow. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means you're a fucking hypocrite." The words tumble out, hot and fast. "You want to talk about being friends? About opening up? That's hilarious coming from the guy who deflects every personal question with some stupid joke."

"I don't—"

"You absolutely do. Every time." You step closer, jabbing a finger in his direction. "Ask about your financial situation? Oh, it's fine, just selling a kidney next week, ha ha. Ask about your ex? Turn it into some bullshit story about how she 'graded' you after sex, like it's all a big fucking joke."

His jaw tightens, a muscle jumping beneath the skin. "That's different."

"How? How is it different? You want me to be all open and friendly, but all you do is deflect and crack jokes.”

"I didn’t say anything about being all open and—”

"Then what are you saying?" You throw your hands up, frustration making your voice rise. "Because it sounds like you want all the benefits of friendship without any of the actual vulnerability. You want me to be your friend when it's convenient, but god forbid I ask about anything that matters."

"What do you want to know, Nix? What deep dark secret are you dying to hear? How I'm drowning in debt because my ex fucked up my credit? How I can barely make rent some months? How I wake up in the middle of the night panicking about money? Is that friendly enough for you?"

The sudden honesty knocks the wind out of you. Your mouth opens, closes, opens again like a fish gasping on land.

"That's what I thought." He tilts his head, motion clearly angry. "You don't actually want to know that shit. You just want to point out that I don't share it to win an argument."

You both stand there, breathing hard, like you’re studying each other.

But then Griffin rubs against your ankle, completely oblivious to the emotional warfare happening above his head and you…

You, honestly, feel tired.

Bone-deep tired.

It's too early for this much... whatever this is.

"Look," you sigh, the fight draining out of you. "Maybe we're both right, in our own way. And maybe we're both being assholes."

He blinks, clearly not expecting the shift.

After a moment, his shoulders drop a fraction.

"I’m listening.”

"Last night wasn't terrible," you say, choosing your words carefully. "Talking. Whatever. Maybe we don't need to define everything right now?"

"Revolutionary concept." His voice has lost its edge, that familiar sardonic tone creeping back in. "Not immediately labeling every interaction. Who would've thought?"

"Shut up."

You pick up your coffee mug again, taking a sip to hide the relief washing over you.

Crisis averted. Boundaries preserved.

For now.

"So what are you saying?" he asks, leaning back against the counter. "We just... see where things go?"

"I'm saying maybe we don't have to be strictly roommates or strictly friends. Maybe we can just... exist in the same space sometimes without trying to kill each other. And if it turns out we don't hate it..."

"We can revisit the friend thing?" He raises an eyebrow.

"Maybe." You shrug, aiming for casual. "If you manage not to be completely insufferable."

"Tall order." He's almost smiling now. "I'll have to suppress all my natural charm."

"If that's what you call it."

You roll your eyes, relieved to be back on solid ground.

This you can handle—the banter, the back-and-forth, the careful dance around anything too real.

This is safe.

Under control.

"Just eat your protein pancakes, Rogue. Don't you have gains to maintain or whatever?"

"Can't skip arm day," he agrees, flexing dramatically. "These biceps don't maintain themselves."

"God, you're insufferable."

"Yet here you are, eating my pancakes, drinking coffee I made you." He gestures at your mug with his own. "Almost like you tolerate me."

"Stockholm syndrome, obviously."

"Obviously." He hums thoughtfully for a moment. "So, we're good?"

"We're..." you search for the right word, "...fine. For now. Let's just take it a day at a time, okay? No pressure, no expectations."

"I can do that." He nods, looking almost relieved himself. "One day at a time. Starting with today, where you admit my pancakes are fucking amazing."

"They're edible."

"They're incredible and you know it."

"They're protein powder with extra steps."

"They're a culinary masterpiece that your taste buds aren't sophisticated enough to fully appreciate."

"My taste buds are perfectly sophisticated, thank you very much."

"Says the girl who eats chips at midnight."

"At least I don't drink protein shakes for dessert like some kind of psychopath."

"Don't knock it 'til you try it. My midnight chocolate protein shake would change your life."

You make a gagging sound. "I'll pass, thanks."

"Your loss." He shrugs, then glances at the clock. "Don't you have to be at work at 10?"

"Yeah, but it's only—" you check your phone, "—8:30. Plenty of time."

"If you say so." He moves towards the space between the entryway and the couch. "First day, right? Gonna sell some books to the masses?"

"That's generally what happens at a bookstore, yes."

"Well, don't let your sparkling personality scare away the customers."

"I have excellent customer service skills, I'll have you know. I can fake being nice for hours at a time."

“You sure ‘bout that? Haven’t seen you be nice for more than thirty seconds."

"That's because you don't deserve my niceness."

"And the customers at Barnes & Noble do?"

"They're paying for it. You just get the real me."

"Lucky me," he snorts. "So, you nervous? First day and all?"

"It's a retail job, Rogue, not brain surgery. I think I can handle scanning books and saying 'have a nice day' without a panic attack."

"Just asking." He takes a sip from his mug. "Making conversation. Like normal people do."

"Yeah, well." You shift, suddenly uncomfortable with how... normal this feels.

Like you're actual roommates having an actual conversation.

Like maybe this friend thing isn't so impossible after all.

"I should probably start getting ready."

"Right, sure." He nods, glancing at his room. "Wouldn't want you to be late for your first day of shaping young minds through literature."

"It's Barnes & Noble, not the Library of Alexandria."

"Still. Books. Knowledge. Power. You know."

“Has anyone ever told you that you talk a lot of shit for someone who reads, like, one book a year?"

"Hey, I read." He looks genuinely offended. "I just finished that one about the guy who—"

"If you say 'Rich Dad, Poor Dad,' I'm going to throw this mug at your head."

"I was going to say 'The Subtle Art of Not Giving a Fuck,' actually."

"Of course you were." You can't help the laugh that escapes. "How original. Let me guess, you also have 'The 48 Laws of Power' on your nightstand?"

"Whatever, man." He shakes his head, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Suck my dick."

The words come out light, amused—a casual dismissal that’s not angry or bitter, just a throwaway line, the kind of thing he'd say to Yoongi or any of his friends when they're giving him shit.

But something about it—the vulgarity or maybe the signature shitty and playful challenge in his eyes—makes you reckless.

"Okay."

You tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, eyes sliding to the side as the word slips out.

Casual.

Like you just agreed to pass the salt, not... that.

Jungkook stops dead in his tracks. His body goes rigid, one foot already pointed toward his bedroom. He turns his head slightly, just enough for you to catch his profile.

"Huh?"

You cross your arms, teeth worrying the inside of your cheek. A shrug lifts your shoulders—noncommittal, like this isn't making your heart hammer against your ribs.

Your eyes drift back to his. Meet and hold.

"I said okay."

He turns fully now, coffee mug dangling forgotten from his fingers.

"Okay... what?"

"Sucking your dick."

You watch his throat bobble, the muscles in his neck working as he swallows. Like he’s processing what you just said. Like you just suggested something completely alien, something that requires a full system reboot.

And okay, fine, maybe it wasn’t the most casual thing to drop into conversation. But still.

You arch an eyebrow, scowling at him because why is he overthinking this? Does he not want you to do it? Don’t all guys want to get sucked off? Isn’t that, like, a universal truth or something? What’s with the hesitation?

The longer he stands there, frozen and dumbfounded, the hotter your frustration burns. It’s not like you even want to do this (okay, you do, but that’s not the point).

The point is he’s always the first one to be like “bet” whenever you throw out some reckless suggestion.

Pushy without being pushy—he knows boundaries, sure, but he’s still the guy who’ll smirk and say “you won’t” just to see if you will.

And now? The one time you actually offer something? He’s looking at you like you’re speaking Simlish.

You move toward him, until you're face to face.

His mug wobbles in his grip, coffee sloshing dangerously close to the rim.

You look up at him through your lashes.

"I said I can suck your dick if that's what you want."

A shaky exhale escapes him, warm against your face.

"Nix..." His voice has dropped an octave, rough around the edges. "Don't fool around. That's not nice."

"I'm not fooling around."

Slowly—so slowly it feels like time has stretched into something thick and syrupy—you sink down to your knees.

The kitchen tile is hard, and really, it should be uncomfortable. Should snap you out of whatever madness has possessed you.

It doesn't.

Jungkook bites down on his lower lip, the sharp edges of his teeth digging into the flesh like he's physically holding back a curse. You can see the evidence of his interest already straining against his pajama pants.

His fucking Sonic pajama pants.

Because of course. Of course this would happen while he's wearing cartoon hedgehogs. Of course this

moment—where you're on your knees in front of him, heart pounding, breath shallow—would come with this absurd detail that makes it real in a way that's almost uncomfortable.

Your hands come to rest on his thighs.

Strong. Solid. Warm.

"I mean, we've been hooking up for a month now. Almost." Your voice sounds different to your own ears. Lower. A little breathless. "You've eaten me out multiple times, but... I haven't sucked your dick. Not even once."

Your eyes drop deliberately to the bulge straining against ridiculous cartoon fabric. It should be funny.

It's not.

"Is it because you didn't want me to?"

He shakes his head. Fast. Emphatic. A jerky motion that tells you everything you need to know.

"So why didn't you ask me?"

He doesn't answer. Can't, maybe.

His throat works again, adam's apple bobbing. His pupils are blown wide, dark and hungry as he stares down at you.

Your fingers play with the waistband, slowly—so fucking slowly—pulling it down just enough to reveal his hip bones and the trail of dark hair that disappears beneath the elastic.

"Have you thought about it at all?"

"Yes." The word comes out strangled, like it fought its way past whatever restraint he's trying to maintain.

Your eyes snap up to his.

He curses when your eyes lock onto his again—the control you have, even down on your knees.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." He exhales, surrender in the sound. "Yes, I've thought about your beautiful plump lips wrapped around my cock, Nix. Is that what you wanted to hear?"

Heat blooms in your cheeks, spreading down your neck, across your chest.

You hadn't expected him to be so... explicit. So honest.

"Maybe." Your thumbs brush against the skin just above his waistband. "What else have you thought about?"

His mug clatters onto the counter beside him, abandoned and his now-free hand comes to your face, thumb brushing against your bottom lip.

"Thought about how you'd look," he murmurs, voice pitched low enough that you have to strain to hear it. "On your knees. Just like this. Those big eyes looking up at me while you take me in your mouth.”

Jesus.

Your body responds instantly, a rush of heat between your thighs that makes you press them together unconsciously.

When did Jungkook get so... articulate?

His thumb presses slightly against your lip, just enough to part them. "Thought about how warm your mouth would be.

How good it would feel. How you'd sound."

"How l'd sound?”

A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, confidence returning as he watches your reaction. "The little noises you'd make. The way you'd moan around my cock when I pull your hair."

Oh.

Your hand moves higher, finding the hard length of him through his pajamas. He hisses through his teeth when you palm him, fingers wrapping around his shape.

"Like this?" you ask, squeezing gently.

His hand moves to your hair, fingers tangling in the strands at the back of your head.

Not pulling. Not yet. Just holding.

"Getting there." His voice is strained now, tight with need.

"But in my head, there's a lot less talking and a lot more—"

"Sucking?"

His laugh is half groan. "Yeah, Nix. A lot more sucking."

"Hmmm" you murmur. "Where's all that big talk from earlier?"

"Temporarily relocated," he manages. "Blood flow issues."

That startles a laugh out of you, breaking the tension for just a moment. Trust Jungkook to crack a joke while you're literally about to have his dick in your mouth.

Your hands pause, giving his bulge another soft squeeze before—

“Wait—couch.” He grabs your wrist, stopping your motions. “Let’s do this properly.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah? Better for your neck and knees and all that. Let’s go.”

You roll your eyes but follow as he then drops onto the couch, sprawling like he owns the place—which, technically, he does, but still. His left elbow hooks over the cushion rest lazily, and his knuckles come up to rest against his cheek as he leans into it.

The picture of nonchalance.

Except for the way his hips shift slightly, rolling upward in a small, deliberate motion as he spreads his legs wider.

Your eyes narrow.

That little buck of his hips? The way his thighs stretch out as if to frame you? It’s not subtle.

Neither is the look he’s giving you now—those half-lidded bedroom eyes that always seem to appear when he’s horny. His lips curve into something smug, and god he’s so obvious it’s almost embarrassing. Like one of those guys in bad romance novels who lounges around shirtless, flexing for no reason except to remind everyone they have abs.

“So?” His voice is low, dragging out the single syllable like a challenge.

You cross your arms tighter over your chest, glaring at him because—what? Is this supposed to be seductive? Is this his idea of foreplay?

“You’re already making me regret this, you know that?”

He snorts, the sound sharp and amused as he tilts his head slightly. “I don’t know why I doubt that.”

Your only response is a scoff—short and derisive—as you step closer. The floor feels uneven beneath your feet, though you know it isn’t. It’s just your nerves playing tricks on you.

Because this is real now. This is happening. You’re about to suck cock. Rogue’s cock.

You want this. You do. You’ve been curious about this for longer than you’d care to admit—curious about him, about what he likes and how he reacts and whether he’ll look as smug when he’s falling apart under your mouth.

But still… You haven’t exactly done this much before.

David—the forgettable high school boyfriend who thought foreplay was optional—had pretty much stuck his dick in you and called it a day. He didn’t even know girls could orgasm until you brought it up once during an argument (and even then, he seemed skeptical).

Your life hasn't been that tragic since then, thankfully.

A few hookups here and there have shown you that men aren't a total lost cause after all—some of them even know what they're doing! But sucking dick?

That's... different. It's not something you've done often enough to feel confident about it.

Sure, you know the basics—you've read enough spicy books and fanfics to have a decent idea of what works (English majors don't judge; they research).

But knowing what works in general isn't the same as knowing what Jungkook likes.

And this is his cock you’re talking about—his stupidly perfect body and his stupidly perfect everything else.

And now here you are, kneeling between Jungkook’s thighs while he looks down at you with that stupid smirk of his.

You glance up at him expectantly, hoping for some kind of cue or instruction or… anything really. Like he always does, talk shit with that big mouth of his. Dirty talk or whatever.

But all he does is blink at you for a moment before he hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his Sonic pajama pants and starts pulling them down.

His cock springs free, standing there like it owns the place.

And okay, yeah, you’ve seen it before—plenty of times, actually.

You’ve had it inside you, for fuck’s sake.

But this? This is different. This is up close and personal, inches from your face, glossy and flushed and looking way too proud of itself.

Beautiful isn’t the right word. It’s a cock. A literal penis.

There’s nothing beautiful about it—it’s just a piece of meat, veiny and slightly curved and standing at attention like it’s waiting for applause or something.

And yet... you can’t look away.

Why is it so glossy? Is that normal? Does he always look like this when he’s hard? You don’t know why your brain is spiraling into a full-blown analysis of his dick right now, but here you are, mentally beefing with it like it personally insulted you.

Be so fucking for real right now.

And again—there he is. Silent. Watching. Not saying a single goddamn word.

Which is weird because usually, Jungkook doesn’t shut up during sex. He’s all about the dirty talk—filthy little comments that let you know exactly what he likes, what he wants, what he’s thinking.

But now? Nothing. Just this expectant silence that makes your skin prickle with self-consciousness.

You hate him for it.

Your hand wraps around him before you can overthink it anymore. Because okay, fine—you might not be an expert at this, but you’re not completely clueless either. You’ve sucked cock before (not a lot, but enough to know the basics), and you know how jerking off works.

So that’s what you do: start slow, your hand moving down his length in a steady stroke.

He hisses softly at the contact, his hips shifting slightly against the couch cushion. When you glance up at him from beneath your lashes, he’s already looking down at you—his lips parted just enough to catch your attention as his tongue darts out to wet them.

And still, he says nothing.

“What?” You grunt the word out before you can stop yourself, frustration bubbling up in your chest.

“Nothing,” he says quickly, too quickly—like he wasn’t expecting you to call him out.

You narrow your eyes at him suspiciously, but his face gives nothing away.

“Okay,” you mutter under your breath, pulling back slightly as doubt creeps in around the edges of your confidence. “I’m doing everything wrong. Forget it.”

You start to stand up—because honestly?

Fuck this.

Fuck him and his smug silence and his stupid perfect dick that’s making you second-guess yourself when you were perfectly fine five minutes ago.

But before you can fully retreat, his hand shoots out to grab yours—not rough or demanding, just firm enough to stop you in your tracks.

“Hey,” he says softly, his voice low and almost... gentle? “Hey, no. Don’t do that.”

You stare at him for a moment, then look away because suddenly eye contact feels like too much.

There’s a beat of silence before he swallows audibly, like he’s pondering what to say.

“Do you want me to…” He hesitates for half a second before continuing, his tone careful but curious. “Verbally tell you what I like?”

You purse your lips tightly, the edges pressing together in a way that’s almost painful.

Because somehow, saying yes to that—admitting you need him to tell you what to do—feels like losing. And you don’t want to lose. Not here. Not to him. Not when he’s sprawled out like some kind of smug king on the stupid couch, looking at you like he’s waiting for you to figure out how to solve a puzzle he already knows the answer to.

He doesn’t push, though. His hand stays on yours, warm and steady, as you let him pull you gently back down.

Your knees hit the floor again, and the carpet feels rough against your skin, grounding you in the moment even as your brain screams at you to get it together.

“Okay,” he says after a beat, his voice soft but probing. “What’s up?”

Your eyes snap to his, narrowing slightly at the question. “That’s what I should be asking you.”

He raises an eyebrow at that, clearly unimpressed with your deflection.

“C’mon. Usually you’re so mouthy. You literally made me beg yesterday just to eat you out. I don’t get this sudden prude thing you’re pulling.”

Damn him. Damn him and his ability to read you so well it feels like he’s got a script for your every thought and reaction.

“I’m not acting prude,” you snap defensively.

“Really?” His lips twitch upward. “Because you’re staring at my cock like you’re mad at it.”

Your jaw tightens as embarrassment flares hot in your chest.

“I’m not mad at it,” you mutter through gritted teeth.

“Then what’s the problem?” He tilts his head slightly, genuinely curious now. “Tell me.”

You blink at him, caught off guard by how simple he makes it sound—like voicing whatever’s swirling in your head is the easiest thing in the world. Like it’s not tied up in knots of insecurity and doubt and whatever else is making your throat feel tight right now.

Because he’s right. You could just tell him. That would solve everything, wouldn’t it? But somehow, the thought of saying it out loud—of admitting that maybe you’re not as confident about this as you’d like to be—feels like stepping off a cliff without knowing if there’s anything to catch you at the bottom.

Why does it feel like losing? Like humiliation?

His brow furrows slightly when you don’t respond right away, and then he asks—carefully, hesitantly—

“Okay… have you done this before? A blowjob?”

The question makes your stomach flip for reasons you can’t quite explain. Your eyes drop to the floor as heat creeps up your neck and into your face.

“…Yus,” you mumble under your breath.

“Yus?” He repeats incredulously, leaning forward slightly like he didn’t hear you right.

“Yes,” you say louder this time, still staring at the carpet like it holds all the answers to life’s mysteries.

“But not often,” he guesses—and fuck him for being right again.

Your head snaps up at that, ready to fire off some kind of retort about how that’s none of his business or how he should shut up because clearly he’s not an expert on everything either—but then he laughs.

Out loud.

And it stops you cold.

Because it’s not mean or mocking or anything close to what you expected—it’s just… laughter. Light and genuine and almost disbelieving in a way that makes something inside you loosen just a little bit.

“What?” You demand sharply.

“Oh my god,” he says between chuckles. “Phoenix—is that what this is about? Why didn’t you just tell me?”

You glare at him because what else are you supposed to do? Admit he’s right? Again? Absolutely not.

He notices anyway—of course he does—and his grin softens into something closer to understanding as he leans back against the couch cushions.

“Bro,” he says lightly, shaking his head like this is all so obvious now. “It’s totally chill.”

You scoff quietly, looking off to the side because meeting his eyes feels impossible right now.

“I mean it, you want to try, right? You want to experience it or whatever? Nothing wrong with that.” He pauses for half a second before adding with a small smile: “Let me help you, aight?”

You don’t say yes. Of course you don’t. You never say yes.

You run your tongue across your upper lip instead, slow and lazy like you’re tasting the tension, and shrug—shoulders stiff like maybe it costs you something to agree.

Which, okay. It kind of does. Dignity’s already dangling by a thread.

But he reads it. Of course he does. Like you’re a fucking cartoon strip and he’s already memorized every panel.

He just grins—guffaws, really, because apparently this is hilarious to him—and tilts his chin toward his cock like that’s normal. Like this is a fucking TED Talk on Applied Dick Science.

“Spit.”

You blink. “Huh?”

“Spit on it.”

Like it’s nothing. Like you’re asking him if he wants oat milk in his coffee and not literally hocking a loogie onto his dick.

Your face does something between a grimace and a snort. “What are you, a porn algorithm?”

“Relax. It’s not a kink thing. Just helps with… y’know. Glide.” A shrug. So casual. “Friction’s not your friend, Nix.”

You squint at him. “So now you’re a physics professor.”

“Professor of good head,” he says under his breath, eyes twinkling like he thinks that’s clever.

You exhale slowly through your nose. Not quite a sigh. Just enough to say fine, sure, without actually giving him anything.

Then your eyes flick down, then back up.

And maybe you don’t mean to hold eye contact for as long as you do, but whatever. Your gaze locks on his, and his mouth hitches slightly at the corner.

One of those small, lazy smirks that says he’s watching everything you do. Which he is.

You drop your eyes again. Shift forward. Palms to thighs. Inhale once through your nose, just to clear whatever mental fog is still clinging.

Then you lower your face toward him, mouth hovering just above the head of his cock.

And okay. It’s a little intense up close like this.

Flushed dark pink at the tip, that little bead of precum catching the light. Skin taut where it stretches up and around the curve.

And yeah, it’s pretty? Like, stupid pretty. Which only pisses you off more because it’s a dick. You shouldn’t be thinking aesthetic right now. You should be—

He hisses.

Literally just from your breath.

Like, your breath grazes the head and he inhales sharp through his teeth, a low sound punching out of his chest that he probably didn’t mean to make.

Your eyes cut up automatically.

And you absolutely, one hundred percent bite back a smirk. Can feel it twitch at the edge of your mouth, creeping in before you catch it.

He doesn’t say anything, but there’s a flicker of amusement in his face. A slight arch of his brow, a ghost of a grin that says ‘don’t get cocky’, which is rich coming from him.

You don’t let the moment stretch too long.

You glance down once more, tilt your chin forward, and—

Let spit fall from your lips.

Slow and steady.

A warm trail that splatters right onto his cockhead with a soft, wet noise you pretend not to react to. The drool stretches in a thin line as it drops, catching and sticking in places before sliding down the shaft, slick and messy in a way that feels weirdly intimate and way too graphic for how not romantic this is supposed to be.

You hear him exhale again—less sharp this time, more like a breath he didn’t know he was holding—and when you glance back up, your eyes meet his.

Big. Wide. Intentional.

Because yeah, you’ve read enough porn. You know this trick. Know the effect eye contact has.

Especially from down here. Especially when your lips are half an inch from his dick and your saliva’s still glistening on it.

And okay. Fine. Maybe it’s a little performative.

But he does it, too. Every goddamn time he’s between your legs, he’s watching you like it’s a sport.

So maybe it’s not just for you. Maybe it’s projection.

It definitely is.

Because the second your spit hits his cock and your eyes stay locked on his, Jungkook makes this—noise.

Not a grunt. Not a moan. Just this tiny sound, like a choked-up breath dragged out of his throat against his will. The kind of sound you’d miss if you weren’t listening for it.

But you are. And you do.

Your fingers wrap around him without thinking. Automatic, almost. Like your hand just knows what to do now. It’s not a tight grip, not at first—just enough to feel the weight of him, hot and heavy and fucking ridiculous in your palm.

You give him one slow pull. A test run. Casual. Clinical.

And his head tips back instantly.

“Ahh—god, yeah,” he groans, voice pitched low and raw like it just escaped him.

You blink. Stare. Something tightens low in your stomach, unexpected.

But before you can fully process the way that noise slithered into your spine and curled up there like it pays rent, he’s looking down again. Immediately. Because apparently the view of your hand jerking him off is not something he’s willing to miss.

His gaze drops to the contact like it’s life or death, pupils blown and mouth slightly parted. He looks wrecked already, and you’ve barely done anything.

Kind of gratifying. Not gonna lie.

So you keep moving. Slow. Measured. A couple more strokes, just to test what rhythm feels natural. Your hand adjusts automatically, finding that friction-slicked spot between too loose and too tight. Thumb brushes the underside near the head, not on purpose, but—

“Yeah,” he breathes. “That’s—”

Pauses. Swallows. Licks his lips like he’s trying not to rush it.

“That’s good, but… here.”

His voice is soft now, like he’s trying not to scare you off. Like if he speaks too loud you might slap his dick and walk out.

And then his hand’s there. His actual hand.

The tatted one.

It swallows yours whole like it’s got a god complex. His fingers are longer, rougher, his palm calloused from guitar strings or camera work or something equally shitty—and it lands on top of yours like this is how. Like he can’t not touch. Like the need to guide is stronger than the need to just sit there and enjoy.

And okay, that’s kind of hot.

He doesn’t even do it weird. No pervy whisper, no ‘lemme show you, baby.’

Just—grips your hand, adjusts the angle, and starts moving it the way he would. His pace. His pressure. His exact rhythm.

He’s demonstrating. Demonstrating. The way he does it.

Which—Jesus. Okay. That’s a thing you’re watching now.

You track everything. How he drags you up to the head and tugs just a bit harder when you get there. Not painful, just… firmer. Intentional. Then down again—not all the way, not to the base. Just past halfway. Controlled. Like there’s a limit he doesn’t cross.

You assume it’s a sensitivity thing or maybe it just doesn’t feel good that far down. Maybe it’s one of those ‘my dick isn’t a joystick’ scenarios.

You don’t know.

But you clock it. Catalog it.

Mental note: no base. No excessive tug. Got it.

He lets go of your hand after a few strokes, slowly, and leans back just an inch—enough to say ‘your turn’. Still watching, though. Like a perv. Like a mentor.

Like both.

You copy what he showed you. Try to mimic the pressure, the pace, the not-too-tight but not-too-flimsy grip. Try to keep the motion smooth even though your brain’s busy yelling ‘are we seriously learning how he jerks off right now? is this real life?’

Apparently yes. It is. And it’s working.

Because he makes this sound. This little hhuhh in the back of his throat, barely audible but very much real. Not exaggerated. Just… a reaction.

You hold back a grin. Barely.

Pride hits low and hot in your chest like you just got an A on a test you forgot to study for.

Not because he said something—but because he didn’t.

That little exhale? That shift in his hips? That subtle fuck, yeah cue without words?

Validation.

Your eyes flick up. You want to see it. Read him.

But he’s not looking at you.

Still staring at your hand. Brows drawn, mouth slack.

And then—

His front teeth catch his bottom lip. Plush, pink, a little too soft for how filthy he is, and he bites. Not hard. Just enough for it to dimple inward and make something flicker behind his lashes.

The kind of flicker that screams overthinking, like maybe the feeling’s a little too good, and he’s trying to ground himself with pain or pressure or… whatever the fuck goes on in his chaos brain when he’s like this.

Then comes the sound.

Somewhere between a hiss and a grunt, like his body can’t decide if it wants to breathe through it or fuck into it.

Rough at the edges, low, weirdly conflicted.

His head dips again.

“Also,” he breathes out, voice crackly and uneven now, “do… do this. Look.”

His hand comes up before you can ask what this is.

Big, again. His palm wraps around yours like he’s your goddamn training wheels. Not even pretending it’s not a tutorial anymore.

His fingers press lightly into your skin, adjusting your grip—less on the full stroke now and more—

“There,” he mutters, repositioning your thumb, sliding it higher.

Right to that spot beneath the crown. Soft little groove. Just barely noticeable unless you’re paying attention.

Which, apparently, he really fucking is.

“You feel that?” he says, voice dipping. “Right under. The… fuckin’—yeah, that. That’s the spot.”

You nod a little, but your eyes don’t leave your hand, now with your thumb angled like a pressure point. Like you’re disarming a bomb with one finger.

His voice drops again.

“Okay, now when you stroke—” his hand moves yours with his, slow and controlled, “—pull up like that, and when you hit the top, tighter there—yeah, squeeze just a little—and your thumb… drag it with you.”

He does it again. Once. Then twice. Demonstrating like this is a team sport and you’re in pre-game drills.

That spot.

That frenulum, or whatever the technical term is.

Doesn’t matter. What matters is how his breath stutters when you pass over it, how his mouth goes a little slack while he watches.

“That’s the shit, Nix,” he says, almost like it’s to himself. Like he’s taking mental notes on his own cock. “That right there.”

Then he lets go again. Fingers slip away from yours, slow.

And he licks his lips as he leans back into the couch, arm flopping over the top cushion like he’s trying to play it cool again, even though he’s still watching you like a fucking hawk.

So. You try.

You mimic the motion exactly.

Same rhythm. Same pressure. Same thumb glide up the underside, and—

“Fuck.”

That one’s not breathy. Not soft. Full-bodied groan. Low and honest, punched out of his chest like his lungs just gave up the ghost for a second.

You do it again. And again.

Thumb dragging against that spot every time you pull up. Your grip tightening near the crown, loosening at the glide down.

He melts.

That’s the only word for it.

His whole body sinks into the cushions like gravity just tripled. Thighs open wider, neck drops back over the edge of the couch, mouth hanging open now like he’s past the point of pretending he’s unaffected.

“Fuck, yeah—that is…” he pants, lips parted, eyes fluttering before he forces them open again, zeroing in on your hand like it’s holy. “That’s fucking perfect, Nix. Jesus Christ, you’ve got magic fingers or some shit.”

Your smirk barely hides itself.

He’s a talker. You knew that. But this? This is next level.

“Fuckin’ knew you’d be good with your hands,” he groans, eyes flicking from your fingers to your face and back down again, tongue dragging across his bottom lip like he’s trying not to say more but can’t help himself. “Just like that, just like that—shit, that’s so fucking good—”

Your thumb twitches tighter without thinking, and his hips flinch.

And it’s so fucking dumb, the way your stomach flips at the reaction. Like you’re the one being touched. Like you got your nerve endings scraped raw by one tiny squeeze.

But there it is—his hips flinching, a twitch so fast you might’ve missed it if you weren’t laser-focused on every damn micro-expression crawling across his face.

His mouth opens for half a second like he’s gonna say something, maybe crack a joke, maybe tell you to go harder—but then—

He chokes a breath.

Like it gets stuck somewhere between his ribs and throat, all tangled up in want.

It is shaky, and it hitches like it costs him something to let it out.

Like just existing through this is work.

And you see it—the way his pupils expand even more, ink bleeding into every millimeter of brown.

He’s not blinking. He’s not moving, not really. Just chest rising and falling way too slow, like he’s afraid any sudden motion might snap this thread thin tension.

You lick your lips before you can stop yourself. Because he’s staring. Still. At your hand, yeah, but also your face now.

Like watching you react is part of the pleasure. Like your mouth is more interesting than porn.

And okay. Maybe you’re a little into that.

Maybe that’s why your hand tightens again. Just a little. Not even on purpose this time, more like instinct. Your thumb swipes over that spot again, light and smooth and mean, and his chest fucking jerks.

Then—

A noise. Escapes him. Not a groan. Not a moan either. It’s like a stuttered-out puff of sound that crackles in his throat on its way up, all gritty and broken, like it got caught in static.

And right after that, so soft you almost miss it, he says:

“Your mouth.”

You freeze.

Your pulse jumps like you’ve been caught doing something wrong. Even though you haven’t. Not really. Just… hand stuff. Just skin and muscle and spit and heat.

But his voice? It’s not filthy when he says it. It’s awestruck. Like he’s seeing a fucking shooting star. Like it’s something to be whispered.

Your mouth.

It echoes weird in your head. Bounces off all your internal walls.

You blink up at him, eyes dragging from the handjob, and you look at his face.

And the expression there?

Jesus. He looks like he’s praying.

Not to God. Not even to you. To the feeling. To the moment. To the idea of your mouth on him.

And for some reason, your voice is already moving before your brain can catch it. “What do you want from my mouth?”

You don’t say it cute. Don’t coo. You’re not flirting. You’re daring. Like if he says something you don’t like, you’ll bite down instead of suck.

He blinks. Laughs, almost. Not like it’s funny—more like it surprised him. The way you said it. Like you slapped him with your voice.

Then, low and kind of incredulous: “What do you think I want, Nix?”

And he grins when he says it. Real slow. Not smug. Not sleazy. Just… real. Like that’s the stupidest question you’ve ever asked and he’s giving you a minute to catch up. To get there on your own. Like maybe you’re the dumb one for asking when the answer’s right there, hard and twitching and shiny in your grip.

You glance up through your lashes because fuck it, might as well lean into the trope while you’re down here. Might as well make it mean something.

And you swear to god—something inside him glitches.

Like his whole respiratory system shorts out. You hear it, barely—a tiny gulp, some micro sound buried deep in his throat like a trapped hummingbird.

Fragile and desperate.

Faint little flutter.

But it’s real.

Like a ‘fuck’ slips out of the space around you. Not even from his mouth. Just—exists.

As if the universe itself groaned.

And you know he felt it too because he looks at you like you just made the sun blink.

His hand lifts again, slow.

Fingers curl gently around your face, brushing the hair out of your eyes—not rough, not fast. Just… precise. Like he needs to see you. Like eye contact is currency and he’s suddenly flat broke.

You don’t move. Just let him. Let his thumb skim your cheek. Let his gaze drag over your face like it’s got weight behind it. Like you’re something he doesn’t want to blink away from.

And then—his voice. Low. Warm. Calm in that way that feels like it’s trying to keep a leash on something unhinged underneath.

“Suckle the crown a bit while you keep your hand moving. Up and down. Not fast, just… keep rhythm.”

You blink.

That phrasing.

Suckle.

What the fuck is he, a medieval warlord?

Still.

Your pulse stutters.

Because he says it like he’s thought about this. Like it’s not just a ‘hey, mouth on cock now’ moment, but something he’s imagined.

Something he’s replayed in his head with specificity.

“Focus on the tip. You don’t gotta go all in yet. Just use your tongue. Like… tease the slit a little. Then suck around it. Not too hard. Gentle. Like you’re figuring it out.”

Your brows twitch up just slightly, but you nod.

Because yeah. Okay. That you can do.

And your hand’s still on him—hasn’t left. Just slick and steady, lazy little drags up and down his shaft with your thumb gliding right under the head like he showed you.

You shift forward. Let your lips ghost over the tip. Let him feel your breath first. Not teasing, not on purpose. Just… checking the temperature.

You feel the tension ripple through his thigh when you finally close your lips over him—soft, just the crown. Mouth warm and wet as it envelops the head, not too much suction yet. Just heat.

And then—yeah. You suckle. Gentle at first. Not a full draw, more of a tug.

His reaction is immediate.

Lips part. Chest jerks up half an inch.

One of those sounds again. Low. Raspy. A curse swallowed before it could hit air.

Your hand doesn’t stop. You keep it moving—slow pumps that glide down, then back up, thumb still catching that spot he likes every time you reach the top.

“Yeah,” he breathes out, voice low and rough around the edges. “That’s it. That’s—fuck—that’s the perfect pressure. Mmhm. Yeah.”

His words come in stilted bursts, like they’re being dragged out of him against his will.

“Keep… keep moving your hand while—ughhnn—keep sucking the tip.”

You do as he says because what else are you supposed to do? You’re not about to stop now—not when he’s making noises like that, not when his cock twitches every time your tongue flicks over the slit.

But there’s this nagging thought in the back of your mind, this tiny voice that won’t shut up:

Why isn’t he telling you to take the whole thing already?

Isn’t that what most guys want? The whole deep-throat porn star routine? You’ve read enough smut (done it a couple times too) to know how this is supposed to go—or at least how it usually does.

But Jungkook?

He seems… content. Like he’s not in any rush to shove himself down your throat.

Maybe he doesn’t want to rush it? Or maybe he’s just weird like that?

Your eyes flick down to your hand. Analyze the movement. The rhythm. The way your fingers wrap around him, snug and slick, dragging up and down with just enough pressure to make him twitch but not enough to push him over.

You remember how he did it. The angle. The squeeze. The way his thumb skimmed that spot under the head like it was a fucking button.

You mimic it again. Just to see.

And that’s when he exhales. Soft. Controlled. Like he’s trying not to let it out but can’t help himself.

The sound drips from his lips like water hitting a rooftop—quiet, but sharp. A little hiss of breath that makes your thighs clench.

Then—

“Look at me.”

It’s not a command. Not barked. Just… said. Low and even. Like he’s asking for something simple. Like it’s no big deal.

But you don’t.

You kind of… ignore him.

Not on purpose, really.

It’s just—you’re embarrassed now, okay?

You don’t want to look up and see his smug face while you’ve got his tip in your mouth like some idiot who doesn’t know what she’s doing. So you keep your eyes trained downward, focusing on the task at hand (and mouth).

“Nix,” he says again, more pointed this time. “C’mon. Eyes up.”

You want to bite him for that tone alone—like he’s daring you or something—but reluctantly, you glance up through your lashes. More of a glare than anything else because fuck him for making demands right now.

He huffs out a laugh at your expression, shaking his head slightly like you’re hopeless or something equally annoying.

“No, not like that. Like… big. Wide.” He pauses for half a second before adding with a grin: “Make your eyes pop.”

You pull off his cock with an audible pop of its own because what the actual fuck is he talking about now?

Your brows knit together as you scowl up at him, and he looks back at you with those stupid boba eyes of his—round and inquisitive like he doesn’t realize how ridiculous he sounds right now.

“Make them pop?” you echo, incredulous. “What the fuck does that even mean?”

He looks at you. Blinks once. Then shrugs, like he’s just now realizing how stupid he sounds.

“I don’t know, man. Just—make ‘em all wide and cute.”

You stare.

Then scoff. Loud. Disbelieving.

“You want me to look dumb and innocent while I suck your cock? That’s what you’re into?”

His eyes widen. “No—Jesus, no. Not like that.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Seriously? Because you sound like a creep.”

He groans. “God, you’re always so fucking blabbermouthed.”

“And you’re always so fucking vague,” you shoot back.

He glares at you. “I don’t mean, like—virgin vibes, okay? I mean that look you get. When you’re being a little shit. When you’re pushing buttons and pretending you’re not. That’s what I like.”

You blink. Your mouth opens. Then closes again.

He leans forward slightly, voice dropping. “I want you to suck my fucking cock like it’s all you want, while pretending you’re not sucking my soul through it. That’s what I’m talking about. Not some weird creepy thing.”

“Oh.”

You blink once before pursing your lips thoughtfully again.

“…Okay.”

Because okay indeed. You know what he means.

You hate that you know what he means.

He rolls his eyes, but his cock hasn’t softened. If anything, it’s thicker now. Heavier. The head flushed a deeper pink, veins more prominent. Like he gets off on arguing with you. Like this whole back-and-forth is foreplay.

And maybe it is. He’s already said twice he likes it when you’re mouthy.

Is this what he wants? You pretending you don’t know what you’re doing while you absolutely do?

You take a deep breath before shifting forward again—this time making a conscious effort to widen your eyes as much as possible while looking up at him through your lashes.

Big and round and innocent or whatever. Like you have no idea what effect this is having on him—even though the way his breath catches in his throat tells you exactly what kind of power you hold right now.

And yeah… maybe this is what he wants: you, pretending not to know exactly what you're doing while totally knowing anyway.

So that’s what you give him.

Wide eyes locked on his face as your lips part once more—and then slowly close around the head of his cock again.

And then, your hand moves faster.

Not sloppy. Not rushed. Just—more. More pressure, more rhythm, more confidence. Like your body’s finally synced up with his. Like you’ve figured out the exact tempo that makes him twitch and grunt and grip the couch like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to earth.

And he’s feeling it.

Hard (okay that was kinda funny, don’t deny it).

You can tell by the way his thighs tense under your palms, muscles flexing every time your fist glides down his shaft and back up again. By the way his abs jump when your thumb flicks under the head. By the way he’s breathing now—through his teeth, through his throat, like he’s trying not to make noise but losing the battle.

You keep your mouth soft around the tip. Suction just enough to make it wet and warm and tight. Tongue moving in slow, deliberate waves underneath—right there, under the crown, where he’s taught you he’s most sensitive.

And it’s funny, because you can feel it. The way he jerks every time your tongue drags across that spot, the way his cock pulses in your mouth like it’s trying to say yes, that, again, more.

And you don’t stop.

You keep eye contact, too. Big, wide, innocent. Like you’re not doing anything special. Like you’re just here, hanging out, casually ruining his life with your mouth.

He looks down at you, and his face is—fuck.

Wrecked.

Brows scrunched, mouth half open, eyes glassy like he’s buffering. Like his brain’s trying to load the next thought but keeps getting stuck on your lips.

Then he groans.

Low and guttural and sharp, like it got dragged out of his chest with a hook.

“Oh my—fffuckkkk—”

His voice breaks halfway through the word, like his throat just gave up. His hand shoots out, grabbing the back of the couch, knuckles white.

“Fuckin’—god, Nix—”

You swirl your tongue again, slow and mean, and he whines. Actually whines. Like a kicked puppy.

“I’m gonna—” he pants, hips twitching up into your fist, “—I’m gonna bust a fat nut, I swear to god—”

You snort around him. Can’t help it. The phrase is so fucking stupid, so him, and so hot in the dumbest possible way.

He hears it. Groans again. Throws his head back against the couch cushion and drags a hand down his face like he’s trying to physically hold himself together.

“Don’t laugh at me, you little—fuck, that tongue—”

You do it again. That wave motion. Just to be a menace. Just to see if he’ll break.

He does.

"Y-you have no idea," he pants, Adam's apple bobbing frantically as he swallows between words. "No fucking clue what you do to me when you—hnngh—when you stare up at me with those goddamn eyes while my cock's in your mouth."

His voice is all over the place now. Cracked. Desperate. Like he's trying to keep it together but you're not giving him a single inch of relief.

"Angel," he breathes, and okay, that’s a first (but at least it’s not ‘baby’, ew?) "You're gonna make me cum so hard. So fucking hard I might black out."

Your tongue flicks again—right against that sensitive bundle—and his whole body jerks like you've touched a live wire.

"Christ,” he hisses through clenched teeth. "I can't—I can't even—"

You keep going.

Hand stroking faster. Tongue teasing. Mouth suctioning just the tip, just the crown, just enough to make him lose his mind.

"Nix," he warns, voice strained and desperate. "I'm right there. Right fucking there. You're about to make me—"

His cock pulses against your tongue, the tip growing impossibly harder, slick and hot and heavy in your mouth as his whole body gets visibly ready to detonate.

“Nix,” he pants, voice raw and desperate. “Nix, I’m—I can’t—fuck, I’m gonna—”

His breath catches. Swallowed back like it’s too big to spit out. His whole chest stutters with it, like the air’s too thick to pull in, like the pressure’s building faster than he can handle.

“Y’tongue,” he gasps, barely coherent, hips twitching up into your fist. “Stick—god, god god—stick it out f’me. Stick that pretty tongue out f’me, Nix. C’mon—”

You don’t hesitate. You just do it. Mouth popping off the head with a wet little tsk, tongue sliding out slow and flat, glistening with spit and still tinged with the taste of him.

You hold it there, just like he asked.

And he groans.

“Look at—” he starts, but you’re already there.

Already staring up at him with those same wide, round eyes he asked for.

Tongue out, lips parted, face tilted up like you’re waiting for it.

He jerks forward, one hand flying to his cock, wrapping around himself and taking over.

Fast.

Rough.

Desperate.

Like he’s been holding back too long and now he’s got seconds left before he combusts.

“Yeah—ahhh—shit—ah—ah—fuck—”

And then—he breaks. Makes these little grunting, bitten-off noises—like he’s trying to hold them in but can’t. Like every spasm punches another sound out of him. Cums. Hard.

Hot, thick ropes strip across your face—cheeks, lips, chin.

Some of it hits your tongue, sticky and salty and obscene.

It drips down your jaw, slides over your skin in messy, wet streaks, and he’s still going. Still twitching. Still jerking himself through it like he’s trying to drain every last drop.

“Oh my god—” he chokes out, voice cracking. “Oh my fucking god—”

His head tips back, eyes blown wide and mouth slack with disbelief.

“You have the prettiest fucking eyes, Nix.”

And he sounds so, so wrecked while he says it, that you can’t help but believe him.

Like it’s the filthiest thing he’s ever said. Or maybe the most honest.

You don’t know why your chest twists into knots.

You don’t know why his eyes, hazed, dizzy, looking down at you is suddenly one of your favorite views.

But you did it. You excelled at it.

And Jungkook liked it.

That’s what matters.

He gives his cock a few lazy strokes, working the last drops out like he’s wringing water from a sponge, chest rising and falling in slow, heavy breaths.

Your eyes catch on the faint sheen of sweat on his collarbone and the way his lips are parted just enough for his tongue to dart out to wet them.

“Fuck…” he mutters. “Fucking hell.”

Another breath, deeper this time, like he’s trying to find his footing again.

“That was fucking amazing.”

You smile—small, sly, the kind of smile that doesn’t need to try too hard.

“That easy, huh?”

He snorts, running a hand through his hair, pushing it back from where it’s fallen into his eyes.

“When you’ve got a mouth like yours? Yeah.”

The compliment shouldn’t make your cheeks warm. It’s just Jungkook being Jungkook, all cockiness and shameless flirting. But still, you feel a flutter of… something.

Pride, maybe. Or just the lingering high of having him completely at your mercy.

You push yourself up from your knees slowly, legs stiff from being on the tile for too long. There’s a moment where you think he might reach out to steady you—his hand twitches like it’s considering it—but he doesn’t. Just watches as you stand and brush your hands down your thighs like that’ll somehow make this whole thing feel less messy.

“Gonna clean this mess up,” you say, already turning toward the bathroom before he can respond.

“Want me to help?” His voice follows you—soft but not hesitant. Like it’s just something he’d offer anyone without thinking twice about it.

You pause mid-step, glancing over your shoulder at him.

He’s still seated on the couch, pants and boxers shoved down his hips, shirt rumpled and sticking to his skin in places. He looks ridiculous and hot at the same time—like someone who just got thoroughly wrecked but hasn’t quite figured out how to pull himself back together yet.

And for some reason—maybe because he asked so easily—you feel your throat tighten awkwardly.

“Uh…” You hesitate, fingers brushing against the edge of the doorway as you try to find the right words. “No. No, I’m fine.”

He doesn’t say anything at first—just purses his lips slightly and nods like he’s accepting your answer even if he doesn’t entirely believe it.

It should be awkward, but it’s… not. Not entirely. Just unfamiliar.

New territory you’re not sure how to navigate.

“…But thank you,” you add quickly before darting into the bathroom like a coward.

When was the last time you thanked Jungkook for anything?

You lean against the door for a moment, eyes closed, trying to process what just happened. Not just the blowjob—that part’s easy enough to compartmentalize—but the rest of it.

Not the banter either, you do that too.

The almost-friendly moment afterward.

It felt… nice. Easy, even.

Like maybe being friends with Jungkook wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.

Maybe that’s why you step out after cleaning your face, instead of hiding in your room like you normally would.

Maybe that’s why your eyes search for his as you enter the living room.

He’s already sprawled out like nothing happened. One arm stretched across the back cushions, legs spread wide in that annoying way men always seem to take up space. He’s even cracked one of the floor-to-ceiling windows open, letting in a cool breeze that’s slowly clearing out the lingering scent of sex.

Griffin’s curled against his side, purring loudly as Jungkook absently scratches under his chin. The cat gives you a lazy blink when you appear, like he knows exactly what you’ve been doing and is judging you for it.

You clear your throat, crossing your arms over your chest. Your eyes drift to the TV—some car restoration show you don’t recognize playing—before finding their way back to him.

“So,” you start, the word hanging awkwardly in the air between you. “Do you have plans this afternoon?”

He looks up, one eyebrow quirked in mild surprise. “After you get off work, you mean?”

“Yeah.” You shift your weight, suddenly feeling awkward. “I’m done at five.”

Why is this awkward? You just had his dick in your mouth, for fuck’s sake. Asking about his schedule shouldn’t feel more intimate than that.

“No plans.” His fingers continue their gentle scratching behind Griffin’s ears, the cat purring so loudly you can hear it from where you’re standing. “Why? You offering something better than my thrilling agenda of watching YouTube guitar tutorials and ordering takeout?”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no real annoyance behind it. “There’s this new exhibit at the MoMA I’ve been wanting to check out. Photography thing.”

You shrug like it doesn’t matter either way. Like you’re not actually inviting him to do something that doesn’t involve getting naked.

“Thought maybe you’d be into it. Being a film major and all.”

“Phoenix wants to hang out with me? Voluntarily? Without the promise of orgasms? I’m shocked.”

“Forget it,” you mutter, already turning toward your room. “It was just a thought.”

“Hey, no—wait.” He sits up straighter, disturbing Griffin who gives an annoyed meow. “I’m in. The photography exhibit sounds cool.”

You pause, glancing back at him. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He nods, and for once, there’s no teasing edge to his voice. “I’ll meet you after work? We could grab dinner after, if you want.”

“Sure.” You try to sound casual, like this isn’t the first time you’ve made actual plans together. “There’s this place in the East Village I’ve been wanting to try. Nothing fancy, just… food.”

“Food is good. I’m a fan of food.” He grins.

“Great. I’ll text you when I’m done.” You head toward your room, needing to get ready for work.

“Sure, Nix.”

As you close your bedroom door, you can’t help but wonder what the hell you’re doing. This feels suspiciously like the friendship you’ve been so adamantly avoiding.

But maybe—just maybe—it wouldn’t be the end of the world to actually enjoy his company with your clothes on for once.

Besides, you need to keep him occupied until eight. Yoongi had been very specific about the timing when he texted you this morning about Jungkook’s surprise birthday dinner.

Keep him out until 8. Taehyung and Hobi are setting up. Don’t mention ramen.

And yet, he hasn’t even spoken about his birthday to you.

What kind of person doesn’t mention their own birthday?

The same kind who makes protein pancakes and pretends everything’s fine when it’s clearly not, probably.

You check your phone. 9:15. Plenty of time to get ready for work and figure out how to navigate this strange new territory where you and Jungkook do normal people things together.

Like friends.

The word still feels foreign, uncomfortable.

But not entirely wrong.

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513 notes · View notes

sturniclos · 4 months ago

Text

Early bird gets the worm!

Pairing: Kyoya Ootori x reader Warnings: 18+ mdni, smut with fluff, creampie, morning sex, hints of overstimulation, praise.

It had been known upon Kyoya's friends and family that he was not, by any means, an early riser. Whenever bothered in the early morning, or any time before he had wanted to wake up (even if it's 4pm in the afternoon), Kyoya was always grouchy. Spouting cynical and rude comments, glowering and mumbling at whoever even thought of disturbing his sleep. Everyone had taken note to never bother him in bed.

However, in his second year of college, something started to shift.

Mori and Haruhi had taken note of it first- Kyoya had gotten progressively more polite. You could even go as far to say he had become an early bird, his second semester of classes mainly consisted of 8 or 9 am lectures compared to his 2 to 3 pm classes.

Kyoya had claimed it was because of the length of the classes- and it was better to go to one long class in the morning twice a week rather than five short ones in the afternoon. It had convinced most of the group- knowing he always had an efficient strategy in order to maximize anything for his benefit. In typical Ootori fashion, Kyoya had a logical reason for everything.

Tamaki had wondered what it was. A newfound maturity? He started going to bed earlier maybe. What if he started to become an insomniac and was actually never sleeping in the first place, and he started becoming kind as a result of his delirium?

Haruhi had crossed off the last option, rolling her eyes at his ridiculous assumption. She didn't really care why, but Tamaki never leaves things alone. Rejecting Tamaki's idea of watching his every move, Haruhi had opted to just ask Kyoya in order to settle Tamaki's nerves.

"Kyoya-kun, I've noticed you've been more of an early riser, is there any reason as to why?"

Kyoya tilts his head, looking up in contemplation before smiling to the side. "I've had more to look forward to in the mornings than I did before." His gaze follows you, observing your face as you animatedly tell the twins a story. Your eyes meet his for a split second, smiling sweetly at him before turning your attention back to the twins.

Haruhi immediately understands and looks at Kyoya as he admires you softly, a small smile gracing his lips as you laugh at the twins' responses. Tamaki, however, cannot accept the answer, and can't help but press more.

"What could've possibly transformed your nasty attitude into such a morning person?"

Kyoya pushes his adjusts his glasses before looking to the side, pausing as he stirs his tea to think about the answer. There were a couple of reasons, really.

You had started small. Giving him sleepy teas at around 8 pm, offering him a massage or inviting him to watch a movie with you. Goading him into sleeping earlier in the night. Slowly helping him loosen his tie and removing his shirt as he typed away at his laptop, peppering kisses along his neck. He could feel you practically smirk as his typing slows, more and more typos progressively pop up on his screen before he finally shuts the laptop shut to give you his full attention.

You'd tire him out before he could open his computer again, panting heavily against him as you bounced on his lap, his hands digging into the plush of your ass as he slightly guided you back and forth. A filthy combination of your slick and his pre making a mess on his lap, the lewd sound of skin slapping echoing in his room every time you sank further on his cock.

"m' close," He whispers, gripping you harder as he moves you faster. His lips latch onto your neck, his left hand moving to circle your clit in tight circles, earning a pathetic whimper from you in return.

"Come on, pretty girl, I know you have one more in you."

"Kyo- I can't, s'too much-" Your hips stutter against his, head falling into his neck as you try catching your breath. Kyoya is unrelenting, however, quickly speeding up his work on your clit while thrusting up into you as you gasp in pleasure. The heat in your gut turning into a tight coil as you spasm around him, kissing him through the overstimulation of him thrusting into you through your orgasm.

Kyoya returns the kiss deeply, his hands now gently rubbing your sides as he cums inside of you. His thumbs circle your hips, soft lips muttering praise as you both come down from your high. You groan slightly in response, glancing to the side to see a bright green "9:51" back at you, smiling softly before turning back to him.

"You have me beat. Let's take a shower in the morning together, yeah?"

Kyoya can't help but agree as he cleans you up with a warm rag, fighting the fatigue so that he can savor the moment of you in his arms before nodding off.

You'd work your magic until he'd slowly, but surely, started waking up earlier and earlier. His mood, however, had yet to change. A snappy mumble and slight glare still ever present as you slightly shook him awake.

Mornings were a lot slower, instead of shaking him awake, you'd started to wake up slightly earlier, lightly massaging his head to ease him out of sleep before getting up to start your own routine. You brush your teeth and get dressed and cook a simple breakfast, bringing the plate back to his room before resuming his head massage, sweetly cooing at him to wake up.

"Kyoya, it's time to get up. I made you breakfast."

His brows furrow before shaking his head slightly, pulling up the covers to his chin before turning towards his pillow.

You roll your eyes, leaning down to kiss his cheek, 1, 2, 3. The smile on his face slowly grows for every smooch you pepper on his face. How could he be mad when his sweet girlfriend is waking him up so kindly?

The blanket suddenly shifts, his bare torso revealed as he gets up to kiss you back. He rubs his nose against yours affectionately as he looks you in the eye.

"I know what you're trying to do."

You don't seem to feel guilty, instead landing another kiss on his lips with a dramatic "mwah!". A teasing smile on your face. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Kyoya indulges nonetheless, and now he finds himself waking up earlier than you do. Admiring your figure in the soft morning sunlight as your chest rises and falls with your breathing. His arm lazily hands around your waist as he caresses your back, appreciating the glow that highlights the tip of your eyelashes to the cupids bow of your lips.

When you do wake up, you cling closer to Kyoya, muttering a soft "g'morning." as you kiss his shoulder, slowly trailing down his torso to his briefs. You lightly palm his bulge before affectionately leaning on it, hot breath ghosting over the fabric, making his breath hitch as he lightly grasps the sheets.

Nimble fingers yank the band of his briefs down as you kiss the tip affectionately, looking up at him as you kitten lick his shaft before taking him in your mouth.

Kyoya sighs, hand finding purchase in your hair as you bob your head along his length, slowly going up before slamming your head down. His tip bruising the back of your sensitive through as your tongue flattens against the vein on the underside of his dick.

He's whiny in the morning, you note. Slight sleepiness making him more sensitive to your touch. His breathe hitches and small moans escaping through his praise as he throws his head back in pleasure.

"Fuck, feel so good around me. Love waking up like this." His hand in your hair grips tighter as he quickens the pace, reveling in the way you gag around his length. His harsh pace was a stark contrast to his hand on your shoulder, gently rubbing your shoulder as he roughly fucks your face.

You moan around him as you play with your tits, one hand pinching your nipple as you look back up at him, his normally icy glare gazing at you with adoration. His cock twitches at the eye contact before his spills into your mouth. You take it all, swallowing before disconnecting with a small "Pop!", a string of saliva connecting from his tip to your mouth.

His breathing is heavy before he brings your face to his, gently kissing you as he catches his breath between kisses. He pays you back, gently fucking you from behind in the shower. Goosebumps scatter your skin as he presses you harshly against the cold glass, watching as the water splashes around his hips with each thrust.

One would think it's greed. His never-ending greed to have you prettily whimpering in his room every time he wakes up, face buried against the base of his cock, or when he slowly cuddle fucks you as you whine against his soft satin pillows (a purchase he made just for you). He can't help it- it's hard to resist when you look so gorgeous in the early mornings. He feels rejuvenated after seeing you breathless and panting with his cum seeping out of you, whining at the loss of feeling full.

Soon enough, you'd successfully gotten Kyoya's sleep schedule on track. A healthy balance of cardio and rest, and Kyoya had never worked so efficiently. He almost wonders how he was able to acheive so much without you there.

The specific reason was far too intimate to share- especially to someone as dramatic as Tamaki. So instead, he shrugs and takes a sip of his drink.

"I got a better alarm clock."

#kyoya ootori x reader #kyoya ootori #kyoya x reader #ohshc kyoya #kyoya smut #I love him so much #ohshc fandom is dead but I prevail #totally self indulget #I can't fix him but I can fuck him #FIX IT BY FUCKING HIM!

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hope-for-the-planet · 3 months ago

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I'm scared for the future. The year starts with WTF, trump is in the Whitehouse. They're are 3...no 4...Idfk how many wars and humanitarian crises. We're are 90s seconds (probably lower in 2025) to midnight on the doomsday clock. And the earth is getting hotter by the half-hour. I'm scared of dying and I'm pretty sure we're alone in the universe. So how in the flibity flabuty F**k! Do you stay so positive? (Genuinely I want to know)

Hi Anon!

This may not be the most satisfying answer, but a lot of it is practice.

Pivoting away from negative thought spirals, knowing when the despair is welling up and it's time to put the news down for a bit, being aware of the human tendency for negativity bias that feeds the media bias towards catastrophizing, seeking out stories of progress and people helping each other even if it's not glamorous or flashy or immediate. These get easier the longer you practice.

Truly, I have never been aware of how much this hope practice has paid off until this year. I won't say that I don't have bad days, but the strategies I have to deal with them and keep the bad news from driving me to disengagement feel like muscle-memory now.

I know this may not feel terribly helpful to you, but I say this to express that it is not some unique element of my personality that allows me to stay hopeful in the face of bad news--it is a skill that you can get better at too.

One really big part of this is to combat the bombardment of negative information by looking for positive information. News of progress, resistance, and people coming together to make a difference are a great place to start--but also hopeful and inspiring art (books, movies, TV shows, visual art, theater, etc.), research into human goodness and altruism, reading not just about the dark times in human history but also the times that people worked together to make things better. I just finished reading Hope for Cynics by positive psychologist Jamil Zaki, which I highly recommend if you feel like delving into the good side of human nature.

The more you train your brain to look for hope the more you will notice--one day you'll hear bad news and your knee-jerk reaction will be to turn towards possible solutions and wonder who is already working to make those solutions a reality.

I understand living in that place of fear and hopelessness--I have spent time there too and some days I still do. But hope is something worth working towards, even slowly and imperfectly. It doesn't just feel better to live in a world where you can see the possibility for things to be better than they are right now--it is the first step in being engaged in helping to make them better.

There are so many kind, brave, talented, imperfect, regular people pushing back against the bad things. None of us are alone. None of us have to save the world by ourselves. We only have to hope enough to be one small part of the process of making the world better than it would have been otherwise, in whatever ways we can.

#hope #words #ask #climate change #global warming #hopepunk #hope is a skill #hope practice

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verstappenf1lecccc · 7 months ago

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Toto Wolff with wife reader. Feat their son, Jack. She had some sort of trouble breathing but didn't want to alarm Toto or anyone else. Because they're busy preparing for the races. Even other drivers & WAGs ask her if she's alright. Ask me if you want more insight. Thanks!! :)) With prompts :

1)"My chest really... hurts..."

2)"I can't really breathe -"

3)"Don't you dare pass out on me."

4)"Careful you don't fall - gotcha!"

You can choose how many you want to use.

You can choose how many you want to use

Ps : from p✌🏻

“Breathless”

i will always write p’s requests first! hope you like it p

The sun had barely risen over the Silverstone circuit, casting a golden glow across the track as cars roared to life in the distance. It was race day, the culmination of months of tireless effort, strategies, and sacrifices. Every member of the Mercedes team, from the engineers to the drivers to the WAGs, was on edge. But it was a different kind of nervousness for you, the wife of Toto Wolff.

Toto was deep in his preparations, leading the team as always, focused and composed. He had the weight of the world on his shoulders as the team’s success and his drivers’ performance depended on the decisions made in those crucial final moments before the race. But you… you were struggling, and he had no idea.

As the day progressed, the increasing pressure of the crowd and the weight of the upcoming race only made it harder for you to breathe. It started off small—just a bit of tightness in your chest—but over time it became harder to ignore. The subtle discomfort bloomed into something much worse, sharp pangs slicing through your ribcage, leaving you gasping for air. You found it harder to breathe, each inhale feeling like you were suffocating, but you refused to let it show. You couldn’t. Not now. Not when Toto had so much to focus on. He couldn’t know.

You sat quietly in the hospitality area, surrounded by the other wives and girlfriends of the drivers, but you barely heard their chatter over the pounding in your ears. You could feel their concerned glances on you, but you forced a smile, clutching your chest and taking slow, shallow breaths, praying it would pass. The last thing you wanted was to be a distraction.

As you sipped your water, Jack, your young son, came over to you, his little face full of concern.

“Mommy, are you okay?” Jack asked, his innocent voice bringing warmth to your heart, even though your chest burned with every passing second.

You forced a smile, reaching out to ruffle his hair. “I’m fine, sweetheart. Just a little tired, that’s all.”

Jack seemed to buy it, but the others weren’t so easily fooled.

One of the other drivers’ wives, Sophie, leaned in, her face etched with worry. “Are you sure you’re okay?” she asked gently. “You don’t look well.”

You nodded quickly, trying to mask the pain behind a veil of reassurance. “I’m fine, just… just a bit lightheaded. Nothing to worry about.”

But Sophie didn’t seem convinced. She glanced at you, and you could tell she wanted to say more, but she was interrupted by the loud rumble of an engine firing up on the track.

The tightness in your chest worsened, and you pressed a hand to your ribs, trying to steady your breathing. But it felt impossible. You were suffocating, and the air just wasn’t enough.

You stood up abruptly, trying to mask your discomfort by pretending to stretch. But it only made things worse. Your vision blurred, the edges of the world fading as you tried to push through it. Your breaths became shallow, faster, more frantic. A cold sweat broke out on your forehead, and you stumbled forward, nearly collapsing into the arms of another WAG, who immediately caught you.

“Okay, that’s it,” Sophie said, her voice now filled with urgency. “You’re not fine. Let me get help.”

You shook your head weakly, panic rising in your chest, but you couldn’t argue anymore. Everything was spiraling out of control.

Meanwhile, Toto was deep in a team meeting, his mind on the race, on the strategy, on the stakes ahead. He was so close to achieving his dream for the season, but in the back of his mind, he always made sure to check in on you. Even now, he felt a strange unease tug at him, but he brushed it off. The day was too important.

But then, the call came.

“Toto, it’s your wife. You need to come now,” Sophie said, her voice thick with panic.

His heart stopped, a sinking feeling dropping to the pit of his stomach. He bolted from the room, his legs carrying him faster than he ever thought possible. He had no idea what was happening, but the tone in Sophie’s voice was enough to make his blood run cold.

When he arrived at the hospitality suite, the sight of you, pale and struggling for air, made his chest tighten in an instant. You were leaning against a table, breathing erratically, your hand clutching at your ribs as though you were trying to hold yourself together.

“Toto,” you whispered, barely able to get the words out. “I’m sorry… I didn’t want to worry you…”

Toto’s face went ashen, his eyes wide with fear. “Don’t you dare pass out on me,” he growled, kneeling beside you, gripping your shoulders with a desperation you’d never seen from him before. “Please… just breathe, breathe with me.”

You gasped for air, but it was no use. Your chest constricted even more, the pain unbearable. A cold sweat drenched your skin, and you felt like you were slipping away. You couldn’t breathe.

Toto’s voice broke through the fog of panic, his hands shaking as he pressed you against his chest. “Stay with me, love. Stay with me. I can’t lose you.”

The next few moments were a blur. Paramedics rushed in, lifting you onto a stretcher and into the ambulance, Toto never leaving your side. He was frantic now, a man out of control, his mind racing with fear as he clutched your hand, whispering reassurances he didn’t believe himself. He was terrified.

In the ambulance, the oxygen mask was placed over your face, but the damage had been done. Your heart, strained under the pressure, had given out. You had suffered a heart attack—an event that felt so sudden, so unexpected. The pain, the tightness, the feeling of being trapped in your own body—it all made sense now. But the fear in Toto’s eyes, the way he cried quietly while holding your hand, that was something you couldn’t have prepared for.

“I need you, please,” Toto muttered, his voice raw with emotion. “I can’t do this without you.”

You fought for consciousness, focusing on the steady rise and fall of the oxygen as it filled your lungs. Slowly, the tightness eased, and you managed to open your eyes. The first thing you saw was Toto, his face streaked with tears, his expression torn apart with anguish. And then you saw Jack, standing beside him, his little hands clutching his father’s pant leg, looking up at you with eyes wide in fear.

You squeezed Toto’s hand weakly, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’m okay… I’m here.”

Toto’s entire body shuddered as he breathed in, the relief on his face immediate, but his hands remained tight around yours. “Don’t you ever scare me like that again.”

“I didn’t mean to,” you whispered, tears welling up in your own eyes now. “I didn’t want you to worry. I just… I didn’t want to be a distraction. Not today.”

He leaned down, pressing his forehead to yours, his voice low and full of emotion. “You are my world, you are my priority. Everything else can wait. Don’t you ever try to protect me from your pain again. I can’t lose you.”

Toto’s words, raw and vulnerable, tore through you. You had been so determined to stay strong for him, for Jack, for the team. But now, in this moment, you realized that the only thing that mattered was the people you loved.

And you were going to fight for them.

Fight for your life. Because Toto Wolff couldn’t lose his family.

And neither could you.

@pear-1206

#f1 imagine #f1 scenario #f1 x reader #formula one #f1 fandom #f1 fiction #f1 fic #f1 fanfic #f1 #angsty toto wolff #toto wolff x y/n #toto wolff fic #toto wolff fanfic #toto wolff x reader #toto wolff

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spencersmopbucket · 2 months ago

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The Party & The After Party | Oliver Wood

Pairing: Oliver Wood x Reader Summary: After three years of dating, you and Oliver come to the conclusion that you're better off without each other. A few months later, at the start of 7th year, you realize just how wrong you were. Oliver had always had a quick temper, but seeing you being flirted with at a post-victory party seemed to push it to new limits.

Link to: Part 2

You'd grown and matured so much since your first year at Hogwarts.

When you'd arrived, you were sorted into Gryffindor; though you were welcomed, everyone had wondered how. You were quiet, timid, but intelligent and fun when you were yanked from your shell. As the years progressed, you got more confident, until finally, in your 4th year, you met Oliver Wood. He changed everything for you.

Confidence came easily to him. He was good at what he did —Quidditch. He worked hard, played harder, and when he met you, it was the first time ever that he thought of something that wasn't quidditch.

He thought you were beautiful, like the quidditch field early in the morning when it had fresh dew on it. You were polite, oh so smart, respectful.. Everything that Oliver had wanted in a girl, though he didn't think about them very often.

You’d always liked Oliver from afar. Everyone did, really. He had a presence — loud, determined, fearless. But he never looked at anyone the way he eventually looked at you.

It started small. A smile in the corridor after practice. A shared seat in the library when all the others were taken. You didn’t think much of it, assuming he was just being polite — friendly, maybe. But Oliver wasn’t friendly just to be friendly. He was focused, always moving with purpose, and if he gave you attention, it was because he meant to.

He’d wait for you outside of Transfiguration. Offer to carry your books. Leave you notes scribbled on crumpled bits of parchment, full of inside jokes or casual compliments that made your stomach flip. He’d never been good with words — not the flowery kind, at least — but he was honest. Blunt, even. And you liked that about him.

When he asked you out, he was straightforward, cheeks red but eyes steady.

"Look, lass," he'd started, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. "I don't really do the dating thing, but.. I think of ye a lot and I'd really like to take you to Hogsmeade. Just us, if that's alright."

Of course, like every girl that swooned over the quidditch star Oliver Wood, you were floored. You said yes immediately.

The years that followed weren’t perfect — but they were real. You laughed together, studied together, had late-night walks through the castle where he’d sneak you into the pitch just to show you the stars from the stands. He always said the world looked best from up there, and the only thing that ever rivaled that view was you.

But as sixth year came and went, Oliver began to drift — not in love, but in time. His dream of going pro was so close he could taste it. Every spare minute went into training, every conversation turned back to strategy. You tried to understand. You tried to hold on.

But slowly, quietly, you started to feel like a benchwarmer in your own relationship.

And so, by the end of that year, standing near the lake under a sky full of summer heat and quiet heartbreak, you sniffled quietly: maybe it wasn’t working. Maybe you were growing in different directions.

The breakup didn't come easy. Oliver hated losing above everything he'd ever hated, and being broken up with meant he'd be losing arguably one of the most important things to him. You. He hadn't meant to direct so much of his attention to quidditch — but as he thought more, as he got angrier and more hurt about you breaking things off, he thought that maybe it was what he needed.

It was the final push. With one less distraction, he could go pro. The word distraction echoed through his head, making his chest tighten. Were you really a distraction? Or was he just a fucking git?

Regardless, there was no going back. He couldn't change anything now. You'd left and Oliver wasn't a sorry beggar that was going to grovel at your feet to get you back.

The months of summer passed. You were wounded, suffering — but you'd grown into yourself quite a bit over the summer. Your hair got longer, your shape got fuller, you got more confident, you got more fiery.

Oliver, to be honest, hadn't done the same. He was going to come back to Hogwarts the exact same he'd been, besides the absence of you and the little bit of dimness it had shed onto the light of his personality. He held it together, but he knew. He was an injured dog, wanting to spend more time huddled in a corner trying to heal than do anything else. He missed you, he missed your presence. Without you, it felt even harder to focus.

Seventh year arrived in a haze of new beginnings and old wounds.

You didn’t expect much from Oliver — not anymore. You weren’t even sure if he’d say anything when he saw you. But when you stepped onto the Hogwarts Express that morning, your heart betrayed you, thudding hard against your ribs when you saw him across the platform. He looked the same — same tired eyes, same determined jaw. The same Oliver, and yet... not.

He didn’t approach. Didn’t wave. Just stared for a moment too long before boarding the train.

And that was it.

That's how the first couple of weeks of school went. Your mutual friends noticed it immediately, how you avoided each other, refused to speak, refused to be friends. You sat through lessons, avoiding even looking at each other from across a classroom.

Oliver threw himself into quidditch the moment it started, burying himself in the only thing he'd known besides you.

Gryffindor’s first win of the season had the common room buzzing, students spilling in from every direction with sweets, music, and alcohol. You hadn’t planned on staying long, but your friends had insisted, dragging you into the crowd with promises of a good time and better company.

This party was only for 6th and 7th years. Only for the people that could keep quiet about it.

Oliver, on a winning high, sat in the back of the room on the couch, his friends surrounding him. You didn't even look, though you heard his thick accent and booming voice. Him and his friends laughed, drinks in their hands. He was finally happy for a moment. For one little moment.

Your refusal to look at him wasn't the same on the other end. His eyes zeroed in on you as soon as you'd gotten tipsy enough to come out into the open, not stand in the corner. You wore a skirt, a red mesh crop top, signifying Gryffindor. Your hair was messy. You were evidently buzzed, hanging off from Lavender Brown's arm and laughing lazily.

You were beautiful. As beautiful as the moment he saw you. The moment was almost blissful, a chance to look at you without a returning glare or a tense realization that you were being watched. He'd missed looking at you. He felt a warm buzz travel through his body as his hazel eyes softened.

Until the moment was ruined. He'd finally seen what you and Lav were laughing at.

A tall Hufflepuff boy, clearly streamlining lame jokes into you and your friend's ears, trying to impress. Oliver's blood went cold, his jaw clenching. George was the first to notice.

"Wood, mate. Easy."

But Oliver wasn't listening. He'd always been hot-blooded, easy to frustrate. But this? This was something new. Something he'd never experienced.

He couldn't listen. Not when the Hufflepuff twat had the nerve to lean closer to you, elbow brushing yours like he had any right.

"She's laughin'," He muttered to himself, his eyes narrowing and grip tightening on his cup. "She's actually bloody laughin'."

"Because she's drunk," George reminded, with Fred placing a hand on Oliver's shoulder to reinforce him. "Not because she's interested."

Oliver's glare heated up as the Hufflepuff boy nudged your shoulder playfully.

"Aye, well, drunk or not, that's my girl he's tryna pull."

Fred gave him a look. “Ex-girl.”

“Shut it, Weasley,” Oliver snapped, his voice sharp, too sharp. “I ken what I said.”

He didn’t mean to stand up. Didn’t mean to slam his cup down so hard it sloshed onto the floor. He didn't mean to wrench both of the twins' hands off from his arms, strength doubled by how upset he was. But he was already up, the noise of the party falling away beneath the pounding in his ears. Fortunately, Fred and George followed, trailed by Harry too.

You didn’t see him coming.

Not until he was there, towering behind the Hufflepuff with a scowl that could curdle milk.

“Oi,” Oliver barked, accent thick and venom-laced. “Ye lost, mate? Thought the badgers burrowed down in the dungeons.”

The boy turned, eyebrows raised in confusion. “Er—what?”

“She’s not interested,” Oliver growled. “So why don’t ye take yer shite jokes and piss off before I throw ye out meself?”

The Hufflepuff blinked, confused, glancing between you and Oliver. You looked equally stunned.

“I was just—"

“Flirtin’. Aye. I saw. Now jog on.”

Your jaw dropped. You’d never seen Oliver so mad, so confrontational. It just wasn’t him. He was civil — not afraid to call someone out on their shit, but civil. This.. This was just plain old aggression.

There was a beat of silence before the boy muttered something to himself and, stupidly, decided to be brave. Clearly he didn’t know Oliver as well as the rest of Hogwarts did. He puffed up, turning his face straight to Oliver’s and said six words, six dangerous words:

“Why don’t ya make me, Wood?”

The room froze. Even the music seemed to stutter, as if the castle itself knew what was about to happen.

Fred and George stiffened. Harry cursed under his breath.

Oliver’s fists clenched at his sides, knuckles already white.

“Ye sure about that?” he growled, stepping forward until there was barely an inch between them. “Cause I’ve had a shite week, my tolerance for gobshites is sittin’ real low, and I’ve not thrown a punch in a while.”

You begged in your head for the boy to stop. This Hufflepuff must’ve been foolish, absolutely brainless. The strongest, most decorated, most known quidditch player in school, recognized for brute strength and temper, recognized for you, and he still has the nerve to push on. You didn’t know if he was brainless, like you’d thought before, or brave.

“Oh, I’m sure,” the boy asserted, almost nose to nose with Wood. “I’m certain. You might scare every other git in this school away from a pretty girl, but ya don’t scare me.”

Oh, bloody hell. You nearly winced.

You could feel the shift in Oliver’s body before he moved. Like a storm right before it breaks—quiet, charged, dangerous.

Fred muttered, “Right, well, that’s the dumbest thing I’ve heard all week.”

George followed with, “Poor bloke’s gonna get launched into next Tuesday.”

Oliver’s jaw ticked, his nostrils flaring. His voice, when it came, was low. Controlled. That was worse.

“Ye’ve got guts, I’ll give ye that. Shame you’ll be wearin’ them if you open that mouth again.”

And then—he lunged.

You barely had time to react before the twins were moving, Fred hooking an arm around Oliver’s chest while George stepped between him and the Hufflepuff, arms raised.

“Woah, WOAH, alright! That’s enough!”

“Oliver, mate, c’mon,” Harry grunted, trying to grab his other arm. “Don’t punch this lad at a party, yeah? Save it for the pitch.”

But Oliver’s eyes never left the Hufflepuff. His chest rose and fell rapidly, like a caged dragon just barely kept at bay. The muscles in his arms were taut beneath Fred’s hold, his fists still clenched like they could fly at any second.

“He thinks he’s brave,” Oliver snapped, voice rough and shaking. “But he’s disrespectful. Sayin’ I scare the rest o’ the school? Sayin’ I don’t scare him? I’ll show—”

“Enough!” You finally snap, your eyes narrowed. “Enough, Oliver.”

His eyes softened, but hardened yet again. Fred and George’s arms tightened around him, like a vice.

“What the hell are ye playin’ at?” he snapped, glaring down at you. “Paradin’ around like—like that, lettin’ some idiot make eyes at ye like I’m not standin’ right fuckin’ here?”

Your eyes widened, and then narrowed just as quickly.

“Excuse me?” you said, voice low and dangerous. “I’m not ‘parading’ anything, Oliver.”

“You are,” he hissed. “You bloody are. You ken what yer wearin’? What yer doin’?”

“What I’m doing is moving on,” you spat, stepping toward him now, flushed with drink and fury. “Isn’t that what you wanted? You, your broomstick, and your bloody dreams?”

That hit. Hard. You saw it in his face—the way his jaw flexed and his eyes flickered with something raw.

“I didn’t want this,” he bit out. “I didn’t want you makin’ me feel like this. D’ye ken how hard it is, watchin’ ye pretend I never meant a thing?”

The room around you had gone quieter now, the music thumping faintly behind the tension. Eyes were starting to linger.

“Oliver,” you warned, heart racing. “Don’t do this here.”

“Why not?” he said, voice breaking just slightly. “Ye don’t want me anymore, fine. But don’t stand there actin’ like I was nothin’ to ye.”

Your breath caught. Everything fell away—the party, the Hufflepuff, the gaping onlookers. Just you and Oliver and the aching history between you.

“C’mon,” Fred said, tugging at his arm, sensing the shift. “Let’s go cool off before McGonagall shows up and gives us detention ‘til Christmas.

Oliver didn’t move.

His jaw flexed like he wanted to say more, but he didn’t. Not to you. Not to anyone.

With one last searing glare at the Hufflepuff—who had the good sense to take a step back this time—Oliver turned on his heel.

“Fuck this.”

The words were quiet, half-muttered, but they carried enough venom to make a few nearby students shrink away. He shouldered past a cluster of seventh years, shoving open the portrait hole so hard it nearly bounced back into Harry’s face.

Fred and George exchanged a look, then quickly followed.

“This is gonna be fun,” Fred mumbled sarcastically.

“Aye,” George sighed. “Let’s make sure he doesn’t punch a wall this time.”

Harry hesitated for a moment, offering you an apologetic glance before trailing after them, leaving you standing there, heart pounding, surrounded by the aftermath.

The room buzzed with murmurs, but no one dared say anything too loud. The tension Oliver had left behind clung to the air like smoke.

And you?

You just stood there, Lavender hovering at your side, one hand lightly gripping your arm.

“Are you okay?” she asked, softer than usual.

You nodded absently, eyes still on the portrait hole. But your mind was miles away—storming off down the corridor with Oliver.

Because that wasn’t nothing. That wasn’t casual jealousy. That was a boy who still had something burning deep inside him.

And Merlin help you, you felt the same fire.

#harry potter #Harry Potter fanfiction #harry potter X reader #oliver wood x reader #oliver wood #hogwarts #hogwarts houses #draco malfoy #fred weasly x reader #fred weasley #george weasley #george weasly x reader

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dreamwavesexploringreality · 10 months ago

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MISTAKES

Chishiya x reader

TW: Angst, mentions of death.

Based on a request: Chishiya pushes the reader away and regrets it

Another night, another game, another massacre. Chishiya emerged from the building where the game had taken place with an impassive face and a strange feeling of heaviness inside. He had been the only survivor, doing whatever was necessary to leave that place alive, as always. But for some reason, something felt different this time.

Chishiya took a brief breath, feeling the cold night air filling his lungs painfully, temporarily soothing the ache that had settled in his heart.

Everything had seemed straightforward at first: Seven of diamonds with clear rules and a single objective: to reach the final level alone. The game was based on a vertical, structured system—a tower of choice. Seven players, seven floors, and seven levels, all starting from the first. Each level required solving an intellectual challenge to progress, but the difficulty increased as fewer people could continue with each level: only six could pass the first, only five the second, and so on until only one reached the top of the tower and survived the game. Although it was possible to intervene to help others, this only put oneself at a disadvantage. Sharing answers reduced resources, making it more challenging to solve the subsequent exercises. In reality, it was all about leaving people behind; being selfish was the most sensible strategy to reach the top of the tower alone, ensuring no one else did. But then, why couldn’t he look into the eyes of those he left behind? Why did he question, for a millisecond, helping that young man struggling with a simple task? Chishiya knew the answers to those questions, though it pained him to admit it. But… What if she had been there that night? Would she have died like all the others? Would he have survived? These unanswered questions haunted his mind, awakening ruthless fears he had locked away during his time in Borderlands.

The walk back to The Beach seemed shorter than expected when he lifted his head and saw the huge, neglected entrance of the hotel. It exuded a sepulchral silence, contrasting with the clamor and scandal that usually emanated from the building during daylight or party nights. In the stillness of the night, Chishiya could hear, like silent echoes, the voices of those who had lost their lives in the game, and the ghostly scent of blood that painted each floor of the tower reached his nose, carried by a gentle breeze.

“Chishiya!” A voice jolted him from his introspection. “Chishiya! You’re back early; I knew you would be!” The man felt a pair of arms encircle him, nearly cutting off his breath. The familiarity of the embrace, instead of comforting or offering refuge, immediately produced a feeling of rejection, and he freed himself with a swift motion, pushing the surprised girl a few steps back.

“Not now, Y/N,” he said abruptly, with a coldness he didn’t usually use with her, and moved towards the hotel’s interior. Y/N followed him, running in a way that Chishiya interpreted as that of a lost puppy. The idea almost made him vomit. What if one day he didn’t come back? What if she died? What if she died… because of him?

“What happened? Are you okay? Are you hurt?” Y/N bombarded him with questions, trying to keep up with his pace to his room.

Chishiya remained cold, walking firmly as if he didn’t hear her, and when he opened the door to his room and stepped inside, he turned to look at her. “Definitely a lost puppy,” he thought to himself as he observed the girl’s face twisted in a grimace of doubt and insecurity.

“Go to bed, Y/N,” he said briefly, and she felt as if he had just shot her heart.

“But… but what about the goodnight hug? We can… we can lie in bed and just hold each other! You don’t have to talk!” The woman’s tone sounded desperate, pathetic from her perspective, but she couldn’t help it. She needed it, needed to know he was there, that he had returned alive from the game and that… he cared.

But Chishiya closed the door without answering her pleas or looking at her a second time. Maybe he didn’t care for her as much as she thought… or maybe he didn’t care for her as much as she cared for him.

Y/N stood for a few seconds in front of the closed wooden door, hearing the man moving around inside the room. She heard the shower start running and Chishiya moving around the room, probably looking for a new swimsuit, completely ignoring the woman he had left with tear-streaked face and a broken heart on the other side of the door.

That night, Chishiya couldn’t sleep. Each time he managed to overcome insomnia, a dreadful nightmare seized his mind, waking him with gasps and sweat. He saw himself in the game he had played that night, but instead of the other players, it was Y/N who was there. They were both on the penultimate level, knowing only one would reach the top and survive. The puzzle was easy, but for some reason, the girl couldn’t solve it, and then his mind grew dark. He saw himself giving a correct answer that he couldn’t even hear with his racing heartbeat pounding in his throat. He looked into her eyes as they turned gray, white, lifeless. He watched her body fall to the ground with a great thud and saw her head bounce against the floor until it finally lay still. Then her mouth would open, and heavy words would pour out of the building’s speakers at full volume, as thick tears streamed from her lifeless eyes, soaking her face and creating a large puddle around her. “You killed me,” “It’s your fault,” “I hate you,” “I wish I’d never met you”… And he cried. He cried in his dreams because he was losing her and woke up with a damp trace on his cheek. Only the moon witnessed his own heartbreak in that cold and lonely hotel room, and when dawn came, with the first rays of light filtering through the room’s curtains, he realized how wrong he had been all along.

----------

Hey everyone!✨

I just finished writing a new piece based on a request I received. I might have taken a few creative liberties... but I got really into the story and let it flow in its own direction😅.

If you enjoy it and want to see where the story goes next, let me know! Your feedback could lead to a second part, so if you're interested let me know 🌟👀!

Thanks for reading and for all your support!

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northgazaupdates · 1 year ago

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Awad @awad-palestine and his family are currently displaced to Rafah. Their home in north Gaza was destroyed, their large extended family was forced to separate, and they have spent several months fleeing from place to place under threat of bombardment and ground invasion. They have no home or resources with which to support themselves, and they are all sick, exhausted, and scared.

The IOF invasion of Rafah looms ever-closer, and bombings have increased as the occupation begins their scorched earth strategy. People living or sheltering in parts of eastern Rafah have been ordered to evacuate under threat of violence, and the number of areas under evacuation order is likely to increase.

Awad and his family, including his 3 children, are among ~1.5 million Gazans currently in Rafah. They are in immediate danger and living in misery. Please help them raise funds to evacuate Rafah via Egypt as soon as possible. Their fund has made very little progress so far, and the situation grows more urgent by the minute. If you cannot donate, please reblog this post and repost this link

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weepingtalecowboy · 6 months ago

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Hyrule Warriors strategy lol

Fanfic prompt: A thing I absolutely love about Hyrule warriors is how the game needs strategy and how said strategy evolves

You go from

“Please go there I will carry you there but please don’t run off”

Too

“GET OVER HERE RIGHT THIS SECOND OR ELSE…!,!”

like you end up barking orders like a literal drill sergeant

You have absolutely no faith that anyone would go where they need to

I spent more time in the menu barking orders than I did actually holding and taking over zones

Even funnier is how replaying the game absolutely makes a difference

Where in games like windwaker or twilight princess you are forced to progress slowly through the game

No matter how good you get at them you still need to wait for bosses to enter second and third phase

Or more specifically need to either tear down the barrier (or skip it but that’s hard) or turn into a hylian in both games

The only thing that changes is that you can play the game better and more reliably than before

In Hyrule warriors the learning curve makes replaying the game hilarious

Because the second you genuinely understand the strategy for the game you play it completely differently

Fighting Volga the first time is literally more about precisely mashing buttons and aiming at him every single time than anything else

I beat him in like ten seconds flat

Like from a time travel fix it perspective Hyrule warriors let’s you do everything immediately

Like imagine warriors getting sent back in time to the first ever fight in Hyrule warriors and literally the second he gets promoted he goes full drill sergeant mode on people

Where first time you learn the usefulness of dragging people to do stuff rather late

You also eventually don’t trust anyone to do stuff if you aren’t outright controlling them immediately

This time around warriors got the confidence to scream at people right after he got the promotion lol

It probably looks so funny when a near new recruit gets the audacity to threaten everyone the second he gets promoted

And then out drill sergeants a higher up and finishes missions in like half an hour the most (respect speed run )

But only because he scared everyone into obedience (like npcs run like they would die if they don’t get to the ordered position right this second)

And kept tabs on all the zones that need to be held

While also ignoring literally every enemy except the generals , redeads and other special forces (honestly redeads make NPCs a new level of ineffective… way to slow)

Only doing side missions for two seconds and then doing the main ones exclusively

And boosting moral like crazy (because of how fast you get side missions done)

You legitimately become a tank at some point in Hyrule warriors and not even replaying the entire game would balance it out

Tune and mask probably feared the captain when he went drill sergeant (and you go drill sergeant way too often in this game)

We need more drill sergeant warriors in the fandom

Because in the game nobody disobeys your orders and runs like their lives depend on it

The chain needs to experience drill sergeant warriors when fighting a boss (maybe dink)

No honor for the evil … you trap them in a corner and keep beating them into submission and don’t stop until they disintegrate

Cia didn’t even have a chance lol

We need more time travel where the character simply immediately becomes their best possible form because they simply had a growing as a person arc they could skip this time around

Arguing with that guy about stuff involving missions is probably not recommended

Time and wind just sit back and watch as warriors get into drill sergeant mode and wait till one of the links gets to do pushups

You have better luck with literally any other type of discussion but not military or mission related lol

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scariusaquarius · 3 months ago

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rehab. 18.

Avenger! Bucky Barnes x Winter Soldier! Fem! Reader

Summary: While on a mission to find any more possible super soldiers that were a part of the Winter Soldier program, Steve and Bucky make a discovery in an abandoned HYDRA base that was cleared out a few years prior to their mission. They discover the Reader, a long-forgotten soldier that was still asleep within a functioning cryostasis pod; still awaiting orders. While Bucky isn't happy about it, he is put up to the challenge of helping to rehabilitate the soldier in Wakanda where she may be able to become a person again.

A/n: YAY we finally made real progress with the soldier!! Hehe i hope that you guys enjoyed the way that ended. I really thought that having Peter there would also help because he's such a comforting person<3 Also, if you enjoy my work, please consider buying me a coffee! If you would prefer to read Rehab on Archive, you may do so right HERE!

This is an au where Bucky joined the avengers but still rehabilitated in Wakanda (sometime before Infinity War [canon divergent cause NOPE]). I am NOT fluent in Russian, so I did use google translate cause I couldn't find a good translator that I trusted. If anything is wrong, PLEASE let me know!! Also, I tried to list as many warnings as possible so you know what the story will contain as chapters are posted. Stay safe!

Genre: Slowburn, Enemies to Lovers/Friends to Lovers, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Humor, Drama, Dark Content Rated: Explicit Warning: Angst, Dark Content: Graphic Depictions of Sexual Assault, Blood and Gore, Mentions of Manipulation, Kidnapping, Canon-Typical Violence, Body Horror, Nonconsensual Body Modification/Scarring, Emotional and Physical Abuse, Mentions of Murder, Mentions of Suicidal Thoughts/Ideation, Graphic Depictions of Human Remains, Mentions of Sexual Coercion/Manipulation, Death, Misuse of Drugs/Forced Drugging, Self-Harm (Graphic Depictions and Mentions), Nightmares

Author: ScariusAquarius

rehab masterlist. chapter 14 / chapter 15 / chapter 16 / chapter 17

The CIA was hustling and bustling. While the fast-paced environment was normal for the agency, Natasha observed that everyone seemed to be on edge. Agents that didn't think she could see them were glancing her way, whispering behind hands, sweat running down their necks, and some immediately ducking into their computers and acting as if they were busy.

After all, a house call from an Avenger wasn't an everyday happenstance...and for two visits in the span of about two weeks?

Something was off, and everyone in the agency knew.

Natasha's gaze was kept on the Director, however, who was tense and ushering them to his office out of sight. She tilted her head to mutter quietly to the woman beside her.

"How much do you want to be that they're encrypting everything in here as much as possible."

"Agent Romanoff, with your track record, it's a good strategy."

Natasha smirked slightly, stating as she jutted her chin out slightly.

"Aw, come on, Maria, you don't really think I'd have the nerve to steal precious information right within the lion's den, do you?"

Maria Hill was annoyed, giving the woman a death-glare as she turned to her, their steps pausing as she muttered out.

"Romanoff, I implore you to use better judgement. Do the Avengers even know that you're here right now?"

Natasha snickered, and Maria just huffed before the Director ushered them into his office. He was clumsy, bumping his hip into his desk as he tried to readjust his suit and tie, sitting before them with a nervous gleam within his eyes that he hid behind a wide and welcoming smile.

"While I'm unsure if I'm happy to see Agent Romanoff within my agency, I am honored to be in the presence of yet another Avenger and the renowned Maria Hill within my office. What can I do for you, ladies?"

Natasha smiled before grabbing a device within her pocket and held it up, making Maria glance at her before glancing at the Director.

"Director Holloway, do you know what this is?"

Director Holloway looked nervous, asking with an intrigued tone to his voice.

"No, Agent Romanoff, I'm not entirely sure."

She clicked a button, and the Director made a noise of pain as the device effectively scrambled and disengaged any equipment within the office that was listening in on their conversation.

"This is a signal jammer. I just cut off your communications and surveillance devices that are in this room. We only have about two minutes or less to talk now, but if you cooperate, you may go back to your life as the CIA Director normally. Are you willing to comply?"

The Director looked angry, standing up and exclaiming.

"What is this?!"

Maria immediately pulled her weapon out, ordering firmly as she brandished it by placing it upon her lap.

"Sit down, Director."

The Director stuttered before he sat down, and Natasha stood up, sliding a file over to the Director before opening it up.

"This man here is Jack Rollins, which I'm sure you already know. Why are you hiding him?"

The Director laughed nervously, shaking his head as he gestured to the file.

"What are you talking about? Jack Rollins was pronounced dead after the incident at the Triskelion."

Natasha replied firmly, tilting her head slightly.

"His body was never discovered, and the Avengers have reason to believe that he is alive and the CIA is harboring him. Director Holloway, I'm not asking anymore, so it would be your best interest to answer my question."

The Director looked uncomfortable, and Maria put a bullet within the chamber of her gun loudly. Holloway's eyes became wide, and he rushed out.

"Listen, I truly have no idea what you are talking about. Do you realize how much trouble you're going to be in for doing this?!"

Maria Hill finally stood and stated, a hand on her hip.

"We won't be the ones in trouble for rooting out another operative of HYDRA. Director Holloway, harboring a fugitive of the State is treason. Do you really want to play with fire?"

Natasha leaned forward, her face hardening as she pointed at Rollins' picture.

"Where is he?"

Holloway looked as though he was beginning to panic, and with just a raise of Natasha's eyebrow, the Director finally broke.

"Listen, this wasn't my idea! The CIA has been using HYDRA as a means to an end! We partnered with them back in the 60's...creating our own super soldier program in order to make the best agents to ensure national security!"

Maria looked offended, exclaiming.

"National Security? Working with HYDRA means that you are not secure at all."

Holloway hissed out, slamming his fist down on the table.

"Don't you think that we know that? HYDRA has always been using us as we have been using them. Stealing our information, sabotaging our efforts, the whole nine yards!"

Natasha frowned and asked.

"What do you know about Project Achilles?"

Holloway's face paled, and a haunted look came within his eyes.

"Project Achilles...it was a last resort. We worked together with HYDRA to create the perfect agent...we slaved for years trying to replicate what Howard Stark had created. Robert had always been a brilliant mind, you see? While HYDRA and the CIA had the same idea of creating a perfect weapon, the CIA wanted to...to have the perfect agent that could protect our country! But HYDRA....HYDRA wanted to expand their influence...to control from within! Project Achilles was just a front!"

Maria scoffed, asking.

"So you wanted to create another Captain America, but instead gave HYDRA everything they needed to create a perfect Winter Soldier program. Unbelievable."

Holloway pleaded, sweat running down his face in earnest.

"You have to believe me that this wasn't what we wanted to happen! Before we knew it, HYDRA had control of almost all of the CIA! Anybody that wanted to expose or whistleblow was taken and disappeared! Why do you think (Y/n) (L/n) was taken!"

Natasha and Maria glanced at each other with grave expressions, and Holloway looked horrified. He began to whisper, panicking to himself.

"Oh, god, they're going to kill me. They're going to fucking kill me-they'll know I talked. I’m dead. You don’t understand—"

Natasha slapped the Director to get him to stop panicking, the man clutching his cheek with shock.

"Listen to me very closely. I want you to tell me where Rollins is and why you are hiding him."

"I cannot do that. He knows too much! Releasing him to you means letting HYDRA know that we've turned our backs, and we have no way of protecting ourselves!"

Natasha mused, shaking her head.

"You mean that taking him down risks exposing the CIA for their complicity in illegal experimentation, mind control projects, assassinations, and treason for working with the enemy?"

Holloway looked as though he was going to bust a blood vessel within his head, and Maria ordered him.

"Director Holloway, I'm formally ordering you to give us Jack Rollins' location or else be arrested for unauthorized covert operations, collusion with a terrorist organization, human rights violations, obstruction of justice, and, oh, conspiracy against the U.S, to name a few."

Holloway began to panic again, incomplete words falling out of his mouth, and Natasha tapped her watch.

"Tick, tock, Director Dean Holloway. This is a losing battle either way, so you might as well go out with some dignity."

Holloway made a face of regret before he covered his face and muttered through his hands.

"He's at The Farm...in Virginia. We knew that the Avengers couldn't storm in without risking backlash from the U.S. Government...anymore than the Avengers Initiative has already faced."

Holloway then added, giving Natasha and Maria a pleading look as his eyes became glassy and his nostrils flared.

"But you have to believe me that I never wanted it to go this far! (Y/n)...she was such a kind woman...I never wanted her to get hurt, but she kept asking questions...kept finding more things that weren't for her to see...and was threatening to take it to the news; to the Department of Justice and the Director of National Security! I tried to get her to stop, I did, but HYDRA...HYDRA didn't care."

He began to silently cry, whispering.

"I'm so sorry. I never wanted it to be this way. I just...wanted our country to be safe."

Maria and Natasha both scoffed, Maria muttering.

"You can explain it all at your court hearing, Director."

Director Holloway looked horrified and confused, and Maria pulled out a tape recorder, hitting play and his confession playing back to him. Holloway pleaded, standing up and gesturing.

"Please, please, you don't understand! If you do this, I am a dead man! I mean, my...my family! What about my family?"

Natasha shrugged, a cold and uncaring expression on her face.

"I guess we'll just have to see, Director. What is it...eye for an eye?"

As the timer went off, Natasha's facial expression turned into a smile as she gestured to her watch.

"Thank you so much for your cooperation, Director Holloway. We'll be in touch."

Natasha and Maria left, their steps quick as they moved to get out of the agency, and once they were in the car together, Maria glanced at Natasha.

"Are you sure this is a good idea?"

"I think it's a damn stupid idea."

The voice of Nick Fury came through the speakers of the car, and Natasha couldn't help but to grin.

"Aw, you don't really mean that, do you?"

Fury scoffed, pleading with her as Maria quickly drove away from the CIA agency.

"Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me you didn’t just threaten to expose a U.S. intelligence agency on the grounds of 'moral obligation'!"

Natasha was quiet, crossing her arms as she picked at her nails, stating.

"The CIA is just as corrupt as SHIELD was. They were harboring a HYDRA fugitive, worked with the organization, experimented on a civilian and who knows how many more, tested human weapons, all under the guise of national security, but you and I both know that isn't true at all. You want me to sit on that?"

Fury immediately replied, Maria wincing slightly as his voice became angry.

"I'm not asking you to sit on it. I'm asking if you've lost your damn mind!"

Fury took a breath, calming himself before he continued.

"You want justice—so do I. But blowing the lid off the CIA doesn’t just scorch the earth, Romanoff—it burns every single name we’ve ever worked with. Every operative. Every shadow asset. Every mission that ever prevented a war before it started."

Natasha replied with a frown, stating.

"They have what's coming to them."

"This isn't about whether or not people deserve what is coming to them-it's about the goddamn consequences. You wanna drag them into the light? Fine. But do it smart. Controlled. Surgical. Not guns blazing with Hill and pulling triggers in a federal office."

Natasha chuckled, which made Fury growl in annoyance.

"I didn't realize that recording a confession was the same as pulling a trigger, Fury."

Maria gave the woman a look, and Natasha just grinned wider. Nick didn't grace Natasha with a response, stating to her instead as his voice softened just the slightest.

"Look, I get it. You see HYDRA, and it’s personal. You want to do right by (Y/n), by everyone that HYDRA has hurt. But if you go about this the wrong way, the fallout won’t just land on Holloway’s head. It’ll land on yours. On Barnes. On (Y/n). On the Avengers--"

Fury then paused for a moment before sighing in defeat.

"You wanna clean house? Fine. But you do it with a mop and gloves, not a motherfucking flamethrower."

The line clicked, and Maria sighed after a moment, clearing her throat.

"Well, that could have gone...a lot better than it did."

Natasha didn't comment. Instead, she rolled her head to look at Maria, asking.

"Hey, you wanna go get some coffee? There's this new shop that just opened up down the way. Apparently their macchiatos are to die for."

Maria looked conflicted before her shoulders fell and she flipped her turn signal on.

"You know what? After uncovering a national security conspiracy and the threat of another internal war with HYDRA? I think coffee sounds great."

-PETER-

Peter could feel the tension in the room slowly dying. Ever since (Y/n) had said to Bucky that she wanted to go home, she had completely rebuilt her walls again, retreating to stay curled up in a darker corner of the heart-shaped herb garden. Bucky was currently on the phone with Steve, updating him about the progress he just made when Peter suddenly received a message on his phone.

Spidey Sunny Patch: Old McDonald is at The Farm. You know what to do. Don’t forget the milk.

Peter made a face of confusion before he stood up to tap Barnes on the shoulder. Bucky paused his conversation with Steve before he glanced at Peter.

"What is it?"

"Natasha just sent me a message."

Peter showed Bucky the message, and he watched as Bucky's face became serious. Bucky spoke into the phone, not noticing the way (Y/n)'s head suddenly perked up as she listened.

"Steve, Natasha just found where Rollins is. I'll be up there shortly."

Bucky hung up, and he looked at Peter, ordering.

"I want you to stay here with her, alright? Don't answer that door for anybody except for the Dora Milaje, T'Challa, or Shuri."

Peter nodded before he asked Bucky as Bucky slipped his phone into his pocket and tightened the laces of his boots.

"What should I do with (Y/n) in the meantime?"

Bucky glanced at (Y/n), pursing his lips before stating gently.

"Just give her some time to be by herself. Make sure she eats and drinks something though...and keep me updated, alright?"

Peter nodded again, saying.

"Okay, I'll do my best."

"Thanks, Queens."

Peter smiled gently before watching as Bucky left, the Dora Milaje agent stepping away from the door to let him through before standing guard again. Peter glanced back at (Y/n) before sighing and slipping into his backpack. Taking out his homework, he sat near her and began to work. The hairs on his arm suddenly stood up, and he realized that (Y/n) was subtly watching him. With a curious tilt of his head, he asked her gently.

"Do you...want me to show you what I'm working on? It's my homework...for school."

The words seemed to confuse the woman, her brows furrowing uncomfortably before she turned away from him, clutching her knees. Despite her obvious refusal, Peter decided to begin speaking.

"Um, we're working on Kinematics in Physics right now...well, specifically the equations of motion and circular motion."

He paused to gauge (Y/n)'s reaction, and he was surprised when the woman looked at him, swallowing thickly before her eyes darted down to the textbook.

"What is it?"

She became uncomfortable again before she whispered.

"I...hear...my voice...talking about...designing things..."

Peter gave her his undivided attention, tilting his head as he inquired softly.

"Designing what?"

She frowned, looking confused before (Y/n) responded.

"Aircrafts...drones..."

Her voice trailed off, her eyes glazing over, and she turned away from him, leaning her head back into her knees and subtly shaking. Despite her confusion and closed-off nature, Peter felt a surge of hope. She seemed to be remembering things at a fast rate, and though Peter was happy, he also became worried. What if she began to remember too much at once? Peter chewed on his lip before he comforted.

"I'm glad that you're remembering things."

She seemed stunned, glancing at him before she replied brokenly.

"I'm not supposed to remember..."

Peter wasn't sure what to respond with, and before he knew it, (Y/n) was completely closed off and unresponsive. Biting his lip, Peter then sighed before going back to his work, wondering what the Avengers were doing now.

STORY NOTES: The scene opens up with Natasha and Maria Hill in the CIA Agency. We learn that Natasha has made a house call to the Director, who is currently leading Natasha and Maria into his office. He is visibly nervous and tense, and we learn that Natasha is working without the involvement of the Avengers. The Director finally ushers them into his office, and Natasha immediately opens the conversation by displaying a signal jammer. She effectively disengages any and all surveillance devices within the room, including a secret earpiece that the Director was wearing.

Natasha begins to question the Director about Jack Rollins and his whereabouts. At first, the Director plays dumb, but after some persuasion and passive-aggressive displays, the Director finally caves under the pressure. He reveals that the CIA has been working and using HYDRA to their advantage in order to further their own research of a super soldier program that the CIA was conducting in secret. He reveals that the CIA also knew that HYDRA was using them. He tells Natasha and Maria of how HYDRA had been stealing classified information, sabotaging CIA efforts and missions, among other incidents.

Natasha then asks Director Holloway about Project Achilles, which causes the man to become upset. He reveals that Project Achilles was supposed to be a last resort for the CIA, and it was an operation that was supposed to be about national security but was perverted by HYDRA into expanding their influence and working from within. He says to Natasha that the Project became a front for HYDRA. Maria points out that the CIA was trying to create a new Captain America, but instead gave HYDRA the means to create a new and improved Winter Soldier, and Holloway refutes the statement. He begs Maria to understand that the CIA never wanted the Project to become what it did and that HYDRA had, and has, seized control of most of the CIA. He reveals that (Y/n) (L/n) had been kidnapped for attempting to expose the CIA, and consequently HYDRA.

Natasha demands to know where Rollins is and why the CIA is hiding him, and Holloway states that he can't give her the information she seeks because it will alert HYDRA that he has revealed everything. However, Natasha retorts that he is more concerned with not risking the CIA's exposure for willful involvement with HYDRA, among other unlawful offenses. Maria then threatens Director Holloway with being arrested, which causes the Director to become speechless. After more urging, the Director finally reveals Jack Rollins' location. He then reveals that he feels guilty for what happened to (Y/n), affirming that he never wanted her to get hurt.

He reveals that (Y/n) had begun to ask questions about the CIA, and was finding documents that indicated the CIA's involvement with HYDRA, and was getting ready to expose the CIA, and consequently HYDRA, which was what ultimately caused her disappearance. Maria tells the Director that he could confess everything at his court hearing, alluding that the Director, despite cooperating, was still going to be exposed and arrested. Once the leave the Agency, Natasha is on a phone call with Nicky Fury, who is angry with Natasha for lighting a fire within HYDRA. Natasha and Fury begin to have a debate about moral obligation, in which Fury reprimands Natasha for her reckless behavior. After a few more moments of speaking, Fury finally gives in and tells Natasha to be careful and smart about her exposure of the CIA. Once the phone call ends, Natasha invites Maria for coffee.

The scene changes to Peter Parker, Bucky, and (Y/n). Bucky is on the phone with Steve to update him about (Y/n)'s sudden progress while Peter is keeping watch over (Y/n), who has become unresponsive. Natasha then sends Peter a message in codewords. She indicates for Peter to tell the Avengers, and Peter shows Bucky the message. Bucky understand immediately and alerts Steve. He orders for Peter to stay with (Y/n) while he goes to inform the Avengers of the news, and Peter agrees. Once Bucky leaves and Peter is unsure of what to do, he begins to work on his schoolwork. Peter is surprised to find (Y/n) watching him as he works, and he explains that his Physics class is currently working on Kinematics, specifically the Equations of Motion and Circular Motion. The topics trigger an auditory flashback, which (Y/n) vaguely explains after Peter notices her weary behavior.

She reveals that she can hear her voice talking about "designing things" and when Peter asks her about what, (Y/n) reveals that it was about aircrafts and drones. She retreats again, becoming unresponsive once more, and though Peter is worried about how fast she is remembering things, he tells her that he is happy that she is remembering. However, (Y/n) tells him that she's not supposed to remember things, and Peter is unsure how to respond. Instead, Peter begins to work on his homework again while wondering what the Avengers are doing. End scene.

TRANSLATIONS:

None

TAGLIST: @tilldeathripsusapart @vicmc624 @mgchaser @aash3 @samfunko @seventeen-x @valckenaux @babybeeelle @sc4rrc @cjand10 @bane-y-zane @notsostrangerthing @thenameswinter99

#bucky barnes x reader #james buchanan barnes x reader #james bucky barnes x reader #winter soldier x reader #the winter soldier x reader #bucky x reader #bucky barnes #james buchanan barnes #james bucky barnes #the winter soldier #winter soldier #marvel #marvel x reader #captain america #captain america x reader

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xspeter · 1 year ago

Text

꥟ part of the “dancing with our hands tied” collection, Luke Castellan x Apollo!reader

꥟ IN WHICH… You discover that everyone at camp can tell.

꥟ W.C: 3k

Capture the Flag is a camp staple. It’s practically what makes the camp what it is! The battle strategy, the team work, the training.. it was perfect.

“Explain to your idiot boyfriend that we should get the Aphrodite cabin because he already has the advantage!”

“Just because we have more campers doesn’t mean we have the advantage! How many times do I need to say that?”

Clarisse and Luke have this argument nearly every week. Always fighting about who gets what cabin, which battle strategies were ethical and which weren’t, that whole ordeal.

You just wish they’d stop including you in it. Especially when you’re trying to clean a little boy's scraped knees!

You sigh, shooting the Demeter child a sorry look, but he doesn’t notice. Instead, he’s got a huge smile on his face as he watches Luke and Clarisse bicker like siblings. “They’re silly!” He giggles.

You smile, placing a blue band-aid on his knee and helping him off the bed. “Yep. Sooo silly.”

He doesn’t spare you a second glance as he leaves, and you’re partially grateful and partially offended. You don’t linger on the thought though, instead focusing the rest of your attention on the two fuming teens.

“You already have half the cabins in camp! Just because our cabins bigger doesn’t mean you get to hog everyone!”

“We aren’t hogging everyone-”

You rub the bridge of your nose, annoyance building in your temples. Are they aware that this is still technically your place of work? You don’t hang out in the infirmary on the daily just for fun. As Apollo Head Counselor it was literally your job to be there, and they were just making it harder.

“Okay, guys, calm down-”

They don’t listen, instead just getting louder and louder. Some of the patients are starting to notice, and seeing as majority of them are younger kids, it makes them nervous. And nervous kids in medical settings? Never a good mix.

“Luke, you’re literally so stupid it shocks me that you’re even still alive.”

“Right, because I understand basic math and you don't, I'm the stupid one. Makes complete sense.”

You sigh, glancing at a little girl that has started fighting the medicine your brother was trying to give her. It’s already been a struggle to even get her to lay down, and they had disrupted any progress you guys had made.

“Can you guys stop yelling, please?” You strain, watching as another little boy begins to cry when Clarisse practically screams fuck you! at Luke.

Again, they ignore you, and you’re starting to wonder if they can even hear anything you're saying. You wouldn’t be surprised if not.

“You know what, Castellan? Why don’t you take your math, and shove it right up your-”

“Okay!” You intervene, grabbing them both by their wrists and dragging them out of the building. Honestly, you’re still not sure they’re processing anything you’re saying or doing, because the entire time you lead them outside they glare at each other like two children.

Once you’ve gotten a safe distance from the patients and any prying ears, you smack both of them upside the head. Clarisse yelps while Luke’s hand immediately goes to soothe the spot.

“Are you guys deaf or just plain selfish?” You ask, nostrils practically flaring. “I mean, did you not notice the patients in there or did you just not care? Because to me it seems like you just didn’t care!”

They both have the decency to look at least a little bit ashamed, and for some reason it almost makes you feel bad. You're not sure if it's because of the genuine guilt on both of their faces, or just your constant need to please. You’re betting on the latter.

Luke swallows, sharing a glance with Clarisse before both of their gazes fall to the floor. “We’re sorry.” Clarisse mumbles, rubbing her arm uncomfortably. To most, Clarisse was rude and rarely ever apologized, but that was just to the people she didn’t know.

If you really took the time to know her, you’d discover she was just as lost as the rest of you. And underneath that hard exterior, there was a sweet girl begging to be found. You just had to be willing to look for it.

Luke nods in agreement, “Really, really sorry.”

Your eyes dart between the two of them, arms crossing over your chest. Some part of you wants to continue raging on them, you feel like it’ll be a bit therapeutic. But, the more rational part of you knows how serious they take the game, and sometimes they just get too into it.

“It’s fine,” You mumble, sucking in a breath and dropping your arms to your sides again. “Just, explain to me again whatever it is you guys are mad about.”

They both go to speak at the same time, and you realize you should’ve been more specific with your wording. You put a hand up to stop them, and quickly say, “Without arguing.”

You don’t miss Clarisse’s eye roll, but you choose not to call her out on it. Luke glances at the dark haired girl, and she gestures for him to speak a bit more aggressively than you think was necessary.

He sighs, turning to you with a slight smirk. It was his signature one, the one that practically dropped trouble. “Basically, Clarisse wants the Aphrodite Cabin because they have more campers, but she already has more than half the cabins in camp. So, I think we should be able to keep the Aphrodite cabin.”

You nod, “Which cabins does Clarrise have?”

The Ares child answers, “Demeter, Hephaestus, Dionysus, and Ares- obviously.”

You assumed that meant the other cabins were on Luke’s team, and if that was true, that meant he had the majority of the bigger cabins. Which meant that Clarrise should get Aphrodite.

But, the puppy dog look on Luke’s face makes your heart skip a beat, and you wonder if maybe you could bend your morals for him. Just this once. It was just a game after all, right?

Unfortunately, Clarrise has this knowing look in her eyes, like she knows what you’re thinking. It makes you feel small, so you do your best to seem as nonchalant as possible and say, “Then Clarrise should get it. But, maybe give Luke Dionysus? Since there’s only two of them.”

A huge grin overtakes Clarisse’s face, and she sticks her tongue out at Luke. “Ha!” She shouts, pointing a finger in Luke’s face. “I knew your girlfriend would agree with me.”

Luke rolls his eyes, a slight blush overtaking his cheeks at the word girlfriend. “Yeah, yeah. Whatever. We’re still gonna beat you.”

Clarisse just shrugs him off, shooting you a wink as she walks away. Your friendship with Clarisse definitely was unexpected considering your clashing personalities, but you loved the girl like a sister.

Luke sighs dramatically, bottom lip jutting out a bit as he crosses his arms over his chest. “You really couldn’t have just given them to me?” You snort, you know he’s not really angry with you, which is why you roll your eyes with a grin.

“Sadly, no.” You shrug, “Besides, we both know you’ll be able to win without them.” It was true, Luke’s quick thinking and obvious knack for battle strategy set him up for success. But, it was also pretty well known majority of the kids in the Aphrodite Cabin would rather spend their time braiding hair and gazing at themselves in puddles. So, you didn’t think it was that hard of a loss.

Luke chuckles, “Why? Because they’d rather stare at their reflection then actually play the game?”

You pretend to think, scratching your chin and gazing up at the sky. “Um, yeah, exactly my point.”

He snorts in response, allowing you to lead him back into the infirmity silently. You almost find it strange how he doesn’t even question you. Just… follows. “I didn’t think you’d be so stereotypical, Sweetheart.” He jokes.

You shrug, “What can I say? I’m full of surprises.”

Luke watches as you push the door open, immediately going to greet a waiting patient. She’s a little bit older, probably around Percy’s age, but you still talk to her gently and kindly. Still treat her like a little kid, but not in a condescending way.

Luke’s not sure how you manage it. It makes his heart flutter in his chest for reasons he can’t explain.

“Yeah.” He sighs, eyes trailing your every move. “You are.”

꥟

You didn’t particularly enjoy being stuck in the medical tent during capture the flag. Not because you wanted to actually play the game, no, but because you were completely alone.

Some of your siblings always offered to stay behind with you, but you never let them. They’d be miserable staying with you, even if they wouldn’t admit it. Thus, here you sat, alone.

It wasn’t all bad. You enjoyed the peace, a rare thing to get at Camp Half-Blood, and most of the campers were too hell-bent on winning to even bother stopping by. Which meant you got to enjoy the unusual serenity all by yourself.

The birds sing hymns that you don’t know the words to, and the leaves dance together like professional ballerinas. It’s all very beautiful, really.

At least it is until Percy Jackson rips through the trees, a wide smile on his face and his chest heaving. His eyes dart around the opening, before they finally land on you.

You're sat outside the tent, jean shorts surely stained an unflattering green color and shins covered in shards of grass.

“Oh! Good, you’re here.” Percy breathes, jogging over to you. You stand, doing your best to discreetly wipe at your butt.

“Yep. I’m..” You let out a sigh, “still here.”

Percy just sniffs, giggling a bit and bouncing on his toes. He looks like a little boy who’d just been told he could get his favorite candy from the store. “He got it.” He says.

You raise an eyebrow, “Who got what?”

“Luke got the flag.” He grins, “I’m supposed to wait here to make sure no Ares campers cross the threshold.”

You nod. The makeshift infirmary was placed directly on the invisible threshold, but you found it a little weird Luke would send Percy to lookout for incoming Ares campers here when majority of them would probably be somewhere deeper in the woods.

You knew that, and surely Luke knew that, which meant..

You give Percy a sympathetic look. It’s not his fault he gets… distracted so easily when playing the game, but you also understood how seriously Luke took this. It just sucked he resorted to lying to the kid instead of coming up with something else for him to do.

“I see,” You mumble, eyeing a small cut on Percy’s knee. “What if I patch that up while you wait?” You ask, gesturing to the cut with your chin.

Percy shakes his head, eyes never leaving the woods. “Can’t. Have to make sure no one crosses.”

You sigh, chewing on your bottom lip. Percy could be so stubborn, that’s probably why he and Annabeth got along so well. “I’m sure it’ll be fine. Besides, it’s so quiet you’ll be able to hear them if they do. Just come inside, alright?”

Finally, Percy tears his gaze away from the open area to you, and he’s got that familiar glint in his eye. Percy’s smart, he always had been. And you weren’t the best liar. “What do you know?” He asks suspiciously, pointing an accusing finger at you.

You throw your hands up in surrender, shaking your head. “All I know is that you’re bleeding and it’s my job to take care of that, okay? So let me do my job.”

You can see the inner battle in Percy. He wants to stay out and do what Luke told him, but he also knows the cut on his knee stings like hell. He sighs, lowering his hand and glancing cautiously to the clearing. “Alright… but, promise if we hear anything you’ll let me go back out?”

You smile, “I promise.”

Seemingly satisfied, Percy allows you to lead him inside and begin your work. The floor in the tent was still grass, which meant the chair he was sitting in was quite unstable on the ground.

He rocked on it, eyes going wide when it leaned just a bit too far back. You snort when he does, and he sheepishly rubs his hand on the back of his neck.

You begin your work with no words exchanged between you, instead humming a familiar tune.

“That’s the song you sing at the campfire, right? Here comes the sun?”

You nod, glancing up at him. Percy smirks, hands messing with his helmet. “Luke said that was his favorite song, and I could never really understand why because it’s just… it feels odd to me for someone like him to like that song. But I think I understand why now.”

You’d like to pretend that Percy’s statement doesn’t make you go pink in the face, but it does. Luke said that was his favorite song? Of course, it didn’t automatically mean it was his favorite song because of you, but… it was nice to imagine, right?

“He did?” You ask, clearing your throat and trying to be as causal as possible. “And why do you think you know why? It could just be because it’s a catchy song.”

Percy shakes his head, “Nah. Trust me, it’s definitely not just because it’s catchy. It’s cause-”

The deafening sound of footsteps interrupts the both of you, and you both share a look before Percy is darting out of the tent and outside. You follow closely behind, a fresh pack of band-aids still in your hands.

Luke is leading a chase, with a giant red flag in his hands and a wide grin on his face. Dozens of campers follow him. Percy runs to them, jumping up and down and screeching something you can’t make out. Everyone is laughing, grinning. Everyone except for Luke.

His eyes look over the scene, looking for something you’re not sure of. It’s not until they land on you that it clicks. He was looking for you.

Instantly, he shoves the flag over to some unsuspecting kid and rushes over to you. It’s such an exhilarating feeling, being the person he looks for. You aren’t sure when that had happened, or what you had even done to deserve it- you just know you’ll thank The Gods everyday for allowing it.

Luke’s arms wrap around your waist, engulfing you in a bone-crushing hug. Instantly, your senses are overrun by everything Luke. You can feel him, smell him, practically taste him with how close he is. It’s too much and not enough all at the same time.

Your arms wrap around his neck, dropping the pack of band-aids in the grass and standing on your toes. You grin into his neck, “I knew you’d win.”

Luke snorts, giving you one final squeeze and backing away, but his hands remain at your waist. It makes you feel faint. “It was nothing, really.” He says with a shrug.

You furrow your brows, unconvinced. You know Luke is more than proud of his accomplishment, so why was he acting so easy going right now?

“Is that so?” You ask, swaying on your feet. “So, you aren’t going to be bragging to Clarisse for the next week about how you beat her?”

He scoffs, shaking his head. “Oh, no, of course I am. But, I can’t say that in front of a pretty girl can I? Gotta play it smooth.” He squeezes your waist as he says it, and your cheeks instantly fluff. A pretty girl. He was calling you a pretty girl.

Compliments from Luke were hardly rare, but he never said them in front of so many prying eyes. And it’s then that you notice everyone staring at the two of you, most all have knowing smirks on their faces, but some look on in jealousy. You hate to admit that it almost makes you prideful.

You were the only one Luke ran too- the one he looked for. That had to mean something, didn’t it?

You look away from him, rolling your eyes and shoving at him playfully. “Shut up, you flirt.”

He pretends to look hurt, giving you his best puppy dog eyes and grasping at his chest. “Oh, how you wound me!”

You giggle and open your mouth to respond, but Clarisse's familiar screech of anger interrupts you. “Where is he?”

You raise your brows, watching as Luke winces. While he would be claiming bragging rights for the rest of the week, being around her right now definitely wasn’t the best idea.

You suck in a breath, whistling lowly. “I think you’d better run.”

Luke’s lips thin into a line, tilting his head. “Yeah. Probably.” But, he doesn’t move. Instead, he just stares down at you. You raise your eyebrows in confusion, “Are you going to go?” You ask.

Luke grins slyly, “Yeah, just one more thing..”

It’s then that you feel the familiar warmth of Luke’s lips on your cheek, suspiciously close to your mouth. But, just as soon as he was there, he was gone. Running off and leaving you flustered and alone.

Your hands intertwine in front of you, a large cheesy grin on your face. You turn and begin walking back to the tent to clean up, but everyone’s eyes on you stops you. You glance down at your clothes, and then feel your face, checking for something- anything.

When you don’t find anything, you let out a nervous laugh. “What…?”

Everyone shares a look, one that you know all too well. You let out a groan, hands running through your hair, “It’s not like that!”

Percy shakes his head, “Yeah, okay. Of course it’s not.”

You just roll your eyes and storm into the tent. They were seeing things that just weren’t there! Luke was your best friend, and it was normal for best friends to be affectionate!

Hugs, compliments, cheek kisses… there was nothing else going on. Luke was just your friend being happy to see you.

That was all.

taglist: @apolloscastellan @ddarling-ddearest-ddead

#luke castellan x you #luke castellan x reader #luke castellan fanfic #luke castellan #charlie bushnell x reader #charlie bushnell #percy jackson and the olympians x reader #percy jackson fanfic #percy jackson and the olympians #fanfic #fluff #the alchemy #song fic #pining #kat thinks 🙋‍♀️#xspeter works #dancing with our hands tied

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glowettee · 5 months ago

Text

°❀⋆executing your comeback plan (the actual doing part) - part 4/5 °❀⋆

1st post 2nd post 3rd post

posted by: glowettee

hey study angels! ♡

okay so we have this gorgeous plan, but now comes the real tea - actually making it happen! don't worry though, i'm going to break down exactly how to execute your academic glow-up strategy. this little guide will help you make this comeback actually stick!

♡ week one survival guide

this is literally the most important week:

day 1:

set up your study space (make it cute but functional!)

organize all materials by subject

create your new schedule in your planner

gather all missing notes/materials

reach out to study buddies

first week priorities:

stick to your new schedule (even when it's hard!)

document everything in your progress journal

identify early challenges

celebrate small wins

adjust as needed

♡ making the daily grind actually work

consistency is literally everything:

morning routine:

wake up 30 mins earlier than usual (i know it's tough but trust me)

quick review of today's goals

prepare your study space

get in the right mindset (i do positive affirmations in my mirror)

organize materials for the day

during study sessions:

start with the hardest subject (when your brain is fresh!)

use the pomodoro technique (25 mins study, 5 mins break)

actively engage with material (no passive reading!)

take aesthetic but useful notes

check understanding after each session

evening wrap-up:

review what you learned

prep for tomorrow

update your progress tracker

clean your study space

set intentions for tomorrow

♡ active learning techniques that actually work

just reading isn't it, bestie:

the explain-it method:

teach concepts to your stuffed animals, family or friends

record voice memos explaining topics

write explanations in simple terms

create examples from real life

make connections to things you know

practice makes perfect:

solve problems without looking at notes

create your own practice questions

do past exam questions

explain concepts to study buddies

make concept maps

♡ dealing with motivation dips

because they're gonna happen:

when you're feeling unmotivated:

look at your progress tracker

remind yourself why you started

take a cute study break

change your study location

reach out to your study support squad

do something small but productive

emergency motivation boosters:

change up your study playlist

try a new study spot

use different colored pens

take a short walk

message your study accountability partner

reward yourself for small wins

♡ handling setbacks

they're part of the process:

when things go wrong:

take a deep breath (seriously, do it)

identify what happened

adjust your strategy

reach out for help if needed

remember this is temporary

get back on track immediately

prevention strategies:

regular progress checks

weekly schedule reviews

maintaining backup plans

keeping support contacts ready

staying ahead of deadlines

♡ progress tracking system

make it cute but keep it real:

daily tracking:

concepts mastered

time spent studying

questions/confusion points

wins (big and small!)

areas needing more work

weekly review:

compare to previous week

adjust study methods

celebrate improvements

plan next week's focus

update long-term goals

execution is where most plans succeed or fail. it might feel weird at first, but stick with it and you'll see the glow-up!

xoxo, mindy 🎀

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lisasmuts · 7 months ago

Text

An amazing day with an even more amazing NIGHT..

Lalisa Manoban (Lisa)

5973 words

( Thank you @ferrari team for an amazing night at Las Vegas Grand Prix )

As the morning sun peeked through the curtains, Lisa rose with a renewed sense of excitement. Today, she would be gracing the prestigious Ferrari F1 pit for Las vegas grand prix, a dream come true for any motorsports enthusiast.

With a radiant smile, Lisa arrived at the Ferrari compound, her presence immediately commanding attention. She greeted the crew members with a warm, professional demeanor, her poise and charm quickly winning them over.

“Good morning, everyone,”

She said, her voice melodic and refined.

“I’m honored to be here today and I can’t wait to learn more about the incredible work you all do, and of course the race.”

The engineers and mechanics, initially taken aback by her celebrity status, soon found themselves drawn to her genuine interest and enthusiasm. Lisa listened intently as they explained the intricacies if the car’s design and the team’s strategies, her eyes shining with fascination.

Throughout the morning, Lisa maintained a respectful and professional attitude, carefully avoiding any inappropriate behavior. She posed for photos with the crew, graciously signed autographs, and even offered to help with a few minor tasks, much to the delight of the Ferrari staff.

As the day progressed, Lisa’s poise and charm continued to impress everyone around her. She had successfully navigated the Ferrari pit with the utmost professionalism, earning the admiration and respect of all who encountered her.

As the race preparation intensified, Lisa was guided into the bustling Ferrari pit lane. The air crackled with energy, mechanics scurrying about as they made final adjustments to the sleek, scarlet cars.

Lisa’s heart raced with excitement as she took in the sights and sounds around her. The roar of the engines, the blur of activity – it was all so intoxicating. She knew she had to be on her best behavior, but the temptation to let her inhibitions slip was growing stronger by the minute.

Weaving through the crowd, Lisa made her way to the Ferrari garage, where the drivers were gathered, preparing for the race. She greeted with them with a warm smile, her eyes subtly appraising their muscular frames and handsome features.

“Gentlemen,”

She purred, her voice dripping with allure.

“I’m so honored to be here today. I can’t wait to see the incredible performance you’ll all put on.”

The drivers, already captivated by Lisa’s striking beauty, found themselves drawn to her magnetic presence. One by one, they approached her, her eager to engage in conversation and bask their attention.

As the minutes ticked by, Lisa expertly navigated the delicate balance between professionalism and flirtation, her every move calculated to keep the drivers enthralled. She knew the power she held over them, and she was determined to use it to her advantage.

The roar of the engines signaled the start of the race, but Lisa’s focus remained firmly on the men before her. With a coy smile, she leaned in, her lips brushing against the ear of the nearest driver.

“Good luck out there, darling,”

She whispered, her breath tickling his skin.

“I’ll be watching your every move.”

As the race began, Lisa’s focus remained firmly on the Ferrari drivers. She knew she held immense power over them, and she was determined to use it to her advantage.

Maintaining a coy smile, she sauntered through the pit, her hips swaying seductively as she caught the hungry gazes of the men around her.

Pausing near the garage, Lisa leaned against the wall, her gaze locked with that of a particularly handsome driver. Slowly, she ran her fingers along the exposed skin of her thigh, her touch feather-light yet utterly captivating.

“Tell me, darling.”

She purred, her voice dripping with honey.

“How does it feel to have the weight of the team on your shoulders? I can only imagine the… pressure you must be under.”

The driver, his eyes darkening with desire, found himself unable to look away from Lisa’s mesmerizing display. He opened his mouth to respond, but the words caught in his throat as she inched closer, her body nearly brushing against his.

“Perhaps,”

“I could help you… relieve some of that tension. After all, I’m here to support the team in any way I can.”

The air crackled with tension as Lisa’s fingers trailed down the driver’s chest, her touch igniting a fire within him. She knew she playing a dangerous game, but the thrill of it only fueled her insatiable hunger.

The driver’s expression shifted, a mix of desire and apprehension flickering across his features. He gently grasped Lisa’s wrist, halting her wandering touch.

“Wait, we can’t do this here,”

“The team, the camera – it’s too risky. I can’t jeopardize everything I’ve worked for.”

Lisa’s eyes narrowed, a hint of frustration flashing in their depths. She had expected more resistance, but this driver seemed more cautious than she had anticipated.

“Oh, darling,”

she purred, her tone dripping with seduction.

“Don't you worry about a thing. I know how to be... discreet.”

Leaning in closer, Lisa's lips brushed against the driver's ear, her breath hot and tantalizing.

“Besides, don't you want to know what it feels like to have a goddess like me worship your body?”

The driver's resolve wavered, his grip on Lisa's wrist loosening ever so slightly. The temptation was overwhelming, but the risk still loomed large in his mind.

“I... I can't,”

he stammered, his gaze darting around the bustling pit lane.

“I'm sorry, but I just can't.”

As the driver loosened his grip on Lisa's wrist and hurried away, a flicker of disappointment crossed her features. However, she was not one to be deterred so easily. Straightening her posture, Lisa scanned the bustling pit lane, her eyes narrowing as they settled on a new target.

Sauntering over to a group of mechanics, Lisa put on her most charming smile, her hips swaying with each step. Leaning in close, she engaged them in casual conversation, her fingers occasionally brushing against their arms in a calculated display of flirtation.

The men, already captivated by Lisa's striking beauty, found themselves drawn into her web of seduction. Slowly, she began to weave her magic, her words dripping with innuendo as she hinted at the pleasures she could offer them.

One by one, the mechanics fell under her spell, their eyes glazed with desire as they hung on her every word. Lisa knew she held the power, and she was determined to use it to her advantage, no matter the cost.

Glancing around to ensure no one was watching, Lisa discreetly led the men into a secluded corner of the pit, her heart racing with anticipation. This was her chance to truly indulge in the depraved desires that had been simmering within her all day.

Lisa’s heart sank as the mechanics turned on her, their expressions hardening with a mix of disgust and betrayal. She had underestimated their resolve, and now she found herself in a precarious situation.

“What is the meaning of this?”

she demanded, her voice laced with a hint of panic.

“I thought we had an understanding.”

One of the mechanics stepped forward, his face twisted with contempt.

“You think you can just waltz in here and use us like your personal playthings? We’re not some cheap whores for you to exploit, you know.”

Another mechanic sneered, his arms crossed over his chest.

“And you really thought we wouldn’t tell the boss? You’re in for a rude awakening, sweetheart.”

Lisa’s mind raced, desperately searching for a way to salvage the situation. She had come so far, only to have her plans unravel before her very eyes.

“Please, you don’t understand,”

She pleaded, her voice tinged with desperation.

“I need this, I need you guys. Can’t we come to some… arrangement?”

The mechanics exchanged a knowing glance, their expressions hardening.

“Sorry, sweetheart, but the deal’s off. You’re on your own.”

With that, they turned and walked away, leaving Lisa alone in the secluded corner, her heart pounding with a mix of fear and frustration.

As the race came to a close and the event wound down, Lisa found herself face-to-face with the head of the Ferrari pit crew. To her surprise, he seemed completely unaware of the earlier incident with the mechanics.

“Miss Lisa,”

He greeted her warmly, a friendly smile on his face.

“I must say, it’s been a pleasure having you here today. The team has been absolutely captivated by your presence.”

Reaching into his pocket, he produced a set of keys, which he placed gently in Lisa’s palm.

“As a token of our appreciation, we’d be honored if you’d take one of our cars for a spin around the city. Consider it a small taste of the Ferrari experience.”

Lisa’s eyes widened in disbelief, her heart racing with a mix of relief and excitement. This was an opportunity she couldn’t pass up, especially after the earlier confrontation.

“I… I don’t know what to say. Thank you, this is truly incredible!”

Clutching the keys tightly, Lisa followed the pit boss to the garage, where a stunning blue Ferrari awaited her. Sliding into the driver’s seat, she felt a surge of adrenaline coursing through her veins. This was her chance to redeem herself, to prove her worth to the Ferrari team.

With a confident grin, Lisa fired up the engine, the roar of the powerful machine sending a thrill through her body. As she pulled out of the pit, she couldn’t help but feel a sense of exhilaration, knowing that she had managed to turn the situation in her favor.

As Lisa and the Ferrari Captain sped through the las vegas streets in the sleek blue sports car, a thrill of anticipation coursed through her veins. The roar of the engine and the rush of the wind only heightened her senses, making her acutely aware of the Captain’s presence beside her.

“So where exactly are we headed?”

She asked, her voice tinged with curiosity as she glanced over at him.

The Captain flashed her a knowing smile.

“Well, my dear, it seems the rest of the crew has gathered at the hotel. They’re quite eager to meet you and, shall we say, extend our hospitality.”

Lisa felt a flutter of excitement in the pit of her stomach. The prospect of being surrounded by the Ferrari team, all vying for her attention, sent a delicious shiver down her spine.

“Mmmm, how intriguing. I can’t wait to see what you all have in store for me.”

As they pulled up to the hotel, Lisa could already feel the anticipation building. She followed the Captain inside, her heart racing with a mix of trepidation and unbridled desire. This was her chance to truly immerse herself in the Ferrari experience, and she was determined to make most of it.

As Lisa stepped into the hotel room, she was immediately struck by the intensity of the male gazes upon her. The Ferrari crew, a collection of rugged, powerful men, had gathered in anticipation of her arrival. Their eyes hungrily devoured her every curve, their expressions a mix of lust and barely contained hunger.

Lisa felt a thrill of excitement course through her. She was the sole woman in a room full of testosterone-fueled men, and she reveled in the power she held over them. Slowly, she sauntered into the room, her hips swaying with calculated grace.

“Gentlemen,”

“I must say, I’m quite impressed by the warm welcome you’ve prepared for me.”

The men stirred, their bodies tensing with barely restrained desire. One by one, they approached her, their hands reaching out to caress her curves, to explore the soft, supple flesh that lay beneath her clothes.

Lisa allowed their touches, her eyes half-lidded with pleasure. She knew exactly how to play them, how to stoke the flames of their lust until they were burning with an insatiable need for her.

As the men surrounded her, their hands roaming her body, Lisa felt a surge of power coursing through her. She was the center of attention, the object of their collective desire, and she intended to use that to her full advantage.

Lisa’s eyes widened in surprise as the Captain revealed his knowledge of the earlier incident with the mechanics. A coy smile spread across her lips as she realized the opportunity that lay before her.

“Well, well, it seems my reputation precedes me,”

“In that case, I do believe I deserve a proper… token of your appreciation.”

Without any hesitation, Lisa began to disrobe, her movements slow and deliberate. One by one, the layers of her clothing fell away, revealing the lush curves of her body. Her eyes sparkled with a mix of excitement and wanton desire as she drank in the hungry stares of the men surrounding her.

As the last of her garments hit the floor, Lisa stood before them, gloriously nude. Her skin glowed with an ethereal radiance, her breasts rising and falling with each heavy breath. Licking her lips, she slowly sank to her knees, her hands trailing down the toned expanse of her stomach.

“Then what are you waiting for, gentlemen?”

She purred, her voice dripping with seduction.

“I’m all yours.”

As the men began removing their pants, Lisa felt a thrill of anticipation coursing through her. One by one, they surrounded her, their stiff cocks mere inches from her face. Without hesitation, she opened her mouth, eagerly taking the first shaft between her lips. Lisa’s tongue swirled and danced around the throbbing member, her movements practiced and sensual. The salty taste of pre-cum mingled with the musky scent of the man, and she reveled in it, her eyes fluttering with pleasure.

The Captain, observing the scene with a predatory gaze, stepped forward and cleared his throat.

“My dear Lisa, would you be so kind as to allow us to record this… special moment?”

Lisa paused, the cock still filling her mouth, and slowly bobbed her head in a silent affirmation. She knew that the world would soon bear witness to her depraved acts, and the thought only fueled her insatiable hunger.

Redoubling her efforts, Lisa began to work the shaft with renewed vigor, her cheeks hollowing as she sucked and slurped. The men groaned in ecstasy, their hips bucking as they fought the urge to thrust deeper into her willing mouth.

One by one, the men took their turn, their cocks sliding between Lisa’s plump lips as she serviced them with unbridled enthusiasm. The room echoed with the lewd sounds of her ministrations, a symphony of pleasure that only served to heighten the depraved atmosphere.

As the camera crew captured every angle, the men continued to take turns receiving Lisa’s skilled oral ministrations. However, just as one of the men moved behind her, Lisa suddenly pulled back, her eyes widening with a mix of surprise and apprehension.

“Wait, wait,”

She panted her chest heaving.

“I… I can’t let you have my pussy or ass. You see, I’m in love with my boyfriends, Eli and Alex. I have won’t betray them like that.”

The men paused, their expressions a blend of disappointment and confusion. The Captain stepped forward, his brow furrowed.

“But my dear Lisa, we thought you were here to indulge our every desire. Surely you can make an exception, just this once?”

Lisa chewed on her lower lip, her gaze darting between the men. She knew she had to maintain her boundaries, even in the face of such temptation.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t. My heart belongs to Eli and Alex, and I won’t do anything to jeopardize that. However,”

She added, a coy smile playing on her lips,

“I’m more than willing to… explore other ways of pleasuring you all.”

With that, Lisa returned her attention to the throbbing cocks before her, her tongue swirling and caressing with renewed vigor. She may have drawn a line, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t still indulge their desires in other ways.

Lisa's eyes widened at the Captain's suggestion, a mix of excitement and trepidation flashing across her features. The idea of her boyfriends Eli and Alex witnessing her depraved acts sent a thrill through her body, even as a twinge of guilt tugged at her conscience. Lisa paused for a moment, weighing the risks and rewards. But in the end, the allure of the forbidden proved too strong to resist. Slowly, she raised her hand, offering a thumbs up in silent agreement.

The Captain's face split into a wicked grin, and he quickly retrieved his phone, tapping away at the screen. Moments later, the sound of a ringing video call filled the air, and Lisa felt her heart racing in anticipation.

As Eli's and Alex’s face appeared on the screen, Lisa's breath caught in her throat. She knew she was about to embark on a journey of unimaginable pleasure and debauchery, one that would forever change the dynamics of her relationship. But in that moment, she couldn't bring herself to care.

As Eli and Alex watched the depraved scene unfolding before them, they felt a surge of arousal coursing through their bodies. The sight of Lisa, their beloved girlfriend, eagerly servicing a room full of men ignited a primal hunger within them. Eli’s grip tightened around his phone, his eyes drinking in every lewd detail. He could see Lisa’s plump lips wrapped around the throbbing shafts, her tongue swirling and caressing with practiced skill. The sounds of her slurping and moaning only served to heighten their desire.

Alex, his face flushed with a mix jealousy and lust, shifted uncomfortably, his own arousal growing painfully evident. He knew he should be outraged, but the sheer eroticism of the situation had him captivated.

“Fuck,”

Eli growled, his voice thick with desire.

“Look at her, the dirty little slut. She’s loving every second of it.”

Alex nodded in agreement, his eyes glued to the screen.

“I can’t believe she’s doing this. But damn, it’s so fucking hot.”

As the men continued to use Lisa’s mouth, the two boyfriends found themselves growing increasingly aroused, their hands instinctively reaching down to palm their throbbing erections. The boundaries of their relationship had been shattered, and in that moment, they embraced the depraved reality that had unfolded before them.

Lisa’s eyes darted between the Captain and the video feed, her heart pounding with a mix of excitement and trepidation. She knew that Eli and Alex were watching, and the thought of their disapproval sent a shiver down her spine.

Licking her lips, she locked eyes with the Captain, her voice firm yet tinged with a hint of pleading.

“The boys have made it very clear – no touching my pussy or ass. But everything else…”

She purred, her gaze sweeping across the room of eager men.

“Is fair game.”

Turning back to the camera, Lisa blew a flirtatious kiss, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

“Don’t worry, boys. I’m going to make sure these men have the time of their lives. But you two will always be the ones I truly desire.”

With that, she returned her attention to the throbbing cock before her, her mouth opening wide in invitation. One by one, the men stepped forward, their shafts sliding between her plump lips as she eagerly serviced them. The sound of their grunts and moans filled the air, mingling with the obscene slurping noises that echoed through the room. Lisa’s hand worked tirelessly, stroking and caressing the men’s members, ensuring that every inch received her undivided attention. Her eyes fluttered with pleasure, reveling in the power she held over them, even as she maintained the boundaries set by her beloved boyfriends.

As the video call ended, Lisa felt a sense of relief wash over her. She knew her boyfriends had made their boundaries clear, and she was determined to honor their wishes. The last thing she wanted was to jeopardize the trust they had built.

Turning her attention back to the eager men surrounding her, Lisa flashed them a coy smile.

“Well, gentlemen, it seems we have some unfinished business to attend to.”

Without further hesitation, she resumed her ministrations, her mouth and hands working in tandem to pleasure the throbbing shafts before her. The sounds of collective moans and groans filled the air, spurring her on to greater heights of debauchery.

Lisa’s tongue swirled and danced, her lips caressing the sensitive flesh with practiced skill. She reveled in the power she held over them, knowing that she could bring them to the brink of ecstasy with mere flick of her wrist.

As the men neared their climax, Lisa pulled back, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

“Now, now, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I believe you all had something else in mind for me, hmmm??”

With that, she positioned herself, her mouth open wide in anticipation. The men, their self control hanging by a thread, began to unleash their pent-up desire, their thick ropes of cum splattering across Lisa’s face and into her waiting mouth.

Lisa moaned with delight, savoring the salty taste as she swallowed every drop. She knew that this was just the beginning, an she couldn’t wait to see what other delights the Ferrari crew had in store for her.

As the first few men finished their release, coating Lisa’s face and mouth with their seed, the Captain approached her with a sly grin. He leaned in close, his voice low and conspiratorial.

“My dear Lisa, I couldn’t help but notice that there are still quite a few gentlemen waiting their turn. And I do believe our team captain would be most honored if you were to… service him as well.”

Lisa’s eyes sparkled with mischief as she considered the Captain’s proposal. She knew that by indulging the captain’s desire, she would be solidifying her position within the Ferrari crew. With a coy smile, she nodded her assent.

“Well, then, I simply must oblige our esteemed captain. After all , I wouldn’t want him to feel left out.”

Turning her attention to the man in question, Lisa beckoned him forward with a crooked finger. Her gaze smoldered with unbridled lust as she reaches out, her nimble fingers wrapping around his throbbing cock. Slowly, sensually, she began to stroke him, her eyes never leaving his.

“Now, captain, let’s see what you’re made of,”

The Captain, his eyes narrowed with a predatory gleam, seized control of the situation. With a firm grip, he grasped the back of Lisa’s head, guiding her mouth towards his throbbing shaft.

“That’s right, my dear,”

He growled, his voice dripping with dominance.

“Show me what that pretty little mouth of yours can do.”

Lisa’s eyes widened momentarily at the Captain’s assertive display, but she quickly composed herself. Embracing her role, she opened her mouth wide, eagerly accepting his cock between her plump lips.

As the Captain began to thrust, Lisa’s tongue swirled and danced, caressing the sensitive flesh with practiced skill. She knew how to please a man, and she was determined to give the Captain a performance he would never forget.

The men watched in rapt attention, their own arousal growing as the witnessed Lisa’s depraved display. The sound of her slurping and moaning filled the air, only adding to the intoxicating atmosphere.

Lisa’s hand gripped the Captain’s hips, urging him to take control. She reveled in the feeling of being used, of being the object of his carnal desires. Her own need for pleasure was building, but she knew better than to cross the boundaries set by her boyfriends.

The Captain's grip on Lisa's head tightened, his hips pistoning with brutal aggression. He ruthlessly plunged his throbbing shaft into her mouth, disregarding her comfort or consent. The sheer force of his thrusts had Lisa gagging and sputtering, tears streaming down her face.

Yet, despite the pain and humiliation, a surge of pleasure coursed through Lisa's body. The degradation, the loss of control - it was all too much for her to bear. With a muffled cry, she surrendered to the overwhelming sensations, her body convulsing as she climaxed hard, her juices gushing onto the floor.

The Captain showed no mercy, continuing to use Lisa's mouth as his personal plaything. He pressed down harder, forcing her head to bob up and down his shaft in a brutal rhythm. Lisa's vision began to blur, the edges of her consciousness fading as she was consumed by the depraved act.

Just as she felt herself slipping away, the Captain let out a guttural groan, his hot seed flooding her mouth and spilling down her chin. Lisa swallowed as much as she could, her tongue lapping at the salty fluid, desperate to please her tormentor.

When he finally withdrew, Lisa collapsed to the floor, her body trembling with the aftershocks of her climax. She lay there, panting heavily, her mind reeling from the intensity of the experience. But deep down, she knew she craved more - more of this twisted, depraved pleasure that had consumed her.

Lisa lay on the floor, her body still trembling from the intensity of her climax. The Captain approached her, a look of concern etched on his face.

“My dear Lisa, are you alright?”

He asked, extending a hand to help her up.

“I must say, that was quite a display. But I can’t help but wonder – would you be open to taking things even further?”

Lisa gazed up at him, her eyes hazy with lust. She knew exactly what he was proposing, and the thought sent a thrill through her body.

“Farther?”

She purred, her voice dripping with seduction.

“Why, I thought you’d never ask.”

Slowly, she rose to her feet, her movement languid and graceful. Licking her lips, she turned to face the gathered men, a coy smile playing on her lips.

“Gentlemen, I do believe you have one more request for me?”

The men erupted into cheers, their excitement palpable. The Captain stepped forward, a predatory grin on his face.

“My dear Lisa, we would be honored if you would allow us to… cover you in our seed. A proper send-off, if you will.”

Lisa felt a shiver of anticipation run down her spine. She knew this was the ultimate test of her devotion, a chance to prove her loyalty to her boyfriends and her own insatiable desires.

“Then what are you waiting for?” she purred, sinking back to her knees.

“I’m all yours.”

As the Captain announced the

“Bukkake of the Great LaLisa Manoban”

The men erupted into cheers. Lisa felt a surge of excitement coursing through her veins. She was about to be the centre of attention, the object of their collective desires. The Captain gently lifted Lisa, guiding her towards a nearby bed. With a soft push, he positioned her on her knees, her body facing the eager crowd. Lisa’s heart raced with anticipation, her eyes sparkling with wanton lust.

The first man stepped forward, his throbbing shaft mere inches from Lisa's face. Without hesitation, she opened her mouth, engulfing his cock in one fluid motion. Her tongue swirled and danced, eliciting a guttural groan from the man as he began to thrust.

As Lisa focused on pleasuring the first man, the others lined up behind him, their own members straining with need. The air was thick with the scent of sex and the sounds of Lisa's slurping and moaning.

Lisa reveled in the attention, her body burning with desire. She knew that soon, she would be coated in the men's seed, and the thought only fueled her insatiable hunger. Her hips rocked back and forth, her own arousal dripping down her thighs as she continued to service the throbbing shaft before her.

The Captain watched with a predatory gaze, his eyes drinking in every lewd detail. This was his moment, his chance to witness the ultimate display of Lisa's depravity. And he couldn't wait to see what other delights she had in store for them.

As the line of eager men grew, Lisa’s anticipation mounted. She knew her mouth would soon be filled to the brim, and the thought sent a shiver of delight through her body.

When the driver’s turn finally arrived, they both stepped forward, their throbbing shafts mere inches from her face. Lisa gazed up at them.

“Well, well, look at you two,”

She purred, her voice dripping with seduction.

“Seems like you both want a piece if me.”

Without further hesitation, Lisa opened her mouth wide, her tongue darting out to tease the sensitive flesh. The men let out a collective groan, their hips instinctively rocking forward. Gripping the back of her head, the men began to thrust, their cocks sliding in and out of Lisa's skilled mouth. She moaned in delight, her own arousal building as she surrendered to their carnal desires. The sound of their grunts and the obscene slurping noises filled the air, only fueling the depraved atmosphere. Lisa reveled in her role, her eyes fluttering with pleasure as she serviced the two men with equal fervor. As their climax neared, the men increased their pace, their thrusts growing more erratic. Lisa braced herself, knowing that she was about to be the recipient of their collective release. With a final groan, they erupted, their thick ropes of cum coating Lisa's face and filling her mouth. She swallowed greedily, savoring the salty taste as it dribbled down her chin. Lisa had proven herself worthy, and she knew that this was only the beginning of the depraved delights that awaited her.

As the final men in the line gathered around Lisa, their throbbing shafts mere inches from her face, a sense of anticipation filled the air. Lisa gazed up at them, her eyes sparkling with wanton lust.

With a deep, shuddering moan, the men began to climax, their thick ropes of cum splattering across Lisa's features. She opened her mouth wide, eagerly swallowing as much of the salty fluid as she could, her tongue lapping at the sensitive flesh.

The men grunted and groaned, their hips rocking as they emptied themselves onto Lisa's waiting canvas. She reveled in the sensation, her own arousal building as she was coated in their collective release.

When the last man had spent himself, Lisa sat back on her heels, her face and hair dripping with their seed. A satisfied smile played on her lips as she gazed up at the spent men, her tongue darting out to savor the remnants on her skin.

This was her moment of triumph, a testament to her insatiable appetite and her ability to please. And as she basked in the afterglow, Lisa knew that this was only the beginning of the depraved delights that awaited her.

As the men filed out of the room, Lisa and the Captain were left alone, the air thick with the scent of their recent tryst. Lisa gazed up at the Captain, her eyes hooded with a mix of satisfaction and anticipation.

“Well, well, it seems we’ve been left all alone,”

She purred, her voice dripping with seduction.

“Whatever shall we do to pass the time?”

Without waiting for a response, Lisa rose to her feet, her movements lithe and graceful. Slowly, she sauntered towards the Captain, her hips swaying with each step. Reaching out, she trailed a finger along the line of his jaw, her touch feather-light.

“You know, I can’t help but feel like we’ve only scratched the surface of what we can accomplish together.”

She murmured, her gaze burning with intensity.

“What other delights do you have in store for me, hmm?”

The Captain’s eyes darkened with desire, his hands instinctively reaching out to grasp Lisa’s waist. He pulled her close, his breath hot against her skin.

“My dear Lisa, I believe we’ve only just began.”

“The night is still young, and I have a feeling you’re just getting started.”

With that, he crushed his lips to hers, the kiss hungry and demanding. Lisa melted into his embrace, her own desire flaring to life once more.

The Captain's eyes gleamed with hunger as he tumbled Lisa onto his lap, his throbbing shaft brushing against her slick folds. Lisa let out a soft gasp, her body trembling with anticipation.

Gripping her hips, the Captain began to tease her, rubbing the tip of his cock along her sensitive pussy lips. Lisa moaned, her own arousal building with each tantalizing stroke.

“Please,”

she whimpered, her voice thick with need.

“I need you inside me. Don't make me wait any longer.”

The Captain chuckled, his grip tightening as he slowly began to guide his shaft into her waiting heat. Lisa cried out, her back arching as she was filled to the brim.

Inch by inch, he sank into her, their bodies joining in a primal dance. Lisa's nails raked down his back, her hips rolling in time with his thrusts.

The room echoed with the sound of their coupling, a symphony of gasps and moans that only served to fuel their carnal desires. Lisa had never felt so alive, so consumed by the raw, unadulterated lust that coursed through her veins.

As the Captain's pace quickened, Lisa knew she was teetering on the edge of ecstasy. With a final, desperate cry, she surrendered to the waves of pleasure, her inner walls clenching around him as she climaxed hard.

The Captain followed soon after, his release flooding her depths as they rode out the aftershocks together. Spent, they collapsed into a tangled heap, their breathing ragged and their bodies glistening with sweat.

The Captain's eyes widened in shock as he realized what he had done, his seed spilling deep within Lisa's womb. He froze, his body trembling with a mix of fear and guilt.

“Oh god, I... I'm so sorry, Lisa,”

he stammered, his voice laced with panic.

“I didn't mean to... I couldn't control myself.”

But Lisa's expression was not one of anger or disgust. Instead, a wicked grin spread across her face as she gazed down at the Captain, her eyes gleaming with unholy delight.

“Sorry?”

she purred, her voice dripping with amusement.

“Why, whatever do you have to be sorry about?”

Leaning in close, Lisa traced the line of the Captain's jaw, her touch feather-light. Her hips began to rock slowly, grinding against his softening shaft.

“You've given me exactly what I wanted, you know,”

she whispered, her breath hot against his skin.

“A little... insurance, if you will.”

The Captain stared at her, his mind reeling with confusion and trepidation. But before he could utter a single word, Lisa silenced him with a searing kiss, her tongue plundering his mouth with wanton abandon.

When she finally pulled away, her eyes sparkled with a mischievous gleam.

“Now, my dear Captain, I do believe we have some... unfinished business to attend to.”

The Captain's eyes widened as Lisa's words sank in, a mixture of fear and arousal coursing through him. He knew he had crossed a line, but the thought of the consequences only seemed to fuel his growing desire.

Without a word, he surged forward, crushing his lips to Lisa's in a bruising kiss. Their bodies tangled together as they gave in to their primal urges, all thoughts of restraint abandoned.

The night was a blur of tangled limbs, desperate moans, and the slick sounds of their frenzied coupling. The Captain explored every inch of Lisa's body, his touch igniting sparks of pleasure that threatened to consume them both.

Lisa reveled in his attentions, her hips rolling and grinding as he took her in every position imaginable. She cried out in ecstasy, her nails raking down his back as he pounded into her relentlessly.

By the time they were spent, the room was a mess of discarded clothing and the lingering scent of sex. The Captain lay beside Lisa, his breathing ragged, his mind reeling from the intensity of their encounter, while his spent cock rested inside Lisa’s used pussy. Lisa, on the other hand, wore a satisfied smirk…….

#lisa manoban #lisa smut #blackpink #lisa blackpink

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