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formulaforza · 1 year ago

Text

—the seasons of love

or: the enemies to lovers situationship fic charles leclerc x female reader summ. winter, the first time. the start of the year, the start of it all. minors dni, nsfw warnings under the cut. 7k words part two part three part four part five

18+ because: brat taming, fingering, oral (f receiving), name calling, spit, unprotected sex, overstimulation, booty call!, masturbation (f receiving), voyeurism, mad sass, fucking porn without plot basically.

There’s nothing special about the club scene in Monte Carlo. If you’ve been to a club in any major city, anywhere in the world, you’ve been to a club in Monaco. It’s all neon lights and kaleidoscope colors and poorly lit dance floors and mid-tier DJs who think they’re the next coming of Jesus.

Tonight is no exception. The air is thick and heavy with the scent of floral perfume and alcohol, the entire room shaking with the pulsating beat of the bass, reverberating off every single corner and shaking the liquor in your glass. Bodies move—yours included—half in sync with the music, half in step with their drunken stupor. Perched in the safety of Charles’s section, away from the swaying forms of laughter and shouting and screaming, your entire body thumps alone to the beat from the DJ booth a couple meters away.

Across the section, Charles sits stoic on a couch, taking up a seat and a half and frozen like some magnetic force. His eyes are stuck on you in a way that pulls goosebumps from your skin, makes you irrational angry at him. You’re feeling particularly bratty today, egged on by the tequila and his visible annoyance.

You’re on your way to interject into his pity party when your sister catches your arm, pulls you by your bicep to dance with her. Her palms are sweaty and cold and you hope that it’s the condensation from her cold glass that’s got her all clammy. The two of you have always been quite a sight after a few drinks. You get your tolerance from your mother, are both disastrous lightweights, feel the need to give any and everyone around you a show.

The two of you twirl to the music with little effort, laughing like you’re seven and the hazard littered floor under your feet is the old brown carpet from the family room you grew up hosting dance parties in. It’s all hair and giggles and hands in the air like you just don’t care. Everytime your glance catches his, he’s staring back, nursing his drink and half participating in a conversation with your brother-in-law and Jo.

“What’s his fucking problem?” you ask, leaning over to shout into your sister’s ear.

“He can’t dance,” she slurs. You snort. He can dance.

You whistle, loud and commanding and cat-call-ish even though he’s already watching you. “Charles! Get out here and dance, you fucking buzzkill!”

Your sister joins in on the fun, playfully swaying her hips to the music, tossing out an imaginary fishing line to her husband and reeling him over, calling along teasingly to Charles. “Yeah, show us what you’ve got, Il Predestinato!”

Charles rolls his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest defiantly. “I don’t dance,” he calls back with a soft chuckle. He tries to play it cool, like always, but everyone in the room knows you’re pushing his buttons. You always are. The reason he keeps you around is the same reason you stay around; your families’ relationship predates any animosity between the two of you. That, and the friend group was founded before you loathed each other and it would be too much work to try and split it up now. You’d probably never see Joris again.

You dance closer to him, putting on a dramatic show and a poor fight against the urge to continue challenging him. “Come on,” you tug on his arm, just out your bottom lip into a pretty little pout. “Live a little.”

He’s never been able to turn down one of your challenges, however thinly veiled they might be. It’s his own personal sore spot, the one that you poke and prod as often as you can. Competition has always been the foundation of your mutual annoyance, it’s not going to suddenly change after some eighteen years of consistency. Finally, he relents, lets you think you’re pulling him to his feet, dragging him to dance with you and your sister.

His moves are stiff and awkward, almost hard to watch. You laugh, because he’s wound up so fucking tight in two weeks you’d have a diamond. “See!?” your sister laughs, the contagion of it spreading to even the brunt of the joke. “I told you!” she continues, slinking her arm around her husband’s neck sloppily. His arm grips her side to hold her steady. It makes you feel sick.

A smirk tugs on his lips, and for a brief moment, there’s a hint of something more in his eyes. Not annoyance or frustration. Something seven, something innocent and childish. It’s fleeting, and you take a deep breath because the music feels quieter now. You down what’s left of your cocktail to clear your head, to calm the sudden flutter of nerves.

The more he drinks and the longer he’s forced to dance, the lighter and more magnetic he becomes. “You know, Charles, I never thought I’d see the day,” you tease. He’s been in a near constant state of pity-party for weeks now, ever since his dumb ass got dumped by another girl wildly out of his league.

He rolls his eyes, but his tone is as amused as it is drunk. “Don’t get too excited. It’s the liquor,” he retorts, a piss poor attempt at downplaying how much fun he’s having. He wouldn’t dare to give you the satisfaction. You lean in closer, brush your body against his, fueled by the noise and the alcohol.

“The liquor doing the touching, too?” you ask.

He’s always been a touchy drunk. Since before you and your friends were allowed to drink, he’s been hands-on. And maybe it’s because this is the first time he’s grabbing your hips, the first time his broad hand is flat over your stomach, but you’d never noticed him as this touchy with his girlfriends or his girls that appear when he’s around. Whatever it is, the more he drinks, the more comfortable he is with his hands on you, and the less you find the nerve to care.

It doesn’t matter how many times he does it, though. Every touch burns your skin. It’s a sick little game you two play. Sick and twisted and so, so unlike the two of you.

Watch yourself—he warns, hand on the small of your back. You play with fire. Well established and well documented, though; you never back down either. No, the thrill of annoying him is enough to dive head-first, to push his buttons until they stick. “Am I?” you ask, as innocently as the tequila can muster, taking hold of his wrist and moving it so his arm is wrapped around your midsection, fighting to settle in the space between your waistband and shirt hem.

You respond to every one of his careful touches, ever lingering finger on your arm and your waist and your back. When you close your eyes, you imagine the nonsense patterns he draws on your skin like it’s on canvas in a museum, hung front and center just for you. Your inhibitions are slipping too, and you let yourself trail wandering fingertips over his body, too.

This isn’t the Charles you’re used to, the one you go head-to-head with every fifteen minutes. This is something entirely new, so far into uncharted territory you’re not even sure which way is north. There’s something particularly intriguing about the nerves bouncing around your gut.

Everything fades away into the dark and crowded club. You don’t know if your sister and brother-in-law are still standing there, if any of your friends are. All you know if the electric charge of this, of every teasing remark and touch that draws you closer, forces you to test the waters of the newfound layer of tension.

Everything is building, it feels like, to some grand crescendo of emotion and desire. Before there’s room to explore it, though, to dive deeper into the unspoken shift, the moment is interrupted by the return of the friends you didn’t notice leaving.

The night drags on, the lines between annoyance and attraction blurring into some chaotic muddle of intoxication. Nothing is clear, nothing except the sobering and unignorable pull. It lingers in the air above you, in the space between like a secret just begging to be unraveled.

You’ve got another drink now, because you can only think of one decision that would be worse than more tequila. In due time, you’re worried you’re a lost cause when it comes to that choice as well. His eyes stay on you, even from a distance, and you revel in the glory of his attention. Embolden by it all, you continue fucking with him. “Having fun yet, Charles?” you ask, knowing smile, voice dripping in subtle suggestion.

He raises a brow, the corners of his lips quirking up. You don’t think you’ve ever spent much time looking at them, the soft shade of pink and the softer skin. “I suppose I can tolerate it,” he replies with teasing eyes. He’s irritated by your laugh, by your proximity, by your lips brushing against his ear when you whisper; you’re not the only one here trying to have fun. His jaw tightens but he doesn’t take your bait. Instead, he pulls you closer, sways in rhythm with you and replies, “I’m here to enjoy myself, not entertain you.”

He sends your brattiness running full-tilt. Forces you to carefully consider every movement, every ounce of playfulness that you allow to seep into your demeanor and the proactive sway of your hips. You grin at him every chance you get, sly and calculated, daring him to resist.

You lean in close, brush against his ear and can blame it on practicality, on the bass and the music and the DJ if anyone were to question your actions. You rest a hand on his chest. “I know you love my attention.”

His breath hitches at your audacity, heart racing so quick you can feel it in your palm. He pulls you closer, dangerously close to your lips and says, “you talk too much. Maybe it’s time someone shuts you up.”

You scoff, low and teasing. “I’d like to see you try.”

[18 minutes later]

You step into the well-lit lobby less than a pace behind him. Your hands are interlocked, have been for every block of the darkened streets—since he grabbed yours and pulled you out of the club. “Admit it,” you giggle. “You love having me push your buttons.”

He remains stoic, jaw set as he pushes the button on the elevator. The tension is at a boiling point. You’re either about to kill each other, to be on the news for some grand double murder, or something so, so much worse is going to unfold.

He leads you to the apartment without a word, but as soon as the door closes behind him, all is lost. Your head is bumping into the drywall before you even realize what’s happening, his lips harsh against yours, the pent up frustration and desire snapping like a dried twig.

It’s fierce and passionate and while you never, not for a single moment in your life, imagined what he would taste like, you somehow knew it would be like this, cool and fresh and drunk. He licks into your mouth, messy and intense, teeth clacking and both of you fighting for some nonexistent upper hand.

Fireworks are going off outside. They shake the windows with explosive gravitas as you’re blindly led by his backwards steps down the hallway. You realize that in an entire lifetime of knowing each other, this is the first time you’ve been in his place. It’s not what you expected, from what you can gather—all clutter and red cars and a boy who never had to drop his dream. “They’re going to look for us,” you say between sloppy, open mouthed kisses.

He mumbles against your skin, strong hands on either side of your jaw. “Let them look.”

You walk through a doorway, into a bedroom clad with clutter and blue sheets. He would have blue sheets. There’s another firework, loud and booming, it makes you jump. You check your watch over his shoulder, pretend your hand doesn’t shake. “It’s almost midnight.”

“Okay.” Your knees bump into his and he sits on the edge of the bed.

You laugh, climb onto his lap, your arms strewn around his shoulders, broad and strong and you laugh again–this time into his mouth. What the fuck is going on. Seriously, what the fuck is this? “Happy New Year.”

He sighs, pulls his mouth from yours long enough to roll his eyes, to speak annoyedly into the hot air between your lips. “Yeah, whatever. Happy New Year.”

“Charles,” you mutter, hand on his chest. You think he’s going to regret this more than you will. People have always told you he’s the best kind of person. You’re not held in the same regard, and you know it. Some people are made to regret and others are made to be the regret.

“Jesus Christ,” he laughs, but it’s curt and passive. Annoyed, as always, even when he palms at your ass, traces his hands along the bottom of your hiked up dress and pulls you down against him with a bruising grip. “Shut the fuck up.” You tug at the hem of his shirt, pull it off over his head in a swift movement.

“You’re doing a piss-poor job at making me.”

He moves you like you’re a fucking doll, like it’s lightwork, tossing you down against the mattress and swapping your positions in a swift movement. The strength and agility of it makes your head spin. He’s not supposed to make your head spin, he’s supposed to make it ache.

But no, no. You do ache for him. All of you aches for him, for his calloused hands and the roughness of his jeans against your thighs and the soft contrast of his lips against everything else. It’s embarrassing. You can’t believe he’s got you like this, hands pinned above your head while he buries his tongue in your mouth, grinds his hips against yours. The coarse denim is almost painful on your sensitive skin, but the growing bulge pulling the fabric tight is more intoxicating than any cocktail.

“You’re such a fucking brat,” he says, bites a bruise against the skin just above your clavicle. “Spoiled little shit.”

He sinks to his knees, big blue or green or whatever fucking color his eyes are today watching you intently, boring into you with blown, hungry pupils. His fingers trail along your underwear, pulling the thin, lacey fabric to the side, and then removes them all together. He gloats when he runs his thumb through your folds. “So fucking wet.”

“It’s not for you,” you goad.

“Oh?” He nods slowly, spreading your slick with the steady digit, watching you carefully for reaction. “For who then?”

Your eyes flutter shut when the pad of his thumb presses against your clit, circles it slowly, teases you. He’s unfocused, his mind lapsing and giving you a much needed in, a clear shot to piss him off. “Your teammate.”

“Fuck off.” You first.

“You’re right, Charles,” you speak slowly, careful to control your breathing, to hide every tell you might have. “Someone should shut me up. Do you know anyone?” Without warning, he thrusts two fingers inside you, curls them like someone had given him a diagram of your body. You gasp at the suddenness of it all. Yeah, he mutters, utterly delighted with himself. Yeah, I think I know someone.

You roll your eyes, push his head down, down, mouth onto your core. There, in the midst of licking a long stripe through your cunt, he fucking laughs, shakes his head with a subtlety you’d never perceive if it wasn’t for the tip of his nose bumping your clit when he does it. At least he can follow basic fucking instructions.

His dick must hurt pretty damn bad, all hard and swollen in his pants, because he’s unbuttoning his jeans and freeing himself from the constraints of the fabric while lapping at you, the other hand still fucking into you with steady pace and hazy curl. You can’t see it, view obstructed by the mattress and limbs and hair, but you can tell by the way his shoulders move that he’s trying to get himself off at the same time he works on you.

You’re not going to make his job that easy. You require all of his attention, pure and undivided and hopefully just as infuriated as you are. You reach down to the apex of your legs, pull his head up by his chin. “Just fuck me, already, you prick.”

He rises to his feet, shakes his head, “you’re a needy little thing,” he remarks. Needy? You haven’t fucking seen needy.

He guides the head of his cock through your folds, spreading slick and spit and smacking himself against your cunt.

Your lips purse into a sharp line. “Don’t tease me.”

“Why not?” He taunts, “you’ve been teasing for hours.”

“It’s different,” you grumble.

“How?” You could strangle him, him and all his questions. What’s a person have to do to get fucked properly around here? You already sacrified your morals by pulling tight against the navy blue sheets. A woman can only make so many sacrifices.

You groan, heavy and exasperated. He’s such a pest. “It just–oh, fuck you–” without warning, he plunges into you, buries himself in your cunt until he bottoms out, skin on skin and the sore sting of him stretching you. Your fingers bruise into his arms, nails scraping over his shoulder blades with a gasp. He gives you no time to adjust to him, rutting into you with deep, measured thrusts. What was that, he prodes. Somehow, you find the poise to stabilize yourself, to reply smugly. “it just is.”

His objective isn’t your pleasure, no. That would be his prerogative, a side privilege, a requirement in his quest to get you to close your mouth and stop pestering for once. Making you come is just another box to check.

You don’t fuck someone if you’re not going to finish, though. Sleeping with Charles might be a lapse in judgment, but being someone’s play toy, letting him reap without sowing, that’s a complete disregard of your dignity

Your fingers find your clit, circle it in just the right sequence, combining with the curve of his cock to push you closer, closer, closer to the edge of the fucking world. Your entire body burns, everywhere, all over, all at once you sweat. Tell me–he insists, voice short and breathy. Tell me when you’re going to come. “I thought you were trying to shut me up?”

“Just, fuck, just tell me.” He palms over your breasts, still covered by your bra and the fabric of your dress, however thin. “So many fucking clothes,” he grumbled, stalling inside you, hands slipping under your back, between you at the mattress to pull you off the bed. You hastily pull the dress over your head, toss it somewhere onto the clothing cluttered floor. Better? You ask. “Better,” he nods, bites your bottom lip roughly, licking against your teeth. One of the hands that explore the skin of your back make quick work of the clasp on your bra, dropping the straps from your shoulders and your back is against the sheets again, his hands groping at you, pinching your nipple between his middle and ring finger, working over it until you’re humming profanities and huffing into his mouth.

Hate and desire is such a fine, blurry line. Anyone who tells you differently is a liar.

“M’gonna,” you choke on your words. “I’m–shit–I’m coming.”

“Yeah,” He picks up his pace, maintains a steady, toe-curling rhythm. “Come for me,” his voice heavy and growled. “Come on my dick.”

You do. You come for him, hard and long, wrapping a leg around his hip in a failed attempt to still him, to just be full of him and nothing more. He’s stronger, though, and fucks you through the whole thing, faster, harder, big hands braced on your hips for leverage. You explore the idea that a person really could be fucked in half, forced right open.

“Good try,” you sputter, shaky and broken words leaving your lips before you’ve found a gravity that isn’t him. You lean up to kiss him, wrap your hand around the back of his neck and pull him to meet you halfway. Your fingers tickle the short hair at the nape of his neck, raise goosebumps to his skin. “Maybe next time,” you hum into his open mouth.

He spits a long string of saliva into your mouth when you move to close the gap. You laugh around it, down it in a single gulp and lick your lips, sticking out your tongue to showcase your empty mouth, big innocent doe-eyes watching his reaction, his eye roll and devilish smirk.

“Like I said–” you start, but he’s flipping you over, tossing you around like a ragdoll. You giggle, high on the teasing and the taunting and then he’s fucking your face into the mattress. He’s got your hair gathered up into a ratty ponytail, uses it like a handle, forcing your back into an arch, your ass to perk up into the air.

God, he’s so fucking deep, turning you into a mess of bruises and sweat stricken skin. Your hips bounce back against him, angle in any imaginable way in an attempt to feel him deeper, to feel him in your stomach and your chest and your head. To feel him everywhere that counts.

“Putain, taking me so good, baby” he groans, lets the praise and the pet name slipping past his lips in a moment that goes unnoticed by neither of you. He smacks your ass with a firm hand, trying to mask his words after they’ve already been spoken. Your eyes roll back into your head and you come again, without warning. You decide before you get to think about it that it was the stinging imprint of his hand that pushed you tumbling over the edge. Whatever the real reason, you’re up two-nothing, or, depending how you look at it, he’s the one winning.

That’s all any of this is, one big game. A power struggle. You’re always fighting to win, and this is not different. If there’s a way to lose at a game where everyone is supposed to win, one of you is going to fucking find it and force it on the other.

You’re the one doing the flipping, now. The pushing and the shoving so he’s on his back. You straddle him and he gives you this look like he’s fully pussy-drunk, sick and euphoric and floating somewhere far from here. You’re so winning at this. “Jesus Christ,” you poke, “wipe your fucking drool.”

His entire face contorts when you sink down onto him. Everytime you think you’ve reached a limit, he finds a way to hit a spot impossibly deeper than the last. His hips lift up off the bed to meet you halfway, rutting into pleasure spots you didn’t even know you had, hand moving to your cunt, thumbing lazily at your clit, leaving you fuzzy and drunk in a mess of mumbled moans above him.

When you come for the third time, messy and sweaty, nothing that leaves your lips is distinguishable, a mess of French and English and curses and nonsensical mewls. “Fuck you,” he moans, breath shaky when he pulls himself out of you. Your body clenches around air, aches for him to return.

He does, after he moves you back into the position it all started in. “So close,” he tells you, sinking slowly into you, his sigh hot and alcoholic on your shoulder. His pace is slow, then fast, then slow again. He’s as rapid as his breath is irregular. You better pull out–you groan, every muscle in your body strung out and exhausted and you’re coming again. It’s blinding white behind your closed lids, ears ringing and muscles flexing involuntarily. He’s wrecked you, finally, left you a mumbling mess.

He pulls out almost in sync with your orgasm, jerks himself no more than twice between your legs before he’s coating your stomach in hot stripes of cum, loud, guttural moans leaving his lips in a way that looks and sounds practically pained. “Christ,” he heaves, watches on as your fingers dance through his orgasm, spreading it over your skin and coating your fingers. You don’t break eye contact when you stick two of them into your mouth, swirl your tongue around them tauntingly, sucking them clean and pulling them from your mouth with a pop. You hold the clean hand up for him to see, palm facing him. When you turn it, you pull down all but your middle finger, flip him off cockily.

He swats you hand away, “Never fucking again,” he tells you.

“Oh, you don’t have to worry about me,” you scoff. “I never want to see the inside of this apartment again.”

“Why are you here, then?” He remarks, turning the corner into what you assume is the bathroom, tossing a towel to you from across the room. You clean yourself up before anything dries, before coming up with a quick rebuttal.

You don’t come up with one, mind as tired as the rest of you. This game has been exhausting. “We’re never talking about this,” you say, pulling your dress over your head, stuffing your bra into your handbag because you aren’t sure you have the strength to clasp it closed. “Ever.”

“No shit,” he says, tosses your underwear in the general direction of you.

You bend over to pick them up, step into them with the snap of the elastic. “Promise me.” You have no idea where your shoes are, but he’s already ushering you out of the room, herding you down the long hall with wide, swooping waves of his arms.

“I promise.”

“Pinky,” you say, spot your shoes haphazardly stepped out of in the entryway. You don’t have any memory of them ever being on.

“Absolutely not.”

“Charles,” you lean against the wall to slip your heels on, hook up at him with a sober glare. He closes his eyes like you won’t be able to see them roll behind his lids, pinches the bridge of his nose and squints before dropping a heavy breath, holding out a pinky to you. You interlock it with yours. “Thank you.”

He pulls his hand from yours, turns the lock on his front door and swings it open, fingers wrapped around the edge, other hand gesturing out into the hallway. “Get the fuck out of my house.”

“With pleasure,” you say, stepping past him and into the well-lit hallway of sprawling marble floors. You stop in front of the elevator, press the button and wait for his inevitable comment.

“The whole brat-schtick you’ve got going on isn’t as believable when your leg shakes underneath you,” he calls down the hall. You don’t turn your head to face him, just extend your arm in his direction and flip him off. You hear his chuckle as he latches the door shut behind you.

Everything about today has been dreary–from the near constant mist that falls over the city, to the chilly temperatures, to the poor excuses for men that grace the screen of your dating app. This is not how Fridays in your twenties are meant to be spent, sulking in the dark of your bedroom after a miserable day at work.

You’re supposed to be out, partying with friends and making drunken decisions that have you waking up in a stranger’s bed after a good night you hardly remember.

God, you need to get fucked. It’s been months. Two months and ten days–not that you’re counting. Because you’re not. Counting. You aren’t.

You’re just restless, basking in the loneliness of the night, unable to shake the weight of your thoughts, of two months and ten days ago. Of Charles and how infuriatingly good he’d made you feel. The complexities of your relationship, the shift in the very DNA of what you know, it makes your heart race–a messy muddle of annoyance and desire that yearns to be untangled.

You give up on the dating apps, know that even if you do match with someone, there’s nothing that can be done to solve your problem tonight. You opt instead to scroll through social media aimlessly, searching for any distraction from the ache in your gut. Your hand unconsciously slips under the hem of your shirt, cups your breast while you scroll and scroll and scroll. It does little to quell your struggles. In fact, the game is over the moment you become conscious of your hand’s placement, the moment you start to massage your breast, to run your fingers over your nipple until it’s hard and perky.

You switch to the other breast, fingers gently tracing over the skin, sending chills up your arms, pinpointing the ache in your core. Your hand slides down your stomach, dips below the waistband of your shorts, into your underwear. You’re so worked up–pent up, reaching a boiling point.

Your middle finger glides through your folds, grazes over your clit, teases the slick at your entrance before dipping in, collecting enough to spread it around. Your clit is swollen, needy like the rest of you, and the pad of your fingers do little to relieve the pressure. Your fingers move clockwise, then counter. Vertical and horizontal and every combination of every direction and even though you can’t remember the last time you were this horny, this desperate to come, you can’t.

You slip in a finger, and then another, try to find the right curl and the right spot–to no avail. Now, you’re thinking about his fingers, about how much bigger his hands are, how his nimble fingers pumped in and out of you with sheet-gripping, whimper-inducing pace.

Your phone taunts you, his contact behind the locked screen just waiting to be messaged.

You try to resist. You hate him. He hates you. God, he knows how to fuck you, though; veiny hands and thick cock leaving you a writhing mess. Fuck. Fuck, why can’t your fingers move the way his did?

You cave, reaching over to grab your phone and text him. Hey. What are you up to tonight? It’s a mistake, you know that it is. He’s so damn annoying, there’s nothing about him that doesn’t drive you up a wall. Frustration makes the heart go fonder, you suppose, or maybe the cunt ache harder.

Within moments, your phone is buzzing against your palm with his reply. Chilling at home. You coming over?

You roll your eyes. No.

Ok.

You bite your bottom lip so hard you think you might accidentally draw blood. It’s phantom, almost, the way you can so perfectly imagine the sting of him stretching you out, the soreness of his bruising kisses, the swollen, wet head of his dick slapping against your clit. Come over.

You couldn’t pay me.

Door’s unlocked.

Give me 20.

You’re in the bedroom when he knocks. Three times, you wonder why he isn’t just walking in. You ignore the banging, let the universe decide for you if he’s meant to turn back and walk his happy ass out of your building. The universe decides he won’t be doing that, though, because he knocks again. Louder this time.

You pull yourself out of bed, feet creaking on the hardwood floors as you move to pull the door open. “I told you it was unlocked,” you grumble.

“Eh,” he shrugs, dumb fucking grin on his face. “Wasn’t up for your games.”

You internally debate just how bad you need him here, if it’s worth all the trouble that is him. It’s not, almost certainly it isn’t. You invite him in anyway.

“So, what’s the deal? Can’t get yourself off, so you call me?” He teases. Your frustrated blush gives you away before a witty comeback can slap the smirk off his face. “Oh my god,” he chuckles. “I was fucking around, but really?”

There’s no point in trying to lie now, not when your face has already betrayed your trust and revealed the truth. “Calm down,” you groused. “The last thing this world needs if your head to get any fucking bigger.”

He continues laughing like this is the funniest thing that’s ever happened to him. You want to smack the smile off his face, dimples and all. “The last thing this world needs is for this–” he gestures between the two of you, “–to become a thing.”

You mock his movements, the dumb look on his face. “This is not a thing. It’s just two friends–”

“–We aren’t friends.”

You sigh through gritted teeth. “Two not friends helping each other out.”

He crosses his arms over his chest, chews on the inside of his cheek while his eyes trace your finger, head to toe and back to head again. “You do know how ridiculous you sound, right?”

You breathe out in resignation, heading down the hall towards your room. “Can we just get on with it?”

“No.”

You stop in your tracks, turn on your heels. What the fuck is he here for, then? “No?” You close the gap between the two of you, plant your hands firmly on either side of his jaw and kiss him, all tongue and spit and rough lips. You knock him off balance, falling out of step when he kisses you back with a matching intensity, hands hovering over your hips. He doesn’t rest them there, you can feel the warmth in the space between your skin and his, the force that pulls you together.

When he does settle his hands, it’s not to deepen the kiss, to swallow any more frustration. It’s to put distance between your mouths. “I want you to–”

You nibble on his earlobe, cut him off with your hushed words. “I don’t give a fuck what you want, I want–”

“Show me how you touch yourself,” he commands, voice failing to waiver to your hushed level, an air of snugness to him.

“Charles,” your voice cracks with his name, a hint of your under the surface insecurity peeking through, putting themselves on display for him. Here! Here! Look at me!

“Show me, or I’m leaving,” he says, and it’s all throaty and husky.

(Eleven minutes later)

Legs spread for him, two fingers moving busily against your core, circling your clit, teasing your hole.

He stares at you like he can see your fucking soul, watches from his spot across the room, leant against the old wooden dresser, arms folded and ankles crossed. You stare back–harder, maybe–like if you win the little contest your cheeks won’t burn so bright, you won’t feel so exposed, so vulnerable, so embarrassed.

Those feelings fade, they do, with each flick of your wrist. With every glance of his hungry eyes to your fingers, to your cunt, tracing their way up and down your body, you feel calmer and calmer. And when he runs his hand over his mouth, along the stubble of his jaw and off his chin, you’re closer and closer.

It pulls whimpers, soft and slow and sweet, from your lips. There’s a sick thrill to it, to him seeing her like this, all needy and open and sensitive. It’s empowering, almost.

He breaks no more than twice, watches every brow quirk, lid flutter, and lip twitch with raw, intimate eyes. He’s less interested in what you do to yourself, the curve of your fingers or the noises they create, than he is in the way you react to the movements.

“You’re not even fucking watching,” you say, the letter sounds falling to your breath, hitching as your fingers angle just right.

“Watching what matters.”

“Oh? And, uh–” you huff. “What’s that?”

He laughs, dimples digging deep into his cheeks. You’ve always thought they made his smile so childish, like you can’t take anything seriously when it comes from someone with primary-school dimples and giddy eyes. You don’t struggle to take it seriously, now. “You’re thinking about me.”

Your eyes flutter shut, a soft sigh parting your lips. “Says who?”

He pushes himself off the dresser, saunters over with heavy feet, stopping at the foot of the bed. “What are you thinking about?” He humors.

Your eyes roll. You’re thinking about a lot of things. Half a dozen, atleast. About your fingers, the way they move against your swollen cunt, sticky with creamy slick, and how his fingers are that much longer than yours. About how loud he walks, how his heavy feet stand at the end of your bed, crossed arms that pull his t-shirt tight across his chest. About the fact that you’re not sure you locked the door behind him because you were so distracted by the way his sweatpants hung from his waist. About how he doesn’t bother to adjust or hide the protruding bulge under the fabric right now. About the curve of his cock, about how pathetic and full it makes you, utterly unable to spend time thinking about anything but how well he stretches you out. About his hair, flat and straight and wholly unstyled, how your hands would mess it up so nicely, tug and twist until he has something smart to say. Beyond frustratingly, he’s right. As you quickly approach a high, breath quickened and movements desperate, all you’re thinking about is him. “Things.”

“Mmhmm,” he hums, ever the rake, unsatisfied with your response.

You add a third finger, steady pace and a held stare. The muscles in your leg twitch. You’re so fucking close. “What are you thinking about?”

He sways, rocks his weight from his left foot to the right, runs his tongue over his teeth. “Things.”

A coy smile upturns the corner of your lips. “Mmhmm,” you mock.

He moves around the bed, trails his fingers over your skin; from your ankle, along the bone of your shin, a bruise on your knee. They stall on your thigh, trace small, soft circles on the inside of your leg. “You really want to know?”

He’s such a tease, keeps moving up, up, up, over your stomach and through the valley of your breast. “I–ah– I,” you stutter through your words, fingers working tirelessly to push you over the edge. Restless, further irritated by his delicate touch, his fingers up to your jaw now, slotting themselves there, you nod. “Yes.”

He leans over you, your lips inches apart, open and hot breathed. “Too bad,” he whispers into the space between, closing the gap and kissing you with an insatiable kind of fervor. Your fingers still, your other hand reaching to grip the back of his neck, to pull him deeper into the kiss. It’s a kiss that’s half as good as the sex, the breaking of the unbearable tension that’s filled the room while he’s watched, the promise of what’s to come. A lustful implication. His hand leaves your jaw when you pull apart for air, moving over your stilled hand. “Let me?” He asks, and it doesn’t feel like much of a question, the way he’s already slipping his fingers under yours before you can even squeak out an answer.

There’s something entirely different about his fingers, like the way that you can’t tickle yourself. You can’t predict his moves, every movement of every ridge of his fingerprints is something entirely surprising. “Yeah, fuck, you make, ah, make yourself…” You give up on the sentence, your body failing your mind in its ability to spit out a comeback. Yeah, you wish you could tell him. Yeah, make yourself fucking useful.

He laughs, slides his long middle finger inside you, pumps it twice and slips in another. You gasp at his sudden movement. “You’re embarrassing yourself, baby.”

Your back arches off the sheets. “Don’t call me that,” you seethe.

“But,” he curls his fingers against the spot you’ve been trying to reach all night. A moan tumbles from your mouth and he smirks. “It makes my job so easy.”

“Fuck you.”

“I was going to let you come first, but,” he chuckles. He’s so proud of himself it makes you ill. “If you insist.”

His hand stills, threatens to pull out of you entirely, but you’re covering it with your own, holding him there when you look up, hips instinctively grinding against him. “I’ll kill you. I will.”

You’re pushing him out of your apartment by the end of night, locking the door behind him. Your leg shakes when you slide down the door onto the floor. This is the last time, it has to be. Once is an accident, twice is a coincidence. Thrice. Thrice would be a pattern. You won’t let it become a pattern.

You wake up at seven-thirty and your hair is still in knots, your body still aching from him. You find a new bruise every time you look in the mirror. You can’t shake the image of his messy hair, of the feeling of the brown locks between your fingers and the sound he’d make when you’d tug on them.

It won’t be happening again.

#oi #this is getting me sent to hell.#charles leclerc smut #charles leclerc fic #charles leclerc series #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc #cl16 #charles leclerc imagine #f1 fic #f1 fanfic #f1 smut #f1 x reader #f1 x you #ferrari

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wttcsms · 11 months ago

Note

grumpy tenured professor Naoya x new, sunshine-y associate professor reader !!

lessons in intimacy, naoya zenin ;

pairing naoya zenin x f!reader word count 4.5k synopsis naoya zenin, phd, still has a lot to learn, and you are a surprisingly good teacher content contains fluff!!!, academia au, and they were office roomies!, naoya-centric, he bashes the arts </3

Learning Objective One: Notice Things About Your Partner

Naoya Zenin stares at the heart-shaped cake you left on his desk and refrains from going absolutely batshit.

He can feel the pinpricks of irritation poking his insides, making him curl his hands in annoyance. Two weeks prior, there was a staff meeting informing the business school that they would be sharing their classrooms and offices with the English professors since apparently, due to poor plumbing and a lack of funding, their shack of a school building got flooded and was therefore deemed “unsafe” and “unusable.”

Naoya distinctly remembers making a snide comment about how majoring in something as worthless as English or literature should be deemed a safety hazard and that the degree is basically unusable. Maybe this is the universe’s way of telling everyone in the school to get a grip and let the entire English department just float away into a nearby swamp.

The business professors all agreed and considering that all of their students end up becoming wealthy alumni who donate money to ensure that their buildings don’t go under, Naoya doesn’t care about the enraged comments from the English department.

All his rude remarks seem to ensure that he’ll be left alone, which is exactly how he likes to be. It seems that he’s the most hated business school professor and no one is willing to share a space with him.

Because you are the youngest and newest member of the faculty, you end up being the unfortunate soul paired up with Naoya Zenin, PhD. When you first step into the office, big box filled with your printed lesson plans and desk supplies, he refuses to lend you a hand.

Instead, he sits back in his seat, staring at you with such an intense look in his eyes that you decide to look at anything but him, and he watches you struggle to maneuver around the tight space. Because of the funding, the business school offices are spacious, but to maintain some semblance of privacy, minor renovations were made. Crammed in a corner is a new desk meant for you. If he keeps staring daggers into your very soul, you’re going to make a request to have a room divider put in place so you can cower behind them and avoid his glare.

While your side of the office is small, you make it as unique to yourself as possible. There’s a Cinnamoroll plushie sitting on your desk, a cup holding glittery gel pens, and inside your desk drawers are scratch-‘n-sniff sticker sheets with colorful words of encouragement because the world has already beaten down your students enough — you might as well give them back some of their childhood enjoyment.

Naoya’s desk is vintage mahogany and rarely has anything sitting atop it unless he’s inside the office and on his laptop. Hanging on the wall behind him is his doctoral degree that is forever put on display in a massive, ostentatious frame. Naoya Zenin, PhD from Keio University. Economics, you recall him telling one of his colleagues. Because finance is the poor man’s idea of a prestigious field.

It doesn’t take a degree to know how Dr. Zenin feels about a degree in the arts.

Upon your first awkward meeting with Naoya (where he let you nearly trip and spill all your meager belongings onto his pristine office’s floors), you immediately head home and look at your new office buddy’s RateMyProf reviews.

⅕ OVERALL QUALITY BASED ON 986 RATINGS | 0% WOULD TAKE AGAIN | 5.0 LEVEL OF DIFFICULTY

Professor Zenin’s Top Tags

#lotsofhomework

#getreadytoread

#lectureheavy

#skipclass?youwon’tpass

Review 1: i dropped my econ major because of him. this wasn’t even supposed to be a weeder class

Review 2: DR ZENIN IS THE WORST PROFESSOR FOR ECONOMICS. HE MIGHT BE THE WORST PROFESSOR IN THE BUSINESS SCHOOL. HE MIGHT EVEN BE THE WORST PROFESSOR IN THIS WHOLE DAMN UNIVERSITY!!!!!! DO NOT TAKE HIM! I regret not taking everyone else’s advice and going with Dr. Gojo instead

Review 3: only redeeming quality is being hot, but he’s still an asshole

Review 4: Misogynist, doesn’t believe women can be leaders in the business world, has God awful takes that literally no one sane would agree with, teaches what HE thinks is right and refuses to acknowledge any opposing viewpoints, talks down on students, and that’s all i can say about him from the TWO DAYS i attended his class. i immediately dropped his course LOL

Review 5: Dr. Zenin’s rigorous coursework and unforgiving grading has prepared me for graduate school, and I still believe all the courses I had with him provided me with a better foundation than my other peers in my doctoral program. However, he did make my undergrad experience a miserable one. His lectures are hard to follow at times, and he creates his exams with the intent of making it unpassable. He’s the professor that you wonder why he hasn’t been fired yet.

You search for any positive comments about him, but it appears that the students hate everything about him, to his tests, his teaching style, and his personality.

In all honesty, it’s kind of sad. What must it be like, you wonder, to be so hated by the very students you’re meant to teach and inspire? You’re willing to give Naoya the benefit of the doubt — you know how one student’s misconception against a professor can paint a bad picture overall. Maybe Naoya is just a difficult person to understand! An undercover softie, if you will.

There’s no harm in trying to be friendly with him. After all, the two of you are going to be partners for the foreseeable future. You don’t have the energy to remain constantly on your guard around him.

You start off with little things, like burning candles in the office to fill it with sweet, welcoming scents. You offer to let him borrow your extension cord so his charger doesn’t have to bend all awkwardly when he plugs in his laptop. You make an effort to ensure that the classroom is clean before his class enters because that’s a courteous thing to do. You notice that when he eats his lunch on campus, he’s always unwrapping a sweet treat afterwards.

You can’t be a truly bad person if you have a sweet tooth, you rationalize.

So, you bake him little goods and leave them on his desk. When a week goes by and he doesn’t acknowledge your actions but the goods are always gone by the time lunchtime is over, you think you’re making progress. You notice that he seems stressed and annoyed every time he storms into the office, and so you start adding tiny notes of motivation alongside the goods, too.

Written on a pink sticky note that’s in the shape of a heart (probably to match the fucking miniature cake you baked), Naoya’s eye almost starts to twitch as he examines every loop and curve of the letters you personally handwritten for him.

I hope you have a great day today! Look on the bright side, you’re done with all your lectures for the week!

Naoya angrily takes a bite out of the cake as he waits for his laptop to turn on. The sugary sweetness does very little to alleviate his annoyance, but he can begrudgingly admit that the cake is good. Delicious, even.

This makes his scowl deepen.

How annoying, he thinks, tossing your note in the trash bin (not having the heart to crumple it up like he used to do with your previous notes). What are you, some kind of a stalker? How is it any of your business to know that Thursdays are his last days for teaching since business schools don’t believe in having class on Friday? And why do you always do that? Saying I hope?

“I’m not going to tell you what to do, Momo,” he remembers you telling your blonde-haired student. “But I hope you consider sticking with your creative writing major. We’ll lose a very talented student if you choose to go, you know.”

Naoya had let out a little snort of amusement at this. Who the fuck cares about whether or not students drop out? If they can’t handle the coursework, clearly they’re not cut out for the real world. He finds it annoying that you practically hold their hands, coddling them, always tacking on an I hope because you don’t want to demand people to do things. So much damn consideration, he wonders how you even survive in this big city. You’re probably the type of person who apologizes when someone else gets in your way at a busy store. You probably let yourself get cut in line. You definitely give money to panhandlers who are only posing as the homeless and needy.

Naoya wants to take joy in the fact that you are the type of person who could easily be taken advantage of, but as he finishes the cake you made for him, the idea of people purposely giving you a hard time just because you’ll take it lying down makes him feel even more irritated than before.

He takes out his frustration on his students. A first-year student emailed him asking for an extension, so Naoya tells them either they get it done by the original deadline, or he is more than willing to just give them the zero right now. In the real world, your boss and your clients will not give a single shit that you are hospitalized after being hit by a truck. Perhaps, if you used the brain inside your head and the eyes on your face, you would know better than to cross the road when a speeding truck is heading your way.

Then, he thinks that you would probably gladly give your students an extension if they asked. You’d probably even visit them in the fucking hospital, like the saint you think you are.

You’re so helpful to the point of your kindness being detrimental to your own wellbeing. You extend deadlines, and then have to beg and plead with the dean and bust your ass to get final grades in by the required date. All that struggle could have been avoided if you just gave the zero. You hear out your students, letting them speak their minds, and it cuts into your lecture time. Nobody is paying tuition to hear another student’s ramblings. And how long does it take you to bake him these desserts? It’s something different every day, always fresh, always seemingly made with care.

He doesn’t even know how you know he likes sweets. Lucky guess, he tells himself.

You see, Naoya knows that he is respected (somewhat) and feared (most definitely). He knows that he is not loved, not by his colleagues (who are all intimidated by him), not by his family (who thinks becoming a professor at a prestigious research university is dogshit when he should have been a global economist), not by his students (the university-mandated end-of-the-term class surveys are always sent to him). So to him, despite the ego he presents to the public, he cannot fathom the idea of someone noticing little things about himself. He definitely can’t imagine someone noticing and caring — it would honestly make more sense if they used private information against him.

He doesn’t think about you noticing him, and he refuses to think about all the things he subconsciously notices about you. He can recognize you by your perfume alone; someone had passed him by in the hall, and his eyes searched for your figure, only to be greeted by a student who just happened to favor the same fragrance as you. (He had snapped at the poor girl, telling her to walk faster or get out of the way.) He’s certain he knows the fucking HTML color code for the specific shade of lipgloss you’re always constantly applying in the office. One time, against his better judgment, he saves the place you’re at in your book. You had fallen asleep at your desk, your finger pressed on the page you were struggling to read, and then your head banged on the desk, hand slipping away. He doesn’t know why he didn’t leave you alone in the office; he had no business staying that late since none of his students were brave enough to turn in any assignments to be graded. There was an on-campus police alert the day before, though. Naoya rationalizes that he just didn’t want any criminals or deviants breaking into his office and destroying it. That’s all.

He actively avoids any thought of you, not realizing the irony of how, in his vehement attempts to ignore your existence, he is very much acknowledging you.

Learning Objective Two: Have Meaningful Conversations With Your Partner

“Why do you do that?” Naoya snaps, breaking the silence in the office.

Naoya is the type of person who does not simply say things — he snaps, he sneers, he smirks. And he has the exact tonation, voice, manner of speaking, of someone who grew up and was never told to shut the fuck up. With his current position in life, it seems like no one ever will.

“Do what?” You look up from the papers you’re grading, staring at him all doe-eyed and genuinely confused that Naoya discovers the unfortunate fact that he does, actually, possess a heart. An annoying one that gets all tight in his chest and starts beating against his rib cage every time you look at him. He’d charge you with a hospital bill from a top of the line cardiologist, but he knows you get paid like shit in comparison to him. Also, because he doesn’t like the idea of women spending money on his behalf.

“Give out pity grades.”

It’s like you’ll do anything in your power to not fail a student. You’re just pulling out participation points straight from your ass! And the comments — don’t get him started on the amount of comments you waste time leaving on your students’ papers. There’s a reason why his grades always get entered before deadlines. He’s efficient.

“And ruthless.” You tell him, after hearing him tell you all about his “efficiency.” “We’re here to help cultivate their minds. Get them to think. College shouldn’t be about getting grades based on your professor’s mood.”

Was that somehow an attack on him? He should be annoyed. Instead, he finds this side of you less annoying.

“I’m always in the same mood every time I grade.”

“Oh, yeah? And what’s that, vindictive?” You’re teasing him, and he wouldn’t let just anyone get away with such a comment. He’s bored, he tells himself. That’s why he’s entertaining this. Unlike someone, he doesn’t have anything left to grade.

“Nah. Irritated. They’re all idiots.”

You frown. “No student is an idiot.”

He gives you a look. “You teach English.”

“Intro to Classic Lit.” You correct him.

“Right.” He says this slowly. “Idiots.”

“Maybe yours, but definitely not mine.”

“Let's compare our students’ majors and potential earnings after graduation.”

Now it’s your turn to give him a look. “There’s nothing wrong with pursuing your passions.”

“Great. Do you tell them that when the cashier tells them their card declined? Or, does the passion end up paying the total? Are grocery stores accepting passion as a form of payment now?”

“Don’t be as mean as people say you are.”

His signature smug air of superiority momentarily dissipates at this statement. It’s not often that someone can get Naoya to shut up. To be bested by someone who grades using pink gel pens is so humbling, the only thing keeping him on his pedestal is the fact that he knows he’s the youngest tenured professor in this whole entire university and an acclaimed researcher (he always makes the list for top five most cited economic researchers). You’re fresh out of a doctoral program, and even being tenure-track would be a pipe dream for you.

“There’s nothing mean about being honest.”

“You can be honest without being mean.”

“It’s the truth. Students are idiots.” He shrugs, because what the fuck is he supposed to do about it?

“Then why become a professor?”

“Sweetheart, professors that work here are researchers first, teachers… no, not second. Maybe third? If they’re that dedicated to shaping young minds, or whatever fantasy you’ve got going on.”

“Well, I believe that the students are here to learn. And before you call them stupid again, that’s the great part about learning. You don’t have to be smart to do it.”

Growing up, Naoya had to be a lot of things, smart being one of them. No one in his household was ever capable of producing an ounce of empathy, and considering all the people he’s been surrounded by since his prep school, university, and internship days have all been raised in similar environments. The world is unforgiving. Naoya lives by the ever-so-poetic motto of “sucks to suck.”

He will go home and lay in bed and stare at the crown molding on his ceiling, and he will recall your sunny disposition. He wants to shame and berate you for being so damn optimistic, for believing in those words, and he will think to himself wouldn’t it be nice for it to be true?

Instead, right now, all he does is huff. The truth is, Naoya is well aware that his students aren’t stupid, even if he tells them that they are every time they’re in class and every time they dare to come to his office hours to debate their grades. They aren’t stupid in the booksmart sense, but they are very dumb when it comes to the real world, and Naoya considers it a ruthless kind of mercy that he exacts on them. They’re idiots because they have all the potential in the world and would rather waste their time on stupid shit and procrastinate on their assignments instead of putting forth any real effort.

If they tried, he would give them an A.

Learning Objective Three: Be Specific and Sincere With Your Praise

You’re crying.

In his head, Naoya tries to force himself to roll his eyes but finds his body unwilling to comply with the demands of his mind. He’s annoyed, but the irritation isn’t directed at you.

It’s at the man sitting across from you. Dr. Kimura got his PhD from Cambridge and thinks he’s hot shit, but out of pure curiosity, Naoya found his dissertation online and still uses it as free melatonin. Two paragraphs in knocks him out faster than a whole bottle of sleeping pills.

Dr. Kimura asks him to leave, into which Naoya reminds him that this is technically his office, and that Dr. Kimura is an intruder. Too much time spent with you in such a confined space has some of your little lessons rubbing off on him. Words are so important to you. Naoya decides that visitor and guest are too kind, too euphemistic, for Dr. Kimura. Call it like it is.

Kimura’s business for being here is to give you your first ever teaching evaluation. It’s actually just a poorly disguised attempt at trying to lowball professors’ salaries, but this is the type of schtick that only works on pushovers like you. Naoya leans back in his desk chair, arms crossed, and it’s obvious that he is going to be listening in on the whole entire ordeal. You’re embarrassed to be put on display like this, not knowing that he isn’t here to scrutinize you (for once), but rather he’s your backup.

Before things take a turn for the worse, you’re actually all smiles and sunshines and rainbows.

Stop smiling at him, Naoya thinks. He hates your smile. Hates it the most when it’s directed towards anyone but him.

Kimura begins with a compliment. That’s how all the professors in the arts are taught. Compliment sandwich! Praise, constructive criticism, more praise! What a fucking joke. Naoya thinks his way of handling things is much more efficient. Talk about all the stuff they need improvement on, and whatever isn’t corrected clearly is okay. Don’t you people know how to read in between the lines? Context clues ring any bells? Fuck, what did you all go to school for?

Disaster strikes, just as Naoya predicts.

“Listen, we know that this is your first year of teaching, and you’re still getting settled into your role of professor and not student, but clearly there’s some leniency when it comes to your grading…”

Kimura’s listing all sorts of shit. Grade inflation is what he claims one second, next he’s claiming you have subjective grading criteria. No other Intro to Classic Literature course has a similar class average to yours.

Kimura shakes his head, like he’s disappointed in you. Another tactic that would only work on someone as sweet as you.

“If this continues to be an issue, we may have to reconsider renewing your contract.”

And there are those waterworks Naoya is expecting.

The thing is, Naoya knows a bully when he sees one. Naoya knows all about being cruel just for the sake of being cruel. As cold, shriveled up, and worthless as it seems, Naoya does have a heart.

“That’s bullshit.” He inserts himself into the conversation. You’re staring down at your lap, twiddling with your fingers. Kimura turns to look at him.

“This is a private matter—”

“If it was private, you would have done it in your own office instead of mine.”

“This is a matter that concerns the English department, not yours, Dr. Zenin.”

He’s right. And yet—

“Have you even read any of her students’ papers?”

—Naoya is your backup.

“How is this relevant?”

“Read their papers. Read their first one versus their most recent one. Hell, read every single essay a student has turned in over the course. I guarantee you they deserve the marks she’s given them.”

“Their papers are filled with corrections and questions, and yet, she gives them an A.” Kimura knows all about Naoya’s reputation. He’s infamous. He’s the reason why everyone’s scared of majoring in economics. Naoya Zenin is the toughest grader there is.

“I’ve seen the mental state of your department’s students. She’s doing them a favor by not crushing them.”

“You’re saying they deserve those grades?”

“She lets them redo all their papers within a reasonable period of time and grades based on the overall improvement.” Naoya shrugs, like it’s just that simple. “I don’t see an issue.”

“She’s manipulating grades.”

“She’s giving them a second chance. I personally find that to be admirable.” Naoya is not lying. This is what makes you look up. “And she cares. I think she’s the only one of your faculty who gives a damn about whether her students are learning or not.”

Naoya doesn’t hate a lot of things because he doesn’t like giving certain things so much special attention, but he does dislike insincere people. People like Kimura are the worst because they hide behind fake niceties and table manners, but if you peel off their skin, they’re secretly lizards in disguise. At least in Naoya’s case, no one ever has the luxury of being shocked when he says something very mean and unpleasant because he will never filter himself or put on a mask that gives off the vibe that he practices civility.

As a matter of fact, Naoya has a nasty, serpent-like grin on his face as he locks in on Kimura, caging him in.

“After all, isn't that the point of becoming a professor, Dr. Kimura?”

Gotcha, you slimy bastard.

Learning Objective Four: Be Vulnerable, Put Yourself Out There

“Would you say I’m an asshole?” Naoya brings this up as he helps you pack up your belongings. He claims that it’s because he can’t wait to have his office all to himself again, but really, he’s starting to realize that lending a helping hand every once in a while can’t hurt. He hisses when a sharp edge from one of the many stacks of paper you possess cuts his finger.

That’s the last time he’ll ever help someone, he thinks bitterly.

“Not to your face.” You reply back, giving him a grin. He wants to take your smile and store it in a moving box and then keep that box underneath his desk and have it be one of his most prized possessions.

“Hm.” Then he tells you, “A student called me that.”

“To your face?” You look equal parts shocked, amused, and delighted. It’s a good look.

“No. RateMyProfessor.”

“Oh, I think I saw that one. They called you hot, right?” You’re busy packing up your sticker sheets and binders. Naoya wonders if he’s reading too hard into what you’re telling him.

“You’ve seen my reviews?”

“Of course I did. I looked you up on the Internet the day we became office roomies.” You throw this information out so nonchalantly that Naoya almost feels like he’s the weird one to have a reaction from it.

“You looked me up on the Internet?”

“Duh. Naoya, we live in a world where AI is writing essays for students. Of course, I would look you up online.”

“But why?” He presses you, latches on to the idea that there is a world where someone wants to look him up online and it’s not to find his home address so they can get revenge on him failing them.

“Because I wanted to know more about you, silly.”

It would be nice to be known. It’s already nice to have someone who wants to get to know you. Naoya Zenin does not settle in life, but he thinks he could settle for this and be content for the rest of his days.

Of course you would. He would say this, all snarky and egotistical, but he knows better. He won’t have an excuse to see your four times a week, won’t be cooped up in this office with you late in the night, won’t get to smell the remnants of your perfume when he’s up at the podium, lecturing his class. But there’s a chance that he could see you in different settings, too. Getting coffee together in between classes. Sitting next to each other during university-wide faculty meetings. Taking you out to dinner, because he’s reviewed your contract, and he’s not sure how you’re surviving financially.

“I would like that.” The words come out rushed, all jumbled and smushed together. He’s a grown man. He doesn’t blush. This is what he tells himself when he feels heat rise to his cheeks. “I would like for you to get to know me. And to learn more about you, too.” He swallows. Hard. “I sound stupid, I meant to—”

“It’s okay, Dr. Zenin.” You have the prettiest smile in the world. His dissertation should have been on that. “The fun part about learning is that you can still do it, even when you’re being stupid.”

#naoya zenin x reader #naoya x reader #naoya zen'in x reader #jjk x reader #fluff #drabble #one shot #college au

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glassrowboat · 5 months ago

Text

Ruffled Crow. Dottore.

Really just a few headcanons.

Dottore, once upon a time, used to be really bad about safety measures once upon a time, but now there's eyelash stations in every section of his lab along with showers and signs to remind people to wear their safety glasses on every door. Though, he did assign the task of handling that to his segments.

Each segments hair is synthetic, so instead of it being able to grow itself they would have to uproot their hair and fix a new one much like you would do a doll for their new wig (aka the good old push pin method) if they wish to change it.

Dottore has a chemical burn under his mask from an experiment gone awry that caused one of his eyes to go blind. Nowadays, it's been changed out for a robotic eye. It may or may not be like bluetooth connected to the monitor on his mask.

The bracelet Yelan lost that she cherished as family heirloom was actually made by him. When he was in that lab in Liyue (Childe’s story quest for a reminder) he had started tinkering with the idea of making the prototype for what is now his network with how Dottore communicates with his segments. This is why he ended up breaking out in a hysterical fit of laughter when Pantalone brought it to him one day out of the blue and asked him if he knew what it was.

He knows how to swing dance. It's just you have to be careful with him because those stupid (cunty) boots of his are a hazard. One time they may have even gotten caught on your pants leg and tripped him. A fact he still denies.

Dottore has a child segment he finds himself disassembling and reassembling every few years. To see the face his own parents turned away running around with a smile, giddy and without worry, is something that always has his stomach turning without fail. So wouldn't it make sense he simply ignores the thing before he turns it to a pile of parts again? So why is he currently building the little boy again with gritted teeth?

Major sweet tooth. To the point he had done some bullshit scientific method to make the perfect baklava. Still, Dottore finds himself preferring the one his mother made.

He does not have any game. Sorry guys, but this is the same man who prefers to hide away in his lab rather than interact with other people. You can't tell me he knows how to flirt, and it ends up affecting any romantic relationship he has because he knows about such practices in theory, but not in reality. It can make his time with you rather....well, let's just say he tries.

(Welder Dottore is so real in my heart, guys) The reason Dottore's bangs are uneven isn't because of a fashion choice, despite the fact he says it is. Rather, it's because one time when he got too wrapped up in his excitement, Dottore didn't properly secure his hair behind the welding mask, and it caught on fire. The only reason he hasn't let it grow back out is because he knows Pantalone would call him out that it was never a fashion choice in the first place.

He has worked with Sandrone on multiple projects. Their research tends to lean towards the same subject, so it only makes sense that they have collaborated multiple times even if their interactions can be tense and full of snark. But a like, mind that can challenge your ideas is what Dottore needs so he can reach new heights, no?

His sharp teeth aren't natural. They're the result of one of his first experiments. After all, he didn't have any willing subjects besides himself now, did he?

#hoyoverse #genshin impact #genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader #x reader #gn reader #Dottore #il dottore #il dottore x reader #dottore x reader #headcanons

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chai-berries · 3 months ago

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all my friends support palestine and will click and share this link to spread awareness

Come to my Lake House (#3)

Jerry bought the cabin on the lake when Abby went into middle school. The following summer, she invited her new Salt Lake City friends out to the lake. That started the tradition of going straight from the last day of school celebrations to the lake house for a long weekend. They’d come busting in through the cabin’s french doors, dropping gym bags and jansports backpacks into a perfect trip hazard pile by the door. Grabbing a slice of watermelon that Abby helped cut up and greet Jerry, who was in charge of the grill, before splitting off to do different lake house activities.

And the lake house itself is surrounded by so many things to do. From looking for newts in the water to trying out the infamous rope swing. Hiking in the forest that surrounds the majority of the house.

Don’t forget the traditional summer games like cornhole and horseshoes. Once Jerry even set up crochet — but he had to immediately return the game for the safety of the extremely competitive friend group.

This tradition continued past high school and college and budding careers. Eventually, Jerry didn’t feel the need to tag along with them and the group continued using the lake house as a place to escape from their corporate jobs and hectic schedules.

A year into your relationship with Abby, you got to see the cabin in all it’s glory. Abby didn’t have to ask you twice when she invited you, as you’ve been craving a nice cool lake for ages, work kicking your ass. You packed your swim gear, your journals, and books to keep you entertained throughout the trip. Abby had spent the drive up to the lake chattering your ear off about all the things she wanted to show you.

She wanted to take you to a cool cliff side view about three miles from the cabin. And the fire pit with the perfect view of the sky above between the trees. She was also just genuinely excited to be with you, playing in the sun. You practically radiated the star. With your silly jokes and pretty laugh. Whenever you guys went hiking, you’d practically be skipping down the trails, playing in the spotlights of the sun along the way. Your face under the light of the bright sun gave Abby butterflies every time. She couldn’t wait to share with you all the sights she loved so much.

The lake picnic happens three days into the trip. Manny, Abby, and Jordan drag Manny’s jet skis into the water. You help Nora carry the basket of sandwiches she painstakingly made for everyone, with specialty diets considered. Everyone had their beers, sodas, and sparkling waters tucked between their legs. There’s a giant wooden raft in the middle of the lake that they were using as base. Once the food is safely put on the base, alongside Jordan and Leah who were gonna swim in the water around it, the jet skis are revved up and the races begin. Manny and Whitney get on one while Nora takes the second. Abby invites you to ride with her and how could you say no?

Once you’re situated, your thighs against hers and arms around her waist, she floors it. She starts with big circles around the lake as she gives you a scenic tour of the greenery around it. But soon after, she’s pulling tricks to make you shriek. She drives by the others, causing waves that rock them. Manny almost takes you both out when he retaliates with his own jet ski tricks. The two of them start to race, with you and Whitney holding on for dear life.

Abby drops you off at the raft before doing a switch around with Leah, who takes the jet ski and Abby goes over to join you. She plops down next to you on the edge of the raft, her legs and feet submerged in the water next to yours. You had collected a bag of chips, one Pepsi and one La Croix before you sat down and you quickly pass the sparkling water drink to her before she even notices it. She thanks you with a simple kiss on your temple.

You both sit there, talking and sunning yourselves until Manny drags Abby off to a beer chugging competition with Leah and Jordan. You and Nora get to properly catch up as you wait for Abby to come back. Smiley and a little buzzed, she does come back and she immediately holds her hand out to you.

“Let’s swim, baby!” You give in once you see she’s not drunk and you trust she won’t drown on you. You guys walk over to the corner of the raft where no one is at and jump into the lake. You do a simple dive but Abby, after waiting for you to pop back up to the surface to watch her, does a running start and cannonballs into the water with a big splash. You close your eyes as the water hits your face and don’t open them until you feel Abby’s hands at your waist.

You open your eyes to see Abby’s own eyes practically glowing with mischief, the blue darker in some places and light in others. You tell her you “love her pretty eyes” and she pinks up, pressing a smooch to your smiling lips. You push away from her to float on your back, the girl doggy paddling next to you until you guys are further away from the raft.

“Hey,” Abby rasps out against the water pushing her around. “Wanna play mermaids?”

You bark out a laugh. “Okay, but I get to be the purple-tailed one.”

Abby laughs, agreeing. “I wanted to be green anyway.”

And like two little girls, you and Abby play mermaids for what feels like hours, swimming around each other and the logs and rocks that coat the river floor.

It is when you’re laughing so hard at her impression of her “pet seahorse” that can’t stop nuzzling up to you for “pets and kisses” that you realize you hadn’t seen any of your friends in a while.

“Wait, Abby? What time is it?”

The girl pulls back and looks at her wrist where her waterproof watch shines the time back to her. “Oh, shit we’ve been over here for two hours?!” Abby’s flabbergasted face pulls a laugh out of you. You kiss her wet pout.

You guys had managed to swim pretty far away from the raft and when you finally get to it, you notice that while the coolers were still on the raft, your friends are gone. You climb onto the raft and look around. The sun’s in your eyes and you have to cup your hand by your eyes to block it out in order to see.

“HELLO??!?” Abby walks around the raft calling for Manny and Nora or anyone.

Finally you hear Manny screaming Abby’s name. You see him on land by the house, waving his arms.

“Where the hell have you guys been?” He yells across the water.

“We were swimming!” Abby yells back. She looks back at you and rolls her eyes.

You see Manny move — his hands are now placed on his hips. “You get your asses over here! Dinner is almost done! Dios mios! No me jodas! I thought you guys died!”

“Sorry, Manny!” you yell back. You then turn to Abby.

“How are we supposed to get back?” You groan. “I’m fucking exhausted from mermaids, but they took the jet skis back.”

Abby scans the area and indeed they took both jet skis back. But that doesn’t deter her.

“I’ll go swim to get the jet ski and then come back and get you.”

Now you normally would say no but you can’t argue the fact that Abby’s stamina is way higher than yours on a good day. You’re exhausted but Abby is still bouncing around, full of energy. She dives into the water and swims to a jet ski. It takes her a quick minute to mount and start it, but soon she’s cruising towards you.

“Thank you, Abs.” You take her helpful hand to climb on behind her. And you wrap your arms tight around her waist to hold on as she drives you both back to shore. Manny is still there, looking exactly like a latina mother irritated with her children. He hands you both towels and gestures for you to follow him back up to the house.

“Thanks, mom!” Abby teases Manny. She just barely dodges his smack aimed at the back of her head and ducks behind you as protection. You put your toughest face on as you guard your girlfriend. Manny laughs at your attempt and rolls his eyes. “That’s cute, sister. Like a rottweiler hiding behind a pomeranian…”

“Aye,” you scold Manny, waggling your finger at him.

“Leave my girl alone. Pomeranians are ankle biters. Which means I’mma getcha!” you put your fists up, punching the air near his face. Manny gets into a defensive pose, bopping around in place like a video game character in create mode, which makes Abby cackle behind you.

“Hey, bitches!” You three turn your heads to the house where Nora is standing in the doorway. “Food is done. Get your asses in here,” she walks back into the house.

Manny straightens up. “Best not keep the cook waiting. She hid the chocolate for the s’mores when I kept asking when dinner would be done.” His face pulls into a deep drown like a scolded child. You laugh and shove him in front of you. Abby shuffles over to walk next to you, placing her arm over your shoulder. You slide your hand around her waist and walk the rest of the way glued to the hip. Manny was inside by the time you both got to the porch stairs. You could hear him reenacting the moment he saw you guys on the raft to the rest of the crew.

“You wanna go get changed?” Abby quietly asks. You nod and follow her up the stairs to your shared bedroom. She grabs her clothes from her bag and chivalrously goes into the bathroom to change, allowing you to have the bedroom to yourself. Making do without a shower, you put on a sweatshirt and shorts.

You’re sitting on the bed, putting on socks when Abby comes back in. She’s wearing her go to track pants and the thrifted harley-davidson shirt you bought her months ago. It has holes in the collar and along other seams, but it’s soft, light, and has a picture of a half naked lady sitting on a motorcycle. So safe to say it’s one of Abby’s favorite shirts. She joins you, putting on her own wool socks. You both get up to head downstairs but she stops you in the doorway.

“Hey, wait,” she pulls you towards her until you're close enough for her to lean in and press a long kiss to your lips. You smile into it and tug Abby even closer.

She eventually pulls away and you watch her lick her lips. Her cheeks are rosy red. She doesn’t say anything, just scans her eyes all over your face.

“You good, baby?” you ask, playing with the hairs at the nape of her neck, comforting her without hesitation.

“Yeah,” Abby coughs. “I’m just, like, really gay, sorry.”

“What?!?” you squawk out. The snort that she pulls from you is embarrassing but the way Abby’s face is so serious makes it come out of you. “You're dumb as hell! God, I love you.”

“Aw,” Abby cooes. She brushes a finger along the apple of your cheek. “I like you too!”

You roll your eyes at her smirk. “Shut up!” you joke, shoving her shoulder back. She barely moves, her stance planted.

“Hey! I was kidding! C’mere! I am sorry baby!” Abby apologizes. “I love you so so much!” She kisses your temple repeatedly.

You can’t help but pout at how fast you are able to forgive her, jokes aside. You’re a fucking sap for her.

You guys head back downstairs and into the dining area where everyone is devouring Nora’s gourmet tacos. There’s a spot for you and Abby saved, with empty plates waiting. The cups are filled with something non-alcoholic that sits in a glass jug next to your place mat.

“Damn, Nora,” Abby comments when she sits down. “My plans for my dinner seem subpar to yours.”

Nora smiles. “Shut up. But thank you. I’ve made these a few times already and they hit every time. So please, y’all, eat it up!”

The rest of the table cheers unanimously and then they settle back down, eating and enjoying the company around the table as the sun sets. It turns into twilight, then dusk, before everyone finally disperses from the table. Since tonight is Jordan and Leah’s turn to do dishes, Abby invites you to sit outside with her. The stars are bright out here and you take a moment to look at all of them in the sky. Abby takes that time to look at you.

“Do you know any of the stars?” She asks

You continue looking upwards. “I wish but no. You?”

“Nah,” she clicks her tongue. “I was honestly hoping you’d know.”

You laugh at her response, looking away from the sky. Abby’s holding back a smile when you look at her. She points over your shoulder.

“We have some chairs over here.”

There are lounge chairs sitting on an overlook of a small cement patio and campfire area. Abby tells you about building the fire pit a few summers ago with her dad. She sits down on one and before she even has time to say something, you nudge her thigh with your knee.

You look positively bashful. Abby’s thankful for the lanterns surrounding the area that alight your face for her. “Can I sit with you?”

“Of course, yeah, c’mere,” Abby scoots a bit back on the chair and spreads her legs so you can sit between them. You eagerly settle in against her warm chest. It’s not too hot or cold tonight — perfect summer night weather. She wraps her arms around your shoulders. Goosebumps arise on her skin where your hands run down her arms until you bring her forearms up to your chin, encouraging her to snuggle closer. Abby smiles into the back of your head and she tightens her arms around you. You both lay there, Abby pressing random kisses onto your head and you respond to them with kisses of your own to her arm.

“Thanks for coming up here with me. I know it can be a bit overwhelming with everyone but I’m happy you’re here,” Abby says into the night. You lean your head back so you can look up at Abby. She looks down at you, instinctively closing her eyes when you put a hand on her cheek.

“Thank you for inviting me. I’ve been having a lot of fun. It’s nice to see the crew… unleashed.” You shoot her a wry grin. Abby knows exactly what you’re referencing as she was also witness to Leah and Manny’s rock, paper, scissors turned arm wrestle turned into actual wrestling over who got to have the big inflatable dragon. Apparently, Abby had told you, they had to take turns because this wasn’t the first inflatable those two fought over but it is the only one that still inflates.

Abby leans her head back, groaning. “God I was so embarrassed when they did that!”

You snort. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know,” Abby shrugs, looking sheepish. “I wanted to impress you with this trip and there goes my best friends fighting over an inflatable floatie.”

“What are you talking about?” You move your entire body 90 degrees around so you can look at her, your legs now swung over one of Abby’s. There’s an exasperated but extremely adorable expression on your face. “I love your friends. They are your family. And they’re funny as hell. You have to come camping with my family — we get crazy on the river. Just you wait,” you hum, looking up at the sky.

Abby slyly leans closer to you. She can’t help the grin that grows on her face. “Yeah? I’m going camping with your family now?”

You look over at her and smile. “I mean yeah, my family already invited you without me even asking. It’s going to be twenty of us so you better be prepared for that whole circus,” you tease. Abby shares your smile. She’s met some of your family but only in short bursts. She met a few of them before you guys even started officially dating. They loved her as much as she loved them. “Just be prepared for the fly fishing because it’s a requirement while camping with us.”

Abby scoffs. “Don’t worry. I’m sure I’ll catch the biggest fish.”

You cup her cheek and bring her face closer to yours. “I’m sure you will, baby.” You coo. You lean forward and press your lips against hers in a slow kiss. She keeps you there with a hand on your neck, nudging your lips open with hers, your tongue enthusiastically meeting hers. You can’t help the moan you let out that vibrates against Abby’s lips, encouraging her own moans. It’s deep, slow, and full of love as she keeps you firmly tethered to her. When you finally pull away, it’s to look at Abby’s pretty face in the flickering lantern lights.

“Did you know,” you start. Your hand is still on Abby’s cheek and you take the time to delicately brush your thumb against the apple of her cheek. “That you are so fucking pretty?” You lean in to kiss her freckled cheek. The smooch is exaggeratedly loud in order to bring a laugh out of Abby. She pretends to lean away from you but is secretly enjoying the attention you give her face as you lay kisses all over her face, repeating “so pretty” under your breath after each kiss.

You continue to smooch her face until she is giggling so hard that you can’t stop smiling at the sound, which makes keeping your lips puckered very difficult. You reluctantly pull away, taking the time to brush loose hair from Abby’s face. Her giggles subside and she watches as you comb her hair back.

The stars and tree line behind you give Abby a view she could stare at all day, your soft expression as you look at her warming her more than any bonfire could. This is exactly what she wanted when she invited you to come up here with her. You, her, the stars, the soundtrack of a summer night floating around you. No work, no appointments. No other distractions besides her best friends, who adore you and have no problem leaving you two alone to enjoy your time together. No real interruptions for an entire week. And Abby is going to take full advantage of the full week to love on you as much as she can.

She presses a kiss to your cheek. “C’mon,” she gestures for you to go back to your earlier positions, your back against her front. You both spend the rest of the evening sharing kisses and inventing random constellations out of the stars above you.

#🏕️ 🧜‍♀️ 👩‍❤️‍💋‍👩🌌🇺🇸#the format is a little wonky but i’m gonna blame the internet and not my formatting skills <3 #abby anderson x reader #abby anderson #abby brainrot era #mads’ headcanons #abby anderson fluff #the number game #number 3

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kookslastbutton · 1 year ago

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Too Late to Dream ༓ jjk (m) l ch. VI

✑ Summary: You did it. You married your college professor. You even bought a house together. Against all odds, everything had fallen into place. But after two years of marriage, you begin feeling something was missing. You want a baby but your husband can’t say the same.

Pairing: economics professor!jungkook x fem!artist!reader

AU/Genre: angst, smut, fluff, marriage au, age gap, series

Rating: M, 18+

Word Count: 6,192

Warnings: 8-year age gap, mentions of professor-student relationship (oc was a Masters student), kook gets pissed, jk mother is asdhjf!, mommy issues, lots of family drama/in-laws, fighting, manipulative parent, pent-up issues/desires, jk has daddy issues, jk being good hubby to oc, mild sexting, sexual content

Sexual warnings: bl*wj*b, jk c*mes on her t*tt*es, d*rty talk

Now Playing: Make It Right, Tryna Be, Infinity, It Will Rain, Heaven+

A/N: um so this got over 6k which i know isn't amazing but for me its big deal okay?! haha! Anyway Part VI here we go! No flashbacks in this chapter because of ch.V buuut, I have a little gift for you and me. Hope you enjoy!! 💞 also pls vote if youd be so kind 😙

<< ch. V ༓ ch. VII >> | series masterlist

Living in the country for over thirty years, the Jeons were known to be excruciatingly slow and cautious drivers. The town was tiny, roads were narrow, and no one was ever in a rush to get anywhere apart from maybe the farmers market.

Once when Jungkook first got his license he took one hand off the steering wheel and his mother almost had a heart attack, saying it was “reckless of him to put them in danger”. It was from that moment forward that Jungkook always made sure to drive at 10 and 2 or 9 and 3 when his mother was in the car. His father on the other hand didn’t care what he did as long as he didn’t go above 30 mph.

Jungkook was counting his lucky stars when he finally got his own car and the chance to move to the city where he could drive how he damn well pleased–responsibly of course. He had recently finished his Master’s studies and was offered a job as an economist in a major medical corporation. The only catch was that he’d have to relocate to Seoul which ended up being more than fine with him.

His parents moaned and groaned that he wasn’t sticking around but his mind was made up. He moved out of his parent’s tiny town one late June and headed to the city where life moved to a whole new beat.

Ten years later, Jungkook finds himself gripping the steering wheel with two sweaty hands again. Kudos to his parents who have been telling him which way to turn and how fast or slow to go for the past fifteen minutes. He honestly should have picked a brunch spot closer to home to avoid all the madness. Walking would have done them good.

“I’ll never get used to how you drive down here,” Mrs. Jeon grumbles from the back seat. “All these sharp turns and six lanes of traffic going 50-plus miles an hour. It’s a wonder you haven’t all gotten in an accident yet. It’s like I always say, the slower the better. You city folks just don’t get it.”

Jungkook peers in his rearview mirror before signaling to switch lanes. “We can’t afford to go too slow out here Mom. This is a highway and dropping down in speed will cause a safety hazard just as bad, if not worse. Environments are different out here than in the woods.”

As Jungkook merges to the right, Mr. Jeon watches the surrounding cars from the back seat window. “Ah son, son, son!” He hollers and reaches for the ceiling handle.

“What? What happened?” Jungkook asks with panic. He flickers his eyes to the mirror again to spot his father's distress.

Mr. Jeon slowly releases the handle and lets out a lengthy sigh. “It's okay now, we’re good. You did good son. You moved over with so little space I thought you were going to hit the car now behind us."

"I told you it's a mad house out here!" Mrs. Jeon adds, tone thick. Jungkook puts his eyes back on the road in front of him and does his best to ignore the irritation bubbling within him.

"I know what I'm doing," he says. "I've lived here for ten years so can you guys please trust me? And stop with the driving advice and yelling every time I do something."

"We're just trying to help Kookie."

"Well, you're not alright?" The snap in his voice has Jungkook's parents sulking back in their seats in silence. "I want us to get to the restaurant safely and I can't do that when you're both shouting at me! So please just let me do the driving. Thank you."

God, if one more person calls him Kookie in that condescending tone he's going to lose it! Kookie was his childhood nickname but for some reason, it stuck to him like glue until he was friggin' 22 years old. He absolutely hates it and the only person remotely allowed to call him by it is his wife because she makes anything sound like honey to his ears.

The next five minutes are nothing but awkward silence and the sound of tires running on hard cement. Jungkook checks his phone—there's still a good ten minutes left according to the GPS. He moves to turn the radio on to break the eeriness of the drive when an incoming call pops on his car screen.

"Who's that? Who's calling?" Mr. Jeon pipes up.

"It's __." Jungkook hits the answer button. "Hey honey! You're on speaker." He smiles a big, wide grin that says nothing less than he misses you.

"Hi! I'm on my lunch break and thought I'd give you guys a call. I'm stopping at the grocery store tonight, after work. Anything you need?"

“Some booze would be nice!” Mr. Jeon echos and looks at his wife who merely shakes her head. He hasn’t had a drink in twenty years due to his high blood pressure, yet he’s still making the same damn jokes. “Got any Soju? Or maybe Bokbunja?” He chuckles at Mrs. Jeon’s sour face.

Jungkook pays his dad no mind and replies to you. “Uhm….we're low on milk again. I drank the last one yesterday.”

"You went through all those gallon jugs in a week?!" You'd think you'd be used to the amount of dairy your husband packs away but every time, it shocks you as much as the first. You married a milk-lovin’ machine.

Jungkook chuckles. "I'm sorry. I can get them for you if you want. We're on our way to get brunch, then hitting the bookstore for Dad, and after we'll swoop back home. I can pick it up along the way.”

“No need, I’m already going out later so I’ll get it. Anything else?”

“There’s nothing else I can think of. How’s work going?” He’s hoping it’s not hectic given the fact that last week was an absolute sandstorm. He distinctively remembers you coming home with nothing more than tired feet and dark circles under your eyes. He drew you a bath that night.

“Eh, so-so. I have a meeting with my boss later but besides that, it’s the usual. I wish I could have come to brunch with you guys. I feel bad I’m missing it.” Well, you do and you don’t. If Jungkook was planning on talking to his mom about the happenings of last night you wanted to be around for support but it was also a matter that should be between a mother and her son.

“Us too, but we’ll see you ton–shit!” Jungkook slams on the break when he sees he’s about to crash into a black SUV. Everyone’s seatbelts lock at the sudden jerk. “Sorry, sorry!” He checks the mirror to find his parents clinging to their seatbelts.

“Are you guys okay?! Jungkook?!”

He scans all around him to find rows and rows of cars all trying to merge into each other’s lanes. Some are coming from the exit nearby whereas others are trying to squeeze through people in hopes to get ahead.

Dammit, Jungook cruses to himself.

“Yeah, we’re good honey. Everything’s okay but we’ve hit a traffic jam. I’m not sure why since it’s literally 11:40 a.m on a Wednesday but looks like we’re going to be stuck here for a bit.”

“We’d never have this problem at home.” Jungkook hears his mother mumbling under her breath to which his father replies with a nodding of his head. “If it weren’t for all this nonsense we’d be there by now.”

“Absolutely. We’d be there fifteen minutes ago,” his father adds with his hands in the air. “Isn’t there some kind of way you can get around this son, like a shortcut?”

Ah yes, shortcuts on the highway. Why didn’t he think of that? Let him just push the button that says flight mode and–no! Having enough, Jungkook holds his foot on the break and twists his body around to face his parents.

“Alright listen to me right now. This is not Tiny Town where there are a million dirt roads that pop from anywhere and all seem to lead to one other. Everyone drives at least seventy out here and that’s just the way it is because this..." He gestures outside the windshield. "This is what happens! We all get stuck in this congested funnel! But if you two can think of a way to get out of here that doesn’t involve attempting to bulldoze other cars, I’m all ears. Until then we’re going to sit here and talk about the weather because there's nothing else we can do!"

Jungkook looks back and forth between his parents. Mrs. Jeon simply stares outside her window while his dad gives a slow nod in understanding.

"Is it really that bad?"

Jungkook relaxes his body back to face the front when he hears your voice. "Yeah, it's pretty bad __." He lets out a long, exasperated sigh. This is going to be a very long day.

"Nice out today. Mind if I roll down the window?" The traffic hasn't got any better and it was starting to get stuffy in the car. Mr. Jeon desperately needed some fresh air in his face.

"Mhm yeah, go ahead."

"How about some music? Find out what's on the radio will you." He sticks his arm out the window, letting the gentle breeze hit his skin. When the first song blares through the speakers, Jungkook's mother breaks her deafening silence.

"Dear god! What music is this?"

Mr. Jeon immediately perks up. "It's PSY! Turn it up! Turn it up, boy!" Jungkook appeases his father's wishes and turns the knob a few more notches. "Oppa Gangnam Style! Eae eae eae e, sexy lady!"

Hearing his dad singing at the top of his lungs has Jungkook rubbing the side of his head. It's not that he sounded bad but he was singing so loud that everyone around them started pointing, laughing, or rolling up their own windows. "Dad, people are going to get annoyed. Take it down a little."

Deeply immersed in the song, Mr. Jeon continues singing regardless of his son's request. "Op, op, op, op, oppa Gangnam Style!" He starts rocking in his seat which causes a few middle schoolers in the car next to them to pop out their phones.

"Dad!" Jungkook hollers when he notices the kids taking pictures. If doesn't put an end to this now, his father's face is going to be trending all over the internet with god knows what filter.

"Op, op, op, op, on on on on!"

"Dad stop!" He tries again, this time turning the music down. Mrs. Jeon attempts to calm her husband down too, placing a hand on one of his arms but it doesn't take much for it to be ripped out of her grasp. Mr. Jeon ends up nearly whacking his wife in the face due to all his energetic dancing.

"Erotic sexy lady! Oppa Gangnam Sty–hey! Song wasn't done yet!" Jungkook's dad never looked so offended in his life. If he had adjusted his gaze just a few inches to the left he'd see the group of kids, the ones taking photos earlier, giggling to one another. But he was too pissed at his son for crashing his party that it went to the wayside.

"Honey, you were causing a disturbance," Mrs. Jeon says.

"A disturbance? In this traffic jam, I'm the disturbance?" He refuses to believe he's the annoyance when they've been in the middle of a highway, moving at 5 mph for the last hour. PSY has recently become his favorite singer and not enjoying himself would have been an absolute tragedy in his opinion. "It's all of you who should be thanking me for offering some shred of entertainment at times like these."

"The entire population of South Korea is going to be thanking you then." Jungkook creeps forward as soon as the car in front of him moves up a ways. Finally moving again, he hums.

"Hey!" An abrupt voice calls from a slight distance. Two teenage boys pull up in a Jaguar, greasy grins on their faces. "Great singing Grandpa! Really know how to move!" The one in the passenger seat flashes his phone playing a video of Jungkook's dad online.

"Wha–how–What?! You delete that right now!" Mr. Jeon is stunned, tripping over his words at the shock of himself actually being the center of the internet. The video is unexpectedly clear.

"Just ignore them, Dad." Jungkook rolls up all the windows in the car and inches up the best he can to get the teenagers out of direct sight.

"But-but how did they do that so fast? It hasn't even been five minutes yet!"

"It only takes seconds, honey," Mrs. Jeon sighs, realizing her husband has become famous over a re-rendition of a PSY song. Of all things, it had to be that.

"I'm starving."

"Me too."

Jungkook glances at the time–2:40p.m. It's now been three hours of sitting in traffic and they've only moved about ten miles. What on earth is congesting the highway this much?

"Maybe we should take one of these exits." His dad scrolls through the map on his phone. "Says there are a few restaurants down exit 6A."

Jungkook considers the idea. He wants to get off the highway, yes, but so does everyone else. The exit his dad is talking about is off the far right lane which means he's going to need to shove in front of everyone's way.

"You sure it's a good place? Wherever it is you're looking?" The reason why he asks is that his dad is notorious for leading them into the most ruin down places. The last time he was in charge of directions, they ended up in front of an abandoned pizza shop.

Mrs. Jeon takes the phone from her husband's hand and swipes through the photos of a quaint restaurant. "It's not bad," she concludes. "And if it means we can get out of this mess, then I'm with your father on this one."

Two against one. Jungkook turns his signal on and waits for someone to let him over. He earns a few honks when he manages to squeeze his nose over but does his best to give an apologetic wave.

After a few more lane changes he gets in the exit lane. He isn't the only one planning to take exit 6B though, being that there are at least twenty other cars waiting in line.

"Maybe we were better off back where we were. All these people want to get off the same place. If we keep going there's bound to be another exit with far less traffic."

Really? Jungkook feels himself ticking again. After all that shoving to get over here and this is what he gets? No, he's not moving back over. They're going to wait in this stupid lane until it gets them to where they originally agreed.

"We just got here and we're not moving back anywhere. This lane should clear up in less time than it would take to go back on the main highway," Jungkook says. "Also, I probably don't need to clarify this but, we're not going to make it to that bookstore you wanted, Dad."

"It's fine, son. We'll go another day."

Which means tomorrow, Jungkook half grumbles to himself. His parents are here for another day after all and he knows his father well enough to know that "another day" really means the closest day possible.

Despite its size, the restaurant his parents choose is charming with its floor-to-ceiling wood paneling and giant, bay windows. The odd hanging plant is spread throughout the open dining space as well, perfectly setting the mood of serenity.

The restaurant only seems to hold about a dozen people inside, however. So thinking it is best to avoid sitting in an overly crowded space, Jungkook asks for one of the tables outside.

“Oh now this is lovely,” his mother praises, pulling her chair up to the table. Jungkook can’t describe how relieved he is to finally hear something positive after hours of nonstop grumbling.

Mr. Jeon takes a seat next to his wife and across from his son. “I just saw someone get Samgyeopsal and it was huge! Let’s get that to share.”

His enthusiasm is short-lived when the scrunched-up face from his wife says she's not a fan. “That's too much food! We still have to be hungry for dinner so we can eat with __."

"Mom's right," Jungkook agrees reluctantly. "__'s stopping at the grocery store after work so we can prep for dinner tonight. I know traffic slowed us down so we're eating at a weird time but it's better we go with something light."

"Oh well, we can always take some to go! Surely __ will enjoy some beautifully grilled pork!" Jungkook's father is adamant. He wants nothing more than a heavy meal after being stuck in the car all morning.

"__ doesn't like pork Dad. And we all know as soon as we get a whiff of it cooking there's not going to be any leftovers."

"Alright, alright," his dad concedes. "I guess I'll try their bibimbap. What are you having hon?"

Jungkook checks his phone messages while his parents make small talk over the menu. You texted him earlier to see how traffic was holding up and he only able to get back to you minutes ago.

Wifey ❤️ : So I'm guessing you haven't talked to your mom yet?

Jungkook: No, haven't brought it up. She seems fine though with the way she's been acting. It doesn't take much for her to go back to her usual self

Wifey ❤️: Her usual self being...?

Jungkook: You know, really particular.

Wifey ❤️: So she's complaining again. I'm sorry 😞

Jungkook: When I was talking with her on the phone before we left, she was much more careful about what she was saying. I expected it to still be that way now. Must have been a mood.

Wifey ❤️: Sounds like she wasn't sure how you'd be reacting after what happened last night. Maybe she's just reverting to back what she's used to because she's unsure what else to do or say. I'd still try finding a way to talk to her. Does it seem tense?

Jungkook: Yeah, you have a point. But Mom's also had a good way of sweeping things under the rug. It's not tense but it's just uncomfortably normal?

Wifey ❤️: Hmm, strange. And your dad's fine?

Jungkook: Honey...have you been on any social media in the last half hour?

Wifey ❤️: No, why?

Jungkook: Might wanna check. We had a little incident while in traffic. I'm still in shock honestly 😅

Jungkook waits for you to find the video of his dad. He already had the guys blowing up his phone from it so he's surprised none of them at least forwarded it to you.

Wifey ❤️: oh my god! Jungkook what happened?! 😂 I hope you're prepared for your students to be all over this

Jungkook: oh shit, that didn't even cross my mind 😩 also it's not funny honey! Listening to my dad singing eae e sexy lady was traumatizing enough. Now I have to see and hear it every time I pop open my phone or some teen punks show it to me!

Wifey ❤️: Aw Kookie, they're just being kids...try not to overthink. And you know those videos come and go. Your dad will be at the bottom of the chain by next week. Until then keep him away from PSY 😅 But I'm sorry you're having a day, I love you 🥺

Jungkook: I MISS YOU SO MUCH 😭

Wifey ❤️: [sent an image]

Fuck! Jungkook chokes on his spit when he sees a blurry close up of your cleavage. Thankfully his parents are still too occupied by the menu that they didn't notice.

Jungkook: sexy af but this isn't the time to be sexting me baby!

He nearly saves the photo if it weren't for the fact that he already had an album dedicated to very sensual *ahem erotic* photos of you. You had let him take them himself —best motherfuckin' birthday ever.

Wifey ❤️: oh adhjjhj, sorry!! That was an accident. I'm such a klutz. This is what I meant... [sent an image]

"What's going on over there?" Jungkook merely glimpses at the new image before whipping his head up, hearing his mother's, sharp tone.

"It's just __. She's asking about groceries again."

With slightly narrowed eyes, Mrs. Jeon continues. "We're about to order if you're ready."

Dammit. He'll have to reply to you later. Jungkook swiftly pockets the phone. "Okay yeah I'm good to go."

"This is delicious," Mr. Jeon says, patting his mouth with a napkin. "Best bibimbap I've had in a long time."

"That's great Dad." Jungkook stirs his noodles.

"Ah, where's the restroom around here?" He asks the waitress as she walks by. She tells him it's in the restaurant, all the way to the back. Mr. Jeon pushes his chair from the table and excuses himself. "All that broth has me needing to go."

"Yes yes, just go." Why his father needed to explain himself every time he needed to use the restroom is beyond him. Jungkook peers at his mother, taking her time eating her own bowl of noodles–they ended up ordering the same thing. "How is it?" he asks.

"It's good."

"Not too spicy?"

"No, it's mild."

Jungkook gathers more noodles on his chopstick. He freezes halfway when he sees his mother eyeing him intensely. "Everything okay?"

Mrs. Jeon folds her hands in her lap. "It's occurred to me that we still have an elephant in the room. I was hoping we'd be able to talk about it while your father browsed the bookstore. But plans changed."

And here he thought his mother had been playing down last night when really she was biding her time. "You know Dad's gonna be back in like ten minutes right?"

Mrs. Jeon nods. "I know it's not the most convenient of times or places, but I'm afraid if we delay it won't get discussed."

"Okay." Jungkook sets his chopsticks down. "Well...where do you want to start?"

"An apology would be nice." Her voice is mellow but the words are a clear demand rather than an offer. Of course, he wants to apologize to her for all the things he accused her of last night. But he wasn't expecting her to be this forward with it, especially since she was guilty of plenty herself. "I'm waiting Kookie," she coos, taking a sip of water.

Jungkook knits his eyebrows in response, unsure of what he's hearing. His mother looks far too relaxed about this whole thing. He decides to give her the benefit of the doubt. "You're right," he starts. "I'm sorry for what I said last night. I shouldn't have spoken that way and I'm sorry for making you leave. I think you and Dad showing up all a sudden threw me off and I reacted poorly."

Mrs. Jeon cracks a tight smile and reaches for her son's hand. "Thank you, Jungkook. I accept your apology." She gives his hand a squeeze before moving to pick up her chopsticks. "Now that we got that settled let's talk about the reunion. I'm thinking about talking to–"

What....the fuck? His mom did not just glide over this whole issue. She did not just put everything on him. And she did not just bring up that damn reunion again, which he's made very clear he wants nothing a part of. "Is that all you wanted? For me to make my amends with you?"

"What else would there be Kookie?" She scoffs, eyes wide.

"Goddamn it." He struggles to maintain a hushed voice. "Can you please stop calling me that? And what the hell do you mean 'what else would there be'? I'm not trying to put the blame on you but there's a good amount you should be saying to me too."

"What things are you referring to? Don't tell me this is about the reunion again. Look, whatever it is that I said was because I just want to see you more. And no more swearing. You know I don't like that kind of language."

"How can you be like this?" Jungkook can't stop himself. He figured his mom and he would have a better, heart-to-heart than this. It makes his skin crawl that his mother continues to play the victim. "It's genuinely shocking me how....do you even love me?"

Mrs. Jeon pauses at that. "Of course, I love you Jungkook. Why–why would you ask that?" She blinks back the slightest hint of tears forming along the edge of her eyes. Never in a million years did she think her son would doubt something this crucial.

"I feel like–"

"Feel what? What is it?"

"I feel like you care more about what I can do for you than you do me, as your son." Jungkook sniffs. This is a lot harder for him to say than he imagined. "There's been so many times that you've–"

"Don't say this honey! I care about you very much!" She reaches for his hand again but he yanks it away. "What are you trying to tell me?" His mother waits for him to form the rest of the sentence.

Jungkook hesitates to look at her straight on because behind what appears to be concerned eyes is disbelief. She isn't taking any of this seriously. It's written all over her face, tone, and all the way down to the way she's focusing on an answer rather than his inability to comfortably talk to her.

"What have I done so many times?"

"Honestly at this point, what haven't you done?" With an icy glare, Jungkook can't hold himself back anymore. The pot that's been brewing, deep in the darkest parts of him is finally overflowing and it's not going to be pretty to behold. "Do you realize how many times you chose your job, your status, and even your friends over me? And you make Dad go along with literally anything! Is it so horrible for someone to say no to you?!"

The couple next to them shoot uncomfortable looks his way, whispering to each other. Jungkook ignores it and starts counting with his fingers.

"Never once have you ever taken responsibility for showing up uninvited, nagging me about this that, and the other thing, making backhanded comments about my life choice, and most of all pretending our relationship is peachy fine. Well, I'm sorry mom, I'm thirty-four years old and I don't need to live by your rules! Our relationship is barely hanging by a thread and being quite real, it's __ and Dad who are the ones clinging to that thread, making sure it doesn't completely snap."

Mrs. Jeon opens her mouth to interject but Jungkook doesn't allow it to happen. It's not exactly intentional that he's pouring out so much in the middle of people's lunch. Still, he's been shoved over a steep cliff, head first.

"I'm sorry mom, I don't know how many times I need to say it. I don't enjoy any bit of this. It's just been a long stretch of–"

"That's enough! I don't want to hear any more." Mrs. Jeon immediately grabs her purse and twists her neck every which way. "Where's your father? I want to leave."

"Mom I'm trying to talk to you! Why won't you let me talk?"

His mother doesn't reply. She doesn't look at him. It's the silent treatment, Jungkook concludes–it's fucking irritating. "I'm not trying to be hurtful," he says, forcing himself to calm down. "Mom look at me."

She doesn't move.

It only takes seconds for their waitress to near her way up to the table with anxious steps. "I'm sorry to be doing this but unfortunately, we've received a few complaints of a disturbance out here." The young girl clasps her hands. "To ensure all our guests are comfortable we're going to need to ask you to take your conversation elsewhere. I'm really sorry."

Fuck. How embarrassing. Jungkook clears his throat and stands up from his seat. "We understand and are genuinely sorry for the commotion. We'll pay at the front and be on our way. Thank you for waiting our table."

The young girl gives a nervous smile and retreats inside the restaurant. Jungkook makes a note to give her a generous tip.

"Hey, what's going on out here?" Mr. Jeon rushes over, hair blowing over due to the breeze. "I heard there was some inconsiderate party out here airing out their dirty laundry for all to see. I tell you, people these days don't know what privacy means anymore!" He shakes his head and takes a seat.

"Get up Dad we're leaving."

"But I'm not done my–––oh shit." Mr. Jeon clenches his teeth. "You two?"

Mrs. Jeon gets up from her chair, still wordless, and walks towards the parking lot. "I'll get this Dad." Jungkook stops his father from pulling out his wallet. "It is best if you go try to ease Mom. I don't think she'll be talking to me for a while."

Mr. Jeon puts a hand on his son's shoulder. It's his way of offering comfort. "You're mother has made things difficult for you, Jungkook. I'll try getting through to her. In the meantime don't let this eat you up. It's been a long time coming."

Jungkook doesn't get home until quarter past six. The drive home was better than the drive to the restaurant, but hitting the notorious five o'clock traffic slowed them down once more. He also had to drop his parents at their hotel which was no easy task. His mother barely gave him a glance before hopping out of the car. The amount of guilt settling in his gut isn't going away any time soon.

"Hey." Jungkook finds you searching through the kitchen cupboard. "I hope you're okay with spice tonight! I got this really awesome–oh baby what's wrong?" You stop what you're doing when you see your husband come up behind you with sunken eyes. He wraps his larger arms around you, desperately needing your scent.

"I blew it," he croaks. "She's so mad at me."

"I'm sorry Jungkook. I'm sorry I couldn't be there." You turn in his arms to pull him into a full embrace. His nose tickles the side of your neck but you don't laugh. "You wanna tell me?"

Jungkook takes your hand and sits you both on the couch in the living room. "The morning started out rough with three hours of traffic and the two of them in the back seat, telling me where and how I should drive. Then my dad got unexpectedly famous off a PSY song. We finally got to some restaurant about half an hour west of here before 3pm. Everything was going okay until dad went to the bathroom."

"Okay," you say, scooting closer beside him. You rub small circles on his upper back as he leans forward on his spread-apart knees. "What happened?"

"Mom suggested we talk about last night so I said sure." You watch as Jungkook fiddles with his hands. "But she didn't actually care about a conversation or what I had to say. All she wanted, all she expected, was for me to apologize to her so we'd be okay again. It all came out after that and I feel so horrible about it. We ended up getting kicked out of the restaurant too."

"Jungkook..."

"I tried __. I wanted to be patient and to be a good son but she can't even look at me right now." He falls back on the couch, staring at the blank wall in front. "Dad's convinced it was bound to happen."

"You are a good son, Jungkook." You comb a few strands of his soft, ebony hair. He closes his eyes as you do. "You're mom's the one who needs to readjust her view."

"I never thought I'd yell at my mom about all that stuff. And certainly not in public where everyone is trying to have a pleasant lunch. I'm a grown-ass adult and I should have had better control of myself."

You settle into his inner shoulder, laying a hand on his chest. "Even grown adults have limits and your mom's far surpassed those limits. Don't blame yourself for this."

"Dad said the same thing."

"Well, that's two against one."

Jungkook smiles. Two against one, that's where he got that from. Not that you're the first person to use the phrase but he never used it as regularly until you moved in together.

"I missed you so much today. I don't deserve you."

You cock your head up as quick as the words fly from his mouth. "Don't you dare say things like that! You're a good man despite how awful your mother treats you." You lean your face near his, eyes wandering deep into his dark brown ones. "If you're not otherwise too tired, I'm going to show you how much I love you."

Jungkook opens his lids at that–apparently not too tired. You smirk and get off the couch.

"Here?" His classic doe-eyes peer down at your kneeled position. Seeing you settle this perfectly between his muscular thighs triggers an intense blood rush that goes straight to his dick. Jungkook didn't think he was going to get horny tonight but here he was with his half-harden length in your hands in the middle of the living room.

"Mhm." You position yourself just enough for him to have a clear view of your tits. You had taken both your shirt and bra off before starting. You know how your husband likes it. "That okay with you?"

Jungkook groans when you grip his cock harder, gliding it from the base to the tip in repeated motions. "Fuck yeah. It's more than okay." You giggle at how quickly your husband gets in the mood. He thinks you're the bitch in the bedroom? You quicken your movements.

"Oh shit this feels so good." He grips the couch cushion, keeping his focus on you. "Need that gorgeous mouth wrapped around me baby, please. Shit–"

You honor your husband's requests and trace your tongue from the base of his cock all the way up to his tip. Once there, you suck lightly before taking him in whole.

"That's it. Take my cock, fuck." Jungkook goes on to praise you as you bottom out. You gag a little at first being that you haven't done this in what....weeks? Damn. Whatever happened to the days when you'd literally go down on each other every day?

"We need to get you reacquainted with my cock honey," he teases, bucking his hips forward to push himself further into your mouth. "All these weeks without my cock in your mouth has you gagging all over me. Been it's been too long hasn't it?"

"Mm," is the only thing you reply with, the weight of his thick length dragging back and forth on your tongue. By now your pussy is pulsating like crazy and you're tempted to just get up and fuck yourself on him. But tonight was about your husband–you're going to make sure of it. And Jungkook loves nothing more than getting head with your bare tits in full view, obviously.

A few sucks later and Jungkook starts fucking himself into your mouth. They began as soft, needy bucks of his hips but now they're rough, full-force thrusts. His length shoves to the back of your throat and you moan desperately around him. "Did you miss my cock baby? I bet you did. My sexy wife....you're mine and you're gonna make me come, aren't you? Fuck yeah, you are."

Your eyes water as you continue to take him, hallowing your cheeks the best you can. Jungkook has his eyes screwed shut and sweat dripping from his forehead. Your panties are so fucking soaked right now and your nipples are defiantly hard from sheer arsousal.

"God I'm so close baby. You're mouth is---fuck I don't even have the words. It's fucking magic! And your tits are so hot from this angle. Kinda reminds me of what you sent to me earlier. Can I come on them? I'm so close." Jungkook takes your broken moans as a yes and starts ramming into you two more times before pullout and covering your breasts with warm liquid. "Fuck fuck fuck," he grunts, spilling himself on you.

What a mess. You look down at yourself. What a motherfuckin' mess and you love it. Jungkook pulls you into a passionate kiss, tongue rolling with yours in heavenly harmony. "Thank you for this," he says between kisses. "I'll help you wash up, I promise."

"Mm Jungkook," you pant. "I think I need you inside me."

Hey, he got his dick sucked and he creamed your tits–it's mama's turn now, or excuse you–wifey.

A/N: this got nasty whoops. not sorry. Anyway LMK what you think, thanks for reading! 💞 also pls vote if youd be so kind

Masterlist

Taglist:

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P.S. I'm sorry but I'm not sure if I'm able to tag all of you!

no reposting, copying, or translating my work– © kookslastbutton

#bangtanbathhouse #jungkook smut #jungkook fluff #jungkook x reader #jungkook angst #bts smut #bts x reader #bts imagines #bts fanfic #bts au #fic:toolatetodream #kookslastbutton

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shouldprobablybereading · 3 months ago

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Great job by Whelan as always but I do hope that is not what the railing looks like all over urithiru, because that's a major safety hazard. Totally not PBL complient

#Gavinor better not be allowed to step a foot on that place #I know Dalinar is tall among the alethi #so probably not the best to measure with #but that shit barely even reaches his knees #it's not gonna do anything to stop someone from falling over #sa5 #tho I don't see how any of this would be a spoiler #stormlight archive #cosmere #brandon sanderson

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would-this-pokemon-be-a-friend · 5 months ago

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How about Typhlosion?

I’m afraid this one isn’t going to come as much of a surprise for anyone, but a typhlosion would not make a good pet for a vast majority of owners. Like many large fire-type pokémon, Typhlosion require a very specific environment to thrive without posing a threat to themselves or any humans or pokémon around them. As much as I like this pokémon, I can’t deny that it is perhaps the epitome of a walking fire hazard.

Before we even get into the fire risks inherent with adopting a typhlosion, I must address the species’ size. Typhlosions are quite large at five and a half feet tall. These pokémon would not be comfortable in a smaller home where they don’t have plenty of room to run around and play. Typhlosions are able to get around both quadrupedally and bipedally, indicating to me that they like to move around and might behave somewhat like real-world bears, who need large territories to thrive. At over 175 pounds, transporting them might be a little difficult without the use of pokéballs: its not like this is a pet you can easily carry around or even lead with a leash without some real effort. While a pokémon of this size isn’t necessarily disqualified from being a good pet, it will put them out of the running for many owners.

Since the evolution line that typhlosion comes from is commonly used as starter pokémon for trainers in the Johto region, we know that typhlosions respond well to training and are generally friendly creatures. They have a documented history of getting along with humans, which is a huge plus. However, training to take part in Pokémon battles with a trainer and training to live inside a human home are very different things.

This species’ biology, unfortunately, makes them a very poor candidate for pethood. These pokémon appear to have a large, open flame on the back of their necks, which alone can pose a fire risk in a smaller home. This flame is actually blazing-hot fur (Silver), which can, in certain circumstances, burn so hot that “anything that touches it will instantly go up in flames” (Gold). In the wild, typhlosions use this natural heat to hide themselves in battle with other pokémon: according to the pokédex, typhlosions “[obscure themselves] behind a shimmering heat haze that [they] create using intensely hot flames” (Ruby/Sapphire). When this pokémon gets angry, they burn even hotter. In order to safely keep a typhlosion in your home, you will need to invest quite a bit into flame resistance furniture that won’t cause a blaze as soon as an energetic typhlosion rubs up against it, either when play-fighting or agitated by whatever stressors may appear. This is, obviously, beyond the means of some owners.

The danger of keeping a typhlosion doesn’t end with the risk to your home, it includes a substantial risk to you. Keeping a typhlosion requires a keen awareness of their mood. As previously mentioned, when these pokémons’ tempers flare, the heat they generate can be extremely dangerous. In the hopefully low likelihood that your typhlosion lashes out and attacks you, you might be in very big trouble. They can use several moves that could easily pose lethal, like Flame Charge, Lava Plume, Flamethrower, Inferno, and Overheat. Additionally, the pokédex warns of this pokémon having an ominous “secret, devastating move” that may have something to do with their ability to cause explosions by rubbing their fur together (Silver). While there is a way to tell when a typhlosion will attack by observing the way their rising heat affects the air around them (Crystal), the safety risk of living with a typhlosion is simply too great for me to recommend them as a pet.

Safely adopting a typhlosion would require a large living space and costly investment in fireproofing, and the additionally safety risk they could pose to you and others is immense. As popular as this pokémon is, I cannot in good conscience recommend them as a pet to anyone but the most dedicated fire-type carers.

#pokémon #pokemon #typhlosion #pkmn irl #Pr-:(

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perfectly-m1saligned · 2 months ago

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(Late) K!nktober day 1

Following @dreamlandcreations prompt list. Day one: lingerie; first time; degradation. I couldn't decide on one so I simply decided to integrate all three :) You can find all the stories on my Wattpad as well. Toodles!

(NFSW: MDNI!! Reader's discretion is advised)

Simon Riley x reader

(virgin!Simon x experienced!reader) (college!au)

Halloween, the one night of the year where all deeds are excused, for it’s our only chance to let loose, shadows and masks protecting us from the inevitable shame. Or as the Romans said: semel in anno licet insanire. Of course, you were no exception to the cravings of the flesh, putting on the slutties outfit you could produce with the items in your closet, a black and gold mask covering the upper side of your face.

The party was already in full swing when you arrived, thumping bass reverberating through your ribcage and hammering in your ears, the flashing lights installed throughout the room creating a hypnotising succession of dancing limbs on the dance floor. All the people you knew were at the warehouse tonight, an abandoned place - possibly a safety hazard - the youth of your city had basically full control over for Halloween, close to the forest. After a few rounds of greetings and small talk, entirely out of formality, you decided to go to the bar to get the night started. The drink was purple and sparkly, you had no idea what was in it, but the vampire bartender was cute and it tasted like straight up rubbing alcohol when you took a sip out of the straw, so it was perfect.

You walked towards the dance floor, squeezing yourself between the bodies that flooded the room, girls shaking their ass and boys with their hands creeping under their short little dresses; in about five to ten minutes, you would’ve been in their same situation. Drink in hand, you closed your eyes and started to feel the music, and it wasn’t long before a pair of large, strong hands found your waist, coaxing your backside against his front. You didn’t even turn to look who it was. You didn’t care. You started moving your hips, your free hand finding the side of his thigh as you pressed your ass against the growing bulge in his jeans. You felt his fingers curl more firmly around your waist, chest puffing out as if he’d sucked in a sharp breath, the feeling of power swelling in your own chest making you grin.

You eventually turned around, hand snaking around his neck to guide his head level with yours. He was wearing a Ghostface mask, covering the entirety of his face, but the majority of the people around you preferred anonymity. Your lips found his ear: “Let’s get somewhere more private, yeah?” your booze-laced breath proposed, a smirk in your voice. He didn’t answer, simply following your lead when you took his hand in yours. You led him towards the stairs, since the warehouse had an upper floor with some vacant rooms, and hoped you weren’t too late. Couples littered the space, some making out, some not really caring about privacy as a girl was not-so-subtly bouncing up and down on some guy’s dick, his hands secured under her thighs as he held her up and against the wall.

Luckily, you saw two people come out of a room, and you immediately ushered the stranger inside. The full moon outside the large, metal grate-covered window provided the only source of light. You didn’t waste any time, pressing the boy’s back against the wooden door. You hastily pulled his mask up, eyes already shut as your lips met his in a feverish kiss, not giving yourself the time to take a look at his face. Your hands were on his chest, feeling the muscles growing taut under your touch, his fingers settling themselves back on your waist. With a soft, impatient huff, you guided his hand down to the curve your ass, and you felt him stiffen.

“C’mon, what’s wrong with you?” You groaned. “You can’t even-” The words died in your mouth. “Simon?” A pair of sheepish brown eyes looked down at you in sheepish confirmation. “y/n, I’m-” His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed the lump in his throat. “I’m sorry, I knew you would’ve never even looked my way in any other context, so when I saw you on the dance floor-”

Your best friend, Simon Riley. He’d told you he would’ve stayed at home, since he wasn’t feeling well, but there he was. You had danced with him, and now you had just made out with him. You were aware of his attraction towards you, yet you’d never acknowledge it, and he’d never come forward, as to not ruin your friendship.

“Hush.” You whispered, shutting him up with a quick peck on the lips. “It’s Halloween, Simon, we can do whatever we want for tonight.” You put emphasis on ‘tonight’, reinforcing the finality of your statement; you wouldn’t have talked about it ever again. You grabbed Simon’s hand again, guiding him towards the couch on the far end of the room. You didn’t want to think about the various fluids coating the leather surface, and thankfully you were intoxicated enough to not let your thoughts spiral.

After Simon sat down, you climbed onto his lap, straddling him. Your lips were back on his in an instant, his hands now more confident as they settled back on your ass, making your already short dress hike up. With a long finger, he felt the string of your thong between your asscheeks, a growl rumbling deep in his chest. “God, y/n…” he panted out, breaking the kiss, only for his lips to latch onto the sensitive flesh of your neck. “y/n”, he whispered against your skin, nervousness lacing his voice. “You know that I’ve never…you know, done this.” Right. Simon was a virgin. You simply smiled, hooking a finger under his chin to force him to meet your gaze. “Don’t worry, baby,” you whispered, your mouth only a breath above his. “I’ll teach you.”

Climbing off his lap, you took a step back, starting to peel off the strap of your dress at a torturously slow pace, your eyes never leaving his. As fabric gave way to creamy skin and the black lace of your lingerie, you saw Simon squirm, shifting on the couch every other second to soothe the aching erection in his pants. His chest heaved with increasingly ragged breaths, nails digging into the material of his pants, itching to put his hands on you, or himself.

“Touch yourself, Simon.” You suddenly ordered, making his eyes snap wide. “I want to see how much you like me. Come on, touch yourself.” Simon gulped noticeably, but eventually caved. Trembling hands reached the buckle of his belt, subsequently unzipping his jeans and pulling them down with his boxer briefs, granting his cock some much needed freedom. The tip was already dripping precum, and Simon collected some of it with his thumb, using it as lubricant as he started to move his hand up and down his length with deliberate strokes. You let your dress pool down at your feet, left in nothing but the sheer lingerie, barely covering you, and the mask on your face. He grunted at the sight, lips parting as he fisted his cock more vigorously. “y/n…” he groaned, a pleading look in his brown eyes. “God, p-please…come here.”

You grinned, stopping in between his spread legs. “I need to touch you,” he murmured, still fisting his cock. He leaned forward, nose grazing your lower abdomen, enough to catch a whiff of your scent. “I’m begging you. Fuck, please let me touch you.” You looked down at him, satisfaction and power coursing through your veins. “Give me your hand, Simon.” He gave you his free hand, the one around his shaft momentarily wrapped loosely, too focused on your actions. You pulled your thong to the side, the flimsy triangle of lace easily giving way to your already soaking cunt. The moment you brought Simon’s index finger to collect the slick arousal between your folds, you were sure he was close to cumming all over his hand already.

“Shit, baby, you’re so fucking wet.” He said quietly, his warm breath fanning over your bare heat. He lifted his face to meet your gaze, a puppy dog look in those onyx pools of his. “Tell me where you want me to touch you, baby. I want to make you feel good.” A shuddered breath left your lips, a whimper getting choked in your throat when Simon’s thumb brushed over your clit. “Fuck,” you hissed. “Right there.” A satisfied smirk tugged at his lips, slowly inserting a finger inside your drenched entrance, coaxing out the sweetest moan. “That’s it, such a pretty little slut. You’re so tight and wet, y/n.” He withdrew his fingers, a wolfish grin on his face at your frustrated whimper. “Come sit on me, pretty girl,” he patted his thigh, dick still hard and ready. “I want to feel your tight pussy around me.” You climbed back on his lap, lifting your hips and putting a hand under yourself to line him up with your centre. “Sure you can handle it, Riley? You’re being a little too smug for my liking.” He obliterated the attitude out of you in one motion, burying himself so deep inside of you, you couldn’t help but cry out. An animalistic growl rumbled in his chest, face buried in the crook of your neck as he shuddered slightly, feeling your warm walls enveloping and squeezing him.

“Ride me, y/n,” he commanded with a raspy whisper. “Be a good slut and milk my cock.” You began moving your hips, his length reaching all the delicious spots inside of you that made your eyes roll back into your skull, coaxing the sexiest moans from your lips. His hands were firmly set on your ass, guiding your movements as you bounced on his dick. Simon lowered his head between your breasts, lips latching onto the soft, sensitive skin and leaving purple marks, as more groans rumbled in his throat.

He moved your hips faster, your motions more frantic and sloppy, purely driven by lust and the need for release. You felt the pleasure starting to coil in your lower belly, the knot getting increasingly tighter, ready to snap. “Fuck, Simon!” You cried out, hands on his shoulders and head tipped back, eyes shut. “That’s it,” he grunted. “Cum with me, y/n.” With a few last, powerful thrusts, you felt your orgasm wreck through your body, making you shudder uncontrollably, screaming out Simon’s name as you creamed all over his cock. He held your waist with a vice-like grip, overwhelmed by his own release, shooting a warm load of cum deep inside you.

There were a few silent minutes in which neither of you spoke a single word, feeling him going soft as he was still inside of you, your ragged breaths and the distant music the only sounds filling the room. Once you came back to your senses, you climbed out of his lap, finding an abandoned box of tissues on the ground to clean yourself up. Pulling your underwear back in place, you retrieved your dress from the ground and put it back on.

“So…this is it, huh?” You heard Simon call out from his spot on the couch. Fixing the strap of your dress, you looked over your shoulder, cocking your head to the side with a sympathetic look in your eyes. “Happy Halloween, Simon.” You simply replied, your heels clicking over the floor as you walked out of the door.

•This is an original work of fiction, please do not copy, steal or upload to this or other platforms without credit•

#simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley #cod x reader #ghost cod #cod #kinktober #18+ mdni #mdni #i need him #omg this man #college au #halloween #perfectly-m1saligned #call of duty smut

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thedelusionreaderbitch · 2 years ago

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Fred Weasley x male! Reader - Fred Weasley is sure his family thinks his boyfriend is a lunatic

A/n: the reader lives in the usa, normally I wouldn't try and mention where the reader lives (I don't live in the us) but it felt better with this fic. Also we live for badass muggle readers, there will be many more to come!

Warnings: Swearing, fighting (physically), the reader having some mental health problems but it isn't touched upon further then you can read, I think that's it? You have been warned!

Summary: Being introduced to Fred's family as his muggle american boyfriend already makes you sound like some exotic animal to them. It probably won't help that you have another secret just waiting to come out...

The three P's:

[Pov: 2nd person] [Pronouns used: you/your, he/him] [Pairings: (romantic!) fred x reader, (platonic!) fred/reader x the order/weasley family, (mentioned romantic!) Hermione x ron, (mentioned parental! harry x sirius]

I do NOT support J. K. Rowling, or any transphobic/homophobic things she says (or anything she says really), or TERFS!

You stared up at the ceiling of the Grimwald place with your hands laid on to the sides without a care in the world, opposing the anxious feeling bubbling in your throat.

You closed your eyes as you heard the familiar whispers of the other members of the Weasley family and the "order" replaying in your mind; "A boyfriend, a muggle boyfriend? And an American!" You must have been something to gauk at.

They looked at you as if you were some strange enigma not a newly graduate from your public highschool that wasn't fancy, and no, did not have moving staircases.

Who the fuck would want staircases that moved and that someone could potentially fall down? It seemed like a major safety hazard to you. Though all of Hogwarts seemed like a violation of the welfare of children from all the bits that Fred had told you about, although you're sure your city was much worse.

Where you lived there was crime left and right, and so much of the police were corrupt that it was dangerous to walk at night without someone beside you in case you got jumped.

Damn it, you were not supposed to think about crime right now, because it would just make you more anxious and jumpy and it always sent your spider senses aloof. Yet all you could think about was your city, without it's hero - Spiderman, to protect it. You just prayed while you were away the villains decided to take a break too.

The door to your room opened and your body immediately stood up, triggering it's flight or fight response with your muscles tensing up and you mentally preparing yourself for a fight.

Only to see Fred Weasley, your boyfriend enter the room.

Holy hell, you really were going insane.

Letting out a sigh of relief you let yourself fall against Fred and let your head rest on his shoulder as he wrapped his arms around you.

"Tired?"

"Hm."

"Was it my father asking relentless questions, or them thinking you were a friend, and me having to come out of the closet?"

You lift your head and smile lazily at his cheeky grin on his face as he teased you.

"Wouldn't you say wardrobe?"

Fred rolled his eyes. "You Americans always butchering our way of speaking, it's wardrobe, and no. Saying "coming out of the wardrobe" sounds absolutely ridiculous."

You laugh at him and close your eyes, you let your worries about being in England and leaving your city unprotected slowly ebb away with Fred's presence. He always had that affect on you, calming you, letting your mind settle down from the endless ways that people could be dying and how you could be failing to save them.

Not that he knew of course.

When Fred was trying out a new product for Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, he had accidentally gotten teleported to your house in America. Well it was your aunt's house at the time but that was besides the point.

It scared the ever living shit out of you, and you nearly thought he was a super villain with immense powers. No, it was just some stupid boy who had been mistakenly apparated to your residency and who couldn't get back because he didn't have his wand on him when he did.

"Freddie- or whatever your name is, I have a feeling you're not in England anymore."

After introducing you to magic, he was stayed at your place for three months, because you had no way to buy him a plane ticket to London, as you were barely scraping by as is. And someone would have to show him the terrors of an airport and how to navigate (that person being you) meaning you would need two tickets.

Eventually he found a witch who would apparate him back, although he was hesitant. He didn't want to leave you.

Reasoning with him that his family probably thought he was dead (also considering he did tell you there was a war with some dark wizard named Morty?) So he did, not before he confessed to you and decided he would come see you every weekend.

Then every weekend, became every other day and every other day became every day after work.

He was with you through everything and had told you things about himself his twin didn't even know, insecurities not meant for the cruel world. He was there for you when aunt may died, and when your best friend did too.

Yet you couldn't tell him your secret, that you were Spiderman. That you went out every night and saved people from getting hurt - or worse. Maybe more simply put that you were bitten by a radioactive spider that gave you superpowers (heighten senses, the ability to climb walls, webs, heightened intelligence, healing factor, spidey senses, super strength, super speed, super reflexes, superhuman durability, and immunity to wizard spells) and when your uncle died made you want to become a capped crusader without a cape that saved people?

Alright, perhaps that is a bit harder to explain.

Still you felt guilty that you hadn't told him, the two of you had been together for two years, he deserved to know.

"You alright there love?" Fred asked you as he ran a hand through your hair. "I seemed to have lost you there for a minute."

An American, muggle, boyfriend; man his family must have stared at you like a freak in a cage and you didn't notice.

"Fred I have to-"

You cut yourself off as your spidey sense started "tingling" more like blaring in your brain.

Quickly you pushed Fred to the left side of the room as a women in some weird sliver mask and black gown (that must not have been good for running after people in,) appeared out of some black smoke.

Emo much?

A spell whosed out of her wand as it hit the wall behind you two and you blankly wondered (not minding the danger) if she was in a cult.

It definitely wasn't one of yours that's for sure, usually they had better costumes.

"They've gotten passed our defenses!" A yell was heard from outside your secluded room and you couldn't be bothered to identify who it was before Fred casted some spell that made the women fall down straight like a board.

You could admire the irony in that.

Fred looked at you with confusion in his eyes. "How did you- It doesn't matter, you stay in here, okay? It's not safe out there."

Oh it was deatheaters, the people they were at war with. So you were right, it was a cult, to be fair it wasn't just any cult, it was the cult.

Fred quickly casts a spell under his breath over towards the lady now stiffed on the ground and closed to door on your face. As he locked it without even touching it.

You cursed, stupid magic, stupid people, stupid boyfriend, you had to get to them and help. You knew you could help because you were sure Wizards that hated anyone who wasn't "pure" and hated muggles didn't carry guns, making them incredibly useless. In addition to that wouldn't they not learn basic self defense because that would be below them or something?

So it would be mostly a saving-people-from-dying mission, you hated those.

"Because someone always ends up dying." A voice in the back of your mind speaks, way too happily when talking about death.

You slam the side of your body against the door as it flew off the hinges and you ran out to help the others. Whoops, hopefully you wouldn't have to pay for that.

You had the advantage of sneaking in, so you climbed up the walls so that you were sticking to the roof. It was strange climbing again in regular clothes, you usually did it in your spidey suit. It reminded you of when you were just starting out and freaking out about your powers, it nearly made you chuckle

Spotting Fred's twin - George (yes you could tell them apart it wasn't that hard) in a tough spot with two deatheaters cornering him you decided it was your time to jump into action before someone got hurt.

"Hey asshole!" You yelled at his perpetrators from the ceiling. "It's over, I have the high ground!"

Then you dropped from the ceiling on one of their faces.

The masked deatheater that you jumped on crumbled to the ground and hit their head on the floor and didn't make another noise. You didn't have time to check their pulse and make sure you didn't accidentally kill them as the other one sent a spell flying your way.

You giggled at their stunned expression when the spell did absolutely nothing to you.

"Ya, that isn't going to work buddy." You spoke confidentially before leaping towards them and punching them in the face.

"But may the force me with you!" You yelled as you threw your arm back to readying it for another punch.

You hit them just with the right amount of force, and just in the right place that they would get knocked out. You didn't want to do some brain damage or anything. You're sure there were some Wizard police or something that could take care of them, and they most likely would want to extract information from them too considering they were in war right now.

Okay two down, ten more to go? This is the best break ever!

Molly, Fred's mum was firing spell after spell at people, and didn't seem to need any help, and Sirius Black (escaped wrongly convicted?) was also just doing fine as he fought along side his godson. Harry Potter, the kid who the leader of the deatheater cult really wanted to kill because he couldn't kill a fucking baby. Although, he always waited at the end of the year to either try and kill him or apprehend him.

Well, at least Morty cared about the kid's education right?

You scanned your eyes around the room and they fell on Fred's youngest sister who was fighting along side Ron, and Hermione (who should really fuck already) and looked to be losing.

To be fair, three kids versus five adults? Didn't exactly seem fair to you.

You judo kicked one of them, before throat punching another, then knocking one on the jaw (you really hoped it wasn't broken,) while dodging some strikes coming your way.

"Here's Johnny!" You screamed.

Next you webbed the fourth cult member's arms and legs together, and finally you got the last one in a choke-hold cutting off their air supply before they fell to the ground on conscious.

You fought the remaining one off before having your short victory of them all being alive but unable to move or open their eyes.

"Bloody hell, I know, you're that superhero from America - Spiderman!" Ron exclaims.

Winking at him you let your spidey sense guide you to the next danger.

"I'm Batman." You grudge in your best Bruce Wayne impression possible before throwing your head back with laughter.

"Yes, it's Spiderman." You clarify, at their perplexed expressions and their wonderment of your sanity.

Suddenly your brain flared and you shot a web at Fred quicker than the speed of light and pulled him towards you with it as a spell that was bright green that sounded like "abracadabra" narrowly missed him.

You felt like you knew the spell, you feel like Fred had told you about it specifically- Oh. It was the killing curse.

That Bastard tried to murder your boyfriend.

Rage filled your veins that you hadn't felt since your uncle died, an old friend that come to greet you with a dagger in it's hands that had your name on it.

This was had to end now.

You took down the rest of the deatheaters swiftly even if the idiots had figured out you were immune to magic they were no match for you.

Then, some white light, smokey stuff came from out of nowhere and people stepped out of it. You almost go to attack them only to see that they didn't don the stupid all black gowns, nor the sliver cult masks with designs only children would call creepy.

Was this the rest of the order?

"The the fuck happened here." Some guy spoke with an mechanical eye, but not really mechanical eye? It just looked everywhere at any point? You were so confused honestly.

You're pretty sure the most emotion you've been feeling this entire time has been confusion.

"Sorry, did I step on your moment?" You question them with a toothy grin while your boyfriend marveled at you with a bright red blush covering his ears and cheeks.

"Merlin, that was so hot."

You throw your head back in laughter as George elbows Fred who continues to ogle at you.

"So you're not mad?" You ask him as your eyes flash with fear.

"Mad? Why would I be mad?" He chuckles and comes forward to wrap an arm around your waist.

"Well I kinda didn't tell you and you told me about your wizard thingy..." You trail off, as your hands fidget with each other.

"As much as this is sweet-" The man with mechanical the eye starts up with a grumble.

"No, no, I want to see how this will play out." A women with pink hair smirks.

"Were you going to tell me eventually?" Fred continues.

"Yes, why wouldn't I?"

"Exactly, you just had to tell me in your own time."

You gaped at the man in front of you, you couldn't believe that this wizard is yours.

"I love you so much!" You threw your arms around Fred's neck.

"Mate!" Ron piped up. "Fred's boyfriend just annihilated a bunch of deatheaters like they were flies! How is hugging him now?!"

Fred just ignores his brother as he places a kiss on your brow.

"I love you too, you crazy spider."

Bonus 1:

"I think my family is terrified of you now." Fred whispers in your ear as you glance over Ron who's shaking slightly as he leans over to Hermione and mutters something to her along the lines of; "He took down twelve deatheaters! Of course I'm scared!"

"That's what Ron's telling Hermione right now."

Fred stares at you, an astonished look appearing over his freckles.

"You can hear them, from here!"

"It's called super hearing babe."

"I know you, already explained your powers to me! But you willingly listened in on them!"

You bashfully turned your head. "I was just curious!"

"Who are you, and what have you done with Y/n!"

"You caught me! I'm Bond, James Bond."

Bonus 2:

"You know Morty and his deatheaters should really learn self defense." You state with your arms crossed around your chest. "I'm seriously concerned about their physical well beings!"

Fred looked over at you as his face split into a grin and his belly filled with uncontrollable laughter.

"Did you just call Voldemort, Morty!"

"That isn't his name?"

Words 2511

-thedelusionreaderbitch

Hp Taglist: @regulusblackswhorecrux

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yellowstone-national-park · 4 months ago

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This is an update on the hydrothermal explosion that occurred just before 10 AM on Tuesday, July 23, in Biscuit Basin, Yellowstone National Park.

National Park Service (NPS) field crews have completed a preliminary assessment of the conditions following the hydrothermal explosion at Black Diamond Pool. For a map showing the locations of the features in that area, see https://www.usgs.gov/media/images/map-major-features-biscuit-basin-yellowstone-national-park.

What happened? The July 23, 2024, hydrothermal explosion at Biscuit Basin resulted from water suddenly transitioning to steam in the shallow hydrothermal system beneath Black Diamond Pool and was not caused by volcanic activity. Seismicity, ground deformation, and gas and thermal emissions remain at their normal background levels, and there were no detectable precursors to this event.

The explosion, which sent steam and debris to a height of hundreds of feet above the ground, destroyed a nearby boardwalk and ejected grapefruit-sized rocks tens to hundreds of feet from the source. Some blocks closest to the explosion site are about 3 feet (1 meter) wide and weigh hundreds of pounds. The explosion was largely directed to the northeast toward the Firehole River, and the largest blocks of debris fell in that direction. The dark color of the explosion was a result of mud and debris mixed with steam and boiling water. Although visitors were present at the time of the event, no injuries were reported.

Black Diamond Pool and Black Opal Pool were affected by Tuesday’s explosion, and while they remain distinct features, the shape of Black Diamond has changed somewhat. Both pools are murky due to debris, and the unstable ground around their edges occasionally slides into the water. Just after the eruption, Black Diamond Pool exhibited minor roiling and water spouting. The water level in the pool rose over the course of the day, and by Tuesday afternoon the roiling transitioned to occasional bursts of hot water that reached about 8 feet (2.4 meters) in height.

What is happening now? By Wednesday morning, July 24, the levels of Black Diamond Pool and Black Opal Pool had risen enough that both were overflowing and sending murky water into the Firehole River. No water bursts from Black Diamond Pool were witnessed Wednesday morning.

What are ongoing hazards? Given the recent changes to the hydrothermal plumbing system, small explosions of boiling water from this area in Biscuit Basin continue to be possible over the coming days to months. USGS and NPS geologists will be monitoring conditions, mapping the debris field, and sampling water to assess any changes in the shallow hydrothermal system over the next several days.

Hydrothermal explosions typically occur in the park one to a few times per year, but often in the back country where they may not be immediately detected.

Similar, although smaller, hydrothermal explosions took place in 1989 at Porkchop Geyser in Norris Geyser Basin, and on April 15, 2024, from the Porcelain Terrace Area of Norris Geyser Basin. A small hydrothermal explosion occurred from Wall Pool, in Biscuit Basin, in 2009. Significant hydrothermal explosions, probably similar in size to that of July 23, 2024, occurred in the 1880s at Excelsior Geyser, in Midway Geyser Basin.

Yellowstone National Park has closed Biscuit Basin for the remainder of the 2024 season for visitor safety. Grand Loop Road remains open to vehicles, and other nearby thermal basins, like Black Sand Basin, are open. Additional Yellowstone National Park information about visitor access can be found at https://www.nps.gov/yell/index.htm.

More information Yellowstone Volcano Observatory monitoring website: https://www.usgs.gov/volcanoes/yellowstone

2022-2032 YVO Monitoring Plan: https://pubs.usgs.gov/publication/sir20225032

Preliminary Assessment of Volcanic and Hydrothermal Hazards in Yellowstone National Park and Vicinity: https://pubs.usgs.gov/publication/ofr20071071

Yellowstone National Park images from Biscuit Basin explosion site: https://www.flickr.com/photos/yellowstonenps/albums/72177720319112324/

#wyoming #yellowstone national park #yellowstone #yellowstonenationalpark #wyoming yellowstone yellowstone national park #peternoahthomas #geyser #geysers #geology

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slaymitchabernathy · 8 months ago

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Field Mouse

District Twelve is filled with rats. Vermin. Infested in fact. That's the first thing Coriolanus Snow learns when he gets off the train at the station. At night he tries to soothe himself to sleep by telling himself that by all technicality, he's sleeping in the cleanest place there is in this sad excuse for a District.

Not that the Peacekeeper base is top tier. Because it's not.

His penthouse on the Corso is top-tier. But here he was, sweating as he loaded crates and barrels onto trucks in the sweltering heat of June. "Got here right in time Gent," his bunkmate Smiley jokes.

Coriolanus has to withstand the urge to roll his eyes at his friend's playful jest. There is nothing right about him being here. There is nothing good about District Twelve. There is nothing worth visiting District Twelve for and...oh.

Well, what does he have here?

Coriolanus had almost forgotten that women inhabited this part of Panem. It doesn't mean they're pretty, but they all share that one special thing between their legs and that's good enough for him.

His other bunkmate Beanpole takes notice of the change in Coriolanus's demeanor and nudges him, "We're going down to the Hob tomorrow night. You should come, meet the locals." He wiggles his eyebrows as he says the last part and Coriolanus grins. "Sounds like a plan."

If he were in the Capitol, he would've put a lot of time and effort into his appearance. He would've made sure his shirt was free of any wrinkles, that his shoes weren't scuffed, that his curls were styled just the right way.

But he's not in the Capitol. His shirt consists of the uniform every Peacekeeper is given when they arrive at the base. His shoes are heavy-duty boots, and he gets yelled at if his laces are undone. And his golden, precious curls are gone. Shaved off before he even left the Capitol.

He runs a hand through his buzzed hair as they all step into the Hob. According to Smiley, it's some sort of black-market the locals have put together. The Peacekeepers normally turn a blind eye since it's one of the only places you can get alcohol for a decent price, along with a good time with a girl.

Coriolanus surveys the room for a moment, locating all the exits and entry points. It seems there's one way in and one way out. A major fire hazard but who cares? "Let's get some drinks," Smiley shouts into his ear. It's loud in here, and it smells a little but Coriolanus nods, everything's more tolerable when you're drunk.

They get some drinks from a vendor who's running the bar who eyes them wearily until Smiley produces some coins. Then they're welcomed customers. "Folks around here are a bit scared off by us," he explains to Coriolanus, tugging on his blue shirt, "they can spot the uniform from a mile away."

Coriolanus was always able to identify the Peacekeepers in the Capitol, but he doesn't tell Smiley that. Peacekeepers were a beacon of security and safety to Capitol citizens. Here, they're practically terrorists.

It's like a sudden silence falls over the room before a girl comes scampering out onto the makeshift stage they have set up in the Hob, and she's hollering about all sorts of things. Coriolanus doesn't really pay her any mind, or the other's that join her and strike up a tune. Live music is always appreciated so he keeps on talking to Smiley about when he thinks Hoff might stop making them carry hundreds of crates back and forth from the base.

Coriolanus has always been perceptive, and that's how he spots a small disturbance in the crowd. It's between a girl and a guy and the two are arguing about something with such passion. Well, the guy is at least. The girl won't seem to give him the time of day as she pushes her way through the crowd that seems to make way for her, but not for him.

It's hard to make out her face in the dim lighting, but she looks pretty. Well, pretty for a girl in the Districts. She's making her way towards him. Towards the bar most likely. As they get closer Coriolanus can make out more of what the guy is saying.

"...didn't mean it! You know I would never get with her, you're the one for me Soarynn."

Soarynn. What a pretty name. And the closer she gets he can see that she's very pretty. Coriolanus decides that he'd be chasing her too if she was running away from him.

She finally reaches the bar, not sparing any Peacekeepers a glance as she goes to order. She doesn't get far before the guy grabs her arm and pulls her back. Coriolanus tightens his grip on his drink. He hates District people all the same, even if they're pretty girls. But there's just something about a guy bothering a girl that he hates.

"I didn't cheat so stop walkin' away from me!" He cries, frustration written all over his grimy face. Soarynn pulls her arm from his grasp, "I don't care what you did or didn't do, we're over Billy Taupe. Go find some new girl to follow around." She tries to step back but this Billy Taupe is relentless and clearly drunk because he goes to grab her waist. Soarynn doesn't hesitate to slap him across the face and several people let out low whistles at the public fight.

Coriolanus shakes his head and focuses back on Smiley, figuring the argument is over now that she's shown him a thing or two. So when he watches from the corner of his eye as Billy Taupe grabs her by the hair and starts screaming bloody murder, he's the first to react and leap to action.

She looks so scared in his grasp, trying to get away and Coriolanus doesn't hesitate to grab the drunk by the shoulders and pull him back. Soarynn manages to get out of Billy Taupe's grasp and watches wide-eyed as Coriolanus turns him around and socks him across the face.

Now it's a fight.

There's yelling from both sides, miners and Peacekeepers alike as Coriolanus punches Billy Taupe again. He tries to fight back and manages to snag him in his lip, but he's no match for Coriolanus who's much taller and more sober. Coriolanus lands one more punch, watching as blood gushes from Billy Taupe's nose.

The Hob is buzzing with noise now, people are screaming and arguing while the two boys are now on the floor. Even though he can barely hear himself think, he grabs Billy Taupe by the collar, pulling him off the ground, "Don't ever touch her again," he spits out before letting go of that sorry excuse of a person.

It's Beanpole who's pulling him off the ground, saying how they need to leave before backup gets here. The crowd makes it hard to move in any direction but they don't seem to be too mad at him. He gets some dirty looks but that's about it. Coriolanus only glances behind him once to see Soarynn looking right at him, her eyes wide and watching as he leaves.

The boys clap him on the back as they walk back to the base, "You sure-handed his ass to him," Beanpole laughs, "thought we'd never get you off of him."

Coriolanus shrugged, his lip had a small cut on it, which meant bruise, swelling, the whole nine yards really.

"I was just doing my job."

꧁ ꧂

He's felt someone's eyes on him since they pulled into the town square. But Coriolanus can't seem to find who's watching him. They're loading crates, again. It seems that the newer Peacekeepers are tasked with all the grunt work no one wants to be bothered with.

"Take a break!" The commanding officer yells, wiping sweat off his own brow before walking into the nearest establishment for reprieve which just so happens to be the bakery. Coriolanus watches him for a moment, his eyes scanning the bakery windows and then he sees her.

Sees those eyes.

Soarynn's eyes widen momentarily before a small smile spreads across her lips and she walks away from the window. Coriolanus looks around to see if anyone else notices her but everyone's too caught up in their misery with the heat to even look at him. Beanpole and Smiley are leaning up against the truck so he decides to stray from the group, do some recon if you will.

He can't go into the bakery, not with the officer still inside. But he can peek in, try and see her. He's walking by the alley when he hears a whistle. His head snaps towards the narrow road in between the barkey and another establishment but he sees nothing. In the movies he's seen this is the part where you run in the other direction.

He goes into the alley.

He walks further and further, passing by a small gate when a hand reaches out and grabs him. Coriolanus nearly jumps out of his skin when he's pulled to the side, his hand immediately going for his gun when he looks down and sees that it's her.

It's Soarynn.

She smiles up at him, her hand still on his arm, "Hi."

Coriolanus raises his eyebrows before replying, "Hello. Is there a reason as to why you lured me into this alley?"

Soarynn laughs and it sounds so sweet, sweet like honey. "I wanted to thank you for the other night. You were real noble saving me from the likes of Billy Taupe."

"Is he your boyfriend?" Coriolanus blurts out, watching her face slightly falter as if she's deciding whether or not to tell him the truth. "He was," she says slowly, swaying back and forth on her heels, taking her hand off his arm, "then I caught him cheatin' on me."

Coriolanus can't help the look of surprise on his face, out of all the women he's seen in District Twelve, Soarynn is by far the prettiest. "Why would he cheat on you?" He asks, "Doesn't make sense to cheat on a sweet girl like you."

Soarynn grins, tilting her head, "Boys will drop a shiny coin to pick up a pebble sweetheart, just the way it is." She looks him up and down then, taking in his current state, hot and sweaty. He must look very handsome right now. "They got y'all workin' hard with those crates. Been watchin' you all morning."

Coriolanus isn't used to this, how forward this girl is with him. In the Capitol, it's all about soft giggles and practiced glances. But this girl is putting it all out there so he might as well too. "You like looking at me?" He asks her, taking a step towards her. She doesn't back up. "Mhm. I like lookin' at pretty boys like you," she purrs, her fingers coming up to touch his dog tags, "especially pretty boys who come to my rescue." She grabs his tags, yanking him down until he's at eye level with her, she turns his tags in her fingers, not even looking at him.

For some reason, he finds that attractive. How she won't give him the time of day right now even though she's the whole reason he's in this alley.

She reads his dog tags, "Coriolanus Snow," she says, finally looking him in the eye and she looks rather impressed. "Eighteen years old, six-foot-two, Capitol born," she smirks at the last part. "I've never met a Capitol boy like you before. You miss home?" He doesn't miss a beat, "Yes." Soarynn laughs and nods her head, "I would too, especially if I ended up here."

She lets go of his tags but he doesn't rise to his full height, he stays down there with her. "Do you have a job?" She shrugs, "Sometimes I do, sometimes I don't. Depends which way the wind blows I guess." Coriolanus bites his lip, his bruised lip and she notices, reaches out, and touches it without even asking, "Sorry about your lip. Billy Taupe can throw a nasty punch when he's angry."

Suddenly his stomach is in knots thinking about how she knows what it feels like to be punched by Billy Taupe. "He ever hit you?"

That seems to be the question that scares her off the most, he can almost see her putting her walls back up, "I'm not with him anymore. Don't need to worry about who he's punchin' or kissin' for that matter."

So he's hit her before. That's fine. Perfectly fine.

A sharp whistle pulls the two out of their tense little world and Coriolanus straightens back up, leaning out to see they're finally packing up and heading back to the base. "I'd like to see you again," he says, looking down at her. Her hair is parted down the middle, it's blonde and it looks so soft. Her tan skin is fairly clean and she's got these eyes he can't look away from. They're blue with a hint of gray. Freckles cover her face and her pink lips curl up into a smile, "You wanna see little old me again? After all the trouble I've caused you?" She asks, feigning surprise.

Coriolanus rolls his eyes and nods, "I'll take my chances." Soarynn hums, bouncing on her toes, "I'll be at the Hob this Friday. 'Course you can always come see me in the Seam." He furrows his brows, the Seam?

Soarynn giggles, "Oh so you're really new to District Twelve huh? I'll see you on Friday then. Coriolanus Snow." She slips something in his hand before she spins around, walking up two stairs and opening a door. He has no clue where it leads or where she's going but he's nodding and watching her leave.

It's only when he's sitting in the back of the truck that he looks to see what she gave him. It's a ribbon. Pink, silky, probably cost her a small fortune. Smiley looks over and his eyebrows raise, "Where'd you get that?" Coriolanus finds it incredibly rude of Smiley to insert himself somewhere he has no business being, but perhaps sharing this little secret will pay off in the end. After all, Smiley is much more knowledgeable about this place than he is at the moment. "That girl from the Hob," he says, his voice hushed, his fist curling around the ribbon.

Smiley grins, "Looks like she's being sweet on you if she gave you that. Must make you her hero or something since you saved her from that guy."

Coriolanus frowns because it makes perfect sense why Soarynn would like him and be so sweet to him. He protected her. He saved her. But he's a Peacekeeper. He's seen the way people look at him, at his friends, his bosses. All they see is Capitol dogs.

"But I'm a Peacekeeper," he points out, "she should hate me for what I do."

The truck jostles and Coriolanus knows they're back on base, and watches the gates close behind them. Home sweet home.

Smiley chuckles, "Sounds like she's one of those girls who has a thing for Peacekeepers. Some women love men with authority so we're the perfect fit for them, makes them feel like they're special."

Well, this was news to Coriolanus. He'd grown up hating District people and always assumed that they did the same. Which meant something must be really wrong with this girl.

The truck finally came to a stop and they hopped out, the ribbon still clutched in his hand. It was pretty, like her. And he didn't get a whole lot of pretty out here in Twelve, surrounded by sweaty, grumbling men.

Smiley bumped his shoulder with him, "They're like bees to honey with us, can't get enough.”

Everyone begins walking towards the mess hall. Cookie made something fried tonight from what he can smell and everyone wants a bite, but Coriolanus lingers behind.

Looking at that pink ribbon. It’s soft, it sure would look pretty in her hair.

“…like bees to honey…”

Those words play over and over in his head for the rest of the day, rest of the night. Surely he hasn’t misread the situation, her actions. She gave him that ribbon to remember her, so he’d think about her until they saw each other again. She even told him where she lived! Kind of. Sort of. Maybe.

“Hey Beanpole,” he says, not moving from his position on his bunk. They have an hour of free time before its lights out and Coriolanus has been using it to mull over his possibilities with Soarynn.

“Yeah, Gent?”

Coriolanus debates how much he should ask, how much he should tell. Because at the end of the day, he’s here to work, to suffer, to serve. Hoff hasn’t directly said they couldn’t be in relationships but he has a feeling that they’re rather frowned upon. Especially with new recruits. Especially with District girls.

“Where’s the Seam?”

The laugh he gets from Beanpole makes him wonder if it’s so obvious. Clearly, there aren’t big signs in town pointing in every which direction but still, it seems to be a valid question.

“The Seam is the south side of nowhere my friend. It’s rock bottom.”

Oh, so she’s poor.

Or her family is poor at least which makes her poor. If only he could take her back with him to the Capitol, show her true wealth.

“I’ll point you in the right direction when we stop by town tomorrow,” his bunkmate offers. Coriolanus thanks him before rolling over in his bunk, staring at the wall. This is a bad idea, he thinks. But what’s the worst that can happen? A little heartbreak never killed anybody.

Right?

꧁ ꧂

“Just keep walking down that road and you’ll reach the Seam,” Beanpole said, giving Coriolanus a pat on the back like he’d need it.

Coriolanus nodded and soldiered on towards the Seam, a bag of ice clutched in his hand. It took some convincing from Cookie, but he managed a decent-sized bag, figuring Soarynn might enjoy some ice. The further he walks the more he realizes why Beanpole wished him luck. The Seam is where poor, poor, poor people live.

The houses can barely hold themselves together, the roofs are sagging, the grass is dead, the fences are leaning and Coriolanus is about to start running.

But he can’t.

He needs to be a man, a better man. At least a better man than Billy Taupe which shouldn’t be hard since he hits his girlfriend.

Ex-girlfriend, Coriolanus reminds himself as he comes across a man working on his front fence. The man looks normal enough until Coriolanus asks him for directions and he realizes the man is missing his two front teeth.

“I’m looking for a girl,” he starts and the man lets out a wheeze, slapping his knee. “Aren’t we all?” He asks, throwing his head back. Coriolanus sighs, leave it to him to ask this absolute nut job for directions. “Her name is Soarynn,” he continues, “she said she lives in the Seam.” That seems to sober the man up long enough to think, “Oh the blonde girl,” he snaps his fingers, “she lives at the end of the road.”

Of course, she does.

Coriolanus thanks the man before continuing his trek to her house. It’s positively sweltering and he’s glad he had forgone the long-sleeved part of his Peacekeeper uniform. Today it’s the pants and the white shirt. Simple. He’s hoping for handsome but his sweat isn’t helping.

When he finally reaches her house he’s passed a number of people on the street, all looking at him strangely as if he’s the odd one out. Shouldn’t these people be working? No wonder this country was such a mess.

Soarynn’s house is gray but that seems to be a recurring theme in the Seam. It looks to be about two stories although he wouldn’t try the second floor if he was smart. There’s a rickety porch and he cautiously makes his way up the steps and knocks on the door.

There’s the chance that no one’s home. With his luck, her dad will answer the door.

When the door opens he almost wishes it was her dad answering. It’s a boy. His age, brown hair, tan skin, shirtless. They’re about the same height and they immediately size each other up because what else do teenage boys do?

Finally, the brown-haired boy smirks and looks over his shoulder, “Your pretty boy is here Soarynn.”

His heart beats a little faster at the nickname. One, because it’s a nickname and Coriolanus only has two other nicknames, Gent and Coryo. Both reserved for very different people. Two, because it means she’s talked about him since they last saw each other. It’s only been two days but still.

He can hear a bit of scuffling before Soarynn pushes her way to the front door, shoving the other boy back into the house, “Don’t make me get my earplugs,” the boy says to her. Soarynn looks up and shoots him a nasty look before jabbing him in the ribs with her elbow, “Go fishin’ Jett, and don’t tell no one either.”

Jett, it seems, simply holds his hands up before shooting Coriolanus one more look and disappearing into the house.

Coriolanus can feel his bottom lip twitching. Who was that? At first he feared the worst, that she might already be with someone else, but their dynamic doesn’t seem that way.

“My cousin,” Soarynn says as if reading his mind.

Coriolanus finally looks down at her and isn’t she just something? Her hair’s been thrown up in a messy bun, a few pieces falling out here and there. She’s wearing a dress with thin straps, it’s light blue and it looks like it’s been worn to death. He isn’t even trying to notice but she’s got no bra on and she doesn’t seem to care that he’s seeing her this way, so exposed right now.

“I thought I might never find this place,” he says, not wanting to expand on her cousin anymore if he can help it. Soarynn gives him a small smile and leans against the doorframe as if the house won’t fall over from her small amount of weight. “But you found me,” she tells him, some pride in her tone.

Coriolanus swallows, “I did.” He looks into the house to see if he can find anyone else but it seems to be empty. Soarynn catches him looking because she seems to notice everything and straightens back up, “Why don’t we go to the meadow?”

The meadow? A possibly desirable place in this wasteland?

“Sounds good to me.”

꧁ ꧂

Soarynn doesn’t wear any shoes when they go to the meadow. It’s quite literally right behind her house which makes it easier, but still. What if she stepped on something or got bit? She doesn’t seem to care.

She leads him to a large oak tree where there’s a rock under it, the perfect size for the both of them to perch on. At least that’s what she tells him.

“I come bearing gifts,” he says, settling down on the rock.

Soarynn tilts her head and pulls her knees up to her chest, “You don't say.”

Even though he’s sure she already saw it he makes a big show of producing the ice. It’s not even the satisfaction of knowing he provided for her that makes him happy, it’s the big smile that spreads across her face when she sees the bag.

“Well this is a gift good as any,” she says with a laugh, grabbing the bottom of the bag to feel how cold it is. “Y’all got ice on that Peacekeeper base?”

Coriolanus nods while untying the bag, offering her a cube. Soarynn simply opens her mouth and he doesn’t falter to drop the cube into her mouth, watching her work on it for a minute. “Thank you for the ribbon by the way. You didn’t have to give me a gift.”

Soarynn raises her eyebrows and looks out into the meadow, “Wasn’t much of a gift as it was a token. A token of my affection,” she states matter of factly.

Coriolanus grins, “Does that mean you might show me some affection today?”

Soarynn shoots him a flirtatious look, “Might show you somethin’ more if you keep it up pretty boy.”

That’s what he likes most about her he thinks, how she can dish as well as she can take it.

He wonders what else she can take.

“Have you ever been with a Peacekeeper before?” He asks, curious to see if Smiley is right and if he’s her third victim of the month. He’s sure there are girls like that, finding some new boy the second their old one gets shipped off to some new District.

Soarynn bites her lip, “Been with a Peacekeeper in what way? Sexually?”

Well, he hadn’t meant that but there’s no going back now he supposes, “In any way shape, or form,” he decides, popping two ice cubes into his own mouth. He doesn’t suck on them like Soarynn does like she’s trying to savor them because she doesn’t know the next time she’ll get ice. He can get as much ice as he damn well pleases back at the base.

“Nope, y’all aren’t really my type,” she says with a smile, gigging when Coriolanus gasps as if offended. “But you’re here with me,” he points out, “and why aren’t we your type?”

Soarynn pretends to think for a second before answering, “I like boys with longer hair.”

Oh, that hurts. If only he could show her how long his curls used to be. She’d be on him in seconds if she knew.

“Well, I didn’t get much say in the matter. Have you ever cut your hair?”

Soarynn shakes her head, her nose slightly wrinkling as if the very thought of it is repulsive. “Never cut it. Some women are superstitious about cuttin’ their hair, I just never had the urge to do it. Plus if I ever did have to cut it to sell it, I’d like to get my money's worth.”

Is this what it’s come to in the Districts? Cutting hair to sell it? Who wants to buy hair?

Coriolanus takes another good look at Soarynn. It’s hard to imagine her hair chopped to her shoulders but he thinks she’d look pretty still. She’s got the right face shape for it and her jaw juts out in just the right way. His eyes wander down her small, slender frame. If she was naked he’s sure she’d be all skin and bones, you can probably see how many ribs she has.

He remembers what that was like. Being poor and hungry. The worst two feelings in the world. But she seems happy as she gazes out into the meadow. Can’t miss what you never had he decides.

“You know, if you ever need money…I could help you out. Of help with whatever you need,” he says, already feeling like more of a hero to her.

Soarynn snorts and he frowns, what’s so funny? When she sees his expression she laughs even harder and shakes her head, “You don’t need to be my hero sweetheart. I really appreciate it but I don’t want your money.”

Well, then what does she want?

Coriolanus scratches the back of his neck, “Is there anything you from me then?”

He’d sure hope so. Here he was with this girl out in the middle of nowhere when he could be back on base with cool air blowing all around him.

Soarynn peered up at him through her long eyelashes, “I can think of a few things,” she mumbles with a grin.

At least they’re somewhat on the same page now.

Coriolanus doesn’t hesitate to lean in, his hand cupping her face as his lips press against hers. Her lips taste like sweet syrup and she smells like vanilla. Soarynn’s hands rest on his biceps, slightly squeezing them. His training has given him muscles he’s never seen before and he’s not complaining.

He drops the bag of ice to grab her waist with his other hand, his palm pressing into the back of her spine through her dress. Soarynn sighs into the kiss, one of her hands coming up into his hair, carding her fingers through it. She smiles against his lips, “Might just make an exception for you and your buzzed hair,” she mumbles. He pulls her in closer, wishing he could crawl into her skin and never let her go.

Soarynn isn’t the first girl he’s kissed and he doubts she’ll be the last. But right now she’s the only one who matters, the only person that matters here in District Twelve. Besides him of course.

He gets her to lie down on the rock, propping himself over her while they explore each other’s mouths. She’s so soft and sweet, and small, he likes how much bigger he is compared to her. How he could break her in half if he really wanted to.

They’re much more handsy once she’s lying down. Her hands slip under his white shirt, her fingertips tracing over his sculpted abdomen sending shivers down his back. Coriolanus presses one more kiss to her lips before kissing down her jaw, peppering her neck with kisses while his hand slips onto her thigh. He should probably ask if she’s okay with this, if she wants more, wants less. If she’s a virgin.

Probably not.

A girl like her knows a thing or two about men and their sexual urges.

His hand slips under her dress and he can feel the fabric of her panties. They’re probably old, well-worn, maybe the only pair she owns. Who knows what they can afford out here in Twelve.

Just as his hand is slipping under the fabric of her panties, a hissing sound pulls Coriolanus from his lustful haze. He glances to the right and nearly jumps out of his skin when he sees a snake has slithered its way onto the rock.

“Shit,” he swears, getting off of her so they can both run. Soarynn’s eyes fly open, most likely confused as to why he’s stopped kissing her and she looks over to see the reptile currently threatening their lives. “Oh, hey there little fella.”

Coriolanus is on his feet within seconds, breathing heavily as he eyes the snake. Maybe he could shoot it, but he’d feel kind of bad killing an animal in front of Soarynn.

And Soarynn isn’t making any sudden moves to get off the snake rock. In fact, she grabs the snake. It slithers through her fingers and around her arms as if it’s her domesticated pet. She doesn’t even seem frightened by it. She looks up at him and gives him a small smile, “Don't need to run pretty boy, this here's a corn snake, all bark and no bite."

Coriolanus highly doubts that thing doesn't bite, nor does it bark but he relaxes slightly when he sees how calm the reptile is in her hands.

"Are there a lot of snakes out here?" He asks, suddenly feeling very exposed out here in this meadow with the tall grass, giving any other animals the perfect chance to attack him without him seeing them. Soarynn shrugs, "I guess. They're good for the rats though," she gives him a knowing look, "makes me real sad when they get the little field mice though. They don't cause no one trouble."

A field mouse he could deal with. He's dealing with one right now it seems.

Soarynn reminds him of a mouse. Small, harmless, easy to crush if need be. At the end of the day, they're still vermin no matter how cute they may seem.

Soarynn finally puts the snake back in the grass and watches it slither away before she slips off the rock and joins him, lacing her fingers with his, "Thanks for protectin' me," she jokes, standing on her tiptoes to press a kiss to his cheek.

Coriolanus manages to give her a sheepish look. It's not like he intended to abandon her, but she moved so slowly and she clearly didn't seem to have a problem with the snake. "Sometimes you've gotta let your girl handle her own battles," he responds cooly, giving her hand a squeeze.

Her eyes slightly widen before creasing upwards in a smile, "So I'm your girl then? Just like that?"

Had he already called her his girl? He hadn't meant to move so fast or really attach himself to her like this but she seemed alright and it never hurt to know some of the locals, have a spot where he could relax from his Peacekeeping duties.

And Soarynn was pretty. Very pretty. He hadn't gotten a good look at her under that dress but he was planning to and that meant keeping her around for a little longer. Besides, he wouldn't be in District Twelve forever. No. He planned on getting back to the Capitol one way or another to finish what he started. He'd have some fun for now and then get the hell out of here.

"Yep," he replies, "unless you're stringing along some other guy."

Nows her chance to come clean, to tell him if Billy Taupe isn't the only person he has to worry about because he'll be damned if he's being played.

Soarynn shakes her head, "Just you and me sweetheart."

| Part 1. |

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