#I don’t know but it could have been interesting to explore

[madzilla84]

Emmrich and ambition

Something I don’t see talked about much (although I could have missed it) is Emmrich’s ambitiousness. He’s not just interested in the Fade, he’s the foremost expert in the world. He doesn’t just want to be a Mourn Watcher, he wants to reach the highest possible rank it’s possible for a Watcher to achieve (lichdom). (Obviously there are multiple positive and negative motivations for him to consider lichdom, but his ambitiousness is definitely part of it). 

(under the read more to save your dash)

There’s a conversation he has with Harding where she asks him what he would have done if he wasn’t a Watcher, and he thinks about it and eventually says he’d have been a botanist. But not just *A* botanist, noodling around in his greenhouse - he specifically says, “one of the great botanists”. It isn’t enough to just be a botanist, he has to be the best at it.

I’m not at all saying this as a negative thing, fwiw - very often this sort of ambition can come with a sort of big-headedness, especially when one is at the top of one’s field, but that doesn’t seem to be the case with Emmrich (the majority of the time, I’m sure he has his moments like most experts do). Rather, it spurs him on to greater heights and inspires him to share that passion with others. But that drive to Be The Best is definitely there.

It could explain why he was friends with Johanna - on the surface, it does seem a bit out-of-character considering her cruelty, unless you also consider her brilliance. They were on each other’s level academically, and he knew she could help him achieve (and she knew the same about him). I’ve no doubt her ambition was something he particularly admired … maybe *too* much, by his own recognition. Maybe it even spurred on his own.

I also raised an eyebrow when I chose Dorian for Archon and got a little ‘Emmrich approves’ pop up. While you could say it’s just because he likes the idea of a fellow necromancer being in charge - part of ambition is taking action to achieve your goals, and Dorian’s goals are definitely things Emmrich would agree with, even if he might not be in total agreement with his methods (which he might be! We don’t really know, he doesn’t say that much about it). So he’d probably, y’know, admire the conviction and determination if nothing else?

It’s likely something he also admires in Rook, whether romanced or not. Rook is the only person really in the world who is stepping up to tackle this issue, and yes they were already involved but they’re still doing it! It’s maybe also part of why he joins the Veilguard (all pretty ambitious people/the best in their respective fields).

I don’t really have a point here, I just wanted to ramble about an aspect of his personality I don’t see mentioned/explored all that much. Now he’s started seeing the world I’m sure he would like to continue doing that (and iirc his writer said essentially the same thing), but I’m sure he would also be involved in writing the inevitable books about what happened, wanting to be recognised for being part of it all, because - and we're getting into esoteric Waffle Territory here - if you dig into it his ambitiousness is likely all tied up with his fear of death, or perhaps more accurately, of being forgotten. Or perhaps even more accurately, of being left behind. By the world. Like he was by his parents. 

IT’S ALL CONNECTED!!

[lilactwilights]

a heathen clung to piety (a priest!gojo x reader fic)

series masterlist

summary: everything about satoru gojo is pristine. from his charming looks, to his unblemished family name and his exemplary priesthood. because of that, attraction is nothing more than fuel for what you assume is a one-sided fantasy, a carefully kept secret you are content to keep deep within. but when you end up in his bed, the vows he broke end up cracking the surface of his immaculate facade and bringing forward the painful memories and the cruel truth of a tragedy all too familiar.

or, you find out the angel named Satoru Gojo may have fallen a long time ago, and that you might end up falling with him too.

chapter summary: with satoru’s return, a new arrival at the city and winter prevailing, you are forced to confront all you have been trying to run away from.

word count: 10k

Hello there! ฅ≽(•⩊ •マ≼Thank you for your interest in reading! This was in my drafts for some time and in my mind for considerably longer. I have thought about Gojo a lot. And Priest Satoru Gojo spawned after playing with his canon counterpart like a Barbie, witnessing the talent of fandom creators and exploring a bit of my catholic memories. Let it be known that, funny enough, I have never experienced attraction towards a real-life priest and I don't think that day will come. Nonetheless, there's something about Gojo that has made his lil priest self my favorite plaything and that´s why I promised myself that, if I ever posted a fic again, I wanted him to do the honors. Excited to say that the day has finally come.I won't say much more here other than be mindful of the tags here, I will be updating them accordingly and letting you know if there is any specific thing you should keep an eye out for in the upcoming chapters.English is not my first language and I'm more than a bit rusty so it's a bit nerve-wrecking to put this out there /ᐠ ╥ ˕ ╥マ. Regardless, I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it ♡ (Might edit this chapter a bit in the near future)I'm new to tumblr so I apologize if the formatting looks a bit wonky, I´m still working on it, this is a reupload so if you have seen this before, yeah it was me :p

You don’t like winter.

It brings cold and sickness and painful memories with it. For you, the best part of it are the droplets of melting ice announcing its imminent departure and the first sightings of green peeking through the remnants of snow. Trees are still skinny and mostly naked, branches trembling at the wind, bending under the weight of the last snowfall but, between the leisure movement of a heavy cloud and the other, the sun has started to reach out with its lukewarm rays. 

As you stand on the platform, you claim the only spot touched by the sun, though it does little to alleviate the stubborn reminder of a winter you would chase away if you could. The wind remains almost freezing cold, it makes you shiver and shut your eyes tight every time it slaps you in the face, every hit of air chafing your skin. 

You mourn the scarf you left hanging at the rack back home. You were already two streets away when you realized you had forgotten it and you were quick to dismiss it in favor of catching the train on time. 

Now you are here, with no scarf, a freezing frame and a train running late, because, of course, only Satoru Gojo would manage to be late even by train. 

In fact, if a person could be blamed for making a train run late, it would probably be Gojo, somehow. Last time you took a train together, a few months back, you almost missed it because of him. He doesn’t have anyone to nag at him this time, so you can only hope he boarded on time, like he always seems to barely do.

This town needs an actual train station, you think, as you nuzzle further into your winter coat. There’s a little lobby next to the platform that is “closed for remodeling” because the administration had to choose the worst time of the year to modernize the cozy little lounge.  The platform you are currently shivering on was renewed by the Gojo Family almost two years ago, upon the arrival of their heir. The outline and build of the little ticket booth attached to the side of the station is reminiscent of the village props you saw at The Nutcracker the winter before. It’s too fancy for such a little spot outside of a small town like yours, too opulent for a place that’s not used as much anymore, but it’s a nice view you appreciate. However, all the cutesy and intricate carving does next to nothing to shield you from the cold. You heard the Mayor refused the Gojos’ offer to donate a proper train station and you can’t help but resent him too. After all, his pride is costing you your body temperature.

You nuzzle further into your clothes, pressing yourself against the column at another hit of wind. When you first arrived, the nice lady at the booth had offered you a place inside while you waited, but the space was already cramped enough with just one person in it, so you had to politely decline. It might have been a good decision considering she is currently nursing a cigar and likely emitting more fumes than the train you are waiting for. Right now, you can barely see her silhouette through the window with all the smoke condensed into the little booth. You have the itch to tap on the glass to see if she hasn’t passed out. Maybe if she is still conscious you can walk back your decision and ask for a little place in there with only your nice perfume and healthy lungs to pay the price. 

As you take a hesitant step towards the impromptu smokehouse, your attention is caught by a distant whistle, the telltale sound of a locomotive approaching. You perk up, waddling further into the platform to take a look as the sound of the machine gets louder. Indeed, the outline of the wine red train greets you between smog and frosty wind and you sigh, retreating once more to your waiting place.  

“About time,” you huff. 

Satoru left two weeks ago for a series of meetings with some higher ups from the Church. He called you every other day, mostly to nag or entertain himself. 

You don’t ask too much about what goes in there nor does he go into detail, he only ever talks about them to complain. Sometimes you think he has caught on to how much you truly dislike most of them and you are the only person he can sincerely unload his grievances with. 

As expected, only Satoru is getting off in this station. Your eyes meet through the window as he stands in the door waiting for it to open. His eyes widen for a second but crinkle immediately after as he smiles, all perfect teeth, mouthing something you can’t quite understand. You wave at him with a smile, cheeks feeling suddenly warm despite the cold. 

You point at your wrist while you lift a brow but it’s hard to keep the stern expression when the uncomfortable fluttering in your stomach makes you nauseous. 

You step back as the doors open and stand there, changing your weight from one foot to the other as he gets off, sturdy suitcase in hand. He doesn’t even take two steps into the platform before he leaves his luggage on the floor, gaze fixed on you. Someone that appears to be a young train worker, judging by the uniform, is trailing behind him with a bunch of boxes that Satoru ends up maneuvering in one hand after he places the suitcase on the floor.

Before the young boy can say something else, Satoru shoves one of the little boxes in his hands with a loud thank you. The boy blinks and bows his head awkwardly, a low expression of confused gratefulness escaping his lips as he retreats. You lift a brow at the display, your own confusion tampering with your smile but Satoru, as always, just returns it wholeheartedly, balancing the boxes on top of his luggage.

“I asked if you missed me,” he says in lieu of a greeting as he straightens up, bright blue eyes regarding you from above. 

The color in his gaze somewhat softens thanks to all the white and the gray around. That’s probably how the blue of the seas in the frozen lands far away look like. He is all pale colors, a striking contrast to his black jacket and dark blue scarf and his pink lips. He rarely flushes, but there’s a pleasant blush in his chiseled cheeks from the warmth that hasn’t died down under the harsh wind. He speaks again. And you see the way his lips curl. They look soft and plump as they dance and mold to the words that your cottoned ears can’t quite catch: “…missed”

“I asked if you missed me”

“Huh?” is your elaborate reply.

Satoru’s grin evolves into a chuckle. It’s a pleasant sound that you indeed have missed . Other days, when he directs that sound towards you, you find the sound irritating enough to pretend it doesn’t cave a pit in your stomach. Not today. 

Today he extends his arms, his wide form taking up the space with his broad back and his long limbs. You don’t think twice before sinking into him. You have missed him too much for your own good, you resolve, as he squeezes you so tight it steals a breathless huff of a laugh from you. 

“Get off…”

Satoru chuckles too, a rumbling sound vibrating against your smothered cheek. His hands don’t go lower than your back, but the feeling of his fingers pressed against you through your clothes projects all over your body.

“Not before you answer,” he adds, against your temple. 

“What?”

“If you miss me”

You gulp. It’s only the two of you between the cold and the fog on the platform. “I didn’t hear you say that at all.”

“But I did,” he retorts, leaning back just enough so your eyes meet, “And you still haven’t answered.” 

He smells like warmth and caramel. He probably ate sweets onboard and the smell of it swirls along his fresh cologne. Not unpleasant, but sure overwhelming when it’s paired with those intense eyes looking at you. 

“So?”

“I didn’t,” you answer. Way too quickly, way before your heart and your brain realize you are lying and make you stutter as punishment. 

Satoru smiles lazily, letting you go with a languid movement that has his fingertips sliding off your waist. He tugs at one of the strands of hair hanging at the side of your face instead. 

“That’s a shame,” he laments, sighing, puncturing each word with a twirl of his fingers, the start of a shit-eating grin on his lips. “Because I did”

“It’s been two weeks,” you huff, gently pushing his hand away in a lighthearted gesture. You don’t mind his touch at all. Or, you didn't mind it. You are now bothered by the appalling urges born in your core and traveling to your every limp. 

“And? That’s more than enough to me,” he switches the grip of his hand to grasp at yours and give it a squeeze. “Believe it or not, I prefer your pretty face over the nagging of our dear church authorities” 

“I’m touched,” you deadpan, a little smile tugging at the corner of your lips despite yourself. 

Satoru hums. “I am too, considering I wasn’t expecting a welcome back committee”

Your lips part, brows furrowing. “Didn’t you say you wanted me to come!?”

“That was before I realized our lovely weather could turn you into an icicle,” he says, eyes scanning you intently. He takes a few steps forward and places both his hands in your cheeks. You feel yourself stiff. “Although the flush of your face is rather pleasant to look at, there’s no reason for you to stand here and freeze for little ole’ me”

Your frozen hands try to peel away his wrists on instinct. Satoru is touchy, probably more touchy than a priest should be, but he is also more nonchalant than the average gentleman is so you can’t say you aren’t used to it. 

It’s the mortifying somersault your stomach does and the warmth that bleeds from your chest to your lower belly like molten what you are not used to. He is not even touching you directly, the fabric of his gloves is less soft than his hands, but it’s warm and kind in comparison to the wind. Nonetheless, the sole implication of him touching you so casually is enough to make you short of breath. 

For a few seconds that stretch incredibly long, Satoru rubs your cheeks intently, as if trying to coax the warmth of your blood to bleed into your skin. There’s something in his eyes as a slow, cheeky curve takes place on his lips. You forget the flustered feeling for a moment, but your body stays locked on it, a prickling sensation climbing up your neck as you frown up at him, tugging at his wrists. 

“Father?” 

Satoru’s well trained to react the exact opposite way to your flustered, hurried flurry. As you jump, he waltzes back in calculated steps, casually sliding his hands down to your shoulders, squeezing them only slightly before taking his hands off you for good. By the time his hands are by his sides, yours are still fidgeting about, tugging at your winter coat. 

You turn your face towards the familiar voice and force down the lingering feeling of self-consciousness, sketching a smile that lacks the blinding brightness of the dishonest one Satoru offers to the clueless newcomer. 

“Ah, Ijichi, you are finally here!” he announces, eyes crinkling. The cherry on top is, of course, the thunderous clap that accompanies his words. “I started to think you had forgotten about me”

You have known him for almost two years, so you can catch it. The way his smile curves and hardens before it stretches all the way. He seems slightly bothered about something you can only theorize about.

“N-not at all!” Kyotaka bows his head, face a bit flushed because of the cold or because his eyes are also trained in Satoru’s micro-expressions. “Welcome back, Father” 

You think you have imagined it, though, because Satoru’s expression is back to his relaxed, jovial façade. Or maybe it never really changed. You try not to stare too long or think about his face too hard lately. 

“C’mon Ijichi!” he protests, “I’m not wearing the habit right now! We can be a bit flexible” 

Ijichi is not deterred, sharing a look with you as a resigned, little smile grazes his lips. He is one of the very few people that has fallen victim to Satoru’s overly familiarity and, just like most, he is not playing along. That always makes you consider if you should also be more mindful of the difference in your positions, but Satoru’s arm casually slinging around your shoulders chases any further reflection away.

Ijichi is abruptly intercepted by one of Satoru’s arms as well when he steps closer to retrieve some of the boxes laying over Gojo’s luggage and you can see the way his shoulders fall in a reluctant acceptance. His glasses are crooked now by the unexpected motion but he makes no effort in shrugging Gojo as the latter pats his back energetically. You share a look once more.

“I-ji-chi! Guess who was freezing on this platform, waiting for me?” Satoru asks, squeezing his hold on you as he rhythmically pats Ijichi’s frame. “Certainly not you!”

At that, Ijichi’s resigned face tenses back to his default expression, a mix of mortification and surprise in his widened eyes. 

“I a-apologize, I wasn’t aware you were coming here as well! I would have offered you a lift!” 

“Oh, see? You are so formal with me but you call her by her name!”

You both ignore Satoru as you shrug his arm off your shoulders, offering Ijichi an appeasing smile, lifting a hand in a dismissive gesture. 

“Don’t worry about it, I didn’t know you were picking him up either,” you reply earnestly, brushing your hair out of your face as you start to walk, “I think it’s his fault”

As Kyotaka takes the boxes Satoru brought with him, he regards you with a look that seems suspiciously close to a silent agreement. Once again, both of you ignore Gojo’s whines, moving along the platform until he desists on his protests and easily falls into step with you, suitcase in tow. 

“I’m glad Ijichi and you have found friendship, but I don’t appreciate you bonding over disregarding me” is what he says,  with a suffering sigh that evolves into a little smile when you eye him up. 

“I’m sure making everything about you is a sin” you comment lightheartedly and Satoru rolls his eyes. “For your information, Kyotaka and I have been friends for a while and agreeing on your obnoxiousness is not the reason our friendship begun”

“But your blatant animosity is what makes it thrive,” Satoru points out, with an accusing finger. “It’s the same thing with Sister Uta–”

“Is your nagging my reward for picking you up at the train station?” you inquire. “I should have stayed warm and cozy at home”

“You waited for me. If we want to get technical, my dear sister, Ijichi is the one picking me up.”

He watches the beginning of an indignant protest in your face, to which he walks back his teasing statement and raises a calming hand. “Both of which I deeply appreciate,” he adds, and there’s a softness in his honest smile that mellows you down enough, until he pokes at you once more. “A good Christian doesn’t expect anything in return for a good deed, anyway” he chirps. “God shall provide” 

“Good thing I’m not a Christian then,” you retort and Satoru huffs a laugh, shutting it too quickly in favor of shaking his head in disapproval. “So you shall provide”

“I’m not but God’s humble messenger,” Satoru bows his head, eyes glinting as he regards you “So consider the souvenir I brought God’s way of acknowledging your selfless act”

He is serious, but there’s an amused tilt to his gentle smile that warms and softens you up enough to forget about the banter and grin earnestly.

After a silent look that lingers enough for the prickling feeling in your face to make a comeback, you simply turn your face to the front. By your peripheral vision, you notice Satoru’s gaze linger just a few seconds more before he follows your lead.   You both keep walking side by side, arms brushing at every swing. Your throat closes up and you focus on ahead. 

Ijichi is a fast-walker by nature, you have learned, and you saw him hurry his step as Satoru reached your side with long strides a few moments ago. If Satoru wanted, he could outpace you and Ijichi with ease, but he has decided to linger beside you and you soon realize there’s a reason beyond any friendly banter or the announcement of any souvenir. 

You step over a branch peeking through the melting snow on the ground and that’s when he speaks.

“The snow is finally melting” he whispers, “I’m relieved” 

There’s a sympathetic inflexion on his voice that’s not lost to you. The same off-handed tone present on his words these last two weeks through calls and letters. You lean against him almost on instinct, shoulder surprisingly at ease as it bumps against his arm. “Me too”

On a personal level, being friends with Satoru means a lot of things and has plenty of implications you don’t want to get at most of the time. You were both relieved and saddened by his absence during the last snow storms of this winter which tells you enough about the dichotomy that persists in your relationship. It’s easier to dwell on it during this season, which is why you occupy yourself like a maniac during it, which is why you cling to any semblance of sun or warmth amidst the cold. 

The car ride is silent enough, the soft sound of the wheels scraping against the road lulling you as you lean against the window, eyes chasing any rays peeking through the clouds, even if you have to narrow your eyes at the unexpected force of a sun recovering its strength. 

“Hey,�� Satoru’s voice is soft, a callback to the time and space you are in right now, tugging you away from cruel memories. 

He offers you his hand, without a glove. Long and pretty and pale. Warm as you press your hand over it.  “The other one too”

That’s when you notice he took both his gloves off and, as he envelops your hands with his, your thoughts linger on how warm and soft and soothing his skin is. 

When he rubs his palms over your cold, trembling fingers, he triggers a scorching heat in your hands and your arms and your whole being. “Your hands are freezing,” he says, none the wiser to your melting insides. “I noticed earlier, you weren’t wearing gloves, or a scarf” 

There’s more than a hint of disapproval in his tone. For real this time. Not like the one he uses to half-heartedly scold your thinly-veiled anti-church sentiments. 

“I-I forgot”

Does he know your mouth feels dry and cottoned? Can he notice the way your breath catches in his throat at his proximity, or the way your heart skips at every motion of his thumbs over the back of your hands? 

“You shouldn’t have walked there with this weather” Satoru whispers, and there’s something in his eyes that goes beyond the earnest care you have grown acquainted with. “You are not even properly clothed for it,” he hums, there’s a bit of the teasing back that gets lost on the deep look in his eyes. 

You don’t even know what to make of it. 

It’s like that one time, over a year ago. 

Just like his voice grabbed you away from the claws of the cruel, painful past, his eyes push you back into that void, except in a kinder, warmer part of it. 

The train ride to the next city and the memory of the gorgeous display on stage. 

It’s a nice memory. 

Nevermind the mortifying discoveries about yourself that trip uncovered. 

Absolutely not. Because it is the beautiful memory of your first ever trip to a professional ballet production, a long-time dream, the one guilty of the fluttering sensation in your stomach.

Not the memory of the seating booth in the train back home feeling strangely suffocating, or his hands over your skin, trying to cool away a fever you couldn’t get rid of. A fever and itch that has been chasing you ever since you sat way too close in the same room, the same bed.

That’s not it. 

It’s the pretty parts, the softer parts you should focus on because it is a nice memory, one that is not tainted by the origins of the crude ruminations that keep you awake at night to this day. Not at all. 

“I wanted to,” you say with a shrug. “To go there, I mean.”

To wait for you. To see you again.

Satoru hums, blowing hot air into your fingertips. Your whole being rattles. 

“You should have waited for me at the church, then” he whispers. His lips are inches away from your hands, you almost want to stretch your fingers, just to try–

“I don’t like to go there when it’s empty,” you respond, voice steadier than your beating heart. 

“It’s never empty,” he replies, thumbs massaging up to your fingertips, squeezing them for barely a second. “It’s the house of God, he is always there” 

He isn’t. And you aren’t either. What’s the point? But you don’t say that, you don’t say anything more. You almost feel like you don’t need to, because Satoru smiles at you then, and it’s almost sad.

You feel you might be privy to what most people in town are not. Your friendship with Satoru didn’t blossom out of shared faith or thrived because of your trust in him as a recipient of God. Quite the contrary.  It was born despite your reservations and your disagreements. As such, you are allowed to see beyond the charming, quick-witted, perfect priest image he projects for all believers to see. For you, he is equally if not more charming and wiser when he is “just Satoru” but you won’t ever tell him that out loud.

Instead, you let your shared secrets and time together speak for you. He knows a lot about you. You know a lot about him. Or so you think. 

Satoru has always given you the impression of false openness. He makes people, you included, feel as if he is sharing a lot, but most of the time, it’s just superficial lore or inconsequential sentiments.

You don't usually pressure him to share anything beyond what he usually does, but there’s a trust that has been nurtured during your time together that has given you both a space to share what you both know is no common knowledge. He doesn’t need to tell you “I have never told this to anyone” but you have learned to recognize when it’s the case. You know when it’s something he wouldn’t share with the world. 

It is often, though, that you get the impression that these secret things have been shared before with someone else out there. There’s something about his speech, the careful distant expression on his face that betrays a sense of dejavu or melancholy that disappears as soon as it appears, between a blink and another. He has travelled the world and he has confessed his sins often. It could be any person out there, a priest or God himself. 

Who knows? You don’t push. You never do. After all, there is a whole story you haven’t shared with him. And you don’t think you will soon. He has the right to have his secrets too, and despite the big chunk of your life that remains hidden close to your chest, you bet he has way more secrets than you do. 

You wear your heart in your sleeve, he doesn’t. You could be fooled by his easy smile and his running mouth, though, like everyone else. 

And you are. 

It seems rather meaningless, but in retrospect, this little thing that Satoru willingly withholds from you unravels the whole mess and tells you more about all the things he doesn’t tell you. 

At some point, it becomes public knowledge that a newly ordained priest will come to your little town. The people are concerned their angel darling of a Father is being moved away. But it doesn’t seem to be the case, as one particular Sunday, Satoru addresses the whispers and concerns from the altar with good humor. 

That’s how you find out, like everyone else. 

Kento Nanami, a priest from the same college as Satoru, will become part of the little community. 

When you question Satoru about it later, ignoring his who-know-what attempt at explaining checkers to you, he sighs, shoulders falling. It is so different from the usual flair he would answer you with, he seems almost defeated for a second, the flames of the chimney of his office flickering all over his face, raising his high cheekbones further. 

“We used to be together in the seminary,” he finally says.

Satoru doesn’t talk much about the seminary. It’s one of the things he pretends he enjoys being open about except all he has ever told you has to do with the multiple headaches he induced on everyone around him. 

“But,” you say, leaning forward in your seat. You try to ignore the way Satoru’s foot brushes against yours as he shifts and stretches his legs under the table. “The people say he is newly ordained”

“Ah, our lovely town is as adept in gossiping as it is in their daily praying,” Satoru comments, propping his chin over his hand with a lazy tilt of the head, a shaper one on his lips . “He is.”

You don’t need to do the math for that one. It doesn’t add up.

“But if he was with you–”

“He left,” Gojo cuts you off with a bit of a bored, resigned expression. “Then he came back.” 

He is not even hiding his unwillingness to share any details. The tense smile is the same he uses when he wants to cut a conversation short. It’s the first time he has used it with you.

And it’s the first time you decide to press, as well. 

“Why did he leave?”

Satoru takes a few seconds to respond, eyes focusing on the dancing flames in the chimney, gaze concerningly distant. For a moment, you think he might tell you it’s none of your business. Strictly speaking, he would be right. 

“Some people aren’t made for it,” he whispers, in the most monotone voice you have ever heard from him. It brings a chill down your spine, suddenly feeling an infinite wall rise between you. You feel you might reach out to touch him and you won’t be able to snatch him away from whatever place he is sinking into now.

But, as it always happens, the wall crumbles as soon as it builds. And Satoru, seemingly sensing your unease, seems to snap out of whatever haze the flames have induced on him.

He smiles, again, eyes flickering towards you. 

“But don’t worry,” he says, even if you are less worried about priest Nanami’s abilities than you are about the all-seeing eyes that look right through you. “Nanamin is. That’s why he came back.”

Kento Nanami sure seems like the kind of guy made to be a priest. He is sober, proper, humble. Kind and polite at the welcoming party your good-spirited town throws for him. He seems genuinely taken aback by the warm reception, but earnest in his shy appreciation. You study every interaction from afar, just like you did back when Satoru first came to town. 

Satoru had been charming, talkative, and full of initiative in every interaction. He had had the hard task of living up to the expectation the priest before him, a beloved local, had risen in forty years of service. Satoru was young. Maybe a bit too young, people had first observed with wariness. But it was that, along with his good-natured humor, his refreshing speech and his impeccable looks, that ended up making him the darling of the town in no time. 

Nanami’s regal presence is impeccable as well, in a different way. There’s nothing out of place, not a hair, not a button, not even a blink, as if everything is carefully crafted with little to no effort. And while he doesn’t seem to have the social energy Satoru has delighted everyone with these past years, he appeals to the community all the same with that mix of youth and firmness reminiscent of a soldier. He looks older than Satoru.  There’s something in their interactions that suggests something you can’t quite put your finger on. Satoru is cheery, as always. Friendly and familiar with his arm thrown over the other priest’s shoulders, with his animated voice raising over the bustle of the party but something in Nanami’s shoulders remains tense in a way they weren’t in any other interaction. 

It’s so weird once you see it. 

It could be simple shyness at Satoru’s familiarity, but he doesn’t seem shy or flustered. You don’t even know if, judging by his stern expression, he is even capable of it. 

It’s seems there’s a world they are part of you are not privy to. That’s probably the case. Priesthood and seminary life it’s not something you ever can or want to fully comprehend.

But, despite whatever weird energy surrounding them, they make for a nice picture, standing side by side, overlooking the party and the towners from the first landing of the stairs leading up to the church. The single photographer from the local paper thinks the exact same, snapping a shot with little warning. It captures Satoru leaning towards Nanami, a smile frozen midway as the flash explodes in their faces. 

Nanami is tall, but looking at them like this, you can truly put into perspective how tall Satoru truly is, his shoulder some inches above the other man’s. 

No matter, you have to lean your head back to look at the two of them properly. 

Kento or “Nanamin” is polite enough to stay quiet through Satoru’s enthusiastic introduction but it’s soon clear to you that he is barely tolerating the other’s incessant, loud chatter right into his ear. He still smiles, bows his head at you, as he introduces himself as if Satoru hadn’t done it for him over three times already. There’s a distant echo in your head that bothers you and there’s a weird feeling in your chest as you catch Nanami’s eyes looking at you as if he is trying to decipher a puzzle himself. 

“Sorry if I overstep but, have we met?” he finally asks.

Satoru finally pauses beside you, only then paying attention to the fact that Nanami is not listening to his vibrant spiel, but he doesn’t seem baffled, face dropping to a rather curious, questioning glance more for Nanami than for yourself. Your smile doesn’t waver, tensing just the slightest bit as the echo in your head raises its volume. 

“I don’t think so, no” you say. 

Just like you did almost two years ago, when Satoru first came to the church, you leave the party early and find yourself pulled towards the limit of the woods at the outskirts. Once you step onto the only proper road leading to the next town, your eyes focus on the giant oak tree that stands at the top of the one little hill overseeing your step.  The path is painful yet soothing in its familiarity, your heels digging in the dirt and light layer of snow enveloping the steep as you balance your weight and propel forward. 

As you make your way to the top, the big, old oak greets you with a rustle of leaves. The leaves persevere during winter, for a reason you would like to think you know. 

You feel your face warm with the effort and you can see your breath escape in little puffs of hot air that evaporate into the frosted wind as you walk towards the wide, rough trunk, and press your cheek against it.

You lean on the trunk and focus on the sounds coming from within, the endless shifting of it akin to breathing. Even if you wanted to hug it, you wouldn’t be able to. The immensity of it makes it impossible.  It’s ironically cruel. You can’t hug him again and you can’t hug the one breathing thing that reminds you of him either. 

“I’m sorry I haven’t visited,” you  say, closing your eyes. You can almost pulsing with life against your face. One of your hands curls over the trunk. “I missed you today.”

At this time of the year, you are forced to confront plenty of things. You thought you had survived this winter without having to think, but there’s a sweet and painful song of melancholy in the air that follows you through these events. 

It makes you think again about how you would have forgiven him, if he came to town like Satoru did. Like Nanami did. You would have forgiven him. Even if he was clad in priest robes and stood over the altar with the pride of a soldier of God. You would have forgiven him even with the sting of all the broken childish promises. 

“It would have been okay, at the end,” it's the only other thing you say out loud. 

It’s a sad and embarrassing thought, that you don’t have to say much. Wherever he is now, he knows what he didn’t know before. And everyone knows too. Everyone that loves you and loves him knows. That the pain has subsided and dulled but lingers like a chronic nightmare that sharpens every so often. 

That you spent years mad at him and now you can only be mad at yourself. You have matured and you see things in a different light now, left to wonder if you , rather than him, could have done anything in another way. 

It’s sad and embarrassing when Satoru meets you at the entrance road to the main street, concern or pity barely veiled as he heaves, cheeks rosy, his rebellious white hair slightly dancing at the tune of the frosty wind, all that betraying the hurried steps he took upon realizing your absence. 

You offer him a little smile, finally having cried what you had to cry these past days, your head doesn’t feel as heavy with dark thoughts anymore. You can leave your penances with the oak tree.

“Did my mother ask you to come look for me?” you ask, not thinking twice before hooking your arm with the one he is offering you.

Satoru stares at you intently, head tilted as you both turn back towards the main square in a dance you don’t have to rehearse anymore. It feels natural, walking with him like this. 

“More like I offered,” he replies, eyes finally focusing ahead. “Watching her pace around pale with worry, I had to ask what was her cause of concern”

You feel a pinch of guilt.

“She—”

Satoru spares you from having to offer an excuse or apology.

“She knew where you were, but she was worried you would stay there until dark so I told her it would be better for me to bring you back.”

You sigh, head leaning against his arm, gaze focused on the thin mantle of snowflakes in the ground. 

“I didn’t need to stay for long.”

“That’s a good thing.” You don’t know if you imagine it, but you can feel Satoru speak against the crown of your head.  “It’s still pretty cold out here.”

You answer with a hum, hiding your face into his arm, even his jacket is impregnated with his cologne. Moments like this are met with such intense yearning everything else you feel along with it melts into a pool of sweet resignation.  

“You know you can talk to me,” he says, stopping on his tracks. You inhale a bit more of his perfume and the winter air before looking up at him. 

You know he can probably see the red trails and rims that expose your silent, lonely tears from earlier but you don’t mind. He looks into your eyes, brows furrowing just a bit, before he shifts his body to face you as well. The snow crunches slightly under his boots. 

“What?” you ask. 

He raises his hand and reaches for your face. Your eyes flutter in anticipation of his touch and that’s when you feel the phantom pressure of his fingertips against your heavy eyelashes. There’s a sole huff of air that resembles a laugh escaping from his lips, in tandem with the sigh that escapes yours and his soft smile and sad gaze is all you see as you open your eyes.

“There’s frost in your eyelashes,” he whispers, his thumb barely grazing the apple of your cheek, probably following the abandoned path a tear left behind. 

Your breath hitches and a surge of adrenaline makes you turn your face to the side, just in time for Satoru to caress your cupid bow and the curve of your upper lip. Your eyes flutter close. It’s only for half a millisecond and his hand retreats as if you were burning him, curling on itself in the air, hovering over your face. Not a sound comes from him. 

“I know,” you breathe out.

“Hm?” 

“I know I can talk to you,” you clarify, blinking up at him with a soft tilt of your head and in your lips. 

He doesn’t escape your gaze, and you can see yourself reflected on his darkened, tempestuous blue eyes.

“But you won’t,” he says. 

“Not about this,” you reply honestly. 

“But we are–”

You cut him off, before you can hope, protest or rejoice on whatever epithet escapes his lips.

“I know,” you unhook your arm from his, pressing a hand over his forearm. “But you don’t tell me every single thing about you either,” you squeeze slightly and you can feel his muscles clench under the pressure. “Do you?”

After seconds that feel like minutes stretching, he presses his hand over yours and squeezes in a thousand unspoken words.

“No.”

“And that’s okay.”

After all, there are things you don’t want him to know about, even if a part of you thinks he does already. 

A part of you wants to believe he understands.

But how could he? 

Someone like him can’t never lose, not anything nor anyone.

Your mother forgives your brief disappearance and requires you to run a few errands to pay back any concern you may have caused, mostly to soothe any lingering guilt from your part. It’s always like this between you both, the silent agreements and the subtle conversations. 

You can talk about pain freely but you are candid enough about it for her not to worry about you letting it eat away at you in silence. 

“Did the visit help?” she asks, hands busy and eyes fixed on you, as you wait patiently, leaning against the kitchen counter. 

“Hm,” you nod, a faint smile. “It had been a while, I think that’s what I needed” 

“I know you usually like to go up there alone,” she starts, “but please try not to linger too close to sunset, the air gets colder and the path is too dark for my peace of mind”

“You know I don’t like to walk in the snow at night.”

Your mother’s eyes trail away from you. “Right.”

“I’m okay,” you say, voice not wavering. 

“I know you are,” she replies, looking back at you with love and concern mingling in her pupils. Your throat would close up at the sight on worse days. 

Today, though, you smile at her with veiled gratitude and a hint of apology as she hands you a knitted bag, heavy with homemade goods.

“You know,” you point out, weighing it in your hands with a pensive pout in your lips. “I think you spoil that man way too much.” 

“Those are for Father Nanami as well,” your mother protests, lifting her brow at you, affronted. “And ‘that man’ is our priest” 

“It’s just Satoru,” you said. A slip up that you paid mind to a little too late. 

“Precisely because it’s Father Satoru,” your mother replies, casual, as swift as her hands rearranging the last few envelopes. Her brief yet disapproving sideways glance is the only other indication that she has taken note of your disrespectful nonchalance. “He is a friend.”

“It doesn’t matter,” was the answer that made its way to your tongue. It didn’t come out of your lips though, it was too much of a lie. 

“He should be thankful we prepared him anything at all.” 

The piercing glare your mother throws your way is enough to seal your lips shut and make you swallow your complaint. You smile innocently, fluttering your eyelashes. 

“Last time that look worked on me was when you were nine years old” 

You don’t receive yet another earful regarding your lack of respect towards the so-called angel of the town, though, so you are thankful. Your mother is aware of the particular familiarity between Satoru and you and while you both have talked about the level of casualness you are okay with, she insists you follow the proper etiquette with a man of God. 

“Smile when you deliver this,” she reminds you, planting an obnoxious kiss on your cheek. “We made such an effort putting this together,” your mother comments, eyes much softer than her admonishing voice. The ghost of a smile in her lips suggests a tease that you decide to ignore pointedly, your cheeks flaring. “Presentation is everything.” 

You roll your eyes, making your way to the door, “Right...” you drawl. 

“Don’t forget your scarf”

You hum in response, stopping at the foyer and grabbing it from the rack next to the door. As you tie it around your neck, a thought makes you pause.

“Mom?”

She peeks into the foyer. “Yes?”

You grab the door handle, eyeing her just briefly before twisting the knob. 

“Did you tell Satoru?”

As you open the door, the cold wind blows into the warmth of the house. Your hair waves with it. 

“About the tree?”

It’s always like this between you both, the silent connection and the subtle communication. 

“About why I go there,” you say. 

Your mother is quick to answer both with words and with a firm shake of her head.

You almost regret asking when you see the sorrowful lines that map her face.

“Of course not, it’s not my place to tell.”

You nod, smiling a bit. “Okay.”

As you step out, her voice reaches your ears. “But–“

You look over your shoulder. She looks sheepish, hands dancing on her lap. “Don’t you think it would help? Talking about it with him ? He is your friend and he is closer to God.”

You let out a soft laugh, not unkind. “I think it would be the most awkward conversation to have.”

Whenever you walk towards the parish, you think of Satoru. At the beginning, it was out of curiosity and wariness, as you imagined and played around with the endless possibilities of the mystery of his personality. Now, it is unbearable. The sense of anticipation that used to precede your meetings has mixed in with a yearning, an itch that you can barely scratch and which nature makes your stomach twist. 

You are aware there’s an inherent wickedness permeating your feelings now, that most of your thoughts linger close to the line of impropriety and don’t reciprocate Satoru’s unconditional respect for you. 

Because, even if he is unconventional in more ways than one, especially in comparison to the strict mold a catholic priest is expected to fit in, there’s nothing about him that suggests a questionable morality.  Even with the way he is always getting close, shimming in your head and personal space, talking your ear off about everything and nothing and making jokes that walk and tether the line of strict propriety. And even with your proximity and the familiarity that allows him to touch you freely, there’s a delicate balance and respectful boundaries in your relationship. 

His hands never wander or linger beyond the socially acceptable, invisible limits society has mapped a woman’s body with. The looks he gives you, while filled with open interest and regard, are void of a dark, twisted intention you have seen other men possess. 

You are the one that avoids looking at him too much or staring at his eyes for too long, fearing the kind of expression you will see reflected on his all-seeing eyes. You are the one terrified about the possibility of him reading the hidden thoughts swirling in the depths of your brain. 

The innocence of your friendship has mixed in with a dark pull that makes you crave Satoru’s proximity in a way you shouldn’t dare to entertain. It’s a cruel irony. Even beyond all the key reasons why your fascination should remain concealed behind platonic affections. 

It’s wrong. 

For the first time in the entire winter, you feel grateful when a whip of harsh, cold air hits your body. It’s heaven’s warning. A way to tell you to focus on the goosebumps instead of whatever black holes your mind is spiraling into.

You walk up the last steps leading to the entrance of the parish feeling nauseous, fighting and locking away the last thoughts. You inhale deeply before walking through the open doors, your nose filled instantly with the sweet smell of incense as the muscle memory takes over and you sign the cross over your upper body.  It’s true when they say the church is truly never empty, and not because of the hypothetical presence of a higher being, but because it’s always open. During the day hours, there are always a few believers praying or waiting for a confession, head down, silently holding a conversation with either God or themselves. 

Your eyes scan the few people scattered in the pews and you are not surprised to realize you are familiar with the back of the heads of half your neighbors. You walk to one side, moving along the rows of pews and nodding politely to those that are alerted by the movement in their peripheral.  Nonetheless, as you get closer to the partly hidden hallway that leads to Satoru’s office and the sacristy, a smaller frame catches your attention. He is sitting right at the edge of the pew closest to the hallway leading to the offices. You walk closer and look over the scrawny shoulder, making sure he is not praying. 

“Yuuji?” you whisper.

The boy raises his head, turning his gaze away from the missal on his lap. You smile down at the way his slightly bewildered expression morphs into a wide grin. 

“Miss—!” he whispers back. 

“What are you doing here?” you ask, ruffling his hair. 

He gestures for you to get closer. When you do, he leans forward. 

“I’m here to tell Father Gojo something” 

You raise a brow, leaning back just enough to admire the anticipation in his expression.

“Father Gojo said I could be an altar boy next Sunday if Grandpa agreed,” he chirps.

You resist the urge to raise both eyebrows. You would think Yuuji is too young to be an altar boy, and you know Satoru does too, having denied his multiple, enthusiastic and incessant requests. Nonetheless, you also know Wasuke is spending more time at the hospital lately and that might be enough reason for him and Satoru to reconsider. Yuuji seems excited enough though. He thinks Satoru is the coolest guy around and has been trailing after him like a baby duck for a while. 

“Let me guess,” you lean down with a conspiratorial whisper. “He said yes”

“Yes!” 

Yuuji’s outburst bounces off the old rock walls but he doesn’t seem to mind it. You notice some people looking in your direction, raising their heads from their silent prayer with varying degrees of bewilderment. You shrug at them, an apologetic grimace, before turning back to Yuuji. 

“Oh my” you huff out a laugh, keeping your voice at whisper-level. “Congrats on the promotion!” 

Yuuji almost bounces off the pew but his voice is lower this time. “Thank you.”

“What’s your salary?”

“I-I don’t think I have one,” he perks up, intrigued. 

“You should ask for one” 

“Oh,” the boy doesn’t even question you, but furrows his brows a bit after a moment. “It shouldn’t be money, though”

You nod, mimicking his serious expression. “Of course.”

Yuuji’s legs swing over the edge of the pew as he looks at the bright colored windows.

“Movies” he suggests, doe eyes looking for your approval. 

You bite back a smile but click your tongue and reign in your expression for the sake of the serious aura around him. 

“He already lends them to you,” you tap your chin before your expression brightens. “I will help you negotiate weekly cinema tickets and all-you-can-eat ice cream” 

Yuuji’s eyes are bright and wide as a gasp escapes his lips. “You would?”

“Uh-huh,” you wink, straightening back to your height. “I’m sure Father Satoru will honor this deal”

Yuuji beams up at you, body almost bouncing off the pew. You giggle, ruffling his hair before fishing some baked goods from your knitted bag.

“For you and Gramps”

“Thank you!” He promptly opens the envelope with enthusiasm and eyes at them. He sniffs unapologetically, “They smell so good! Did you make them?”

“My mom and I did,” you confirm, gently pressing your hand over his so he closes the paper. “They are better hot, so don’t open until you eat them”

“I will go eat them now!” he declares, clutching into them as if you would change your mind and snatch them away. “Outside,” he adds. 

You laugh, propping a hand over your hip. “Wait, don’t you want to come to see Father Satoru?"

Yuuji is already sliding off the bench. “He told me to wait a few minutes, he is busy having a grown up talk with Father Nanamin!”

“Nana—“ you trail off. “Isn’t it Nanami?”

The young boy shrugs, already munching on a cookie despite his earlier promise. “Father Gojo calls him Nanamin and Father Nanamin says it was okay if I called him that. He doesn’t seem to like when Father Gojo does, though”

“I see.” 

“You are a grown-up, so you can talk to them now,” Yuuji instructs sagely, pointing towards the hallway.  

You salute, “Understood, boss”

Yuuji waves at you before skipping out the church. You observe his bouncing frame until it disappears beyond the entrance and you shake your head fondly, before turning around. As you pass the side of the altar, your gaze lingers in the Virgin Mary figure, the flickering flames of the candles at her feet dancing along her body. The candle you lit up many years ago should be right there.

With that last thought, you look forward and slide into the hallway. 

At this point, you are familiar with every single corner of this place. Satoru gave you a personalized tour last year, almost scandalized at the thought of you not being familiar with the parish you had grown up in. So, w ith time, you found yourself feeling comfortable enough to explore around on your own, mostly to pass the time while Satoru is attending his priestly duties.

You have grown familiar with every nook and cranny of Satoru’s office as well and you know you can waltz right into it when the door is left ajar. Which is always.

Well, almost. 

Strangely enough, you are greeted with the side of a closed door. You frown a bit, eyes fixed on the engraved name at the door. Satoru Gojo. You raise your hand to knock, fearing to walk into a serious conversation you shouldn’t overheard.  Something makes you hesitate, though. Probably the hushed whispers traveling through the door. 

You stand there, even if you know you shouldn’t. 

“…it’s been almost seven years.”

“Didn’t know there’s a rule that says I should stop caring after–”

It takes you a few seconds to realize but what you assumed was a casual conversation sounds way more heated than that. You can’t always quite tell what’s being said, but there are moments the whispers evolve into louder 

“….I’m just saying, a long time has passed, maybe you should let it go.”

“You want me to forget it!?”

“I’m not saying you should forget it, but God knows moving on is the best thing we can do. I did–”

“Jesus Christ,” Satoru huffs, “don’t you dare lecture me about moving on, you are here .”

You are so baffled by the fact that Satoru’s voice has the capacity to reach that level of defensive hostility that you don’t quite register how long the silence stretches after his last retort.

“I thought you had matured,” Nanami finally says and the casual coldness in his voice sends a shiver down your spine. “But you are the same impulsive, hot-headed, imprudent kid from all those years ago. Be mindful of your role.”

“Yeah, well, what the hell do you think I have been doing?” Satoru’s voice raises further, a sardonic tone permeating every word. “I’m so close to–”

“You have plenty of people depending on you,” Nanami cuts you off. “If you care about them, you will move cautiously.”

There’s an uncomfortable silence after that. You shift the weight from one foot to another, raising your hand to knock. 

“And [Name]–“ Nanami starts.

And you startle. 

Nonetheless, Satoru clicks his tongue. You can hear him pacing around in the room. Or it might be Nanami. 

“Don’t even bring her up,” the former hisses, in a fiery protest. “Don’t even start. We are friends”

“It’s not that, Satoru, she’s—”

“I’m done with—”

You can barely register the sudden movement, a surge of warmth and a woody, earthy aroma hitting you right in the face. Your eyes focus on the wall of Satoru’s office. Opposite of you, there’s an ample bookshelf of the same expensive yet old wood of the desk. There are no windows and the lights are out which makes the flames cast shadows and dancing figures all over the room and on Nanami’s surprised face as he leans against the desk.  “—this.”

You take a stumbling step back when your eyes meet as if the force of it was enough to make you lose balance. Only then, when your eyes run away from his, you find yourself face to face with Satoru Gojo, still with his hand on the knob, the most baffled expression you have ever seen on him. “You—”

“I–” your mouth feels dry, your heartbeats ringing in your ears. “I was just…” 

“Not now.”

Whatever fluster, shame or guilt you might have begun to feel instantly evaporates into a cloud of pure befuddlement. Satoru’s face is not a display of perplexity anymore but rather an inexpressive, almost dismissive mask. It’s so foreign it makes you take a step back. 

“H–huh?” you let out. “I was just—”

“[Name], I apologize,” he mutters in a tone that doesn’t suggest a hint of regret, “but the confessional opens at ten, so not now.” 

“I just wanted—”

“[Name]…” there’s a hint of a plea this time, as he tilts his head to the side and avoids your gaze, as if he is trying to repel you.

Nanami frowns, stepping closer. “Gojo—”

The cloud of bafflement dissipates to expose a mix of indignation and humiliation. It’s the fact that he has never spoken to you like this. Ever. Not until today. You feel yourself ruffle and warm up under his gaze, a glare settling on your eyes. 

He opens his mouth again and you clutch the strap of your knitted bag, feeling defensive. 

“Gojo,” Nanami speaks, pressing a hand over his shoulder. 

Satoru bites his inner cheek but doesn’t say anything else. He shrugs Nanami off after a few seconds, though. You can only observe, trying to wrap your head around what you are seeing and hearing and what you thought you would see and hear and how you imagined your day would go. 

You retrace every step in your head as you physically walk back, affronted. Before you can even say anything, though. Before you can defend yourself or protest, something catches your eye.

You wish you had never seen it.

Nanami is wearing a black cassock, just like Satoru is. The clerical collar is pristine and there’s a cross hanging off his neck. It catches the light of the flames in the chimney.

At the left, an ornate badge is proudly fixed against his chest. It’s a beautiful one, the fanciest kind of needlework. And a very familiar one. You have spent hours staring at the embroidery, the design, at the way the crimson and the plum and the gold thread harmonize in an intricate embrace. 

All of a sudden, you feel bile rise up your throat.

“[Name]–”

You don’t care if Satoru's tone is kinder this time. The sight surely isn’t. 

We recovered a locket, a badge and a cross. The ring is missing.

The words ring in your ears, the voice all too clear after all these years, hands without a body handing you a box too light.

We recovered a locket, a badge and a cross. The ring is missing.

Your hand tugs at the fine chain around your neck, your hand molding around the little case in an anxious grip. Your hand is sweaty and your thumb traces over the curves and lines of the initials engraved on the locket in a silent callback.

“H–hey…”

You turn around without looking back. Your steps are swift, desperate. The hallway seems to stretch on and on and the rest of the church closes in on you as you focus on the light of the outside world ahead. Your hurried steps echo off the walls, the beginning of a sob held back by your tight-sealed lips.  You might have heard your name but you don’t mind, you want to keep running until you can finally breathe. Until the light outside erases every memory of the cold winter. 

In reality, you run until you physically tire out. Until you are heaving, leaning on your knees, droplets falling from your face and into the snow. They could be tears or sweat, you don’t know. 

We recovered a locket, a badge and a cross. The ring is missing.

You might want to retch out of the sickening voice replaying in your head over and over again or because you have moved forward like a mad-woman. Either way, you inhale and exhale as frantically as you have run until the need for oxygen subsides and you don’t have a choice but to kneel down. Your hands and knees are partly buried in the snow. 

You hate winter.

It brings cold and sickness and painful memories with it. For you, the worst part of it is the phantom hold that clings and suffocates you like a constricting vine.  Trees are still skinny and mostly naked, branches trembling at the wind, bending under the weight of the last snowfall. 

All but one. 

Your head rises. It’s easy to see it from the bottom of the hill. 

Between the leisure movement of a heavy cloud and the other, the sun has started to reach out with its lukewarm rays and, right at the top, the giant oak tree stands proud and imposing. Its monstrous shadow seems to stretch impossibly long, all the way down the hill where it reaches you and envelopes you like a mantle. 

“You have finally come back to haunt me” 

hi again ฅ^>⩊<^ ฅ i want to thank you for reading all the way to here. You absolutely rock and I'm profoundly flattered. this post is crazy to me because despite my long time in fandom trenches, this is the first time I post a self insert / OC fic aaaaand a fic on tumblr. Kudos to Satoru Gojo and my catholic upbringing for mingling in my brain! Anyway, you probably have more questions than answers and for that I apologize. I feel this introduction is a bit more confusing than anything but that's exactly what I wanted to go after. Hopefully it gives you an idea of the messy state of things. There’s a whole menu of mildly fucked up stuff here and I'm so excited for you to browse it in the upcoming chapters.Anyways! Any doubts you have feel free to drop in the comments or in an ask, I will be more than happy to answer if it's nothing to spoilery :v If you don’t have any questions yet, don’t worry i'm looking forward to read your thoughts and comments or constructive criticism about the chapter as well! Thank you so much for taking the time to give this lil work a chance! Til next time my beloveds ♡ Have a good day/night!

©️ lilactwilights | no repost allowed | likes, comments and reblogs are deeply appreciated!

©️ divider by strangergraphics

[truncheonsdressedinhats]

So here’s a thought… I’ve seen a few theories that the song Balaclava is about Alex wearing a johnny, but upon more listens, I don’t think it’s as superficial as people make it out to be. Personally, I see the imagery of the balaclava representing the performative way Alex has to act in front of his fanbase. Here’s what I mean:

Running off over next door's garden

Before the hour is done

It's more a question of feeling

Than it is a question of fun

Opening the song mid-flee, it already sets a tone of ‘guilt’ and a need to hide or run from whatever accusation is catching up with him. The ‘question of feeling’ could point to him doing what feels right, (i.e. how he explores his sexuality, maybe hinting to his early inner turmoil when it came to figuring himself out?), and that he’s not in it for the fun of it.

The confidence is the balaclava

I'm sure you'll baffle 'em good

Will the ending reek of salty cheeks

And runny makeup alone?

I think this could denote the mask or facade Alex puts on to the public, the ‘balaclava’ being the performative masculinity that keeps his slate clean, fooling his flock of teenage indie fans to keep the lads interested and the girls swooning. While he’s keeping his secrets from the public, this could mean that behind closed doors things aren’t as simple as they seem. While exploring his personal side, he’s breaking some hearts while doing so.

Or will blood run down the face

Of a boy bewildered and scorned?

Or you'll find yourself in a skirmish

Where you wish you'd never been born

Here’s where it starts to get interesting. As an afterthought to his previous lines, he knows that not only has he broken the girl’s heart, but the regret that comes after knowing the damage he’s caused to the other lad (I think we all know who), is really showing where his priorities lie here.

You tie yourself to the tracks

And there isn't no going back

And it's wrong, wrong, wrong

But we'll do it anyway 'cause we love a bit of trouble

The undertone of guilt is set throughout the song. This could be reminiscent of the old internalised homophobia, or maybe the inner regret of being unfaithful in favour of figuring himself out? Either way, in a juvenile fashion, he admits that he doesn’t regret it, even though he knows it may be objectively wrong.

Are you pulling her from a burning building

Or throwing her to the sharks?

Can only hope that the ending is as pleasurable as the start

The poor girl in this scenario is in a funk. Is he saving her or using her as a cover? He’s trying to see both sides of it from per point of view. On the one hand, he’s effectively saved her by admitting that she’s not the right one for him, but on the other, the man she once thought had loved her has revealed his true self. Is it a blessing or a curse? The end of their relationship is inevitable, so he has to hope that it’s not so messy that it taints the pleasure of finally finding himself.

The confidence is the balaclava

I'm sure you baffle 'em straight

And it's wrong, wrong, wrong

She can hardly wait

Though there have been some uncomfortable happenstances, he knows that the ‘balaclava’ is still there to protect him.

That's right, he won't let her out his sight

Now the shaggers perform

And the daggers are drawn

Who's the crooks in this crime?

‘Shaggers perform’ could point to the performative sexuality he puts on to the public, drawing ‘daggers’ that ultimately leas to emotional damage. He’s having trouble coming to terms with if he’s really at fault here, is he really in the wrong for falling for someone he shouldn’t have?

Well, you'll be able to boast

Of the day of the most

Flawless heist of all time

At the end of the day, he wants to be able to show off the one he really admires. He knows that breaking hearts is part of the process, but the final goal is being happy with who he really is and who he ultimately wants to be with, and being able to ‘boast’ about it like he’s pulled off a flawless upgrade.

You knew that it'd be trouble

Right before the very first kiss

Quiet, unassuming

But you heard that they were the naughtiest

This isn’t a metaphor - this is the moment. The point that feels so good, even though you know some may look down on you, you do it anyways. The ‘quiet and unassuming’ kind, could be the ones he’s least expected to go for, in others’ eyes, or even could point to the shy personality of his muse; Alex knows that they have a darker side to them.

She pleaded with you to take it off

But you resisted and fought

But sorry, sweetheart, I'd much rather

Keep on the balaclava

Here’s the row he was expecting. Of course he knew it’d be messy - the girl obviously wants him to embrace every part of himself, though he knows this is not a feasible outcome. Ending the song with the conclusion of him keeping on this performance, or mask, he knows this is what’s best for his career in the public eye.

[quipxotic]

Spoilers for the last three episodes of Andor and the end of Star Wars Rebels below:

I do think Bix’s storyline was the weakest of the main supporting characters and it didn’t need to be. Bix is a great character, with a lot that could have been explored. What is her role in the rebellion? We hear she has one but never see her doing anything with them. What is her relationship with Vel like? We see them briefly talking, mainly about Cassian and his role on Yavin, and we get the sense that there’s friendship and respect there, but we don’t get to see it. What other relationships does she have with anyone who isn’t Cassian and Wil? They’re the ones her life seems to revolve around, which is fine in that they’re her family, but women with families regularly have lives of their own. They have thoughts and feelings and roles that have nothing to do with being someone’s wife or sister or mother. What does Bix’s life look like? At the end of the series we still don’t know.

But do I think think her having a child is the same as being fridged? No. Dead people have no more stories to tell, but living ones always have that potential. I have hope that we’ll see more with Bix alive at the end of Andor in a way we might not if she was killed off. Beyond that, I get that what they were going for was a sense of hope and life continuing, but why couldn’t Bix be that hope? Why does that hope have to involve a child? Why isn’t she enough in and of herself? She could be.

That said, I don’t hate the fact that Cassian and Bix have a child together. It’s not too dissimilar to what they did at the end of Star Wars Rebels with Hera and Jacen. Cassian and Kanan are two heroes of the rebellion who gave their lives for a victory they never get to see. They both have sons they never get to meet and who will grow up in the shadows of their legacies. But Hera gets to have all the things Bix doesn’t. A role of her own in the rebellion. Relationships with characters other than her love interest or her immediate family. A role in future storytelling that includes her being a mom, yes, but also includes her being a general, a friend, and a person in her own right.

I hope we get to have the same with Bix in the future and I wish we had gotten that with her in Andor. That was something they very much could have done but decided not to, which is disappointing.

[quibbs126]

Fanfics and art are telling me that the whole Megatron nearly killing Twitch when under Mandroid’s control thing in the Season 1 finale would have been a really interesting thing to explore after the fact. I mean, in the storyboards at least, Megatron was crying during that scene, it’s prime angst material

It’s really disappointing then that they didn’t do anything with this plot point. And worse, there was a 1 year timeskip between Seasons 1 and 2, so there’s barely any reason to bring it up other than it happening, nothing about their feelings on the matter

[aroaessidhe]

2025 reads / storygraph

Kiss Me, Maybe

contemporary romance

an ace lesbian has an accidental thirst trap go viral and uses the attention to talk about her experiences - which ends up developing into a silly idea to do a scavenger hunt where the winner gets to be her first kiss

she starts to plan it, with the bartender she’s had a crush on for years, and realises she’s starting to fall for said bartender - and as their relationship develops so does her understanding of her identity & connection towards her community

grey-ace lesbian MC

arc, out may 6!

[toddtakefive]

thinking about todd and his resolve toward… not quite isolation, but being alone in a room full of people again. he goes along to the study room to sit on his own and do his homework, he sits at the poets table and follows along with what’s being said while keeping quiet, he goes to the meetings at all but doesn’t necessarily contribute (in fact, if you watch him when cameron is telling the story ‘from camp in sixth grade’, you can see that he recognizes it before any of the other poets but doesn’t voice it until they all have). he’s not alone, necessarily, if you want to get technical about it, he’s just lonely, and he’s generally okay with that. he doesn’t have friends and that’s fine, he doesn’t participate in class and that’s fine, he doesn’t have a relationship with his family and that’s fine—he could live without any real connection and he’d have been, more or less, fine.

the thing about when he says “i can take care of myself just fine!” is that he isn’t really wrong, you can infer that he’s been doing it his entire life anyway, it’s that ‘taking care of yourself’ isn’t the same thing as really living or being happy. todd’s an introvert, certainly, and even as he gets closer to the group he defaults to sitting quietly in the background, but he’s also denying himself community out of fear not introversion. todd isn’t friendless because he’s an introvert, although that definitely plays a part, he’s friendless because he pushes anyone that might want his company away. if anyone has every wanted for his attention in the first place. (neil’s unwavering interest in him is unique (even when it comes to the rest of the poets, who are fine with todd coming along and joining the group, but aren’t really hellbent on him being there in the beginning) and his refusal to accept it is a direct result of being so lonely growing up.)

there’s obviously something to be said about the implications of his parents neglect, and the more than likely fact that he grew up friendless, and how those both play a part in in him being so skilled at dodging social interaction/being so avoidant of it, but by the time we see him in the movie he’s all but accepted his fate as being alone his entire life. he’s already accepted being the family disappointment, and he’s already accepted he’ll never amount to anything, and he obviously doesn’t like it, but he’d have managed living with that knowledge without the confirmation that it was all wrong. would he have been miserable? almost certainly. but he’d have managed. he’d done it for that long already, anyhow.

[kissuriuri]

will basara stans come for me if I say basara walked so yona could run?

[dashiellqvverty]

my opinion on season 11 is that ian and mickey were all over the place from episode to episode and i ultimately wasn’t very happy with where it ended for them

[fellhellion]

I’m sorry I have to speak my truth lmao it’s a little bit hilarious that kingpin is stylistically offered such flourish and creativity, when writing wise he’s so fucking generic.

[macabrebatz]

JUST THE TIP (Grommash Hellscream/Reader)

Summary: Grommash is determined to have you as his mate. There’s only one problem: Grom is too big.

Author’s note: Oh, boy. I have been OBSESSED with orcs lately. Especially the orcs in the Warcraft movie. Disclaimer btw: I don’t know a lot about Warcraft beyond the movie. I know some lore beyond that. So I apologize in advance. Also I wrote this in a way that you, my dear reader, don’t need to know anything about Warcraft either. Hopefully it can also be enjoyed as just a orc x human fic. And this is my 4th time writing smut, 2nd time writing it in oneshot format so I’m still very new to this lol. Also I don’t know orcish and the internet gave me very mixed translations, so I pieced it together the best I could.

Warning/tags: 18+ MDNI, fem! Reader, Grom might be a little OOC but I don’t care, teratophillia/monster fucking, orc x human, oral sex (f! receiving), size differences (Grommash is bigger than you no matter your size, these orcs are big, okay?), fingering, overstimulation, squirting, just the tip but not actually, unprotected p in v, missionary position, mating press, slight breeding kink if you squint, Grom is secretly a sweetheart, change my mind, love confessions, self indulgent filth, not beta read, yeah I know having sex with an orc this big would be borderline impossible but I don’t care, I swear I made straight A’s in all of my anatomy classes

Also just a for some fun references check out this post and this post about the hand size of the orcs in this movie. I find their size absolutely fascinating and I had to make a fic exploring that.

Word Count: 3.3k

Being the mate of an orc is an interesting experience. It was already uncommon for a horde member to pick a human as a mate. And it was still frowned upon by many orcs. Grommash didn’t care though. Nobody could tell him that he couldn’t have you. From the moment he first saw you he felt himself being pulled towards you.

For the most part, picking you as his mate had been smooth sailing. He had asked you to go on a hunt alone with him. Orcs hunted all the time but asking someone to hunt alone with them tended to be an indication that they were choosing a mate. You didn’t know this when you had agreed to go. But it became obvious when halfway through the hunting trip Grom had pressed you against a tree, his large frame encapsulating you. Soon the hunting trip had turned into a heated make-out session.

Everything was going according to plan. He had gotten you back to his tent and sat you on the edge of his bed. There was only one problem in his plan to make you his mate: Grommash was too big.

There was simply no way that all of him could fit inside of you. You were absolutely sure of it.

There was one undeniable fact about orcs and that was that they were massive. They were bigger than all humans. It didn’t matter your size. They outweighed and towered over every human they came across. And Grommash was no exception. He was a warrior and the Chieftain of the Warsong clan after all, not to mention one of the biggest orcs in the clan.

His biceps were rounder than your head. His hands were bigger than your face. His fingers were incredibly large compared to yours.

You honestly weren’t sure what you were expecting but when you removed his pelt you were at a loss for words.

There was no way.

His cock was heavy and hard, hanging down in front of your face as you sat on the edge of the bed. It was green like the rest of his skin, the head was flushed a purple color.

You lifted it up a bit with your hand, feeling the weight of it. It was long and thick. You couldn’t even wrap your hand around it, your fingertips nowhere close to even meeting your thumb. You were too stunned to speak and your brain was scrambling to figure out the logistics of this massive thing going inside of you.

Grommash seemed to read your mind. He brought his thumb up to your face and rubbed your cheek. He smirked as he looked down at you.

“You don’t have to worry about it just yet,” he said.

As much as Grom wanted to plunge his cock all the way inside of you, he was content with pleasuring you in other ways for now.

His large hand moved down, resting on your shoulder. His thumb grazed your throat as he gently pushed you onto your back. You propped yourself up on your elbows, watching him as he knelt in front of you.

His hand found its way to the hem of your pants, hesitating for a moment to look up at you. After giving him a swift nod of approval his fingers latched underneath the hem. He mumbled something about “humans always wearing too much clothes” as he slid off your pants and underwear.

Grommash hummed to himself as he placed his hands on your knees, spreading your legs as far apart as he could.

“Look at that,” he said.

He was staring at your glistening cunt in awe. You could hear a growl rumble in his chest as he brought his large fingers up to you, gently rubbing across your folds with his thumb. He grazed against your clit causing a gasp to escape your lips.

“So wet for me already,” he said, rubbing slow circles against your clit.

He paused for a moment causing you to whine. He shushed you as he spread apart the lips of your cunt with his large fingers. His index finger dipped down, lingering against your entrance but not entering. He looked as if he was deep in thought.

Maybe, just maybe.

Grommash leaned down further until his face was level with your pussy. He wrapped his hands around your legs, pulling you closer to the edge of the bed. He nuzzled his head in between your legs, tusks pressing into the skin between your thighs, as he licked experimentally up your folds.

You moaned, rolling your hips ever so slightly. Grommash chuckled before licking again, this time dipping his tongue into you. There was another rumble from his chest, the taste of you on his tongue unlocking something feral inside of him.

The grip on your thighs got tighter as he lapped at your cunt, licking and plunging into you in a desperate attempt to taste more of you.

Your hand snaked down, resting on his head as you moaned his name. Your fingers entwined in his raven hair, gripping just a bit. He growled in response, sending vibrations through your body. You shuddered a bit at the sensation.

He dragged his tongue against you, occasionally wrapping his large lips around your clit, sucking at the bud before dipping back down, fucking his tongue into your hole.

“Mmm…Grom, it feels so…good,” you moaned.

Without warning you felt Grom’s thick index finger begin to push inside of you. A guttural moan left your mouth as your back arched, grinding yourself against his face mindlessly. His finger stretched your walls as he entered you. There was some pain but your wetness let him slide in easier than either of you would have expected. It felt so perfect.

His tongue licked upwards before focusing on your clit, sucking it into his mouth once more. Your hips bucked against him causing him to groan. He slid his finger out before pushing it back in. He curled it inside of you, sliding it against your spongy walls. This was pleasure you simply had never experienced until now.

Before you knew it, he was pushing a second finger in, stretching you out more. Your mouth fell agape as you struggled to make any sound. You had never felt so full before. There was more pain than before but he didn’t give you much time to think about it as he plunged both fingers inside of you, thrusting his hand at a faster speed than before.

“Gods, Grom,” you moaned as gripped his hair a bit tighter.

The tent was soon filled with lewd, wet sounds as Grom relentlessly pumped his fingers into you. With every thrust of his hand, your cunt squelched, clenching around his digits.

“Grom, I’m gonna…”

It felt like your breath had been knocked out of you. You squeezed your eyes shut as your orgasm overtook you. Your legs involuntarily clamped down around Grom as he continued to curl his fingers into you, massaging and prodding at that spongy spot inside of you. His tusks pressed harder into your legs as he continued to devour you. You were sure you’d have bruises there by tomorrow but you didn’t care.

Your entire body shook as you rode your waves of pleasure, falling apart under Grom’s touch. You squirmed, your entire body felt too sensitive. Grom continued lapping at your clit, swirling his tongue around it.

“Grom, please,” you whined.

He pulled away momentarily, giving your clit a break. His fingers slowed but continued to slide in and out of you.

“Please what?” he questioned.

He leaned forward, placing his free hand beside your head. You tried to speak but found yourself at a loss for words, too entranced by the texture of his fingers inside you.

“Use your words, my dearest,” he cooed.

You tried to speak but you just couldn’t form the words. All you could do was moan as warmth pooled at your core. Your mouth hung open as Grommash’s hand began to speed up again. He watched you intently, studying your face as it contorted with ecstasy. Something inside of you was building and he knew it, bringing his thumb up to your clit as he continued to work his fingers inside you.

It felt different from the orgasm before. It felt just as pleasurable if not more, but it felt so different, so foreign to your body that it almost worried you. You weren’t fully sure what was happening to you.

“Wait, Grom, wait,” you pleaded.

But it was too late. Another orgasm hit you causing your cunt to clench around his fingers. It felt like something snapped inside of you as his fingers curled, hitting that spongy spot once more. Your hips bucked into him as you gasped, your head falling back onto the furs below you, eyes squeezing shut. Your body trembled, tensing up as you rode out your climax.

“Mmm, look at the mess you’re making,” Grom said, groaning.

Your eyes fluttered open, looking at him in confusion. Your eyes drifted down watching yourself in amazement and mild horror as you squirted around his fingers. The clear liquid spurted out onto his large hands and the bed underneath you with every thrust of his fingers.

You moan at the sight, the euphoria of the new sensation overtaking you. Grom’s hand slowed and then pulled out of you slowly. You whined at the sudden feeling of emptiness, your entrance clenching and fluttering around nothing.

Grommash brought his fingers up to his mouth, licking them.

“Who knew humans could taste so good?” he said.

“I didn’t know I could do that,” you said quietly.

The orc leaned down, pressing his body into yours and placing a kiss on your forehead.

“Well, now you know,” he replied.

You hummed, bringing your hand up to his chest, grazing one of the piercings on his nipple.

He then kissed you on your lips. The cold metal ring on his tusk pressed against your cheek as he did so.

His hand pulled at your tunic, ripping it off completely underneath him. You were now completely bare.

His large hand kneaded at your breast, occasionally pinching at the nipple. You moaned against his lips, letting his tongue slip into your mouth.

As he pressed into you more, you could feel his erection between your legs, occasionally sliding against your sensitive skin. He ground his hips against yours, cock slipping against you, causing himself to groan as he feverishly kissed you.

You knew what he wanted but you weren’t confident that he was going to get it. It’s not that you didn’t want him to fuck you, you were just worried still about him being inside of you.

As you pulled away from his lips you met his gaze, looking into his eyes. They were glazed over, lust-filled, and full of admiration. He wanted you. He needed so much more of you.

He ground his hips against you again.

“Need to be inside of you. Need to make you a proper mate,” he said in a low voice.

His hips bucked, causing you to moan as his cock slid across your folds, desire building up inside of you.

“I know. But I don’t think it’ll fit, Grom,” you said, quietly.

“Nonsense,” he grumbled as he got off the top of you.

He took his cock into his hand. It was already glistening with precum as he gave it a few lazy strokes.

“If you can take my fingers, you can take this,” he stated.

Just the sight of him jerking off was enough to make you spread your legs. You were basically salivating at the sight of him. You wanted him as badly as he wanted you, although the fear of being ripped apart still lingered.

“Take it slow, okay? Don’t put all of it in, Grom. I really don’t think I can take all of it,” you said.

He spread your legs further apart before sliding his cock against your swollen clit, causing yet another moan to come out of you.

“Whatever you say, my dearest,” he said.

You took a deep breath as Grom began to push the head of his cock into you. You hissed as it stretched the tight band of flesh around your walls. You were practically dripping from your last orgasm but your wetness only helped so much.

Grommash let out a low groan as he pushed his member into you at an agonizing pace. Pain was surging through you, bringing tears to your eyes. He was only a few inches in before you placed a hand on his chest, silently stopping him.

“Are you okay?” he questioned, a hint of concern in his voice.

“I’m okay. I think that’s as far as you can go for now,” you said.

He hummed in response.

“Let me know when you’re ready,” he said, rubbing circles on your thigh with his thumb.

You sighed, leaning your head back for a moment. Eventually, the pain began to subside. You brought your hand up to him, sliding it down his chest before giving him a nod to continue.

He pulled out the few inches that were inside you before thrusting them back in. It took everything in him to not push every inch in. He wanted to so badly. He wanted to fill you up so badly but he couldn’t stand the thought of hurting you.

You whimpered as his hips snapped forward, pushing part of his cock into you. The stretch was otherworldly. You knew if he hadn’t fucked you with his fingers earlier there was no way you would’ve been able to take the tip of him. It may have not been much but it felt divine.

“Oh, Grom,” you moaned as he fucked into you.

You could hear your pussy squelching around him as you became more wet by the second.

Your hands found their way to his large arms, holding on to stabilize yourself. Your body had a mind of its own as you rolled your hips forward. Grommash growled, halting his movements.

“Grom, why’d you stop?” you whined.

“Look,” he said with a grunt.

You propped yourself up on your elbows and looked down between the two of you. When you had rolled your hips moments ago, you had taken another inch of him without even realizing it. Too caught up in your pleasure to notice.

Grom rocked his hips into you, almost like he was silently asking you a question with his movements. He wanted to go further and you knew it. You moaned as he slowly began thrusting his hips again.

You were getting so wet. Surely you could take a bit more, right?

“I know you can take it. Let me show you just how good it can feel,” he said.

His shallow thrusts were already threatening to send you over the edge and you couldn’t deny it any longer, you wanted more of him.

You bucked your hips against him causing him to groan.

“Do you want all of it?” he asked.

“Yes…please. I need you,” you said in between broken moans.

“That’s all I needed to hear.”

Grommash hooked his hands under your knees, forcing your legs up as far as they’d go, pressing them against your chest. He replaced his hands with yours, making you hold your legs up. He then leaned forward, climbing on top of you. One of his hands was placed beside your head while the other lined up his cock to your entrance, slowly pushing in. He used his body weight to help sink into you, pushing in further than before, taking his time as he did so.

A choked moan left your mouth as your eyes welled up with tears. It was such a strange sensation. It hurt, a burning feeling seared into your core as Grom stretched you out. But the pain was also laced with pleasure.

Grommash’s hand left his cock, bringing it up and resting it by your head. He was a little over halfway in, sinking into you as he covered over your body. He hadn’t even begun thrusting yet and you already felt like you were becoming unglued.

“There you go. Taking it so well.”

He slid in deeper, another inch. Then another. And another. You whimpered, eyes rolling in the back of your head.

“My sweet human,” he cooed.

He wasn’t all the way in but his hips started moving, thrusting into you slowly, working the last of his way into you.

“You like that, huh? Like being full of my cock,” he said, picking up the pace.

You couldn’t speak. You just nodded your head and moaned.

Grommash pulled out all the way to the head of his cock before slamming back inside of you. You yelped as the sound of wet skin smacking together filled the tent. You could feel low rumbles vibrating from Grom’s chest as he growled, getting louder with every thrust. You were slowly becoming a babbling mess as waves of ecstasy began to overtake you. The pain had subsided and all you could think about was Grommash and how good he felt.

Grom moved one of his hands, bringing it down between the two of you. He circled your clit with his thumb. It felt as if sparks were igniting. Every raw nerve was crackling with pleasure.

You were panting underneath him, growing closer and closer to the edge. You could feel his cock twitching inside of you. His movements were becoming more erratic and you knew he was close to. An all too familiar feeling was forming and your body began to shake.

“Oh, fuck. Grom, I’m gonna…”

“Cum for me, my dearest,” he said.

And that was all you needed. You let out a wail as your vision clouded. Your body spasmed as your cunt tightened around him, somehow managing to suck him in more as if your body wasn’t ready to let go. He kept fucking into you, chasing his own release until his hips stuttered, bucking into you harder than ever. He let out a roar and you were sure the whole clan could hear both of you as the two of you rode out the pleasure, not that any of the orcs would’ve cared.

You could feel his cum, hot and leaking out of you as he slowly pulled his cock out. You closed your eyes as your legs fell from your chest, splaying out in front of you. You were still in a daze as Grommash sat on his knees for a moment, admiring you like you were an art piece. You were officially his mate and he was overjoyed.

You felt the bed shift as he got up. He was only gone for a moment and returned with a washcloth, cleaning you off gently.

You felt yourself drifting off. You were so warm and so very exhausted.

“Falling asleep on me?” Grommash joked as he laid down beside you.

You opened your eyes, looking up at the orc.

“Maybe,” you chuckled.

He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into his side. You kissed his chest, moving up to his neck, and then his jaw, pecking the inked skin. He held onto you tight as if he was afraid you’d be snatched away from him. You heard him mumble something in orcish that you couldn’t understand.

“What was that?” you questioned.

“Na dova dra,” he repeated, this time hearing him more clearly.

“And what does that mean?” you asked.

He brought your hand up to his lips, placing a kiss against it.

“I love you,” he translated.

Your heart fluttered and you smiled. Admissions of love were another uncommon thing amongst the horde, especially towards humans. But it was true. Grom loved you very much.

You brought your hand up to his face, guiding him to yours. You kissed his lips gently before pulling away.

“I love you too, Grommash.”

[misstycloud]

Yandere visual novel games recommendations

These are all free to download from itch.io on computer. I’m not sure if any of these could work on any other device but most probably not. Most of these games aren’t finished either and it’s the demo you play(they’re indie games created during, what I presume, is the persons free time, so it takes a while to develop) Still, you have content to play and it doesn’t end after just 5 minutes, I promise.

I will continue to update this post with new games I enjoy!

14 Days With You- by cutiesai

Here’s a link to the official tumblr blog

OFFICIAL DESCRIPTION: 🔞(if u like gettin very freaky THIS is for u)

"14 Days With You" is an upcoming romantic horror visual novel centred around Ren, a mysterious individual who seems more than obsessed with you — and is willing to do anything he can to have you.

Prescription:LOVE - by Livingslime

Here’s a link to the official tumblr blog

OFFICIAL DESCRIPTION:

"You wake up in a hospital with no memory of how you got there. A kind and attentive doctor assures you that you will be under his care, patiently nursing you back to health. No one seems to know what caused your condition. "

The Kid at the Back - by Fantasia | TealCat

OFFICIAL DESCRIPTION: 🔞(behind a small paywall abt 5$)

"There's this guy, pretty tall guy, often times people don't even realize he's there but he is. Usually sits at the back, wears nothing but black. His eyes however, were bright, red as the autumn leaves, and they for sure aren't leaving your eyes once you lock with his."

Heart Cage - by rice love coffee

OFFICIAL DESCRIPTION:🔞

You are a detective who has just moved to a new town. You are involved in a serial killer case, and three mysterious residents (Or more?!) are approaching you!

Don't trust anyone! But... can you?

Please Don’t Hate Christmas- (also) by rice love coffee

OFFICIAL DESCRIPTION:

Yandere x Otome x Christmas x Urban Legend!!

You last celebrated Christmas a few years ago. This year, you returned to your hometown---Snowflake Island, with your childhood friend, Albert. Albert treats you so well that you choose to stay forever. However, you forgot something in the past, and it's still not solved...

(A/N: it was a long time since I played this ⬆️ but it shouldn’t have changed much- when I played it was really good. )

Pulsatio Cordis

OFFICIAL DESCRIPTION;

The popular guy meets a random nobody and inexplicably develops a crush on them. Sound familiar? It’s only the premise of 90% of the teen fiction genre. But dream no more. Your love letter, once a wishful Hail Mary, has been accepted by the one and only Liev Latané!

Liev seems unattainable 一 how can any sane eighteen-year old juggle being head student with being leader of the debate team and the school athletics team, on top of being a UN Youth Ambassador? But somehow, out of 150 students, he chose to go on a date with you!

Binary Star Hero- by Concrete Parasite

OFFICIAL DESCRIPTION:

Binary Star is the country's top Super Hero. His light shines bright against any darkness... but the brighter the light illuminates, the darker the cast shadow becomes.

Discover who Binary Star is behind the mask.

Sunlit Grove - by Bingzi

OFFICIAL DESCRIPTION:

Burned out and overwhelmed, your doctor insists you take a break. What better escape than a retreat far from technology?

Help prepare for the local festivities with the overly affectionate Maverick, and do your best to avoid his unsettling brother.

Explore the secluded, self-sustaining town of Sunlit Grove, where the people are kind and a little bit too welcoming...

(A/n - this one felt a bit shorter than the the others but I still liked the vibe of the setting and the cute country boy love interest.)

[totally-here]

3 times Phantom's Guardian was Mentioned + 1 Time He Showed Up

One

Phantom’s introduction to Young Justice wasn’t as dramatic as Empress’ or Slobo’s, or even Arrowette’s first introduction to the cave. No, it wasn’t during the Olympics, or on a battlefield, and he didn’t come in injured and looking for help. 

Impulse just brought Phantom in one day and insisted that he should join because he’s their age, interested in justice, and now that Greta’s human again they need another ghost member. So Phantom stayed, popping in and out for missions but never really sticking around all that long. 

Today is one of the days that Phantom’s with them on a mission, that being looking around a lab of the Brain’s that had an energy surge recently, despite it being presumably abandoned. 

Kon got paired up with Phantom to check the rest out first, since they both have better hearing than Anita and Tim, who were both still in the main room working on checking the computers for previous activity. 

The room is dark except for the light green ball glowing slightly above Phantom’s hand. He waves it around enough for it to reflect off of glass, then throws it up to the ceiling. The light expands enough to illuminate the room. 

Phantom mumbles about not knowing he could do that. Kon ignores him and moves closer to inspect the glass tubes to the side of several monitors set up. 

“Looks like cloning equipment,” Phantom says, casually. He drags a finger through the dust gathering on one of the monitors. “Don’t think they’ve been activated recently, though, so that’s good.”

“What? You got a problem with clones or something?” It’s a quick and defensive answer, and Phantom puts his hands up in surrender. 

“Not in concept.” He shrugs and joins Kon near the tubes. “But not a lot of people ask before making clones.”

“So I don’t need to sic Superman on you?” Obviously Kon could chew Phantom out himself, but few can do a “not mad, just disappointed” face better than Clark. 

Phantom scrunches his face. “Why would you need to?” 

Kon stops pretending to inspect the tube and stares at Phantom. “You do know I’m a clone, right?” The blank look on Phantom’s face tells him that no, he did not. “Well I am. Clone of Superman, though we’re pretty much brothers now.”

“Cool,” Phantom says, not a bit less friendly. He hesitates for a second before continuing, “Could I maybe ask you how you got there? Me and my clone have landed on cousins, but that was also, like, given to us by her evil dad. So.”

Phantom trails off. Huh, that makes three members of the team that have been cloned. Not a lot, but it’s weird that it’s happened three times. 

“You’re making sure she feels accepted, right?” 

“Yeah! Well, whenever she’s around. She,” Phantom waves his hand around, looking for the right word, “She’s a wanderer. Exploring the world and stuff. But Richard has a room for her at home, and I remind her of that whenever she does stop by.” 

“Well, first of all, don’t push it so hard,” Kon says. Phantom nods enthusiastically. “And second, who’s Richard?”

Kon doesn’t know a lot of Richards, and he doesn’t think that Phantom ever mentioned one before. Or even if he remembers his living life. 

“Oh, he’s my, uh, guardian? I guess that’s the best term. The guy I’m living with who forces me to go to school sometimes.” Phantom looks away and back to the tubes. 

Before Kon can ask for more details, Robin and Empress come in with a report of dead computers and wanting to know where they’re at with the cloning room.

They’re unimpressed with their lack of progress.

Two

Wally doesn’t really need to come by the Hamilton Lodge that often, not when that’s Young Justice’s territory and he doesn’t want to get involved in all of That.

But Red Tornado said that the team has a file on a planet that’s very quickly becoming a league problem, and he figured it might be a good time to try to check in with Bart, anyway. Make sure he hasn’t run any cars off cliffs again and all that. 

So he stops by Manchester to ask Bart about the file, then they both head East to actually find it. 

When they arrive at the hotel minutes later, Wally’s surprised to actually find it… clean? There’s no visible trash or overturned furniture or anything else he’d expect from an abandoned hotel filled with teenagers. Well, maybe not filled, lately. He doesn’t think anyone’s living here currently, with Greta at Elias’ for the school year and Slobo gone. 

Still, the room smells slightly of artificial pine scent, and Bart perks up before disappearing and reappearing rapidly, holding a teammate up by his armpits. Said teammate just accepts this, his legs folding into a wispy tail, and head rolling against his shoulders. 

“This is Phantom!” Bart holds him up higher. Phantom waves. Wally’s only heard of him through Max’s updates, the same way he would hear about Preston or Carol, but with more wariness about the supposed ghost. 

Actually looking at the pale face and glowing green eyes contrasting against the darker than dark jumpsuit, Wally’s a little more ready to accept his claim at being undead. 

“He stress cleans,” Bart explains, moving to carry Phantom under his arm. Wally bites down the urge to tell him to put him down, but only because Phantom doesn’t resist the hold, only moving to get into a more comfortable position. His hands are touching the floor. “So what happened?” 

Bart directs the question downwards, and Phantom heaves a very dramatic sigh. Definitely a teenager. It does raise the question of who exactly this kid’s mentor is. Hopefully he does have one. Maybe he’s the Spectre’s kid?

Phantom phases through the arm holding him only to lay on top of Bart’s hair. “I accidentally called Richard dad. And then fled.” 

Bart nods sagely. “Classic. One time I accidentally called Max dad, so I had to start a fire to distract him.”

Phantom sighs again, almost dreamily. “Genius.” 

Wally doesn’t have time to unpack all of that. Well he does, but he’s not going to, because there’s really only one Richard that comes to mind that might have the heart to take in a dead kid, even if he doesn’t go by his full name.

But surely Dick would have told him, or any other Titan, if he had adopted a kid. Right?

But there’s still a little shadow of doubt. Maybe Dick wanted it to be a secret, or it was really new or had a rocky start. Phantom doesn’t seem to hold himself like a Bat, but it’s not a guarantee Dick would have trained him. 

“The lodge looks nice,” Wally offers out loud, which Phantom shrugs at and wraps his tail around Bart’s head to keep secure. “Anyway, Impulse. The file on Myrg?” 

“Oh yeah!” Again, Bart disappears then reappears a few seconds later with a paper file. They really need to start digitizing more of these things. “That’s the planet where we played baseball so that they wouldn’t destroy Earth!” 

“You what.” 

The prospect of Dick following in his dad’s footsteps is forgotten in the face of what the hell Young Justice got up to on Myrg. 

Three

Tim may be in a…Predicament. 

It’s not his fault. Really. He knew what he was doing. He couldn’t let a civilian fall for the trap. But they were already so close, so he just, kinda, pushed himself into the rope instead. 

So there Robin is, tied upside down in a warehouse, with the Joker below next to an overly complicated control panel. The clown’s rambling about bombs hidden all over the city that Tim knows Batman is already tracking down with Batgirl. 

Tim’s not really paying attention to the rant because of that, more focused on wiggling enough to get the spare mini-birdarang out of his glove to cut the rope without notifying the Joker. 

“Yikes, bad time?” Asks Phantom’s voice beside him. Based on the source and accounting for the slight echo, he’s floating with his head near Tim’s, likely upside down. “Want some help?” 

Tim gets the birdarang out and starts sawing at the thick rope. They should be fine anyway, but stalling the Joker for extra time would be helpful. “Can you possess the Joker? Just hold him still.”

“The correct term is overshadow, but sure.” The voice disappears, and a few seconds later the Joker freezes. 

His body jerks forward, then backward, and a laugh chokes out of his throat. His hand claws over his mouth at the noise and he hunches over. All movement halts before he rights himself, shaking out his hands and rolling his shoulders. Phantom looks up at Tim and his eyes are glowing. 

Tim cuts through the rope, kicking and using the momentum to right himself and land on his feet. He brushes past Phantom in Joker’s body to handle the control panel. He turns off the radio broadcast and dismantles the bomb strapped to the panel.

Threat handled, he turns to Phantom and holds up some handcuffs. “Let me arrest you?”

Phantom obliges, turning the Joker’s body around and putting his hands behind his back. Tim lets him walk by himself out of the warehouse and moves the handcuffs around a lamppost. The Joker’s body jerks again, then slumps forward, just as Phantom reappears next to him, scowling down at the unconscious body. 

“That felt really slimy. Zero out of ten, would not do again,” Phantom grouches. 

“Why’re you in Gotham?” Tim asks. It’s not like Phantom makes a habit of visiting. The last time he came into the city, he complained about feeling the dead under the streets. Fortunately, that let Tim uncover a few tunnels that Talons travel through. Phantom, however, was unnerved by the Talons and left quickly. 

“Oh, Solomon Grundy’s back in our sewers. Richard said I should probably tell one of you Gotham heroes, since you keep track of those guys.” He shakes out his hands like they were cramped in the Joker. 

They hadn’t seen Grundy in a while. Tim assumed he was currently in a less violent personality. “What’s he doing?” 

Phantom shrugs. “Just chilling. Mostly underground. I tried to talk to him but he only grunted back at me. He also tried to pick me up, dunno what that was about.”

“Maybe because you’re both dead?” Tim guessed. That would be a surface level connection. Ivy and Woodrue have had more luck working with Grundy than anyone, and Phantom definitely doesn’t have the connection to the Green that’d help with that. 

Police lights turn around the corner, and Tim shoots a grapple to get to the roof above them. Phantom follows, but disappears as soon as they’re on the roof. Going back home, probably. 

Cass drops down from the roof she was listening on. “Richard?”

“Not the same one.”

They both stick around long enough to watch the Joker get put into the cop car. 

Plus one

A spaceship landed in the forests of New York, and Cassie’s team was the first to respond to it. Technically not respond, but check it out, since there wasn’t any alert or anything. 

Still, Wonder Girl has Empress, Robin, and Superboy on the other side of the ship, watching what looks like the back door, while she, Impulse, and Phantom watch the other door and main window. She has binoculars, but the windows are so tinted she can’t quite make anything out. 

No aliens have come out yet, and she hesitates to have anyone go in, in case whoever inside does turn hostile. 

Impulse has offered to run through a total of five times already, and it’s a testament to his restraint that he hasn’t, and a testament to Cassie’s that she hasn’t yelled at him yet. Phantom at least isn’t being annoying, but he’s not necessarily helpful, either. He’s not even watching the spaceship anymore. Now he’s trying to make a flower crown out of dandelions. 

“Door’s opening on our side,” Robin says from the comms. “But no one’s coming out.” 

“Alright, good enough to try to get in,” Cassie decides. She turns to Phantom, who’s closing off the circle of flowers. Beside him, Impulse has since pulled out a gameboy. “Phantom, go in invisibly through the open door and report back. Try to see what their plans are.” 

“Oh, sure. One second.” Phantom finishes the crown and tries to put it on Bart’s head. It doesn’t quite fit over his mane of hair, but Phantom shrugs and leaves it sitting there anyway before going invisible. 

“Maybe I should shave my head again,” Bart says as his game character dies. 

He gets a resounding no in response. 

Half an hour later they have a very annoyed Green Lantern lecturing them about league jurisdiction and knowing when to call someone else. 

Apparently, the alien ship was just stopping to complete some maintenance, and did not appreciate any spying on them, and especially did not appreciate who did it. Green Lantern was more than happy to explain that Wonder Girl’s team is not really a part of the Justice League and he can help with their maintenance. They denied his help and left to find a place with less people in it. 

“-and you!” Green Lantern rounds on Phantom next, but Cassie knows none of them are really listening. Sure, they messed up by freaking out the visiting aliens, and yeah maybe they should have contacted the league about it, but they’ve dealt with stuff worse than this! It’s not Cassie’s fault she thought that this would have stuck to the formula. 

“Who even are you?” Green Lantern runs a hand through his black hair, stupid green gauntlets shining in the sunlight. “Do I need to call your mentor?” He frowns. “Or do they know you mess up alien technology by just being around it?” 

Phantom scoffs and rolls his eyes. “How was I supposed to know their tech would go all fuzzy when I came in?” 

“You wouldn’t have to know if you just stayed out of the spaceship!” 

“Hey!” Cassie cuts in. “Technically that was my call. It’s not all on Phantom.”

“I still could've been more careful,” Phantom says to her, ignoring Green Lantern as they argue about blame. 

“Cut it out for a second, okay?” Green Lantern puts a hand between them and they stop to glare at him. He pulls the hand back. “Look, can I just talk to one of your adults about this?” 

Robin glares. “We don’t need an adult. We have this under control.”

“Only because I’m here now.” 

“I’ll call my mentor,” Phantom says. Kon opens his mouth, most likely to offer to call Superman instead in hopes of a lighter sentence, but Bart covers his mouth, smiling like he knows something Cassie doesn’t. Tim and Anita share a look, and don’t intervene as Phantom pulls out a phone from his chest. 

It rings once before it’s picked up. Cassie can’t hear the other side of the conversation, but Kon’s eyebrows scrunch in confusion. “Hey, do you think you can pick me up? Green Lantern wants to talk to you.” Phantom looks Green Lantern up and down then says, “No, this one doesn’t have a cape.”

Phantom says goodbye after rattling off their coordinates, hangs up, and stares at Green Lantern in silence for a few seconds. 

And then a swirling mass of black seeps into the space next to Phantom. The end of a cane steps out of it, followed by a leg, then the rest of the immaculately dressed man holding the handle of the cane that’s shaped like a bird’s head. 

“Phantom,” The man says. His voice drips with condescension in only a way a british accent can, yet Phantom smiles up at him. The shadowy portal behind him disappears. “What, exactly, happened?”

“That’s the fucking Shade,” Anita hisses to Robin, who shrugs noncommittedly at her. Green Lantern seems to recognise him too, taking a step back and clenching his hand that holds his ring. 

“Well, the team and I were staking out this spaceship–super cool, by the way–and I went inside to check it out, but my presence messed with their tech–which was an accident–and they freaked out, so I freaked out, and then we kinda got into a little fight until Green Lantern came to mediate.”

“Hm. Is that right?” The Shade asks Green Lantern, who nods slowly, still anticipating an attack. “It seems like the problem’s fixed, then.”

“Well, yes, but–”

��And it does seem about time for these kids to get home, doesn't it?” The Shade pulls out an actual pocket watch, chain and all, from his suit pocket and takes his time in checking it. “I’ll see them home.” 

Shadows grow from behind the team, swirling until they become a giant, gaping maw that swallows them up and spits them out in a different forest, or maybe just a different part of the same forest. 

Either way, Cassie has to take a moment to make sure she doesn’t throw up from the sudden vertigo the shadow portal caused. 

The Shade looks at Phantom, and raises an eyebrow. “You can’t expect me to always bail you out.” 

Phantom shrugs, looking guilty. “I know. Thanks, Richard.”

Oh, so that’s who Richard is. Annoyingly, neither Tim or Bart look surprised by this revelation.

[quibbs126]

You know, TFA could have done something more with the fact that Blackarachnia used to be an Autobot soldier, or at least in the Academy

Like how they presumably never went to recover her remains. Like Optimus and Sentinel not doing it when they were there makes sense, it was just the two of them on a dangerous planet with no backup. But there was no recovery team sent to Archa 7 to recover the remains of their former member, or verify if she might have even survived? Which she did, and her mutation was only a result of her trying to get out of the den of spiders

So the Autobots, not just her friends, basically abandoned her. And she was a member of their military, and assuming the Autobot Boot Camp episode took place before this, she was presumably a ranked member alongside Sentinel and Optimus, not just some new recruit

And in the current day, she’s with the Decepticons, a group she of all people should be the most opposed to given her background. And she’s probably with them because they were the ones who found her on Archa 7 and got her off the planet (I don’t know if it’s confirmed but that’s most likely to me), and in that instance she probably didn’t have much of a choice in joining them

So not only did the group she planned to dedicate her life to abandon her and leave her to rot, but she had to join their worst enemy to escape the hellhole they left her in

Like you could use that as another instance to show just how shady the Autobot command really is, but they never really did much with that part of her character

[crystalflygeo]

Kinktober Day 3 - Oviposition ft Dan Heng (Honkai Star Rail)

Soooooooo.... this got out of hand WHEEZE as it always does when it involves dragon eggs. I'm-.... I'm just hopeless atp. Buckle up I'm about to ignore canon and pull a lot of made up shit from thin air for the sake of horny, lmaoooo. Lovingly dedicated to @moraxsthrone

This is how Tang Tang was made//HIT

At first, you aren’t sure if you heard correctly. 

Dan Heng says nothing but pointedly avoids your gaze with a healthy blush on his cheeks.

“Did you say, uh… maybe I misheard but-” You start.

“Eggs.” Dan Heng repeats. “Dragon eggs, much smaller, of course, but they… could be viable…”

“... Eggs.” You say with a blink. 

Dan Heng sighs. “Yes.” And turns around to stare and interact with a few screens. “According to some ancient records it seems, those who have fully realized their potential as draconic Vidhyadara and manifest the dragon-like characteristics and behaviors, could, in theory, be able to pass on genes and reproduce like our reptile counterparts.” 

He is still not looking at you. Scrolling mindlessly through windows of text and opening and closing tabs. He’s nervous, you know it. 

“Children.” You blurt.

“Yes, I… it’s understandable if you have reservations. There is time to consider, I don’t want you to feel obligated to anything or…”

There’s a bit of hope in his voice, your heart warms up and flutters. Children. It’s been such an accepted impossibility in your relationship. You’ve entertained the idea of adoption someday. Now there could be a chance?

You just never imagined it would involve getting railed and apparently pumped full of-

You inhale, close your eyes, and decide to speak before you think too much about it. “Alright, but you have a lot to explain.” 

------------------

And so, he explains. In excruciating detail. 

Dan Heng seems to be pondering aloud just as much as he is trying to explain the whole process. All an educated guess, though, as he puts it. You’re working with estimations and are not sure how to feel about that but he’s put an incredible amount of research into it all and that, at least, soothes you.

Over the years you’ve seen Dan Hang in many different ways and dealt with your fair share of… interesting Vidyadhara traits. Mates? Good. Funky dragon anatomy? Very good. Being protective and territorial over you? Yes. But eggs… will definitely be new. 

Your back hits the mattress and you shiver nervously, only in your underwear. Dan Heng kisses you softly, his hand cupping your cheek. Like this his eyes have an almost ethereal glow and his long dark hair is unbound falling down his back. Teal horns crown his head, and though they aren’t new you can’t help but be amazed by them every time.

“How do you feel? Are you sure about this?” He asks tenderly. 

You’re trying hard not to think too much about your previous discussions, sneaking a glance at his underwear out of the corner of your eye, or more accurately, at the large bulge in it. 

You lick your lips nervously and nod “Yeah… yeah, sure.” 

He sighs and smooths a hand along your shoulder. “If you have changed your mind-”

“No, no! I haven’t I promise I just… I’m nervous, there’s a lot to consider and…” You stare at him for a moment and remember, he is walking this path with you, just as lost and nervous. “I love you.” You smile reassuringly. “I love you so much. I want this.”

His breath comes out in a woosh and he leans forward again to kiss you. 

It’s passionate, demanding, his tongue tangles with yours and explores your mouth and you groan, your body melting under him, hands roaming each other’s bodies. You see his teal dragon tail manifesting, swaying about excitedly before curling around your ankle possessively.     

He massages your breast, pinching a nipple between his fingers to bring it to a stiff peak, you whine and arch your back, he takes the chance to make short work of your bra and toss it somewhere along the dark room before your arms curl around his neck once more to pull him down into another kiss.

His hips buck into yours and he moans. Even through the fabric you can already tell this time something is different. 

And honestly you can’t wait. 

Your fingers hook at the edge of his underwear, teasing, and start to pull down, Dan Heng groans and helps you discard his last piece of clothing, your panties quickly joining after and this is it. You stare.

Not just his gorgeous, thick cock you’ve come to love so much but two. Two.

One is relatively normal, his shape and girth familiar despite the clear draconic hue from his dark uncut tip and soft ridges. The other slightly larger, with a pointier tip, not as strange as Dan Heng had made it out to be. The Vidyadhara had been all shy and hesitant about it, both out of embarrassment and perhaps because he was afraid it might scare you off. 

Instead, desire pools between your legs. Oh, how you want.

“A-Alright, so first I should-!!” Any other words are lost in a strangled moan as you reach out and wrap your hand around the unfamiliar length. It’s hot in your palm, thick and firm. Dan Heng hisses as you tentatively jerk it a bit, squeezing around the tip, it’s spade-shaped and neatly tapered, perfect for reaching deep and pressing on just the right spots. 

Or so you assume, won’t know until you try.

He bucks into your hand with a grunt and you stare fascinated at the leaking tip, before either of you can process it, you dark forward and lap at it. “Hng!” He tosses his head back and his hand flies to grip at your hair. 

It tastes salty, slightly more viscous and you can’t get enough of it, you gingerly kiss at the tip and mouth at it before closing your lips around the crown, it’s thick in your mouth, your hand teasing the rest of it. 

You stare up at Dan Heng, his eyes shut tight, brow furrowed and face flushed all the way to the tips of his pointy ears, he’s tense and shivering, clearly holding back from rutting into the wet warmth of your throat. 

So, you attempt to take him deeper, moaning for good measure so the vibrations drive him insane, and you’re rewarded with more pleasured noises that make your pussy clench.

“My love… w-wait-” He gasps, you run your tongue along the underside of his length. “Fuck-!” Ohhh he’s losing his composure, his grip on your hair tightening. When your other hand curls around his unattended cock, thumb swirling at the tip, he snaps. “Enough.”

You pull off with a wet pop, licking your lips and catching your breath. 

Dan Heng pushes you back with a hand and you follow easily, back hitting the mattress and spreading your legs eagerly for him to slot in. He reaches for a pillow and places it under your hips, raising the slightly, his tail now curls around your thigh. 

Your stares cross, love and lust mixing. 

“Are you ready?” He asks, his thumb rubbing over your entrance, finding you dripping wet. 

“Yes, Aeons, yes…”

He leans down to kiss you again, tender this time, there’s a sense of intimacy that warms you. How you love this man, this dragon. The way he dotes over you, the way he breathes in your scent and kisses you and holds you close, tender. 

He sinks two fingers inside you and you whimper into the kiss. He works you open slowly, reverent, pulling in and out, stretching them a bit and adding a third. You’re squirming, desperate and worked up. Nails dragging on his back and shoulders. “Dan Heng please…” 

He kisses at your neck, nips the skin there with his fangs. “Be patient, I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t. Please, just put it in. Breed me.” 

He stops, you hear a little growl, ragged breath on your collarbone, and suddenly the fingers are gone. You barely have time to miss them when that thick pointy cockhead is pressing against you. 

Then it sinks in, the glide slow and gentle with Dan Heng’s careful movements.  

And oh, oh- you feel him stretch you. Thick and long and so, so hot. It spears you open in the most delicious way, rubbing at your insides as he pulls out ever so slightly before fucking in deeper with slow rolls of his hips.

You toss your head back and moan. You feel so full, deliciously complete. The draconic cock settling deep inside as Dan Heng bottoms out, his balls flush against your taint and the second cock dribbling precum everywhere on your thigh and navel.  

You take a moment or two to settle, both of you, and then he starts moving. Dan Heng pulls back and rolls into you languidly, slow and deep, testing the waters. 

“So good for me… so warm and… thigh-!” He murmurs against your skin, pressing kisses anywhere he can reach. You keen, arching off the mattress and meeting his every thrust.

The air is thick and heavy, he presses as close as he can against you, your legs lock behind his back as he gradually speeds up. Your thoughts are fuzzy, blissed-out. The room is a cacophony of moans and whimpers and the sound of skin on skin. 

“I need- please- Dan Heng-!!”

The drag of his cock sets you alight, every nerve stimulated, pleasure building and building…

“I’m close” He rasps out. You’re about to tell him to come deep inside as he always does and then you remember.

“Oh.”

Dan Heng’s grip tightens in the sheets, his thrusts slow to a crawl and you suddenly feel a subtle bulge pressing against your hole. “T-that’s-” You say breathlessly. 

An egg.

He presses his forehead against yours and rolls his hips a little more insistent, trying to ease it in “Careful now…relax for me.” 

You’re trying but the pressure is intense and you’re already so full of thick cock. How can you take more? You whimper.

“I’m-”

“You can do it.”

A dragon egg, a little dragon baby. A tiny piece of you and him joining to create something wonderful. This is why you’re doing this. 

“Almost there” His voice is a soothing balm, con contradictory to the way he ruts into you, pushing your limits. But the way his teal eyes almost glow, pupils pulled to slits, flushed and panting but so determined, staring at you with so much love. You bite your lip and cant your hips, muffling your cries as his cock slips deeper with every thrust. 

It feels like an eternity when the ovipositor slips back all the way inside, and you cry out.

Dan Heng’s thumb traces your clit and while he can’t really pull out, he fucks into you with a nice deep grind.

“Dan Heng-!” You whisper, nothing more than a debauched breathless mess. “Dan Heng, Dan Heng, Dan Heng…”

The coil in your gut snaps and you come with a scream, tears springing to your eyes and your walls fluttering around his length, easing the egg deep inside you. He fucks a few more thrusts into you and then makes a noise you never heard from him before, a sort of choked growl.

Then, he stills.

You spend a few moments catching your breath and Dan Heng nuzzles into you, kissing away your tears as you lie a full, overstimulated, flushed mess. 

“Bear with me just a little longer.” He pants, pulling back a a little to hover over you. You groan, having almost forgotten about this particular step and the promise of his other cock, the one more familiar to you. 

He eases the ovipositor out of you slowly. The egg vaguely feeling heavy and round in your womb. You can’t think straight as Dan Heng shifts against you, his other cock resting against your entrance before easily sinking in, smaller than the first, bottoming out immediately. 

You sigh.

“I… I won’t last long.” He admits.

“Breed me.” You repeat. “Our egg will take.”

It seems like the right incentive as he starts fucking into you in a frenzied pace, pressing and pulling at your insides. You sob and squirm, uselessly trying to match his rhythm. He growls, groans and tips over surprisingly quickly, filling you up with sticky cum. 

Your body sags, spent, aching, full, and so utterly satisfied. He stays lodged in deep and doesn’t move. You both take a moment to come down from the intense high. 

Dan Heng slides a hand along your tummy, smoothing the skin there and feeling the very small subtle bulge there. “Mine. All mine… both of you.” He claims.  

You place your hand on his and smile weakly.

He finally pulls out, making you groan at the emptiness, and maneuvers you both onto your sides, spooning you. He brushes at your hair and kisses the back of your neck, whispering sweet nothings “You did so well. I love you.” His hand rests on the soft curve of your stomach. The barest signs of a bump that could be easily missed. “Rest.” 

You sigh deeply, content. “Love you too…” Comes out slightly slurred. And so, you rest.

[jungkoode]

𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 21

˗ˏˋ birthday shots ˎˊ˗

"Jungkook’s friends, Jungkook’s birthday party… It’s all honestly not what you expected. But then again, Jungkook keeps twisting your expectations of him, once and once again."

next | index

⋆｡°✩ chapter details ✩°｡⋆

word count: 8,4k

content: jungkook having friends, feeling out of place, pretty girls, judgemental people, tae/hobi/jk protecting the peace, shared secrets, nicknames gaining an intimate layer, stubbornness with spicy food, drinking, doing shots and jungkook being both attentive and protective.

✧ author's note ✧

Aaaand we’re finally here. The party. The build-up. The chaos potential. The birthday. After 20 chapters of yearning, character dissection, awkward eye contact, and conversations that say everything and nothing at the same time… we are officially entering the next arc: actual real-world social interaction. Which, if you’ve been paying attention, is every character’s personal hell. Including mine.

First of all—yes, this is Jungkook’s party chapter. Yes, it’s a pivotal one. Yes, I was pacing around my flat in a hoodie muttering “okay but what would he wear” like a deranged method actor trying to get into character. And yes, there are about 15 new people here. But please don’t panic. You don’t need to memorize them all. This isn’t a fantasy war council. You’re not about to be quizzed on the name of Jungkook’s friend’s cousin’s dog. They’re not here to steal the plot—they’re here to color it.

Jungkook’s different social groups, clashing and blending like some unhinged Venn diagram of his life. They each say something about him and the many versions of himself he keeps—because, as always, this isn’t about the party. It’s about him and her, and us, and the very inconvenient reality of human attachment.

Now. Tessa (and yes, Toasty, when you read this… the name comes 100% from you hahaha).

Yup. That girl from the library. She’s here. She’s breathing. She’s talking. And she’s not a villain.

I know, I know, fanfiction is riddled with the evil-rival-love-interest trope. The girl who eyes you up and down with thinly veiled contempt. The passive aggressive bitch who “just happens” to sit on his lap or call him baby in front of you. The girl whose entire personality is “threat to the main couple.” And listen—I could never.

Tessa isn’t like that. Because most people aren’t like that. Attraction doesn’t automatically equal competition, and not every woman who talks to a man you like is an enemy. That’s such a tired, flat, boring cliche. I’m not writing this story to project misogynistic tropes onto women so we can feel smug about someone else being “the wrong one.” I don’t want you to root against her. I don’t want you to root against anyone, really. Maybe Mia, but that’s what she’s for. She’s your pressure valve. You need someone to hate. That’s what makes the rest bearable.

Tessa’s presence is not a betrayal. It’s just reality. Jungkook is allowed to be liked. He’s allowed to explore. And so is Nix. She’s not some pushover sainted martyr of “true love.” She’s a girl. She’s confused. She’s a little guarded. She’s still trying to understand herself.

There’s no jealousy because there is no claim. There’s no relationship, no commitment, no confessions, no secret “we’re basically already in love” subtext. There’s just this slow, painful, glacial slide into a kind of closeness that might one day become something else—but hasn’t. Not even close. This chapter is about a possible beginning of something resembling tentative friendship. We are barely out of enemies-to-mildly-tolerating-each-other zone. We are in the “do I text you or is that weird” era.

Don’t rush it. Don’t expect it. That’s not the story I’m telling.

Nix being unbothered isn’t character growth. It’s just honesty. It’s consistency. I’ve spent 20 chapters building a girl who’s emotionally guarded, private, and painfully aware of the dynamics she allows herself to engage in. She’s not “cool with it” to be cool—she’s just not invested like that yet. And that matters. We’re not jumping stages for drama. We’re walking, slowly, through the psychology of two people who don’t even know what they want. Let them be confused. Let them be messy. Let them take their time.

I’m writing slow burn with psychological realism at its core, and that means actions have context. If you came here expecting love confessions and possessive meltdowns and “he’s mine stay away” drama… wrong story, babes. I want you uncomfortable. I want you squinting at every interaction wondering if it means something. I want you to question how affection develops, really. Slowly. Subtly. Almost invisibly, until it’s all you can think about.

The story isn’t about dramatic betrayals or Big Plot Twists. It’s about tension. About two people orbiting each other in their own broken, stumbling ways. It’s about glances that last too long and words that don’t come out right and the way your heart knows something long before your brain does. It’s about patterns, and Jungkook’s are catching up to him.

You don’t need to like everyone. But you should understand them. And that’s what I’m asking of you here. Because these characters aren’t plot devices—they’re real to me. They’re studies. They’re messy. And god, I love them for it.

So yeah. Welcome to the party. The masks are on, the music’s loud, and no one knows how to behave when they’re being watched. Especially him.

Enjoy. Suffer. Stare at the page like you’re decoding a sacred text. That’s the vibe.

And as always…

You’re here to suffer. I’m here to deliver.

You’re welcome.

⋆｡°✩ read on✩°｡⋆

ao3

wattpad

You never realized a person could contain so many versions of themselves until you saw Jungkook surrounded by his friends.

"SURPRISE!"

The word explodes through the small ramen shop, followed by cheers and laughter as Jungkook freezes beside you. 

His fingers quickly pocket his phone, eyes widening with a genuine shock that transforms his entire face. 

Gone is the perpetually amused, slightly condescending roommate you've come to know. In his place stands someone younger, almost innocent—lips parting in stunned delight, eyes crinkling at the corners.

It's fucking weird is what it is.

"Holy shit," he breathes, a laugh bursting from him as Taehyung launches himself across the restaurant, wrapping Jungkook in a hug that nearly knocks him over. "What the fuck?"

Hobi follows immediately, bouncing on his feet like an overgrown puppy before throwing his arms around both of them, turning the duo into a chaotic tangle of limbs and laughter. 

Even Yoongi gets up, offering a slow clap before joining with a more restrained but no less genuine embrace—the kind with back pats that guys do when they want to prove they have exactly two emotions: hungry and sports.

You hang back, suddenly aware of how many strangers are packed into this place. 

The restaurant is full of people—at least a dozen beyond the ones you recognize—all focused on Jungkook with varying degrees of excitement. Some are already raising drinks in toast, others taking photos, a couple shouting things you can't quite make out over the general chaos.

"P-Kill! Happy birthday, man!"

"Proofs! You made it!"

"Proofy, get over here!"

What the actual fuck are these names? 

You frown, trying to connect these bizarre nicknames to the Jungkook you know—the one who leaves his dirty dishes in the sink and plays his music too loud and once tried to convince you that Kraft mac and cheese was "technically gourmet."

None of this computes.

Jungkook catches your confusion as he disentangles himself from his friends, eyes flicking toward you with that familiar half-smile that somehow feels like a private joke.

"Hey," he says, suddenly at your side again. His hand brushes your elbow briefly—not grabbing, just a light touch that seems oddly grounding in this chaos. "These are my friends. Guys, this is my roommate."

He says your name easily, no ‘Phoenix’ or ‘Nix’ in sight, and it's weirdly jarring—like hearing a song you know played in the wrong key. 

Not technically wrong, just... off.

The next few minutes are a blur of names and faces, most immediately forgotten as you try to keep track of who's who in this bizarre alternative universe where Jungkook is apparently the center of a large social circle. There's a group of guys—gamers, apparently—who keep calling him those weird nicknames.

"These three idiots," Jungkook explains, gesturing toward a trio of guys who look like they haven't seen sunlight in months, "are my Steam friends. My username is ProofedToKill, so that's where all the dumb nicknames come from."

Of course, that tracks. He's always yelling at the TV when he plays Call of Duty in the living room. You've had multiple arguments about it, usually ending with him putting on headphones and you turning up your music out of spite.

"Don't start," he warns, but there's no real edge to it. "I've already heard all your anti-shooters propaganda."

"It's not propaganda if it's true."

He rolls his eyes but doesn't take the bait, already being pulled toward another group by Taehyung. 

"Come on, there are more people you should meet."

You follow, because what else are you going to do? Stand alone by the door like some kind of abandoned pet? 

Besides, you're curious now. Curious about these other fragments of Jungkook's life that you've never been privy to before.

The space is packed, noisy in that way that forces everyone to talk slightly too loud. Sensory overload city. People keep touching Jungkook—hugs, shoulder claps, high fives—and he's letting them, which might be the weirdest part of all this. 

Since when does he like being touched by people who aren't naked?

"Jungkook!" a female voice exclaims, cutting through the noise. A tall girl with auburn hair moves toward him with the confident grace of someone who's never tripped over her own feet in public. "Happy birthday!"

She wraps him in a hug that makes you realize just how tall she is—like, almost his height tall—and beside her, another girl—smaller, with short black hair and glasses—offers a more reserved greeting.

"Hey Tessa, hey Diana," Jungkook says, looking genuinely pleased to see them. "Didn't think you'd be here!"

Tessa. 

The library girl. The one he was doing that group project thing with.  The one who kept laughing too loud whenever Jungkook said something that probably wasn't even that funny.

"Taehyung invited us," she explains, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Hope that's okay."

"Of course it's okay," Jungkook says, and you hate how sincere he sounds. 

Where's the sarcastic asshole you live with? Who is this pod person?

"We brought you something," Diana says, holding out a small bag. "Just a little thing."

Jungkook accepts it with a thanks that sounds almost shy, and what the fuck? Since when is he shy about anything?

"Oh, this is my roommate," he adds, suddenly remembering your existence. 

He says your name again, and you force a smile because what else can you do in this bizarre social ritual?

"Nice to meet you," Tessa says with a warmth that feels genuine, which is almost worse than if she'd been fake. At least fake would make sense. "Jungkook's mentioned you before. You're in English Lit, right?"

He's talked about you? To her? 

What the fuck has he said?

"Yeah," you manage, because apparently your vocabulary has been reduced to monosyllables in the face of all this unexpected social interaction. "English major."

"That's amazing," she says, and she actually seems to mean it. "I'm in Film too, but I've always loved literature. What's your focus?"

Before you can answer—thank god, because you haven't prepared a thesis statement on your academic interests for a birthday party—Hobi appears with a tray of shots, announcing that it's time for the birthday boy to start celebrating properly.

So, of course, the whole crowd moves towards him, shots being thrown back easily. You find yourself suddenly on the outside of it, still standing with Tessa and Diana but no longer the focus of their attention.

It's a relief, honestly. 

You've never been good at this kind of thing—large groups, small talk, unfamiliar social dynamics. 

It's like being dropped into a play where everyone else knows the script and you're just… improvising. Kinda hoping you don't accidentally say the wrong line and reveal yourself as the impostor.

Your eyes wander around the restaurant, taking in the details you missed—it’s actually a cozy place, warm wood and soft lighting, with private booths along one wall and a long table down the center where most of Jungkook's friends have gathered. 

You can smell the sizzling of pans working through different ingredients—garlic, onion, ginger… But your eyes end up on Jungkook anyway.

He swallows down a shot, grimacing at the burn. 

Someone passes him another. 

Someone else claps him on the back. 

He's at the center of all this attention and he's... thriving in it. Laughing, talking.

It’s strange, seeing him like this. So carefree, so loud (although he’s always loud but this is a different kind of loud?)—so in his… element. 

You can’t help but feel out of place.

Because, truly. Do you even fit in here? Are you an element? Part of his element? Or whatever this is? 

This morning you were agonizing over whether you could be friends with the guy you've been fucking. 

Now you're standing in a room full of people who already are his friends, who've known him much longer than you have, who see a completely different side of him than the one you get.

It's... a lot.

You pull out your phone, needing something to do with your hands, but the screen stays dark. Okay. Dead. Fantastic.

"You okay?"

The voice at your elbow makes you jump. 

It's Jungkook, somehow back at your side despite the crowd still demanding his attention.

"Fine," you say automatically. "Just... observing."

His eyes scan your face, more perceptive than you'd like. "You look like you'd rather be literally anywhere else."

"Not true. I can think of at least three places that would be worse." You tick them off on your fingers. "The DMV. An insurance seminar. Dinner with my parents."

That gets a laugh out of him—a real one, one you seem to be getting out of him more and more often. 

“Fair enough. Come on, let me get you a drink. It'll help with..." 

He pauses, purses his lips as he tilts his head at you.

"With what, exactly?"

"The whole 'I'd rather eat glass than make small talk with strangers' vibe you're giving off."

"I'm not—" you start to protest, but he's already pulling you toward the bar, his hand warm against your lower back.

"It's fine, Phee," he says, the familiar nickname slipping out naturally now that you're momentarily separated from the crowd. "Not everyone's into the whole big social scene. You don't have to pretend."

You want to argue on principle—deny that he knows you that well, that he can read your discomfort so easily—but it would be pointless. 

He's right. 

You do hate this. 

And the fact that he noticed, that he came back to check on you instead of just leaving you to flounder on your own...

It's annoying. Or it should be. 

Instead, it feels weirdly considerate.

"I don't need a babysitter," you mutter as he flags down the bartender. "Go enjoy your party. I'm perfectly capable of standing in a corner judging people on my own."

"Maybe I'm enjoying my party more over here." 

He orders something you don't catch, then turns back to you with that half-smile that's somehow more familiar than the broad grin he's been flashing at everyone else.

“Besides, if I leave you alone too long, you might decide to ditch, and then who would I blame when I need an excuse to escape Hobi's karaoke demands?"

"Yoongi seems like a good scapegoat."

"Nah, Yoongi secretly loves karaoke. Just pretends to hate it so people will beg him. It's weird."

The bartender slides two glasses toward Jungkook—whiskey is one, by the look of it. 

The other one is… 

Vodka cranberry.

He remembers?

You lick your lips. Nervous suddenly. Maybe. Or not really. Just uncomfortable, because here it is again. Jungkook being attentive, doing these stupid kind things that completely shatter the reputation you have built for him in your head. 

"You really don't have to babysit me," you say again, but you take the drink anyway. "I'm fine."

His eyes search yours, more serious than usual. "I know you're fine. Maybe I just want to hang out with you."

Something shifts in your chest—a small, uncomfortable flutter. 

“Why? You have a dozen other people here who actually like you."

"Ouch." He presses a hand to his heart, mock wounded. "And here I thought we were making progress on the whole friendship thing."

"The jury's still out on that one."

"Uh-huh." He takes a sip of his whiskey, eyes never leaving yours. "Well, consider this evidence for the 'pro' column: I noticed you were uncomfortable and came to rescue you instead of letting you suffer in silence."

"Maybe I prefer suffering in silence."

"No one prefers suffering in silence, Nix. Some people just don't think they deserve better."

The way he says it makes something twirl uncomfortable inside your chest.

You take a large drink instead of responding, welcoming the burn as it slides down your throat.

“Make sure to finish that quickly. Get ready for the party games.”

"There are going to be party games?"

"That’s only the beginning."

"So," you say, swaying your glass slightly, watching the burgundy liquid catch the light, "ProofedToKill, huh? Didn't know I was living with such a badass."

"No? I thought you knew how badass I am.”

“You’re bad, and an ass. That doesn’t make you a badass. Different word.”

He laughs, low and warm, and you can’t help the smile that forms on your lips without conscious input.

"You know what it actually means?" he asks, leaning back against the wall. 

You raise an eyebrow. "That you're secretly a hitman with terrible grammar?"

"Hilarious." He rolls his eyes, but there's no real irritation behind it. "It's a baking term, actually."

"A what now?"

"Baking. You know, that thing people do with flour and heat instead of burning the place down.”

“If you bring up the candle incident one more time—”

He makes a zipping motion over his mouth, and your lips twitch with the effort of chuckling. 

“Wait, are you seriously telling me your super tough gamer name is about... baking?"

He sighs, looking down at his glass. "When you're making bread—sourdough specifically—there's this stage called 'proofing.’ It's when the dough rises, develops flavor. If you overproof it, it collapses. If you underproof, it's dense. But if you get it just right..."

"You've... proofed to kill?" you finish, unable to keep the disbelief from your voice.

"Exactly." He grins, clearly pleased that you've made the connection. "Perfect proofing. Killer bread. It's a whole thing."

You stare at him, genuinely speechless for perhaps the first time since you've known him. 

This man—this infuriating, cocky roommate who struts around like he owns every room he enters—has a gamer tag based on fucking bread-making. 

And he's admitting it. 

Voluntarily. 

"So let me get this straight," you say slowly. "Your badass online persona, the one all your friends call you by, is actually a baking pun?"

"In my defense, it's a really good pun. And most people assume it's about, you know, being good at shooting things. Which I also am." He shrugs, cockiness slipping back into place.

“You’re so weird,” you mutter, but you know he doesn’t take it seriously.

"Been doing it since college. The whole sourdough thing at midnight." He confesses, glancing around briefly, like he's checking to make sure no one else is listening, then lowers his voice. "My mom taught me. She had this whole recipe she'd developed over years, this perfect sourdough method. Made the best bread you've ever tasted."

Again that softness, almost reverence when he speaks about his mom. 

It always catches you off guard. You've never heard him talk like this before. Never heard him talk about his family at all, really.

"After she..." he continues, then stops himself, shaking his head slightly. "Anyway. I keep trying to recreate it. Haven't quite nailed it yet."

Neither of you speak for a couple of beats. His gaze is still fixed on his drink, and then he takes a sip, like his mind is somewhere else completely.

“Is that why you stress-bake at 3 AM? Trying to get the proof right?"

His eyes meet yours, surprised.

Maybe a little grateful for the redirect. 

“You’ve noticed?”

“I mean, I just went to the bathroom one night and saw you fighting the dough, so…”

He chuckles, gaze back on his glass. “Yeah. It's... meditative, I guess. Helps me think."

"Weird way to think, but okay."

"Says the person who reads the same depressing Kafka story fourteen times and calls it 'processing.'"

"It's a good story."

"It's about a guy turning into a giant bug."

"And it speaks to the alienation inherent in modern existence. Your point?"

He laughs again, shaking his head. "God, you're such a fucking English major."

"And you're a secret bread nerd. We all have our crosses to bear."

His smile shifts into something different—softer around the edges, almost vulnerable. "Don't tell anyone, okay? About the username thing. I have a reputation to maintain."

"What, you mean your friends don't know your tough gamer handle is actually about your sourdough obsession?"

"Only Yoongi knows. And now you." He drums his fingers on the glass once, twice. "That's enough oversharing on my part for the day, I think. Sooner or later it's going to have to be your turn, you know, Pyx?"

Great. A new variation of your nickname. Does he ever stop coming up with them?

"My turn for what?"

"Sharing something real." His eyes hold yours, steady. "Friendship goes both ways, Nix."

You scoff, ignoring the way your heart rate picks up slightly. "I share things."

"Like what? Your coffee order doesn't count."

"I told you about the IUD."

"That's medical, not personal."

"It's literally inside my body. How much more personal can it get?"

He sighs, but he makes it dramatic this time. "You know what I mean. Something that matters to you. Something real."

You do know. That's the problem. He's asking for exactly the kind of vulnerability you've spent years carefully avoiding. The kind that gives people ammunition, that creates expectations, that leads to disappointment when you inevitably fail to meet them.

But he just told you about his mom. About bread and baking and usernames that mean more than they appear to. He offered something real—small, maybe, but genuine.

And isn't that what this whole friendship experiment is supposed to be about?

You open your mouth, not entirely sure what's going to come out, when a crash from across the restaurant saves you. Hobi has somehow managed to knock over an entire tray of drinks, and the resulting chaos immediately draws everyone's attention, including Jungkook's.

"Shit," he mutters, already half-moving. "I should go help before he makes it worse."

"Go," you nod, equal parts relieved and strangely disappointed. "Your public needs you."

He hesitates, eyes still on yours. "We're not done with this conversation."

"Pretty sure we are."

"Pretty sure we're just getting started." He stands fully, but doesn't leave immediately. "Come join, okay? Whenever you’re ready.”

You watch him weave through the crowd toward the spill, already calling out something to Hobi that makes the other man laugh despite the mess. It's strange, seeing him like this—in his element, surrounded by people who know him in ways you don't.

ProofedToKill. A baking pun turned gamer tag. A piece of his mother he carries with him, encrypted in plain sight.

You take another sip of your vodka cranberry, wondering what else about Jungkook you've been missing all this time.

Eleven people crammed around a table is basically psychological warfare in restaurant form.

You're somehow stuck directly across from Jungkook, because apparently the universe has a shitty sense of humor. 

Next to him, Tessa has claimed her territory, her long legs perfectly positioned under the table while yours are already cramping from the weird angle. Of course.

At least you've got Yoongi on your left—a silent, grounding presence in the chaos. When you'd awkwardly hovered near his chair, he'd just grunted and shifted slightly to make room. 

In Yoongi-speak, that's practically a formal invitation with calligraphy and shit.

Diana sits on your other side, petite and prim, her small hands already arranging her napkin with quick movements. She keeps glancing at Tessa across the table with an expression you can't quite decipher—somewhere between admiration and mild disapproval.

The menu in Yoongi's hands looks worn and slightly sticky, but your stomach is basically staging a revolt after hours of nothing but ibuprofen and vodka. You lean over, scanning the options without asking permission because fuck it, you're hungry.

The spicy ramen section catches your eye immediately. 

Your stomach gives another impatient growl.

"I want those," you announce, pointing at the spiciest option on the menu.

Yoongi barely blinks. "Cool. I didn't ask."

You roll your eyes and lean back in your chair because, okay, whatever. Rude ass. Though honestly, there's something almost refreshing about his complete lack of social polish. 

At least you always know where you stand with him, which is approximately nowhere.

A movement across the table draws your attention. 

Jungkook's eyes have lifted from his own menu, catching yours with an intensity that feels weirdly intimate in the crowded space. His gaze flickers down again almost immediately, but not before you notice the corner of his mouth tilting upward.

What's he laughing about? Stupid. He's stupid.

"I kinda wanted the spicy ones too," he says, looking up again. "Maybe we can share?"

You squint at him suspiciously. "Huh? No. I want the bowl entirely for me."

Diana makes a soft sound beside you—half laugh, half disbelief. 

“I can't believe you can eat all that."

The words hang there for a moment while your brain processes the judgment packaged in her innocent-sounding comment. 

Did she just really—

"C'mon Diana," Tessa cuts in swiftly, laugh warm and genuine, "not everyone has a small stomach like you."

Diana scowls, her delicate features pinching together. "I just think that's a lot to eat."

"Bro, I could eat two bowls in one sitting," Jungkook says.

"Make that three," Taehyung adds from Jungkook's other side. "You're a fucking goblin, Kooks."

"Three? Amateur," one of the gamer guys—Steve? Sean?—chimes in from the end of the table. "Remember that time after the tournament when you ate four bowls of ramen and then threw up in my car?"

"That was food poisoning," Jungkook protests. "Totally different situation."

"Your face was poisoned."

"What does that even mean?"

"Your face... poisoned... my eyes," the guy finishes lamely, clearly losing his train of thought.

"Ten points from Slytherin for that weak-ass comeback," Hobi declares, raising his beer like a wizard's wand. "Jungkook requires better trash talk in his honor."

"Oh shit, we're using Hogwarts points now?" another one asks. "When did we switch systems?"

"Since I just decided, and I'm the dungeon master."

"That's D&D, you uncultured swine," Taehyung sighs, long-suffering. "Completely different franchise."

"Whatever, they're all just wizard nerds," Hobi says with a dismissive wave.

"That's wizard king to you, peasant," Jungkook corrects, puffing out his chest.

“Do you all... actually play these games?" Diana asks, voice faintly disdainful.

"Only when we're not busy with our super cool and important adult lives," Taehyung says, deadpan.

"I just don't get the appeal," she sniffs. "Sitting inside all day, staring at screens—"

"Yo," Hobi cuts in smoothly, somehow managing to sound both friendly and firm at the same time, "different strokes for different folks. Some people climb mountains, some people slay digital dragons. Both valid." 

Diana shifts uncomfortably under his gaze. "I guess."

"Besides," you find yourself saying, "it's literally his birthday. Maybe, I don't know, let him enjoy things without the judgment?"

The words come out sharper than intended, surprising even you. 

Since when do you jump to Jungkook's defense? Since when do you care if someone judges his nerdy gaming habits?

Jungkook looks equally surprised, eyebrows raised slightly as he studies your face. Then his expression shifts into something softer, almost appreciative.

"Exactly. Today's about celebrating you," Tessa adds, turning to Jungkook with a warm smile. "And apparently your inhuman ability to consume ramen."

"It's my superpower," he says solemnly. "With great appetite comes great indigestion."

A ripple of laughter moves around the table, breaking the awkward moment. Diana still looks sulky, but at least she's dropped the subject.

The waiter appears then, ready to take orders, and the conversation splinters as everyone tries to decide what they want.

"You really getting the level five spicy?" Yoongi asks quietly while the others debate.

"Yeah. Why, think I can't handle it?"

He snorts. "Just checking if I need to order extra water for when you inevitably start crying."

"I do not cry from spicy food."

"Everyone cries from spicy food if it's actually spicy."

"Well, we'll see, won't we?"

He shrugs, a barely perceptible movement of one shoulder. "Your funeral."

"Comforting as always, Yoon."

The ghost of a smile flits across his face before he returns to his default expression of mild disinterest.

Across the table, Jungkook is in the middle of a heated debate with Taehyung about... something involving a game you've never heard of. His hands move animatedly as he talks, face lit with genuine enthusiasm. One of his friends keeps trying to interject, but Jungkook and Taehyung are in their own world, talking over each other and somehow still understanding perfectly.

He looks so unguarded.

So... normal. Like any other twenty-something guy arguing about video games with his friends.

Not that you care. It's just an observation.

"So you're Jungkook's roommate," Diana says, drawing your attention back to her. Her tone suggests this is somehow both surprising and slightly concerning.

"Yep." You keep it brief, hoping she'll take the hint and drop whatever line of questioning is forming behind those judgmental eyes.

No such luck.

"And how did that happen exactly? Through the university housing board?"

"Craigslist, actually."

Her eyebrows shoot up like you've just admitted to finding the apartment through a demonic summoning ritual. 

“Oh! Isn't that... dangerous?"

"Not really. The apartment was already Yoongi and Jungkook's. I just answered the ad for the third room."

"Still," she persists, "moving in with two guys you don't know. That's brave."

The way she says ‘brave’ makes it clear she means ‘stupid,’ but you're not in the mood to defend your housing choices to someone who probably thinks spicy ramen is too adventurous.

"Not really. Yoongi's background check was pretty thorough," you deadpan. "Only had to provide three references, a blood sample, and my complete genetic history."

Diana blinks, clearly unsure if you're joking.

"It's true," Yoongi confirms without looking up from his phone. "Her midichlorian count was acceptable."

"What’s… midichlorian?" Diana asks uncertainly.

"It’s a real scientific test," you say, keeping your expression perfectly serious. "Very exclusive."

She frowns, increasingly confused, and you feel a small, petty satisfaction at her discomfort.

"They're fucking with you," Taehyung calls from across the table, apparently tuned into your conversation despite seemingly being absorbed in his argument with Jungkook. "It's a Star Wars reference."

"Oh." Diana forces a laugh that doesn't reach her eyes. "Right."

"Ignore them," Tessa says kindly. "They operate on their own wavelength sometimes."

"Especially these two," Hobi adds, gesturing between Taehyung and Jungkook. "Like an old married couple, but with more shouting and fewer financial benefits."

"What do you mean fewer financial benefits?" Jungkook protests. "I've been carrying his broke ass in-game economy for years."

"That gold farm was my idea!"

"Your idea crashed the server and got us banned for a week!"

"Details," Taehyung waves dismissively. "The point is, I'm the brains of this operation."

"And I'm the beauty," Jungkook fires back, striking a pose that makes Hobi snort water through his nose.

It's all so... easy. The banter, the inside jokes, the casual way they navigate each other's personalities. They've clearly had years to develop this rhythm, to learn each other's edges and how to fit together despite them—or maybe because of them.

Something twists in your chest, sharp and unexpected. You busy yourself with your water glass, suddenly very interested in the condensation gathering along its sides.

The waiter returns with drinks, setting them around the table. You're grateful for the distraction, for something to do with your hands besides fidget awkwardly.

"Alright," Hobi declares once everyone has a drink, lifting his glass. "To the birthday boy! May your K/D ratio remain impressive and your hairline unreceded."

"Here's to another year of Jungkook being Jungkook," Taehyung adds, raising his own glass. "God help us all."

"To Kooks," Tessa says, her voice softer but no less sincere. "Happy birthday."

Glasses clink around the table, a chorus of echoed sentiments following. You lift your glass automatically, catching Jungkook's eye as you do. He's watching you, before he smiles—small and surprisingly genuine.

"Thanks for getting me here," he says quietly, just for you.

"Don't mention it," you reply, equally quiet. "Seriously. Don't. I'll deny everything."

His smile widens, and for a moment, it feels like you're back in that booth from earlier—just the two of you, everyone else fading to background noise.

Then Taehyung jostles his arm, demanding his opinion on something, and the moment breaks. 

You take a sip of your drink, trying to ignore the strange feeling that's settled in your chest.

It's probably just hunger. Or the vodka from earlier. 

Or the fact that you've been in this loud, crowded restaurant for what feels like hours now, surrounded by people you barely know, playing a role you're not quite sure how to perform.

Yeah. That's definitely it.

The server arrives with a ridiculous number of bowls balanced along his arms like some kind of food-based Cirque du Soleil performer. Steam rises from each one, carrying scents that make your stomach growl with embarrassing volume.

A massive, angry-looking bowl lands in front of you, the broth practically glowing red. It looks like someone liquefied the sun and threw in some noodles as an afterthought.

Perfect.

Two bowls slide in front of Jungkook—your spicy demon soup's twin and something much more reasonable looking, probably miso based on the color.

"Hungry much?" you ask, eyeing his double order.

"Growing boy," he shrugs, already reaching for chopsticks.

Taehyung, meanwhile, receives... a plate of curry rice? 

"Seriously?" You can't help the judgment that leaks into your voice. "We're at a ramen place and you ordered curry?"

He shoots you a look that could curdle milk. "Some of us have taste beyond 'hot noodle soup.'"

"Some of us aren't afraid of flavor, dickasso."

"Bold words from someone currently holding weapons-grade capsaicin," he fires back, gesturing at your bowl. "Does your taste even function, or did you burn it all away with your sad little Hot Pockets diet?"

"At least I'm not too precious to eat what the restaurant specializes in."

“This is objectively superior."

"Only if your objective is being a pretentious dick."

"I prefer 'discerning connoisseur.'"

"You would."

You hate that banter with Taehyung is starting to become more and more comfortable. Like verbal sparring with someone who actually knows how to return a serve, instead of just standing there getting hit in the face with the ball. 

Not that you like him or anything. His whole vibe—artsy, too cool for school, judgmental as fuck—is objectively annoying.

But maybe also a little entertaining. 

In small doses. 

Very small.

Across the table, Hobi watches this exchange with undisguised amusement, head swiveling between you. 

"I feel like I'm witnessing the beginning of a beautiful friendship," he says, grinning widely. "Or a homicide. Hard to tell."

"Definitely homicide," Taehyung and you say in unison, then glare at each other for the coordination.

You turn your attention back to your ramen, inhaling the spicy steam before digging in. The first bite hits like a kick to the teeth—pain followed immediately by pleasure. 

It's fucking delicious despite feeling like you just licked the surface of the sun.

"Good?" Yoongi asks, watching your face with what might be the ghost of amusement.

"Incredible," you manage, already reaching for more.

Across the table, Jungkook dives into his own spicy bowl with enthusiasm, slurping noodles with zero concern for how it looks. A drop of broth escapes, clinging to his lower lip.

You're about to say something—point it out, make fun of his complete lack of eating etiquette, something—when Tessa reaches out, casual as anything, and swipes her thumb across his lip.

"Messy," she says, the word warm with affection.

He tilts his head toward her, smiling in a way that can only be described as flirtatious. 

“That's my brand."

You purse your lips, returning your attention to your own food. 

Whatever. Let him preen over a pretty girl paying attention to him. His loser ass probably never gets that chance.

Although... that's a lie and you know it. 

The guy is annoyingly good-looking and he knows it. He's probably used to girls fawning over him, cleaning his face like he's a toddler who can't be trusted with utensils.

"Whatcha looking at, Phee—" He cuts himself off abruptly, eyes widening slightly. "—asantly surprised by how spicy that ramen is? Your face is getting red."

Smooth recovery. Not.

"Just thinking about how long it's been since I've had decent ramen."

You grab your water glass, suddenly very aware of the burning sensation spreading across your tongue. 

It's fine. Totally manageable. Nothing to worry about.

"Knew it," Yoongi mutters beside you.

You set the glass down with more force than necessary. "It's not spicy."

"Uh-huh." He doesn't even bother looking up from his own bowl. "That's why your face is the same color as the broth."

"It's warm in here."

"Sure it is."

"I can handle spice."

"Never said you couldn't."

"You implied it."

He finally glances at you, expression as bored as ever. "I implied you're a liar, not a spice lightweight."

"I'm not—" Another wave of heat crashes through your mouth, cutting off your protest. "Fine. It's a little spicy."

The corner of his mouth twitches in what might be a smile on anyone else. "A little."

"Shut up and eat your boring miso."

Amazingly, he actually laughs—a short, quiet sound that's there and gone so quickly you almost think you imagined it. 

But no, that was definitely a laugh. From Yoongi. Directed at something you said.

Huh.

You return to your ramen, determined to finish it despite the way your sinuses are starting to protest. 

It's a matter of pride now. You said you could handle it, so you'll handle it, even if it kills you.

Which it might. But what a way to go.

You glance up, seeing how Jungkook and Tessa have their heads tilted toward each other, engaged in what looks like a very amusing conversation based on her laugh. She keeps touching his arm, casual little points of contact that seem to arrive at perfectly timed intervals.

She's good at this, you'll give her that. The whole flirting thing. Not too obvious, not too reserved. Just the right amount of interest without seeming desperate.

Huh. He might get laid tonight then. Not by you. 

Good for him. 

"You're staring again," Taehyung says, his voice pitched low enough that only you can hear. "Plotting his murder or just generally disapproving of his existence?"

"Just wondering how someone with the personality of a half-deflated balloon animal manages to function in society," you reply smoothly.

"Years of practice and an excellent support system." He gestures between himself and Hobi, who's busy trying to convince one of the gamer guys that yes, there is in fact sake in the sake bomb he just drank. "We've been managing his personality disorder since freshman year."

"Sounds exhausting."

"It is." His eyes drift to where Jungkook is now showing Tessa something on his phone, both of them laughing. "But he has his moments."

You turn your attention back to your food. Halfway through, you make the tactical error of taking a large bite just as Hobi says something particularly funny, causing you to inhale sharply—and sending a piece of chili directly into your windpipe.

Coughing. So much coughing. 

Your eyes water immediately, turning the table into a blurry mess of colors and shapes as you desperately reach for your water again.

"Easy there," Yoongi says, actually sounding a little concerned as he pushes your glass closer. "Small sips."

You manage to get the water down between coughs, the cool liquid offering minimal relief to your burning throat.

"You okay?" Jungkook asks, leaning across the table with a frown.

Great. Now everyone's looking at you. Perfect. Just what you wanted. All the attention.

"Fine," you rasp, waving a hand dismissively. "Went down the wrong pipe."

"Maybe you should try something less lethal," Diana suggests, eyeing your bowl with thinly veiled judgment. "Like the mild shoyu."

"I'm good with my life choices, thanks."

"Not all of them, I hope," Taehyung mutters, just loud enough for you to hear.

You kick him under the table, aiming for his shin but probably hitting the table leg instead based on his lack of reaction.

"If you die from ramen, I'm not cleaning out your room," Yoongi says matter-of-factly.

"Noted. I'll make sure to haunt you specifically."

"Bold of you to assume I'd notice the difference."

"What, between me alive and me as a ghost?"

"You already have a resting bitch face and make weird noises at night. How would I tell?"

You choke again, this time on your own surprise. 

"I do not make weird noises at night!"

"The walls are thin."

Heat creeps up your neck, and it has nothing to do with the spice level of your food. 

“I don't—that's not—"

"Relax. I meant the way you talk in your sleep."

Oh. That's... marginally less mortifying.

"I talk in my sleep?"

"Constantly."

"About what?"

He shrugs. "Mostly nonsense. Something about pencils last night. Very intense opinions on pencils."

"I don't have opinions about pencils," you protest. "Intense or otherwise."

"Tell that to your subconscious."

The conversation shifts as one of the gamers—Ryan? you think?—slams his empty sake cup on the table with more force than necessary.

"Yo!" he announces, loud enough to get everyone's attention. "We should do shots. Birthday shots for the birthday boy!"

A chorus of approval goes up around the table. Even Diana looks on board with this plan, probably because alcohol is the one thing that might loosen up whatever's holding her personality together.

"The birthday boy needs birthday shots," Hobi agrees, already signaling the waiter.

Taehyung groans. "Please tell me we're not doing that ridiculous 'one shot for each year' tradition. I'm not carrying his drunk ass home again."

"That was one time," Jungkook protests.

"One time too many. You kept trying to pet dogs that weren't there."

"I was seeing through the space-time continuum to where dogs would eventually be."

"You threw up in my shower."

"I cleaned it!"

"With my loofah!"

"I replaced it!"

"After I used it!"

You watch this exchange with growing amusement, the rapid-fire back-and-forth almost dizzying in its intensity. It's clear this is a well-worn argument, trotted out for entertainment value rather than actual grievance.

"Fine," Taehyung concedes dramatically. "Birthday shots. But I'm not responsible for any hallucinated canines or bathroom incidents."

"Deal," Jungkook grins, then turns to Tessa. "You in?"

She laughs, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "I should probably pace myself. Early class tomorrow."

"Responsible," he nods, mock serious. "I respect that."

"Unlike some people," Taehyung mutters, glancing pointedly at Jungkook.

"It's my birthday. I'm legally exempt from responsibility for twenty-four hours."

"That's not a law."

"It's the law of birthdays, Tae. Everyone knows this."

Ryan—definitely Ryan—flags down the server successfully this time, ordering a round of shots for the table. 

“Even for the responsible ones," he insists when Tessa tries to decline. "Just one. For Proofs."

She relents with a smile, rolling her stupid pretty eyes. 

"You too, Miss Spicy Ramen," Ryan says, nodding toward you. "Unless you can't handle your liquor either."

Is that a challenge? It sounds like a challenge.

"I can handle my liquor just fine," you say.

“Debatable,” Jungkook mutters, the menace.

"Oh, fighting words," Hobi laughs, clapping his hands together. "I sense a story here."

"There's no story," Jungkook says quickly.

"I think we've found the first drinking game of the night," Hobi declares. "Most embarrassing Jungkook stories. Winner gets... I don't know, bragging rights and my eternal respect."

"That's not fair," Jungkook protests. "I'm the birthday boy. I should be exempt from humiliation."

"Birthday boy gets birthday roast," Taehyung counters. 

Even Yoongi cracks a smile at that, which might be the most shocking development of the evening so far.

Five shots in and the room has developed that particular tilt that makes everything both sharper and blurrier at the same time.

"Next round!" Seth announces, grinning as he surveys the damage he's caused. 

Seth, as you've learned through increasingly slurred introductions, is one of Jungkook's film school friends—tall, blonde, and way too enthusiastic about drinking games for someone his size. 

"Embarrassing stories! Laugh and you drink!"

Groans mixed with cheers ripple around the table, which has somehow gotten messier and louder with each passing shot. Empty glasses create a small army between plates. Someone knocked over the soy sauce earlier, and no one's bothered to clean it up.

"Oh, oh, OH!" Taehyung practically bounces in his seat, raising his hand like an overeager student. "I have one."

"This'll be good," Yoongi mutters beside you, the most he's spoken in twenty minutes.

Taehyung clears his throat dramatically. "Picture this: Eighth grade. School talent show."

"No," Jungkook groans, head dropping into his hands. "Not that one."

"Yes, that one." Taehyung's grin is borderline evil. "Our boy Kooks here decides he's going to impress Minah Park with a dance routine."

"I'm begging you," Jungkook says, voice muffled through his fingers.

"To what song, you ask?" Taehyung continues, undeterred. "None other than 'Milkshake' by Kelis."

Ryan lets out a bark of laughter, immediately reaching for his shot.

"Oh my god," Diana whispers, eyes wide.

"Did he know what the song was about?" Tessa asks, already giggling.

"That's the best part," Taehyung says, pausing for dramatic effect. "He thought it was literally about making good milkshakes. His mom helped him with the routine."

The table erupts. Even Yoongi snorts, reaching for his shot glass with resigned dignity. You're trying—genuinely trying—to hold it in, pressing your lips together, but then you make the mistake of looking at Jungkook's mortified expression and it's over. Laughter spills out, and you grab your shot, tossing it back with a wince.

"His mom found out what it meant halfway through the performance," Taehyung continues, wiping tears from his eyes. "Her face—I wish smartphones existed back then."

"I hate you," Jungkook mutters, but there's no heat behind it. "So much."

"Did Minah like it at least?" Hobi asks, still chuckling.

"She transferred schools the next week," Taehyung says solemnly. "Unrelated reasons, allegedly."

Another round of laughter, another round of shots.

"My turn," Hobi declares once the chaos subsides. "Let me tell you about the first time I met this guy."

"Which version are you telling?" Jungkook asks warily.

"The true one," Hobi says with a wink. "Picture it: 2021. Dance studio on 8th. This scrawny kid walks in, says he needs to film a project for his class."

"I wasn't scrawny," Jungkook protests.

"You were a twig with hair," Hobi dismisses. "Anyway, he sets up his equipment, very professional, very serious. Then my advanced hip-hop class starts, and halfway through, he abandons his camera to try and join in."

"Oh no," Tessa whispers, delighted.

"Oh yes," Hobi confirms. "He jumps in, full confidence, absolutely sure he can keep up. Two eight-counts later, he slips, takes out my star student, and they both crash into the mirror."

"It didn't break!" Jungkook interjects.

"It cracked," Hobi corrects. "Still there. I call it the Jungkook Memorial Spiderweb."

You laugh despite yourself, drinking quickly to hide your smile when Jungkook shoots you a betrayed look.

"What about you, Yoongi?" Seth asks, refilling glasses with alarming efficiency. "How'd you meet the birthday boy?"

Yoongi regards the question like it's asked him to explain quantum physics. 

“Music production seminar. He needed help with a film score." He shrugs. "He wasn't completely terrible."

"From Yoongi, that's basically a marriage proposal," Hobi stage-whispers.

"Wow, such a beautiful story," you deadpan. "So moving. So detailed."

Yoongi raises an eyebrow. “Not all of us need a thousand words to make a point."

"Clearly." You snort, then immediately regret it when the room spins slightly. 

"What about you, new girl?" Seth asks, suddenly focused on you with an intensity that feels both flattering and vaguely predatory. "Got any good Jungkook stories from the roommate archives?"

All eyes turn to you, expectant. 

You scramble for something suitably embarrassing but not too revealing.

“Oh, I’ve got plenty,” you say, the alcohol making you bolder than usual. “But I have to live with him, so I’m weighing the entertainment value against the revenge factor.”

“Coward,” Taehyung coughs into his hand.

"Yeah, tell us the real dirt," Seth presses, leaning forward with a grin that suggests he's hoping for something scandalous.

You narrow your eyes, suddenly protective of the weird dynamic you share with Jungkook. These people don't get to know about the late-night arguments over the TV volume, or the silent coffee maker standoffs, or the way he sometimes hums in the shower when he thinks no one can hear.

"Sorry to disappoint," you say with exaggerated sweetness, "but I value my security deposit too much to reveal his darkest secrets."

"Cop-out," Seth accuses, but he's smiling.

"Another round!" Ryan announces, refilling shot glasses with something that smells vaguely like cinnamon and regret. "Tessa, you laughed at the dance story, you owe one."

“I didn’t!” she protests, but she’s fighting a smile now. “I was just… appreciating the story.”

“Liar! Your lips twitched. That’s a drink.”

She shakes her head, still smiling. “No way. I have that early class, remember?”

Before Ryan can argue further, Jungkook smoothly grabs her shot and downs it in one fluid motion. 

“Problem solved,” he says, setting the empty glass back on the table with a decisive clink.

Something about the gesture—casual, protective, maybe a little possessive—makes your stomach twist in a way that has nothing to do with the alcohol or spicy ramen. 

Seth slides another shot toward you. “Here, you need a refill.”

You stare at it, trying to do math through the fuzzy haze of alcohol. 

How many shots have you had? Four? Five? You've lost count, which is probably not a great sign.

But everyone’s looking at you, waiting, and you’ve never been good at backing down from a challenge—especially when you’re already tipsy and your judgment is shot to hell.

You reach for the shot, hesitating only slightly. It burns going down, making you cough and sputter in a way that is definitely not attractive, but whatever. You can handle it.

Probably.

“Another round!” Seth calls. “Funniest pet stories. Go.”

And so the new game continues, stories flying around the table with increasing volume and decreasing coherence.

You lose track of who’s talking, everything blurring into laughter and voices and the clinking of glasses.

“Oh, and remember when Jungkook tried to sneak into that bar with his cousin’s ID?” someone is saying—maybe Ryan? The faces at the end of the table are swimming a bit. “The bouncer took one look at the picture and said, ‘This says you’re 5’4” and Filipino.’”

More laughter, more shots. The room spins again when you tilt your head back to drink.

“Another one for you,” Seth says, sliding a fresh shot in front of you after you laugh at something Hobi said. His hand lingers near yours on the table, fingers almost but not quite touching. “Don’t tell me you’re backing down so soon?"

The challenge in his tone hits some stupid part of your brain—the part that's been responsible for most of your worst decisions. 

So of course you grab the shot.

"Just getting started," you declare, tossing it back with more confidence than coordination. 

Seth grins, clearly pleased by your response. "I like you. You're fun."

"I'm a goddamn delight," you agree solemnly, which makes Taehyung snort into his drink.

The next round comes with someone telling a tale about Jungkook getting locked out of his dorm freshman year wearing only a towel. Hobi recounts the time Jungkook tried to learn breakdancing and sprained both wrists. Jungkook retaliates with something about Taehyung and body paint that has everyone howling and reaching for their drinks.

You keep pace, determined not to be the one who can't hang, even as the room develops an interesting spin and your tongue feels increasingly disconnected from your brain.

"Another one!" Seth declares, sliding a fresh shot in front of you.

You stare at it, hiccupping slightly. The thought of one more makes your stomach perform an acrobatic maneuver. 

"I don't know..."

"Come on," he urges, eyes bright with that specific drunk intensity people get when they're determined to make everyone else as wasted as they are. "Don't quit now."

You hiccup slightly, staring at the shot with growing uncertainty. 

Your stomach churns in warning.

But your pride is a stubborn, stupid stupid thing.

Before you can decide, Jungkook’s arm shoots across the table, grabbing the shot and downing it in one quick movement. His eyes find Seth’s, narrowed and unmistakably warning.

“I think she’s good,” he says, voice deceptively casual.

Seth raises his hands in mock surrender. “Just keeping the game going, man.”

You stare at Jungkook, confused by the intervention. He catches your look and shrugs, a simple ‘what?’ in his expression that somehow makes you frown harder.

The game shifts again, someone suggesting “Never Have I Ever” as a change of pace. Your brain struggles to keep up with the new rules, everything moving a little too fast, a little too loud.

“Never have I ever…” Seth taps his chin thoughtfully, eyes finding yours again. “Been skinny dipping.”

You groan internally. Of course he’d pick something designed to make people admit to being naked. Typical.

Those who have done it drink, including Jungkook, which makes Tessa raise her eyebrows in a way that seems both surprised and intrigued. 

You remain still, glass untouched, which somehow feels like a victory.

The questions continue around the table, growing progressively more suggestive as everyone’s inhibitions lower. 

A fresh shot appears in front of you, courtesy of Ryan, who’s moved on from the game and is now just passing out alcohol indiscriminately.

“Drink up!” he declares. “We’re celebrating!”

You stare at the shot, swaying slightly in your seat. The room feels too hot, too crowded, too everything. Your brain is sending out warning signals, but they’re muffled under layers of alcohol and stubbornness.

Jungkook is watching you, expression unreadable but lips pressed together in what might be concern. 

He knows you shouldn’t drink that. 

You know you shouldn’t drink that. 

But admitting it feels like losing somehow.

So you reach for the glass. Fingers clumsy.

Suddenly it’s gone—snatched away by a hand behind you.

“She doesn’t want any more, broski.”

You whip around so fast the room spins alarmingly, but there’s no mistaking that voice, that attitude, that general aura of ‘fuck around and find out.’

Yeji throws back the shot with 0 problem, slamming the empty glass on the table with a decisive clink. 

Behind her, Irya and Jimin hover like backup, taking in the scene with varying levels of amusement.

“Surprise.” Yeji grins, sharp and protective. “Happy birthday, dickhead,” she adds, nodding at Jungkook. “Mind if we crash the party?”

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