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mellowyellow236 · 7 months ago

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How would the TWST boys act when they had a crush on the Reader/Yuu?

All are meant to be interpreted as romantic except for Ortho, who is a wingman for his brother in his part. Some characters might be a bit OOC. Reader is GN but will be referred to as pretty/beautiful. Minor TW for Rollo having yandere tendencies.

If anyone has anything to add or any questions, please leave an ask or comment! Requests are open if anyone wants :) Everything is under the cut

Heartslabyul:

Riddle Rosehearts -

Not the best person to have liking you.

He’s not mean or anything he just... Has no idea what to do with himself at any time.

And it’s very obvious.

He thinks that if he’s very, very specific about you following the rules, you’ll praise him and thus that’ll mean you’ll like him.

He’s… Trying his best.

“Off With Your Head!” You felt the metal clamp around your neck as you heard the echo of the words. Turning around, you saw the small redhead with his hands on his hips, face already flushing. He grabbed the drink you were holding, the surface of the coffee moving as he pulled away. “On a Tuesday, one can only drink lemon tea past 3:14 in the afternoon!” He huffed, before using his free hand to pull you away. “If you don’t know the rules, I’ll just have to teach them to you. Come on, there’s some tea in the garden. I have a book of rules I could read to you.”

Trey Clover -

He’s housewife material, he’ll bake for you

“Any boy can be babygirl but it takes a man to be a single mother” vibes

I never know what to say to him he’s just a normal person who likes cooking

On a complete side note if you ever go to NYC, go to Alice’s Tea Cup. It’s this tea house that’s kind of close to Broadway, at least last time I went pre-COVID, and it’s so good. I have the recipe book from there and the pumpkin scones are the best.

You walked into the Hearslabyul kitchen, smiling at the smell of apple pie. Trey was baking, and the dish had just come out of the oven. He smiled, but then slapped your hand away when you tried to grab it. “Not yet, it needs to cool first. If you really want something to eat, we have leftover blueberry scones in the fridge.” He said, looking away to get the serving plate. You touched it anyway, pulling back as you burned yourself. He looked at you and sighed, taking you by the arm to get an ice cube on it. “Burnt hand teaches best, I suppose... It shouldn’t be that bad of a burn. If it gets any worse, I’ll put some cream on it...” He said, before kissing the burn. “And a get-well-soon kiss, of course.”

Cater Diamond -

He’s a silly boy, but also an angsty one

If he genuinely likes you, he’d probably try really, really hard to be the “perfect guy”

And also to try to hide how into you he is because he’s scared you’ll leave him

Those moments when his guard drops are probably the sweetest, though

“Ah, that was fun! Well, Cay-cay’s all yours for the rest of the day. What do you wanna do now?” Cater said, having just turned off his livestream. You were behind his phone smiling at him. You were going to recommend getting a drink at the Monstro lounge, but saw how tired he was. He smiled at you when you asked to just hang out with him at home. “You do, huh? Well, there’s a new movie we could watch.” When you raised an eyebrow, asking if it was for Magicam, he just chuckled and shook his head. “Nope. A remake of an old classic. I want to watch it with you. I’m sure that you’d be able to make anything good, just by being there.”

Ace Trapolla & Deuce Spade-

They’re together because I feel like you can’t make one fall for you without the other. It’s a ‘buy one get one free’ deal.

Ace would be a nightmare to have in love with you.

He’d try his best to flirt, but mainly through really bad dirty jokes and pickup lines.

Or, by inserting himself into your life as much as possible in an attempt to force himself into a place of importance for you

Duece, on the other hand, would be an angel.

He attempts to be an old-fashioned gentleman, like holding open doors and getting you flowers.

Are those roses from Heartslabyul’s garden? Maybe. Just don’t snitch on him to Riddle.

You weren't entirely sure how you got yourself into hiding in a cabinet with Ace and Duece, but here you were, avoiding the Riddle currently screaming his head off about how someone had stolen the roses currently in your arms. You had a hand over Duece’s mouth as he muttered apologies, trying to get him to shut up, before Ace leaned in and whispered “Hey, Prefect?” You gave him a look, to which he said, “Are you from Tennessee? Because you’re the only ten I see!” He asked, voice rising in volume as he tried not to laugh, to which Duece slapped him on the arm and cried, “Don’t be so loud! You’re going to get us caught!” Ace only laughed harder, until the door to the cabinet opened. You took a dash out of there with your roses, the two bumbling baffoons behind you, the yelling housewarden already collaring them.

Savanaclaw:

Leona Kingscholar -

He’s a fun man

Well, not really, but his attempts are very fun for Ruggie.

He’ll just drag you away and force you to cuddle with him.

You’ll probably end up cutting class, but do you really care when it’s with the clingy lion man?

Throwing money at you with no regard to the amount he gives or the reason he does it is the other attempt.

If he can prove that he’s better at taking care of you than the lizard, he can win this round.

And get a better lover than his brother, but that’s the secondary goal.

You were just walking in the garden when you felt someone trip you, causing you to land half in a bush. Before you could turn around to tell off the person responsible, they grabbed your waist and pulled you to them on the floor. “It’s nap time, Herbivore. Shut up and let me sleep.” When you told him that he was the one who invited you here and you’d have to skip your next class to stay, he just huffed and rolled his eyes at you, pushing a pouch in your hand. “Yeah, yeah. Whatever. If you’ll be like that, take this and you can get whatever you want in your lunch period. Fair deal if you’ll stay.”

Ruggie Bucchi -

Would never ask you out on a date, he’s scared.

The best treatment that you get before he’s sure you’re not going to be mean to him is that he doesn’t pawn your gifts off for cash.

Afterward, he’ll be a bit more affectionate

Maybe even give you some of his food...

Also, hyena courting stuff; Shadowing a potential partner, taking a step forward and then taking a step back, and other stuff like that.

You heard the laughing of the beastman before you were able to see his face. He had been following you around for most of the day, but every time he’d take a few steps forward, he’d taken a few back after a second. Now, though, he had his head on your shoulder. “Hello, Prefect. Look what I got!” He said, showing you a donut he had probably gotten from Sam’s. “You want a bite?” He asked, when you nodded and took a bite he bit onto the other end, giggling away. “What, was that really enough to fluster you, Prefect? Shishishi, I should try doing this to you again.”

Jack Howl -

Jack asks you outright if you feel the same way he does, especially if you two are friends.

Finally! A confession!

He doesn’t want to make your friendship weird, so he wants to tell you that it’s happened and either find a way to get over you or have a happy relationship.

Very much “Worst they can say is no, best they can say is yes” kind of man

Aside from that, very loyal and sweet to you before he realizes that he likes you

Also, a pinch of an old-fashioned gentleman in him

Jack had called you out earlier that day to go on an evening walk with him, and so here you were. You were in the mountains, walking at a fairly slow pace. You neared a big tree as the sun set, and Jack took a deep breath. He took your hand, ears on high alert and tail looking undecided between if it wanted to cower beneath his legs or wag excitedly, and said, “Prefect, I like you very much. Please go on a date with me.”

Octavinelle:

Azul Ashengrotto -

Oh no

He has two moods when it comes to the person he likes; Annoyingly showoffish and annoyingly terrified of you.

Somehow, it’s sometimes both.

He would talk very loudly about how well he was doing as a businessman his contracts and how much money he’d made.

And then you touch him and he just stops functioning.

“Oh, look, Jade! Another new high this month! We might even be able to expand!” He cried, glancing at you again and again. This had been happening every time you visited Monstro Lounge; A song and dance of Azul fishing for compliments that he seemed to hate, if him leaving the room every time you complimented him had anything to say about it. This time, you grabbed his wrist as you spoke, telling him how he was doing a very good job. You watched him turn a shade of red and blue, stiffening up as he muttered out a response. “Thank you... I will keep your response in mind.” The moment you let him go, Jade stepped in to talk to you as the octopus-mer ran away once more.

Jade Leech -

As the more put together of the two moray eels here, he gets the ‘classier’ side of the coin.

Moray courting rituals of wrapping together is often described as a dance, so he’ll try to dance with you.

Aside from that, I can see him subtly teasing you about yawning in front of him, even if you don’t understand why.

And feeding you plenty of mushroom dishes.

You were stuffed, that was for sure. Jade had invited you to Octavinelle a while ago, and now you were here, eating various mushroom dishes like your life depended on it. He was smiling, another one placed in front of you. “A shiitake and crab stir fry is next. Surely, you have room for more?” He asked, a small smile on his lips. He chuckled when you yawned, “Isn’t it a bit late in the season for that?” When you asked what he meant, he only shook his head and brought a filled fork to your lips. “Fufu. Just focus on eating for now, Prefect.”

Floyd Leech -

Hehe funny unhinged eel man

Moray eels like to cuddle, so prepare to be squeezed by him

Also, yawning or ‘gaping’ (Opening his mouth really wide) at you.

Honestly, I don’t have a lot of thoughts on him, he’s just a silly little guy.

“Shrimpy!” You heard cried behind you, Floyd flopping himself over you from behind. He yawned and pushed his head over your shoulder as he spread himself over you so his weight was all on you to hold up. “Whatcha doing?” He asked, smiling at you. Once you answered that you were on your way to class, he frowned, wrapping his arms around you before lifting you like a cat. “That’s boring! Common, Shrimpy, we’re going to find something fun to do!”

Scarabia:

Kalim Al-Asim -

For Kalim, I feel as if the second he knows he likes you, you will know he likes you because he’ll tell you outright.

Before he knows he likes you, everyone else will know he likes you.

Running up to you at every opportunity, constantly complimenting you, talking about you to everyone who will listen, etc.

Much like the other rich kids who aren’t used to being genuinely wanted for themselves and not their money in this school, Kalim will throw expensive gifts at you in an attempt to gain your favor.

“Prefect!!” You heard someone shout, running at you from across the field of the flying lesson you were in. “There you are! I’ve got something for you!” He said, smiling all the while. He kissed you on the cheek, and then reached into his bag, pulling out a golden bracelet. Before you had time to refuse, because it was the middle of a class where it could easily be lost or because of the outrageous price tag, he spoke up. “And now we match! Just like twins, see?” He had kept his ones on this time, and you couldn’t help but smile as he was beaming up at you.

Jamil Viper -

Jamil might not be able to show off often, but he does try to do so for you.

You’re busy and can’t cook? He’ll get you some food!

You’ve torn a hole in your gym clothes? He’s got a sewing kit on him!

Your homework is about to kill your GPA because Crewel seems to hate having breaks? He’s your guy!

All in all, he attempts to woo you like a mixture of a 1950s housewife and the stereotype of tutor love interests in media.

“-And that’s how to make a basic healing tonic. Any questions?” He asked. When you shook your head, he gave a small smile. “That’s good. I’ll help you clean up in here, and then I’ve got something for you back at Scarabia.” His hand brushed yours as he helped you clear up the papers that had been scattered around as you studied. “You mentioned wanting to try foods from the scalding sands, so I got a bunch of ingredients. I’ll make you a wonderful meal if you’d like.”

Pomefiore:

Vil Schoenheit -

Much like Riddle, you must deal with him being much more annoying as soon as he likes you.

Just this time, he’s annoying you about your self-care.

You don’t take multi-hour spa baths in the crummy bath at Ramshackle? Well, now you do at the much better baths in Pomefiore every week.

You don’t have a skincare routine that takes up half your morning? Yes, you do.

You will never be in better condition physically but he will continue finding new ways to push you.

He does it out of love because he wants you to always look and feel your best.

You opened the door to Ramshackle, looking at a mildly annoyed Vil. He grabbed you before you could protest, leading you away from your dorm. “Come on, Potato. I’m taking you to Pomefiore, and you’re going to get a makeover.” When you asked why, the third year just rolled his eyes. “You have bags under your eyes, and they seem to be from lack of sleep or stress, if your appearance when you came here was anything to say about it. So, I’m getting you a spa day and will teach you how to take care of yourself better. If you still can’t, I’ll just have to take you for spa time more often.”

Rook Hunt -

Rook is a walking love letter.

Constantly waxing poetics, and talking about how beautiful you are.

You forget something at home and the next thing you know you’ve got an arrow shot next to you and whatever you need as well as a heartfelt note is in a pouch tied to it.

And he’s just... There.

All the time.

He’s in your walls.

You sighed, having forgotten your potions textbook for the third time this week. Truly, your memory was your own worst- What was that? A thud had come from right next to you; An arrow with a paper gift bag tied onto it through a deep purple ribbon had been shot into a tree, going right past your head. When you looked into it, there was your missing textbook, as well as a note from the giver. ‘Dearest Trickster, it is a wonder to be in your presence. I do ask, please grace me with those eyes to my face. If only I had those, I would be happy to deliver you your books for the rest of my life.’ When you looked around, you saw him; The third year excitedly waving at you from the rooftop of the school.

Epel Felmeir -

He tries so hard to show you how awesome cool and manly he is.

Has the same vibes as a child showing their parents how good they are at sports.

“Hey Mom, look!” *Kicks a soccer ball and falls flat on his face*

He’s doing the best he can with the skills he has, give the little guy some credit

“Hey, Prefect! Did ya see that goal I made at the end?” Epel said, having just finished a Spelldrive game. He had come up to you as soon as he was done, and you smiled at him, nodding and telling him that he had done well. He puffed his chest out at that, looking like the cat who got the cream. “Of course I did! I’ll even give ya a ride on my broom after our next practice, so you can see what it looks like when ya playing. That’s be fun, right?” He said, smiling at you widely.

Ignihyde:

Idia Shroud -

Scared boy

Very, very scared boy

He will try to run from you any time he’s nearby.

If you manage to corner him, expect him to be very flustered.

Maybe you’ll get a sentence or two out of him if you keep trying...

Idia had been avoiding you for the past few days, and you had no idea why. So here you were, using the key card ortho gave you to work your way into the room of the hermit. He was hunched over his desk, eyes closed and breathing steady. His monitor was on, so when you walked over, you took the mouse out from him and went to save in his game before you closed it out. He stirred, muttering as he opened his eyes, “One more round, Orthohmysevenitsyouohimsorryicangonow!” He bolted straight up, hair flaming pink as he pushed the swirly chair back and ran out of his own room.

Ortho Shroud -

His big brother’s best wingman

Will come up to you and talk about how great his brother is

If needed, pulls up diagrams and chats like he’s giving a PowerPoint presentation on his brother’s ability to date you

“Prefect!” You heard a shout, the younger Shroud brother coming up to you. “I have something that you must see! You are aware of my brother’s affection for you, correct?” When you shook your head, he smiled, pulling up a presentation on his iPad. “That makes this much more difficult, but very well! As you can see here, one’s heartbeat increases when one meets with the object of one’s affections. This can be caused by a flight or fight response, which my brother does not usually suffer from when over a call with another. However, when your voice is there, his heart rate spikes dramatically! This means that I have reason to believe that he is in love with you. In this presentation, I will-”

Diasonia:

Malleus Dracona -

He is going to try to woo you with gems

And probably other dragon-courting rituals

I think that out of the beastmen and fae, he understands the least that you don’t get their courting rituals.

By the name he realizes that you don’t think you’re dating he’s already picked out the names of your kids.

“Child of Man?” You heard the familiar voice of Hornton call out to you in your garden. You smiled, turning around to face him. “It’s nice to see you again. I have a gift for you.” He said, holding out a golden necklace with emeralds sprinkled in. When you tried to refuse the gift, saying it was too expensive to get ‘just because’ he only shook his head and put it around your neck. “All the stars in the sky would be too little to give you, and every jewel in my horde pales in comparison to your beauty. If only you wear this, then you will surely compare to my father when you take your place at my side. Although, I believe you already do in both appearance and wit.”

Lilia Vanrouge -

Old fae bat man

He flirts with you, but it ends up being either too old-timey or too fae for you to understand

For the old-timey side; According to Wikipedia, “Gifts accompanied courtship in the form of a man proving coins, trinkets or clothing to the woman he is trying to woo.” So, he gets you various gifts, like coins, jewelry that he has, and whatever else you’re interested in.

I assume that because he’s such a long-lived fae, they range from ‘I found this stone in the garden’ to ‘Here’s a 1000-year-old artifact capable of destroying the world if you hold onto it wrong’

For the fae side; Male bats court by making various noises (screaming, honking, singing), flicking their wings/showing off how good they are at flying, and grooming the other party. I’m interpreting this as singing to you, playing with your hair, and trying to impress you in flight class.

Also, him humming old love songs to you and playing with your hair I can’t-

Lilia was sitting next to you on the couch, as you flipped through various movies on the television he had in his room. You were in his arms, with his hands in your hair, braiding wherever he could get enough hair to do so. “Hey, Beastie?” He chuckled as you sighed at the lack of familiar movies. “I really do care for you quite a bit. Also, there’s this one Halloween movie that came out a year or two ago. Terror is Trending, or something. We could watch that.” He laughed again and started humming. It seemed to be a classical piece. When you asked what he was singing, he said “Dichterliebe, Robert Schumann’s Op. 48., movement 11.” He smiled at you, and then laughed at your confusion. “Just put the movie on already, Beastie.”

Silver “Vanrouge” -

The meeting scene from Sleeping Beauty

That’s it, that’s my idea

Due to the lack of inspiration, he gets a slightly longer drabble, though?

You were walking in the woods, pausing at a shallow river, singing to yourself. It wasn’t long until you heard a horse trotting towards you. You turned to face it, and Silver smiled as you did. “It’s nice to see you again, Prefect.” He said, getting off his horse to stand next to the river with you. He looked at you, gently humming the same tune as you were. He reached a hand out to pull you in, one hand in yours and the other on your waist. “Do you know how to dance?” He asked, already starting the movements. When you shook, your head, he laughed, spinning you around. “I’ll teach you. Copy my movements, but backward... 1 2 3, 1 2 3...” He started to dance with you, slowly going from repeating the pattern to singing lightly. He was softly smiling, staring at you even as your eyes were focused on your feet. However, it didn’t take long before his horse seemed to tire of this, pushing the two of you in. “Samson!” Silver cried out, now soaking wet and a bit banged up from shielding you from the fall. “And after I promised you an extra bucket of oats to come out here... No carrots for you tonight.” He spoke, looking at you as you asked him why he had done so. Silver only smiled and responded, “There was something strange about you, and I heard your voice earlier. You’re almost too beautiful to be real. I thought it was some mysterious being, a wood sprite or a fae. Truly lovely either way.”

Sebek Zigvolt -

He tries to protect you like the knight that he aspires to be

He will infodump to you about Malleous or Brair Valley or something else of the sort if you let him

Also, he’s half fae, which means fae/crocodile courting rituals.

Crocodiles mainly bump snouts as far as I can tell, so expect many boops from him.

Also, piggyback rides and playful nips if you get close enough to him

“And that is why Wakasama is the greatest mage in our time!” Sebek finished, still carrying you around the school. When you tried again to tell him it wasn’t needed, Sebek scoffed. “Foolish Human! You said that your leg was tired after running in flight class, and so you must rest your legs lest you injure yourself!” He said, bopping his nose against yours. “Besides, you must know by now that as a friend of Wakasama, it is my job to defend you as I would him! In not doing so, I would be committing a sin worse than just letting you walk by yourself! As such, I will accompany you to and from class from now on. Be grateful, Human!”

RSA+NBC:

Che’nya -

Che’nya will try to pull as many pranks on you as he can

Appearing in random places, taking little things from you, and other things showing up in random places you never put them.

All around being a little menace and trying to make your daily life as annoying as possible

You sighed, looking towards the floating smile next to you. It laughed, as you held up the empty pencil case, asking it how he expected you to be able to do your homework now. He only chuckled, the rest of his head and shoulders appearing. “Stay pawsitive, Prefect! No need to be so catty!” You rolled your eyes, to which the boy simply snickered and rubbed his head against your cheek. “Come on, my puns are purrfect!” He pulled a pencil out of seemingly thin air, letting you take it from him. “And I’ve got plenty of pens back at RSA if you’d like to take a weekend trip to see me.”

Neige Leblanche - Kinda angsty, but not much

He’s a sweet guy first and foremost, and his having a crush on you reflects that.

He buys you flowers, takes you on walks in nature, romantic stuff like that.

Maybe watching cheesy old movies with you and cuddling

He wants to be your friend before he dates you, though, and won’t make a move until after you can see what life would be like if you were dating him considering how famous he is.

He needs to make sure that you’re comfortable with the fame you’ll gain, and that you love him for more than just his popularity.

Neige sighed, biting his lower lips. He was situated in your arms on the floor of his dorm room, what you’d define as a cheesy romcom on the TV. The most interesting part was the man going through his DM’s next to you. He snuggled into you a bit more as you asked him what was wrong, to which he said “Just... Hate comments and stuff. They’re really mean sometimes. Saying stuff...” He took a deep breath again, and melted against you. “Thank you for treating me like I’m a normal person. It means... So much to me. I... Care for you so much.”

Rollo Flamme - Rollo's got yandere tendency's

Unfortunately, I can in no way see Rollo having a light crush on anyone

For him, I imagine it’s an ‘all or nothing’ situation

So, you’ll end up with a very obsessive and objectively evil wizard trying to win your heart by any means necessary

But this is not the post for that, so he’s getting toned down to fit into a little drabble

“Mon amour, how are you feeling?” Rollo asked you, coming into the area that you were lying in. You had been resting in the infirmary since coming back from the destruction he caused, and he sat on the edge of the bed. You turned away from him, closing your eyes and saying that you had no desire to speak to him. Rollo sighed, “Please, my dear? I am begging you, just talk to me.” You shook your head, but he took your hand and kissed your knuckles anyway. “Then I will wait for you to want to speak to me again. However, I do ask that it be soon. I cannot imagine my life without you, my dear angel, and I do not intend to live without you forever.”

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jungkoode · 1 month ago

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𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 18

˗ˏˋ on your kneesˎˊ˗

"He didn't picture himself ever begging for pussy... but alas, here he is."

next | index

⋆｡°✩ chapter details ✩°｡⋆

word count: 8,7k

content: wet sloppy kissing, jungkook being too horny for his own good, vibrator usage, masturbation (f), jerking off while eating kitty (idk what possessed me but i had to), vanilla kink (are we surprised), begging, slight praise kink, comfort, endearing moments, these two being stupid as always, post-orgasm sharing bed (yeah sleeping together), thinking about maybes.

✧ author's note ✧

LISTEN. You’re so lucky I have multiple FMU chapters backlogged right now, because if I didn’t? I would have thrown an actual tantrum, declared a two-week hermit arc, and told you all to fuck off while I moved to the mountains. BUT. Thankfully, I’ve written up to around Chapter 23-ish and just need to edit, so you can all calm the hell down.

First of all, no—I still haven’t updated the update post, because I’ve been too busy prepping this chapter for release. I’ve had zero time to sit and ponder. That said, the only valid suggestion I’ve gotten so far is to keep the Tumblr note goal but ALSO require the Wattpad goal to be hit—so that’s what we’re trying this time around.

Also—BIG ANNOUNCEMENT—we now have an official Kiki Nation Community on Tumblr (yay!). That’s where you little gremlins can finally scream together in one place, throw theories at each other, and insult Jungkook and Nix in a safe, protected space. (Mainly Jungkook. Because he’s a man. And this is a matriarchy. HUSH.)

So please check it out! Join, comment under the official Chapter 18 discussion post, and if you feel inspired to make a meme or TikTok or post your spiral—DO IT. If it makes me laugh, I will absolutely reblog it.

NOW. About this chapter.

BAHAHA. Okay. First of all—I am so proud of the kiss. I wanted it to be sloppy and wet and messy and borderline excessive, and I think I delivered. It’s so long. I really put my whole kikussy into it.

And of course… it was time. The vibrator had to make its appearance. It’s literally law. I don’t make the rules (but I do).

Also: Rogue begging. crawling. STILETTOS. Why did I like this chapter so much. It was delicious. I love sexually down bad men. Wait until he’s romantically down bad. It’s going to be so satisfying. Trust me.

And the ending?? Made me soft. Actual progress?? Kind of??? They’re still filthy, but they’re also edging toward something stupidly endearing and I hate how much I love that. The way this story is progressing is so slow-burn it makes my bones hurt, but I’m obsessed with it. We are maybe… possibly… inching toward friendship territory. MAYBE.

I’m really looking forward to the next chapters—soon, we’ll meet a new LI on Jungkook’s side (YES!). Things are gonna get messy (eventually). Reminder: they have zero romantic feelings right now. ZERO. What you’re seeing is just… subconscious tension, subtle shifts. We’re nowhere near falling.

So please. I beg you. If I start getting asks about them being in love, I will throw my laptop out the window and revoke my dictatorship. Don’t test me.

Enjoy the chaos. Let me know how hard you spiraled. Love you forever.

OH. I said it before but I will say it again. This chapter is entirely based on the song "get on your knees" by Ariana Grande and Nicki Minaj so. Do with that what you will. Listen to it. Enjoy.

⋆｡°✩ read on✩°｡⋆

ao3

wattpad

His kiss tastes like four days of wanting.

Your back hits the wall as his mouth crashes into yours—not gentle, not careful, just hungry. Like he's been starving for the taste of you since Tuesday.

His tongue traces the seam of your lips, a question that isn't really a question at all, because you both know how this ends. You part your lips anyway, granting him access because denying him feels like denying yourself.

His hand comes to rest on your neck, thumb pressing lightly against your pulse point. It's a strange, suspended gesture—like he can't decide whether to pull you closer or hold you exactly where you are. The indecision is so unlike him that it makes your stomach flip.

Then his tongue flattens against yours, and any thoughts of indecision evaporate. He's not kissing you so much as he's tasting you, licking your flavor directly from the source. The sensation is filthy and intimate as his other hand comes to your cheek, fingers splaying across your skin, holding you in place for his exploration.

"Fuck," he breathes against your mouth, the word more vibration than sound. "Missed this."

Not you. This.

The distinction matters, even as his tongue circles yours in a slow, deliberate drag that makes your knees weak. He's coating himself with your saliva, savoring you like you're some expensive whiskey he's been saving for a special occasion.

You should probably be grossed out by how wet this kiss is, by how thoroughly he's claiming your mouth.

Instead, you find yourself pressing closer, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.

Because this is what you've been missing too—not him, not really, but this. The way he makes your body respond without even trying. The way he kisses like he's trying to memorize the taste of you.

And then his lips close over yours—soft but firm—like finishing the kiss just to start it all over again. Chained kisses. One bleeding into the next, seamless and endless.

You follow him because how could you not? The way he kisses—it’s not just skill; it’s instinct. Like he knows exactly what to do to keep you hooked, alternating between tongue and lips so perfectly that you never get tired of either.

Not that you could ever tire of him.

You’re pretty sure you could never erase the way he kisses—or fucks—from your mind even if you wanted to.

Maybe it’s him knowing what he’s doing. Or maybe it’s just the two of you—two mismatched pieces of completely different puzzles that somehow fit together anyway.

Just like your mouths do now.

Just like when your tongue darts out to lick at his lower lip in a kitten lick that has him hitching against you, a small, desperate sound escaping his throat. His hips stutter against yours like his body is telling you to stop messing around and get your tongue back inside his mouth where it belongs.

So you do.

You push forward, tongue meeting his again in a slick slide that has him groaning into your mouth. Then you close your lips to transition into another kiss and he follows, tongues forgotten for three, four open-mouthed kisses before he’s lost patience.

He moves his tongue against yours, seeking more, always more. Because when it comes to you, Jungkook is just this eager.

But this time you catch it. Suck it into your mouth in a soft suction that makes him freeze for half a second before his hand tightens on your neck.

And the sound he makes?

Undiluted filth.

It spurs you on.

You suck harder, dragging your lips down his tongue before releasing him with a soft pop that leaves both of you panting against each other’s mouths. He doesn’t let the pause last long—doesn’t let you last long—and dives back in with a hunger that feels less like kissing and more like consuming.

Tongues forgotten for other five or six kisses as his lips move against yours with bruising intensity—open-mouthed and messy—but he easily grows impatient and his tongue is soon back, sliding against yours like he wants it there.

You catch it once more—suck it again—and the way his hips jerk against yours tells you everything you need to know about how much he likes it.

Filthy sounds fill the space between you: wet kisses, soft moans, the occasional hitch in his breath when you do something particularly good with your tongue.

And when his teeth graze your lower lip before pulling back just enough to look at you?

You realize there’s no winning here—not for either of you—because this isn’t about who takes control or who gives in first.

It’s about this. About mouths fitting together perfectly even though nothing else about this situation should make sense. About tongues sliding together and lips bruising from too much pressure but neither of you caring because fuck—it feels good.

It feels better than good.

It feels addictive.

Your back hits the table near the entryway, and honestly? You never thought a piece of furniture could be an accomplice in your bad decisions, but here you are. Pressed against the entryway table. The one that holds your keys, Yoongi's forgotten mail, and now, apparently, your dignity.

Jungkook hasn't stopped kissing you—not for air, not for sanity, not for anything resembling common sense. It's like he's on a mission to consume you entirely, starting with your mouth and working his way through the rest of you.

These are not the kisses you exchange with people you tolerate. These are not even the kisses you exchange with people you like. These are the kisses of people who might actually hate each other but have found a much more interesting way to express it.

Your lower back presses against the edge. Hard wood digs into soft flesh, and you're about to complain when—

Fuck.

He lifts you. One hand. One fucking hand curves under your ass and hoists you onto the table like you weigh nothing, while his other plants itself firmly on the wood beside your hip. The display of casual strength makes something molten pool in your stomach.

Unfair. Completely unfair how stupidly hot he makes stupid things look. Lifting you shouldn't be attractive. It's basic physics, not foreplay. But your brain has apparently liquefied, pouring out your ears while he steals the oxygen straight from your lungs.

"Fuck, Nix," he mutters against your mouth, the words more vibration than sound. "Been thinking about this for days."

His mouth is relentless—wet, demanding, precise in a way that makes your toes curl in your shoes. He sucks your lower lip between his teeth and—god—applies just enough pressure to sting, like he's trying to extract something essential from you. Like he needs to squeeze you dry, drain you of whatever it is that keeps him coming back.

Didn't even know your bottom lip was an erogenous zone until Jungkook decided it was.

It's too much. The heat, the closeness, the way he seems to have forgotten where you are, who you are.

You push against his chest—not hard, just enough to create a sliver of space between your bodies.

"Jesus Christ," you gasp, chest heaving. "Let me breathe, you animal."

He grins at that—a scorching, self-satisfied smile that makes you want to either slap him or pull him back in.

Maybe both.

He bites his lower lip, swollen from your kisses, and immediately leans back in like your need for oxygen is a minor inconvenience to his plans.

Your palm against his chest stops him, firm this time.

"Wait," you say, voice rough.

Not because you want to stop—god no—but because your brain is finally catching up to your body. And there's something you want. Something specific.

His eyes find yours, dark and questioning. Patient, despite the hunger radiating off him in waves. He's holding himself back, you realize. Letting you dictate what happens next.

Your eyes drop, hair falling across your face as you gather your thoughts, your courage. When you look back up at him through your lashes, his breath catches audibly.

"Bring me the vibrator you chose for me."

His reaction? Pretty funny. Like watching a computer crash and reboot. His entire body goes still—processing, processing—then his eyes widen a fraction. He blinks once, twice, tension visible in the way his jaw ticks.

"What?" he asks, voice cracking slightly.

Something about his reaction makes hot satisfaction curl through you. You like throwing him off balance. Like matching his chaos with your own.

"The vibrator," you repeat, slower this time, savoring each syllable. "The one you picked out. Go get it."

His eyes dart toward your bedroom door, then back to your face. For a moment, you think he might refuse. Might challenge you. But then:

"Yeah," he nods jerkily, already stepping back. "Yeah, I will."

"Will you?" you press, because you can't help it. Because you like the way his pupils dilate when you push.

"Fuck yeah," he breathes, already moving toward your bedroom with a kind of urgent, stumbling grace that would be comical if it weren't so hot.

You watch him go, breathing still uneven, lips still tingling.

And you think—not for the first time—that there's something dangerously addictive about the way Jungkook responds to you. The way he matches your energy, then amplifies it, reflecting it back at you until you're both caught in some kind of feedback loop of bad ideas and worse self-control.

Roommates with benefits, you remind yourself. That's all this is.

But as you hear him rummaging through your things, drawers opening and closing with increasing urgency, you can't help but wonder if "benefits" is too mild a word for whatever the fuck is happening between you two.

He sprints.

Jungkook doesn't walk to your room—he fucking jogs, like the vibrator might disappear if he doesn't get there fast enough.

Like this moment has an expiration date he can't afford to miss.

No shame. Not a single ounce of it as he bursts through your door, scanning the bedroom impatiently. The same room he's been in a couple of times, but never with this specific mission, never with this frantic energy coursing through his veins.

Where the fuck would a girl keep her vibrator?

No. Not a girl. You. Where would you hide it?

Under the pillow?

He lifts the edge of your pillowcase, peeks beneath it. Nothing. Definitely not there—you like sleeping too much, and having a hard plastic toy jabbing into your cheek all night would be uncomfortable as hell. You're smarter than that.

The wardrobe?

He eyes the wooden doors across the room, considering.

No way. Too far from the bed. You're too practical for that kind of inconvenience. If you wanted to get off, you wouldn't want to climb out of bed and trek across the room.

His eyes land on the nightstand. Bingo.

The drawer slides open with a soft sound. First thing he sees: a messy stack of panties, some lacy, some cotton, all of them instantly triggering mental images he doesn't have time for right now.

He fights—really fights—against the urge to pick one up. To feel the fabric between his fingers, to imagine it hugging the curves he's already memorized with his hands, his mouth. Maybe even bring one to his nose...

Focus, dickhead.

Pushing the underwear aside (what? sue him for wanting to fuel his imagination), his fingers brush against something solid. Hard plastic. Smooth curves.

There it is.

He pulls it out, a triumphant grin spreading across his face as he examines his find. It's exactly as he remembers from the store—sleek, purple, designed for both internal and external stimulation.

Still in its original packaging, which means you haven't used it yet.

Something jittery and hot coils in his stomach at the thought of being the first to see you use it.

He grips it tighter, already imagining what it'll look like pressed against you, already wondering if you'll let him control it or if you'll insist on doing it yourself.

Either way, he's about to witness something fucking spectacular, and his body knows it. His cock strains painfully against his jeans as he heads back to you.

He takes a deep breath before rounding the corner from the hallway.

Tries to center himself, to cool down just a little.

To not look as desperate as he feels.

But then—

Fuck.

The vibrator nearly slips from his suddenly sweaty palm.

You're naked on the table. Completely, gloriously naked except for those high heels that make your legs look like they go on for fucking miles. The dress is gone—discarded somewhere on the floor—and your panties dangle precariously from one ankle like an afterthought.

One leg bent at the knee, heel resting lazily on the wooden surface. The other straight up, creating a perfect right angle that showcases everything he's been craving since the moment he walked through the front door.

And your hand—Christ—your hand is between your thighs, fingers drawing lazy circles over your clit.

His eyes stutter back to one thing though.

The heels.

What is it about the fucking heels?

He's never particularly cared about shoes before, but something about the way they elongate your legs, the way they make your calves flex, the dangerous point of those stilettos against the wooden table-it's doing something to him. Something unexpected and intense.

He nearly stumbles. Actually has to catch himself on the wall because his knees go weak at the sight of you touching yourself, waiting for him, spread open on the goddamn entryway table like the world's most perfect welcome home gift.

His grip on the vibrator tightens until his knuckles go white. He forces his face into something resembling control—a smirk, he hopes, though it feels more like a grimace of restraint.

"Needed it that badly?" he manages, trying to sound casual and cool, though he guesses he fails spectacularly at that.

Your eyes meet his, challenging. "Didn't you?"

The question catches him off guard, but he doesn't falter. Not much, anyway. Just a slight hitch in his breathing that he hopes you didn't notice.

"Yeah," he admits, the word barely audible. Then, louder: "Yeah, I did."

He starts walking toward you, vibrator clutched in his hand, but you stop him with a single raised palm. The universal sign for wait.

"Crawl to me."

His feet halt. He opens his mouth. Closes it.

What?

"What?" he asks, not sure he heard correctly.

"You heard me." Your fingers never stop their gentle circles. "Crawl."

He doesn't know why he does it. Doesn't pause to analyze why the command sends a jolt of electricity straight to his cock.

He just... does it.

Drops to his knees, then to all fours, the vibrator still clutched in one hand.

Maybe it's the novelty—you taking control like this when usually he's the one calling the shots.

Maybe it's the way your eyes darken as you watch him approach, like seeing him on his knees for you is doing something for you too.

Or maybe—most likely—it's just the promise of getting his head between those fucking glorious thighs again.

Whatever the reason, he crawls to you across the hardwood floor, too turned on to care about how it looks, too desperate to worry about his dignity. All he can think about is how wet you'll be, how good you'll taste, how he wants to make you come on his tongue before introducing the vibrator.

He's almost there—close enough to smell you, close enough that if he stretched forward just a bit, he could press his mouth to your inner thigh—when the sharp heel of your stiletto plants firmly against his forehead.

The pressure isn't hard enough to hurt, just enough to stop his forward momentum. To keep him back.

He looks up at you, disbelief warring with arousal.

Surely you're joking?

There's no way you're genuinely stopping him when he's this close, when you're this wet, when everything about this moment has been building toward his mouth on you.

Right?

"The vibrator," you say, extending your hand, heel still pressed lightly to his skin. "Give it to me."

His throat works as he swallows, suddenly parched. "Don't you want me to—"

"The vibrator, Ro."

The nickname, combined with the firm tone, makes his cock make a mating dance against the zipper of his jeans. He places the toy in your outstretched hand, watches as you examine it with curious eyes.

You turn it over in your palm, studying it like it's a puzzle to solve. Your brow furrows slightly as you locate the power button, press it experimentally, and soon enough its low hum fills the space as the toy comes to life, vibrating gently in your hand.

"I've never used one before," you admit, and he already knew.

You told him that much before buying it.

Nonetheless, the idea that he gets to witness this first for you—it does something to him.

Makes him feel special in a way he has no right to feel.

"Let me help," he offers, voice strained. "I can show you how—"

"I think I can figure it out," you interrupt, but there's uncertainty in your eyes as you look at the different buttons, the various settings.

Fuck, you're adorable. Even spread-eagle on a table with a vibrator in your hand, there's something so endearing about your determination to figure this out on your own.

He watches, mesmerized, as you press another button. The vibration intensifies, making you jump slightly at the change. Your finger slips, pressing yet another button, and suddenly the toy is pulsing in a rhythm that has him imagining it pressed against you, imagining your reaction to that particular pattern.

He can't take it.

"Here," he says, reaching up, a bit desperate, a tad impatient. "May I?"

After a moment's hesitation, you nod, removing your heel from his forehead and allowing him to rise up on his knees. He takes the vibrator from you, quickly familiarizing himself with the controls.

"This button cycles through the patterns," he explains, demonstrating as the toy shifts from steady vibration to pulsing to waves. "And this one controls the intensity."

He presses it, the vibration becoming stronger under his thumb.

"Start low and work your way up."

He hands it back to you, then you glare at him and okay, he immediately settles back on his heels, waiting. Watching. Fucking aching to see what you do next.

You take the toy, reset it to the lowest steady vibration, and then—God help him—you bring it to your breast first. Circle your nipple with it, eyes fluttering closed at the sensation.

"Fuck," he breathes, the word barely audible over the hum of the vibrator.

He shifts on his knees, trying to adjust himself without being too obvious about it. His jeans have become a torture device, constricting him painfully as he watches you explore.

The vibrator trails down your stomach, leaving goosebumps in its wake. He can see them form on your skin, can see the way your muscles tense in anticipation as the toy moves lower, lower—

And then it's there, pressed against your clit, and the sound you make—a soft, surprised gasp followed by a deeper moan—nearly ends him.

"Good?" he asks, voice wrecked.

You nod, eyes still closed, hips already starting to move against the vibration. "Good. Really good."

He leans forward instinctively, mouth watering at the sight of you pleasuring yourself. He wants to taste you, wants to feel the vibrations against his tongue as he licks around the toy.

Wants to be part of this moment in a way that's more than just watching.

But as he moves closer, your eyes snap open, fixing him with a look that stops him cold.

You extend your leg, the one that was dangling off the table, pressing the point of your stiletto against his chest this time.

"Just watch," you command, voice breathy but firm.

He blinks, sure he's misheard. "What?"

"I said watch." You adjust the vibrator slightly, finding a better angle that makes your breath hitch, toe of your shoe pressing more firmly against his sternum. "Don't touch. Just... watch me."

Is he dreaming? Having some kind of bizarre hallucination? There's no way you're asking him to just sit here while you get yourself off right in front of him.

No fucking way.

"You're joking," he says, but the steady look in your eyes tells him you're not. "Nix, come on. You can't expect me to—"

"I can," you interrupt, increasing the vibration intensity with a press of your thumb. The change makes you gasp, hips lifting slightly off the table. "And I do."

He blinks, eyebrows tugging upwards in a cross motion. "Do you want me to bust untouched? Is that it? Because that's cruel, even for you."

A smile curves your lips, mischievous and knowing. "Maybe I just want to see if you can behave for once."

"I behave," he protests, even as his eyes remain fixed on the vibrator, on the way it glides through your wetness, on how your thighs have started to tremble already.

On those fucking shoes that, for some inexplicable reason, are making this whole situation at least ten times hotter.

"Prove it," you challenge, and fuck—he's never been able to resist a challenge from you.

Never really been able to back down when you push him like this.

So he stays where he is, on his knees, hands fisted at his sides, watching as you explore the toy, as you find what feels good, as you experiment with different patterns and pressures. Your foot still rests against his chest, not pushing him away now, just... there.

A point of contact that feels both like ambrosia and agony.

It's torture. Beautiful, exquisite torture to be this close and not touch you. To smell your arousal and not taste it. To hear your moans growing louder and know he's not the direct cause.

But it's also—strangely, unexpectedly—one of the hottest things he's ever witnessed.

Because you're not performing for him. You're genuinely discovering what you like, what makes you feel good. And there's something incredibly intimate about being allowed to witness that, about being trusted enough to see you this vulnerable, this real.

"That's it," he encourages as your movements become more focused, as you settle into a rhythm with the vibrator that has your breathing turning shallow. "Just like that. You look so fucking good, Nix."

Your eyes meet his, heavy-lidded but alert, and for a moment, he can’t help but stare back.

Then you close your eyes again, lost in the sensation as the vibrator buzzes steadily against your clit. Your free hand comes up to your breast, pinching your nipple in time with the pulsations of the toy, and he groans at the sight.

Your foot presses harder against his chest, whether intentionally or as an unconscious reaction to your growing pleasure, he doesn't know.

Doesn't care.

"Cruel," he mutters, because he needs to at least let you know. “You're fucking cruel, you know that?"

His eyes are fixed on your pussy like it's the only thing in the universe worth looking at. Maybe it is. The way you're working that vibrator against yourself, the little circular motions, the way your hips lift occasionally when you hit just the right spot—it's driving him fucking insane.

His dick is so hard it hurts at this point, and he thinks it's going to start a mutiny. He shifts his weight, trying to get some relief, but it only makes things worse. His forehead thumps against the corner of the table in frustrated surrender.

"God fucking hell," he groans, the wood cool against his skin. "Nix, I need to lick you. Please. Just—let me taste you."

You look down at him, eyes heavy-lidded but gleaming with amusement. Your stiletto traces a path down his chest, and when it reaches his stomach, you press slightly, the point digging into the muscle there.

A warning.

A tease.

He's not sure which, but it makes his cock throb painfully either way.

"What was that?" you ask, lifting the vibrator just enough that he can see how wet you are, how your pussy glistens in the low light. "I didn't quite hear you."

Fucking tease. Fucking gorgeous, evil tease.

"I said I need to lick you," he repeats, louder this time, pride completely abandoned. "Let me put my mouth on you. Let me make you feel good."

You pretend to consider it, tilting your head like you're weighing your options. Meanwhile, he's about to combust from the inside out.

"I don't know," you muse, trailing the vibrator up to circle around your clit, making yourself gasp. "I'm doing pretty well on my own, don't you think?"

Your stiletto moves again, tracing along the inside of his thigh. He tenses, breath catching as it moves higher, closer to the straining bulge in his jeans.

“Phee,” he bites back a groan. "You're doing amazing. Fucking incredible. But I can make it better. You know I can."

"Hmm." You press the vibrator directly against your clit again, eyes fluttering closed for a moment before fixing back on him. "Maybe if you ask nicely."

Is this really happening? Are you really making him beg? His cock twitches at the thought, answering that question with an emphatic yes.

He swallows, throat dry.

"Please," he says, voice rough. "Please let me help."

The word lies suspended between you.

Please. Such a simple word, but one he doesn't use often—not like this, not with this much raw need behind it.

Your eyes widen slightly, like you weren't expecting him to actually do it. To actually beg. But then a slow smile spreads across your face, and you nod.

"Since you asked so nicely," you say. "Go ahead."

He doesn't need to be told twice. He surges forward, hands gripping your thighs, spreading them wider as he buries his face against you.

The first swipe of his tongue makes you both moan—you from the sensation, him from finally, finally getting to taste you.

You taste amazing.

Like always.

Like something he could get addicted to if he's not careful.

"Fuck," he groans against you, the word vibrating against your sensitive flesh. "So fucking good."

He could honestly cum like this. Right now. Just from the taste of you on his tongue, from the way your thighs tense around his head, from the little gasps you make.

He knows he's got blue balls at this point. Knows his cock is probably leaking precum into his boxers, making a mess he'll have to deal with later. But he doesn't really care.

Until you kind of make him care.

"Jerk off."

He freezes, tongue mid-lick.

Did he hear that right?

Looking up at you, genuinely confused, he asks, "What?"

Your answer is a knowing smile and a slight increase in pressure as the heel traces the outline of his cock through the denim. Not enough to hurt, just enough to make him incredibly aware of how hard he is.

"I want you to get yourself off while you eat me out, Ro."

Jesus Christ.

When did you get so fucking bossy? And why is it turning him on so much?

"Yeah," he says, almost to himself, fumbling with his zipper. "Yeah, okay, absolutely I can do that."

His hands shake slightly as he undoes his jeans, shoving them and his boxers down just enough to free his cock. It springs up against his stomach, hard and flushed and so sensitive that even the brush of air against it makes him hiss.

"Shit," he warns, wrapping a hand around himself, already knowing this isn't going to last long. "Just a heads up, but this might be embarrassingly short."

You laugh, the sound turning into a gasp as he dives back in. Your leg dangles over his shoulder now, heel pressing slightly against his back.

"That's okay," you manage to say between breaths. "I'm pretty close too."

Thank fuck for that. Because the moment his hand starts moving on his cock, he knows he's on borrowed time.

The vibrator hasn't stopped. That's the thing that's driving him absolutely fucking insane. You've got it pressed right against your clit, humming on its lowest setting while he licks at your lips, tasting every inch of you except the one spot you're keeping for yourself.

It's maddening.

It's genius.

It's the hottest thing he's ever experienced.

His tongue traces your entrance, dipping just slightly inside before retreating to lick broad strokes along your folds. He's taking his time despite his own desperation, despite the way his hand is working his cock at a steady, measured pace.

Because he wants this to last, wants to savor the privilege of having his face between your thighs while you take your pleasure so confidently.

"More," you breathe above him, and he's not sure if you're talking to him or yourself.

But then your fingers move, pressing a button on the vibrator, and the hum intensifies. The sound changes pitch, grows deeper, more insistent. Your hips jerk in response, a gasp falling from your lips that sends blood rushing to his already throbbing cock.

His fist tightens instinctively, pace quickening to match the vibrator's new rhythm. It's like his body is syncing with the toy, with your pleasure, his own arousal tied directly to yours.

"Fuck, Nix," he groans against you, the words muffled but still audible. "You're so fucking wet. So fuckin’ good, I swear—I swear I could do this for hours.”

“But you won’t last hours,” you tease, rolling your hips against his face. “Will you?”

He shakes his head, not even bothering to deny it. Not when his balls are already drawing up tight, not when each stroke of his hand brings him closer to the edge.

“Nngh—no,” he admits, the word punctuated by a particularly firm stroke that has his hips bucking into his fist. “Not gonna—ah—not gonna last long at all.”

Because the truth is, he’s dizzy with it—your taste, your scent, the sounds you're making above him. It's overwhelming in the best possible way, a sensory overload that makes his cock pulse in his grip, precome slicking the way as his fist moves faster, more urgently.

You shift the vibrator slightly, angling it for better contact, and your free hand finds his hair. Fingers tangle in the strands, not quite pulling but definitely directing, holding him exactly where you want him.

"Inside," you command, voice breathless but clear. "I want your tongue inside me."

He doesn't hesitate. Doesn't even think. Just obeys, tongue pushing past your entrance, delving into the wet heat of you while the vibrator continues its relentless assault on your clit.

The angle is awkward, his neck craned to accommodate both the toy and his mouth, but he doesn't care.

Can't care about anything beyond the way you clench around his tongue, the way your thighs tremble against his cheeks, the way your grip tightens in his hair.

His cock throbs in his hand, so sensitive now that each stroke sends sparks shooting up his spine, and fuck he's close—so fucking close—but he's determined to make you come first. Wants to feel you pulsing around his tongue, wants to experience every tremor of your orgasm firsthand.

Above him, your breathing has grown ragged; little gasps and moans that tell him you're getting close too.

"Don't stop," you gasp, basically riding his face at this point. "God, don't stop."

As if he would.

As if he could tear himself away from this even if the building were on fire.

Your thighs start to shake in earnest now, little tremors that grow stronger by the second. The hand in his hair clenches, your stiletto digs into his back, the pressure increasing as your body tenses, and now he just knows; knows how close you are to the edge.

It makes his strokes faster, more desperate.

“Shit,” he gasps, pulling back for air. “Fuck, I’m gonna—”

“Don’t stop,” you command, lost in a whine. “Don’t you dare stop.”

And he feels it the moment you start to come—the way your inner walls flutter around his tongue, the sudden flood of wetness, the sharp cry that tears from your throat. His name, maybe. Or just a sound of pure pleasure. He's too far gone to tell the difference.

But it doesn't matter. What matters is that you're coming on his tongue, coming while he tastes you, while the vibrator buzzes against your clit, while his cock throbs in his hand, so close to his own release that he can feel it building at the base of his spine.

He pushes his tongue deeper, wanting to feel every pulse, every contraction of your orgasm. The vibrator keeps buzzing, prolonging the sensation, pushing you higher and higher until your hand finally yanks at his hair, pulling him back when it becomes too much.

"Fuck," you gasp, voice wrecked, vibrator still humming in your grip though you've pulled it away from your oversensitive clit. "Fuck, Ro."

The sound of his nickname—that stupid nickname you’ve given him—paired with the sight of you flushed and trembling from an orgasm he helped create, is what does it. What finally pushes him over the edge.

His release hits him then, stealing his breath as his cock pulses in his hand, spilling onto the hardwood floor in hot spurts that seem to go on forever.

He groans against your thigh, face pressed into the soft skin there as his hips jerk, chasing the last waves of pleasure.

“Ffff—shit,” he slurs as he strokes himself through the aftershocks. “Holy sssh—oh—fuck… Ahhh.”

For a moment, there's nothing but the sound of breathing, harsh and uneven. The vibrator still hums softly, forgotten in your hand until you fumble for the off button, plunging them into sudden silence.

Jungkook rests his forehead against your thigh, trying to catch his breath, trying to remember how to form coherent thoughts.

His hand is sticky, his knees ache from the hardwood floor, his back tingles from the trail your heel left across it, and he’s pretty sure he’ll never be able to look at the entryway table the same way again.

But fuck if it wasn't worth it.

He pulls back, gasping for breath, his hand still loosely gripping his spent cock. He probably looks a mess—hair wild from your hands, face shiny with your wetness, expression dazed and satisfied.

"Christ," he breathes, looking up at you with something close to awe.

"Yeah," you agree, equally breathless.

A moment passes where you just look at each other, both trying to process what just happened. Then, because he's Jungkook and he can't help himself, he grins.

"So," he says, wiping his mouth with the back of his clean hand. "I guess you like the vibrator I picked, huh?"

You roll your eyes, but there's no real annoyance there. Just a kind of fond exasperation that makes his chest feel weird and tight.

"It's alright," you say, casual as anything, like you weren't just having what looked like the most intense orgasm of your life. "Could've been better."

He laughs, full and genuine. "Liar."

Your lips twitch, fighting a smile. "Maybe."

He sits back on his heels, suddenly aware of the mess he's made on the floor. "We should, uh, probably clean up before Yoongi gets home."

You nod, both legs dangling off the table. “Wouldn’t want to scandalize him.”

"He's seen worse," Jungkook says without thinking, then flinches. "I mean—not with me. Just, you know, in general. Living with roommates and all."

You give him a look that's equal parts amusement and skepticism. "Right."

Awkward silence falls as the reality of what just happened settles in, because this? Yeah, it was sex. But this time you took control, you made him beg, you saw him at his most desperate and needy.

And he... liked it. More than he probably should have.

"So," he says, tucking himself back into his jeans with as much dignity as possible. "That was fun."

You snort. "Such a way with words, Ro."

"What can I say? I'm a poet."

He gathers the dress from the floor and gives it to you. You throw the dress at his head, but you're laughing, and he thinks—not for the first time—that he likes that sound. Likes being the cause of it.

He doesn’t analyze it further than needs to be.

He catches the dress, handing it back to you with exaggerated chivalry. "Your garment, m'lady."

"You're an idiot," you say, but there's no bite to it. Just that weird, fond tone that makes his stomach do strange things.

Fully on both legs now, he places both his arms between your spread thighs, his face hovering close to yours, tilting to the side.

"Yeah," he agrees, because sometimes the simplest truth is the easiest to admit. "But I'm an idiot who makes you cum really fucking hard, so..."

And there it is—that flash in your eyes, that hint of heat that never seems to fully dissipate between you two.

"Don't get cocky," you warn.

Too late, he thinks. Way too late for that.

He stands there with the taste of you still on his lips and he can't help but feel satisfied.

Good.

“Does this mean we’re not fighting anymore?”

You laugh, the sound bright and genuine in the quiet room. “I guess not.”

“Good. Because that was a fucking stupid fight anyway.”

“It was,” you agree. “But the makeup sex was worth it.”

“Always is with us.”

And that’s the truth of it, isn’t it? No matter how much you argue, no matter how much you drive each other crazy, this thing between you—this chemistry, this connection—always brings you back together.

No strings attached, just pure, perfect understanding of what the other needs.

It’s not love. It’s not even like, most days. But it’s something.

Something that works for both of you.

And then, Jungkook feels your forehead press against his shoulder, which catches him off guard. Not because it’s heavy or anything—it’s not—but because it’s you.

You, who usually keeps your distance unless you're actively trying to rile him up. You, who just made him beg on his knees like some desperate idiot a few minutes ago.

And now you’re here, leaning into him like this is normal. Like this is fine.

It’s... nice. He hates that it’s nice.

His lips twitch upward despite himself, a soft smile breaking through the lingering haze of post-orgasmic bliss. His hand moves before he can think better of it, sliding up your back in a slow, deliberate stroke. His palm presses lightly between your shoulder blades, fingers splaying out as he rubs soothing circles into your skin.

Your back is warm under his touch—soft in places, firm in others—and he thinks about how strange it is that he knows what you feel like now. Not just your skin but the way you move under his hands, the way your muscles tense and relax depending on what he’s doing to you.

It’s intimate in a way that makes something uncomfortable stir in his chest if he lingers on it too long.

So he doesn’t linger.

“Cleanup?” he asks, voice low and rough from everything that just happened.

You grunt. Not a word, not even a real sound—just a grunt. Like the idea of moving is physically painful to you right now.

He chuckles softly, the sound vibrating through both of you.

“Alright,” he says, hand still on your back as if that’s going to keep you from sliding off the table and face-planting onto the floor. “Let me get some wipes.”

Another grunt. This one sounds more annoyed than tired, but he can’t tell for sure because your face is still buried against his shoulder.

“Don’t tell me…” He pauses for dramatic effect because he knows how much you hate when he does that. “You’re a cuddlebug?”

That gets a reaction. Your head snaps up so fast he almost flinches, and then you’re shoving at his chest with both hands like you’re trying to push him off the planet.

“Fuck you,” you mutter, but there’s no real heat behind it. Your hands stay on his chest for a second longer than necessary before falling back to your sides.

He snorts, stepping back and giving you space because even though he likes teasing you (maybe too much), he knows when to quit.

Most of the time, anyway.

“Stay there,” he says over his shoulder as he heads toward his room. “Don’t move.”

You don’t respond this time—not even a grunt—but when he glances back, you’re still perched on the edge of the table looking thoroughly unimpressed with life.

Very you, indeed.

Then he's stepping into his bedroom, and of course, it is dark when he steps inside, the only light coming from the hallway spilling in behind him.

He grabs the container of wet wipes from his nightstand (don’t ask why they’re there; that’s none of anyone’s business) and heads back out before his brain can start overthinking anything.

When he returns to the entryway, you haven’t moved an inch. You’re still sitting there with both legs dangling off the table.

And for a moment, he can’t help but think the sight is oddly cute.

“Alright,” he says again as if this is some kind of official business meeting instead of… whatever this is. “Let’s get this over with.”

He crouches down first, wiping at the floor where his cum has left an embarrassing mess that Yoongi would absolutely kill him for if he saw it later. The hardwood glistens faintly under the light as he scrubs at it with more force than necessary—partly because it needs to be cleaned properly and partly because maybe if he focuses hard enough on this task, he won’t think about how close your legs are or how good you smelled earlier or how fucking soft your skin felt under his hands.

When he's done with that part (and only when he's sure it's spotless), he straightens up and turns toward you.

Your eyes are on him—soft but unreadable—and it makes something twist in his stomach that has nothing to do with hunger or exhaustion or anything else logical.

“What?” he asks because apparently silence makes him nervous now.

You shake your head slightly, lips curving into something that might be a smile if it weren’t so small and fleeting.

“Nothing.”

He doesn’t believe you—not for a second—but decides not to push it because pushing things with you in this state never ends well for him.

Instead, he steps closer until he's standing between your legs again and tilts his head toward yours like he's trying to figure out what you're thinking without actually asking outright.

"Hold still," he murmurs after a beat of hesitation that's barely noticeable but feels significant anyway.

The wipe is cool against your skin as he starts cleaning you up—gentle but thorough in a way that surprises even himself. Your eyes stay on him the whole time—watchful but not wary—and it makes him feel weirdly self-conscious even though there’s no reason for it.

When he's finished (and only when he's sure you're clean), he tosses the used wipe into the trash can by the door without looking away from you entirely.

"Sleep?" he asks after another moment of silence stretches between you like an elastic band ready to snap at any second now if someone doesn’t say something soon enough.

“Yeah.” You murmur. “Your bed.”

Jungkook blinks at you like he’s not sure he heard right.

Not because it’s weird—okay, maybe it’s a little weird—but because you said it so casually. Like it’s the most normal thing in the world to ask to sleep in his bed after everything that just happened.

He doesn’t know what to say at first. He’s not used to this part—the after part. Usually, there isn’t an after part. It’s just sex, then goodbye, then see you whenever.

But this? This feels different in a way he can’t quite put his finger on, and it makes his brain stutter for a second before he finally manages to respond.

“Uh… yeah,” he says, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. “Sure.”

You don’t say anything else, just lift your arms slightly like you’re expecting him to do something.

He stares at you for a moment, confused, until it clicks.

“Oh, come on,” he mutters, rolling his eyes but already stepping closer. “You’re not serious.”

You just raise an eyebrow at him, and yep—you’re serious.

“Lazy ass,” he grumbles under his breath as he bends down to scoop you up.

Your arms loop around his neck automatically, and your legs wrap around his waist like this is something you do all the time instead of… well, never. He tries not to think about how natural it feels or how warm you are against him or how your breath brushes against his collarbone when you settle into his hold.

It’s fine. Totally fine. This is just… practical.

Yeah.

Practical.

He carries you with ease because let’s be real—he could probably bench press you if he wanted to—and nudges his bedroom door open with his foot.

“Alright,” he says as he approaches the bed and leans forward slightly to deposit you onto the mattress. “Here we go.”

But instead of letting go like a normal person, you cling tighter for half a second before finally releasing him with a grunt that sounds suspiciously like reluctance. He doesn’t comment on it because honestly? He doesn’t trust himself not to make it weird if he does.

You flop onto your back with all the grace of a drunk cat and immediately start wiggling around like you’re trying to make yourself comfortable in record time. Jungkook just stands there for a moment, watching you with an expression he doesn't even know how to describe.

“You good?” he asks once you’ve finally stopped moving and are lying still with your eyes closed like this is your bed and not his.

“Mmhm,” you hum without opening your eyes.

He shakes his head but doesn’t bother arguing because what’s the point?

Then he’s going to lay down too, but you sprawl onto his bed like you’re claiming it for yourself, arms and legs stretched out in every direction like some kind of human starfish.

Jungkook snorts, standing at the side of the bed with his hands on his hips like a disappointed parent.

“Move,” he says, nudging at your foot with his knee. “I want to sleep too.”

You crack one eye open, squinting at him.

“Then sleep,” you mumble, voice muffled by the pillow your face is half-buried in.

“I can’t sleep,” he says, gesturing dramatically at your starfish pose. “Not unless you move your limbs out of my personal space.”

You grunt something unintelligible but make no effort to move.

He sighs—long and exaggerated—before climbing onto the bed anyway, shoving at your leg until you reluctantly curl up enough to give him room.

He flops down beside you with all the grace of someone who’s been awake for far too long and immediately starts adjusting himself into what he considers optimal sleeping position.

Except there’s one problem: his arm.

It’s stuck under him, bent awkwardly against his side instead of stretched out under the pillow where it belongs. He tries shifting around to fix it but quickly realizes there’s no way to do that without encroaching on your territory.

“Hey,” he says, nudging at your side with his foot now.

“What?” you snap, voice sharp despite how tired you sound.

“Let me extend my arm under the pillow.”

“No.”

“What do you mean no?”

“I mean no,” you repeat stubbornly, turning your head just enough to glare at him over your shoulder. “Figure it out without bothering me.”

He stares at you for a second like he can’t believe what he’s hearing before deciding that negotiation is clearly not going to work here.

So instead, he does what any reasonable person would do in this situation: he forcefully shoves his arm under your neck like it belongs there.

You jerk upright immediately, twisting around to face him with wide eyes and an expression that screams 'what the actual fuck'.

“Bro,” you say, voice incredulous as you try—and fail—to push his arm away. “Get off me.”

“Bro,” he says simply, already settling back down like this is perfectly normal behavior between roommates who occasionally hook up but definitely aren’t friends yet (or whatever this is). “You’re in my bed. Shut up and act like a plushie or something.”

“A plushie?” You sound so offended that he almost laughs but manages to hold it back because laughing right now would probably get him kicked out of his own bed.

“Yes,” he says firmly, pulling the blanket over both of you with one hand while keeping his other arm firmly in place under your neck. “A plushie.”

You open your mouth to argue—because of course you do—but he shuts it down with a loud, drawn-out “SSSSHHHHH” that’s so over-the-top, so him, it stops you cold.

“Sleep,” he adds a second later, voice low, eyes already shut like the matter’s settled and he’s the authority on bedtime now.

The room stills. One of those dumb, drawn-out silences where neither of you wants to move first. Like shifting even an inch might make it real. Might make it weird.

But then you sigh. Loud. Dramatic. Flopping back down beside him like you’ve just made the ultimate sacrifice.

“Fine,” you mutter, sharp as ever, head hitting the pillow with a thud. “But if I wake up with a crick in my neck because of this stupid arm thing—”

“You won’t,” he says, already drifting, smug and certain and way too casual for someone who just turned a routine argument into a full-body tangle.

You mumble something under your breath—probably rude, definitely deserved—and go quiet.

And for a second, he just lies there. Listening to your breathing even out. Feeling the slight pull of your body next to his.

The ridiculousness of the situation should hit harder than it does.

But it doesn’t.

It actually feels…weirdly good.

Not in the usual way. Not in the easiest way.

Just—solid. Like he hasn’t fucked it up yet.

Which is a surprise, considering he really thought he had.

After Tuesday.

After the whole Jason thing—the fight that was never really about Jason. The way the guy had looked like every goddamn red flag Jungkook had ever ignored. Too neat, too careful, too condescending behind a smile that felt fake even from a hallway away.

He’d projected. Hard. Got scared on your behalf. Angry in that twitchy, irrational way he hates. Like he couldn’t stand the thought of you falling into something he knew could break you.

But that wasn’t fair. Wasn’t his choice. You’re not fragile. You’re you. You can make your own calls without his fears bleeding into them.

And he should know better by now. Should’ve remembered that you’ve survived things he doesn’t even ask about.

Instead, he snapped. Like he always does when things get too close. Like he’s got some built-in timer that detonates as soon as someone sees more than they’re supposed to.

So yeah. He’d assumed it was done. That he’d pushed too hard, too fast—again.

That whatever fragile thing had been building between you would crack right down the middle, just like every other almost-connection he’s tried to hold onto.

But then… you’d talked. Actually talked.

And—somehow—you’d listened.

Not just tolerated him. Heard him.

And tonight, he thinks—for the first time in a long, long time—he feels…comfortable. With a woman. With you.

And yeah, okay—he kind of likes that.

It’s not some life-changing moment. Not some movie scene epiphany.

Just this quiet flicker of maybe. Of could be.

Maybe he can have this. A woman beside him. No pressure. No angle. No romantic feelings. No attachments, no entanglements. Not drama, not hurt.

Just a dumb, chaotic almost-friendship built on late-night arguments and questionable sleep arrangements.

And fuck—he’s kind of proud of that.

So he lets his eyes fall shut. Lets the warmth settle. Lets the thought linger.

Not friendship. Not yet.

But maybe.

goal: 500 notes, but the wattpad goal has to be reached too

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533 notes · View notes

amethystarachnid · 1 month ago

Note

Omg, Secret Admirer with Tony as a normal request??? This is soooo him 💕💕💕

SECRET ADMIRER

⤷ ANTHONY “TONY” E. STARK

ᯓ★ Pairing: Anthony “Tony” E. Stark x fem!reader

ᯓ★ Genre: fluff, romance, rom-com

ᯓ★ Word count: 5.1k

ᯓ★ Summary: where Tony realizes he sucks at being a secret admirer

ᯓ★ TW(s): nothing I think, just a little spicy scene at the end

ᯓ★ Love is in the air - Valentine's Day special game

ᯓ★ My Masterlist

ᯓ★ MARVEL Holiday Special

ᯓ★ MARVEL Multiverse - choose an AU, pair it with your favorite character and make a request!

ᯓ★ Songs & Superheroes tales - The Game (to make a request, follow the rules on the link!)

ᯓ★ MARVEL Bingo

ᯓ★ English isn’t my first language

There’s a knock at your apartment door just as you’re finishing up your evening tea. You frown, glancing at the clock. It’s well past eight, and you aren’t expecting anyone. Setting your mug down, you make your way to the door, hesitating for only a moment before unlocking it and peeking outside.

A deliveryman stands in the hallway, holding a large bouquet of roses wrapped in elegant cream-colored paper. The vibrant red petals contrast sharply against the neutral tones of your apartment complex, and for a second, you just stare.

“Delivery for Y/N Y/L/N,” the man says with a friendly nod, holding out the bouquet.

“I didn’t order any flowers,” you say slowly, though you take them from him anyway. The arrangement is heavy in your arms, the scent intoxicating.

“They’re already paid for,” he assures you. “Enjoy your night, ma’am.” And with that, he turns and leaves.

You step back inside, kicking the door shut with your foot as you turn the bouquet in your hands. Nestled among the roses is a small, simple card. You pluck it free, heart beating just a little faster than usual.

For someone who deserves to be admired from afar.

That’s it. No signature, no indication of who sent them.

You blink at the words, reading them over once, then again. A secret admirer? You almost laugh at the thought. You’re not the kind of person who receives anonymous flowers on a random Tuesday evening. You work for one of the busiest, most brilliant men in the world, and between handling Stark Industries' never-ending demands, you barely have time to think about your own personal life, let alone some mysterious admirer.

But the flowers are beautiful. The kind of expensive, expertly arranged bouquet that couldn’t have come from just anywhere. And there’s a part of you that—while hesitant, while skeptical—can’t help but be a little flattered.

The next morning, you bring them to your office. You tell yourself it’s just practical; they’re too beautiful to leave wilting at home, and your desk could use a little brightness. You set them near the edge of your desk, where the rich red petals can catch the sunlight streaming in from the floor-to-ceiling windows.

When Tony Stark walks in, his reaction is immediate. His dark eyes lock onto the roses before he even glances at you.

“Wow,” he says, sauntering over. “What’s the occasion? Are we celebrating something? Did I miss your birthday? Because if I did, let me know so I can send you something even more extravagant to make up for it.”

You roll your eyes. “It’s not my birthday. And they were a gift.”

Tony leans in, hands in his pockets, tilting his head as he inspects the bouquet like it might hold the answer to some unsolved equation. “From who?”

You let out a small, amused scoff. “I don’t know. They came with a note, but no name.”

His expression doesn’t change, but you swear there’s a flicker of something in his eyes. “A secret admirer? Now that’s intriguing.” He straightens up and looks at you, a smirk tugging at his lips. “You have a stalker, Y/N. Should I be concerned?”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Highly doubtful. Probably just some silly office prank. Or maybe a mistake.”

“A mistake?” Tony repeats, clearly unimpressed with your theory. “Right. Because people mistakenly send ridiculously expensive flower arrangements to someone’s exact home address all the time.”

You shrug. “Maybe it was meant for the apartment next door.”

He makes a thoughtful sound, then leans one elbow on your desk, still fixated on the roses. “So you’re telling me that some guy out there—some hopeless romantic with, let’s be honest, impeccable taste—sent these to you, and you’re just gonna write it off as a coincidence?”

You shoot him a pointed look. “I don’t have time for mysteries, Tony. Unlike you, I actually have to focus at work.”

Tony places a hand on his chest, feigning offense. “Hey, I focus. I’m very focused. In fact, right now, I’m focused on finding out who’s trying to woo my assistant behind my back.”

You roll your eyes again, but this time there’s a smile threatening at the corners of your lips. “I think I’ll survive without knowing, Stark. Now, do you have any actual work for me, or did you just come here to interrogate me about my very mysterious, very unexpected flowers?”

He sighs dramatically. “Fine, fine. We’ll get back to the pressing matters of corporate chaos and world-changing tech. But mark my words,” he says, pointing at you as he backs toward the door. “I’m onto this. Secret admirer, if you’re out there, know that Tony Stark is watching you.”

With that, he disappears down the hall.

You shake your head, exhaling a small laugh. If you didn’t know better, you’d think Tony was actually jealous.

But that would be ridiculous.

Right?

Tony strides into his office and immediately shuts the door behind him, pressing his back against it like he just escaped a high-stakes mission. His heart is hammering against his ribs, which is insane because he’s Tony Freaking Stark. He does not get nervous. Not when presenting game-changing tech to a room full of world leaders. Not when wearing a billion-dollar suit and dodging missiles. Not even when facing off against gods or aliens.

But apparently, when it comes to you and flowers, his composure is about as solid as a wet paper bag.

“Okay,” he mutters under his breath, running a hand through his hair as he paces toward his desk. “Okay, okay, okay. No big deal. Play it cool. She has no idea.”

He plops down in his chair, spinning once before slamming his hands down on his desk dramatically. His AI assistant, FRIDAY, chimes in with her usual calm efficiency.

“Sir, would you like me to schedule your—”

“FRIDAY, emergency situation,” he interrupts, leaning forward and lacing his fingers together like he’s about to broker a multi-billion-dollar deal. “Give me a full diagnostic of Y/N’s reaction to The Flowers.”

A brief silence. Then, “Sir, I do not have access to the depths of human emotion. However, I can confirm that she smiled.”

Tony’s hands slam onto his desk again. “YES.” He punches the air, rolling backward in his chair with an overzealous victory spin before suddenly halting. “Wait. How big was the smile? Are we talking polite ‘oh-this-is-nice’ smile, or was it, like, melted butter on a stack of pancakes smile?”

“I would classify it as a pleased smile, sir.”

He groans, slumping in his chair. “Not enough. It has to be more. I spent an unreasonable amount of money on those roses—do you know how hard it was to find a florist who could arrange them just right and deliver them exactly on time without looking suspicious?”

“I do. I processed the payments.”

“Right. And now she thinks it’s a mistake.” He drags his hands down his face. “A mistake, FRIDAY. A coincidence. She thinks some random Romeo accidentally sent her flowers instead of realizing they came from me, the actual genius mastermind behind the whole thing.”

“Would you like me to subtly reveal your involvement, sir?”

Tony snaps his fingers. “Yes. No. Wait. No. That’s desperate. I can’t just tell her. I have to be—what’s the word—mysterious. Intriguing. Like a suave, romantic, definitely-not-panicking billionaire.”

“You are currently pacing, sir.”

Tony stops mid-step. “I’m thinking.”

“You are fretting, sir.”

“Okay, first of all, rude. Second of all, fair point.” He exhales, tapping his fingers against his chin. “Alright. New plan. I have to escalate. Bigger gesture. Something that makes her really stop and go, ‘Wow, my secret admirer is so thoughtful and attractive and, oh wow, maybe I do have feelings for him after all, what a shocking and unexpected development.’”

“Would you like me to draft a PowerPoint with escalation options?”

Tony blinks. “…You know what? Yes. But make it classy. None of that basic heart-shaped nonsense. I need originality.”

“Understood. Adding ‘romantic strategy’ to your files.”

Tony flops back into his chair, exhaling through his nose as he stares at the ceiling. “God, this was so much easier when I was just secretly pining from a distance.”

There’s a knock at the door.

“Boss?” Happy’s voice calls through the wood. “Why are you talking to yourself?”

Tony jolts upright. “I’m not. I’m talking to FRIDAY.”

“…Which is basically yourself.”

“Semantics, Happy.” Tony clears his throat, quickly swiping at his shirt like he needs to smooth out invisible wrinkles of stress. “Do you need something, or are you just here to judge my very normal and not at all spiraling behavior?”

Happy steps inside, eyeing him like he’s trying to determine if Tony’s having a real crisis or just an emotional one. Considering there are no explosions, it’s probably the latter.

“Just letting you know, Pepper’s on her way up.”

Tony stiffens. “Oh no.”

Happy frowns. “Oh no, what?”

“She knows things, Hap. She has that sixth sense where she looks at me and just knows I’m up to something.”

Happy crosses his arms. “You are up to something.”

“That’s not the point!” Tony hisses, standing and smoothing down his jacket. “The point is, if Pepper finds out, she’s gonna grill me. And then she’s gonna smirk. And then she’s gonna say something vaguely condescending but also supportive, and I cannot deal with that right now.”

Happy just looks at him. “…Dude. Just tell Y/N you like her.”

Tony gasps, appalled. “What? No! Are you insane? That’s crazy. That’s reckless.”

“It’s normal.”

“It’s madness.”

Happy sighs. “You realize you’re a grown man, right?”

“Debatable,” Tony mutters, straightening up just as the elevator doors ping open.

Pepper steps out, and the moment she sees him, she pauses. Her eyes narrow slightly. Tony feels a bead of sweat form at the back of his neck.

“Tony,” she says slowly.

“Pep,” he says casually, leaning on his desk like a guy who definitely isn’t going through an internal meltdown.

She glances between him and Happy, then at the very specific way Tony is standing, and her eyes light up in realization. Oh no.

“Oh my God,” she says, her lips twitching.

“No,” Tony immediately counters, pointing at her. “Whatever you’re thinking, stop.”

Her smirk grows. “It’s about Y/N, isn’t it?”

Tony throws his hands in the air. “God, why am I so predictable?”

Happy raises a hand. “For the record, I didn’t say anything.”

Pepper crosses her arms. “Let me guess. You sent flowers anonymously, and now you’re freaking out about whether or not she liked them?”

Tony points at her again. “See? This is what I’m talking about. The smirk. The knowing. I cannot deal with this.”

Pepper shakes her head, clearly enjoying this way too much. “Tony, she brought them to work. If she didn’t like them, they wouldn’t be sitting on her desk right now.”

Tony freezes. “…Oh my God, you’re right.”

“Of course I’m right.”

His whole body relaxes. Then immediately tenses up again. “But what if she just brought them because she didn’t want them to go to waste? What if it was, like, a casual desk decoration decision and not a romantic appreciation decision?”

Pepper pinches the bridge of her nose. “Tony, you are the smartest person I know, and yet you are so dumb.”

“Hey, rude.”

Pepper sighs. “You need to escalate, right?”

Tony brightens. “Yes.”

She gives him a knowing look. “Then send another gift. Something more specific. Something that says you, but also says, ‘I see you, I appreciate you, and I want to sweep you off your feet.’”

Tony strokes his chin. “You know, you’re kinda good at this.”

Pepper rolls her eyes. “You’re just realizing that now?”

Tony grins. “Alright. Operation ‘Woo Y/N Until She Inevitably Falls for My Irresistible Charm’ is a go.”

Happy groans. Pepper sighs. FRIDAY pings with new strategy options.

Tony? He just smirks. Time to up the stakes.

By the time you finally step out of the elevator onto your floor, your body is practically begging for a warm shower, a comfy set of pajamas, and a night of mindless television. Work was busy, as usual, but for some reason, today left you more drained than expected.

Maybe it was the way Tony seemed to be in a particularly peculiar mood—alternating between his usual self and then randomly staring off into space like he was running some kind of internal diagnostic. It was weird, even for him.

You sigh as you dig your keys out of your bag, already daydreaming about sinking into your couch—until you freeze.

There, sitting right in front of your apartment door, is a small, elegantly wrapped box.

Your heartbeat skips.

It’s not just the box. It’s the deep red ribbon tied into a flawless bow, the delicate paper, the way it’s positioned exactlyin front of your door like it’s waiting for you. And, most noticeably, the letter resting on top of it, your name written in beautiful, looping script.

You glance down the hallway, half-expecting to see someone lurking around a corner, watching to see your reaction. Nothing.

Slowly, you bend down, picking up the package. It’s not too heavy, but it has just enough weight to feel substantial. You hesitate before carefully slipping your finger under the envelope’s flap, breaking the seal. The letter inside is written on high-quality paper, and you run your thumb over it before reading.

Y/N,

I thought about sending flowers again, but that would’ve been repetitive (and I’m many things, but unoriginal isn’t one of them).

You work hard. Too hard. Always running around making sure everything in my world runs smoothly, and I bet by the time you get home, you barely have the energy to do something just for yourself. So, consider this a reminder. Take a break. Indulge a little. Let yourself enjoy something just because you deserve it.

I hope you like it.

—Your Secret Admirer

Your breath catches in your throat.

Your secret admirer.

This is not a coincidence. Not some random mistake. The flowers might have been a fluke, but this? This is deliberate.

You exhale slowly, staring at the letter for a moment longer before carefully folding it back into the envelope. Then, with slightly shaky hands, you pull at the ribbon on the box, letting it unravel like silk between your fingers. The lid lifts easily, revealing a smaller velvet box inside, along with a small note.

You pick up the note first.

For your nights off. (Yes, you’re allowed to have those.)

Frowning slightly, you flip open the velvet box and blink.

A bottle of ridiculously expensive, limited edition dark chocolate liqueur truffles stares back at you, nestled perfectly into the packaging. The kind you’ve only ever seen in high-end stores and never dared to buy for yourself.

Your lips part in shock.

This is not a casual, run-of-the-mill gesture.

Someone—a very specific someone—knows you well enough to pick something so ridiculously tailored to you that it’s impossible to ignore.

Your hands tighten around the box as your mind races. Who? Who?

You step inside your apartment, setting the box down on the kitchen counter as you think.

Your admirer is thoughtful. Observant. They knew about your workload. They knew about your tendency to push yourself too hard. And they knew—somehow—that you have a particular weakness for these chocolates.

Your gaze flickers to the letter again.

That handwriting. The confidence. The slight air of playfulness mixed with genuine care.

It’s familiar. Too familiar.

Your stomach flips.

No.

No, it can’t be.

You press your lips together, heartbeat quickening as one very, very dangerous possibility lodges itself into your brain.

You shake your head quickly.

There’s no way.

Right?

Meanwhile, across the city, Tony Stark is lying on his couch, staring at the ceiling like a man who just realized he may have made the most reckless, insane, brilliant decision of his life.

“She’s going to figure it out.”

“She is not going to figure it out,” he mutters, throwing an arm over his eyes. “She’s way too logical. She’s gonna overanalyze it, then dismiss the obvious answer because I’m me.”

“You did sign the note in a way that heavily implies you’re actively watching over her well-being.”

Tony groans, rolling onto his side. “That’s called thoughtful.”

“That’s called suspicious, sir.”

“…It’s a little suspicious,” he admits, biting his lip. “But, I mean, if she does figure it out—”

“She may confront you.”

Tony’s stomach drops.

“Oh, shit.”

Back at your apartment, you sit cross-legged on your couch, the box of truffles open beside you, letter in one hand, a half-eaten chocolate in the other.

You chew slowly, rolling the flavors over your tongue as your mind keeps circling back to one thing.

Tony.

Because here’s the thing—no one else in your life fits. No one else watches over you that closely. No one else has both the means and the audacity to pull something like this off.

And the handwriting?

You’ve seen it before.

In memos. In sarcastic little notes scribbled in the margins of blueprints. On the occasional post-it left on your desk when he was feeling particularly lazy about emailing.

It’s his.

You rub your temple, torn between disbelief and something warm curling in your stomach.

Tony Stark.

Your boss.

Your genius, billionaire, impossible-to-wrangle boss… is your secret admirer?

You let out a breathless, half-laugh, staring at the letter again.

“Holy shit.”

Your heart does a weird little somersault as you run through every interaction with him over the years.

The long nights working together. The easy banter. The moments where he lingered just a little too long after dropping you off at your apartment, like he wanted to say something but never did. The way he really looked at you sometimes—like you were more than just his secretary.

Had he… had he always felt this way?

And had you been too blind to notice?

You lean back against the couch, fingers tightening around the letter.

This changes everything.

And you have no idea what to do next.

The next morning, you walk into Stark Tower with a plan.

It’s not a great plan—mostly because you’re making it up as you go—but it’s a plan nonetheless.

You want to confirm your theory.

That Tony Stark—your boss, the undeniably attractive, irritatingly brilliant man who’s been in your life for years—is your secret admirer.

And if he is?

Well… you’re not sure what you’ll do with that information just yet.

For now, the priority is simple: get him to slip up.

As you step off the elevator and into your office space, you take a deep breath, schooling your expression into one of casual innocence. The flowers from two days ago are still sitting in a vase on your desk, now accompanied by a small, decorative box filled with yet another gift—this time, a limited edition, leather-bound novel by your favorite author.

At this rate, you’re either being wooed by a very wealthy admirer… or, you know, Tony.

You smooth your hands down your skirt and head straight for his office, knocking once before pushing the door open.

Tony is, predictably, seated behind his desk, feet propped up, a tablet balanced in one hand while the other stirs his coffee lazily. He glances up as you walk in, his expression unreadable.

“Boss,” you greet, giving him a saccharine smile.

He raises a brow. “You’re smiling.”

“I always smile.”

“Not like that.” His eyes narrow slightly. “That’s your I’m up to something smile.”

Your lips twitch. “Oh, please. Maybe I’m just in a really good mood.”

His gaze flickers briefly to the flowers still sitting on your desk before returning to you. “Must be some damn good mood.”

You step closer, stopping in front of his desk, tilting your head slightly. “You know, Tony, I was thinking…” You place your hands on the edge of his desk and lean in just a fraction. “It’s so interesting that these gifts keep showing up at my apartment.”

His grip on the tablet tightens slightly.

“Yeah?” he says, far too casual. “Maybe you’ve got an obsessed fan. Should I be screening your calls?”

You let out a soft hum. “Could be that. Or… it could be someone closer.”

Tony doesn’t even blink. “Like who?”

You study him for a moment, searching for any tell. He’s good—too good. But you know him well enough to recognize when he’s pretending not to care.

So you go in for the kill.

“You know,” you say airily, “the handwriting on the notes looks really familiar.”

His smirk falters just slightly.

Gotcha.

“Huh,” he says after a pause. “Weird. Maybe you’ve just seen it somewhere before.”

“Oh, I know I have.” You tap your chin. “It kind of reminds me of your handwriting, actually.”

There it is. The smallest twitch of his eyebrow.

You grin.

Tony narrows his eyes. “Are you accusing me of being your secret admirer?”

You shrug, feigning innocence. “I dunno, boss. Are you?”

His mouth opens—then closes. He shifts in his chair, reaching for his coffee in a way that is way too deliberate.

“I mean,” he says, taking a slow sip, “I would make a great secret admirer. Handsome. Charming. Generous.” He sets the mug down. “But I think I’d be a little more creative.”

Your stomach flutters despite yourself.

Damn it.

This is dangerous.

You straighten, giving him an amused look. “Well, whoever it is, they’ve got exquisite taste.”

Tony makes a small noise in the back of his throat. “Yeah, well. Guess you’ll just have to keep investigating, Sherlock.”

Oh, you will.

The gifts don’t stop.

Every day, something new arrives at your apartment.

A silk scarf in your favorite color. A playlist delivered on an old-school vinyl, filled with songs you know Tony listens to in the lab. A box of artisanal tea that happens to be the exact blend you make during late nights at work.

It’s almost comical at this point.

But more than that, it’s… intimate.

These aren’t grand, over-the-top displays of wealth. They’re thoughtful. Personal.

It’s making your heart race in ways you really don’t want to unpack right now.

And the worst part?

You’re starting to see Tony differently.

Or maybe, you’re just allowing yourself to really see him for the first time.

The way he remembers the smallest things about you. The way he watches you when he thinks you’re not looking. The way his entire face softens when you laugh.

It’s messing with your head.

And your heart.

You need to get to the bottom of this before you lose your mind entirely.

The next morning, you walk into Tony’s office with a very specific mission.

You shut the door behind you and lean against it, arms crossed.

Tony glances up from his desk. “Well, that’s ominous.”

You don’t respond right away. Instead, you pull something out of your bag—a note. One of the ones that came with your latest gift.

You hold it up. “Boss,” you say sweetly. “Care to explain why your handwriting is all over this?”

Tony freezes.

For one glorious second, he actually looks busted.

Then, like the absolute menace he is, he just leans back in his chair and smirks.

“You got proof, sweetheart?”

Your eye twitches. “You really wanna play that game?”

He shrugs. “If the shoe fits.”

You huff, stepping forward, slapping the note down on his desk. “Tony. This is your handwriting.”

His lips twitch, but he still manages to keep his voice even. “Maybe I’ve got a copycat.”

You gape at him. “A copycat? Oh my God, you are infuriating.”

“Sexy and infuriating,” he corrects, grinning.

You groan, dragging a hand down your face. “So that’s how we’re playing it, huh?”

He winks. “Wouldn’t be any fun if I just admitted it, now would it?”

You narrow your eyes. He thinks he’s so clever.

Fine.

You’ll just have to beat him at his own game.

The rest of the day is war.

You drop subtle little comments just to mess with him.

“Oh, I just love a man who remembers the little things.”

Tony doesn’t flinch.

“I think handwriting analysis is so interesting.”

Still no reaction.

“If I ever had a secret admirer, I’d definitely want them to just admit it.”

Nothing.

Damn it. He’s good.

But so are you.

You walk by his desk and casually drop a file—along with one of his notes. “Oh,” you say innocently. “This accidentally got mixed in.”

Tony just smirks. “Huh. Weird.”

You resist the urge to scream.

Fine.

If he won’t crack…

You’ll make him sweat.

That night, you send him a note.

It’s simple. Direct.

So, Mr. Stark… how long are we going to keep pretending?

The next morning, you walk into work, completely prepared for a counterattack.

But the second you step into your office, you see it.

A small gift box on your desk.

And beside it?

A handwritten note, in very familiar script.

Your breath catches as you pick it up, scanning the words.

Guess the game’s over, sweetheart.

Your pulse races.

Oh.

Oh, shit.

Here's the next part of your story, full of tension, humor, and chaos!

Just as you’re processing Tony’s note, your office phone rings.

You know who it is before you even pick up.

“Boss,” you answer, voice carefully neutral.

“Sweetheart.” The smugness in his voice is infuriating. “Got a minute?”

You exhale sharply. “Do I have a choice?”

“Not really,” he admits cheerfully. “My office. Now.”

The line clicks dead.

You stare at the receiver for a moment before slamming it down with a groan.

Damn him.

Damn his arrogant, stupid, irresistible—

You shake your head. Nope. You’re not going there.

You grab the note from your desk, take a deep breath, and march straight into his office.

The second you step inside, Tony wordlessly presses a button, and the door clicks shut behind you.

Your stomach flips.

“Closed door meeting?” you muse, crossing your arms. “Sounds serious.”

Tony leans back in his chair, watching you with that insufferable smirk.

“Serious topic,” he agrees. “So, let’s talk.”

You arch a brow. “Oh, now you want to talk?”

“Hey, I love talking,” he says, spreading his hands. “I just prefer it when I’m winning.”

You scoff. “Well, I definitely won this round.”

Tony sighs dramatically. “Yeah, yeah. Fine. You got me.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then, softer—almost hesitant:

“Was kinda hoping you’d like it.”

Your breath catches.

Oh.

You weren’t expecting that.

Something shifts in the air between you—something dangerous.

Your grip tightens on the note in your hand. “You mean… you were hoping I’d like getting gifts from a mystery admirer?”

Tony’s eyes lock onto yours, serious now. “No.” A pause. “I was hoping you’d like getting them from me.”

Your heart stumbles over itself.

Damn it.

Damn him.

You’re screwed.

Because the way he’s looking at you—hopeful, a little nervous, completely unlike the Tony Stark you’re used to—it’s doing something to you.

And worse?

You like it.

“You’re quiet,” Tony murmurs, voice lower now. “That’s terrifying.”

You let out a breathless laugh, but it comes out shaky. “I’m just…” You trail off, gripping the edge of his desk. “Processing.”

Tony tilts his head. “And?”

You glance at the note still clutched in your hand. “And… I think you really suck at being subtle.”

Tony grins. “Guilty.”

You shake your head, biting your lip. “I mean, God, Tony. The vinyl? The tea? Who else would know all that about me?”

His smirk softens. “Guess I pay attention.”

Your stomach flips again.

Oh, this is bad.

This is so bad.

Because suddenly, you’re seeing all the little things he does in a brand-new light.

How he always makes sure you eat when you’re working late. How he instinctively moves you out of the way of danger—even if it’s just a rolling chair in the lab. How he looks at you when he thinks you’re not paying attention.

Your fingers tighten on his desk.

And then—before you can talk yourself out of it—

You kiss him.

Tony barely has time to react before you’re pressing forward, hands gripping the lapels of his jacket, mouth crashing against his.

For a split second, he freezes.

Then, with a sharp inhale, he kisses you back.

And holy shit, does he kiss.

It’s messy and desperate, all tongue and heat, like he’s been dying to do this for years.

You barely register him pulling you closer until you’re practically in his lap, his hands gripping your waist like he can’t stand the idea of letting go.

You make a sound against his mouth—a noise somewhere between a sigh and a gasp—and he growls, deep in his throat.

The sound shoots straight through you.

Oh, you’re so gone for him.

Somehow, you end up being lifted onto his desk, legs bracketing his waist. His hands slide down, fingers pressing into your thighs, and your head spins.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs against your lips. “I’ll stop.”

You breathe heavily, forehead resting against his. “I don’t want you to stop.”

That’s all he needs.

Tony surges forward, his mouth hot and insistent against yours, his hands—

Knock knock knock.

Both of you freeze.

You pull back, breathless. “Are you kidding me?”

Tony squeezes his eyes shut, muttering something under his breath before letting out a long, pained sigh.

“Not now,” he groans.

The knock comes again, more insistent.

You stare at each other for a beat, both of you very aware of how utterly wrecked you both look.

Tony exhales sharply, then presses a quick, frustrated kiss to your forehead before pulling away.

“Whoever this is,” he mutters, straightening his jacket, “is getting fired.”

You stifle a laugh, slipping off his desk, quickly fixing your own appearance.

Tony presses the intercom button. “What?”

There’s a long pause.

Then—

“Uh… boss?” It’s Happy’s voice. “Are you—? Is everything—?”

“Yes, everything is fine,” Tony snaps. “What do you want?”

Happy hesitates. “Uh. You said you needed a briefing on the—”

“I don’t need a briefing,” Tony interrupts. “I need privacy.”

Another pause.

Then, suspiciously: “Why do you sound out of breath?”

You choke.

Tony grits his teeth. “Because I was working out.”

Happy is silent for a long moment. Then:

“…You never work out.”

Tony glares at the intercom. “Well, maybe I started.”

You bite your lip, trying so hard not to laugh.

Happy, wisely, doesn’t push it. “Uh. Right. I’ll, uh… come back later.”

The intercom clicks off.

Tony exhales, rubbing a hand down his face before turning to you.

Then, like the absolute lunatic he is, he presses a button on his desk.

“FRIDAY,” he says, voice still slightly breathless, “from now on, I want a ten-minute warning before anyone comes near this office.”

FRIDAY’s voice hums to life. “Understood, boss.”

You snort. “Really?”

Tony turns back to you, grinning. “Oh, absolutely.”

Then he steps closer, hands settling on your waist, eyes dark with mischief.

“Now, where were we?”

195 notes · View notes

kiarastromboli · 1 year ago

Text

Teach me (Chris Sturniolo x y/n)

Part.2 Part.3

Masterlist.

Warning: Virgin reader, Smut content, don’t like it = don’t read it :)

Summary: Chris shows up in the middle of the night in your room, asking for answers to the exam you both are supposed to take in the following days, and things take an unexpected turn.

•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•

We are on a summer Tuesday evening, the air warm and heavy, the sound of cicadas outside, and the gentle breeze causing tree branches to brush against my window sill, absolute calm. The house was silent; it was already 11:25 PM, the only reason I wasn't asleep? I was busy revising for the upcoming major exam. Honestly, I didn't need to; I had the knowledge and even more, but I'm a perfectionist. Why settle for the minimum when you can achieve much more?

Anyway, I allowed myself to study a bit more tonight since I have no classes tomorrow. I had some music playing in the background, loud enough for me to hear but not too loud to distract me. Tonight, nothing could distract me!

*knock knock knock*

I jumped in surprise when I heard faint noises coming from the window at the other end of my room. I thought I was impossible to distract, but apparently, I was wrong.

I walked slowly towards the window; it was probably my cat scratching to come in. Well, I wasn't sure; what else could it be?

I pulled the curtain covering my window to open it and came face to face with Chris Sturniolo.

WAIT, WHAT? What is that rascal Chris doing at my window? Oh my god, if my parents hear him, I'm done for.

Let me give you a brief recap to better understand the situation and the reason for my current anxiety.

My name is Y/n, and honestly, there's not much to say about me. I'm a quiet girl, the complete opposite of what one would consider "cool" and "popular." I'm disciplined, polite, courteous, studious, discreet – in short, the perfect little girl who will have a good diploma, an excellent job in an excellent city, and an excellent family. I do what is expected of me without questioning, and I never, I repeat, NEVER go against the rules.

Chris, on the other hand, is Chris. If I were a boy, I would be absolutely the opposite of that guy. He plays on the high school lacrosse team with his brother. He's a real jerk – sorry, I don't want to sound vulgar, but he's a real jerk. He spends his time skipping classes to do who knows what with who knows who. He thinks he's "cool" and "popular" because all the girls run after him, but the truth is, he's just a good-looking guy with a devilish behavior. Back in elementary school, I had a crush on him; when he found out, he mocked me, and he never stopped, even now in high school. So, yes, he's an immature jerk.

What could Chris possibly be doing at my window in the middle of the night when my parents are at home? My father has always been strict about no boys in my room, and certainly not in the middle of the night?

"Are you going to let me in?" he said, looking up at me.

"Absolutely not! How do you know where I live? You can't stay here; you have to leave now!" I shouted in a panic, looking around to make sure no one saw him here.

"Let me in, and I'll answer all your little questions," he said with a smirk.

"Oh my god," I whispered to myself, bringing my hand to my forehead. "No, Chris, you don't understand; my parents are here. If they know there's a boy at my window—"

"Okay, if you don't let me in, I'll knock on the front door, pretending to be your boyfriend. It's up to you," he said, cutting me off before moving away from my window.

"NO! Okay, fine, come in," I sighed. "Damn, damn, damn," I muttered to myself as I moved away from the window to lock the door to my room.

"Your room is cool," he said, dropping onto my bed as if it were his own. "What's his name?" he added, picking up a stuffed animal lying on my bed.

"Get your filthy body off my clean bed, please," I snapped, grabbing my stuffed animal from his hands with a brisk motion.

"Relax; I just wanted to chat," he said, rolling his eyes before getting up to move towards me. "Nice pajamas," he said with a smirk, scanning my body with his eyes.

I blushed uncontrollably; I was wearing really short shorts and an equally short tank top. What? It's fine; I know what you're thinking. I'll stop you right there; it's summer, it's super hot, and I didn't anticipate Mr. Troublemaker's surprise visit.

"What do you want?" I asked timidly, stuttering and crossing my arms to hide my stomach. I hated having my body exposed in front of others; it made me feel vulnerable.

"I need your help for the exam coming up next week," he said, moving towards my desk. "And before you refuse to help me, I have an offer you can't refuse!" he said, turning to me, leaning against my desk this time.

"And did you have to come and ask for my help in the middle of the night, Chris, seriously?" I replied, annoyed.

"I stole the test papers from the teachers' lounge. If you help me, you can memorize all the answers by heart," he said, crossing his arms with a smug smile.

I laughed when he presented his "impossible to refuse" offer. What an idiot. "If you think that I, Y/n, will help you cheat on the most important exam of the year, you're way dumber than I thought."

"Oh yeah? You seemed pretty bothered by the bad grade you got in gym yesterday," he said, advancing towards me. "You know, I know the coach really well, well enough to be able to change your grade."

Damn, it was the only grade below average I had all year. It's true that it would be convenient to make it disappear. What? No, Y/n, you're crazy; this is Chris we're talking about, he's a manipulator, and you're falling into his trap. Oh my god, stop; I need to get him out of here.

"Why do you want me to help you? Find the answers yourself," I replied, giving him a dark look.

"Because I don't feel like it, and you love this kind of thing," he said, rolling his eyes. "Y/n, it's beneficial for both of us. Look, you ensure you get 100% on the exam, in addition to seeing your gym grade increase, and it will save me from repeating this year."

"Get out of my room, Chris; I'm not going to help you cheat. It's bad," I said, crossing my arms.

"Bad? Who do you think you are? Come on, we don't care; it's just an exam!" he said, laughing.

"You don't care, but I do," I said, pointing to the window he came in through.

He smiled arrogantly before licking his lips, looking at me. "You're more tenacious than I thought," he said, plunging his eyes into mine. "I like that."

I won't lie; his words made me a little nervous at the moment. Okay, I said he was a big jerk,

not that he was ugly!

"Oh, are you blushing because of me? Does what I say affect you?" he said, slowly approaching me.

"G-Get out of my room," I said weakly, stepping back.

"Why? You don't want me to leave your room, Y/n. Don't lie to me; I know you like me," he said confidently, continuing to advance towards me until my back hit the door of my room.

I swallowed hard as I felt my throat tighten due to the proximity between us. "You're insane. I would have to be crazy to like a guy like you," I said timidly, avoiding his gaze.

"I'm sure I can drive you crazy," he said, grabbing my chin to force me to look him in the eyes.

A wave of heat engulfed me; I slightly opened my mouth to get more air. My heartbeat accelerated; I must be all red now.

"Listen," he said, getting even closer to me. "If you help me with this exam," he said, placing his hand in the small of my back, "in addition to the things I've already offered you," he said, slowly lowering his hand to my hip, "I can also show you a few things you might like," he said softly, plunging his eyes into mine.

I cleared my throat. "What are you talking about?" I said all timid.

"Oh, come on, Y/n, you know exactly what I'm talking about; you're dying for it. Look at yourself," he said with an arrogant smile. "And if you want to know, I'm dying for it too," he whispered in my ear, making my knees weak.

"Stop lying, you don't give a damn about me. You're acting like an asshole with me; you only want the answers to this exam," I said, stuttering and trying not to be swayed by his sweet words.

"Y/n, I know where you live because I follow you after school every day to make sure nothing happens to you on the way," he said, moving his face a few centimeters away from mine. "I spend my time teasing you in the hope of getting closer to you," he added, running his hand over my cheek. "If I didn't care about you, I wouldn't have even noticed the bad grades you're getting in PE," he said, rolling his eyes.

If these were lies, then he's a very good liar. Oh my god, my mother always warned me about bad boys like Chris, but I felt like fainting when his hand tightened a little more around my hip. "Chris—"

"You know what, screw this exam; I'll study it on my own. Let me kiss you, and I promise to leave your room and never bother you about this exam again," he said, almost sounding desperate. Wait, is he serious? Chris has a crush on me? I must be dreaming; it can't be possible.

"Chris, if this is a joke, it's really not funny," I said uncertainly, furrowing my brow when he moved his face closer to mine.

"I'm dead serious," he said, fixing his gaze on my lips.

My eyes were switching between his and his lips; I didn't know what to do. I was bewildered by the situation until Chris placed his soft lips on mine. My eyes instinctively closed to better savor the moment. I was kissing the most handsome guy in high school in my room, just like in the movies. His hand slid under my shorts to grab my buttock, making me sigh in surprise during our kiss. He seized the opportunity to slip his tongue into my mouth, dancing with mine. He started smiling against my lips when he heard a pathetic moan die in our kiss as he began to knead my buttocks.

"Chris," I said, separating our lips and pushing him by his chest.

"What?" he said with a confused look as I moved away from him.

"We're not going to do this," I told him, shaking my head. "My parents are here; you can't just barge into my room in the middle of the night and coerce me with sex to get the answers to this damn exam," I said, offended.

"Y/n, I don't care about the exam. I did all this to get closer to you!" he said, taking a step towards me.

I stepped back when he tried to grab my hand to hold it in his. "Okay, prove it," I said, crossing my arms. "You said you would leave me alone about this exam and leave my room if I let you kiss me," I added, heading to the window to open it again.

He opened his mouth to speak before changing his mind, shaking his head.

"Show me you're not a liar," I said, pointing to the window.

He sighed before moving towards the window. "I'm not a liar, Y/n," he said, furrowing his brow before starting to pass his legs through the window.

There, I was finally rid of him. I should feel relieved, right? So why does something deep inside me break seeing him leave?

Without thinking, before he had time to pass through my window entirely, I grabbed him by his T-shirt to kiss him again. I couldn't let him go like that. I don't know what was happening to me, but everything was screaming at me to throw myself on his lips and never leave them.

He straightened up before closing the window with one hand. His other hand came to caress my cheek.

I had absolutely no idea what I was doing; we headed towards my desk without paying attention. He grabbed the back of my thighs to make me sit on my desk just behind me. His lips left mine to move towards my neck, his arms tightened around my waist, and my thighs surrounded his.

"Do you still want me to leave your room now?" he said arrogantly.

"Shut up," I said, feeling my breath quicken when he started sucking on the skin of my neck between his lips. "Chris, you can't leave marks," I said, a little panicked.

"Why not? You're mine," he said authoritatively, raising his face in front of mine and grabbing my throat in his hand.

"First, I'm not yours, Chris, and second, my father will kill me if he sees hickies on my neck," I said, chuckling timidly at his reaction.

Without a word, he began kissing my neck again before slowly moving towards my chest, making me anxious. "What are you doing?" I asked, stuttering.

"I'm leaving my mark where I'm sure no one else will see it," he whispered before grabbing the fabric of my tank top to slightly uncover my breast and place his lips on it.

"Chris—" I said, jumping when he started sucking a hickey on that sensitive area.

I could feel shivers running through my entire body; my back arched, and my thighs instinctively tightened around his waist while a few silent moans escaped my lips.

"Are you always this sensitive, or am I the one making you feel this way?" he said, raising his head towards me with a big smile.

I started blushing uncontrollably when he said that; I didn't even have a response to his question. I had never done anything like this with a boy before.

"Did you lose your tongue?" he asked, tilting his head to the side before coming to fix a strand of hair behind my ear.

"I-I don't know," I said in an almost inaudible voice. "Is it wrong?" I asked, embarrassed.

"No, not at all," he said, frowning. "What do you mean by 'I don't know'?" he asked, confused.

"I—" I didn't know what to answer. A silence settled at that moment; he looked me in the eyes before realizing.

"You've never done anything with a boy?" he asked, surprised.

I simply shook my head from side to side, too embarrassed to say anything.

His arrogant smile covered his lips a few seconds later. "Do you want me to teach you?"

My eyes widened when I heard that. I hesitated for a moment before nodding timidly.

"Use words, princess," he said, stroking my waist to encourage me to speak.

"I want you to teach me how to do it," I said, feeling a wave of confidence in myself.

He smiled before kissing me again; this time our kiss was slow and gentle, as if to reassure me. His hands played with the hem of my tank top. "Can I take this off?" he asked calmly.

"Take yours off first," I asked directly. I didn't want to be the only one exposed for some reason. My statement made him chuckle, and he separated from my lips to remove his t-shirt.

I took a moment to observe him. Unconsciously, I started biting my lips, and Chris smiled at my reaction. "It's your turn now," he said, moving towards me again.

Once again, I hesitated for a moment, looking into his eyes. "You don't have to do it if you don't want to, you know," he said without breaking eye contact.

His words were enough to make me feel comfortable. I took my tank top off over my head without overthinking it. "But I want to," I said before covering my chest, feeling a wave of embarrassment engulf me.

Chris immediately grabbed my arms. "You don't need to hide from me, Y/n," I let him remove my arms from the way, and he directed his eyes to my chest, licking his lips. "You're beautiful," he said before pressing his lips against mine once again.

I felt more and more at ease with him. My hands, which were previously at the back of his neck, started to travel along his chest down to his waist, where he hastily seized my wrist. "Slow down, princess."

"What? Did I do it wrong? Isn't that what I'm supposed to do?" I asked, panicking. He chuckled at my reaction.

"No, you didn't do anything wrong," he said, smiling. "We have all the time in the world, don't rush yourself," he whispered before kissing my neck again.

My hand found its place in his hair, and he gradually directed his kisses towards my chest, prompting me to throw my head back at the new sensation of his lips around my nipples.

One of his hands slipped between my thighs, making me jump and tilt my head forward at the proximity of his hand to my sensitive area.

He began to gently caress my pussy through my clothes, causing a silent moan to escape my lips.

I could feel my head starting to spin due to all this sudden stimulation; I couldn't help but squirm in all directions. "Can I take off your shorts?" he asked, looking up at me.

"Y-yes," I replied timidly before he slowly removed my shorts and resumed kissing me, this time moving down to my stomach, making me breathe harder.

He stopped kissing me when he reached the level of my white panties to examine them closely. "You're so wet that I can see the trace on your panties," he said with a smirk.

Embarrassment washed over me. "I'm sorry," I said softly, trying to close my thighs, but he grabbed them to force me to keep them open.

"Don't be," he said, bringing his head closer to my thighs. "I like it," he said, planting a kiss on my clothed pussy, making me shiver. "You're so sensitive; I bet I could make you come in less than 5 minutes with my tongue," he said, running his fingers between the fabric of my panties and my skin.

"Do you want me to do it?" he asked, looking up at me with a sly smile. I timidly nodded. "Say it," he said in a firm tone.

"What?" I asked, a bit embarrassed.

"If you want me to do it, you'll have to ask me, Y/n," he said arrogantly.

"Chris," I said in a frustrated moan; I could see his smile widening, amused by the situation. He returned to plant another kiss on my still-clothed pussy. "I-I want you to make me come with your tongue," I said, almost inaudibly moaning.

"Anything you want, princess," he said satisfied before removing my panties. I lifted my hips to help him, and he placed a few kisses around my sensitive area before putting my legs over his shoulders and diving his head between my legs.

The upper part of my body leaned forward slightly at the sensation of his lips around my clit. Instinctively, my hand pressed into his long, wavy hair, and I couldn't control the soft moans that escaped me. "Y/n, quiet down; your parents will hear you," he said, chuckling against me before getting back to work.

His tongue applied pressure to my clit, driving me wild. One of his hands reached for my breasts to play with them, mainly to prevent me from squirming all over my desk, which kept creaking. He moved his tongue in circular motions, gradually increasing the speed. After a few seconds, I felt something new in my lower abdomen, as if it were knotting due to the pressure. My thighs started to tighten slightly around his face without me realizing it. When I lowered my eyes to look at him, I could see his beautiful blue eyes already fixed on me, admiring me as if I were his last meal.

My eyebrows furrowed when all this stimulation started to take over. "Chris," I struggled to say in a weak voice; it felt like I was about to faint. "Oh my—fucking god," I said, throwing my head back and covering my mouth with my hand.

Chris didn't stop; on the contrary, he accelerated his movements, and his grip on my breasts became much firmer. He started moaning between my legs, and the vibrations of his moans against my clit were enough to push me over the edge. My legs began to tremble. "Fuck—Chris," I said before reaching orgasm on his face.

He slowed down the movement of his tongue before completely stopping to let me ride out my orgasm. "I told you," he said, straightening up and using the back of his hand to wipe his mouth, "less than 5 minutes."

I chuckled at his remark, "You never stop boasting, huh?" I said with a smile, and his hands came around my cheeks before placing a chaste kiss on my lips.

"Never," he said, smiling before I reconnected our lips, making him smile at my hungry kiss. "What do you want?" he asked, separating our lips.

"I want to pleasure you too," I replied, playing with his necklace. He licked his lips, looking into my eyes.

"Is that what you want?" he asked, pressing his pelvis against mine to make me feel his erection through his pants, and I nodded.

"Yes, that's what I want," I said with an innocent look.

He immediately reconnected our lips without waiting a second longer, then grabbed the back of my thighs to carry me to my bed.

He gently placed me at the edge of the bed before leaning forward to kiss me again. "If you want us to stop, let me know," I brought my hands to his belt to remove it while he looked at me with desire.

I lowered his pants and stared at his erect member. Suddenly, panic resurfaced. "You don't have to do this," he said, bringing his hand to my cheek.

I looked up to meet his reassuring gaze. "I don't know how to do it," I said timidly, "but I want to." I added, placing my hand on his thigh.

"Do what feels right, I'll guide you," he said, never taking his eyes off me, as I slid down his boxers to his ankles.

The apprehension and stress were still there, but it was too late; after all, I was already committed. I really wanted it; I was just terribly afraid of messing up. I stopped overthinking and took his member in my hand, giving him a look to make sure I wasn't doing anything wrong. He nodded to indicate I should continue. I began hesitant strokes with my hand, eliciting a moan from his mouth.

His hand came to caress the top of my head, and I threw him a last uncertain glance before taking him into my mouth. He flinched and took a step back when I started, and I immediately looked up at him in panic. "Sorry," I apologized embarrassedly.

"No, don't be. It's okay; you just need to avoid letting your teeth touch it. It's not very pleasant," he explained in a reassuring voice before coming back towards me.

I nodded, and this time, I made sure my teeth didn't touch him. His hand returned to my hair. "Yeah, like that," he moaned, making my pussy clench at the tone of his voice. I continued my movements with closed eyes. "You can use your hand for what you can't fit in your mouth," he said weakly, and I did as he instructed. I could feel how much he was holding back from thrusting into my mouth to avoid rushing me, and the muffled sounds from his mouth sent an electric shock to my pussy.

"Fuck, you need to stop," he said, throwing his head back. I pulled away and looked up at him, confused.

"Did I do something wrong?" I asked, feeling lost.

"No, baby, you did a great job. It's just that I was about to come," he said, caressing my cheek and catching his breath.

"Oh," I said, chuckling. "Maybe you can come inside me?" I said without thinking, excited by the moment; I wanted more.

"Y/n," he said, diving his eyes into mine before I got up, grabbed the back of his neck, and kissed him again. "Is this really what you want?" he asked before reconnecting our lips.

"Please," I said pathetically, guided by my desires and excitement at that moment. My hands tangled in his hair, and his hands firmly gripped my hips.

"I don't have a condom, princess," he emphasized, smiling against my lips.

"I have..." I said timidly before heading to my bedside table to take out a new box of condoms.

A sly smile appeared, and I could already feel his remarks coming. So, before he had a chance to say anything, I cut him off, "I'm a virgin, not irresponsible, Chris," I said, rolling my eyes when I stood in front of him.

"I didn't say anything," he said, chuckling, before pushing me onto the bed and positioning himself above me to kiss me again. "Are you sure this is really what you want, Y/n?" he asked, directing his lips to my neck. "I don't want you to feel forced into anything. What we've done already is more than enough for now," he added.

"Jeez, Chris, stop talking," I said, chuckling, before grabbing his head between my hands to kiss him even more passionately than before.

"Are you that impatient?" he said, chuckling. "I need to stretch you a bit first, okay?" he said, directing his fingers towards my entrance. I simply nodded, and he pushed the first finger inside, prompting me to raise my head at the sensation. "Is it okay?"

"Yes, you can add another finger," I said, feeling my breath quicken. He inserted a second finger and began to move them in and out to stretch me.

"I wish your parents weren't here so I could hear you better, Y/n. You make beautiful sounds," he said, burying his head in my neck and curling his fingers inside me to stretch me further.

"Chris," I said, moaning and pulling slightly on his hair, "I need more."

"Do you think you're ready?" he asked, looking into my eyes. He had never looked at me like that before; his gaze was tender and caring.

"Yes," I replied, nodding. He grabbed a condom and opened it with his mouth. I could feel the pressure building, but I wasn't going to back down. I was going to do it; I was ready to do it.

He put on the condom and positioned himself at my entrance. "Tell me if you want me to stop, and I'll do it immediately," he said, and I nodded. "It might hurt a bit at the beginning if it's too much for you—"

"Chris, just do it," I said, cutting him off when I felt the stress overwhelm me.

He began to push slowly inside me, scrutinizing any sign of discomfort on my face. My eyebrows furrowed at the burning sensation when he started penetrating me. "Fuck," I said, glancing down to see what was happening between my legs before letting my head fall back on the pillow. He stopped halfway to make sure it wasn't too much for me. "Don't stop," I said, breathing quickly, and he resumed his advance until he touched the depth, prompting me to bury my head in his neck to muffle a moan.

"Are you okay?" he asked without moving from where he was.

"Yes, you can move," I said before he began to make slow thrusts. At first, it burned a little; it was uncomfortable, but with each subsequent movement, the pain transformed into pleasure.

"Oh my god, you're so tight, Y/n, fuckkk," he said, moaning against my lips. His thrusts gradually accelerated, and my hand gripped his bicep.

"It-feels good," I admitted, moaning softly and clenching my jaw.

"I've dreamt of this for so long; it's even better than in my dreams," he said, gripping onto my hips.

"You dreamed of this?" I asked him, confused, not knowing if he was being honest with what he was saying.

"Mhm," he simply hummed before lowering his free hand between our bodies to massage my clit. "You're mine now," he said in my ear, and my grip around his bicep tightened with the stimulation he was providing at that moment. His hip movements accelerated again, knotting my lower abdomen for the second time tonight. "Say it," he added in an authoritative tone.

"I'm yours, Chris," I said with the little strength I had left. My mind didn't know where to focus at that moment.

"Yes, and this pussy is mine too, Y/n," he said, moaning in my ear, driving me crazy. "I want you to cum again for me, princess," he said, accelerating his thrusts, yet still gentle and delicate.

My eyes rolled back, and my legs tightened around him. "Let go, princess," he said breathlessly. "Cum all over me." With his words, I threw my head back and started clenching around him. "Fuck, I can feel you clenching around me, baby," he said, burying his head in my neck, and I started to climax. I grabbed his hand, placing it over my mouth to muffle any noise, and shortly after, he climaxed too.

"Oh my god," I said before he let all his weight fall on me, moaning one last time.

"I never want to move from here," he said, smiling against my neck.

"You'll have to before my parents wake up," I said, chuckling. "It's already a miracle they didn't hear us," I said, running my hand through his hair.

He sat up and withdrew from me before tossing the condom into my trash bin. I sat up, covering myself with my blanket. "Will this happen again?" I asked him timidly, looking at him as he put on his boxers.

"Of course, it will, princess," he said, smiling, before sitting next to me and rubbing my thigh. "Can I stay a little longer?" he asked, locking his eyes with mine, and I nodded.

He settled next to me, pulling me close and gently running his hand over my curves. "Send me the exam tomorrow; I don't have class. I'll give you the answers," I told him, looking up at him.

"I thought this was bad, and good girls like you don't do these kinds of things," he said, chuckling and furrowing his brows.

"Good girls like me aren't supposed to sleep with bad boys like you," I replied, straddling him to be on top, and he sat up to kiss me.

"I told you I'd drive you crazy," he said, smiling against my lips.

Masterlist.

#chris sturniolo #christopher sturniolo #matt sturniolo #ao3 fanfic #nick sturniolo #sturniolo #sturniolo edit #nicolas sturniolo #sturniolo fanfic #ao3 #sturniolo smut #sturniolo x reader #matthew sturniolo #sturniolo triplets #smut

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thissying · 2 months ago

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Max Verstappen is starting a Formula 1 season in which he has to mind his words. The FIA has tightened the screws with sky-high fines for swearing. "I'm not going to say very much anymore, that's for sure."

Rally driver Adrien Fourmaux was the first victim of the stricter rules. The Hyundai driver said "We fucked up", during the Swedish Rally, in a live interview on TV. The result was a 30,000 euro fine, although 20,000 euros of that was eventually made conditional.

Verstappen got into trouble with the FIA last year because he used a similar term in the press conference for the Singapore Grand Prix. He had read the statement about Fourmaux.

"When you see what it says and what that rally driver said, I think you better keep your mouth shut from now on. But then there won't be many interviews anymore, that's true," Verstappen predicted on Tuesday in the run-up to the F175 event in London.

"You have to be very careful what you say, that much is clear," Verstappen replied when asked if he can still be himself. "And you can give your opinion, but you have to be careful with that too. Then you can also get a penalty, because it can be insulting," he said about the rules tightened by FIA president Mohamed Ben Sulayem.

It is of course a topic of discussion among the drivers' guild. Drivers' union GPDA already issued a statement last year. "People are now looking at what we can do about this," Verstappen explained.

Although a number of drivers stated in London on Tuesday that they understand that swearing is being restricted here and there, according to Verstappen the drivers are on the same page; his page.

"I think that the majority of what I read, and not everyone responds of course, finds it abnormal, those kinds of fines," said Verstappen, who was keen to emphasise that despite a salary of millions, no one likes to pay tens of thousands of euros in fines. For Formula 1 drivers, the amounts can amount to 80,000 euros.

"You lose money anyway. It is of course never nice to pay. I have had it a few times, that I had to transfer those kinds of amounts. But I am not going to suddenly change because of that," he pointed out the lack of an effect.

"There is emotion and passion in it," he described his regular swearing over the radio. "Of course I understand that swearing is not okay. But if you use the example that young children are watching, then I think: what did you do yourself at school, or while gaming or when you played football on the street? Everyone does it."

"And of course you have to be careful at certain times, I understand all that too," he added. "But I don't think it has to be described so clearly. It can also be a bit of common sense."

At least that is not the case with the FIA. Violations of the swearing rules can ultimately lead to exclusion from races. It is theoretically possible that a driver misses races due to swearing penalties and therefore misses out on the title. "That would be something, yes," Verstappen stated.

The Limburger had a playful solution to the problem "Maybe I should just swear in Dutch, or in Limburgish. Almost nobody understands that." Verstappen has mastered his regional language quite well. "Although I don't speak it that often anymore." Which Limburgish swear word he would use, he kept to himself with a laugh. "Of course I'm not going to say that now."

Verstappen is therefore starting the Formula 1 season with the handbrake on his language use and fines hanging over his head. "It still depends a bit on what you say and who it is aimed at. But I'd rather spend that money on something else," he pointed out, referring to the pregnancy with girlfriend Kelly Piquet. "A nursery, for example, new paint."

- nu.nl

#f1 #max verstappen #fia #f175 #max in dutch

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 10 months ago

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Partners in Crime 1

Warnings: non/dubcon, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Characters: Lloyd Hansen, Lee Bodecker

Summary: you're left reeling after your divorce but the chaos has only begun. (short!reader)

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

You hate the mall. Too bright. Too loud. Too fast.

That day isn’t so bad. Tuesday, mid-morning. Most people are at work. Not you. Your part-time gig barely pays the bills, let alone keeps you busy. With that in mind, you shouldn’t be there to spend what little you have.

It’s for a good cause. It’s your grandmother’s birthday next week and you owe her. After all she’s done, you owe much more than just a measly mall-bough gift but it’s all you can manage right now. One day it will be better. One day you will be able to pay her back. At least you keep telling yourself that.

She paid for it all. Your way out, your lawyer, your apartment even. You can’t live in the senior’s community with her, that’s against the rules, but she parsed out some of her nest egg for the flat in the old brick building. For you. She’s the only one who ever did so much for you but what did you ever do for her?

It’s not for lack of trying, only your own poor decisions.

You enter the sparkling Swarovski store and keep your arms tight to your body, paranoid of breaking any of the numerous crystal pieces. You don’t know what she would like. It isn’t because you don’t know her well, you just don’t think she has much use for any of it. She’s always been painfully practical. That’s why you never wanted to ask her for help.

An associate startles you as she appears beside you in her sleek black pantsuit. She offers help but you get the sense she’s checking in, making sure your hands aren’t sneaking into your pockets. You make sure to keep them visible and move your satchel across your back. You tell her you’re just looking and blow out between your dry lips. Maybe a hoodie wasn’t the best choice.

It was meant to be a solution. You wanted to get out of your grandmother’s hair. How long had you been living with her? He was the answer to that. You thought so. You wanted to believe it. For ten years, you tried. He always spoiled it.

Then she had to bail you out anyway.

As you come to the sharp corner of a shelf, you’re startled by another customer. You hadn’t seen them when you came in or heard them. You glance at them fleetingly and turn your attention to the shelf of Mickey Mouse decorations. Definitely not those.

“Excuse me, sweetheart,” the man frightens you again as he nears and presses his hand to your back. He sidles by, and you dodge away from him, coming dangerously close to colliding with the display of birthstone necklaces.

You shake off the close brush and blink at the glass. You peek over at the man as he seems overly interested in a paper weight shaped like a dove. His mustache and sleek haircut make him look like he’s been plucked out of some gangster period piece.

The associate shifts from one side of the counter to the other. She’s watching you. You sigh. She still thinks you’re a thief. You shake your head and leave.

It’s not worth the trouble or the money. You can find something better. You know you could get your grandma a box of chocolates and a card and she’d say she’s happy. You don’t want to get her what works; you want to do something for someone. Something more than just be there.

You go down to Hallmark. It’s a similar atmosphere with a hint of warmness and more range in price. Still too much Disney and not enough variety. Your grandmother doesn’t need a rustic crate or a door sign with some snarky saying about wine.

You stop to look at cards. You can at least grab one of those. As you reach for one along the top row, another hand swipes it from your grasp. You back up and look at the culprit. It’s the same man as the Swarovski shop. Strange.

You recoil and scurry down the aisle towards the door. Is he following you? It could be a coincidence. Two stores. If he’s looking for a gift too, it makes sense.

You cross your arms and march quickly through the bright mall, the skylight glaring down at you. You walk in and out of a clothes shop. You don’t know where you’re going now. You’re frazzled.

You find your way to the As Seen on TV shop and meander around without intent. You’re at a loss. You’ll just end up at the bookstore like always. Another book for her birthday. Wowee.

She might like the salt rock light. You don’t know. Ugh.

It isn’t the gift. It isn’t her. It’s you. You’re indecisive. You're lost. Even if it was misery, you miss having someone to tell you what to do. Now you have to think and you do too much of that.

“Those are pretty cool,” a voice slices through your self-pity.

It’s the same man. Your eyes meet as you look up to see him. You blanch and open and close your mouth. The shop is so small, how hadn’t you heard him?

You retreat without a word. He must be following you. There’s no other explanation. What do you do? You can’t just lead him out of the mall, back to your building, but how can you divert him?

You find a bench down the next aisle of the mall, somewhere the associates in the vitamin store can see you. You’re safe there with people around. You look up and down, searching for the man and his mustache. Just a mother with her stroller.

You’re paranoid. Stupid, just like he said. It’s all in your head. You’re just fucked up. You don’t know how to live in this world. Not alone.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” the timbre tickles up the back of your spine and you twist to see the figure behind you. It’s an officer in uniform. “Mind if I ask ya something?”

You nod and blink. You don’t like the cops. You haven’t spoken to them since the night it all came crashing down. The flashing lights, the sirens, the questions. It’s all a haze yet it’s stamped into your psyche.

“Yes, sir,” you stand.

He’s got dark brown hair and bright blue eyes. His shoulders bear a slant of authority as he has his hands on his hips. He’s taller than you, but so is everyone. You look across the bench at him as his white shirt pokes out from under his leather jacket, his belly straining the fabric.

“You don’t gotta trouble yerself,” he shows his palm and reaches with his other hand to his belt, “I’m lookin’ for someone and was wonderin’ if maybe ya saw him.”

“Oh?” You crinkle your forehead.

“Got a pic somewhere,” he frees his phone from the clip on his belt and flicks his thumb over the screen, “here we are.”

He turns the cell toward you and you can’t help but make a face. The image is blurry but it’s definitely that same man. You look back the way you came and gulp.

“Reckon by that, you’ve seen him,” the officer says. “Sheriff Bodecker,” he introduces as he retracts his hand, “I’m doing an investigation. Mind if I ask some more questions?"

“Well, I... didn’t talk to him.”

“That’s fine,” he peers down in the same direction you did. The infant in its stroller begins to yawl and his cheek ticks, “how about you come out to my cruiser and we’ll do it there? Less ruckus?”

You purse your lips. You can’t really say no, he might think you know that guy, whoever he is, whatever he’s done. You shrug. You don’t have much to say. You’re sure it won’t be much of an interview.

“Okay,” you agree.”

#lloyd hansen #dark lloyd hansen #dark!lloyd hansen #lloyd hansen x reader #lee bodecker #dark lee bodecker #dark!lee bodecker #lee bodecker x reader #series #drabble #the devil all the time #the gray man #partners in crime

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my-castles-crumbling · 14 days ago

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First Lines of My Fics

Thanks @thebibutterflyao3 , @where-is-vivian , @shoopsthereitis , and @courfee for tagging!

Rules: Share the first lines of ten of your most recent fanfics and tag ten people. If you have written less than ten, don't be shy and share anyway!

note- I'm skipping the really smutty ones because I don't want to link them on here....

No Socks - Rated M (Rosekiller)

“So?” Regulus demanded as soon as Barty stumbled into their shared flat, last night’s outfit still on his thin frame. “So, what?” Barty asked, throwing his keys onto the counter, not bothering to pick them up when they skittered across the marble surface and landed on the floor. “So, what?” Regulus repeated dubiously.

James Potter, Reluctant Cat Dad - Rated G (Jegulus)

James sighed and looked into beautiful gray eyes, trying not to let them pull on his heartstrings. But he was weak, and gave up far too easily, his heart melting. “How the fuck did we get here, love?” he murmured, truly dumbfounded about how they had ended up in this predicament.

Infuriating - Rated T (Dorlene)

“Black, you absolute tosser!” Marlene McKinnon’s laughter-filled voice filled the small, echoing Potions Classroom, and Dorcas Meadowes didn’t even bother holding back an eye roll and a little scoff. Instead, she just gave herself credit for not telling the other girl to shut up in front of the entire class.

That's Alarming - Rated G (Jegulus)

There were few things Regulus Black valued more than sleep. Perhaps reading. Or music. Or a nice dark roast coffee. But either way, sleep was of the utmost importance. He was even more prickly than normal without at least eight hours of it, and miserable as well, so he always prioritized getting his rest. Which is why he was ready to kill everyone in his path when the fire alarm was pulled at 2:47 am on a Tuesday night in his university dorm, and he was forced to evacuate into the parking lot.

Mint and Sunshine and Hope - Rated T (Jegulus)

It was a coincidence that they had arrived at Sirius and Remus’s flat at the same time. An annoying coincidence, to be sure, but Regulus couldn’t fault James for it. He’d learned, as he’d grown, that there wasn’t much he could fault James for, really.

In My Head - Rated T (Jegulus)

The realization comes to Regulus in the middle of the day. He is sitting with Barty, listening to his best friend complain about some stupid thing that happened at his ridiculous job taste testing at the pet food plant, and suddenly his whole body goes cold. Because as Barty is talking, his brain is completely obsessed with something– some one else. And it makes him realize… “Oh fuck,” he mumbles incoherently, unable to even feel his lips properly. “Right?” Barty asks loudly, clearly under the impression that Regulus has agreed with him in some way. “It was a huge problem! And then I told that arse in corporate to suck my-” “No,” Regulus says, thoughts a million miles away. “No, I-” Because this is not about Melanie from Corporate, who clearly has it out for Barty, at least according to him. This is about James Potter.

I love you. I'm (not) sorry. - Rated T (Jegulus)

James took a deep breath, fiddling with his suit jacket and trying to power through the sinking, sickening feeling that had somehow taken up residence inside his chest. His heart thundered against his ribcage like it was determined to escape the very bounds of his body and he felt almost faint. He looked around the large room, taking in the beautiful decorations, the stunning white flowers, the luxurious aisle already scattered with petals, the twinkling lights strung from the ceiling. It looked like heaven. It felt like his own personal hell.

Any Ideas? - Rated T (Jegulus)

“I still think the fake arrest idea is the best one,” Sirius mumbled, laying spread-eagle on the floor and staring at the ceiling. He waved his wand, a pair of plastic handcuffs spinning around the tip as he moved his hand lazily. “Moony, you’d like to see me in these, eh?” A snort sounded from somewhere in the room.

Burn - Rated T (Jegulus)

The Cruciatus Curse– incantation: Crucio– is one of the Unforgivable Curses. It is known by many as the ‘Torturing Curse,’ as it subjects the affected to excruciating pain. Long-term exposure to this curse can cause lasting mental and physical effects, including but not limited to fatigue, confusion, coldness and chills, nightmares, and even insanity.

Thinking - Rated T (Wolfstar)

“Do you feel any different?” Sirius blinked at the circle of people staring at him with bated breath, tilting his head from side to side as he thought about the question. “No,” he said honestly, pursing his lips. “Damn,” James frowned, sighing. “That would’ve been hilarious.” And the game continued.

NPT (I'm not sure who's already been tagged so if you have, I'm sorry!): @microdamage @wolfpadx @arviyya @deepseagre3n @whoopsiesnodaisies @locomotiveodyssey

#marauders #harry potter #marauders era #fanfic #marauders fandom #the marauders #harry potter marauders

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rottenpumpkin13 · 5 months ago

Note

Cloud accepts Sephiroth's flowers and agrees to go on a date with him (just so he can keep an eye on Sephiroth because he's a secret time traveller and he's not letting a golden opportunity to monitor Sephiroth go to waste.)

What does Sephiroth plan for the date? How does Zack react to the date?

*Cloud and Sephiroth are having dinner*

Sephiroth: The city is quite beautiful tonight. Though it would take so little to reduce it to ash. A single spark, and all their monuments to greed would crumble.

Cloud: *panic*

Sephiroth: It's a good thing Reeve Tuesti is incredibly competent and did a remarkable job designing it.

Cloud: *calm*

Sephiroth: Anyway, do you ever wonder how it would feel to ascend beyond mortality? To rule as a god above humanity?

Cloud: *panic*

Sephiroth: Hypothetically, of course. One must ponder such things to stay grounded in reality.

Cloud: *calm*

*The waiter places the check on the table*

Sephiroth: Oh to be flesh unbound by the obligation to consume, free from the endless cycle of hunger and indulgence.

Cloud: *panic*

Sephiroth: Good thing we came on Tuesday. They offer a 15% discount for couples.

Zack, crawling out from under the table: CHEAP BASTARD

Cloud: OI!

#ff7 #ffvii #final fantasy 7 #sephiroth #final fantasy vii #zack fair #ff7 crisis core #crisis core #cloud strife

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storm-angel989 · 11 months ago

Note

hallo!!!

i was wondering if you could do a Val x daughter reader

reader is neurodivergent and has a stutter :,> basically reader goes to auntie Vel first about how they’re being bullied at school and then Vel brings it up to Uncle Vox and Val.

i hope your having a nice day!

The editing continues! Enjoy <3 I apologize for the wait and appreciate your patience!

“What the fuck do you mean, being bullied?” Valentino demanded as he took a drag from his cigarette. Confusion and disgust flooded his features. “She’s in first grade, how do they even know how to be mean at that age?”

Velvette shrugged and took a sip of her wine as they sat around the restaurant table.

Another Tuesday night, another meeting of the minds. This was the one night a week Valentino’s daughter, reader, stayed late for both art and speech therapy. Usually it involved logistics planning- who would pick her up, help her with homework, where she was supposed to be each day after school. They had learned early on that early planning and visual schedules helped her manage and practice her day to day routines and activities. This time each week was critical not only for themselves, but to help reader manage her anxieties.

Tonight though, their meeting meant something far more sinister.

“She came to me in tears the other day. Sobbing about how kids are being mean to her because she ‘talked funny’. I told her to ignore them and tell the teacher, but she told me one of them hit her. And that the teacher did nothing. That alone is worth the school.”

“The school is fucking useless. What do we do about it?” Valentino demanded asked as he bit back the anger in his voice. “Surely there must be something we can do.”

“Like what? Walk up to first graders and bully them back?” Velvette asked with a snort.

“I mean, if they’re being cruel to my little girl then…” Valentino began.

“Cut the shit. We may not be able to do anything as adults but we can give our sweet reader the means to defense herself,” Velvette snapped.

Valentino tapped his cigarette ashed into the tray and gave her a disapproving look. “We’re not teaching my daughter to throw a punch. Not that she would anyway But we can go to school and talk to them. Give us a good feel for the policies they have in place. It’s highly doubtful they’ll give us the names of the kids- but I’ll ask her. Maybe she’ll tell me.” Valentino asked.

“They’d give you the names if you filed the fucking paperwork like I told you,” Velvette muttered. She tuned out the rest of their chatter, her mind reeling. There was no sense in arguing with Valentino- he was reader’s dad after all. But she didn’t see the issue with at least teaching her the basics of self defense. And honestly, what Valentino didn’t know couldn’t hurt him.

The sound of Vox’s voice pulled her back to attention.

“I’ll fit her with a small camera. Tomorrow.” Vox said definitively. “At least then we’ll have proof. And they can’t ignore proof- we have to sort of play by the rules here, Valentino. Until then, what do we do?”

“Love her, comfort her. Help her manage her anxiety and I think I have the perfect book about it for bedtime tonight.” Velvette suggested. “Sound like a plan?”

Both boys seemed to agree.

As soon as reader walked in the door that night, she dove into her afterschool routine. Homework with Vox, dinner at the dinner table with all three of them, bathtime with Valentino, teeth brushing, pjs and because it was Thursday- tucked into bed first by Aunt Velvette.

“Reader? Can we talk a little bit about school before your dad comes in?” Velvette asked as she pulled the bed covers back.

Reader nodded and climbed under the sheets. Velvette laid down next to her and she snuggled the tiny body against hers. There wasn’t much in this world that turned Velvette soft, but reader was one of them.

“I want to teach you what to do when someone is mean to you- your daddy is coming in in a few minutes to read a book about different ways to handle it. But I want to teach you another way- a secret way that has to stay between us girls, okay?”

To her surprise, reader sat up and looked eager.

“L-like what Auntie?”

And so Velvette showed her, in the quiet ten minutes she had, how to throw a punch. How to turn her wrist, aim for the nose and step into the force.

“Don’t ever start anything, but if they put a hand on you first, turn around and deck them. Hard. And they’ll never touch you again. But don’t tell your Dad I taught you, okay? Keep it between us girls.”

Reader nodded happily and tucked herself back against Velvette as Valentino walked in. He took his place on the other side of the bed and Reader leaned up and nuzzled Velvette’s cheek- butterfly kisses, as she called them, before snuggling back against Valentino.

“This book is called I said no,” Velvette heard Valentino say as she quietly closed the door and made her way to her own room. She hoped that her niece would never have to use the skills she taught her. But in her mind, it was better to have the skill and not need it, than to need it than not have it.

But she still wasn’t surprised when she got the call from Valentino the next day. She pushed a button and the fury that was Valentino flashed on her screen.

“Velvette! What did you do?” Valentino screamed. “I just got a fucking call from the school- Reader is in the principles office for punching someone! How the fuck does she know how to punch?”

Velvette snorted at the accusation as pride flooded through her heart. Atta girl. “Beats me, but Vox put a camera on her this morning right? So cool your jets. Is reader hurt?”

Velvette watched as he seemed to consider her point.

“Well, no. I don’t think so,” Valentino said after the momentary pause.

“And the other kid?”

“I…I don’t fucking know go with Vox to the school NOW. I’ll meet you there as soon as I finish the fucking paperwork.”

Velvette raised an eyebrow as Vox walked in the room. “Oh, you mean the paperwork you were supposed to finish last week?”

“Fuck you Velvette, go and get your niece, now!”

The screen went black and Velvette rolled her eyes. Reader wouldn’t have made the first move, she was certain of that.

One short limo ride later, she and Vox walked into the school. They were immediately escorted to the principal's office and Velvette gritted her teeth at the scene that greeted them. Reader sat, tears streaming down her face next to a boy with a bloody nose. A female demon- probably his mother, stood behind him, glaring at reader.

“You wanna fuck off?” Velvette snapped as she looked up. “And back the fuck off from my kid.” She reached over and lifted reader up into her arms as she continued to sob. “What happened, baby?”

“What happened is that reader punched this young man in the face, completely unprovoked,” the principal began.

“H-h-he…” Reader began to sob.

Velvette shushed her and gave Vox a look.

“That’s what you say, let’s watch the footage and see what actually happened,” Vox interjected.

The other two adults in the room seemed to freeze.

“Mr. Vox we don’t utilize cameras or any Voxtech…” the principal began.

“You don’t, but I do,” Vox replied smoothly.

Velvette watched both of their faces go white. Carefully, Vox reached over and unclipped the almost invisible camera from the collar of his niece's shirt. A video appeared on the wall behind them, showcasing the events of the day. Behind them, Valentino opened the door and closed it quietly. Two button presses and the truth came to light. The boy, pinching, teasing, name calling and laughing. Reader telling him to quietly leave her alone. A hit to the back and finally, reader turning around and nailing him in the face.

“Oh good job baby girl,” Velvette whispered in reader’s ear. She felt the twitch of a smile against her shoulder as she cradled her. Good, Velvette thought, she was starting to settle.

Vox shut the movie off and looked at the adults present. “I’m eager to see what type of punishment will come from this,” he said flatly.

“We hold a no tolerance policy, so both the boy and reader will be suspended…”

“I think the fuck not.” Valentino’s cold voice came from across the room.

The principal stood up, a miffed expression on his face. “Mr. Valentino. Ms. Velvette. Mr. Vox. With all due respect you don’t have a say over my school. Your jurisdiction ends at that door.”

Valentino smirked and looked at the other V’s. He walked over to Velvette and took his daughter into his arms. He whispered something quietly in reader’s ear and a smile spread across her tear stained face. He walked her over to the principal's desk and gently nudged her.

“Go ahead bebita.”

“D-daddy s-says you’re fired!” She announced loudly before burying her face back in his neck.

The principal's face turned deep red. “As I said you have no jurisdiction…the audacity…”

“Actually, I do,” Valentino replied as he held up a piece of paper. “As of today the V corporation owns this school, and every single one like it in the pride ring. You’re fired. And you..” he turned around to face both the mother and the child who sat frozen in horror. “Your brat of a child is expelled. Get off my property before I have you escorted out. All three of you. Now.”

Valentino turned and walked out, gently holding his daughter as Vox and Velvette followed.

“This would have been much less dramatic if you had filed the paperwork a week ago, like I told you to!” Velvette scolded.

“Yeah, but that was fun- was it not?” Valentino looked down at his daughter, “did you like firing the principle my sweet ninita?”

She nodded and he planted a kiss on her forehead as he carried her outside. “Let’s go out for lunch, my love. Calm down a little bit. And tomorrow when you go back to school, I promise no one will even think to lay a hand or speak unkindly to you. We’ll protect you. And we always will.”

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aceasadhd · 29 days ago

Text

Florida: please please please please please

Gov: you already have a call! And you're already at the table? Why do i need to try out this new call?

Florida: because I'm pretty

Gov: fine! I sure wish the Australia of

*pop*

Australia: g'day mate!

Florida: *chuckles*

Gov: what? Who are you?

Australia: ouch, but I'm used to it

Gov: you're not here about the Tariffs are you?

Australia: nah mate, she's right, China's our biggest exporter anyways.

Florida: burn

Australia: ya, and tell you what, the orange running your country can still come visit.

Gov: really?!? Even though he's a convicted felon?

Australia: well the colonisational start of this country was from convicts and criminals, so he'ld fit right in

Florida: but he doesn't drink

Australia: ... What?

*pop*

California: You!

Australia: ah [uɐᴉlɐɹʇsn∀ sʞɐǝds]

Florida: any one that pisses off Cali is a friend to me

Australia: cheers mate, I'll ship ya another roo!

Gov: everyone, slow down. What did the Country of Australia do to you California?

California: he sold me Eucalyptus Trees! They were a waste of time and have made my wild fires worse and worse!

Australia: *Lifts his beer* ya welcome

California: NO!

Australia: oh, ya flora don't need fire to germinate? Well that's on you

California: how?!?

Australia: first rule of talking to an Australian, they're full of shit. The guy you talked to probably needed money for the meat raffle down his local. Speaking of which, I'm going to be late for the member's draw at the pub. See you next Tuesday!

*pop*

Gov: at least he kept it PG

Florida: *leaning on his hands* did he though? *Chuckles*

#wttt #wttt week #wttt week day 3

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jungkoode · 2 months ago

Text

FUCK ME UP | FRAGMENTS

˗ˏˋ whiteboard chronicles ˎˊ˗

⋆｡°✩ story details ✩°｡⋆

collection: APARTMENT 6B SHENANIGANS (FMU)

wordcount: 1,1k

⋆｡°✩ read more ✩°｡⋆

main story: fuck me up

read on ao3

read on wattpad

✧ author's note ✧

OKAY SO. This was not planned. I mean, yes, it kind of was planned because it WAS one of my concept ideas as you have probably seen in the index. BUT.

I wasn't expecting to write this on a random ass Tuesday during my break??? This is the silliest idea, but it formed in my mind and I just had to write this down. So you're welcome for random FMU content on a Tuesday?

Anyway, enjoy this goofy ass drabble. I know I laughed while writing it. Hope you laugh while reading it!

The whiteboard hanging beside the fridge was the first thing you noticed when you stumbled into the kitchen, bleary-eyed at 7 AM on your fourth day in the apartment. It wasn’t there the day before. Neither was the note written in precise, controlled handwriting:

“Whoever left their dishes in the sink overnight: Don’t.” - Yoongi

You stared at it for a beat too long, coffee mug halfway to your lips. Well. That was new.

And completely directed at you, because you definitely left a bowl and spoon in the sink the night before. You glanced over your shoulder, but the apartment was quiet. Yoongi must have already left for his early client meeting.

Before you could stop yourself, you picked up the black marker dangling from its magnetic holder and wrote in your loose, slightly messy lowercase:

“sorry! won’t happen again” - y/n

Two days later, you were greeted by another note:

“The garbage doesn’t take itself out. Neither do I.” - Yoongi

Beneath it, in chaotic, barely legible scrawl that you immediately recognized as Jungkook’s:

“i took it out mon. phoenix’s turn” - jk

You rolled your eyes and added:

“bold of u to assume i generate garbage. that’s a YOU problem mf” - y/n

By the end of your first week, the whiteboard had evolved:

“Stop drinking my almond milk. Buy your own.” - Yoongi

“wasn’t me lol. phoenix sus af. caught her red-handed no cap 🧢 ” - jk

And yeah. There was actually a horribly scribbled cap doodle.

“i was testing it to see if it was spoiled bc im nice. you’re welcome” - y/n

“It was a new carton.” - Yoongi

“… whoops?” - y/n

The second week brought escalation:

“Bathroom schedule. RESPECT IT.” - Yoongi

“phoenix spent 40 mins in there this am. i was LATE. so NOT the vibes” - jk

“some of us have actual hair to wash, jungkook. not my fault” - y/n

“some of us have JOBS to get to fr fr” - jk

“Some of us need SILENCE to work. Take this argument elsewhere.” - Yoongi

Day ten of cohabitation:

“Griffin knocked over my coffee mug AGAIN. Control your cat.” - Yoongi

“bold of u to assume griffin can be controlled” - jk

“he only knocks over YOUR stuff bc you claim to hate him. he knows. cats always know” - y/n

“I do hate him.” - Yoongi

That evening, you returned to find a new addition: a small, surprisingly detailed doodle of what appeared to be Griffin with devil horns, signed by Yoongi.

Underneath, Jungkook had drawn a halo and angel wings around it with “no lies detected” scrawled beside it.

By day twelve:

“If I hear ‘Wonderwall’ on that guitar ONE MORE TIME at 2 AM there will be consequences." - Yoongi

“it was ‘sweet child o mine’ actually smh. musical education lacking???” - jk

“regardless: rogue, some of us sleep at normal human hours” - y/n

“some of us didn’t bang their headboard against the wall at 1 am. pot, kettle, iykyk” - jk

You flushed bright red when you read this. That was ONE TIME when you were rearranging your furniture, but of course, he’d make it sound like… Jesus.

“i was MOVING FURNITURE.” - y/n

“suuuuuuuuure, phoenix” - jk

“Both of you: headphones exist. Use them.” - Yoongi

The next morning brought a new development:

“COFFEE MAKER RULES:” 1. Rinse it after use 2. Don’t change my settings 3. If you empty it, refill the water “This is not a democracy.” - JK

Jungkook had actually used proper capitalization for his coffee rules, which told you exactly how serious he was about his precious brewing machine.

You couldn’t resist responding:

“counterpoint: it’s just coffee bro” - y/n

His reply came quickly:

“HERESY” - jk

“Some of us need coffee to tolerate living with you two.” - Yoongi

That afternoon, Yoongi left a new note:

“Refrigerator organization system is now ENFORCED. Labels provided.” - Yoongi

You came home later to find Jungkook had added:

“phoenix labeled my protein shakes ‘gym bro juice’ - v mature” - jk

You couldn’t help grinning as you added:

“if the shoe fits, rogue. and it does, along with your massive protein powder collection that’s taking over the kitchen” - y/n

The next morning, his response was waiting:

“my protein powder keeps me strong enough to help when u can’t reach the top shelf” - jk

You narrowed your eyes before writing:

“i will climb the counter like a normal person, thx” - y/n

By evening, Yoongi had added:

“That’s how you fell last week.” - Yoongi

You scowled at the betrayal.

Day fourteen—today—you had woken up to find a weekend notice:

“OUT OF TOWN THIS WEEKEND. Keep the apartment standing.” - Yoongi

You grabbed the marker, adding:

“roger that, captain obvious” - y/n

By mid-morning, Jungkook had responded:

“no promises. phoenix brings out the worst in me ngl” - jk

You snorted and added:

“mutual, rogue” - y/n

Now, you stand before the whiteboard, marker in hand, examining two weeks’ worth of passive-aggressive notes. It’s become something of a gallery of snark, a dysfunctional family bulletin board.

You find yourself smiling at Jungkook’s chaotic scrawl, full of abbreviations and lowercase letters, contrasting with Yoongi’s precise penmanship and perfect grammar. The way the three of you communicate through this ridiculous medium is strangely… comfortable? Not that you’d ever admit it.

You’ve already noticed patterns: Yoongi writes in black marker exclusively, with perfect punctuation. Jungkook grabs whatever color is available, usually purple or blue, his writing tilted and messy, full of text-speak and abbreviations. You tend toward green or red, your lowercase letters rounded but clear.

You'd be lying if you said you don't kind of enjoy this weird, annotated glimpse into your shared lives.

Or how Jungkook’s ridiculous coffee snobbery—serious enough to warrant actual capitalization—makes you roll your eyes and snort at the same time.

Or how Yoongi pretends to hate Griffin while his latest note passive-aggressively mentioned seeing cat treats left out on the counter “for the demon cat I allegedly don’t care about.”

Or how, despite all the bickering and boundary-setting and passive-aggressive notes…

You probably wouldn’t trade this chaotic whiteboard for anything.

Not that you’ll ever tell them that. Instead, you uncap the marker again and write:

“whoever used the last of the toilet paper without replacing it: you’re dead to me” - y/n

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you wonder what ridiculous note will appear next in this strange, dysfunctional roommate communication system you’ve all somehow adopted.

Maybe it’s not the worst way to avoid actually talking to each other.

Maybe it’s even a little fun.

But you’ll keep that thought to yourself.

index

⋆｡°✩ taglist✩°｡⋆

@cannotalwaysbenight @livingformintyoongi @itstoastsworld @jimineepaboya @somehowukook @stuti2904 @chloepiccoliniii @kimnamjoonmiddletoe @annyeongbitch7 @jkrailme @rpwprpwprpwprw

no reposts, translations, or adaptations

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more-sonorous · 3 months ago

Note

Uh I love going through your channel and reading all of the stories you come up with and I’m amazed and love them. It brings me joy to read them. I don’t know if you take requests I was wondering if you could do one where race has some problems and Jack is the only one who can get him to talk. Thank you!!!

i loved this ask! played around with it a bit and created a piece full of brotherly love that i'm truly hoping is what you were looking for!

have this little slice of life :)

.....

little ray of sun-- racetrack and jack

By all accounts, Jack Kelly had a decent day. He’d spent the morning pissing Pulitzer off by drawing egregious comics all of the other artists found funny, flinging droplets of ink onto the man’s shoes every time he strolled up to his desk, and using the most horrible grammar he could muster. By five, Pulitzer’s jaw was twitching but he had three spectacular political comics staring him down, so he couldn’t complain. Instead he glared up at Jack and a snarl formed beneath his perfectly groomed mustache as he dismissed him for the day.

Pushing old Joe’s buttons was Jack’s favorite work pastime when he worked at The World on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays. It always put him in a chipper mood to know that he was one of the most popular artists on Pulitzer’s team, so the old bastard couldn’t really fire him even if he wanted to since people were raving about his comics. He couldn't fire him over little things anyways, like Jack putting his feet up on his desk or wearing a bandana ‘round his neck instead of a tie. He’d gotten good at subtly irking the man without breaking any office rules, and it added a bit of life to his boring office work. When he earned that little jaw twitch? Well, Jack considered the day a win.

He carefully shelled out a few cents on a pretzel for dinner and finished it on his way back to the Lodgings, brushing the coarse salt off on his trousers and whistling to himself as he walked. At his core, Jack Kelly was a little shit. He enjoyed his little shit moments when he could.

As he dreamed up ways to dramatically retell his office antics for the littlest newsies, he rounded the corner to find Albert’s head of gleamingly red hair perched on the steps leading up to the familiar lodging house. The moment the sarcastic ginger laid eyes on him found him shooting to his feet and practically speedwalking to Jack.

“Kelly!”

“Yo, Albert.” Jack greeted cheerfully, removing his own hat and pushing a hand through his hair as he took a glance at the distressed expression on the freckled face in front of him. His cheer seemed to slip into nothingness. “Everythin’ okay?”

Half of Albert’s thin mouth curled into a snarl. “No. Obviously it ain’t. It’s fuckin’ Racer, Jack, he’s– he’s doing that thing he does and I dunno what the fuck to do.”

“Ah, shit.” Jack sighed, glancing up at the doors as a spike of worry for his almost-little-brother shot through his chest. Tension coiled through his limbs. “Okay, I’ll handle it–”

“You better, man, because I couldn’t. I even got Crutch and Davey to try. He wouldn’t budge, wouldn’t say a goddamn word to us. Davey’s out collecting bits from the guys to pay for Race’s bunk tonight, and I’m sure he’s gonna get enough, but this can’t happen tomorrow. Racer’s already short on cash–” Despite Albert’s harsh, biting tone, Jack knew the kid well enough to see deeply rooted concern in the furrow of his brow and the tight shrug of his shoulders. He was tense right up to his ears.

“I got it, Albert. Anyone tried getting him to eat yet?” He started a quick jog up the stairs and into the building. Though Jack knew what to do, that didn’t make him any less jittery when things like this happened.

He found himself despising his ‘real job’ because it meant he couldn’t spend mornings here with the boys. If he’d’ve known about Race’s situation sooner, maybe his brother wouldn’t’ve missed out on a day of selling. Jack barely checked in with Kloppman as he thundered up the stairs, Albert trailing behind and talking a mile a minute through a lopsided, thickly accented mouth. His speech might’ve sounded like another language to someone that didn’t know him well.

“Yeah, Crutch’s up there workin’ on dinner. I just dunno what coulda caused this one, Jack, he seemed fine yesterday and he was playin’ poker last night before bed– he seemed fuckin’ normal and now he ain’t even speakin’ to anyone–”

“Well, sometimes there ain’t a reason.” Jack toed open the door to the bunkroom and Albert stumbled to a halt behind him, both of them gazing at the sight of Crutchie murmuring softly to a despondent lump of Racetrack. Other newsies lingered silently around, awkwardly pretending like they weren’t nosy-ly watching the scene in the corner unfold. Jack’s chest squeezed tightly and a soft exhale escaped him, worry and exasperation all in one. “Sometimes he just gets like this. But I’ll figure it out, Al, don’t go all batshit on me.”

The redhead practically growled, proving every stereotype of fiery gingers more than true at that moment. Race would be delighted to know that he had an angry guard dog as a best friend. “I ain’t even close to batshit, Kelly.”

“Well, if that's the case, why don’t’cha help Dave collect donations? Scare the kids into puttin’ a penny in your hat or somethin'.” He swiped Albert’s backwards cap right off his head and held it out with a well-practiced cheeky grin, earning him another sneer.

Albert snatched his cap back and stormed out of the room, each movement tight and tense with worry. Jack crossed the room in a few strong strides, gently tapping Crutchie on the shoulder. He held a glass of water and a sandwich wrapped in wax paper, both entirely untouched. When Crutch met his eyes, a silent understanding passed between them and like the well oiled machine of brotherhood they were, the boys switched places. Crutchie ruffled Jack’s hair and tucked his crutch beneath his arm, immediately limping off to go clear the stragglers out of the room.

Jack pushed a hand through Race’s head of fair hair and glanced over his expression– tight with sadness, blue eyes staring straight ahead. “Mornin’, buddy.”

Racer closed his eyes at the sound of Jack’s voice, which he took to be a good sign as he ran his fingers through his brother’s tangled hair. Jack's skin seemed darker than usual against the light coils of Race’s dirty hair, matted and tangled. “Rough day today?”

As expected, Jack didn’t receive a response. He carefully set the sandwich and water aside and tugged his fingers through Race’s hair. It wasn’t very intimate or sweet as it might’ve been with someone like Dave or Kath, because Race was a proper mess and his hair was beyond tangled. Jack worked the kinks out and watched his nose wrinkle and twitch, upper lip curling every so often as a reminder that he was cognitive and alive and feeling something, still.

“Everybody’s worried about you.” Jack started, trying not to betray just how deep that worry was. This wasn’t the first time– far from it– but that didn’t make it any less scary. “I am too, a’course. Wish I woulda been there for you this morning, buddy, but Bastard Old Joe would fire me if I was any more than a minute late to his shitty office. Still, ‘m here now. Want’cha to talk to me, if that’s appealing at all. You gotta talk to someone, after all, or Albert’s gonna get so mad his head’ll turn as red as his hair. Then he’ll explode or some shit, I dunno.”

Jack knew this side of Race like the back of his hand. He remembered countless days in their shared past when Race would wake up just the same as he was now, glued to the sheets and subdued and silent, remaining still and motionless for as long as possible. The impossibly impish trickster he normally was would disappear beneath lumps of thin quilt and stony silence would take over in its wake, turning Racer into someone unresponsive and lethargic. Jack had a hunch that it was because of the constant motion Racetrack was in. Always with a smirk or a stinging quip, running betting circles and poker games and puffing cigars. Full of biting sarcasm, mind racing a mile a minute, bright as a star with nowhere to shine. An engine constantly chugging along, overheating until the point of exhaustion. Breakdown. That was whatever this was– the point where he chugged to a sudden halt and collapsed, withdrawn and almost unreachable.

It happened once or twice a year, almost always in the bleak, dark, wintry months. Sometimes Race would spring out of bed the next morning, chipper like nothing ever happened. One time, when they were around ten and twelve, he was stuck in bed for a week. Jack wasn’t about to let that happen again.

“You don’t want Alfred to explode, do you? We’ll hafta find another token ginger…”

“No.” Race croaked, finally responding to the subtle joking that always drew him out of his shell.

That’s what Jack had figured out– gentle touches, lighthearted mood, quips and teases. It took that. He didn’t respond well to Crutchie’s optimistic mothering or Albert’s intense pushing. Jack could picture Davey in all of his awkward loveliness trying to sternly coach Race out of the bed with false logical positives, like he was waking Les up and trying to get him dressed for the day. No, Jack knew Race, and he knew that Race responded to the feeling that he hadn’t done anything wrong. That things were normal.

“That’s what I thought.” Jack responded, with the same calm cheer coloring his tone. “Now c’mon, you can’t let me have better hair than you for a whole day. You wanna get up? Have a bite of dinner? Looks like someone got you somethin' from Jacobi’s…”

After a moment of silence, Racetrack weakly shook his head and squeezed his eyes shut tightly. “Can’t.”

“Can’t get up, that’s okay. I ain’t gonna make you.” He parroted, gently pulling his fingers through Race’s separated curls. “I would like it if you’d talk to me, though. So’s I can get a good night’s sleep, knowin’ what’s on your mind. I know you like torturin’ me but I sorta need my rest…”

The blonde let out a quiet snort, the motion jerking the blankets he held clutched to his chest. Jack couldn’t help his own smile at the transformation in the younger boy’s expression. He seemed to soften around the edges, with a little exhale that spelled progress. “Can’t deprive the great President of his beauty sleep… How’s he gonna sell papes without his pretty boy face?”

“That’s the problem– I need my pretty boy face. It’s the only thing I got goin’ for me.” Jack joked back with practiced ease, like everything was fine and Race wasn’t having one of his bad days. It was good, and it worked, because Racer snorted again.

In one shift of obviously difficult motion, Racetrack rolled onto his back and stared up at the wood holding up the bunk above them. Jack placed a careful hand on his shoulder and went still, waiting patiently. He could see Race’s mind moving behind intelligent blue eyes, the dart of his irises and the wrinkle of his nose as he thought. Sorting through his thoughts. Analyzing. A mathematician's brain, not at all like Jack’s artist brain or Davey’s literature brain or Kath’s journalist brain. Solving a problem. Race was a skeleton of problems and solutions wrapped in skin with a trickster’s smile. He was missing one of his pieces in that bed, because half of his face was occupied by an uncharacteristic frown.

Finally, he spoke. “I can’t stop thinkin’ about what the fuck I’m gonna do after this.”

“After what?” Jack tried to put the pieces together, but he’d never been good at solving Race’s cryptic riddles. “When you get outta bed?”

“No. After all’a this.” He muttered, throwing one hand up as if gesturing to the entire bunkroom. “I got nothin’ planned. Once I’m eighteen and Klop gives me the boot, I’m done.”

Oh. Jack knew this rabbit hole of thought all too well. The cause of Race’s spiral was one that had caused him many spirals of his own, and it probably did the same for almost every newsboy that came before them. “You ain’t done. You basically got two years to figure shit out, man. Plus, you’se smart as a whip. Anybody would kill to have you workin’ for them if they knew how your brain worked.”

“Yeah, but they don’t, and since my Ma had to go and fuckin’ die on me, I ain’t got no schoolin’ to show for it. No proof.” He muttered, dragging his hands over his face. “I hit eighteen and boom, I’m on the streets. My Pa’s gonna want me to join his fuckin’ gang and I can’t do that, Jack, I swear to God–”

“You don’t hafta join any gang, Race, we’ll find you some other job. Stuff comes up when you least expect it. You gotta look at the good and the bad.” Jack reassured, carefully squeezing Race’s shoulder.

He sighed, hard and long. “Well sometimes it don’t feel like there’s any good.”

“Yeah, I hear you.” Jack responded, even though he knew the feeling far too well. Before Pulitzer miraculously offered that job, he’d been thinking the same thoughts. Now he was staring down the barrel of a secure future where he worked full time as an artist for the paper. It had all been pure luck. Chance. How was he supposed to explain that sorta thing? “I hear you, but you might not be lookin’ in the right places. Listen– we’ll get Davey on the job hunt with us. I’m sure he knows a couple places that are hiring. You can get in early, start up part time like me, work your way up. By the time you’se eighteen, you’se set.”

“Okay.” Race breathed, eyes fluttering shut. “Okay, that… that sounds okay.”

“Yeah?”

A tiny nod, a jostling of blonde curls. Jack let out a sigh of relief as Race finally pushed himself to sit up, rubbing his hands over his face. Every movement seemed like he was pushing through a sea of syrupy fatigue, fighting his own body to get things working again. Jack rubbed his back through it all– though he’d never experienced this sort of thing, Race had been through it more times than he could count, and it looked the same every time. Painful, difficult, but a surefire show of Racetrack’s incredible determination.

After a moment, he twisted awkwardly and lurched into Jack’s arms, wrapping him in a messy embrace. “Thanks, Jackie.”

“Don’t call me that, bud.” Jack responded simply, swinging his arms around Race and embracing him happily as the little shit exhaled a harsh laugh into his shoulder. He smelled like sweat and stale bed linens but he was talking and awake and moving, and that was more than enough to make Jack grin. “You want dinner? Water? You’re prob’ly fuckin’ parched.”

“Huh. Guess I am.” He said almost absently, like he was just then remembering his own humanity. Race reached across Jack and downed the glass of water in one go, before Jack offered him the sandwich and he slowly tucked in.

Moments like this made Jack remember why he’d stayed in this position for so long, leading these boys. They made him dread the day he had to leave, too. He slung an arm around Race’s shoulders and leaned back against the headboard of the bunk as the door creaked open, revealing a green-eyed boy with his cap held carefully in his hands. Jack motioned Davey in, tugging Race closer up against his side. The younger boy curled up beneath his arm, seeming to melt into the embrace.

“Hi, Racer. Feeling better?” Davey asked politely, coming to a halt beside the bed and tucking freckled hands into his pockets.

Race nodded wordlessly, without making eye contact as he bit his sandwich. He’d probably only be talking to Jack for a few hours, but that was how things always went. Jack had a remarkable knack for weaseling into people’s cracks and gently breaking them open. Davey rocked back on his feet, wearing a pleasant little smile. “That’s good. Your bunk is all paid for tonight, so no need to worry about that.”

“Great. Thanks, Dave.” Jack briefly grabbed his hand and squeezed, and like clockwork, Davey squeezed back. He trailed up to hold onto the taller boy's wrist as an idea struck him. “Hey, Davey, you think you could help Racer here start up a job search? Like, a post-newsie career?”

“Well, sure. I can think of a couple things that suit you, Race.” He smiled the type of smile that appeared when he had an idea. Jack felt confident for Racer that Davey was going to take good care of this little issue. Things would be okay, even if it was slow going. Even if Race was burrowing further into his arm, looking stony and miserable. “I’ll get back to you on that as soon as possible. Is it alright if I go tell the guys you’re alive and well up here?”

“Go inform the masses.” Jack responded easily, shooting Davey a lazy grin.

Davey returned the bright smile, crinkling his wide eyes into crescent moons. “Yessir. Oh, and Jackie?”

“Yeah, Dave?”

“Les gave me a couple of taffies for Race.” He briefly dug into his pocket and carefully deposited the candies in Jack’s palm, just a simple brush of pale skin against tan. “You don’t have to eat them if you don’t want to, but if you do, I promise they’re safe for consumption.”

Jack thanked him and he disappeared as quickly as he came. Only once Jack had set the taffies aside, did he notice Race’s shit-eating smirk. A little bit of bright mischief was returning to his eyes as he trained them on Jack, brows curling downwards into a ghost of his usual impish expression. That was both a good and bad sign. Jack felt his own eyebrows raising. “What? What are you making that face for?”

Race’s teeth flashed in a little grin as he did a remarkable impression of Dave: “Jackie…”

And that earned him a smack upside the head. Jack’s face prickled with heat as he adamantly shook his head, rolling his eyes to the soundtrack of Race snickering beneath his arm. “Shaddap, ya’ bastard.”

Then he started fucking cackling, and Jack didn’t even have the energy to be pissed off at being the butt of the joke, because Race was gonna be okay. Rough patches were tough, but he could see a bit of sunlight through the clouds. Jack held him a little bit tighter and thanked the higher powers for small breakthroughs.

....

thank you for the ask, darling! <3

#newsies #jack kelly #racetrack higgins #albert dasilva #crutchie morris #davey jacobs #david jacobs #they're brothers your honor #sonorouswrites #and has fun writing #i love the jack and race dynamic #asks #answered asks #like they love each other so much #they understand each other #and crutchie too thats the trifecta of sad orphan boys #they give each other shit but its all love #the brothers ever #newsies fanfiction

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