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jungkoode · 8 days ago

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𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 14

˗ˏˋ laundry day ˎˊ˗

"Doing laundry should be a normal activity—not something that brings out a whole new set of revelations about Jungkook you were not even fathoming. And you don’t know if it’s helping old ladies, tying your shoes or collecting stupid vynils—but you don’t like how it’s throwing off your whole perception of your annoying roommate."

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⋆｡°✩ chapter details ✩°｡⋆

word count: 8k

content: laundry rooms, old ladies that have a vendetta against you?, jungkook being a decent human being, batman socks, vynil revelations, humanizing jungkook and not liking it

✧ author's note ✧

Hello again little gremlins! It’s your girl, Kiki—back with another dose of Jungkook being emotionally compromised and having weird feelings about vulnerability.

SO. This chapter is… fairly slow-paced, which, duh—have you read my stuff? I went HAM on the introspection here, but I think it was so needed. Sometimes we need this type of chapter to balance the narrative out. I think it’s worked out beautifully, but do let me know your thoughts at the end.

About the goal thing! In case you’ve been living under a rock (or you don’t check my Tumblr regularly—which, fair), I have decided to switch my update schedule system.

Previously, I had been working with a weekly schedule as you all know. This has been quite easy for me to maintain because I work with hyperfixations, and basically ADHD.

The thing is… it’s a 2 month cycle.

I’m basically on week 7/8 already.

And that brings me to The Point. Goal-based update system. Which just means I’ll continue posting as long as we reach the established goals in every chapter. I’m going to be creating a whole post explaining how it works, but, long story short—as long as we reach either the goal in Tumblr OR Wattpad, we’ll be getting more chapters!

This is basically a self-regulation thing. I am self-aware (luckily) and I know how to work with my ADHD—but for those who don’t know; it’s heavily tied to dopamine. Which just means (I’m not gonna get nerdy I swear), I basically need engagement to trick my brain into staying motivated. Otherwise dopamine hits get slowly weaker and at some point I literally cannot bring myself to write.

WHICH SUCKS. Because I do love my stories, and I love sharing them. But burnout is real and brains work in funny ways and I can’t really fight my ADHD or brain chemistry (trust me I wish I could). So this is how you guys are going to help me tame this bitch. WE RIDE AT DOWN. 🤝

And before anyone asks—no, this is not up for debate. This is not something I’m “considering” or “open to feedback on.” This is me taking care of my mental health and working with my ADHD instead of against it. It’s not an “excuse,” it’s just how my brain operates. If that bothers you… I literally do not know what to tell you.

Anyways, as always, I love you all, I’m reading all your comments and reblogs and asks, and do check the note goal at the very end! 🩷

⋆｡°✩ read on✩°｡⋆

ao3

wattpad

It's fucking weird how some people's clothes have a gravitational pull, like they're magnets and your body is just helplessly metal.

You're wearing his sweater. The same one that's been mocking you from your desk chair for the last twenty-four hours, just sitting there in all its navy blue glory, smelling like rain and testosterone and bad decisions. You don't know why you haven't tossed it back into his room yet. It's been staring you down all morning, a silent accusation of...something.

But now it's almost midday on Sunday, and your pile of dirty clothes has reached critical mass. Your laundry basket is basically a textile Mount Everest. You'd wear something clean, except there isn't anything clean left—not unless you count the questionable tank top you found at the back of your drawer that you're pretty sure you wore to a frat party sophomore year.

So. Jungkook's sweater it is.

You tell yourself it's just practical. Totally logical. It's uncharacteristically chilly outside, the first whisper of almost September creeping in, and you need something to cover your ridiculous pajama shorts for the trek to the basement laundry room. They're flowery and pale pink, paired with an equally ridiculous oversized t-shirt featuring a cartoonish sunflower with the words "HAVE A SUNFLOWER DAY!" emblazoned across your chest in neon yellow.

Not exactly the look you'd choose for running into anyone with functioning eyeballs, but it's Sunday, and your give-a-fuck meter is hovering at absolute zero.

It's not like you're going to run into anyone important anyway. Miguel the super probably won't be down there; he's usually sleeping off his Saturday night till at least 2PM. And the chances of meeting some hot neighbor—your future spouse who'll be so charmed by your sunflower ensemble that they'll propose on the spot—are basically nonexistent.

Actually, scratch that.

Even if some dream person did materialize in the laundry room today, they wouldn't see the sunflower masterpiece because it's hidden under Jungkook's stupidly oversized hoodie. The one that somehow hangs past your shorts, making it look like you're not wearing pants at all, which is a whole different kind of disaster.

Whatever. It's warm. It doesn't smell like him anymore. (It does.) And you're just using it. Borrowing it. Temporarily occupying its fabric space.

You scoop up your overflowing laundry basket and wrestle it onto your hip. The elevator in this building moves with all the urgency of continental drift, so you opt for the stairs. Three flights down isn't horrible, especially since the laundry room is conveniently right next to the stairwell exit.

"Just put it in his room later," you mutter to yourself, adjusting the hoodie.

You could've done that yesterday when he tossed it at you, but you didn't, and you're not thinking about why.

You check your pocket for quarters and detergent pods.

The whole ritual is familiar now—Sunday laundry day, another week of adulting successfully completed without burning the building down or getting evicted. Not that the bar should be that low, but hey, after the month you've had, you'll take the wins where you can get them.

As you start down the stairs, the hoodie falls past your hand, and you absently tug it back up, trying not to think about how the collar brushes against your cheek or how the cuffs hang past your fingertips.

And you definitely aren't thinking about the fact that you're surrounded by the scent of him with every breath you take.

Because that would be weird, right? Being conscious of wearing your roommate's clothes? The roommate you occasionally fuck? The one who took you to buy a vibrator yesterday before subjecting you to lunch with his overly-protective friend?

Right. Not weird at all.

You're just doing laundry, in ridiculous pajamas, wearing his hoodie because it's practical. That's the story, and you're sticking to it—even if the sleeves smell faintly of his soap when you lift your hand to push your hair out of your face.

The stairwell is quiet, just the echo of your worn-out sneakers slapping against the concrete steps. You shift the basket to your other hip, huffing slightly under its weight.

Maybe you should've done laundry sooner. Maybe you shouldn't wait until you're literally out of underwear every single time.

But then again, maybe you should focus on the stairs and not on the fact that your bare thighs occasionally brush against the soft inner lining of his hoodie.

Adulthood is just a series of mundane chores punctuated by questionable decisions. And today, apparently, that includes wearing Jungkook's hoodie to do your laundry.

No big deal. You'll wash your clothes, return his sweater, and the universe will continue spinning on its axis, completely unaffected by your poor wardrobe choices.

The door to the laundry room is propped open with a cinder block—probably Mrs. Patel from 4C forgetting to remove it again. You shift your basket one final time and head in, already mentally claiming the good dryer, the one that doesn't sound like it's harboring a demon when it hits the spin cycle.

It's just laundry day. Just another Sunday.

And the laundry room is still a goddamn joke.

Because let’s be real—whoever thought six washing machines and four dryers could service an entire apartment building was either a sadist or never did laundry in their life.

And on Sundays?

It's like watching vultures circle a carcass—everybody desperate for their turn at the machines, glaring at anyone who takes too long to transfer their clothes.

Dona Ramirez is already there, of course. The seventy-something retiree who treats the laundry room like her personal kingdom and you like an invading barbarian. She's currently guarding the Good Dryer—the one you had mentally claimed seconds ago.

Just. Fucking. Great.

She looks up as you enter, lips pursing like she's just bitten into something sour. Her eyes travel from your face down to your bare legs and back up again, judgment radiating from her in palpable waves.

"Good morning," you mutter, aiming for polite but landing somewhere around constipated.

"Hmph." Dona sniffs, turning back to her women's magazine. "Young people these days. No shame."

You bite back the urge to point out that it's literally just your legs showing, not your entire ass. It wouldn't matter anyway. In Dona's world, anything above the ankle is basically pornographic.

Shifting your heavy basket to your other hip, you make your way to the only empty washing machine—wedged in the back corner, naturally. The one that sometimes stops mid-cycle like it's having an existential crisis. You slam your basket down with more force than necessary.

"Careful with the machines," Dona mutters without looking up from her magazine. "They're not getting any younger."

Neither are you, standing here taking shit from the laundry room gatekeeper.

"Sorry," you say, not sorry at all.

You start sorting your clothes, creating separate piles for darks and lights. Dona continues to flip pages, totally unbothered. Or maybe bothered. You can’t tell and frankly don’t care.

As you're separating your darks, something catches your eye. Orange hair. Lots of it, actually, clinging to your black leggings and that navy shirt you wore when you were studying on the couch last week.

Griffin.

That little furry infiltrator has been shedding all over your clothes again. Despite the fact that your door is always closed. Despite the "no pets" clause in your lease that Jungkook blatantly ignores. Despite your best efforts to maintain some semblance of a cat-hair-free existence.

And yet...

You find yourself smiling slightly as you pluck a particularly long orange strand from your favorite black sweater. The traitorous little shit must have snuck into your room when you were in the shower yesterday. You'd caught him curled up on your bed when you came out, looking entirely too comfortable and completely unapologetic about the invasion.

He'd just blinked at you lazily, that slow "yes, I know I'm not supposed to be here, and no, I don't care" cat-blink that somehow manages to be both insulting and endearing at the same time.

You should be annoyed. You should definitely tell Jungkook to keep his feline menace away from your clean laundry basket. You should not find it even remotely charming that Griffin seems to have decided your clothes are his second-favorite napping spot (right after your pillow, the little asshole).

And yet here you are, pulling orange fur off your black clothes with something dangerously close to fondness.

What the fuck is happening to you?

Maybe it's sleep deprivation.

Or maybe it's the fact that Griffin is actually kind of cool, for a cat.

He doesn't have that typical cat superiority complex—he just genuinely doesn't give a shit about anything except food, sunbeams, and antagonizing Jungkook.

It's a lifestyle you can respect.

Plus, he has this way of curling up next to you when you're reading, just close enough to leech your body heat without actually admitting he wants your attention. It's like living with a tiny, furry version of his owner.

Not that you'd ever admit that particular observation out loud.

You dump your dark clothes into the washing machine, mentally calculating how much detergent to add. Dona shuffles to check her wash cycle, eyeing you suspiciously like you might try to sabotage her laundry when she's not looking.

"Cold day," she comments, which is probably the most conversational she's ever been with you.

"Yeah," you reply, not looking up from measuring detergent. "Came early this year."

She hums disapprovingly, like the weather is also your fault. "Wearing your boyfriend's clothes won't keep you warm forever."

For a split second, your brain halts.

Boyfriend? What boyfriend? And then—

Ah.

The hoodie.

Jungkook's hoodie that you're swimming in.

Something about her smug certainty, that look that says she's got you all figured out, makes you want to burn the whole goddamn building down. Or at least throw a very minor wrench in her worldview.

"It's my girlfriend's, actually," you say, the lie sliding off your tongue with practiced ease.

There. Take that, you judgmental old bat. Let's see how your 1950s sensibilities handle—

"Even worse," Dona sniffs, not missing a beat. "Girls these days, always stealing each other's clothes. You'll never build a proper wardrobe that way."

Wait, what?

You blink, momentarily thrown. That's... not the reaction you were expecting. No pearl-clutching. No horrified gasps. Just... practical fashion advice?

"I—"

"My granddaughter does the same thing," she continues, adjusting the scarf around her neck with arthritic fingers. "Comes home wearing her girlfriend's sweatshirts, twice her size. Looks like she's drowning in fabric. No shape whatsoever. You young people and your oversized clothes." She clicks her tongue. "In my day, we wore things that fit."

Well, shit.

So much for your brilliant plan to scandalize the old lady.

Turns out Dona's not a homophobe—she's just a fashion critic. Equal opportunity judgment for all. How progressive of her.

"Right," you mutter, feeling weirdly chastised. "I'll, uh, keep that in mind."

"Hmph." She turns back to her laundry, seemingly satisfied that she's dispensed enough wisdom for one day.

You're still processing this unexpected twist when the laundry room door creaks open behind you, letting in a draft of cooler air.

You don't need to turn around to know who it is.

Something in the atmosphere shifts immediately—molecules rearranging themselves, air particles getting all excited, the very fabric of space-time bending to accommodate his presence.

Or maybe that's just your pulse doing that annoying thing where it decides to race for no good reason.

"Well, well, well."

His voice is sleep-rough and amused, and you can already picture the exact expression on his face without looking.

That stupid half-smirk. That cocked eyebrow. That look that says he's caught you doing something you shouldn't.

You turn slowly, trying to appear nonchalant despite the fact that you're suddenly, acutely aware that you're wearing his fucking hoodie over your ridiculous pajamas.

Jungkook stands in the doorway, laundry basket propped against his hip, looking unfairly good for someone who's probably just rolled out of bed. His hair is a disaster, sticking up in tufts. He's wearing a plain white t-shirt and those stupid gray sweatpants that look way too good on him, and his feet are bare—the absolute psychopath. Who walks around a gross apartment building with no shoes?

His eyes drop immediately to the hoodie, and his eyebrow arches even higher.

"Interesting fashion choice, Phoenix," he says, lips twitching.

Your face heats. "Laundry day," you say, as if that explains everything.

As if borrowing—okay, stealing—his clothes is a perfectly normal response to having nothing clean to wear.

"Clearly." His gaze sweeps over you, taking in the edge of your floral shorts peeking out beneath the hem of his hoodie. "Sunflower PJs? Again?"

"It's laundry day," you repeat, like maybe he didn't hear you the first time. Like maybe that's a valid excuse for looking like you raided a middle schooler's closet. "Everything else is dirty."

"Hmm."

He steps fully into the room, letting the door swing shut behind him, and moves to the washing machine next to yours.

Puts his basket down.

Stands too close.

“But the hoodie isn't yours."

It's not a question. It's a statement, delivered with that infuriating confidence he always has, like he's so sure of himself, so certain of how this interaction is going to play out.

"I found it in my room," you say, turning back to your washing machine, pretending to be deeply interested in the cycle selection. "Must've gotten mixed up in my stuff."

"For a whole day?" He snorts, and you can hear him starting to sort his laundry beside you. "Interesting that you decided to wear it instead of, I don't know, returning it."

"It was convenient," you mutter, jabbing at the start button. "And it's cold."

"Right."

You can hear the smile in his voice without looking at him, and you don’t know why you notice without even having to gaze at him.

Damn your body and its complete lack of dignity.

"You're late, boy."

Your head whips around at the sharp change in Dona's tone. Not softer—definitely not softer—but different somehow. Like… Less venomous, more... familiar?

The old woman is glaring at Jungkook, but it's not the same glare she gives you. It's like the difference between a loaded gun and a water pistol.

"Sorry, Miss D," Jungkook says, and there's something in his voice—a hint of warmth?—that catches you completely off guard. "Overslept."

"Hmph. Young people." Dona shakes her head, but there's no real bite to it. "My sheets need folding. These old hands aren't what they used to be."

"Sure thing." Jungkook nods like this is a completely normal request, like random old ladies demanding his manual labor is just part of his Sunday routine.

What the actual fuck?

You stare between them, waiting for Jungkook to tell her to fold her own damn sheets, or at the very least look annoyed at being bossed around.

But he just continues sorting his laundry like this is fine.

Like this is normal.

"You know her?" you ask, keeping your voice low as Dona bustles over to check her washing machine.

Jungkook glances at you, one eyebrow raised. "Yeah?"

"Since when?"

He shrugs, separating a dark shirt from a pile of whites. "Since I moved in? She lives on the fourth floor."

"And you just... help her fold laundry? Voluntarily?"

"Sometimes." He's not looking at you now, focused on his sorting with more attention than dirty clothes really require. "It's not a big deal."

"Is that why she doesn't look at you like you're gum on her shoe?"

He huffs a laugh. "What?"

"She fucking hates me," you whisper, gesturing discreetly at Dona's back. "Every time I see her, she looks at me like I personally invented avocado toast and killed all the mom-and-pop stores."

"Maybe you just need to help her fold her sheets," he suggests, the corner of his mouth quirking up.

"Or maybe you've charmed her with your stupid dimples and your fake nice-guy routine."

"Fake nice-guy routine?" His eyebrows shoot up, and he looks genuinely amused. "Is that what you think this is?"

"Obviously," you mutter. "Nobody is actually that helpful without an agenda."

He studies you for a moment. Then, speaks. "Yeah? What's my agenda with Dona, then?"

“I don't know yet. But I'm sure it's something nefarious."

"Nefarious," he repeats, and now he's definitely laughing at you. "Sure, Phoenix. I'm playing the long con with a senior citizen. Really working that angle."

"Wouldn't put it past you.”

"Right." He tilts his head to the other side, still smiling slightly. "Well, while I'm busy being fake nice, you might want to turn your machine on. You've been standing there for five minutes and it's still not running."

You glance down at your washing machine, which is indeed just sitting there, silent and unhelpful. Fuck. Your finger must have missed the start button in your rush to look like you knew what you were doing.

You jab the button again, harder this time, and the machine finally lurches to life with a groan that sounds suspiciously like judgment.

"Boy," Dona calls from across the room, "come help with these detergent bottles. They're too heavy."

"Coming," Jungkook calls back, and he's moving before you can say anything else, crossing the room to where Dona is struggling with an industrial-sized bottle of Tide.

You watch, equal parts confused and suspicious, as he takes the bottle from her. They exchange a few words you can't quite hear over the rumble of the washing machines, and then—what the fuck—Dona actually pats his arm. Like he's her grandson or something.

Like she doesn't find him utterly repulsive.

Is this why she likes him? Because he lets her boss him around and carries her detergent?

That's... kind of pathetic, actually.

You thought Jungkook had more of a backbone than that.

But still. It's weird. The cold, calculating part of your brain catalogs this new information, filed under "Jungkook, Things That Don't Add Up About."

It's growing into a pretty substantial folder these days.

You turn back to your washing machine, pretending to be deeply fascinated by the cycle display, but you're still watching them from the corner of your eye. Trying to figure out what his deal is.

"You need groceries this week?" Jungkook asks, voice low but not quite low enough that you can't hear it. "I can swing by after my studio session on Wednesday."

"Do I look like I need charity?" Dona snaps, but it’s not fueled by anger. If anything, she sounds... embarrassed?

"Not charity," Jungkook says, voice even. "Just a neighbor thing."

"Hmph." Dona busies herself with folding a dishcloth. "Well, if you insist on playing delivery boy, I do need milk. And those crackers from last time."

"Got it." Jungkook nods, like this is just normal. Like he's not going completely out of his way for someone who doesn't even seem particularly grateful.

You frown, trying to make it make sense.

Maybe... maybe it's a hustle? Maybe old ladies tip really well? Or maybe he's building up good karma because he's secretly done something terrible and needs to balance the cosmic scales?

The two of them chat for a bit longer, and you can't quite hear all of it, but you catch fragments—something about Dona's doctor's appointment, something about Jungkook's classes, something about a recipe for chicken soup.

It's all so... domestic. So weirdly normal. So completely at odds with the Jungkook you know—the one who teases you mercilessly, the one who fucks you against walls, the one with the sharp edges and the arrogant smirk.

You're so busy trying to reconcile these two versions of him that you almost miss it when Dona's voice rises slightly.

"...since Hector passed, and these new delivery apps, they charge so much..." Her voice wavers, just slightly. "...shouldn't have to pay an arm and a leg just to get groceries when you can't..."

Jungkook says something too low for you to catch, and Dona makes that "hmph" sound again. But this time it sounds different. Almost... vulnerable?

"Well," she says, louder now, "you're the only one who bothers to check. The others in this building, they see an old woman and they look right through her. Like I'm already a ghost."

Oh.

Oh shit.

Something uncomfortable twists in your chest. An emotion you don't want to examine too closely. Something that feels a lot like…

Shame.

Because that's exactly what you did, isn't it? You saw a grumpy old lady and decided she was the enemy. You never once considered that maybe she was just lonely.

That maybe she uses sharpness as a shield.

The same way you use sarcasm as one.

"Not a ghost yet," Jungkook says, and his voice is gentler than you've ever heard it. "Still kicking my ass at dominoes every Thursday."

"Language," Dona scolds, but you can hear the smile in her voice. "And don't you forget it. I expect a rematch this week."

"Wouldn't miss it."

Wait. He plays dominoes with her? Weekly? What the actual fuck?

And now you feel even worse, because apparently Jungkook—the guy you've been dismissing as an arrogant player with no depth—has been spending his Thursday nights playing board games with a lonely old woman.

While you've been doing what? Watching Netflix and judging everyone's life choices?

Great. Now he's making you feel like an asshole without even trying. That's just perfect.

You turn back to your washing machine, genuinely focused on it this time, trying to process this new information. Trying to fit it into your understanding of who Jungkook is.

It's not working very well.

When you hear footsteps approaching, you pretend to be busy. You don’t know why you can’t look at him in the eyes right now.

"Sheets are folded," Jungkook says, sliding up next to you. "World is saved."

"What a hero," you deadpan, still not looking at him.

"Someday you'll appreciate my many talents," he says, and you can hear the smirk in his voice. "Speaking of which, nice hoodie."

You finally glance at him, and yep—there's that stupid, self-satisfied grin. Like he's caught you doing something embarrassing. Which, to be fair, he has.

"It's practical," you say, tugging the hem down where it's riding up. "That's all."

"Sure," he agrees easily. "Very practical to keep my clothes. Much more practical than, say, returning them."

"You want it back?" You make a show of starting to pull it off. "Fine, take—"

"Keep it," he says quickly, and the way he says it—not teasing, not mocking, just simple and straightforward—catches you off guard. "It looks better on you anyway."

You freeze, hands still at the hem of the hoodie, not quite sure how to respond to that. It feels like a trap somehow, like if you accept, you're admitting to something. To what, you're not exactly sure.

"Whatever," you mutter, dropping your hands. "I'll wash it and give it back."

"No rush." He turns back to his own laundry, a small smile playing at his lips.

For a moment, you just stand there, watching him sort his clothes. Then you look away, annoyed with yourself for gawking.

"So," you say, as casual as you can muster, "you're like, what? The old lady whisperer?"

He glances at you, eyebrow raised. "What?"

"You and Dona." You gesture vaguely in her direction. "The whole..." You wave your hand, trying to encompass whatever the hell it is you just witnessed. "...thing."

"The thing," he repeats, clearly amused. "Very specific."

"You know what I mean," you huff. "The helping her fold sheets thing. The grocery delivery thing. The dominoes thing."

His movements pause for just a fraction of a second, so brief you almost miss it. "You were eavesdropping?"

"It's a small laundry room," you point out. "And you weren't exactly whispering."

"It's not a big deal."

"Playing dominoes with an old lady every Thursday isn't a big deal?"

"It's just dominoes," he says, like that explains everything.

Like it's completely normal to spend your free time entertaining your elderly neighbor when you could be, I don't know, literally anything else that twenty-something guys usually do on a Thursday night.

"And the groceries?"

"She has trouble carrying them up the stairs," he says with a shrug. "The delivery apps charge too much. It's not a big deal."

"You keep saying that," you note, studying his profile as he focuses very intently on separating a blue shirt from a white one. "But it kind of is. I mean, how many people in this building even know their neighbors' names?"

"Maybe they should. Maybe it wouldn't kill people to look up from their phones once in a while and notice the actual humans around them."

You blink, taken aback by the sudden intensity. "Okay, damn. Sorry I asked."

"No, I'm—" He exhales sharply. "I just don't like talking about it, okay? It's not a thing."

"Why?" you press, genuinely curious now. "Why is it such a big secret that you're apparently a decent human being?"

“It's not a secret. I just don't..." He shakes his head. "I don't do it for attention or whatever. It's just the right thing to do."

"So you don't want me to know you do the right thing?"

"I don't need a fucking gold star for basic human decency," he snaps, and now there's definitely an edge to his voice. "I'm not looking for a pat on the back. I'm not trying to—" He breaks off, stuffing clothes into the machine with more force than necessary. "Just drop it, alright?"

You raise your eyebrows, watching as he jams quarters into the slot with unnecessary aggression. It's almost like he's... embarrassed? No, that's not quite right. More like he's uncomfortable with you knowing this side of him.

Like he doesn't want you to think he's actually nice.

Which is weird, because most guys would be falling all over themselves to prove they're nice guys. To get those good-person points. To make sure everyone knows what a saint they are for helping the little old lady with her groceries.

But Jungkook seems genuinely annoyed that you found out. Almost defensive about it.

It's... interesting.

Weird.

"Fine," you say, lifting your hands in surrender. "Consider it dropped. Your secret identity as a decent human being is safe with me."

He exhales sharply through his nose, still not looking at you. "Thanks."

You both lapse into silence, the hum of the washing machines like tiny droplets of silence between both of you.

Across the room, Dona is bustling around the dryers, muttering to herself about settings and temperatures. You sneaks glances at her, seeing her in a different light now.

Not just a grumpy old woman.

A widow.

Someone who lives alone and has to rely on the kindness of neighbors—specifically, one neighbor—for simple tasks like carrying groceries.

Someone who's lonely enough that a weekly dominoes game is something to look forward to.

It makes your chest feel tight in a way you don't particularly like.

"Boy," Dona calls, breaking the silence. "What cycle for delicates?"

"Gentle, cold water," Jungkook calls back without hesitation, like he's some kind of laundry expert. Like this is a normal conversation they have all the time.

"Hmph," is Dona's only response, but you notice she follows his advice, adjusting the settings on the dryer.

"She likes you," you observe quietly.

Jungkook glances at you, then back at his machine.

"She tolerates me," he corrects. "There's a difference."

"She doesn't even tolerate me."

"You've never offered to help with her sheets."

"I didn't know that was an option," you say, crossing your arms. "There's no sign-up sheet for 'Old Lady Sheet Folding' in the lobby."

He snorts, and just like that, the tension from earlier seems to dissipate.

“Maybe there should be. Building-wide rotation."

"I can see it now," you say, following in on the joke. "'4B gets Monday sheets, 6A takes Tuesday sheets...'"

"'If you find yourself assigned to Wednesday sheets, please be aware that those are the cat-hair sheets,'" he continues, adopting a serious tone. "'Lint rollers will be provided.'"

You can't help it—you laugh.

It's brief, just a small burst of amusement, but it's genuine.

And when you glance at Jungkook, he's looking at you with a strange expression, like he's seeing something he didn't expect.

"What?" you ask, immediately self-conscious.

"Nothing," he says, turning back to his machine. But there's a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Just wondering if I should sign you up for Thursday sheets."

"Don't you dare," you warn, but it’s too soft. "I have enough on my plate without adding geriatric sheet duty."

"Could be worse," he says with a shrug. "Could be Tuesday sheets."

"What's Tuesday?"

"Bingo night." He wiggles his eyebrows. "Dona goes hard on the snacks."

You stare at him, once again thrown by this glimpse into a life you didn't know existed. "You're kidding."

"Only partly," he admits with a grin. "But seriously, Tuesday is when she does her big laundry loads. Always complains about the folding."

"And you know this because...?"

"Because I pay attention," he says simply, like it's obvious. Like everyone should just naturally notice these things about their neighbors. "It's not that complicated, Phoenix."

There's no judgment in his voice, but you still feel oddly defensive. Like you've been caught failing some basic test of humanity.

"Well, we can't all be saints," you mutter.

"Not trying to be a saint," he says, a hint of irritation creeping back it. "It's just—" He exhales sharply. "Never mind."

You watch him from the corner of your eye, trying to figure out what button you just pushed. Why this, of all things, seems to get under his skin.

"Sorry," you say finally, surprising even yourself. "I didn't mean to make it weird."

“It's fine."

"It's cool that you help her," you add, feeling awkward but pressing on anyway. "Seriously. Not everyone would."

"Yeah, well." He shrugs, clearly uncomfortable with the praise. "Like I said, it's not a big deal."

"Right." You nod, getting it now.

He really doesn't want the recognition.

Doesn't want the attention for doing something decent.

You both fall silent again, with Dona’s muttering as your only company. It's not uncomfortable, though. It's just... quiet. Companionable, almost.

Which is weird, because you don't do companionable silences with Jungkook. You do heated arguments and sarcastic exchanges and intense fucking.

Not... this. Whatever this is.

"You ever play dominoes?" he asks suddenly, breaking the silence.

You blink at the unexpected question.

“Not since I was a kid."

He nods, considering this.

"Dona's always complaining that two players is boring. Says it's meant to be played with more people."

You wait for him to continue, to make the obvious invitation, but he doesn't. Just stands there, pretending to be deeply interested in the cycle display on his washing machine.

"Are you..." You squint at him. "Are you trying to ask me to play dominoes with you and Dona?"

"What? No." He scoffs, finger pressing random buttons. "Just making conversation."

"Right."

"I'm just saying," he continues, eyes fixed on the machine, "that if you ever… I dunno, find yourself bored on a Thursday night… There’s always dominoes."

Is he… Is he actually inviting you to his weird geriatric game night?

And if so, why?

It's not like you've shown any interest in spending time with the elderly. Or with him, outside of the very specific context of fucking each other senseless.

"I'll keep that in mind," you say finally, not committing to anything.

"Cool."

Another silence falls.

You don’t say anything.

He doesn’t say anything.

And you’re still wearing his hoodie. And he’s still standing too close.

And for a moment—just a brief, fleeting moment—you wonder what it would be like. To sit around a table with Jungkook and Dona, playing dominoes on a Thursday night. To see that side of him—the side that helps old ladies with groceries and remembers how they like their sheets folded.

It's a weird thought. An unfamiliar one. And you push it away almost as soon as it forms.

Because that's not what this is.

That's not what you are.

You're roommates who sometimes fuck. You're not friends who play board games together.

"Boy," Dona calls from across the room, breaking into your thoughts. "What cycle for cotton?"

"High heat, Miss D," Jungkook calls back, and just like that, the moment—whatever it was—is broken.

He turns back to his sorting, and you turn back to yours, and everything goes back to normal. Or whatever passes for normal these days.

But you're still wearing his hoodie. And you're pretty sure you're not giving it back anytime soon.

Sometime later, you're leaning against the wall just outside the laundry room, scrolling mindlessly through your phone.

Your thumb drags across the screen without purpose, not really taking in whatever the hell you're looking at—Instagram? Twitter? Does it matter? The washing machines finished twenty minutes ago, but Jungkook insisted on carrying both your loads like some kind of laundry martyr.

"I got it," he'd said, waving you off when you tried to grab your basket. "Go ahead."

So here you are, waiting, because it feels weird to just leave him down here with your underwear. Even though he's definitely seen your underwear before. In significantly more compromising contexts.

From inside the laundry room, you can hear the murmur of voices—Jungkook and Dona in what sounds like a heated debate about fabric softener. You catch fragments: "ruins the absorbency" and "smells nice" and "didn't raise my Hector to use that chemical garbage."

You roll your eyes. How is this your Sunday? Standing in a dingy hallway while your fuck buddy debates laundry techniques with a geriatric neighbor?

The door finally swings open, and Jungkook emerges, arms loaded with both laundry baskets stacked precariously on top of each other. His biceps flex as he adjusts the weight, and you're definitely not noticing that.

"Ready?" he asks, nudging the door closed with his foot.

"Been ready," you murmur, pocketing your phone. "Some of us don't need an hour-long consultation about dryer settings."

"She has strong opinions about lint," he says, absolutely straight-faced, like this is a normal follow-up to any conversation.

"Fascinating." You push off from the wall, heading for the stairs. "Let's go before she recruits you for a lint task force or whatever."

He just grins, following behind you.

The stairwell is narrow and poorly lit, with concrete steps that have seen better decades.

You're a few steps ahead when you hear it—a dull thud followed by a muttered "fuck."

You spin around to see Jungkook stumbling backward, nearly dropping both baskets as his free hand flies to his forehead. There's an exposed pipe running along the low ceiling that you always duck under without thinking—you're not particularly tall—but apparently nobody warned Jungkook about it.

"Shit." The word leaves your mouth before you can stop it, and suddenly you're moving toward him, hands reaching out automatically. "You okay?"

He looks momentarily stunned, both by the impact and by your reaction.

"Yeah, just—"

You're already on your tiptoes, fingers brushing his hair away from his forehead to check the damage. There's a red mark forming, but the skin isn't broken. His hair is softer than you expected, still slightly damp from his morning shower, and he smells like—

Wait.

What the fuck are you doing?

You freeze, suddenly aware of how close you are, of your fingers in his hair, of his eyes fixed on yours with an expression you can't quite read.

Neither of you moves.

His eyes dart between both of your pupils.

"Um," you say intelligently, dropping your hands like his forehead is suddenly made of lava. "Be more careful. We don't need you more idiot than you already are."

Smooth. Really smooth.

His lips twitch, but he doesn't call you out on whatever the hell that sentence was supposed to be. "Thanks for the concern."

"I'm not concerned," you say automatically, already turning back toward the stairs. "Just don't want to deal with your concussed ass if you knock yourself out."

"Right." His voice follows you up the stairs. "God forbid you have to care about something."

"Exactly," you agree, not looking back. "Caring is for suckers."

You're halfway up the flight when you hear him grunt as he shifts the laundry baskets. It's a lot to carry, and the stairwell is narrow, but you're definitely not offering to help. That would imply you care, which you just explicitly denied. So.

There's a moment of shuffling footsteps behind you, then: "Wait a sec, Nix."

You turn, ready with some smart-ass comment about his head injury affecting his ability to climb stairs, but the words die in your throat. He's set both baskets down on the landing and is now kneeling on the step below you, looking at your feet.

"What are you—"

"Your shoes," he says, nodding at your sneakers. "They're untied."

You glance down. Sure enough, both laces on your ancient Converse are dragging on the concrete steps, a tripping hazard waiting to happen.

"I know," you lie. You didn't know. "I was gonna fix them later."

"Later, like after you face-plant on the stairs?" He's already reaching for your shoe, his big hands deftly gathering the laces. "With my luck, I'd have to call an ambulance, and they'd blame me for pushing you."

"I wouldn't give you the satisfaction of falling," you mutter, but you don't pull away.

Instead, you just stand there, weirdly frozen, as Jungkook—the guy who regularly makes you come so hard you see stars—ties your shoelaces like you're a fucking kindergartner.

His head is bent in concentration, dark hair falling over his forehead, partially hiding the red mark from the pipe. His hands move with practiced ease, looping and pulling.

It's such a small thing. So mundane. So ordinary.

So why does your chest feel tight?

"There," he says, finishing the second shoe with a final tug. "Crisis averted."

He glances up at you, still kneeling, and something in his expression makes your stomach do a weird little flip. It's probably just the angle. The way the shitty stairwell lighting catches on his features. The lingering effects of morning caffeine making your pulse do stupid things.

"I could have done that myself," you say, but your voice comes out softer than you intended.

"I know." He shrugs, pushing himself to his feet and picking up the laundry baskets again. "But you didn't."

You don't have a good response to that, so you just turn and continue up the stairs, acutely aware of him following behind you. The only sound is your newly tied shoes against the concrete and his slightly labored breathing as he carries the laundry.

It's weird.

This whole morning has been weird.

First the hoodie, then Dona and the dominoes revelation, now this—Jungkook tying your shoes like it's nothing.

Like these small, casually intimate gestures are just things people do for each other.

Maybe they are. Maybe this is all completely normal roommate behavior, and you're the weird one for overthinking it.

It's not like he meant anything by it.

He's just like that, apparently—the kind of guy who helps old ladies with groceries and plays dominoes on Thursdays and doesn't let people trip on their shoelaces.

It's not personal. It's not about you.

He's just nice sometimes. In between being an absolute asshole who drives you crazy.

It doesn't mean anything.

It doesn't mean anything at all.

You finally make it to the apartment door, fishing your keys out of the pocket of Jungkook's stupid hoodie and hold the door open for him because he's still stubbornly carrying both laundry loads, despite your begrudging offer to take yours back.

"I can carry my own shit," you'd said on the landing between the second and third floors, trying to grab your basket.

He'd just smirked and swung it out of your reach. "I got it."

"I'm not helpless."

"Never said you were."

"So give me my laundry, asshole."

"Nope."

And that was that. Because apparently this is the hill he wants to die on. Stupid, stubborn, impossible man.

Now he strides past you into the apartment, annoyingly unbothered by the weight of two full baskets.

You absolutely do not track how lean his arm muscles are as he sets them both on the table near the main door.

You definitely don't track the line of his shoulders as he rolls them back, working out the tension from the climb.

And you certainly don't follow a bead of sweat as it trails down the side of his neck, disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt.

Because that would be pathetic. And you're not pathetic.

He starts rummaging through his basket, brows furrowed in concentration. Then he looks up, confusion clear on his face.

“Wait, I'm missing a sock."

"Huh?"

"A sock." He holds up a single black sock with little Batman logos on it. "I should have two."

You stare at him blankly. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Did you see a sock drop or something? On the stairs, maybe?"

"Why would I be looking for your socks?" You cross your arms. "I have better things to do with my life than track your Batmans."

"Fuck it," he sighs. "I'm going downstairs again."

"Seriously? For a sock?"

"It's my favorite pair." He's already heading for the door. "Be right back."

And then he's gone, the door closing behind him with a soft click, leaving you standing there next to two baskets of laundry and feeling weirdly... abandoned?

Which is ridiculous. It's a sock. He'll be back in five minutes.

Get a grip, bitch.

You stare at the laundry baskets on the table. His and yours, side by side.

Why did he insist on carrying yours? It's so stupidly... nice. And Jungkook isn't nice. He's arrogant and annoying and makes you want to pull your hair out. He's not supposed to tie your shoes or carry your laundry or play dominoes with old ladies.

It's throwing off your entire understanding of him, and that's irritating as hell.

You hate him. You definitely hate him.

Except that's getting harder to believe by the day.

The sound of a door opening breaks into your thoughts, but it's not the main door—it's Yoongi's room. Huh. Like seeing a bear outside hibernation season.

He shuffles into the kitchen, looking about as close to death as you've ever seen him. His hair is a disaster, sticking up in weird tufts like he’s barely managed to lay down on a horizontal surface. The bags under his eyes have bags. His t-shirt is wrinkled in that "I've been wearing this for days" way, and he's moving with the careful deliberation of someone who hasn't slept in approximately three centuries.

"Working?" you ask, because it seems like the only explanation for this zombie-like state.

"Unfortunately." His voice is rough, like he hasn't used it in hours. Maybe days.

He doesn't elaborate, just heads straight for the coffee maker.

You don't ask. Not your business.

Besides, you've got your own shit to worry about—like why you can't stop thinking about Jungkook carrying your laundry, or tying your shoes, or the way his hands moved when he was folding Dona's sheets.

God, you need a lobotomy.

Your gaze drifts around the apartment, trying to focus on literally anything else. It lands on the record collection displayed on the wall next to the TV. There must be at least thirty vinyl albums. You remember when Yeji was over last week, she mentioned them—commented on how eclectic the selection was.

You'd just shrugged and said they were Yoongi's. Because they had to be, right? Music producer, always holed up with headphones... it makes sense.

"Nice collection," you say, nodding toward the wall.

You're not sure why you say it. Maybe to make conversation. Maybe to confirm your assumption. Maybe because some part of you suspects they're not Yoongi's at all, and you want to know what else you might have missed about Jungkook.

Not that you care about his likes or interests or anything. That would be dangerously close to caring about him as a person, which—ha! Absolutely not.

"Huh?"

Yoongi turns around lazily, coffeepot in hand. He follows your gaze to the wall of records, and then—he scoffs. Actually scoffs, shaking his head like you've just said something so stupid he can't believe it came out of your mouth.

"Have you even checked them?" he asks, tone dry as the Sahara. "They're mostly Mayer."

You blink.

Mayer? As in John Mayer? As in the songs Jungkook plays on his guitar sometimes?

As in "Slow Dancing in a Burning Room"—the song he played that night in his room when he taunted you through text messages and you were stupid enough to actually walk in?

"They're Jungkook's," Yoongi adds after a beat of silence. "Not mine."

"Oh." The word falls from your lips automatically, small and insignificant, completely inadequate to express the weird reorganization happening in your brain. "But he doesn't have a record player?"

Yoongi just shrugs, pouring coffee into his mug. "Doesn't mean he can't collect them."

You stare at the vinyl collection with new eyes. Each album carefully chosen, meticulously arranged. A physical manifestation of something Jungkook cares about, something he values enough to collect even though he can't listen to them. Yet.

Something unwinds in your chest. A tight, small knot of... what?

Surprise?

Interest?

Whatever it is, you don't like it. Don't want to examine it too closely. Because it feels dangerously like the beginning of seeing Jungkook as a whole person, not just the asshole who happens to be good in bed.

And that's not what this is. That's not what you are.

The door swings open, and there he is—stupid grin on his stupid face, waving a Batman sock in the air like he's just found buried treasure.

"Found it," he announces, triumphant. "It was stuck in the dryer door."

You give him the blankest stare you can muster. "Congratulations. Your sock journey is complete."

His grin just widens, completely unfazed by your sarcasm. "Thanks for the moral support, Phoenix. Couldn't have done it without you."

"I literally did nothing."

"Your energy kept me going."

You roll your eyes so hard it's a miracle they don't get stuck in the back of your head. He just laughs, that warm, rich sound that does absolutely nothing to your insides, and starts gathering his laundry.

"Later," you mutter, turning away before he can see the corner of your mouth threatening to twitch upward.

You grab your laundry basket head straight for your room, shutting the door with perhaps more force than necessary.

Safe in your own space, you fish your phone from your pocket—and see three missed calls from the same number.

Ah. Barnes & Noble.

Seems like you got the job. Which is good. Great, even.

This is what responsible adults do—get jobs, pay bills, build sensible futures. Not collect vinyl records they can't play or help old ladies with their grocery shopping or carry their roommates' laundry just because.

Normal, practical, boring adult stuff. That's what you're about.

Except now you can't stop thinking about those records on the wall. About what else you might have missed. About who Jungkook actually is when he isn't being an infuriating, cocky asshole. About—

About nothing. Because you don’t care.

He’s Jungkook. Rogue. The infuriating roommate of yours that leaves towels everywhere and can’t be bothered to clean his own mugs.

You toss your phone onto your bed and start aggressively pulling laundry from your basket.

You've got shit to do. Clothes to put away. A job to call back about. A life to live that absolutely does not revolve around wondering why your roommate collects vinyl records or helps old ladies or ties your shoes when they're untied.

It doesn't matter. None of it matters.

(Except that it might. Just a little. And that's the most terrifying thought of all.)

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⋆｡°✩ taglist✩°｡⋆

@cannotalwaysbenight @livingformintyoongi @itstoastsworld @jimineepaboya @somehowukook @stutixmaru @chloepiccoliniii @kimnamjoonmiddletoe @annyeongbitch7 @jkrailme @rpwprpwprpwprw @mar-lo-pap @jeontae

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beababoobies · 9 months ago

Note

hello i saw your request post and requesting is my full time job atp this is a basic one but size and breeding kink with toji, sukuna, + anyone else you wanna include :)

I always find breeding kink requests with Toji so funny bc his ass is NOT no baby daddy🙅🙅🙅🙅🙅

𝜗𝜚TOJI FUSHIGURO𝜗𝜚

Toji was not a man who was fit to be a dad. Well, that’s what he had told himself again and again, whenever he would have the urge to lose the condom, or not stopping when it broke. The way your body bounced with each harsh thrust of his made him a little delirious, and that’s all he chalked it up to. But then, you got the implant.

God, that fucking implant. He could’ve swore it messed with your pheromones or something - could’ve sworn you didn’t feel this fucking good around him before, the way your cheeks flushed and your eyes got all teary when you begged him to cum inside you had him feeing like a fucking nympho. Day or night, mornings before missions, Monday through Sunday, in the middle of the night when he had to wake up to get something to drink - it really didn’t matter. But then an idea even more delicious started to poke at the back of his mind.

It all started when you were curled up into him after one of your many, many sessions, snoring softly, with his cum leaking out of you, did the idea start to crawl onto him. The image of you, pregnant with his kid, all round and directly at his mercy to love, ready to be pumped full again, and again, and again. He played with the implant imprint in your upper arm, humming in agreement to whatever you were saying about it. He wasn’t listening. He didn’t care. He hated the thing.

So, being the man he is, Toji had a new goal. To fuck you, fill you up so much that you physically couldn’t not get pregnant. He wanted to pump you up with so, so much of his cum, that you were wobbling trying to stand up after. He wanted to see it leak out of you, wanted to see you with that same, teary eyed, pathetic little look everyday. The way you whines about too much only fuelled him further, putting you in the position you were in now, thighs pressed right to your tummy. Mating press style.

“T-toji! Baby! Give yourself s-some time! Jesus F-fuck!” You whined, practically throwing a fit over how hard he was pumping himself into you. It had been three rounds for him - six for you, because he had eaten you out front to back, as a pre-apology, he supposed for how hard he was about to bruise up your guts. He just squeezed your thighs in the wide palms of his hands, letting out a groan when you scratched your nails down his back even more desperately.

“Mmm… I don’t think so. Think ‘m gonna fill you up until you burst… get you all round ‘nd full of me. You just have to lay there and take it baby.” He grunted out through harsh thrusts, face buried in your neck as he breathed heavily, giving you small nips of appreciation the more sensitive areas of your skin, and pressing kisses to your earlobe for every time you’d sweetly whine out his name. God, this was heaven.

And you’d be his archangel.

𝜗𝜚RYOMEN SUKUNA𝜗𝜚

Sukuna wanted an heir. This was his end goal when he saw you, this was his end goal when he married you, and this was end goal right now, only a couple months after your wedding night, to put an heir in you. His stomach did giddy flips one wouldn’t assume the king of curses could even feel thinking about an heir even half as divine as you were. He would kill anyone who said anything even slightly negative about you with a snap of his fingers, fuck, he wouldn’t even bother wasting his energy on killing such stupid scum, he’d get Uraume to do it.

His mind drifted as he prepared you in his lap, fingers scissoring inside you as you whined and squirmed, trying to hide your face in his bare chest your slick dripping all down his hand, even his wrist. He made you cum three times already, shushing you whenever you tried to protest about being ‘ready’ to be pumped full of him. Your nails scratched against his back, the pain only egging him on as he pressed a kiss to your now sticky forehead, sweat dripping from the orgasms he pulled from you. To him, this was a ritual.

A ritual of patience, a ritual of love, a ritual of procreation. Both his cocks strained heavy against the thin, soft silk of his sokutai, letting you grind helplessly and pathetically against them. His other hand was rubbing circles into your back, cooing you to calm down as he worked you up at the same time.

Before you, sex, intimacy, whatever you’d call it - was a chore. He’d call in a concubine, already prepped for him, get it over with, and not have the cravings for another week or so. He didn’t do it for their pleasure, it was supposed to be a privilege on their part, to even be near him. But something primal in him snapped when he first saw you, something that made giving pleasure seem so… enticing, sweet.

He was right, by any definition, you were sweet. Your taste was an ambrosia unlike any other, a gift from whatever gods above him - which he didn’t believe there were any, he was the god everyone prayed to, he was the top of the food chain, and you could go any higher - but you had him second guessing his own faiths when he tugged and kneaded at your thighs, giving you small spanks to keep you grinding your hips onto his face.

It took nearly an hour of him letting his mind go in circles while the beautiful whines of yours for hoarser and hoarser, another four orgasms from you, for him to agree that you were ‘ready’ to be filled up, ready to carry his heir, ready to be soft and mouldable for him, and once he had you pressed into the silk sheets of your bed, he nearly burst to tears. The way you laid there, looking at him like a rabbit caught in the jaws of a wolf, eyes wide and heart beating fast, littered with bite marks and spit, hands gripping the sheets, knowing things were only going to get more and more intense, he just had to ruin you. It would be selfish not to eat you whole.

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chilling-seavey · 8 months ago

Note

A request for George after his win! Surprising him with lingerie underneath your outfit when he gets back to Monaco

↳ A/N Thank you for this, anon! I know you sent it after Austria but I wasn't quite feeling inspired until the events of his Belgian weekend. I know you must have been hoping for elation but we can't have the highs without the lows. This came of it (and was a great way to purge my feelings-)

↳ Pairings: George Russell x Fem!Reader (NO use of y/n)

↳ Word Count: 3.8k

↳ Warnings: 18+, NSFW, oral (m receiving, kinda deep throating?), slight cum play, desecrating items that loosely symbolize the Mercedes AMG Petronas F1 team after the heartbreak of Sunday, July 28th, this is also incredibly unedited so don't come for me if it sucks LOL

George felt so out of place returning home empty handed. It was as if his mind hadn’t processed what the fuck had happened. That morning, getting into the car, his goal was a podium at best. Suddenly, he had found himself on top step of all places after a risky one-stop race he managed to pull off against all odds. Then, in the midst of his elation, the news broke that he was disqualified for his car being 1.5kg underweight.

He could still feel the weight of the trophy in his hands, the shiny gold metal under his lips, the rapid thudding of his heartbeat in his ears as he was caught in the arms of his team. The team that had betrayed him with an underweight car and being the cause of his beautiful first place trophy to be snatched from his hands. Oh, God, he swore his heart had never hurt this badly after a race before in his entire career. Anger and sadness were a toxic, cruel mix.

It was a blessing and a curse that it was now summer break. On one hand, it gave him a good amount of time to catch his breath, recharge, and come back ready to fight. On the other hand, his disqualification left a pit in his stomach that he was going to be stuck feeling for the following three weeks until he could rewrite himself a new race. The whole flight back to Monaco, he just wanted to get home and curl into a ball and rot for three weeks. He angrily ranted in his head that he didn’t want to see another statistic, another car, another person until Zandvoort, dammit.

But then he saw you, sitting in the warm light of the dining room when he stepped across the threshold of your modest apartment. He saw you and all the tension in his body just melted and he thanked God that you were his person he could see for the next three weeks.

Of course, you knew what had happened. If it wasn’t thanks to the plethora of Formula 1 news and updates that were filling up your phone, it was the emotional texts from George, the tearful phone call from his drivers room, that undeniable connection you had to him that made your heart absolutely ache for him. The moment he stepped inside, you were shutting your laptop and taking the few quick strides across the hardwood floor and throwing your arms around him.

He melted into your arms like butter.

You instinctively slid your hands around his back, rubbing along his spine, feeling him exhale in your embrace like he hadn’t been able to breathe the whole trip home. His strong arms wrapped around you tightly, burying his face in your neck with a shaky inhale as if trying to pull you into all of his senses.

“Oh, my love…” you cooed gently, tangling your hand in the back of his hair to scratch your fingers through the roots consolingly, “You’re home.”

George held onto you for a moment longer, accepting the comfort of your embrace, “Yeah.”

You pulled away just far enough to share a fleeting chasté kiss, your hands naturally finding each others between your bodies. You pressed another kiss to his cheek as his eyes drifted over your shoulder to look across the apartment. On the console table in the living room sat his trophy from Brazil and his trophy from Austria. Beside them, the empty space looked miles wide. It was supposed to be a trio. He had made it a trio.

He shut his eyes for a moment again in frustration and exhaustion, “I just want to sleep. Forget today ever happened.”

You studied his downcast gaze for a moment, the way he stared at your joint hands, your thumbs caressing his knuckles. In a whisper, you pitched in a soft light tone, “I was hoping we could celebrate…like we usually do after a podium or a win…”

George let out a dry laugh, “There’s nothing to celebrate, love.”

“Yes, there is.” you insisted strongly, “This is still your win, no matter what the FIA says. That’s bullshit. This was the best race of your career and you won it on your own merits.”

“What do I have to show for it?” he retorted almost sharply, as if he didn’t want to talk about this anymore, “Nothing. Lewis got his 105th P1 trophy and I got nothing.”

“Don’t say that.” you insisted, “He got your P1 trophy. It was gifted to him, not earned.”

George’s shoulders slumped, and he mumbled, “It just hurts so bad.”

“I know. I feel it too.” you breathed, “My heart breaks for you. I wish there was something I could do to take away your hurt.”

“There’s nothing you can do.” George sighed, defeated, stepping away from you to head farther into the kitchen to fetch himself a glass from the cupboard. “The rules are the rules. It’s a brutal sport and sometimes, honestly, it’s fucking unfair. There’s nothing either of us can do to make any of this feel better.”

You leaned forward on the peninsula countertop, watching as he poured himself a glass of water. His face was still stone and flat despite the flush of his cheeks from the hurricane of emotions stirring within him for the last however many hours. He didn’t deserve this. Despite everything, you knew that there was something you could do to at least take his mind off of the chaos and upset of the day. Your lips pursed in thought and then you replied to his statement in a blasé tone, “Fine. Then I guess I shouldn’t bother with your surprise.”

He perked up a little, almost like a dog, his eyes snapping back over to you as he stopped pouring, “What surprise?”

You shrugged modestly and took a step back from the counter, letting your hands fall to your sides, “Oh, nothing. You don’t want to celebrate so…”

“Well, hold on a second,” George put the water filter back in the fridge and closed it so he could give his full attention to you. The peninsula stretched between you, the clink of his glass on the countertop the only sound for a moment. He spoke again, eyes trained on you, “You got me something?”

“Of sorts.” you took another step away, fingers toying with the hem of your shirt, “I’ll show you, but you’re not up for it so…”

George’s eyes followed the movement of your hands as you started to pull up the bottom of your shirt, his eyebrows slowly raising with it in anticipation. You finally dropped your shirt to the ground, revealing the lacy teal bra you wore, the fabric standing out against your skin. Around your waist rested a matching teal garter belt that accentuated your curves, its silk straps disappearing down past the waistband of your slacks. His tongue darted out between his lips habitually at the sight of you, eyes skimming down your body as you dropped your pants and kicked them to the side to show off the matching pair of panties on your hips and the lace garters that hugged your thighs.

“Jesus.” George exhaled.

“An untimely choice for Petronas teal,” you said casually, your tone holding a playful smirk, “because I know we’re mad at the team right now but…maybe that just means you can tear it off me.”

He just blinked at you, “Yes.”

“Yeah?” your teeth sunk into your bottom lip, biting back your smile, fingers tracing the shape of your breasts in the cups of your bra, “Suddenly you’re up for your surprise?”

“It is certainly a well welcomed distraction.” George replied, basically speaking to your chest.

“Think it’ll make you feel better?”

“Loads.”

“Where do you want it? Bedroom or…?”

George took a step back from the counter and snapped his fingers to the floor at his feet, “Right here.”

Who were you to deny George Russell a damn thing?

You sauntered around the counter and into the kitchen where he stood, slinging an arm around his shoulders as you both leaned in for a kiss. It was quick and simple and his hands fell to your hips as your lips met again, sharing a few more soft close-mouthed kisses as if testing the waters. After a moment, he tilted his head to the side a little and parted your lips with his own before locking your bottom one between his two.

Your small moan had him breaking away from that kiss to quickly move in for another, raising a hand up to the side of your face to hold you there. You swore you could taste the remanence of champagne on his tongue as it nudged against yours; a reminder that he was the winner through and through. In everything but the obvious, he was the winner. Your winner.

Butterflies shot through your stomach as he deepened your kisses, resting his thumb under your chin to guide you into each one and you followed his lead with ease. The two of you fell into a familiar rhythm of lips and tongues, filling the kitchen with the lewd sound of your kisses. George’s hand was warm against the small of your back, resting there politely for a few moments, just above the fabric of your panties.

Your hands slid down his chest over his t-shirt, blindly fisting the material with a nudge upwards to silently get him to take it off. He pulled away from your lips long enough to do just that, aimlessly letting his shirt fall onto the countertop. His eyes were already falling half-lidded and lustful, staring at you almost down his nose with this sinful expression and this bite to his swollen bottom lip that could have had you dropping your knees in an instant. Instead, you dusted a kiss to his angular jaw line, his neck, his throat; feeling his small groan under your lips.

You kissed down his chest, between his pecs, over his abs - your hands trailing after sensually, rising goosebumps over his tanned skin. As you sank to your knees in front of him on the kitchen floor he pulled in a shaky inhale, his fingers carding through your hair.

“My three time race winner.” you purred up to him as you slowly unbuttoned his slacks, moving slowly and sensually to drag it on a little longer, building on that anticipation that thudded warmth through his veins. “I think you deserve a reward for your performance today.”

Before he could reply with any kind of half-self-deprecating rebuttal about his unfair disqualification, your hand was slipping through his fly and giving his clothed cock a squeeze over his underwear. George withered slightly, words dying at his lips, channeling his emotions into the reassurance of your touch and how much he had missed your presence throughout the weekend. You always knew how to take his mind away from the darkest places.

“Mm,” you hummed contently as you palmed him strongly, feeling the thick shape of him pressing against your hand through his briefs, “already getting hard for me, aren’t you?”

George breathed out a dreamy, “Yeah.”

You tugged at the waistband of his slacks a little to force him a half step closer, just so you could lean in and press a slow, open mouthed kiss to the bulge he was hiding beneath the fabric. Your eyes fluttered up to look at his face, finding him already staring down at you, and you sent him a sultry smile with your fingers linking in the waistband of his underwear

Without a word, you pulled them and his slacks down his legs, sinking your teeth into your bottom lip as you watched him be revealed before your eyes. You had seen him naked and uncountable number of times but in moments like that, he still managed to take your breath away.

You left his pants and underwear forgotten around his ankles as your priority quickly shifted to something far more pressing. In a gentle hand, you cupped his balls and his dick in one go, feeling the weight of him hungrily. Your unwavering gaze stared at how he stiffened up some more right before your eyes, forcing you to habitually lick your lips. You were salivating.

“My God, baby,” you breathed, giving him a tender squeeze just to pull a groan from his chest, “You have such a pretty cock.”

“All yours.” George replied easily, his accent thick with lust, his slender fingers still brushing through your hair.

“All mine.” you echoed.

Keeping his eye contact, you leaned in to purse your lips and press a slow, wet kiss right to the tip. His chest shuddered through his next inhale at your action, staring down at you wide-eyed and needy.

You raised your other hand to join your first, using one to cradle his balls while the other held his cock steady for you to press another precise kiss to the head. Turning to press another kiss to the length, you hummed in appreciation for the warmth under your lips. Holding him tenderly in your hands, you tried not to smirk too wide at your own ridiculousness as you teased up to him, “I dunno how they declared your car underweight when you were carrying this heavy load.”

George let out a breathy genuine laugh, shutting his eyes for a second and lolling his head back in disbelief over your corny words, “Jesus, love.”

“So delicious.” you hummed, licking your lips before teasingly lapping at the tip with your tongue, earning a tight gasp from his throat. “So, so, delicious.”

Keeping your hands in place, you swirled your tongue around the swollen head of his cock before settling your lips around it for a soft suckle. Your eyes fluttered closed as you stayed like that for a moment, testing the waters, giving him the slightest suction and warmth of your mouth.

“Darling-” George withered, his hand slipping to the back of your head to try and pull you deeper.

You pulled back again, pausing just long enough to spit on it, letting your hand start to move to slick him up in it, before you answered innocently, “What is it?”

George chuckled breathily, “You are such a tease.”

You smiled sweetly up at him, keeping your hand moving in precise twisting strokes, “Does my race winner want me to suck his dick? Give him his reward for a job well done?”

You dribbled more spit onto the tip, letting your hand move a little faster. He inhaled sharply at the change in pace, fingers almost tugging at the back of your hair with need to get your mouth back on him. You held back.

“Please, love, I need it. I need your mouth.” George purred, his voice dreamy and rich.

“And you deserve it.” you reminded him.

And then you were swallowing him up in one smooth motion.

“O-Oh, fuck-” George gasped sharply, his entire body flinching at the sudden presence of your warm, wet mouth around him. His eyes screwed shut and his jaw clenched, trying to keep his composure with a stiff grunt.

He tasted warm and slightly salty against your tongue, resting thick and heavy in your mouth. You could have stayed there on your knees with him just settled in your mouth all night but the desire to bring him pleasure outweighed your selfishness. So, you started moving in slow bobs of your head with your hand still snug around the base to keep him where you needed him.

Up and down, in and out, slowly and surely. You kept your tongue running along the underside of his thick cock with every stroke, making sure to hollow your cheeks every time you pulled back. You knew what he liked.

George never pushed you but he always encouraged you; his hand resting on the back of your head and following your motions to help you keep your tame pace, only pulling you along the slightest bit. He was staring down at you with a lascivious gaze, long lashes hiding dilated blue eyes, swollen pink lips parted to let out breathy gasps and soft moans. You pushed yourself a little deeper.

“Crikey-”

His ridiculous exclamation had you letting out a small wet laugh that, given that your mouth was full of dick, sounded more like a gag than anything. His fingers tightened in your hair with a handsome moan from his chest, wanting to make you do that again.

You slowly nuzzled your mouth farther, choking slightly on him until your eyes were watering and spit was trickling down your chin. When he reached as far as you could easily take him, your body lurched with a wet gag and you pulled away.

“Fuck, love, you’re insatiable.” George praised.

You took a second to catch your breath, smiling proudly up at him as your hand took over for your mouth for a moment. The slick sound of your spit under every quick pump of your palm filled the otherwise silent kitchen, luring more melodic moans from your beloved’s throat. Everything about him was perfect to you; a perfect man who deserved the entire world. When someone tried to take the world from him, you would do everything in your power to try and make it better for him.

With a lick and a bite to your spitty lips, you dropped your gaze from his face to your hand, watching how he looked with your fingers wrapped around his thick girth. Your other hand still cradled his balls, giving them a little squeeze and caress at the same time.

George’s free hand dropped to the counter beside him, suddenly in need of support to keep himself upright.

You giggled sweetly and leaned in to kiss his leaking tip, once, twice, and then you were wrapping your lips around it again. This time, your hand kept going, moving in firm twisting strokes in time with your mouth. George panted from above you, fingers tangled in your hair, his hips trying not to nudge into your touch at the same time, not wanting to hurt you in the process.

But you gladly took the initiative, gagging yourself on his cock until tears were stinging your eyes and your senses were taken up entirely by him. The scent of sex lingered in your nostrils, filling the kitchen, swirling around the two of you in a salacious cloud. It was a reminder of the balance of your lust and love, the connection you shared, how you would never stray from giving him the best treatment - no matter how filthy.

George let out a string of expletives under his breath as you worked him graciously, his eyes screwing shut. You could feel how he throbbed in your hand, already so close, so you slowed a little before pulling away again.

He groaned in displeasure at being edged but you didn’t let him linger in that for too long. Instead, you asked him, “Where do you want to cum?”

Not having anticipated that question, George’s eyes fluttered open, his eyebrow furrowed in slight confusion as he processed your words through his lust. He licked his lips, bit them, let out a little hum in thought. Then, his gaze dropped to that pretty little set you were wearing. His eyebrows raised with a slight nod towards you, “On those perfect fucking tits.”

You smiled slyly up at him and kept your hand going, “Whatever you want, race winner.”

“Jesus, you’re so good to me.” he exhaled, taking his hand from your hair to take over for you.

You let go of his cock, spitting on it once more to make sure he was plenty wet, and for a second you just watched as he stroked himself up to that same speed you had going prior. Right in your face, his large hand jacked himself off in frustrated tugs behind heavy breaths, staring down at you with an intense purpose behind his eyes.

Lifting up onto your knees a little more, you used your hands to push your breasts together in your lacy teal bra so it was right up close to him. Your teeth sunk into your bottom lip for a moment as you just took in the sights and sounds of it, watching him use you to get off.

“That’s it…come on.” you encouraged warmly, glancing up at his face with a lick to your lips.

The pleasure that was rippled across his face was gorgeous, right down to the hints of pink across his cheeks that stretched down the sides of his neck and the slight scrunch of his nose. So concentrated, on a one track mind.

“That’s it,” you repeated, looking at his hand on his cock again, in a dizzy haze at how hot the sight was. You pressed your breasts together a little more, the teal fabric standing out in the warm light of the kitchen, and you let your stream of consciousness out to get him there faster, “That’s it. Show me how you feel about your team right now…how you hate the sight of this colour right now. Come on. Ruin it. Desecrate it. That’s it, baby, come on.”

“Fuck-” George choked out.

“Uh huh. Come on, baby. Ruin it. That’s it.” you nodded him on, speaking a little louder as his moans and gasps rose in volume and pitch.

And then, pretty spurts of white were shot across your chest as he moaned handsomely through the kitchen. You shifted slightly to make sure he got most of it on the bra itself, thrilled on the symbolism of what he just did entailed.

“That’s it.” you purred as he faded out of his orgasm, “Beautiful.”

You reached up to set your hand around his on his throbbing dick, leaning in to clean up the tip with an eager tongue and a few little suckles, making him hiss in sensitivity. Your smiling eyes locked on his face as you sat back on your haunches again, wiping your mouth and chin with your thumb before your fingers were trailing through his cum splattered across your chest and you smeared it over your bra some more. He watched you breathlessly, only letting out a soft groan as you licked your fingers off.

Without tearing your eyes away from his, you stated teasingly, “Next time we’ll break into Brackley and have you cum all over the trophy that should have stayed yours.”

George couldn’t even word a response for a second between your outlandish ‘idea’ and the fact that you took his wrist and guided his fingers into your mouth just after. His lips trying to form a reply to no avail, wide eyes staring down at how you sucked his fingers clean, before all he could do was let out a breathy huff of laughter and turn his head away from your insistent gaze. His pleasured, suddenly shy silence spoke volumes. You grinned proudly up at him.

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adviceformefromme · 2 months ago

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LOCK-IN SZN [YOUR 8-WEEK ACCELERATOR] Week 1

If you do one thing today on the first Sunday of the month its go grab a cute new journal and write on the first page ‘LIVING FROM MY HIGHEST TIMELINE’.

Join the official group on Discord here❤️

January is done and past, and by this point you will have realised that new year does not equal new you. And it’s actually on you, to make those micro level changes each day that transform your life. You’ve already declared your desires to God. They’re crystal clear. Your vision board is done, your goals are written. So what next? How do you access your ELEVATION? How do you truly access your highest timeline, and thrive and live from that place? How do you launch the business and make 26k in sales on your first day? How do you live in the flow state that allows you to feel and radiate your very most authentic self day in day out?

1] First things first. Instead of praying to God for the lower level things, the car, husband, abundance, God knows your desires. What you’re gona do is pray and meditate on accessing and living your highest expression. This is the what these 8-weeks are about. You want to access your highest timeline, and this is why you need to study yourself and become your greatest project. All that energy deciding what Lululemon jacket to buy, and what bag is the best investment for next season… Those consuming thoughts are gutter level. You have to rise above, using your mind for accelerating you higher. Your mind for connecting with God. Your mind to guide you to living and breathing in your flow state daily. So each day this week I want you to spend 20 mins meditating and asking God, the source:

‘How can I access my highest expression? How can I live from this place? Who do I need to become? What do I need to let go of? What aspects of my character need to die in order for me to rise to become who you have called me to be? Where am I stuck? What are my blind spots?’ You are going to sit in silence for 20 mins and LISTEN.

2] Once you’ve done your daily meditation LISTENING, you want to study yourself this week. You want to observe and make notes on what keeps you in the flow and what keep you out of your flow state. Get so clear on this, this is self-study. So write them down on one page ‘flow killers’ and the other ‘flow state’. For example when you put your favourite music on in the morning and dance while making breakfast, flow state, waking up to a messy room flow killer writing and posting on your blog flow state screen time 3 hours plus for the day flow killer. This is for you to observe, and study and realise. And this is this weeks homework. Studying this is going to allow you to thrive and accelerate in these next 8-weeks.

Remember, this is your life. You get to be impacted by the world and everything you consume. OR. You get to impact. Impact your own life, impact the lives of others. The moment you start choosing yourself and your elevation, is the moment you are making an impact and no longer become a victim of this world. Stay focused, and stay close to God. This is the beginning of your accession.

#levelup #levelupjourney #manifestyourreality #lawofattraction #manifesting #levelup confidence lawofattraction powerofthemind #manifestingmindset #lock in #lockinseason #growthmindset #adviceformefromme

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huellitaa · 9 months ago

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sunday reset ⊹˚. ♡

your weekly refresh list of things you should be doing every day! tying up loose ends at the end of the week and planning for the next is a certified stress management technique and keeps you organised and prepared for your upcoming events, even if you're not doing too much. ♡

(you don't have to do this on sunday, this is just what i usually do !! do this once a week whenever it suits. <3)

write a list of all of the things you've been procrastinating this week and do them today !! no matter how big or small. anything that's gonna bother you next week, clear it up today.

change your bedsheets and pillowcases

sweep your floors

clean down all your surfaces

answer all emails and texts

take an everything shower and pamper urself ♡

get some physical activity in

check over your calendar for next week and make sure you're scheduling:

♡ a date with your someone you love (a friend, a family member, a romantic partner, whatever you prefer !! <3) ♡ an evening or morning for yourself where you pamper yourself physically and mentally ♡ a little bit of time for you to do what you love and indulge in hobbies and activities that bring you joy !! ♡ a journal session each week even if it's small so you can learn more about yourself and do some introspection and keep your mind clear ♡ an exercise or physical activity session to nourish your body and mind ♡ and a bedrot sesh, because we're all human and we all need rest, no matter how productive or strong or motivated we are <3

make a rough to do list for each day in the week based on the events taking place this week and add to it once the day comes (i can personally never preplan my to do lists because my life is far too chaotic half the time so i often just give a rough base to go off of and do the rest from that, but if fully scheduling in advance helps you then absolutely go for it! <3)

time blocking for each section or a few sections of the day can also be helpful if you're a more meticulous planning girlie ♡

plan out ur outfits! i keep a page of this on my notion and have an app on my phone called acloset which helps a lot w this because i am ridiculously indecisive and picking outfits is so difficult 😭♡

household tasks such as grocery shopping, laundry, meal prep, tidying etc so it doesn't bother you next week and you've got a whole fresh page to start on next week ♡

check in w urself and how you're doing so you can go into the new week with no lingering resentments or unhappiness or emotions from last week! applaud yourself on your achievements of this week, even if they're small, and write down anything you learnt, that you're grateful for; review the last week n how it went for you.

and then you can make your small goals for next week and how you want to improve from this week in next week, and give your all for the next seven days! ♡

don't slack on loving and experiencing every day of your life to the fullest just because nothing particularly special is going on. you're alive, that's beyond special in itself. you're a miracle. nobody in this world is ever going to be you, so take advantage of that and make the most out of everything. all my love ♡

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swappingbryn · 11 months ago

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Best Purchase

I knew I would likely not be able to achieve ALL my fitness goals, but I still wanted to try and achieve some of them. I was on the wrong side of 30, not balding but my head was thinning, I gained the “freshman 15” and it grew like compound interest, and I had little visible muscle.

After a year of strict diet, exercise, supplements, I had lost about 20 pounds of fat, gained some muscle, but I was fat from where I wanted to be and from where I thought I would be after all this hard work.

I kept seeing ads for a clothing brand “Midlife Changes,” which I only remembered because I thought it was strange that a company called “midlife” would have only influencers as models. However, they had lots of five star reviews and nothing below a 4, but the weird thing was that all the reviews were short or had no comments. Their prices were high, so I only bought a shirt from the clearance page called “Ragin Ray.”

It arrived in a small, nondescript package a week later (since I refused to pay for expedited shipping). Inside the package was a note thanking me for my purchase, a request to leave a review once I was satisfied, and instructions. I thought it was strange to include instructions with a shirt, but figured it was just washing instructions, but it was a detailed note explaining how to use it. I was to shower, then wear it to bed, the entire following day, making sure to work out as much as possible, not to shower or remove it, and sleep in it once more, and only then should I remove it and shower and then was the shirt. I thought it was stupid, but figured I had nothing to lose. I waited until Friday night, so I’d have all day Saturday to follow the instructions, I showered, put on the short and went to bed.

I woke up the next day and I felt different, and once I saw myself, I realized I was at lease 10 years younger. I wasn’t big, but I was younger, and with the extra time, I knew I could make better gains.

I wore the shirt all day as instructed, and went to the gym for two hours that morning, when I’m usually exhausted after one hour. Went home for lunch, I wanted to shower since I smelled but I held out, then knowing I couldn’t go out with friends or do anything since I was sweaty and smelly, I went back to the gym. I did another 3 hours. I was drenched in sweat but still felt good. When I went to the locker room, I saw my reflection, I was amazed, I was huge.

I went home, had a small dinner and went to bed. I refused to deviate from the instructions. I woke up Sunday and KNEW something was different. I ran to the bathroom and realized I was even bigger. As per the instructions, I removed the shirt, got in the shower and explored my body. It felt amazing, huge muscles, hard abs, and my dick was almost 9”. I exited the shower and when I entered my room, it was all different, trophies all over the wall, messy bed, a desk, and a closet full of clothes that for me, the new me.

I threw on some clothes, grabbed my phone and wallet and went to the gym. When I arrived, the desk attendant, who never paid attention to me before, said “what’s going Ray? Party last night?” I mumbled agreement and kept going. I checked my wallet in the locker room and saw a new ID, I’m Joel Raymond Edwards, 24 years old.

This was the best purchase I’ve ever made, and I made sure to leave a 5 star review, but only write “best purchase ever, love this shirt.”

@kiwineeds

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thehanalia · 1 year ago

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The Subtle Art of Becoming "That Girl" in 2024 🌸✨

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Hello beautiful souls! It's me, Hana. If you are new reader then

Hi! I’m Hanalia and I want to empower women to prioritize their well-being while pursuing their dreams🌟

Today, I woke up feeling extra inspired by the #thatgirl aesthetic. You know her – she's the girl who embodies self-love, radiates positivity, and just seems to have her life beautifully organized. Personally, I believe, she's not just a trend; she's a movement towards becoming the best version of ourselves. And guess what? Becoming "that girl" isn't about perfection; it's about progress. It's about embracing the journey of self-improvement, self-care, and love. So, let's dive into a few ways you can bring a little bit of "that girl" magic into your everyday life:

1. Morning Rituals ✨

Start your day with purpose. Whether it's a morning skincare routine, meditation, or writing down your thoughts in a daily planner, find what centers you. If you have been following me for a while then you know how important this is. Remember, it's these small rituals that set the tone for a productive, positive day.

2. Self-Care Sundays 🛁

Dedicate time each week to pamper yourself. This could be a long bath, a skincare routine, or even a cozy evening with a book. It's all about showing yourself some love and appreciation.

I remember back in my childhood my older sister used to always have pamper sundays and I would always try and follow her footsteps however, back then your girl was as lazy as one can be...so zero exceptions. Be better than me girls and make the future you be proud.

3. Clean Girl Aesthetic 🌿

Embrace the clean girl aesthetic with a minimalist wardrobe, clean makeup looks, and a tidy space. A clutter-free environment not only looks good but also brings a sense of calm and order to your mind. Clean home = clean mind + remember clean body

4. Find Your Fitness Love 💕

Whether it's pink pilates, yoga, or a brisk walk in the park, find a physical activity that you love. It's not just about the physical benefits but the mental clarity and energy boost it brings.

5. Nourish to Flourish 🍓

Eating well is a form of self-respect. Fill your plate with colors, textures, and nutrients. It's not just about looking good, but feeling good from the inside out.

6. Learn and Grow 🌱

Embrace new hobbies, read more books, and challenge yourself to learn something new often. Growth is a huge part of becoming "that girl".

7. Stay Organized 📒

Invest in a good daily planner to keep track of your goals, appointments, and to-dos. There's something incredibly satisfying about ticking off tasks and staying on top of your game.

And here's a little secret for you: part of my "that girl" journey includes creating pieces that speak to my soul. I stumbled upon this adorable shop aka my Shop [GlowInGrow] that just screams self-care and love. My THAT GIRL planner is something that I did with love and my own hands. For me, it's not just a planner, it's my way of helping others because that's what being her is. Being her means she shares her secrets to help the rest of the girlies. MESSAGE ME FOR THE PROMO CODE *hint*

Also this planner has got you covered from setting your intentions and tracking your habits to planning your meals and self-care routines perfect for anyone looking to add that extra touch of mindfulness and beauty to their daily routine. It's subtle, but oh, so beautiful. 🌟

AND REMEMBER;

Becoming "that girl" isn't an overnight transformation. It's about making small, meaningful changes that align with who you are and who you aspire to be. Let's embrace this journey together, one step at a time. 💕

Last but not least, at the end of your journey of becoming that girl awaits the future who is The Girl!

Stay safe and stay hot...

With Love, Hanalia

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blizzardfluffykpop · 6 months ago

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Saturday Night

Summary: The same ole routine with your friend with benefits on Saturday night. Unless?

Oneshot

Smut, PWP, Fluff?, Friends With Benefits to Lovers au

If you are a minor, please do not read/engage with this post. This is an 18+ work.

Warnings: PWP, Grinding, Dry humping, Slight Possessiveness (m! & r! receiving), Unprotected sex (pls practice safe sex), Marking (r! receiving), Scratching (m! receiving), Degradation (r! receiving), Praise?, (other sexual encounters occur while fwbs but they’re not cheating!), Use of pet names: Baby and Slut (and iterations of them) *And if I missed any pls lmk!*

Word Count: 1,809

Sunwoo X Afab!Reader

[A/n: I’ve had this in the works since Cotton Candy came out- and I had a dream this was posted and I found out it wasn’t. So here it finally is. Bc of the title, I will recommend Saturday Night by The Misfits, not necessary to listen to tho.]

Again, if you are a minor, please do not read/engage with this post. This is an 18+ work.

------

It’s a Saturday night, like it always is when Sunwoo comes over in his black hoodie and gray sweatpants. It’s like clockwork when he turns up. Nothing ever changes your routine. While you try different positions and elements, the end goal is always the same. And you always wake up to an empty bed in the morning. It isn’t the first time you’ve wished for it to be different. It probably won’t be the last. You’d always hope that when you awoke on Sunday morning, he’d hold onto you and never let go. But you knew and lived the reality. It was never going to happen. You were friends with benefits, nothing more, nothing less. You’d have to be okay with that someday or quit seeing him altogether. Neither option ever sounds satisfying, but maybe next Saturday, you’ll know which is best for you. For now, you choose Sunwoo.

You sit down beside him, and you ask him about his week. And he tells you about how he produced a new track that he’s excited to share with his fans. You ask him to send you it when it comes out so you can listen, and he agrees. And that’s when he asks, “Well, how was your little date this week?” You can’t help but smile as you remember, “Oh, with Youngmin?” He hums, and you tell him, “He was so sweet. He brought me flowers and treated me to dinner.” He waits for you to continue, and when you don’t, he says, “Did you go further?” You look down at your sweatpants before he teases, “Oh, you did~ Didn’t you, my dirty little baby.” You groan, “Shut up. I don’t want to talk about it…” He smirks, “Oh, why not?” You sigh, “He was good...” He continues teasing, “You don’t sound very enthusiastic about that~” You look at him with a slight glare, “He did even better than you.” He pouts, “Aw, baby... Don’t play me like that~” You roll your eyes before looking down and scoff, “Like what?” Sunwoo smirks before leaning towards you to whisper in your ear, “Like we both don’t know that I fuck you best.” You roll your eyes, “Sunwoo, as if.” He grabs your chin, turns your face to him, and you refuse to look at him, “Oh, you’re being real protective of him, aren’t you? Why’s that?” He tucks a hair behind your ear, “Was it because he brought you flowers? I could do that for you... all you ever had to do was ask~”

You shake your head as much as you can in his grasp, “No... you made it very clear we’re just friends with benefits... And friends with benefits don’t do that…” He huffs, rolling his eyes, “You and I both know we’re more than that.” You glare at him, “Really, Sunwoo? Because you have a funny way of showing it. You show me endless pleasure, and then you disappear the second the sun touches the night sky.” He gives you a pointed look, “You’re the one who told me to leave before the sun rose.” You sigh, knowing he was right. It was your one boundary, but oh, how you wished he didn’t listen, and he asks, “Well, what if… I don’t want to be friends with benefits anymore. Would you let me sleep next to you in your bed through the morning?” You finally look at him, “What do you mean?” And his voice drops as he asks, “What if we became exclusive? And you became mine? All mine… and no one else’s. Just as I would do for you.” You gulp, “You mean it? You’re not just saying that… Are you?” He locks his eyes on yours before grasping your jaw as his tone turns serious, “I mean it.” You search his eyes as you ask, “You promise?” “Promise.” He seals it with a kiss. And you tell him when you part, “I want to see you there in the morning.”

He drops his hand from your chin, lifts you up, and pulls you onto his lap. You smile as you grind your hips into his. You put both of your hands underneath his jaw and pull him in for another kiss. “Your lips are so kissable.” He smiles as he pecks your lips, “Mine? What about yours, beautiful?” He puts his hand into your hair, kissing you deeply as you grind harder down onto him, desperate for some friction. He lifts you up with one arm around your waist and the other still in your hair, pushing you against the wall. You wrap your legs around his waist as he grinds up against your clothed core. He parts as he looks you into your eyes, “The way you look drives me insane. I want you more than just one day a week.” He captures your lips in a heated kiss as your fingers find their way into his hair. You grind down into his hips, trying to get more friction. And he mumbles into your lips, “My greedy little baby…” And you let out a hum before capturing his lips again. His hips grind harder into yours as he makes out with you, chasing the friction. Your fingers wind into his hair tighter as he draws you closer to the edge. You squeeze your eyes before whispering, “Sunwoo…” He groans, “Wh-what?” “I need you now…” He groans, “Fuck, okay. Yeah… Me too.” He quickly moves you both from the wall and carries you to your bedroom.

When he finally gets inside, he drops you against your bed, devouring your mouth. His fingers take the place of his hips, rubbing over your sweats, and you whimper, “You like that, don’t you, my little slut~” He teases you over them as he gives you a hickey, “You’re going to take all of me?” You nod, and he grinds his palm down as his fingers push into your entrance through the layers. You whine at the lack of friction, and he grins, laying another hickey on your collarbone. As he feels how wet you are through both fabrics, “All of this is just for me now, baby?” You huff, “Shu-Shut up and fuck me already.” His smirk grows wild as he teasingly pulls up your shirt, “But baby, it’s so much more fun to tease you~” You groan, “Sunwoo! If you don’t stop tea-” He cuts you off by kissing you, and your eyes close instantly as you kiss back. You feel his fingers slip up and under your shirt, tickling up your sides, and he breaks the kiss to take off your shirt before he takes off his black hoodie. You let your eyes wander, and he smirks as he makes a little show of shimmying out his sweats and briefs. He shoots you a wink as he finishes, and you roll your eyes as you make grabby hands for him, and he comes back, “You’re so needy for me, baby…”

He kisses you again before he kisses down your neck and whispers, “How did I ever fuck anyone else when I had you…” You sigh and mumble, “I’m not sure how I did either. No one can compare to you…” He chuckles against your skin, “That’s right, baby. I’m all you’ll ever need. And you’ll be all I’ll ever need.” You hum as he makes his way down your arm, laying kiss after kiss before pulling his chin up to kiss his lips again before murmuring, “You best believe it... Now that you have me completely. You’re stuck with me.” His lips curl into a smile, “That’s all I’ve ever wanted.” He kisses you again before breaking away to pull off your sweats, “You’re so wet for me, baby… Do I turn you on that much?” He rubs you over your panties, grinning at the wet spot, and you sigh, “Sunwoo, please…” He teases, “What do you want, baby~” You groan, “You in me now…” He smiles, taking off your panties before running his fingers over your folds, slipping them inside for a second, and you groan in frustration, “Sunwoo!” He laughs before lining himself up with your entrance and moans as he gets his tip in, “F-fuck…” You whine, wanting him to fill you up already, and he laughs again, “Okay! Okay! I’m moving!” Which makes you let out a little laugh before he pushes in fully. You both sigh in relief, finally feeling complete.

You dig your nails into his shoulders as he thrusts into you faster. He slows down just as you start getting close, and you glare at him. And he asks, “Did he even make you cum?” You shake your head as you whine out, “No.” He tuts as he rubs your clit, “You deserve so much more, honey. And you know I can give that to you.” He picks his pace back up, timing his pace with each swirl of his hand. It has you screaming out, and he can’t help but smirk as you do. “That’s it, baby, scream for me. Let all your neighbors know who fucks you so well.” You cry out as you grow closer and closer to your high, “You getting close, baby?” You nod, and he pulls you down towards him, burying his hips into yours before thrusting even faster. He groans, “F-fuck…” You shake your head, “I can’t…Sunwoo, I’m gonna cum. Please.” He nuzzles his head into your collarbone, “With me, baby. Come on, let’s make this time count.” You nod, “O-Okay… You’re- You’re close, right?” “S-So close, baby.” You cry, and he rubs your clit faster before he says, “Now.” Stars hit your vision with how tightly you close your eyes as cum as Sunwoo fills you up. His thrusts slow down, and he rides your guy’s orgasms out. And you push at his chest as he starts to overstimulate you, and he slowly pulls out. “Fuck…” He lays down over you, “Yeah…”

And next thing you know, it’s a few hours before you should wake up for errands. You look at the clock to feel someone gently nudging you awake. You crack your eyes open to see Sunwoo looking over you, “They called me in early for practice…” “Oh…” He sighs, “Yeah… I want to stay the whole morning, but uh, I have to go in a few.” You nod, and he gives you a long kiss, “Tonight.” You hum, “Tonight?” He smiles, “Let’s go on our first official date.” When it’s time to wake up, you find a bouquet of your favorite flowers in the vase on your kitchen island. You giggle, feeling giddy as you see them, and read the tag, “One of many bouquets I’ll get you from here on out, my dear.” You shake your head as you head out, excited for your date later tonight.

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