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Stobotnik Fic Recs
For a moment of positivity and sharing, see below for 10 Stobotnik Fic recs.
No fics in this post relate to the Sonic 3 movie.
Please make sure to take note of the tags and ratings if you click through to AO3 to ensure full positive curation of your reading experience. The recommendations vary from General up through Explicit ratings.
Doctor Robotnik makes good on his promise of being home by Christmas - it just took a little longer than expected, and home turned out to be someplace he hadn't considered.
Post Sonic 1 movie fic and Christmas/Holiday themed! I adore this one so much, I've re-read it so many times. The Doctor makes his way back to earth slightly before Christmas and ends up on Stone's new doorstep. The mortifying ordeal of being dependent on your former Agent and navigating how to handle the joy and boundaries of your boss you've greatly missed unexpectedly returning.
"I was actually happy when I found out what had happened to you. I looked you up against my better judgment, fully expecting you to have moved on immediately. Agent Stone, consummate professional, busy making lattes for some other genius." Stone snorted. "My number one attribute, huh?" "You know it. Only reason I kept you around," Robotnik said quietly.
Post Sonic 1 movie fic. Stone ends up imprisoned and Robotnik makes his way back to Earth with a side of rescue. I adore this one a whole lot and the Stone POV throughout is gorgeous.
You have that fanfic or series that takes a passing fandom interest and then once you read it, that interest is now stuck in your brain forever because of how profound an impact it had on you? That's this series and why my Stobotnik spiral really went into play.
It starts pre-film canon and goes through both both Sonic 1 and Sonic 2, then creates its own path for post Sonic 2. It provides such in-depth characterization and growth to both Stone and Robotnik as people and their relationship, its beyond amazing, especially how it weaves into the films as well. Total series is 286k words and my god, it is so, so, so, so, so worth the read. And the 16 parts allow for pacing and breaks.
The Doctor works himself to pieces each time he completes a project. His Agent puts him back together. A reflection on the creation-destruction process, homemade bread, and the intricate rituals of it all. (a.k.a. take an allegory, beat it dead.)
Pre-Canon / No Sonic movie direct interactions. Do you have that fic, that after you read makes you just sit there because of how profound and deep it hit you in your core? That you just sit there in wondered silence as you try and wrap your brain around it? That's this fic, the amount of pieces from the various chapters I want to quote and keep with me forever. The codependency between these two tied into the creative process of the doctor and its aftermath, beyond amazing.
In the process of removing the master emerald from Robotnik, Knuckles and Tails accidentally knock it into Stone's orbit. Or - in which Stone gets a turn with the emerald after Robotnik, and the two them have some time to chew the scenery (and also take out so many G.U.N. goons), because we deserved to see them fight side-by-side longer.
Sonic 2 canon divergence, Stone gets to take a spin with the emerald. Love to see our Agent get a turn to be awesome and deadly.
Before he even met Doctor Robotnik, Agent Stone understood the undeniable rules of being his, and truly, he was his. There was a sense of belonging that came with being around the Doctor as a whole, and it was not one of compassion or comfort like one may feel in a domestic partnership. No, from the briefing he had been given on Robotnik, Stone understood that he would no longer be property of the government once he was assigned to him. Instead, he would be Robotnik’s and Robotnik’s alone, no longer his own, yet nothing to Robotnik either. To the Doctor, he was an object to use and dispose of as he saw fit, and most days, even less. That was rule one.
Pre-Canon / No Sonic movie direct interactions. This fic has amazing pacing and growth. Starts with Stone beginning to work for the Doctor and how they change and grow as his time in this role extends on. This is a beautiful fic that I've given several re-reads. This has some amazing banter and attitude from them both.
Robotnik's very first romantic attachment left him bruised and apathetic towards the concept as a whole, warping his own perception of what it means to take part in any kind of emotional relationship. Thirty years later, he takes a chance on Agent Stone who, with patient hands and raw physical attraction, slowly coaxes Robotnik out of his cybernetic shell and into a whole new world of surprisingly mundane exchanges. Or: that one series where they date like normal people rather than the top secret government assets that they are while making a mockery of the entire country.
Pre-Canon / No Sonic movie direct interactions. I adore this series and how the author portrays Stone and Robotnik. How they growt throughout their relationship and the way they communicate and play off each other is wonderful. Part 5 is Christmas/holiday themed as well.
This is about a lot of things. This is about names and what they mean, this is about the weight of inheritance, this is about bakeries and newspapers and coffee. About homes and lawns and demolished grain silos. This is about a building in Northwest Oregon. This is about Robotnik. This is about Stone. Alone together. or: in less flowery language, its a series of snapshots of robotnik's lab across the years. the way robotnik used to be very alone in it, and the way he eventually wasn't.
Pre-Canon / No Sonic movie direct interactions. This is such a uniquely structured fic, bouncing through multiple times and building the history of the land where the lab that the Doctor works in will / does stand and how they come to work together
Stone's primary objective in life is to keep Robotnik safe and alive, at any cost. Time to find out what the universe is charging him.
Sonic 2 fic with Canon Divergence. Time travel and loops where Stone is determined to ensure the doctor is safe and he can protect him. The time loops and travels are done in such an amazing way as Stone keeps trying, trying, trying. Has a happy ending.
A Doctor for Christmas: The (Not A Hallmark Movie) by EmperorHaruhi
When (former) Canadian hockey player Aban Stone and (current) German Doctor Ivo Robotnik are trapped together in the town of Green Hills, Montana, three days before Christmas by an ice storm, the pair butt heads almost immediately. Can Stone melt the doctor's icy exterior and find the man lurking within? Will Robotnik discover Stone's dark secret, and how will he react? This Christmas, the Hallmark channel (does not) present: A Doctor For Christmas - An international, multi-lingual rom-com for the ages.
Hallmark movie Alternate Universe (AU) fic. This one is beautiful and such a fun spin on these two meeting as strangers thanks to the airlines being struck by the effects of winter weather.
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Save a horse…
#yellowstone#yellowstone tv#ryan#ian bohen#how many times have I watched this? yes#I just wanted to share for various reasons#save a horse ride a cowboy#one of the best mottos in life
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I love singNsong again reminding people in Side Story that Dokja wanted other people to read TWSA (he wrote reviews and comments! It was his first wish), and he only stopped bothering because people harassed him for it. He didn't gate-keep the story. When he's avoiding talking to Sangah about it at the beginning of ORV, it's because he knows what happens when he tells people about the story, not because he's gate-keeping it from her. He notes he's not proud of his hobby (likely because he's been bullied all through his life, including for reading the thing he loves): he finds it embarrassing to talk about, and better respects her studying Spanish in her free time (learning another language is a generally accepted thing in society). He assumes she won't care or will look at him funny (or worse) for when she learns about the novel he's into.
Basically anyone writing "let's gatekeep ORV" posts because of the anime announcement or because they dislike the manhwa or some other weirdness, y'all are the villains in the scenario.
The literal climax of the story is about sharing ORV with as many people as possible. What story were y'all reading?
#orv#really tired of the stupid gate-keepy bs in some parts of this fandom#omniscient reader's viewpoint#kim dokja#side story spoilers#it's been quite fascinating seeing novel fanatics come out of the woodwork against potential anime fans#while showing how much they hate the manhwa and manhwa fans too#the only actual official English translation we have is the manhwa#acting like we're all in this together like no#I adore the novel and the manhwa#and folks who started with the manhwa or just happen to also like the manhwa but also like the novel see you for what you are#avoiding talking about something is not gatekeeping#it's often recognizing various social cues#like oh this person probably isn't familiar and I don't care to explain#or I'm worried they'll treat me badly if they know#when you're trying to connect with someone you tend to look for things you share not stuff you don't#if Dokja heard about people trying to gatekeep orv he would be disgusted#also NOT gatekeeping orv is literally the climax of the story I am so deeply confused by people encouraging gatekeeping of it#you're making han suyeong mad#she didn't nearly kill herself writing orv in order to share it to everyone they could find so people could gatekeep it#that is literally the opposite of the goal#it's not bad to ask if folks have read the novel because for a variety of reasons folks may not have#but it is bad to act like reading the novel is a fandom requirement especially given all we have is a fantranslation using MTL#or you must love the novel above others or the novel only#I want singnsong to get fucking rich from this story they shared and which I and many adore#gatekeeping does not make that happen#also good luck getting people to buy the Yen Press novel translation when it comes out when you act like this#the manhwa is available in at least seven languages officially fuck off with this gatekeeping crap#don't get me started how a lot of y'all don't even know what twatf is and a good chunk of y'all who won't even touch it when you do know#and that doesn't exactly bother me but it does bug me when book purists get all high and mighty
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tbh when mitski said “you’re my best friend/now i’ve no one to tell/how i lost my best friend”
#my freshman year of college my best friend and I were both a wreck#and on opposite sides of the country#during winter break I made the decision to share certain information with their parents bc I was actively concerned for their safety#they were deeply upset about me betraying their trust like that and asked for a break in our friendship#(a few months later (which happened to be early March 2020. lol) they did shrooms and realized they wanted to talk to me again lmao)#(so we talked and cried and now we’re still best friends almost 4 years later)#and my birthday is in january so it fell right in the middle of the period we weren’t talking#and my friends at school actually put together a really lovely party and it remains to this day the best bday party ive had#(most of my bdays have been sad and shitty lol)#but i just remember being drunk in my friends dorm room with my friends all around me#it was the end of the night people were just kinda chatting in little groups or whatever#and i was lying on my friends bed just miserable bc all I could think about was how my best friend was supposed to be there too#bc my parents were going to fly them out for the weekend as a present#and obviously that just got dropped#and id been talking to my friends about it kind of but all I wanted was my actual best friend#I left them a very embarrassing drunk voicemail that THANK GOD they deleted without listening to#but it’s just. the quiet agony of being angry and sad and hurt because your person doesn’t want to be ur person anymore#and still wanting to talk to them about it. still needing them to comfort you and give you their advice and insights#i don’t want to talk to anyone else about it. they’re not you.#sigh. anyway. ive actually lost several close friends for various reasons ranging from reasonable to bullshit#and it always blindsides me how much I want to talk to THEM about it#so thanks mitski for expressing that so artfully#op
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i am so full of greek salad
#had meal out#greek restaurant mmm nom nom#ppl do not want greek salad for various reasons#(dont want the olives tomats cucs etc)#so. i have multiple salads#including my own greek salad#i contain so much feta. and tomato. and olive oil.#and i am not complaining#just sharing#:')#helia's stuff#helia's ma adventure
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having a bad day in a bad week in a bad month in a bad year, and today i finally finished exordia by seth dickinson. not sure how to feel about that timing, boys!
#to be clear it's an excellent book#for being unlike baru cormorant in about 394857345 different ways#it is very much written by the same person#like. condensed. distilled. holy fuck.#which is also somehow thematically appropriate#but it also has the same flaws as baru but like. amplified.#i started reading it not long after it came out and just sort of petered out#i stopped less than halfway through because while baru became a slog in a way that i was more than happy to devour#exordia was not for various reasons but mileage may vary#that said just like Traitor it ends with a fucking bang#well. in more ways than one.#in more ways than two i guess. in several ways perhaps.#and just like Traitor i do want to cry until i throw up#and maybe get punched in the face or something#i do highly recommend but i would say in a lot of ways it's a rougher read in terms of like body horror than even Monster was#but it does share a lot with baru in terms of content but does not have the luxury of its atrocities referenced being purely fictional
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i love you italian characters who struggle with their relationship with catholicism (or lack of relationship)
#italian characters with complicated religious beliefs mean sooo much to me as an italian who isnt catholic#im hellenic but my family was catholic#my mother wasnt as religious as the rest of them so i was raised going to a more laid back community christian church and wasnt baptized#but theres evidence of my very catholic family scattered throughout the house#we have an entire shelf full of bibles because it was tradition for every person in the family to have their own#my mother uses her confirmation name when giving her full name despite not being catholic#she also hangs a rosary from her rearview mirror#my relationship w catholicism is strange#i long for it but i dont believe in it#i want the connection and shared experience of the vast majority of italians but i believe in and love my own gods dearly#i like the idea of the community catholics speak of. but i know i would not be accepted in those communities#for various reasons#i got off track and forgot who this post was supposed to be about#i think maybe i was thinking about helena throwing away her cross?? but then i just started thinking about myself
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I know it's strike days now so there's a huge focus on boosting Palestinian voices, but I just wanted to share that we finally got my mum in to be checked for cancer today and the doctors said there's nothing to worry about! She's in the clear! Mum's gonna be okay! The relief is HUGE you've no idea!!!
#firefly life#just wanted to share this with literally everyone because this is such a huge relief#she was CONVINCED it was bad to point she was talking about chemotherapies and shit#and how she couldn't do that stuff for various reasons and was worrying about what would happen to me if it was bad#because I'm disabled and she takes care of me#and this was all such a fucking mess#I figured out the econsult system and how it actually works with it's misleading messages#(like the 'we are at capacity! please try again at 8am tomorrow morning!' when it's 8:15am.)#(it's just the message they use for everything. they ony actually allow so many people to go through the econsult at a time)#(they're not out of appointments or anything that's just the only message they use for EVERYTHING in case you were wondering)#and now mum's apparently clear!!#do we know what the lump actually is? no. but we know it's not cancer!!! winning!!!#the RELIEF man!!! HUGE!!!#just HAD to share it here too cause it's so important#my mum's okay!!! hooray!!! yippee!!! wahoo!!! :D#one crisis averted today!!!
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the loneliness of not having close friends vs the desire to not Be Perceived
#im not an especially closed off person. at least not intentionally.#i just intensely fear violating peoples boundaries to the point where i only speak when spoken to.#which becomes a problem once you reach adulthood and are no longer obligated to speak to anyone#and therefore no one speaks to you. so instead of speaking when spoken to you just. don't speak.#for my entire life all of my friends have been made by other kids at school reaching out to me to talk. not the other way.#now that doesn't happen anymore and i haven't kept up with my childhood friends for various reasons so i just. don't have friends.#i would say i have online friends but I don't know if they consider me friends and im too afraid to ask... because i speak when spoken to#I guess my biggest regret is that after a certain point in my childhood i have never had a friend that i could just call on discord#or Skype or whatever chat service at the time and ask if they want to play a video game with me.#because I've never had a friend that shares those interests with me that I was close enough to to feel comfortable asking.#sorry tumblr is my therapist now. i just needed somewhere to say this. pretend you do not see.#(thus reinforcing my 'desire to not be perceived' point again sghdhsk. do not perceive me but also do but don't. hope that makes sense.)
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I haven’t really seen any of the more recent U.S. election news hitting tumblr yet so here’s some updates (now edited with sources added):
There’s evidence of Trump cheating and interfering with the election.
Possible Russian interference.
Mail-in ballots are not being counted or “recognized” in multiple (notably swing) states.
30+ bomb threats were called in and shut down polling stations on Election Day.
20+ million votes are still unaccounted for, and that’s just to have the same voter turnout as 2020.
There was record voter turnout and new/first-time voter registration this year. We definitely should be well over the turnout in 2020.
U.S. citizens are using this site to demand, not only a recount, but a complete investigation into election fraud and interference for the reasons stated above:
Here is what I submitted as an example:
An investigation for election interference and fraud is required. We desperately need a recount or even a revote. The American people deserve the right to a free and fair election. There has been evidence unveiled of Trump cheating and committing election fraud which is illegal. There is some evidence of possible Russian interference. At least 30+ bomb threats were called in to polling places. Multiple, notably swing states, have ballots unaccounted for and voting machines not registering votes. Ballots and ballot boxes were tampered with and burned. Over 20 million votes that we know of are unaccounted for. With record turnout and new voter registration this year, there should be no possibility that there are less votes than even in the 2020 election.
Sources (working on finding more links but if anyone wants to add info, it’s appreciated):
FBI addressing Russian interference and bomb threats:
Emails released by Rachael Bellis (private account, can’t share original tweet) confirming Trump committing election fraud:
Pennsylvania's Centre County officials say they are working with their ballot scanner vendor to figure out why the county's mail-in ballot data is "not being recognized when uploaded to the elections software:”
Wisconsin recount:
[ID:
Multiple screenshots and images.
The first is a screenshot with a link and information for contacting the White House directly regarding election fraud. The instructions include choosing to leave a comment to President Joe Biden directly and to select election security as the reason.
The screenshot then instructs people to include any or all of the following information in a paragraph as a comment to the president:
32 fake bomb threats were called into Democratic leaning poll places, rendering polling places closed for at least an hour.
A lot of people reporting their ballots were not counted for various reasons.
This all occurred in swing states.
This is too coincidental that these things happen and swing in his favor after months of hinting at foul play.
Directly state that an investigation for tampering, interference, fraud is required, not just a recount.
The second image is from the FBI Twitter account that reads:
The FBI is aware of bomb threats to polling locations in several states, many of which appear to originate from Russian email domains. None of the threats have been determined to be credible thus far. https://t.co/j3YfajVK1m — FBI (@FBI) November 5, 2024
The next four Gmail screenshots of an email sent to Rachael Bellis from Chris T. Spackman that read together as follows:
Dear BELLIS, RACHAEL E., The Dauphin County Board of Elections received a challenge to your absentee ballot you applied for in the November 5, 2024 General Election. The challenge argues that a provision of the Pennsylvania Election Code takes precedence over the federal Uniformed and Overseas Citizens Absentee Voting Act (UOCAVA), which requires states and counties to permit U.S. citizens who move overseas to vote by absentee ballot for federal offices based on their last U.S. residential address.
The full text of the challenge that was filed appears below this email.
You may respond to the challenge in any of the following ways:
1. Call the Bureau of Registration and Election at (717) 780-6360;
2. Email a statement to the Bureau at Election [email protected]. Any statement you submit regarding the period during which you lived in Dauphin County, any family or connections that you still have here, and why you are now residing abroad would be read into the record.
3. Appear in person at a Board of Elections hearing scheduled for Friday, November 8 at a time to be determined in the Commissioners Public Hearing Room, 4th floor of Dauphin County Administration Building, 2 S 20d St, Harrisburg, PA 17111. The meeting is also likely to be livestreamed on Facebook on the Dauphin County channel.
Sincerely,
Christopher T Spackman
TEXT OF CHALLENGE BEGINS
Dear Dauphin County Board of Elections,
I am submitting this challenge to an absentee ballot application pursuant to 25 Pa. Stat.
3146.8(f).
25 Pa. Stat. 3146.8(f) Any person challenging an application for an absentee ballot, an absentee ballot, an application for a mail-in ballot or a mail-in ballot for any of the reasons provided in this act shall deposit the sum of ten dollars ($10.00) in cash with the county board, which sum shall only be refunded if the challenge is sustained or if the challenge is withdrawn within five (5) days after the primary or election. If the challenge is dismissed by any lawful order then the deposit shall be forfeited. The county board shall deposit all deposit money in the general fund of the…
The rest of the forwarded email is cut off.
The last image is a screenshot of the official statement from the Centre County, Pennsylvania Board of Commissioners released on November 6, 2024 that states:
Centre County Working with Ballot Scanner Vendor to Export Election Results.
(Bellefonte, PA) -Centre County Elections Office is working continuously to provide mail-in ballot data in order to post unofficial results.
To this point, all ballots have been scanned, including all mail-in ballots.
Centre County's Election team and IT team have identified that the data are successfully being exported from the mail-in ballot scanners, but that the data is not being recognized when uploaded to the elections software.
Centre County's Administrator, John Franek, Jr. stated, "We have not stopped working, and we will continue to work until unofficial results are posted and reported to the Pennsylvania Department of State."
As a next step, Centre County has begun working with the equipment vendor to adjust configurations to make the two systems-the mail-in ballot scanner and the elections software where data are uploaded -compatible with one another.
We will provide updates as we make progress.
/end ID]
#sources added#us politics#us election#presidential election#2024 presidential election#election interference#election integrity#election security#image described#image description in alt#image description included#image description added#described#kamala harris#kamala 2024#us news#us presidents#updated id
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How Do I Make My Fictional Gypsies Not Racist?
(Or, "You can't, sorry, but…")
You want to include some Gypsies in your fantasy setting. Or, you need someone for your main characters to meet, who is an outsider in the eyes of the locals, but who already lives here. Or you need a culture in conflict with your settled people, or who have just arrived out of nowhere. Or, you just like the idea of campfires in the forest and voices raised in song. And you’re about to step straight into a muckpile of cliches and, accidentally, write something racist.
(In this, I am mostly using Gypsy as an endonym of Romany people, who are a subset of the Romani people, alongside Roma, Sinti, Gitano, Romanisael, Kale, etc, but also in the theory of "Gypsying" as proposed by Lex and Percy H, where Romani people are treated with a particular mix of orientalism, criminalisation, racialisation, and othering, that creates "The Gypsy" out of both nomadic peoples as a whole and people with Romani heritage and racialised physical features, languages, and cultural markers)
Enough of my friends play TTRPGs or write fantasy stories that this question comes up a lot - They mention Dungeons and Dragons’ Curse Of Strahd, World Of Darkness’s Gypsies, World Of Darkness’s Ravnos, World of Darkness’s Silent Striders… And they roll their eyes and say “These are all terrible! But how can I do it, you know, without it being racist?”
And their eyes are big and sad and ever so hopeful that I will tell them the secret of how to take the Roma of the real world and place them in a fictional one, whilst both appealing to gorjer stereotypes of Gypsies and not adding to the weight of stereotyping that already crushes us. So, disappointingly, there is no secret.
Gypsies, like every other real-world culture, exist as we do today because of interactions with cultures and geography around us: The living waggon, probably the archetypal thing which gorjer writers want to include in their portrayals of nomads, is a relatively modern invention - Most likely French, and adopted from French Showmen by Romanies, who brought it to Britain. So already, that’s a tradition that only spans a small amount of the time that Gypsies have existed, and only a small number of the full breadth of Romani ways of living. But the reasons that the waggon is what it is are based on the real world - The wheels are tall and iron-rimmed, because although you expect to travel on cobbled, tarmac, or packed-earth roads and for comparatively short distances, it wasn’t rare to have to ford a river in Britain in the late nineteenth century, on country roads. They were drawn by a single horse, and the shape of that horse was determined by a mixture of local breeds - Welsh cobs, fell ponies, various draft breeds - as well as by the aesthetic tastes of the breeders. The stove inside is on the left, so that as you move down a British road, the chimney sticks up into the part where there will be the least overhanging branches, to reduce the chance of hitting it.
So taking a fictional setting that looks like (for example) thirteenth century China (with dragons), and placing a nineteenth century Romanichal family in it will inevitably result in some racist assumptions being made, as the answer to “Why does this culture do this?” becomes “They just do it because I want them to” rather than having a consistent internal logic.
Some stereotypes will always follow nomads - They appear in different forms in different cultures, but they always arise from the settled people's same fears: That the nomads don't share their values, and are fundamentally strangers. Common ones are that we have a secret language to fool outsiders with, that we steal children and disguise them as our own, that our sexual morals are shocking (This one has flipped in the last half century - From the Gypsy Lore Society's talk of the lascivious Romni seductress who will lie with a strange man for a night after a 'gypsy wedding', to today's frenzied talk of 'grabbing' and sexually-conservative early marriages to ensure virginity), that we are supernatural in some way, and that we are more like animals than humans. These are tropes where if you want to address them, you will have to address them as libels - there is no way to casually write a baby-stealing, magical succubus nomad without it backfiring onto real life Roma. (The kind of person who has the skills to write these tropes well, is not the kind of person who is reading this guide.)
It’s too easy to say a list of prescriptive “Do nots”, which might stop you from making the most common pitfalls, but which can end up with your nomads being slightly flat as you dance around the topics that you’re trying to avoid, rather than being a rich culture that feels real in your world.
So, here are some questions to ask, to create your nomadic people, so that they will have a distinctive culture of their own that may (or may not) look anything like real-world Romani people: These aren't the only questions, but they're good starting points to think about before you make anything concrete, and they will hopefully inspire you to ask MORE questions.
First - Why are they nomadic? Nobody moves just to feel the wind in their hair and see a new horizon every morning, no matter what the inspirational poster says. Are they transhumant herders who pay a small rent to graze their flock on the local lord’s land? Are they following migratory herds across common land, being moved on by the cycle of the seasons and the movement of their animals? Are they seasonal workers who follow man-made cycles of labour: Harvests, fairs, religious festivals? Are they refugees fleeing a recent conflict, who will pass through this area and never return? Are they on a regular pilgrimage? Do they travel within the same area predictably, or is their movement governed by something that is hard to predict? How do they see their own movements - Do they think of themselves as being pushed along by some external force, or as choosing to travel? Will they work for and with outsiders, either as employees or as partners, or do they aim to be fully self-sufficient? What other jobs do they do - Their whole society won’t all be involved in one industry, what do their children, elderly, disabled people do with their time, and is it “work”?
If they are totally isolationist - How do they produce the things which need a complex supply chain or large facilities to make? How do they view artefacts from outsiders which come into their possession - Things which have been made with technology that they can’t produce for themselves? (This doesn’t need to be anything about quality of goods, only about complexity - A violin can be made by one artisan working with hand tools, wood, gut and shellac, but an accordion needs presses to make reeds, metal lathes to make screws, complex organic chemistry to make celluloid lacquer, vulcanised rubber, and a thousand other components)
How do they feel about outsiders? How do they buy and sell to outsiders? If it’s seen as taboo, do they do it anyway? Do they speak the same language as the nearby settled people (With what kind of fluency, or bilingualism, or dialect)? Do they intermarry, and how is that viewed when it happens? What stories does this culture tell about why they are a separate people to the nearby settled people? Are those stories true? Do they have a notional “homeland” and do they intend to go there? If so, is it a real place?
What gorjers think of as classic "Gipsy music" is a product of our real-world situation. Guitar from Spain, accordions from the Soviet Union (Which needed modern machining and factories to produce and make accessible to people who weren't rich- and which were in turn encouraged by Soviet authorities preferring the standardised and modern accordion to the folk traditions of the indigenous peoples within the bloc), brass from Western classical traditions, via Balkan folk music, influences from klezmer and jazz and bhangra and polka and our own music traditions (And we influence them too). What are your people's musical influences? Do they make their own instruments or buy them from settled people? How many musical traditions do they have, and what are they all for (Weddings, funerals, storytelling, campfire songs, entertainment...)? Do they have professional musicians, and if so, how do those musicians earn money? Are instrument makers professionals, or do they use improvised and easy-to-make instruments like willow whistles, spoons, washtubs, etc? (Of course the answer can be "A bit of both")
If you're thinking about jobs - How do they work? Are they employed by settled people (How do they feel about them?) Are they self employed but providing services/goods to the settled people? Are they mostly avoidant of settled people other than to buy things that they can't produce themselves? Are they totally isolationist? Is their work mostly subsistence, or do they create a surplus to sell to outsiders? How do they interact with other workers nearby? Who works, and how- Are there 'family businesses', apprentices, children with part time work? Is it considered 'a job' or just part of their way of life? How do they educate their children, and is that considered 'work'? How old are children when they are considered adult, and what markers confer adulthood? What is considered a rite of passage?
When they travel, how do they do it? Do they share ownership of beasts of burden, or each individually have "their horse"? Do families stick together or try to spread out? How does a child begin to live apart from their family, or start their own family? Are their dwellings something that they take with them, or do they find places to stay or build temporary shelter with disposable material? Who shares a dwelling and why? What do they do for privacy, and what do they think privacy is for?
If you're thinking about food - Do they hunt? Herd? Forage? Buy or trade from settled people? Do they travel between places where they've sown crops or managed wildstock in previous years, so that when they arrive there is food already seeded in the landscape? How do they feel about buying food from settled people, and is that common? If it's frowned upon - How much do people do it anyway? How do they preserve food for winter? How much food do they carry with them, compared to how much they plan to buy or forage at their destinations? How is food shared- Communal stores, personal ownership?
Why are they a "separate people" to the settled people? What is their creation myth? Why do they believe that they are nomadic and the other people are settled, and is it correct? Do they look different? Are there legal restrictions on them settling? Are there legal restrictions on them intermixing? Are there cultural reasons why they are a separate people? Where did those reasons come from? How long have they been travelling? How long do they think they've been travelling? Where did they come from? Do they travel mostly within one area and return to the same sites predictably, or are they going to move on again soon and never come back?
And then within that - What about the members of their society who are "unusual" in some way: How does their society treat disabled people? (are they considered disabled, do they have that distinction and how is it applied?) How does their society treat LGBT+ people? What happens to someone who doesn't get married and has no children? What happens to someone who 'leaves'? What happens to young widows and widowers? What happens if someone just 'can't fit in'? What happens to someone who is adopted or married in? What happens to people who are mixed race, and in a fantasy setting to people who are mixed species? What is taboo to them and what will they find shocking if they leave? What is society's attitude to 'difference' of various kinds?
Basically, if you build your nomads from the ground-up, rather than starting from the idea of "I want Gypsies/Buryats/Berbers/Minceiri but with the numbers filed off and not offensive" you can end up with a rich, unique nomadic culture who make sense in your world and don't end up making a rod for the back of real-world cultures.
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Please share the lewd interspecies romance.
Okay so mostly I have thoughts over the Octavinelle trio, especially the twins 🫣 but i wrote a lil something for most of them! also this was not meant to be so long idk what happened
[tags] - nsfw, AFAB-implied reader, but written gender-neutral, mentions of ruts/heats, breeding, etc
nsfw under read-more, minors DNI!
If you really compare humans to the nonhuman population of Twisted Wonderland, there's are some small physiological differences between species. Fae, surprisingly, don't differ from humans all too much. Land dwellers in general don't have anything too significant, though all of nonhuman species retain aspects of their animal counterparts.
Most of Savanaclaw goes through some sort of rut/heat during various times in the year, primarily early spring and summer. There's no logical reason for them to retain that aspect of their mating cycle anymore, not for a sentient species that have skills of logic and reasoning. Unfortunately, they didn't get to choose how their evolution worked, and so they have to deal with it in anyway they can.
They get a lot more irritable, they have throbbing headaches, their abdomen hurts, and the scent of their mate is a lot more enticing than normal. Jack probably has it the worst of them, as a wolf beastmen. Not only does he have to deal with a fever-inducing rut that will put him out of commission for a week, afterwards he has to deal with the a/b/o jokes from his classmates too, oh the horror. It is really a horror though when he's able to bend you over his bed, bite marks aligned your neck and back as his dick pounds into you till his knot swells and locks you in for at least an hour. Jack's incredibly embarrassed afterwards, though he manages to be incredibly sweet even after rearranging your guts. Wolf beastmen are one of the most affectionate partners to have with a reputation providing some of the best aftercare for their species. It's most likely to make up for their week-long copulation, stretching and tiring out their sweet little mates. Ooooh, but they'll so very sweet: cleaning up the sticky mess of fluids between your legs with their tongue, careful to not overstimulate you (unless you ask), tending to the mating mark they placed on the back of your neck with soft kisses and licks, and making sure to prop your lower half up to that your chances of taking their seed increases.
Lacking the annual rut/heat that other variants of beastmen have, lion and hyena beastmen are more similar is this regard, as they don't have the same issue of long copulations as wolf beastmen. Neither will initiate sex, rather they'll rely on their mates to do so. Ruggie, in particular, is rather reluctant initiating sex, as male hyenas are typically more submissive, so if you're shy you'll have to get over it. But once you do, Ruggie is ever so happy to service you if you're happy to give him praise. Run your hands through his hair and ears as he eats you out, he'll let out the cutest whimpers and groans as you do. Just, expect to be jellyboned by the time he's done with you, as a hyena he needs to make sure his mate won't snip back at him and you can't exactly do that if your fucked out. While he may not have the same stamina as Jack for week-long fuck session, he has a particularly short refractory period and can have several short sessions in a single night.
Leona also won't typically initiate sex on his own, it happens very sporadically, and he his the image of the lazy lion. While he never wants to do anything particularly extraneous, who is he to deny you needs? You'll have to do some preparing though, as while the barbs on his dick aren't as bad as they are in his animal variant, they will hurt if you're not wet and pliable enough. Be sure to sit on his face, don't worry you won't suffocate him and it's better you cum a few times first before taking him. Unless you want it to hurt? Once you've cum enough times, you can ride him to your heart's content. He only asks that you don't mention how he rubs his head into the crook of your neck, marking you so that if everyone couldn't tell by the sounds coming from his room, they'd know you're his from his scent. Lions are quite protective with their territory and pride after all.
Merfolk have the most extreme physiological differences between them and...any land dweller really. It comes with the territory of being suited for a completely different environment. They also behave a lot more similarly to their animal counterparts, which can be both delicious and exhausting for their humans.
Moray eels don't have a set time of the year they mate, but rather the water must be warm and plenty of food must be ready to provide to their mate. When the spring time weather above the sea starts transitioning from crisp to blazing, don't be too surprised when the twins start handfeeding you meals and snacks throughout the week, they want to make sure you're happy and full for them, getting you in the mood with a sweet, dizzying underwater dance to initiate until they get the okay from you. What's that 'okay' though? You know that yawning I mentioned before? You'll get your answer from them now, as they take your open mouth yawn as an invitation rather than a sign of tiredness. Floyd, in particular, is ready to drag you into the deep part of the pool before remembering that you need to breathe somehow. Not a problem. He'll keep your pretty head above water. You'll still have trouble breathing as his long tapered tongue worms his way in your mouth. No matter, you'll be gasping for breath as he bullies this cock into your hole, large enough that you can physically feel the bump on your stomach. Morays are awfully fond of wrapping themselves around their mates, seeing as Floyd will do his best to tangle his tail around your body and squeezing you as you squeeze down his dick. He loves the physical contact between you two, and is amused how your nails try to dig into his shoulders seeing as the mucus on his skin makes it near impossible to have a steady grasp. You're completely dependent on Floyd as you drool and cry out for relief from the overstimulation, which is oh so ever exciting.
Jade is equally as cruel when it comes to mating. Unlike the others, merfolk tend to mate with the intention to, well, mate. He prefers you to be soft and pliant for him, as well as wholly depending as you two fuck. So, he'll happily brew you a water-breathing potion so he can actually drag you into the deep, where he found a secluded, warm grotto that will allow him to keep you to himself for hours, but close enough to the surface that he can continuously grab you food to eat between sessions. Not that those sessions will be short either. Like his brother, Jade is content to wrap himself around your body as he cooed honeyed words into your ears about how you'll make a wet, warm, soft hole for breeding. It's not like he'll have to do much either, his dick is prehensile and he can wrap himself around you, swiping kisses and nuzzling into the crook of your very sensitive neck while his thick cock continuously pounds into you with a bruising pace. He's so mean!! He likes seeing you cry from overstimulation too, and Jade will continuously scoot down to clean you up with his tongue, only to claim that too much of his seed was gone and he needed to fill you up again for another few hours. He's truly quite incorrigible, especially when he bites into your neck and shoulders to make his claim on you. Don't worry, most morays' bites aren't venomous, and even if they are, you have him to care for you. You're going to be depending on him in the water anyway, so there's no need to worry about it too much.
Something that neither probably won't mention, probably because they won't realize it's something you should know, is that they can change their sex under the right conditions. If you're ever so inclined in the future to test the waters out, the twins might be so generous to let you eat them out instead.
Of the trio, Azul's the only one with an established mating season, two actually: one in the late spring and the other in the early fall. Respectively, one during finals and the other during orientation. He's already so incredibly stressed, and he has the need to breed too? Downright atrocious. It's wonderful that you're so kind that he can take refuge in you and use you like a new octopot, so tell him how pretty he is and how much you love him and only him, so that you have the privilege fucking his merform. The moment you're entering the water, he'll unconsciously display mating signals by flashing soft lilacs and blues, a beautiful display of his need for you. He's rather large, even bigger than the twins, in his merform, so you'll need preparation as well; have no fear, his tentacles are wrapping and kneading the squishiest parts of you. I mentioned before that he can taste the salt on your skin and pulse through your wrist via his suckers. He can taste the slick from your walls, too, without even having to use his mouth as the suckers massage you from the inside. If you'd like, he technically could give you a full flavor profile afterward, though he'll probably be a bit mortified to do so. The biggest difference is his dick, or lack thereof. Instead of a dick, Azul has a hectocotylus, which is a modified, slightly shorter arm of his with a thicker spade-shaped tip that he can practically rearrange your guts with, with little effort on his part really. Most octo-mer variants will keep their mate at a distance, eons of instinct hard to forget. Azul's variant, though, will keep you close, almost dancing with you in a sweet, sensual twirl as he places sweet kissing and bites on your neck, arms, and chest. Octopi are, in fact, venomous, however, so you will be feeling a bit of a lustful high, paralyzed, and a bit helpless to the whims of a needy octopus. He's quite good at aftercare though, making sure you get an antidote and handfeeding you calorie-rich snacks to energize you back up (again, he's aware that you won't eat him, but instinct dictates that he keeps you full with both food and cum to make you a happy mate).
*collapses into heap on floor* thoughts....full.....ahahaha breeding kink go burrrrr. i was not meant to write this much and then it escaped me. also i hate tagging
#twst#twisted wonderland#!nsfw#!breeding kink#!abo dynamics#just slightly#twisted wonderland x reader#twst x reader#twst smut#jack howl x reader#jack howl smut#ruggie bucci x reader#ruggie bucchi smut#leona kingsholar x reader#leona kingscholar smut#floyd leech x reader#floyd leech smut#jade leech x reader#jade leech smut#azul ashengrotto x reader#azul ashengrotto smut
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entertainer | jjk (m)
Summary: Growing singer Jeon Jungkook is as charismatic as he is self-absored – that is, until he meets you. Caught in a web of secrets, he finds a riddle in you he urges to solve; even ready to turn the spotlight towards you until nothing remains… but regret.
➳ pairing: Jungkook x reader ➳ rating: 18+ ➳ genre: strangers to lovers (or something); angst, bits of fluff, smut!! ➳ warnings: do not fall for this jk i repeat do not f– 🚨 he's kinda hot though; (not so) silent yearning, flirting, a shit ton of sexual tension, sexual fantasies, some jealousy from his side, he is very VERY attracted to her, mystery, oc is a big question mark, full jk pov!, difficult past(s), (mention of) sexual harassment, mentioned past death of a side character, crying, fear, manipulation, confrontation and fighting, aggression, cursing, cocky and selfish kook, overthinking, secrets and revelations, explicit sexual content: kissing, fingering, teasing, drunk shenanigans, sooo much lust, big dick jk, dom jk, oc is odd, oral (f. receiving), spit stuff, handjob, manhandling, orgasm delay, lip ring…, light choking, bit of hair pulling, a spank or two, coming on oc, some cum tasting mmmh, ass stuff, protected sex, rough sex, various positions, masturbation; as always THE ENDING!! lmk if i forgot something!! ➳ wc: 32.4k ➳ a/n: MHMMM, it's finally time!! i experimented with the trope a little; def not a professional when it comes to this genre, but i tried my best. both oc and jk are odd in this one, and you might be on either's side and hate either of them, i can't say :'D very curious tho, so come and drop a message to lmk what you think. let it aaaall out :P <3
➳ listen to the Entertainer playlist! 🖤
TAGLIST | MASTERLIST | WIPs
Jungkook has always wanted an audience to perceive him.
Not just to perceive him, in fact. To worship him.
Jungkook doesn’t consider himself a bad person. Spoiled, a little selfish, but not necessarily bad. He enjoys attention, no matter how temporary or who the giver of it. Feasts on it like an incubus.
What’s wrong with that? Nothing.
Or.
Maybe there is. Maybe he’s coming on too strong.
Because you’re not part of his audience, sitting over there, middle row, middle spot, with your eyes lowered to the notebook. And when you do look up, there’s nothing but indifference in your eyes.
It irks him. Maybe he is a little narcissistic, and maybe he can’t quite deny it after all — but as part of his future team, you should at least fake a smile, right? Display a certain amount of enthusiasm, the joy of working with aspiring artists.
But no.
You’re occupied, scribbling into your notebook. Jungkook, cognisant of the fact that he hasn’t issued much of significance today, understands that you cannot be taking notes of his words. And he also understands that… if that is true…
You’re not granting him as much fascination as he’s used to.
General admiration thrown into the same bucket as his unwavering talent — that he’s well aware of — might just be the reason he climbed up so high in no time. Sometimes, gentle livestreams and vlogs do the trick — locals have found reasons to adore him already.
At times, a good song and strong vocals aren’t necessary to woo people.
Jungkook, however, is insatiable — that’s what keeps him pondering at times. That it’s just the locals, and on an international scale, there’s still much to achieve.
But he’s not a quitter, he’s a conqueror.
And he’ll reach that mind-boggling status of a well-known, global icon, name flowing as naturally through the seam of people’s lips as a still-lying, tranquil lake.
Jungkook knows it’s cocky of him to praise himself to the skies and to rely on his resolute hopes so much. He knows life backfires sometimes, and that endeavours don’t always pay off. He only started as an insignificant city boy, too.
Survived the cruelty of elementary and middle school; shared a room with his brother, relying on him until he grew and learned to finally rule over high school; every single soul at his beck and call. Then, trudged through college before any of where he’s standing even existed.
But he’s here now. And people acknowledge it.
Except you.
And it throws him off his balance. Which is probably why he shortens the end of his speech, close to slurring distracted syllables before he realises he’s forgotten a prepared sentence or two.
No matter; the relevant and main message should have been delivered by now.
So he leans back in a chair in the back, flashing a captivating smile and waits for the applause. Somewhat proud when the praise needs a moment to cease for his manager to reclaim the mic, freeing the metaphorical stage, much in the form of a simple pult, for the CEO of the company.
Taehyung is savvy of how to regain control over a stage; Jungkook doesn’t know whether he fucked up his final remarks, but Taehyung summarises his ideas well. But the clapping does say a lot.
And between those raising their hands to appreciate Jungkook’s speech, you were, too. He knows because he looked directly at you; still is. And when your eyes drift to his, the two of you hold each other’s gazes for at least a couple seconds longer than the others.
And your smile, while present, is somewhat tight-lipped, a bit awkward but confident, too. Odd, as well; hard to explain, but as though you know what you want. As though you have your priorities set straight and cannot be swayed by anything the world might throw at you.
He doesn’t have a word for it. Poised? Self-reliant? Fearless? Can a single look even say this much or is he being delusional?
But this can’t be true, honestly. Nobody is this unperturbed or passive. He’ll find out.
Your stare aligns with his a couple more times over the next minutes, staying there before continuing the journey over the crowd. Jungkook’s eyebrows twitch just a little whenever your eyes pierce into his, so tantalising and deep, big sweet ires, but so conniving at the same time.
He doesn’t know your name, but he’s sure that it defines intrigue. And maybe, just perhaps, it might serve as the synonym for drop fucking dead gorgeous, too.
When Taehyung leads you to Jungkook’s stuffy studio, the latter hears your voice through the open door several seconds before you come in. Or actually, it’s not quite his studio.
More like a collective office that a couple of the newcomers use. Jungkook has been part of this crew a little longer, but he needs the additional success, more prosperity; he’s been told to yield more results to earn his very own four walls. Carrying his signature flavour.
But it’s okay. For now, this suffices…
The stench of coffee and the sound of the AC. The pot and plants that always rest in some corner of the room, courtesy of Taehyung who insists on some colour in the grey-white, small room. Jungkook has gotten used to it all.
Which is why it’s strange, seeing your splendour enter the small space, delighted by whatever Taehyung might be explaining. Your grin is the widest Jungkook has seen since yesterday.
He didn’t get to meet you properly yet, so he can’t say where your humour lies. Nobody introduced you, despite your new position as his very own, personal work partner. A second manager, here to guide and aid him when Taehyung can’t; and apparently, you’ve found some charm in Taehyung that you didn’t see in Jungkook during the stupid meeting.
Not that Jungkook would ever dare to doubt his friend’s appeal, but you’ve stormed into his life like a present, and so silently, too; and he wanted to be the one to open it. To reveal it.
Not Taehyung. Even if it’s his job.
Okay. Calm down. Jungkook sighs. That again.
A motherly blanket of praises and fatherly pats of pride. That’s what’s gotten his head so riled up. He was coddled too much as a child. Made felt special. That’s over now, Jeon, you’re in an industry filled to the brim with competition.
Chill chill chill.
But now?
With that alluring smile staring up at Taehyung, only hints of it left when your eyes move to Jungkook. Fuck.
But Jungkook’s stance remains steadfast and self-assured when he greets, “Hi there. Welcome at last, huh?”
Jungkook notices when your mind snaps out of the conversation with Taehyung and into the one he started; a gentle hand frees your face off your hair to enable a proper view to it. The other is still dug deep in the pocket of your leather jacket, covering parts of the white top underneath.
Semi-long, silver earrings rest right below your ear, against your neck when you tilt your head a little; your expression so respectful and inviting when you smile. Jungkook inhales you in that one split moment, details stinging into the eye without much effort.
And perhaps he’d observe more, appreciate your stunning, obvious beauty and elegance further; but time passes as it does before you finally utter your very first sentence to him, “Hi. Didn’t think I’d ever be saying this, but… thank you for having me.”
That’s sweet.
Your words are reminiscent of the adoration his fans grant him, but your expression is as cool as a refreshing autumn wind. The perfect balance, possibly.
Jungkook gestures to a small couch in the back, right next to the door, but you raise a rejecting hand, claiming, “Been sitting all day observing Taehyung. Need to walk a bit.”
And you do. Deliver a last farewell nod to Taehyung who waves a little, gripping the handle and locking you in the room with the younger man nearly drooling over you.
The hand hidden in the jacket before has emerged, arms loosely folded as you take in the interior of the studio, allowing no more insight into your thoughts than, “Nice.”
Jungkook hums in distracted agreement, standing at the wall, watching you roam around the humble space in small steps. It’s odd, being in here with you; the atmosphere fizzles, a little less like electricity, just a bit more than carbonic acid.
But the moment was to arrive anyway; you’ll be a close link to Jungkook from now on. Of course you need to familiarise yourself with his space, too. So far, you seem to have an opinion on it already.
“Easy to trigger claustrophobia, but,” you walk through the open door to the darker recording room, tapping the mic for a moment, “cosy, too. Very cool equipment.”
“Yeah. I agree.” Pause, eyes dropping to your fingers grazing the stand of the mic. Then, “I would’ve come to you today… or yesterday for that matter, but things were so chaotic and—”
“Oh, don’t worry,” you assure, waving his concerns off, “I could see people rushing around and preparing the moment I got here. I’m probably not the main concern right now among everybody.”
“Nah, that’s not it. We have a great team here.” You step out again, hands folding behind your back until you’re leaning against the wall opposite of him, mirroring his stance. “I’m sorry you arrived at such a stressful time, though.”
“Not your fault. I decided so myself fully knowing you were in the middle of something.”
Ah. So you’ve seen his interviews, read the news. You came here with sufficient knowledge about him, alright.
“Really though,” you continue, blinking slowly, “I’m just glad to be here at all.”
Ah. Yes — about that.
“What brought you to our company anyway?” Jungkook asks, coating his voice in sugar to decrease the risk of unintentional and prying rudeness. “I mean — it’s been a while since somebody joined the main team, is all.”
“Oh. What brought me here…” You slide down the wall just a few inches, staring at your feet before you meet his eyes again. Something flashes in them for a miniscule second, albeit too brief to be caught and analysed. Then, you say, “Sentiments?”
Jungkook gathers words of confusion the moment you utter yours, a question already on his tongue. Has he been here long enough to evoke sentiments in his followers? Or do you veil a whole different connection to this company than he might understand?
Who knows. It doesn’t feel too deep, at least, when you speak again, elaborating when his eyes reveal his bedazzlement before he can, “I mean, I like your work.”
Okay. So much he interpreted; and he must admit — the feeling of pride is a thoroughly unique one.
“I think you’ve been deserving of your growth, and I just,” you speak, shrugging your shoulders, digging one heel into the solid ground, “I could never stop thinking of what I’d say or do if I was here or how I’d try to help, even though I’m not a true musical genius like you.”
This is so excitingly new.
How poised you remain as you talk about your fascination for him; how carefully you choose your words. He’s met fans before, but he doesn’t think any of them has ever practised such control over themselves.
And harbouring such emotions for a tiny little celebrity like him while simultaneously treating him like a human being is an art you’ve well mastered. Despite Jungkook’s urge to feel loved and worshipped to a dependent degree, you’re an incredibly attractive change in pace.
Ugh.
Dependent degree.
Although, he does wonder what you’d be like if you fawned over him.
Jungkook contains the fantasy; suppresses his sigh.
“So,” he starts, “you’re here because you’re a fan.”
“Mmmh. Kind of. My friends started it and then pulled me into this. Honestly, at first I couldn’t imagine ever getting into your stuff.”
Your gaze moved down to your trainers a mere moment ago; whether to hide your expression or give into a habit, Jungkook can’t say. But the honesty surprises him; even stings a little as he voices, “Oh?”
Your head shoots up, lips forming a circle before you imitate, “Oh. Wait. That was… pretty rude.” You seek confirmation or denial in Jungkook’s eyes, and when his slightly wrinkled forehead, tight-lipped smile reveals the answer, you immediately opt for an apology, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”
“How did you mean it then?”
“Just that.” You fiddle in your position, bringing your digits to waist level. Then, you laugh; a rhythmic sound. “Okay, don’t hate me, but. I was one to judge a book by its cover, and you had this young adult too-confident-too-sly something about you. But your music’s surprisingly sentimental.”
Jungkook halts for a moment, moving his head to side-eye you; producing a hoarse Uhhh before he admits, “I’m not sure whether you’re complimenting me or fully destroying me.”
Another lovely laugh. “I am complimenting you. To be fully transparent, I was probably, uh, biased? Because my friend. They have a knack for usually pulling very questionable men, so I probably just didn’t entirely trust their intuition.”
“Fair enough. I guess?” Jungkook matches the softness of your giggle, nodding towards you, “And now you do?”
“Mmmh, well, we’ll see.”
Jungkook must be stupid. Of course you won’t be able to deduce much from the first meeting yet; perhaps the flirting needs to slow down for just now. You seem the patient kind; much like now, letting the quick silence prevail without much struggle.
No sign of awkwardness surrounds your aura; only a hint of… suspicion? Flashing into your eyes when you let them move through the room again, freezing right next to Jungkook’s head. You’re not looking at him, but at something past him; but you don’t question nor voice anything.
Merely return to his stare with a smile, and he uses the moment to pour some courteous manners into the mix, asking, “Do you want something to drink? Coffee, water? A Red Bull?”
But you immediately raise a hand, shaking your head, “Oh, it’s okay. I’ve already got caffeine flowing there instead of blood,” you slide a finger along your arm, indicating a vein under your layers, “I just mainly came to say hi and to introduce myself. And to ask if I can help anyhow.”
“Ah… well, uh,” Jungkook halts mid-sentence, throwing a look around as though he’s searching for something to appear before he concludes, “don’t think so. I was in the middle of some production work, but don’t think I need much.”
“I see. Okay! Then I’ll leave yo—”
“But,” Jungkook intervenes immediately, adamant on keeping you around. Maybe he can wrap up work earlier today? Bring you home? Probably not — not on Taehyung’s watch. “Maybe you can tell me what you think once I’m done?
“Of course. It’d be my pleasure.”
“Would have an excuse for your company, too, then.”
The laugh that follows is so subtle that Jungkook barely hears it. It doesn’t leave your throat, stuck in there, just a tiny sound reminiscent of amused bafflement.
Jungkook knows his way around words — understands what his utterances and implications usually apply. But somehow, not too many people have been the calmer ones in the room; aside from his superiors at work, not having the upper hand is new to him.
So you set a fuse loose in him; destroy a nerve in his brain, changing up his communication habits. Because he certainly did not mean to say this out loud. And not in such a sense either.
He adds quickly, “I mean, it gets lonely here.”
“Right…” you concur, albeit weakly and with somewhat… entertained mystery in your eyes? He can’t say. It’s as though you’re wearing your face as a mask, undecipherable. “I get it. Even though your studio is cosy enough to enjoy your own company at times, right?”
“Not mine. But we’ll work on that.”
He cards his fingers through his hair, aware that he is probably more than an open book right now; his usual perfect poker face does not work with you.
Why?
Weird.
“Got a couple things here that are mine, though. Yoongi and the others allowed me,” he adds.
“Ah… Like…”
Surprisingly enough, you take another look through the tiny room, possibly trying to detect something you didn’t see before. Regarding details. Then, you settle next to his head once again… and once Jungkook moves his eyes off you for the first time since you came in, he sees what you see.
Which is to say, nothing much out of the ordinary. In fact, the most trivial thing in the room.
“Like that?” you voice, pushing yourself off the wall to near his relaxed body. The scent of your perfume wafts through the room before you’re close enough; tenderly grazing his senses. “What’s that?”
Focus.
Your finger points to the object next to him, hanging at a nail at the wall; dark blue with white letters on it. Pretty mundane, pretty basic design.
“Just… a cap I bought back in college.”
You read out the name, pronouncing it perfectly, yet slowing down as if you’re learning a new foreign term. The sudden inquiry is strange, too: you don’t seem as truly curious about it as your question did; perhaps you’re playing for some time with him, too?
He wouldn’t hate it if you did.
“Do you know that one?” he questions.
You nod; a main hint as to why you wanted to know, yet indicating that the knowledge wasn’t of much significance. You say, “Isn’t it a popular one? I had a few friends who went there.”
“Hm… yeah, I mean. I guess it’s a known one. I got a degree there in broadcasting and entertainment like… four years ago.”
You exhale a barely audible puff of air before you whisper-murmur the most infinitesimal, petite, “Damn,” underscored with one indecipherable tilt of your head. He can’t see your eyes too well, so the reaction remains as transparent as you have been thus far.
Until he raises a thick eyebrow, confusion hidden in a somewhat relaxed yet awkward smile as he wonders, “What?”
“Hm? Oh, nothing, just. It’s impressive how much you’ve achieved in just four years, right?”
“…Well. If you say it like that, it does sound pretty neat.”
The bubble of pride expands alongside his ego; right beneath his chest. Somehow, the feeling changes his posture, makes him feel bigger.
Perhaps you notice what your praise elicits; perhaps you’ve already fathomed his persona that he usually doesn’t dare to reveal this fast. But whatever he conceals with his fans, lies in front of you with an open access.
You make it easy to feel comfortable; he doesn’t need to know you too long to acknowledge this much.
“I graduated not too long ago, too. Three years?”
“Oh… then look at you,” Jungkook compliments, using the moment as an excuse to examine you further; head to toe and back. Your legs are crossed, upper body and face confident, but the position somehow delicate. Hm. “You’re quite awesome, too, don’t you think?”
“I mean— took a while to get here.”
“Right. So what have you been doing during this time since graduation?”
Whatever distraction you have found in the cap seems to break as you silently forage your brain for a response; possibly attempting not to divulge too much. And your answer is accordingly hesitant, though never dubious.
“Saving up? Preparing for life, I guess. And waiting for a good opportunity.”
For what? Do you usually keep your statements in fragments?
He prods, “To do what?”
“Well, to do,” you gesture to the wall in front of you, albeit clearly hinting to the situation, “this. Hoping to change everyone’s lives around here.”
You smile wide, the joke obvious as can be, but Jungkook can’t help but think that you might not be too far off. Unique minds alter brain chemistries; there’s something unforgettable and magnetising about them, and Jungkook steadfastly believes his intuition that you might just be one of them.
For the first time ever, he murmurs your name, delighted by how easily it melts on his tongue. It falls out breathier than he intended to, but when you tilt your head, the intrigue in your pupils inexplicably matches his tone.
He adds to your name, eyelids drooping just a bit, “So… you’ll turn out a long awaited surprise, huh?”
And you, against all expectations, lean in for just a minimal, not too inconsequential moment, hands back in your jacket. It’s a playful, harmless motion as you move back on your heels, then steady yourself again, bodies and faces still far away. You could’ve just as well given him a pat on his shoulder.
But there’s something in the way you look at him, tempted and ominous at the same time. He can’t say what you’re thinking because every feature in your face implies something different.
Even more so confusing what methods for success you came into this company with when you finally say, no pretext or further clarifications, “I really do hope so.”
“Do you come here a lot?”
Everywhere he goes, the lights are bright.
The white walls in the rooms of the company building reflect the sun in the summer and maintain a sense of optimism in the winter. They’re what Jungkook imagines waiting halls before Heaven to look like.
Then the fluorescent vibrancy in his apartment. And the sunlit sky, albeit cold in this winter, giving way to the planetary system’s star through the floating, parting clouds.
Even this modern art museum with its complex design, winding staircases, glass walls and high ceiling. It lets through an abundance of light, unaware of the balance Jungkook usually craves.
Dark and light — a healthy mix.
It’s why he cherishes the comfort of the recording studio so much. Its dim walls and the silence, so unlike the hallways outside of it. Or why he prefers his apartment unlit, often merely allowing the few lava lamps to illuminate his rooms.
But again… it’s only a balance he usually craves.
Today, he doesn’t mind the brilliance.
Because you’re part of it.
Clad in a beige long-sleeved cotton top, slight turtleneck included. It doesn’t fully cover your neck, still revealing a mole similar to his. It’s tucked into your light brown skirt; your legs are covered in sheer tights, crossed. A gentle hand holds the strap of your bag. Light academia at its finest; somewhat soothing, and somewhat radiant.
You look at him with an initially neutral expression, surprised that someone spoke to you, but more relaxed when you realise it’s him.
“Oh,” you voice; the faintest autumn-tinted smile tugs at your lips. “Hey! I, uh…” Your gaze flits to the painting in front of you, then back to him. “Not at all actually. Which… surprising.”
You gesture towards him before you grant him more of your silky voice, asking, “Do you? Come here much?”
Your eyes are indecipherable to him, cheeks dusted in natural make up. All the damn time, you sport this relaxed, unbreakable mask, and he can’t quite guess what you might be thinking about.
It’s so easy with anyone else. You’re like a scene from BBC’s Sherlock, embodying Irene Adler’s mystery.
But maybe your guard can be broken, too.
“Not really,” he admits, “only when pretty people are around.”
A weak attempt, but it makes your eyebrow cock in amusement. He knows you are, because the hint of mischief that scurries over your face resembles his own.
“Ah, and you happen to know when pretty people are around. Or did you follow me here?” you, however, ask.
It’s an obvious inquiry, but weirdly enough, he didn’t expect it. You exhibit the first sign of a proper, humane emotion. Delivering three quick blinks, voice quiet, suspicion swims in your eyes, slightly irritated.
Or even… scared?
You can’t truly be.
So he backtracks, slightly angling his head. He sighs — hiding how much his lungs crave a breath of air. He doesn’t want to scare you off just yet.
“No,” he defends, “of course not. I was just joking.”
“So… I’m not pretty?”
Oh. Oh?
Perhaps he misinterpreted your expression. Perhaps you’re merely a good actress; messing with him as he is with you. The smirk suggests this much, at least.
Perplexed, he holds his breath before letting out a choked laugh; the head tilt and click of his tongue carry a sliver of scolding before he admits, “That’s pretty frustrating, I won’t lie.”
“I’m just kidding, too. It’s a big exhibition. I expected a familiar face here.”
Why is there something so devilish about you?
He can’t say; maybe he doesn’t need to. Maybe it’s enough to join the game, to be just as cocky and see how you react.
Perhaps he’s being selfish and too certain of himself, and in the worst case, he might just be imagining the tension buzzing between you like sparks off an electric fence. But does he have anything to lose, really?
Barely ever.
“Then,” he begins, “is it a good face?”
“All the art around us and you want me to admire you, huh?”
“…The art won’t be mad if you do.”
Jungkook is bold, he’ll admit. He hasn’t always been — he remembers a time spent in the back of classes, preferring to eat lunch alone. Did college tug him out of his shell? Was it senior year?
Then again — did that one kill the timidness in his heart or rather the last shred of humanity?
Maybe his cold matches yours, too. Is that why he feels so drawn to you?
Because you’re as bold as him; you don’t sugarcoat words and thoughts. And Jungkook appreciates the honesty, the ingredient to actual success — even if it’s achingly direct.
Like now.
You uncross your legs; your hips move in an elegant curve, and Jungkook attempts his best to keep his eyes off the arcs of your body. Focuses as you say, “You shouldn’t be flirting with a coworker, Mister Jeon.”
“Wait. I thought we were warming up to each other. Don’t demote me from Jungkook to Mister Jeon now.” You chuckle; that’s something, right? “Besides, I was just conversing. We need to spend all our time together now, so better get along, right?”
Right. Right; of course he’s right.
But… what is that?
It lingers for the faintest of moments, just a glimpse of an unspoken feeling, gone with the next blink. In this crowd of unsuspecting visitors you’re the closest to him physically, but your thoughts are miles and centuries away.
“Maybe you’re right,” you still say, as if whooshing away all unwelcome sentiments, “then I should not… dodge your conversation, right?”
“Sure.”
“Behave, though.”
He’s so confused — but not deep in this enough to question it. So he merely shrugs his shoulder before he responds, “I have been. I can converse, alright.”
“Right.”
“Like… first of all,” he steps closer, raising a hand, gesturing for you to walk on as new admirers of the modern piece approach, “tell me, have we met before? Feels like I’ve seen you somewhere.”
You halt in your steps, but immediately resume to the stroll when a stranger nearly bumps into you. “You’re doing it again.”
He’s honestly not. The aura surrounding you like an ominous fog is omnipresent and eerie, yet… you carry a sense of familiarity. But you’re a presence too distinct to ever forget.
Which doesn’t help his case.
“Yeah,” he still agrees before potentially embarrassing himself, kissing his teeth, “sorry. I’ll stop.”
“Why are you the textbook definition of a fuckboy, honestly.”
“Fuckbo—”
“Nevermind.”
If he wasn’t well acquainted with this little game, he would’ve missed your subtle, nearly veiled intent to tease. But he’s done this a million times before — hence, catches the faint twitch of your gorgeous lips immediately.
You’re enjoying this. So he should join… right?
Yet.
You’re not being entirely insincere. In fact, he hates how he picks up on the note of truth in your velvety voice.
Trimmed nails scratch the back of his head, and he barely notices when the two of you halt in front of another piece. Distracted, he doesn’t bear the art any mind, instead asking, “You really think of me that way?”
You shrug a shoulder. Nonchalance a constant feature, but so natural, even somewhat gentle, that he can’t help but feel drawn to you. “A little.”
“Well, shit.”
“Don’t overthink it. Enjoy the art.”
“Sure.”
Reluctantly, he glances to the canvas. It’s a mess of hues; a random arrangement of spontaneous emotions. Resembles the masterpieces he used to create in Microsoft Paint, back when his legs would still dangle off the chair.
“Then,” he starts, nodding towards the painting, “what do you see in this?”
You hesitate. Or maybe it’s not hesitation — more like… a thinking pause. Sometimes, when Jungkook notices a whirring mind, he sees a steaming brain through a skull. Working at full blast.
But somehow, he only sees a calm ocean as he observes you gather your thoughts. Everything about you is gentle, but wrapped in dark mystery. How much mental training does it require to become this inscrutable?
When you finally speak, you’re saying similarly strange things.
“I see… colours.” Right. Stating the obvious. Jungkook chuckles, delivering a head tilt. “And am wondering how the painter got to create this at all. I mean, this looks so meaningless at first, doesn’t it?”
“And it’s not, yeah?”
“We’re fast to think that. Most of the time, there must have been a trigger, or a thought about something, no matter how small. Something might have been bothering him. This is—” A soft hand gestures towards the painting. “Such a chaotic mind.”
Interesting…
“Is this what you usually think about all day?” Jungkook wonders.
You scoff. “I’m just a person, too. I think about a lot of random things.”
“Ohhh. Like what?”
“Like… seeing all the green in this exhibit made me realise how this colour makes me cry.”
Jungkook takes a haphazard look around. Now that you say it — there’s no hint of a nature theme, but the abundance of green is striking now. It’s as calm as you. No wonder you’d immerse yourself in a showcase such as this.
You continue, as if tracing and reading his mind like an open novel, “It’s soothing, right? And unique. These earthly things sometimes make me feel like not all of us are deserving of seeing such beauty. Like it should be reserved for those who earn it.”
Earn it? How?
Jungkook can’t see your thoughts as clearly as you’re apparently capable of doing, but he has an inkling of what you might mean. Truly dazzling souls merit the stunning bloom of the world, right?
And then…
If that’s what it is.
He wonders — do you think he deserves to see the colour green? Or is it already over if he has to ask? Perhaps, should he be perceiving it as grey right now? He doesn’t know.
He doesn’t know how you think of him — doesn’t know anything about you at all. You’re a tough nut to crack.
“Hmm… that’s a way to think about it,” he says.
“Only because it’s the same for people. And I’ve had this thought about humans a lot… I…” You hesitate, blink, and then grant him your stare. “I knew someone who was the colour green. Not everyone deserved them, either.”
Poetic minds carry a certain pain in their eyes.
He’s been seeing it in yours. He just doesn’t know how to handle it. So he doesn’t.
Instead, he asks, “What else are you thinking about?”
“Uhmmm,” you voice, straightening your back a little, as if waking up from a dream — nightmare? “I’ve been thinking about trying that, too. Painting, I mean. It doesn’t have to mean anything or be good. Just a great way to capture something that resonates with what I feel.”
Every word you’ve uttered today was otherworldly. You didn’t talk like that when you were in his office, or at the meeting. Your soul is somewhat free-floating here, and he doesn’t understand why.
And it’s a behaviour he usually strays away from. The vulnerable ones can be dangerous.
But somehow… you’re too strong of a magnet.
One who shrugs all the mystery away — and he sighs in despair. Maybe it’s not time to find out what you feel just yet. What resonates with you — even though he’s dying to hear it.
He inquires, “Are you always this open?”
“No. Not at all.” Of course not. Rhetoric question — he knows this much. “But I like thinking out loud sometimes.”
“I’m glad to be a sounding board then.”
“Yeah. I was also thinking how I appreciate that I met you here.” Pause. Oh? What a surprise. Out of the blue, too. Strokes his ego, though. And then, unexpectedly again, “You wanna go to the museum restaurant?”
Jungkook has barely seen half of the exhibition yet. But just for today, he couldn’t care less.
Perhaps it’s enough for now, sitting in this overpriced restaurant, watching you from afar as you inspect your nails calmly. You’re not busy on your phone like the rest of the crowd — entertained by the same media that he’s part of.
Maybe he can be a bigger part of their lives one day — be the one flitting over their screens, the one they adore. The one they worship.
But you don’t seem to indulge in those mind-numbing devices for now. You might be an addition to his team, but privately, you float in your own world. Distracted by the thoughts you won’t disclose.
Your hands retreat, arms crossing on the table and lips curling into a smile once he strolls back to you. Satisfied, he informs you, “One cake with the coffee. As the lady suggested.”
“Oh,” you make, “don’t you want one?”
“I do.”
“So…” You stall, and he waits until it clicks, your head tilting in understanding. “Are we sharing?”
Jungkook lifts a thumb, pointing over his shoulder, back to the register, “Those chocolate cakes are sweet as heck. I’ve got a sweet tooth, but believe that it’ll be enough for the two of us.”
You laugh — a sweet, disarming chuckle before you breathe an, “Alright.”
Jungkook doesn’t know you well enough to feel any skip in his heart; yet, you stir something else in his mind. It’s always people like you who intrigue him the most — those who veil themselves in a coat of secrets.
He sighs.
“That was fast,” you note, eyes at a point behind him.
And he understands when the waitress arrives a couple moments later, two perfectly prepared lattes and a mouth-watering chocolate fudge slice. You thank her with a gentle smile, tuck a hair behind your ear, fingertips grazing the dangling earring.
And he watches.
Watches as you nod towards him, urging him, “Start then.”
Observes your smile as he signals you to start instead. And he gazes at you as your delicate digits reach for the fork, tearing off a piece, wrapping your lips around the utensil.
And then… God.
He feels his guts twist; hears all background noise fade; blood rushing away from his head, through his body as you slowly relish the sweetness and then drag your tongue over the fork. Licking away the leftover chocolate.
Jungkook swears it happens in slow motion. And witnessing your elegance at snail's pace… makes him sick.
When your eyelashes flutter, gape lifting to meet his, the sounds around him come alive again — as does he. He averts his stare from your mouth, covered in the same colour as the coffee, but you notice.
You see him looking. And it makes you… smile? Shit.
But you don’t boast your effect; only digress as you say, “Well… tastes as fancy as it looks. Try it.”
You’re as relaxed with him as you can be. But you always are; with everyone. He craves that bit that’s only reserved for him — then again, maybe he’s too zealous too fast. He hasn’t known you for long.
But making you smile must be an achievement. If only… you didn’t think of him like…
He nods, and then leans over the table ever-so-slightly. His knees brush against yours, a soft but deliberate move. He places an elbow on the table, grasping the fork, close to you. If he lifted his hand, he could touch your cheek.
He wishes he could.
His eyes meet yours through his bangs, the cake’s taste irrelevant to your presence. And when his ego doesn’t let him relax, he finally asks, almost as if insulted, “Do you actually perceive me as a fuckboy?”
The question catches you off guard. You hesitate, furrowing your eyebrows, and then giggle before questioning back, “Jungkook… it’s bothering you this much? Mmmh. How would you like to be perceived?”
“Just. As a decent guy who wants to get to know you. And I know you know.” You blink, but he doesn’t buy it. So he elaborates, “I’ve been trying to make clear that I find you lovely. And somewhat attractive.”
People usually display a flicker of glimmer in their eyes upon hearing such praise. But you don’t quite budge; in fact, your eyes remain the same, if not a little darker. Why?
Yet, you cock an eyebrow, sporting a teasing, playful tone, “Somewhat, hm?”
He shakes his head, clicks his tongue. “You’re pretty and I think you know,” he blurts, “and I don’t want to screw up right away.”
Is it the habit of never failing? The urge to solve an enigma? The chance to dive into you until you’re bared to him? Why are you so interesting to him?
You’re just a person.
Maybe it’s just the unsettling need to discover what you’re hiding — it won’t let him rest in peace. There’s something about you that screams to him to unravel. Makes him want you more.
He doesn’t know what it is. Doesn’t know if you’re even from the same world as him — even though you seem to have crossed his realm before. No matter what it is; Jungkook merely understands for now that he wants to take off your layers.
Wants to be the colour green for you.
“Ah—” you voice.
“In fact, I’m not supposed to hang out here with you.”
“…How come?”
“I should be with Tae,” he admits. Maybe he’s revealing more to you than he should — maybe he should adjust to your level of secrecy and wait. But this is frustrating him. “He dragged me here, so I could get inspiration from all sides.”
You listen; perhaps not quite loving the idea of seeing him in such a way?
Fuck. Maybe it really was a mistake. No turning back now, though.
“He said artists find motivation in art, too, and I do like to paint, so…” He looks at his cup, still left to be tried from, and then stares up from the cream leaf that the barista formed in his coffee. “I didn’t wanna come here, though. I already have an idea of what I want to do.”
“And…” you start, still not addressing the issue on hand; choosing to talk about something else for now, “he doesn’t like what you’ve come up with?”
“I don’t know. He doesn’t know about it yet.”
You take a sip of your coffee, softly smacking your lips once to relish the taste. You’re living proof that subtle gestures can make a mind race. Then you say, “Maybe you should introduce it to him then.”
“I will. Just… mmh, need a better grasp on it.” He throws a nod towards you. “I can’t wait to show you either.”
Another sip of the seething liquid.
If the gentle hint of him being bent on your presence flatters you anyhow — stirs anything in you at all — you don’t let it show. Are you, by chance, used to being swarmed from all sides?
Are his advances kindergarten to you?
You don’t budge as he waits for you to respond, setting the cup back on your saucer before you inquire, “Where is Taehyung, anyway then?”
“Uh, I’m sure he’s going around admiring the art?” Jungkook guesses, head reflexively moving to the side, as if his friend and co-worker could materialise out of thin air. “He enjoys it even more than I do.”
“And you separated from him because…”
Because Jungkook ascended a spiral staircase. Because he turned right and halted in front of the second instead of the first room. Because he recognised the familiar curves and edges, as intriguing as ever, from this far distance.
And told Taehyung to continue without him; that Jungkook was going to explore a different corner of the museum.
He tilts his head; his left eyebrow raises just a twitch, fingertips tapping the hot surface of the coffee cup. And then, charisma gathered in the middle of his pupils, he tells you—
“Because I found you.”
There it is.
The slightest of reactions.
Your eyes widen barely an inch, but he sees it. How your lips part a bit, even though you should’ve expected his answer after the conversations hitherto shared. Hm…
“So you did follow me,” you say.
He can’t say if you’re joking or not. But all of a sudden, he wonders if he’s creeped you out. He opted for flirting so clearly, but… maybe you interpreted it vastly differently.
But he keeps himself relaxed; not faltering now when you aren’t either. Answers, “If you want to call it that. I call it finding you and then sticking with you. You’re interesting, Miss Manager.”
You smile.
Genuinely, thoroughly, wholeheartedly.
The beam reveals more than any word could’ve today — that humanity slumbers somewhere in the crevices of your heart. Your eyes suggest it as much as your stance on art did.
Whatever might have scarred you in life, behind all that ache, you hide a delicate soul.
Green, green, green.
And your cryptic worry, uttered a moment later, doesn’t bring him down from his sense of victory. No. Not now.
“Yeah?” You cross your legs, letting out a breathy sigh. “Then I sincerely hope that doesn’t change.”
[6:43PM] Jeon Jungkook: i’ve been thinking about something. and of you
For a bedroom as sparsely decorated and light-coloured as Jungkook’s, he should be surrounded by a brilliant glow. And usually, he is.
The windows occupy half of the wall, the bedsheets a perfect white; had he texted you a couple hours prior, he would’ve found himself in the gleam of a pale blue late winter sky. But if he’d tapped your name on his device earlier, he would’ve indulged in a whole different mood, too.
Wouldn’t have given into fatigued, delirious fantasies. Daydreaming about the curves of your lips and about the single strands of hair kissing your cheeks. Or the way you love exposing your neck, as if to taunt him.
It’s right there, but you can’t touch it, Jeon.
And…
And the mounds of your chest, slivers of it visible whenever you put on those heaven sent dresses. Their cuts are almost as deep as the ones damaging Jungkook’s brain. And not much for the sake of his sanity, the thirst isn’t quenched just yet.
Crossed legs badly hidden under your see-through tights. The movement of your hips when you walk into his studio, placing yet another gruesome schedule onto his desk. Your scent when you lean into him, pointing to another meeting he barely recalls.
You… you…
If Jungkook hadn’t already cleaned up the sloppy mess previously covering his knuckles, trickling down his thighs, he’d possibly give into the urge to sneak his fingers back to where he craves them to linger.
No, you made that mess.
Of his sheets, of him. And you never needed to be here in the first place.
Jungkook is no fool — unlike many of his friends, he doesn’t deny the way his body winds. He knows what he wants; and right now, he hungers for you. Wants you to eliminate the drought on his tongue; wants you to replace it with some taste instead.
“Fuuuuck.”
The word drags into the emptiness of the room, filling the silence that someone else should be lifting. But you’re not here, and you’re not answering. Not yet, at least. Has it been seconds or minutes?
Too long, is all he knows.
His digits are cleaned thoroughly, but he can’t shake the persisting feeling of sheer, dirty lust as they reach his phone again. Lighting up the screen, then curling inwards in frustration.
He repeats the desperate attempt of manifestation a couple times until he throws the device aside, nearly missing the mid-air vibrations, indicating the long-awaited message. Jungkook’s heart falls out of his ribcage and squeezes his guts; your name elicits far more than it should.
And he feels just a little guilty.
Because he doesn’t deny himself any pleasure — so he knows this isn’t love. This isn’t starving for emotionality. Not for sentiments. What you pull out might be his ugliest, beastliest side; his mind is filled with images of you that he shouldn’t be having.
You’re so respected. So tender and kind. Intriguing, a riddle, but inhabiting secrets probably far darker than his thoughts. So he feels odd about the wanton desire; feels guilty.
But just for a bit. Just a little.
The message you sent back is too humble, too innocent. Sometimes he reckons you’re aware of your power, and sometimes he assumes you think of yourself as… ordinary.
But you’re not. And he wants to show you.
Just one touch, please.
“Fuck, shut up, you creep,” Jungkook whispers to himself, scolding his treacherous mind before he reads again.
[6:52PM] You: Oh? Why would you be thinking about me? Of all people?
Should he wait? You did, too.
Or should he make as crystal clear as he can muster that he’s been waiting for you?
Screw it.
[6:53PM] Jeon Jungkook: what else should I be thinking of?
Your next response is immediate — you’re online. Waiting for him to answer.
Good.
[6:53PM] You: Your music?
[6:53PM] Jeon Jungkook: my music doesn’t talk to me as much as you do these days
He smirks. Keeps the beam plastered to his face until the waiting becomes a little too long. Message on read, you leave the chat room empty of you and full of a nervy Jungkook. He opts out of it the same second, keen on patience before it fades again, bit by bit.
Because then, the thoughts flood in.
Are you rolling your eyes? Throwing the phone into a corner of your couch? Has he fucked up before anything could start?
But it’s been going so well. You talk to him every single day. Ever since the museum, the two of you have been orbiting each other; partly due to work, partly because he’s caught you smiling, too.
Your words are too sickeningly often accompanied by a soft touch of yours against his shoulders; against his arms. Sometimes, you brush his back, his eyes wide awake, the smile timid yet crushingly losing against your confident gaze.
All this must mean something.
“Nah. Fuck it,” he mutters again, sighing over his own constant use of curses. “Come back.”
[6:55PM] Jeon Jungkook: actually… I did come up with one tune. It’s just a skeleton of a song tbh, but I need a sounding board.
It takes another one minute for you to come back, and Jungkook angles his legs, relying on the movements of his body to ease the impatience. But then—
[6:56PM] You: Oh, and? [6:56PM] You: Sorry, I had to step away for a sec
Sigh of relief. Even though embarrassment annoyingly adds itself to the mix, an uninvited guest.
[6:57PM] Jeon Jungkook: …do you wanna come to the studio?
[6:57PM] You: Right now? It’s like… [6:57PM] You: 7pm
Unconsciously, Jungkook shrugs his shoulders, unbothered to the bone, just craving, craving, craving…
[6:57PM] Jeon Jungkook: a true artist never rests. [6:57PM] Jeon Jungkook: and I’d rather die than stop hustling for my passion
As the next message appears at the bottom of the screen, Jungkook can’t help but bite into his lower lip with a certain pride. He nods as if he caught his prey, trapping it between his fangs.
[6:58PM] You: 😂LOL. now that, I admire, mister Jeon :) [6:58PM] You: I’ll finish my wine and be on my way
Oh.
Are you tipsy? Maybe he’s reading too much into it, but the emoji seems so unlike you; yet, you somehow manage to capture the core of what and who you are in the rest of the message. Six coherent words. That’s all it takes.
Goddamn.
You’re so thoroughly you.
[6:59PM] Jeon Jungkook: wait. really?
And that’s it. You disappear.
Perhaps you’re joking; perhaps you’re messing with him. The sun has already set; and he doesn’t think he’s ever stayed with you much longer than dusk before.
If he met you in the evening, or on other nights, would you make more sense than you usually do? Are you the type to unravel when the world quiets down? Or the one to blend with the darkness more, drawing back further?
If there’s pure truth in what you just said, devoid of all mockery you could revert to… he might find out. And it seems you’re in the right mood today, earnest with your intentions when he feels his phone vibrate against his thick thigh again, making him flinch.
[7:11PM] You: Yes? I’m already dressed. Get your ass up
Oh shit.
Despite your order, his limbs still shut down. His muscles and bones melt into the bed, a fleeting image of your sly smirk crossing his mind and an assured voice surrounding his eardrums.
And if he didn’t overthink each of your movements; didn’t fantasise about the possible rise and fall of your voice, he would’ve discarded his phone and gotten dressed a lot earlier.
How embarrassing.
The fact that his mind doesn’t want to categorise this as a crush, no matter how much he asks. That his body responds to you like that, superficial and intrigued.
Embarrassing. He should focus on more important things.
Yet, he can’t be bothered with the intruding sentiment, shame shoved aside and trampled under his feet as his car turns into a parking lot, perfectly in front of the building’s entrance. Your form is crystal clear in the dark; not even the shadows and lack of light can hide your silhouette.
The radar sensor beeps when he creeps too close to the hood of the car behind him, and he mumbles a curse, averting his eyes from your unmoving self to focus on proper parking. Letting the roaring engine die.
Your shoulders are slightly raised when he approaches you at the door. One hand is stuffed in the pocket of your thin, baby pink coat, the other curled into a fist, possibly resisting the urge to enter the building and combat the cold.
You could’ve waited inside, too. Unless…
Maybe you’re excited to see him, too.
You smile, lips reaching far up; he tries his hardest to believe he’s right. Takes the gesture as a good omen, and the hair pulled up in a loose bun as a sign of hurry. You look domestic, comfortable in your skin, no matter who’s around.
But somewhere between the comfort and the softness, there’s that everlingering intrigue, too. And… some timidness. Showing in the crossed legs his eyes drift over, up to the short skirt barely visible underneath the coat.
And your face… so natural. More than usual. Mascara only? He doesn’t know.
All he knows is that he needs to say something.
“Hey.”
“Hi,” you throw back, tilting your head in tease, “where were you? Took you long enough to get here.”
He steps closer; fiddling with his jacket’s pocket, fishing for the keys. And his proximity changes something about you so subtly, a miniscule movement. Hand digging deeper into your coat.
You’re on guard for some reason. And he can’t help but admit he’s on guard with you, too, albeit in a less physical and more mental way. The unfathomable, dichotomous sensation of wanting you near, wanting you far is killing him.
What are you hiding?
If he could, he’d speak it out loud.
“I had to freshen up,” he finally responds, “I honestly didn’t expect you to say yes.”
Your body might be in protection mode, but your voice is as composed, even somewhat amused, as always, “Well.” You shrug your shoulders. “I don’t see why. But I’m here now, and honestly… a little cold?” Nodding towards the door, “Should we go inside?”
“Yeah. Sorry.”
He sniffles, fishing for the chip to unlock the door. For an ephemeral second right before walking inside, your breath lingers incredibly close to his own, grazing his lip ring. “Don’t forget to dress warm this season.”
Near enough for his fingers to succumb to the impulse and sidle to you, skimming your thigh so featherlightly. He thinks he hears the sharp inhale you suck in. His skin tickles, the shiver icy on his body. He watches you smirk, lowering your head; his fingertips insist on the vicinity just for the tiniest seconds before he says,
“Okay. Let's go inside before you catch a cold, silly.”
But the bitter frost permeates the hallways of the company in the same ruthless manner. Perhaps somebody’s still lingering around in the daunting dark. Revising steps in the mirrored practice rooms or hovering above lyrics and tunes, neck bent and back tired.
But the building isn’t heated; and it shows in your rather quick steps, an arm wrapped around your chest to rub the layers above your arm. The guarded demeanour doesn’t match your usual confidence; aside from the hollow hallways, it seems that you’re scared of more than just the cold.
He doesn’t point it out. And he doesn’t stare for too long.
If he did, you might realise.
Instead, he saunters to the elevator with you in tow, delighted about the light that never changes in the small rectangular space. You let your hand drop to your purse, lazily toying with its zip, and turn your head to observe the closing doors.
And Jungkook observes you.
The glow of your cheeks in the bright beam, half of your face devoid of the hair tucked behind your ear. As you breathe in, your lips split a fraction, and their gentle, soft curves mesmerise him for a moment too long.
It’s difficult and cruel, being around you. Haunting, agonising, aggravating.
And when your eyes align with his again, sparkling a little in line with your tender smile, Jungkook realises that he’s been holding his breath. Because it escapes between the seam of his mouth in a sudden push, his knees nearly buckling.
He resists the urge to bite into his fist, instead disguising his thoughts when he covers his mouth, teeth digging into his plump, lower lips.
“So,” he quickly adds, leaving no space for you to question his eccentricity, but you initiate another convo in the same tiny second, “It’s…”
You pause, withholding your statement in order to listen to his. But he shakes his head, lifting a hand to sign for you to continue. So you say, “It’s a little scary here at night.”
Okay. Not that tough of a topic.
“Right?” he confirms. “I always imagine getting here and hearing a hum that’s not really there.”
“Uh…” You blink in disbelief, lifting your eyebrows, but when he shrugs your confusion away, your hesitation marker turns into a chuckle. “Why the hell would you say that?”
“It’s just something I imagine. It’s terrifying, but my mind goes places, and I never ask it to.”
“Well, it’s a mean thing of your mind to do.” The ding of the elevator distracts you, and when you step out, your thoughts remain at an afar spot. Kept inside your pretty little head until you whisper, “And? Have you ever heard it, then?”
“Hm? The hum?” You nod, and he suppresses the snicker your curious, cocked eyebrow nearly elicits. “No. Only myself. Humming helps me control my breathing, so I do it to practise.”
“Weird. It’s so different from how I’d imagine you.”
Huh. Seems he’s not the only one sketching your entire being to keep himself awake at night.
“How would you?” he asks.
“As a rockstar?”
“Oh?” That’s new. “As a future RnB slash pop sensation I find this officially peculiar. Why a rockstar?”
You cock an eyebrow; either digesting the confident prophecy or pondering his question. The crooked smile matches his own signature smirk a little, and you puff out a breath before your sombre yet sparkling eyes wander an inch further down, right to his mouth.
Your eyelashes are endless, on their way to brush those delicate apples of your cheeks — in reality, it’s an impossible fantasy written in novels and poems, but it’s exactly how it looks. Exactly how much your curious gaze drops.
Only, the tingling sensation in his chest soon subsides, freeing a path to the realisation that he’s yet again misunderstanding. Because you’re not drawn by his lips, but rather considering a response.
He sighs in subtle disappointment when you point to the shiny metal encircling his lower lip, telling him, “Gotta be the piercing.”
“Ah. Ahhh. Well. First off, this is a very stereotypical assumption.” You shrug your shoulders in amusement, watching him cram for his chip until he halts in front of his studio, keeping you in his vision. “And secondly.”
The lock of the door clicks as he swipes the chip across the reader, defined knuckles paling a bit when he pushes the handle down. He raises his chin by a fraction, pulling out the most-assured smile, and asks, “Do you like it?”
And you, composed as ever, respond, “It suits you. I always wonder how comfortable these are, though.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know, like. Do they have a metal taste? Do you ever get hyper aware of them and then get annoyed and want them off? Are they… cold?”
He laughs. There’s something endearing about how your voice quietens further the more your curiosity grows. You’re not quite looking at him, pupils focused on a random spot, hands expressive as you vocalise your thoughts.
“Let’s see,” he mutters, jacket thrown over a chair, “sometimes and, again, sometimes. It feels a bit cold right now because it’s cold outside. I mean…”
He rubs the chill off his tattooed arm, fingers diving under the short sleeves of his white, oversized t-shirt. Attempts never faltering, he leans into you in intrigue, parting his lips before running his tongue over the jewellery.
“Do you just. Wanna touch it and find out for yourself?”
You blink, frozen in place.
The room isn’t too spacious; Jungkook will get his very own studio, name tag and all once he reaches a clear peak. For once, he’s glad about the crowded room, girded by a guitar on the wall, chairs standing side by side, a little couch leaning against the back of the wall.
As ever, he can’t decipher your mood; as ever, you’re still quick to answer, “I… no. It’s okay.”
Why don’t you want him?
Goddamn it.
“Okay,” he simply utters, shrugging his vexation away. “Let’s get started then.”
The excitement in his tone dips, seemingly aloof, but as he walks into the dark square of silence, reaching for the headphones he placed right here mere hours ago, wordless curses dangle off the tip of his tongue.
He makes sure you don’t see the clench of his jaw or the fast and steady fall of his ego, but you’re shoving back the chair and adjusting anyway. Crossing tight-clad legs as you place your coat on your lap, throwing your mane to one side to free that damned neck.
It must be on purpose.
He waits for you to settle, the headphones on the table in front of you enveloping your head. They look way too big on you, and Jungkook can’t decide whether to tut at his anguish or swoon at your stellar being.
Jungkook uses his headphones to communicate through the glass, raising a thumb to ask, “Ready?” You nod, matching his gestures with your own. “Be honest, how professional do I look?”
Carding the fine hair back, he pushes a hand into the pocket of his pants, taking a stand in front of the boom microphone. He mimes a typical grimace of an immersed artist, letting out an immediate, sweet chuckle that you chime in joyfully.
You lean in, long earrings brushing your jaw, pressing down the button for the talkback mic to assure through the intercom, “You look like a born star.”
He rolls his eyes, playfully clicking his tongue, “Ahhh, that’s a nice yet basic thing to say, but. I’ll take it.”
“Why did you go in there anyway? Weren’t you just going to show me a song?”
“Adlibs, baby. I’m still missing those.” He adjusts the headphones again, clearing his throat, almost in position. “But I didn’t warm up my voice, so I’ll need to re-record them anyway.”
“And still you’re straining your voice because…?”
“We’re here to impress you, so let me.”
Your finger lifts off the button, but the movement of your lips suggests to him undoubtedly what your teasing self might be mumbling.
Oh damn. Sorry then, boss.
You raise your hands in defeat until you detect his beguiled smile, raising your eyebrows in a clear question that he answers with two words; a simple title of a song, not as glorious as the tune itself but hopefully as memorable.
Eyes scurrying across the now opened laptop screen, you search for the instrumental until you stumble upon it. 3:54 minutes of what Jungkook prays to be blasted everywhere in a couple week’s time before the big concert, chiming in his ears.
The initial guitar riff drowns the room in a mixture of intriguing anticipation and uncurbed sentiments immediately. Jungkook’s eyes dart to your face, attempting to decode a reaction. And when you notice, hands on the headphones, you nod approvingly.
Most of his vocals are already recorded to perfection; a silky voice laments about a lost time with purity. Jungkook largely listens in, searching for wonky bits or moments to be re-tackled. Of course, he will need to discuss the details with Taehyung tomorrow, but whenever the passion burns the hottest, he can’t help but add an adlib here and there.
As he sings, his eyes reflexively close, and for a couple dozen seconds, the melodic current pulls him towards a bigger ocean; the sense of freedom and possibility is astonishing. There’s a certain ardour he feels towards music that nothing will ever be able to elicit.
Do you feel the same?
As somebody spending day in, day out surrounded by musicians, does that phenomenon make your heart surge, too?
Maybe.
When he looks at you again, it’s at least something fervent he detects in your gaze. A bit like the longing he feels. Intense fondness, or perhaps, even zoning out — until you’re barely blinking anymore.
Your features relax a little more as the song proceeds, bit by bit, the calmest when the ending notes arrive. Jungkook observes you; freezes at his spot. The change from the built-up chorus to the suddenly calm ending, instruments dying, are as forgotten as the last touches… because you, behind the glass, are much more interesting.
Just staring. Looking at the screen, its brightness reflecting in your pupils. When you blink again, most of the preceding smile is gone, something indecipherable in your eyes.
He doesn’t know whether you actually enjoyed the entire thing or became consumed by memories he doesn’t know of. Some the song might have drawn out but shouldn’t have. There’s… a past in your stare.
He knows because much like the vast existing humanity, he’s been tending to faraway memories for years, too.
And he wants to know about yours.
Gently, Jungkook grasps the headphones covering his ears, the mane victim to the impact before his fingers fix it again. He frees his eyes off his strands, never directing them away from you, and when he opens the door to the small room you drifted off in, you look up.
Your emerging smile is unsuspecting and polite as always, and you deliver a tilt of your head. Jungkook could sign the previous oddness off as just this, or a sinking into arts just as he does sometimes.
But what’s enough is enough; brushing questions off his mind has become tedious.
So he rolls back the second chair next to you to take a seat, placing his arm on the one of the furniture before folding his fingers; leaning in, asking, “You okay?”
You react with a soft nod, a tender hum, “Yeah! I was listening.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course.”
“You zoned out.”
“Which is a good thing, I promise.”
Jungkook looks for a moment. Waits for you to break or admit that the truth you display might not be as pure as you think; waits for his instinct to wind up correct.
But when you do nothing of that sort, eyes a resolute and solid statement, he sighs. Tongues at the lip ring for a moment before he clears his throat and questions, “Good thing, yeah? What else do you think?”
“It… goes deep,” you confess, an impressed declaration in your expressions, “what are you talking about in that one? I mean, I know, but… it sounds so personal.”
“More or less? I’ve spent most of the last few years dedicating myself to this job. The training, the late night sessions, the failure and lost time. I wanted to depict those hardships.” He nods, emphasising his points. “I want this song to help me look back one day…”
He shrugs his shoulders, thumbs slowly circling around each other, “And comfort my older self that despite the hectic life, things are okay.”
“I see.”
Your tone is neutral, but your chest rises and falls a little too slowly. Your sorrow is quiet. He closes the distance further, nudging your arm, “Hey. Did you not like it?”
“I did,” you defend, honesty and reassurance in your voice, “I do. You have an amazing voice, come on, what’s not to like. And the sound is incredible. Should you manage to release it, it will be celebrated a lot.”
“I will manage to release it,” he says with furrowed eyebrows, resisting the urge to touch your elbow again, but settling on simply calling your name instead, “you’re part of my team. Let’s be optimistic.”
“I am. Teamwork makes the dream work. Etcetera.”
“Right,” Jungkook breathes, word close to a yawn. He throws his body back in the cushioned chair, manspreading as much as the space allows; stretches his arms until his muscles crack. “Ahhh… I really want this to be good.”
His gaze falls to the darkening laptop, soon giving way to pitch darkness, potentially to some screensaver. The title of the song remains still in the opened audio file, and he smacks his lips, blinking only when you voice an approving, “Mhmmm.”
His head darts to you the moment you deliver a subtle nod towards the computer, deducting, “You really strive to be big.”
Well, yeah. That’s been the plan. Always, always.
“Shouldn’t I?” he argues. “It’s a dream.”
“It’s good to have dreams.”
“That’s right. Mine is to… Stand on a bigger stage. I think I’ve reached a solid group, but I think if I keep working hard and with the right team, I can make it?”
“This determined, yeah?”
“Yeah,” he responds with a hint of obvious self-evidence, slight confusion shadowing his mind — have you never wanted something so badly? “The audience’s eyes glued to me. Don’t you have a dream?”
Another deep inhale of air, chest working hard, as if you’re breathing out fatigue. He prepares for another vague answer that might leave him guessing; and albeit clearly seeing the usual curtain veiling your true thoughts, what you say next makes his ears perk up.
“Honestly. I’ll allow dreams again once I’ve moved on. That’s all I want.”
What?
Did you actually want to say that? Was it on purpose? A slip of the tongue?
Because it seems so unlike you. Reveals too much. He doesn’t think you’ve exposed your innermost thoughts like this before, even if still not quite transparent.
“…From what?” The previously relinquished distance dies when he inches closer again, digits sneaking close to your knee. A fingertip floats over your tights. “Hey. Is something bothering you?”
“Ugh,” you say; the sliver of sadness seamlessly transitions into an expression of nonchalance when you wave your concerns off so quickly. “Young adult stuff.”
Nevertheless, you speak on. The biggest development in this friendship between the two of you yet. “I once had a friend that moved away. We were pretty close, and now she’s far away. Which sucks.”
“I’m sorry.”
That’s it.
Jungkook offers to listen, but he doesn’t necessarily deem himself the most expressive guy when it comes to emotions like these; even if he so deeply wishes to read your thoughts. Music is different; speaking to an audience is, too. Articulating gratitude isn’t as difficult as extinguishing someone else’s grief.
And while not quite confronted with anguish, he houses demons that still haunt his nights; he can barely obliterate them.
Maybe he doesn’t need to.
Maybe he can comfort you in the only way he’s ever known. The stupid, selfish way; offering relief and distraction in the most sinful manner.
“Listen…” Jungkook starts, but in all honesty — there isn’t much to say.
Only to crave. To look.
At the curve of your lips. The distance between them. The bare wrist needing to be held, tired eyes wanting to replace the sorrow with something else.
Is he an asshole for wanting to annihilate your heavy breaths of dejection and replace them with sighs of his name instead?
He doesn’t know. He barely hears his thoughts. Only the blood rushing to his ears, and then away from his head, down his body.
Fuck.
The levitating finger drops an inch; you gasp almost inaudibly when the tip touches your knee, skin separated by the tights only. Jungkook loves fashion choices like these, but hates the hurdle right now.
His warm palm opens, placing right above your knee, approaching the meat of your thigh. He knows you’re not breathing because he can’t hear the exhales; and when his eyes, hooded and possibly insane, flit up to you, he recognises the change in your pupils.
You gulp; and then finally push out some air again. Your hand moves to his inked wrist, touching lightly, unsure what to do. But when you don’t resist, his other arm lifts, touch moving to your face, holding it.
The world spins, moving like an earthquake as his mouth draws nearer. You let out a miniscule sound that punches him in the guts; sweet and pure.
He wants to shatter and wreck you so bad; wants you to feel the same poison you’ve fed him. Irresistible, deadly.
But just as the metal of his jewellery grazes your lips, the softness and warmth radiating towards him, your breath shakes. Your face budges enough for his upper lip to feel a brush against yours, but that’s all he gets.
Because you retreat without giving in. And he doesn’t know why.
He clenches his jaw. God fucking hell. What’s your problem?
The sense of failure overwhelms him. Failure. Failure.
That’s not the term his mind should conjure. He knows the moral compass hides somewhere in his dark heart; he knows. Yet, he can never give into it. Is he a bad person? He doesn’t know.
Control was never his domain, after all.
But he keeps those intrusive thoughts inside, intending to not scare you off more than he already might have. So he accepts the dodging of the kiss, moving back, immediately leaving you safe from his touch.
And then, he says, “Uhm— I’m sorry.”
You don’t answer, still catching your breath, back to the heavy sighs that he was going to help shove back. Once again, he tries, “Honestly, I apologise, I just…”
“No, no. Please, don’t be sorry,” you reassure, slightly touching his shoulder. A wave of relief washes over him. “I’m just. Not in the right mindset for it yet. But I’m flattered, really.”
“Okay.” He nods. His eyes drop to his fingers; he still feels your heat on his skin, basks in it for a moment. But when the awkward silence lingers, he suggests, “Then. Let’s call it a night and I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“Yeah. Yeah, sounds good. I’m definitely getting tired.”
“Me too.”
Jungkook rises from his seat, still unable to wrap his head around what happens — or almost happened. Maybe another time. Grabbing your coat from behind you, he helps you into it, avoiding your eyes, trying not to showcase his frustration.
Uncertain what to say, he reverts back to small talk, stating, “Thanks for still coming so late. You really do like the song, yeah?”
“Jungkook… it’s honestly very good.”
You smile; there’s something about your honesty. About the way you say his name. And how hopeful you truly seem for him. How much you seem to mean it when you say—
“If there’s anyone who can manage to wrap the world around their finger, it’ll be you, Jungkook.”
“Alright. I think I have an answer to your question now.”
You down the sip of red wine with a delicate smack of your lips, blinking at the change in topic. The evening has followed a pleasant pace so far, conversations well balanced; even though you still carry a sense of caution that Jungkook sees no reason behind.
Perhaps it’s the fact that after weeks of subtle, flirty undertones and advancing attempts you’ve taken the seat on his couch as he’s imagined for so long now. Maybe he still exudes something that screams for caution; maybe that’s just who you are.
Jungkook, for one, is just glad to receive any kind of recognition from you. But he’d be a fool to not insert all his effort into tonight, from the food to the type of drinks and conversations. He knows where he needs to be and he wants you to want it, too.
“What question?” you ask.
It’s just.
Despite the lightness with which you carry your talks, some of your movements feel off, detached from your body. Not quite matching the grace your face portrays; just that one hint. The one hiding in your fingers, tapping the dark screen of the phone resting on your thigh.
As if you’re waiting for a call or something to happen that Jungkook isn’t aware of. Who knows. Nothing has happened in the last hour, so this might be an unconscious gesture reasoned in nothing but an absent or distracted mind.
Yeah.
You’re probably not even aware of it and he’s just overthinking it.
He takes a breath, inhaling the aroma of the almost finished wine, “What I’d do if I could spend a day in a virtual reality.”
“Wait, does the Wembley Stadium doesn’t count anymore?”
Jungkook smirks, dismissing his own prior answer with a click of his tongue. “C’mon. Does it really? You can ask literally any artist ever and that’s what they’ll say.”
You ponder his response, pursing your lips in thought, and then shrug one shoulder. Nodding along, you acknowledge, “Right. So what is it then?”
“I’d just.” He sucks air through his teeth sharply, leaning back with a signature smack of his lips. “Get into a reality in which this damn song is already finished and mixed and ready to be released.”
This song referring to the concoction of sounds he showed you earlier, yet to be concretised and burnished to what he truly envisions. It’s the only song left that shackles him to the studio; at the upcoming concert, he’ll just sing the demo version as a sneak peak if needed. What a source of stress.
But you don’t see it as much of a struggle; you’ve told him a dozen times that hard work justifies a slip-up. That the progress on his album balances out the artist’s block.
Possibly why you laugh his worry off without mocking it, merely throwing back, “I’m disappointed.”
Oh?
“Why?”
“Just because — the Wembley answer was better.”
Unexpected and sudden — much like the snicker you elicit, throwing his head back just a little. Concurring, he sighs, “Okay, okay. What about you then?” He cocks an eyebrow. “You didn’t tell me what you’d do.”
“You didn’t ask,” you remind him, already slurring your speech a bit, though still remaining a stable and solid stance, “dunno. You want the sappy or the basic answer?”
“Is the sappy one a tear-jerker? Sounds like it.”
“For sure.”
“Then the basic one. Don’t dig being sad.”
“Thought so,” you answer, and Jungkook holds back from prodding again this time, despite wondering what image he gets across, “alright. I’d do things I’m unsure of in real life. Like bungee jumping.”
“Oh? Kinda did not expect this.”
“No?”
“Just having a hard time imagining somebody as calm as you jumping off a building. Or yelling.”
You roll your eyes. “Anyway. I’d love to go, but I’m too scared of the risks. Like, rope stuff. Don’t want to be jumping for the last time.”
“Okay, yeah, but,” Jungkook starts, hesitating, “I mean, you could say that about anything. You leave your apartment and get hit by a car and then you’d be going out for the last time.”
You begin shaking your head mid-sentence, already drawing a breath, ready to disagree. Then, “That’s a bad comparison. These things are a once in a lifetime experience.”
“I’m just saying! Why hold back from things that excite you.”
“…Maybe you’re right.”
Jungkook’s proud nod and hum are reciprocated with a soft smile, fleeting when you roll your eyes back to your phone briefly. Absent-mindedly, you drag a fingertip across the device’s side as Jungkook follows your movements.
Yet, unsure what you might be harbouring in this pretty head of yours, he doesn’t ponder but asks, “What was the sappy thing?”
It’s as if you live multiple lives, hiding them in your innermost parts; because once he finishes his question, your sparkle returns, and you smirk a little, suddenly leaning forward.
Wordlessly, you fish a tissue out of the square, wooden box, puzzling him for a second until he understands right before you clarify, “For the upcoming tears.”
His titter is immediate, a reflex. You might be relaxed as a calm river, but your humour does shine through among your other million traits. He shakes his head in rejection, smile still plastered to his lips, and watches you lean back again, clearing your throat.
“Mhh, I’d say,” you muse, “I’d try to get into a simulation of Heaven. Try to meet those I miss.”
“Oh… damn.”
“Yeah.”
“…I don’t know what to say.”
But despite the dumbstruck silence, his mind does conjure prompt associations. Like when the two of you sat in his studio just two weeks ago, you engrossed in his music yet somehow dissociated from reality.
You spoke about lost and faraway people back then, too. And he didn’t ask then, either.
In the depths of his mind, he wants to believe that you’re trying to lead him somewhere, fishing for his hand but never quite reaching it. Drawing back right before pleading for help; or perhaps wanting to make him understand a thought he can’t fathom in the way you form it.
The pattern is repetitive, loud — but he knows you’ll retract the moment he does lean into you, offering his ear to your worries and thoughts.
He can’t win.
“That’s okay,” you say, making up for his lack of proper empathy, and that’s where you leave it. Not hesitating, not indicating another hint to lead to your mind.
Yet, he clears his throat quietly, licking drying lips, and asks in attempt to grip the truth, your whatever-truth, “And, who’d be there? Do you want to talk about that?”
“Mmmmh,” you hum, pondering, before you treat him with the same disappointment he’s suffered throughout the last weeks, “no. I think I’m good.”
Unbelievable, and truthfully, frustrating.
Are you playing this side of yours? Is it an act? Are two sides of you fighting within you?
“Okay,” he simply responds, clearly agitated but unsure whether you notice. You’re looking at your phone again. He sighs. “And… Do you believe in that stuff? Heaven, Hell, stuff like that.”
You shrug a bare shoulder. “Dunno. I like to think there’s something, but then again I don’t.”
“How so?”
“The way I see it, it’s kinda simple,” you explain matter-of-factly, “some people are good enough to deserve a place in Heaven once they’re gone. And some people are terrible enough to burn for eternity.”
Coming from your sweet mouth, uttered in an equally soft tone, the sentence feels jarring. Jungkook has had these thoughts before; he’d be a hypocrite to judge you for yours, recalling moments when he wondered where he’s destined to land once he’s left this realm.
And somehow, it was never the prettier option.
Still, he utters, disguising his own past pondering, “Wow. That’s dark.”
“It’s true. There’s some serious crime in the world.”
Agreed. Perhaps, compared to the extreme sins, he can be forgiven. Right? Maybe…
“Yeah,” Jungkook accords, “then, why did you say that sometimes you don’t like believing in it?”
“I mean, if there’s actually something like Hell, and I happen to fuck up throughout life… I don’t wanna end up there.”
It’s like you’re mirroring his thoughts.
Even if he never quite thought about it to such an extent. Even though his idea of the afterlife built on what he’s already done, and not what he’s still going to do.
But your words give a subtle hope that redemption is possible. Who knows. Who really knows.
Perhaps it’s easiest to stray away from these thoughts and focus on you at this very moment. Even if it’s you triggering innermost fears; he doesn’t quite have a clue how you do it.
No matter. He’ll focus on you. Altruism might be the first step to vindication. Karma points. Karma points.
“Valid,” he says kindly, “can’t imagine you fucking up, though.”
“How would you know?”
“The company grapevine whispered a lil something about you.”
“Ahhh—”
“Good things! Other than that, I just think. Don’t know.” A small gap, well-hidden so far, grows in the back of his mind, tiptoeing to the very front of his mind. Before he’s thought it through, he blurts, “I’ll be honest with you.”
Your ears perk up, eyes suddenly wide.
What was that?
Okay. Whatever. Can’t stop his speech now, “Uhm, I’ll be honest and say that I’m not the best person I know. Like, I’m aware of that. It’s why sometimes, I don’t really understand how people can be as genuine as you.”
…Has he said too much? Or not enough? Because he could swear your face deflates, expression dimming, as if you expected something else.
And all you say is, “I understand.”
A flicker of slight panic creeps into his overthinking head, not usually a trademark of his personality. But you look dispirited, even if just for a second. He tries further.
“And from what I’ve seen, you go through life gently. The way you do anything is how you do everything, right?”
“Hmmm,” you voice again, pupils hidden until you look up. And when you do, he breathes a sigh of relief; deep and obvious, and he doesn’t care if you notice. Smiling sweetly, you tell him, “You said that really well.”
The way you say it is riddled with woe, but within a second, your eyebrows relax, mouth forming an authentic grin. Displaying real emotions suits you better than the mask of the frigid ice queen you keep plastered to your face; you look different right now.
Vulnerable.
And it makes him want you more.
Does it have something to do with the warm light he chose for this room? No. It doesn’t shine brightly enough to really illuminate your face that much. With the intensity lowered beforehand, some of your features hide in the dark when you lower your head a little.
And it’s not the decent amount of alcohol the two of you slurped.
It’s the usual, mysterious shimmer in your eyes, begging to take off more of your mental layers. The fragility behind the pretence of invincible strength. No doubt, you’re still a textbook definition of a femme fatale.
Still, there’s some sweet urge to surrender, visible in your stance. A fragrance luring him in. Warm skin close to his; calling for his fingers.
And he’s at your beck and call, ready and motivated; giving into your wanting eyes — or is that his own desire he’s confusing? — and leaning in. A little more with each tiny moment, advancing until the tips of your noses meet.
Your warmth consumes him; your breathing quickens, resulting in fitful exhales that he takes in with vigour, much drowning in his own head until you gasp and he realises—
“Sorry,” he mumbles, not yet retracting. His hand touches your knee, carefully but with intention. Waiting, he asks, “Is that okay for you?”
“…I’m not sure.”
Your answer takes a seat on his ego and weighs it down. Harsh, sudden, perhaps not unexpected but definitely breaking a string of patience within him. But consent is consent; he understands. He’s grown now.
Yet…
“Fuck,” he whispers under a faint sigh, dejected and confused.
And you hear it. Bambi-eyed, you ask, “What?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all.”
He’d lie if he suppressed the disappointment. Working towards you for weeks was supposed to end in realising his fantasies into a palpable, actual feeling, with a side achievement of a deeper connection.
You don’t seem to want to provide it; he understands, but the agitation courses through him like a fire burning up a forest. The trees are his nerves; alight with different emotions. You’re fumbling with the soft cotton of your winter dress, and he averts his eyes.
Shutting them for a moment, he ponders his options; does he continue the awkward conversation? Or perhaps, ask you for your opinion straightforwardly? Maybe, after all this while, it wouldn’t be so stupid to swap a penny for your thoughts.
And his mouth opens, but it seems you’re faster. Crushing his questions and uncertainties when he hears you gulp, witness to another change of mind as your knee shifts forward. His eyes open rapidly, and when he looks at you again, you’ve moved closer.
Your leg touches his thigh; your eyelids half fallen, lips an inch apart and fingers hesitating, yet advancing towards him. Hope sparks and sparkles in him anew, and he suppresses the cheeky, triumphant smile.
He feels like an asshole. Oh, he feels so selfish — but he can’t be the only one. He cannot possibly be the first or last to give into deepest desires out of self-interest.
Carefully, he matches your pace, moving into your direction much like you are drawing into his. His hand lifts to your arm, and you suck in a breath as he touches your skin, your chest rising and falling deeply.
And his eyes observe. The motion drives him crazy. He wants to pilot his touch to this spot, wrap his palm around your mounds, desperate to feel your nipples perk up under his skin, your mouth fall wider.
Should he? Maybe, maybe—
Not yet.
Instead, he draws an invisible line with his fingertips, up your arm and to your shoulders until he reaches your neck. The sound you let out is so tiny he barely hears it, and you tilt your head to the other side, giving him free reign over your skin.
A spark lights up under his finger, as if he’s touched a defective bulb. He wonders if you feel the same flame when he charges for your jawline, tracing it for a moment before he moves to your seething hot cheek.
You’re burning up.
So he asks in a quiet, gravelly voice, somehow much lower than usual, “Are you okay?”
Your eyebrows are furrowed, and he starts to worry again; but maybe that’s just the same tension unleashing that he’s felt, too. The temptation runs deep; he could scream it out of his lungs and it wouldn’t be enough.
Relieved as you nod, he mimics the movement, whispering an, “Okay,” before he then dips forward, exhaling close to your neck hotly and… leaves a small kiss right there. He doesn’t know about you, but if you did that to him, he’d possibly faint.
One more kiss, and suddenly, your hand is on his knee. His head spins. Must be the alcohol. Must be you.
And you’re probably in no better state, judging the hot cheeks and the slight sway of your body. Must be the wine. Must be him.
And when his lips graze your jaw, your fingers curl in, clawing onto his knee, and his inner voice celebrates, “Jackpot.”
But not really. He’s going with the flow, exploring your preferences, but this needs to be the night of your life. His mind and ego want you to perceive it that way. So what should he do? What do you like?
Are you one to push him into the bed, holding his shoulders down? Straddling him keenly, pouncing on him, eyes rolled back?
Or do you give away all the power you usually emanate; hands bound with a tie, legs struggling between a rope, screams muffled under a gag? Do you wind and go crazy when somebody has their way with you, edging and then overstimulating, refusing a touch and then slapping your ass wound…
Should he let your siren eyes tempt him into submission or will you be the one drilled into his mattress with a hand around your neck and a trail of black mixed with tears under your eyes?
He doesn’t know. Because you’ve disguised all of you; hidden your mind behind a mask of absolute neutrality, hard to decipher. He can usually read women so easily. They lick their lower lips when they want him under them, and quiver when vice versa.
He’d oblige to either for you. So what does it matter in the end, anyway?
No, it doesn’t.
His tongue that lashes out, however, does matter. Tasting your skin as it drags over your chin and then to your mouth. Insane when he reaches your lower lip and you sigh, then back to your neck, blowing, teasing, still not kissing you… touching your thigh, moving inwards…
“What do you want me to do?” he asks.
And this time, while still a little quiet, you finally say, “More. You can do more.”
“Yeah?”
You nod as if starved, relieved when his hands leave your leg and venture further in. It’s hidden under your dress, but somehow, not seeing your full glory just yet, but observing your reactions to his movements, stirs his thoughts. If any were left, that is.
The touch to your panties is light, tender as he reaches the hem, driving a finger underneath it in exploration. You don’t say much, but he sees the zeal in your eyes, murmuring a little, “Mhm…”
And when he finally presses against the fabric slowly dampening, lightly as he rolls his digits right where your skin so incredibly softens… you moan. You moan.
It doesn’t sound the way he imagined. But it kind of does. He doesn’t remember what he imagined — doesn’t know much at all. Just that he wanted this sound to echo within his walls. For him to be the one to drag it out. Not for anybody else, but him.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Okay. What if he does… this…
Thought so.
Sometimes, human beings have a fantasy unmatched, don’t they? Able to form and reform expressions on people they know that they have never seen. For example, he can imagine what you look like when you cry. Or when you’re mad. Or…
He knew you’d press your lips together, along with your eyebrows, muffling your sound once he sought out your clit and pressed against it. And not because he’s seen other women contort their faces like this; no… it’s an entirely new sensation with you.
You don’t compare to anyone. Nobody compares to you. Nobody, ever.
Sick of watching the invisible movement under your dress, he lets his eyes wander to yours, and you notice, do as he does. Eyes hooded, staring at him as if drunk — possibly, probably drunk.
Just once, he gapes down again, trying to adjust without crushing your knees with his. Comes closer. Then looks back at you. Absolutely astonished by the coloured lips drying up. Seeing your tongue peak behind your upper teeth, pushing against them.
Then you’re blinking, several times, not rapidly, but enough to indicate that you’re losing yourself, too. And then there’s some melancholy behind your gaze; he can’t say where it derives from… you seem to be coming out of a room that you kept dark for long enough.
He can’t say whether he’s further dimming the light in that room or lightening it up — and as he advances, gauging your reactions, he inwardly hopes it’s the latter.
So inwardly. So desperately.
Patience only persists for a moment; Jungkook barely believes in it. People always break. And he does when you lean forward as he drags his finger between your pussy lips, still over the clothing. You balance your weight with your arms, holding yourself up.
And then…
You so tantalisingly, softly, quietly, whisper his name.
Okay.
The snap was expected. The sigh he lets out was expected. And the way his lips finally crash against yours, making you almost fall back onto the sofa was expected, too.
But your taste… Why did he know you’d be as sweet as a cliché, like a perfume made edible? Matches your mystery and your elegance.
And the mellow, yet wanting sounds fit every move he makes. Like the moan-sigh combination when his bold hand wraps around the bun you’ve arranged your hair into. How you breathe into the kiss when he tilts your head a little, and then proceeds to loosen up said bun.
Releases it. Lets your hair fall. Pulls you in, pausing the make-out in the process, and then diving back in with a greed he’s never been met with before.
And as he kisses you, his index finger still dips into the uncharted territory below, ruining your panties some more as he soaks them; fucking loving how you whimper as a result.
No… this is ruining him just as much.
So he draws back from your body, attempting and probably failing not to look at you like an animal glaring down at his prey, ready to devour. He’s never seen this expression himself, but one or two girls have uttered quiet, “Oh-oh,” in such moments before — do you see the danger, too?
Or is he being cocky? But it’s not his fault. You make him cocky because he can never fucking say what you think! Of course he’d need the mental praise to himself — your opinion on him is too difficult to decipher.
He’ll keep the energy up. Make you shrink in his hold.
Hands under your ass, he lifts your lower body a little, amused by your wide eyes and how you wonder, “What are you d—”
Silencing the moment he uses his palms’ position to grab the hem of your panties and pull them down your legs. Over them and then on the other side of the table. The two of you won’t need those tonight.
“What does it look like that I’m doing?” he teases, smirk effective and permanent.
He likes that about himself. Maybe you’ll do, too. If not, then you at least do like how his fingers, impatient, find their way back home again, not before lifting your dress to your hips until you’re bared to him the way he’s craved.
And he pauses.
Oh, this treasure…
“You…” he starts, moving two ring-clad fingers between your folds. Testing the waters. “I’m not letting you go anywhere tonight. You’re staying right here…” He leans forwards, body on body, whispering against your lips. “Trapped under me.”
You want to answer, he thinks. Your eyebrows relax for a second, an inebriated smile playing around your mouth. If he knows you well enough, he’d guess you’re urging to dive back into your witty remarks.
But none of it is possible just yet. Because when he caresses your pussy again, increasing the pace without being too unreasonably fast, you bite your lip. He urges you to release it with his tongue. And when you do, his finger plunges in; as deeply as it can. So easily, too.
He kisses your clavicles the moment your nails get ahold of his arms, wiggling underneath him, but still caged in. And he sees the built-up frustration; how you kept yourself at bay, but can barely do it now. How you yearn for just one or two more right touches here and there before…
But before he can, he stops. Immediately, unexpectedly for you. Once again, mean, but…
“You’ll thank me later,” he utters — and with those four measly words, something awakens in you that was hidden for just the last ten minutes.
“Oh? You… you’re confident like this.”
“Of course I am.”
“Jungkook…” you say in such frustration that he thinks you’ll beg some more. But you don’t. Instead, you shake your head and say. “Men rarely manage to…”
“This isn’t rare. I’m not giving you rare, ‘kay?”
“I…”
“How…” he readjusts your body, pulling you down the couch, shifting until his knee keeps your legs apart. “How fucking insulting.”
Do you hear any of this anymore? Because your eyes are closed again. Hands still holding on; and… and body winding in order for your cunt to shift closer to him, suddenly rubbing against his knee.
It’s all you can get at the moment since his hands are so far out of reach. And the satisfaction of knowing that you’ll strive for anything at all is cosmic.
“You’re ruining my jeans,” he mocks, clicking his tongue as if to reprimand.
“Then…” You hook a finger into one of his jeans’ loops, pulling and then releasing again. “Take them off, coward.”
You don’t have to tell him twice. They say that if you have waited for so long, what’s ten more minutes? But no more. Not another second.
So he obliges immediately as he mutters, “‘Kay,” offering a helping hand when you work on his shirt. Off and to the ground. Pants off and to the back of the couch. He already knows he’ll be finding them all scattered the next morning.
But that’s the problem of just that next-morning-self.
Boxers still on, he returns to give you another initial taste of what’s to explode. The dress moves up from your hip as he slides it over your skin, stopping right under the mounds he’s still so curious about.
He needs to keep this balanced. Rush as much as might be appropriate, but not too much to make things embarrassing. This… the way he leans down again, opening your legs, erection grinding against your pussy and offering the bare minimum… this is good enough for now…
Or maybe not. Because merely a couple seconds later, you halt mid-moan, letting out breathy words that he struggles to understand until you repeat, “Is that… all you’ll be doing tonight?”
“Hmmm, you want more?”
“I— I don’t know.” Pause, a gulp when he presses his clothed length between your cunt. “Are you going to tell me your secrets if I say yes?”
His secrets?
You must be kidding. He has been an open book to you, chasing you around; if anything, he needs to unravel your mind.
But for that, he needs to play along. So he feigns the same mystery you emanate, teasing, “What do you wanna know?”
And you don’t hesitate. “Everything.”
…Hmm…
You’ve never seemed as interested as you are now. Never dove into his thoughts and the dim heart like now. If he agreed now, would you blurt out something specific? Questions that you formed when he wasn’t paying attention?
No idea. Maybe that’s something to worry about later. Pillowtalk. The morning after talk. Just anything… just not now.
He removes the obstacles currently standing between the two of you. The cushion standing against the back of the couch, constantly falling into your face. He throws it on the ground, so you don’t have to keep swatting it away.
Then, the dress covering your body. He gives a sign of wanting to proceed, and you play along, lifting yourself, chasing his lips as your outfit follows the cushion. And then, the phone right underneath the small of your back, having snuck there, undetected until you yelp, “Oh!”
“What?”
“Cold. Don’t know how it got there.”
He fishes out the device, watching it light up, a notification at the top that he can’t decode and that he doesn’t pay any mind to. Puts it on the coffee table. Then… last but not least… the uncertain atmosphere.
He says, “You want to know everything? Then make a list. I’ll tell you if I feel like it… deal?”
“You’re so…”
“You gotta make me. No other way out, baby.”
An answer lies on your tongue, ready to disrupt the moment. He knows because you look distracted all of a sudden, possibly still thinking about the same thing you did before, dissociating as he sat next to you, wine in hand.
It’s probably about work. Or about Taehyung — God, nobody at work but Jungkook would know, but you mention that guy all the time.
But tonight is not the night to think of others. So he shakes your upcoming inquiries away, giving you no time to think about it further as he, thirsty and impatient, picks you up and off the couch.
Right into his lap. Right onto his cock.
Still a layer between the two of you, watching you grind immediately. For a moment, you put him under your spell, urging him to stay right there and not move away until he’s shot buckets of cum into his boxers.
But…
But he’d rather do it in you, with you, because of truly you.
So he wastes no second as he executes his former plan, large hands sprawling over your ass before he stands with willpower and strength. He throws you a couple inches into the air, making you adjust, and then moves.
Away from the couch, stepping onto the clothes on the floor, careful not to stumble and hurt the two of you. The way to the bedroom seems endless, and you so naked… so… so his for the night. Like what, he still needs to wait those couple square metres?
Fuck, how…
No. It must be a primal instinct that hankers him to give up already, having made it halfway through the room and almost to his bedroom when he suddenly stops. Pinning you against a random free spot at the wall, right under a silent clock.
“What are you…?”
Your voice is trembling, for some reason so incredibly small. For the first time since you lay beneath him on the couch, he sees your eyes properly, and they flit back to the couch as if you’re looking where you just departed from — and then back to him.
“What are you looking for?” he whispers. Tantalisingly, he brings his fingers to your chin, pinching it lightly as he raises your head. “Hm? I’m here. Do you want to go back? Missing the couch? Wall might not be as comfortable, huh…”
“No… that’s not a problem. I’m just… surprised by the change.”
You do look surprised. A little cheekier again as your tone rises, your head falling to the side, lips smiling as if to distract him from something bigger. As if there’s anything bigger in existence right now than you.
“It was just sudden,” you conclude.
“Is that bad?”
“Not at all. I’m just curious.”
He doesn’t need to ask what about. He sees it in this expecting gaze of yours that you want to read and decrypt his next steps. And you can have them.
Because he lets you go, making you fall silently on your feet, kissing you once before he falls to his knees. You groan when he grabs your leg, placing it on his shoulder, restless when his lips charge for your open folds.
He offers you, “Curious, huh? No need,” before kissing your clit, adding another, “Just indulge in it… no need to use your pretty brain today,” and then attaching his mouth and tongue to your dripping pussy.
Digging his large nose into you, tickling your nub, he swirls his tongue around, slurping you up like his favourite drink. Holy fuck, you taste good. He could eat you up, down you in one like a shot. Stay right here all night.
You get ahold of a patch of his hair, but don’t pull — somehow, he wishes you would. Instead, you seem to focus on your body, trying not to fall, keeping it upright. You’re winding, your leg moving, and he soon wraps an arm around your thigh to keep you from stirring too much.
And with the other, he targets your cunt, mouth moving up to make space for the digits to easily, effortlessly slide into you. You gasp, just a bit louder when the metal touches your hot sex, calling his name — and for possibly the first time, he hears you curse, “Fuck. Fuck, I’m— I’m going to pass out.”
Oh my God.
If he could lick you to unconsciousness, he’d feel shocked and proud at once. He wants to see you become weightless, wants to catch you in his arms, and then bring you to his bedroom, still delirious, and fuck your brain out of you.
He wants you so bad. He wants to fuck you so fucking badly. His cock aches, godfuckingdamn.
As he rolls his tongue, lips kissing yours, moving his head left and right as he makes out with your pussy, he almost pulls all the way through. Nearly gives into your body language, nose moving over your clit, fingers pumping in and out, breathing into your pussy hotly.
But he has other plans. He wants to see your damn tears; wants you to unleash all your desperation. So, just when your sounds change, less pauses between them, high-pitched, heavy breathing, he stops.
Draws back, watching you press your ass into the wall, head suddenly hanging low. You whisper, “No…” as he looks up in satisfaction, waiting for you to say more.
You’re out of breath, exhaling through half gritted teeth, a palm on his chest as he rises again. You declare, “I’m going to blueball you, too.”
But the adrenaline has poured buckets of confidence over Jungkook already, and he’s drenched in it as much as in your scent, cocking an eyebrow as he challenges, “You can try.”
“I’m gonna suck your dick so fucking slow.”
“Do it,” he keeps the mask up, wondering how much of the effect you saw upon gracing him with such a provocative image, “let’s see if you make it this far. Might just fuck you into space before that, you know?”
He lets out an unsteady breath, a strand of your hair swaying upon impact. His hand taps at your thigh, testing whether you’ve closed your legs again; and as he realises that you haven’t, much to his pleasure, he palms your pussy, heel of his hand pressing against your clit.
“You’re trying to set me off, because you know you can, right?” he questions, for a split moment distracted by the teeth gnawing at your lower lip. “Smart of you. You are truly smart, babe… but you’re also mine tonight. So don’t play games.”
A slap lands on your vulnerable pussy, and he understands your frustration as you open your mouth, the lower lip previously captive rolling back into place. Soft and gorgeous.
No matter the fading distance, there’s still something inexplicable in the air, as if he can’t really separate a dream from reality. As if he needs evidence that this isn’t yet another figment of his imagination; the ones he’s awoken from several times, underwear threatening to burst.
The hand just torturing your cunt wanders up your body and settles around your neck, like a chain or a necklace or a motherfucking leash. He feels home here, just like this. With your fingers on his wrist, gulping under his touch.
Pinned firmly against the wall, he looks down to where you’re dripping and he’s standing tall, gripping the ever-twitching length that is begging for more. Begging for relief. He’s doing this to himself — because his body is burning up, as if scorched by sun flares.
He’s doing this to the both of you.
The kiss underneath your ear as he leans in. And the still harmless yet sinful touch between his tip and your folds. How he holds the shaft firmly, leading the head between your pussy lips, teasing until just an inch intrudes your awaiting hole.
He moans the moment you do, moving, fucking just the first of the tip into you; scrambling his own thoughts as he says, “God, I could just slide in… you’re so, so wet.”
“What… why say this if you won’t do it?”
Guess you’ve figured him out well enough. Guess that’s the cockiness you implied when you called him a fuckboy in that stupid museum. Or how you kept a safe distance — because thinking about it, maybe Jungkook could be someone to break somebody’s heart.
No. He knows he is. But…
He shakes the thought off his brain, returning to this very moment where you’re waiting for his answer, a heart made of steel. You won’t let him hurt you; you know better than that. You could dodge him easily.
Mentally, at least. Physically, you’re under his mercy.
So he uses this weakness, muttering under his breath, “I will, I will… but not here. We can do better than here.”
Wasn’t this just a pit stop after all? What he’s seeking is still waiting in his bedroom, soft sheets spread over the cold mattress, waiting for a body to warm it up. Or two.
Already hot and bothered, Jungkook lets you go entirely; and the next minute happens in a blur, as though he’s struggling with recognising his own apartment. Suddenly self-conscious about everything and nothing at once.
With you in his grip, he walks along the dark, small corridor; then past the paintings, through the door, into a well-managed, tidy bedroom until he’s sat your ass down. It happens within the tiniest moment — he could narrate how you got here but he can barely recall it.
Dick at the same height as your mouth, he wraps his hand around it. You don’t initiate anything of what you promised, looking into his eyes with a question; he knows you want to avenge yourself and provide the same vanity, but you’d rather skip to the best part.
He wants to, too.
So he doesn’t ram his cock into your mouth, hitting the farthest spot until you gag. Instead, he relishes the image mentally and quietly, fantasising about the warmth of your spit, about the tongue swirling around.
And then… then he goes a step further and imagines the even extended pleasure if he dug into your pussy now, maximising whatever your mouth could make him feel.
Are his thoughts too straight-forward? If he spelled them out like this, one by one, would you find him weird? Too eager? Obsessed?
Maybe he should slow down. Just a bit.
Which is why he holds his shaft closer to you, still surprised when you don’t open up, hints of the past confusion alternating with your confident, mysterious, teasing self. It’s weird to witness. But your eyes are still hazy at least. You don’t seem to want to stop.
God. He can’t figure it out. Not figuring out is agitating even in this moment.
But… good energies. Good energies. All the pent-up frustration needs to be morphed into sheer craze. He can do that.
“Spit on it,” he orders.
You only hum. Something in your gaze changes again, eyelids fluttering, as if awoken from trance. But you’re willing. Immediately mimicking him as you bring a thumb to a mole on the protruding veins. Tracing them, all the way back to his balls until you touch them just lightly, but enough for him to nearly lose his shit.
“Fuck, I said,” he reprimands, though delighted by the sudden rapture, “spit on it.”
You nod as if carrying out a task given by your manager; perhaps used to the last days and weeks when he’d command you around. Ask for another meeting, or for your opinion on a song, or just to keep him company to keep him productive.
Or, to keep you close to him. Lost in thoughts. Many thoughts. And even though none of them became a reality in that room, none of the equipment shoved aside to sit you on the desk, this… this right here is more than enough.
You suck in your cheeks, collecting spit, and when you lean forward… you make such a mess. Spitting onto the tip, a string still connecting your lips and his dick, leftover saliva dripping down your chin and then on your tits.
The view is… worth diamonds.
Do you even know?
“Okay,” he utters, no real direction in his mind, no real sentence to utter. “Okay.”
But you’re equipped with ideas, immediately getting onto the trail you left, spreading the spit over his cock, down to the base. The tip and the slit glisten, traces of precum mixing with your drool, but it’s not enough to cover his length all over.
So he mutters a mental, “More,” to himself, tapping your lips until you open, sticking two of his fingers in and pressing against your tongue. Lubricating his digits, he rolls them over your tongue, far enough to nearly make you gag until he draws back.
Watching you work on him rolls a wave of satisfaction over him. He’s proud, enduring like this. Because judging from the creature you are, as if jumped out of dark mythology, he truly expected to give up way earlier.
But he remains steadfast; eager to not explode until he’s filled you up first. Drawn out your own highs.
“Sweetheart, aren’t you a good one?” Jungkook praises, helping you out with whatever his fingers gathered in your mouth. Then, grabs your wrist, pushing you away, hovering above you with a, “Turn around.”
You gulp again. Then shift back on his bed, sighing as you feel the soft silk underneath your skin, kissing and hugging your body. The sight is gorgeous, with you fleeing to the back of the mattress, obliging so easily. Prey.
And…
“Holy fuck.”
Holy fuck, how you look when you finally get into position. Ass up, upper body down. And the arms over your head? What in the world.
Okay… okay…
Wait. You’re saying something.
His knees dig into the mattress, hand unconsciously pumping his cock — he doesn’t even know when he started — as he moves closer, over your body. Kisses your shoulder, bringing his ear close to hear before, “Huh? What’d you say?”
“I’m already so spent.”
“Ah… do you want to stop?”
“No… you made me feel spent. But you’re not done, are you?”
Pause. Bright smirk. Then, “Of course not. Does it feel like it?” Another kiss to your shoulder, wet this time. “Condom or not?”
“Oh.” Seems you hadn’t even thought about this yet. Kind of nice. “I’m… I use an IUD. Have you… slept with many people lately?”
No answer yet. He thinks. Thinks back to the several weeks since he met you. Should he say it? Would you back away if he did? Years ago, there’d be no debate about it — he wouldn’t have told you. Kept it to himself.
Perhaps there’s still a part of him that’d dodge your question, but he somehow feels like you’d see through him. Hear the insincerity.
Fuck, is that selfish? Maybe. Doesn’t he already know that he is? But he’s not bad; and people are selfish.
So a second later, he truthfully admits, “Once. Two or so weeks ago. Nothing special though, just dumb, drunk shit. Some girl from a club. And I tested after.”
As soon as the sentence finishes, he wonders if you deem yourself just another one of those. But… in all honesty. She was a one night stand whose sounds, name, dirty talk did nothing to him.
All he could imagine was you. Perhaps not out of loyalty, but surely out of curiosity.
He can’t fathom his thoughts into feelings yet; he still wouldn’t describe his attitude towards you as falling in love or anything. That’d be too far stretched. But he thought about it — that maybe he liked you too much.
Yet, his heart remained empty; but his body never did. He feels bad; and still, he won’t deny whatever his skin and mind whisper to him.
Other than that, he could probably declare with quite a firm certainty that you don’t feel any different about him. You can’t be.
So maybe this is good enough for now.
“But know what?” he says, voice lower, repeating his thoughts. “Could only imagine what it’d be like if it was you. This pussy,” strokes his cock along your cunt, “and this body,” touches the small of your back, “these thoughts got me going. And you’re so much better in reality.”
“Mmmh,” is all you utter, nearly hiding your face in the pillow before you say, “maybe… maybe we can still use a condom then.”
Shit. Expected it.
But okay. Okay.
Where are the condoms again… bedside table? No. He used the last one ages ago, before he knew you. He gets up; walks to the closet; somewhere near his socks, there must be a new pack. A moment to think.
For a second, he looks back at you. You’re still the same, only with the ass having dropped again, losing balance and energy. And maybe, you’re still drunk, too — probably, because even he still feels the world spin, careful not to close his eyes for too long.
Okay. One… no, two foils out. As he turns back to you, nearing you, his head is just a little calmer than a minute again, and he wonders… were all the thoughts his own? The past half an hour or however much passed, didn’t he spiral more and more?
Did you notice? He shakes his head. Who cares?
Not him, not right now. He keeps telling himself that with a goddess waiting in front of him on all fours, he probably doesn’t need to worry about anything unless there’s a reason to. You’ve been cooperative and the night has been successful, minus the strange gazes you keep throwing at him periodically.
“Alright, baby. Up you come,” he mumbles, bringing your ass back to his crotch. His hands are already trained and incredibly skilled; doing work on the condom doesn’t take him more than a couple seconds. “I should tell you now.”
You pause. Suck in some breath, as if expecting something in particular. You agree with an unmatched thirst for knowledge, “…Tell me.”
“I don’t tend to go easy. If you need me to be, you’ll have to tell me. ‘Kay?”
“I… I can take a lot more than you think.”
Fuck. He’ll wreck your shit. “Perfect. You’re honestly a good one, huh? Such a good girl for real, no— no, you’re the best.”
Is he just saying whatever now? Perhaps he should stop boring you and get to it. Right? Please, the goddamn, blood-filled tower down there is desperately imploring him to.
He collects spit like you did before, targeting your glinting pussy, one blob right onto it. Then, he brings his fingers back to where they love to be, distributing the filth between your folds. And then, two fingers into the tightening hole.
Right before moving north, between your ass cheeks, thumb rolling over your other clenching hole.
And you tense immediately, without saying a word, taking it quietly. Then… then he finally starts.
Brings the annoying rubber to your soaked pussy, poking for a second before he gets serious and eventually dips in. The free hand raises your ass some more, and he shifts forwards, your butt backwards, helping him get in further.
He hears the reaction. Hears the almost-screech in a second, nails biting into the pillow over your head. You hold onto it for dear life as he slowly bottoms out, your sporadic breathing and high-pitched moans mingling with his own bursts of lust.
Deep creases appear between his eyebrows, lips bitten sore, and once his waist has finally connected with your ass, he takes a deep, long inhale. Watches your face disappear deeper into the pillow, sounds muffled.
Enjoys it for a moment before he starts moving slowly. Out, in. Concentrating before he might spill too early. Beads of sweat shimmer on his forehead, dampening the hanging strands of hair. You feel good. Too fucking good—
He wants to go off right away. But… focus.
“How’s that?” he asks.
“Stop… stop talking.”
Oh. Bold. But a good sign, isn’t it? If you wanted him to stop, you’d say it. So he keeps going… dares just a little more, courageous, encouraged by your cooperation. Explores your ass and what lies between the cheeks more, groaning before he says, “You stop that.”
His hand reaches for your wrists, keeping you from tearing his pillow and leading your fingers to where his touched your ass before. You keep your touch there, unmoving until he says, “Keep them apart.”
And you seem to understand. His thumb returns to your unoccupied hole as his cock impales your pussy whole, still going at a tormenting pace. Thick and soaked, he’s splitting you in two; maybe that’s why the slow plunges are such a plague. Because both of you know there could be more.
Pulling your ass cheeks apart, you remain with your face in the sheets, arms trembling as he circles your hole again. He doesn’t know if you’re into this; doesn’t know if you’ll protest. So far, he’s been pretty obvious with his intentions, and he’s sure you must understand this one, too.
And you’re not fearful; if something bothered you, you wouldn’t hesitate to voice your displeasure. So he spits one more time, right onto his thumb, using the lubrication to carefully, curiously dip the tip of his thumb into your ass.
You yelp immediately; as your hole tightens around the little bit of his thumb, your pussy narrows around his cock, too, and he nearly loses it. Nearly drools onto your back as his mouth drops open, blinking rapidly for a second.
God, your body reacts with such intensity. Still, he makes sure, “Too much?”
And you, candidly, reply, “I don’t know. I… think so.”
“Okay. Then I’ll sto—”
“No. No, wait… I want to— I want to know what it’s like.”
Thought so. He knew that underneath all the chic charade, you crave just as much as he does. And if it’s him that you long for, then what even stands between him and the rocket shooting his ego to the sky?
This feels good. Really good… not just physically. You lift his spirits.
Ready with an exhale, he dares his thumb deeper, letting more of it disappear in you. Out of all the women he’s ever been with, not more than a handful has been willing to venture into this part of sexual desire. Most of them can’t stand the discomfort, and some of them don’t feel any particular way about it.
But you lay open to him in every way possible. An open book for once; easy to read, as if calculating how you wind, planning how to sound, guiding him fearlessly.
Soon, he’s adjusting his thrusts to your moans, and you’re adjusting your moans to his thrusts. Synchronised, the two of you groan and cry out together, and he makes sure to keep you filled to the brim, reducing the pauses between the shoves bit by bit.
Until…
“Hey,” he whispers, waiting for you to react, but as he pumps into you, slowly yet balls-deep, you don’t do anything much but scream into the pillow. So he just continues, “How much do you think you can take, baby?”
“I… I’m—”
You’re attempting your best, but you’re tongue-tied. With each push, he catapults your body forwards, but your mind is long lost in the stratosphere. With gritted teeth and a rising, heavily breathing, golden chest, he leans in close to you, hand snaking under you and around your neck as he retries, “So?”
“I don’t know,” you blurt, and as you raise your head and look back at him, he sees a sight to behold — mascara underneath your eyes, lipstick smeared, a quivering chin. He’s fucking you so good; he must be, because you soon add, “Just do an—and I’ll let you know.”
“Good idea. Very good idea.”
He’s fucking you good. But it’s not all he’s got; not all he’s wanted for days and weeks.
No. If he unleashed all he’s been fabricating in his mind, he’d drench your cheeks in tears. And now that you permitted him to, he might just go ahead, right?
Right.
Which is why the next steps come easy to him, naturally, as if you pressed a button he’s been waiting to smash. A big, red one, like the ones in games urging you to not touch or you’d lose. But by God, right now, he’s not losing.
If he looked into his reflection in the dark window, he’d see a winner through and through.
A fiery rage courses through his burning veins. A face contorting when he lets you go, only to move his fingers back, wrapping them around the back of your neck. Shoving you into the mattress, ramming his cock into you, once more keeping the familiar pace and then—
And then he closes his eyes. Matches an expression to your yelps. Drives into your deepest core and picks up speed until, all of a sudden, it turns jarring.
Jungkook doesn’t get enough. He doesn’t know if he ever will; damn the approaching end of this. There shouldn’t be one; he should be capable of ruining you forever. Maybe he will be.
For now, he directs his thoughts fully on how you feel and how you sound, uncaring about the jagged breathing that burns up his chest. Leaning forward, he attempts twice until he catches your ears, nibbling at your earlobe.
At first, he doesn’t know if you register the touch, given that he’s occupying you with far crazier sensations. But then you reach out a hand, panting into the pillow, grabbing a patch of his hair.
And he, fired up and insane, leans back, gripping your wrist, removing it from his mane and pinning it to your back instead. Your face moves to the side, not muffled by the pillow anymore, and you gasp for air before you beg, “Please, I’m about to—”
That’s all you get, because he soon interrupts with a cheeky, “You can hold on for a bit longer,” pausing on purpose. He wants to see you when you come. Wants to wipe more of your make up across your face. Wants to kiss the colour of your lipstick onto his own lips.
Letting your orgasm fade, he waits, just a couple seconds, allowing you to catch your breath until your eyebrows furrow. You blink repeatedly, then looking up into his eyes, and it’s all he needs to feel his patience dissipate again.
Jungkook gets into a new position, leaving one knee deep in the mattress while angling the other leg, planting its foot on the sheets. He keeps his cock from falling out, leading the tip and the shaft back in before he resumes to fuck you wound.
Your arm is still hostage to his grip, the nails of your other hand gripping the sheet for dear life. It’s gorgeous, the view from where Jungkook looks down at his meal. Crazy how you purr and whine when he leans in, touching your swollen clit, electrifying you. And he keeps looking at you.
At the upper body waving a white flag, too weak to keep yourself upright anymore. And then, the ass in the air staying firmly at its place, his dick aiding you, the flesh of your cheeks wobbling with each thrust, like an ocean wave. Whenever it collides with his hips, the slaps resound temptingly, and Jungkook soon mimics it by letting his hand fall hard on your ass.
You mewl, calling out his name twice, the second cry half uttered, half of the Jungkook omitted. And when you catch the tiniest of your breaths, still working with drying lungs, you say, “L-let me come, please—”
“Wait,” he says again, still sadistic, still masochistic, absolutely out of his mind before an idea lights up his mind. “This isn’t it yet.”
The finger working on your nub was an evil tactic, he’s got to admit. Perhaps he led you to believe something he’s not ready to give you yet, and once you seem to realise, you let out a sob.
And he’s positively delighted once he stops. Lowers his head to look at you. Sees the dark, smeared mascara on his pillow when he digs his fingers in your hair, pulling your head back as he says, “I know. You thought we were done, right? We’re not done, though.”
“Wha—”
He lets his body fall onto the mattress, right next to you, and pulls you in, back against his chest. Hand under your tits, pressing against them, moving them up and down before pinching your nipple once.
“I said,” he repeats, probably unnecessarily, because he doesn’t think you actually demand an answer, “I’m not done. Understand?”
And as expected, you don’t nod or answer. You only push your body further into his, and he reckons that’s a mighty sufficient implication already.
As you lay sideways with a breath as heavy as his, his exhales hot against your ear, you let out sounds reminiscent of marathon runners. You’re exhausted, sweaty, and so is he — but neither of you are finished, and he’d be damned if he permitted the night to end like this.
Diligently, he throws your quivering leg over his; your impish remarks have lessened since he took over, and in turn, his own insolent emotions are reigning supremely. He leads his submerged, rock-hard, twitching cock to your battered cunt, pushing in so easily he thinks he’s dreaming.
It’s like putting a key into its lock.
“Ahh, fuck.” It’s hard to fully bottom out in this position, but he can touch you so much better now. He lets his hands explore your bare body, fondling with your tits, kissing your ear and jaw. “Hold tight. You’re doing so good for me, sweetheart.”
It’s cruel, he knows; the gentle praises as he wreaks havoc down there. He crosses your wrists against your tummy, holding them tight, and you close to him. Fucks you dumb and stupid as you wail in his arms. Moves to your clit and gives it pleasant, gentle rubs, so opposite from the rest of his ministrations.
And the pressure builds. His balls, hard as steel, prepare to shoot their load into you, his cock impossibly stiff, but… but…
You haven’t come yet. And this position won’t do. Can’t do, won’t do, he needs to see you.
So he echoes, “Won’t do,” as he gets up again, keeping the previous position short lived. Doesn’t stay away for too long before he’s on his knees, pulling your legs apart, after the briefest interruptions deep inside again before he leans into you.
And then, everything happens crazy fast.
How he keeps you from wrapping your arms around him; instead, capturing your wrists once again, raising them next to your head. How he moves to kiss you for the first time after quite a while, intertwining your tongues, moaning hard as he feels his high approach.
The fast pace changes a little as he loses his mind and focus, one of the strokes stopping as he almost pulls out, and then plunges in again. Your fingers curl in, nails sharp enough to dig into the digits that hold you, and he cries out in delight, letting a breathy chuckle fall.
He says, “Alright, yeah. Next time… we’re tying you up. Love how you whine.” He lets one hand go, gripping your face again and you move your touch to his shoulder immediately, gasping. “You always p-play the mysterious girl, huh? But you’re so pathetic right now.”
The inhibitions are out the window. The overthinking, too. Whatever he thought might make you run away from him has long exited his mind, because he’s got you right here, under his control, nearing the end.
There’s no going back. No return to his yearning, because you’ve satisfied it so thoroughly.
Time to give it all back to you. One last time before he submerges himself in all his glorious egotism.
“There we go,” he says as he watches your expressions change. You open your mouth but don’t say anything. He doesn’t know what your orgasm feels like, but he knows you’re going through it. “Let it all out. Cream my cock, I fucking dare you.”
He’s saying whatever now, he knows. But he doesn’t have the capacity to think much as creases appear on your forehead and between your eyebrows, tongue mingling with his for a short moment when he goes in for another kiss, barely succeeding.
You’re trembling, lifting your hips as much as the weight above you allows, wanting more friction, more of a touch inside your pussy, on your clit, everywhere. And then, when you do come… when he brings the stars from the sky into your eyes…
Yours roll back into your head. Throwing it back, giving him access to your neck. Lips still apart, and he uses it to push a finger into your mouth, on top of your tongue. And fuck… how your pussy constricts. How it tightens so fucking much.
He’d be lying if he said it didn’t affect him.
So much so that his head spins; and as he feels himself getting dizzy, he buries his face in the pillow next to your head before moving it to kiss your shoulder. Barely looks at you anymore; doesn’t care, it’s his high now, he wants to fucking come, and that’s it.
Finally, finally he’s gotten to this point.
Will he hate himself for these thoughts later? Is this too over the top? He doesn’t know and he doesn’t care, doesn’t care.
His thoughts are occupied, alright, don’t need another string of questions to intervene. His attention remains resolutely on his movements, vigorous, rhythmic, your sounds perfectly matching each of his strokes.
And your hands, the poor little palms, unsure where to settle. This isn’t new; across this broad back of his, every girl’s touch wanders like this. Your nails scratch the small of his back, then up his spine, across the muscles of his shoulder blades.
The fact that you’re a goner as much as him, giving yourself to him is probably the last of reassurances he needs — as if any more were required. Because still panting into your skin, eyes shut tight, he works towards the peak of his sanity, exhausted but eager as he relishes the wet tightness of your pussy; surrounding him just right, still clenching, unclenching from your orgasm.
And then—
“Ohhh, fuck,” he whispers.
His voice is shaking uncontrollably; he barely recognises it. Which… must mean this is new, right? Experience be damned, apparently you spark off phenomena nobody has ever acquainted him with before.
And oh, how you make it worse once he finally emerges again, as if catching his breath after holding it underwater for too long. Your eyes are hooded as he gets on his knees over your body, caging your hips in between his legs. Gripping one of your tits, you nibble your lower lip for a second before letting out laboured breathing, nose flaring.
It’s all he needs. All that’s left when he rips off the condom and envelops his filthy cock with his veiny hand, stroking immediately and hard. Close to the end as he rushes to ask, “Where do you want it?”
You understand what he’s asking, and nod, back to yourself when you utter mysteriously, “Anywhere but inside…” Okay. No time to ask why not — but he wouldn’t have anyway. He obliges, giving his all, one more second left before you tell him just in time, “Here.”
Your palm rubs across your skin, moving over your tits and your stomach. So he’s quick to opt away from your face and redirect his aim to where you pointed, moaning out a couple last, broken vocals before he finally spills.
Milky white, multiple blotches scattered over your skin, like a modern art painting. He’d rather draw these all day than be stuck with you in a museum restaurant, staring from afar, wishing he could reach out under the goddamn public table.
Going until he’s empty, he senses a relief unknown to him thus far, mind suddenly vacant. Once again, the ocean; he feels like the ocean. Like the water as it stills and calms after a thunderous storm. You lifted the waves of his sea high above and have now turned him into a lazy, peaceful lake.
God, he should fuck you more often; you make him a poet.
Okay. Okay, where was he?
When did he unfocus? Dizzy all of a sudden. He puffs out a breath. Then takes another look at you. Watches as you spread the sticky substance over your mounds, touching your nipple, so indecently messy.
The smirk is unintentional but inevitable, reaching far as he shakes his head at you. You smile back wordlessly, and he lets his fingertip run over his cum, too, bringing it to your lips as he asks, “Taste?”
You don’t answer. Thinking for the barest second before you scoff, stretching out your tongue before he puts the finger on it; closing your eyes, sucking it clean. He groans at the feeling; luckily, he’ll be immobile for the foreseeable future, or he’d bend you over again.
“Okay. That should be enough for now,” he breathes, letting himself fall next to you. “I promise I’m a lot more energised on other days. But…” He turns towards you, pinching your chin, bringing your face close. “God, did you take me out there. I’m beat.”
He doesn’t kiss you; only drops back, still filling his lungs with new oxygen. Pity — he still wants you, but his muscles are aching. Eyes shutting.
Then opening again when he hears you laugh, right before you say, “You don’t need to prove your endurance to me. I’ve got a pretty good idea of it now. Besides— let’s be honest. I didn’t do much.”
“Oh, you did more than enough, sweetheart,” Jungkook retorts with a snicker, giving his eyes some relief. He sighs, and then adds, “Your existence did it for me already. Wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.”
He shoves his arm under his head, the other untidily covering the two of you with the blanket; whatever. He’ll wash it tomorrow. For now, the two of you should probably get some rest. Although—
Did you say you wanted to stay? He didn’t catch it if you did. Perhaps he’s also just inattentive; suddenly remembers that he still has a long way to go socially, remembering that permission is courtesy. Selfish, selfish, selfish.
“Uhm,” he starts; this is awkward. He doesn’t do this often — not many stay overnight anyway. Strangely, he didn’t question it with you; maybe because he wants you to. “Do you want me to bring you home?”
“In all honesty, I… I don’t think you can drive tonight. We’re both not sober yet, so I’ll just leave in the morning. Need to be in the office by noon.”
“Ah? Why?”
“Meeting with Tae. I forgot that he wanted to go through a few organisational things for the upcoming concert.”
Concert preparations. Organisational things. The company.
Jungkook forgot about it all. Responsibilities still exist. Of course, he needs to be in the office tomorrow afternoon, too. This is his dream, his goal, everybody’s eyes on him, the biggest source of entertainment in the country.
Feels so stupid, forgetting you’ll leave at some point. That he can’t flip you over again all day tomorrow, that you’ll be occupied somewhere else, with someone else. Jungkook grits his teeth.
“You wanna come over again tomorrow night?” he asks.
And all of a sudden, despite the last hour, you seem lost in thoughts again. Probably tired, but he can’t help but overthink. You don’t answer immediately, keeping him on the edge, and as he thinks you’ve fallen asleep, he looks over, seeing your eyes open when you say, “Don’t know. Might have a couple things to tend to.”
Ah… okay. Sure.
Where’s your mind right now, he wonders?
Maybe circling around work. Maybe your urge to go is as little as his? All these things, they don’t sound too delightful right now, do they?
Concert preparations. Organisational things. The company. Tae.
When did you start using his nickname like this? Weird. Didn’t know the two of you were so close. Then again, does it matter? No. He shakes his head.
Shakes it slowly, making sure you don’t notice, sighing again before he breaks into a smile. It’s okay. You’re next to him. Not next to Taehyung. His friend. You’re covered in him. So he doesn’t let another’s name fog his brain, instead seeking peace and succeeding until—
“Don’t worry, another time,” you say, following up with a goosebump-inducing, “I’ll stick around until my feet tingle.”
Somewhere… at some point in his life… under probably not the best circumstances—
Wait.
THE FIC ISN'T OVER YET!! PLS READ 👇🏼
as always, tumblr hates content creators and has a 1k block limit. which is why you can read the rest of the story in this reblog hehe we're almost at the end <3
#jungkook fluff#jungkook smut#jungkook angst#bts smut#bts fluff#bts angst#jungkook x reader#jungkook x you#jungkook fic#jungkook imagine#jungkook
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Soulbound
Zhongli x GN!Reader (Soulmate!AU)
Summary: Zhongli hated the mark on his neck, and he hated whoever the mark bounded him to. But fate plays a cruel joke, matching him with you, as he swore he would love no one else but Guizhong.
Tags: Angst/No Comfort, Short Story, Rejection, Hurtful Words, Hatred to Love
Soulmark - A mark that binds two individuals as soulmates.
~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~
Morax had always been frustrated by the mark on his neck.
A glowing, permanent part of his body that marks him tied to a soulmate. He thinks its stupid, for the love of his life was already in front of him, a gray-haired inventor that no carving in his body could ever stop him from adoring.
He finds it unbelievable that his neck is claimed by a soulmark yet Guizhong's remain blank, and he curses Celestia above for such a foul joke.
How could he be for anyone else but her?
When her dust settled in the field of glaze lilies he thought were incomparable to her beauty, he was utterly devasted, his clawed hands held onto his neck, wanting to rip the soulmark that had been taunting him for centuries.
How could he be marked for someone else while the love of his life laid lifeless?
He loathed his mark, everything about it, and he will till his last breath.
...
Zhongli deeply dislikes you.
You are a messy, silly, babbling buffoon.
An adventurer from Mondstadt that embodies the nation's will of freedom. Bubbly, carefree, and loud, much like a fellow god he didn't particularly like.
Despite of his disdain of you, your affection towards him never wavered. You filled his somber days with excitement as you joyfully tell him stories about your adventures, share some new recipes you've learned, even ushering him to talk about obscure Liyue historical facts that you've always found interesting.
He was much too proper to shoo you away, and his cold looks and short responses didn't discourage you to try to make friends with the man that peeked your curiosity.
Ever so slowly, you had pried open his caged heart, planting a small seed that was so distinctly you.
He would have accepted you, he would have seen you as a friend... and yet...
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a faint, familiar mark on your neck, revealed when you put your hair up into a ponytail.
Zhongli knew he truly disliked you.
...
"I don't believe in the marks either, Mr. Zhongli..." You reasoned with him, but his gaze still stung you with daggers.
He caged himself back up, ensuring that you could not care for the little seed you planted, no light would be able to reach it again.
His heart would not open...
No matter how many times he catches himself smiling at your antics.
No matter if he displays every gift and trinket you give him from your travels.
No matter how much he preferred your cooking over anyone else's.
No matter how beautiful you look staring up at him with your doe eyes as you confess your affection.
No matter how frustrated he felt at himself when he made you cry as he rejects your feelings.
Because, for him, how could there be anyone else but her?
...
"Do you see why it could never be you?"
You both stood in front of a monument, surrounded by various plants and objects you assume to be from friends of this ancient goddess.
"I bet she was amazing."
"She was perfect. Perhaps that's why I was not worthy to share a mark with her."
At this point, you were used to his words, how they praise her, how they degrade you.
"You're pretty great too, Zhongli..."
Faith places identical marks on the necks of two soulmates, and the rest is a romantic story of the passion that builds up as people pursue their marks of love.
Fate is cruel to you and him.
"That mark is not for you, Y/N." The Geo Archon says to you, tearing you apart silently, as you stand and take his words.
His heart quivers despite the harsh words coming from his own mouth. Even after millennia of having the mark engraved on his neck, after concluding that maybe he would allow your little seed to prosper even just for a bit, he still chooses to cling onto his hopeless past.
Tears fall down from your eyes, but you remain quiet, only nodding in agreement.
You loathed the mark on your neck.
...
Zhongli opens the cage of his heart a little, allowing him to peak at the small sprout from the seed you planted.
So distinctly you, it was the only thing he has of you.
After letting you leave him at Guizhong's monument with tears still staining your face, he couldn't help but miss you.
He couldn't help but let you finally take your place in his heart, after so long of hating his soulmark, hating whoever the mark tied him to, he fears he has finally accepted faith.
...
"Where is it?" He grips your arm harshly, his hold not faltering as you try to shake him off. His gaze was cold, yet you could still catch the hint of alarm in his eyes. "What have you done?"
After weeks... you return to him... missing something.
You winced at the stress of his words, feeling frightened under his tense hold. "I..." His bruising grip didn't falter, urging you to explain yourself. "S-Surprise...?"
"You..." Zhongli looks at you in disbelief. "How stupid could you be?"
"M-Mr. Zhongli... it's a blessing of the Anemo Archon... I prayed for him set us free from fate."
"Y/N... I..." He was at a loss for words, his heart ached as his eyes searched your neck in vain. "Fate... going against it is painful. It must've been excruciating."
"It was... but this if for you, Zhongli..." You smiled, feeling him loosen his grip. "Because I love... loved you." You fully free yourself from him, rubbing at where he previously held you.
The wind around him picked up, and he hears the faint whispers of an old friend along with it. Whispers of comfort, as he clearly ruined what would have been the light of the rest of his days.
Your soulmark fades, but his remains...
Zhongli loathed his mark, for it bears no meaning, no one but him bears that mark.
As you leave, trying to fade away in the background of his life, you remain under a spotlight in his eyes, for you will always be the one that shares his mark, no matter if it is visible.
~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~
What y'all think of this one? :3
I bet y'all's feelings were hurt hehe
#genshin impact x reader#genshin impact imagines#genshin impact#genshin impact angst#genshin angst#genshin impact zhongli#genshin zhongli#zhongli x reader#zhongli angst
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Next thing you'll say is he doesn't have a tail
ref to this pic
EDIT: Just to keep things clear I didn't really think about bringing it up but not everyone's gonna click to see the first picture and might be confused. Alastor was stated to know only a little bit of broken French, the reasoning due to being from New Orleans. Speaking standard French is very much not a thing in New Orleans, so he would logically only know French-Creole. This is very different from the standard French language and a large misconception that people from New Orleans speak regular French. So yes, he does speak some French, just not as well as people make him nor would it, in theory, be the regular French that everyone makes him speak [but I wouldn't put it past the writers to not do that research but maybe I have too little faith in them]. I'm not from New Orleans, I visited it once so it's not like I'm an expert. But I HAVE looked into it and just bothering with one Google search will tell you it's not common and you'll even have a special term called "Louisiana French" pop up. With that all said, these were statements made on years past streams and could've been changed in the official series. However, as of right now, the official statement is that he speaks only a little broken French that should technically be French-Creole if they're going by and that he's from New Orleans to know that language. And again, I don't have a lot of faith in writers to do the research into it being Louisiana French rather than regular French, but now I'm rambling lol This is just a bit of context for this comic so people who were curious can understand it a bit more. And it's totally possible I got something wrong, so feel free to point it out when I do. I just like to dig into the nooks and crannies of information for things :3 2nd EDIT: Just for any future reblogs, I did get somethings incorrect in the above (not surprising), so here's some of the corrections I got:
@mangotangerine: "A tiny nitpick - it would likely be Louisiana Creole, which is one of the French-based Creole languages (Haitian Creole is prob the most well known as it has about 10-12 million speakers vs Louisiana Creole which has around 10,000 due to multiple factors but especially legislation in early 1920s outlawing it). Louisiana French is an umbrella term for the various French dialects/etc in the region (e.g., the dialect Cajun French)." (We actually had a whole conversation in the comments of this post and highly suggest looking down there in case you're interested in learning more!)
@alyssumflowers: "I am from New Orleans and a little bit of a language nerd. You're confusing some things here. Cajun French is a dialect of French. My great grandmother spoke it fluently, my grandfather in pieces.
Louisiana Creole is another language entirely. The word "creole" means mixed and a creole language is basically a mixture of two or more languages. Sort of, it's a linguistics thing. Anyways. Louisiana Creole has next to no speakers left and I've had a hard time trying to find somewhere or someone to learn it from because I really want to." (Always great to hear from someone who has more insider knowledge on the subject! So I wanted to give this it's share due as well, hope you can fine somewhere to learn it! /ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡ )
Thank you for the comments! My previous statement still stands about Al probably not speaking normal French, but I wanted these corrections still known and pointed out :3
#Celtrist#cel doodles#fanart#hazbin hotel#hellaverse#hazbin hotel fanart#hellaverse fanart#artists on tumblr#hazbin hotel alastor#hazbin alastor#alastor the radio demon#hazbin hotel charlie#hazbin charlie#charlie morningstar#hazbin hotel vox#hazbin vox#vox the tv demon#radiostatic#radiosilence#onewaybroadcast
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Untitled - p.js | p.sh
requested by anon: In which Jay and Sunghoon share a fleshlight. if you like the idea of two hot guys being into you and into each other, this is for u.
pairing: sunghoon x jay x fleshlight
wc: 1.3k
warnings/tags: jay is very desperate, bisexual behavior, masturbating, sunghoon jerks jay off. this is very much homoerotic.
A/N: if you don’t want to read about dude’s being into each other then don’t read it. None of this is real. No, i don’t actually think these members are into each other or dating. Use ur imagination, have some fucking fun.
What started as Sunghoon’s fleshlight ended as the community fuckhole. And by community, he means himself and, well, Jay.
It’s funny, really, how Jay never used to want to hang out until Sunghoon started fucking around with you. Then again, Jay is very aware of Sunghoon’s sex life and how open he is to sharing it. He heard that one time he even let Heeseung join him during a hook up. Another time Jake swears he got to give Sunghoon’s last fuck buddy backshots while he got to fuck her mouth.
All of Sunghoon’s friends. All of them but Jay, apparently.
Now, has Jay ever actually participated in group activities like that? No. Does Jay even have that much experience with a girl? No. But he knows how to fuck his fist real good, and apparently Sunghoon’s pocket pussy too.
It really wasn’t meant to go this far, Jay admits. When he came over to Sunghoon’s place and the dude was too busy actually studying, he spotted a certain item right there on the fucking coffee table in the living room.
“Make yourself at home, as usual.” Sunghoon had said to him upon arriving.
And that’s just what Jay did. What’s Sunghoon’s is his, and so was that fucking pocket pussy sitting there staring at him as he tried to flip through various streaming apps.
It sat there for an hour, two hours…two hours and three minutes before he grabbed it. He didn’t care if it was dirty, didn’t care who or what used it before him, and didn’t question even for a second that Sunghoon would catch him with his legs wide open, fucking up into it right there on his living room couch.
Well, he should have questioned it. Because Sunghoon did take a break from studying. Mostly because he heard the squelching of wet silicone and Jay trying to hold his breath only to choke back each little sound even louder. The walls are thin in Sunghoon’s apartment, Jay knows this.
“Clean that when you’re done.” Sunghoon had rolled his eyes as he walked by towards his kitchen “And at least turn on some porn or something dude, I can’t focus listening to you try and act like you’re not in here fucking my stuff.”
Jay was already gone by that point, fumbling with the remote until it ultimately falls on the floor with an unpleasant sound.
Sunghoon had rolled his eyes again, casually strolling into his living room with a snack and taking a quick glance at Jay. The way he stretches that thing out is…interesting. Then, he does his friend a solid and turns on his favorite video as of late. A good ol’ two men one girl, raunchy, dirty ass video. And then he walks away, back to his bedroom and goes right back to studying.
・・・・・・・・・・・・・・
The second, third, fourth, and fifth time Jay came over to fuck Sunghoon’s toy involved much of the same. Where Sunghoon would find reasons to walk into the room and put on a video he gets off to, just to see if Jay likes it. By that last fifth time, Sunghoon actually took it upon himself to put a video up where he stars in it with his last fuckbuddy.
He could tell Jay enjoyed himself, unknowing that it was his own best friend fucking into that pussy on screen. His face wasn’t in it, but he can imagine if it was, Jay wouldn’t have stopped.
Things are never awkward either. Even with Jay sitting on the couch still out of breath, standing up to diligently clean the toy for Sunghoon as he comes to sit next to him. It’s all bro talk after that, as if nothing ever happened. Every. Single. Time.
What Jay doesn’t know is that Sunghoon is very much into it. To the point he uses the toy himself immediately after his friend leaves if no fuck buddy is available. To the point he doesn’t clean his own toy just because he knows Jay will come back again and fuck himself against whatever mess he leaves for him.
What Jay also doesn’t know is that, now, as he sits on the couch as if it’s routine, even though Sunghoon’s finals are over, he’s gonna have to keep that confidence up to use the toy because this is Sunghoon’s apartment, and this is his living room, his tv, his porn, and his pocket pussy.
Jay doesn’t seem awkward though, no. It’s like he’s gotten used to this room being where he gets off because when he walks in, he’s already hard. Sunghoon is quiet when he watches his friend walk straight to the living room and grab the toy.
He’s silent when he follows after him, feeling a twitch in his own pants.
He’s silent when he sits down on the other end of the couch, grabbing the remote and immediately playing a video that does show his face, with his most recent fuck buddy. You.
Jay’s eyes stare at the screen before glancing to Sunghoon.
“No way.” He says in a breath, unbuttoning his pants and instantly pulling it out. “When did you take this one?”
Sunghoon glances over, realizing Jay may very well have known about the last video being him as well. A pleasant surprise.
“Last weekend, after you left.” Sunghoon admits.
Jay seems out of it now, eyes focused on the screen and reacting in small grunts each time Sunghoon does something rough and solid to you. He’s wanted you so bad for so long. Is this what Jake and Heeseung went through to finally be invited into the bedroom? Fuck, he doesn’t care.
It’s almost surprising how quick Jay is with his hips as Sunghoon notes the way he moves. No embarrassment from having eyes on him, no longer quiet, and certainly not super experienced. But damn does he have a cock so thick that Sunghoon is sure you’d have fun with both of them.
“Want me to call her?” Sunghoon smirks, casually groping himself and pressing down. Holding back his own groan.
“Right now?” Jay doesn’t even turn to look at him, he’s hyper-fixated on the video, ears ringing, unknowing of how loud that pocket pussy is each time he fucks into it.
“Yeah, you want her?” Sunghoon continues, encouraging him. “Bet she’d feel a lot tighter considering how you’ve basically fucked that toy to death by now.”
All Jay can do is throw his head back, halting his movements to keep from cumming at the thought alone before groaning out a “Yes, fuck, please. call her.”
Sunghoon laughs, scooting closer and grabbing the toy. Essentially taking over for him. Not letting him stop.
“Can’t.” He chuckles. “She’s out of town–” He continues, moving the toy faster, faster, faster until Jay’s practically gripping the couch under him and whining. “She bounces fast though.”
Sunghoon moves even faster.
“Hard.”
He squeezes the base of the pocket pussy, offering more pressure.
“Likes when you cum in her too.” He whispers now, right up against him. “You wouldn’t last a second inside of her.”
And, well. Jay cums right then and there.
He’d normally pull away but his vision goes blurry through the orgasm, thinking too hard about how you’d feel bouncing on him, to the point it’s almost like Sunghoon didn’t even exist. Did he cling to Sunghoon through it because of that?
….Maybe.
Sunghoon is satisfied though, seeing how his friend comes undone by his hand alone all in the name of you. Now, it’s his turn and he takes it as quickly as he gave it to Jay.
He pops the toy up and off of his friend, barely glancing at the way Jay’s cock leaks, throbs, and falls right against his shirt before he’s pulling his own cock out and sliding it down instantly.
Pre lubed, warm, perfect.
All Jay can do at that moment is fight to keep his eyes on the screen. He remembers briefly Jake saying at one point, “I don’t know what it is about Sunghoon bro but…he can be really sexy and i don’t even like dudes.”
The good news: Jay likes dudes. Sunghoon is a dude. And he’s got a hot fuck buddy.
“Can I fuck her too?” Jay finally whispers out, his voice croaking as he tries to level his voice.
“Yeah.” Sunghoon groans. “Bet she'd love that.”
#enhypen smut#park sunghoon smut#park jongseong smut#sunghoon smut#jay smut#enhypen hard hours#enha smut
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