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caffeinewitchcraft · 7 months ago

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AITA for telling my boyfriend’s coworkers that he’s lying about his body count?

I (35f) have been dating my boyfriend (32m) for four years. It’s honestly been the best relationship until last Friday when it all went down. I feel like I’m in the right, but now I’m wondering if I overstepped.

For context, my boyfriend has been a professional Slasher for about eight months now. He’s always really admired Cryptids, Monsters, and Nightmares so when his application was finally accepted, he was over the moon even if he was starting in a lower position than he initially applied for.

At his company, being a Slasher requires a lot of travel which we knew when he accepted the position. The end goal is for him to get a promotion to at least regional Nightmare (he wants Cryptid, but that position doesn’t have a lot of turnover) but to get that he needs to be in role for at least 12 months OR meet his goals for three months in a row. Once he promotes, we plan to relocate to his new region and “start talking about our future.”

(Side note: no this isn’t about him not popping the question yet. We are both in agreement that marriage comes after financial stability. I run a small business doing scare consults and, while it’s been growing, I wouldn’t call it stable yet. So neither of us are ready.)

I told him it’s completely normal for it to take a whole year before he’s ready to promote and he really should focus on adjusting to the company before thinking about next steps. I used to work for a competitor (I’ve been retired for five years now) and I know it can be hard to go from only taking the occasional human life to having to take over half a dozen a week. It’s not a light workload, no matter how easy it looks in the movies. One of my best friends Slashes part-time and she still only averages about five lives a week despite having done it for years. Especially these days, it can be really hard to meet quota. Humans are getting smarter, no matter what the Council wants us to think.

Anyway, boyfriend didn’t do as well as he thought he would in his first couple months. Totally understandable, of course, which I told him. I suggested he ask his boss if he could be put on a couple team assignments or even a duo until he got the hang of it. That was our first real fight. He thought I was doubting his ability to kill. He brought up how I told him it would take over a year to promote and how I said that this job wasn’t for everyone (His first assignment ended with a 0% kill rate, but that’s a different story). He said it felt like I didn’t believe in him and he said that if that was the case then maybe we shouldn’t be thinking about marriage so soon.

It got pretty messy after that. I felt like he was forgetting that I’d worked in the same field and, arguably, had a lot more experience (not to brag, but I averaged a 98% kill rate). Also, four years is NOT too soon to talk about marriage. He said I didn’t understand how he needed to focus on his career right now. I told him I thought he was taking Slasher too lightly just because it wasn’t Cryptid. He accused me of not respecting him and then things spiraled from there.

We both said a lot of things we didn’t mean and I’m embarrassed that it turned into a bit of a fang measuring contest. I ended up sleeping under the bed for a few nights until he coaxed me out to apologize.

It was a rough patch, but we talked it out. We agreed that, going forward, I wouldn’t offer advice unless he asked and he would try not to take so much of his frustration home with him. He took a weekend off and we went on a recreational haunting trip in the Montana woods.

Things did get better after that. I tried not to give him consults every time he came back from a work trip. He started bringing me souvenirs like roses and cursed puzzle boxes his work said he could have. It became easier just to hang out with each other and it felt like we were back to normal.

But then, four months ago, he came home super pissed because his boss put him on a PIP. (A performance improvement plan.) Apparently, boyfriend had not been doing better at work, he had just stopped telling me when he had a bad assignment. I saw the paperwork he got (he left it in the dungeon under the house, I didn’t go through his stuff) and he’s been missing quota by a LOT. As a junior Slasher, he was supposed to be executing at least 6 people a week, but he’d been lucky to be maiming half that.

Obviously, I had to talk to him about that. We rent our house and, even though I could have afforded the rent on my own, I didn’t want to jeopardize the investments I was making in my business (I was in the process of hiring an assistant to handle my scheduling). Plus, we agreed from day one that we would be 50/50 on rent and I would take care of the rest of the bills because I earned more. I felt that if his financial situation was in jeopardy, he needed to talk to me about it.

I tried to approach him a bit differently than last time. I asked him if there was anything I could do to help. I told him about my slasher friend and how maybe she could give him advice if he didn’t want any from me. But he said he needed to figure stuff out on his own and that if he couldn’t get himself off the PIP then he would go back to work for his dad’s janitorial company.

I let it go. I was worried but I didn’t want to fight again just after patching the holes from the last blow out. It really bugged me that he thought I didn’t believe in him so I committed to giving him the benefit of the doubt. I said okay and asked him if he needed me to meal prep for both of us that week. He offered me grocery money, but I said it was fine since I’d had to deal with a lot of humans breaking in lately and I still had some leftover in the dungeon.

Fast forward a month. Boyfriend got off the PIP super fast. He worked his way off of it over Spring Break and started taking on a lot of extra assignments. In just four weeks he went to Miami Beach twice, New York City twice, and to three separate summer camps. I missed him and it was hard not having him around but I remembered how he said he needed to focus on his career and I tried not to nag.

It was hard not to nag though. With him gone, all the housework fell on me. We rent a 19th century manor, and its upkeep really does need two people. Doing all the chores plus running my business started to really drain me. Even when he was home, he forgot to banish the ghosts (my chore is to kill all invading humans, and his chore is to banish their ghosts) and he never took out the trash. I think he cleaned blood off the dungeon walls once, but then I had to basically redo it because he missed a lot of spots.

But still, I didn’t say anything because he was doing really well at work and I didn’t want to ruin that for him. Even when Humans started breaking in every week, I didn’t complain even though it interrupted my work day.

Last month though, I did ask him if we could move somewhere that needed less maintenance. There were just way too many Humans breaking in and I didn’t have the time to deal with them anymore. Even if I don’t do all the theatrics I used to as a Cryptid, killing humans through fear still takes a lot of time. He asked me if I didn’t appreciate the free meat, and I said I would appreciate it more if I wasn’t the only butchering it.

He said he didn’t want to move because he was really close to getting promoted to regional Nightmare and he didn’t want to take time off work to move. I was so surprised that I couldn’t hide how surprised I was. He saw and got offended. He asked if I still didn’t believe in him. I said that I did, but it was a huge jump to go from an 8% kill rate to getting promoted.

He got even more mad at me for bringing up his stats and he said that he had nearly 80% kill rate since being put on the PIP. I asked how many humans a week he was slashing and he told me I was being too nosy and that was proof that I didn’t believe in him.

I asked him if we could at least hire a ghoul then to keep the humans out of my office and he said he didn’t want to waste the money that we should be saving for our new house. I asked him what he wanted me to do then? I had to take phone calls for my consulting business and it was really hard to stalk humans all around the house while trying to sound like a professional to my clients.

He asked me to be patient for one more month. He said if he met quota for one more month, his boss said he’d get promoted. So I said fine and let it go.

Fast forward to now, almost a full month later.

Last Friday, I attended the Eldritch Conference. For those not in the scare field, the Eldritch Conference is the most prestigious event in our industry. It’s invitation only and is a chance to network with all the big players in the field. Mothman, the Jersey Devil, Bloody Mary and Bigfoot all spoke this year and both my former company, Grudge Industries, and my boyfriend’s current company, Forgotten Summer Solutions, were invited.

I was surprised to get an invite as a solo contributor to the field. However, my consulting firm has really been doing well and I did land a seasonal contract with the Yeti Co-op which I guess is how they heard about me. Plus, I’ve been a speaker before so I think the organizers knew I would behave myself.

I was planning on telling my boyfriend that I was going, but he was out of town on a co-ed sleepover assignment. He usually doesn’t have his phone on during his assignments, so I didn’t bother calling him. I just figured it’d be nice if we ran into each other at the conference if he made it back in time.

Which brings me to what actually happened (apologies for the long post).

So everything went great for my part of the day. I got to network with a lot of individual businesses and even got to reconnect with Blood Mary who I knew back in my Cryptid days. I told her I was dating a Slasher from Forgotten Summer Solutions and invited her to come with me to check out their booth. I thought it would be fun to grab dinner with her after since I assumed if my boyfriend was there, he’d be going out with coworkers which he often does. Plus, I admit, I was showing off a little. I don’t often get the chance to brag about my Cryptid days.

She agreed and we went over to see if my boyfriend was there.

I introduced myself to the people manning the booth. My boyfriend wasn’t there, but a few Slashers recognized my name and greeted me. They were definitely in awe of Bloody Mary (she came in full uniform) and invited us to look at their displays. They had portfolios for each Slasher on the desk as a sort of preview of what their services looked like.

While Bloody Mary looked through the portfolios, I chatted with my boyfriend’s coworkers. They said they were thrilled to work with him and that, even though he had a really rough start, it was impressive how quickly he started meeting his goals. Something about how they talked about his work kind of didn’t make sense. They were talking like he was killing a dozen humans a week, but he’d told me that he was at 80% on his assignments which typically only offer about ten humans each.

I asked them about it and they said that he’d been Slashing during After Hours which is a new goal supplement program his company launched a few months ago. Basically, anyone can sign up for After Hours and the company counts human kills done in uniform as part of their quota. I asked them if this was available to them while they were on assignment and they said no, it had to be done when they had down time. I asked them how my boyfriend was part of that when he was traveling all the time and they looked confused. One of them said that my boyfriend is still getting one assignment per week and is then supplementing his kill rate with After Hours.

At that point, I was even more confused. It sounded like my boyfriend had been lying to me then, because he told me that he was getting at least two assignments a week. If he was only getting one, then where was he going when he said he was traveling?

Bloody Mary interrupted before I could say anything and asked how their Slashers did their kills. They said that every Slasher at their company is required to use a standard issue weapon (like a machete or axe) for their kills to count. They said their company doesn’t count accidents as part of their quota (like falling or heart attacks).

Bloody Mary pulled me aside and showed me the portfolio she was holding. She said that she was going to give me a chance to explain without them overhearing and showed me the book. She said that a bunch of kills in it looked Cryptid kills. And she said, specifically, it looked like the kills I made when I was a Cryptid. I took the book from her and flipped through it and she was right, they really did look like Cryptid kills. Worse, I recognized a few of the Humans from the past few weeks. They were actually my kills!

Kill stealing is a major taboo in our industry.

I told her I didn’t know anything about this. She looked really relieved at that and said that even though I wasn’t a Cryptid anymore, it would look really bad for me if I was caught helping a Slasher cheat at their job. It could affect my business which she’d only heard good things about.

I’m embarrassed to say that I tried to defend him. He’s new to our industry so I thought it might be a mistake. He might not be trying to cheat, this could be a misunderstanding.

She said she didn’t think so because a mistake would be one or two of my kills mixed in with his, not the entire book.

I counted up how many photos were in the book and, all told, of the 146 kills, at least 100 were mine. I couldn’t really say it was a mistake at that point and I was just staring at his portfolio like an idiot. Bloody Mary asked me what I was going to do because, mistake or not, this looked really bad and could damage my reputation if it got out.

At that moment, another man walked up to booth and asked us if there was a problem. I knew that if I said anything, I would be jeopardizing my boyfriend’s job, but if I didn’t say something, I was jeopardizing my business.

I told my boyfriend’s coworkers that he was lying about his body count. I said I didn’t think that they knew he was doing it, but over half of the kills in his portfolio weren’t his and I suggested they remove it from their display before another Cryptid came by and realized it.

The other man thanked me for bringing this to his attention and asked how we knew. Bloody Mary said that she knew another Cryptid’s kills and I had to tell them that I was that Cryptid, though I was retired now. He asked me if I knew my boyfriend was doing this, and I told him no.

I told him I really didn’t want to get my boyfriend in trouble and suggested that maybe he didn’t know those kills didn’t belong to him because they happened in our house. I was grasping at straws and Blood Mary even looked sad for me. His coworkers looked skeptical but tentatively agreed. The man – who turned out to my boyfriend’s boss – said that they would investigate this thoroughly and apologized personally for his employee’s misconduct.

I was spiraling at that point so I thanked him and said I wasn’t mad, I was just looking out for both of our reputations. He promised to keep it between us and I agreed.

Then I apologized to Bloody Mary because I didn’t feel like eating dinner anymore. She said she understood and wished me well.

I went home and did a quick perimeter search of the property. Sure enough, there were human summoning stones ALL OVER the yard. Which means my boyfriend was intentionally luring humans to our house to get me to kill them so he could take credit. It wasn’t a mistake at all.

My boyfriend came home later that night in his work clothes. As soon he got inside he started yelling. He said he was suspended without pay and that all his hard work was for nothing.

I said I knew he’d been stealing my kills and he almost ruined my reputation. He said they still counted as his kills because he did all the work of luring the humans to our house.

I told him that wasn’t how it worked and he knew it. He said it was the same as setting a trap and I was taking this too seriously. I told him that, as a Slasher, he has to use a weapon to get his kills, not me. He said I was basically the same thing since I had such a high kill rate. I asked him if he was calling me an object.

(My parents exploited me by selling me as a haunted doll through a lot of my childhood and he knows I’m sensitive to being called an object.)

He backpedaled at that point and asked if I didn’t want to buy a house together. He said he was doing it for us and I should’ve understood and not said anything. I told him that when I was a Cryptid I had my pride and would’ve never done this.

He said I needed to tell his boss that he was the one who made all those kills. I said it wasn’t me who recognized them as Cryptid kills and now his boss knew too. He accused me of thinking I’m better than him because I have telekinetic powers and can move through shadows and can possess people, while he’s basically a human himself. I told him of course not and that I worked hard for those powers unlike him.

He got really mad at that and actually charged at me with his machete raised. I don’t think he was going to actually hit me, but I reacted like he was. It was all instinct. I disarmed him and I swear I heard a crack when I grabbed his wrist. I shoved him into the wall.

He crumpled to the floor and started crying. He said sorry and sort of curled up around his wrist. He said he didn’t ever feel like he was enough for me and he didn’t even know why I was still with him. He called himself a bunch of names and said I would be better off without him.

I sort of awkwardly stood there for a minute. On one hand I wanted to assure him that he was enough and that I loved him, but, on the other, I wasn’t sure I could forgive him. He nearly ruined my reputation, and he embarrassed me in front of Bloody Mary. Plus, I still didn't know where he’d been going all those times he said he was on a business trip and apparently wasn’t.

So I ended up not saying anything. I went to our room and started packing a bag. He followed me. He was still crying as he begged me not to go. He said he would own up to his kill steals at work and he would make it right. He pleaded for me not to leave him and that he would give up slashing.

I told him I needed space to think. He tried to grab me, but I shadow walked out of the house. I heard him screaming from outside and I hurriedly drove away.

Now I’m at my friend’s house and I told her everything. She agreed I did the right thing walking away from him, but when I asked her what I should do she hesitated. She said that my boyfriend wasn’t right to kill steal but, as a fellow Slasher, she understood what he was going through. She said I wouldn’t understand the pressure to meet quota because I was always surpassing mine when I was in the field. She said that a Cryptid could never understand a Slasher.

She also said that nobody would have found out about his kills if I hadn’t brought them to his boss’ attention. She said the only time kills are on display like that is at the Eldritch Conference and by the next one, he’d have had kills of his own. She thinks that if I’d just confronted him at home, he wouldn’t be on suspension.

So now I’m worried that I overreacted when I told my boyfriend’s coworkers that he was lying about his body count.

AITA?

----

Thanks for reading! Several amazing supernatural citizens (aka my Patrons) gave great advice to our poor OP over on my Patreon! Please go check them out here (X)

(I will definitely be posting some of them here in the near future!)

My next supernatural AITA is already up to my patrons!

It's called "AITA for divorcing my vampire husband because he lied about his human job?"

Patrons get to see many of my stories a week ahead! If that interests you please check me out here (X)!

#my writing #aita reddit parody #third person #original fiction #supernatural #halloween #aita parody

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moonstruckme · 7 days ago

Note

hi!! can u write a fic with poly maurauders x shy reader where she looses like her comfort stuffed animal and freaks out? thanks!

Thanks for requesting @whotfisgiana <3

poly!marauders x shy!reader ♡ 1.4k words

You don’t think your bedroom has ever been so messy. Pillows on the floor, sheets and comforter all askew, most everything you own moved this way or that so you could see around or behind or underneath it. You’re halfway to a panic when a knock sounds on your door.

You ignore it. It’s likely a postman leaving a package or someone who will leave a flyer taped to the door, and you have more pressing concerns to deal with. But the knock comes again, louder this time.

You push out a sigh as you stand from where you’d been peering under your bed, trying to shake some of your unease out of your fingertips as you go to answer it. On the other side you find your roguishly handsome boyfriend, looking expectant.

“Hey, beautiful,” says Sirius, grinning as he leans in. He takes your waist in hand, and you kiss him back somewhat slowly, caught offguard by his easy affection at the best of times but even more so when you weren’t anticipating it.

“Hey,” you echo as he pulls back.

“You look surprised to see me,” he observes. “Did you not remember our date?”

You blink. Oh. Oh. God, you’re the worst. You’re supposed to be going to see a film with your boyfriends at noon—but in your frenzy, you’d completely forgotten. Is it really that late already?

“It’s alright.” Sirius seems to sense your nerves, giving you a kind squeeze. “We’ve got time, lovely, James is picking up Remus from across town and I told them we’d take the bus, is that alright? Do you need to do anything before we go?”

Your first thought is that you can’t go—but that’s not very fair, is it? You had plans, you can’t just abandon your boyfriends because something else has come up. Something completely non-urgent, too. It will still be just as lost whether you’re at the cinema or not. You can keep looking when you get home.

“Yeah,” you say, stepping back from the door. Sirius comes in, and you shut it behind him. “Sorry, I’m still in my pajamas. I can change fast.”

“Don’t hurry,” he says easily. “You know how James drives. We’ll beat them there no matter what.”

“Thanks.” You hurry into your room, Sirius trailing casually behind. “Sorry, just a second.”

He tsks, teasing. “Stop that.”

“Sorry,” you say instinctively, then feel your face heat when he shoots you a mock stern look. You grab some clothes and go into your bathroom, shutting the door to change.

“Whoa,” says Sirius as he enters your room. “What happened in here?”

You forcibly stifle another apology, laughing at yourself. “I know, it’s so bad.”

“Are you redecorating or something?”

“No, just looking for something.”

You step out of the bathroom in jeans and a jumper, and Sirius grins at you like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. You’re ready for him this time. When he steps forward, you let him put his hands on your face and kiss him back sweetly.

“What’s the matter?” he asks.

“Hm?”

“You seem upset. What is it?”

“I’m not upset.” You want for it to be true. You wish this wasn’t something that rattled you so badly.

“Liar.” Sirius says it in the same way he calls James pest, with a fond bent to his voice. He puts a couple of inches between you, keeping your face in his hands as he traps you beneath his stare. “What is it?”

Your shoulders climb up towards your ears. “I’m okay,” you say meekly. Sirius only looks at you, as if to say go on. “I just can’t find my rabbit.”

His brow furrows. “Your rabbit.”

“My stuffed rabbit,” you clarify.

“Oh.” Sirius glances to your bed, the covers half torn off from where you’ve disheveled them in your search and now trailing onto the floor. He lets his grip slip down your arms. “How did I not know about this? Seems rather important to you.”

“I don’t need to sleep with him every night or anything,” you say, embarrassed. “I’ve just always had him, so he’s sort of…sentimental. Anyway, it’s fine. I’ll find it later.”

“I’m not going to drag you to the cinema when you’re upset about your rabbit,” Sirius says, like the mere idea is offensive.

“You’re not dragging me,” you argue feebly, “and I’m not upset.”

“I’m not escorting you while you’re worried, then.” He rolls his eyes, taking out his phone.

“Sirius,” you plead, but he only shushes you.

“Hi,” he says a moment later. “Hey, has James gotten to you yet?”

Remus’ voice, too quiet to make out, crackles through the line.

Sirius hums. “Well, I’m impressed by him. Actually, though, we may have a change of plans.”

You cover your face with your hands, mortified. Sirius puts an arm around you, rubbing your shoulder like there, there.

“It seems our girl has misplaced her stuffed rabbit.”

You’re close enough now to hear James say, genuine alarm in his tone, “Moo Moo?”

There’s a pause, and you peek through your fingers to find Sirius looking at you. You nod in confirmation.

“It’s called Moo Moo?” he asks.

You hum quietly.

“Why would you name your rabbit after a sound a cow makes?”

“I don’t know,” you say sheepishly. “I was a baby.”

Sirius rolls his eyes, kissing you on your head. “You’re fucking precious, do you know that?”

It’s decided quickly after that. James and Remus change course, heading for your apartment while you and Sirius recommence the search. None of them will hear your protests, least of all Sirius, who threatens to decommission you from the rescue party if you continue to spend your energy arguing rather than looking.

With two of you, you clear the bedroom quickly, moving into the formerly unconsidered parts of your home. Sirius asks you questions like a police interrogator: Where did you last see him? How big is he? How many nights has it been since you’re sure you slept with him? Did he go on holiday with you last weekend?

Your laundry bin is upturned, couch cushions removed, mementos you’ve not seen for years discovered and then quickly lost again in the rubble.

When your boyfriends arrive, Remus takes one look at you and shepherds you away while James joins the search. He makes you tea and gives you enough of his soft, compassionate looks to melt you down to the bone.

“I didn’t mean to make us all miss the film,” you tell him, steam warming your chin as you sit on the kitchen counter. “I was going to go, but Sirius…”

You realize you sound like you’re tattling and stop. Remus only smiles at you indulgently, his brown eyes flickering with humor.

“We didn’t think it was you who made that call,” he says. “But, sweetheart, no one is upset that we’re here. We wouldn’t want you to have to sit through a film while you’re upset.”

“I’m not upset.” Your voice has the quiet weariness of a broken record.

Remus studies you. You sip your tea to avoid it, trying not to squirm under his gaze. “You seem like you might be upset,” he says, an almost missable hint of teasing in his tone.

“It’s stupid,” you admit. “I know he has to be here somewhere, there’s no point in worrying.”

“I’m sure he is.” Remus rubs your leg, soothing. “You’re right, lovely, he’s probably just somewhere we haven’t—”

“Found him!” James cries.

You gasp, and Remus grins at your reaction.

“Where?” Sirius bounds in from the sitting room.

James comes from the opposite direction, holding your rabbit above his head like a trophy. He passes it to you with a flourish as you hop down from the counter. “Angel, your Moo Moo.”

“So this is Moo Moo,” Sirius says, grinning.

You feel suddenly defensive, bringing the grayed, ratty plushie close to your chest. “Yes.”

“I love him.”

“I think he’s handsome,” says Remus, also looking at him interestedly.

“Caused a lot of trouble today, though,” Sirius tuts, “hasn’t he?”

“Where’d you find him?” you ask James, eager to be out of the spotlight.

“He was wedged between your mattress and the wall.” Your boyfriend pouts. “Poor thing.”

You frown. “I looked there.”

“He was sort of in the corner.” James shrugs. “Rather easy to miss, I’m sure Sirius checked there too.”

“Well, thank you,” you say shyly. Still holding the toy to your chest. “I might not have looked there again on my own.”

“Seems a good thing we came over, hm?” Remus asks complacently.

Your face heats. “Yeah.”

“One more time, sweetness?” Sirius cocks his ear. “Not sure I heard you there.”

“Yes,” you say again, fighting a smile. “Thank you for coming.”

He grins at you, wrestling you into his side. “I don’t ever want to hear you arguing one of my ideas again.”

“That seems a bit premature—” James starts to say.

“Nope! Never again.”

1K notes · View notes

landoughnut · 1 month ago

Text

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oscarpiastri 🧡 ♥︎ by author

yourusername 🧡

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gothwineaunts · 6 months ago

Text

Well hello there, readers!!

So, I have been lurking on our socials and in the webtoon comments of Nevermore's finale episode and have picked up some very subtle hints that y'all want to know when we're going to drop Season 2. Firstly I do want to let all the smarties who guessed we'd come back on Halloween based on our Ulalume quote know that they were onto something. When we originally left that hint for you, we were indeed planning to return in late October, but some unforeseen setbacks over the summer pushed our production schedule back. Still, I wanted to say congratulations for getting the hint right! We were impressed so many of you figured it out.

As for the updated launch of season two? While I don't have a specific date to share yet, I can tell you it'll be in January.

I know, I know. Trust me, I wish it was sooner too. I can't tell you how much Flynn and I miss updating weekly. Y'all make creating this series so exciting for us with your energy and excitement and creativity!! The talent I've seen in this community is off the charts. We feel unspeakably lucky to have readers like you along for the ride, and can't wait for you to see the episodes we've been working on.

If you're new to Flynn and I, it might not be common knowledge that we always do the absolute most all the time, compulsively, without stopping ever (save us, ahahhaa). And let me assure you that the opening episodes of season two? Are very most. A lot of most. Super long. Really, extra pretty. I wish I could post them now but I think webtoon might um. Be upset with me if I did that, so. Just trust me, ok? One thing I can share in th emeantime is some of the S2 character concepts. A few characters are getting minor glow ups. See if you can spot the differences!

Okay, well! We'll see you in January!! Or before, if you hang around our socials. I mean we're not disappearing. We'll be here, just. Plodding along on buffer in the background. If you're dying to spoil yourselves with wip streams you can hit up our patreon but I almost wouldn't recommend it on account of. You'll be so confused, at this point. Lmfao. Like. Wow, it would be a really weird time to join a wip stream with no context. This sounds like a shameless plug but I'm being serious when I say it's probably best you don't hop in at this particular moment?? But I mean. I'm not a cop. I'm just your weird goth wine aunt. 🍷

Cheers, Kit Trace

#red post #nevermore webtoon #nevermore #nevermore webcomic #update

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giannaln4 · 6 months ago

Text

For you? Anything.

lando norris x fem reader

summary: Even during the worst week of you life, and no matter how tired he is, Lando would do anything to make you feel better. (2.6k words)

warnings: fluff, established relationship, language.

a/n: And we are back to our regular schedule! Kinktober is officially over (kinda, more context here) so it's time to post regular fics. So, I wrote this sometime last week before the shit show of yesterday's race so that's why there are no mentions of it, but I do have some planned about that so we'll see when I can work on them. Anyway, this is for me and all the girlies who have been feeling stressed about work, let me know what you think!

↺ back to navigation — send me a request!

What a week it has been for you. You had done nothing but work on a stupid project your boss put you in charge of. It was very short notice, and the due date was creeping up on you faster than you would’ve liked.

The good thing is Lando had been away for weeks due to his job; not that you didn’t want to see him or that he was a distraction, nothing like that, but you always preferred to be with him instead of working, which isn’t something you would be able to do this time due to the amount of things you had to go over, but with the house all to yourself, you had the chance to get tons of work done.

It was finally the day of the presentation; you were supposed to pitch the finished project to management and honestly, you weren’t 100% confident in the job you had done. Usually, you were never too harsh on yourself, but with so little time to work on it, you knew there were some parts here and there that could’ve used a little more of your attention, but it was either use what you already have or show up with an unfinished project, so that would have to do. It wasn’t terrible; you were sure of that, but these people always found something to complain about.

You were there for only a few minutes before you were dismissed. What a fucking joke, you thought.

You didn’t even get half the presentation done, and the old dudes sitting across from you were already attacking you with questions, questions that didn’t even make sense or barely fit the theme of what you were trying to talk about.

Your boss was the one to send you out, saying something like “You have another week; we hope you’ll be more prepared next time,” before standing up and leaving the cold conference room, followed by the rest of the men that were surrounding him.

Only minutes after going back to your office you saw him come in, giving you notes on the things he thought you should work on. As the polite girl that you are, you just nodded and wrote down whatever he was saying, apologising for not turning it up on time, but as soon as he left, you couldn’t stop the tears from falling down your face, ruining your make-up in the process. You still had half of your day ahead of you, so you calmed down, washed your face, and went back to work like nothing happened.

At the end of the day, however, that’s a different story. You went back home completely devastated. All those sleepless nights you spent with your nose buried in your laptop felt like a total waste.

As you drove back home, you tried your best to hold the tears, but it was getting harder by the second, especially with each step you took down the hall that led to the door of your apartment, and when you made it there, you started crying as soon as you closed the door behind you.

You instantly got rid of your uncomfortable clothes and got into one of Lando’s shirts, curling up in your bed and letting all that consuming and irrational feeling of failure sink in. You knew you weren’t a failure; you were well aware of your worth, but you couldn’t help but feel like that after miserably failing the presentation you worked so hard on.

Suddenly, the front door opening pulled you out of your thoughts. You let out a loud sigh as you left the bed. You knew it was Lando coming back from his last race, and any other day you would’ve been happy to see him, running to the door to greet him with a hug like he deserved, but right now, you didn't want him to have to see you in that pathetic state.

You stared at yourself in the mirror for a moment, sighing again when you realised how obvious it was that you had been crying, so you’d just have to avoid eye contact.

“Hi baby,” Lando greeted you with his usual pretty smile as he entered your room.

"Hey,” you replied, immediately turning around and walking towards your desk, sitting facing away from Lando as you opened your laptop.

“Did you sleep okay last night? How did your presentation go?” He walked closer to you and wrapped his arms around you in a tight hug, kissing your temple.

“It was okay.” He stopped when he noticed your heavy mood.

"You alright, love? You seem down." His brows were slightly furrowed as he tried to make eye contact.

"Yeah, fine. I think I’m just gonna work on it a little more; there were some things missing that I need to include," you replied, clearly lacking energy.

“Hey now, let’s not do that." Lando turned the chair over to make you face him. He looked down and noticed your glossy eyes, a worried feeling growing inside him. “Talk to me, please. What’s wrong?”

You just shook her head briefly, a lip-tight smile covering your face. “Everything’s fine.”

“Y/N…” The slip of your name past his lips made you want to cry again. Of course you wanted to be comforted by your boyfriend, but you didn’t like the thought of him having to pick up the pieces anytime you messed up. As a tear rolled down your face, you realised that you didn't have the energy or even the desire to push him away “Oh baby, come here.”

Lando took your hand as he sat on the floor next to you, pulling you onto his lap. Your face was now buried in his black hoodie, the tears wetting it instantly as he brushed a hand softly up and down your back.

“It’s okay, I’ve got you." He would understand if you didn’t want to talk about it but would still like to know what was happening. If there was anything he could do to help, he would gladly do it. “Do you wanna talk?”

“I just-” A sob cut you off, “I- I couldn’t do it, even after everything I did, it wasn’t enough.”

“Is this about your presentation?” He asked, his voice softer than ever, and you simply nodded. “It’s alright-”

“No, Lando, it’s not alright. I worked hard to get it together, to get it ready for days and nights and I still failed, I’m so stupid-”

“Hey, baby, look at me," he interrupted you, pulling back a bit and gently lifting your chin to look into your eyes. “You know that’s not true; you’re so smart, and I've always admired your beautiful mind. You gave it your best, like you said, you worked really hard, and even if you didn’t get the reaction you deserved, you know I’m right here.” You simply nodded at his words as the back of your hand wiped some of the tears. “Why didn’t you wanna tell me?”

"Because I don't want you to be disappointed in me like I am right now." You looked down to your lap as more tears fell from your tired eyes.

“You should know that I could never be disappointed in you, Y/N. You are so intelligent and kind; I’ve never met anyone with such a beautiful soul, so I don't ever want you to feel down about yourself because you are perfect." You felt both of Lando’s large hands caress either side of your face, bringing it up so he could look into your eyes again as he swiped at the tears that had managed to escape from your eyes.

The slight smile that had formed on your tear-stained face told Lando that his words meant something to you, and they did. “You’re only saying that because you’re my boyfriend.”

“No, I’m your boyfriend for all those reasons." You giggled slightly. “And I’m sure that no one would disagree with me.”

“My boss would.”

“What does he know?” That made you laugh again, making Lando smile, a smile so sincere that told you he believed everything he just said.

"Thank you, baby, even though you’re being a little biased." You sniffled as you gently stroked the hand that was still on your cheek, keeping your eyes locked with his “I love you.”

“I love you more,” he smiled, pressing his lips to your forehead. You took a deep breath, feeling a lot calmer than you did five minutes ago as you looked at your laptop briefly.

“I should probably get back to work, though; I have to basically remake the whole thing and meet with them again next week.”

“What? Right now?”

“Yes, right now. I’m sorry.”

“Are you sure you don’t wanna go to bed? You look pretty tired. We can cuddle, I know we both need it.”

“I would love to,” your gaze fell on your bed momentarily; it looked so comfortable, and it was literally calling your name, “but I really need to get this done, and I have to do it right this time. I don’t wanna be embarrassed again in front of a bunch of old dudes.”

You stood up from his lap and sat back on your desk, focusing on the screen in front of you as you began to analyse what you should take out and what you needed to add.

Lando just sighed. He knew there was no way he would get you to stop working if you already set your mind to it, but honestly, he thought he would get to spend every second with you once he got back home, so needless to say, he was a little disappointed that wasn’t the case.

He got it though; your job was important for you, and you would never settle for anything unless it was perfect. What made his blood boil was the fact that your boss had the nerve to make you feel like you weren't worth it.

“Did you eat something already?” He asked you, getting up from the floor and wrapping his arms around you once again.

“Uh- I’m not really hungry.”

“Why don’t I cook something for us? What do you say?”

“It’s okay, baby, you should go to bed.” You tilted your head to look at him and give him a quick kiss. “I know you are tired, the triple header couldn’t have been easy.”

You started collecting your things so you could take over a different part of the apartment. He had been travelling for weeks; it wouldn’t be fair to keep him up just because you needed to get work done.

“Where are you going?”

“To your office, if that’s okay. I really don’t want to bother you.”

“You’re not-”

“Lan, I’ll be okay, I promise. Just go to bed, don’t worry about me.” Taking a few steps closer to him, you gave him a loving hug, “I love you.”

You left the room, holding everything in your hands as Lando just stood in the same spot. There was no way he would go to bed without you, not when you were feeling so down and it was clear you just needed to take a break.

Taking a deep breath, he started to make a plan in his head. He took the quickest shower of his life and got into something comfy, praying there was food, or more specifically, ingredients to cook you something that he wouldn’t mess up and that you would enjoy.

Everything seemed to be on his side when he found everything he needed to make some Alfredo. Everything was pretty much premade, so he knew he wouldn’t ruin it. He happily got to work, setting up a nice dinner as he hummed one of the songs that had been stuck in his head for who knows how long.

In the office, you were nearly breaking your head as you read the information you had over and over again. You kind of knew what it needed to be since your boss gave you a few specific notes, but then again, you weren’t feeling completely confident in your own ideas.

You didn’t realise you had been locked away for over an hour, your eyes getting insanely tired as you typed away. A break was needed and well deserved, and you were aware of this, but somehow it didn’t feel like you were making any progress, even though you had been working non-stop and you had already readjusted about half of the project.

A loud sigh escaped your lips as you abruptly closed your laptop, your face falling to your hands as your eyes felt wet yet again. That was it; there was no way you could keep going. You needed to grab a quick snack and head straight to bed. You did have an early morning the next day after all.

Just as you were gathering all your strength to get up, you heard the door open, making you jump a bit.

“Fuck, you scared the shit out of me.” You laughed as your hand fell on your heart.

“Sorry, love. Didn’t mean to scare you,” he giggled, walking towards you.

“What are you doing still awake? I thought you went to bed.”

“I couldn’t sleep without you. Are you almost done here?” He looked at your closed laptop, celebrating internally as he assumed you were done working for the night.

“Yeah, I guess. My brain stopped working, so I thought my future self can worry about the rest tomorrow.”

“Good. Come here.” He extended his hand out to you, which you happily took. “Please stop overworking yourself, you know this isn’t healthy.”

“I know,” you let out a sigh as you accepted his embrace. “I’m seriously thinking about quitting. Who knows, maybe I’ll find something that doesn’t make me feel this stressed all the time.”

His hand was caressing your back softly as he pulled away to look down at you. “You know you can, right? And I really think you should. I make enough to support the both of us and even a family in the future... Baby, you don’t have to keep working there if you don’t want to.”

His words made a smile appear on your face. Not because he was offering to basically support you for the rest of your life, but because he brought having a family with you. “You know I’d never let you do that-”

“But if you do want to quit and just take a break, you can do that too,” he interrupted you. You nodded, seriously considering it, but that was something you would have to think about and have a serious conversation in the future if you ever did decide to do it.

“We’ll see. Right now, I just need something to eat and some sleep. I have to get up early tomorrow.”

“Speaking about dinner, I made something for you.”

He took your hand and guided you to the dining room, a big smile on his face as he proudly showed off the beautiful set-up and the (hopefully) delicious dinner he managed to cook. He looked back at you expectantly, but his happiness quickly turned into a worried look when he noticed tears falling from your eyes again.

“What’s wrong, baby?” He asked, a hand softly falling on your cheek as he leaned down.

You were out of words; you truly didn’t know what to say. This is just what you needed, and the fact that he went out of his way to do it for you meant a lot more than he could ever imagine.

“I- Lando, this is-” you cut yourself off when you couldn’t find the right thing to say, so you just jumped in his arms and gave him the tightest hug ever. “Thank you for everything. And I mean everything.”

He let out a sigh of relief, hugging you back as he buried his head on the crook of your neck. “For you, my love, I’d do anything.”

#lando norris #ln4 #lando norris x reader #lando norris fanfic #lando norris imagine #lando norris x you #lando norris fluff #f1 #formula 1 #lando norris x y/n #lando norris oneshot #lando norris one shot #ln4 fluff #ln4 fic #ln4 imagine #giannaln4 writes

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lemonlover1110 · 8 months ago

Text

𝐀 𝐑𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐲 𝐍𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭

Zayne

Pairing: Zayne x f!Reader

Summary: The rain ruining his plans might have been the best possible luck.

Warnings: MDNI, Fluff, Smut, Oral Sex (f. receiving), Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Creampie

Discord +18 - Twitter - Ko-Fi

“It’s raining.” You point out, face nearly pressing on the window as you stare outside. It was going to happen sooner or later, the dark clouds had been adorning the sky the entire day, yet the day went dry.

“Raining?” Zayne sounds surprised, as if he hadn’t been staring at the same dark sky a couple of hours earlier. He stands up, walking over to look out the window as if he didn’t trust your word. You swear you hear him sigh when he confirms that it’s indeed raining.

“Is everything okay? Is our date still on?” You look at him, worried about his reaction. He wants to say that the rain will be over in ten minutes and the plans are still on… But it doesn’t look like it’ll stop any time soon.

“The rain is going to make things more… Difficult.” Zayne answers, not wanting to give up on the date idea just yet. There is no hope though, you can’t go stargazing when it’s storming out. You stare at him, trying to study the look on his face– A task that’s difficult since the man does a great job at suppressing any trace of emotion. “Maybe we have to change a couple of things.”

From now on he will leave the dates to you and only you, because the one time he plans something it’s ruined before it even begins. It’s what he gets for trying to be romantic, there’s a reason you’re the one that usually takes on the role.

“Like?” You ask, and he isn’t sure how to answer. He already had everything planned out, and he put his all to the specific date so now his brain is empty. The lack of answer makes you chuckle. “So we’re staying in?”

“Unless I get a reservation in time.” Zayne reaches for his phone to look up restaurants nearby, trying to salvage the night but you snatch the device from his hands. He raises his brows, wondering what you have in mind.

“Let’s stay in. We can cook something, play a couple of games… Other stuff.” You respond, and Zayne fights back a smile. It’s great to have someone pick up his slack. “I found this new recipe that I’ve been dying to try.”

“Tell me what you need, and I’m on it.” He says, and you can’t help but smile. He’s willing to do anything when you have his attention.

“I think we have everything, I just need you to chop up some stuff.” You tell him, and he nods in response. He’s not a great cook since he barely has the time or energy to make his own meals, but at the very least he’s great at chopping up stuff. “You can be my sous chef.”

“Yes, ma’am.” There’s a subtle smile on his lips, and it overflows your heart with joy when you notice it. You wonder why he smiles but it’s never unwelcome. Especially from him.

You kiss his cheek before telling him, “Let’s get to work.”

After nearly burning the house down trying the new recipe, you surprisingly end up with a delicious meal on your table. You’re enjoying your meal, too busy stuffing your face to keep up a proper conversation. You don’t need to talk either way, each other’s presence is enough to satisfy any need for interaction. Though Zayne can’t help but comment,

“Surprisingly it doesn’t taste burnt.” Which makes you roll your eyes. He can’t help but bring it up when you told him a million times that you had it under wraps.

“I told you I had it handled.” You respond. “Or do you not have faith in me, Dr. Zayne?”

“Dr. Zayne?” He raises a brow, and you hum in response. He lets out a low laugh before answering, “I do have faith in you… But I am allowed to draw some conclusions when I see a flame coming from the pan.”

“That wasn’t a flame.” You argue, and he slightly shakes his head.

“Then why did the fire alarm go off?” He points out, and you puff out a breath. You cross your arms, your appetite gone because your boyfriend won’t allow you to have the last word. He never does, and it might be his only defect. He couldn’t be perfect.

“Next time I’m leaving the cooking to you then.” You pout. He doesn’t want you to feel bad for the light fire, it could happen to anyone plus you were cooking a new recipe.

“You’re a far better cook than I am.” He responds, hoping that it’ll make you feel better. He’s staring at you, trying to decipher what you feel based on the expression on your face. You only stick out your bottom lip, clearly not happy with what he’s said.

What did he say wrong? He said all the right words, you should be gleaming not… Looking disappointed.

“Only because you don’t have time to pick up the skill, if you did then you would be saying something far much different.” You end up telling him, and he takes a moment to look at your face. He’s not sure how to answer. He ends up by telling the truth,

“Probably.” And the moment the word leaves his lips, he realizes he couldn’t have picked a worse answer. You look absolutely mortified, and he doesn’t know how to deal with it.

“Probably? You’re not supposed to say that.” You say, and he gives you a subtle nod. He’s not supposed to tell you the truth then.

“What am I supposed to say then?” He sounds ever so serious, and one swift look at his face makes you think that he is, indeed, serious.

“No, I doubt it. You’re the best cook ever, dear.” You end up answering, almost laughing at your own response. You see a twinge of a smirk on his face, and you feel like you’ve accomplished something. He lets himself loose around you, and often laughs at any stupid joke that you make, but it still feels rare when you actually see him smile.

“Alright then, so not the truth. Simple.” He answers, and the smirk that comes to his lips doesn’t fill you with pride like it usually does. You puff out a breath and he says, “Repeat the statement.”

“No.” Your answer is firm, therefore he won’t bug you to do it. He’ll drop the subject.

You two continue eating, and for once he’s the one that makes most of the conversation. He should apologize, he should’ve chosen better words.

“If it makes you feel better, the one time I plan a date… It starts to rain.” Zayne hopes that by admitting his own failures, he’ll make you feel better. You can’t help but chuckle.

“That doesn’t mean that you suck, it just means that the weather isn’t on your side.” You reassure him, face turning to look out the window. The rain still falls, much harder than before. “Plus I’m enjoying the date. Well, I was before you–”

“In my defense, I was initially complimenting the dish.” He argues, and you can’t help but laugh. A petty argument from a compliment. Though you’d argue that it was backhanded, Zayne isn’t all that great with words– Unless it’s with him coming up with a witty comeback, or of course, explaining medical terminology.

“How about you start cleaning up while I look for a game we can play?” You change the topic as you finish up your meal. Zayne immediately nods, more than willing to fulfill the task that you’ve assigned. He begins to clear the table, and you stand up to look for the games that are hidden away. Games that you’ve gotten to play with him but you’ve never had the time to actually sit down together and figure out.

You look for something that’ll make the night more fun, and also something that you have yet to play… But you still land on an old game. Something that gets both of you competitive. You end up pulling an old game that you’ve played a dozen times with him. A game that makes you want to break up with him, but when you make up it’s a memorable night.

You set up the table with the game, and wait for Zayne to finish up in the kitchen. You’d offer to help if he was doing any other task, but you aren’t going out of your way to clean up, even if it is to help your amazing boyfriend. Maybe you can take a peek at the cards as you wait for him to come back to the table.

“Okay, I’m ready.” Zayne walks back to the table, grabbing the cards that you definitely didn’t take a quick look at, and shuffling them. “Who’s going first?”

“I am. I don’t trust you while playing kitty cards.” You respond, and he hands out two cards. You frown as you look at them, knowing that you’re starting off on a bad foot. Your assist cards can help you make a comeback, so you’re only praying you get lucky with that.

“I should be the one saying that, I saw you look at the cards.” He lets out a low laugh as he gives himself three cards. He takes a seat across from you before commenting, “Given by the look on your face, you didn’t get all that lucky.”

“I’m going to win. Mark my words.”

Though you’re as competitive as you can be, luck simply isn’t on your side. Zayne doesn’t help your case, using every card that he has, against your favor. You glare at him with every move he takes, and he smirks, proud of his every move.

“Can you leave me alone? I barely have any points, there’s no point for you to null my card.” You complain, and Zayne shakes his head.

“I have to take every possible precaution.” He answers, putting down a card that takes away your turn– And if that isn’t horrible enough, he takes away one of the kitty cards that you’ve put down. “Last time you won, I heard about it for weeks.”

“Last time I lost, you also heard about it for weeks. Matter of fact, we almost broke up.” You point out, and you watch as the corner of his lips turn. He’s trying his best to fight back a smile, and you have to roll your eyes. “And if you keep up with your act, we might actually break up.”

“It’s just a game of kitty cards.” Zayne says, which makes you glare at him. You cross your arms, a scoff leaving your lips. Just a game of kitty cards? The game becomes a very serious matter when you’re as competitive as you are.

“If you don’t take it seriously, then you should let me win.” You claim, and Zayne knows that unless he stops playing, your date will completely go sour. He just fixed matters after his unnecessary comment, he can’t let himself nearly ruin the date once again. He could try to let you win, but at this point there’s no way you can make a comeback. Plus, it’s not satisfactory for him.

“How about we stop.” He suggests, and you know you can’t win.

“Fine.” You answer, a hint of attitude in your voice just so he notes that you’re not happy with him.

“What were we going to do today?” You ask him, beginning to clear the table. The sight of the unfair game is keeping you mad, so it’s best to clean up. Zayne joins you.

“Stargazing.” He responds, which perks up your eyebrows. Where exactly? “It’s a place not too far from here that gives a perfect view of the city, and I thought it’d be a nice date. I bought a couple of snacks to have a late picnic, but the universe isn’t on my side.”

“That is such a cute date!” You comment, eyes looking out the window to see that the rain has calmed down. “We can still do it.”

Zayne looks in the same direction. It’s not what he pictured, but it’s not a bad idea.

“Just for a minute.” He grabs your hand, fingers intertwining with yours before he guides you outside. Your anger is long forgotten when you feel his large hand lightly squeezing your own. There’s still some light rain when you exit the place, but you aren’t staying outside for too long so it’s not an issue.

“Look, there’s a full moon.” You immediately point to the sky. The clouds had been hiding the moon all night, and now you finally get a chance to glance at it. “Just look at it, it’s so beautiful.”

“It really is beautiful.” He answers, though his eyes aren’t looking at the moon. His thumb traces lazy circles on the back of your hand, as he finally looks up at the sky. Stargazing is a dumb date if you aren’t going to the countryside. In a way, he’s glad his plans were ruined.

You look back at Zayne, a foolish smile coming to your lips. Stargazing would’ve been nice, even if you don’t get a great sight, laying next to him for a whole night is the type of date that you need. You don’t even need to talk, each other’s presence is more than enough for you to be satisfied.

“Why are you smiling?” He finally looks back at you. It’s not a complaint, he’s overjoyed to find you smiling. He just wonders what’s going on in your mind. Two fingers come up to his face, brushing away the hair that’s on his forehead before you get on your tip-toes to press a kiss on it.

“You are so cute.” You tell him, and he chuckles. Out of all words that you could’ve picked, cute is the one that he least expected.

“Cute?” He responds, and you hum in response. Nevertheless, it’s a compliment so he’ll accept it. He smiles back at you, gaze getting lost into your eyes. You have the most beautiful eyes he’s ever seen, maybe that’s the reason he’s so desperately in love with you. “Cute. I’ll take it.”

“Let’s go inside before you get sick.” There’s a mischievous smile on your lips as you say the words. He’s the one that usually says the phrase, but the tables have turned. Zayne lets go of your hand, hands falling on your waist before pulling you closer.

“Let’s enjoy the moment a little longer, I don’t mind getting sick.” His nose brushes against yours, his eyes looking into yours ever so lovingly. His supple lips land on yours, pulling away within seconds. “It’s barely even raining.”

“Just a minute then.” You tell him, and he nods in response. However, Zayne doesn’t care to look at the sky. Apart from the full moon, there’s nothing that’s worth noting.

He loves the feeling of the rain on his skin, every droplet is a subtle reminder that this is real. He’s living in the moment. What’s happening right now is not a fragment of his imagination. The way you look at him, the way you laugh, the way your hands wrap behind his neck– It’s all real.

“Okay, we should go now. I don’t want you to get sick… And I also don’t want to get sick.” You say, and he smiles. He lets go of you, allowing you to go inside without an issue. You’re not going inside without him though. You grab Zayne’s hand and drag him inside, knowing that if he gets sick, you’ll end up getting sick as well.

“I’m going to get changed.” You tell him, and he mindlessly follows. He’s seen you naked many times, there’s no need to be shy… Except he is the one that gets shy at the mere thought of seeing you naked. He’s already flustered at the idea of you getting changed; but he still follows.

“What do you want to do now? Watch a movie?” You ask him, getting to the room. There’s a sudden increase in temperature– Or is it just Zayne? Why does he feel hot?

“A movie… Sounds fun.” He swallows thickly, watching as you begin to lift up your shirt. His cheeks turn pink at the sight of some skin, but you never take off your shirt. You notice he’s staring, and you fight back on smirking.

“Do you have something else in mind?” You watch him step towards you, ever so slowly. He’s hesitating. Should he? He doesn’t want to turn the sweet night into something… More. But he does.

He wants to feel every inch of you, and frankly, the shirt that you have on outlines everything which doesn’t really help. Maybe he’s a pervert for the thoughts that creep into his head, but it’s hard to think differently when you look like this right before him.

Before you know it, Zayne’s lips land on yours, tongue exploring your mouth before it finds your own. His tongue presses against yours while his hands desperately try to take off the damp clothes that cover your body. Very skilled hands struggle, nerves overtaking him at the thought of feeling your body. An action he’s done many times before, but he turns into putty each and every time.

You’re not as nervous though, hands going to his belt and unbuckling it without an issue. Your hands go into his boxers, feeling him up which makes the man pathetically whimper into your kiss. He can come undone from a single move. And even when your hands are wrapped around his cock, he’s too nervous to touch under your shirt.

You pull away, a string of saliva connecting your lips until you pull far enough that the bond breaks. You take off your shirt, and Zayne is watching you as if he were a teenager all over again. Cheeks burn red at the sight of some skin, it’s truly pathetic. It’s not just some skin though, you’re getting completely undressed in front of him.

“You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.” He’s dumbfounded, it’s as if he’s never seen this before. This is nothing new to him, but it always feels like the first time… That’s a good thing, right?

His lips land on yours again, though he takes more risks this time as his hand fondles your breast. His lips don’t last long on your mouth, choosing to kiss down your neck, before his lips land on your breasts. His lips kiss every inch of your skin before his tongue circles around your nipple.

It’s nice, but you need more. Your body is begging to feel every inch of him. Luckily for you, it’s as if Zayne can read your mind.

“I need to taste more of you. Please.” There’s desperation behind his eyes, it’s as if he needs it. You get on the bed for him, legs spreading without a shame in the world.He stares down at you and he licks his lips. Maybe this is how he should’ve led the date in the first place.

“You’re so gorgeous.” He says as he gets on his knees. He kisses your inner thigh, working his way up. So gentle and shy, but he doesn’t want to get ahead of himself. Doing things slowly is what makes this more exciting.

“Smells so sweet.” He finally gets to your pussy, the tip of his nose pressing against your clit before he kisses it. His lips feel so soft on you. He kisses your clit again before his tongue begins to flick it. Tastes even better than he remembered.

Sweeter than he could ever imagine.

Low moans escape your lips as you feel his tongue work on you. The sound of your voice is perfect, all the motivation he needs to do this. It’s his reward for the night, and he couldn’t be happier. It’s perfect. You’re perfect.

He kisses your clit, two long fingers running through your folds to gather your slick. Once his fingers are lubricated enough, he slowly pushes them in. He begins to suck on your clit and your eyes roll to the back of your head. You moan his name, pleasure already consuming you.

He curves his fingers so they hit just the right spot. You bite down your lip, feeling embarrassed at the thought of being too loud. He’s looking up at you, and the look on your face is something he wants to have ingrained in his memory.

His fingers pick up speed, and your hands grip the bed sheets. Pleasure consumes you, your climax slowly overtaking your body. You’re moaning his name again, unable to contain yourself as sex clouds your mind.

“That’s it, baby! That’s so good.” You can’t help yourself as your boyfriend hits all the right spots. It’s music to his ears. Even when he’s been congratulated for his many achievements, this is the best thing he’s ever heard.

Your breath gets caught up in your chest, your body quivering as you finally reach your climax. Zayne pulls out his fingers, tongue continuing to lap at your cunt until he’s finally satisfied. He presses a kiss on your clit when he’s finished.

“I need you, baby. Please.” You say, and Zayne can’t afford to waste another moment. It hurts to even think with the uncomfortable feeling that’s in his pants. He walks to the nightstand to get the bottle of lube before giving all his attention to you. He gets undressed before getting on top of you.

“Are you sure you want this?” Zayne asks as he pours the lube all over his dick. Maybe he should consider some sort of protection, but he needs to fully feel you. He needs to feel every inch of your body.

“I need you, please. Give it to me.” Your voice is enough to drive him wild. He runs the tip of his cock through your folds before slowly pushing himself into you. He bites his lip, not wanting the pathetic noise that leaves his throat to be audible. You feel so nice and warm around his cock, so fucking perfect in every single way.

“It’s so good.” He mutters, eyes nearly rolling to the back of his head as he feels you around him. He bottoms out, stopping to give you time to adjust.

“Move.” You tell him, and Zayne begins to move with slow thrusts. His eyes focus on your face, watching as it contorts with pleasure. It’s hard for him to not get nervous when you look like this, so fucking perfect.

“You’re so tight.” He says, hands gripping the bed sheets. Your legs wrap around his waist, hands going to the back of your neck to push him down. Your lips meet his in a messy but passionate kiss.

You drive him insane.

“You’re doing so good, baby.” You praise him, and you hear a groan come from his throat. His thrusts pick up speed, slowly losing himself inside of you. All composure comes undone when it comes to you.

He watches your hand move down your torso, and before you can even finish your thought, his hand takes over. His fingers play with your clit, doing everything just right. Your eyes are rolling to the back of your head, moaning his name over and over again.

“Fuck.” He curses, a word that rarely leaves his lips. But what else can he say when you’re squeezing around him? He shuts his eyes, too overwhelmed by everything that goes on. Your hands go to his back, nails digging into his soft flesh which makes him moan– The slight pain heightens the pleasure.

“Zayne, I’m gonna–” You begin, pleasure overtaking your body as another climax approaches. Zayne hits all the right spots, he simply knows your body too well.

“I know, dear. I know.” He’s out of breath. He’s close too. It’s just too much for him to handle. But you’re one step ahead of him. Your nails drag along the skin of his back as pleasure gets the best of you. You see white, finally reaching your high.

“Good job.” He praises you, knowing that he’s not going to last much. You’re just too much for him, which in the context, is a wonderful thing. His thrusts get sloppy, getting more vocal by the second.

“Can I finish inside?” He asks, and you frantically nod your head, not even having the words to say yes. You pull him into a kiss, and he groans into it as he releases his warm cum into you. A dragged out sigh leaves his lips when he pulls away from the kiss.

He stays buried inside of you, not wanting to leave your warmth just yet. He stares into your eyes for a bit, getting lost in them once again. There’s a certain spark in them, one that he’s noticed only appears when you look at him. The same spark that appears in his eyes.

“Can we cuddle?” You ask him as he pulls out of you. He lays down beside you, turning his head to look at your sweaty face.

“Clean up first.” He says, though you don’t listen and nuzzle up next to him. He rolls his eyes, but he still wraps his arms around you. “I admit, this is much better than stargazing.”

“We could’ve done that there too.” You respond without missing a beat, and his face gets completely red. He definitely wasn’t imagining that. He supposes that you could’ve, but it wouldn’t be as special– It would be even more special, it just would be indecent.

“I like it better here.” He tells you, pressing a kiss on the top of your head. “It’s warm, and there’s no bugs around.”

“You’re right.” You chuckle. “Could you imagine if a mosquito bit you–”

“How about I run you a bath?” Zayne cuts you off, knowing that the question that’s about to leave your lips is absurd. He doesn’t want to hear it.

“Will you join me?” You question, getting off him. He takes a moment to look at you before nodding in response.

A bath sounds nice.

1K notes · View notes

batsovergotham · 13 days ago

Text

double lives, double dates pt2

"You've got the costume. You've got the power. You're Spider-Woman. Act like it."🕷🕸️

Main!Mark Grayson x Spider-Woman! Reader

warnings: smut again sorry guys im a fiend, death, hurt no comfort, canon event </3, mark is a supportive boyfriend, mentions of sex

w/c: 8.7k

a/n: canon event time</3 also, thank you for your lovely asks and comments! they truly mean the world!

You wind yourself at the kitchen table, seated across from Mark, caught between May’s judgmental toast-serving and Ben’s everlasting dad look. It's warm. It smells like coffee and eggs and the crisp citrus of freshly cut fruit. It’s nice.

And you're losing your mind.

Your hand is still tingling from when it stuck to your nightstand earlier. You had to shrug it off like you were battling off a ghost. Now you’re here, attempting to eat breakfast with your boyfriend like a regular person, but your body buzzes like it’s got additional code written into the marrow.

You reach for the orange juice. Your fingers twitch.

Don’t break the glass. Don’t break the glass. Don’t crack the-

“You gonna drink that,” Ben says unexpectedly, making you flinch so sharply you nearly drop it.

You laugh. “Yup. Uh-huh. That’s the plan. Totally in control of my motor functions, why do you ask.”

Mark raises an eyebrow across from you, but doesn’t say anything.

May lays a plate in front of him. “So. Mark. Since senior year, huh?”

He picks up his fork with a kind of forlorn certainty. “Yeah. It started with her threatening to hit me for talking during biology. It was love at first sight.”

You groan. “Why would you say that out loud.”

“She deserves context,” he adds with a piece of egg. “I deserve recognition for my emotional growth.”

May grins, but it’s the harsh, knowing sort. “You’ve been keeping this from us a while.”

You murmur, “I wasn’t keeping it. It was more of a... long-term rollout plan.”

“Three years,” Ben answers bluntly.

“We’re busy,” you murmur into your toast.

May bends over her cup. “With what, exactly?”

Mark points his fork. “She has like seventeen credits, works part-time, and watches nature documentaries at two a.m. for fun. It’s actually sort of intimidating.”

You flash him a glance. “You’re not supposed to roast me in front of my family.”

“I’m endearing myself to the judges.”

May hums. “So far, he’s succeeding.”

You gulp your juice, too fast, and nearly cough. The flavor smacks your tongue like a blow. You lay the glass down a touch too hard, just a little, and it produces a louder clink than it should.

Mark’s eyes flick to your hand. Just for a second.

You attempt to grin.

He doesn’t press it.

Yet.

Ben, meantime, sits back in his chair, cup in hand. “So. Why the secrecy? You thought we wouldn’t approve?”

“No,” you answer hastily. “It was... I don’t know. It was just ours. And then it kept being ours. And then suddenly it was three years later and we were very much lying by omission.”

Mark shrugs. “Honestly, I was just following her lead. She said wait, I waited. Like... a faithful, loving golden retriever.”

Ben grunts. “Golden retrievers don’t sneak around.”

“Golden retrievers don’t pass AP Calc either,” you add.

Mark points. “Let the record show, I passed.”

“With my notes,” you say.

“With my charisma.”

May cuts in before you can hurl your napkin at him. “Well, it’s out now. And despite the... wait, I’m glad. It’s good to see her happy.”

That makes you silent.

Because you are joyful.

But you’re also something else. Wired. Fragile. Like you’re one hard grasp away from snapping your fork in half.

Mark’s still eyeing you out of the corner of his eye.

You feel his foot poke yours under the table.

You nudge back, just slightly.

“So, Mark,” Ben says nonchalantly. “You treat her like she’s the best thing that ever happened to you?”

Mark doesn’t even hesitate. “Yeah. She is.”

You nearly choke on your fruit.

“Okay,” you respond, half a laugh. “That’s enough sincerity before ten a.m.”

“I’m just saying,” he says with a shrug. “You deserve to know.”

May’s observing you now, her grin a bit gentler. “We always knew you’d keep your heart close to the chest. But I’m happy he’s the one who has it.”

You go silent again.

Mark takes your hand beneath the table. Warm, steady.

He squeezes softly.

You squeeze back.

But your fingers are twitching. Still sensitive. Still too aware. You’re hyper-conscious of every point of touch. Every pulse. Every scrape of chair leg on floor sounds excessively loud. Every fragrance strikes too intensely. You feel like a balloon overfilled and tied shut too tight.

And you’re not sure how much longer you can pretend you’re just weary. Just stressed.

Because something in you has altered.

And Mark doesn’t know.

And your aunt and uncle don’t know.

And sitting here in the kitchen, with sunshine on the table and eggs cooling on the plate, you suddenly realize

You’re not simply lying about your relationship anymore.

You’re lying about you.

The plates are mostly empty now.

Toast crumbs scatter the table like polite wreckage. The coffee’s been refilled twice, the fruit picked through, and May is humming as she rinses the frying pan at the sink. Ben’s halfway through the crossword, pen tapping rhythmically on the counter. Mark’s still across from you, lazily spinning a fork in his fingers.

And you... you're pretending everything’s fine.

You haven't moved much. Not because you're full. Because you’re afraid if you grip your utensils the wrong way, they’ll bend. Or snap. Or worse.

You fidget with your napkin instead. Something soft. Something safe.

And then, like fate’s just waiting for the tension to peak, the news comes on.

May’s small kitchen TV flickers to life in the corner. Background noise, usually. Something calm and distant while breakfast happens. But not today.

Today, the name hits your ears before the anchor even finishes her sentence.

“Invincible was spotted again last night above Midtown, engaging what looked like two rogue Flaxan warriors attempting to break through into Earth’s dimension.”

Your stomach drops.

The screen shows shaky phone footage, Invincible, blue and yellow and blood-streaked, slamming through a Flaxan like a baseball through a windshield. He’s fast. Brutal. And unmistakable.

The camera pans to show wreckage. People running. Civilians yelling.

Mark shifts beside you.

Mark interrupts the stillness, voice low but steady. “People always want someone to blame.”

May peeks over her shoulder. “Blame him? He’s the only reason half this city isn’t a crater.”

“They don’t care,” Mark answers. “It’s easier to fear power than to understand it.”

That lands odd.

You gaze at him.

He’s looking at the blank screen, mouth stiff, without blinking. Like he’s still seeing the conflict happen in real time.

Something in your belly twists.

Ben folds his newspaper. Leans forward. His hands are linked now, fingers intertwined. There’s something serious about his posture like he’s going to utter something he’s been sitting on for years.

He looks between the two of you. His niece. Your boyfriend. Two kids in their early twenties, thinking breakfast is just breakfast.

Then he says it.

That line.

“I’ve always believed one thing.”

His voice is steady. Not loud. But it fills the room like thunder regardless.

“If you’ve got the power to stop something bad from happening, and you don’t...”

He stares directly at you.

“Then it’s your fault when it does.”

You blink.

Your throat tightens. You don’t react.

You can’t.

He lets the words hang. No drama. No fanfare.

Just the truth.

“With great power,” he adds, softer now, “comes great responsibility.”

It smacks you like a blow to the chest.

You don’t breathe for a second.

Because he doesn’t know. He has no idea.

But he’s right.

You feel it in your bones. In your hands. In the way your whole body feels like it’s vibrating just beneath the surface. You don’t know what you’re becoming but you know it’s not nothing.

And suddenly, everything feels heavier. This room. This moment. The weight of what you might be able to do.

And the scary option of deciding not to do it.

You try to talk. “I mean... I’m just a college student. I can barely pass physics. I don’t think I’m competent to stop any catastrophes.”

Ben doesn’t laugh. He merely glances at you.

“You don’t have to be qualified,” he continues. “You just have to care.”

Mark adjusts slightly in his seat.

You sense him observing you. Not in a suspicious way, not yet, but near. Too close. His foot touches yours beneath the table again, grounding you.

But you’re still floating.

Your voice comes out softer than you intend it to. “Sometimes I wonder if power finds the wrong people.”

Ben raises his eyebrow. “You worried about Invincible?”

You hesitate.

Mark tenses, barely discernible.

“No,” you say. “Not really.”

Ben takes a drink of his coffee. “Then what are you worried about?”

You freeze.

Mark’s eyes are still on you. He doesn’t blink.

You swallow. “That... someone could have power and not even know what to do with it. That they might mess it up.”

Ben leans back. “Then they learn. Or they suffer the price for not learning.”

His words drop into your chest like bricks.

Mark eventually speaks, voice faint now. “It’s scary. Having power. Knowing others want something from you, even when they don’t know what you’re dealing with.”

You glance at him aggressively.

He catches your gaze for half a second before glancing away.

The air feels different. Thicker.

May attempts to cut through it, delicate and lovely. “Well. All I know is, if this Invincible kid’s trying his best out there, good for him. Not everyone can say the same.”

You nod absently. You’re hardly hearing her.

You’re watching the flash of a shadow on the wall. A reflection from the TV.

You think of your hands adhering to the faucet. The power in your fingers when you cracked a slice of bread by accident. The way your body understood how to land when you leaped off your house.

You think of the way your heart leaped when you saw Invincible on-screen not because he terrified you.

Because something in you whispered

You could do it too.

But what if you shouldn’t?

What if you’re not ready?

What if you never will be?

Ben’s words come back, circling in your thoughts now

“If you’ve got the power to stop something bad from happening, and you don’t… then it’s your fault when it does.”

You breathe in deep.

And realize...

You can’t sit motionless forever.

Mark squeezes your hand beneath the table as you clear the rest of the plates. “I’ve got class in, like, fifteen minutes,” he whispers. “But I’ll text you?”

You nod. “Of course.”

His eyes linger on yours a bit longer than they should.

You know he’s still thinking about the way you froze during the announcement.

You know he’s suspicious.

But he doesn’t press. He merely kisses your temple and gets his bag from where it’s resting against the wall. “Tell May she makes a killer omelet. And tell Ben I’ll return his newspaper. Probably.”

He gives you one last look before sliding out the front door.

And suddenly it’s just... silent.

Mark leaves for class with one more peek over his shoulder, and you offer him a faint wave like you're not vibrating out of your skin.

As soon as the door closes behind him, your body becomes motionless.

The air shifts.

The kitchen is too light, too heated. The eggs are cold on the plate, and May is humming gently as she rinses dishes, the water spraying in gentle, rhythmic spurts. Ben’s chair creaks as he leans back to finish the crossword, pen pounding on the table. It’s normal. Comfortable.

But you’re not.

You can’t sit still.

Can’t breathe well.

The strain within your chest is increasing, coiled like a spring, and the quiet just makes it worse. You murmur something about needing air, about wanting to clear your thoughts, and they don’t even flinch.

You slip out the back door.

Then you climb.

The side of the house shouldn’t feel this easy but it does. Your hands know where to go. Your feet stick when you don’t expect them to. The gutter moans quietly beneath your weight, but doesn’t shatter.

You crest the edge of the roof and swing a leg over, placing yourself on the angled shingles with your knees tucked under your arms. You sit there for a while, heart still hammering from everything, the morning, the news, Uncle Ben’s remarks.

‘With great power…’

You push your palm to your chest. You swear you can feel it buzzing under your ribs.

You’re not simply terrified.

You’re wired.

Every nerve feels like it’s had coffee and electricity for breakfast.

You peek across the street, apartment complexes, electricity wires, small lanes. And you wonder

Could you do it?

Really?

You stand.

The breeze sweeps your hair back. The street below looks so far away now. You rock on your heels, arms wide for balance, trying not to think about how easy you may fall.

But that’s not what terrifies you.

What terrifies you is that part of you wants to jump.

You flex your fingers and gaze down at your wrists. There’s a subtle, prickling heat just under the skin, like something waiting. You tighten your fists and murmur to yourself

“Okay. No pressure. Just... try not to faceplant into someone’s windshield.”

You aim.

Instinctively.

You don’t know how you know what you’re doing, but you do. You can feel the tightness in your forearm, the way your fingers want to lock into place a specific manner.

You close one eye, stretch your arm toward the chimney of the building across the alley, and

Thwip.

The sound is moist and abrupt, like silk ripping through the air.

A silvery-white thread bursts from your wrist and hits the brick. It sticks. Firm. Clean.

You gasp. “No freaking way.”

You tug. It holds.

Your heart is throbbing in your throat now. Your legs feel like they’re made of static. You glance at the web, then at your hands, then at the plummet to the earth below.

This is ridiculous.

This is risky.

This is exactly the type of thing you’d yell at someone else not to do.

But you were never going to walk away from this, were you?

You back up, breath frozen somewhere between your ribs, gaze focused on the web line stretching across the lane.

“Alright,” you mumble, partly to yourself, half to whatever strange new portion of your body made it happen. “Time to jump off a roof. Totally fine. People do that all the time in... cartoons.”

You take a couple steps ahead. Then a couple more. Then you’re running.

You dash straight toward the edge of the roof.

Your foot strikes the edge and you launch.

The wind rips past you suddenly. For half a second, you’re weightless. Flying.

Then the web draws tight.

Your arm yanks forward. Your body whips with it and suddenly you’re swinging.

Your legs flail. You scream, actually scream. It’s not cool. It’s not elegant. It’s half panic, part ecstasy, and your entire body is moving considerably quicker than your head.

You crash onto a fire escape.

Bounce off.

You clutch the web with both hands, dangling now, thirty feet from the ground and breathless, clinging by a thread of whatever you just produced.

You’re panting. Knees shaking.

But you’re laughing, too.

A high, exuberant, nearly insane laugh.

You’re alive.

You’re still up here.

“Okay!” you yell, voice breaking. “Not dead! Not dead!”

You swing one leg up, grab your foot against the edge of the building, and struggle upward, dragging yourself back onto a lower rooftop. You fall in a heap, gasping for air, arms shaking from the exertion.

You gaze up into the sky, still laughing, still surprised.

And then you look at your wrist again.

The skin there appears flushed, mildly heated, but not damaged. You stretch your fingers, and feel the same strain again like a second heartbeat inside your arm.

It’s you.

This power, it’s not from a machine. Not a serum. Not a weird event that left you shattered and radioactive.

It’s yours.

Part of your body now.

Maybe it always was.

You lie there, chest rising and falling, eyes wide, and murmur to the empty sky above

“What the hell am I supposed to do with this?”

The wind doesn’t answer.

But in your thoughts, you hear it again:

“With great power comes great responsibility.”

You swallow hard.

And for the first time since this started... You comprehend what it genuinely means.

The next day, everything is louder.

The clink of the spoon in your cereal bowl. The sound of your pen tapping against your notebook. The hum of the fridge. It’s all sharper, like someone turned the world up a few notches and didn’t tell you.

You slept maybe four hours. Woke up tangled in blankets, your heart racing, flashes of rooftop swings still jolting through your mind like lightning.

You keep replaying the fall, the sound of your own scream, the terrifying thrill of not dying.

You should be resting.

But instead, you’re hunched over the kitchen table, staring at a newspaper like it’s going to explain how to live your life now.

May slides a mug of coffee next to your elbow. You don’t even flinch. She pauses.

“You okay, sweetheart?”

You force a smile. “Yeah. Just...brain fog.”

She presses a hand to your forehead, mock-serious. “You’re not allowed to get sick. We’ve already met our household’s emotional crisis quota for the month.”

You grin weakly. “Copy that.”

She moves away, humming again.

You glance down at the paper.

You weren’t even planning to read it. You just needed something to look at. Something boring. Something human. The comics page. Maybe the crossword. Something that doesn’t ask you to stick to walls or leap off roofs.

Instead, your eyes catch on a bolded headline tucked in the corner of page seven

“$3,000 CASH PRIZE! Local Wrestling Event Seeking Challengers” NO EXPERIENCE NECESSARY “Step in the ring and stay in for 3 minutes!” ONE NIGHT ONLY! CASH PRIZE GUARANTEED.

You blink.

Your heart skips.

You reread it.

Then again.

You glance at the prize money. Three thousand dollars. Right there in bold. No fine print. No strings. Just survive for three minutes in a cage with a guy called “The Pulverizer.”

Your first thought is ‘That’s sketchy as hell.’

Your second thought is ‘But I could win.’

And your third thought, the one that settles like warm static under your skin is

‘Mark’s birthday is coming up.’

He hasn’t mentioned it, not really. But you remember. You always remember. He plays it off like birthdays aren’t a big deal, but you know better. He’s not the type to expect gifts. He never asks for anything. But you were there the year Amber forgot completely. The year Nolan didn’t call. You remember the look on his face. He never said anything, but it lingered.

And now there’s this necklace you saw online. Dumb. Simple. Nothing super flashy just a little silver tag with the coordinates of where you first kissed engraved on it.

You’ve never had the money for it.

But you could.

Your hand tightens around the edge of the newspaper.

You think about what your body did yesterday. About the way your bones felt when you jumped. The way the wind tasted when you flew. You think about your hands, your reflexes, your web. The power humming under your skin even now.

Three minutes in a ring?

You could do it blindfolded.

You’re halfway through planning it before you realize.

A hoodie. Loose jeans. Something to cover your face, nothing dramatic. You don’t need attention. You just need the prize. Get in, stay standing, get out.

You tell yourself it’s harmless.

You tell yourself it’s smart.

You tell yourself it’s not a big deal.

But under all of it...

You feel it again.

That need.

That pull.

The part of you that wants to test it. That wants to feel the adrenaline again. That wants to see just how far this goes.

And maybe, just maybe, you want to win.

Not for the necklace.

Not for Mark.

But for you.

You fold the paper slowly, set it aside, and whisper under your breath

“Three minutes. That’s nothing.”

You nearly don’t go.

You almost chicken out when you see the outside of the facility, a converted rec center with damaged signs and a banner duct-taped to the brick wall that proclaims "CAGE NIGHT" in a bold font.

You convince yourself you’ll simply scope it out.

Just watch.

But you brought your hoodie. And your gloves. And the mask you patched the night before out of a tattered beanie and an old red t-shirt.

And the small folded-up flier in your hoodie pocket has “$3,000 CASH” emblazoned in enormous strong letters, circled three times in red ink.

You can’t walk away now.

You head inside.

It’s louder than you thought. The bleachers are packed with rowdy, beer-sloshing males in football jerseys and cheap sunglasses. There’s a cloud in the air that smells like fried onions and old perspiration. The floor creaks under your boots as you check in with a teen at the fold-up table who doesn't even glance up from his phone.

You scrawl your name on the sign-in form.

Stage Name: The Human Spider.

It felt intelligent last night. Sciencey. Personal. A subtle little hint to what you are today.

Now, looking at it on the page, it feels stupid.

You’re escorted to the rear, a tiny hallway that might’ve previously been a supply closet, now full with tense males in tank tops stretching and moaning like they’re prepared for battle. You can hardly hear the announcer above the clamor of the crowd.

You take a breath.

This is for Mark. For his birthday. For the jewelry you couldn’t afford. The one with the small coordinates inscribed into the pendant, the place where you kissed him for the first time after school, right before it poured. He doesn’t even know you remember.

You do.

You remember everything.

You step into the hallway when they call your name.

The lights hit you first. Bright and unpleasant.

The music is booming. The floor sticky. The Pulverizer is already in the ring, throwing air punches and flashing his pecs at a bunch of people in the front row.

The announcer reaches over the ropes and swings a clipboard in the air. “And in this corner, we’ve got a last-minute sign-up... standing at what looks like... five-foot-something? Really? Okay. Give it up for... hmm... The Human Spider?”

You wince.

The crowd laughs.

“Wow,” the announcer says into the mike, dry as sandpaper. “That name sucks. What is this, a National Geographic tribute act?”

The crowd laughs harder.

Your cheeks burn under the mask.

You look down at your hands.

The announcer throws the clipboard behind him and shrugs. “Y’know what? Forget it. Let’s spice it up. Give it up for the one and only... SPIDER-WOMAN!”

The name hits like a cymbal crash.

People cheer.

You freeze.

That’s not what you wrote.

But it resonates around the gym, ringing in your ears, and suddenly it’s not a suggestion, it’s a branding.

You move, approaching the ring.

And the name walks with you.

The Pulverizer is constructed like a fridge and twice as mean-looking. He twists his neck as you climb between the ropes and snaps his knuckles like it’s intended to terrify you.

The ref mutters something about “three minutes or a pin.”

You nod absently.

Your heart is thumping. But it’s not fear.

It’s something different.

That pull in your arms.

That quiet vibration in your center.

You’re ready.

The bell rings.

He comes at you fast, a swinging punch aiming at your jaw.

You duck. Smooth.

He misses by a mile.

You turn, whirl behind him, and without thinking, put your foot into his back.

It’s hardly even a hard kick.

But he flies.

He slams against the ropes. Bounces off. Crashes to the mat like someone dropped a couch.

Silence.

Then, the audience erupts.

The ref appears startled.

The Pulverizer is knocked out.

Not moving.

The bell sounds again.

You won.

Backstage smells like dampness and crushed hopes.

The promoter’s office is merely a folding table with a cash box and a clipboard. He doesn’t glance up when you step in.

You’re still shaking. Not from terror. From energy. From the way your whole body feels like it just woke up for the first time.

“I won,” you say. “Three grand, right?”

The promoter nibbles on a toothpick. Shrugs. “You didn’t last three minutes.”

You blink. “What?”

“You knocked him out in forty-five seconds. That’s not what the fans paid to see.”

You open your mouth. Close it.

He tosses a single hundred-dollar cash onto the table. Doesn’t even glance at you.

“There. Take it or leave it.”

You gaze at it.

It’s not even crisp.

You take it.

You leave.

You’re halfway down the corridor when the yelling starts.

A door slams.

You hear the promoter shouting, someone stole from him. Took the lockbox.

Then you see him.

A guy in a gray hoodie.

Running.

Fast.

Lockbox tucked beneath one arm, eyes wild.

He establishes eye contact with you as he rushes by.

You could stop him.

You know it.

You could pin him to the wall with one hand.

You don’t move.

The promoter stumbles out seconds later, breathless and red-faced. “HEY! YOU-YOU SAW HIM! WHY DIDN’T YOU STOP HIM?!”

You meet his gaze.

And say, “Not my problem.”

Then you stroll out into the night.

The air is chilly against your face. The wind tastes like metal and rain.

You open your palm and gaze at the hundred-dollar bill.

It feels heavier now.

And for the first time since you received your powers…

You feel little.

You’re almost home when the lights appear.

Not the normal cozy porch sort. Not the glimmer of passing headlights. These are brighter, colder, red and blue flashing against the black like alarms shouting into the sky.

You stop at the end of your street.

Crowd forming.

Voices mumbling.

Sirens still booming in the air, despite the patrol vehicles are already parked.

People stand on the street in slippers and bathrobes, arms folded close, heads turned toward the familiar tiny house at the corner. Your home.

And suddenly, you know.

You know.

You run.

You don’t ask. You don’t shout. You just run.

The mob swirls around you as you surge through. Someone grabs your arm,“Hey, kid, you can’t be here-” but you pull free and dart under the tape before anybody stops you.

Your steps slow as you move passed the cruiser.

You saw the car first.

The passenger door is still wide open. Headlights throwing lengthy shadows onto the pavement. The engine is off, but the keys are still in the ignition.

Then you notice the form on the ground.

A body.

Unmoving.

Covered in a white sheet.

But not all the way.

One hand sticks out, familiar and aged, fingers curved just slightly, like they were grasping for something.

You recognize the ring.

Your throat locks.

You walk closer, slowly, like your body’s fighting to refute what your eyes already know.

A police officer tries to stop you. “Miss, please don’t-”

You ignore him.

You don’t utter a thing.

You fall to your knees beside the body and look at the hand like it would move. Like this is all a misunderstanding and any second he’ll wake up and tell you to stop being theatrical.

But he doesn’t move.

And that sheet isn’t raised.

You notice his sneakers. His watch. The corner of his flannel shirt. The same one he was wearing when he made you coffee this morning.

And suddenly it strikes.

Not everything at once.

Not like a scream.

But like water rising in your chest, sluggish, choking.

Your breath hitches. Your shoulders tremble.

Your fingers press to your mouth like they’re trying to hold everything in.

You let out a sound you don’t identify. Guttural. Choked.

Your vision blurs, and suddenly you’re weeping so hard you can’t see. You hunch forward, forehead on your knees, body shaking like it’s trying to break apart.

You don’t know how long you sit like that.

In some time, May is there.

She kneels alongside you, not saying anything, simply drawing you into her arms. Her hands massage your hair, but even she’s shaking. Her breath stutters on your skull.

“He just, he tried to help,” she murmurs. “They said it was a mugging. That he said for them to stop. That he tried to do the right thing and-and then the man just-”

She can’t finish.

You don’t beg her to.

Because you already know.

You see it again in your mind, the man who rushed by you in the corridor.

Gray hoodie. Lockbox clasped to his chest. Eyes wild and terrified.

You stepped aside.

You informed the promoter “Not my problem.”

Now it is.

You stare back to Ben’s corpse. You want to reach for him. You want to take it back.

But you can’t.

He’s gone.

Because of you.

A deep, scorching fire grows in your gut, sadness entwined with something harsher. Anger.

At yourself.

At the man who pulled the gun.

At the version of you who walked away.

You wipe your face.

Stand up slowly, eyes burning, hands clutched firmly at your sides.

You’re not sobbing anymore.

Your jaw is locked. Shoulders squared. Your pulse pounds with purpose.

Because now you know what you’re going to do.

You’re going to find him.

You don’t care what it takes.

This isn’t about becoming a hero.

Not yet.

This is personal.

The world is ringing.

You can’t hear May weeping behind you.

You can’t hear the murmur of the neighbors, the cops attempting to gently take her back into the home, the paramedics speaking to each other.

All you can hear is the blood rushing in your ears and the sound of your feet hitting concrete.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

You run.

Harder than you ever have before.

The wind slashes at your face, and your hoodie flares behind you as you speed down the street with no strategy. No direction. Just purpose. Just rage.

The night is harsh. Cold. The streetlights make everything gold and wrong. And down in your breast, underneath the shock and the sadness, lies something else

Heat.

Boiling.

Growing.

Your fingers twitch. Your knuckles hurt.

You hear the words again.

“If you’ve got the power to stop something bad from happening…”

Your teeth grind together. You don’t finish the statement in your brain. You can’t.

You see his face. The man in the hallway.

Gray hoodie. Lockbox clasped to his chest.

You stepped aside.

And now Ben’s dead.

You scale a building without thinking. One jump. Then another. Your fingertips touch brick and metal and your legs propel you upward like you’re weightless.

You spring onto the rooftop and sprint full-speed across the tarpaper and gravel, leaping between buildings, air burning in your lungs.

Below, you spot him.

The same man. Same hoodie. Moving through side alleys swiftly, scared, peering over his shoulder like the devil is behind him.

He’s right.

You follow.

He slips inside by a side entrance of a nearby warehouse. You land on the roof seconds later, staring down through a dirty skylight.

Dim lights flicker. It’s abandoned. Half-packed containers and piled shelves threw lengthy shadows across the cement floor. Puddles of rain pour from fractures in the ceiling. The walls are coated in graffiti and lost messages.

You creep down the side, quiet, hands adhering to the wall like magnets.

You drop to the floor without a sound.

Then, from deeper in the warehouse, a noise.

A door creaking. A mumbled curse.

You step forward.

Fast.

You grab him toward the back.

He turns barely in time, eyes wild.

Recognition shoots over his face like lightning.

"You-" he starts.

You don’t let him finish.

You move. Fast. You grab him by the jacket and slam him into a support beam with a crack. The sound echoes. Dust falls from the rafters.

"Why did you kill him?" you demand, your voice like gravel.

He struggles. "I didn’t-I didn’t mean to, I just-he surprised, me, dude! I didn’t know!"

"You shot him."

He’s shaking now. "It wasn’t supposed to go that way!"

He swings. A fist to your stomach. It barely connects. You slam him back again, harder. He gasps.

He stumbles free, pushing off the beam, and dashes for the stairway at the far side of the warehouse.

You chase him.

He scrambles up to the catwalk level, high above the floor, past rusted-out rails and an old dangling chain.

You follow.

You reach the top as he struggles along the platform, nearly tripping on a puddle of old rainwater gathered near the edge.

"Don’t come any closer!" he cries, drawing a little blade from his jacket, holding it out like a threat.

You stop.

Your breath is steady. Measured.

He’s panting.

"You don’t get to walk away from this," you say, quietly. “You killed someone. You killed my uncle.”

"It was an accident!"

"So was this.”

You lunge.

He slashes frantically. You dodge. Grab his wrist. Slam it against the railing. The knife falls.

He panics.

Backpedals.

And steps incorrect.

The railing creaks.

Then breaks.

He slips backward, falling into the corroded crack.

You reach out.

You grab him.

Your hand wraps around his wrist, firmly. His body jerks to a standstill, hanging twenty feet above the concrete floor.

He yells.

Your grasp slips slightly, his skin is slippery with perspiration and blood. You tighten.

“I’ve got you,” you gasp, breath shaking.

He glances up.

And you see his face again.

The fear.

The recognition.

"You could’ve stopped me earlier,” he says, voice shaking. “You-you let me go.”

You freeze.

Your stomach lowers.

And in that hesitation

Your fingers lose him.

He slides.

Falls.

You lunge too late.

CRACK.

The sound of his body hitting the hard floor is definitive.

Sickening.

You look.

You lookat the fractured figure below.

The silence.

The quiet.

Your hands quiver.

You back away from the railing. Stumble. Fall to your knees.

He’s dead.

You didn’t mean to murder him.

You wanted justice.

Closure.

Something.

But this?

This feels like neither.

You don’t know how you got there.

You’re perched on a rooftop someplace blocks away, high above the street. The wind rips through your hoodie like razors, and your body hurts from the pursuit, from the fall, from the guilt.

You’re curled into yourself, arms wrapped tight over your knees.

Your mask lays crumpled beside you.

In your palm is the hundred-dollar note the promoter gave you.

The paper’s moist now, smeared, discolored. You unfold it, gaze at the ink spilling onto your hand.

Then you rip it in half.

Then again.

You let the fragments disperse off the side of the building, fluttering down into the lane like dead leaves.

You sit in the dark, your breath short, your face sticky with dried perspiration and tears.

And for the first time since this began, you say it out loud.

"...It was my fault."

And you mean it.

The church is too silent.

Too still.

It’s one of those modest neighborhood chapels that smells like dust and wood polish and something slightly fragrant. Rows of pews border the central aisle. Candles glimmer softly at the altar. The organ is silent, but for the occasional murmur of aged pipes adapting to the heat.

You sit in the front row, hands folded in your lap, eyes distracted.

You can’t recall how you got here.

You recall the night. The fall. The sound. The way your hand slid.

But this?

This is fuzzy. It everything moved too fast. The coroner. The papers. The casket. The outfit you didn’t know still fit.

Ben is sleeping just a few feet away, locked within a pinewood box you had to help May pick out.

Because she couldn’t do it alone.

And neither could you.

You’ve scarcely uttered a word since that night.

The silence is easy.

May hasn’t asked where you were. What happened. She’s mourning, buried so deep in grief that she rarely eats, barely looks up. She clutches your hand when people speak to her, but never too firmly. Like she’s frightened of breaking you too.

Your eyes wander toward her now.

She’s seated next you, clothed in gray, slimmer somehow. Her face is pale, but her jaw is firm, composed in the manner only someone who’s gone through this before could manage.

She hasn’t cried today.

You have.

Not loudly.

Not noticeably.

But your hands won’t stop shaking.

You’ve had to sit on them the whole time simply to keep motionless.

The service goes on in a flurry of eulogies and silent songs. Someone reads a chapter from Psalms. Another neighbor adds something about Ben constantly volunteering to trim their grass, even in the heat. You hear the words, excellent man, amazing, kind, always had a tale to tell, and they all land like stones in your chest.

Because it’s all true.

And he’s gone.

Because of you.

Your eyes hurt again.

You bite the inside of your cheek.

Not now.

You can’t weep again. Not here.

Not with everyone watching.

Not with him watching.

Because somewhere between the commencement of the ceremony and now, Mark Grayson sneaked into the back row.

You spotted him as you turned slightly, head down, arms wrapped tight across his chest, clad in black.

You haven’t seen him since the day before it all happened. Since the match. Since before.

You didn’t text him. You didn’t explain.

And still… he came.

Your stomach knots.

He captures your sight briefly.

Nods once.

You glance away.

The service concludes.

People rise in silent clumps. They converse in low tones. Some leave flowers at the coffin. Some embrace May. One woman, a friend of Ben’s from down the block, lays a hand on your shoulder gently.

You attempt to smile.

It doesn’t reach your eyes.

Eventually the church empties, sluggish as a tide pushing back. Only a few individuals remain now. May is chatting gently to the preacher.

And you’re still sitting in the same location, unable to move.

Then there’s a gentle shuffle of shoes approaching the pew behind you.

You glance up.

It’s Mark.

He doesn’t say anything at first.

He just sits down next you.

His suit’s a tad too small in the shoulders. His tie’s crooked. His hair’s still wet, probably raced here straight from class or a shift.

But he looks at you like he sees you.

Really sees you.

“I didn’t know if I should come,” he replies gently.

You shake your head. “You didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to.”

Your throat tightens.

He stares down at your hands, still curled tight in your lap.

Then at your face.

“I’m sorry,” he says. And he means it. All of it.

You swallow. “Yeah.”

He’s quiet for a minute. Then, a bit softer,“You okay?”

You nearly laugh.

It comes out strangled.

“Not really,” you say. “But thanks for asking.”

Another beat of quiet.

“He talked about you.”

Mark’s brow furrows. “Ben?”

“Yeah,” you mumble. “He liked you.”

Mark delivers a sorrowful smile. “I liked him too.”

You nod.

And suddenly, as if all at once, it breaks.

Your shoulders tremble. Your face twists. You cover your lips with your palm, but the sound still escapes, a breathless sob, piercing and abrupt and dreadful.

Mark moves without thinking.

He pulls you in.

His arms wrap around you like a shield, and you bury your face into his shoulder, shivering, breathing, trying to calm yourself, trying not to make a spectacle, but failing.

“I’m sorry,” you choke. “I’m so sorry-”

“Don’t,” he urges, his voice low in your ear. “Don’t do that to yourself.”

“I let him die.”

Mark stiffens slightly but doesn’t let go.

You didn’t intend to say that.

Not like that.

Not out loud.

You close your eyes.

Mark doesn't ask what you mean.

He just holds you closer.

You don’t deserve it.

But you’re thankful regardless.

The sun is low by the time you walk home.

You’re alone.

Mark offered to walk you, but you shook your head.

You needed the room.

You pass stores with their lights out. Apartment windows shining soft yellow. An aging couple strolling their dog. A group of teens giggling on someone’s porch.

Life carries on.

Even when yours doesn’t.

Even when something in you is gone.

You approach the corner where Ben was shot.

There’s chalk on the ground now. Someone sketched a heart. Wrote his name. Left a flower in a glass jar.

You squat beside it. Touch the chalk dust.

And then you do the one thing you haven’t done in days.

You whisper

“I’m sorry.”

The breeze blows gently.

No reply.

But something moves in your chest.

Not forgiveness.

Not peace.

Just… resolve.

Your room. Your silence. The beginning of anything fresh.

The home creaks in the calm.

May’s already sleeping, or at least pretending to be. You passed her room on the way up the stairs and noticed the gentle bulb glow beneath the door, the shadow of her sitting in the chair by the window. She doesn’t cry when she thinks you can hear.

You don’t weep either.

Not anymore.

There’s nothing left in you to spill.

You sit on your bed, legs crossed, looking at the closed closet door. Your funeral garments are balled in the hamper. The sleeves of Ben’s flannel droop off the side of your work chair. The one he used to wear when he prepared breakfast, even in summer. The one he was wearing when-

You squeeze your palms into your eyes.

Stop.

Focus.

You take a deep breath. Let it out gently.

Then you get up.

Open the closet.

Dig past the old pants, the half-broken Halloween costume from two years ago, the box of notebooks, till your palm brushes the little duffel bag you carried home two nights ago.

The one with your improvised wrestling costume still inside.

You pull it out and unzip it carefully.

The hoodie. The gloves. The mask. It smells like perspiration and dust and remorse.

You drop it on your bed.

And then, you stroll over to your workstation.

Pull open every drawer.

Scissors. Safety pins. Sewing kit. A set of iron-on patches you never used. A red turtleneck. Your old jogging sneakers. Fabric leftovers from May’s quilting bag. An old gymnastics leotard you outgrew but never threw away.

You put it all out in rows like evidence at a murder scene.

Then you sit.

And you begin.

The scissors aren’t sharp enough.

You cut nonetheless.

Your fingers hurt from keeping the cloth taut, but you keep going. The leotard becomes your foundation layer, red, form-fitting, functional. The turtleneck sleeves get sewed on with weak stitching. You strengthen the seams where you can.

You pull a sweatshirt sleeve inside out and start tracing the spider sign by hand.

It doesn’t come out perfect.

But you don’t care.

You sew it on.

You cut the red patches into jagged cuffs and stitch them on your forearms. They’re symbolic. They’re intended to be. They’re for Ben.

When you slide the mask over your face, a new one, red with black stitching around the eyes, you gaze into the mirror for a long time.

You don’t look like yourself.

Not really.

Your eyes are the only thing still visible, and even they feel like someone else’s.

You grab for the hoodie again, this time, not to wear it.

You put it over your lap. Fingers smooth the cloth carefully. Gently.

Ben gave you this sweatshirt years ago.

You were thirteen, soaking from a deluge, shivering in the car after going home from school in the rain. He didn’t even say anything. Just took it off and put it over you.

You never gave it back.

Now you cut a portion of it away, cautious, steady, and fold it into a patch.

You stitch it inside the wrist of your glove.

Close to your pulse.

You want it to be the last thing you touch every time you put it on.

It’s nearly 3 a.m. when you finally finish.

The outfit is rough. A patchwork of reclaimed cloth and irregular stitching. The mask moves slightly to one side. The spider on your chest is asymmetrical.

But it’s yours.

It’s not about cameras or fame.

It’s not for glory or fighting in rings.

It’s not even for revenge anymore.

It’s a promise.

You settle back in your work chair, still wearing it. The metropolis hums outside your window. You may hear the occasional honk, a dog barking someplace far off.

You flex your fingers within your gloves.

And murmur, “I’m ready.”

But you’re not.

Not really.

Not yet.

ִ ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙

Ben is standing in the kitchen in his flannel, flipping pancakes like he’s on a culinary show. The radio’s on. Something aged and comforting. You’re sitting at the counter, arms folded on the tile, yawning into your sleeve.

“You ever think about what you wanna be?” he asks, unprompted.

You raise an eyebrow. “In life?”

“No,” he smirks. “In a dream.”

You snort. “I don’t know. Someone who doesn’t set the smoke alarm off attempting to microwave rice.”

He smiles, pours more batter into the pan.

“I think you could be something really special,” he continues, not looking at you.

You blink. “Because I make good rice?”

“Because you care,” he adds. “You act tough. You’re funny. You’re clever. But deep down? You care. Even when you don’t want to.”

You gaze at him.

He flips a pancake with impeccable timing.

“I just hope,” he says, “that when it counts, when it really, really counts, you remember to use that. Whatever you do, wherever you end up... I just hope you choose to do the right thing.”

You roll your eyes. “Great, thanks, Yoda.”

He grins. “Hey, I’m older than Yoda.”

You toss a napkin at him.

ִ ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙

You stand at your window now, the complete outfit clinging tight to your frame. The fabric tugs slightly at your elbows. The mask is down, yet your fingers tremble at your sides.

You open the window carefully.

The wind rushes in. Cold. Bracing.

You step onto the fire escape.

The city stretches out before you in a sparkling grid of movement and commotion.

You squat low.

Close your eyes.

Feel it.

That tug in your center.

The one that knows what you are today.

The one that instructs you to leap.

Ben isn’t here to witness this.

But you are.

And it means you have to try.

You rocket forth into the night.

The web fires before your brain fully instructs it to.

Thwip.

You swing.

Not perfectly.

You almost lose your grasp.

But you land hard on the next building over, gasping, heart pumping.

And then you laugh, breathless and half-crazy.

Because you’re alive.

Because he isn’t.

Because this is the only thing that makes sense now.

You glance out at the skyline.

You put the mask over your face.

And say it, quiet, not to the world.

To him.

“I promise, Ben.”

You leap again.

This time, you don’t fall.

The wind stings your eyes.

Your second swing is smoother than your first. Your third is almost graceful. You’re still getting the hang of it, how much pressure to use, how far to leap, how to twist your body midair so the landing doesn’t jar your knees but you’re improving fast.

Your body knows what it’s doing even when your brain doesn’t.

You land on a rooftop with a low thud, breathing hard, heart thudding against your ribs. The city stretches around you like a maze of light and steel. Cars crawl below. Horns echo. Steam rises from vents like phantom trails.

You’re wearing the suit. Your suit.

And you’re out here.

Doing something.

Finally.

The first hour is quiet. You perch on rooftops. Watch alleys. Follow sirens from a distance and stop short when you realize the cops have it handled.

You help a guy pick up a box of dropped produce. He thanks you like you’re a cosplayer.

It’s not glamorous.

But it feels right.

Then you hear it, a scream.

From somewhere below.

You don’t wait.

You drop from the roof and fire a web mid-fall. You swing around a corner, flip over a railing, and land in a narrow alley between two apartment buildings. A man’s got someone pinned against the wall, clutching a purse, shouting. The woman is struggling, kicking, trying to twist away.

Your feet hit the pavement hard.

“Hey,” you bark, voice lower, more serious than you expect. “Back off.”

The man turns.

Scoffs.

“Oh, come on,” he mutters. “Another costumed freak? What is this, comic con?”

You shoot a web.

It hits the purse and yanks it from his hand, sticking it to the opposite wall.

He startles. Turns back to you.

“I’m not in the mood,” you say.

He lunges.

You dodge easily.

It’s instinct now.

You sweep his legs with a fluid motion and drop him hard onto the pavement. He groans, tries to rise. You web his hands to the ground.

The woman runs, clutching the purse once it peels loose.

You wave faintly.

Then crouch beside the man, inspecting your own handiwork.

“Okay,” you mumble. “That went better than expected.”

Then, crash.

Something loud above you. A blur of motion.

You spring back just as a figure drops from the sky.

And lands.

Hard.

In front of you.

You stumble into a crouch, webbing ready in your wrist.

Then stop.

Because you recognize him.

Yellow and blue suit.

Black hair.

Big lenses. Sharp. jawline.

Invincible.

You’ve seen him on the news. You’ve watched him toss tanks, punch asteroids, argue with government mouthpieces and win.

And now he’s standing in front of you, slightly breathless, looking between you and the guy you just webbed to the floor.

“Oh,” he says.

He tilts his head.

“You already got him.”

You blink.

“...Yeah.”

He nods, eyebrows lifting. “Nice.”

You glance at the guy. “Thanks. He tried to do a whole ‘I’m the big bad guy’ thing. Didn’t go great for him.”

Invincible laughs.

It’s annoyingly charming.

“Seriously, though,” he says, crossing his arms. “Not bad. You’re new?”

You shrug. “Depends who’s asking.”

He smirks. “Guy who just flew in to stop a mugging that clearly didn’t need him.”

You huff a laugh. “You’re late, by the way.”

“Fashionably.”

You both stare at each other a second too long.

You fold your arms. “So, do you always land like that? Or was that just to show off?”

He raises an eyebrow. “What, the superhero pose?”

“It was very dramatic. Big ‘I’m the main character’ energy.”

“I am the main character,” he deadpans.

You roll your eyes under the mask. “Wow. Humble too.”

Another beat.

He runs a hand through his hair. It flops back exactly how it was before. Like gravity loves him too much to interfere.

“I haven’t seen you around before,” he says.

“That’s kind of the point,” you reply.

He smiles. “Mysterious. I dig it.”

You pretend your stomach doesn’t flip.

He takes a breath, suddenly softer. Looks past you at the alley wall. Then up at the stars, like he’s thinking too hard.

“Honestly, I just needed to get out,” he murmurs.

You tilt your head.

“Rough day?”

He nods. Then shrugs. “Yeah. My girlfriend’s going through something. Heavy stuff. I think I made it worse. So I figured I’d... you know.”

“Fly halfway across the city and interrupt someone else’s win?”

He chuckles again. “Pretty much.”

You smile faintly, but it doesn’t reach your eyes.

Girlfriend.

You should’ve guessed. Guys like him? They’re always taken.

Still, something about how he says it, soft, a little sad, makes your stomach twist differently.

You step closer to the edge of the alley and look out at the city.

“Sometimes getting out doesn’t help,” you say.

“Yeah,” he replies. “But it’s all I could think to do.”

He glances back at you, expression unreadable.

“I’m trying,” he adds. “She’s important to me. I just... don’t always know how to help.”

You nod.

You know that feeling too well.

“Maybe she doesn’t need you to fix anything,” you say. “Maybe she just needs you to stay.”

He looks at you, really looks.

Like he’s trying to place something he doesn’t quite recognize.

You don’t let him.

You fire a web and swing up to the fire escape, crouching on the railing.

“Anyway,” you call down, “nice meeting you, Invincible.”

He blinks.

“Wait, what do I call you?”

You pause.

Think for a second.

Then smile behind the mask.

“Spider-Woman.”

ִ ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙

current taglist: @adeptusxia0 / @moonjellyfishie / @ladynoirx321 / @moraxussy / @saturnalya / @the-good-kooshe / @atomspidyr

not on here but want to be? just let me know! i don’t bite :)

#invincible #invincible x reader #invincible fanfic #invincible season 3 #invincible angst #invincible x you #mark grayson x reader #invincible smut #reader insert #x reader #mark grayson x you #mark grayson smut #mark grayson

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jungkoode · 21 days ago

Text

𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 19

˗ˏˋ redefining stances ˎˊ˗

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

next | index

⋆｡°✩ chapter details ✩°｡⋆

word count: 15k

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

✧ author's note ✧

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kiki out.

⋆｡°✩ read on✩°｡⋆

ao3

wattpad

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Home.

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

And then it's gone.

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

Those pancake mornings? They always came with conditions.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Guilt.

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

You do, apparently.

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

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

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

So entitled. So privileged.

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

Never had to.

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

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

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

Not over fucking pancakes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The guilt surges again, stronger.

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

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

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

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

The kind who smells pancakes and wants to cry.

Not because you miss home.

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

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

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

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

The numbers glare back at you, accusatory.

8:00

Panic bubbles out of you.

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

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

Nothing is right.

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

This isn't your room.

This is Jungkook's room.

Jungkook's bed.

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

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

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

And then—

Jesus Christ.

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

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

What the actual fuck is wrong with you?

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

So what was it?

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

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

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

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

Including yourself.

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

But it’s no use.

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

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

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

Maybe you could actually be friends.

Real friends.

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

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

Fucking is one thing. Dating is another.

Being friends? That’s a whole different monster.

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

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

But you?

You don’t date. You detonate.

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

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

He’s not dating material.

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

So that’s where he stays. Logically.

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

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

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

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

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

You're not sure it's enough time.

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

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

Pain slices through you, vicious and unexpected.

"Fuck—"

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

The IUD. Has to be.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Something soft and warm brushes against your ankle.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The thought makes you snort softly.

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

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

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

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

Completely, infuriatingly normal. Like last night changed nothing.

Maybe it didn't. For him.

Maybe it didn’t. For you.

Or maybe it did.

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

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

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

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

Or trying to.

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

Gang Baby, NLE Choppa.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You make an incredulous sound.

“What the fuck are you making, anyway?"

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

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

"What? Gotta maintain these gains."

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

You swat at him, connecting with his bicep.

Firm. Solid. Warm.

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

"God, you're so fucking stupid."

"Stupid hot, maybe."

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

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

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

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

Exactly how you like it.

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

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

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

You purse your lips, hesitating.

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

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

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

Your jaw actually drops. "Excuse me?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like maybe you could do it a hundred times more.

Dangerous thought. Very dangerous.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Seriously? We're doing this now?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No. Absolutely not.

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

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

And there it is.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He scoffs. "Progress."

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

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

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

"Not what you were saying last night."

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

Stupid napkin. Stupid Jungkook.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"That's not what I meant—"

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

"I didn't say—"

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

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

Except now it feels anything but.

"You're twisting what I said."

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

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

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

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Why are people asking about me?"

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

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

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

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

Can't or won't.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I don't—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You, honestly, feel tired.

Bone-deep tired.

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

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

He blinks, clearly not expecting the shift.

After a moment, his shoulders drop a fraction.

"I’m listening.”

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

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

"Shut up."

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

Crisis averted. Boundaries preserved.

For now.

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

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

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

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

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

"If that's what you call it."

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

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

This is safe.

Under control.

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

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

"God, you're insufferable."

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

"Stockholm syndrome, obviously."

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

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

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

"They're edible."

"They're incredible and you know it."

"They're protein powder with extra steps."

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

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

"Says the girl who eats chips at midnight."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And the customers at Barnes & Noble do?"

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

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

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

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

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

Like you're actual roommates having an actual conversation.

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

"I should probably start getting ready."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Okay."

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

Casual.

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

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

"Huh?"

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

Your eyes drift back to his. Meet and hold.

"I said okay."

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

"Okay... what?"

"Sucking your dick."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You look up at him through your lashes.

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

A shaky exhale escapes him, warm against your face.

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

"I'm not fooling around."

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

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

It doesn't.

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

His fucking Sonic pajama pants.

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

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

Your hands come to rest on his thighs.

Strong. Solid. Warm.

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

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

It's not.

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

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

"So why didn't you ask me?"

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

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

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

"Have you thought about it at all?"

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

Your eyes snap up to his.

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

"Yeah?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jesus.

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

When did Jungkook get so... articulate?

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

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

"How l'd sound?”

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

Oh.

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

"Like this?" you ask, squeezing gently.

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

Not pulling. Not yet. Just holding.

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

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

"Sucking?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Seriously?”

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

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

The picture of nonchalance.

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

Your eyes narrow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And yet... you can’t look away.

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

Be so fucking for real right now.

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

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

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

You hate him for it.

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

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

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

And still, he says nothing.

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

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

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

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

You start to stand up—because honestly?

Fuck this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your jaw tightens as embarrassment flares hot in your chest.

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

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

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

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

Why does it feel like losing? Like humiliation?

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

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

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

“…Yus,” you mumble under your breath.

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

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

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

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

Out loud.

And it stops you cold.

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

“What?” You demand sharply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Spit.”

You blink. “Huh?”

“Spit on it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then your eyes flick down, then back up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He hisses.

Literally just from your breath.

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

Your eyes cut up automatically.

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

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

You don’t let the moment stretch too long.

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

Let spit fall from your lips.

Slow and steady.

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

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

Big. Wide. Intentional.

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

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

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

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

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

It definitely is.

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

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

But you are. And you do.

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

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

And his head tips back instantly.

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

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

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

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

Kind of gratifying. Not gonna lie.

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

“Yeah,” he breathes. “That’s—”

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

“That’s good, but… here.”

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

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

The tatted one.

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

And okay, that’s kind of hot.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t know.

But you clock it. Catalog it.

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

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

Like both.

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

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

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

You hold back a grin. Barely.

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

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

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

Validation.

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

But he’s not looking at you.

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

And then—

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

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

Then comes the sound.

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

Rough at the edges, low, weirdly conflicted.

His head dips again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Which, apparently, he really fucking is.

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

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

His voice drops again.

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

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

That spot.

That frenulum, or whatever the technical term is.

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

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

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

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

So. You try.

You mimic the motion exactly.

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

“Fuck.”

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

You do it again. And again.

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

He melts.

That’s the only word for it.

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

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

Your smirk barely hides itself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He chokes a breath.

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

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

Like just existing through this is work.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then—

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

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

“Your mouth.”

You freeze.

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

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

Your mouth.

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

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

And the expression there?

Jesus. He looks like he’s praying.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you swear to god—something inside him glitches.

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

Fragile and desperate.

Faint little flutter.

But it’s real.

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

As if the universe itself groaned.

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

His hand lifts again, slow.

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

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

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

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

You blink.

That phrasing.

Suckle.

What the fuck is he, a medieval warlord?

Still.

Your pulse stutters.

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

Something he’s replayed in his head with specificity.

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

Your brows twitch up just slightly, but you nod.

Because yeah. Okay. That you can do.

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

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

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

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

His reaction is immediate.

Lips part. Chest jerks up half an inch.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But Jungkook?

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

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

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

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

You mimic it again. Just to see.

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

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

Then—

“Look at me.”

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

But you don’t.

You kind of… ignore him.

Not on purpose, really.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stare.

Then scoff. Loud. Disbelieving.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blink. Your mouth opens. Then closes again.

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

“Oh.”

You blink once before pursing your lips thoughtfully again.

“…Okay.”

Because okay indeed. You know what he means.

You hate that you know what he means.

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

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

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

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

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

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

So that’s what you give him.

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

And then, your hand moves faster.

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

And he’s feeling it.

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

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

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

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

And you don’t stop.

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

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

Wrecked.

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

Then he groans.

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

“Oh my—fffuckkkk—”

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

“Fuckin’—god, Nix—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

He does.

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

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

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

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

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

You keep going.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You hold it there, just like he asked.

And he groans.

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

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

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

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

Fast.

Rough.

Desperate.

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

“Yeah—ahhh—shit—ah—ah—fuck—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You have the prettiest fucking eyes, Nix.”

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

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

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

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

But you did it. You excelled at it.

And Jungkook liked it.

That’s what matters.

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

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

“Fuck…” he mutters. “Fucking hell.”

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

“That was fucking amazing.”

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

“That easy, huh?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

New territory you’re not sure how to navigate.

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

When was the last time you thanked Jungkook for anything?

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

Not the banter either, you do that too.

The almost-friendly moment afterward.

It felt… nice. Easy, even.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sure, Nix.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like friends.

The word still feels foreign, uncomfortable.

But not entirely wrong.

goal: 500 notes.

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fishnapple · 4 months ago

Text

How they comfort you, their love languages

(Future spouse/partner/lover)

This is a mini reading about the things that your partner/spouse would do or say to comfort you.

This is a general reading meant for multiple people. Take only what resonates and leave out the rest.

Your feedback is much appreciated. If you find the reading resonated with you, leave a comment, I’d love to know 🎐

About me | Masterpost

Book a reading with me - KO-FI (→ personal reading)

CUBE 1

"Our life together is the most important thing"

"You're alive, I'm alive and that's good"

Tickle

Clumsy jokes that make your belly hurt

"Let's go to the beach"

"Whatever you do, I'm right beside you"

"Don't worry"

"Don't be afraid to fall, I will catch you"

"I'm your biggest fan"

Silent understanding

Scary movies that make you jump into their arms

Passionate, emotional sex

The warmth of their body

Holding you in the dark

Holding your hands whenever you go out together

Warm breads and fresh flowers

Board games

Forehead kiss

"Let's run away"

"I will find you again even when you've become a star on the heavenly sky"

CUBE 2

Surprise gifts, this person could spoil you a lot with material gifts

"I will get it for you"

They would do many things to make your life easier without you knowing: take care of your routines, pack your lunch, iron your clothes, etc

Change the colour of the curtains and bed sheets to cheer you up,

Date nights

Take you to see the sunset, to somewhere dark and windy, surrounded by nature

"No problem "

"Let's me take care of it"

They comfort you in your dreams

Intuitively guess your thoughts

Whisper loving words when you are in public places

Be with you through every social events

"My greatest achievement is to be their partner"

Boast about you everywhere they go

"I command you to love me", then proceed to massage your feet

Holding you silently while you spill out your darkest secrets

Direct in displaying their desire for you

CUBE 3

Act all tough and intimidating with other people but become a mushy romantic when they're with you, especially in private

Never fail to notice and compliment your effort at taking care and beautifying yourself

Getting heart eyes both when seeing you in leisurewear and in glamorous clothes

Try to sing for you even if they hate singing or not good at it

Love poems

When they find it hard to express their feelings through words, they express through material gifts and sensory pleasures instead

Just buying you stuffs and pretend to not know about it or act oblivious and nonchalant

Wrap you in softest blanket

"Let's go into the bathtub together"

Drying your hair

Take lots of pictures, of you alone, of you guys together, of your memories

"You're my best friend, let's me be your best friend"

"I love you "

CUBE 4

"I've loved you before and I will love you again"

"See you in our next life together "

Appear right when you need them

Act more confident and tough

The heat of their body

Pull you into them

"Lean on me"

Witty jokes

Irrelevant stories to distract you from whatever negative feelings you're having

Hand holding

Lots of notes

Phone calls throughout the day

Try to talk in the softest voice when they're with you

"Let's play video game"

"Let's me draw your silly face"

"Let's take a day off and go to where nobody knows us"

The meadows, the sea, the mountains

Take your pleasure as their top priority

Love making

"I'm afraid that this is all a dream, but as I go to sleep and wake up everyday, you're still there"

"Your pain is my pain "

Warn anyone dares to come in between you two

CUBE 5

"Nothing can stand between us"

"We can go anywhere we want"

"I believe in us"

"Hey, teach me how to do this"

Make plan for both of you

"Let's me read Tarot for you"

Always on time

Keep their promises, from smallest one to biggest one

Cakes and sweets

Warmth food

Hype you up

Eager to hear you talk

Patience

Try to be silly just to cheer you up even though they seem to be a pretty serious person

Laughter

Refer to you as "my love" when talking with other people

PDA

"I think I'd done good deeds in my past lives, that's why I met you"

Looking deep into your eyes

"I believe this relationship has changed us for the better"

Ride of die

"Till death do us apart "

CUBE 6

"You were alone, but now you have me"

Act childish and cute to get your attention

Also love it when you do the same to them

"Let's get married "/ "Let's get married every year"

Tell you about their childhood nightmares and how embarrassing they were

"I was told to wait for you when I was a kid"

Has no shame in acting embarrassing or silly just to make you laugh, even in public

"Do you want to date me" (even when you guys have been married for a long time)

Handmade gifts

Corny pickup lines

Genius at solving problems

Try to get you to debate about odd topics

Looking intimidating and professional in public but don't care about people's opinions, especially about you and your relationship

Will defend you in any conflicts

Take your side unconditionally

Willing to share everything with you

Honesty

Think of a new way to affirm their love everyday

"We make a great team"

824 notes · View notes

lxvvie · 2 months ago

Note

Heyyy girliee

I don’t know if you have already done that but I really love your writings and I was thinking about how would the cod guys act like if they were drunk?

For example I can totally see Graves forgetting that we are dating and just trying to get our numbers or Soap having a mental breakdown over everything lmaoo

The Cap'n is mushy. Defenses down. Grinning like he won the jackpot. Quokka cheeks red and prominent. He can't take his eyes off you. He's John Price the man, and John Price the man wants you to know that you're beautiful and the best thing that's ever happened to him. You let him be human for just a moment. You let him forget about the bullshit he faces on a daily.

A drunken Gaz is a sleepy Gaz, and drunk Gaz is tied with drunk Ghost in the clingly koala department. Drunk Gaz can't really sleep without you in his arms, darling, and so when you're in the bed, he's holding you like his life depends on it, your face is buried in his glorious chest, and he'll kiss the top of your head and sleepily murmur how much he loves you, darling. Also tends to think the house is haunted for some reason, so he's holding on to you to protect you? Thanks, Kyle...

Drunk Soap is the mad lad who excitedly tells everyone you said yes to going on a date with him even though you two have been together for a minute. May or may not have started a fight brawl or two with another bar patron for drunkenly hitting on you; the one who'll also take you away snickering while everyone else is still fighting because lmao. Drunk Soap goes to sleep thinking you're in his arms but it's always the dog who’s snoring in his face.

Drunk Ghost is in love with you. Pathetically in love with you. Down bad. So mushy it's disgusting. And cute. Disgustingly cute. Lets his guard down like the Cap'n, and all you see in those dark eyes is you. Everything comes out and it's all YOU. Ghost lets you have your way with him. Cover him in art, sure thing, luv. Color his tattoos in? Why the fuck not? Raspberries on his tummy? What's stopping you, sweetheart? Just... consumed by you, all with a chuckle, a ciggie dangling from his mouth, and you in his arms. He revels in the fact that you love him as much as he loves you. Tells you such in so many words, too. Ghost just fuckin' GLOWS, okay?

Phillip Graves is drunkenly serenading you and telling you all these plans he has about y'all's future together. From the bathroom. While pissing the longest piss known to man. The one who'll also croon 'Darlin'....' and kiss your cheeks a lot because it just does something to him. Just so damn affectionate. He can sing like no one's business, too. He loves to croon Marvin Gaye, Barry White, or the Isley Brothers in your ear. All with that goddamn southern twang. 'Cause he loves his darlin' so MUCH.

König is cackling like the gremlin crackhead he is and you're wondering if he'll ever realize that he's actually hugging and loving on the bedpost and not you. In true troll fashion, though, you record the whole thing and show it to him later, to his mortification. Drunk König also likes to be the little spoon.

When drunk, Horangi gets hot really quickly, and will take his clothes off. ALL his clothes off. And then he's all over you like a cat. He really likes it when you run your hands over his body, though. Goes double if your hands are cold.

Keegan is just fucking needy. Don't leave him, baby. What do you mean you gotta go to the bathroom? What do you mean you need to get a refill? The one who's out getting drunk with the other Ghosts, and he's texting you how much he loves you, how much he needs you, and then proceeds to reveal to you so many things about him, so many things that he thinks would make you leave him, but the things he reveal aren't even secretive or horrible at all (yeah, sure, of course you'd leave him because he and his friends wore the cheerleaders' outfits and he was on top of the pyramid while said cheerleaders played flag football in highschool during homecoming) so what the fuck, Keegan?

Adler is also a sleepy drunk. A sleepy, snoring drunk. A sleepy, snoring drunk who loves to sleep under your plushy throw blanket that he talks shit about when sober because your scent is on it and it helps him de-stress.

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ceesimz · 4 months ago

Text

Lavender

A date that unfortunately doesn't go as planned. (autistic!reader - angst -> fluff)

Reverie series here as always! A verrrry real experience depicted in this one, with some amazing help from @pickledwoso that i am very grateful for, thank youuu <3

“Engel, are you ready to leave?” Alexia sang as she headed out of the bedroom towards where you were at the door rocking back and forth on the balls of your feet, waiting for her.

“Yes, you fool, I've been ready for the past half hour.” You rolled your eyes at her teasingly, laughing when she lightly pawed at your side where she knew you were ticklish. “Come on! You're taking all day.”

“Ay, it is our day-off, I can take my time for once. No rushing, just calm, and me and you.” She gave an alluring smile, sliding her hand down your arm until she intertwined your fingers, then leaned forwards to kiss your forehead. “Are you excited?”

“Very. I love when we do this.” You told her with a squeeze of her hand. The girl grinned, her eyes brimming with excitement and complete happiness seeping from her pores, like the prospect of visiting a farmer's market with her girlfriend was as exciting as a third Ballon d’Or.

“Me too.” She gently knocked your chin up and pecked your lips before brushing back a strand of hair behind your ear. “Now, are we ready, mi vida?”

“For the love of god, yes!”

Any time the club issued some days-off, one of the things highest on the list for yourself and Alexia was visiting the local farmer’s market. You’d buy the best of the best fresh organic products and cook together a dish of food that, combined with the quality time you'd spend with each other, would make for a night-in together that was so much better than going out somewhere.

These days had become somewhat of a tradition, and with it being the penultimate day of the short summer break after the tournament Alexia had gone to, it was absolute perfection. The last day had no plans apart from relaxing and spending time together before the season started again. You couldn't think of a better way to spend the last bit of time off than a date to a familiar, easy place with Alexia that was sure to give way for a fun afternoon and evening.

With it being the height of summer, Barcelona was especially warm, which was perhaps the first warning sign of the day.

“Ale, you really need to get your car in the garage, your AC sucks.” You groaned, the vents on full blast yet hardly doing a thing to cool you down against the 35 degree air outside. Your window was open and your head rested against the door dramatically, Alexia couldn’t help but chuckle at the sight even if she did feel a little bad about it.

“It’s got a service next week, they will fix it then. Sorry.” She winced, hardly breaking a sweat in the weather she was more than acclimated to whilst you seemed to be struggling before the pair of you had even left the car.

You shrugged her off because it's not exactly her fault her car's AC has been faulty since the spring, and focused all your attention on the life-saving breeze hitting your face as Alexia maneuvered through some tame midday traffic. Hot weather wasn't one of your favourite things in the world, as a matter of fact much more comfortable in minus degree weather with tiny icicles on your eyelashes, but a year into living under the blaze of the Barna sun you had no choice but to put up with it.

Though, your patience with the heat wore off quick. And in its wake, a simmering feeling of restlessness, which should have been yet another warning sign. But you were too deep in your determination for this to be a good day for anything to write you off.

The market was only a short drive away, the two of you having opted out of walking because, well, duh, the weather, and just as the sweat that found its place on your nose no more than five minutes after stepping out of your ice cold shower finally began to evaporate, it came crawling right back the second you got out of the car. Alexia was starting to feel uneasy about the day's plans, and, really, so were you, but you were set on pushing through the constrictive feeling that had settled in your bones when the first bit of heat came your way after leaving your flat. There wouldn't be much time in the coming weeks for a day like this with your girlfriend, you weren't about to wreck it for the both of you.

From where the car was parked to the entrance of the market, you walked in silence, hand in hand across slightly worn stone tiles until the rusted old gates of the park stood before you. Over the threshold of the entrance, paved tiles turning to cobble, you knew the chaos the market had in store for you. You didn’t know if you could handle it. The writing on the wall was in the prickly sensation in your skin that was all too familiar, as was the way every nerve in your body screamed in discomfort, almost like your soul was desperately trying to find a way out of your body.

You ignored it, and headed towards the stalls before Alexia could ask how you were.

This place was familiar; you knew the ins and outs of each stall, you knew where to go, you knew how long it took to get around. It shouldn’t be too hard, right?

You loved this place, of course it’d be fine. It beamed with energy, with good vibes, with good people. With its colourful displays of the finest fruit and vegetables, it was more than just a market; it was the heartbeat of the surrounding neigbourhoods.

All kinds of scents and aromas swirled around each corner, weaving themselves into the fabrics of people’s clothes and lingering long after they’d left. They were intoxicatingly good, and it was evident in the looks of wonder on everybody’s face, old or young, experienced shopper or recent newcomer. Vendors positioned at every stall or tattered wagon called out their offerings in a chaotic yet melodic mix of Spanish and Catalan, grabbing the nearest fruit or veg to wave around like an auctioneer with a hammer, the only use for it being to wave off the flies dancing tauntingly around their goods.

Locals haggled over prices with the farmers they’d come to know just as well as their own family; their loud and boisterous back-and-forth banter may have sounded like arguing to unknowing tourists, but to everyone else it was understood as just some good-humoured ribbing that they all delighted in. It was more of a shuffle than a walk throughout the place thanks to the tourists that seemed to stop in the middle of the aisles every second, clearly oblivious to the well-practiced dance of the locals. Elderly ladies pulled their clueless esposos around with one arm whilst they carried their wicker basket in the other, the woven willow groaning under the weight of the countless ingredients to be used in that night’s meal.

For a moment, as you paused off to the side whilst Alexia caught up with one of the stall owners, a fisherman with his catches of the week proudly on display, which you knew your girlfriend would end the conversation by buying enough fish meat to feed the five thousand, you took a moment to breathe. Everybody seemed relieved of their life’s burdens here, gathered closely in one space that was steeped in the essence of the world’s simplest pleasures; flavour, tradition, and community. Only, the smile that was usually imprinted on your face whenever you came was no more than a distant memory.

Despite the fairly shadowed area, considering the park was fenced in by sporadic trees that skimmed the roofs of buildings that showed off the city’s beautiful architecture, it was still insufferably hot. It radiated off of the ground, rebounded off the buildings around, and the flurry of structures meant there was no wind breaking through to give a cool Mediterranean breeze like you had before.

Alexia seemed none the wiser, enraptured by the surroundings like it was her first time there, her head on a swivel and marveling at the mouth-wateringly exceptional variety of things to choose from. You hadn’t really been taking it in, your eyes stuck to the back of her head as you followed her through, waiting on shaking legs whenever she laughed and joked with each worker she bought from.

This labyrinth of every cook’s dream was well and truly alive, but you weren’t. You couldn’t absorb the intense feeling of belonging and sonder you got whenever you came here. It was too much. The thought ate away at you, as with every fly that landed on your skin or every person that brushed against you, you became more and more on edge.

All the different smells, the different sounds, the crowd of people, they didn’t spark those usual feelings of contentment and peace that transpired for you normally. Instead, they felt oppressive, like they were attacking your senses.

The concoction of aromas forced themselves inside your nose and overloaded you completely, the squeamish smell of fish and the fiery linger of hundreds of kinds of herbs and spices bringing on a pounding headache. Every squeak of a wicker basket as the willow was put under more pressure could have been a gunshot for all you knew, the way it echoed around the tunnels of your ears. Anytime someone briefly put a hand on you as they moved past had you flinching, hating the unexpected contact as it was the last thing you needed in such a situation.

You didn’t find any comfort whatsoever in how Alexia’s hand never left yours for more than a minute, when normally it was something that grounded you. Her usually funny comments and little facts and point-outs of detail about her ‘second home’ (the name she had given it as she’d been coming here since she was young) didn’t make you feel any brighter, in fact you were pretty sure you missed most of them.

And as every minute passed, it appeared to get busier and busier, until it started to feel like you were in some kind of mosh pit, people bouncing off of you with every turn only for the next one to come along no more than a second later. You couldn’t hear a word Alexia was speaking, the once calming mix of languages turned into a booming echo of voices that were so close they seemed to be knocking on the bone of your skull, yet too distant for you to make out what anyone was saying, making it all so. much. worse.

Every voice, every footstep, every hearty laughter and every scrape of wood along the floor grated against your ears, all noises around amplified to immeasurable heights. The space was far too loud and far too crowded – each sensation you felt blurred into the next until it became impossible to separate from one another. But you did feel how each individual muscle tensed, from your legs to your shoulders, as Alexia continued to pull you through the market.

You were hyperaware of everything around you and it soon became unbearable. But Alexia was happy, she chatted away like nothing was happening, comfortable and content as her canvas bag brimmed with stuff you didn’t even realise she had bought. You soldiered on, or at least tried to.

Until, your breathing began to quicken, your lungs unable to take in any of the stuffy air you walked through, your chest tightening in a way that only caused you to panic impossibly more. Each piece of fabric from your clothes grazed against your skin like a hundred scratches in a single second, your shirt and shorts beginning to feel like they were getting tighter with each step you took. And when the claustrophobia, the feeling like there was no escape at all, began to really set in, the day was over.

Your resolve had completely eroded. You tried to focus on grounding yourself — reminding yourself this was a safe space, but that was an empty claim to make to your shredded composure. You tried convincing your mind that Alexia’s hand in yours was comforting, when it only felt constrictive, her hand wholly enveloping yours like a snake, leaving no room to breathe. You clenched and unclenched your fist in time with your breaths, but you couldn't even inhale for a second before your mind went into overdrive. All the tools you relied on before were inadequate in that moment. The rational part of your brain slipped away, instead replaced by an instinctive need to escape.

Surges of anger, panic, anxiety, fear, they all rose uncontrollably at once. Your jaw clenched, your free hand curled into a tight fist, and your vision turned hazy as your world dissolved into one indistinct blur.

The snapping point came abruptly. Perhaps it was a shrill laugh nearby, the clatter of a crate being dropped, or an impatient shove from someone trying to pass by. It was the smallest thing, but it tipped the scale far out of anybody’s control. You were alone in that moment. Trapped completely in your mind.

You missed how Alexia called your name over and over, how her hand nudged yours to desperately try to grasp your attention. It was only when her hands grabbed both your forearms that you were brought back down, but only for half a millisecond, before it all went south.

“What?!” You snapped at her, jumping back out of her touch.

As a result, there were about thirty pairs of eyes on you. Everybody around paused, your sharp shout cutting through the buzz of the market, and it went so quiet that every flutter of a fly’s wing and every creek of wood could be heard.

You took another step back when Alexia came towards you, a worrisome look on her face with her hands out in front of her like she was trying to not spook an untrusting animal in front of her. She rushed out some words of reassurance that fell into the background with all the other noises around that had picked up again, the market-goers losing interest in a seemingly harmless situation. They didn’t register within you, nor did her intentions. Your mind was far too good at playing tricks on you, convincing you of things that were far from the truth but in the moment felt like gospel.

There was no way out of where you were, both in the physical and the mental sense, and that was the main factor in the eruption that had just happened. With so many emotions coursing through you, there was an intense itch to find a release from them all. So before you realised, your arms crossed over your chest, hands on your upper arms just above your elbow, and you began to roughly palm, rub, grab at the skin there, needing a distraction from the volume of your mind and the world, whilst also desperately trying to get the movement to act as a release of the crushing press of the feelings inside of you.

If you were alone at that time, god only knows what would have happened. Fortunately you weren’t.

The next time Alexia touched you was the featherlight weight of her hand on your lower back, the minor contact enough to lead you through the winding paths of the market. Your legs ran on autopilot, but you stumbled with every few steps, eyes too blurry to see the bumps and dips in the cobbles underneath your feet. There were probably tears down your face, though you’d reached such a broken point that your body was just… numb. You weren’t in control of anything anymore, hadn’t been for a while, but this was a new extremity. You weren’t even present in your own mind. Just an innocent, unknowing passenger in the car crash that had come out of nowhere.

Somehow, with her own hands trembling from concern, Alexia managed to lead you out of the chaos of the market to those same rusted, paint-chipped gates from earlier— the entrance of the park area. She was lost on what to do or say, but rationally she knew the only thing that would work for you right now was getting you home.

“I will drive us back to your flat, back home, okay?”

You gave her no indication that you heard her, which she was expecting, though you had heard the one word you were in dire need of and it was the first thing so far that managed to break through into your overwhelmed mind. Your hands were still moving roughly against the skin of your arms, sure to leave marks afterwards, but Alexia knew if she attempted to stop you, it’d only make matters worse. She had to get you home. Seeing you like this was breaking her.

It took a concerningly small amount of effort to guide you to the car; you were pliant and mindless, the exhaustion having fully taken over the minute you left the crowded space. She opened the door for you, helped you into the seat, and put the belt on. You leaned your head back against the seat rest and stared straight ahead. Whether it’d help or not, Alexia wasn’t sure. But she had to do one thing, more for the sake of her sanity than yours. With a quiet call of your name, she gently put a hand under your chin and turned you so you faced her.

“I’ll take you home and look after you. You will be okay.” She whispered, tentatively brushing away some of the tears still on your cheeks with her thumb. Her words were a sentiment for her as much as they were for you. “You’ll be okay soon.”

—

Next thing you knew, you were in your bed, lay on your side with your weighted blanket over you and Alexia nowhere to be seen.

It was definitely the calm after the storm. The room was mostly dark apart from the light that bled through the curtains which were closed, you could hear the quiet whir of the AC as well as the dull hum of traffic on the street below, but that was about it. It was a stark contrast to how things were before.

You don’t exactly remember getting home after what happened after the market, but what you did know was that though Alexia wasn’t in the room, she had been at some point, because you felt her love in the way she made sure everything was properly set up for you. The AC hadn’t been on before you left earlier and it only could have come back on by someone turning it on. The curtains were open that morning, whereas now they were drawn. And last time you checked, your blanket was still in the dryer, waiting to be taken out when you got back.

Everything you felt earlier still echoed faintly inside your head and chest, but the weighted blanket over you helped to anchor you back to your life again, rather than the chaos you were drowning in not so long ago. Your mind was convoluted, thoughts jumbled, and you flitted from one shattered fragment of insecurity to the other. You were simply too exhausted to hold onto any of them, emotionally and mentally drained. Though, you still tried to identify what you were feeling— was it anger? Shame? Embarrassment? You couldn’t put a finger on it.

Your hands still shook, your chest still shuddered with every breath. Your clothes still felt scratchy and overbearing, just less so now that you lay in the aftermath of it all. Instead of focusing on that, you drifted your attention to the feeling of the blanket on you; you focused on its texture, its softness, the heaviness of it and how it draped over you and helped to extinguish the flame that was overstimulation and overwhelm. These small but familiar details offered a tiny foothold in the mirror maze of your mind that you were still trying to escape from, only for the ruined reflection of you at the market to be shown back to you.

The longer you spent in that position, a deep, bone-level weariness quietly consumed you, like every aspect of you right down to your soul had been drained. But even still, your mind continued its hyperactive ways, replaying the day’s events over and over like a faulty film reel. The memory of it isn’t the slightest bit cohesive, it was just flashes of moments— the suffocating press of people from every direction, clamour of voices, the overloading mixture of scents. You alternated between frustration and exasperation, wanting to desperately forget what happened whilst not being able to move on from the embarrassment of it.

However, the strain of it slowly began to dissipate with each minute you spent back at home in bed, a safe space where there were no expectations, where time was temporarily unimportant, and where there were no watchful eyes or scathing glares at the disruption you’d caused. And eventually, you felt like you had gained back control of your mind again. It was quieter then; the world felt muted, less aggressive, though you could feel that you were still wary of your surroundings because of how everything ambushed you earlier.

You weren’t fully recovered, you still felt heavy and your body ached due to the tension in your muscles and joints when it all came falling down, and you weren’t sure how much time had passed but the sun sat a little lower on the horizon when you finally felt able to get out of bed. The desire for time alone had gone, you needed something else then, and at this point of the relationship you felt comfortable enough to seek exactly what you needed without giving it a second thought.

The door to your room creaked like it always did when you opened it, your apartment mostly silent save for the occasional huff from the kitchen as the person you were looking for busied herself with any chore she could think of as she waited patiently for you.

You didn’t quite know what to say, but one of the best things about your relationship was that often in times like this, words weren’t a necessity. So you bypassed her and headed straight for the sofa, sitting in the corner and curling your feet underneath you, almost like you were making yourself as small as possible. And, just as you expected, not a minute went by before the blonde headed over, trying to disguise the worry she felt by giving a tight-lipped smile that was more on the amusing side than the reassuring one.

When she sat down, however, she left a gap between you both and perched only on the edge, which wasn’t what you wanted. One shared glance later and Alexia was smiling properly this time, shuffling to sit back against the cushions and beckoning you over with a small wave of her hand. With a sheepish but slightly triumphant look on your face, you moved along the couch and chose to sit sideways on her lap, one of her arms immediately wrapping around your waist as the hand of the other landed just above your knee. She pulled you close to her, and you settled into her with a relieved sigh, indescribably glad to have the final piece of the puzzle to self-regulation in your possession.

For some time, the pair of you didn’t speak, only relishing in the comfort you both needed after the day that had been had. At some point, Alexia noticed the redness to your skin from earlier and subconsciously brought a hand up to one of your arms, her thumb gently tracing over them with a frown on her face. She felt compelled to speak then.

“Please, engel, don’t put yourself through uncomfortable situations just to make me happy. If you asked me to, I would have taken you home earlier in a heartbeat.” The midfielder said carefully, panicking a little when she heard you sigh before calming when you buried your face in her neck.

“I didn’t really know it was going to be uncomfortable until it was already happening.” You told her in a mumbled, downbeat tone that made her hug you tighter against her. She contemplated her next words, wondering whether it was wise to voice them or not, before deciding that you’d hate it if you found out she’d kept her feelings from you.

“I’ve never seen you like that before.” Her fear and sadness was evident when she spoke, matching the frown still on her face and the furrow to her brow. You pressed your lips to the skin of her jaw in a somewhat apologetic gesture, which made her feel a little bad. “We’re both okay though, mi amor. I love you and we’re okay. I’m not mad or anything, this isn’t your fault. I don’t want you to feel guilty. It’s over now, it’s in the past, and we’re here together now.”

It might have been a minor reminder, but it relieved a lot of the remaining anxieties and insecurities you had. Even though she made sure you knew she never judged you for anything, you were only human, and sometimes the devil on your shoulder got the best of you. So, to hear her say she knew it wasn’t your fault and that she wasn’t angry, it was… very needed.

The mix of physical touch and words of affirmation never failed to work wonders for you. The period of time after an event like earlier was a delicate time to say the least, where your mind and your self-esteem was easily swayed by whatever reaction waited for you afterwards. Having Alexia be so welcoming, non-judgemental, caring and adoring even after what she’d witnessed made a world of a difference.

“Better day tomorrow?” You said shyly after moving back to look at her. She shook her head at first, which greatly confused you, before she smiled brightly, softly, reassuringly, and leaned forwards to kiss your temple.

“Better evening tonight after a bad day. And then a very good day tomorrow.” Her words were a little skewed, probably lost in translation, but you understand what she was getting at and it warmed your heart all the same.

It was important to you then, that you voiced your thoughts from just a moment ago. She had to know how important she was to you.

“Thank you, Ale. For everything.” You started, laughing quietly at the puzzled expression on her face. “You always know what to do, what to say. You always make me feel better after a day like this and I don’t know how you do it but… you changed my life.”

Her reaction was the sweetest. Her cheeks blushed red and she turned away for a moment with a tiny disbelieving shake of her head.

“I don’t know about that, cariño.” She murmured, but you weren’t having it. You put a hand on her cheek and turned her face back to you, ensuring she met your gaze before you spoke again.

“You did. I really mean it. I think about it a lot, how you’ve changed me, how I see myself because of you and how you treat me.” You paused for a moment, smiling up at her as her eyes silently urged you to continue. “I… value myself more because of how you value me. I don’t tell you enough how grateful I am for you and what you really mean to me. You’re the greatest person I have ever met.”

The normally sure and confident captain was rendered speechless in that moment, completely caught off guard and lost for words. How she could ever match the gravity and beauty of your words, she didn’t know. But they meant so much more to her than she knew she could ever express.

Ale ducked her head down for a moment as she really took in your words, before she lifted it back up again a moment later, with tears in her eyes.

If only you knew how much you meant to her too.

“You’re my favourite person in the world, you know that?” She said with a pointed look and a raised eyebrow, almost accusing you of foolishly being uncertain about the fact that she stated so definitively. You knew she only did that to deflect the softness of her words a little. So, you just smiled, and tucked your head back into her neck and closed your eyes, completely at peace. “My favourite person in the whole world. You changed my life too.”

—

i really really tried my best to encapsulate the autistic experience of being overstimulated and overwhelmed in such a place here but i have no idea how well it comes across to a large audience. but for me and probably others, this is the reality, no matter how much you can plan and prepare and be excited for something, it can spiral out of your control so quickly and it's definitely a downer when it happens. hope this is somewhat understandable, im gonna go hibernate out of fear now, thank you v much for reading :)

#woso x reader #alexia putellas x reader #alexia putellas #woso #woso community #woso fic

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covenofagatha · 3 months ago

Text

The hustle

You and Agatha make a bet while playing pool - if you win, you get to try to make her orgasm without being touched

Word count: 3.8k

Warnings: GP Agatha, cumming untouched, dirty talk, masturbation, daddy kink

“Remind me why we came here?” Agatha asks as she opens the door to Herb’s Grille and Bar and lets you walk in. The smell of cheap beer and wings hits your nose and you wrinkle it. It’s a dimly lit establishment with sticky floors and loud televisions showing every single sports game happening at the moment.

You turn to face your girlfriend once she steps into the restaurant. “Where else would you have wanted to spend our date night?”

Every Saturday, you and her alternate between picking a place to go out. After two years of your relationship, it’s a way to keep things spiced up. Sometimes you’ll meet her in a hotel lobby and pretend to be strangers, other times you’ll go pottery painting. Your absolute favorite date was one she planned where she took you to a restaurant overlooking the ocean to watch the sunset, and then went skinny-dipping in the water once the beach cleared out.

You can still remember the way her pale skin glowed in the moonlight, the way she held you in her arms, her cock inside you, and just let the waves rock you back and forth slowly until you both came.

So it’s safe to say that picking a bar like this is very out of the norm for date night.

Agatha snorts. “If you waited until the last minute to plan something and this is the best you could come up with, we could’ve just had a movie night at home.”

“Oh, baby,” you say, laughing at the little faith she has in you. “This—” you gesture at the rowdy football fans throwing their arms up at the television, the waitresses in small shorts carrying plates of fries and onion rings, the drunk men throwing darts in the corner, “—was not last minute planned. I’ve been wanting to come here for a while.”

“Why on earth would you want to come here?” she asks, arching a perfectly shaped eyebrow at you.

You shrug. “Why don’t we go to the bar and get a drink?” you suggest, completely ignoring her question with a coy smile. Her eyes narrow suspiciously, but she follows you as you begin to wade through the rows of packed tables. And then you stop and gasp, your hand flying to the side to hit Agatha’s arm. You point at the empty pool table in the back of the restaurant. “Do you want to play?”

“Honey, have you ever played pool before?” Agatha asks, a hint of amusement in her tone.

Sticking out your bottom lip in an overexaggerated pout, you beg with your eyes. “Will you teach me?”

She can’t say no to you, so she sighs. “Why don’t you get us our drinks and I’ll go rack up and get the cues.”

You beam and press a quick kiss to her cheek before rushing to the bar and ordering a rum and coke for Agatha, and a Dirty Shirley for you, before bringing them over to where your girlfriend is placing the pool balls in the triangle. You pick up one of the sticks that she picked out and stroke a hand up and down the smooth wood.

“Baby,” Agatha says through gritted teeth and you look over at her innocently. Her hands have gripped onto the edge of the table and her knuckles are white. “Don’t give me that look, you know exactly what you’re doing.”

Trying to fight the smirk growing on your face and failing, you give up on the pretense before tilting your head to the table. “So do I go first?”

Agatha nods and you step up before bending over the table, stick in hand. You line up the tip with the cue ball and close an eye before Agatha interrupts you.

“Honey, hang on. You need to fix your stance,” she says and you stand back up and look at her.

“What?” you ask. “It feels fine to me.”

Your girlfriend tsks before stepping behind you and putting her hands on your waist. “Bend over,” she murmurs in your ear and goosebumps line the back of your neck. “Hold the cue how you just did.”

Swallowing roughly, you resume your position and gasp slightly when she presses against you and puts her hands on top of yours to adjust your technique. Your stomach starts to grow warm.

It seems like you’re not the only one affected though — you can feel Agatha’s cock half-hard in her pants. Always one to tease, you push back slightly and sway your hips and her grip tightens on yours as she sharply inhales.

“Like that?” you simper, immensely enjoying the way Agatha’s body has stiffened.

“Take the shot,” she orders gruffly and you chuckle before swinging your arms back and then forward, the 8-ball hitting the triangle and sending the balls scattering with a thunk.

A striped red one goes into the pocket and you line up to take another shot, but completely whiff. You see Agatha biting back a smile.

She sinks four balls during her turn and you miss completely. Two more for Agatha, and you do a little victory dance when you finally get one.

“I like it better when you go inside my hole,” you say right as she’s lining up to take her shot and she misses, the cue ball hitting the edge of the table. When she stands back up and turns to you, her face is slightly red and the knowledge that your dirty, juvenile joke has that much effect on her settles straight in your cunt.

But any triumph you had is gone when you miss again, and then she perfectly hits her last ball and the 8-ball in, almost completely sweeping.

“Can we play again?” you ask and Agatha gives you a strange look. Usually when you lose that badly in any other game, you immediately want to do something else. You’re a bit of a sore loser and Agatha loves to tease you for it. “Please? Let’s make a bet.”

She studies your face to see what you’re doing. “Okay,” she agrees slowly, still unsure of your ulterior motives. “If I win, we never go to another bar on date night.”

You hold out your hand. “Deal. And if I win, you have to go along with whatever I say tonight.”

Her lips part ever the slightest and her eyes darken. “Oh, okay, honey. If you win, you’re in charge.” It’s clear from her sarcastic tone that she doesn’t expect that to happen at all, but she shakes your hand anyway and you can’t help the thrill that runs through you.

Agatha re-racks the balls and motions for you to break them again. You lean over the table and hit the 8-ball hard. A solid ball goes into the pocket and you sink the next three shots you make.

When you finally miss, you look at Agatha, whose jaw has dropped wide open. You wink and she flushes before taking a shot.

She misses.

You cluck your tongue and purposely brush past her front on your way to get to the cue ball harder than you have to just to rub your ass against her cock before hitting the rest of the solid balls into the pockets. And then you get the 8-ball as well.

“How did you—” Agatha starts, completely flustered, trying to wrap her head around how you just did that.

Grinning, you tell her, “I used to play pool all the time in college.”

Realization dawns on her and she chuckles humorlessly while shaking her head. “So you hustled me.”

You wave a hand dismissively. “Eh, semantics. The point is, we made a bet. And I just won.”

“That you did, honey. What do you have in store for me tonight?” she asks, not seeming too upset about the loss. She knows that this is really her win as much as it is yours.

Your eyes gleam. “I want to make you cum,” you say, and before she can retort that you always do, you add on: “without you being touched.”

Agatha swallows and you can see the wheels in her head spinning as her breathing starts to quicken. “You little minx,” she growls and you can see her cock, now a little more than half-hard, bulging in her pants. You giggle gleefully.

It’s something that’s been on your mind for a while now. There was one night you had been teasing her while straddling her lap and she had been a squirming mess beneath you, and when you finally got your mouth around her, it took her about forty-five seconds before she came all over your face.

She had been so embarrassed, but you had found it so fucking hot, knowing that you could make her that worked up that she couldn’t even last a minute. And then you started wondering if you could get her so worked up that she could cum without anything.

The thought had driven you to orgasm quite a few times since that night. You weren’t sure if she would try it just if you asked, so you had to get a little creative.

And she had taken the bait, every step of the way. It wasn’t often you got to pull one over on your girlfriend like this, and you’re absolutely going to revel in it.

“Should we go home, daddy?” you ask, voice as sweet and pure as you can make it, and Agatha’s look is vicious. You know she’s going to make you pay for this little stunt, probably with a spanking and maybe orgasm denial, but it’s going to be so worth it.

Agatha takes a deep breath before downing the rest of her drink in one gulp and then grabs onto your bicep to lead you out of the bar.

Your hand creeps into her lap the moment she puts her car into reverse to back out of the parking spot and she hisses before slamming on the brakes.

“Fuck, you’re so hard,” you say in awe. Her cock is completely straining against her jeans and you can feel the heat radiating through them. You flatten your palm and begin to rub and her fingers tighten around the steering wheel. “Someone’s more excited than they’re letting on,” you remark and enjoy the way the vein in her forehead throbs.

“It’s going to be your fault if I crash and kill us both,” she says through clenched teeth. “Thought the whole point was you weren’t going to touch me.”

You hum thoughtfully. “Good point.” You remove your hand and she lets out a sigh of relief so she can focus on driving — as much as she can, with how turned on she is — and you angle your right foot up on the seat so your knee rests on the car door and your skirt rides up. You drag your fingertips against your exposed thigh, heat following in its wake, and you can feel how wet you’ve become.

Agatha doesn’t notice at first when you slip a hand between your open legs to tease yourself over your underwear, but when she does happen to glance over, she lets out a small whimper.

“What are you doing?” she asks, trying to sound rough, but failing. It sounds like she’s in pain, and based on how hard she is, you think she might be.

You press on your clit and gasp. “I said I wasn’t going to touch you. I never said anything about touching myself.”

Her tongue traces its way across her mouth and she tries to focus on the road, but when you move your panties to the side and stroke through your folds, she can’t help but sneak little peeks down at your pussy.

“I can fucking hear you,” she breathes like she can’t even believe it, like the thought is driving her absolutely wild.

She turns down the radio and the squelching sounds of your wetness fills the car. You’re surprised she hasn’t swerved or hit something yet, with how often she looks over.

And then you push a finger inside yourself and you gasp, hips bucking, and she whimpers. You almost want to say fuck it and just bend over and suck her off, but you hold fast to your plan.

“Daddy, fuck,” you whine pathetically and the muscle in her cheek twitches. Her cock is so hard you can see the outline of her vein through her pants. She starts to slowly grind up so her cock rubs against the denim fabric and you wonder if she’s getting any satisfaction from it.

You slide another finger into your cunt easily, curling them knuckle-deep, and your head falls back against the headrest as your back arches.

“Baby, god, you are so hot,” Agatha gasps pathetically. You’re so fucking addicted to her desperation, the high it gives you is almost orgasmic, and you start to fuck yourself roughly. Your walls squeeze around your own fingers and you wish that her cock was inside you more than anything.

Your girlfriend is thinking the same thing, if the small noises spilling out of her mouth is any indication. The car speeds up erratically and it’s only five more minutes before she pulls into the driveway. The tension has been building in your stomach and you’re almost sad you didn’t get to make yourself cum.

There’s no telling how crazy that would’ve made Agatha.

“In the house, now,” she barks and you have to bite back a laugh. You’re the one who’s supposed to be in charge tonight, and here she is, ordering you around so you can get her off.

You let it slide because you’re just as eager for this as she is.

She speed-walks to the front door to unlock it and then you take the lead and drag her upstairs to your bedroom by the hand. She groans when she feels how wet your fingers are.

“Take your clothes off and get on the bed,” you say, sparks of heat lighting up all throughout your body as she listens immediately.

When Agatha shoves her jeans and underwear down, her cock springs out and both of you gasp; her, from the semblance of relief she gets, and you, from how it looks.

Her cock looks like it’s straining against itself: it’s swollen and the veins are taunt, redder than it's ever been, and leaking a copious amount. She humps the air involuntarily and gutturally groans. The top of her breasts all the way up to her cheeks is stained pink and her chest heaves, the look in her eyes that of a feral woman.

“Fuck — you’re so…” You don’t even have the words to describe how turned on she is. You haven’t even teased her that much either. Not enough to warrant this state, anyway.

Agatha shakily lowers herself onto the bed and leans back against the pillows so she can look at you, her cock pointing straight up to the ceiling. “You get daddy so worked up, baby,” she rasps and you clench around nothing at the desire in her voice. There is no doubt in your mind that you’ll be able to get her to cum untouched. The only question is how long it will take.

You toy with the hem of your shirt, sensually dragging it up your stomach and then back down until Agatha’s teeth are clenched so tightly you think she might snap.

“Take it off,” she grits, an urgency in her voice that you haven’t heard before. You smirk and peel it off and Agatha’s hips jump when she takes in your purple bra that pushes your breasts together. “Fuck,” she says under her breath and another dollop of liquid drips down her cock from the tip.

Sliding off your skirt, your head spins when she makes a muffled groan that sounds like she’s been injured. You have never felt hotter in your life than when you’re with Agatha. And then you take off your underwear and hold them up to the light so she can see how drenched they are.

The muscles in her stomach flex and her fingers dig into the duvet. “Jesus Christ,” she mumbles, sounding distant.

Now fully naked, you climb on the bed and lie opposite from her, propping yourself up with one hand and spreading your legs so that she can see your glistening center. Agatha makes another sound and you watch her cock bob up and down on its own.

You suck two fingers into your mouth, the same fingers that were inside you on the car ride, and give her the same look you do as when her cock is in your mouth.

Her lips part and her tongue darts out, her breathing becoming shallower. You pull your fingers out of your mouth with a wet pop and trail them down your face and neck, across your collarbone, and down to pinch your nipples.

Agatha recognizes it as the same path she usually takes with her tongue when she’s working her way down your body and her hips start to grind slowly. Her cock leaks even more as you watch her throb and it makes even more heat blast through you.

“Fuck, daddy, you make me feel so good,” you say and her breath catches in her throat. Your hand skims across your stomach and then teases your folds and you moan, which makes Agatha moan, too. “I love it when you go down on me and you let me ride your face. I love it when you fill me with your cock—” You slide two fingers inside and cut yourself off with a gasp.

Your girlfriend’s hands are twitching like she can’t decide whether she wants to touch you or her cock, which has somehow gotten even harder. She is steadily rolling her hips now, desperate for any stimulation.

“Honey — honey, please,” she begs, her voice thick and deep and it does almost as much to you as curling your fingers and pressing against your g-spot does. You’re not going to last long either. “Daddy needs you, please.”

You almost give in. It would be so easy to take her cock down your throat or to straddle her and feel her in your pussy — either way, you think she would cum immediately.

But she looks so pretty like this, cheeks flushed and sweaty, furiously grinding against absolutely nothing, her cock pulsing and dripping. “Sorry, daddy,” you say with a wink and you watch her head drop back against the headboard. “I love seeing you like this. So desperate for me, about to cum without being touched at all, just for me.”

Agatha swears, her body stiffening and you think she’s going to cum right now, but to her credit, she relaxes a little and doesn’t. You’re almost impressed. “Daddy is going to punish you for this, you know,” she says with very little conviction. “Gonna tie you up and leave a vibrator in you and we’ll see how many times you cum before you physically can’t take anymore.”

Your breath hitches and your palm bumps against your clit roughly. The tension from the car is building back in your lower stomach, pleasure coursing through your veins. It’s not as good as when Agatha touches you, but it’s a close second.

“Fuck, fuck,” Agatha babbles like she can’t take it anymore. “I need you so bad, honey. I’m fucking — I’m fucking aching for you.” You almost make a joke about how you can tell, but think better of it. “You drive me crazy, please, I need you, need to feel your hot pussy wrapped around my cock, fuck—“

Her knees lock and her feet flex and her cock pulses and your fingers still inside you to watch in awe. Agatha’s breathing gets tighter before she sucks in deeply — her hips lurch up and her legs start to spread out and up — she lets out a loud, high-pitched keen and her cock erupts, cum spurting up in the air and landing on her stomach.

Agatha’s hands scramble for purchase on the duvet as she frantically humps the air and keeps gasping, her cock pumping out a few more cascades of cum all over her.

You didn’t think that would be so hot and you press the palm of your hand against your clit and you spasm, an orgasm tearing through your own body. You ride it out, beginning to move your fingers again to prolong the pleasure.

She lays there limply, just watching with glazed eyes and an open mouth, her cock twitching every so often as it softens.

When you finally come down, you can’t help but laugh and Agatha looks at you like you’re crazy. She still hasn’t moved.

“Fuck, that was so hot,” you exclaim and Agatha snorts before finally rubbing her face with a hand.

“I think you just killed me, sweetheart,” she says matter-of-factly and you smirk despite yourself.

She looks absolutely wiped. “So you don’t want to do it again?” you ask and the look she gives you is lethal. But you see a hint of heat in her eyes, and you know that this won’t be the last time you get to make her cum like that.

Agatha goes to move but looks down at the mess on her stomach. “Why don’t you come clean this up for me, honey?” she suggests and another blast of heat runs through you.

You get on your knees and crawl the foot or so to her before swiping your fingers through the puddle of cum and enveloping them in your mouth and moaning at her taste. She watches you with dark eyes as you then bend down and run your tongue over her belly, her muscles tensing and her cock stirring.

“Good girl,” she murmurs and the praise goes straight to your still-wet cunt. She tugs on your hair and pulls you up to kiss you, stroking her tongue inside your mouth to taste herself.

When you finally pull back to breathe, you smile despite yourself at how perfect and completely ruined she looks right now. “Not a bad date night, hm?” you ask, giggling and raising an eyebrow teasingly.

Agatha rolls her eyes playfully. “Not quite what I had in mind, but I do like where it ended up.”

You flop onto the bed next to her and she puts an arm around you so you can tuck yourself into her side. “Good luck topping that next week,” you challenge, eyes flicking up to meet hers. She smirks and reaches over to pinch your nipple.

“I’m sure I’ll find a way.”

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#agatha harkness x fem!reader #agatha harkness x reader #agatha x reader #agatha x you #agatha harkness x you #agatha harkness smut #agatha smut #agatha all along #agatha harkness #agatha harkness fanfic #covsfics #the hustle

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