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dior-luxury · 2 days ago

Note

i’d like to say first that i adore your writing! it’s just absolutely lovely to read everything you write o(^▽^)o ♡ thank you for your work! if you don’t mind, i’d like to leave a request!

could i get some domestic fluff about babysitting with the twst characters? like helping leona babysit cheka (and any other character you’d like to write for who has a younger relative…or maybe just insert some random kid for whoever you pick lol) and the whole experience gets them thinking about the future and perhaps having a family of their own?

Babysitting With Them

( ✧ ) ────── parent stories . fluff - f!reader .

- [𝐜𝐡.] dormleaders . riddle . leona . azul . kalim . vil . idia . malleus

- [𝐩:𝐬] Fluff/Domestic Fluff . Babysitting . Future Family Themes. Mild Chaos/Cute Chaos . Soft Moments/Emotional Introspection . Mentions of Children . Parenthood Imagery/Future Parenting

Note: Thank you so much for enjoying my writing!! (≧◡≦) It's funny how I two of the same requests that have the same theme Lol, so I just decided to combine them both ( ´ ▽ ` )

Riddle Rosehearts

When Professor Trein approached Riddle with the task of watching his twin grandchildren for an afternoon, Riddle felt a surge of pride and immediate stress. “A demonstration of responsibility,” the professor had said with a knowing glance. Of course, the twist was that you’d be watching them with him.

He'd barely made it to the faculty quarters with the twins before they began running in opposite directions, giggling. One made a beeline for a bookshelf while the other tried to unbutton Riddle's blazer. You calmly scooped one up with a laugh and offered a distracted Riddle a reassuring smile. “We’ve got this.”

“Indeed,” he said, although his voice cracked slightly.

The afternoon was a test of patience, creativity, and teamwork. The twins were mischievous but not unmanageable, especially with your steadying presence. You suggested a tea party—“Just like in Heartslabyul, Riddle”—and helped set out little plastic cups, cookies, and juice. The twins delighted in it, making Riddle the "tea king" while you were “his queen,” to which Riddle flushed a bright pink but didn't correct them.

He even loosened up. At one point, you caught him kneeling beside a stuffed bear, seriously asking if it took sugar in its tea, and your heart melted.

Later, when the twins were napping in a sunlit corner of the lounge, curled up with stuffed animals, Riddle sat beside you on the couch, sipping lukewarm tea you both forgot to drink. He was unusually quiet.

“You were great with them,” you said, brushing a crumb from his sleeve.

He looked at the sleeping children, eyes soft and thoughtful. “I always feared I’d be too strict. That I’d repeat my mother’s mistakes. But... I felt something different today.”

You leaned your head on his shoulder, and he hesitantly took your hand in his.

“I think… if it were with you… a future like this wouldn't be so terrifying,” he whispered. “Perhaps even… something to look forward to.”

And for a moment, the world was quiet—just the hum of a peaceful room, the steady rhythm of children’s breaths, and the quiet, blooming thought of someday.

Leona Kingscholar

You'd never seen Leona more alarmed than when a magical mirror blinked open to deliver a very energetic Cheka into his dorm room—complete with suitcase, plushie, and an extremely chipper "UNCLE LEOOO!"

Apparently, Crowley thought it a wonderful learning opportunity for Leona to engage with family during the school’s "Interpersonal Growth Week." And Crowley, in his infinite wisdom, roped you in as Leona’s "emotional support."

Cheka tackled Leona’s legs with a hug, and the big bad lion grumbled something unintelligible, already looking exhausted. You knelt to greet Cheka with a wide smile and a friendly high-five, which the little lion cub enthusiastically returned.

The next few hours were chaos wrapped in a sugar high.

You tried crafts—Cheka glued everything to the table. You tried games—Cheka turned hide-and-seek into a full-blown stealth mission that almost broke a vase. Leona had all but collapsed on the couch, arms crossed over his eyes, muttering, “I need a nap from this nap.”

But then—magic.

The three of you ended up outside in a sunny corner of the savannah-like lounge. Cheka chased butterflies while you helped Leona set up a blanket and snacks. You fed each other bits of dried fruit while pretending you weren't watching Cheka try to roar at squirrels.

Leona eventually laid down, head resting in your lap as he watched the sky.

“You’re good with him,” you said, fingers brushing through his hair.

“Tch. I just didn’t want him breaking anything.”

“Uh huh. Sure.”

He huffed but didn’t deny it. Instead, he turned his head slightly, golden eyes catching yours. “You’re the one who’s a natural. Think you’d survive if we had a few of our own running around?”

The way he said it was casual, but there was weight behind the words. His gaze didn’t waver.

Your heart did a little somersault.

“I think we’d survive,” you replied, smiling. “And you’d be better at it than you think.”

Leona snorted softly. “Maybe. As long as they don’t wake me up before noon.”

“Deal. I’ll be the morning parent. You handle bedtime.”

He smirked. “Bet I’d be great at bedtime stories.”

That night, Cheka finally fell asleep with you reading to him while Leona lazily played with the boy’s hair. The warm glow of the dorm’s lighting, the distant buzz of cicadas, and Leona’s hand resting on yours as he watched his nephew drift off—it all felt like a fleeting glimpse into another life. A quieter one. A better one.

Later, after Cheka was tucked in, Leona didn’t say much. He just leaned into you, holding you a little tighter than usual, his voice a low murmur against your hair:

“I wouldn't mind this. With you. A pride of our own.”

Azul Ashengrotto

It all started when a local couple from the Coral Sea sent a formal request to the Mostro Lounge. They were in urgent need of a sitter for their precocious little mer-child, Mira, during a diplomatic visit to the surface. Azul, ever the businessman, couldn’t resist an opportunity to help—especially with you involved.

“This is strictly a professional arrangement,” Azul said, straightening his tie as he paced the Lounge. “We’re simply... fulfilling a need. With compensation. Nothing more.”

You rolled your eyes affectionately. “So, you’re not looking forward to spending time with an adorable tiny sea-creature and me?”

He flushed to the tips of his ears. “I never said that.”

The moment Mira arrived, everything spiraled beautifully out of Azul’s control. The little one was all curious tentacles, gleaming eyes, and boundless questions. She immediately took a liking to you, tugging your hand and asking if you were “Mr. Azul’s princess.”

Azul nearly choked on his own breath.

You spent the afternoon in the VIP room of the Lounge turned “child-safe zone,” crafting with enchanted water paints, building pillow forts, and watching Mira “swim” in circles around the furniture. Azul tried to stay aloof at first, but Mira eventually suckered him in with wide eyes and a tragic, “I need someone to be the sea king in my game!”

He relented with a sigh that masked a small smile. “Very well. But only because the realm demands it.”

You watched as he donned a makeshift crown made of napkins and posed dramatically while Mira shrieked with joy. Your heart swelled at the sight—Azul, so often rigid and serious, pretending to grant royal decrees while holding a glitter-covered wand.

Later, when Mira was curled up on a plush bench, dozing peacefully with your coat wrapped around her like a blanket, Azul sat beside you, strangely quiet.

“She reminds me of myself,” he said softly. “Always watching, always asking questions. Curious. Smart.”

“She’s sweet. And she adores you.”

He chuckled under his breath. “Temporarily, perhaps. Children change quickly.”

You nudged his shoulder. “She didn’t see the business mogul. She saw someone kind and gentle. Someone safe.”

He looked down at his gloved hands. “I never imagined myself with a family. I didn’t think I was built for that kind of softness. But with you here… it doesn’t seem so foolish.”

You reached out and laced your fingers with his, resting your head on his shoulder.

“It’s not foolish at all.”

He squeezed your hand in return, and together, you watched Mira sleep—Azul’s heart caught somewhere between fear and hope, wondering for the first time if maybe, someday, he could create a world where a child of his own wouldn’t have to hide who they were.

Kalim Al-Asim

It was supposed to be a simple favor—watching one of Jamil’s younger cousins for the afternoon while the rest of the Asim family attended a formal banquet. You and Kalim were already spending the weekend at the Scalding Sands estate, so it seemed like no big deal.

That is… until little Layla arrived.

A tiny whirlwind in a flowing dress, Layla was the human embodiment of a sugar rush. She immediately tackled Kalim in a hug, shrieking, “COUSIN KALIM!” as he caught her mid-spin and lifted her into the air like a carnival ride.

“Kalim, she’s going to launch herself into orbit,” you laughed as Layla shrieked in delight.

“She’s light as a feather!” Kalim grinned. “Come on, let’s play palace adventure!”

The next few hours were a technicolor blur of activity. Kalim turned the entire courtyard into an elaborate obstacle course. You both took turns being “guards” or “thieves” as Layla declared herself “Queen of the Flying Carpets.” There were glittery sticker crowns involved, you wore one. Kalim wore four. He looked fabulous.

Kalim was born for this. He matched Layla’s energy effortlessly, spinning stories, making her laugh, and doing every silly voice. You helped bake cookies together (well, tried—Layla mostly just poured sugar in everything while Kalim pretended not to notice). At one point, Layla sat in Kalim’s lap while he played a lullaby on an oud, her little eyes drooping as she leaned into him, totally at peace.

When she finally fell asleep in a cozy mountain of cushions, Kalim looked at you with a warmth in his eyes that was deeper than usual. Not just sunshine—something realer, steadier.

“You’re amazing with her,” you whispered.

He smiled wide but soft. “So are you. She really likes you, y'know.”

He paused then, eyes flicking toward the sleeping child, and his smile grew quieter. Thoughtful.

“Hey… do you think someday, we could do this again? Not for someone else. Just… us.”

Your breath caught at how gentle his voice was. How unguarded.

“With our own little one?” you asked.

“Yeah,” he nodded, reaching for your hand. “I used to think I’d never be still long enough for that kind of life. But with you… I think I could be. I want to share all this joy with someone. With a family.”

You leaned into him, head against his shoulder as the warm breeze swept past, carrying the scent of cardamom and sugar.

“I’d love that, Kalim.”

He kissed your forehead, the weight of the moment grounding even someone like him.

“Then let’s make it a dream to reach together.”

Vil Schoenheit

It began, like all beautiful disasters do, with Crowley.

Apparently, a child from the local village—eight years old, precocious, and obsessed with “divas”—had written a very passionate letter asking to spend a day with the “fabulous Vil Schoenheit.” It ended up in the headmage’s hands, and of course, he passed it along to Vil with a wink and a “learning experience in mentorship and patience.”

Vil wanted to say no.

But you, of course, smiled and said, “Come on, it might be fun.”

That was how you ended up babysitting a tiny fashion-obsessed firecracker named Sera, who insisted on calling Vil “Miss Vil” and who immediately begged to do makeovers.

“She’s got spirit,” you whispered with a grin as Vil exhaled, brushing a lock of hair behind his ear. “Admirable spirit,” he muttered. “With a worrying love of neon eyeshadow.”

You helped set up a little “studio” in Pomefiore’s drawing room. Vil arranged the mirrors, the light, the seating—because of course he did—and then the three of you got to work. Sera wanted you to do her nails (purple sparkles, no exceptions), while Vil demonstrated eyeliner techniques and gently corrected her brush strokes.

“You must treat your face like art,” he explained patiently, holding her hand as she tried to line her eyes. “Not a battlefield.”

She beamed up at him, utterly starstruck.

Later, she demanded a “runway walk,” so you all spent an hour in the Pomefiore halls, strutting like queens to invisible music. Sera wore one of Vil’s silk scarves as a cape and declared the two of you her “royal beauty parents.”

And Vil—Vil actually laughed. Not the elegant, posed kind, but a real laugh, from the chest.

That evening, with Sera curled up between you on a chaise, happily snacking on sugar-dusted pastries and humming to herself, you noticed Vil watching her. His hand gently smoothed back her hair, his movements soft and careful.

“She’s going to remember this,” you whispered.

He glanced at you, his voice quiet. “So will I.”

You leaned into him, warmth in your chest.

“You were incredible with her,” you said.

He hesitated for a moment, then looked at you with something unguarded in his gaze—no pretense, no performance.

“I used to think children would be... interruptions to my life. But watching her today, seeing her confidence grow just because someone believed in her?” His voice dropped. “I think I’d like that kind of legacy. To build someone up. Guide them. Shape them into someone proud and whole.”

You reached for his hand and laced your fingers together. “You’d be amazing.”

“And you,” he said, brushing your knuckles with his lips, “would be the heart of it all.”

And in the soft silence that followed, with the glow of the setting sun catching in the gold of Vil’s hair, the two of you quietly let the idea take root.

Idia Shroud

Idia’s nightmare began with Ortho cheerfully saying, “Big Brother! You’ve been chosen to babysit my friend’s little sister while their family visits a Space-Tech Expo!”

Idia’s soul left his body right then and there.

“Wh—What?! I—I don’t know how to interact with mini-humans! I barely manage with regular humans—!”

“It’s okay! Y/N will be with you!” Ortho said brightly, clearly having planned this. “Think of it as a co-op quest! With NPC cuteness!”

That’s how you both ended up in Idia’s room, where the lighting was turned to “soft ambient galaxy mode” and a six-year-old girl named Nari was stomping around in your oversized headphones and calling herself “The Boss Monster.”

Idia was frozen at first—tucked in his gamer chair like it was his only line of defense. But you gave him a warm look, handed him a second controller, and said, “C’mon, let’s introduce her to ‘Fantasy Brawl X.’” The game was co-op, cartoony, and had a character that looked suspiciously like Idia with fire hair.

Nari was hooked.

She squealed when she figured out how to make her character jump. Idia mumbled quiet instructions that she somehow understood perfectly. And you, of course, kept the energy balanced—cheering, helping Nari when she got stuck, and giving Idia little confidence boosts every time he muttered, “I’m gonna mess this up…”

You even caught him smiling when she called his gaming skills “SO COOL, like a real boss!”

Hours passed, filled with giggles and glowing screens. You made microwave popcorn and juice box “potions.” Ortho peeked in once and whispered “Level Up!” at Idia, who turned pink and kicked him out.

When Nari finally nodded off on a beanbag chair, hugging a plushie of Idia’s favorite mech character, the room went quiet. The only sound was the hum of LED strips and the soft soundtrack of the paused game.

You turned to find Idia staring at her—his expression unreadable, for once not hidden behind his hair.

“She... wasn’t scared of me,” he said quietly. “She called me cool. Even though I’m... me.”

You moved beside him, laying your head against his shoulder. “That’s because you are cool. And kind. And you gave her a space to just be happy.”

He hesitated, hands fidgeting.

“I didn’t think I could ever picture something like this,” he whispered. “Me. In a family. That’s, like, the opposite of my anime origin story.”

“But…?”

He sighed, almost smiling. “But… if it were with you… maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad ending. Or maybe... a good beginning.”

You kissed his cheek, and his hair turned a shade of glowing pink so fast it lit up the room.

Malleus Draconia

The request came from Lilia.

“I need someone to watch one of the castle’s younger wards while I run errands in Briar Valley,” he said, flashing a mischievous little grin. “You’re good with children, right? And Malleus could use a bit of… exposure to the chaos of mortals.”

Before you could even process what you were agreeing to, you were left with a wide-eyed little fae girl named Aris—no taller than your hip, with bright moss-green hair, tiny horns, and a suspicious amount of energy for someone who literally glowed when she got excited.

“She’s precious,” you whispered.

“She is terrifying,” Malleus replied gravely, watching her zip around your legs with the glee of a creature who’d just discovered sugar.

You had both agreed to spend the afternoon in a quiet glade outside of Diasomnia, where the ancient trees arched high above and the air sparkled faintly with fae magic. Malleus, always fond of serenity, conjured floating lights and flowers that opened at a touch. Aris, of course, immediately declared this was her “kingdom” and that you and Malleus were her “knights.”

Malleus blinked, bewildered. “She… promoted me?”

You laughed. “Congrats, Sir Horns-a-Lot.”

To your surprise, Malleus took his new title seriously. He let Aris ride on his shoulders, gently cradling her little legs with those long, careful fingers. He answered every one of her endless questions about dragons, thorns, and whether he could breathe fire ("Only when properly irritated, young one").

You played tag. You helped make flower crowns. Malleus, despite never doing any of this before, adapted like he'd been waiting for a moment like this his whole life. Watching him kneel in the grass with Aris, guiding her tiny hands to shape a flower into a glowing orb of magic, made something deep in your chest ache in the best way.

When the afternoon faded to dusk, Malleus conjured little floating flameflies and told Aris a fae lullaby. She curled up between you both on a picnic blanket, humming softly, eyes half-lidded, her fingers tangled in Malleus’s cloak.

He looked down at her with something unreadable in his emerald eyes—something warm, gentle, almost reverent.

“She reminds me of the younglings I used to watch from afar,” he murmured. “Always distant. Always curious. But never mine to protect.”

You slid closer, brushing your hand against his. “But she’s here now. And she feels safe with you.”

“She calls me her knight,” he said quietly, a small smile ghosting his lips. “No one has ever said such things to me—not without fear behind it.”

You leaned your head against his arm. “She sees you the way I do.”

He turned toward you, his expression soft.

“Do you think,” he asked, his voice nearly a whisper, “that one day, we could have this? A little one. Not by duty or politics, but… something born of us? Of love?”

Your breath caught, your fingers curling around his.

“I do,” you said, certain and full of emotion. “With all my heart.”

Malleus looked up at the stars, glowing brighter against the indigo sky. And then he closed his eyes, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead.

“If this is what the future holds,” he said, “then I have never been more eager to walk toward it.”

In the hush of twilight, with Aris sleeping peacefully between you and the fireflies dancing in the air, Malleus dreamed—not of grandeur, not of ancient destiny, but of a quiet life filled with laughter, tiny footsteps, bedtime stories, and you.

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plutosunshine · 2 days ago

Text

How to stabilize your life? Saturn in houses

Saturn in the 1st house

If you’ve got Saturn in the 1st house, you’ve probably felt like you were born a little older than your years—more serious, maybe more reserved, and definitely carrying a deep sense of responsibility from early on. Life might feel like it’s asking a lot from you, even when you're just trying to figure things out. But the good news is, once you learn how to work with that energy instead of fighting it, you can build a really strong, steady life.

One of the best ways to stabilize things is by creating structure—think daily routines, setting realistic goals, and sticking to them, even when no one’s watching. Saturn loves when you're consistent. It rewards patience and effort over time, not quick wins. So instead of trying to fix everything all at once, focus on showing up for yourself a little every day.

Also, don’t be too hard on yourself. Saturn in the 1st can come with this voice in your head that says you're never doing enough. That inner critic can get loud, but it’s not the truth—it’s just Saturn pushing you to grow. Learn to balance that drive with some self-compassion. You’re allowed to make mistakes and learn as you go.

And remember, boundaries are your best friend. Whether it’s in relationships, work, or even just with your time, knowing your limits helps keep things steady. You don’t have to say yes to everything or prove your worth by overworking. Stability often comes from knowing when to pause, breathe, and choose what really matters to you.

Lastly, surround yourself with people who get you. You might come off serious or private at first, but that doesn't mean you don't need connection. Having even a small circle of grounded, supportive people can make a huge difference. Saturn might make you feel like you have to do it all alone, but you don’t.

You’ve got the potential to build something lasting and meaningful—you just have to give yourself time, patience, and a little grace along the way.

Saturn in the 2nd house

Ah, Saturn in the 2nd house—this placement is like having a tough but wise financial advisor living in your soul. 😅 It can feel heavy at times, especially when it comes to money, self-worth, and stability. But once you understand the rhythm of Saturn here, you can build something solid that no one can take from you.

With this placement, life might’ve taught you early on that resources aren’t always guaranteed. Maybe money was tight growing up, or you were made to feel like you had to “earn” your worth. That can lead to two things: either you become ultra-responsible with finances and really value hard work, or you swing the other way and feel blocked when it comes to building wealth or feeling deserving.

To stabilize your life with Saturn in the 2nd, the trick is to approach money and value slowly and steadily. This isn’t a “get rich quick” setup—it’s the long game. Budgeting, saving, learning the ropes of financial literacy, and making thoughtful investments (of money and energy) are your best tools. And don’t just focus on material stability—this house also rules your sense of worth. Saturn here wants you to build self-esteem brick by brick, through consistent effort, responsibility, and trusting yourself.

It can also help to release the idea that you’re only valuable if you're being productive or financially successful. Saturn might whisper that in your ear, but it’s not the full truth. Your worth is inherent—it just takes a little longer for you to feel it sometimes.

So yeah, Saturn in the 2nd is a slow burn. But once you’ve done the work, the foundation you build—emotionally and financially—is rock solid. You're not just chasing stability, you're becoming it.

Saturn in the 3rd house

Saturn in the 3rd house gives your mind serious main character energy—but not always in the flashy way. This is the placement of the deep thinker, the cautious communicator, the one who doesn’t just talk to talk. You’ve probably always had a thoughtful, maybe even quiet, approach to how you express yourself. And growing up, you might’ve felt like speaking up was hard or that your voice didn’t come easily. Maybe you had to “prove” your intelligence or learn to trust that what you had to say mattered.

This placement can also show up in your relationship with siblings or early education. Maybe there were delays, challenges, or just a sense of distance. Saturn makes you work for clarity—of thought, of voice, of connection.

To stabilize your life with Saturn in the 3rd, lean into communication on your own terms. You don’t have to be the loudest in the room, but your words carry weight when you use them. Writing, structured learning, or even just organizing your thoughts through journaling can help you feel more in control and confident. You thrive when you create systems for thinking and communicating—whether that’s planners, to-do lists, or just a clean inbox. That stuff actually helps settle your mind.

Also, don't be afraid to speak up, even if it feels a little awkward at first. Your ideas are valuable, and over time, people will come to really respect what you have to say—because it's grounded, considered, and real. You're not about fluff, you're about substance.

One more thing: with Saturn here, you’re meant to be a lifelong learner. Your mind gets sharper as you age. So give yourself permission to grow into your voice. It might take time, but when it lands—it lands strong.

Saturn in the 4th house

Saturn in the 4th house can feel like carrying a backpack full of bricks labeled “family, roots, and emotional security.” This is the house of home and inner life, so when Saturn lands here, it often means your early environment felt strict, heavy, or full of responsibilities. You might have grown up feeling like the emotional adult in the room before you were ready, or like you had to be the stable one even if everything around you wasn’t.

There can be a sense of emotional restraint with this placement. You might keep your feelings to yourself or find it hard to fully relax and feel safe—especially around family or in your own home. But here's the flip side: Saturn here gives you the power to build a solid, grounded emotional foundation later in life. You just have to build it yourself, brick by brick.

Stabilizing your life with Saturn in the 4th starts with creating a sense of home within you. That could look like therapy, inner child work, or simply learning to listen to your own emotional needs and take them seriously. This placement thrives on consistency and self-parenting—things like a regular routine, a calm environment, and setting emotional boundaries can bring a surprising amount of peace.

You might not have had the softest start, but you’re capable of creating a home and emotional life that’s deeply secure and lasting. It just might take time—and that’s totally okay. With Saturn, the payoff always comes through patience, effort, and deep, meaningful growth. You're not here for the temporary fix. You're here to build something real.

Saturn in the 5th house

Saturn in the 5th house can feel like a cosmic lesson in learning how to play, love, and express yourself—without guilt, pressure, or fear of being "too much" or "not enough." This is the house of creativity, romance, fun, and even children, so when Saturn shows up here, it tends to bring a more serious tone to those areas.

Maybe as a kid you felt like you had to grow up too fast and didn’t get to fully embrace play or creativity. Or maybe you were super hard on yourself when it came to expressing your talents, feeling like you had to be perfect or earn approval before letting your light shine. Same goes for love—you might crave deep, lasting romance but find it hard to open up or let loose emotionally. There can be a fear of vulnerability or rejection that keeps you playing it safe.

But here’s the deal: Saturn in the 5th doesn’t mean you’re doomed to be all work and no play. It means your joy, creativity, and love life all get better with time. You’re here to take fun seriously—not in a rigid way, but in a grounded, intentional way. This might look like developing a craft over years, learning how to love with commitment and maturity, or discovering that your creativity has real-world impact.

To stabilize your life with this placement, give yourself permission to be a beginner. Let go of the idea that joy has to be productive or that love has to follow a strict rulebook. The more you let your inner child breathe, the more confident and whole you’ll feel.

And when it comes to romance or creative projects? Don’t rush it. Saturn rewards slow-burning passion, not fleeting sparks. You're meant to create things (and relationships) that last. Give yourself the grace to grow into your full creative power—one steady, authentic step at a time.

Saturn in the 6th house

Saturn in the 6th house is like having a very stern personal trainer in your soul—one who’s obsessed with routines, hard work, and staying on top of your responsibilities. This house rules your daily habits, work environment, health, and how you serve others. So when Saturn is here, life tends to push you toward discipline, structure, and learning how to take your well-being seriously.

You might feel like you're always working—mentally, emotionally, or physically. Maybe you’ve had jobs where you felt underappreciated or like the weight of the world was on your shoulders. Or maybe you’re super self-critical when it comes to productivity and feel like you're never doing “enough.” Saturn here can make you hyper-aware of your duties, which means burnout is a real possibility if you’re not careful.

The way to stabilize your life with Saturn in the 6th is through consistency and realistic expectations. You’re naturally capable of incredible focus and reliability, but you’ve got to pace yourself. Build sustainable habits—whether it's a meal prep routine, a sleep schedule, or regular exercise. Saturn wants you to be healthy and efficient, but not at the cost of your joy or sanity.

It’s also important to find meaning in your work. If you’re stuck in a job that feels soul-crushing, that Saturn pressure can feel suffocating. But if you’re doing something purposeful—even if it’s challenging—it starts to feel like you’re building something worthwhile. That’s where you thrive.

Long story short: you’re here to master the art of showing up, not just for others, but for yourself. Once you learn how to balance service, health, and work without overdoing it, Saturn will reward you with a deep sense of inner strength and stability that nobody can shake.

Saturn in the 7th house

Saturn in the 7th house is all about serious business when it comes to relationships. This placement means you don’t take love—or any close partnership—lightly. You might’ve always felt like relationships come with pressure, responsibility, or even fear of rejection or abandonment. Some people with this placement wait longer to settle down, not because they don’t want love, but because they’re deeply cautious about who they let in.

There’s often a strong desire for commitment and loyalty, but also a fear of losing independence or getting hurt. You might attract older or more mature partners, or relationships that feel like work—sometimes literally, sometimes emotionally. But here's the thing: you're not built for casual. You're built for real, grounded, lasting connections.

To stabilize your life with Saturn in the 7th, the key is to be honest—with yourself and others—about your needs and boundaries. Don’t rush into relationships out of fear of being alone, but also don’t shut down emotionally just because you're afraid of getting hurt. Relationships might feel delayed or difficult early on, but as you grow, you learn how to show up fully, communicate with maturity, and build something rock-solid.

This placement can also reflect a fear of dependency, or feeling like you have to be the strong one all the time. But real partnerships are about mutual support. Let people meet you halfway—you don’t have to carry the whole load.

In the long run, Saturn here helps you attract relationships with depth, honesty, and endurance. You’re not here for surface-level stuff. You’re here to build something timeless—with someone who’s truly ready for the ride.

Saturn in the 8th house

Saturn in the 8th house is deep, intense, and transformative—like emotional scuba diving. This placement puts Saturn in the house that rules shared resources, intimacy, power, transformation, and even death and rebirth on a symbolic level. So yeah, it’s not light energy, but it’s powerful when channeled right.

You might’ve experienced loss, emotional intensity, or situations that forced you to confront deeper truths earlier in life. This can lead to trust issues, a guarded heart, or feeling like you have to deal with everything on your own. Vulnerability doesn’t always come easy here—Saturn wants to protect you from being hurt, but in doing so, it can also make it hard to fully open up and receive.

Money tied to others—like inheritances, taxes, debts, or even shared finances in a relationship—can come with a lot of responsibility or karmic lessons. There may be fears around dependence, control, or losing what you’ve built. But with time and experience, you can become a master of managing shared resources and navigating deep emotional bonds with clarity and integrity.

To stabilize your life with Saturn in the 8th, you’ve got to learn how to trust—yourself, others, and the process of transformation. This isn’t about rushing into emotional vulnerability, but about slowly building safe, strong connections where both trust and independence can exist.

This placement is also incredibly psychic and intuitive once you let yourself go there. The more inner work you do—whether it's therapy, shadow work, or spiritual practices—the stronger and more emotionally empowered you become. You’re not here to skim the surface. You’re here to evolve, and Saturn makes sure that when you do, it’s real, lasting, and absolutely unshakable.

You’re built for deep transformation—and Saturn’s just making sure you build that inner power with a rock-solid foundation.

Saturn in the 9th house

Saturn in the 9th house gives you a serious, grounded approach to the big questions of life—philosophy, religion, higher education, travel, belief systems. This placement often shows someone who craves meaning and truth but doesn’t just accept what they’re told. You need proof. You need to test ideas. You’re the type who learns through life experience, challenge, and deep questioning.

Early on, you might’ve felt blocked when it came to education, travel, or even believing in something bigger than yourself. Maybe you doubted your ability to expand your horizons, or maybe life just threw enough obstacles at you to make the journey feel like a slow climb. But Saturn here isn’t trying to shut you down—it’s trying to make sure that when you do find your truth, it’s built on a foundation that can’t be shaken.

To stabilize your life with Saturn in the 9th, you need to embrace being a lifelong student—someone who learns not just through books, but through experience, reflection, and deep personal growth. You might find that you take your time when it comes to higher education or spiritual exploration, but that’s okay. What you build intellectually and spiritually will be solid, wise, and deeply earned.

This placement is also amazing for becoming an authority in a specific field, especially one tied to philosophy, law, education, or spirituality. You’re here to master your beliefs—not just inherit them. And once you do, you have the potential to guide others with real wisdom and clarity.

So yeah, Saturn in the 9th might delay the journey, but it never denies it. You’re meant to seek, struggle, and then rise with a perspective that’s grounded, earned, and transformative—not just for you, but for others too.

Saturn in the 10th house

Saturn in the 10th house is classic “late bloomer” energy—but in the best possible way. This placement means you’re here to build something big, lasting, and real in your public life, career, or reputation. You’re not the type to take shortcuts or chase fame for the sake of it. You want legacy. Respect. Something that stands the test of time.

But early in life? It might’ve felt like you were constantly being tested—professionally, socially, or even by authority figures. Maybe you dealt with super high expectations from parents (especially one with a strong presence), or felt like you had to constantly prove yourself in order to earn recognition or success. Saturn here sets the bar high, and it can feel like nothing you do is ever “enough” until you’ve really earned your place.

Here’s the good news: once you get clear on your goals and put in the work, no one is more unstoppable than someone with Saturn in the 10th. You have the grit, the patience, and the endurance to build an empire—slowly, steadily, and with integrity. You might hit major career milestones later than others, but when you do, they’ll be solid and meaningful.

To stabilize your life with this placement, stay committed to your long-term vision and don't be discouraged by slow progress. Saturn wants you to master your craft, own your authority, and lead from experience—not ego. The more you embrace your path with responsibility and purpose, the more life starts aligning around you.

You're not here to burn out chasing quick wins. You're here to become someone others trust, admire, and follow—not because you said you could, but because you proved it over time. Legacy is your lane. Keep building.

Saturn in the 11th house

Saturn in the 11th house is all about learning serious lessons through friendships, communities, and your long-term hopes and dreams. You’re someone who might feel a bit like an outsider early in life—like it’s hard to find your people or truly fit in with a group. There can be a sense of emotional distance in friendships, or like you’re the one who's always showing up and being reliable, but not always receiving the same in return.

This placement often makes you cautious about who you let into your inner circle. You might have fewer friends, but the ones you do have? They’re ride-or-die, loyal, and often stick around for the long haul. You don’t do superficial connections—you want depth, trust, and shared values.

When it comes to your goals and dreams, Saturn here gives you the power to achieve big things—but only if you're willing to work for it. You’re not about pipe dreams or vague “someday” visions. You want a plan, a purpose, and something that actually matters in the long run. This placement is perfect for building or leading communities, especially when your mission is rooted in social change or long-term progress.

To stabilize your life with Saturn in the 11th, focus on cultivating meaningful connections and committing to goals that align with your deeper values. You might feel like you're "behind" others socially or career-wise early on, but that's only because you're meant to create something lasting. As you mature, your network grows stronger, your vision becomes clearer, and your sense of belonging starts to solidify.

You’re here to make a real impact—not just for yourself, but for the collective. And once you find your tribe or purpose, you become a powerful force for progress, loyalty, and lasting change.

Saturn in the 12th house

Saturn in the 12th house is one of the most quietly powerful placements—it’s like being the emotional architect of your own subconscious. This house rules the hidden, the spiritual, the mystical, and the parts of ourselves that operate behind the scenes. So when Saturn lands here, it can feel like there’s a weight on your soul that you can’t always name.

You might have felt lonely, misunderstood, or emotionally isolated early in life. Not because others didn’t care, but because you often carry burdens silently. There’s usually a deep sense of responsibility—sometimes guilt, sometimes a feeling of needing to sacrifice your own needs for others or for some greater cause. You may also be extremely sensitive to the energies around you but not always know how to protect yourself, so you build walls or retreat inward.

This placement can bring hidden fears, karmic baggage, or a lifelong process of learning to confront your own shadow. But here’s the beauty of it: Saturn in the 12th isn’t trying to break you. It’s trying to help you master your inner world. You're meant to become emotionally and spiritually strong—not through avoiding pain, but by facing it, integrating it, and transforming it.

To stabilize your life with this placement, create space for solitude, spiritual practices, and emotional healing. Meditation, therapy, dream work, and even artistic expression can be game-changers. You need private time to recharge and process, and that’s not a weakness—it’s how you reset your power.

You’re also here to serve in quiet but profound ways. You may work behind the scenes, help others heal, or offer support that no one else sees but makes a huge difference. Once you learn how to take care of your own inner needs, you become incredibly wise, grounded, and capable of deep compassion.

This placement takes time to bloom, but when it does? You become a force of calm, strength, and quiet resilience—the kind that can’t be shaken, no matter what storms come your way.

#astrology #astro #natal chart #astro observations #birth chart #astro notes #astrology posts #zodiac #saturn #saturn in houses

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ms-katonic-of-tamriel · 10 hours ago

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Is it in character for people is always the question to ask.

Someone who's previously been written to be very articulate and self-aware should not suddenly lose all communication skills because now they're in a romantic relationship (unless partner is being a manipulative arsehole hem hem - make sure the READER finds that out!). Whereas someone who's always been a force of chaos will not suddenly develop a brain unless hit with Consequences. Teenagers, kids and young people in general mostly won't have high levels of emotional maturity (unless they've had good role models growing up who taught them things like this), but you expect better from the over 25s unless you've previously flagged that adult as Unreliable/Fucked Up/Awful.

Tension is also important - build that up in whatever direction and you won't have a problem. Maybe it's a tense situation that's spiralling towards Disaster! Having the adults get together and save the situation through Generally Being Responsible and Averting the Crisis will be very satisfying, but the reader needs to believe Disaster was a real possibility. If you aren't able to do that, you're going to need to find another avenue of tension for your story.

Writing the actual disaster playing out because no one was mature enough to avert it can also be satisfying, but it needs to be a believable disaster. It needs to be believable that no one had the skills to sort this. It needs to be a believable set of consequences playing out. Your idiots need to be believable idiots, and if there's a bad actor or two intervening, they need to be well written too. You want them to fuck up on a grand scale? Establish this trait by having them fuck up in the same way on a smaller scale first. Or even have them display the same traits in an adaptive manner. They're prone to losing their temper? Have them lose their temper at small but understandable things first. They're paranoid and untrusting? Show them being knifed in the back by someone they trusted as an explanation for how they got that way. They're too trusting? Establish that by having them behave in a trusting way and being rewarded for it. What traits do you need them to have for the fuck up to work, and establish the traits in your characters. When disaster plays out, and they keep right on acting in the ways you've already established, and it all falls apart? Your readers will love that shit because they all saw this coming, or at least they'll absolutely get why it happened.

honestly sometimes stories where characters have self awareness and solve their problems maturely can be really refreshing sometimes. and sometimes it feels like therapyspeak slop. intense stories where no one is capable of understanding themselves and act out in incorrect ways can be very fun. and sometimes it feels like contrived bullshit. whatever makes "a good story" is harder to make happen than just using the right kind of characters using the right words

#how to write

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vinnyvamppp · 2 days ago

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please give us the viltrumite reader 🥺👉👈

"I’ll Breed You Into Loyalty"

A/N: SO! There have been some drastic changes. You guys know I like to keep things in character, having Mark JUST meet an enemy and fuck them two seconds later didn't sit right. This is "The Uncharted Assignment." Reworked.

Synopsis: Lines blur between battle and bedroom, loyalty and lust, love and war. Mark has to face a question worse than betrayal: What if the only person who understands him is the one destined to destroy him?

Warnings: Canon Typical Violence, Smut, Unresolved Sexual Tention, Emotional Whiplash, Dubious Morality, Enemies to Fuckbuddies to???, Post Omni-Man Canon DIvergence, HEAVY Porn w Plot, “If you leave me, I’ll chase you” Energy, Hair Pulling, Accidental Choking, Mark Being Overwhelmed But TRYING, Breeding Kink, Powerplay, Overstim, Biting, Hate Sex, Post-Sex Guilt, Emotional Attachment.

"Why do I hate that I'm into you?"

Mark Grayson x Viltrumite!Fem!Reader

WC: 2.6k

You weren’t born to be seen.

You were bred in silence—on a deep-core training outpost orbiting a red dwarf. The Empire called it Caldera, where the most cunning of your kind were honed like blades—not to fight, but to corrupt. No brute force. No grand displays. Just pressure, precision, and patience. You weren’t a soldier. You were a whisper wrapped in steel.

And when Omni-Man disappeared—defected, disgraced—Earth became the Empire’s bleeding wound. They sent you not to destroy it. They sent you to turn it. More importantly… they sent you to turn him. Mark Grayson, the half-human, half-Viltrumite, that's entirely too stubborn for his own good. You were told he was unstable. Emotional. Susceptible to influence through connection.

You didn’t expect him to be… kind, or funny, or infuriating. You didn’t expect to like him. That was mistake number one.

You arrived after Bulletproof disappeared—filed as MIA after a solo recon gone wrong in interdimensional space. There was no body. No footage. Just static and red.

You weren’t directly responsible. Not… really. The Empire made sure someone else pulled that trigger. Your hands were clean. Clean enough for Cecil to greenlight your placement on the Guardians of the Globe. They needed strength, speed, control—and you delivered. No questions asked. You did everything right. Controlled your accent. Monitored your energy output. Let your victories look hard-won.

And Mark liked you. Too fast. Too easily. You trained together. Patrolled together. Laughed, sometimes. He teased you for never taking your coffee with sugar. You called him a "softhearted liability." He would walk you two your quarters after sparring in a sparking silence. Somewhere between the jabs and near-death experiences, it started to feel… easy. ... Comfortable. That was mistake number two.

The storm had rolled in fast. Static buzzed over the Guardian comms, but it wasn’t enough to drown out the crack of bone under your knuckles. You slammed the alien’s face into the rooftop again—cratered it. His blood was dark purple, sticky on your palm. "Stop!" Mark’s voice cut through the rain. You didn’t, no, not until the alien stopped twitching.

You stood, chest heaving. Blood. Rain. Guilt—hushed beneath something sharper, colder. He landed behind you with a wet slap of boots on concrete. "He was already down," he said. "He wasn’t moving." "He was still breathing," you replied, voice flat. "That doesn’t mean you kill him!" You turned. His eyes—wide, hurt, angry—searched your face like he didn’t recognize it. Maybe he didn’t. You didn’t even know if you did. "He would’ve killed you," you said.

"You don’t know that." You stepped closer, now inches from him. "I do." There was something in your tone—something too sure and cold. His jaw clenched. “That’s not how we do things.” You don't respond. You can't. You’re staring down at the crater you left behind—purple blood pooling in the cracks—and for a moment, you feel the leash slipping. The one you’ve held tight since arrival. The one that tells you to pretend to be human… almost for his sake.

We. The word hung in the air, heavier than the storm.

You held his gaze, let a bit of the mask crack. “Maybe I’m not like the rest of you.” There was something menacing in your delivery. Or even the way a faint smirk fought the edges of your lips as you basked in his confused and furious expression. And then you left him, soaked in the rain and conflicted. That was mistake number three. This was getting tiring. Time to pivot your strategy. Guardians Headquarters, it was late. You’re in the med bay. Minimal wounds, just some surface bruising. You don’t bother dressing them, you don’t need to. But routine is good, it keeps your hands busy while your thoughts spiral.

He slams the door open. “What the hell was that tonight?” You don’t flinch. He’s pacing already, wet hair matted to his forehead. Eyes red, not from crying, but from rage. His voice cracks just enough to sting. “You don’t just kill people, no matter what you’ve been through.”

“I saved your life.” “You executed someone on a rooftop!”

Silence...

He’s panting like he just finished a sprint. You watch him. Carefully. Like you were trained to. Like he’s a variable—something dangerous. “Why?” he finally asks, voice lower now. “Why do you do things like that?”

You let out a breath, slow, measured, despite the circumstances. This is the moment. The file called for phased exposure. Let the truth out slowly. But you’re too tired to lie right now. Too tired to lie to yourself like you wouldn’t slaughter everyone here given their retaliation. Just... rip off the band-aid. So you look him in the eyes. “Because I’m not human, Mark.” He stiffens.

“...What?”

“I’m a Viltrumite.”

The room seems to suck in on itself. The weight of respective heritages is palpable. Comms static hums in the background like a heartbeat, its sound causing your ears to ring. He doesn’t speak, but rather stares. “They sent me here after your father left,” you say. “To finish what he couldn’t. Not by force. By logic, persuasion, and connection. Through you.” Your eyes scrutinized his very being, anticipating an outburst… one that never came.

“You used me?” His voice is quiet now, almost too quiet. You nod. “At first.” He turns away from you like looking at you physically hurts him. “Why tell me now?” “Because I think you’re smart enough to understand the truth. Earth is tearing itself apart. You feel it too. You’ve always felt it.”

“You sound just like him.”

“He was right about the outcome,” you snap. “Not the method. We can do better. You and I—we could shape something that lasts. Together.” He whirls around, gaze narrowing. “You’re out of your mind. I don’t even know who you are right now!”

“Then give me a child.” Silence. Heavy. Like gravity has doubled in the room. “What the hell did you just say?” You step toward him, slowly. Not with threat, but promise. “If you won’t take your place, give me someone who will. I’ll raise them the way you should’ve been raised. Strong. Focused. Loyal to the cause.”

You don’t mean it. Not entirely, anyway. But it’s the only way you know how to force a decision. To make him feel something besides hate. And then—like you asked for it—he grabs your arm. “You don’t get to manipulate me like that.”

“Then stop me.”

And he kisses you. It’s angry, teeth clashing, utterly control-less, and chaotic. The kind of kiss that means nothing and everything. The kind you’ll regret later but crave more of anyway. And when he pulls away, breath ragged, you’re both trembling for different reasons.

“You don’t want to be like him,” you whisper. “Then stop pushing me,” he fires back. The silence that follows isn’t peace. It’s war in slow motion.

“You were my friend,” he says now, voice hoarse. “You acted like you were my friend.”

“It wasn’t an act.” “Then what was it?” His voice breaks again. “What were you doing? Setting me up? Studying me?”

“Understanding you,” you say quietly. “Trying to see if you were salvageable.” He flinches. Your expression doesn’t change. That hurts more. “I hate this,” he says. “Then walk away.” He looks at you, and everything in his face says he wants to. That he should. That he knows what happens if he doesn’t. His voice cracks. “I hate that you still make sense to me,” he says. “Even after everything.”

“You hate that I remind you of what you are.”

“No,” he says, stepping in. “I hate that part of me wants to believe you. That part of me still—"

“Still what?”

“Still wants you.”

There it is. The words he swore he’d never say. The silence that follows is sharp enough to bleed. “Say it again,” you whisper. He’s shaking his head. “Say it.” His brows knit upwards. “I want you,” he says, too quickly. Too honest. “And I hate that I do. I hate you for doing this to me.” You step forward. "Then punish me."

That stuns him, and he stares at you, breathing growing shallow. “You think this is a game?”

“I think you want to know what it’s like to stop pretending. Just once.” He grabs your wrist and you let him, but he doesn’t squeeze, doesn’t twist—just holds it, trembling. “I could never trust you again.”

“I don’t want your trust.”

“Then what do you want?”

You lean in—lips a breath away from his, eyes sharp and conflicted. “Take a wild guess, Grayson.”

And then he kisses you again. Not violently this time. Not to punish. But like he’s drowning in everything he’s tried to suppress—grief, lust, confusion, the hollow ache of missing something that never really belonged to him in the first place. He spent months undoing his fathers ruin, just for his efforts to unravel like silk. Your mouth opens beneath his, heat pouring between you like fire through fractured glass. His grip on your wrist tightens— again, just enough to tell you he’s trying to keep control. But he's failing and fast.

You push him. He stumbles back, hits the wall with a grunt, but doesn’t fall. His eyes burn as you follow, shoulders squared, every inch of you predatory. “You always this easy to provoke?” you whisper. “I told you to stop talking,” he mutters and grabs your face like he’s trying to shut you up with his mouth again.

You let him. His hands caging you in, every action like a curse, his mind going quiet.

He kisses like he fights—too emotional. Too much heart. You bite his lip, hard enough to taste copper, and he groans into your mouth. That same sound you’ve heard in battle. That same frustration. That same need. He couldn’t stop even if he tried, his emotions sharp like a blade that pierced him with every kiss.

Your hand slides to the back of his costume, unzipping it as it drips down his torso. Dragging your nails down the curve of his ribs, he gasps. You feel his body flinch, but not in fear. In anticipation. “You want to hate me?” you whisper against his throat. “Then earn it.” He growls. Actually growls. “You don’t get to control everything.”

“Try and stop me.” And suddenly you’re moving again—he’s lifting you like you weigh nothing, slamming your back against the wall. You grin, teeth bared. “There’s the Viltrumite,” you murmur. “I was wondering when you’d show up.”

He drops you—not gently—onto the nearby cot, climbing over you, breathing hard, eyes wild. You wrap your legs around his hips without hesitation. The friction is instant, delicious as he desperately bucks into your clothed sex. Your nails dig into his shoulders as he yanks your suit down to your waist, exposing skin to air and heat and the sting of too much touch at once. His fingers immediately pawing at exposed flesh and the swell of your breasts. You strip him fast, palms dragging down over his chest, his stomach, until he gasps when you grip him.

He’s hard already. Of course he is. You squeeze and he twitches. His tip is flushed, deeper in color, sensitive enough that he contracts when you apply just a little pressure. He's long. Uncut. There's something intimate about it. The way his foreskin shifts when you stroke him— tight, smooth, responsive— makes it easy to tease, and even easier to control as his abs trembled from the sensation. You open your mouth to speak, and he silences you. “Shut up.”

“Make me.”

His gaze lowers… your moist, velvety cunt beckoned him, a sanctuary of pure, unadulterated bliss. It's arousal nearly glistening enough to see his reflection. He’s in shambles as he hurriedly presses into you. You cry out—not in pain, not even surprise—Its because he’s thick. It stretches you open with a slow, delicious ache, the kind that steals the breath from your lungs and replaces it with a low, desperate moan.

You feel every vein, every pulse of heat. When he thrusts, it’s like being filled to your limit AND then some. Perfectly overwhelming. The fact that you’re both half-feral and half-clinging to each other like this was inevitable. His hips rear back— lips pursed together as shaky breathes were all he could muster through restraint. Dragging through gummy, creamy walls—

He thrusts hard. Deep. Controlled, at first. But it doesn’t last, never does. You meet him thrust for thrust, dragging your nails down his back, pulling him in harder. You bite his shoulder, and he whimpers— teeth gritted— sweat sliding down his temple. He pummels harder, faster, fingers curling tighter in your hair. When he pulls, your head tips back, exposing your throat—and he bites you there. You gasp, ridges clenching around him, and that nearly ends him. “God, you’re insane,” he breathes, forehead pressed to yours.

“So are you. You just wear it better.” Your hand drifts between you, finding the right rhythm amongst your clit— using its instinctual clamping to your advantage. Then your tongue comes to caress the shell of his ear before nipping it. He gasps again—shudders, actually—and you smirk. “Sensitive?” you tease, pumping slow just to watch his face twist. “You’re not gonna win this.”

“I already have.” You roll your hips just right and he chokes on a curse—his body stuttering. You squeeze him tighter, feel the way his breath hitched. He’s close.

You whisper, “Come on then, Mark. Show me how much you hate me.” And he sure does. With a final thrust, he buries himself to the hilt, hand in your hair, mouth crushed against your neck. He shakes as he spills inside you, his breath ragged, his moan caught somewhere between bliss and disbelief. But you’re still not done.

You flip him—actually flip him—and he barely catches himself as you straddle his hips and sink back down. He grabs your thighs, trying to slow you, but you ride him with practiced ease. Raw. Overstimulated. And borderline masochistic. He stutters, trying to formulate a sentence. “You—” “Me,” you finish for him. “You want me.”

“I shouldn’t.”

“But you do.” His head falls back onto the mattress, jaw slacks with groans that border pain and pleasure. A salacious squelch echoes between you— his cock already creamy from cum and slick, coating your sex in his scent. The way his shape drags along your walls in just the right way to make your toes curl, hips roll, and back arch. Every grind, every stroke that presses deep and nudges that spot inside you that sends sparks flying. His very warmth is addicting in a way you shouldn’t enjoy. In a way you instinctually crave. "You like testing me, huh? Keep pushing, and I’ll show you what happens when I stop holding back." He groans, trying to save face. His muscles began aching in effort to match your momentum. Hips pistoning upwards with the slightest swivel, tip threatening to kiss your cervix and then some.

His thrusts stutter, and his dick and balls throbbing as if about to spill again at any moment. Your fingers dig into his rippling abdomen. Shared growls and his barely coherent mumbles fill the gap of silence. "Give me your worst; I’ll give it back double." You grit as he attempts to regain control, maintaining what little is left of his dignity. In one sharp buck of his hips, he throws you off rhythm. You gasp, hand slipping off him. He grabs your waist, flips you again, slams you down onto the mattress, his face inches from yours. He grinds deep, hips rolling with vicious intent, pushing deeper than before—almost too much—but never enough. A crack splintered the wall as the cot rocked, metal bending and crumbling debris falling on deaf ears.

Your noses brush and your eyes lock. His breathing's ragged. He kisses you softly—just once—before his hips slam into you again, knocking the breath from your lungs. He grinds against your ass before slamming back into you, hands gripping your hips, your waist, your throat again when you try to rise up. “Stay down,” he hisses. “Let me feel you.” "Is this the part where I beg you not to stop?" You’d never say it out loud, but it’s the best you’ve ever had. And he doesn’t even know it. You can't tell if this is the best or worst decision you've made in your life. "You’re so good at pretending you don’t care. Let’s see how long that lasts." He mumbles. "Tell yourself you're in control. It won’t save you. Every time you touch me, you forget who the real threat is."

Your orgasm hits harder than you expect. It's fast and vision-blurring, your whole body clenching around him, your back bowing, a broken moan ripping from your throat as you ride it out. Your cunt contracts, shivers rippling down your spine with each pulse. You scream for him. For everything he makes you feel. For everything you can’t stop craving. “Mark—oh—god—Mark—” He’s not far behind. You feel him losing rhythm, losing control, and his grip is tight. His mouth trailing down your nape, your spine, your shoulder, anywhere he could reach.

“Can I—” he asks, unable to control it the first time. "Tell me what to do. I’ll do it. Please." “Inside,” you whisper. “I want to feel it again.”

He chokes on your name as he erupts into you—deep, rasped, utterly broken. His final sigh was reminiscent of a cry, his body locking up on him. Beaded sweat from his forehead dampening your back, as he loses his fucking mind. The padded surface beneath you dips as his toes curl into the mattress.

He watches, stunned. Almost disappointed in himself as cum sloppily drizzles from your cunt. He collapses on top of you; muscled bodies coated in a sheen that mixes with his, both of you panting in silence.

And this happens. Again. And again. And again. “We can’t keep doing this,” he murmurs.

“You say that every time.”

“And I mean it.”

“Then stop coming back.”

He doesn’t answer. His hand finds yours in the sheets. He squeezes once. Then let's go.

He would pretend this world and you aren't breaking him. And you would forever be curious as to why he wont let it. Sooner or Later. Fate would come and ruin what could’ve been. His heart had danced with yours, and even then hatred filled it. So why… why does he still lay beside you? He would never know.

God, you’re insufferable.

A/N: There are some aspects similar to the old draft. (It sounded so formal LMFAO, the way I wrote when just starting was…. Hm.) anyway, hope the five people who requested this, enjoyed.

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jungkoode · 2 days ago

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𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 20

˗ˏˋ DIY bracelets ˎˊ˗

"You were not expecting to really enjoy the MoMA exhibition, but Jungkook looks so interested and in his element that his energy is contagious. Even with a IUD in your uterus staging mutiny, and him trying to evade your questions throguh a DIY bracelet shop."

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⋆｡°✩ chapter details ✩°｡⋆

word count: 10,4k

content: working hours at B&N, books, jk being goofy as usual, subway touches (what was that?), jk's genuine interest in photography, uterus pain, kids asking questions (lmao), jk being bff w boundaries as usual, soft conversations, avoiding certain topics, and making friendship bracelets (ew gay???) (p.s. i'm literally queer, shush it.)

✧ author's note ✧

*descends from the sky on a sparkly cloud of serotonin and unresolved sexual tension* GREETINGS, MY LITTLE PSYCHOTIC DAFFODILS. *ducks the knife thrown at my head* RUDE. *throws it back, it lands in someone’s thigh, probably Jungkook’s*

Okay okay okay okay. *deep breath.*

Hello, my beloved kikizens. If you’re reading this… I’m most likely abroad, roaming the earth like the girlboss nomad I pretend to be on Instagram, while in reality I’m crying over the outline of chapter 23 in the Notes app and eating overpriced airport pastries. Yes. I wrote this ahead of time. Yes. I am the most responsible irresponsible person you’ve ever met. Time traveling author note from Past!Kiki, sending love and ibuprofen to Future!You. Let’s hope the plane didn’t crash because, if so, Fuck Me Up Jungkook is now your responsibility. Please keep him fed and slightly emotionally constipated, just as I left him.

NOW. LET'S TALK. This chapter. THIS CHAPTER. We are entering the land of slow burn intimacy and micro-shifts in character dynamics that make me froth at the mouth. I need to scream about it. I am screaming about it. Nix at Barnes & Noble? A concept. Her choosing a retail job because she wants to save someone the way books saved her??? Yeah okay I'm totally fine, I'm just on the floor sobbing about it in a public bathroom.

AND JUNGKOOK. THAT BASTARD. Being respectful?? Giving her space while still being present?? Letting her lead and following her cues like a man who understands autonomy and emotional nuance??? Jail. Absolute jail. He’s so annoying and so HOT about it. I love writing him because he’s cocky and feral and dumb, but also deeply perceptive and compassionate when it counts. Like okay yes he's a little insufferable, but also, he's the kind of man who listens when you talk about your reproductive health without flinching and I think that's worth something.

Also. Let’s talk about the bracelets. Phoenix and Rogue. Fire-coded losers who pretend they don’t care while making color-coded matching jewelry??? WHO SAID YOU COULD BE CUTE. WHO SAID.

Anyway. This chapter is the beginning of a shift. A very soft shift. We’re not in love yet. We’re not even close. We are in that horrible, confusing, liminal space where friendship might be possible eventually but everyone’s still too scared and too stupid to say it out loud. They’re not friends yet. But they’re getting there. We’re watching in real time as they learn each other’s pressure points—what to push, when to pull back. It’s very ugh my chest hurts but also my heart is fluttering kind of vibe. Which is my favorite thing to write. Obviously.

Now. To talk about me, because I love attention: I’ve only been posting for a few months and I’m already overrun with WIPs like some kind of literary hoarder. It’s a problem. I start stories, then my ADHD bitchass brain says “new shiny idea???” and next thing I know I’m drowning in three AUs, an enemies-to-lovers high school AU I wrote at 3AM, and a secret smutty one-shot I can’t stop thinking about. It’s a whole ecosystem of chaos. But I do want to write them all. I do. I just also want to nap. And read. And rot.

So yeah. I think about y’all waiting for updates more than you know. I stress about it. I chew on it like emotional gum. My Spirk fic hasn’t updated in two months and it haunts me in my sleep. But I’m trying to accept that writing is better done when it feels good, not when I’m spiraling in guilt. So. If I ever start something and it takes me ages to finish, just know I do want to get there. I just move at the speed of depression and distraction.

AND A GENTLE REMINDER: this is a slow burn. A SLOW slow burn. Not the kind where they kiss in chapter 5 and you pretend it’s slow because they didn’t bang yet. No. I mean they will not start catching actual feelings for a while. There will be distractions. Other people, love interests. Awkwardness. Denial. You will watch them flounder. You will scream at your phone. You will think “surely they must realize it now,” and I will look you in the eyes and say, “no. no they do not.” Because the point is the journey. The point is the becoming. Not the kissing. (Okay fine also the kissing. But later.)

We are 20 chapters in, and I am being so serious when I say we are maybe… 20% into the full story. If that. I want to go all the way. From strangers to roommates to fuckbuddies to friends to best friends to oh my god it was you all along. I want to write every beat. Every change. Every stupid, messy, human moment. And yes. We will suffer. You, me, Nix, Jungkook, Yeji, Taehyung, everyone.

So I'd say sorry, but let's be honest, if you’re here right now—chapter 20, still with me—I know what kind of sick little freak you are. Masochist. You're not fooling anyone.

And I adore you for it. Thank you for choosing violence with me. Thank you for loving these two idiots. Thank you for reading. I mean it. So much.

Okay. Enough rambling. Go read. Go cry. Go scream. Tell your friends. Tattoo “Phoenix x Rogue” on your ass if you feel so inclined.

Mwah.

(Shameless reminder to support me on Ko-fi if you like my unhinged writing mess).

Edit because apparently I need to make this clear; my stories are extremely slow paced. This is STATED in the author’s INTRO I EXPLICITLY mention you must READ before delving into any of my works. I am tired of messages complaining about the pacing. You are warned beforehand. You chose to read this knowing it’s going to be slow as hell. Nobody is holding you hostage. If you’re bored, you can leave. I seriously don’t care. I am writing my stories because I crave this type of storytelling where everything is narrated in detail and nothing is glossed over. My readers know that and they choose to stay because they want the same thing. 80% of stories out there are fast-paced. I am catering to the people who want this type of organic development. If that’s not your thing, that’s absolutely fine. But you don’t get to complain and whine about something when there’s 100 fanfics out there you can read instead. You don’t get to come for me or my writing—lest of all my readers. I said what I said.

⋆｡°✩ read on✩°｡⋆

ao3

wattpad

Books have always been your lifeline in a world that feels like it's trying to drown you.

You've loved them for as long as you can remember, though you can't pinpoint the exact moment they became your refuge. It wasn't a dramatic epiphany or a life-changing event. Just a gradual realization that between the pages of a book, you could breathe easier.

Kafka speaks to the part of you that feels constantly out of step with the world (though you'd never admit that to Taehyung—his smug "I told you so" would be unbearable).

Murakami paints surreal landscapes that make your own reality feel a little less suffocating.

And now Donna Tartt, because you're tired of Jimin's scandalized gasps every time you confess to not having read her yet.

You weren't the stereotypical bookworm growing up. No thick glasses perched on your nose, no disdainful sniffs at the mention of pop culture. You didn't turn your nose up at Harry Styles concerts or roll your eyes at school dances.

But even as you navigated the treacherous waters of adolescence—first periods and friendship fallouts, the constant drama of simply existing as a teenager—books were always there.

A constant, even if sometimes pushed to the background.

They became your armor when the weight of expectations threatened to crush you. When disappointment hung heavy in the air, threatening to send you away in a chokehold, you'd retreat into worlds made of paper and ink.

It was easier to face fictional monsters than the very real ones lurking in parent-teacher conferences and college application deadlines.

Now, standing amidst the shelves of Barnes & Noble, surrounded by the comforting smell of new books and possibility, you can't help but feel a sense of belonging. Like you've come full circle. From the little girl who used to hide under her covers with a flashlight, devouring stories long past bedtime, to the woman who's made words her life's work.

It's not always easy.

Sometimes the words on the page blur together, your mind too full of real-world worries to lose yourself in fiction.

But even then, the weight of a book in your hands is grounding.

A reminder that there are always other worlds to explore, other lives to live, if only for a few hundred pages.

Maybe that's why you're here, arranging displays and recommending titles to strangers.

Because somewhere out there is another person drowning in expectations, desperate for a lifeline.

And maybe, just maybe, you can be the one to hand them the right book at the right moment—help them with their very own small act of rebellion against a world that sometimes feels too heavy to bear.

Mark hovers nearby as you arrange a new display of bestsellers, lanky frame, loose shirt and baggy pants. He's the one who picked up your application when you and Yeji came in last week—the one with the kind eyes and the nervous habit of clutching his hands together every five seconds.

Blonde, blue-eyed. You’d dare say he’s not bad-looking. For a man.

"So basically," he explains, voice pitched low like he's sharing state secrets instead of retail procedures, "most days you'll either be on register, floor assistance, or shelving. Today you're just shadowing me on the floor."

Floor assistance, as it turns out, is mostly wandering around looking approachable (but not too approachable) and occasionally directing lost souls to the bathroom or the manga section. You're also expected to straighten displays, check for misplaced books, and maintain what Mark calls "the Barnes & Noble aesthetic."

"Which means?" you ask, adjusting a copy of the latest Sally Rooney that's slightly out of alignment with its siblings.

"You know," he shrugs, hands doing that awkward hovering thing again, "like... cozy but sophisticated. Inviting but not cluttered."

You nod like this makes perfect sense, though privately you think it sounds like the kind of bullshit corporate memo someone got paid way too much to write.

"What about recommendations?" you ask. "Do we have any input on displays or—"

"Oh, totally!" His face brightens. "We each get to curate an employee picks shelf. You can start working on yours next week."

That, at least, sounds promising.

Already your mind is cataloging possibilities—perhaps a mix of classics and contemporary, maybe something unexpected thrown in. Definitely not the usual suspects everyone claims to have read but hasn't.

And just like that, the morning quickly blurs into afternoon.

Your tasks are the same all day: shelving, straightening, and following Mark around as he points out the minutiae of bookselling. It's mindless work, but not unpleasant. There's something soothing about putting things in order, about knowing exactly where everything belongs.

By the time your lunch break rolls around, you've settled into a comfortable groove. The break room is empty except for you and your sad turkey sandwich, the ancient TV in the corner playing a rerun of The Office. One where Jim is pulling some elaborate prank on Dwight. You find yourself smiling despite the mediocrity of your lunch.

The afternoon passes in much the same way—quiet, uneventful, almost peaceful. You help an elderly woman find the latest Louise Penny mystery. You alphabetize a section of poetry that looks like it's been hit by a tornado. You dust shelves that probably haven't seen a feather duster since Obama was president.

And then, suddenly, it's 5 PM.

You glance at your phone, mildly surprised that eight hours have passed without a single customer meltdown or retail horror story. No one has asked to speak to your manager. No one has tried to return a clearly read book with coffee stains on page 47. No one has even approached you with one of those vague "I'm looking for a book with a blue cover about a thing that happens" requests.

In fact, you've barely interacted with customers at all. It wasn't your turn on register, and most browsers seemed content to wander without assistance.

It's been... nice.

Quiet.

The kind of job where you can disappear into your own thoughts for stretches at a time.

You could get used to this, you think, clocking out and grabbing your bag from the locker.

Maybe it won't be the soul-crushing retail experience Yeji warned you about. Maybe you've lucked into the unicorn of part-time jobs—one that pays the bills without completely draining your will to live.

Or maybe it's just the first-day honeymoon period, and next week you'll be dealing with entitled parents who think the children's section is a free daycare.

Either way, as you push through the employee exit into the early evening air, you feel a strange sense of… accomplishment?

Surely, it's not saving lives or changing the world, but you can’t deny it’s satisfying; a day spent surrounded by books, putting things in order, creating small pockets of calm in a chaotic world.

And now, apparently (because God forbid the universe lets you forget) you have plans.

With Jungkook, of all people.

The thought should make you anxious.

It doesn’t.

You check your phone and see his text:

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚘𝚗 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚖𝚘𝚖𝚊? 𝚊𝚖 𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎

You scan the street and spot him leaning against a lamppost, scrolling through his phone, looking unfairly good in a simple black t-shirt and jeans. Your roommate. Your sometimes-hookup. Your... friend?

The word still feels strange, but maybe it's time to try it on for size.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚑 𝚒'𝚖 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚠

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚞

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚊𝚜 1𝚜𝚝 𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗 𝚋𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚙𝚙𝚕

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚕𝚢 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚗𝚘 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚒𝚏𝚝𝚢 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚢 𝚜𝚘 𝚒'𝚖 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚠𝚒𝚗

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚠𝚘𝚠 𝚕𝚘𝚠 𝚋𝚊𝚛 𝚗𝚒𝚡

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚞 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚌𝚞𝚝𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚋𝚕𝚞𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚝𝚠

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚊 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚛𝚝 𝚛𝚘𝚐𝚞𝚎

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚒 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚛𝚝𝚜 𝚛 𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚡

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚒'𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚗 𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚘𝚏 𝚞𝚛𝚜

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚘𝚖𝚏𝚐 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙 🙄

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚎'𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚙𝚞𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚌

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚞 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚎'𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚙𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚗𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚕 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛?

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛?

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜𝚗'𝚝 𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚋𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚟

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚝𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚑𝚝𝚘

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚖𝚘𝚖𝚊 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚏𝚘𝚘𝚍?

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚗

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚌𝚘𝚘𝚕

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚊𝚕𝚜𝚘 𝚒 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚞 𝚋𝚝𝚠 𝚒𝚖 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚒'𝚖 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚠

��𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚊𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚘𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚖𝚎 𝚗𝚒𝚡

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚜𝚝 𝚖𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒'𝚖 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗 𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚐𝚘 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚗𝚘 𝚞 𝚠𝚘𝚗𝚝

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑 𝚖𝚎

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚊𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗 𝚞 𝚙𝚑𝚎𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚝𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚙𝚢 𝚊𝚏

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚕𝚢

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚛

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚝𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚑𝚝𝚘

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚘𝚖𝚏𝚐 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙 𝚜𝚊𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚖𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚑𝚑𝚑𝚑𝚑

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚒 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚞 𝚛𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗 𝚞𝚛 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒'𝚖 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚕𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙 𝚝𝚎𝚡𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚎

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚘𝚔 𝚋𝚢𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚞 𝚒𝚗 𝟹𝟸𝟷

You spot him leaning against the lamppost, scrolling on his phone like he doesn’t have a care in the world. Hands shoved into his pockets, shoulders relaxed, black t-shirt fitting just right—not too tight, not too loose. It’s casual. Effortless.

And yeah, you’ve seen him in casual before—sweats, pajamas, even that stupid hoodie he refuses to throw out—but this is different. This is casual street Jungkook in the wild, outside the apartment.

Casual street Jungkook who’s here with you to do something normal and non-sexual and… friendly.

He looks good. But then again, you already knew that. There’s a reason you fuck him despite his infuriating personality.

Even when he says things that make you want to strangle him with his own belt.

He catches sight of you approaching and grins, that stupid lopsided grin that’s all teeth and confidence.

“Hey,” he says, voice light like this is just another day.

You don’t respond. Don’t even look up from your phone as your thumb swipes through apps in search of Maps.

“We have a twenty-minute ride from Union Square to the MoMA,” you say flatly. “The exhibit starts in thirty-five, so let’s go.”

“Sure,” he says easily, pushing off the lamppost with a lazy shrug. “What line?”

“N, Q, R—whichever comes first.” You finally glance up at him as you say it, but only briefly. Just long enough to catch the slight raise of his eyebrows before he nods.

“Okay.”

And then you’re walking side by side toward the subway entrance like this is normal. Like this isn’t the first time you’ve agreed to spend time together without sex as the unspoken endgame.

The stairs down to the subway are crowded—typical for a weekday evening—and you both swipe your cards at the turnstile without a word. There’s a guy pissing in one corner of the station (because of course there is), and Jungkook widens his eyes in a grimace like he’s trying to wipe away the sight of it. You don’t comment, just keep moving toward the platform like nothing happened.

It shouldn’t feel awkward. It’s never been awkward with him before—not even when things got messy or complicated or downright stupid between you two.

But now?

Now it feels like there’s this invisible weight hanging between you, pressing down on every step you take together.

Maybe it’s because he brought up that whole “trying to be friends” thing this morning—friends who have expectations, and expectations lead to disappointment, and disappointment leads to losing control.

Or maybe it’s because now that he said it out loud—now that he put friendship on the table—you can’t stop overthinking every little thing about this outing.

What does he expect from you? Does he want small talk? Does he want silence? Is this supposed to feel casual or meaningful or something else entirely?

You glance at him out of the corner of your eye as you both stop near the edge of the platform. He’s standing close but not too close—hands still in his pockets, gaze fixed on some ad plastered across the opposite wall. He doesn’t look uncomfortable or tense or anything remotely resembling how you feel right now.

Which makes sense because Jungkook never overthinks anything. He just does whatever feels right in the moment and deals with the consequences later (if at all).

It’s one of the things that drives you crazy about him—and maybe one of the things you secretly envy.

The train isn’t here yet, so now what? Do you say something? Ask him about his day? Pretend this is normal and fine and not at all weird for you?

“So…” Your voice comes out hesitant—too hesitant—and you immediately hate yourself for it.

Nice going, stupid bitch.

He glances at you but doesn’t say anything right away, waiting for you to finish whatever thought you’re trying (and failing) to articulate.

“What did… what did you do?” You clear your throat awkwardly, shifting your weight from one foot to the other as if that’ll somehow make this less painful for both of you. “Until… y’know… five?”

His lips twitch like he’s fighting back a smirk—like he knows exactly how much effort it took for you to ask such a simple question—and for some reason that makes you want to shove his head against the next train.

“Not much,” he says finally, his tone casual but not dismissive. “Watched some YouTube tutorials. Tried making sourdough again.”

You blink at him. “Sourdough?”

“Yeah.” He shrugs like it’s no big deal, like baking bread is just a totally normal thing for someone like him to do in their free time. “Didn’t come out great though.”

“Oh.”

You don’t know what else to say to that—to him—so instead you just nod and glance down at your phone again like there’s something urgent demanding your attention.

But then, as if destiny decided (for once) to make things easier for you, the train arrives with its usual screech of brakes and rush of stale air, saving you from having to come up with any more awkward small talk on the platform.

So you step onto the train together—side by side but not touching—and you can’t help but wonder if this whole ‘trying to be friends’ thing is going to be harder than either of you realized.

Inside Jungkook moves instinctively to the metal bar overhead, reaching up to steady himself as the train lurches forward. You follow suit, your fingers wrapping around the same bar just a few inches away from his.

It’s fine. It’s normal. People share subway bars all the time. Nothing weird about it.

Except your hand shifts slightly as the train rounds a corner, and suddenly your pinky brushes against his. Just barely—a fleeting touch—but it’s enough to make you freeze for half a second.

And…

You don’t look at him.

You refuse to look at him.

Because if you do, you’ll see that stupid smirk he always gets when he knows he’s gotten under your skin, and you’re not sure you can handle that right now.

But then his hand shifts too—like, on purpose?—and his pinky brushes yours again.

Softer this time.

Lingering.

Your stomach twists in a way that feels equal parts annoying and… something else you don’t want to name. You glance up at him despite yourself, ready to snap something sarcastic or dismissive or whatever it takes to make this moment feel less charged than it suddenly does.

But he’s not smirking. He’s just… looking at you. Calmly. Quietly. Like this is nothing more than two people sharing a subway bar in a crowded train.

And maybe it is nothing. Maybe you’re just overthinking it because that’s what you do—because every little thing with him feels like it carries more weight than it should.

Still, when his fingers shift again—this time curling slightly so the side of his hand presses against yours—you don’t pull away.

You don’t say anything either, just let your fingers relax against the bar as the train rattles onward.

It’s small. Subtle. Barely even noticeable in the grand scheme of things.

But somehow, in the cramped chaos of the subway car—with strangers pressed against you on all sides—it feels like the quietest moment you’ve had all day.

You don’t look at him again—not directly—but out of the corner of your eye, you catch the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips. Not cocky or teasing or anything remotely resembling his usual expressions.

Just soft.

And for some reason, that makes your throat tighten all over again.

You never expected to find Jungkook beautiful.

He stands in front of a massive black and white photograph with his head tilted slightly and dark brown eyes narrowed in concentration.

The lightning inside the space makes everything feel way more thought-provoking than it actually is. All you notice, really, is how it deepens the line of his jaw, the slight furrow between his eyebrows. His lips, and how they move silently, like he's having some private conversation with the image before him.

Stupid, handsome motherfucker. Why does he exist in your space?

You've seen him naked. You've seen him laughing so hard he nearly falls off the couch. You've seen him half-asleep and grumpy at 6 AM.

But you've never seen him like this—completely absorbed, genuinely focused on something that isn't getting laid or annoying the shit out of you.

"The composition is fucking incredible," he says without looking at you, gesturing at the photograph. "See how they've used negative space to draw your eye to the subject? And the depth of field is so deliberate—keeps you just slightly off-balance."

You blink, caught off guard by the sudden technical analysis. Since when does Jungkook know smart words?

"You actually know about photography?" It comes out more surprised than you intended.

He turns to you then, one eyebrow raised. "Film major, Nix. Kind of comes with the territory."

"Yeah, but—" You stop yourself, not sure how to articulate that you assumed his interest in film was mostly about looking cool and impressing girls.

"But what?"

"Nothing," you mutter, moving closer to the photograph. "Just didn't realize you paid attention in class."

He snorts. "I maintain my GPA through pure charm and good looks alone. No actual knowledge required."

You roll your eyes, but there's no real annoyance behind it. "Seriously though, you seem like you actually know what you're talking about. It's... weird."

"Weird that I'm not a complete idiot?" He steps back from the photograph, hands sliding into his pockets. "Gee, thanks."

"That's not what I meant."

He shrugs, already moving toward the next piece—a series of distorted portraits that seem to melt into one another.

"I just like this stuff. Always have."

You follow him, curiosity getting the better of you.

"Since when?"

"Since forever," he says, stopping in front of the portraits. "My mom was into photography. Had this old Pentax she used to carry everywhere. Taught me how to develop film in our bathroom when I was like, eight."

His voice always turns weirdly soft when his mom is involved. It makes you pause.

This is the most he's ever shared about his family, you realize.

You're not sure whether to press further or let it go.

Before you can decide, he continues, "These portraits are using multiple exposure. See how the faces blend together? It's like—when you overlay two negatives, you get this ghost effect. The new digital stuff makes it easier, but there's something about doing it on actual film that hits different."

His enthusiasm is... surprising. And weirdly contagious. You find yourself leaning in closer to see what he's pointing out, actually interested in the technical explanation.

"The photographer probably used a really slow shutter speed too," he adds, gesturing at the blurred edges of the subjects' features. "Makes movement look like this—sort of ethereal, you know?"

You don't know, not really, but you nod anyway.

Because his voice picks up speed when he talks about this, his hands do slightly more animated movements as he explains, and there’s genuine passion coloring his words and it’s…

It's... different. Seeing him care about something so much.

"What?" he asks suddenly, catching you staring at him.

You hadn't realized you were. Heat creeps up your neck, and you look away quickly.

"Nothing."

"Nah, you were looking at me weird."

"Just..." You shrug, aiming for casual. "You're a huge nerd, that's all."

He blinks at you, then barks out a laugh. "Wow. I share my vast knowledge and expertise, and that's what I get?"

"Vast knowledge? Your head barely fits in the room as it is."

"That's it," he declares, turning away dramatically. "I'm not explaining anything else. Figure it out yourself, philistine."

You swat at his arm, fighting a smile. "Oh come on, I was joking. Keep nerding out. It's..." Cute? Interesting? Surprisingly not annoying? "...Educational."

He gives you a suspicious look but seems mollified. "Fine. But only because I'm generous with my brilliance."

You snort, following him to the next piece. "So generous."

And it's strange, this feeling—this easy back-and-forth that doesn't have the usual sharp edges.

For a moment, it almost feels like you could be friends. Real friends, not just roommates who occasionally fuck and mostly argue.

The thought is so unexpected that it—

Pain.

Sharp and sudden, like someone stabbing a hot poker into your lower abdomen. Your breath catches, body instinctively curling in on itself.

Your hand flies to your stomach as another wave hits, this one even more intense than the first.

It's the IUD again—has to be. But this is worse than before. Much worse.

You stop walking, one hand gripping the nearby wall for support as you try to breathe through it.

Just breathe. It'll pass. It has to.

It doesn't.

The third wave nearly brings you to your knees, a cold sweat breaking out across your forehead.

Jungkook makes it several steps before realizing you're no longer beside him. He turns back, eyes falling on your hunched form, and his expression shifts instantly from relaxed to concerned.

"Yo, what's wrong?" He's back at your side in three quick strides, voice pitched low but urgent.

You shake your head, not trusting yourself to speak yet. Just need a minute. Just need to breathe.

"Phoenix?" His hand hovers near your elbow, not quite touching. "Hey, talk to me. What's happening?"

"It's—" Another stab of pain cuts you off, and you bite down hard on your lip to keep from making a sound. "It's nothing. Just—cramps."

His frown deepens, eyes scanning your face.

"Bullshit. You look like you're about to pass out."

"I'm fine," you insist. "Just give me a second."

The lie tastes bitter on your tongue, but the alternative is worse.

Admitting weakness? Letting him see you crumble?

Absolutely fucking not.

Your uterus twists again—sadistic little organ—and you clench your jaw so hard you're surprised your teeth don't crack.

Breathe. Just breathe. You've handled worse.

(Have you, though?)

He's hovering now, that frown cutting deeper between his eyebrows, and you hate it.

Hate how his eyes flick over your face, cataloging symptoms.

Hate how his hand lifts halfway toward you before dropping back to his side, like he's afraid to touch you without permission.

"Ibuprofen," you manage, the word strained but determined. "I just need some ibuprofen."

"Nix, you seriously look like you're about to pass out—"

"Ibuprofen," you cut him off, sharper this time. "Seriously. I'll be okay. Just need. Ibuprofen."

You're not going home. Not happening.

You just got this fucking copper IUD on Wednesday—of course it's being a bitch. Three days of cramping is normal, right? Has to be.

And this is your first real attempt at being normal humans together, plus it's his birthday and Yoongi's expecting you to keep him out until eight. Your goddamn uterus is not ruining this.

A particularly vicious cramp rips through you, and you have to bite down on your lip to keep from making a sound. Jungkook notices, because of course he does. His eyes narrow, jaw working like he's physically biting back whatever argument he wants to make.

Finally, he sighs—loud, frustrated, dramatic in that way only he can be.

"Okay."

The surrender in his voice shouldn't feel like a victory, but it does. Even as another cramp threatens to fold you in half.

"Okay," he repeats, softer. "Let me see if I can get you one. Just—wait here, alright?"

He wraps his fingers around your elbow, not gripping, just guiding, and you let him because walking feels like a monumental task right now. .

Focus. One foot, then the other.

There's a cushioned bench a few feet away. A kid sits at one end, maybe seven or eight, swinging his legs and staring at the floor with the bored expression of someone dragged to a museum against his will.

Jungkook walks you toward it, his hand steady on your arm.

"Hello," he says to the boy, voice gentler than you've ever heard from him. "Sorry, my friend over here is in pain and really needs to sit down."

The kid looks up—first at Jungkook, then at you—eyes widening slightly. He doesn't say anything, just scoots over, fingers drifting to his mouth as he continues to stare.

"Thanks, buddy," Jungkook says, helping you sit.

You sink onto the bench, the relief immediate but not enough. It still feels like someone's playing Operation with your insides, fishing out organs with a pair of rusty pliers.

Jungkook lingers for a second, hesitant.

"You sure you'll be okay if I—"

"Go," you grit out, not trusting yourself to say more.

He gives you one last look—concerned, frustrated, something else you can't name—before turning and striding away with purpose, disappearing around a corner.

And then it's just you, the kid, and the agony twisting through your abdomen.

Great. Fantastic. You can't even make it through one normal human interaction without your body staging a fucking rebellion.

Every time you try to—what? Be a decent person? Spend time with someone who isn't Yeji? The universe laughs in your face.

The kid is still staring at you, blue eyes huge in his small face. You force what you hope is a reassuring smile but suspect looks more like a grimace.

"Your face is becoming white," he says matter-of-factly.

"Thanks," you mutter. "I'm aware."

"Like a ghost," he adds helpfully. "Are you gonna throw up?"

Jesus Christ. This is your life now. Being assessed by a tiny human while your reproductive system wages war against the rest of your organs.

"No," you say, though you're not entirely sure that's true. "Just need some medicine."

"My mom says medicine is for when you're really sick," he informs you, kicking his heels against the bench. "Are you really sick?"

Another twist of pain, and you have to close your eyes for a second.

"Something like that."

"Is that man your boyfriend?"

God, children and their questions. No filter, just an endless stream of curiosity with no regard for social niceties.

You should lie.

Should say yes, it would be simpler than explaining the complicated mess that is you and Jungkook.

"No," you say instead. "Just a... friend."

The word still feels strange. Foreign. Like you're saying it in a language you barely speak.

"Oh." The kid looks disappointed. "He looks like a superhero."

Despite everything—the pain, the frustration, the growing concern that the gyno didn't warn you about this level of copper IUD hell—you almost laugh.

Because Jungkook? Oh he would fucking love that. His ego is already the size of Manhattan; the last thing he needs is child-based validation of his supposed heroism.

"More like a supervillain," you mutter.

The boy's eyes widen further. "Really?"

"No, not really. Just a regular person who's..." You pause, not sure how to finish that sentence.

Annoying? Complicated? Stupidly attractive even when he's being insufferable?

"...helping me out."

You press your palm harder against your abdomen, hoping the pressure will somehow counteract the pain. But truthfully, it doesn't. If anything, it's getting worse, spreading from your core outward until your lower back aches and your thighs feel weak.

This can't be normal.

Well, maybe it is.

You've never had an IUD before—what the hell do you know?

Clearly should've read beyond the first page of that pamphlet they gave you, but you were too busy trying not to think about the actual insertion part.

"I have lots of friends," the kid announces proudly. "But none of them are girls."

He wrinkles his nose like this is the most disgusting concept imaginable.

Despite everything—the pain, the frustration, the knowledge that this day is slowly derailing—you almost smile.

"Girls aren't so bad."

He shrugs, unconvinced. "They like stupid stuff."

"So do boys."

"Nuh-uh. Boys like cool things. Like dinosaurs."

"Girls can like dinosaurs too."

He considers this, head tilted.

"I guess. My sister doesn't though. She just likes her stupid boyfriend." The contempt in his voice is impressive for someone whose feet don't touch the floor.

You're saved from further insights into his sister's love life by Jungkook's return. He's walking toward you with a small paper cup in one hand and a bottle of water in the other, his expression still caught between concern and that strange new softness.

"Got you covered," he says, dropping into a crouch in front of you. "They had a first aid station. Ibuprofen and water."

You take the pills and water with hands that shake slightly, downing them quickly.

"Thanks."

He sits beside you on the bench, close but not touching—some sort of distance that feels both considerate and maddening.

You realize now Jungkook is not one to push boundaries. Not when they’re firm, not when you’ve made them clear. Like when you told him this thing between you two stayed between you two and he just accepted it.

"Should take about twenty minutes to kick in," he says, voice low and even.

You nod, focusing on your breathing.

In and out. Slow and steady. Just get through this. You've handled worse.

(Have you, though? Because right now it feels like your insides are trying to claw their way out.)

"We can go home," he offers, so subsided it's almost comical coming from him. "If you want."

"No." The word comes out sharper than intended, and you soften it with, "No, I'm fine. Just need a minute."

He doesn't argue, just nods like he expected this answer.

Of course he did.

He knows you're stubborn, knows you hate showing weakness, knows you'll suffer through just about anything to avoid admitting you can't handle it.

The silence stretches between you, but it's not uncomfortable. Not exactly. It's... waiting. Patient. And you note how his knee bounces slightly, the only sign of restless energy in his otherwise still form.

"Thanks," you say again, quieter this time.

He glances at you, surprise flitting across his features.

"For what?"

"For not..." You gesture vaguely, searching for the right words. "Making it a thing."

His lips twitch, almost a smile but not quite.

"It's your body, Nix. Your call."

Something warm and unexpected unfurls in your chest at that—at the simple acknowledgment of your autonomy, your right to decide how to handle your own pain.

He could push. Could insist on taking you home, on calling a doctor, on making decisions for you "for your own good."

It's what most people would do, have always done, their concern overriding your independence.

But he doesn't.

Just sits beside you, a quiet presence in the middle of this mess, respecting your boundaries even as his knee keeps bouncing with what you suspect is concern he's trying not to voice.

It's... nice. Weird, but nice.

The kid on the bench has gone quiet, watching both of you with curious eyes. His mother appears suddenly, a harried-looking woman with a museum map clutched in one hand.

"Aiden, there you are! I told you not to wander off." She gives you and Jungkook an apologetic smile. "Sorry if he bothered you."

"He's fine," Jungkook says, easy and casual. "Just keeping us company."

Aiden slides off the bench, taking his mother's outstretched hand.

“They're friends," he informs her solemnly. "But not boyfriend and girlfriend."

His mother looks mortified. "Aiden!"

"It's okay," you manage, fighting back a laugh that would probably hurt like hell. "He's just observant."

Aiden's mother drags him away, his sneakers squeaking against the polished floor as he waves one last time.

And then it's just the two of you, sitting in silence on a bench in the middle of the MoMA like you belong there. Like this is normal.

All the while, the pain persists, still twisting through your abdomen.

Jungkook hums quietly—something soft and melodic that takes you a moment to recognize.

John Mayer. Of course it's fucking John Mayer.

Your gaze drifts to the floor, tracing the patterns in the polished concrete as another thought forms, heavy and insistent.

Should you tell him? About the IUD?

He's worried. You can see it in his eyes, the way his fingers tap restlessly against his thigh, the occasional glance he throws your way when he thinks you're not looking.

But he's not pushing. Not demanding explanations or insisting on taking you home.

Because that's not what he does.

He suggests, offers, hints... but never forces. Never demands.

Just accepts whatever you're willing to give, even when it's clear he wants more.

This morning he talked about being friends. About sharing things. About being more than just roommates who occasionally fuck and mostly argue.

Maybe this could be a first step. A tiny gesture toward whatever it is he's proposing.

But also...

Also what if you tell him and he smirks? Makes some stupid joke about how you wanted him raw that badly?

You know how quickly he covers discomfort with humor, how reliably he turns to sexual innuendo when a moment gets too real or too heavy.

And this moment is nothing if not heavy.

But overthinking it is getting you nowhere, and the silence is stretching too long, becoming its own kind of weight.

So you take a breath, summon what little courage the pain hasn't eaten away, and speak.

"I got an IUD." The words come out soft, hushed, almost hoping he won't hear them. "Wednesday."

His head tilts toward you, and you brace yourself. Wait for the snort, the smirk, the inevitable sexual commentary that will make you regret this tiny moment of trust.

But it never comes.

He just sighs softly, a small shrug lifting his shoulders.

"That's good."

Your eyes drift to him, confusion replacing the defensive tension you were building, because what does he mean?

He meets your gaze, then looks back at the photograph on the wall.

“I mean, it's good you're taking care of yourself. Your sexual health." Another shrug, this one smaller. "That's good, Nix."

Something in your chest loosens—a knot you didn't realize you were holding tight.

It's... not what you expected. Not from him.

Not from anyone, really.

"Yeah, well." You shift on the bench, wincing as the movement sends a dull throb through your lower abdomen. "Not feeling particularly great about it at the moment."

His lips quirk, not quite a smile.

"Pain that bad?"

"Like someone's playing Operation with my insides, but they're losing."

A soft laugh escapes him. "Fucking brutal."

"Pretty much."

Another stretch of silence, but this one feels different. Lighter, somehow. The pain is still there, but it's muted now, less all-consuming.

"Copper or hormonal?" he asks, voice casual like he's asking about the weather, not your reproductive choices.

You blink at him, genuinely surprised.

"You know the difference?"

"I do actually pay attention in health class, Phoenix. Plus, you know. Been with people who've had them."

"Copper," you answer, focusing on the question instead of whatever that feeling was. "I had a feeling hormones would mess with me."

He nods like this makes perfect sense. "Those are the ones that hurt more at first, right? Take longer to settle?"

Again, that surprise. "Yeah. How do you know that?"

"My ex." He shifts slightly on the bench, angling more toward you without actually moving closer. "She had one. Copper. Cramped like hell the first few months."

"Months?" The word comes out more alarmed than you intended.

His eyes widen slightly. "Not like, continuously. Just periodically. Mostly when she got her period. It got better though. Less intense over time."

"Great," you mutter. "Something to look forward to."

"Sorry." He winces. "Not helping, am I?"

"Not really, no."

"Do you..." He hesitates, eyes scanning your face like he's checking for warning signs. "Do you regret getting it?"

The question catches you off guard. Not because it's invasive—it's actually pretty reasonable given the context—but because of how genuinely he asks it. Like he really wants to know what you think. Not to judge, just to understand.

"No," you say after a moment. "No, I don't regret it. I wanted it. Chose it. This—This is just the shitty part. It'll pass."

"And this is something you want? Long-term?"

You nod, a little less certain than before but still sure enough.

"Yeah. I like not having to worry about it. Worth some pain now."

"Make sense. That's... smart." He tilts his head, that thoughtful look you rarely see crossing his features. "Planning ahead."

"One of us has to," you say without thinking.

His eyebrows shoot up. "Ouch. Direct hit, Nix."

"Sorry, I didn't mean—"

"Nah, it's fair." He cuts you off with a small laugh. "I'm not exactly Mr. Responsibility."

The self-awareness surprises you.

"You're not that bad."

"I’m not?”

“Okay I take it back.”

He chuckles.

The pain stabs again, sharper this time, and you can't quite hide the wince. His expression shifts immediately.

"Need to move around? Sometimes that helps."

You consider it. Sitting here isn't doing much except letting you focus on how much it hurts.

“Maybe."

"Think the ibuprofen's kicking in at all?"

His eyes scan your face, and you wonder what he sees there. Probably not the composed, controlled person you're trying to project.

"A little. It's not as bad as before."

"That's something." He stands, offering a hand but not insisting when you ignore it and push yourself up on your own. "We could head to the next gallery? Or go back to the one with that series you liked—the urban decay stuff."

The fact that he noticed which photographs caught your interest earlier shouldn't feel significant. It's just basic observation. Nothing special.

But it does. Feel significant, that is.

"Let's try the next one," you say, taking a tentative step. The pain doesn't immediately floor you, which is an improvement. "Slowly, though."

"No rush." He falls into step beside you, hands shoved in his pockets in that casual way he has, like he's completely at ease no matter where he is.

You nod, trying not to think about the surprise dinner. Trying even harder not to think about the stupid Mayer vinyl you bought him and the fact that all his film bros will be there.

"Thanks," you say after a few steps. "For not being weird about the IUD thing."

He glances at you, something almost like surprise flickering across his features before settling into a small smile.

“Nothing to be weird about. It's your body, Nix. Your choice."

"Yeah, but." You struggle to articulate what you mean. "Most guys would make some gross joke or get all squirmy talking about it."

"I'm not most guys."

"Okay pick me boy."

“And here we go again.” He snorts.

“Hey, you’re the one who said that generic ass shit.”

"Uh-uh, so," he says, deliberately casual as you round the corner into the next gallery space. "How do you feel about Mayer?"

You groan, shoving him lightly.

"I knew it. I fucking knew you were humming that shit on purpose."

He laughs, the sound warm and surprisingly genuine.

"Gravity is a classic! You can hate on the man all you want, but you can't deny the music."

"Watch me."

And just like that, you're arguing about John Mayer in the middle of the MoMA, the pain still there but somehow less important than this stupid debate about whether "Your Body Is A Wonderland" is the worst song ever written or just mostly terrible.

It's strange. Unexpected. Almost... nice

Maybe this friend thing isn't completely impossible after all.

New York smells different right before sunset.

The city air mellows somehow. Still dirty, still chaotic, but softer now. Like the golden hour light filtering through the buildings is actually changing the molecular structure of everything it touches.

Or maybe that's just the ibuprofen finally kicking in and making life worth living again. Hard to say.

Your phone pings as you walk beside Jungkook, the busy street full of that weird liminal energy between work day and evening. People rushing home, people headed out, everyone caught in that transitional space of not-quite-done and not-quite-started.

It's Yoongi, his message simple and direct:

𝐘𝐨𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐬🎧: 𝙷𝚘𝚠’𝚜 𝚒𝚝 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐? 𝚂𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚔?

You glance at Jungkook, who's completely absorbed in his own phone, thumbs tapping absently against the screen.

Focused. Unaware.

Perfect.

You send back a quick thumbs up emoji, ignoring the follow-up questions Yoongi's already typing. The less you engage, the less likely you are to give something away.

6:30 PM.

Just over an hour until you need to steer Jungkook to the ramen place for his surprise. An hour to fill without either dying from secret uterine rebellion or accidentally revealing the plan.

You slide your phone back into your pocket and lean slightly to see what's so captivating on Jungkook's screen.

Not that you care. Just curious. Normal curious, not weird curious.

Instagram?

He's editing a photo—one of the abstract architectural shots he took at the museum when you weren't paying attention.

It's actually... pretty good.

The photo highlights the sharp angles of the stairwell, light cutting through the space in a way that transforms something mundane into something almost ethereal.

"You have a photography Instagram?"

He startles, immediately angling the phone away from you with the guilty reflex of someone caught looking at porn in public.

"Yeah, but it's nothing important. Just, you know. Silly stuff."

That's... suspicious. Jungkook doesn't do self-deprecation, not about things he's clearly good at.

He's the first person to brag about his skills, his looks, his whatever. The fact that he's downplaying this is weird.

"What silly stuff?" You raise an eyebrow, trying to peer around his shoulder at the now-hidden screen. "Show me."

"No, seriously, it's no big deal." He actually puts his phone in his pocket, which is basically equivalent to locking it in a vault given how attached he usually is to the thing. "Just a hobby."

"Since when are you shy about anything?" You nudge his arm with your elbow, oddly intrigued by this sudden reluctance. "Come on, I’ll show you mine, you show me yours."

"Not everything has to be an innuendo, Phoenix."

"That wasn't—" You stop yourself, because okay, that did sound suggestive. "Come on, I let you drag me through an entire photography exhibition. The least you could do is let me see your supposed 'silly' photography Instagram."

He's not looking at you now, eyes fixed somewhere to the left, scanning the street like he's searching for an escape route.

Then his face changes, relief washing over his features as he spots something across the way.

"Hey, wanna check that out?"

He points toward a small storefront wedged between a vintage clothing shop and a bubble tea place. The sign reads 'String Theory: DIY Jewelry & Crafts' in quirky hand-painted letters.

"A bracelet shop?" You follow his gaze, genuinely confused by the abrupt change of subject. "Seriously?"

"Yeah, why not?" He's already moving toward the crosswalk, clearly eager to leave the Instagram conversation behind. "Could be fun."

"Since when do you care about DIY bracelets?"

He shrugs, the movement a little too casual to be genuine. "Since right now. Come on, Nix. Live a little."

You narrow your eyes, suspicious of this sudden interest in arts and crafts, but follow him anyway.

Because in all honesty… The distraction isn't unwelcome—you've still got an hour to kill, and arguing about his secret Instagram account wasn't exactly on your agenda for the day.

Plus, whatever he's hiding must be good if he's willing to make friendship bracelets to avoid talking about it.

You approach the shop, and it is small but bright, walls lined with colorful spools of thread, beads in every imaginable shape and size, and an assortment of charms that range from the typical (hearts, stars, moons) to the bizarre (tiny plastic dinosaurs, miniature food items, and what appears to be a collection of famous dictators' faces).

A twenty-something with purple hair and more piercings than you can count greets you from behind the counter.

"Welcome to String Theory! Let me know if you need help finding anything."

Jungkook nods in acknowledgement, already wandering toward a display of leather cords and metal clasps. You follow, still puzzled by this whole detour.

"So this is what we're doing now? Making friendship bracelets?" You pick up a spool of neon green thread, turning it over in your fingers. "Is this your way of making our friendship official? Should we be getting cards and flowers too?"

He snorts, examining a tray of silver charms with unexpected interest.

"If anyone's getting flowers in this scenario, it's me. I'm high maintenance."

"Yeah, no shit."

He glances at you, that familiar half-smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

“We don't have to stay if you don't want to. Just thought it might be..." He trails off, shrugging again in that way he does when he's trying to seem indifferent.

"What? Entertaining? A good way to avoid showing me your Instagram?"

"Both." He picks up a small wolf charm, turning it over in his fingers. "But mostly I thought it might be fun. You know, do something with our hands that isn't..."

He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively.

"And there's the innuendo. I was wondering how long you could go without making it weird."

"About thirty seconds, apparently." He sets the charm down, moving on to a collection of colored stones. "So, you want to make something or not?"

You consider it.

On one hand, making bracelets seems like a throwback to summer camp or middle school sleepovers—not exactly your usual Saturday night activity.

On the other hand, you've got time to kill, and it's oddly... refreshing to see Jungkook interested in something so innocuous.

Plus, you're still curious about that Instagram account, and maybe if you play along with this diversion, he'll eventually let his guard down enough to show you.

"Fine." You grab a small plastic basket from a stack near the entrance. "But I'm not making anything with your name on it, so don't get any ideas."

"Wouldn't dream of it." His smile widens into something more genuine. "Though I bet you'd rock a ‘Kuko 4-Ever' bracelet."

"I'd rather die, thanks."

You move along the wall, selecting threads in deep blues and purples because they're pretty, not because they remind you of the way Jungkook's hair sometimes looks in certain light. That would be stupid.

"So," you say casually, examining a tray of small metallic beads, "are you going to tell me about this secret Instagram account or what?"

He sighs, the sound more resigned than annoyed. "It's not secret. It's just... separate."

"Separate from what?"

"From me. From Jungkook. It's just a creative outlet, okay? Nothing special."

"But good enough that you don't want to show me."

He looks at you then, really looks at you, and there's something unexpectedly vulnerable in his expression.

"It's not that I don't want to show you. It's just... people get weird about it."

"Weird how?"

"They either think it's pretentious or they make too big a deal out of it." He moves to another display, this one filled with various charms. "It's easier to just keep it separate."

You follow him, curiosity piqued even further.

Jungkook, who walks around the apartment half-naked without a second thought, who leaves his dirty laundry in the most inconvenient places possible, who has absolutely no qualms about sharing the explicit details of his sex life—this same Jungkook is suddenly shy about his photography?

"I won't make it weird," you offer, surprising yourself with the sincerity in your voice. "Promise."

He looks skeptical. "You make everything weird, Nix. It's your special talent."

"Fuck off." You snatch a small charm from the tray without really looking at it—something circular with delicate metalwork. "I can appreciate art without being weird about it."

"It's not really art. Just photos."

"Of what?"

He hesitates, fingers tracing the edge of a tray.

"Mostly urban stuff. Architecture. Shadows. Light. Some nature." A shrug. "Just things I find interesting."

"That actually sounds cool."

He glances at you like he's checking for signs of mockery, then seems to decide you're being genuine.

"Yeah, well. Maybe I'll show you. Someday."

It's not a yes, but it's not a hard no either.

You'll take it.

"Cool." You move to the register, where the purple-haired employee is arranging a display of finished samples. "So how do we actually do this bracelet thing? I haven't made one since I was like, twelve."

"You think I have?" Jungkook laughs, setting his basket beside yours on the counter. "I'm flying blind here too."

The employee—Ash, according to their name tag—smiles.

“That's what I'm here for. What kind of bracelet are you thinking? We've got traditional friendship styles, leather wraps, beaded, charm..."

"Whatever's easiest," you say at the same time Jungkook says, "The coolest one."

Ash's smile widens. "How about a leather cord with beads? Simple but looks great."

"Sounds good," Jungkook agrees, emptying his basket on the counter. "Can we work on them here?"

"Absolutely. Let me set you up at the table in the back."

As you follow Ash toward a small workshop area in the rear of the store, your phone buzzes again. You check it discreetly.

𝐓𝐚𝐞🎨: 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢. 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚋𝚢 𝟾. 𝚑𝚘𝚋𝚒’𝚜 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜.

You glance at the time.

6:45 PM.

Just over an hour left of... this. This strange, not entirely unpleasant detour into something that feels almost like friendship.

You slip your phone away before Jungkook can see, ignoring the small voice in the back of your mind that wonders what other secrets he might be keeping, and why you suddenly care so much about finding them out.

Ash sets you up at a small wooden table pressed right against the front window.

"So, what are we making?" Jungkook asks, already rummaging through his selection of beads like a kid sorting Halloween candy.

You don't answer immediately, an idea taking shape as you run your fingers over the threads and beads scattered across the table. Your eyes catch on the small containers of alphabet beads near the edge of the table, then drift to the vibrant collection of orange, red, and yellow beads in various shapes and finishes.

Perfect.

You pull the alphabet containers closer, fishing out specific letters: P, H, O, E, N, I, X. Setting them in a neat line in front of you, you reach for more: R, O, G, U, E.

Jungkook watches, brows drawing closer together as he pieces together what you're doing.

When recognition hits, he laughs—short and surprised.

"Okay, seriously? You're making Phoenix and Rogue bracelets now?"

You shrug, reaching for the orange, red, and yellow beads, arranging them between the letters.

"What? Hell yeah. We already branded each other, might as well make it something to remember each other by."

"You think I want to walk around with a bracelet that says 'Rogue' on my wrist?"

He looks genuinely baffled, like you've suggested he tattoo your face on his ass.

"I don't care what you do with it." You roll your eyes, already threading through the first bead. "I'm making mine."

He snorts, but instead of arguing further, he actually helps you sort through the letter beads, pushing the ones you need closer. Then, to your surprise, he reaches for the same fiery-colored beads you've been using.

"What?" he says, catching your look. "If we're doing this ridiculous twin bracelet thing, they might as well match."

"I thought you'd go for all black or something."

He shrugs, picking out a particularly vibrant red bead.

"Rogues can be fiery too. Besides," he adds with a half-smile, "these are my colors."

"Your colors?"

"Yeah." He lays out a pattern—red, orange, yellow, just like yours. "Warm tones. Bold. Kind of obnoxious if you use too many at once."

"Sounds like someone I know," you mutter, and he chuckles.

Your fingers work almost automatically, threading beads onto the leather cord. You're not being symbolic on purpose. It just looks nice.

When you glance up, Jungkook is staring at his own pile of beads, expression oddly distant.

He's rolling a small sun charm between his fingers, back and forth, like he's trying to make a decision.

"What?" you ask, because his silence feels weird.

He shrugs, the motion feeling slightly too forced on him.

"Nothing. Just..." He sets the charm down, picks up a red bead instead. "I actually had one of these. A bracelet. When I was a kid."

This feels like something—a small piece of himself he's offering without being pushed.

So you keep your tone light when you ask.

"Yeah? What kind?"

"Leather, like this." He picks up one of the cords, wrapping it around his wrist to measure before cutting it. "With these bright beads my mom found at some market. Reds and oranges, kind of like these. I wore it until it literally fell apart."

"How old were you?"

"I don't know. Ten? Eleven?" He shrugs again. "Young enough that it was still cool, not lame."

"And now?"

His eyes flick up to yours, then away. "Now what?"

"Is it lame now?"

His expression wavers, tightening around the mouth.

"Nah, it's whatever." He starts threading red and orange beads onto his cord, precise and quick. "Just not something guys usually wear, you know? Unless they're trying to be edgy or something."

"Since when do you care about what's 'usually' done?"

He laughs, but it sounds different than his normal laugh—a little hollow, a little forced.

"Fair point."

You work in silence for a few minutes, with some accompanying sounds; like the soft click of beads and the occasional muttered curse when you drop one.

A yellow bead rolls across the table toward Jungkook, who catches it easily.

"Thanks," you mutter as he hands it back.

"No problem." He pauses, looking at the half-finished bracelet in his hands. "I lied, by the way."

"About what?"

"My mom didn't find the beads." He keeps his eyes on his work, not looking at you. "I did. She just helped me put it together because I was too small to handle the clasps."

Something about the way he says it makes your chest tighten—like this isn't just a random childhood memory but something… soft.

Something he doesn't share often.

"That's sweet," you say, matching his tone. "You don't talk about your mom much."

He tenses, and you inwardly curse yourself.

"Not much to say."

That's a lie if you've ever heard one, but you don't push. Whatever this is—this small opening, it feels fragile. Like pressing too hard would make him shut down completely.

"Mine would've hated this place," you offer instead. "Too messy. Too handmade. Not enough structure."

His lips twitch, almost a smile.

"Mine would've loved it. She was always into this crafty shit. Had a whole room full of art supplies back when..." He trails off, shakes his head. "Anyway. How's yours coming?"

The abrupt subject change is obvious, but you let it slide.

"Almost done. Just need the clasp."

You hold up your creation for inspection. It's nothing fancy—just a simple leather cord with 'PHOENIX' spelled out in silver letter beads, filled with the fiery colored ones you picked.

But it looks kind of cool, in a childish, summer-camp sort of way.

Jungkook leans forward to look, his expression warming.

"Not bad, Nix. Very on-brand."

"Let me see yours."

He hesitates, then holds out his own bracelet. It's just like yours to match, with 'ROGUE' spelled out in metal letter beads. But he’s added a small sun charm that catches the light when he moves.

"Shit," you say, genuinely impressed. "Yours is way better than mine."

He shrugs, but you can tell he's pleased by the compliment.

“I have an eye for design. Part of my many talents."

"And so humble, too."

"Humility is overrated." He sets his bracelet down, reaching for the clasps Ash left for you. "Here, let me help you finish yours."

His fingers brush against yours as he takes your bracelet, the touch brief but somehow startling.

You watch as he attaches the clasp with surprising dexterity, tattooed fingers moving deftly, and it’s kind of attractive, really.

How good he is with his hands when he wants to be.

"There," he says, holding it out to you. "All set."

“Wait,” you announce, searching through the charms box.

You swear you had seen a rain charm earlier, and you had briefly snickered at it. But now that he’s wearing the sun charm it feels oddly… like yours needs to have the rain one, just to contrary him.

So you pick it up, add it to your bracelet.

And then you smile at him, show him.

He snorts.

You turn it in your hand. It feels solid, real. A physical manifestation of the nickname he gave you—the one that used to annoy you but now feels almost like a strange term of endearment.

Ash then approaches your table, a small fabric-lined box in her hands.

"All finished? Those look great!"

You both nod, holding up your creations for inspection.

"Phoenix and Rogue," she reads, smiling. "And they match! The fire colors work perfectly for both."

"Yeah," Jungkook says, and you're surprised by the hint of pride in his voice. "Kind of the point."

"Perfect timing, then," Ash says, setting the box on the table. "We're actually starting a new community art project. Would you be interested in contributing your bracelets?"

You frown, confused.

"Contributing how?"

"We're collecting handmade bracelets from customers to create a wall installation," she explains, gesturing toward a corner of the shop where several bracelets are already displayed on a corkboard. "It's part of our five-year anniversary celebration. Everyone who contributes gets a polaroid of their bracelet and a discount on their next visit."

"Oh." You look down at your bracelet, feeling an unexpected reluctance to part with it.

Which is stupid, because what were you going to do with it anyway?

Wear it?

That would be weird.

"You don't have to," Ash adds quickly, picking up on your hesitation. "It's totally optional."

"No, it's cool," Jungkook says, already placing his bracelet in the box. "I like the idea."

You glance at him, surprised again.

"You do?"

"Yeah. Creating something that stays here, becomes part of the place." He shrugs. "Better than it ending up in a drawer somewhere, right?"

There's something about the way he says it—like he's not just talking about the bracelet anymore—that makes you pause.

But then he's looking at you expectantly, waiting for your decision, and you place your bracelet in the box beside his, the matching colors side by side.

"For the record," you say as Ash takes a polaroid of your creations side by side, "I would've worn mine."

Jungkook's smile is slow and surprisingly gentle.

“Yeah?"

"Maybe not in public," you clarify quickly. "But yeah."

"Me too," he admits quietly, and it feels like he's sharing another secret—small but somehow significant. "Don't tell anyone, though. Ruins my image."

"What image? The one where you pretend to be cool but actually know an alarming amount about John Mayer's discography?"

"Exactly that one." He grins, the most genuine expression you've seen from him all day. "It's carefully curated."

Ash returns with your polaroid and receipt, both bracelets now part of the store's growing collection.

"Come back anytime to see them. They'll be here as long as we are."

"Thanks," Jungkook says, taking the polaroid and tucking it carefully into his wallet.

As you step back out onto the sidewalk, the city bathed in the deepening gold of late afternoon, you feel strangely light despite the lingering pain in your abdomen.

You reach for your phone to check the time, only to find your pocket empty.

"Shit," you mutter, patting your other pockets frantically. "My phone."

Jungkook stops mid-stretch.

"You lose it?"

"Must have left it in the shop." You're already turning back toward the door. "Wait here, I'll be quick."

"Want me to—"

"No, it's fine," you say, perhaps too quickly. "Just give me a second."

The bell chimes as you push back into the store, Ash looking up from behind the counter, eyebrows raised in question.

"Forgot my phone," you explain, gesturing vaguely toward the table where you were sitting.

"No problem. Take your time."

You move quickly to the table, eyes already scanning for your missing device.

Three minutes later, you're back outside, phone safely in hand. Jungkook's leaning against a lamppost, scrolling through something on his own phone.

"Got it?" he asks without looking up.

"Yeah."

You slip it into your pocket without checking the time.

"Ready?"

He pushes off the lamppost.

"Lead the way."

You start walking toward the subway entrance, mentally calculating the time. It must be around 7:20 now. Perfect timing to get to the restaurant by 8.

"Hungry?" you ask, as casually as you can manage.

Jungkook stretches again, arms reaching skyward in a motion that draws your eyes despite yourself.

"Starving. What did you have in mind?"

"I know a place," you say, already angling toward the stairs. "Trust me."

And the weird thing is, from the way he falls into step beside you without question, it seems like he actually does.

goal: 550 notes

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dandelionlily · 3 days ago

Text

Howl was supposed to be the main character, but he weaseled out of it like the slitherer-outer he is and sent Sophie to do it in his place. As a third daughter (and therefore doomed to failure), Sophie thinks this is a terrible idea, but clearly someone has to be the main character. She supposes she’ll have to be, since no one else is stepping up to take on that responsibility.

obsessed with the fact that howl movingcastle, like, is the ideal portal fantasy protagonist. he's a welsh rugby-playing grad student who enters a magical world where he discovers he's a wildly powerful wizard. there's an evil witch out to get him and the king needs his help and there's a curse catching up with him. he has a magical creature sidekick and an orphan apprentice and a mentor who gets killed by the evil witch halfway through and a love interest under a terrible curse. the story is BEGGING for him to be the main character. and he's just like. no <3.

#howl's moving castle #howls moving castle book #howl jenkins pendragon #humor #sophie hatter

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prokopetz · 4 hours ago

Note

why do you think indie metroidvanias specifically take so long to make, and is there a solution that you'd like to see them go for? (i know that would likely mean a compromise of some kind, but like, you know)

The reason why is fairly obvious: the classic metroidvania formula makes it very easy to fall prey to unintentional scope creep and is a positive nightmare to QA.

Non-linear progression gating based on precision platforming challenges where the player's basic moveset is constantly changing means every little thing needs to be rigorously tested in every part of the gameworld, carefully checking every room with every combination of abilities the player could conceivably possess for a wide range of failure states.

Is there some combination of abilities that allows the player to get into this room, but not out of it afterwards? Is there some combination of abilities that allows the player to do things in an order you didn't expect? Does that variation in sequencing in turn create situations where the player can end up somewhere without an ability you had assumed was required to get there? And so forth.

Even once you've got everything tested, it's not over. Every tiny change during development, even as small as adding or subtracting a couple of percentage points from the player character's jumping height or walking speed, can potentially have a domino effect that introduces a whole new set of failure states. It's not a pretty picture!

As for solutions, the one most solo or small-team metroidvanias end up adopting is to put a damper on the exponential QA explosion by linearising progression. If you haven't flipped the right switch or visited the right room, the door simply doesn't open, the progression-critical cutscene simply doesn't trigger, and so forth. Even big-name metroidvanias often make judicious use of this one: for example, Super Metroid has certain doors in the early game that just arbitrarily will not open until you've collected a couple of specific items from the game's combat-free introductory area.

The trouble with this approach is that if you use it to the extent that's necessary to keep your QA responsibilities at a manageable level for a small team or solo developer, you functionally end up with a linear, level-based platformer that makes you walk from one level to the next. Whether this disqualifies a given title from the "metroidvania" label is a demarcation problem I'm not interested in litigating, but folks who expected a more open world experience are quite understandably going to be disappointed.

The approach I'd prefer more indie metroidvanias take is to keep things under control by limiting their scope. Not ever damn thing needs to be the next Hollow Knight; many classics of the genre can be completed in well under an hour with good routing even without employing modern speedrun tech. Similarly, some of the best indie metroidvanias are those with the smallest maps; Alruna and the Necro-Industrialists, probably the best example of open-world map design of any metroidvania published in 2024, has a map that's scarcely twenty by twenty screens, and its routing is downright fiendish.

(One of my perennial probably-never-gonna-happen projects is to design a full-featured metroidvania targeting a two to three hour casual playthrough whose entire map can fit on a single screen while remaining at a vaguely playable zoom level, in the style of titles like 1 Screen Platformer.)

#gaming #video games #game design #game development #metroidvanias #swearing

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sirahegao · 22 hours ago

Text

Duty Calls

Virgin Mark Grayson x Female reader

Summary: Being intimate with Mark never goes according to plan. He always gets called out for missions just before getting to the good part. He’s promised to make it up to you.

Tags: Just vanilla sex. Unprotected P in V. Oral sex (female receiving). Slight dirty talk. Whimpering. Overstimulation. Fingering. Masturbation. Missionary. Costume stays on. Creampies.

Wc: 3,430

AN: I was rewatching invincible and the whole Amber arc gave me this idea. Thank you for reading. Hope ya’ll enjoy.

It was rare to find intimate time with Mark. It was as if the universe intervened on purpose. Well, not the universe but a man called Cecil. That’s what Mark called the man who would send him on assignments at the most inconvenient of times. You were pretty sure he was somehow spying on you both and got a kick out of interrupting your alone time.

As you both made out deeply under the darkness of your dorm room, the tv the only source of light, you prayed that for once they wouldn’t call your boyfriend away. Especially now that he began to trail his kisses lower and lower.

You were both still fully dressed since what was happening was definitely not planned. A simple peck on the lips led to one thing and then to another. Like his clothed cock grinding on your lower half as he softly nibbled and sucked all over your neck. He was definitely leaving marks you would have to cover later.

“I… thought we were supposed to be watching a movie.” You managed to say as your fingers tangled between his dark hair. The ecstasy and anticipation making you sound out of breath.

The only response you received was an uninterested hum as his rough hands continued to explore your body under your shirt. His hands were everywhere except where you needed them, and knowing the world’s bad timing, you desperately began to guide one of his hands to your clothed cunt. Your excitement didn’t fail to form a wet patch on your pants which he definitely noticed. You were absolutely dripping for him, and the fact that he made you feel this desperate made his chest swell with pride and a smug smile appear on his face. Acting as if he wasn’t a virgin.

“Do you want me to touch you here?” He said smugly as he lazily rubbed circles on your clit. This caused you to squirm underneath him with your clothed cunt rising to meet his fingers. He was just following his instincts and your reactions. Like the way your body shuddered when he touched you a certain way, or the little yelps and whimpers that escaped you when he squeezed and caressed other parts.

“Y-yes… please… I want more.” You begged which was so out of character for you. Your relationship dynamic seemed to have flipped since you’re usually the assertive one while he is more timid and shy when it came to you. But the way he was handling you right now made you melt in his grasp.

If he wasn’t as desperate as you, he would’ve continued to tease you. He enjoys the way your face becomes flustered and the adorable way your eyes look at him when you beg. Not to mention the slight pout you give him which he bets you are not aware of.

Without meaning to, he ripped your pants off your body, unable to control his strength. You couldn’t help but gasp. He gave a nervous chuckle and offered you an apologetic look before softly removing your drenched panties off your body. You were embarrassed to admit that his demonstration of power made you hot and needy all over, wishing he would manhandle you like that too.

You spread your legs for him which earned you a sharp inhale from his end. He knew he had to hurry because with his luck, something was definitely about to happen. But, fuck, did he want to delve in you more. Explore your body with not only his hands but his tongue and mouth too. Make you come undone not only on his cock, but on his mouth and fingers too.

Fuck it.

“Mark stop looking at me like tha-“ before you could finish, his mouth connected with your pussy. His tongue rapidly lapping on your entrance between your folds all the way to your clit. It was a pattern of delving into your weeping hole and sucking on your bundle of nerves. His actions caused your bottom half to twitch and writhe beneath him. The pleasure becoming too much too fast.

You tried to inch yourself up, trying to take a break from his assault, but his grip on your thighs tightened keeping you in place.

“Why are you trying to run away from me baby? Am I not making you feel good? Am I doing this wrong?” He mocked sadness in his tone then continued to suck and lick your clit. Not failing to make eye contact. His puppy eyes meeting yours while his cheeks flared a pretty pink.

“S’too much.” You struggled to speak. The overstimulation on your clit became too much. Your thighs began to tremble and tightened around his head. The knot you felt on your lower half continued to tighten with each of his movements driving you closer and closer to the edge. God did you love the way his pretty brown eyes rolled to the back at his head from the mere taste of your pussy. He swore the taste of your cunt was enough to make him cum in his pants like the virgin he was.

And as if he didn’t even listen to your pleads, he proceeded to insert two fingers inside your dripping sex while he continued to suck on your clit. He curled and scissored them so deliciously never failing to reach that perfect spongy spot. You covered your face with a pillow to prevent you from screaming or moaning. This was an all girls dorm building which meant that being caught meant getting expelled. Not the mention the drama that would ensue from the faculty trying to figure out how Mark made it to the second floor of your building without getting caught by the security guards or cameras along the way.

The speed and roughness of his fingers increased the more he watched you tremble and struggle to keep quiet. His hand and fingers were dripping from your arousal causing his cock to further strain and twitch inside his jeans.

You held onto his free hand that was gripping your thigh as your body went rigid. You were so close that you felt more of your arousal drip onto his face and fingers. Your nails dug into his free wrist as you began to rut on his face loving the stimulation on your swollen clit.

“F-fuck. I’m so close.” Your words came out muffled behind your pillow but he was able to understand them. He moaned into your cunt absolutely in love with the sight of you. His moans and grunts were enough to send you over the edge, squirting on his pretty face as your body convulsed from the pleasure.

He wasted no time kneeling between your legs and freeing his aching cock from its confinement. His face still dripping from a mix of his saliva and your cum. You laid underneath him, limp and basking in the glow of your orgasm. Although you both had been together for a while, this was probably the furthest you’ve gone with him intimately. Sure there had been rubbing, grinding and over the clothes stuff, but you had been craving his cock this whole time, and although you were still sensitive from your orgasm, you wanted him to shove his cock inside you and use you for his own pleasure.

Your heart dropped when you felt the swollen tip of his cock circling and teasing your entrance.

It was finally happening.

When your eyes met he froze, “Are you sure you want me to continue?” Him stopping almost looked painful. You could see the way his cock throbbed desperate to be inside you.

You nodded eagerly.

The way your walls squeezed his tip felt heavenly that he had to stop himself from immediately shoving his cock deep inside you without letting you adjust. As much as he wanted to claim you, he didn’t want to hurt you.

“Please… just fuck me already.” You pleaded with tears welling your eyes not caring if it hurt.

A loud beeping noise cut through the air, snapping you both out of your lustful trance. It was a noise you both knew all too well.

“Fuck!” Mark shouted as he fumbled with his pants looking for the source of the noise. Once he took out his phone, he couldn’t stop himself from yelling at the person on the other end, “What?!”

Your eyes drifted behind him to the muted TV. Since you did not get a chance to play a movie, the random show that was playing in the forgotten background was interrupted by a news report about a meteor threatening all life on earth.

A meteor! A fucking meteor?! Are you fucking kidding me?!

Your head fell into the pillows in defeat as you brought your hands up to your face rubbing your eyes in frustration. You knew how the rest of the evening was about to play out.

“Can’t you just send literally anybody else Cecil? I’m kinda in the middle of something.” Mark pleaded but you both knew there was no use.

He ended the call with an annoyed growl.

He looked at you with those pleading puppy eyes. “I’m sorry baby. I have to go.”

“I swear, your boss does this on purpose. Is he spying on us? Can he see what we are doing?!”

“Don’t worry baby he wouldn’t do that… I’ve checked.” He added quickly.

“Out of all the heroes under his payroll, he has to send you?” Tears welled in your eyes out of frustration. You were so close. So close to finally claiming him.

He scrambled around the room for his jeans and underwear while you laid in bed trembling in frustration.

“I know baby. I’ll make it up to you. I promise.” He pecked your lips multiple times trying to cheer you up.

“It’s just a stupid meteor. I’ll be back in five minutes. I promise.”

Before you could answer he flew out the window. Papers you left around the room along with other light objects scattered in his wake.

With your luck, it definitely will not be five minutes. You predicted that once he punched the meteor, an ancient alien race living inside it will awaken and begin an invasion on earth. You didn’t doubt that mark could stop it, but it definitely would not take five minutes.

You groaned in frustration as you reached for your night stand. Angrily, you pulled the drawer open to reveal your cute pink dildo. Of course, it did not compare to Marks impressive length, but tonight it’ll have to do.

“Fucking bullshit.” You muttered under your breath as you reached for your phone. As angry as you were, you still wanted to tease your virgin boyfriend.

You, once again, spread your legs open positioning the tip of your dildo outside your tight hole. You were still wet from your previous orgasm, so there was little to no resistance when you pushed the tip inside. You whimpered at the delicious feeling desperately wishing it was marks cock stretching you.

Next, you positioned your phone between your legs with the camera app open capturing the sight of you fucking your self with your dildo. You wasted no time capturing the image and sending it to mark. The caption read, ‘This could’ve been you’ with an eye roll emoji. You had never sent him something so explicit like this before, but you were so horny that you did not think twice about it.

After sending the image, you tossed your phone aside and continued to focus on your pleasure. You thrusted the toy in and out of you but it didn’t quite reach your sensitive parts as Marks fingers did earlier. The room filled with the noise of your sinful wet squelching as you tried to hide your whimpers by biting your lip.

Your mind filled with images and thoughts of Mark as you continued to thrust your toy. The images of his abs, strong biceps, and large cock were enough to make you drip on the bed. As much as you wanted him to manhandle you with his strength and fuck you in any way he wanted, you also wanted to make him whimper and moan beneath you. You wanted to see his pretty face flush and desperate as he fucked you.

Those images were slowly pushing you to the edge. Your orgasm was right there ready to burst, but it just wasn’t enough. As much as it kept building, it never came and it was making you cry with frustration.

You got on your knees, ass up face down hoping the change in position would help with your dilemma. You continued to thrust the toy into your pussy moaning his name as more images of him clouded your mind. Especially all the different positions he could’ve had you in right now.

You were so focused on your orgasm that you did not feel him fly in. He stood at the end of the bed, eyes wide at the way your wet cunt swallowed your toy with ease. The way your cum dripped down the toy and onto the sheets caused his cock to strain painfully against his costume, begging to be touched.

As he enjoyed the view, he wasted no time lowering down the bottom half of his costume to free his stiff cock. He slapped the toy out of your hand and lined his cock with your hole. You gasped as you looked back at him. His mask still on as he didn’t want to waste any time undressing.

“Why do you look so surprised? I said it was only going to be five minutes.” Truth be told, he was struggling with the giant meteor until he saw the image you sent. New found strength surfaced and he was able to punch the meteor into smithereens before immediately flying back to your dorm, ignoring whatever Cecil had to say in his ear piece about clean up.

Finally.

He was finally going to claim you as his.

Feeling the way his girthy tip stretched your tight hole was enough to make you drool onto the sheets beneath you.

Mark held onto your hips with such force it almost hurt. He needed something to ground him to reality from the absolute bliss he felt within your walls. Your cunt felt so heavenly to him that it made him breathless, panting behind you.

“O-oh fuck.” He whimpered as he fully sheathed himself inside you. His cock throbbed before he even got the chance to begin thrusting leading him to cum deep inside your walls.

Before you could even question him about it, he slowly began to thrust in and out of you leading his cum to drip out of your pussy and down your thigh. He began to take his time with his thrusts, loving the feeling of every ridge and squeeze your wet pussy had to offer him.

“Fuuuck.” He moaned a little too loud for your liking, but you were so lost in the pleasure to care. You mindlessly began to shove yourself on his cock, setting up your own pace since he was moving too slow for your liking.

“W-wait. S’too much.” The pleasure caused him to slur his words. You could practically hear the way he drooled from your movements. His cock still too sensitive from his premature orgasm.

“I want to cum too Mark. Please help me cum on your cock. I’m almost there.” You moaned.

Your words were honestly enough to make him cum again but he held it in. He decided he wanted to leave you cock drunk in the same way your pussy had him.

His thrusts began to pick up the pace reaching newer depths that had you seeing stars. He consistently hit that delicious spongy part which caused shivers to run down your spine. The buildup to your orgasm came quick, nothing compared to the forgotten toy that way thrown somewhere across the room.

The only noise in the room was the wet slaps of skin on skin and he realized he did not like that. He wanted you to moan louder, to let him know he was doing a good job. His thrusts became rougher and faster which quickly pushed you over the edge. The buildup finally snapping as your body trembled and shuddered in pleasure. The orgasm hitting you hard enough to cause a ringing in your ears and your eyes to water from the intensity of it all.

“Mark~” you moaned into the pillows trying not to alert the rest of your dorm.

He did not like that.

He kept fucking into you bending over you so your bodies were flush against each other. The new position made him fuck you deeper than before. This time he was chasing his own release, proudly demonstrating his Viltrumite endurance.

“I’m going to make it up to you.” He grunted into your ear.

“I’m going to make it up for all those missed opportunities baby.” With that, he gave one more deep thrust before shooting his load deep inside you.

“F-fuck, baby I’m sorry. I came inside again.”

Without taking his cock out, he softly flipped you over so he could see your fucked out expression. Your cheeks were a deep crimson while you looked at him with half lidded eyes, still basking in the glow of your orgasm. The weak smile you gave him made him kiss your face all over. You looked so cute like this.

You didn’t fail to notice how his half soft cock was starting to become hard again inside you. Your legs tightened on either side of his hips as he slowly began to build up his thrusts again.

“You’re so beautiful. Look how hard you get me.” He said between kisses. His thrusts began to pick up pace again.

Without warning, he lifted one of your legs over his shoulder and continued his onslaught.

Your nails clung to the back of his costume as the air was knocked out of your lungs. As sensitive as you were, you felt another orgasm build up, more intense than the last. The mix of both your cums dripped down your thighs and onto his, dampening his costume.

You couldn’t believe that this was what you missed out on every time he flew out to be a hero.

“Take off that fucking mask.” You managed to say as he fucked you deeper.

“Let me see those pretty eyes.” You threw his mask somewhere across the room and were surprised to find those pretty brown eyes watery with tears.

“I’m sorry. I’m so pathetic. You just feel so good.” He slurred as his thrusts increase in force. The bed groaned beneath you and you feared he would end up breaking it.

“You make me feel so good. You’re doing such a good job baby.” You moaned into his ear causing him to whimper. Your words caused his thrusts to become erratic. This time you came first and you came hard, spraying his bottom half with your juices.

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” He mumbled as if it was a prayer before cumming inside you once again. He shudders as he empties himself inside, panting as if he had run a marathon. You felt so full of his cum that your body couldn’t hold it in anymore. His cum dripped out of you to join the mess beneath you. Kisses rained down on your cheeks and forehead before he dropped down besides you. You didn’t fail to notice how his cock was still a bit hard. No doubt his superhuman body was still able to keep going, but you were only human. You’re glad he didn’t push you for more.

“I love you.” He mumbled against your cheek.

“I love you too.” You turned to peck his lips.

“I just hope we weren’t loud.” You giggled.

“Don’t worry. I’ll just fly out and no one will notice I was ever here. They’ll just think you were masturbating a bit loud. Not enough to get you expelled right?” He teased.

You playfully hit his shoulder, but he was right. Just as long as they didn’t find a boy in the room with you, you should be okay.

“Weird how Cecil didn’t interrupt us this time.” You said as you cuddled against him

“That may have to do with me dropping my ear piece somewhere along the way over here.”

“Well you should find it and get back to work, invincible.”

“I should… maybe after another round.”

#invincible x reader #mark grayson x reader #smut #invincible comics #invincible #mark grayson #mark grayson x you #mark grayson x y/n #mark graryson fanfic

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